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kaynothanks · 7 months

Text

ROMEO DIED

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x fem!Reader

Summary: You wouldn’t call Billy Hargrove a friend—but misery sure does love company

Warnings: NO, Billy doesn't die, it's just a title! (18+ mdni), swearing (like a lot), smut, thigh riding, billy being a lil bat shit (personality trait?) crying, angst, smoking, sad shit, domestic violence!, it's dark I ain't gonna lie

Word-Count: 25.9k (I don't know how this keeps happening)

To the vast majority, the very essence of childhood was encapsulated in a singular, formative memory—a bright, indelible mark upon the canvas of their existence. These recollections, oft recounted with a gleam in the eye and warmth in the voice, were predominantly woven from the fabric of joyous days. Days spent in the cherished embrace of dearly loved ones, under the golden sun of endless summers or amidst the cozy dimness of a family room lit only by the flickering images of a movie night. Tales of vacations painted in the vivid hues of adventure, of afternoons spent marveling at the wonders housed within the silent watchfulness of zoo enclosures—these were the stories shared, the common thread binding the tapestry of shared human experience.

Yet, amidst this chorus of reminiscences, not once did a voice falter, not once did the flow of memories stutter into silence—as if each story, each recollection, was a pearl, smoothly rolling off the tongue without a moment's hesitation.

You, however, found yourself adrift in this sea of shared nostalgia. When the spotlight of expectation turned to you, when it was your turn to pluck a gem from the treasury of your past, you found the vault seemingly empty. A heavy silence would envelop you, a thick, tangible thing, punctuated only by the expectant gazes of those around you. In those moments, a flurry of panic would dance behind your eyes, a frantic search through the archives of your memory for something—anything—that could pass as a semblance of the joyous tales so freely offered by others.

And so, you took refuge behind the facade of little white lies, crafting tales of your own. Tales that were never lived but painted with enough detail to pass as truth. You knew, instinctively, that these fabrications were necessary—not for your sake, but for theirs. To preserve the sanctity of their bubble-wrapped worlds, where the possibility of a childhood untainted by the same joys was unthinkable, a harsh discord in the symphony of their understanding.

Thus, you crafted a mask from the clay of necessity, molding an awkward smile upon your lips as you spun a tale from the threads of imagination—a story designed to dance gracefully upon the ears of your audience, a melody in the key of fiction they were all too eager to hear. Beneath this veneer of compliance, however, you waged a silent battle, pressing down the memory that surged forth with the clarity and insistence of an unwanted ghost. It was as if you were condemned to an eternal viewing of a particularly distasteful episode of a show, one that had been replayed in the theater of your mind more times than you cared to count.

In those moments, as the lie unfolded from your tongue like the petals of some strange flower, you were mercifully detached from the raw emotions that had once torn through the small, trembling body of your four-year-old self. You were no longer the child cocooned in the dubious sanctuary of a cabinet, its door cracked just enough to admit a sliver of the world outside—a gap so minimal it might have escaped notice altogether, were it not for the significance of the vantage point it offered.

From this slender aperture, you bore witness to a scene that would forever imprint itself upon the canvas of your memory: the harsh, unforgiving grip of your father's hand as it ensnared your mother's head, the violent arc as he brought it crashing down onto the unforgiving surface of the kitchen table. His voice, a thunderous roar that filled the room and set your very soul to trembling, was a soundtrack to the horror unfolding before your eyes, a cacophony that seemed to fuel your incessant shaking.

The final image that burned itself into your retinas, a haunting tableau, was of your mother's slow, agonizing crawl towards you. A rivulet of red, a stark contrast against the pallor of her skin, traced a path down her forehead, a silent testament to the brutality she had endured. And then, with an act of maternal instinct so profound it bordered on the prescient, she reached out to close the cabinet door, shrouding you in darkness. Somehow, she had known—known that even in this desperate moment, her first instinct was to protect you, to shield you from the ugliness of a reality no child should ever have to witness.

In the immediate aftermath, darkness enveloped you, a shroud of impenetrable black that seemed to swallow every shard of light, leaving you suspended in a void where time itself hesitated. It was a silence so profound, a darkness so complete, that for a fleeting series of seconds, you found space to draw breath—a brief respite in the eye of an ongoing storm.

Then, piercing the stillness, came a watery plea—a voice so drenched in despair it seemed to bleed through the air. This was swiftly followed by the sharp, unmistakable sound of a step, a harbinger of chaos yet to unfold. What ensued was a cacophony of crashes and screeches, each imbued with such terror that they seemed to vibrate within the very marrow of your bones. Abruptly, it ceased. The ominous drum of your father's steps receded, and the lament of your mother's cries fell silent.

Within the confines of that cabinet, your sanctuary of shadows, you remained hidden. There, amidst the dust and the dark, you had fostered a belief, a child's naive conviction, that no malevolence could ever breach your fortress of solitude.

Time, however, cared little for such beliefs. You had outgrown the cabinet, outgrown the illusion of invulnerability it had once provided. The specters of those bad things, those harbingers of hurt and harrow, had since learned to find you, to ensnare your mind with their inevitable grasp, to sink their cruel claws deep into your psyche, marking you with scars unseen but deeply felt.

This realization pressed upon you with a weight all its own as you stared into the fractured visage reflected in the broken wardrobe mirror. The spiderweb of cracks across the glass seemed to mock, to distort not just your reflection but the very essence of who you had become. With a heavy heart, you diverted your gaze, a tacit acknowledgment that the sight of your own battered being was a reality you were not ready to confront—not now, perhaps not ever. There was no need to etch this image any deeper into your memory, no need to prolong the inevitable reckoning with your reflection, with the visible manifestations of those all-too-invisible wounds.

In that moment of avoidance, of turning away from the broken mirror, you were confronted with a truth as shattering as the glass before you: the realization that some scars run too deep, their roots entwined with the very fibers of your being, a constant reminder of battles fought and yet to be faced.

With a precision born of necessity, you moved—a delicate ballet of careful contortions designed to avoid the sharp bite of pain that lurked, waiting to pounce with each ill-considered twitch. Bending with the grace of a willow swaying in a gentle breeze, you reached beneath the shadowed underbelly of your bed, fingers searching for the familiar, lightweight case of your first aid kit. The ease with which it came into your hands was a small comfort, quickly extinguished by the sinking realization that greeted you upon its opening.

Inside, the remnants of preparedness mocked you: an empty bottle of saline solution stared back, its purpose exhausted, alongside a few band-aids, torn and useless, victims of your past impatience. The other contents, like the tweezers, lay in wait for a need that did not currently exist. You allowed yourself a moment—a brief, piercing inventory of this inadequate arsenal—before pushing the disappointment aside and hoisting yourself back to a stand.

Clad in the remnants of a past encounter, a hooded jacket left behind by a fleeting connection, you approached the window. It was a silent affair, the window yielding to your touch with the stealth of a whisper, betraying none of the turmoil that brewed within.

The act of escape was nothing short of a physical ordeal. Your limbs, heavy with ache, maneuvered through the small aperture of the trailer window—a testament to both desperation and determination. Once outside, crouched low to avoid unwanted attention, the cool embrace of the night air greeted you. It was a balm, this newfound freedom, a stark contrast to the stifling confines of your room, littered with the debris of broken dreams and shattered expectations. The open air offered a cleanse, a baptism of sorts, from the relentless cycle of cleanup and repair that had become your existence.

Gone were the days of painstakingly removing glass from picture frames before their inevitable destruction; a ritual born from the foresight of their transient nature. The weariness for such tasks clung to you, a cloak woven from threads of frustration and resignation. Yet, here, under the cover of night, with the world stretched wide and open before you, the weight of that cloak seemed, if only for a moment, a little lighter.

As you strode past the silent form of your car, a sigh of irritation escaped your lips, its sound a soft testament to the internal debate you'd just settled. The decision not to awaken the engine into roaring life was not only a tactic to maintain stealth but a silent concession to the fact that walking might just offer the solace and clarity your tangled thoughts so desperately needed. Moreover, it presented an opportunity to prolong your absence from the confines of what was supposed to be home—a place you were increasingly reluctant to return to, especially tonight. He had played his part, an unwelcome performance that assured you of a temporary reprieve from his intrusions, securing you a night free from disturbances, free from his discovery of the emptiness that now characterized your bedroom.

With a sense of resolve, you drew the black hood over your head, plunging your hands into the depths of your pockets as if to anchor yourself to this decision. You embarked on your nocturnal odyssey, leaving the trailer park's dimly lit confines behind. Your path unfolded on the deserted street, feet finding rhythm and balance on the white lines that dissected the asphalt—a tightrope walker in the quiet of the night. A melody, the residue of days spent with the same song on repeat in your car, hummed softly from your lips, a solitary soundtrack to your solitary march.

The gas station, a beacon of fluorescent light in the darkness, promised to be your oasis—a mere thirty-minute pilgrimage from the trailer park. It was a sanctuary that never closed its doors, a constant in the fluctuating chaos of your life. Behind the counter, the night shift was personified by a young man, his attention more on the beef-flavored Space Raiders he chewed with open abandon than on any potential customer.

With your head bowed, a gesture born of habit more than necessity, you navigated the familiar aisles towards the back. This little corner of the gas station, with its modest array of medical supplies, had become an unlikely ally in times of need. The sound of the entrance bell, a faint chime announcing the arrival or departure of a soul, barely registered as you focused on gathering the items that would serve as tonight's band-aids for both physical and metaphorical wounds.

Items gathered in the crook of your arm, you made your way to the counter, a silent procession of one. The goods—a testament to the night's necessities—were unceremoniously deposited onto the surface, a prelude to the exchange of currency for what passed as care in the small hours of a world that never quite slept.

As the cashier busied himself with the register, a mechanical dance of fingers on keys, you cleared your throat to pierce the silence that had settled between you. "Can I get a pack of Marlboros, too?" The words hung in the air, simple yet laden with an unspoken tension.

He paused, his movements halting as his gaze lifted to scrutinize you. There was a moment, brief yet charged, where his frown deepened, a silent commentary on the obscured view of your face. Nevertheless, his hand moved with practiced ease, reaching behind without hesitation and grasping the familiar green box.

Your response was almost instinctive, an eye roll born of the assumptions wrapped around that particular choice. "Red." The word was clipped, tinged with a mix of amusement and annoyance at the stereotype you were unwillingly cast into. As you handed over the money, pulled from the snug refuge of your jeans' back pocket, his suspicion seemed to spike, eyes narrowing as if trying to decipher an unsolved puzzle.

Money exchanged and items clumsily gathered, you were ready to retreat into the night from whence you came. Yet, a thought anchored you in place, a sudden reminder of a need unaddressed. "Could I have the key for the bathroom?" The question, simple in its asking, seemed to hang precariously in the space between you.

"It’s out," came his reply, short, almost reflexive, a barrier thrown up with the ease of someone who had uttered those words too many times.

Yet, you stood your ground, nodding towards the key that dangled tauntingly over his shoulder, within reach yet seemingly miles away. "It’s right behind you." Your words, firm, carried a weight of certainty, a challenge laid bare.

His response was a study in stillness, a monument to inertia, as if the very act of acknowledging the key's existence was beneath him.

"I need it." The finality in your voice, a blend of resolve and a barely contained plea, echoed in the cramped space of the gas station, a testament to the myriad small battles fought in the dead of night, under the fluorescent glow of a whole other world.

"Toilet's broken," he declared, an excuse worn thin by time and repetition.

Indeed, that very toilet had clung to its broken state for a spell nearing two years—a testament to neglect. "I don’t need to use the toilet. I just need to use the room—” you attempted to clarify, seeking a foothold in a rapidly closing door of opportunity.

"Boss said to not let anyone in," came his rebuttal, a line likely recited from a script of convenience rather than concern.

"Dude—" The word hung in the air, a precursor to the battle you felt brewing within. You inhaled deeply, a silent prayer for patience, your teeth clenching in an invisible grip. "Never mind. Have a terrific night," the words coated in a veneer of nicety that you mustered with all your might, your smile, though sarcastic, was an attempt to bridge the chasm of your frustration, hoping its curve was visible beneath the shadow of your hood. "Dickhead," the insult slipped from your lips in a whisper, a secret shared only with the night as you stepped through the door into the embrace of the outside world.

Tired and tinged with annoyance, your gaze swept the vicinity, seeking a haven for the simplest of human needs—to get cleaned up. Then, like a beacon in the night, your eyes settled on a car stationed at the farthest gas pump. It stood solitary, a silent sentinel in the fluorescent glow. You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, a spy's caution, to ensure the car's owner wasn't lurking nearby. The coast appeared clear, save for the presence of the obstinate cashier, now dubbed the idiot in your evening's narrative.

By the dim glow of the gas station's overhead lights, you found a temporary sanctuary beside the car, a silent accomplice to your solitary ritual. With deliberate motions, you placed your newly acquired treasures upon the cold, unforgiving ground and crouched, your body tensing as you prepared to confront the reflection you had been avoiding. The side-view mirror, initially angled to capture the expanse of the road behind, was now coaxed into a new purpose. With a hesitant push, you angled it to reveal your own visage, a canvas marred by the recent past.

The act of lowering your hood felt akin to peeling away a layer of armor, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. What greeted you in the reflective glass was a mosaic of bluing bruises and angry red slashes—a testament to a tale you wished remained untold. A grimace twisted your features at the sight, your heart sinking. The reflection bore evidence of a fierce struggle, a physical manifestation of pain that made the concept of beauty a distant, unattainable dream.

With a sigh, you sought solace in the ritualistic lighting of a cigarette, a small act of defiance against the night's events. The pack crinkled as you extracted one, placing it between your lips with a sense of purpose. Yet, as you patted down your pockets in search of a flame, a sinking realization dawned upon you—your lighter was missing, presumably lost amidst the chaos that now defined your living space. Disappointment seeped into your bones, mixing with the lingering adrenaline and fatigue that clung to your skin.

Undeterred, you turned your attention back to the task at hand. The cigarette, forgotten for the moment, dangled unlit as you began to tend to your wounds with the care of a seasoned medic. Each touch to your skin with a damp tissue was a whisper of comfort, a gentle caress amidst the harsh reality of your existence. The application of Neosporin was a balm not just for the physical scars, but a fleeting attempt to soothe the deeper, unseen injuries that lay beneath

As you were about to seal the wounds with plasters, a testament to your resilience and a badge of your suffering, the tranquility of the moment was shattered. A voice, unexpected and jarring, cut through the silence, startling you from your reverie. The sudden intrusion felt like an invasion, a breach of the fragile peace you had managed to carve out for yourself in the shadows of the night.

"Antiseptic works better."

Through the mirror, you caught a glimpse of the silhouette that dared intrude upon your moment of vulnerability. The cigarette perched precariously between your lips bobbed as you spoke, your voice tinged with the weariness of one too acquainted with pain. "You’re wrong," you countered through the cigarette hanging from your lips after grabbing a second plaster and ripping its package. "In fact," you continued, pressing the adhesive over another wound, "there’s a chance it may damage the skin." Your expertise on the subject was born from necessity, not choice—a testament to the scars you bore, both seen and unseen. As you finished tending to your injuries, gathering your things with a finality that marked the end of the unwanted interaction, you turned to face the source of the unsolicited commentary.

The dim light revealed his identity—the new guy, an unwelcome disturbance in your carefully maintained distance from the world. You shot him a look that spoke volumes, laden with the exhaustion of a soul yearning for nothing more than the sanctuary of a warm bed, before you attempted to leave his presence behind. His voice, however, laced with an unmistakable amusement, halted you once more. "Hey," he called out, a grin audible in his tone. "I know you."

The assertion sparked a flicker of irritation within you, a flare in the dimness of your resolve. "You don’t," you corrected sharply and turned halfway, vexed by your exhaustion and the want for a warm bed. "You might have seen me around, but you don’t know me."

"Christ," he swore, wearing a shit-eating grin that made you want to pull out his infuriatingly long eyelashes one by one. "What pissed in your—"

"Bye," you interjected, rolling your eyes as you turned your back on him, the roll of your eye a silent rebuke to his unfinished query.

"You need a lighter for that, sweetheart?"

Your feet anchored themselves on the spot, your shoulders slouching just the littlest bit; you really, really did need one. Aversion in your bones, you slowly turned back to him. Keeping your distance, you placed yourself across from where he was leaning against his car.

The smirk playing on his lips stretched into a full-blown grin, a silent prelude to the audacity that followed. In one fluid, almost theatrical motion, he reached out, plucking the cigarette from your lips and putting it between his with an ease that spoke of practiced finesse. The silver lighter appeared in his hands as if by magic, its flame dancing to life with a flick that carried the flair of showmanship. The lit cigarette found its way back to his lips, and he inhaled deeply, the smoke exhaling in a deliberate stream toward you, enveloping you in a cloud of provocation as he gauged your reaction, almost baiting an outburst.

Yet, instead of the explosion he anticipated, you simply reclaimed the cigarette from his grasp, a silent acceptance of his unsolicited gesture. "Thanks,” you uttered, the words hanging in the air as you resumed walking, leaving the moment behind.

His voice followed, a casual offer laced with an undefined undercurrent. "You want a ride?"

Your steps faltered, a frown creasing your forehead as his words registered. "That is one hell of a random question to ask a stranger. As a stranger,” you retorted, the skepticism in your voice as palpable as the cool night air that enveloped you both.

"You want one or not?" His reply was curt, edged with impatience, a stark contrast to the mysterious offer he had just extended.

"Why would you offer?" Curiosity laced your tone, mixed with a hint of caution. Billy Hargrove’s reputation had preceded him, painting a picture of a Californian rebel whose actions were as unpredictable as the ocean’s waves, and certainly, acts of chivalry seemed as foreign to him as a language unspoken.

"Forget it." His dismissive gesture, a psuh from the car before he swung the door open, spoke volumes of his irritation. Yet, as he made to seal himself within the metal cocoon of his vehicle, your voice pierced the night, a decision made.

"I do want one."

The car door slammed shut, and for a moment, the only sound was the car's engine coming to life, a growl in the quiet. His gaze, sharp and assessing, met yours through the glass. A roll of his eyes served as his acquiescence to your unspoken plea for a ride. The door cracked open, an invitation as gruff as his tone. "Are you getting your ass in the car or do you need a written invite?"

His words, brusque yet oddly inviting, spurred you into action. The interior of the car enveloped you, the scent of leather and the undercurrent of his cologne mingling in the confined space. No sooner had you fastened the seatbelt than the car lurched forward, tires screeching in protest as Billy Hargrove accelerated into the night, propelling both of you toward the unknown that lay in the direction you had originally been heading.

"I live at—" you began, the words barely taking form before they were cut short.

"I know." His interruption was swift, a statement so sure and unfazed.

Confusion momentarily clouded your thoughts, mingling with a spark of irritation. How the fuck could he possibly know? The question danced at the tip of your tongue, but before it could leap into the open air between you, realization dawned. The company he kept at school, the circles he moved in—those were all the answers you needed. Billy Hargrove, with his effortless charisma and an air of danger that clung to him like a second skin, naturally gravitated towards and was embraced by those you had learned to keep at arm's length. Those very individuals, Carol Perkins, Vicki Carmichael, and Tommy Hagan, had painted your world in stark, unflattering colors, branding you 'trailer trash' with their sneers and jeers for a decade.

A bitter laugh threatened to escape, thinking of them, their cruelty a constant shadow over your school days. If only they knew the disdain you harbored, so potent and vivid. You wished, not for the first time, that their arrogance and aspirations could be forcibly fed back to them, a grotesque cycle that would see their malice choking them, expelled from their mouths like a vile confession of their true natures.

You adjusted the window, allowing just a sliver of the night air to slip through, and extended your arm, the cigarette perched between your fingers, embers dancing with each inhale.

"What happened to your face?" Billy's voice, laced with a curiosity that didn't match his usual demeanor, cut through the hum of the road beneath the car's tires.

"Fell from heaven, of course," you retorted, the words tinged with sarcasm as your eyes rolled, a silent protest against his prying. His persistence was like a thorn—unwanted and sharp. "Nosy much?"

"Catfight?" His guess was off mark, yet it pricked your patience.

You exhaled, a mix of frustration and resignation coloring your tone. "Ran into a tree," the lie smooth on your tongue, as you took another drag, the cigarette's glow a brief flare in the darkness.

He scoffed, disbelief etched in the sound. "And the tree beat you up for that?"

Your agreement came out as a hum, a playful note in the solemn night. "Had a mean right hook, too. Damn birch trees," you quipped, allowing a brief smile to dance on your lips at the absurdity of it all, blowing the smoke out into the night, watching as it dissipated into the cool air.

Silence fell between you, a heavy, tangible thing that seemed to swell with each passing second. It was an odd sort of discomfort, more unsettling than the exchange of words had been, wrapping around you like a thick fog. You found yourself almost wishing for his voice again, to break through the quiet that now felt louder than any spoken word. Yet, as the car sped on, devouring the road with eager haste, the lights of the trailer park approached, promising an end to the journey and the silence that had settled between you.

Suddenly, he extended his hand towards you, an unspoken request hanging in the air. You found yourself momentarily puzzled, your gaze fixed on his fingers before realization dawned. After taking a final, lingering drag from the cigarette, you passed the diminishing ember to him. With an effortless flick, he sent it soaring out of the window, watching as it disappeared into the night after taking it down to its last breath.

"Since when are girls like you smokers of the good stuff?" His voice was casual, yet loaded with an unspoken judgment that hung heavily between you.

The implication behind his words, ‘girls like you’ didn't necessitate an explanation. You understood perfectly—the label wasn't about you personally. It was a placeholder, a stereotype applied broadly to any girl who found herself in his car, a commentary not so much on the individual but on the perceived collective. The notion that somehow, despite the vast differences among individuals, there was a uniformity assumed among all those deemed ‘other’ by those who never bothered to look beyond the surface. It was a tired, worn-out perspective, suggesting that understanding, respect, and equality were territories too foreign for those entrenched in their own narratives.

"I'm not a smoker," you retorted, your voice steady, pushing back against the label he tried to affix to you.

He turned to you, an eyebrow arching in skepticism. "Sweetheart, I think the tree might have hit you in the head." His words, meant to tease, danced in the space between you,

"Special occasions only," you finally spoke, breaking the silence that had settled between you, thick with unvoiced judgments and assumptions. Your voice carried a defiant edge, a sharp contrast to the vulnerability you felt. "Also, fuck you."

Billy's response was a chuckle, the sound low and somewhat amused, as if your resilience added an unexpected flavor to the night's events. "What's the occasion?" he inquired, his tone lighter, yet carrying an undercurrent of genuine curiosity.

You found yourself hesitating, caught on the precipice of disclosure and reticence. The likelihood of crossing paths with him again felt as remote as the stars dotting the night sky above, their light distant and indifferent. You weighed the ephemeral nature of this encounter against the catharsis of sharing, even if just a sliver, of your reality. "Having choices," you said at last, the words feeling like both a confession and a declaration.

"What choices?" His question followed, simple yet laden with the weight of stories untold.

You offered no reply, merely a shrug, a gesture cloaked in layers of meaning. Your silence was your fortress, safeguarding the complexities of a life marked by pain and defiance. Within you, a habit had taken root, a ritual born from the ashes of violence at the hands of your father. Smoking had become your rebellion, your assertion of control in a life that often felt governed by the whims of a man whose presence was as oppressive as it was destructive. To smoke was to choose the manner of your harm, to claim agency over your own demise, however slow and insidious it might be. It was a twisted form of empowerment, preferring the slow burn of tobacco to the acute brutality of paternal hands. Crushing the extinguished remnants of your defiance under your boots served as a tangible metaphor, a declaration that the man who should have been your protector held no more power over you than the spent cigarettes you ground into oblivion.

Entering Billy's car that night, accepting the ride from someone enveloped in rumors and mystery, was a choice emblematic of your current state of being. Bruised, both physically and spiritually, by the very person who should have been your haven, you found yourself gravitating towards choices that flirted with danger. In the shadow of your father's tyranny, even the potential threat of an unknown like Billy felt like a liberation, a dare to the universe that tonight, of all nights, you were the master of your fate, no matter how recklessly that fate was courted.

Merely blocks away from the shadowed outlines of the trailer park, you felt the tension knot tighter in your gut, prompting you to instruct Billy with an urgency that surprised even yourself. "Stop the car here." It was a calculated measure, a bid to remain unseen should your father's usual stupor be interrupted by a rare moment of vigilance. You couldn't risk him spotting you from the confines of an existence you both shared yet endured on vastly different terms.

"Why?" Billy's inquiry sliced through the hum of the engine, a roaring beast that seemed all too eager to encroach upon the sanctuary you so desperately sought to protect.

"'Cause I said so!" The words burst from you, a mix of fear and insistence, as panic clawed at your chest with icy fingers when he veered dangerously close to the trailer park's entrance. "Stop the damn car!" The command was punctuated by the violent squeal of tires as they ground against the asphalt, the sudden deceleration forcing the seat belt to bite cruelly into your already tender flesh. "Thanks for the ride," you managed to huff out, a terse farewell as you swung the door open and exited with a haste born of desperation, the door slamming shut with a resounding finality. "Asshole," you muttered under your breath, a feeble attempt to regain some semblance of control over the rapidly fraying edges of your composure.

You had barely taken a few steps when a compulsion, inexplicable and unnerving, urged you to cast a glance over your shoulder. There he was, Billy, his gaze already locked onto your retreating form. Even through the cloak of night, his silhouette was unmistakable, and the distance did little to obscure the wink he sent your way—a gesture that felt both mocking and oddly comforting in its audacity.

With a swift turn of your head, you dismissed the fleeting connection, quickening your pace as if to outstrip the myriad emotions that encounter had stirred within you. The night air, cool and indifferent, seemed to whisper secrets as you disappeared into the labyrinth of shadows that promised both sanctuary and imprisonment.

In the sanctuary of shadow and silence, you made your way to the trailer that bore the dubious honor of being called home. The silver metal shell, tarnished by time and wear, loomed before you, a testament to a life far removed from the dreams you once harbored. With each cautious step, you moved with the stealth of a creature well-versed in the art of invisibility, ensuring that your presence remained undetected by Billy's lingering gaze.

Approaching the window to your room, the cool night air kissed your cheeks, a stark contrast to the warmth that awaited inside. Your hands, acting on the instinct honed by countless nights of return, deftly managed the small but significant task before you. The purchases, a meager collection of necessities and small comforts, found their way through the open window with a soft thud against the carpeted interior, a silent testament to your return.

With the grace of a practiced climber, you hoisted yourself up and through the window, your body moving with an economy of motion born from necessity. The interior of the trailer welcomed you back into its cramped but familiar embrace, the air tinged with the scent of a life lived on the margins.

That night, as the world outside continued its indifferent spin, you took a moment to secure the only sanctuary you knew. The lock on your door clicked into place with a finality that spoke of a desire for solitude, or perhaps, a prayer for safety. In the dim light of your room, surrounded by the humble trappings of your existence, you prepared to surrender to sleep.

The act of locking your door was more than a mere precaution; it was a ritual, a whispered plea to the universe for just one night of peace. As the shadows deepened and the trailer park settled into the quiet hum of the night, you lay down, your thoughts a tangled web of hopes, fears, and the stubborn resilience that had carried you this far. In the stillness that followed, sleep arrived, a reluctant visitor, to claim you in its embrace, offering a temporary reprieve from the trials of a world that waited just beyond the thin walls of your silver metal haven.

…

Dawn's first light crept through the cracks of the blinds, casting a muted glow across the room. You stirred from the uneasy dreams that had plagued your sleep, finding the morning's silence a stark contrast to the tumultuous echoes of last night. With a deep breath, you summoned the strength to face another day, one that began with the painstaking task of camouflage.

Seated before a mirror streaked with age, you embarked on the delicate art of concealing the evidence of yesterday's storm. Each brushstroke was a silent battle, each dab of powder a feeble attempt to erase the marks that pain had etched upon your skin. The bruises, a palette of purples and blues, refused to be hidden completely, protesting under the layers of makeup you applied with a desperation born of necessity.

As you dressed, a sharp twinge of pain caught your breath. The mirror revealed a ghastly bloom of purple spreading like a shadow across your side, just below the ribs—a grim reminder of the violence you wished to forget. A lie formed in your mind, a necessary deception for the physical education teacher, claiming the protection of a condition as natural as it was unrelated to the truth.

The ritual of preparing breakfast unfolded with a practiced ease, though your heart was elsewhere. You moved through the kitchen, your gaze carefully avoiding the man who sat at the table, expecting the service you provided as if it were his due. The sizzling bacon and the scramble of eggs filled the silence between you, a silence as heavy and uncomfortable as the bruises hidden beneath your clothes. His expectations hung over you, a constant reminder of the narrow path you were forced to tread to avoid further displeasure.

School offered no respite from the act you were forced to live. With your hood pulled high, you navigated the halls with a deliberate slowness, dreading the moment you would have to enter the classroom and face the day's challenges. The quiet comfort of anonymity was shattered when Mrs. O'Donnell's voice, sharpened by authority, cut through the air. Your heart sank as her words found you, a beacon spotlighting your defiance.

"I do not condone hats or hoods in my lessons," she declared, her tone leaving no room for dissent. In that moment, the weight of the day pressed down upon you, a reminder of the battles yet to be fought, both in the light of day and in the shadows of your own life.

The atmosphere in the classroom thickened, a palpable tension that clung to your skin as you stood at the precipice of decision. Around you, the collective breath of your peers hung suspended, their curiosity mingled with the anticipation of rebellion they'd come to associate with you. Yet, in that moment of scrutiny, you chose compliance over defiance. With a slow, deliberate motion, you slid your hood back, exposing the canvas of your pain to the voracious eyes around you.

A collective inhale filled the room, a chorus of shock and disbelief that painted you in a light far removed from the anonymity you craved. Even your teacher, usually so composed and authoritative, faltered under the weight of the revelation, her voice lost to the ticking clock that suddenly seemed deafening in the heavy silence.

She recovered, albeit shakily, her command to continue an attempt to restore normalcy to the disrupted order of her classroom. But the damage was done, the facade cracked. You couldn't wait to escape, and the moment the class was dismissed, your hood resumed its place, a shield against the prying eyes and whispered judgments.

The day unfolded exactly as you had dreaded. Each class became a battleground, your hood the flag of your defiance and your bruises the wounds of wars fought in the shadows of your life. The whispers followed you like a relentless shadow, and when lunch arrived, you sought solace in the solitude of the cafeteria's farthest corner. Surrounded by the outcasts and the unnoticed, you found a semblance of peace, even if it was the peace of a pariah among peers dreaming of revolutions they did not understand.

You observed them, the future rebels with their leather bracelets and spiky hair, their existence a stark contrast to the battles you fought daily. They wore their rebellion like a badge of honor, unaware of the true cost of surviving a war against the very fabric of one's life. And as you sat there, hidden in plain sight, you couldn't help but wonder about the diverging paths of those destined for a picture-perfect existence and your own, forged in the crucible of pain and resilience.

Stepping out from the confines of the school building as the day bled into the mellow hues of late afternoon was like shedding an invisible shackle, a temporary respite that made your shoulders relax and your breath come easier. This fleeting sense of liberation accompanied you, a silent companion that whispered promises of tranquility, until the familiar sight of the trailer park loomed ahead, shattering the illusion with the harsh reality waiting within.

As you navigated the maze of silver metal homes, the sight of the lights blazing through the windows of your own trailer felt like a physical blow, a harbinger of the storm that was about to break. Your heart, a frantic drummer in the cage of your ribs, seemed to echo ominously with every step you took toward the creaking door that served as the barrier between you and what awaited inside.

He wasn't supposed to be there, not yet. The very thought was a cold hand squeezing around your heart, draining the color from the world. With trepidation lacing each step, you entered, your gaze flitting nervously from the desolate sofa to the ominously closed door of his bedroom. The strap of your school bag became a lifeline, something tangible to anchor you as you tiptoed toward the sanctuary of your room.

But fate, it seemed, was not on your side. The floor beneath you, a traitor clad in aged wood, groaned loudly under your weight, a sound so jarring in the silence that you couldn't help but wince, your entire being tensing in anticipation of the fallout. Time seemed to stand still, a suspended moment filled with the electric charge of impending doom.

Then, movement shattered the silence. The bedroom door was flung open with such force you half expected it to fly off its hinges, revealing the man who stood in the doorway. His presence filled the space, an imposing figure that you could barely reconcile as the one responsible for your existence. In that moment, as you faced the man who should have been your protector but felt more like a looming threat, you realized the fragility of the peace you so desperately sought in the confines of what you called home.

The utterance of your name, whispered with a darkness that cloaked the room, immediately heightened your senses, alerting you to the imminent storm. Instinctively, your feet shuffled backwards, attempting to put distance between you and the tempest that was your father. His voice cracked through the tension like a whip, "What did we talk about?" The words barely left his lips before your body responded with a quiver, the dread manifesting physically.

"You're just as useless as your bitch mother," he bellowed, his hand cutting through the air with predatory speed to clamp around your throat. Your legs struggled to bear the sudden weight of fear and despair as he dragged you, your resistance feeble against his force, through the claustrophobic hallway into the stark light of the kitchen. There, he released you not in mercy but to crash onto the unforgiving floor, his grip morphing into an iron band around your neck. "Now, I know you ain't the smartest but how can anyone be such a dumb cunt?" His eyes flicked toward the refrigerator with a menacing expectation.

Frozen, more by terror than choice, you remained motionless, inciting his fury further until he yanked you upward by the very lifeline he was squeezing. "Open it!" His command was a shout, propelled by anger, as he thrust you toward the cold metal of the fridge. With every fiber of your being screaming to comply just to make it stop, you mustered the strength to lower your shaking head and fumble with the fridge door.

"What did I tell you?" he growled, his breath hot against your ear.

"To take care of things," you managed to whimper, your voice barely threading through the tightness of his grip.

"That's right," he confirmed with a dark, rumbling voice. But his next words were like daggers, each one punctuating your worthlessness in his eyes. And then, with a brutality that seemed to echo in the sparse kitchen, your head was forcibly introduced to the side of the fridge. The sudden release from his hands felt as much a punishment as the assault, a clear message that you had once again failed to meet his expectations. "Fucking take care of it," he spat, leaving you with the pain and the cold echo of his disdain.

For a fleeting moment after his departure, you remained motionless on the cold kitchen floor, the echo of his retreating footsteps a temporary relief. As you coughed, savoring the rush of oxygen filling your lungs once more, you rose with shaky resolve. Closing the refrigerator with a soft click, you retrieved some cash from the hidden savings can, each movement automatic, driven by necessity rather than thought. Your feet carried you swiftly to your car, a sanctuary of sorts in the midst of chaos.

With trembling hands, you inserted the keys into the ignition, pausing as you caught sight of their unsteady dance. Just as you were about to press the gas pedal, a different sensation caught your attention. Blood, warm and unsettling, trickled down from your nose to your lips. Instinctively, you reached up to wipe it away, only for a solitary tear to escape, tracing a path down your cheek. In a burst of anger, you struck the steering wheel, imagining for a split second it was his face absorbing the impact, receiving the punishment he so richly deserved.

The drive out of the trailer park felt like an escape, albeit a temporary one, as you headed deeper into town. Your destination was the only supermarket in Hawkins that turned a blind eye to selling alcohol to minors. The cashiers, two souls long since resigned to the monotony and despair of their roles, barely registered your presence, their gazes fixed on some distant, unseen point beyond the walls of their confinement.

You found yourself wiping your face again, this time checking the rearview mirror to assess the damage. The sight of your bloodshot eyes was a grim reminder. Physical blows you had learned to endure, but the insults, the verbal lashings that cut deeper than any fist, remained wounds that refused to heal. The most painful barbs were those aimed at your mother, a woman who had possessed nothing in terms of material wealth but had fought valiantly, albeit futilely, to escape the tyranny of your father. She was a woman of courage, standing between you and his wrath, even as cancer waged its own merciless battle within her. Your admiration for her was boundless; on her deathbed, she had worn a smile, radiant and victorious, for in her passing, she had finally escaped the man who had sought to break her spirit.

As you entered the supermarket, you smoothly plucked a basket from the stack beside the entrance, weaving your way through the aisles with a practiced ease. With each step, you carefully selected items, filling the basket with an assortment of goods that you knew would appease your father's palate. The basket grew heavier, a testament to your meticulous effort, until you reached the final checkpoint: the beverage section.

The coolers stood before you, a chilled barrier between thirst and satisfaction. You reached for the door, the cold air brushing against your skin as you grabbed a six-pack of your father's preferred beer. It was then you noticed him, a figure barely three weeks familiar with Hawkins, yet here he was, navigating the town's veins as if born to them. His friends had evidently provided a thorough briefing. Your attempt at a discreet observation failed miserably, as his attention snapped to you, an unspoken acknowledgment between strangers.

Your brows arched in involuntary surprise, not at his presence but at the sight of fresh cuts and bruises marring his face — wounds absent just the night before. A silent question hovered on the tip of your tongue, but before it could take flight, he dismissed the moment with a roll of his eyes and brushed past you, leaving a trail of unspoken stories and a fleeting connection dissipated as quickly as it had formed.

The line at the checkout moved slowly, a trivial inconvenience, yet it granted you a few more moments of anonymity. The store's quaint little bell announced Billy's departure, a sound that seemed to echo the finality of a moment passing. When it was finally your turn, you engaged in the mechanical transaction with the cashier, your mind elsewhere. Stepping out into the waning light, the sight of Billy Hargrove, casually nursing a can of beer against the cool metal of his car, intruded upon your thoughts. His car parked nonchalantly beside yours felt like a deliberate coincidence. The brown paper bag, a temporary vessel for your burdens, found its place in the backseat as you closed the door, acutely aware of his gaze tracing your movements, an invisible tether pulling at the edge of your consciousness.

You cleared your throat, a prelude to breaking the silence as you stood by your car, the keys dancing a nervous ballet in your hand. "Birch tree got you too, huh?" The words slipped out, a tentative bridge spanning the gap between you two.

Billy's scrutiny lingered, a silent appraisal, before his eyes dropped to the testament of violence painted on your skin, eventually locking with yours. "You want a smoke?" His voice broke the tension, an offer hanging in the balance.

Surprised, yet intrigued, you glanced around before nodding, a silent agreement forged in the twilight. You gestured for him to follow, leading him to the supermarket's side where the guardians of refuse, a row of large dumpsters, stood in solemn assembly. Climbing atop one with an ease born of necessity, you found a perch, waiting for him to join you in this makeshift sanctuary away from prying eyes.

Billy, with a nonchalance that seemed to cloak him like a second skin, produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, its silver surface catching the last rays of the sun. With a practiced flick, he ignited a flame, bringing it to the cigarette perched between his lips. The glow of the ember briefly illuminated his face, casting shadows that danced with the smoke. Taking a drag, he then passed the cigarette to you. As you inhaled, the sharp, acrid taste of tobacco filled your lungs, a bitter reminder of choices made, of moments shared in silence and smoke.

As the minutes melted away under the haze of shared smoke and silent camaraderie, the cigarette passed between you became a temporary truce, an unspoken understanding in the twilight of shared solitude. Eventually, Billy broke the silence, his voice rasping slightly from the smoke. "You have blood on your nose."

"Yeah?" Your response was tinged with a nonchalance that belied the undercurrent of tension between you. You accepted the cigarette once more, its ember glowing faintly in the dimming light. "You have some on your lip." Another drag, a momentary escape, then silence enveloped you both once again. The final act of discarding the cigarette to the ground felt almost ceremonial, as you crushed the lingering spark beneath your boot, a definitive end to the fleeting respite. "See you 'round, Hargrove."

Your words hung in the air as you turned to leave, a tentative goodbye to a shared moment of vulnerability. His voice reached out, halting your retreat. "You hungry?"

The question paused you in your tracks, the afternoon sun casting long shadows as you turned to face him. There was something in his gaze, a reflection of weariness and something unspoken, that mirrored your own. For a fleeting second, pity stirred within you, its target unclear, as empathy blurred the lines between self and other.

"I am," you conceded, the admission heavy with an unspoken understanding of the complications it invited. Yet, the reality of your own circumstances pulled you back from the precipice of further entanglement. "But I have to get home, actually." Your smile was a feeble attempt at normalcy, a polite curtain falling on the scene. "Bye, Billy."

His acknowledgment was a silent nod, a mutual recognition of the distance being placed between you once more. As you drove away, the rearview mirror captured the solitary figure of Billy Hargrove, a temporary companion in your shared narrative of survival and solitude, fading into the background of your departing world.

…

An unsettling sense of change lingered in the air, a silent shift that had settled over Hawkins High like a thick fog, imperceptible yet undeniably present. This peculiar feeling began to wrap around you, a subtle yet persistent presence, in the days following your second encounter with Billy Hargrove. As you stepped through the school's doors, braced for the usual barrage of sneers and the biting sting of ‘trailer trash’ hurled in your direction, you found instead a surprising void where hostility once thrived.

This newfound anonymity was strangely soothing, a reprieve wrapped in the unexpected guise of indifference. For once, the hallways that had felt like gauntlets now offered passage free from judgment, allowing you a semblance of peace amidst the storm of daily life. It was an odd sort of liberation, moving unseen and unmarked by the cruel jibes that had once shadowed your steps. For the first time in your tumultuous high school saga, the final bell did not signal a hasty retreat but a deliberate detour to the sanctuary of the art room.

The art class assignment, a canvas awaiting the touch of inspiration, became your excuse to linger in the quiet aftermath of the school day. While your peers carried their artwork home, eager to splash their visions across the canvas in the comfort of their own spaces, such a luxury was a distant dream for you. Home was no haven for creativity; your trailer, a place where art met its end not in completion, but in destruction—torn, smashed, a casualty of the chaos that waited beyond the school's gates.

There, amidst the smell of paint and the soft light filtering through the dust-speckled windows, you found solace. The art room, with its clutter of brushes and the palette of possibilities, offered not just an escape but a moment of creation untainted by the harsh realities that lay in wait outside its doors. It was in these stolen hours, surrounded by the silent witness of unfinished projects and the ghosts of inspiration, that you dared to believe, even if just for a fleeting moment, in the possibility of a world shaped by the stroke of a brush, rather than the sharpness of words.

As the day waned into evening, the corridors of Hawkins High slowly emptied, leaving behind a tranquility punctuated only by the distant hum of the cleaning crew making their final rounds. The fading light cast long shadows across the halls, painting everything in a soft, melancholic glow. You glanced at the hallway clock, a silent reminder of the hours you needed to kill to ensure you'd return to an empty, quiet home, free from the looming presence of your father.

Chewing thoughtfully on your lip, you diverted towards your locker, thoughts swirling with the prospect of solitude. It was then that a wave of laughter and lively banter washed over you, as a group of jocks, fresh from the showers and glowing with the invincibility of youth, breezed past, oblivious to your existence. Their jubilance, a stark contrast to your solitude, left a fleeting shadow across your spirit, one you shook off as you reached your sanctuary—a small, metal locker.

The ritual was familiar and comforting: exchange the day's burdens for the evening's necessities. But as your hand lingered on the locker door, preparing to seal away the day, another hand, unexpected and swift, slammed it shut. Startled, you spun around, only to find yourself inches away from a familiar face framed by a blond mullet, a figure who had become an unexpected constant in the landscape of your days.

"That was rude," slipped from your lips, a feeble attempt to assert some distance between you and the uninvited closeness. Yet, Billy Hargrove stood unyielding, a smirk playing on his lips, evidently amused by the discomfort flickering across your face. The proximity was overwhelming; his presence, a force that seemed to challenge the very air between you. You yearned to retreat, to press back into the cold, indifferent metal of your locker as you had so many times before. But something within, a spark of defiance or perhaps a curiosity yet unnamed, anchored you firmly in place. His gaze, intense and searching, held a question you weren't sure you wanted to answer, igniting a silent standoff in the dimming light of the nearly deserted hallway.

"Oh, I might just disagree with you on that one, sweetheart," Billy chuckled. "In fact, I found it was rather chivalrous of me to spare you from having to close the locker." Billy's grin unfurled like a flag of both charm and challenge, hovering in the nebulous space between disarmingly sweet and maddeningly smug. It was as if his every gesture, every flicker of expression, had been honed to perfection before an audience of his own reflection, each nuance calculated for effect. Whether your suspicion held water mattered little; the notion that behind his practiced ease lay a carefully maintained facade wasn't far-fetched. After all, mastering the art of the mask was a survival skill in its own right.

You responded to his teasing not with retreat, but with a stance of quiet defiance, arms crossed as if to ward off the sway of his charm. Your chin lifted slightly, an unspoken challenge, while a reluctant smile threatened to betray your composure. "I was actually talking about you trying to scare me into having a heart attack, but sure, let's go with your excuse," you retorted, your voice laced with a mix of sarcasm and amusement.

His laughter, rich and unguarded, filled the space between you, a sound that seemed too genuine for someone so practiced in artifice. The hand that had been a casual claim on the locker next to your head shifted slightly, drawing your gaze despite yourself. It was an involuntary flicker of attention, pulled momentarily to the subtle play of his tongue across his lips—a gesture that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. In that moment, caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze, you felt a sudden, inexplicable connection, framed by lashes any starlet would envy. Yet, as quickly as it came, you shook off the allure, the momentary weakness. With a willful effort, you pulled away, stepping back from the invisible line that had drawn you dangerously close to his orbit. The air seemed to clear as you moved, dispelling the strange spell that had momentarily tethered you to him.

"Do you have any… plans for tonight?" His inquiry floated into the space between you, his hand retreating from the locker, leaving behind an echo of warmth where it once rested.

You found yourself momentarily caught in the headlights of his question. Friday evenings were the realm of raucous parties and cozy gatherings among friends, a social tapestry you found yourself conspicuously absent from. Your plans, if they could even be called that, consisted of nothing more than acquiring a solitary snack and retreating to the quiet of your car's hood in some forgotten corner of a parking lot.

"I'm more the spontaneous type," you offered, a deflection born of necessity as you idly scratched at your elbow. The admission of your solitude, especially in front of Hawkins' newest import, the effortlessly cool Californian, seemed a bridge too far.

"Good," he cut in, a word punctuated with decision as he turned on his heel towards the exit. You watched, a mix of surprise and curiosity bubbling within you as you followed him, your steps a beat behind, to his car. He performed the gentlemanly act of unlocking and holding open the passenger door, an invitation hanging silently in the air.

With a gesture towards the parking lot, you demurred, "I got my car here." Your thumb jabbed backward, signaling the aged Volkswagen that wore its rust and verdigris like badges of endurance, a relic from a bygone era now under the scrutiny of his oceanic gaze.

The tapestry of scars your car bore was a map of your tumultuous journey thus far. The rear windows, obscured by patches of duct tape, were a testament to a violent shove that had sent you crashing into them. The dented trunk narrated another tale of youthful recklessness, a collision with a telephone pole just weeks after your sixteenth birthday had granted you the freedom of the road. But it was the scar on your hip, hidden beneath fabric yet forever etched in your flesh, that told the most painful story. A vase, hurled in anger by your father, had shattered upon impact, embedding its fragments into your skin. Alone, you had navigated the sterile lights of the emergency room, weaving a tale of clumsy mishap to explain the glass shards that had to be meticulously extracted from your body.

Billy's gaze on you felt like a searchlight, probing for a jest or a convincing argument as to why you wouldn't abandon your car to join him. "I can’t just leave my car here, Billy," you found yourself protesting, even as part of you yearned for the escape he offered.

His response was a casual shrug, his posture relaxed against the frame of his open car door, the denim fabric of his jacket accentuating the lean muscles beneath. "Sure, you can," he countered with an easy confidence. "I can drive you back here after."

The word lingered between you, a mystery yet to unfold. "After what?"

Another shrug, the gesture becoming a signature of his nonchalance. "After." His reply hung in the air, an invitation to an undefined adventure, sparking a blend of apprehension and exhilaration within you.

The suggestion hung in the air, heavy with a dark humor that twisted your words into a sinister prediction. "You know, that kind of sounds like you are going to hack me up and then just dump my severed limbs here. After."

Billy's reaction was instantaneous, his voice laced with feigned hurt, "I would never do that." For a moment, you almost believed him, almost extended an apology, until the glint of mischief in his ice-blue gaze betrayed his jest. "You would get blood all over my car seats."

Your response was an eye roll, the tension easing into a grin at the absurdity of it all. "Fine," you declared, your resolve melting as you approached his car. "But don't you dare take me to someplace with all that healthy stuff," you added, a playful warning in your tone as he stepped aside, allowing you to claim the passenger seat as your own. Pausing, one leg already inside, you issued your culinary demands. "I want a burger, some greasy as fuck chili-cheese fries." You paused, a thought occurring. "And maybe a milkshake."

Billy's smirk was a beacon of complicity in the fading light, his teeth a flash of white as he gently closed the door behind you. Circumventing the vehicle with a swagger, he slid into the driver's seat, igniting the engine and bringing the car to life. The sudden eruption of Ted Nugent's distinct voice filled the cabin, the volume dialed to an almost reckless level. You recognized the voice, not out of personal preference, but thanks to a neighbor's musical obsession which had mercifully shifted from Nugent's raspy rock to the heady depths of heavy metal.

As the car pulled away, the world outside blended into a blur, the soundscape within dominated by Nugent's growling melodies. You found yourself enveloped in the paradox of Billy's world, where the threat of fictional dismemberment faded into the background, replaced by the immediate, vivid reality of a quest for the perfect greasy meal.

As Billy caught the wrinkled disapproval on your face, a chuckle escaped him, tinged with amusement. With a swift movement, he dialed the volume down, though the music still filled the car with a lively barrier against silence. It was loud enough to keep the void of conversation at bay, ensuring that the ride was enveloped in a continuous melody rather than awkward pauses.

You found a brief escape as you rolled down the window, extending your hand into the open air, mimicking the actions of your childhood adventures. The wind battled against your palm, inviting you to sway your hand rhythmically, an instinctive dance of freedom and nostalgia. Your eyelids fluttered shut, surrendering to the flood of memories that washed over you. Those adventures, as your mother had fondly termed them, were simple yet profoundly magical. They consisted of visits to art museums where she would craft whimsical stories behind each painting, imbuing them with life and laughter. There were hikes through dense woods, where she spun tales of bear hunts, making you believe in the thrill of the chase and the glory of imaginary conquests. On the rare occasion, she would navigate the aisles of thrift stores with you in tow. Financial constraints made these trips bittersweet, as the allure of unattainable treasures tugged at your young heart, a reminder of desires just beyond reach.

These excursions, modest in their execution but rich in imagination, formed a tapestry of cherished moments. They were escapes from the mundane, where every outing with your mother became a venture into the extraordinary, a testament to the power of love and storytelling to transform the ordinary into the unforgettable.

As Billy brought the car to a halt in front of the neon-lit facade of the arcade, you couldn't help but turn to him, an eyebrow arching in silent query. He responded with a heavy sigh, the weight of reluctance in his voice as he confessed the need to pick someone up. A brief glance at the digital watch strapped to his wrist revealed a clenched jaw, a silent testament to his impatience or perhaps something deeper, an annoyance or an obligation weighing heavily on him.

Before you could voice the questions dancing on the tip of your tongue, Billy's hand darted forward, retrieving a cigarette from the pack nestled within the confines of the glove compartment. The swift flick of his lighter brought the cigarette to life, its ember glowing fiercely with each inhalation, a beacon of his momentary escape. Exhaling a cloud of smoke through the window, he extended the cigarette towards you, a gesture of sharing in his solace, yet his eyes never met yours, as if the offer was made out of habit rather than genuine intent.

"I don’t smoke," you stated, a gentle reminder of your stance. His reaction was almost immediate, his gaze shifting to you, eyes searching for any sign of jest. Finding none, only the earnest clarity of your refusal, he muttered a blend of resignation and a half-hearted vow never to offer again, his attention quickly diverting to the arcade's entrance with a stare sharp enough to bore holes through the walls. "Are you trying to open the doors with your mind?" Your teasing broke the silence, a playful nudge against his intensity. As you sank deeper into the embrace of the leather seat, the corners of your lips tugged upwards. "I tried moving a pen once. I swear, I almost had it." Your words floated between you, a light-hearted attempt to pierce the seriousness that had enveloped him, inviting him back to a moment of shared levity amidst the unexpected pause in your night.

"She's late again," Billy grumbled under his breath, a tinge of irritation lacing his voice as his gaze flickered to his wristwatch once more, a silent sentinel of his impatience. "Little dipshit can skate home." His hand moved decisively towards the gear shift, ready to abandon the wait and drive off into the night, but you intervened, placing your hand gently over his, a silent plea for patience.

"We've been waiting here for barely five minutes." Your eyebrows knitted together in a mixture of concern and curiosity as you met his gaze, attempting to understand the rush. "We can wait a little longer. I don't mind." Your words were soft, an offering of compassion in the face of his growing frustration.

At that exact moment, as if summoned by your willingness to wait, a figure emerged from the glowing entrance of the arcade. A ginger-haired girl, her face flushed and breathless from her rush, her relief palpable as her eyes locked onto the familiar blue Camaro. With her skateboard tucked securely under her arm, she hastened her steps, almost speed-walking towards the safety and promise of a ride home that the vehicle represented.

As the ginger-haired girl approached, you smoothly exited the Camaro, your movements fluid and deliberate. Pulling forward the seat to allow her access, she clambered into the back with a graceless smile, her eyes flicking briefly to Billy with a mix of gratitude and irritation. You caught the exchange, a silent laugh hidden behind your facade as you adjusted the seat back into place and reclaimed your spot beside Billy.

The tension in the car was palpable, a silent storm brewing in the small confines of the vehicle. Billy's gaze, sharp and unyielding, found the girl through the rearview mirror, anchoring her with a look that brooked no argument, yet he made no move to merge into the street's flow.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper, a fragile attempt to quell the storm. Her eyes darted away, seeking refuge in any corner that wasn't filled with Billy's imposing presence.

"You remember what we talked about?" Billy's voice cut through the tension, clear and authoritative. His question, more an ultimatum than a query, hung heavy in the air.

"I said, I'm sorry," the girl retorted, her defensiveness surfacing with her words. A scowl began to form on your face, mirroring the growing frustration and discomfort that swirled inside you as Billy remained stationary, his focus unbroken.

His eyes never left her. "What did I tell you?" The gravity in his voice pulled at you, a painful wrench in your heart as you felt the weight of his words. "What did I tell you, Max?" At his question, your emotions teetered on the edge of a precipice, a quiver on your lip the only hint of the turmoil within.

Suddenly, the confined space of the car became too much, the air too thick to breathe. With a surge of resolve, you tore open the door, the sound of it closing behind you a silent scream for escape. Your hands balled into fists at your sides, a futile attempt to steady their shaking, as the silence from within the car enveloped you like a cold embrace, as his voice haunted your mind.

Billy emerged from the car, his silhouette framed by the setting sun as he rounded the hood with measured steps. You stood there, amidst the quiet chaos, closing your eyes to gather the shards of calm scattered by the storm. A deep breath filled your lungs, an attempt to cleanse the tumult within. When his voice broke through the silence, a soft yet piercing inquiry, "You all right, sweetheart?" it felt different this time. Where once the pet names he draped you in felt like silk, now they scratched against your skin like burlap.

The glare you returned was loaded with an unspoken dialogue, a debate raging within you about the wisdom of diving into depths where perhaps you had no place. Yet, the image of the girl, her spirit dimmed in the rearview mirror, tipped the scales. "You didn't have to berate her like that," the words tumbled out, laced with conviction, while your arms folded defensively across your chest. "She said she was sorry twice."

Observing him, you saw the muscles in his jaw clench, a physical manifestation of his rising defensiveness, and his nostrils flared, a silent herald of the storm to come. "How about you stay out of my fucking business?" The words were sharp, a dagger thrown with precision, meant to wound and warn.

As your scoff broke the tense air between you, it carried with it a bewildering sense of revelation. You found yourself staring, almost in disbelief, as the layers of Billy's persona peeled back to reveal the hot-tempered core you had only heard whispers of. Rumors of his impulsive shoves in crowded hallways and aggressive dominance on the basketball court had reached your ears, painting a picture of a boy who wielded his temper as carelessly as he did his charm. The teenage girls of Hawkins High had not been shy in sharing tales of his less savory deeds, and yet, in a strange twist of fate, they still crowned him with their affections, blinded perhaps by the handsome mask he wore. To you, until this moment, he had shown a different face—one that hinted at kindness beneath the rugged exterior.

"I don't think I can come with you. No, actually, I don't want to anymore." The words emerged from your lips, firm and irrevocable, sealing the fate of the evening that had taken an unexpected turn.

At your declaration, a storm seemed to gather on Billy's brow, his forehead creasing with anger as he teetered on the brink of letting loose a venomous retort. "Why are you being such a bi—" His words faltered, clogging the air between you as the realization of his near slip clamped down on his tongue. A sudden shift overtook his features, the anger washing out as if drained by an unseen force, leaving behind a pallid mask of instant regret.

"You know what, Billy?" you threw the words into the thickening twilight, not seeking an answer but rather casting them as a final verdict. Your feet started to retreat, each step a defiant dance away from the scene. "Fuck you. Oh, and while you're at it, why don't you shove those burgers up where the sun never shines, yeah?" With those parting shots, you spun on your heel, the world spinning momentarily before settling as you marched back toward the familiar silhouette of Hawkins High.

"You don't have your car!" His voice chased after you, a mixture of frustration and incredulity painting each syllable.

"And, still, I'd rather walk!" Your voice rang clear into the fading day, a declaration of independence. For good measure, and perhaps for the sake of your bruised pride, you flung one of your favorite gestures over your shoulder, hoping it would catch him in a moment of speechless observation.

Fucking men.

…

A month had woven itself into the fabric of your life since that tumultuous encounter with Billy Hargrove. His existence had become a silent shadow in your days, marked only by the occasional glimpse of his step-sister, a ghostly reminder of the confrontation that had severed whatever thread had begun to tie you to him. It was ironic, really, how the absence of someone could teach you so much about them. Your days flowed on, untouched by his presence, yet whispers of his life seemed to find you.

You learned of his origins, not through any desire of your own but through the idle chatter of classmates, their words painting a picture of a life you hadn't asked to understand. Billy Hargrove, the boy from California, now residing at 4819 Cherry Lane, wrapped in a scent that lingered in the halls—and apparently his pack—long after he had passed through. These snippets of his existence, caught in passing, seemed to stitch a portrait of a person you no longer knew, if indeed you ever really did.

Each revelation, each accidental eavesdrop, added layers to the image of Billy Hargrove, filling in gaps with colors you hadn't chosen. Yet, for all the unrequested knowledge that had found its way to you, the essence of the boy remained elusive, a puzzle pieced together from fragments overheard in passing. The tendrils of your past, entangled with dreams of a future beyond the confines of Hawkins, whispered to you in moments of solitude. Your aspirations reached far beyond the town's limits, aiming for the hallowed halls of college—a beacon of escape from a life mapped out by circumstances rather than choice. Each rejection letter that found its way to you felt like a door slamming shut, while the solitary acceptance, devoid of the golden ticket of a scholarship, seemed a cruel tease of what could be. College represented more than an education; it was your lifeline out of Hawkins, a chance to evade the shadows that lingered there, including him.

Financial realities cast long shadows over your dreams. The fruits of years spent toiling in odd jobs had been whittled away by the necessities of life and the unending demands of medical supplies, a silent testament to the sacrifices made. The money that didn't vanish into the bottomless pit of healthcare needs was swallowed by the mundane yet essential needs for gas and food, leaving nothing for the luxuries that others might take for granted. The memory of purchasing something solely for the joy it brought, something as simple as a new mascara or a piece of clothing in your favorite color, had faded into the realm of distant dreams.

Yet, as you maneuvered the car out of the school's parking lot, a resolve took root within you—a quiet declaration of self-kindness. The day's burdens lifted slightly at the thought of indulging in a small luxury, a token of appreciation for yourself after so long. The thrift store's familiar aisles offered sanctuary and the possibility of finding something uniquely yours. Amidst the labyrinth of second-hand garments, a splash of yellow caught your eye, halting your aimless search. Your fingers grazed the fabric of a flowy yellow dress, the color a vivid echo of happier times.

In that moment, a memory blossomed, vivid and sweet—a day at the lake with your mother, her laughter mingling with the breeze, her own yellow dress a mirror to the one now in your hands. Despite the harsh realities that awaited back home, her smile in that instant had been a beacon of pure joy, untainted by the shadows of daily struggles. The memory, so sharply beautiful, tugged at your heart with a mixture of longing and sorrow. For a fleeting moment, surrounded by the whispers of past lives encapsulated in the thrift store's treasures, you allowed yourself the luxury of reminiscence and the hope of brighter days, fueled by the simple act of choosing something that sparked joy in your heart.

Your fingers hesitated for a moment before firmly grasping the dress, lifting it from its crowded perch among forgotten stories and second chances. As you queued for purchase, the monotony of waiting nudged your attention toward the world beyond the thrift store's window. Your eyes traced the ebb and flow of life on the sidewalk—a tableau of youthful laughter and the disgruntled expressions of passing adults, caught in a silent battle over public decorum.

Your gaze was about to retreat back to the cashier's call when the distinct rumble of a familiar engine sliced through the ambient noise, capturing your attention. A blue Camaro, unmistakable in its assertive presence, blazed past the window, a fleeting shadow in your line of sight. The timing hinted at a routine you'd inadvertently memorized, perhaps Billy Hargrove on his way to collect Max from the arcade. Despite the distance you'd placed between yourself and him, his existence still managed to weave its way into the fabric of your thoughts, an uninvited yet persistent presence.

Groceries, bought with the remnants of your carefully hoarded finances, soon occupied the passenger seat of your car, a tangible reminder of the practical concerns that governed your life. You returned to the trailer park, your vehicle coming to a rest beside the rusted silhouette of home. The neighborhood was alive with the small, personal escapes of those around you—barbecues, beers, and the semblance of community in the individualistic survival of trailer park living. You offered a half-hearted wave to the scattered acknowledgments from your neighbors, a gesture of civility in the shared anonymity of your lives.

One neighbor, a boy around your age with a habitual distance from the trailer park's confines, returned your wave with a shy, fleeting smile. His presence was a rarity, his time usually spent in the freedom of friendships beyond the park's boundaries. A pang of longing touched you at the thought, a wistful wish for connections you hadn't the luxury to foster.

Stepping out of your car, the dress in hand and groceries by your side, you couldn't help but reflect on the paths not taken, the friendships not formed. The trailer park, with its rusted dreams and patchwork communities, held both the weight of your realities and the whispers of what might have been, had circumstances been kinder.

The descent of twilight had always carried a particular solemnity in the trailer park, a silent herald of the end of another day's labors and the beginning of the park's nocturnal repose. As you ascended the weathered steps, the weight of the grocery bags in your hands was a tangible reminder of the day's responsibilities, a mundane yet necessary burden. Your father's gaze, sharp and scrutinizing, met you through the window, his eyes flickering with a mix of wariness and disapproval between you and the neighbor boy who had offered a fleeting gesture of camaraderie. His expression, a familiar tapestry of anger and suspicion, caused you to avert your gaze and hasten your steps, seeking refuge in the relative safety of the indoors.

The call to the living room came at an hour when the world outside had surrendered to the darkness, the only witnesses to its secrets being the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the sky. The neighbors, those transient figures of your day-to-day existence, had retreated behind their doors, driven by the sudden onset of rain. It was in this secluded setting that your father awaited, ensconced in the worn embrace of his brown-leathered armchair, a throne from which he observed the small dominion of your shared living space.

You paused at a cautious distance, the air between you charged with an unspoken tension, a testament to the delicate balance of your relationship. In the dim light, your fingers absently traced the familiar imperfections in your nails, a diversion from the intensity of his scrutiny. Your father, a man whose actions were measured and deliberate, had managed to maintain a facade of normalcy to the outside world. Whatever speculations might have circulated among the neighbors about the dynamics within your trailer, they remained just that—speculations, with no concrete evidence to breach the veil of privacy that curtained your shared existence.

In that moment, standing in the living room's subdued light, the distance between you felt more than just physical; it was a chasm of unspoken words and stifled emotions, a silent battleground where every gesture and glance held weight.

"I'm very disappointed in you," he spoke, orbs glued to your face which was turned to the carpeted floors. "I give you so much and don't expect a lot in return, now, do I?" You closed your eyes, teeth catching your lips as you shook your head no. "That's right." He lifted himself up from his seat, stepping closer. You stilled. "What I can't have, is my daughter whoring herself out to some boys."

You flinched as a hand gripped your jaw. "I don't—"

His hold tightened, warm alcohol-tinges breath hitting your cheek. "And to have so much disrespect to lie to my face."

"Please, Dad, I don't even know his nam—"

"Shut up!" You winced at his harsh tone, a trembling falling into your bones. "How long have you been going around spreading your fucking legs, huh? You think you can just do that while you're living under my roof?" He shoved you back into the kitchen counter, its edges digging into your skin painfully. "Fucking whore," he hissed. "If I ever see you looking at him again, I'm not going to be so nice."

Your voice was a mere whisper. "But I didn't—" A slap echoed and a jarring stinging spread across your cheek.

"Don't you fucking dare to talk back to me!" His fingers dug into your skin further as he yanked you forward and smashed you to the floor. "Who do you think you are, huh?" He ripped you upwards at the roots of your hair, wrenching you across the floor to the front door. Your head smashed into the wood as your father tore it open with no regard for you. His hand fell from your hair as he shoved you forward with his foot. As you didn't do as he pleased fast enough, he kicked you onwards and again until you tumbled down the stairs of your home.

"I don't want no disrespectful whore under my roof.” The night air was heavy with the scent of rain, a foreboding cloak that seemed to amplify your isolation as your father's anger found its final expression in the harsh, definitive sound of the door slamming shut behind you. Stranded in the aftermath, you lay there for a moment, sprawled on the cold, unforgiving ground, every breath a testament to the throbbing pain in your ribs. Gritting your teeth against the discomfort, you managed to pull yourself into a seated position, the tears that you hadn't invited nor could contain stinging your eyes, mingling with the rain that began to drench you in its cold embrace.

The world around you felt alien, a labyrinth of uncertainties and fears about where the night might take you. Trust, a commodity you found in short supply, left you without a door to knock on, without a sanctuary in which to seek refuge. Even the shelter of your car was denied to you, the keys a distant, unreachable comfort. Your heart heavy, you stood, the direction of your feet a mystery even to yourself as you meandered through the dimly lit streets of Hawkins. It was as if some unseen force guided you, leading you on a path paved with desperation and silent pleas for solace.

Cherry Lane materialized before you almost as if by magic, the familiarity of the surroundings doing little to ease the tumult in your heart. The houses stood like silent sentinels, guarding the secrets of those who dwelled within, until the sight of a blue Camaro, parked with an air of silent expectation, caught your eye. It was a beacon in the gloom, a signpost pointing towards a possibility you hadn't dared to consider until now.

With hesitant steps, you ascended the porch, each footfall a declaration of your vulnerability. The house before you was a tableau of quiet domesticity, its windows glowing softly in the night, yet betraying no hint of the lives unfolding behind them. For a moment, you allowed yourself the small comfort of shelter, the porch a temporary haven from the relentless rain. Gathering the remnants of your courage, you reached out, your hand pausing in mid-air as you braced yourself to bridge the distance between desperation and hope, between solitude and the possibility of finding an ally in the most unexpected of places.

Hesitation gripped you as the absurdity of your situation fully dawned upon you. What madness had driven you to seek refuge here, of all places? It had been over a month since any words had passed between you and Billy, and the possibility of him not being the one to answer the door loomed large in your mind, a specter of potential embarrassment you hadn't fully considered until now. Imagining the awkwardness of explaining your presence to his stepmother or father sent a shiver down your spine. Perhaps the familiar discomfort of your own leaky porch, where sleep would undoubtedly elude you amidst the elements, would have been preferable to the risk of utter humiliation here.

As you turned to make a hasty retreat, a clumsy misstep sent one of the plant pots clattering to the ground, the sound of shattering pottery piercing the steady drum of rain. Mortification washed over you as you knelt, frantically trying to salvage the situation by scooping the spilled soil back into its home, muttering curses under your breath for your own clumsiness.

"What are you doing?" The sound of Billy's voice, laced with confusion and rising over the roar of the rain, caused you to startle, nearly toppling the pot once more in your sudden panic.

You stood, hands smeared with dirt against the fabric of your wet pants, words tripping over themselves in a clumsy attempt to explain. "I'm sorry," was the simple, inadequate conclusion you reached. A nervous laugh escaped you, highlighting the absurdity of your predicament. "I... I don't even know what I'm doing here," you admitted, your voice tinged with the realization of your own folly. "I—I'm going to go. Sorry about the plant."

Billy's gaze drifted past you to the empty street, a silent question in his eyes before returning to you. "Where's your car?" The inquiry was straightforward, yet it left you grappling with the decision of whether to fabricate a lie about its whereabouts.

"I walked," you confessed, the truth slipping out with a hesitance that betrayed your vulnerability.

"In the rain?" His question hung unfinished in the air as his attention abruptly shifted, focusing intently on your face. Whatever he saw there caused a transformation in his demeanor, his previously questioning gaze hardening with resolve. He swung the door wider, an unspoken invitation hanging between you. "Get in," he commanded, a mixture of concern and command in his tone. Your uncertainty was palpable, a silent question mark in your stance until his impatience broke through your indecision. "Do you always need a second invitation? Get inside." His words, more a directive than a suggestion, propelled you forward, his intense stare ushering you into the warmth and shelter of his home. No sooner had the front door clicked shut behind you than Billy’s hand enveloped yours, his grip firm and unexpectedly warm. He led you through the hallway with a sense of urgency, the sound of your sodden shoes squelching against the floor marking your passage. The door to his room was next, closing with a definitive thud that seemed to isolate the world outside. Releasing your hand as though he suddenly remembered the protocol of personal space, Billy turned his attention to the task of decluttering his room with an efficiency that left his clothes arching through the air to land perfectly in a hamper across the space.

You found yourself standing somewhat awkwardly in the middle of his room, the chill of your drenched clothes causing you to shiver uncontrollably. Instinctively, you crossed your arms in an attempt to preserve warmth, your gaze drifting downwards before curiosity prompted a survey of your surroundings. The room was a capsule of Billy's world – his bed, a stark island in the chaos, lay opposite the door, while a white dresser burdened with an assortment of items claimed territory to your left. A stereo system and a mirror positioned at the foot of his bed stood guard in front of his closet, serving as silent sentinels of his privacy. The walls were an eclectic gallery featuring a mix of band posters—Metallica's ‘Kill 'Em All’ and Tank's ‘Filth Hounds of Hades’ among them—and a singular, provocatively posed woman adorning a minuscule bikini set.

A cough from Billy broke the silence, his posture shifting uncomfortably as he planted a hand on his hip, mirroring your own awkwardness. "Do you wanna take a hot shower?" His voice, hesitant yet earnest, sliced through the tension.

You matched his earlier gesture, clearing your throat before responding with a nod, your smile timid yet sincere, a silent thank you. "If you don't mind."

His response was quick, almost reflexive. "I wouldn't be asking if I did." The briefest flicker of something akin to regret crossed his features, a look that suggested he found the current situation less than ideal. With a barely perceptible shake of his head, as if to dismiss his own thoughts, he guided you to the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom. Handing you a towel with an awkwardness that seemed out of place on him, he promised to find you some dry clothes, leaving you with the comforting prospect of warmth and a momentary escape from the night's chaos. Peeling away the layers of your drenched attire felt like shedding a second, clammy skin, each piece a testament to the frugality that necessity had imposed upon your life. The fabric, cheap and worn, clung to you with a stubborn chill, and even as you stood bare in the relative warmth of the bathroom, shivers danced across your skin, relentless in their embrace.

You stepped over the edge of the tub with a cautious grace, turning the faucet with hands that trembled not just from the cold but from the uncertainty of the moment. As the water sputtered to life, you drew the shower curtain with a swift motion, sealing yourself away from the world for a brief interlude. The array of bottles lining the tub's edge caught your eye, prompting an involuntary snort of amusement.

Billy, it seemed, defied the stereotype of masculine simplicity in skincare, the stereotype that suggested a preference for efficiency over variety. Your father, with his staunch allegiance to three-in-one products, had been your benchmark for male grooming habits. Yet here, in Billy's shower, was a collection that spoke of a different creed. You couldn't help but smirk, a playful curiosity lifting your brows as you inspected the labels one by one. Shampoos, more than one might expect, each bottle worn from use, nestled beside conditioners—one clearly favored, its contents more depleted.

The body wash, singular in its presence, was an olfactory enigma. Unscrewing the cap, you were met with an assault of scents, as if the essence of every cologne and deodorant had been distilled into this one vessel. The smell was overpowering, undeniably masculine, a concentrated embodiment of Billy's presence. You searched for the words to describe it but landed on the singularly fitting—manly.

As the warm water cascaded over you, washing away the layers of the day—the sweat, the remnants of makeup that had survived the downpour—you moved with haste. There was a keen awareness of not overstaying your welcome in this unexpected sanctuary. Gratitude for Billy's kindness mingled with a sense of urgency; such generosity was a rare currency in your world, and you were acutely conscious of its value. In these moments, under the stream of cleansing water, you found a temporary reprieve, a fleeting sense of solace amid the turbulence of your life. The moment your skin felt the cool air of the bathroom, a soft knock echoed against the door, a gentle but unexpected intrusion into your solitude. Clutching the towel around yourself with a sudden modesty, you cracked the door open just enough to extend a hand into the gap. Billy's presence on the other side was palpable, his chuckle a low, soft sound that fluttered through the air as he passed a bundle of clothes to you. "Thanks," you murmured, a rush of words barely escaping before you retreated behind the door once more.

Dressed in the clothes Billy had chosen—socks, boxers, sweats, and a shirt—you paused at the threshold of his room, suddenly conscious of the absence of your bra and acutely aware that he was, too. With a final act of tidiness, you folded the towel meticulously and flicked off the lights, leaving behind the sanctuary of the bathroom for the uncertainty that lay beyond.

You found yourself lingering in the doorway, arms wrapped defensively across your chest, the fabric of his shirt a poor shield against the vulnerability you felt. Billy's gaze upon you was indescribable, heavy with an unspoken expectation as if he wished to peel back the layers of your being and examine the hidden scars that lay beneath.

Mustering what little composure you had, you broke the silence, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

His brow furrowed, confusion and something else—was it concern?—etching lines into his forehead. "For what?" he queried, his voice a blend of curiosity and something softer.

You diverted your gaze, a sense of intrusion overwhelming you despite the sanctuary he'd provided. "Bothering you. It's late," you admitted, feeling the weight of your unwelcome presence.

The sound of his movement pulled your eyes upward, half-expecting, half-hoping he might bridge the distance between you. Instead, you were met with the sight of his back as he rifled through his nightstand, the tension in the room palpable. "Sit," he commanded, and though under any other circumstance you might have bristled at the order, the exhaustion and gratitude mingling within you coaxed compliance.

Without protest, you perched on the edge of the bed, a silent observer to his actions, the room around you filled with an unspoken dialogue made of glances and gestures, a fragile understanding hanging in the balance. As he pivoted towards you, a black box in his grasp, an electric tension filled the air. He chose not to sit beside you on the bed; instead, he knelt before you, an unexpected intimacy in the space between your parted knees. Your breath caught, a silent gasp lost in the moment, and irritation flared within you as you noticed the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What are you doing?" you inquired, a mix of curiosity and wariness lacing your words, your gaze sharply tracking his movements.

"If I remember correctly, Sweetheart, you gave me a lecture on using Neosporin or otherwise you get scars, right?" His voice held a playful rebuke, cutting off any response you might have mustered. "Let's make sure that doesn't happen, huh?"

His attention fixed on a spot on your forehead, drawing your own hand reflexively to the area he observed, only to flinch at the tender reminder of a wound you hadn't registered until now. The memory of the collision with your trailer door flickered through your mind, a painful blur in the chaos of the night. His touch was unexpectedly gentle as he attended to the wound, a carefulness in his actions that surprised you, challenging what you thought you knew of him. Despite the months you'd spent in his orbit, this moment revealed layers you hadn't glimpsed before.

"You don't have to do that," you found yourself saying as he procured a tube of Neosporin—a recent addition to his kit, no doubt on your advice. "I can do it, too."

"Never said you couldn't," he hummed back, undeterred as he meticulously applied the ointment, his focus undivided. With deliberate care, he placed two butterfly plasters across the cleaned wound, a silent testament to his unspoken concern. Gathering the discarded wrappers and used items, he compressed them in his hand and rose, moving to dispose of the trash. In that small, enclosed space, with the sound of rain a distant murmur against the windows, a different side of Billy was illuminated under the soft glow of the room's lighting — a side tender, careful, and starkly at odds with the rough edges of his usual demeanor. You cleared your throat, a gesture so small yet so loaded with the weight of the evening's events.

"Thank you," you managed to say, voice barely above a whisper. He paused in his motions, turning towards you with a smile so radiant it threatened to stop your heart in its tracks.

"No problem, Sweetheart," he replied, his voice a smooth salve over the jagged edges of the night. As he moved to dispose of the trash, a sudden, inexplicable tumult stirred within you. With a hand pressed against your chest, you sought to quell the storm brewing beneath your ribs, a futile attempt to calm the chaos his mere presence invoked.

Rising to your feet, you drifted towards the window, seeking solace in the steady downpour that mirrored your inner turmoil. The rain continued to fall, now more fiercely than before, a relentless deluge that held you captive in this moment. You felt his presence before you saw him, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the chill seeping through the glass.

"Didn't get much of this in California, huh?" you ventured, an attempt to bridge the chasm of silence between you.

He let your question hang in the air, unanswered, yet the fleeting shadow that crossed his face spoke volumes, a bitterness that matched the storm outside. His gaze shifted, momentarily caught in the past before refocusing on the present — on the wound that marred your forehead. "What happened?" he asked, the question simple yet loaded with unspoken concern.

You shrugged, a movement laden with the weight of untold stories. "Nothing," you replied, the lie slipping from your lips as easily as breath, a practiced deception you had mastered over time. "I tripped."

"And that had you walking through the rain in the middle of the night?" His skepticism was palpable, a challenge to the facade you'd constructed.

A battle raged within you, the urge to confess warring with the instinct to conceal. You bit back the tears threatening to spill, the pain of admission too great to bear. "I locked myself out and didn't know what else to do."

"Yeah?" he pressed, his disbelief a tangible force.

"Yeah." Your affirmation was a whisper in the storm, a feeble attempt to maintain the crumbling walls around your heart.

He moved closer, his presence overwhelming, trapping you between the solid reality of his form and the immovable barrier of his closet. "If you don't want to talk about it then say so," he declared, his voice a command that brooked no argument. "Don't lie and pretend to be fine when clearly you aren't."

In that charged moment, with the rain as your sole witness, the space between you became a battleground of unspoken words and concealed wounds, a testament to the complexity of human connection. Your jaw clenched tightly, a tangible manifestation of your frustration and defiance. The notion of receiving unsolicited advice, particularly from him, was almost laughable. Gratitude for his shelter in the storm did not extend to welcoming painful truths. "Oh, that's rich coming from you, Billy. It's not like you aren't just fine all the time," you retorted, your words sharp, laden with a bitterness born of too many hidden truths.

The shift in him was immediate, his anger dissipating as though your words had pierced a veil, revealing a glimpse of the vulnerability he so meticulously guarded. When he raised his hand, the gentle brush of his forefinger against the stray tear on your cheek sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. "I never said I wanted to talk about it," he murmured, his voice soft, revealing a hint of his own battles fought in silence. Your heart fluttered uncontrollably, his touch igniting a flurry of sensations, momentarily tethering you to a moment of raw connection.

The sudden crack of lightning, followed by the deep rumble of thunder, jolted you back to reality, breaking the spell that had momentarily bound you. The urge to flee, to return to the semblance of normalcy that awaited at home, surged within you. "I should probably go," you whispered, hoping against hope that your father's drunken stupor would erase the night's events by morning, that a simple act of domestic normality could smooth over the fractures in your life. "Do you have an umbrella or something?"

His response was instant, a resolute rejection of your plan. "Do you really think I'll let you get back there now? So, you can flash a cut lip and a blue eye tomorrow at school, too?" His words, though posed as a question, left no room for argument. In his refusal to allow you to venture back into the storm, both literal and metaphorical, lay an unspoken pledge of protection, a sanctuary against the tempest that raged beyond his door. "What does it matter?" you found yourself arguing, feeling the weight of your own arms as they fell limply by your sides. The sense of defeat was palpable in the air. "So, I stay tonight, then what, Billy? I'll have to go back eventually, and it's only until the school year's over. Then, I'm gone anyway."

His response came in the form of a growl, though you could tell his anger wasn't directed at you. It stemmed from a place of shared desperation, from having clung to the same sliver of hope himself. "So, you're just gonna let him beat you for the rest of the year?"

Your response was a snort, laced with sarcasm, as you tilted your head, challenging him. "Aren't you doing the same thing?" The silence that followed was telling, even if no words were spoken, until he dared to step closer.

"It does matter, you know," he said, his voice softer now, reducing the physical distance between you yet careful not to invade your personal space.

"Why?" The question came out more as a whisper of disbelief. For the past month, he had acted as if you were barely visible, and suddenly, he seemed to care deeply. "Why now?"

His hesitation was palpable, as if the words he was about to utter could scorch his tongue. "I like you." The simplicity of his confession hung between you, fraught with unspoken complexities.

You bit your lip, a sad, resigned smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you lowered your head. "Don't do that to yourself." The words were barely a whisper, yet they carried the weight of a lifetime. Tears threatened to spill over, a testament to a sentiment you had never expected to receive. The idea that someone could not just tolerate but actually like you was foreign, almost too much to bear. All your life, you had erected walls to keep people at a distance, for their affection meant empathy, and with empathy came pain. The sight of your wounds would become their agony, and in a twisted way, their suffering would become yours, completing a circle of shared hurt you had always sought to avoid.

"Who do you think I am, Billy?" You backed away slowly, trying to maintain some semblance of distance between you and Billy, but the inevitable happened—your retreat was abruptly stopped by the wall. A wave of unfamiliar pressure washed over you. Was it fear? Or perhaps vulnerability? You couldn't quite place the emotion. "I'm not the kind of person to have around. I won't complete you, won't enrich your life,” you stammered out, your voice a mix of warning and fear. These words were your feeble attempt to shield him, to prepare him for the inevitable disappointment that seemed to follow you like a shadow. "I—I'm just so fucked up and stuck trying to put everything... everything broken back into place. I... I can't look for your shards, too."

When your eyes finally dared to meet his, you expected to see annoyance, maybe even rejection. Instead, what you found was empathy, his expression softened, recognizing the turmoil within you as something he too understood. "I don't want you to try and fix me," he said, his tone gentle, soothing the chaotic thoughts swirling in your mind. His hand reached for yours, not as a claim but as a gesture of companionship, of solidarity. "But searching for shit goes so much faster if you do it together." In the dimly lit room, where shadows danced across the walls with a life of their own, Billy Hargrove revealed himself in a way that words could scarcely capture. The man you thought you knew, encased in layers of protective anger and a cocksure swagger, allowed those defenses to melt away in your presence. It was as if he peeled back the veneer of bravado, exposing the raw, unguarded depths of his soul—a mosaic of past hurts and present struggles laid bare for only your eyes.

The moment his fingers brushed against your cheek, a cascade of sensations unfurled within you. It was more than a touch; it was an electric current that surged through your veins, rendering you speechless, breathless. As you locked gazes with him, drowning in the ocean of his bright blue eyes, the world seemed to pause. Every attempt at drawing breath felt like an insurmountable task, and yet, paradoxically, you felt more grounded than ever, as if an invisible force tethered you to the very core of the earth. Simultaneously, there lingered an exhilarating sense of lightness, a curious wonder if you might suddenly break free from gravity's embrace and ascend into the ether. The effect Billy had on you was profound, leaving you to ponder if perhaps, in some small way, you affected him similarly.

Did you trouble his thoughts as he did yours? Did your presence steal his breath and unsettle him to his core? Within the quiet chambers of your heart, a small, worn, and lonely piece of you clung to the hope that he might feel the same.

As his index finger traced the contours of your face with reverence, from the softness of your cheek to the furrowed worry lines on your forehead, and finally to the tender vulnerability of your lips, you sensed a hesitancy in him. His other hand, which had been a mere whisper away from yours against the wall, dropped slightly, fingers brushing against the fabric of the shirt he had lent you. With a subtle tug, influenced by a brief flare of his nostrils, it was as if he was battling a storm of desire within, restraining himself with a Herculean effort from crossing a line from which there was no return. In that moment, Billy Hargrove was no longer just a name or a face; he was a force, simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating, threatening to unravel the very fabric of your being.

The words stumbled from your lips, frail and unsteady, shattering the facade of indifference you had desperately clung to. "So—" you began, only to have your voice fracture cruelly midway, exposing the turbulence beneath your calm exterior. "You want to be friends…like officially?"

A crooked smile unfurled across his face, his deep-set eyes twinkling with a blend of amusement and an unexpected trace of shyness. His grip on the fabric of the shirt intensified, his knuckles whitening with the strain. "Trust me, Sweetheart, friends isn’t what I had in mind," he confessed, his voice a low murmur that sent a wave of heat cascading down your spine, igniting a flurry of desire that pooled in the depths of your stomach.

You stood petrified, a statue of anticipation, as an inexplicable longing surged within you, compelling your fingers to twitch at your sides. You yearned to weave your fingers through the silky strands of his meticulously styled hair, to explore the contours of his being with a touch. Yet, as he retreated, fishing a pack of cigarettes from the depths of his jeans, you found yourself anchored in place, watching him with a mixture of astonishment and burgeoning disappointment. It wasn't the withdrawal you had anticipated that took you by surprise, but rather the keen sense of letdown that he didn't pursue the tension crackling between you further.

When he turned his back to you momentarily in search of an ashtray, a childish pout began to form on your lips, a silent testament to your discontent. Billy, however, remained oblivious to your turmoil, opting instead to lean casually against the wall by the open window, exhaling smoke into the tempestuous embrace of the rainy night. You pondered over his actions, the deviation from his usual indifference to smoking indoors. The scent of tobacco, which had once been a source of discomfort, had, over time, woven itself into the tapestry of comforts associated with Billy's presence. It was an aroma that, in the context of his room—a sanctuary of chaotic tranquility—had become oddly reassuring. Mixed with the other, more elusive scents that lingered in the corners of his space, it crafted an ambiance that was undeniably Billy, and in that moment, you realized how deeply entwined your senses had become with the essence of his existence. The array of colognes that enveloped him carried none of the hallmarks of the cheap fragrances that typically permeated the crowded hallways of Hawkins High. His presence, and indeed his room, was suffused with a complex aroma—slightly woody, perhaps a hint of leather, and beneath it all, a subtle undertone of sweetness that floated gently in the air. It was an olfactory melody that intrigued you, a scent that you found unexpectedly comforting.

Wrapped in your own arms, you approached him, a silent figure against the tumult of your thoughts, pressing your back to the wardrobe adjacent to his window. Without a word, he offered the cigarette to you, a gesture that halted you momentarily. As you reached out, the brief touch of his warm fingers against yours sent an inexplicable shiver down your spine, a sensation that seemed to echo on your skin long after the contact had ended. Drawing in the acrid taste of the smoke, you allowed yourself a moment to indulge in the bitterness, your eyes lifting to meet his.

There he was, a grin playing on his lips, watching you with an intensity that rendered you momentarily breathless. The world around you narrowed to the space between you two, your senses hyper-aware of his proximity. The cigarette, now a forgotten prop in your hand, no longer demanded your attention as you found yourself irresistibly drawn into the depths of his blue gaze. An unconscious bite to your lip betrayed your thoughts as your eyes darted to his lips and back again.

He closed the distance with a single, purposeful step, igniting a trail of warmth that flickered to life within you. Billy leaned in, his breath—a mix of smoke and something indefinably sweet—brushed against your cheek, sending ripples of anticipation through you. His lips curled into a knowing smirk, his voice a blend of amusement and challenge. "You gonna smoke that, Sweetheart, or are you just gonna keep staring?"

In that moment, under the weight of his gaze and the heat of his breath, you realized the cigarette was merely a bystander in a dance of tension and unspoken desires, a dance that had you captivated and wanting more. A blush crept up your neck, a vivid testimony to the turmoil within, as you extended the cigarette towards him, a silent plea for normalcy. Yet, instead of simply taking it, he lingered, his chuckle a low rumble against the shell of your ear, sending a cascade of goosebumps down your flesh. He leaned back, his movements languid yet deliberate, eyes locked on yours as he accepted the cigarette, drawing in a slow, purposeful drag. Under the weight of his gaze, your heart raced, each beat a drumroll of anticipation. His lips twitched into a smirk, and in that moment, the tether of your restraint snapped.

Driven by a surge of boldness, you seized the fabric of his shirt, pulling him into a collision of lips. The world narrowed to the point of contact, where fear and desire mingled in a single breath. But as quickly as the impulse came, it retreated, leaving you to recoil in a mix of surprise and mortification. "I'm so sor—"

But your apology was cut short, his hand finding the nape of your neck, an anchor pulling you back into the storm. His lips sealed over yours with a fervor that spoke of raw need and simmering frustration. The sensation in your stomach exploded into a wildfire, racing through your veins, igniting every fiber of your being. His hands, emboldened and roaming, traced paths filled with longing and anticipation, his grip on your hip a silent command that spurred a sharp intake of breath. Yet, as Billy drew you closer, melding your body to his with a hunger that spoke of endless waiting, the kiss deepened, transcending the confines of time and space. The world outside this embrace dissolved into insignificance, leaving nothing but the intensity of your connection, a thirst quenched in the meeting of lips, finally stilled in the embrace of shared desire. Emerging first from the embrace, you found yourself ensnared in a heady daze, breathless from a mixture of oxygen deprivation and the intoxicating effect of Billy's touch. Your hands clung to his shirt collar, a desperate bid to maintain the closeness, the electricity that buzzed between you. Yet, Billy harbored no intention of releasing you into the cold reality just yet. As your eyelids fluttered shut again, his lips embarked on a fervent exploration along the tender expanse of your neck. Each kiss was a brand, igniting fires within your veins, stirring a wild rush of blood that screamed for more.

In his ministrations, Billy was anything but tentative, his actions painting the strokes of your silent wishes with bold, assertive colors. You reveled in the sensation, a glorious chaos made of his fervent kisses and the playful nip of teeth against your skin, eliciting a hitch in your breath that morphed into a soft whine. This sound drew a triumphant grin across his lips, a silent acknowledgment of the effect he wielded over you.

The moment shifted as he gently maneuvered you backward, only to ease himself onto the edge of his bed, pulling you into his orbit with an unspoken command. You remained on your feet, a silent statue, until he chastised you with a playful tilt of his head and a tug on the waistband of the pants he had lent you. "You do always need a second invitation, huh?" he teased, his voice a blend of amusement and desire.

His hands, firm and insistent, found your thighs, drawing you irresistibly onto his lap. Positioned intimately close, your breath caught as the proximity sparked a fresh surge of desire. Your gaze flitted over his features, captivated by the intensity in his eyes before inevitably being drawn to the smug curve of his lips. In that moment, caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze and the promise of his smile, you teetered on the edge of surrender, every fiber of your being alight with anticipation.

In the charged silence of the room, your voice was a mere whisper, a soft breeze that dared not disturb the delicate sphere of intimacy that encased you both. "Is anyone else home?" The words barely left your lips, a testament to the fragile moment you were so afraid to shatter.

Billy's response was a grin, one that spoke volumes of the thoughts he'd kept at bay, now unchained in the privacy of his domain. "No," he breathed, a single syllable heavy with unspoken promises. His hands, emboldened by the assurance of solitude, resumed their exploratory journey with renewed vigor. They ascended your thighs, ventured over the curve of your behind, and continued upwards until the rough warmth of his calloused palms met the smooth expanse of your waist. "Concerned you won't be able to stay quiet, Sweetheart?" he teased, a playful challenge in his voice that sent a shiver down your spine.

You shook your head, a flush of warmth crawling up your neck, betraying your inner turmoil. "Just curious," you managed to say, your fingers finding solace in the soft strands of his blonde hair. Under your gaze, something flickered in his eyes—was it adoration?—a fleeting glimpse into the depths of Billy Hargrove that few were privy to. The realization that you were witnessing the unguarded essence of the man beneath the facade was both exhilarating and daunting, a secret you cherished deep within your heart.

In an unexpected move, he drew you against him, erasing any distance that remained. The gasp that escaped your lips mingled with the air as you became acutely aware of his desire pressing insistently against you. His lips found yours in a seal of fervent need, prompting an involuntary arch of your hips against his. A groan, laced with curses and unbridled yearning, vibrated against your mouth as Billy's restraint began to unravel. And then, with a fluidity that left you breathless, the world flipped—Billy loomed above you, a figure of strength and passionate intent, casting a shadow that promised an escape from the confines of reality. One arm kept him propped up above you, the other sliding beneath your butt, lifting you to meet his movements. A delicate moan fled your tongue, almost lost in the kiss as he sealed his lips onto yours, excitement thrumming in your core. As Billy's lips departed from yours, a reluctant retreat that sent a pang through your chest, you were left gasping beneath him, the room spinning slightly in the absence of his touch. For a brief moment, the world outside the cocoon of his room ceased to exist, leaving nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths hanging in the air. Your eyelids fluttered open only when the tender caress of his thumb traced your bottom lip, drawing your gaze upwards to meet his. In his eyes, a storm of emotions hinted at a struggle, a reluctance to break the connection that had so fiercely ignited between you.

Silently, he rolled away, the loss of his warmth immediate and stark. The soft click of the light switch plunged the room into semi-darkness, illuminated only by the moon's glow filtering through the curtains. "Night, Sweetheart," he murmured, a term of endearment that now seemed to carry a weight of unspoken words between you.

Your brow furrowed, confusion and a myriad of unanswered questions swirling in your mind. The impulse to voice your bewilderment, to ask why he had halted the crescendo of your shared passion, rose sharply within you. Yet, each time your lips parted, no words emerged, as if the gravity of the moment held your voice captive. With a heavy heart, you turned away, presenting your back to him, a silent testament to the tumult within.

As the minutes trickled by, Billy's breaths deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep, a testament to his drift into tranquility. Left alone with your thoughts, the questions continued to dance at the edges of your consciousness, unanswered, echoing in the quiet of the night. Despite the turmoil, the pull of exhaustion proved stronger, and eventually, your eyes closed, surrendering to the elusive promise of rest, even as the mystery of his actions lingered, a shadow at the back of your mind. Upon awakening, you found yourself momentarily lost in the fog of disorientation, the remnants of sleep clouding your senses. As your consciousness gradually sharpened, the events of the night prior began to piece themselves together, painting a vivid picture of unexpected solace. For the first time in what felt like eons, you had been gifted with the luxury of a deep, undisturbed sleep, free from the clutches of anxiety that so often held you captive. The sensation of safety enveloped you, a cocoon of warmth that was both foreign and immensely comforting.

As awareness seeped further into your waking mind, you became acutely conscious of the presence beside you. An arm, strong and reassuring, draped across your middle, its weight a silent promise of protection. A leg, muscular and firm, intertwined with your own, anchoring you to this moment of peace. The thought of disrupting this tranquil intimacy, of stirring him from sleep and thus dissolving the delicate bubble of comfort you found yourself in, was unbearable. So, you settled back down, surrendering to the warmth, allowing yourself a moment more of this rare contentment.

However, reality was never far behind, its relentless march signaled by the crimson digits of the alarm clock on his bedside table. A quiet groan escaped your lips as you registered the time—6:30 a.m. The demands of the day loomed large, a reminder that the sanctuary you found in Billy's arms was but a temporary reprieve. School awaited, a stark return to the routines and expectations that defined your everyday life.

The fragile silence of the morning was shattered abruptly by the growl of an engine cutting through the calm, a harbinger of the chaos to come. The sound of car doors slamming, followed by the rise and fall of angry voices, punctured the tranquility of dawn. A woman's pleading tones, desperate for discretion, clashed with the male fury, an unwelcome intrusion into the peacefulness of the early hours. Footsteps, heavy and ominous, approached the house, the finality of the front door slamming open a jarring wake-up call.

In an instant, Billy was alert, his body tensing as he sat up, the sudden movement a stark contrast to the gentle stillness that had enveloped you moments before. The reality you had momentarily escaped was crashing back down with undeniable force, the impending confrontation a stark reminder of the world waiting beyond the haven of his room. You cursed under your breath, a sharp departure from the warmth and safety that had enveloped you just moments ago. The bed suddenly felt too large and cold as you distanced yourself, your presence—a constant source of comfort—receding with each step you took. Alarmed, you propped yourself up on your elbows, watching your silhouette navigate the dimly lit room. You paused at the door, an unmistakable tension in your posture as you strained to listen to the cacophony of voices and footsteps echoing through the house. It was a dance of shadows and sounds, one you knew all too well, having played the same game of anticipation and fear in your own life.

The voices crescendoed then waned, the storm outside your sanctuary dissipating momentarily. A male voice, harsh and demanding, cut through the relative calm, summoning you with a ferocity that made the air in the room heavier. You watched as the boy before you transformed, your body stiffening, every muscle coiling in dread. It was as if you could see the gears turning in your head, a frantic search for any misstep that could have incited this wrath.

"What's wrong?" Your voice was barely a whisper, a ripple in the tense atmosphere as you moved to join him. But his arm shot out, a barrier between you, a silent plea for you to keep your distance.

The impending confrontation burst into your room with the force of a storm. Your father, a tempest of anger, filled the doorway, his eyes wild, the veins in his neck bulging with every shouted word. His rage was palpable, a living entity that sought to crush everything in its path. And then his eyes found you. In that instant, the fury that had contorted his features melted away, replaced by a facade as thin and fragile as ice over a winter lake. It was a look you recognized, one your own father adopted in the presence of outsiders, a mask that barely concealed the storm raging beneath. His gaze flicked between you and Billy, a silent accusation in the shift of his eyes.

"I thought we agreed on no more... guests?" His voice, though softer, still carried the undercurrent of a threat. You remained silent, a statue in the eye of the storm, your resignation more telling than words could ever be. Your father straightened, adopting a veneer of civility that did nothing to ease the tension clawing at your insides.

"I'm sorry, but my son isn't allowed nightly visitors. Why don't you show your lady friend the door, hm?" The words were spoken with a superficial politeness that did nothing to mask the disdain and control that simmered beneath the surface. It was a moment suspended in time, a crossroads between the sanctuary of the night past and the harsh daylight reality of your present. Billy remained motionless, his gaze fixed unflinchingly on his father. The silence between them was heavy, laden with unspoken threats and long-standing grievances. It was in this tense tableau that he uttered your name, a sound so rarely heard in such a context that it jolted you. “Why don’t you get dressed?” His voice, though soft, carried an uncharacteristic gravity.

With a nod that was more reflex than conscious agreement, you skirted past the palpable tension in the room, escaping to the sanctuary of the bathroom where your clothes awaited, still bearing the chill of being slightly damp. Once enveloped in the privacy it offered, the murmur of voices beckoned you closer, curiosity and concern pressing you to eavesdrop.

“You’re gonna say goodbye to your whore and then you and I are going to have a talk,” you heard, the venom in the elder Hargrove’s voice unmistakable.

Billy’s reply was a shadow of his usual defiance, “She isn’t—”

“What was that?” The threat in his father’s voice was sharp, a warning that brooked no argument.

Unable to bear the thought of the situation escalating in your absence, you stepped back into the fray, positioning yourself as a physical barrier between Billy and his father. The air was electric with tension, a tangible force that seemed to test the very limits of endurance. Yet, your voice, when it came, was steady. “Billy, you promised to drive me home.”

“I’m sorry, but Billy can’t right now,” his father interjected smoothly, a sneer barely concealed beneath his veneer of civility.

“But I have no other way of getting home, sir,” you countered, meeting his gaze with a defiance born of necessity.

“I’m sure it’s close enough to walk. It’s Hawkins, after all,” he dismissed, his tone laced with condescension.

“See, sir, I live just outside of Hawkins, actually.” Your reply was calm, measured, even as you laid bare the stakes of the situation.

“Is that so?” His skepticism was palpable, a challenge thrown down between you.

“Yes, and Billy assured me he would take me home, otherwise I’ll miss school, sir.” Your words, carefully chosen, were a gambit, one that played on his momentary hesitation.

The standoff that followed was a testament to the complex web of power and defiance that characterized the Hargrove household. Eventually, he took a step back, conceding ground with visible reluctance. “Now, we can’t have that, can we?” His once-over was dismissive, reducing you to nothing more than a problem to be solved, a nuisance to be dispatched.

“We will talk when you get back,” he finally said to Billy, his words heavy with unspoken threats.

“I’ll have to drive straight to school after dropping her off, otherwise I’ll miss first period.” Billy’s response was a careful negotiation, a bid for time and a brief reprieve from the confrontation that awaited him. His father’s glare could have scorched the earth, a silent vow of retribution that hung in the air long after he had left the room. Billy closed the door with a quiet click, sealing off the outside world. He leaned against it, a solitary figure momentarily bowed by the weight of his father’s expectations. The sigh that escaped him was one of relief, a brief respite in the eye of an ever-present storm.

"Are you okay?" Your voice was laced with trepidation, the words barely a whisper in the charged atmosphere of the room. A part of you feared his anger, worried that your intervention might have only served to escalate the already volatile situation. Maybe, in his eyes, you were to blame for exacerbating the tension. He turned to face you, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that halted your breath. The silence that followed was thick, a tangible entity that seemed to pulse with your racing heart. When he remained motionless, the void of his response sent a spike of panic through you. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to make things worse. I should have stayed quiet—"

But before you could further berate yourself, his lips crashed against yours, an urgent, fierce motion that swept away the remnants of the confrontation like debris in a storm. His arms encircled you, pulling you into the eye of his tempest, while your hands found the solid wall of his chest, a grounding point amid the whirlwind. Billy's grin, felt rather than seen, infused the kiss with a defiance, a silent declaration that no force, no matter how daunting, could intrude upon this moment he claimed as solely yours. His hands shamelessly groped at your hips and behind, tongue dominating yours. You pulled away in desperate need for air, panting and dazed. Billy’s lips fell to your neck, sucking and licking at the saltiness of your skin. “You have no idea how much I want to fuck you right now.” Squeezing your ass again, he let go of you and, with one last kiss, went to get dressed.

You found yourself adrift in the center of his room, each breath a testament to the whirlwind of emotions that had carried you from silence to this uncharted territory. How, you pondered, had the distance between you closed so swiftly, transforming into an intimacy that left you both breathless and bewildered?

Moments later, the bathroom door swung open, revealing Billy. His readiness was astonishing, his preparation swift beyond anticipation. With a nonchalant ease, he emerged, the very image of casual confidence. "Come on, Sweetheart, let's the hell outta here," he beckoned, his voice a mix of warmth and urgency. Grasping your hand, he guided you towards the promise of freedom beyond these walls. Yet, as fate would have it, his father's voice shattered the brief illusion of escape, calling out to him once more. Instantly, you felt the change in Billy, a tension coiling within him, visible in the rigid set of his shoulders. He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, a silent plea for respite, an attempt to shield his spirit from the weight of reality. Casting a fleeting, half-hearted glance your way, his fingers slipped from yours, leaving a cold absence in their wake as he turned to face whatever storm awaited him.

Left in limbo near the front door, you strained your ears, hoping to catch a fragment of the exchange, but silence was your only companion. With a soft sigh of resignation, you turned your gaze outward, taking in the Hargrove residence bathed in the soft glow of morning light, nestled among the uniformity of Cherry Lane, Hawkins, Indiana.

The neighborhood was a palette of similarity, each house a variation on a theme, distinguished only by the creativity or neglect of its occupants. Some lawns bore the scars of a relentless summer, patches of grass striving towards life amidst the drought, while others lay untamed, a testament to indifference. The Hargrove's lawn, though touched by the season's harshness, was neatly trimmed, a small rebellion against the decay. The path leading to their home was worn, stones cracked and yielding to time, yet adorned with recent attempts at beauty—flowers and bushes planted with hope at their edges.

It was a scene markedly different from the chaos of the trailer park, where the dance of avoidance was a daily routine—sidestepping the debris of forgotten nights and broken dreams. Here, in the relative tranquility of Billy's world, such hazards were absent, a small mercy in the grand tapestry of his life. When Billy reappeared, his stormy demeanor spoke volumes before a word was uttered. The disheveled state of his collar hinted at a confrontation, a silent testament to his father's harsh grasp. He breezed past you, the air crackling with the tension that followed him, his gaze barely grazing yours. You trailed behind, a frown etching your features, though you kept your thoughts to yourself. Settling into the passenger seat of his Camaro, you fastened the seatbelt, a silent barrier between you and the world outside. The cozy sanctuary that had briefly cocooned you both seemed to dissolve into the ether, leaving a palpable distance. Billy had begun to wall himself off once more, retreating from the fragile bridge of intimacy that had been tentatively constructed between you. His words echoed hollowly in the cramped space of the car.

‘Searching for shit goes so much faster if you do it together.’

The Camaro's engine roared to life, its vibrancy a stark contrast to the quiet turmoil unfolding within. Your lips pressed tightly together, trying to hold back the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. The sharp pang of regret and what-ifs punctured your heart with relentless precision. Had Billy not halted his advances, you might have found solace in his arms, seduced by the illusion of safety he offered. Alone, you might have scoffed at your own gullibility, labeling it as sheer desperation or foolishness. Yet, it was Billy's words that had resonated so deeply with you, mirroring the silent pleas that had haunted your thoughts for far too long. The desire to escape the solitude that clung to you like a second skin was overpowering. You yearned for something more, something profound to anchor you to this world, beyond the fleeting dream of liberation that the future promised. You sought a connection that bore significance, a beacon to guide you through the shadowed corridors of your existence. With the final stretch of senior year unfurling before you, the promise of college lingered on the horizon, a beacon of hope that signaled a departure from the shadows of your past. It was a chance to shed the oppressive weight of your father's legacy, to carve out a space in the world where his influence couldn't reach. You clung to this future with a desperation that was silent yet palpable, the prospect of freedom a balm to the wounds of your upbringing.

Billy, however, wasn't afforded the luxury of such dreams. The grim reality of his situation was a constant companion, a reminder that not all paths led away from hardship. College, a beacon for some, remained a distant, unattainable star for him. Influenced by the harsh criticisms that had echoed from his father's lips, he had internalized a belief in his own inadequacy. Education, a potential key to unlocking doors to a brighter future, held little allure for someone who had been taught to expect nothing from life. Instead, Billy had embraced a different kind of dream—a painstaking accumulation of savings with the hope of one day returning to California, to start anew on terms of his own making.

Yet, a shadow lurked in the recesses of his mind, a specter of doubt that cast long, dark silhouettes across his aspirations. On some days, it was but a whisper, easily ignored. On others, it roared to life, a cruel reminder that perhaps his dreams were just that—figments of wishful thinking, doomed to remain unfulfilled.

The journey to your trailer park passed in silence, each lost in their own reverie. As Billy's car rolled to a halt, you murmured a terse ‘bye’ and exited, the finality of the gesture marking the end of an era. Retrieving your spare key from its hiding spot beneath an empty vase, you slipped inside, intent on changing clothes and gathering your belongings. You assumed Billy would have driven off by then, his presence a chapter closed as abruptly as it had opened.

However, upon emerging from your room, you found him rooted in place in the heart of your kitchen, his gaze transfixed by something beyond the window. The sight of him, so unexpectedly still and contemplative, caught you off guard. In that moment, the kitchen—a space so familiar and yet suddenly imbued with a new, unspoken significance—became a silent witness to the complexities of connection and the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, some dreams refuse to be confined by the shadows that chase them. In the fading light of the afternoon, the question hung in the air, heavy and unexpected, "Doesn't that one drug dealer live around here?" It was an innocuous inquiry, perhaps, but in the context of your shared silence, it felt charged with an undercurrent of concern.

Billy's presence, both imposing and unexpectedly comforting, loomed beside you, a steadfast figure in the shifting sands of your tumultuous life. Your voice, laced with a hint of surprise at its own firmness, broke the stillness. "Why are you still here?" The question was more than just words; it was an expression of the myriad emotions swirling within you, a mix of confusion, desperation, and a fragile glimmer of hope.

He seemed taken aback, as if your tone had shattered an invisible barrier between you. The moment stretched, filled with an unspoken tension that danced in the air, palpable yet elusive. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a warmth, a promise, "I thought I had made myself clear, Sweetheart. I'm not gonna put you up to that shit alone anymore." His words, sincere and unwavering, offered a beacon of solidarity in the chaos that had become your existence.

You found yourself at a crossroads, teetering between skepticism and the yearning to believe in the possibility of an ally. It was a delicate balance, the choice to trust, to lean into the uncertainty rather than retreat into the familiar embrace of solitude. With a quiet resolve, you chose hope over despair. "Let's get out of here," you agreed, stepping into a future uncertain yet suddenly less daunting with Billy by your side.

The journey to Hawkins High was a study in contrasts, the roar of Billy's Camaro slicing through the quiet streets, a herald of change. Anxiety gnawed at you, the prospect of walking into school with Billy Hargrove by your side—a notion so fraught with implications, real and imagined. His presence was a double-edged sword, offering protection yet drawing attention, the weight of countless eyes a tangible pressure against your skin.

Yet, as you emerged from the car, Billy's protective aura enveloped you, his glares warding off the curious and the judgmental alike. He became your shield, a guardian against the world's harsh judgments, his reluctance to leave your side a testament to a burgeoning bond, forged in adversity and softened in moments of shared vulnerability.

The day passed in a blur, the rhythm of school life punctuated by Billy's steadfast companionship, a promise kept. And when the final bell rang, it was his car that awaited, Max in the backseat, a silent acknowledgment of the shifting dynamics of your intertwined lives.

The drive home was a brief interlude, a moment of calm before the next chapter. Billy's insistence on ensuring your safety, his promise to meet at the Hawkins Community Pool, was a new thread in the tapestry of your unfolding story.

…

The pool, a place of childhood traumas and lost innocence, loomed large in your memories. Yet, as you drove towards it, the realization that Billy had carved out a space for himself there, as a lifeguard, offered a glimpse into his own attempts at navigating life's turbulent waters. The parking lot was deserted, save for the familiar silhouette of Billy's Camaro. The unlocked gate stood as an invitation, a threshold to cross into a space that was both familiar and fraught with the echoes of past fears.

Yet, in this moment, it was not the specter of childhood bullies that filled your thoughts but the prospect of standing beside Billy in this quiet, abandoned sanctuary. It was an opportunity to redefine the spaces that had once defined you, to reclaim a piece of yourself in the company of someone who was, against all odds, becoming an integral part of your journey. As you navigated through the dimly lit gates, the air hung heavy with the anticipation of the evening. Your voice, laced with a mix of irritation and playful defiance, cut through the quiet, "Billy?" The words fell into the silence, unanswered, as you moved deeper into the shadowy expanse of the pool area. The setting sun cast a soft, yellowish hue over everything, the lights around the pool flickering to life in a welcoming yet eerie glow.

Again, you called out, a whisper tinged with exasperation. "Billy?" It seemed ridiculous, this cat-and-mouse game, and yet, there was a part of you that couldn't deny the thrill of the chase. Your footsteps echoed against the concrete as you approached the locker rooms, the sound a solitary reminder of your presence in the vast, empty space. With a mix of annoyance and determination, you halted, the frustration evident in your voice as you threatened the unseen presence of Billy Hargrove with playful retribution. “Billy Hargrove, you had better get your butt out here now, or imma kick it when I see it.” No sooner had the words left your lips than you found yourself abruptly pulled backward, a gasp escaping you as you collided with a solid, reassuringly warm chest.

"Damn, Sweetheart," came Billy's hushed voice, a smile evident in its timbre, sending shivers down your spine. "Didn’t know you would be so violent."

The annoyance you felt dissolved into an electrifying tension as you turned within his grasp, your gaze lifting to meet his. The grin adorning his face was infectious, his fingers gently brushing away a stray lock of hair from your forehead with an intimacy that set your heart racing. There he was, inches away, the warmth of his breath caressing your cheek in the cool air of the locker room. The proximity was intoxicating, a mere tilt of your head away from a kiss that seemed both inevitable and yet delicately suspended in the space between you.

You stood there, caught in his gaze, the world outside the locker room melting away. The anticipation was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to draw you closer without moving. It was a dance of moments and possibilities, each second stretching out as you waited for him to bridge the final distance.

In the soft, flickering light, the realization dawned on you how swiftly and completely Billy Hargrove had ensnared you, his presence alone enough to tilt your world off its axis. And there, in the silence that enveloped you both, you wondered if he too felt the gravity of this moment, this turning point that seemed poised to redefine everything. His hand, a warm presence against your skin, retreated, leaving a cool trail of longing in its wake. As he stepped back, the absence of his touch was immediate and stark, a silent protest forming in the back of your mind, yearning for the connection you were on the cusp of deepening. You watched him, a mix of emotions swirling within you. The situation had spiraled into a realm of the ridiculous—a term that barely scratched the surface of this intricate dance you both found yourselves entangled in.

"What are we doing here, Billy? It's still way too cold to go swimming." Your voice carried a hint of bewilderment, laced with a curiosity that refused to be quelled.

His response came with that signature grin, a look that promised mischief and excitement in equal measure. "Who said anything about hopping into the pool, Sweetheart?" The question hung between you, playful and inviting. As he pulled you along, a sense of adventure bubbled within you, despite the confusion that furrowed your brow.

The sauna loomed ahead, a promise of warmth and perhaps something more—an intimacy yet explored. Billy's excitement was palpable, his enthusiasm for the job and its perks infectious. "Since I'm going to be working here, I thought I'd show you what kind of privileges you could have over the summer."

"Privileges I could have?" The concept seemed foreign, amusing even. A sauna, of all things, wasn't exactly on your list of desired amenities. The skepticism must have been clear upon your face as you questioned the appeal, the idea of sweating in a small room hardly enticing.

"You'll see what I'm talking about," he assured you, his confidence unwavering.

As he opened the door to the sauna, a wave of heat greeted you, enveloping your senses in a cocoon of warmth that was surprisingly welcoming. The wood-paneled room, with its benches lining the walls and the gentle hum of heat radiating from the stones, offered a retreat from the world outside. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where the chaos of daily life could not penetrate.

Billy's hand found yours once again, his touch grounding as he led you inside. The door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing you both in this haven of warmth and whispered promises. As you took a seat, the heat began to work its magic, loosening muscles and easing tensions you hadn't even realized you carried.

The air, thick with warmth, seemed to draw you both closer, an unspoken invitation to explore the connection that had been building between you. Here, in the seclusion of the sauna, the rest of the world fell away, leaving only the two of you in a space where time seemed to slow, where every breath and heartbeat felt magnified.

Billy's gaze met yours, a question lingering in the depth of his eyes, a silent query if you were ready to dive into the unknown together. In that moment, the sauna became more than just a room—it became a crucible for whatever was simmering between you, a place where the heat wasn't just physical but emotional, a catalyst for desires and confessions yet unspoken.

The air vibrated with anticipation, each moment stretching, filled with the promise of revelations and a closeness that went beyond the physical. In the dim light and enveloping warmth of the sauna, you realized that this wasn't just about the privileges of summer or the novelty of a new experience. It was about discovering each other, about unraveling the layers of connection that had drawn you together.

Pent-up was merely one of many ways to describe what you were feeling, with his fingers dancing beneath your shirt and withdrawing as quickly as they had come—a teasing grin on his face, making you aware that Billy knew exactly of the effect he had on you. “You’re such an asshole, you know?” You hissed, frown deepening as he pulled his shirt over his head and put it down on the bench, using it to sit on.

He chuckled lowly, hands threading through his wild locks, tongue running over the sharp edges of his teeth. “’C’mere,” he simply stated, fingers moving in a lazy motion to accompany his words. You hesitated for a second, lips catching between your teeth as you moved forward and into his grasp. “You gotta be so hot, Sweetheart,” he started, fingers already working at removing your top. “Let’s take this off, hm?”

Words vanishing from your lips, just as quick as your common sense, you nodded, letting him pull the shirt over your head. You didn’t know where it ended up, didn’t—couldn’t—care when his hands started unbuttoning your pants with swift movements. The loose article of clothing fell from your form and Billy’s hands instantly went forward, grasping your thighs and pulling you closer. He groaned greedily, fingers digging deeper into your flesh as he nosed along your stomach and the line of your panties. There was an incessant fluttering in your stomach as his tongue slowly slid from your naval lower.

“Billy,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shot, as his teeth pulled on the fabric of your panties, your hands falling to his broad shoulders.

“Yeah, Sweetheart?” He mused, fingers sliding to the sides of your panties, before hooking his thumbs in the cotton. Flashing a grin up to your dizzy frame, he started pulling the fabric down your legs. “S’there something you wanna ask me, baby?” You shook your head in answer, swallowing heavily as you felt the cotton drop at your feet. “Had me so hard the whole day,” he groaned, pressing a sudden kiss to your core and you went rigid in anticipation. Heat gathered low in your stomach, down to your unsatisfied center.

“Kept thinking ‘bout pulling you into the locker room and fucking you stupid.” At the moan that tumbled from your throat, a dark chuckle fell from his lips. “Yeah, you’d have liked that, Sweetheart, ain’t that right?”

You whispered again, “Billy,” you tone edged with want.

“Hm?” He hummed, raising a casual brow at you as though his fingers weren’t trailing along the seams of your core. Even if he seemed utterly unaffected by the moment, you noticed the slight shift in his hips, as he adjusted himself. You forced yourself to swallow, eyes straying to the hardening bulge in his tight jeans. So terribly affected by only the thought of him, another rush of heat slithered to the pit of your stomach and lower. “C’mere here,” Billy said again, leading you onto his thigh with a quiet wickedness that set your chest aflame. He chuckled at your hesitance as you slowly settled on his thigh, the pressure against your core immediately pulling a whimper from you. His rough hand slid back to your hips, gripping tightly as the other one found your neck and brought your lips to his.

Sweat was leisurely building at the nape of your neck, a result of not only the sauna’s heat but Billy’s unhinged action, as he started to move you on his thigh. You nestled your head into the crook of his neck with a low moan, desire overshadowing your humiliation as you started to follow the pressure of his hand. Your head was starting to float with pleasure when Billy lifted his leg a little, the rough material of his jeans hitting your small bundle of nerves. A whimper slipped from your lips and onto Billy’s glistening skin. His thigh beneath your core felt so thick and sturdy, as he was whispering words so terribly vile they shook your being. One of his palms snapped harshly against the bared skin of your ass, the slap echoing in the small confinement of the sauna.

“Look at you,” Billy cooed, moving you back on his thigh before he jerked you back forward, your chest flush again his as he held you still. “Making such a mess for me, Sweetheart.” With a particularly hard grin of your hips, you felt his bulge pressing into the side of your thigh, straining beneath the blue fabric of his jeans. You whimpered at the feeling, the graze pushing a low groan from Billy’s reddened lips. Trying to move again against his thigh, his arm gripped you closer against him, a broad grin flashing at the needy whine that came from you in response. “Tell me what you need, Sweetheart,” he hushed in such a sinister tone, the devil couldn’t have said it any sweeter.

“You,” you said with no second of hesitation. It wasn’t just an admission of the desire lingering in your core, but a promise of not wanting to fight the world alone anymore. You had done it long enough, both of you.

#billy hargove smut #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove smut #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove #billy hargove x reader #stranger things #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson

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j-jinxee · 4 months

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[ ⟡ ] — KEEP QUIET,,

NSFW under the cut! ⊹ Nijiro x Reader

[warnings — quickie, p in v, unprotected, swearing, cumming inside, semi public]

-,' syn – Nijiro needs an outlet for his adrenaline. Shooting fight scenes as Kazutora and then having to wait for others to shoot theirs, it's throwing him off more than usual tonight.

[AN] no cuz guys, Nijiro literally never shows his arms. Like bro is always wearing long sleeves, jackets, or yk just baggy shirts in general. So this 40 second clip of him (where he's literally just in his own little world on the TR set) WEARING A SINGLET like I can't deal fr, I feel like a Victorian man seeing a woman's ankles for the first time, like it's driving me up the wall.

─────

"mm-ngh! Niji, fuck" your small whines were quickly silenced by Nijiro's hand covering your mouth. He had previously swept you away from the set, you weren't acting in the Tokyo Revengers movie but since your boyfriend was, you watched from behind the camera with the rest of the crew. It was so cool seeing your boyfriend in his element, you usually weren't allowed to be with the crew since you don't actually work for them, but the TR production was pretty laid back and let you stay to watch. Which is what you were doing, until about 5 minutes ago.

Nijiro was frustrated with the way they were filming. Usually they'd film a single characters scenes all at once, so they wouldn't have their actors coming on and off constantly, but for some reason they changed it for tonight. The night where Nijiro had to film his biggest fight scene.

It was really pissing him off, the way he'd get fully committed to the character, and then be told to go off and take 5 because they needed to shoot someone else. Why would they change the formula? It was perfect the way it was, now the production will suffer.

And above all else, Nijiro was told to take 5 right when his adrenaline would reach its peak. Naturally, he needed an outlet, a way to keep his energy up. Luckily, his favourite thing to put his energy into was standing right infront of him.

"keep quiet f'me baby.." he whispered, gently covering your mouth with his hand. The only lighting in the bathroom being from the dim street lamps outside, increasing the secretive atmosphere. You were pinned against the bathroom wall as Niji buried himself in your cunt, practically imprinting his shape into your walls. Your eyes travelled down to his arms, fuck. You mentally thank the costume team for finally getting Nijiro to wear a singlet, he never wore shirts that showed off his arms, so you made sure to remember this session over the rest. His sweat gleamed in the faint warm light, decorating his neck and collarbones, your eyes fixated on his fake neck tattoo. Fuck, you'd have to convince him to cosplay or something after this, the sight mixed with the pleasure he gave you was making your head spin.

His arms and shoulders flexed with each thrust as he held you up by your thighs, fucking into you like this was the last time he'd ever get. It took everything in you not to scream out his name, along with a nicely crafted string of cuss words, letting everyone hear how good he fucks you. Small whimpers were the most you could let out, not wanting Niji to get punished for having a quickie mid set.

"You're so good f'me... fuck baby" His voice was intoxicating, his touch made you feel ways you've never felt before. Your arms rested over his shoulders, not that they needed to — his strong hold kept you up with no issue. You were sure that if he fucked you any harder, you'd end up bringing down the wall you were currently pinned up against. He felt the need to groan louder, feeling it build — his mouth soon found your neck, sucking on your sweet spots, only bringing you closer to the edge.

You felt Nijiro's hips stutter, followed by his teeth digging into your skin a little harder than before.

"m-mmh cum, cum with me baby" His hot breath laced your jawline as he rutted into you faster than ever. Feeling that familiar knot in your stomach about to snap, you couldn't stay silent anymore.

"mmh- cumming.. cummingcummingcummi- ahh!" You cried into his neck. Shortly met with the feeling of your walls being painted by Niji's hot white seed, filling you up, keeping you warm. You could swear you saw heaven for a second, his touch made you drunk, reaching a state of euphoria you could never get anywhere else.

His arms gently let you back down, still keeping you steady with your bodies pressed together as you could barely stand. Whispering sweet praises in your ear as his hand went down to fuck his cum back into you, not letting any leak out. You smiled weakly as his words laced your eardrums, almost forgetting he was in the middle of his job.

"Nijiro! Wherever you are, you're back on in two." The director shouted.

"Fuck, 'm sorry baby. I'll take care of you when we're home ok? I love you" He said, getting his pants back on at the speed of light. Not bothering to wash his hands, but instead resorting to licking your combined juices off his fingers, and with a quick kiss to your cheek, he was gone.

You knew he'd keep his word, now all you'd have to do was wait till you got home to recieve his aftercare.

can't wait.

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alyrasturnz · 2 months

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ahh omg can you do a fluff oneshot thats based around “you are in love” by taylor swift with matt 😓😓

‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎YOU ARE INLOVE

❐ summary » how many sunrises and sunsets must y/n witness, how many shared smiles and whispered secrets must pass, before she navigates the intricate maze of her heart and comes to the profound realization that she is deeply and irrevocably in love with matt?

❐ pairings » bf!matt x fem!reader

❐ warnings » swearing && burning toast??

❐ a/n && w/c » WRITERS BLOCK IS KILLING ME. currently delaying the fics that i cant even write at gunpoint (all of them) • 2.57k

you and matt find yourselves ensconced in a quaint, cozy restaurant with your friends, the kind where the atmosphere feels like a warm embrace, as if the very walls themselves have stories to tell and secrets to share.

the soft glow of candlelight flickers against rustic wooden beams, and the gentle hum of conversation blends with the soothing melodies of a distant piano, creating a symphony of comfort and camaraderie.

the room is softly lit, the candles casting a gentle glow that dances across the walls, weaving shadows that seem to tell tales of their own. the table stretches long and grand, like a bridge between two distant shores, and you find yourselves seated at opposite ends, separated by a sea of lively chatter and laughter from your friends.

the air is thick with the warmth of camaraderie, each voice a note in a harmonious symphony of shared memories and new beginnings.a

yet, despite the distance, your eyes keep finding their way to him, as if drawn by an invisible thread woven by fate itself. each glance is a silent conversation, a wordless exchange that speaks volumes, bridging the gap between you with an unspoken connection that defies the physical space.

matt catches your eye from across the table, and for a moment, it feels as though the world itself has drawn a breath and paused, suspending time just for the two of you. the bustling room fades into a blur, leaving only the profound connection of your shared gaze, a fleeting eternity where nothing else exists but the silent dialogue between your souls.

his eyes twinkle with a playful glint, like stars reflecting in a midnight sea, as the corners of his lips curl up into a smile, a subtle yet enchanting dance of amusement and warmth.

you can’t help but smile, the buttons on his coat catching the flicker of the candlelight, each tiny reflection a beacon of significance in the haze of the evening. it’s as if those small, gleaming details are whispering secrets, adding layers of meaning to the moment that only you can decipher.

as the night progresses, the conversation flows around you like a meandering river, its currents carrying laughter and stories, yet your focus remains steadfastly anchored on matt. amidst the ebb and flow of voices, he is the constant, the unwavering shore to which your attention is irresistibly drawn.

every now and then, your eyes meet, and it feels like a clandestine dialect, a silent conversation woven from glances and subtle expressions, understood only by the two of you. it's as if each look is a carefully crafted phrase in an unspoken lexicon, a private exchange that transcends words.

there’s no need for grand gestures or spoken words; the connection is felt in the shared glances and the knowing smiles. it’s as if the distance between you is bridged by an invisible thread, a delicate yet unbreakable filament that pulls you closer with each passing moment, weaving an intricate tapestry of mutual understanding and unspoken affection.

the evening continues, filled with stories, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. yet, amidst the merriment, those fleeting moments with matt stand out, etched into your memory like delicate engravings on a timeworn scroll, each one a testament to the profound connection that lingers just beneath the surface of the night's festivities.

you notice the way he absentmindedly fiddles with the buttons on his coat, each movement a silent symphony of thought, and the way his laughter rings out, warm and genuine, resonating like a cherished melody. each detail, no matter how small, seems to hold a world of meaning, as if every gesture and sound is a verse in an intricate poem that only you can decipher.

by the end of the night, as you all prepare to leave, you catch one last glance from matt, a fleeting moment that seems to stretch into eternity. “hey, the night is still young. why don’t we go for a walk to the park or something?” you suggest, your voice carrying the promise of adventure. everyone nods in agreement, their faces illuminated by the prospect of extending the evening's enchantment.

"yeah, that sounds great," chris says, his voice imbued with a subtle enthusiasm, as if the mere suggestion of prolonging the night’s enchantment has sparked a hidden excitement within him.

everyone gets into the car, matt assuming his role at the driver's seat, with chris beside him in the passenger's seat. nick settles on the left side, directly behind matt, while larray takes his place behind chris. you, madison, and madi find yourselves nestled in the very back of the car, creating a tapestry of camaraderie woven through shared space and anticipation.

matt adjusts his rear-view mirror so it’s pointed directly at you, his eyes catching yours in the reflective glass. his lips curl up into a smirk, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken connection between you, as he starts the car, the engine's hum underscoring the moment with a sense of impending adventure.

the car ride there was a tapestry of sound, woven with chris’ music playing on aux, each song a thread that intertwined with the laughter filling the air. the melodies and mirth created a harmonious symphony, transforming the journey into an unforgettable prelude to the night's unfolding adventures.

as you arrive at the park, everyone disembarks from the car, the anticipation of the night's continued adventure palpable in the air. the gentle rustling of leaves and distant hoots of owls welcome you, adding a touch of enchantment to your arrival.

"oh my god, there's a playground!" madi exclaims, her voice brimming with childlike excitement. the group, caught in her infectious enthusiasm, rushes towards the playground, their laughter echoing through the night as they embrace the spontaneous joy of the moment.

you and matt walk side by side, the others having already reached the playground, their distant laughter a soft murmur. his hand rests gently on the small of your back, a subtle yet intimate gesture that speaks volumes in the quiet night.

"they're really in a hurry, huh? it's like they're trying to find the secret treasure or something," matt snorts, his voice tinged with amusement. the words hang in the air, a playful observation that adds a layer of whimsy to the already magical night.

"mhm, i bet there's a hidden slide made of gold waiting for them," you smile, the fanciful thought dancing in your eyes. "but honestly, i'm just here for the swings." you shrug, your casual demeanor contrasting with the playful notion, as matt nods in understanding.

"dude, the swings are the best part of the playground!" matt says, a grin spreading across his face. "remember when we tried to see who could jump the farthest off them? i think i still have a grass stain from that epic fail," he continues, his voice tinged with nostalgic amusement. you chuckle, the memory of that carefree day bringing a warmth to the moment.

"oh my god, i remember!" your smile grows wider, eyes sparkling with the memory. "you looked like a superhero mid-air... until you didn't," you finish, your words trailing off into laughter as matt joins in, the shared reminiscence adding a layer of warmth to the cool night air.

"hey, i prefer to think of it as a graceful crash landing," matt says, his tone laced with mock pride. you playfully roll your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. "speaking of which, do you think anyone's ever successfully looped all the way around on a swing?" he asks, his curiosity adding a whimsical twist to the conversation.

"i bet there's some legend out there who did it," you say, your voice filled with wonder. "probably went straight to the moon afterwards," you add, your imagination painting an adventurous picture as matt's eyes light up with the shared fantasy.

matt's eyes twinkled with mischief, "we should try it tonight! if we disappear, you'll know we made it to space," he said, his voice brimming with excitement. you giggled, the absurdity of the idea making the moment even more delightful.

"deal!" you say, enthusiasm filling your voice. "and if not, we'll just have to settle for being the undisputed swing champions of the playground," you add with a playful grin, the thought of your daring escapade adding a spark of adventure to the night.

"sounds like a plan. now let's catch up to them before they claim all of the swings," he says, urgency tinged with excitement, as if the swings were the last vestiges of a fleeting summer adventure.

you both laugh, picking up the pace just a bit, the playground lights twinkling invitingly in the distance, casting a magical glow on the path ahead and beckoning you toward the promise of a joyful night.

you both sat down on your swings, the creaking chains harmonizing with your laughter as you began to swing back and forth, each arc higher than the last, reaching for the stars in a dance of youthful exuberance.

the evening air was cool and crisp as you and matt giggled, the swings beckoning with their gentle sway, whispering secrets of childhood adventures and untold stories in the twilight.

the moonlight cast a silver glow over everything, making the scene almost surreal. you felt a mix of excitement and nostalgia as you approached the swings, memories of childhood flooding back like a gentle tide, each step echoing with the laughter and innocence of days gone by.

"hey matt," you called out, your voice a playful challenge. with a mischievous glint in your eye, you leaned back on the swing, your legs kicking out as if daring him to join in the fun. "can you give me a push?"

matt's eyes sparkled with mischief, a playful glint dancing within them. "of course! hold on tight!" he replied, his grin widening into a full, boyish smile as he approached, his footsteps deliberate and filled with anticipation.

you settled onto the swing, your fingers curling around the cold, metal chains, feeling their chill seep into your skin. matt positioned himself behind you, his hands firm and steady on your back, ready to send you soaring into the night sky.

with a powerful push, you were sent soaring into the night, the swing arcing higher and higher. the wind whipped through your hair, a wild and exhilarating sensation that made your heart race with a mix of thrill and freedom.

but as you swung back, you felt the momentum shift, a sudden change in the rhythm. in an instant, the ground seemed to rush up to meet you, the world tilting and spinning in a dizzying dance.

you tumbled off the swing, landing with a soft thud on the grass. for a moment, you lay there, the shock of the fall mingling with a nascent, mischievous idea. a sly grin crept onto your face as you decided to play a little trick on matt, letting the momentary stillness build the suspense.

"ouch! matt, i think i hurt my leg!" you exclaimed, your voice tinged with faux pain, the subtle quiver in your tone adding a layer of convincing authenticity to your playful ruse.

matt's expression shifted to one of deep concern, and he quickly stood in front of you. "shit, are you okay? let me help you up," he said, his worry evident in the furrow of his brow and the urgency in his voice.

you extended your hand, and as soon as his fingers wrapped around yours, you gave a swift tug, pulling him down onto the grass beside you. laughter bubbled up between you, the sound echoing in the quiet night, weaving through the stillness like a melody of shared mischief and camaraderie.

"you got me! i totally fell for it," matt admitted, chuckling as he lay next to you, his laughter mingling with the soft rustle of the grass, creating a symphony of playful deception and genuine amusement.

"that's what you get for pushing me too hard!" you teased, nudging him playfully with your elbow, your words laced with a playful reproach that danced in the moonlit air, adding a touch of light-hearted retribution to the moment.

matt shook his head, still smiling. "fair enough. but hey, look up," he said, his voice carrying a hint of intrigue, as if he was about to reveal a hidden treasure in the vast expanse of the night sky above.

you both turned your gaze skyward. the full moon hung like a lantern in the sky, surrounded by a sea of twinkling stars. the sight was breathtaking, each star shimmering like a tiny diamond against the velvet backdrop of the night, creating a celestial tapestry that seemed to whisper ancient secrets and timeless stories.

"wow," you breathed, the beauty of the scene stealing your words. "it's beautiful," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, as if speaking any louder might shatter the fragile enchantment woven by the celestial display above.

"yeah," matt agreed, his voice soft. "it really is. i'm glad we took our time getting here," he murmured, his words carrying a gentle reverence, as if acknowledging the serendipitous journey that had led them to this moment of shared wonder beneath the night sky.

the two of you lay there, side by side on the grass, the world around you fading away, as if the very essence of time and space had dissolved, leaving only the profound stillness of the night and the silent communion of shared breaths and unspoken thoughts.

the laughter and playful banter gave way to a serene silence, the kind that only comes when two souls share a perfect moment, where words become unnecessary and the very air seems to hum with the quiet harmony of mutual understanding and unspoken connection.

the stars seemed to shine a little brighter, the moon a little fuller, as if the universe itself was acknowledging the magic of the night, weaving its celestial light into the fabric of the moment, casting an ethereal glow that spoke of ancient mysteries and timeless wonder.

in that quiet, under the vast expanse of the sky, the future seemed a little less daunting, the uncertainties a little less frightening. for now, there was only the present, the gentle hum of the night, and the comforting presence of a friend by your side, as if the cosmos itself conspired to offer solace, whispering that in this fleeting moment, all burdens could be set aside, and the heart could find peace amidst the boundless stars.

»--•--«

you had gone home with the triplets, and amidst the evening's gentle chaos, you and matt found a quiet corner. seeking solace in each other's company, you decided to put on his favorite movie. as the familiar scenes unfolded on the screen, a sense of tranquility washed over you both.

yet, the day's adventures soon caught up with matt, and before long, he succumbed to the embrace of sleep, his head resting softly against your shoulder.

as the movie continued to play, matt stirred slightly, his head nestled against your chest with his arms wrapped securely around your frame. you gently played with his hair, your fingers weaving through the strands as your eyes remained fixed on the screen.

the gentle rise and fall of his breath created a comforting rhythm, a quiet testament to the deep trust and bond you shared. each breath he took seemed to echo the unspoken understanding between you, grounding you both in the warmth of the moment.

suddenly, he awoke, his eyes fluttering open with a peculiar expression etched across his face. he lingered in silence for a moment, as if searching for the right words amidst the haze of sleep. then, with a voice barely above a whisper, he softly uttered, "you're my best friend." the simplicity of his words carried a profound depth, resonating in the quiet space between you.

you bit your tongue, the realization dawning upon you with startling clarity: he was in love.

"what's this all about, hm?" you inquire softly, your fingers still weaving through his hair, each gentle movement a silent plea for understanding amidst the sudden shift in atmosphere.

he took a deep breath, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the very fabric of your being. "you knew what it was," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, each word laden with a vulnerability that echoed in the quiet space between you. "i'm in love with you."

his words hung in the air, a fragile confession that seemed to echo in the quiet room, reverberating through the silence like a delicate melody. the movie continued to play, its scenes unfolding, but the sounds became mere whispers, overshadowed by the gravity of the moment.

his gaze was unwavering, a deep well of vulnerability and hope, as if he had stripped away all his defenses and laid his heart bare before you.

the flickering light from the screen cast shadows across his face, highlighting the raw emotion etched into his features, making the intensity of his feelings palpable. the room seemed to shrink around you, the walls closing in as the weight of his confession settled between you, creating a space where only the truth of his words existed.

"i've been feeling this way for a while," he continued, his voice trembling slightly, each word a testament to the depth of his emotions. "every time i'm with you, everything just feels right. you make the uncertainties of the future seem less frightening. when i'm with you, i feel like i can face anything."

you felt your own heart race, the weight of his confession sinking in like a stone dropped into a still pond, sending ripples through your very being. the night, once filled with the simple comfort of companionship, now brimmed with the potential for something more profound, an unspoken promise of a future intertwined with shared hopes and dreams.

»--•--«

as matt deftly maneuvered the last piece of toast with a practiced flick of his wrist, he turned to you with a mischievous grin. "you know, i think we might have a knack for burning toast. maybe we should open a café specializing in it."

you laughed, your shoulders shaking slightly as you shook your head. "yeah, 'burnt toast bistro.' we'll be famous for all the wrong reasons."

"hey, fame is fame, right?" matt said, his eyes twinkling mischievously as he gave you a playful wink, the corners of his lips curling into a sly smile.

you nudged him playfully with your elbow, a smirk dancing on your lips. "only if you promise to wear that ridiculous chef hat you have," you teased, imagining the oversized hat perched atop his head.

"deal," matt replied, his grin widening into a mischievous smile. "but only if you wear my shirt every morning," he added, his eyes glinting with playful challenge.

you blushed slightly, feeling a warm flush spread across your cheeks as your heart skipped a beat. "i think i can manage that," you murmured, your voice soft and tinged with a hint of nervous excitement.

just then, nick strolled into the kitchen, his brow arched in curiosity as he took in the scene before him. "what's going on here? smells like someone's cooking disaster," he remarked, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

matt smirked, leaning casually against the counter with an air of nonchalance. "just a minor setback," he quipped, his eyes glinting with amusement. "we're perfecting our recipe."

you giggled, attempting to maintain your composure despite the bubbling laughter. "yeah, it's a work in progress," you replied, your voice tinged with a blend of amusement and determination.

nick glanced between the two of you, a flicker of suspicion dancing in his eyes. "what's going on between you two? you're awfully close," he remarked, his tone laced with curiosity and a hint of skepticism.

matt quickly shrugged, his tone light and nonchalant as he responded. "nothing, nick. just having some fun. you know how we are," he said, his words carrying an air of casual dismissal and playful ease.

you smiled, hoping to defuse the tension that had settled in the room. "yeah, just the usual morning chaos," you said, your voice carrying a light-hearted tone intended to ease the atmosphere.

nick narrowed his eyes slightly, suspicion lingering for a moment before he decided to let it go. "alright, as long as it doesn't involve the fire department, i'm good," he remarked, his tone a blend of resignation and wry humor.

"although, that one firefighter we saw the other day was..." nick paused, letting out a dramatic sigh as he looked up with faux, playful, star-struck eyes. "i wouldn't mind," he added, his voice tinged with a whimsical longing that sent you all into a fit of laughter.

as nick left the kitchen, matt turned to you, his eyes softening with a gentle warmth. "you know," he began, his voice tender and sincere, "mornings like this... i could get used to them."

your smile widened, a warmth spreading through your chest like the first rays of dawn. "me too, matt. me too," you replied, your voice carrying the weight of shared moments and unspoken promises.

the kitchen filled with your laughter and light-hearted banter, the smell of burnt toast lingering as a testament to the perfectly imperfect morning you shared, each moment etched into the tapestry of your memories.

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mins-fins · 6 months

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orbit of yours !

"power couple, really?" "you have to listen to me!"

synopsis: park jisung has always admired you. hardworking, effortlessly beautiful, talented, humble— you're pretty much the personification of the word 'perfect' (you would disagree though), but your relationship has never gotten past "admirers that occasionally exchange words", so jisung has vanquished the idea of possibly being in love with you because of your lack of interactions, he's just an avid admirer of yours! so when a few accidents and mishaps force (more like drive) the two of you to be in the same room more than you ever had in the past, the idea doesn't just remain a random fantasy crafted by jisung's mind, it becomes reality.

pairing: park jisung x male!reader

genre: high school au, acquaintances to friends to lovers, photographer!reader x soccer player!jisung, fluff, kinda comedy (im not funny), mutual pining, literally no angst, fast burn lowkey, sungchan helps reader realize his feelings and it's hilarious

warnings: swearing, mentions of burnout, oblivious bitches deny their feelings for a good 10k words, this is fucking cheesy, the nightmare which is senior year

word count: 12.2k

notes: GOOD LORD IT IS FINALLY DONE! i don't wanna be overdramatic or anything but this is genuinely one of my most favorite works ever, if you couldn't tell i am VERY jisung biased and im so happy to finally be done with this because it's honestly been so fun to write 🙁 i didn't beat the xiaojun fic in terms of words but this the second longest fic i have ever written and for my jisung debut its impressive that there is absolutely NO ANGST here, i'm just very proud of myself for this and i hope people like reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it.. this is for all the park jisung lovers 👍

"WHEN WILL YOU ACTUALLY GET A PARTNER?" chenle asks the question so many times that jisung assumes the sentence has been programmed into his brain. what is it— like the 3rd time this week? he thinks chenle might be more obsessed with his love life than he is with actual important things, like college, graduation preparations, his role as a member of the student council, anything but jisung's uneventful love life, because that was probably the least interesting thing going on in his own life at the moment. "come on jisungie! i heard aejung has a crush on you!" he lets out a familiar groan, giving his friends a 'cut it out' look. "i don't really care about that kind of stuff.."

he hears all the frustrated sighs from his friends, and jisung just chuckles. he knows about the many surprisingly many— people who find themselves attracted to him. he acknowledges the fact that he has a lot of admirers, that a lot of people would perceive themselves as lucky to be in a relationship with him, he isn't new to the idea at all, he doesn't really get what makes him so attractive, such an eyeopener to his fellow students, but he mostly accepts the gifts given to him by his so called "admirers" nonetheless, not wanting to make them disappointed.

now, he says mostly because there are just times where he has no choice but to turn them down. some people get into their own heads too much, and he doesn't want to give some of them false hopes by accepting their gifts. that happened once, where a girl thought the two of them were dating because he decided to accept her gift as a sign of appreciation, that's when jisung learned that he couldn't just accept any and all gifts given to him by admirers who so greatly wanted a chance with him. jisung isn't so concerned about gifts, he wants a person who will be psychically and emotionally present for him, not someone who'll just buy him random things.

"it's gotten a little annoying.. all the confessions" jisung mutters, closing the textbook he had been jotting in. "they're nice yeah but some people just take it too far" he finally finishes, earning some confused looks from his friends. he just shrugs, shoving the textbook he had previously been jotting in into his backpack.

"but you're just so boring!" chenle whines, pressing his cheek against jisung's shoulder. jisung doesn't even try shaking him off, knowing that any of his attempts will be useless. "come on! all these people who would love to be with you and your still a lonely little loser!"

"loser? oh come on!"

"you know i'm right!"

jisung scoffs, lightly shoving chenle. while yeah, it's nice to have a lot of people admire him, everyone expects him to do this and that and act a certain way. it's like they enjoy perpetuating a false image onto him rather than actually admiring him for who he really is, and jisung doesn't think he should give people like that the time of day, they piss him off more than anything.

he's a little lost in his thought when a familiar voice sounds in his ears, a couple of giggles following the sound. "you're too funny y/n!" one of them shouted, poking a familiar figure in the shoulder, and jisung's eyes fall on you immediately, as if on instinct. you were looking as you always did, a familiar dslr camera hanging from your neck, that polite smile on your face as your friend continues poking your shoulder.

lately, you'd been quite the topic of interest among your fellow schoolmates. now that's not abnormal at all, you somehow always manage to be the talk of the town in school, you could do the smallest thing and somehow people could still make huge talk about it.

jisung would never say it, not out loud or even in mutters to himself, but he's always held a unique admiration for you, one he doesn't think he could actually put into words. there's something about you that pulls jisung in, like your a magnet and he's an oblivious piece of metal, slowly getting closer and closer to you without being able to do anything about it.

everything about you is beautiful. your eyes are a beautiful brown color, your smile is a beautiful stretch that shows off your perfect white teeth, your hair is a beautiful mix of raven and brunette. oh, and your voice is so beautiful too, it's so soft, gentle, but also deep.

you're like an angel.

at least to jisung you are.

it's pretty funny, actually, your so wrapped up in your own things that you barely notice the sheer amount of people who want to date you. you don't acknowledge romantic advances a lot, and even when you do, it always ends in rejection. you talk a lot, and your words are always pure and witty, your laughter is natural, your smile is contagious.

but.. jisung doesn't like you. he only likes you in the friend kinda way, he just wants to be friends with you. you look nice! smell nice, dress nice, speak nice..

jisung knows a lot more about you than his friends do. despite the fact that the two of you have never officially deemed yourselves "friends", he's always known little facts about you, as you him. the two of you have been going to school together for seven years, so the idea of not knowing anything about each other seems ridiculous.

you're a photographer, your favorite color is blue, specifically lighter shades, your favorite subject is history, your lucky number is 2 because of your birthdate being 02/02/02, your favorite flowers are daisies, you don't really enjoy sports, but if you were to choose one to play, it'd be baseball, and you want to go to college for journalism.

but jisung can't say that he likes you, because even if you two know all these things about each other, you've never considered yourselves "friends", all you do is admire from afar—

and when you do interact, it's just short and sweet sentences exchanged between you two, mostly because the both of you are so busy, that you can't afford to just stop and talk. sometimes, jisung wishes his life was just a little less hectic and he could stop and talk to you, because that's what he wants to do.

"what's with you?" jisung immediately yelps as chenle flicks his forehead, and he resists the urge to punch the older in the face. "gawking at y/n? really?"

"i'm not—" jisung hates that he feels his face burn. "i'm not gawking, i'm just.. i was just looking at him".

"looking at him with hearts in your eyes".

jisung scoffs at chenle's audacity, as if he wasn't doing exactly that a good few minutes ago. he would never admit it out loud before, so why should he admit it now? he'd never live it down if anybody ever found out..

"you know.." chenle begins, tapping his finger onto the desk in front of him. "you two would be a great couple" and the words are enough to make jisung roll his eyes once again. "a power couple!"

"power couple, really?" jisung raises an eyebrow, chenle never fails to say something that confuses him. he finds the words to be ridiculous, but his reaction just seems to make chenle even more giddy, because he continues;

"you have to listen to me!" chenle persists, and jisung is about to check out of the conversation completely.

"y/n is a photographer for sports journalism, you play soccer, you've known each for what.. ever? he's pretty, you clearly have the hots for him—"

"i do not!" jisung immediately yells in rebuttal, much louder than he wanted to. "yeah he's.. cute but anyone with eyes can see that, i'm not in love with him or anything".

chenle raises an eyebrow, suspicious, but jisung remains stubborn, crossing his arms as he averts his gaze from his best friend.

yes, you are cute, anybody with two functioning eyes can see that.

"i think park jisung might have a crush on you".

at the words, you look up from your camera, meeting eyes with your close friend, sungchan. you blink, as if dumbfounded, then snicker. "park jisung? are you trying to boost my ego or something?"

you know park jisung, you know about how probably half the students in this room dream of having a chance with him. so many people like park jisung, so many people want park jisung.

and if you think about it, you can't exactly blame them for that..

"don't laugh! i'm serious! he looked like he was about to devour you, did you see his eyes!?"

the words just get another laugh out of you, the words seem ridiculous in your eyes, because why would park jisung, beautiful, talented, striking park jisung have a crush on you? in your eyes, your pretty much nothing to him.

"okay.. why would park jisung ever be interested in me?" you ask, rearranging your camera as you raise an eyebrow at sungchan, who simply deadpans at you, that familiar 'are you serious?' look in his eyes.

"okay let me see, your smart, pretty, everyone likes you at this point, also— the two of you are pretty much perfect for each other! you'd be a power couple!"

you furrow your eyebrows, a power couple? you'd never heard that phrase used to talk about somebody your friends had been "shipping" you with, your not even sure if you can even consider yourself friends with jisung, because the two of you can never actually talk to each other without someone coming up and interrupting the interaction.

you'd love to just be able to talk to park jisung, just the two of you, one on one.

"power couple? that's funny.."

"you think everything is funny" ironically, you laugh at your friends words. "this could be like— your only chance at having an actual romantic connection with someone".

"i don't care that much about romance, chan" you muse, humming as you turn off your camera. your eyes wander over to jisung, who is very much distracted by something stupid chenle is saying, he's laughing about something, laughing hard too.

there is no reason for him to look so pretty as he laughs like a maniac..

he's cute, you say in your mind, he is absolutely adorable.

"WHAT DID YOU GUYS GET ON THAT STATISTICS TEST FOR SONG?" a boy from the same year and member of the soccer team along with jisung inquired. they sat on the bleachers in front of field, watching as the baton club practices. they have to practice this week, unfortunately, so jisung's schedule had become tight and packed, he barely had any free time these days, it was all exams, college tours, last minute extracurriculars, and practice, practice, practice. "i got a b plus" one of his classmates responds, the other responded; "i got a b on mine". jisung was very far removed from the current conversation, his eyes on a familiar trio of sports journalists on the other side of the field, a trio which included you, mesmerizing you. he sees you often these days, with that same dslr camera around your neck, a pretty smile stuck on your face.

"you, jisung! what score did you get?" one of his classmates asks, but jisung was occupied, so he didn't answer. a tap on his shoulder makes jisung snap out of his staring fit, and he blinks a few times, assessing where he is. "what?"

"we were asking about the marks on the recent statistics test!"

"ah" jisung presses his lips together. "i got an a plus" he says the words casually, but it causes for a cheer to be sounded by his fellow classmates, who shook him and slapped his back supportively.

"you're so smart jisungie!"

the praise from his classmates get a smile out of jisung, but he isn't focusing on that, his attention is on you. even with how your across the field, he can clearly see all of your features, the sun shining on your face makes you look majestic, like an actual angel, jisung isn't sure why he's even focusing so much on your face, but he can't focus on anything else, because his eyes just naturally always wander over to you.

"will this ever finish?" you inquire, pertaining to the baton club, who were still on the field even after they were supposed to get off. "i'm supposed to take photos of the soccer players for my editorials.." you mutter, it'd be horrible if you couldn't even deliver on the promise you made to your superiors.

"they're probably going to split the field" your fellow sports journalist, taehyun says. a small groan escapes your lips, you're annoyed, you hope this doesn't interfere with the photos you have to take, it'd be horrible if you just ended up doing the same thing all over again. "see? baton club is taking one side and the soccer team takes the main area because they need to start practicing now".

"they look so cute! i've always wanted to be apart of the soccer team!" lee sohee exclaims, and you turn towards him, a look of interest on your face. he attentively watches the boys, humming to the song that's playing. "why didn't you join them then?" you inquire, interest peaked.

sohee smiles at you, readjusting his camera and fixing his posture. "i enjoyed writing the editorial articles more" he shrugs. "wanted to try out but i missed the tryouts because eunseok hyung would have killed me if i missed anton's recital" at the words, you laugh, used to the behavior from the older boy.

"maybe next year".

"you'd fit in perfectly!" taehyun muses, and sohee brightens up, seemingly loving the words.

"really!? that's what seunghan tells me too!" he cheers at the words, looking proud of himself. "i'd look cute in that uniform though.."

you chuckle at sohee's word, finding him to be absolutely adorable. "yeah, you definitely would" you ruffle his hair, smiling at the giggle which sounds from the boy.

"i'm gonna go get a closer look at them" you say, motioning towards the soccer team. taehyun nods and watches as you get closer to the field, not super close, but close enough that your camera can capture a good view of the soccer team. you narrow your eyes, pointing your camera at the busy boys who are doing their usual routine, the viewfinder shows jisung in all his glory.

you take pictures, zooming in and out. you don't mean to put all the focus on jisung, he's just too alluring to not be the center of attention. he's such a natural, he's just so amazing, you can't not focus on him.

[click.]

and another shot, another one as jisung scores the goal. jisung's posture was perfect, his back straight, chin high as he wore an angelic smile. jisung hears the clicking of the camera, and looks to his left to see you, in the viewfinder you see jisung looking in your direction, you pause for a moment and notice a baton heading straight towards him.

"jisung watch out!" you yell, at the words, he tilts his head.

you quickly take the strap of the camera off your neck, throwing it until it landed right beside your fellow journalists, who looked as confused as jisung did. you ran as fast as you could, grabbing jisung's wrist and pulling him close to you.

the baton managed to hit the ground instead, and jisung shrieks as he loses his balance, toppling forward. he quickly grabs onto the closest thing to him.

you.

you lowered your arms to catch jisung, and you feel him hold onto the sleeves of your blazer, one of your arms on his stomach, the other on his waist. all his weight was in your arms, causing for you to lose balance too.

"shit—" you swear, falling onto your back. jisung fell on top of you, the grass tickling his skin. your back immediately hits the grass, and your head hits the ground softly, but your arms remain around jisung. jisung's hands were still on your arms, his upper body laid on top of yours, his head was buried into your shoulder, and he was sat in between your legs.

jisung takes a sharp breath, a look of worry quickly flashes in his eyes as he sees you. "holy shit y/n are you okay!?" jisung asks, pulling away from your prior position and you sit up, opening your eyes to meet his worried ones. jisung kneels, leaning closer to you as he cups your cheeks with his hands. "did you get hurt? is your head okay!?" he asks, or yells, turning your head to inspect for any signs of wounds. you just stare at him, his bangs that messily lay against his forehead, his eyes that glimmered under the sunlight, and his pink lips that you totally just want to lean over and touch with your own.

"yeah.." you whisper, your cheeks squished from the force of jisung's hands.

jisung stops turning your head and sighs. "are you sure?" he asks, still holding your face. you nod, placing one of your hands on jisung's, his are soft, yours are rough, you note. you move his hand and smile. "i'm alright don't worry" you respond, still holding jisung's hand. jisung pursues his lips, and he extends his hand out, pulling you up from the ground. you let go of his hand, dusting off your pants.

"jesus y/n" taehyun's voice sounds from behind you, and you finally glance away from jisung, eyes focused on your friend. "are you okay? your not injured are you?"

"i'm fine.." you mumble again, blinking as taehyun suddenly hands you your camera. ah, he'd picked it up for you. you take it, inspecting it to make sure it's not broken.

"is the camera okay?" jisung inquires, looking over your shoulder to stare at it.

luckily, it wasn't damaged because it had fallen on the soft grass. "it's still working" you respond, and the two boys beside you let out a sigh of relief, with taehyun placing a hand on his chest.

"jisung! come back here!" his coach quickly yells, jisung looks to you, then back to his teammates. "thanks, i owe you" he says before running back towards his group, fetching the soccer ball he'd left on the ground prior.

"wow your like a hero!" sohee exclaims, shaking your shoulder with a smile. you just let out a nervous laugh, scratching your arm. you give one last glance at jisung before you feel your face heat up excessively, so you quickly turn away, putting your camera back around your neck.

"we should go back in now" you say, you don't say any more words as you quickly make your way towards the doors. your friends blink, exchanging glances in confusion, but they quickly follow you back inside.

"y/n! wait up!"

jisung watches you three leave, feeling his heart racing against his chest.

what the hell just happened? he asks himself.

"jisung are you okay!?" a very familiar voice shrieks. jisung turns to meet his fellow teammate jooyeon, looking concerned as ever.

"i'm alright, thanks for asking" he answers, gaze lowering down to his nails, which he quickly starts picking.

"are you sure? you looked like you hit your head pretty hard" the younger boy, as always, just wants to make sure jisung isn't lying, he's genuine like that. he pokes jisung's forehead, as if he was inspecting him.

"seriously, i'm fine" jisung lowers his hand, giving him his default 'i'm okay' smile. "y/n cushioned the blow anyway.."

"you were so close to him!" jisung startles as keum donghyun comes out of nowhere. "how did it feel? was it like a dream come true?"

"i—" jisung is speechless, he closes his mouth and blinks a good seven times before even actually assessing the question.

how did it feel?

jisung doesn't know how to express it. he didn't want to think about it in that way because you'd just done such a good deed, you saved him from flying metal going straight towards his head, he shouldn't have been thinking about the lack of distance between you two, he shouldn't have been staring at your lips, and he shouldn't have been thinking about kissing you.

his face must be so unbearably red right now.

"don't ask that! it was just very abrupt.. also, i can't think of him like that! he saved me from a flying baton, i'm just grateful for him".

jooyeon hums in agreement, slapping donghyun's shoulder for him ever asking such a thing. "that's right, you should probably get him a token of appreciation or something".

jisung blinks, trying to imagine what he should ever gift you. he truly has no idea, he's not sure if he should go over and beyond, or just give you a little gift as to not intimidate you. "i can't really think of anything, i don't want to overwhelm him or something, he just wanted to do a nice thing.."

"i'm sure he'll be appreciative of anything!"

at the words, jisung just sighs, smiling.

what a hero, l/n y/n— you really are something, he thinks.

"yeah�� i'll think about it".

"good! back to practice now!"

jisung doesn't think he will ever fully be able to focus on practice, though.

"YOU LOOK LIKE YOU'VE BEEN RAN OVER BY A TRAIN" the words from the older boy, yang jeongin, snap you out of your polaroid staring daze. you flinch just the slightest, eyes peeling away from the scattering pictures which litter your desk. you rub your eyes, clearing your throat as you quickly gather all of the photos on your desk, hoping the eye bags present on your face weren't completely obvious. knowing jeongin though, they were definitely obvious. "thanks for the kind words" you respond sarcastically, a small eye roll accompanying your words. the older boy snickers, situating himself beside you, a teasing smile on his face. he props his legs up, blinking at you. "seriously though, you look like you haven't slept in years, are you alright?"

"i'm as alright as someone looking to pursue journalism can be.." you mutter back, placing the photos which were previously on your desk into your backup, a small sigh escapes your lips. "all of my applications are still pending.."

"seriously? i assume you would've been accepted into any of those schools by now!"

"you know how it all goes, they get hundreds— heck, thousands of applications every day, i just have to be patient".

jeongin raises an eyebrow, then just shrugs at you, humming. "there's no need to worry, y/n, you'll get into a good school".

you chuckle at his words, he totally read your mind when it came to that. "i'm not worried about anything" you lie; "i'll be okay, i know".

but do you?

your absolutely tired the whole entire day, you tried your best to focus in your classes, but you couldn't help your head slipping down and the way you almost slipped off to dreamland whilst your teachers were asking you very much audible questions.

"did you sleep last night?" sungchan asks you in the middle of your afternoon break, poking your arm as if to wake up. "you look like a zombie.."

"i slept a few.. hours?" your tone is very much a questioning one, as if you didn't even believe your own words. "i don't know, i was too busy fighting with lin, apparently i'm not good enough at what i do to consider journalism".

paired with the lack of response to your several applications, you weren't having the best week, it was all becoming just a little too much for you.

graduation is just too far away..

"anyway! did you choose the photos you'll put in the editorial yet?"

you think, for a while. you felt as if you had stared at so many polaroids by this point, that they're probably going to start appearing in your dreams, with the lack of sleep, constant flashing of cameras and just news news news, you've really had no time to focus on other things.

"i haven't even found time to think about the editorial" you whine, a weary sigh escaping your lips as you think about how pissed off your higher up is gonna be if you almost miss the deadline once again. "is the deadline coming up?"

"well— is four days a close deadline for you?"

you gasp, loudly, almost throwing your camera across the hallway. "four days!? four days until the deadline seriously!?"

you usually aren't like this. you are usually very calm, cool, and collected, but your week has been just the definition of a shit storm, and everything just seems getting worse and worse.

"hey, it's okay!" sungchan immediately replies, hoping to reassure you. he places a hand on your shoulder, a smile coming to his face. "it's not like this is anything new, it'll all be fine, you only have to choose two pictures anyway".

you sigh, rubbing your temples. "yeah" you breath. "it'll be fine, fine" you repeat, nodding your head as you relax yourself.

the hallway is crowded, not crowded crowded, but crowded enough that you couldn't help but begin counting the heads around you.

your eyes get stuck on a familiar figure across the hall.

park jisung, smiling and laughing with his friends. you get lost in a trance of admiring him, even though you can clearly hear sungchan talking to you. all your attention is immediately on him, and a small smile spreads across your face as you observe him, being himself.

there is absolutely no reason for him to be so breathtaking while just talking with his friend!

you are so distracted, and you don't mean to get stuck in this little reverie as you stare at the boy that you totally do not have a crush on.

he hasn't really left your mind, instead of just floating around in there like he'd been before that whole prior incident, now he occupies a whole subsection of your mind in recent days. you could be with your other friends, and all of a sudden your mind would wander off to jisung, or you could be in class and he just pops into your head.

you never thought you'd be one to get distracted easily, but you've clearly been proven wrong by just the alluring aura of park jisung.

you startle when jisung turns your way, making eye contact with you. he smiles upon noticing you, his eyes practically lighting up, and he waves at you. your a little taken aback, but jisung doesn't wait to see you wave back, just turning back towards his friend and continuing his previous conversation.

"what was that?"

"what was what?"

you quickly look over at sungchan, who had just witnessed that whole entire scene. he looks at you like you just grew a second head, and your face begins to burn as the realization dawns on you.

"you and park jisung!?"

your quick to try and sputter out a response, but you shake your head, face excessively heating up, it's probably red at this very moment. "there is nothing going on between us!"

"that doesn't seem like nothing!"

you realize how guilty you look right now. with your red face and constant insistence that there is absolutely nothing going on, those are traits the guiltiest of people display, and it all just makes you look even more guilty with how your face gets even more red.

(you must look like you're dying right now).

"it's just a friendly exchange!"

"not while your looking at him with hearts in your eyes!"

he was completely calling you out, and he was right. you were staring at jisung like he was an angel that had graced your presence, you stare at him like he's a saint and everyone else doesn't matter, as if he's the only person in the room. "i— i wasn't! i was just zoned out and he just waved at me to say hi!"

sungchan narrows his eyes suspiciously at you, totally not buying it. "uh huh, sure" his voice conveys disbelief. "just know, i'm onto you y/n".

you nudge him in the shoulder, seriously wanting to change the topic. "yeah yeah whatever" you cross your arms as you mutter the words, you're sure if you take one more glance at jisung, you won't be able to look away, so you just clear your throat and walk the other way, face still red as sungchan teases you the whole entire time.

maybe if you glanced back, you'd see jisung watching as you left..

JISUNG WAS REALLY HOPING HE'D BE ABLE TO catch you before school dismissed. you two haven't genuinely had an actual talk since you saved him from the flying baton heading straight towards his head. all you two have done is give smiles, waves, and mutter small greetings to each other in the hallway. he had to admit, it upset him in just the slightest, because he really did want to just have a conversation with you (of course, he isn't exactly sure he'd be able to get through a conversation with you without blushing like a madman anyway), but your schedules just kept conflicting, so even catching a glimpse of you around the campus has become difficult for him to do.

he doesn't want to waste any opportunity he has in his hands—

"y/n!"

when jisung sees you across the hall, he realizes that he shouldn't take this chance for granted. you turn around at the call of your name, smiling as you see the others making his way towards you. jisung runs a hand through his hair, hoping he isn't making anything awkward. "jisung hi, do you need something?"

you smile politely at him, a smile so beautiful it seems like it could get rid of all the problems in the world. jisung loves your smile, he could stare at it for hours, is that creepy? he hopes it's not creepy..

"oh uh—" the words he'd been planning to say somehow get caught in his throat, but he clears his throat and proceeds. "i was wondering if i could walk you home?"

you blink, puzzled by the question. why would he want to walk you home? your mind begins to wander, trying to figure out why he'd want to do such a thing.

can't you just ask y/n? stop being an idiot..

"why?"

you don't mean for your words to come out that way, and you're almost afraid that you made jisung uncomfortable with your tone of voice, but he instead just smiles, squashing any of your bad thoughts. you love jisung's smile, you think it's underrated, so little people talk about it and the fact shocks you, you could probably compliment his smile for hours—

but that sounds just a little creepy.

"i just want to accompany you—" —and this is my only excuse to be around you— "do something nice for you after you did something nice for me".

the words make you pause. he's just.. so thoughtful huh? you've never heard of someone wanting to repay you for being nice, it's actually a little strange if you think about it.

"jisung you don't have to reward me for doing something nice.."

"it'd be great to walk with you, though, you make good company".

that's it? that's really it?

you're not sure why you're surprised about that, maybe it's just the idea that he literally searched for you just to say this, he truly just wants to walk you home, he truly just wants to spend time with you.

he thinks i make good company, just the thought alone is enough to make you giggle in your head. your inner thoughts sound ridiculous, but you can't help them.

"if you don't want me to it's totally oka—"

"no no no" you immediately cut into his sentence, hoping that didn't come off as desperate as it sounded. "i'm glad you offered to walk me home, i'd love to walk with you too".

you unsuccessfully try to mutter those last few words, a sudden shyness taking over you. jisung smiles, glad, no, elated at your agreement. he doesn't know why he's that happy, but he hopes it isn't clear and evident, he'd never live it down.

after bidding a goodbye to your friends, and telling sungchan you'd make sure to choose the photos for your editorials, you dragged jisung out of the school doors, much to your and jisung's surprise, as well as the shock of a few of your classmates, he made sure to eye the both of you suspiciously.

"what interested you in photography?"

a scene like this is something jisung thought he'd never get to, being able to talk to you, one on one. just the two of you sharing a simple conversation is what he's wanted for an uncharted amount of time, even with how straightforward it is, the two of you could never really find time to converse normally.

when jisung asks the question, you almost think you heard him wrong. he genuinely wants to know? in a way, you feel like you've always been just the slightest bit boring, yeah you wanna do journalism and love taking aesthetically pleasing photos but you've never considered what you do to be a talent by any means.

you pick at your fingers, looking down at the ground instead of at jisung. "it's an interest i picked up from my mother, i've always been shocked how she could just do that, you know? i love videography and stuff like that as well, i love how one can capture so much with just a single camera".

your words intrigue jisung, and he listened the whole entire way, not interrupting you once. he found a smile crossing his face at the clear display of passion for your creative work, he loves the way you put it into words. god if he didn't admire you before, he surely did now.

"what about you? you're pretty much good at everything, what drew you to the adrenaline rushing excitement of soccer?"

jisung pauses, allowing himself to let out a small snicker at the question. "i don't really enjoy soccer".

you raise an eyebrow. "oh?"

jisung laughs again, your tone of voice amusing him. "don't say it like that.. it's not that i hate it, i'm just not as into it like everyone expects me to be, i got onto the school team and i've been stuck there ever since" there isn't exactly distaste in jisung's tone, he just states it casually, like how it is. his voice is just simple, mundane, he doesn't dislike soccer, it's just not what he's looking forward to do.

you love his honesty.

"i'm into other things in a much more passionate sense, like dance, soccer is just a hobby" he finally finishes, pulling his sleeves over his arms as he avoids eye contact with you.

"so no professional soccer player park jisung?"

"i think i'll leave it to the other guy to be known for that".

you chuckle at his words, okay, he's funny (you knew that already, you just had to reiterate it in your head). god how can a guy be so perfect? you get why people are so into jisung, he's charming even without trying. you feel like the luckiest guy on earth knowing he asked to walk you home.

"y/n, i'm a very.." jisung pauses, as if trying to articulate the words he was about to say. "i really admire you a lot".

you almost lose it.

park jisung, beautiful, talented, hardworking park jisung admires you? he is an admirer of yours? you don't even know what to say, you try your best to sputter out a response but your brain is practically malfunctioning. your face goes red, and you go silent for a few minutes.

"i don't get it" is what you say, and jisung just cocks his head towards the side, observing you. "what's so admirable about me?"

"do you want a list?"

oh i'd love that. "i don't think you should waste your time".

"i wouldn't be wasting my time" jisung smiles, his gaze focused on you and only you, there's a way he's looking at you that keeps you still, unable to look away from him. "i never get the chance to tell you, i'd love to talk about everything i admire about you".

when did jisung get so bold? he'll never know where this random confidence came from, but he has an opportunity, he can't let it go to waste. he has to bring it up to you.

"what i do is nothing incredible—"

"i would disagree".

you should be angry that jisung interrupted you, but you found yourself smiling at his words. he's so generous, he doesn't have to tell you this, he doesn't have to compliment you like this, but he's doing it on his own accord, he wants to.

"okay then.. is it a good time to tell you that i also feel the same?"

jisung's ears go red, so red that it looks like smoke is gonna start pouring out of them. he is shocked, absolutely speechless. you admire him? does that mean he's gotten it all wrong these past few years? does that mean you return his feelings as well—

wait what?

"oh really?"

the prior confidence jisung had when telling you about his admiration has now all fizzled away, his voice almost cracks as he tries to register your words, and thank god it doesn't.

"it's kind of like what you said, you're amazing, a very admirable person, i know you don't really think of yourself like that but i do, and it's nice to be able to tell you up front".

jisung remains silent, but you don't mind, you just give him a smile and continue walking forward, allowing for him to catch up to you.

"is that actually true?"

"why would i lie to you?" you turn around, your whole body facing him. you begin walking backwards and wait for jisung's reply to your question. "don't give me that look".

jisung frowns, a playful one, he sends you a cute little glare that makes you giggle. he's absolutely adorable, you think in your head, he's the cutest person ever right now.

"you admire me?"

"yep".

"more than i admire you?"

"definitely, and don't even try to argue with me".

jisung opens his mouth to do exactly that, but you stop, turning around as you make it to the front of your house. "okay well, thank you for walking me home, ji".

jisung raises an eyebrow, noting down the nickname in his head. it's a common nickname, but he loves the way it sounds coming from you, he loves that you didn't just drop his full name.

"it's no problem.."

"i—"

you're cut off by the sound of the door opening, and your met with the face of your mother, whose face immediately brightens at the sight of you. you smile at her, and jisung just kinda stands there awkwardly.

"hi honey" she wraps her arms around you, and you let her, leaning your head onto her shoulder. "i thought you were staying late today?"

you shake your head. "not today, it's friday remember?"

"ohhh, yeah".

jisung glances down at the ground, playing with his feet. he doesn't know what to say, he doesn't want to interrupt the conversation you're having with your mother—

but he doesn't have to say anything, because your mother pipes up.

"oh! and who might this be?" she narrows her eyes at jisung, cogs in her brain seem to turn but then she snaps his fingers and gasps, seemingly getting it. "oh my god! park jisung?"

jisung smiles, a little laugh escaping his lips. "that is me".

"holy, you've changed so much? the last time i saw you you were barely up to my knees!"

at the sound of your mothers words, you give jisung a teasing stare, one which he quickly turns away from. "you and y/n are finally friends? i was wondering when it'd happen.."

your face goes bright red at the words, and an awkward chuckle escapes your lips. "seems he was too, he always talked about it—"

"haha! what!? that's hilarious mom!" you quickly cut in, not wanting her to talk about your former ramblings about park jisung, park jisung who was right beside you. "yeah okay, jisung i'll see you monday?"

jisung nods, a little too desperately for his liking, luckily you don't notice. "yeah, monday, have a good weekend, y/n".

you smile, blood rushing through your cheeks. "be safe".

he gives a small wave and turns around, beginning the walk back towards his home.

"he's such a nice kid, you sure you're just friends?"

your jaw pretty much drops, and you give your mother a look you don't think you've ever shared with her before. "yes! just friends!"

"hmm, sure".

"WHO ARE THOSE FOR?" CHENLE asks as he immediately notices the goodies in jisung's hands. he raises an eyebrow suspiciously at his best friend, examining the bouquet of flowers and box jisung held. jisung ignores him for a couple of minutes, placing the box in his locker and closing it behind him. "for someone" he just replies, hoping he could just remain vague instead of telling chenle about his true plans. the older narrows his eyes, clearly curious about this 'someone'. he flicks jisung in the forehead, resulting in a yelp from the other, who glares. "ow! what was that for?" he asks, furrowing his eyebrows and rubbing his forehead, a frown now coming to his face.

"what you're hiding stuff from me now?" chenle rolls his eyes at jisung's frown. "who are those flowers for? you got a boyfriend or something?"

chenle was right in assuming it was a boy that was making him go crazy, but you aren't his boyfriend (not yet at least, he's trying, really). he doesn't want to exactly divulge his plans to his nosy best friend yet, just because he'd go around telling everybody he could about what jisung was doing, he didn't want anything to be spoiled.

"they're for.. y/n".

jisung winces the moment he says those words, because chenle goes absolutely crazy.

"FOR WHO!?"

jisung is quick to slap a hand over chenle's mouth, glaring at him for how loud he said those words. "could you be any more obvious?" he asks, gritting his teeth as he continues to glare at his shorter best friend, whose eyes just widen even more. "yes they're for y/n—"

"what are you two dating now?" chenle doesn't care about anything jisung has to say, he slaps his hand away and stares in interest, wanting to know more.

"no! were not dating! it's just—" jisung pauses, how is he even gonna explain this without looking super guilty? blood rushes through his cheeks as he thinks about it, about how these are your favorite flowers, about how you might react. "i wanted to get him something nice! he did a good thing and.."

and i am just so in love with him, i think i might be going insane.

"i just want to do something nice!"

"okay but are you doing something nice or are you getting ready to ask him out?"

jisung's face goes a dangerously red color, and he immediately shakes his head, denial coursing through his veins. "i'm not going to ask him out, i mean— i get why you think that but it's not what it looks like!"

chenle raises an eyebrow, staring at his totally lovestruck best friend. "it sure does seem to be what it looks like".

"chenle—"

"look, jisung, there's no need to deny that you have such an obvious crush on y/n" chenle states like it's a matter of a fact, because it is, they both know it very well, he's better at assessing jisung's feelings than jisung himself is. "he thinks your cute, you think he's cute, you two just need to ask each other out".

"um.." jisung presses his lips together, the two falling into a weird silence. he clutches the daisies in his hands, thinking about you, but he shuts off his thoughts to respond to chenle's little analysis of him.

"i just don't know where we stand, i mean we're barely even friends".

"you two are pretty much already more than friends considering he can't talk to you without looking like he's about to devour you whole".

jisung's face must be an astonishing shade of red right now. "it's not—! i don't know how to explain it okay!?"

"yeah and how are you gonna explain the flowers?" chenle points at the daisies jisung is practically squeezing to death. "other people are probably gonna get another idea".

"well i'll let them think what they want" jisung responds, his only focus is you, who cares what other people think? your his main priority. "y/n is my main focus, i don't care about what other people are saying".

chenle chuckles at his response, oh park jisung is so down bad, he's so in love with you, a kind of love chenle has never seen him have for another person. yes park jisung, love avoiding extraordinaire, is head over heels in love with a boy, chenle cannot believe it.

"okay jisung, go ahead with your wooing y/n mission or something".

at least chenle is supportive.

jisung has to go through so many interrogations to explain to your fellow photographers why he's giving you flowers, while a few of them just shrug and get it, the rest of them make sure to eye him suspiciously while he goes on with his explanation and bright red ears.

he knows most of them probably won't keep their mouths shut, and jisung knows that you told him he shouldn't get you anything for preventing him from getting any future brain damage, but jisung disagrees, he thinks you deserve gifts.

"who are those for?"

your brain doesn't register the flowers, or the connection that they have with your not-so-secret admirer, you just stare at them puzzled. "they're for you!" sohee yells from somewhere else in the room, focused on another important thing.

your eyebrows furrow, and you blink as you stare at the daisies on the table. daisies are your favorite flowers, but everyone knows that! these could be from anyone! you're no stranger to getting random gifts from people, so these could really be from anyone.

but you only have a certain person in mind..

"from who?" you ask, but you really already know who, considering the knowing look sohee sends to you.

"jisung".

of course, you say in your head, your fingers trace the packaging of the bouquet, admiring the pretty flowers before you (the pretty flowers given to you by a pretty boy), a small smile comes to your face as you think about it. you told jisung not to get you anything, but he obviously wasn't going to listen to you, he's made that very clear.

"did he tell you anything?"

sohee doesn't spare you another glance, but you can just tell he's grinning like a madman with the way he's clearly trying to hold in his laughter. "he just told me to make sure to get them to you, he was very insistent".

the teasing tone of your friends voice doesn't go unnoticed by you, and your barely able to stifle your laugh, not at sohee exactly, but at jisung's actions.

of course he didn't listen when you said for him to not get you anything, he remembered what your favorite flowers are, did he spend his weekend thinking about it? you wonder what kind of florists we must've went to.. your mind races with just jisung thoughts, and you're just so lost in them that you don't realize your zoning out.

oh park jisung, why do you have to be so sweet?

"DID YOU REALLY HAVE TO?" YOU immediately ask the moment you come across park jisung in the hallway. the boy blinks, smiling at the sight of you, his face practically brightens at the sight of you. "what do you mean?" he inquired innocently, a small tilt of his head adding to his question. you send him a glare, not a serious one, but it's still a glare. you can't even believe his audacity, for him to look at you with such beautiful eyes, make your knees feel weak without even having to do anything? park jisung is just such a crazy man, you don't know if you can stare at him any longer, you might end up passing out from heat exhaustion (the heat from your face, of course, something that's become so normal for you when around park jisung).

"don't 'what do you mean?' me, i told you not to get me anything!" you complain, lightly shoving jisung's shoulder. "seriously, i said it was fine.." you mumble those words, but jisung just smiles.

"i wanted to get you something anyway, i needed to show you my appreciation somehow".

but just your admiration is enough appreciation for me, just you being around is enough, just you is enough.

your own thoughts weird you out on occasions.

"i told you not to—"

"but i wanted to, it's fine y/n, seriously, just accept my gesture".

you bite your inner cheek, he just always has to be nice, doesn't he? your cheeks flare up and you swear your face goes a shade of red you've never seen before, how does one boy even affect you like this? you don't think you've ever acted like this around any of your other admirers ever..

"ah" a small smile comes to your face. "thank you" you whisper, you're not sure why you get so shy all of a sudden.

"it's no problem" jisung responds, a smile coming to his face. he closes the door to his locker, and then leans onto it. "walk with me?"

you blink, jisung really likes walking with you, huh? is this gonna become your thing? you wouldn't really mind when you think about it.. you enjoy walking with jisung, you just enjoy any time you can spend with jisung.

"what's with you and asking to walk with me?"

"walking with you is just.. nice".

"do i ease your stresses or something?"

your tone is meant to come off as teasing, and your question is mostly unserious, you don't register how you sound like your flirting with jisung, probably because everything just feels so natural with jisung, you love how you feel around him, it's confusing to explain.

"i guess you could say that" jisung's response snaps you out of your jisung focused thoughts, thoughts which are difficult to not get stuck in considering park jisung is constantly occupying your mind these days. "anyway, can you walk with me?"

you pause, tongue pressing against the inside of your cheek. you have class in twenty minutes, and you don't really want to walk back all the way with only five minutes left to make it to class. "i don't know.. chen might kill me".

"please?"

that catches you off guard, you seemingly forget how to think for a second. jisung really wants to walk with you so bad, he's reverting to that easily convincing voice of his? you'd be an idiot to say no, you'd be an idiot to deny anything given to you by park jisung, you sigh in your head.

"okay, fine".

a smile of victory places itself on jisung's face, and he takes your hand, to your own surprise, as the two of you begin making your way down the hall. you wanna bring it up, but you don't want him to let go of you, so you don't. your face goes a bright shade of red, jisung doesn't seem to mind, or maybe he's always wanted to hold your hand, you aren't sure.

you focus way too much on it, on the way it feels, how jisung's soft hands contrast your rough ones, how warm his hands are, you don't want to let go, you don't want him to let go. god, you feel like such a loser, freaking out over a boy holding your hand.

but it's not just a boy, it's park jisung, park jisung makes you feel things you thought you'd never feel before..

"why do you seem so worried?" jisung chuckles, his hand holding yours. he nudges your shoulder lightly, raising an eyebrow.

"because, i don't wanna be late".

jisung snickers, not making fun of you, though, he hopes you don't think that. "have you never skipped a class before?"

your eyes widen as large as saucers, model student park jisung has skipped classes? a small chuckle escaped your lips. "no, i could never bring myself to, it always made me feel strange.."

now it's jisung's turn to look surprised, you laugh again, why does he assume you skip classes? or have even attempted to skip? you wonder what goes through his mind. "are you serious? you've never tried to skip before?"

you scoff, pinching his arm. "i tried to once in the sixth grade because of a dare from friends, but i literally couldn't do it, they called me a wimp for the rest of the year".

"aww sad".

"don't give me your fake pity, also— you've skipped class before!?"

jisung chuckles at your surprise, giving a small smile. "it was a few times as a sophomore, some classes are just so boring i can't resist".

"wow, model student park jisung skips his classes? i cannot believe the information that has been bestowed upon me".

the words, paired with your sarcastic tone made jisung let out yet another snicker, he hopes he's not overdoing it in your eyes, you're genuinely just a very funny person. "oh no! don't use this secret to tarnish my pristine reputation!"

"you're such an idiot".

a cute idiot.

"be quiet, you still love me" jisung rebuts, adding a small nudge to your shoulder along with his words.

it's weird to say, but you like this. even with your totally non-romantic feelings for jisung, you find this nice. is this what dating him would be like? you get to hold hands and joke around in the halls without a care in the world? you think you'd enjoy that, you'd enjoy dating park jisung.

wait what?

you snap out of your thoughts when jisung stops, so you stop too. he lets go of your hand, and you resist the urge to frown, because you don't want to come off as desperate. (but you are desperate, you're so desperate, having park jisung hold your hand was so nice, you want him to hold it again).

"this is my stop, thank you for my walking with me".

the words are simple, basic, but you find your face heating up at them anyway. you clear your throat, not wanting to stay silent any longer. "it was no problem, i couldn't disagree anyway".

jisung laughs, he is so pretty, so pretty without even having to do anything significant. "of course you couldn't" he looks down at his feet. "anyway! have a good day y/n, don't be late to your next class!"

you blink as you watch jisung walk into the auditorium for his next class, you watch as he walks away, standing there for what seems like forever. how could a guy, just a guy affect you so much? what is it with park jisung and making you stop in your tracks? he's mesmerizing, just so easily draws you in.

your eyes widen as you realize the time, you're going to be late for your next class, mr. chen is going to kill you!

and as you totally sprint down the hallway to get to your next class, your mind is racing with thoughts of park jisung the entire time.

"AM I NOT YOUR BEST FRIEND?" YOU CAN practically hear the pout in sungchan's voice as he said those words. you place the extra polaroids on your desk, then glance up at your friend, who stares at you with an expression of defeat on his face. you raise an eyebrow, puzzled at what the actual hell he's talking about, he's always just bringing stuff up so randomly, you can't even keep up with what he's referring to now. sungchan just frowns, letting out a groan of frustration as plops down beside you, a small huff adding to his words. you chuckle at the way he decides to present himself, and he groans once again, very frustrated. "where is this coming from?"

"why didn't you tell me about you and jisung".

you pause, an expression of surprise comes to your face, your face which heats up astonishingly quickly. "me and jisung? me and jisung what? we aren't—"

"y/n there's no point in denying it, everyone already knows".

"everyone already knows what?"

"that you and jisung have a thing, it's fine if you don't wanna tell everyone but excluding me? your best friend in the whole entire world from the news?"

"jisung and i aren't dating!" you say immediately, clasping your hands together as you try to calm your rapidly beating heart. why do people even think that? yeah you like park jisung but how did people even reach the conclusion that you were dating? you're not even sure if jisung returns your feelings. "i don't even know where people got that idea.."

"so your constant yearning stares and pitched up giggles are all not apart of that?"

"i don't—" you are definitely showcasing all guilty characteristics, your red face, your shrill voice, and your very obvious lying, sungchan sees right through you, anyone would be able to. "yearning stares are stupid i don't do that!"

"yeah, sure y/n" sungchan sighs, and you groan, screaming into your pillow. "i'm not trying to be mean or anything, but it's disgustingly obvious that you're into jisung, and i mean in a cringy way".

you gasp in offense, turning away from your best friend. you want to remain stubborn, but you can't, of course you can't, how can you even deny your feelings for jisung anymore if other people can now tell that you like him? your face heats up in embarrassment, and you cover your face with your hands. "is it really that obvious?" you mutter, hoping the answer isn't what you think it is.

"yeah, very, i wouldn't even be surprised if the two of you were actually dating and this was a little trick of yours".

sungchan points at you, an accusatory look in his eyes, but he immediately lets it go, because he knows you, and he can tell that you are telling the truth. you don't even have the courage to look at him, still covering your face with your hands. "have you not told jisung how you feel yet?"

your silence tells sungchan everything he needs to know, and the look he gives you is absolutely criminal.

"YOU HAVEN'T!?"

"i haven't found any time too!"

"how much time have you been spending around jisung these days!? you haven't even tried to bring it up to him!"

you let yourself fall to the side, half your body hanging off your bed. "i don't know how to" you whine, mind immediately rushing to thoughts of park jisung, thoughts you probably shouldn't be having. "it's awkward!"

"well i'm sure jisung feels the same with the way he always has to resist the urge to kiss you in the hallway".

"with the way he WHAT!?"

the words are enough to make you rise from your formerly fallen state, a look of astonishment on your face. did jisung really return your feelings? or was sungchan just trying to start something that would end up absolute humiliation?

"y/n, not trying to be rude or anything, but it's so obvious that jisung wants to date you, he doesn't even have to say it for everyone to know!"

you feel like you just discovered the secrets of the universe with those words, park jisung likes you? like likes you likes you? once the realization dawns on you, you gasp loudly.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME!? OH MY GOD I CAN'T BELIEVE I WAS SUCH AN IDIOT UGH!"

sungchan watches you freak out, he truly can't believe that he had to tell you for all of it to finally set in.

it's actually pretty funny, and he snickers as he watches you go absolutely ballistic.

"HAVE YOU SEEN Y/N?" JISUNG ASKS the first recognizable person he sees in the hallway. he hasn't seen any seniors anywhere for a while, but that's because the days keep getting warmer, meaning graduation keeps getting closer, most of the seniors only take two classes and then go on to do their extracurriculars, so they don't really have to spend the whole entire day at school, but it's weird today because he usually always sees you, even when he isn't purposefully looking for you (which has become a common thing for him to do, he's just loves the time he can spend with you). he hopes you aren't absent, because today is friday, and if he doesn't tell you his important news now he's going have to wait an extra two days.

"y/n? uh..." the unfamiliar boy pauses for a moment, as if thinking, and jisung is hoping that it isn't the worst, because he really needs you to be here today. "well i'm not sure where he is actually! probably with his other photographers".

"but he's here right?" jisung doesn't care if he comes off as desperate, his only focus is you, you are his main priority, he doesn't care about the impression he's making on others, he can truly only think about you at the moment.

"yeah! i'm just not sure where exactly!"

"okay thank you!"

the guy gives him a strange look, a mix of teasing and giddy, but jisung walks off too fast to see it, he's set on finding you. he doesn't exactly know where he's supposed to go, he's just hoping to somehow spot you and be able to get you alone.

"what are you rushing for?" chenle comes out of nowhere, noticing jisung's urgency and the way he's clearly focused on something specific strikes him as odd, but he already has an idea of what's making jisung so fidgety. "you're gonna confess your love to y/n or something?"

"yes, actually i am chenle, it'd be great if i could find him, though".

maybe it's jisung's surprising honesty, or the way his main priority is you. chenle finds it amusing how quick the switch flipped, but it's also kind of cute. the usual pessimist, mr 'i don't really care about love' park jisung is down bad for a boy, it's adorable. "have you tried the photography room?"

"where do you think i'm heading?"

chenle chuckles at jisung's attitude, simply smiling and pulling his cheek. "alright then! don't forget to tell me how it goes!"

jisung doesn't spare chenle another glance, just turns back around and focuses on the task at hand, finding you and telling you how he feels.

jisung wonders how you'll react, based on what he's seen, it's not completely guaranteed that you'll reject him, it's probably more likely that you return his feelings rather than don't. does that make him horrible? thinking because you've exhibited the traits of someone who has a crush that you have a crush on him?

maybe you don't like him and he's letting it all get to his head, it all just seems too good to be true.

jisung doesn't even have to go all the way to the photography room, because he bumps right into you whilst on his way there, and a small yelp escapes your lips. "oh my god.. sorry!"

jisung cannot contain his excitement, and his nervousness. there is absolutely nothing to be nervous about, this is y/n. kind, understanding, charming y/n, it's not like he's going to scream at you for telling him you like him. it’ll all be fine.

"it's alright" you whisper, shaking your head for a moment. "i was looking for you" you immediately say, not allowing for jisung to speak before you.

jisung's eyes widen. you were looking for him? it makes his brain go haywire, figurative cogs in his head turning. "that's ironic, i was looking for you too".

jisung swears he can see the red coloring on your cheeks, but he doesn't say anything about it.

"i have to tell you something".

the two of you say that sentence in unison, the same amount of anxiety coursing through your veins, the same red hue on your cheeks, the same look of surprise in your eyes. "you can go first" you whisper, picking at your fingers, you aren't exactly sure if you want to hear what he's about to say.

"are you sure? it seems you have something more important to say.."

"it's fine! really, i can just say it after yo—"

"i'm in love with you".

the words strike you like a punch to the gut, a slap to the face. your stomach drops, your face is burning horribly, and your legs feel like they're about to give in. you cannot believe it, you hope you don't pass out, you hope you don't just die right here, that'd be so embarrassing.

park jisung is in love with you. beautiful, talented, model student park jisung who you've never truly known how you felt about is in love with you. you are so happy, giddy, and it disgusts you, but the disgust is quickly replaced by the feeling of joyousness. park jisung is in love with you, he feels the same way.

"jisung, i'm—"

"it's okay if you don't return my feelings i just wanted to tell you!" is that really what he thinks? that you don't love him back? he must be crazy, you've only ever exhibited reciprocal feelings. "i'll be off now!"

"no! don't go!" you grab jisung's wrist before he can walk away. smart move y/n, you're acting so natural right now. "i just, i return your feelings! i just don't know how to explain it, also my hands are very sweaty right now and i feel gross.."

you let go of jisung's wrist and feel your face get unbearably hotter. it's embarrassing, you feel so embarrassed, but it's park jisung, and jisung just stares at you lovingly. you're so cute, how did it take him this long to tell you how he felt?

"you're so cute".

jisung doesn’t even realize he says the words until you give him that look, and your red face just makes him giggle more. "this isn't— that is not fair! i was supposed to confess first!"

"you're the one who told me to go first!"

"i didn't know you were going to tell me you liked me! i prepared a whole sentence for you and everything!"

you whine, covering your red face with your hands. jisung removes your hands from your face, and a small smile graces his pretty features. he's absolutely gorgeous, he has such a pretty smile, you have the sudden urge to tell him about it. "your smile is beautiful".

now it's jisung's turn to become the red faced lovesick fool. "ah, really?" he responds, voice shaky, hands even more shaky, but they're so soft, your mind always reminds you to note that.

you hum in agreement. "it's very pretty, i can't believe more people don't talk about it".

"well you can talk about it, aren't we technically dating now?"

the question makes you pause. you feel like your about to go insane, you're dating park jisung? park jisung is your boyfriend? this is like a dream come true, a dream you thought would stay a dream and only a dream. "dating? dating! yeah yeah!"

your natural act is not natural at all, you are very nervous, so nervous you feel like your about to collapse onto the floor. "there's no need to be so nervous.."

you groan. "says you!"

"alright y/n" jisung lets go of your hands, much to your dismay, because you frown. he takes note, and reaches over to grab your own once again, intertwining your fingers. "we’re dating, you don't have to go red faced every time i compliment you now".

"but it's you, how do i not?"

jisung sighs, leaning forward and pressing a small peck on your lips. oh he is such a stupid little—

"why would you do that!?"

"i'm sorry!" jisung giggles, he was definitely not sorry. "it was an instinct, i had to!"

"you— ugh!"

park jisung can't just not make you nervous, he's such a crazy man.

one that you love, of course.

"I THINK I LIKE THIS ONE THE MOST.." JISUNG states, admiring the polaroid photos which litter the desk. you hum at his words, rummaging through the box on the counter, you are very much focused on finding that estranged camera taehyun had pointed for you to find. your boyfriend glances up, looking over your shoulder, silently watching as you get frustrated about this stupid camera you couldn't find. "which one?" you inquire, glancing over at him. jisung holds up the polaroid, a picture you'd taken of you and sungchan at the beach when you were nine. a pretty photo, you aren't even sure how you pulled it off. "ah, that is a pretty one" you whisper, and you smile the moment jisung smiles. his smile is so pretty, a cute stretch which is enough to make you smile, even if you feel down.

"what’s with your face?"

"searching for this old camera is pissing me off" you remark, knowing that you have to search for this is just making you even more mad, why do you have to pack the photography room right before graduation? you hate it. "who even left it in here?"

"a former student maybe?"

you close your eyes, sighing. "i need this to be over so much more quickly" you complain, and jisung just laughs at your misery.

"we graduate in a week, y/n, just be patient" the younger pokes your cheek, then he cups your face, trying to make your frown disappear. "an old camera is not the end of the world".

you glance down at jisung's lips, then narrow your eyes. "are you trying to seduce me?" you question, raising an eyebrow.

"no?" jisung responds, adding a small tilt of his head to his words. "do i sound believable?"

"not at all" you say, pushing jisung's hands away and looking back to the box in front of you so you can continue to scour for this camera you have to get for your friend. you continue to search through the box, trying to find this old dslr camera for your friend. "so don't distract me".

"i'm not!" jisung whines, wrapping his arms around your waist and placing his chin onto your shoulder, watching you try to succeed at your mission of finding a camera. "you don't want to give me, your lovely, amazing boyfriend attention?"

you merely roll your eyes at jisung, he's so annoying (in a cute way), you're about to call chenle to drag him away from you, but you also don't want him to let go of you, his arms around your waist make you feel safe, loved, park jisung makes you feel so loved.

"i found it!" you shriek, victory soaring in your voice. "fucking finally".

"okay so can you give me a kiss now?" jisung asks, puckering his lips and leaning closer to you.

he's so desperate, and you are too, it's adorable, park jisung is adorable. "hmm" you pretend to think about it, an inquisitive look making it's way to your face. "nah".

"y/n! that's not fair!" jisung whines, shaking you with his arms that are still around your waist. he frowns, trying to give you his best puppy dog eyes.

you almost give in, but you push him away, taking the camera you'd been searching for. "later, babe".

"you said that this morning!"

you sigh, turning around to stare at the pouting park. the cute pout remains on his face, how can you ever resist him? you lean forward and press a kiss to his lips, ruffling his hair. "there, are you happy you big baby?"

"you could do better".

"uh huh, and you could be patient".

jisung frowns once again, but it's not a serious one, just the cute one he likes to do when he pretends to be mad at you. "don't be mad, you know i love you".

jisung does know, he knows that very well. he smiles at you, he's so in love with you, and not even in an embarrassing way, there's nothing embarrassing about this, he feels joyful, a sense of euphoria overtakes him whenever he’s with you.

"i know, i love you too".

and he isn't lying when he says that.

because he truly does.

#park jisung #nct #nct dream #nct imagines #nct scenarios #nct drabbles #nct dream imagines #nct dream scenarios #nct dream drabbles #nct x reader #nct x male reader #nct dream x reader #nct dream x male reader #park jisung imagines #park jisung x reader #park jisung x male reader #𑁍 ࣪˖ 𓂃 isa's works!

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rafescherry · 10 months

Text

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⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; after he returned to the capital, coriolanus snow met you. the one person who broke the rules for him. that fell in his greedy grasp.. but it was a beautiful illusion. now you’ve slowly found yourself going insane. drowning in his obsession. it went from the district songbird, to you.. the capital darling. expect this time, snow isn’t going to let his pretty rose escape, this time, his trophy was in his complete control.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; dark themes, physiological abuse, chocking, chasing

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𝐒𝐨. 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐲. 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐋𝐢𝐞𝐬

you were trapped, and yet you were running.. as if you come free from this, from him. the pounding in your head seemed to follow the rhythm of your feet. rapid, frantic, afraid. because it was the way for only a moment, his eyes lingered.. they stilled. you searched desperately for that brilliant twinkle in his eyes - yet it was gone, like a shiver along your skin.. and it was fucking terrifying. maybe even more so by the way your eyes, even for a mere second, fluttered in that same darkness. that same hunger for power that lay within him. Began to ignite within you .. you were the monster he created. And that in its self made you utterly his.

you could hear his voice in your pretty head.. white marble blurring around you, racing through your vision like the sounds in your head. No, his voice in your head.. a drug you grasped onto like a pathetic addict

‘𝐓𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧.. 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫, 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞’

how? how had you let yourself fall into his charms.. into his perfectly crafted manipulation. but you knew how. your angel eyes saw him, that first encounter.. and it felt real. you were a fool. You saw the good in many devils - and Coryo, was the one you saw the terrifyingly deepest.. but it was merely a beautiful illusion. and you fell right into it. And now, you couldn’t get out! and in some twisted way, didn’t want to. that’s why you were running, because you were so desperate to go back. to be his even until you were broken. like the petals he picked from his beloved roses. in a sick way, you were one of them, his beautiful little prize.. and yet thorns of his making hid below.

everything was burning in your mind as you ran through those halls. his menacing voice like a sharp weapon on your back. your legs moved without hesitation, yet your heart lurched in your chest. running from him?! As if you could get away!! you didn’t know if it was his words in your head or behind you that spoke so truthfully. He existed within you. You were truly going insane.

you should have never of loved him. but you did. you loved him so sickly that it boiled like rage in your gut. and it always fucking would. perhaps that’s why this chase was so pathetic? your heart raced as the words emerged in your twisted thoughts. he didn’t care about you, he didn’t love you.. he loved owning you. holding your heart like a rose in his greedy hands. Hands that always needed more.

He was chasing you. that’s as you could think as you stumbled through those halls.. his dark eyes like daggers in your back. But you knew it wasn’t only your back, it was everywhere. Like his gaze was suffocating you, and suddenly you realized.. you didn’t truly know where he was. He was hunting you. like his delicate prey.. but he wasn’t behind you anymore. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

And you made the terrible, fool of mistake to advert your eyes behind you, letting them frantically drift to the space you swear he was.. the space you wished he was.

The moment you rounded the angelicly white walled corner, your body met something.. cruel. no, sinfully familiar. your wretched love. He. Had. Caught. You. And just like you knew they always would your eyes met his. And something in your chest broke, so violently you wondered if he heard it

and before you could writhe against his greedy grip, his hand was curling around your delicate throat, and slammed you against the marble wall. once, they had looked so pure to your beaming eyes.. yet now, they looked like suffocating hell. especially as you flared against him, his hold dragging the air from your lungs like everything else he had ever possessed from you.. taking it for his own amusement. twisting it and stealing it from you like everything you ever were, was his. it was his possession

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 .. 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤?

his beautiful face leaned into yours - his maddening breath fanning you ear almost like a threat.. and it was very much that.

“after everything I’ve done for you darling?” his chuckle was like wicked silk against your skin. and just like always, you fell into that consuming darkness. If only you knew, he had said those words once before. yet this time, he wouldn’t lose

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥..

#coriolanus snow #president snow #tbosas spoilers #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow x y/n #snow lands on top #toxic relationship #toxic love #hunger games #The Ballad of Songbirds & Snakes #tbosas #tbosbas #ʚcoryoɞ #ʚshey’s fictionɞ

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minjix · 1 year

Text

cherry pie → Vinnie Hacker x best friend!female!reader

summary: in which Vinnie risks it all whilst baking a cherry pie on stream

warnings: friends to lovers trope, Vinnie being insecure, few swear words. fluff ofc :)))

a/n: stopped writing because I got no engagement with my writing, no reblogs or comments, something that creators on this platform thrives on. This is not Instagram, you can’t spam like a creators posts and think that it’ll do anything, because honestly it’s all discouraging. with that in mind, i will block spam liking because it does nothing.

word count: 0.9k

masterlist

You loved Vinnie, ever since you two met it was love at first sight. You both were shy in nature, but the moment you were introduced you were so sure you’ve met someone from your past life. The conversation between you two came easily, no awkwardness, just a melody each time your eyes met.

Vinnie was special, his hand grasping yours so he wouldn’t lose you in the crowd. Always keeping a napkin in his pocket since you always seemed to spill something. He often found himself comparing you to the sun, but quickly realized that not even the big star above his head came close in comparison to you. Vinnie loved you too.

Both of you kept silent, choked laughs and glances to one’s direction when the other wasn’t looking.

It was clear to everyone else, the love of which was growing everyday keeping you both prisoners in its grasp.

Vinnie was convinced he’d die if he never admitted it, his chest tightening as his heart grew and doubled its beats when you were around. But he was terrified of losing you if he spoke the truth, so he hid, despite his world crumbling every time another content creator asked for your number, which you always declined with a reserved smile, the smile you promised Vinnie was his.

—————————

Vinnie wanted to do something different for his upcoming stream that weekend. Instead of playing the usual games he wanted to bake a cherry pie with you, and you immediately agreed before the tattooed blonde finished his sentence. So there you were, flour coating your cheeks and clothes after Vinnie decided to throw some at you.

The whole kitchen was a mess, eggs and crushed cherries staining cupboards and clothes. Vinnie’s eyes were on you whilst you spoke to the viewers. You were a mess, but you looked so fucking beautiful with that smile that Vinnie would die for. He scolded himself when his thoughts crafted a world in which you stood before him, dressed in white and his ring on your finger. It stung, so deeply that he had to take a deep breath to come back to reality, the reality where you were only his friend and nothing more.

He remembered Noah telling Vinnie how he was his own worst enemy, and now he wholeheartedly agreed as he watched you in this perfect light, a beckoning for him to tell you his deepest secrets, but yet his tongue remained still and a bitter feeling grew in his stomach as he continued to watch you.

You were his opposite. Vinnie bore a dark cloud over his head, sometimes it’d rain or thunder, but now it was merely there, darkening his thoughts while you radiated sunshine and warmth. He stood no chance.

You gave the blonde a soft tap on his inked arm to bring him back from wherever his mind traveled to, something you were used to see happening. “You still with us?” You whispered, a smile on your lips but your eyes held a spark of concern.

To play it cool, the blonde gave you a wink with a cheeky smile, “for you? "Always." He looked back to the monitor so he could read the chat, but every time you let out a laugh his mind wandered to that special place again.

“Honestly, it looks pretty good,” you spoke as you glanced down at the cherry pie. “Why do you sound so surprised?” He laughed, knocking his shoulder softly into yours.

“Vin, have you met us?” He had to agree on that one. “Besides I’m no chef, and you’re always distracted,” because of you, he wanted to interrupt with, but he bit his lip to force the words back down his throat. “And when you’re not; you play around too much.” You continued.

He turned back to the chat with a exaggerated smile and waved his arms around, “you heard it here folks, Y/n and I are no longer friends,” you quickly grabbed his arms with a giddy laugh, “finally!” He stopped and turned to look down at you. “Bullshit, you love me too much.” He looked serious, but the corner of his lips twitching gave it away.

“Yeah, of course I do. Gonna marry you one day.” You mumbled but Vinnie heard it loud and clear. “Don’t say that.” He quipped. His heart was doing painful somersaults in his chest. “I’m serious, don’t joke about that.” He was sweating as he spoke, his voice shaking with each word. His stream had been long forgotten as you stood in front of him, eyes staring into his.

“Vinn-“ He didn’t let you finish. He compared it to blacking out as he told you how much pain he was in simply because you existed, and how he didn’t mind the pain because it made him feel alive. He came to when you told him how important he was to you too. “I can’t lose you Vin, I’m so scared that I’ll-“ he grabbed your face and quickly pulled you into a toe curling, passionate kiss. A kiss that warmed his heart and he could feel the cracks patching together. Your hands gripped his waist as the kiss continued to grow more passionate, and then you quickly pulled back in panic. “The stream!”

“Fuck em’” he smiled and pulled you back in for another breathtaking kiss. He couldn’t help the laughs escaping him as the kiss continued. He never felt like this and he knew that he would do anything to keep you in this life.

———-

comments and reblogs makes a different!

#𝖒– writings ೃ࿔₊• ✉️ ✰❛#vinnie hacker <3 #vinnie hacker #vinnie imagines #vinnie x y/n #fluff #vinnie hacker fluff #vinnie x reader #vinnie hacker imagines #vinnie hacker blurb #vinnie hacker x reader #vincent hacker #tiktok #hype house #vinnie fanfic #vinnie hacker x you #vinnie hacker x female!reader #vinnie hacker fanfic

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gloomwitchwrites · 7 months

Text

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes, jealous / protective / possessive Simon, rough kissing, arguments, angst, TF141 shenanigans

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: Part Ten of Ink & Needle

Soap, Gaz, and Price come for a visit. At a local pub, Simon notices you are sitting with a stranger. An argument ensues. Things get heated.

Chapter Nine // Chapter Eleven

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Simon leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, sighing heavily. The rolling chair groans a protest. The thing is so old it’s a miracle that it hasn’t collapsed under Simon’s weight. He’s been meaning to replace it—it’s not like he doesn’t have the money—but there are so many other things going on in Simon’s life that he keeps putting it off.

His work laptop is open on the desk in front of him, the bright glow of the screen showing him the thousands of emails sitting in his inbox. Being on the cover of UK Ink is a tremendous honor, but it’s also becoming its own sort of creeping horror. Figuring out which inquiries are genuine, and which are just people seeking attention, is taking a tremendous toll on his personal time.

Every day, more and more emails clog his inbox. It’s likely that as he starts deleting them, more will suddenly appear, popping forth from the hidden depths of whatever server it’s connected to. Plenty of the emails are straight spam with a few consisting of people sending unsolicited nudes. Those go straight into the trash folder. The only naked body Simon wants to see is yours.

Many of the emails are people seeking to book appointments with him for tattoos and piercings. While a good chunk of the emails come from citizens of England, plenty more are from people all over the world. International inquires are a good thing, but those appointments have to be booked around flights and trips. There is also no guarantee that those people will actually show, which is why Simon has started to double-book in some places, or set forth a non-refundable fee for securing a time and date.

He's only one person, and the pressure of that is starting to creep up on him. Simon is going to have to hire more people. At least one additional person at minimum. Even if all they do is answer emails all day and book appointments, Simon will take it. Sitting on this fucking chair in between clients is exhausting.

Through all of that, there are also publications (both large and small) seeking their own interviews with the masked tattoo artist knows as ‘Ghost.’ Some are local to the region while others are international, reaching an even wider audience. For each inquiry, Simon is grateful. To see his work—his art—be appreciated to such a large degree is a great point of accomplishment for him.

It's not like Simon’s work during his time with the military. That is different. That was work. That was blood and metal and dirt. Tattooing doesn’t feel like work to Simon. It is freeing. It is creative. It is the release of a muscle after a long tension.

Tattooing is a distinctive sort of freedom. A place for Simon to lose himself in, to enjoy life again, to find comfort in a craft that doesn’t involve destruction.

But Simon is also distracted. Not because he’s stressed or anxious or concerned or even from the number of emails piling in. Simon is distracted because you were in his arms last night. You were sitting at his kitchen table. You ate the food he made. He distinctly remembers your soft smile as you gazed at his sketches.

Sure, Simon was making dinner, but he was keeping an eye on you the whole time. He noticed every expression on your face as your gaze admired each sketch. He noticed the way you held every piece of paper with tenderness, as if all of them were sacred and special to you. It was after, when the two of you talked, that Simon sensed hesitation.

He questioned you about Cambridge and Evie. You were not entirely honest, not that Simon believes that you lied, but he knows there is more you haven’t told him. Whether you don’t want to tell him or are hesitant to do so is still uncertain. What Simon wants, more than anything, is for you to feel safe enough with him to tell him everything. Simon desires your sharp edges. He wants to know how he can help smooth them, to ease all the worries in your head, to remove some of those burdens.

Which is why he asked you to come to bed with him. He thought that maybe if he kissed you for a bit, you might soften, and that is all he wanted. But then he had you under him, opening for him, and Simon’s control was close to shattering like thin glass under pressure. Your fingers found him, and Simon would have given anything to stay in that bed and make you understand just how much he desires you.

The glowing screen of the laptop and the sight of you sighing in pleasure beneath him keeps colliding with each other. It keeps melding, melting together only to break apart before meeting again.

The current email opened on the laptop screen is gibberish. No matter how many times Simon attempts to read it, your face appears there instead. Then, Simon’s mind drifts off to dream of your seeking fingers, and how perfectly they wrapped around him.

Simon pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. He needs to fucking focus. He will see you again, and when he does, he is going to fucking enjoy it. The two of you are taking that date. The two of you are going to get away for a while. When that happens, Simon will make you his in all ways.

Exhaling loudly, Simon drops his hand from his face to rub at the back of his neck. He rolls it slightly, popping some of the tension out of the joints. He leans forward a bit and manages to focus on the email.

Spam. Fucking spam.

Simon hits the little rubbish icon and watches the email blink out of existence. His gaze returns to the little blue number next to ‘Inbox’ and immediately shudders.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, wanting nothing more than to shut the laptop and pretend they don’t exist for a while.

Out of the corner of his eye, Simon spies the front door of the shop opening. He turns his head to the left to see if it’s his final customer. Instead, he’s greeted by an annoyingly overenthusiastic Scotsman.

“Lt!”

“Gotta stop calling me that, Johnny,” sighs Simon loudly, as if getting out of his chair is a major hassle. Simon comes to his full height, hands on his hips as John MacTavish bursts through the door.

On his heels are Captain John Price and Kyle Garrick.

“Simon,” nods Price in greeting.

Kyle gives Simon a little playful salute before immediately heading for Bravo. The German Shepard goes up on his back legs. Kyle seizes the dog’s front paws in his hands, the two of them doing a little dance in the middle of the shop.

The moment Simon steps away from the chair, MacTavish is on him, throwing his massive arms around Simon’s middle in a hug.

“You’re bloody crushing me, Johnny.”

MacTavish squeezes him a bit tighter in response. When he let’s go, he grabs hold of Simon’s shoulders, shaking them slightly. “Fucking look at this place.” MacTavish glances around like he’s never seen it before.

“You’ve been here,” deadpans Simon. “Hasn’t changed.”

“But it has, Lt. You’re on the cover of a magazine.” MacTavish smirks and drops his hands from Simon’s shoulders. He then promptly punches Simon lightly in his upper arm. “We’re in the presence of a celebrity.”

“Hardly,” mutters Simon, but he’s smiling behind the balaclava.

Price presents his hand, and he and Simon grasp forearms. “Good to see you, Simon. Been a while.”

“It has,” replies Simon.

Johnny leans toward Simon and cups the side of his mouth like he’s an old hen about to drop a piece of juicy gossip. When he speaks, it’s just a projected whisper that everyone can hear clearly. “Captain bought up a bunch of magazines and handed them out to everyone on base.”

“Soap,” barks Price.

MacTavish holds up his hands, and then points at Price with one finger, jabbing it in the captain’s direction. “Just proud of you,” whispers MacTavish.

Simon simply nods but he’s grinning like an idiot behind the balaclava. Price glances in Simon’s direction and shrugs apathetically, not denying or confirming.

Glancing over Price’s shoulder, Simon frowns slightly. Bravo has his front paws on Kyle’s shoulders as he aggressively scratches the dog’s sides. Bravo’s tongue sticks out the corner of his mouth, hanging down toward the floor as the dog pants happily.

“Get down, Bravo,” sighs Simon, indicating with a quick nod of his head.

Bravo sucks his tongue back into his mouth, ears drooping slightly with disappointment. Kyle pats Bravo’s side and removes the dog’s massive paws from his shoulders, gently guiding the German Shepard back down to all fours.

On the phone, Johnny said they’d stop by on Saturday. It’s Saturday. Fairly late on a Saturday, with a final customer still expected to walk through the door, but they are here, just as promised.

Kyle strides up and clasps Simon’s shoulder. “Place looks good.”

“Hasn’t changed,” remarks Simon for a second time.

“Saw you on the cover of UK Ink,” continues Kyle. “Didn’t know until this guy started handing them out on base.” He tips his head in Price’s direction.

Price sighs heavily but says nothing.

“Big deal,” finishes Kyle.

“Congrats, Lt.” MacTavish grins and Simon cannot help but feed into their praise.

It is a big deal. This one interview, this one award, is pushing him beyond the scope of his vision. In forced retirement, Simon expected to fly under the radar, to enjoy himself while he created art. He never expected his work to be recognized internationally.

“Sign my copy yet?” asks Johnny.

Simon backtracks to his desk, picking up the copy MacTavish sent him in the post. Lifting it up, Simon brings it over to Soap, smacking him in the chest with it. Johnny whistles and holds it with both hands in reverence.

“She’s a fucking beauty, Simon.” Johnny places one hand over his heart. “You’ve honored me.”

“Piss off,” mutters Simon as Kyle expertly snatches the magazine from Johnny’s hand. He opens it up, flipping through the pages, side-stepping every attempt by Johnny to seize it back.

“Did we come at a good time?” asks Price as he and Simon watch the two idiots playfully bicker over the magazine.

Simon shrugs. “I have one more customer. Free after that.”

Price nods and grips Simon’s shoulder. “We have lots to talk about.”

There is a slight twitch in Price’s clenched jaw that puts Simon on edge. He isn’t sure if he should press Price and try to wrangle an answer out of him, or let it go and see what happens.

“Shit,” says MacTavish, drawing Price and Simon’s attention to him. “Nearly forgot.” He extends an arm to Kyle, making a “give it to me” gesture with his hand. Kyle, with a sly smirk, unzips the front of his windbreaker. Reaching inside, he presents a manila envelope.

Johnny takes it and then offers it to Simon. “Thought I’d give this to you in person. You know, instead of over the phone. Or email.”

Simon takes it, instantly feeling the heft and thickness to it. Opening the tab, Simon slides his hand inside, removing the thick stack of papers.

“It’s everything I could find on her,” continues Johnny. “Where she went to school. Social medias. Every person she’s possibly dated.”

Tucking the manila envelope under his arm, Simon starts sorting through the information. A copy of your birth certificate, school records from elementary to high school, recent phone records. There is even a list of every restaurant or fast-food place you ordered from over the last five years with a credit card.

Simon flips past another page and freezes. His head snaps up, a growl sitting in the back of his throat. “You included her fucking banking information, Johnny.”

MacTavish shrugs dismissively. “I was thorough.”

“Thorough?” mimics Simon. “Fucking hell.” Simon returns everything to the envelope and places it on his desk next to his laptop.

Simon will have to shred it all after he looks through it. But only after he takes a look. He did ask Johnny to find what out what he could. While it is a major invasion of privacy, a more primal part of Simon reassures him that he’s doing the right thing. He needs to be able to protect you, and these are just tools in his arsenal to maintain your safety.

“She’s pretty, Simon,” says Price.

“You told them?” asks Simon, turning his attention to Johnny.

The Scotsman’s cheeks redden slightly. “He bullied the information out of me.”

Kyle leans in and drapes his arm over Soap’s shoulders. “Price told him he’d put him on inventory for a month if he didn’t spill.”

“Wanted to see this beauty for myself,” grumbles Price, glancing at Simon. “Give you a hard time.” He winks. “She yours yet?”

She yours yet?

There is a double-meaning there. While Simon’s instinct is to say “yes,” he also knows that that isn’t entirely true. The two of you haven’t verbally confirmed what this thing is. Simon has only just now asked you on a proper date.

Can Simon call you his?

The possessive, protective part of him shakes its ownership of you in its fist. But Simon isn’t impulsive, at least not all the time. With you, the need to react is strong, but Simon also understands that Price is asking in a more traditional way.

Licking his lips, Simon forms an answer. “She will be.”

Price nods. “Good man.” He glances briefly at Kyle and Johnny before returning his gaze to Simon. “Mind if we stick around?”

Simon shakes his head.

“We’ll help you clean,” adds Johnny.

“Will we?” asks Kyle slowly, eyebrows rising slightly as he turns on Soap.

Johnny blatantly ignores him and keeps his gaze locked on Simon. “You call the shots. Isn’t that right, Lt?”

That’s when Simon’s final client of the evening finally walks through the door. Simon doesn’t have a chance to answer. The customer is a bit bewildered by the small crowd, but the guys know to make themselves scarce. They head over to the couch, lingering in the waiting area with Bravo, chatting quietly as Simon escorts the newcomer into the tattoo chair.

Bravo moves from Johnny to Kyle to Price to Johnny again, seeking attention as Simon sets to work. The tattoo isn’t complicated, and Simon completes in about forty-five minutes. The guy is in and out in an hour.

When the four of them are standing outside in front of the shop, Simon pushes up his balaclava and lights a cigarette. It’s warm for autumn, the leather jacket he wears already making him run a little hot.

“We’ve got an upcoming mission we want your thoughts on,” says Price. “Need somewhere quiet we can go and talk.”

An upcoming mission? That’s not entirely unusual. Price has reached out to Simon on multiple occasions post-retirement to ask him for advice or to dig around in his head. But never—never—has Price and the rest of the team showed up to talk to him a group or in person.

There’s something else going on.

Clutching the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, Simon opens his mouth, exhaling smoke, intending to suggest a few places.

But before anything comes out of his mouth, Price shots him a look. “Not that fucking pub with the old folks.”

“No one will bother us,” replies Simon dryly. It’s true. It’s why he goes to Dancing Faun every Sunday. And Ben will close up for the public but stay open for just the four them. They won’t be bothered, and they will have as much time as they need.

“You might be an old man at heart, Simon, but I’m not getting harassed by older women whose husbands have been dead for years.”

Kyle bursts out laughing before promptly covering his mouth.

“Don’t like the attention, Captain?” teases Johnny.

Price points at each of them individually. “Fuck off. All of you.”

There are only a few places they could go on a Saturday night where they won’t be disturbed. Sighing, Simon rattles off a couple within walking distance. The four of them debate until Price becomes so annoyed with their continuous back-and-forth that he abruptly selects for all of them.

The walk over is quick, and the four of them enter the dimly lit pub. It’s one of only a handful of places that serves food late. It’s also on a side street away from the main road. Traffic is light, and the interior isn’t crowded. Simon is starving, and he’d appreciate a full belly with a whiskey or two before he starts talking about things he’d rather forget.

Finding a dark corner, they settle in at a four top. Kyle and Simon settle in the booth, facing the pub while Price and Johnny take the seats across from them. Simon settles into the cushioned seat, contentment sliding into his bones. He’s at peace, even if the coming conversation might be messy. He’s with people he cares about, and tomorrow, he’s off.

Tomorrow, he can go see you. Maybe. If you’re not busy. The two of you can talk about that date, maybe go for a walk and then lunch? Simon just wants to spend time with you, and tomorrow is the perfect day to do it.

Simon shifts in his seat, leaning his crossed arms on the edge of the table, glancing out across the pub. His gaze travels over every person, his old habits from the military coming to the surface. Recognizing exits and looking for suspicious behavior is as natural as breathing. But everyone around them is minding their own business. They’re either sitting by themselves or with others, not glancing Simon’s way at all.

He does one finally sweep, and that is when his gaze falls upon two people sitting at a high top together near the very back of the pub. Of the two, Simon notices the man first. He has dark hair, possibly brown but it’s difficult to say with the low light. Slightly older than Simon by a few years, and the bloke is wearing an impeccably made suit. It’s odd for a place like this. It stands out.

Simon doesn’t like the man’s demeanor either. It’s…smarmy. Pretentious. Like he not only believes that he’s better than everyone else in this establishment, but that they should all know it. The way he sits in the high-backed stool is off too. It’s relaxed and yet completely on edge.

Simon frowns, gaze panning to the woman the man is talking to.

Everything suddenly goes cold within him. Arctic. The room has become a meat freezer and Simon is just a piece of dangling meat.

Because that is you, and you’re sitting next to a man Simon doesn’t recognize.

You are here, alone with a man Simon doesn’t know.

A bright, blindingly hot sensation roars to life in Simon’s chest. It wraps around and between his ribs, seizing him in a vice-grip. Against this heat, the iciness melts off of him, dripping to the ground to pool under his boots.

“Simon?” asks Soap, the middle of his brow creasing with concern. “What are you—fuck. Is that her?”

It doesn’t fucking matter who this guy might be or what he might mean to you. Simon is going to crack his fucking skull open.

“That’s her,” murmurs Simon, the low growl previously lodged in his throat coming up suddenly.

Price leans back in his chair, one arm draped over the top, glancing to where everyone else is looking. “Want me to take him out to the alley? Give him some fresh bruises?”

Simon’s hands form into fists. He starts to stand but Kyle and Soap grab onto him, shoving him back down into the booth. “Relax, Lt,” soothes Johnny. “Might be nothing.”

You haven’t noticed Simon yet. You’re too busy looking at this man—this stranger. Turned slightly to the side, your gaze wouldn’t fall across Simon unless you purposefully scanned the room. The worst part is that Simon has no idea if you’re enjoying yourself or not. There is a blankness on your face that Simon loathes.

Do want to be here? Do want to be talking to this man that Simon doesn’t know? And why didn’t you tell him? Why didn’t you say anything? Is there someone else Simon needs to worry about? Does he have competition?

Silently, Simon begs for you to turn in his direction, even if it’s only a bit.

This unknown variable, this stain of a man, reaches out. With red-drenched horror, Simon watches as he places that very hand on the top of your thigh.

All Simon sees is blood.

This bastard is going to lose that fucking hand. And then he’ll lose his goddamn head.

Simon bolts up out of his seat again but Kyle and Johnny are right there, grabbing onto him, wrangling him back down into his seat.

“Let me go,” snarls Simon through clenched teeth.

“You’re gonna cause a fucking scene if we do that,” hisses Kyle, shoving downward on Simon’s shoulders.

Why are you letting him touch you? Why, when just yesterday you were beneath Simon, seeking him with your fingers, begging for him, are you allowing this?

But you’re not allowing it. You didn’t give this man permission.

Within seconds of the man’s hand connecting with your thigh, your gaze turns downward, lips curling back into a disgusted snarl. You twist your body enough for his hand to fall away, and a flare of pride swells in Simon’s chest.

You didn’t want this man’s touch. Which makes Simon momentarily happy before it all comes crashing down. This man touched you. Without your consent. And that makes Simon angrier than if you had wanted it.

Simon craves blood. He needs his knuckles drenched with it. For it to sit between his teeth. To taste it on his tongue.

“Who the fuck is that?” asks Kyle.

“I don’t know,” growls Simon, wanting to take off and punch the guy right out of his fucking chair.

With the removal of his hand, the guy’s smug smile drops. He bares his teeth, starts speaking to you in a way that Simon immediately dislikes. Sure, Simon cannot hear what the man is saying to you, but from the look on his face and body language, it’s nothing nice. He is angry, and you’re clearly upset. Simon wants this to end, to go up to the guy and throttle him, to whisk you off and make you forget all this unpleasantness.

But Kyle and Johnny keep him seated. They won’t let go, which means Simon will have to literally fight them to get to you.

Small pieces of the conversation start to make its way over to the table.

“Archie.”

“Estate.”

Simon frowns, hears something that sounds like “pregnancy” and immediately rethinks everything. Does this have something to do with your friend? The husband is dead, but is this someone the husband knew? Is it a relative?

And does that matter to Simon?

No. He still plans on knocking the man’s teeth out.

Simon only catches a few additional words here and there, but then he hears three that make his blood boil.

“You fucking whore.”

Simon knows that Johnny, Kyle, and Price all hear it too because their gazes move away from Simon and to the man at the table. Soap and Kyle’s hands fall away from Simon’s arms, giving him permission.

Pushing up from his seat, Simon steps around Johnny and strides toward the high-top table. Your back is to Simon from this position, but that doesn’t matter. Simon has his sights set on this wanker who needs to learn some proper fucking manners.

The man notices Simon first, his angered expression turning away from you and switching to Simon. It slips slightly, the faintest bit of fear sliding across the man’s features as he realizes Simon is aiming for him. Simon inhales, falling effortlessly into Ghost, allowing the phantom inside himself to seek out its need for blood.

But with his removed attention comes your own turning. A wanting to know what it is he’s looking at. When your gaze falls upon Simon, Ghost deflates, softens, giving way to confusion. All the emotions passing over your face nearly stop Simon’s forward momentum.

Your own anger gives way to sudden panic, then switches quickly to irritation, further compounded by confusion. It’s likely that you didn’t expect Simon to be at the same place. And while Simon wants to turn to you and give you reassurance, he’s too fucking focused on this asshole you’re sitting with.

Simon decides not to address you. Instead, Simon turns on this thickheaded prat. “What did you fucking call her?”

The man’s lip curls. “Mind your own business.” Immediately, Simon notes the man’s accent. It speaks to social status and aristocracy.

Simon steps closer. “Repeat what you said. Out loud. Want to make sure I heard you right.”

“Simon,” you hiss, desperation leaking into your tone.

Your guest turns on you, anger flaring anew in his gaze. “You know this…man?” He says man like he wants to say animal.

“He’s—” you begin, but Simon interrupts.

“Direct your questions to me,” growls Simon, placing himself between you and this stranger.

“Simon. Please.” You tug on Simon’s leather jacket but he shrugs you off. His attention is completely on this asshole.

“Are you with him?” The man’s gaze flicks from Simon to you.

“Adam—”

“I thought we could have a civil conversation—”

“What’s civil about calling her a whore.” Simon’s voice rises slightly as the raging tide of fury boils within him like a thunderstorm.

Adam’s face grows bright red. He turns on Simon. “Do you know who I am?”

Simon could give a fuck. He could be the fucking King and Simon would still punch the piss out of him for speaking to you that way.

Price shoves himself between Simon and Adam, keeping his back to Simon, creating a barrier. “Let me help you to your car.”

Price isn’t doing this to be nice. He’s doing this so the police aren’t called.

Adam stands but isn’t nearly as tall as Price. “If you put your hands on me—”

“Deal with me or him. Your choice.”

Adam straightens his shoulders and tugs on the front of his suit, smoothing out the wrinkles.

Fucking prick.

He glances over Price’s shoulder at you. “This isn’t over. You’ll hear from the family solicitor.”

“Let’s go,” mutters Soap, caging the guy in, forcing him to move away from Simon. Kyle trails after them.

Price turns around, facing Simon directly. “We’ll stop by another day. You deal with your woman.” He squeezes Simon’s shoulder before following out after them.

Simon watches Price leave, and then he’s seeking you out, expecting you to be thankful.

But you’re not. Your anger is palpable.

Simon needs to fucking fix this. “You’re coming home with me,” is the first thing out of his mouth. It’s a command. Not an ask. And his tone is rough, nearly raspy.

Your eyes widen slightly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you whisper.

Simon draws back, startled. “You okay with him speaking to you like that?”

You huff, and get up from your chair, collecting your coat and purse. “You don’t know anything, Simon. You have no idea who that is and why we were even talking in the first place.” Shoving past him, you start for the door.

“Fuck,” mutters Simon, following after you.

His legs are longer, and he catches up to you easily. Before you make it to the pub’s exit, Simon inserts himself in your path, blocking your attempt to flee.

“Move.”

“No.”

“You’re making a scene, Simon.”

He glances up, notices everyone looking on with varying degrees of interest. Some confused. Others concerned. Sighing, Simon reaches back and pushes open the door, stepping aside for you to exit.

Once the two of you are outside on the street, Simom grabs you by the forearm, pulling you in the opposite direction.

“Let me go,” you snap.

“We’re going to talk.”

“Fuck off, Simon.” You yank your arm out of his grip. Something is forming on the tip of your tongue. Simon sees it in the way your lip quivers. But you don’t. Instead, you sigh heavily and wave him off like you’re tired of it all.

Turning, you try to cross the street, but Simon is already snagging your arm again, yanking you away as a car zooms by.

“Get out of my way.”

“No.”

“Then give me some fucking space.”

“No.”

You release an exasperated breath and try to circumvent him. Again, Simon steps into your path. The two of you keep moving like this down the street. Every attempt you make only puts you closer to him.

Simon is herding you on purpose, pushing you closer and closer to his flat. He wants some goddamn answers, no matter how mad you are with him. And he doesn’t understand why you’re upset in the first place.

When the two of you are outside his shop, Simon indicates the exterior door that leads to his flat.

“Get inside,” he demands.

“Don’t order me around.”

“Inside,” repeats Simon, shoving the key into the lock, opening the door, revealing the hallway that connects the shop to his flat.

You stare between him and the open doorway. Your chest is heaving, and fuck—you look so beautiful right now even though Simon can tell you’d really love to hit him.

The tips of his fingers itch to just push you inside and shut the door, but he doesn’t need to. You make the decision for him, heading inside. Simon follows, and as the door shuts, you’re already moving like a bolt of lightning, walking fast enough to create a significant amount of distance.

No. Fuck that.

With a few massive steps, Simon is on you. He grabs the front of your throat, yanks you back against his chest, pushing your face toward his. The balaclava is already up, already in place, and his lips connect with yours.

At first, Simon can sense the tension but then you melt into him as his other hand slides to your front, pressing low on your belly, pushing your ass into his groin. Your own arm slides up, drapes over his neck in such a loving way that Simon momentarily forgets all his anger.

The two of you hang like this, suspending, but you come back to reality, yanking yourself out of his grip, almost violently.

“You can’t distract me with kisses, Simon.”

“Want to test that?” asks Simon, reflexively reaching for your waist.

You allow him to touch you, to draw you back into him, but your arms are crossed over your chest defensively. “You don’t know,” you murmur. “It’s—it’s too much and you don’t know. You don’t understand, Simon.”

“Then help me understand,” he says softly.

You shake your head and there are real tears there in your eyes. Simon hates it. He wants to take them all away.

“You’re not my husband, Simon. You’re not even my boyfriend. I shouldn’t burden you with any of this.”

You will not push him away. Simon won’t allow it. The two of you are in this together, and he needs to know.

“I care about you.” Now Simon is the one shaking his head. “Don’t tell me what I can’t handle.” His hands draw upward, cradling the sides of your face. “We’re going up to my flat. You’re going to talk. I’m going to listen. Okay?”

One tear rolls off the corner of your eye, trailing downward to kiss his palm.

“Okay?” he repeats.

“Okay,” you reply.

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st4rbe0m · 2 months

Text

PAIRING ▸ Choi Yeonjun x reader

SUMMARY ▸ On a hazy summer evening, where the air hung low above everyone like a buzzing, heated static, you met Choi Yeonjun in a new light. And he met you, not for the first time maybe, but definitely in a more impacting way. A second, first meeting. And with that second, first meeting came the idea to strike a deal - a mutual agreement to help both parties out favorably, till the end of summer. Luckily, or unluckily, it just so happens that the summer doesn't last forever.

GENRE ▸ strangers to lovers, highschool au, fake dating au, suggestive scenes, includes kissing, jock Yeonjun, kinda nerdy (?) reader (they're friends with Soobin and Beomgyu if that helps), fluff with angst, includes underage drinking and swearing.

PLAYLIST ▸ High School in Jakarta by NIKI, I Like Me Better by Lauv, Bubble Gum by NewJeans, Ghosting by TXT, Ditto by NewJeans, small town by Clara Benin.

WC ▸ 12.9K words

A/N ▸ She's finally here 😭🥹 I'm quite proud of this one guys. It's loosely based off my own high school relationship (which unfortunately, didn't end as great as this fic did). It's also my first time writing such a long story, and I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it, and please do let me know how you guys felt about it. Love you!!

PART OF THE ANTHOLOGY SERIES

The world as you know it is ending. There’s meteors and asteroids crashing down, balls of fire and smoke rapidly descending on your world. The world you’d built since middle school.

Not the world as we know it, of course. No, the world with its 8 billion population and sprawling cities and countries wasn’t coming to an end - but it was your world, with its own islands and own niches coming down to debris rapidly.

Your world meant the things you did - it meant how you stayed up all night on school nights to play Minecraft with Soobin and Beomgyu, your two closest friends since childhood. It means the music you listened to. Usually that included whatever preppy tune that used to overtake the charts. The One Direction boys’ perfect harmonies were all the rage of 2014. Justin Bieber had the hearts of young girls by the fist. But that was middle school. That was 2014, which ended a few months ago. 2015 was the incoming year of the new batch of freshmen in their town’s high school. 2015, and there’s new artists and new bands and new games. It’s 2015 and the world you crafted with wide-eyed dreams and glitter pens is over, and the swooping lurch of reality hits you square in the chest just as the summer heat settles over everyone.

The First Summer - summer before freshman year

“Soobin, can you pay attention maybe? Fucking hell.” Beomgyu’s loud usually. Beomgyu’s louder when irritated however. And today he decided to be loud, irritated and angry, and the unnecessary screaming match between Soobin and Beomgyu was just the strike of the match of patience you had needed. “Enough!” Seriously, if you’re gonna fight this much, just beat each other up! I’d rather have you both in battle than this silly screaming match.” Your voice is shrill and the annoyance is heavy. Yet, it does nothing to affect the pair. Instead, all they did was give short laughs. “You can’t shout at us like that you '', the pouty eyes and whining tone of Beomgyu softened you up immediately, and you grinned back with a retaliation ready. “Beomgyu, let Soobin text his sweetheart next door, or else he’ll wilt like a plant deprived of sunlight.” The statement leaves the both of you in a fit of giggles the moment the entire sentence left your lips, and left Soobin to be the pouting one this time. “What do you both even know? To be in love with someone?”, the dramatics were oozing off Soobin, the sore subject of his very strong feeling for his next door neighbor making him more susceptible to teasing from you and Beomgyu. “And what do you know? You haven’t confessed either!”, accusatory, as you told him. It would be wonderful, absolutely delightful for Soobin to pull up his big boy pants and finally ask the other girl out. Not only because they’d make a delightful couple, but also because maybe he’d shut up about the qualms of unrequited (which honestly was quite requited if he just stopped being so blind) love.

“How’s the existential crisis popping along, you? Are we still the lamest duo you could hang out with that will kill your nonexistent street cred?”. Chucking a throw pillow at the boy, you sighed, the dramatics being your concern now. “You guys don’t get it, do you? This is highschool. The real deal. The next four years of people’s cherished memories.” “You want to peak in highschool badly, don’t you?” “Shut up Soobin!”

They wouldn’t get it. They wouldn’t get how highschool mattered to you. How being 15, then 17, then 18 happens only once in life. You’re young in love as a teenager once, and you’re living life on the cusp only one. Romanticizing highschool was a silly cliche, and you were by no means a daydreaming romantic (Eh, maybe sometimes). But living, to experience, to feel, to love, meant something to you. It meant something to the little girl who watched those romcoms in the darkness of her room on a blue light screen. Watching how wonderful guys fell in love with wonderful girls. Watching how the boy loved the girl regardless of status quo. High School was a lake and you were a small pebble ready to skim its surface with accuracy and precision.

“Are you Machiavelli or something? Stop making that scheming face, seriously. It’s giving me the creeps I’ll be honest. This just resulted in another pillow to the face.

The summer heat, a slow wave of buzzing energy that rolled over the entire town, made most of its residents lethargic. But lethargy wasn’t an option for 15 year olds, especially 15 year olds in the Y/L/N household. Several nags and a good scolding from your mother had you working at the convenience store two blocks down. A job that you were certain of, might just be the first of its kind in the way it could kill the employee of boredom. “At least you get the AC. And us!”. Huening Kai was an absolutely wonderful person. Honestly, there was no way to say anything negative according to you, which made Taehyun roll his eyes often. The two boys would frequent the store often. The first day because Kai was craving an ice pop to battle the heat. But once the pair had seen you prettily working the register all by your lonesome, and the boys not having anything interesting to while away their time with, began to visit you on your shifts, eating the almost expired stock and chitchatting.

Even from the corny sentence Kai had just said, you could only bring herself to frown, but not get annoyed at the sunshine boy. The summer reinvention was in full swing. Calling it a reinvention made you uncomfortable sometimes. It was just a few tweaks right? It’s not like you were going to lose yourself completely. A harmless fine-tuning of the machinery, shinier gears and fancier covering.

Convenient store afternoons were idyll - no customers, and usually no Kai and Taehyun, who’d take the most deep afternoon naps they could take. Today, however, they’d decided to forego the naps, and they hung around the back, to analyze which candy was the best for the summer.

You're sitting at the till, bright light shining right through the spotless plexiglass, hair gently swooping over your face, illuminating the strands. There’s a slight breeze from the droning AC that cools whatever sweat was beading your forehead. A lazy afternoon, light and airy, with the low hanging summer making the world around simmer like a boiling pot. It was this afternoon, that the bell tinkled as the convenience store’s door opened, the sound jingling faintly over the sound of buzzing cicadas and grasshoppers. It was this afternoon, uneventful like the rest, until it wasn’t - that you looked up to meet the eyes of Choi Yeonjun.

“Any ice cream?”, the older boy asked, eyes shining like two pebbles under a clear lake on a summer’s day. Breaking out of your stupor, you just nodded, a bit frantic considering how you were caught in such an awkward way. Brushing whatever hair that had surrounded your face, you got up with a slight metallic screech of the chair you sat at, stumbling to where the freezer was. Opening up the box, you gestured to an assortment of cold treats that were laid out for the customers. Humming to himself, Yeonjun just scanned the ice creams, then shifted his eyes to you. You, who was already staring at his sharp side profile, the way the sunlight seemed to poke out from the sharp bridge of his nose to the way his lips seemed more plump than they were with the way he was chewing at them. Making eye contact with him, he simply asked with a slight smirk, “What do you suggest?”. “Huh?”, you asked dumbly, not catching his question with the way you were busy ogling the older boy. “Which flavor do you like?”, “Oh! Personally, I’d say you can never go wrong with chocolate. The chocolate chip choco cones are wonderful for this season. But if you need something to beat the heat, a lime popsicle would be the best.” “You seem to have a PhD in ice cream.”, the boy teased, as he eyed the way your cheeks grew warmer and your pupils widening slightly at his jest. “Oh sorry if that was too much! Um yeah, I guess th-that’s my suggestion.”, hurriedly avoiding his eyes and going back to gesturing at ice creams. A pale veiny hand reached into the ice box to pick out two ice creams - a choco chip cone and a lime-berry popsicle. Slightly waving the two at you with a smile, he proceeded to strut up to the counter, head turned back at you as he said with a voice that made your heart constrict and release butterflies, “ Why not both then? Can’t go wrong with recommendations from the master, can I?”. If it wasn’t obvious before, it was quite obvious now. You were absolutely enamored by Choi Yeonjun. Hurrying up to the counter and reciting his bill, he paid the money and a bit extra with a wink, for the “pretty cashier at the register who has a thesis on sweet treats.”. And just as easily he’d appeared, with a flirtatious smile and charm to knock any girl off her feet, Yeonjun was gone from the store, with ice cream and quite possibly your senses and bearings. “TweedleDee and TweedleDum, you can come out now. I can see the tops of your head. I can also feel your annoying presence”, you groaned as a sheepish Hueningkai and Taehyun appeared, both clamoring about how they didn't “mean to eavesdrop” and how “they were leaving the back store room when they say the interaction between you and Yeonjun take place.” But honestly, that wasn’t your biggest concern right now. The two kids were harmless, anyways. What concerned you was how the image of those dazzling eyes wouldn’t leave your head. How smooth his voice was when he spoke to you. For someone ready to break out of the daydream land you found yourself in, Choi Yeonjun was insistent to keep you under. And for him, maybe going breathless was worth it.

The Second Summer - summer before junior year

It’s 2018 and it’s the end of your life. Well, to be fair, your life has been “ending” since freshman year, and your two friends have been watching you become the one who cried wolf every single time. “You don’t get it Soob,” with the cellphone perched on your shoulder, “I don’t know how you and Beomgyu aren’t freaking the hell out right now.” Soobin lets out a disinterested hum, deciding to conference Beomgyu in, because why would he be the sole victim to this torture? Sitting down on the bed with a force and a breath of indignation leaving your lips, you just continue your rant. “Soobin and Beomgyu. This is the year it gets real. College prep. Entrance exams. Volunteering and extracurriculars. Don’t you get it? At least Rin gets it. Rin’s with me-” “And that must suck for you, Soobin” a teasing Beomgyu interrupted, while Soobin stayed wordless, probably sulking behind the phone, too pouty to retaliate. This sudden remembrance made you laugh, and joining in on the fun, you said, “Yeah Soobs, how have you still not gotten the balls to ask her out?”, but you regretted the words that came out of your mouth, immediately anticipating what was coming and what's next. And just as you predicted, Soobin launched off on his monologue, “Crushing on Yeonjun isn’t a problem then huh? What about that? You’ve spent a year and half pining for the most wanted guy in the school, Y/N? Isn’t that funny?”, all the words spilling out in a single breath of a sentence. “Alright Soobin, I’ll lay off your case if you lay off mine. Besides, it’s easier to target Beomgyu, no?”. And with that the bickering went off again, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

A lot has changed since that summer in freshman year, with the chance encounter with Yeonjun. For one, you stopped working there the moment summer ended, which disheartened you slightly considering you would see less of Huening Kai and Kang Taehyun, the two boys you’d grown quite fond of in this short span of time. But the missing soon expired the moment the duo entered highschool themselves in your sophomore year, growing slightly closer to your friend group despite the year’s gap in age. They were the new addition along with Rin, Soobin’s neighbor and longtime crush, to your lunch table. A moment in time where SAT scores and classes, crushes and heartbreaks ceased to exist, and it was just your friends and you, suspended in an emulsion of feelings of friendship, and youth.

Another thing that had changed since that summer was you yourself. Though your reinvention didn’t go the way you had planned - you still had matured. The crybaby 14 year old had grown into someone who knew how to stand up for themselves. The same person who’d spend nights crying because of mismatched schedules was moving up the academic ladder.

And reappearing on that same lunch table on the first day of sophomore year, and then sticking it out till the end of the academic swing, with a whole new set of expectations crammed into binders and assignments, and the promise of new memories to make, was your friend group and you - a couple of kids ready to take on the world. Hand in hand, laughter shared and fondness obvious, it was going to be a good summer. You could feel it, in the jokes Beomgyu shared and the shrieking laugh Kai let out without fail. Grinning along to their antics, your eyes scanned the lunchroom.

One thing hadn’t changed with the seasons, and that was your fascination with the school’s IT boy, Choi Yeonjun. A wonderful enigma - athletic, kind and good looks all combining to create the most perfect gentleman you in your years of living had had the chance of meeting. He sat at the table diagonal to yours, and with a piercing heart did you remember that with all the changes, Yeonjun changed too - in the sense that he’d gotten a girlfriend. A girlfriend whom he adored, which was obvious to anyone with two eyes. 16 nearing 17years old and a heartthrob with a heart of gold himself, it was written clear as day in the leaflets of destiny, that Choi Yeonjun would be someone who would make a mile-wide crater of an impact on people’s lives. And as your eyes moved away from where Yeonjun sat with an arm slung around his girlfriend, the disappointment was quite evident in them, that you found yourself locking eyes with Rin, who held a look of pity. Shaking your head and offering a smile that said, “No worries”, you shifted your attention back to your friends.

Choi Yeonjun may be at a school lunch table less than a foot away from you. But anyone who had lived through the apocalyptic land of highschool could tell that in reality, he was miles away.

And this summer, he would be light years away - no longer a friendly customer at a convenience store where you no longer worked, but rather a fading memory of a golden summer’s afternoon, where you could for the first time, feel sparks lighting up inside your eyeballs when they looked into his. The first time your heart would do somersaults to be in his presence. The first crush. Your first crush, the golden boy.

Being in the middle of the food chain of status quo meant having its own advantages and disadvantages. And a certain disadvantage was that sure, you were moderately more liked then the people above you, and you weren’t picked on nor where you shunned into isolation. But it meant that a very mediocre position came with a mediocre life. Your friend group wasn’t the type to be firstly favored to be invited to parties and blowouts with the older kids like some of your peers were. And frankly, your friends weren’t the type to be dying for those coveted invitations either. They were the ones who’d rather watch the Scream movies in order despite the fact that the entire group, minus Taehyun, were deathly afraid of horror movies. And honestly, you were all content with that - to make bad predictions to the endings and have Taehyun poke fun at the way you all fell for the jumpscares every single time.

But to reach to maybe even the periphery of Yeonjun’s area meant having to put yourself out there, just a little bit. And the time was no better than now, when Miyawaki Sakura, the foreign exchange junior you had the opportunity to help out when she first arrived in the beginning of the year, invited you to a blowout on the last day of the school party being held at her place. The lovely Japanese girl, who’d been meek and as quiet as a mouse had blossomed just like the flower her name signified, and grown out of her shell to be one of the rather popular girls in not only her year, but the entire school. Not only was she drop dead gorgeous, but also possessed the kindest of hearts - evident in the way that even after her rise to popularity, she hadn't forgotten the helpful sophomore who had shown her the ropes around school.

Scoring the invite wasn’t an issue but rather convincing your homebody, introverted friends to tag along was - Taeyhyun and Kai were already on their ways to their respective family homes, so it was between Rin, Soobin and Beomgyu and if luck would have it, all three.

“Guys please. We always have some other time to do these things - Rin I promise you, I’ll sit and finish the lego set with you myself. Soobin, Gyu - be so serious right now. You’re missing the hottest party of the year to watch freaking anime? Guys please!”. The whining and pleading and pouting along with shining up big puppy-dog eyes at all of them was all you had in your arsenal. “Y/N.” A single, serious utter of your name has you shooting another helpless look Soobin, putting quite possibly all your charm into this one. “We’ll go. Shut the hell up now.”

Jumping up from where you were sat on the floor of his bedroom, you shot off to where he and Beomgyu were on the couch, browsing through streaming services for new animes, to engulf him a bone-crushing hug that had him releasing his own expletives and swears, begging to be released, but chuckling along, nonetheless. Pulling Rin along with you, with a complaint from Soobin and Beomgyu about where the two of you were going off without them, giving a loud laugh, you just called out - “It’s a party, we have to dress up!”

Rin was humming along to whatever pop music had begun auto-playing as the playlist you both had put together for the process had exhausted itself, and it was something neither of you paid mind to, too busy concentrating on fixing eyeliner wings and choosing the right accessories to match your outfits. It wasn’t that you and Rin weren’t friends - no it was great having a girl in the group to help you handle Beomgyu and Soobin’s antics. But it was rather that Rin was the closest to Soobin, which had made conversation stall a bit. Yet the silence was friendly and not awkward at all. A few more beats and a song later, Rin off-handedly mentioned something that had you freezing in your spot. “Now that Yeonjun’s single, it won’t hurt to make your move Y/N.” “Yeonjun single, since when?” you asked perplexed. “But they were sitting together at that table just last week?”. “That’s the thing, Y/N. Right on that very day, Yunha and Yeonjun unexpectedly broke up. There’s no news on why, or how. But many speculate from what they saw that Yeonjun was the one who cut it right off, the one who initiated it.”

Your mind was spinning. A perfect guy and a not-so-perfect girl. What could’ve gone wrong with them? What made them fall apart like that? And so much so - it wasn’t that you were one of those people who would see him as an object on the market again. No, he was fresh off a relationship he recently broke off - and it surely would leave a stain on any person’s life. So many questions and so many feelings, and the nagging reminder of your own crush on Yeonjun felt like an anchor inside you, pulling at your heartstrings in a way that made them creak the most bittersweet tune. A boy you’d loved from afar, was now slightly closer in the binoculars you viewed him with. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t still distances away.

“I don’t think so Rin”, came your thought-out reply. “Freshly broken up with? I don’t stand a chance. Not to mention that it’s not only me, but half the school that likes him”. Looking up to where Rin sat snickering, you pointedly asked her, “What?”. Halting her laughter, she just said with a warm twinkle in her eye, half turned towards you, pulling a hair brush through her locks. “The school may have a crush on Yeonjun, but you, Y/N, are head over heels.”

And this was something that weighed heavily on your mind all the way to the party, crammed in Soobin’s mini SUV which he borrowed from his parents for the night after incessant begging and pleading. Rin had a point, you thought, when you glanced at her from where she sat up front next to Soobin, the two lost in their own lovesick bubble. You really were head over heels of Yeonjun, and it had you tripping on your feet and falling more often than not. Pulling up the street crammed with several other cars, the bass reverberating through a specific house on the cul-de-sac lined curb made it obvious what the destination was. Finally managing to tightly squeeze the car into a spot far down, the four of you made your way down to the house, now emitting different sorts of LED lights and boosting party hits, with a hand wrapped around Beomgyu’s, both of you stuck in your own conversation that was continuing from the car.

Standing at the door were two heavy-set boys, part of the school football team - Seo Changbin and Lee Chan, both coincidentally being Yeonjun’s closest friends. The fourth of their little musketeer squad was Jung Wooyoung, the wild spirit of a boy, filled with spunk and charisma, was probably inside the house, tearing up whatever makeshift dance floor the party provided. Nodding slightly in recognition at you, no doubt already informed about your invite by Sakura, Changbin just shot you a charming grin, accented with the obvious amounts of copious liquor he’d already downed before your arrival, and said, “You know Y/N, I’m not going to lie, I always thought you were too pipsqueak to come to one of these”. He’d given a look to Chan to man the doors himself for a while, and an unspoken second agreement between the both you couldn’t quite decipher. “Well, I couldn’t turn down Sakura at all”, you laughed sheepishly, flanked by Soobin’s lanky frame who was clutching on to Rin, and Beomgyu next to Changbin, all of you crossing the threshold to the zone of booze, loud music and people ready to share some skin. Changbin seemed insistent to talk to you, for some reason, as he continued, “Whatever magic Kkura played on you, I’m glad it worked, because you’re here.”, he beamed with a confident sort of happiness. “O-oh, me too.”, blinking at the sudden confession. “I’m glad I’m here too. This is Yeonjun’s house, is it?”, you cringed slightly at yourself. Of course it was, everyone knew this was his party. Barking a short laugh, he said, “Yeah, of course. Resident party boy couldn’t help himself on the first day of summer.” You had no idea where Changbin was leading you to, but judging from the way you guys were walking towards an ajar patio door, you figured he wanted you in the backyard to hear you better over the music, where the number of partygoers were much less. Why he wanted to hear you at all, was still a mystery.

With all the questions and slightly flirty lines being thrown at you from Changbin, you’d managed to completely ignore how you’d lost your friends in the crowd, how Soobin’s comforting presence was not near you, or how you couldn’t hear Beomgyu’s raucous laughter anymore. Finally breathing in the fresh gale of air as you guys stepped on to the wooden flooring of his back porch, it seemed Changbin’s agenda was made clearer - the way he cupped the curve of your cheek, staring deeply into your eyes. And it made you brake in your steps, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. “Y/N. You’re cute. I’m cute. Cuter, maybe”, he giggled with a wink, as the thought that he might be quite tipsy had already washed over you. “Let’s get out of here?”, he said, beckoning towards the back gate of the house. And you, were absolutely fucking frozen. Here was an attractive boy asking you out, and all your stupid mind could think of was how badly you wished this was Yeonjun, and not his friend. And maybe you wished too hard, because from right behind the waiting figure of Changbin seemed to materialize Choi Yeonjun, black hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, smiling lightly as he met your eyes. The sharpness of his nose and the way his eyes seemed to crinkle around its corners. God damnit. Even in the worst of your moments, you seemed to be absolutely haunted by this six feet tall soccer player.

“Hey, convenience store. Is this guy bothering you?”. Your mouth was open, but it seemed that no words would be coming out anytime soon. Glaring at his friend for icing his game, which just hardened when Yeonjun put an arm around his friend’s plentiful bicep, he just ushered Changbin away from you, still smiling at you as he explained, “He’s quite drunk right now. I’m glad you didn’t answer him anything, I’m surprised this dumbass can even stand on his own two feet, with the way he was pre-gaming before. Again, my bad, uh- what’s your name again? Can’t keep calling you convenience store now, can I?”

Here was Choi Yeonjun, talking to you about more than just ice cream flavors and homework. Here was Choi Yeonjun, helping you from making a dumb move with a drunk guy. Here was Choi Yeonjun, awaiting your response while you continued standing there mum.

“U-uh yeah! It’s Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N. I worked at the convenience store, yes. But I stopped working there now!”

There was some odd spirit cursing you, for sure. If there was a god of embarrassment, he seemed to have taken a liking to you.

It seemed that Changbin, who was now reeling from the alcohol in his system, hunched over, ready to hurl, which seemed to distract Yeonjun from your nervous rambling. Hauling his friend over to the side of the patio, he entered with a Changbin hanging limply on his side. Looking back to where you still stood, he just smiled and asked, “You planning to help me out here?”

The floor of the bathroom where Changbin was sitting, curved into the toilet bowl, spilling his guts out was cold. Cold enough to make you and Yeonjun move to the baby blue ceramic tile bathtub, knees pulled into your chest while Yeonjun’s long ones were draped over the rim of the tub. Honestly, your jitters are much less now. The nerves had already made you almost forget what a disaster the first meeting with Yeonjun was, and it seemed he paid no mind to it either. “So Y/N, how do you know Kkura?”. And thus began a short and simple conversation with Choi Yeonjun in a baby blue bathtub, while his friend hurled in the toilet next to you both.

“I don’t know how to do it.” The conversation was streaming steadily like a river, and the topic started digging deeper. Yeonjun asked about highschool, and how it was going for you - your plans for the summer and then junior year, the same way you asked him and how he felt about his last year in school. “What do you mean?”. “I wish I had a guidebook, you know? To tell me what sorts of things I should do, how to be someone in highschool who makes memories. Who lives. I’ve been trying ever since that last summer of middle school, and I’m still coming up short.” This just made Yeonjun let out a few giggles in amusement, which had you snapping your neck, shocked how he found your problems so funny. Shoving him lightly with your shoulder, you laughed too. “It’s not funny! I’m serious. Everyone except me knows what to do!” “Including me?” asked Yeonjun, head tilted towards you slightly in curiosity now. “Well..” and the look he gave you spurred you on. “You’re the Choi Yeonjun. You’re popular, smart, funny and talented.” “I know”, a lazy grin that had you clenching your fist in response to the butterflies. “So you get it right? You know the ropes.” This had Yeonjun’s smile faltering a bit, as his gaze dropped down to the floor. “If I knew Y/N, I’d know why I’m never enough for my girlfriend.” But as sudden as that confession was, he seemed to return to his original state. And you didn’t like that one bit. Sliding up a bit closer to him, you offered a token of friendship. “Wanna tell me about it? Sounds like you need a listener, and that’s something I’m good at.”

“Well, for starters, the rumor going around that I dumped her is false. It was the other way around. I would say it’s not that the relationship was running smoothly, but I guess I was holding on to that bit of whatever we had, floating a piece of driftwood. Splintering me, but I was holding on. She let go, I guess.”

You’re not sure what it is about you that has him baring open his soul so vulnerable only to you, but you’re glad. Because you saw the boy as more than just a shimmering silhouette in the distance now. He was much more up close, and much more beautiful.

On a hazy summer evening, where the air hung low above everyone like a buzzing, heated static, you met Choi Yeonjun in a new light. And he met you, not for the first time maybe, but definitely in a more impacting way. A second, first meeting.

The Second Summer - June

The days after the party at Yeonjun’s - where after you both had let each other read each other’s stories like open books on display, he’d walked you home due to “his extremely generous and chivalrous nature” (his words, not yours.), you’d been caught yourself far too many times revisiting that night in your head, replaying the smiles and the laughs, the banters and the jokes. You had something else too. Something that your friends were unaware of. Sure, you’d told them about your escapade with Yeonjun and why you were so absent at the party, which had led to hours of teasing from both Soobin and Beomgyu, with Soobin, roping Rin on to the antics kept making smooching noises at you, and Beomgyu, in the most Beomgyu-esque fashion ever would loudly and immaturely sing “Y/N and Yeonjun sitting on a tree” on the top of his lungs. But something you had yet to reveal to them, mainly because your patience would give out if you had to hear more taunts from them. But in your phone, locked away in your contacts, Yeonjun’s number.

“Lemme get your number, tubs”, he’d said with cheek as he called you that nickname he’d decided on the spot and a tongue poking out cutely from his lip, as he thrust his phone into your hands, still strolling along with one hand in the pocket of his black baggy jeans and the other brushing your own, sending sparks shooting right down your knuckles. Typing the digits in, he smoothly pulled your own phone out of your purse that he was carrying upon his insistence, and entered his own number, no doubt saving it under some sort of stupid name. “Why am I Tubs?”, you asked curiously. “Because I just had the best conversation of my life in a tub with you, tubs. Can’t let someone like you fade away now, can I?”. The street was lined with harsh white lamps, and little moths fluttering around the buzzing lamp made shadows dance around on the pavement. “So would you actually use a highschool guide if you got one?”, “Yeah, why not? A Popularity 101 or Escape High School for Dummies might be nice.” Humming, he seemed to be contemplating something, that you had to nudge him out of with an inquisitive look. “Nothing, nothing”, he said, shaking his head reassuringly. “Just something I thought of. Something that might help the both of us out.” “What do you mean?”, you asked him. “I’ll tell you about it. I’ll text you.” And just as elusively he’d entered your life, he left you on the front of your doorstep, with a promising smile and an electricity that wouldn’t leave your palms.

The nickname had left a blush warming your cheeks that you hoped he hadn’t noticed. And when his contact lit up your phone screen, it was the same blush making its appearance on your face again.

[Yawnzzn] 11:32 AM: meet me at the convenience store, tubs. kinda wanna talk to you ab smth

While the text’s ominous nature did leave you a bit nervous, the excitement of seeing him again, as a friend, as someone he wanted to hang out with by his own volition, overshadowed it. You knew it had to do something to do with what he’d referenced that fateful night. And skipping down the avenue, past the winding streets of the suburbs lined with trees and their apple green leaves, you made it to the convenience store on the corner, where Yeonjun stood staring into the ground, head bent, wearing a new pair of washed up baggy denims, a white form fitting shirt and a red-and-black cap turned backwards on his shaggy mop of black head, that seemed to highlight the brown undertone in the sun. Spotting your appearance from the sound of footsteps, he smiled and beckoned you into the store where you followed him, settling down on the outdoor seating arrangement shaded by the roof of the store. The sweat was starting to bead on the back of your neck which you tried your best to ignore. Focusing on the boy in front of you, meeting his twinkling gaze just set off an eruption of butterflies in your stomach.

“Alright, before I say what I have to say, promise me you won’t be weirded out, okay? And I swear it only sounds as complicated.” He seemed nervous, and slightly uncomfortable about what exactly he was asking, which just made your fingers twitch slightly in anticipation. Anxiously biting your lip, you just nodded for him to continue, mustering up the best reassuring slight smile you could manage. “What if I taught you how to master highschool? And in return, could you pretend to be my fake girlfriend?”.

You blinked at him once. Then again. Honestly, you were awaiting that burst of ebullient laughter from him, where he’d then say how he was joking. Why would I date you Tubs? I’m not mad, he’d say. But none of that came. Instead there was still a patient Yeonjun eagerly awaiting your response. Sputtering in confusion and disbelief, you just asked him, “What? Why? Why do you need a fake girlfriend? Why do you want me to be the fake girlfriend?”. Giggling at your discombobulated state, he just waved his hand in the air in a gesture to relax. “Look. I’ve thought long and hard about this. You need a High School for Dummies, and I want to, well, show Yunha that I can be the boyfriend she needs me to be, you know? When she sees what a good boyfriend I can be with you, she might want me back!”. His radiant smile of excitement was throwing shadows over the cracks in your heart. Of course, he wanted her. Perfect, wonderful, Yunha. This would be severely, severely bad for your heart.

“I’ll do it.”

Recounting this debacle was shaping up to be exactly the kind of drama you were expecting from Soobin,Beomgyu and Rin. “You’re not serious. She’s not serious guys.” Rin was still in the denial stage of the process your friends were going through - with Soobin on anger and Beomgyu on grief, clutching your plushie on your bed and looking at you with sorrowful eyes as if you’d kidnapped his dog in front of him or something. Soobin’s mouth seemed to fly at miles a minute, berating you for how badly this would obviously end.

“Maybe this will help me, Soobin! To finally get over him! Clearly staying away just made me yearn more.” This just had Soobin turning more red.

The both of you had drawn up unspoken rules about this of course - that the agreement would continue until the goal was met. Hopefully, it will happen by the end of this summer itself, Yeonjun had added. There was, of course, an agreement of mutual platonic feelings from both parties. Strike one in the deal.

You didn’t like doing things that your friends disapproved of, who despite their silliness and playfulness, were still your best friends. But God, did holding hands with Yeonjun as he led you through the colorful lights, bustling stalls and zooming rides of the carnival feel good. His hand was encasing yours and tugging your fingers, which had your own heartstrings cinching with each pulling movement. There was a wide smile on your face as he sped towards the stall selling animal headbands, insisting that you both needed matching ones.

“You know, Yeonjun. If you’re secretly a furry or something, you can tell me. It’s okay, I won’t judge. I mean I will, but you know”, you said in faux sympathy while patting his shoulder jokingly, which had him adorably pouting at you. “Shut up, don’t you want to know what makes me so cool? These headbands do. Chicks and dudes alike dig my childlike whimsy.” He said proudly, which just had you raising an eyebrow at you. Stubbornly placing the matching fox ears on you, he pulled his cellphone out while explaining - “Okay, so step one. Kiss my cheek in this photo so that I can upload it to my story.” Kissing Yeonjun (albeit on the cheek) was like tasting heaven to you. Surely your heart would give out, if you even got closer to him. Kiss on the cheek?

“Come on, quickly! I wanna get a corndog after this”, he said signaling at the dimple on his cheek. Breaking out of your stupor, you hesitantly pushed your lips on to the soft flesh of his cheek, as he titled his more towards you, making your lips plant firmly against his dimple. Your mind was raging as the brightness around you, and his body warmth made your head spin. The sound of the shutter of a camera from his phone seemed to push you off your rollercoaster thoughts,moving quickly away. “Nicely done, Tubs.” he praised, examining the picture and wasting no time to post it. The sudden ding on your phone made you check the device, seeing the same picture being sent to you. “Set it as your wallpaper. Gotta make the gimmick more believable.”, he added nonchalantly. Nodding, you did as he told, until he said in an afterthought, “Plus, I look sexy as hell in that picture.” Scoffing at his confidence, you jokingly said, “And what makes you think I wanna stare at your face every time I open my phone?” “No rebuttals on the sexy part I see”, he winked at you.

If your chances at surviving this date with an intact heart weren’t already horribly low, Choi Yeonjun was hell-bent on leaving you an absolute goner by the end of the date.

The second date commenced equally as smoothly, with you taking the initiative this time by taking him to a pottery studio which doubled as a cafe - painting each other small trinkets to keep to remember the good friendship you were both fostering. And as you both opened up more to each other, you found yourself regretting what you’d said to Soobin. Because if anything, being close to Yeonjun just had you spiraling more into this lovestruck rabbit-hole. And you had to dig yourself out, fast.

One of those moments where clarity hit you about digging out, you’d decided to meet up with a fellow classmate of yours - Hwang Hyunjin. Hyunjin was a family friend of yours and you both had been quite close in your childhood years. Your mothers were best friends, who honestly wanted their kids to end up together. But they also didn’t want to force any unwanted romance on you both as children, which is why they’d left the matter alone all together. If it happened, it happened. If it didn’t, it didn’t.

Your mothers shared such a deep friendship that they even had their own anniversary - the day they first became friends. And along the years, it turned into quite a wholesome celebration for them, celebrating their friendship together. And this anniversary was coming up soon, which is why when Hyunjin had texted you, asking if you wanted to help in throwing a little surprise party for the both of them, you’d eagerly jumped at the opportunity, ready to do anything to distract you from the boy you were so hopeless for.

Pushing the grocery cart around as Hyunjin mindlessly added to things that might be required for the party, you both idly chatted, catching up with each other’s lives. Hyunjin was a quite good looking guy, and had all the girls in your class breaking their necks to get a good look at his prince-like beauty. Maybe you would’ve been one of those girls currently, if a different guy didn’t have your head up in the clouds.

“And what’s up with you and Yeonjun? Don’t play with me and tell me, ‘cuz I saw that story of his? Does the shy Y/L/N finally have a man? The most fine, coveted man in school, even?”, he said, his cute dumpling smile and nudging making you blush slightly. “Well, we’ve been hanging out and stuff, I guess? He’s a good guy.”, you said bashfully. Hyunjin opened his mouth to say something but froze midair. Looking forward to seeing what had halted Hyunjin, you made eye contact with Yeonjun’s warm caramel brown ones.

“Hi Y/N”, he said with a slight edge to his voice, eyeing you and Hyunjin suspiciously as he did. With a clipped voice, he also threw in a “Hey Hwang”, out of whatever courtesy he could find within the unexplainable pit in his stomach and the slight anger clouding his vision as he kept staring at how Hyunjin had an arm loosely wrapped around your shoulder while he was teasing you. He didn’t like that hand. At all. And he needed it off of you, immediately.

“Hyune, take the items up to the cashier, please? I’ll be with you in a moment”, you requested, gulping as he left your side understandingly, leaving only you and Yeonjun standing in the fresh produce aisle. “Tubs, looks like you don’t need my help getting cool at all, if Hwang is the kind of guy you hang out with.”, he said light-heartedly, even though he felt nothing of the sort currently. Seeing you with another guy had put him off so much, so suddenly that it had him reeling. But, of course anyone wouldn’t be mad if their fake girlfriend was with someone else, right? Even if the word ‘fake’ gave him a bitter taste in his throat?

“Hyunjin is my family friend! His mom and my mom are best friends, you see. And we’re throwing them a little party, you see.”, you explained, suddenly feeling shy in his gaze, intense and burning right into you. His eyes seemed to soften at this, and he nodded. Feeling this odd urge to add more, you hastily spit out, “Do you want to come?”. The invitation was out of the blue and frankly had you feeling stupid. Who the hell would want to come to this? “You bet. I’ll be there in my finest suit and everything”, he added jokingly. “What time?” “Huh?” “What time is it starting?” “You actually want to come?”. “‘Course I do. Gotta impress my in-laws, right?”, he said cheekily.

“You’re burning up, Y/N-ie!” Hyunjin later said, as he felt your skin as he had gone to poke your cheek. “Was it something in the store?”. Seeing how frozen you were, he slyly put two and two together and asked, “Or was it someone?”

There were some streamers put up in the living room, and some balloons blown up by both your dads, who’d also become great pals because of their wives. You and Hyunjin were setting up the table, when the doorbell rang. “That can’t be them already?” you asked perplexed. “No, their spa appointment only ends at 6PM, I checked thoroughly”, said Hyunjin’s dad. Moving towards the door, confused about who it could be, you opened the door to find Yeonjun, casually dressed and clutching two small bouquets. “I’m not early, am I?”

When your moms arrived, your mother was pleasantly surprised to find you chatting happily with a boy who was not Hyunjin or any of your friends. Noticing the knowing twinkle in her eyes as you introduced her to Yeonjun, you silently promised her an explanation as you both moved around the room to where Hyunjin was, as your dad beckoned the parents over to the living room while letting the youngsters socialize on their own. With the three of you moving towards the backyard while cracking jokes, you could feel the one-sided tension between the both melting away, which made you glad. Settling down on the lawn chairs on the yard, the three of you streamed through various topics to talk about, with Yeonjun and Hyunjin bonding over their mutual interest in dancing. “I didn’t know you danced.” you’d voiced a bit quietly to him as Hyunjin went to his house just next door to get some beers for the three of you. You hadn’t drank before, so you were planning to sit this one out and let Yeonjun and Hyunjin get tipsy. “Yeah, it’s just been something I’ve always wanted to do. And my teacher before sophomore year reckoned I’d be good too.” “Why’d you stop?”, you asked him. “It was interfering with soccer practice. And soccer gets me into college - dance doesn’t.”. He seemed a bit shut off about the topic, and sensing how this was a sore spot for him, you didn’t press for much. “Well, there’s a life outside college. A life where you could do both - and maybe more dancing like you want.” you offered him in reassurance, which seemed to spark an interest in his eyes. Looking gratefully at you, this look on his face seemed different this time, like there was something deeper simmering beneath the cool guy smack he’d always give you. Your hand which was quite close to his own, hanging limply across the handles of the chair, suddenly was encased in warmth, with his own palm giving yours a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, Y/N. I’d like to show you one day, perhaps.”

And indeed, there was something cooking underneath that aloofness of his, because for the first time, he wished that he could show you his dance skills as his girlfriend, and not just a platonic agreement of the season.

“Beer wench has arrived!” exclaimed Hyunjin, as he set down three bottles of Beer Lite on the wooden table in front of you. “Sorry to interrupt, lovebirds, but I’m ready to get cracking. Now Yeonjunnie, did you know that when Y/N was 11 she-""Shut up Hyunjin! You swore you wouldn’t talk about that!”.

Hyunjin and his parents had departed as the evening neared its close, and the sky was black with dark maroon clouds spread out shielding the glimmering stars. Yeonjun had insisted on helping clean up for the party, claiming it was the least he could do as a guest. He was helping your dad clean up stray paper plates and napkins, until you showed him the way up to your room to get a garbage bag to dispose of the waste. His lanky body was right before you as you both bounded up the stairs, and opening up the door, a sudden realization hit you - Yeonjun was going to see your room. Your kind of messy, lame, postered up room. He was already two strides in when you were frozen up, terrified for the teasing onslaught that was bound to begin anytime soon. “No way, you listen to HONEY too? I freaking love that band.”

This was odd. No teasing. No making fun of your weird posters or your figurines and stuffed toys. Only a very heavy compliment on your music taste. Whistling long as he eyed the rest of your room, he seemed to giggle at the obscene number of plushies on your bed, which you took offense to. “It’s our year of the lord 2018 and you’re gonna make fun of plushies on the bed? Really, Yeonjun?”, you told him off with feigned disappointment as he laughed at this, chuckling while shaking his head. “Not making fun, just admiring.” His speech was only slightly slurred, indicating that he was only barely on the cusp of tipsy and sober. Moving towards your closet to bring out a garbage bag, he ambled up to stand right behind you, his arm resting against the wooden frame of the wardrobe as you ruffled around till you found what you were looking for. “Alright! Let’s go then”, spinning around only to bump your nose slightly against his hard chest. This caught you off guard, breath catching in your throat as you stabilized yourself by lightly holding on to his forearm. “Yeonjun?” you asked unsurely as your eyes hesitantly looked up to his pupils blown wide as he stared at you in an entirely different way. Like you were the only person he wanted to look at for the rest of his life. His lips were tantalizingly plump and pink, like easy to grab, low hanging fruit, the smell of cranberries and beer wafting on to your face gently in the most tempting way possible. Inhaling sharply, you saw how his vision flitted between features of your face, as if he was memorizing every curve, every mole and every lash. Eyes blown wide as saucers, you could only stand in bated breath, expecting nothing and everything at the same time. His lips were scanning your lips, and you swore your legs would give out right then and there, from the way he licked his own lips while eyeing yours.

A call from downstairs seemed to separate you two like similar poles of a magnet, coughing slightly and silently going downstairs, garbage bag in your hand. There was a soft smile on both of your faces as you handed him the bag, going to join your mom in washing the dishes. Your currently flustered state was all the explanation your mom needed about who Yeonjun was to you in your life.

You and Yeonjun ambled by the door just killing time, neither of you wanting to say goodbye. But he knew it was time to go. Standing on your front porch, he offered the last sucker-punch of feelings to your gut as he said, “You know what, Tubs? I still don’t think you need my help. I think you’re the coolest person I know.”

The night when you laid in your bed, an hour after bidding him goodbye, you found yourself staring at the HONEY poster and smiling like a lovesick fool. This summer, you swore, was going to be beautiful.

The Second Summer - July

If you smile at your phone any longer, you’re afraid the shape would be etched on to your face forever, and everyone would know you as the lovestruck idiot who can’t stop smiling. At Least that’s what Soobin says, and obviously he’s never wrong. But even you had to admit, the rate at which you and Yeonjun had spent every waking moment together, including digitally over text messages, was just abysmal. Something seemed to have shifted in him ever since that encounter in your room, and it seemed like he’s exploded with affection. Almost everyone in your school knew that the both of you were in a relationship. A fake one, a snide voice in your head reminded you. That’s what this was for, anyways. A way for him to show Yunha how perfect he was. He wanted to be perfect for Yunha, and you were just practice. But the dark thoughts seemed to evaporate from your mind as another text message from Yeonjun lit up your phone, the wallpaper - the photo of the carnival - just making you more giddy. He’d invited you to your new date/hangout (you weren’t sure which word to settle on during this convoluted situation), a movie night at his place, after you’d relentlessly teased him for not knowing some of the most famous rom-coms. He’d apparently already watched Princess Diaries, which was a shock to you at first, until you found out it was only because his friend Chan had insisted that it was pure cinema, which it was. So tonight, you’d decided to make him watch the second installment of the series, a superior romance with just the right amounts of tension and tropes. He was picking up snacks from the supermarket while he was messaging you, asking you your preferences, the thoughtfulness melting your heart. Your leg was bouncing up and down in excitement as you laid on your bed, ready as ever for the night.

At 7PM sharp, you had made your way to his house, rapping sharply at the door. He’d confirmed previously that the house was going to be empty save for his younger sister, since his parents had already jetted off for an anniversary couples vacation, leaving their two children in charge of the house. Fully expecting Yeonjun to open the door, you were surprised to find a smaller girl standing at the door with unblinking owlish eyes. From the similar fox-like features to the jet black hair, it wasn’t difficult to figure out that this was Yeonjun’s younger sister, Yena. She seemed to smile, metal braces glinting under the yellow porch light as she welcomed you in. His sister, who was due to start freshman year herself this fall in the same school as you both, seemed to spend no time in starting to talk to you, treating you like a friend she’d known for a long time. “You’re her, right?”, she seemed to ask mid-ramble, “You're Y/N. God that idiot can’t ever shut up about you! Of course, I see why considering how gorgeous you are, but please, some of us are sick of hearing about how much you like spending time with her!”, her voice growing louder and angled towards the staircase you both stood at the bottom of, clearly as a dig towards Yeonjun. His loud footsteps ran down the flight of the stairs, hair damp as if he’s just hopped out of the shower and bangs flopping against his forehead, clad in gray sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt. “Yena, don’t you have idols to ogle at on your iPad like a middle schooler?”, he asked with a huff of annoyance towards his sister, who just promptly stuck her tongue out at him, and walked away, not without giving you a teasing wink before she did. Clearly, this targeted teasing seemed to run in the Choi family genes.

“We’ll watch the movie in my room, so that the little parasite doesn’t bother us”, he explained as he grabbed your hand to pull you up, almost like it was natural to him. A faint “I heard that!”from Yena in the living room made you chuckle wholeheartedly, loving their sibling dynamic. The sound of your laugh seemed to liven up Yeonjun even more, who could feel the warmth in your hand in his igniting a spark in his heart. So much for pre-made plans of how things go. It is the first time, he thought to himself, that someone’s made me feel this way. And I like it.

Settling down on his queen sized bed, the navy blue duvet and bed covers complimented with gray pillows surprised you, because to be honest, you were expecting some sort of Pokemon bed covers. Which earned you a frustrated and angry sound from Yeonjun, who in his annoyance often behaved exactly like a toddler. Endearing.

Pressing on the button on the remote, he settled down comfortably right beside you, elbows touching yours as a bowl of popcorn mix was precariously balanced on both of your thighs, his body heat making you feel like a furnace.

It got worse as the movie continued. Every minuscule move he made, every tiny shift or brush of him against you had you writhing in your head, having to restrain yourself from just imagining. Imagining what it would be like if you were both a regular couple having a regular date night, with your head on his chest, just above his beating heart. He would run his fingers through your hair that would probably soothe the next ten years worth of worries in your life. He could cup your chin and just dip down, giving you a taste of what it was like to be kissed by the magnificent boy. But that beating heart you fantasized of listening to, was currently beating for Kim Yunha.

You’d never had your first kiss. You frankly saw no big deal of it, and you didn’t want to share a meaningless kiss with some boy who’s name you’d probably forget in twenty years during those eighth grade spin the bottle games at birthday parties. You didn’t know what your first kiss would feel like. If it would be the sparks and fireworks, the bubbles of champagne kind, or the comfortable one, like the breeze that enters through your window at night. Like home. The kiss you currently craved, you guessed, would taste as sweet as candy.

“Hey, hey she did the foot pop when she kissed him! That’s what she wanted in her first movie right!” Yeonjun exclaimed, deeply interested in the movie while you dealt with the dilemma in your mind. He added on, “Oh man, a foot pop kiss would be fun. Different to the kisses I’ve had. Have you had any of those, Tubs?”. His questions seemed to fly over your head, until he asked again, inquisitive eyes looking at you, the dialogue a dimmed background in how close he was. Gulping, you didn’t really feel shame or embarrassment as you told Yeonjun about your lack of experience (read:none) in that department. It was Yeonjun, of course. You couldn’t find anyone else to admit this kind of information to.

Yeonjun doesn’t know why he’s said it; it flew out of his mouth faster than he could register. But all he did know is that he did want to kiss you. To give you your first kiss. A foot-popping, rom-com, magical kiss. You deserved it. He wanted it.

“Wanna kiss me?”

His voice has a low timbre to it when he asks this.

There’s an ocean ringing in your ears in the midst of your raging emotions - confusion, shock, and above all, glee. To be kissed by Choi Yeonjun, was like plucking a star from the sky and handing it to you.

Your neck moves almost mechanically in a single nod. And then his lips are on yours.

There’s colors yet darkness behind your eyelids that flutter close. Your lips are moving softly and shyly against his, which are gentle yet firm. Like he wants this as bad as you. Like tasting you wasn’t a chore, but a reward.

You think Yeonjun tastes like popcorn and excitement. He thinks you taste exactly like summer.

The Second Summer - August

The windows in the car are slightly fogging up, and beating heat outside isn’t quite helping. The heavy and quick breaths, the faintest moans of pleasure, from the bitten lips to the few scattered hickeys on your neck, as his lips, as unrelenting as ever, kept devouring your mouth would make anyone feel shy enough to look away. His eyes are slightly dimmed and he looks up through his eyelashes at you from where he’s nibbling on your collarbone, which sends a searing flame down your spine and making you whine a sound barely audible to anyone who wasn’t in the kind of proximity to you that Yeonjun was in. The whine just got more loud as you complained when he pulled away from his ministrations as the sound of his phone dinging from messages from the rest of the Three Stooges which was his friend group - all of them asking how long exactly would he take to go on a simple beer run for the party they’re holding tonight at Wooyoung’s place. Shushing your complaints with a sweet peck on your swollen lips, he said, “Sorry Tubs, but these guys won’t leave me alone unless I get their alcohol. ‘Swear they’re like impatient babies about this stuff.” Starting the car as you got out, he held your wrist just as you were about to close the door, tugging as he asked, “I’ll see you at the party, right?”, eyes gleaming with hope. Smiling, you reassured him with a simple yes, and walked over to the short distance to your house, where the rest of your friends had already gathered, waiting in your bedroom. Already bracing yourself, you opened the door to find Beomgyu funnily gasping and shouting about the marks and your messed up hair, with Rin high fiving you and Soobin, while pretending to be a mad dad at you, just hugged you with a smile that had broken through. “You know Y/N-ie, not even Olympic athletes are this dedicated to reaching the goal like you did. I’m proud of you kid.” “What’s up with all this ‘kid’ stuff, old man?” you asked him laughing as you plopped down on the beanbag next to Rin who was sorting through your wardrobe trying to find the perfect outfit for you to wear to the party, which would be your first public, public appearance with Yeonjun.

If you weren’t going to lie, you were quite nervous. Yunha was supposed to be at this party too. And Yeonjun and you hadn’t talked about the ‘deal’ you both had made, the one which would end with him being with Yunha again, at all since that kiss in his room. The rest of the days since then had since been blurred into kiss-filled memories highlighted with more dates and more memories with him. With not a single mention of what happened before, or what would happen later. If this was the only way you could have Yeonjun, in an unspoken way, the self-destructive, addicted part of you was okay with that. But all good things did come to an end. You had spoken to Beomgyu about your predicament, who had been nothing but a patient and attentive listener to you, despite the boy’s regular nature. He offered you some advice - the kind that you knew was so realistic that only Beomgyu could offer it.

“Confront him about it at the party tonight. Perhaps being this publicly out with you might make him remember your contract too. Then you guys could come to a conclusion, hopefully a good one.”

You’re fidgeting with your fingers on the way to the party, non-verbal and staring out the window in Soobin’s car as the three of them sensed you needed your space, left you alone. Tonight was an important night.

Jung Wooyoung’s house was no joke. A sprawling mansion with five private jacuzzis, countless bedrooms and more space than required, the party teeming across the entire property seemed to be in full swing when you all arrived. A text alert on your phone from Yeonjun made you look away from the sheer grandness of the house,

[Yawnzzn] 10:26 PM: come meet me at the jacuzzi marked number 3. it’s the one behind the fountain 🙂

Fountain? Jacuzzi? God, was Wooyoung rich. The number of amenities had your head spinning, and it was almost like deja vu, the way you found yourself separated from your friends again at a party. Fortunately enough, this time you’d told them about the message and about meeting Yeonjun. Beomgyu had given an extra reassuring look when you left, silently cheering you on for what you were planning to do tonight. Pushing past sweaty bodies and handsy couples, drunk teenagers and passed out bodies on the floor, you tried to find your way to the location that Yeonjun had messaged. The enormity of the house didn’t make it easy, and honestly you were getting quite dizzy from all the overstimulation around you. But you had to find him first.

Finally spotting a cluster of palm leaves and an artificial water fountain, made of polished rocks and lighting from below making the water look ethereal, you ambled your way there, pushing past the leaves to get behind the fountain to where Yeonjun said the jacuzzi was. Making it past the rocks, you saw the jacuzzi, where your boy sat with his feet in the glowing blue water, the shadows of the water rippling across his face. There was your beautiful boy, sitting right next to Kim Yunha.

You didn’t know what to say. Or do. He was looking at her the way you swore he looked at you, with all that hope and all that endearment in his face. Then his face fell, with a tinge of visible anger clustering in his furrowed eyebrows, when you heard the words in her voice, “So what, you gonna extend your contract with your pathetic little fake-girl? Or are you just man up and come back to me?” There seemed to be some sort of satisfaction in the smirk Kim Yunha wore, amplifying when she looked right at you, gleaming with some sort of vengeance. As soon as she did, Yeonjun did too, with a look of utter bewilderment and helplessness. Sort of like how you felt.

It was like piercing a knife right through you, hot and searing which led to the same kind of tears running right down your face. The look you wore had something inexplicably sharp poking Yeonjun deeply in the chest. He was trying to get around the wet floor, trying to reach you, screaming something.

But you didn’t hear anything. It was like there was that ocean in your ears again, raging violently this time. Your breath was quickening like falling sand. You didn’t know what to think right now. The summer was supposed to end, and this was the end of your summer, and fuck, he got what he wanted, didn’t he? And left you with nothing. You didn’t know what to do, so you did the only thing you could do, and you ran.

The Second Summer - Yeonjun’s Summer

If you had asked Yeonjun how his summer was going, he would just say one thing. “This summer, I fell in love.”

74 missed calls have accumulated in your phone over the past three days, where you’ve laid just rotting in your bed. Your eyes are probably still puffy from the way that when you think the tears have ended, they begin again. Rin spent the night over the first night, after hearing your broken recount of the events that had happened to the best of your abilities, amongst the gut-wrenching sobs that wouldn’t stop and the horrible ache in your heart that just wouldn’t stop. The second night, it was Beomgyu, accompanied by Taehyun and Kai, who had come back from visiting their family and been filled in by the rest of the gang on the current happenings. Beomgyu seemed quite angry at himself, after all he was the one who had suggested that you seek out Yeonjun at the party. But when you limply just grabbed his hand while tears streamed down your face noiselessly, the three boys just gathered around you in a circle, encasing you and trying their best to shield you from pain; even though the pain was deep inside you, like a hurtful wrench determined to dig right into you.

Soobin was here on the third night, declining all the calls from the boy who broke your heart, who seemed to be relentless in his attempts. He had gotten what he had wanted, didn’t he? He got his precious girlfriend back, and was he stupid enough to expect the both of you would continue to be friends? “I don’t get why he called me there if she was going to be there as well”. Your voice is as frail as a dying leaf in winter, thin like paper and watery that had Soobin himself tearing up for his friend.

You did have quite a lot of unanswered questions that would remain a mystery to you, you guessed. Did everything really mean nothing to you? Was I the only one calling it everything? Do you miss me? I miss you. I miss you a lot even though I shouldn’t. I miss you all the time. I hate you. I miss you.

Another buzzing call on your phone had you break out of your headspace. “Soob”, you began in a watery voice, “I’m gonna go shower. Maybe get rid of this stench and sadness on me. You go home and get some rest, okay?””But-” “Trust me.” He understood that this was something you needed, and giving you one last hug, he walked out, leaving you alone in the room where you first felt Yeonjun.

He’s been driving around aimlessly for the past three days. Ever since that night, he’s been sleeping in his car, which had gathered protests from the rest of his friends. But he couldn’t stomach going into his room, where he’d kissed you for the first time. He was haunted now, by the most beautiful ghost. A ghost whom he’d hurt.

He has been cursing out Kim Yunha in his mind continuously, but not as much as he’d been cursing himself. When she’d overheard the conversation he was having with Changbin, Wooyoung and Chan about how he was ready to cut the contract-deal bullshit between you both, to finally put an end to the Yunha business, and finally ask you to be his as much as he already was yours, he should’ve taken some action. He shouldn’t have fallen for her innocent act, where she pretended to be actually interested in hearing about you. He should’ve cut her off immediately, and then run to you and kissed you long and hard.

But he didn’t. He didn’t and now you were hurt because of him and he couldn’t find you at all. There seemed to be no activity about you. You hadn’t blocked him, but you didn’t pick up his calls. His texts were still going through, but left on delivered. He was lost, and you were the only one who could compass him back to shore.

He doesn’t know when to pin-point to the moment being the moment when he realized that he’d fallen hard and fast for you. Every date with you made him crave your presence more. Funny jokes seem funnier when he hears your laugh. Movies were more entertaining only when you were sitting next to him, pressed up to him so that he could smell your shampoo and hold your hand, the pads of his fingers tracing every crease on your palm. Or maybe it was when you became the first person to take an interest in the real him - the Yeonjun who liked dancing and animal ears and popcorn and ice creams from the convenience store. Maybe he was a goner the moment he sat in that bathtub at the party with you. Losing an anchor like you meant he was back to being adrift at sea.

It’s the 4th day of being on no-contact with Yeonjun. Since that fateful day where your heart had been shattered to pieces. You’re back at the convenience store you’d worked that summer, on some sort of heritage tour of the moments you had before you were crushed. You walked on over to the ice cream box, chuckling sadly when you noticed the exact ice cream you’d recommended him still being there. You weren’t sure how or when you’d stop remembering him in the small things. But in some deep, deep part of you, you wanted to remember him. You wanted to remember how high you felt around him.

“Y/N.”

It's like the temperature in the store drops significantly when he says your name. You’re refusing to turn around, shoulder seized up and taut. He’s here, he’s here, why the fuck is he here?

“Y/N, please.” He doesn’t want to get too close to you just yet. He wants to give you the space you need. But fuck, if he just didn’t feel the largest wave of relief in his chest when he spotted you entering the convenience store.

“Y/N, Tubs. Please. Just hear me out. Please? I promise you it’s not what it looked like.”

He sounds so utterly desperate and broken that it makes your heart ache enough to make you turn around, making you gasp at his disheveled appearance.

There’s dark eye bags under his eyes which have lost any spark they held before. Despite the brightness of the sun outside, he seemed to look almost gray in color. Like life was sucked right out of him. His concerning appearance had you shuffling hesitantly towards him, which he was ever-so welcoming to. Opening his mouth, his voice was hoarse, as began explaining everything.

You’re both seated outside that store again, where that godforsaken deal began. He seems much lighter now, and much better. His hand is inches from yours, and hesitating to close the gap. The moment is so tender, so precious, that even one wrong move has him fearing that you’d leave, and he’d be broken again. “Is the deal over then?”, you ask him, which has his eyes widening. “Fuck the deal, baby. I’m so sorry that it even was a thing. I like you, Y/N Y/L/N. I might even just be in love with you, and I’m mad enough about you to admit it. You’re like breathing to me, Y/N.”

He’s here again, and he’s so, so beautiful again. This time, it’s you closing the gap between your hands, his palm bringing back fond memories to your mind. “Well, Yeonjun, I hope the deal is over. I’d like to declare it over, because I would prefer it a lot more if you became my real boyfriend, instead of my fake one.”

It’s the summer before junior year and you’re only sixteen, but you swear that this is love. You may not know much, but you’re sure. Reaching here might’ve been hell, like fighting modern Sparta. But you wouldn’t have ended it any differently, with you and him and a summer in a convenience store, eating ice pops and sharing frozen kisses.

Bonus: The first fall

You’re standing in front of your locker. The first day of school jitters were significantly lesser compared to your previous years. Picking up the singular post-it that had seemed to have found itself in your locker, you turned it around to find Yeonjun’s scrawling handwriting saying only one thing. I love you. And just as you grinned from the message, the boy in question wrapped his arms around your torso, planting a sweet kiss on the right side of your neck, and then deeply inhaling your scent, which made you laugh happily. “Cool people write post-its by the way. That should also be a tip you should consider for your highschool journey.” “Of course, my cool boyfriend. I’ll definitely keep in mind that post-its are for cool people.” If Yeonjun was a star, you were his star charter. You’d still have to get through the battleground of high school. But doing it with Yeonjun just made the whole journey much sweeter, didn’t it?

“Just for the record, I still don’t like him.” ”Shut up Soobin!”.

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coveholdenmyluv · 1 month

Text

I. Midoriya - New Beginnings

Synopsis. Stained and calloused, the commission has nurtured your palms into silent artillery and trained you to fight the wolves they throw you in with. Not at all accounting for the possibility that you too might learn to bite the hand that feeds you.

- Or alternatively - in which the Hero Commission recruits YOU to go undercover as a student in UA to keep a certain class, who already seems to be a magnet for trouble, in check...

It's safe to say you get a little more than what your briefing covered.

A story of the finding of self love, a family, and a new beginning.

Series masterlist.

Chapter warnings. slight manga spoilers in the beginning portion, though it isn’t obvious and not noticeable if you haven’t actually read the manga. blood. reader is very troubled. fluff. slow chapter.

Chapter synopsis. Have you ever wanted to chill with Keigo Takami and watch the sports festival? Well, here’s that.

Prologue: Beginning of the End. 10.5k words

The smell of copper inhabited your nostrils, along with the stench of sweat and humidity; it was stifling.

Your hair went disheveled and stuck to your dewy forehead whilst you laid upon dirt and what was left of the tattered ground. Your hero suit was torn arbitrarily and your aching limbs thwarted your ability to pursue your current goals of saving Japan, but most importantly, the man beside you. The ring wrapped snuggly around your finger now tore into your skin, and the newly acquired injuries that would surely leave behind their scars on your still young body were spewing out crimson liquid — the same crimson liquid you have gained familiarity with throughout the span of your entire life. Your own body is sizzling to the touch, you swear you're almost steaming, and figures familiar to you were littered across the expanse cage you have enclosed yourselves in, most just barely clinging to a steady breath.

"You were mine since you were young, Y/N. There was no use hiding and rejecting me." The monster with detached golden eyes declared. His hand clutched the thick of your throat, an action that causes your own to instinctively claw at his grip as tears gathered in the corners of your E/C eyes. Your legs, now dangling above the ground, went limp and would serve no more, they were as lifeless as your wilting will to live.

And then, an agonizing wave of invasion swept into the entirety of your body, it seeped and snuck its way into the nooks and crannies. It was as if there was a foreign soma forcing its annexation onto your soul, mind, and spirit. It came with a purpose — there was something it yearned from you, and it would not accept defeat.

And, unfortunately, it was succeeding.

You could physically feel that part of yourself being ripped and pried from the inside out, it was excruciating to your very core. Though, perhaps it wasn't as physical as you had first thought it to be. There was something that made up the entirety of yourself that was being pilfered right from your very hands and there was no struggle to be had.

"I will take what is rightfully mine, something that should have been done years ago." He continued with no quiver present in his voice and no bluff to be detected.

The man beside you must have realized that fact, for he groaned in protest and in a last ditch effort to frustrate the one sided exchange, his curled fist pierced a fine edged carmine sword into the monster's chest. He wouldn't, nor could he, allow even a fragment of the essence that fabricated your being to be pilfered. He couldn't ever bear the will to forgive himself if so.

Newly crafted tears slid down the fat of your cheeks, though their origin did not stem from the pressure being applied to your esophagus. You wanted to cry out and protest, you yearned to do so, but all that escaped your throat were croaks, rasps, and coughs. You had run out of fight and could save no more, for even the salvation of yourself seemed intangible.

"Mine."

You were hopeless.

But then, your name began to ring, your actual name — not that wretched hero alias you had been bestowed when young. Someone was calling out to you, the real you. That small and fragile girl curled into a ball in the warm pits of your own heart for she deserves no less of a home. The minute delicacy you treat with the utmost care because no one else dared to.

No one else, expect for him.

Because he too cradles his own self with the thick skin of his worn hands, for not even his own mother, and much less his father, had ever cared to. He, who you'd hold a million times over if that meant he'd receive the same amount of comfort you have been allowed.

Him and them.

They, who have allowed you into their found family with wide open arms and a spot within. They who saw you, the real you, and despite each finger on both of your hands being stained with the same crimson liquid currently spewing out of your figure, still handled every callous with the utmost care. They held your tainted hands and soul with their own contrasting ones because they love you.

They, both them and him, give you purpose; the will to live.

So when you hear your name being cried, that once small and fragile girl stands towering and impenetrable. An invigorating draft spreads throughout your entire body, one different than the blaze your skin is experiencing. The tepid feeling enveloping you feels right and like a security blanket. It's a sensation that you never want to slip from your grasp, you crave to feel it for the rest of however long your life filled with a never ending fight lasts.

Unfortunately, it is slipping and seeping through the cracks of your fingers and it has yet to seize.

Your name is still being called, you can hear it, only now it's louder and the hot breath can be felt in your ear. The voice is familiar, so near and dear, alike a feather on your cheek dancing across your skin to the soothing tune making its way towards your nose.

Then, you awake.

"Tickle tickle." Came a smooth but masculine voice. "Yo, sleeping beauty! Don't make me get Kitty on your case." You could feel the weight of his body inhabiting the space beside you, as well as the open palm laying atop of your shoulder where his head perches itself on. "Good morning, bed head. Where did you run off to in dream land this time?" He continued.

In a frenzy, your body suddenly shoots upright and your breath goes rapid while your head feels feverish. Your heaving causes your fingers to grip the sheets on either side of your thighs in an attempt to ground yourself whilst your bloodshot eyes look every which way frantically.

"Woah, hey hey, calm down." Said the familiar voice, though not as animated as it previously was, now sounding more intimate in tone. His face appears within your line of sight which causes your heart to begin to steady itself immediately. "You're safe." He whispers.

Keigo.

Shutting your eyes and reaching your fingers across your chest, you clutch your shirt, willing your heart to calm it's hasty thumping. Warm hands plant themselves atop your shaking shoulders, bringing forth comfort to your panic stricken self. After you allow yourself a moment to gather your bearings, your eyes hesitantly peek at your surroundings.

You realize you're in your bedroom with pale violet sheets enveloping your form. Your curtains are drawn, most likely the doing of the young man now trying his best to wiggle himself into your line of sight. That is the moment you truly allow yourself to gaze at him: his scar free skin and unruly dirty blond hair were the first to strike you.

You could have sworn his mane was shorter the last you had seen it.

His golden eyes were the same, though they were missing the clues of stress and sleepless nights. His vibrant red feathered wings were tousled behind his back, always appearing ruffled in the early hours of the day.

Using a palm, you touch your own forehead in an attempt to ease the slight headache currently possessing you. "Was it that dream again?" He speaks softly, both of his brows nearly meeting each other in a worried manner.

You sigh before you answer, "No, this was... different. It wasn't a memory- or at least I don't think so. It seemed too real for that. As if I could feel the pain, mentally and physically, that I was going through." You explain.

He cocked his head in confusion, "Do you wanna talk about it?"

Your puzzled gaze meets his own and you hesitantly reply, "That's the thing... I don't even remember what it was about."

Keigo hums in ponderment while his lips purse, "I see... well, I made coffee downstairs if you want some. Hopefully it'll come back later." He suggests, though you aren't sure if reliving that dream sequence is something you desire. "Don't force yourself, you can always stay and rest if your head hurts too much." He reassures, and you surmised that he must have noticed the discomfort on your face.

Suddenly, sharp claws and soft paws anchored themselves into your thighs, almost branding you as dough in the process. "Ouch." You mutter as you rub at your tired eyes. "Kittyyyy-" You whine next and slip the small fur ball into your arms in an attempt to halt her affectionate assault.

"Told ya." The man at your side teased, "She doesn't want you to miss the introductions." He adds.

"Introductions?"

"The Sports Festival is about to begin, if you want to join me. Like I said, don't force yourself. I could always record it for you if you'd prefer, and then we can watch it during dinner instead."

'Oh, that's right. I promised I'd watch it with him.' You reminded yourself.

"It's fine, I'm probably just hungry." You chuckle lightly.

He perks up at your words and lifts a finger in the air as if to stop you from speaking any further. "Say no more, I made you a smoothie bowl! Topped with your favorites, of course." He declared with a smug grin.

"Thanks Kei." You say with a small smile tilting your lips, "I think I can deal with it for today."

He lifts himself from your bed and you notice that he is still clad in his crème silk pajama set, dressed to stay in for the day. "I know you can, trooper. I'll see you downstairs, don't take too long." He told you with a sing-song lilt to his voice. It's only when he's halfway out the door that you notice the two of you have slept in matching apparel.

You gasp in horror, "Did you copy my PJ's?! Again?!" You yelled after him.

"I had them on first!" He defends with the same amount of volume.

"I highly doubt that." You mutter to yourself bitterly.

Slipping the covers off of your body, you begrudgingly swing your legs to dangle on the side of your bed. Your arms instinctively stretch themselves above your head as you prepare yourself to take on the leisure day and your body begins to mourn the loss of comfort that your duvet provided. Kitty hops off of your bed and pads along the ground behind you as you slip on your fluffy house slippers and begin your journey to your personal bathroom.

Stepping up to the sink, you grab a hair tie and sweep your long locks out of your face to begin the cleansing of your teeth, albeit as groggily as humanly possible.

Today is the annual Sports Festival and also happens to be one of your very rare days off. The event is one that people from all over the country clear their schedules for in favor of tuning in. Always eager for a taste of what the next generation of heroes have to offer, and rightfully so, considering they will one day be the Pros patrolling their familiar streets. Graduating from UA, the only school that holds a festival as grand as this one, almost guarantees you a spot within the top 100 heroes. That fact being proven by most of the top 5 currently inhabiting the rankings having been UA graduates themselves.

Keigo, or Hawks as many know him, is apart of the minority so high in the rankings that haven't even spent a day on the campus. You are set to follow suit, once you are of age.

After you finish with your teeth, you turn the faucet to begin the purification of your face. Closing your eyes, you gently douse water into your pores to rejuvenate your skin. Once you feel adequately satisfied, your eyes flutter open and you lift your hand before you in aim to close the flow of the water.

Only to find that once your eyes adjust and clear their vision, water is not what coats your fingers, palms, and face.

Sanguine liquid paints the skin of your palms so heavily that even your fingerprints are not visible.

Your breath quickens and your body begins to tremble as you instinctively lift your gaze onto the mirror and gape at the reflection bearing itself back at you. Your unnaturally green irises stare petrified, but what causes your lip to quiver is the striking color of liquid that is splashed against your face. You forcefully squeeze your eyes shut and your palms slam themselves onto the surface of your counter; breath heavy as you attempt to ease your mind.

Red.

All you see is red, everything is red. You hate the color red. Red brings carnage and horror-stricken screeches preaching bloody Mary. Red draws out the nightmares buried from your past, a past your mind refuses to remember. The feeling of warm red liquid hauls the taste of bile to your throat, clawing and cleaving its way up into your mouth. You hate vomit, it makes you feel like you can't breath or speak. You feel like you're drowning and the harder you swim, the faster you sink.

"Meow."

You halt mid breath and cautiously pivot your head towards the sudden noise.

You forgot Kitty had followed you into the bathroom, where she sat delicately on your counter whilst she groomed herself.

That's right, Kitty.

Keigo had allowed you to keep the once frail stray, despite the slight allergies her presence brought him in spring. It was only ever in that season when his nose would grow red and his eyes puffy. He even helped you choose her name, despite how stupid it may be. You both weren't as bright when it came to those matters, but you didn't mind. It was a name you both chose of your own free will, with no external power or matters crying in your ears for something different.

Red — Kitty's collar is red, and furnished with a bow littered with small sewn in fishes. You had picked it out yourself and attached a silver bell to the ring.

Keigo's wings are red, as well. The most vibrant shade of carmine you have ever seen, and they were stunning too. Those feathers littered around your home were soft and velvety, not once have they ever made you feel asphyxiated, it was the opposite really.

Your lips aren't naturally red, far from it,but in the past you had seen The Snake Hero: Uwabami flaunt her newest shade of vermillion on a billboard. You didn't feel stifled then, either.

You allow yourself to breathe at your own pace and in-take as much oxygen as your lungs can hold. "It's just in your head, it's just in your head. It's not real, nothing is. You're home, you're safe." You whisper to yourself.

Your eyes cautiously draw themselves back towards the mirror to risk a glance at your reflection.

Your green eyes still peer back into your soul, as expected, though your face is no longer obscured, showing off the beautiful tone of your supple skin. Shifting your gaze, it lands on the palms that are displayed before you and you begin to analyze every line and indent engraved into the pads of your fingers, until you clench them into tightly closed fists.

Your vision grows cloudy as you whimper, "How did you do it, Nagant?"

You guess she hadn't known the answer herself, which is why her situation ended as it did.

"How did you deal with the guilt?" You whispered into the vacant air, words lifted and towed with the flow of your AC. Questions that would never be heard nor answered.

Still, you steeled your piercing gaze and reminded yourself, "Purpose. This is my purpose." That familiar phrase that has been repeated since you were young. "What I'm doing is the right thing. I'm a hero." You say with a now steady breath, though the pit in your stomach remains as heavy as ever.

Finishing your morning routine in silence, you then head down the stairs of your shared penthouse and into the open kitchen where Keigo waits patiently. He hands you your favorite mug filled with coffee upon your arrival and makes his way into the living room where he takes his place on your plush modern couch.

"You're just on time, intros are about to start." He informs you with his own steaming mug in his hands.

Still standing behind your kitchen counter, the open layout allows you to view the flat screen TV without having to move a centimeter. "Yay me." You husked dispassionately, taking a sip from your cup and savoring the creamy taste on your taste buds. Keigo always makes the best coffee in your opinion.

"Shh, it's starting." He dismisses your remark with a wave, earning a soft chuckle from you.

The screen opens with the Voice Hero: Present Mic making his enthusiastic appearance. His boisterous voice was heard from your speaker, announcing the commencement of the annual event.

"Heya! Pay attention audience, are you ready?!"

They couldn't have chosen a person more fit than the voice hero himself, having the ability to uplift the audience with their energy and commentary alone. The screen pans to a lively audience who all express their excitement in their own ways.

You grab the smoothie bowl that Keigo had prepared for you, indeed being topped with your favorites just as he had promised, and made your way into the living area to join the man lounging on the couch. The moment after you take your seat and set your meal onto the coffee table before you, a light weight settles itself into the warmth of your lap.

"Morning, Kitty." You spoke softly while petting the fur ball that vibrated on your thighs.

Kitty was blessed with a silky grey and white coat of fur that fluffed up in every which direction, but most especially near her tail. She has hazel eyes embellished by natural black eyeliner which resembles that of Queen Cleopatra herself.

Kitty is one of the few privileges you were granted that other kids your age might also be — she is continuously a beautiful reminder of the joy you are allowed.

You hummed, "Hey, you fed Kitty, right?" You ask the man beside you, knowing his morning task was to do so. "She's been following me around all morning like she wants something from me." You narrow your eyes suspiciously.

The man in question nods in confirmation, before he looks to your lap where he gifts the kitten a disapproving glare. "You ate before your Power Nap, Kitty. You need to wait for lunch like the rest of us." He scolds before he leans himself nearer to you and shields his mouth with a palm to whisper, "She's giving you the feed me now look, don't fall for it Y/N."

Whether due to her keen hearing or Keigo's inability to undertone his voice, she very obviously caught his words and how hypocritical she thought them to be considering the dull expression she gave him and the bowl in his hands. It was almost as if she was questioning why he wasn't practicing what he was preaching.

You guessed she had seen him sneak in a snack before you joined him downstairs, which wouldn't have surprised you nor would you have blamed him if so. The strict diet the commission had you both sustaining did not allow much leeway, so anything extra you could sneak in during the day was considered a blessing.

"Wha- Did you see that, Y/N?! Your damn cat is calling me fat!" He yelled in pure anguish whilst pointing an accusatory finger her way.

"Keigo, you were nominated for this years "Sluttiest Waist in Hero Society" and the only reason you came as a close second was because apparently, EdgeShot activating Foldabody to lessen his amount of millimeters, was allowed. I think you're fine." You state blankly. "Plus... she's my cat and therefore can never do wrong in my eyes."

He squawks in offense before he decides to simply return his irritated gaze to the television you had both been ignoring.

Cats and birds never did get along, did they?

"The miraculous new stars who overcame enemy attacks with their hearts of steel! Hero course, Class 1-A!"

Out stepped twenty teens that marched their way onto the center of the stadium where they took the stage.

"Oh wow, what a colorful class." You chuckled through a snort, though you harbored no ill intent. The variety of the colors that made up the sea of first years was so vast, it humored you a bit. The screen panning allowed you to spot heads donning colors from brown to pink and even two-toned manes. The contradicting expressions of nonchalance and trembling fear over the attention they were harboring brought the both of you such hilarity that you couldn't contain.

You yourself weren't a stranger to lenses being shoved in your face — it's a package deal that comes with constantly being seen beside the number three hero.

"Ain't that right. Holy shit, that's Endeavors kid isn't it? The smallest Todoroki, I believe." Keigo says as he squints his eyes at the screen.

"Endeavors kid? He joined UA?" You ask, though it was a pretty stupid question. It shouldn't have surprised you that such a protégé would follow in his father's footsteps, but for some reason it did. You have never met the boy nor his father but you wouldn't stagger if that were to ever happen, seeing as both you and the two-toned boy rank similarly in the social hierarchy.

He nods his head and sets his, now empty, bowl beside yours on the coffee table. "Yup, did I tell you that I'm thinking of mentoring one of these kids for an internship?" He asks.

Your face contorts in slight perplexity, "What? No you haven't told me anything pertaining that. I thought you weren't interested in mentoring anyone from the next generation." You question the man as you shift to look his way, he doesn't gift you the same courtesy, instead opts to keep his gaze pointed at the screen displaying the rest of the first year classes.

"Not true, you're apart of the next generation and I'd like to think I've played a diligent role in your mentoring." He rebuts.

Kissing your teeth, your eyes roll dismissively, "That's different."

"How so?"

"You know how."

"Well, I had a change of heart." He states and you have trouble believing him.

"So, what? Don't tell me you're considering baby Todoroki, he's probably going to be scouted by his own dad." You remind him.

"We'll see. I have time, maybe someone else will catch my eye." He considers.

Slapping a palm to your lips, you snort, "Stop looking at them like you're at a pet store, Kei!" He grins and shrugs his shoulders at you. "Why the sudden change of heart anyway? Since when do you need a UA sidekick? Last I checked, the agency was doing so good that the sidekicks you already have are allowed two breaks per day." You ask him.

"Cause why not?" He says nonchalantly.

Keigo has always been blunt and a very good liar, so theoretically his answer would have fooled anyone else, anyone but you. He was present in your earliest memories which led you both to know each other like the back of your hands. Your existences played crucial roles in your reasons for being heroes.

The longer you looked at him as if he were demented, the more he let up on the front he was attempting to mask himself with.

"Look, it's nothing, okay? I promise. Just a bit of investigation on my own part, and I'm not even one hundred percent sure I'll be making any offers yet." He reassures you as softly as he can.

Hawks is a hero through and through, and a damn good one at that. You trust Hawks to handle the safety of the citizens with the utmost care.

But Keigo? The Keigo you have known and grown with? You trust that man with every fiber of your being, so much so that if he grew the strange urge to awaken you at some ungodly hour of the night and told you to pack your shit because he planned to run away with you, you'd grab your luggage and ask where to. So, if that man is telling you that this is no cause to worry about, you'll try your damn best to let him be and not worry about it.

"Fine." You relent.

"Quiet everyone!" Says a new voice coming from the speakers, stealing your attention. Standing tall on the designated stage was the R-rated Hero: Midnight, dressed in her controversial hero outfit. "Representing the students this year is Katsuki Bakugo from Class 1A!" She announces proudly, whipping her whip for emphasis.

With his hands in his pocket, an ash blond with scarlet eyes trudges himself up the metal steps exuding an air of boyish insouciance. The stadium settles into an eerie silence with the attendees on the edges of their seats, eager to hear what the student had to pledge.

"I pledge... that I'll be number one."

His declaration of war causes the throng of students before him to catapult aggrieved 'Boo's' in his direction, not at all pleased by his haughty assertion of dominance. Contrasting the sour group of teens, the man beside you cackles at the audacity.

"Can you believe the balls on that kid?" He says through a fit of giggles.

"I wonder if the puppy's bite is as strong as his bark." You add amusedly.

Midnight then officially begins the event by appointing an obstacle course as the first game they will have to compete in. It seems easy enough and may even be enjoyable considering they are allowed the use of their quirks.

The very obvious first obstacle was the narrow entry way in which the students rushed through to get to the rest of the hurdles, ignorantly paying no heed to the cramped space. Most students try their best to bulldoze their way through, almost molding themselves as one in the process. Though, suddenly their attempts get thwarted by a frosty sheet of ice billowing white mist along with it and effectively immobilizing and solidifying the students to the ground.

"Baby Todoroki." Keigo says, clearly impressed by the quick spring to action displayed by the teen who emerged on the other side of the entrance, successfully sauntering through the first obstacle.

Although a few managed to escape his frozen shackles, he was the first of the first years to take action and in the span of seconds, which was an impressive feat on its own. "He doesn't seem like much of a baby to me." You admit. Not only that, but his quick and skillful thinking has acquired him current first place, which was sure to garner the attention of quite a few elite pros, including the one beside you.

It seems that the few who promptly escaped the frost king's clutches were none other than his fellow classmates. Their difference in experience unquestionably playing a crucial role in the measures being displayed today.

"Are those... sticky balls?" Keigo asks from beside you, his face teetering the edge of genuine curiosity and mirth. He was referring to a small boy pulling at dark purple balls that lined the top of his head, which he used to ricochet off of.

Without warning, a guffaw slips past your lips which you eagerly attempt to conceal with a palm. "S-stop Kei... that's so immature and so not f-funny."

Colossal robots, that were once again swiftly subdued by the same two-toned boy, were the next obstacle that the school had invested in.

"That boy does not miss." Keigo remarks.

Unfortunately for the rest of the students, he had only hindered the mechanical objects momentarily, though that didn't seem like much of a hassle for the confident blond named Bakugo. The boy used the explosions erupting from his hands to carry himself up and over the obstructions. Following his perseverance, a few more of his class members make their way through, displaying their unyielding tenacity.

"Class 1-A doesn't waste time standing around." You comment. "It's interesting, just the one experience has drowned out their hesitance?" You murmur, not ready to admit to yourself that you were thoroughly impressed.

"Oh, I'd dominate this one." The pro next to you says as the next obstacle appears on screen — a landscape with various chunks of rocks stemming up from the ground like pillars, creating multiple dangerous cliffs leading to who knows where. The duality of the hurdles needed to be overcome presented the ability for a variety of quirks to make their marks. A girl with what you assumed was a frog quirk easily made her way across the thin tightrope, a support course student showcased her own inventions as she swung herself through the course, and a boy with engines in his calves did his best to glide on through.

And finally, the third test was a huge dirt field with hidden landmines, a minefield.

"By the way, these landmines are for games, so they're not that powerful... but they're loud and flashy enough to make you wet your pants!" Present Mic announces enthusiastically.

"Mic is in his Tengen Uzui era?" Keigo questions.

"That or UA wants to see how many lawsuits they can get in a day." You guessed.

As if proving truth to your words, many students acting impulsively haphazardly step on multiple mines, causing them to be thrusted into the air by the hot pink blasts. You had to admit, the sight was quite entertaining.

"Oh you've gotta be kidding me." You comment with a roll of your eyes as you notice the callow way Todoroki and Bakugo, who have both consistently kept the lead, seemed to be getting physical on the field all the while sustaining their pace to the finish line.

"And now we've got someone new in the lead! Rejoice mass media, it's the kind of development you guys love!"

Just as the brawl between the top two was growing interesting, a profound explosion was heard near the beginning of the field, and out came a green tuft of hair from where the blast originated, soaring in the air on a matching in color chunk of metal.

"Class A's Midoriya is in hot pursuit of first place... actually, scratch that, he's taken the lead!"

"Where the hell did he come from?" Keigo asks stupefied.

"I don't know, but... that was kind of badass." You answered, finding your interest piqued by the sudden change of events. If this underdog had a plan as to how he was going to land, be it with his quirk or not, then he might actually have a chance at taking first in the last few seconds.

"Holy hell, he used them as stepping stools!" Keigo yelled with a flutter of his wings, most likely caused by his sudden excitement.

Kitty, who had gone unbothered for most of the morning, had decided she had enough of the man's voice and hopped off your lap. The ball of fluff pranced her way up the stairs, presumably on her way to the comfort of your room. Not that either of you noticed since you were preoccupied lifting your jaws off the ground.

The teen had lunged himself in a way that seemed as if he had used the back of the former leaders as a means to steady himself so that he could slam the green slab of metal he was riding onto the floor, applying the pressure needed to activate yet another explosion to propel himself forward. The eruption of pink smoke billowed in the air, hindering only two of the three boys fighting for first place.

"He just violated his classmates..." You uttered in astonishment.

"Violated? He demolished and humiliated them." Keigo countered, "No way he's gonna stay in first though, right?"

Your lips pursed in thought, "I'd say it's fifty-fifty, we don't even know if he's used his quirk yet." You surmise. "But, to be honest? He stuck the landing, so the odds are looking pretty well for him. Gosh, what are they feeding these kids?"

"Fried chicken."

Surprisingly, the underdog was indeed able to sustain his rank and claimed first place in the primary game. It was far more impressive given the fact that, as far as you saw, he didn't seem to make any use of a quirk. Even throughout the second game, a Calvary battle that team Todoroki emerged victorious in, he pursued his consistency of foregoing quirk usage, and that fact alone was enough to puncture your skin with a hook and reel any spectator in.

With the start of the final game, one-on-one duels, tension was already palpable in the air, though not only for the competitors but as well as the audience.

"Ten bucks that Tokoyami takes the dub?" Keigo offers as he shifts in his seat. He donned a yellow headband designed to resemble a chick that swept the blond tufts away from his concentrated face, the orange beak protruding from the soft fabric only making his paired expression more comical.

You slipped on a similar hair piece, only instead of a chick, yours was that of a purple kitten with small ears jutting out from the top.

With a moist sheet mask being extended in your direction, you readily accepted the skin care he offered to apply on your face. "Hell no, that's who I was gonna bet on." You reply, doing your best not to obstruct the way his fingers gently smooth over any visible wrinkles.

"Womp womp, you have to pick someone else now."

"Fuck off, fine." You grumble and once he completes the application of the mask on your face, your head moves to the screen displaying the remaining competitors. Gliding your irises across the faces of your many choices, your first thought is to select the first that catches your attention.

"Hitoshi Shinso," You declare and finalize your statement with a nod of your head. Placed into your hold was another mask doused in nourishing serum causing the refreshingly cool slime-like substance to coat the tips of your fingers. "Give me your face." You order and hold your hands out towards your companion.

Keigo obliges and leans into you with his eyes closed as his brows express his confusion. "What? Why that guy? He hasn't really done much to stand out or at the very least enough to gain your trust in his victory."

"Have you learnt nothing, child? Always root for the underdogs." You mentor the grown man as the pads of your fingers glide over the sheet to secure it onto his skin. Though, after you take a second to clear your throat, you hesitantly add, "...Also I like his purple hair. I think it's cool."

The two opponents set to fight the first match of the day have yet to show off their quirks or even utilize them in any capacity that would aid them in garnering attention. So, in that aspect, it'd be safe to assume that they could both be considered the 'underdogs' of the bunch; though the reason you had chosen the boy that you did was because the purple hair managed to grasp your attention with a tighter grip than the green did.

"First of all, no way you're going bashful over a guy who looks like he hasn't slept since he left the womb, and second, I never received the memo that I'm suddenly the apprentice." He mutters as he slumps back onto the back of the couch once you complete the application. "Also, since when have we been basing skillset off of hair? If that were the truth, I'd have better hair than you." He adds with the cross of his arms.

"I do have great hair, don't I?" You bask in the compliment before you realize the backhand he dealt it with, forcing you to use your actual back hand across his chest. Folding in on himself, he feigns a critical hit as if your blow held twice the power it actually had. "Asshole. Pay attention, it's starting." You chide, because you know you'd never hurt him. At least, not intentionally.

"Are you ready?! I know you are with all that's happened, but it's now come to this. A serious battle!" Mic almost spasms in his seat from the excitement buzzing around the stadium.

Your lips purse in thought, "If we're being realistic, I actually don't have a single clue as to who'll win this round. We don't know either of their quirks so it'll have to come down to what they pull out of their asses."

"That or whoever moves first."

"Of course you'd say that. Either way, I have a feeling this'll be a short match. Let's just hope it's interesting." You further your predictions as the screen displays the pair of boys in topic.

"Why does he look like he's about to shit his pants?" Keigo asks, scrutinizing the boy as if he had offended him personally.

"Maybe he is." You add with a shrug.

It was only when you inspected his face, as well as the front profile picture allowed you to at least, that you noticed something.

You don't know what it is about the green haired teen, perhaps the way his smile wobbled in the corners or the fact that his bottom lip never ceased to be nibbled on, but every time you glance at him, be it his picture or on the live broadcast, there was something in the back of your mind crawling its way to the forefront, fighting for its place to be heeded. It told you that you needed to know more — or furthermore, it solidified that there was more to be learned about.

But, don't get it twisted.

It wasn't a feeling that brought you intrigue or that conspired any interest, you didn't even want to find out just what it was that your subconscious whispered about. It triggered your flight or fight, it spoke of danger and treading in discretion.

It irked you.

"I've changed my mind. My money's on Midoriya."

"What?!" Keigo staggers at the abrupt switch of your tune, "The guy who desperately needs a toilet? Why?" He asks as his golden eyes narrow in suspicion.

"I uh, don't know." You replied, to which this earned you a dull stare from him. "I'm serious! I've just got a gut feeling."

"Okay..." He drew out the word, before a yawn purloined his attention and he finally slid his misty eyes away from your face. "Well, your womanly intuition is rarely ever wrong, so I'll take your word for it."

You doubted the fact that you were a woman had played any role in his observation, you were simply built different when it came to the guessing game — or, that's what you had thought.

After Midoriya's victory in the first round only worked to prove your decision correct, your thoughts on the extensively intricate boy solidified themselves into your mind. Like tightly woven floss creating knots in every one of your gyrus and sulcus.

"I didn't even notice that guy was in general studies." Keigo mentions. "How'd he make it this far when competing against kids who spend their days training?"

"It has to be his quirk, a powerful one at that. There's no way he worked this hard to earn a spot in the finals only to remain in general studies. This means he actually aims to be a hero, so that begs the question: why the hell isn't he in the hero course?"

Cupping his chin with his palm, Keigo leans his elbows onto his knees as he squints at the television screen. "His quirk doesn't seem very combat oriented." He surmises.

Nodding your head and mimicking his pose, you continue, "And given the events of the sports festival, I think it's safe to say that UA doesn't have their priorities quite straight if they let this diamond in the rough slip through their cracks."

"Ha!" Keigo cackles and slaps his knee, "It also means your womanly intuition was right, once again!"

"Does this mean you owe me ten bucks?" You tease slyly.

"Tut tut, slow your roll Speedy Gonzales. Speed is my thing." He wiggles a finger in your face, "The festival isn't over yet, I placed my bet on the finals."

"These are the finals."

"Well, the final finals."

In the midst of your eye roll, you notice a riveting detail you hadn't quite heeded before. "Wait a second... his fingers... they're broken." You utter in bewilderment.

The solemn faced boy stood before the opponent he had quickly defeated in the first round of the pivotal arc of the tournament, clutching his left hand as blood stained the skin beneath his nose.

You hummed in thought, "The purple haired guy must have had some type of hypnotizing quirk, right? So, finger destroyer kid must have destroyed his fingers which in turn must have destroyed some kind of connection that allowed the quirk to function. Like if you unplug your desktop from its PC."

Keigo's lips purse in thought as he looks at the ceiling, "That adds up, maybe pain breaks that connection. I wonder how it's formed in the first place, perhaps eye contact?"

You huff airily in amusement, "That would be too OP, I'd be glad he seems to be on the hero route."

"There's no such thing as too OP."

"There is when we live in a superhuman society. Especially so when you're in the work field that exercises what makes us super everyday."

"Okay, fine. You win."

The next match was between a dual toned Todoroki and Sero with a choppy haircut. This duel consisted of Sero wielding a strong start, but ultimately resulted in Todoroki brutally immobilizing the latter with an unnecessary amount of ice. Leaving you to wonder why the victor has yet to flaunt his flames if he truly had the ability to wield them.

Electricity and thorned vines engaged in a brisk battle, the last mentioned emerging victorious by thwarting an all or nothing attack. Following the rapid fight was a speedy hero and a clever support course student using her opponent to her advantage in an attempt to attract attention to her creations, providing you with a very comical display. And though you felt pity for the boy, the details on her interesting inventions occupied your attention far more.

Underwear was on display by the time the match between Mina Ashido and Yuga Aoyama had concluded, resulting in hysterical laughter erupting from the man beside you clutching his stomach.

"Mina Ash-ido." You drawl out the pinkette's name, the sound feeling foreign on your tongue. "She's got a nice quirk, it's lethal. Not to mention, did you see those moves she pulled?"

"Yup, she has great control of her body." Keigo comments as he sheds the mask on his face, rubbing the remaining residue into his skin gently. "Her quirk is impressive, but she didn't rely on it heavily, which can be a common rookie mistake." He adds onto your assessment.

"Wow, you sound professional for once-" You begun to compliment the man, before his hand gets shoved on your mouth.

"Shh! It's Tokoyami, this is who my bet is on. Y/N, shut up." He oh so eloquently exclaims.

"You do know that we're not actually betting, right? I'm not putting any of my money on kids I don't know-"

His palm moves to drape itself on your entire face, effectively halting your arguments.

"From the hero course, it's Fumikage Tokoyami! Versus, all purpose creation! She was admitted through recommendations, so her abilities are UA certified. From the hero course, it's Momo Yaoyaorozu!"

"Creating to your mind's extent? That's gonna be hard to beat." Keigo admits, finally ridding you of the burden of his large hand due to your adamant pawing at his skin.

You sputter at the relief and gingerly peel away at your mask as well, chucking it into the bin beside you. "Oh? Scared she's gonna be the demise of your precious hatchling?" You coo teasingly.

The blond scoffs, "Puh-lease, there is no match for a dark entity that inhabits your own body."

"Maybe so."

And he was right. Four hits was all it took for that entity to simply shove her out of bounds. With no time left to conjure up a path to her victory, all the teenager could have done was create a shield to protect her body, which was ultimately all for naught. Dejectedly, she accepted her defeat and slumped her way off of the concrete battle field, brows furrowed and arms clutched to her chest in shame.

"Ouch. That was hard to watch." You murmured to yourself. "I was actually rooting for her at one point."

Sensing that the next match would not end anytime soon, considering it consisted of metal and rock meeting in repeated punches and jabs, you take your tub of Vaseline from the coffee table and delicately apply the creamy substance onto your lips. Once finished, you hand the container over to Keigo and he mimics the steps you have just taken. After that was your eyelash and eyebrow serum that you expertly work into the fine hairs with much care.

Special attention to vanity came as second nature to you, it was hauled along with quirk and fitness training. The commission values public appearance and perception, fake smiles and flawless skin were almost always juxtaposed with the combat oriented skills that carved the tight muscles under your clothes; they were drilled into your youth.

It allowed for a gorgeous mask to the monsters they create. So yes, a requirement to slip into their mold as the ideal protégé is to be what society deems as attractive. Applying care to your appearance was as important as learning how to wield a blade.

Luckily, both came easy to both you and the man beside you.

"Okay, I'm gonna be honest. I can't tell if this is funny or boring." He says, "They just keep throwing punches and have the same reaction to each one."

"Well, who do you think is gonna win?"

"I don't know, it could be a tie but, what are the chances of that happening?" He ponders your question.

"One is from class A and the other is from class B so either way they're both from the hero course, but I'd say it's still a fifty-fifty chance."

His lips purse in thought, "Mmm, I don't know about that." Keigo says, which causes one of your brows to contort in interest.

"What do you mean?" You question.

"Well, the silver guy is metal, right? I'm not sure exactly what type of metal, but the fact still stands. Metal can be pretty sensitive if not taken care of properly."

As if a lightbulb was suddenly lit beneath your skin, your eyes light up in comprehension, causing you to think of possibilities you hadn't thought of before. "Then, I wonder if corrosion affects him as well. Salt water could be his biggest enemy. And what of the guy with the hardened skin? Is durability his only weakness or does his quirk bring along similar disadvantages?" You reflect.

"And both contestants are down! It's a draw! In this case, after they recover, they will be subjected to a simple contest in order to determine the true winner, like arm wrestling!" Midnight announces with her hand slicing the air.

"Never mind." Keigo deadpans.

"Well, at least we can be sure that the next won't end in a draw. There's no way zero gravity and explosion can knock each other out at the same time." You suggest.

"Yeowch, that's a face only a mother could love! It's Katsuki Bakugo versus, and she's the one I'm personally rooting for, Ochaco Uraraka! Eighth match, start!"

"Explosions and zero gravity, okay this could be interesting." Keigo determines. "And she seems to be making the first move."

"But, he still hasn't moved an inch. I don't know if that's a good or bad thing. And for who..." You say.

Directly following your words, Bakugo emits a powerful blast from his palm, which projects Uraraka back to where she had originally started. Blast after blast, no matter what clever trick the pink cheeked girl plays on the scowling boy, she is persistently hit and takes the explosions with stride.

"I can barely see shit." Keigo says, squinting as if that would aid in his pursuit of better vision on the other side of the screen. Because of the continuous explosions, the smoke doesn't dissipate.

"I wonder if they can see each other, and if they can't, then who is that giving the disadvantage to?" You ask.

The fight continues and the view doesn't improve, forcing the both of you to begin to envy the people present at the event, or rather their advantage on point of view.

All of a sudden, a foreign voice was heard yelling from the stands, "Hey! How can you claim that you want to be a hero but then subject that poor girl to this torture?! If there's such a huge difference in your abilities, then hurry up and send her out of bounds! Stop being a mean bully!"

Resounding murmurs and yells of disapproval ignite in volume, telling with how the crowd agrees with the rando.

"What are they booing for?" Keigo groans, hating the prospect of not knowing what the hell was going on.

"I don't know, but I don't think she's passed out or else they'd have announced a winner... so why are they so quick to announce her defeat?" You murmur, not liking how he demeaningly he phrased the words 'poor girl'.

"And why is he whining like a toddler?" Keigo unnecessarily adds.

A deeper voice, noticeably not Present Mic's, spoke soon after, "Was that a Pro speaking just now? How many years have you been a Pro? Let me tell you something, if you're saying that with a straight face, there was no point in paying your entrance fee, pack up and go home. I'd suggest looking into a career change." The voice finished, effectively halting the ruckus that the stranger had caused.

"Oop, I know he's embarrassed."

"Bakugo is being relentless because he's acknowledged the strength of his opponent who has made it this far. It's because he's aiming to do everything he can to win that he can't go easy on her or let his guard down. In other words, your complaints are pointless."

The smoke begins to disperse and you can now see both opponents standing only a few feet away from each other. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, large boulders begin to cascade from high up in the sky. The rocks fall at a violent velocity, making a headway towards the concrete floor.

With a gasp, Keigo announces astonishingly, "It's like a meteor shower in real life!"

"You've never even seen a meteor shower in real life, Kei." You tease.

Just as it seemed as if Uraraka had a chance at catching the blond off of his guard, he aims and fires a massive explosion towards the sky, knocking away every single object heading his way and sending the creator of the meteor shower back to where she had started. And though she managed to lift herself in preparation for a counterattack, the impact must have harmed her more than the others had and she collapses onto the ground, using the last bit of energy she could muster to attempt to crawl before falling unconscious.

She's done.

"I'm still mad that I couldn't see shit for the majority of that one. They should have had better camera angles, doesn't UA have a high budget? It's practically non-existent." Keigo shakes his head in disappointment.

In the end, Bakugo emerged victorious and so the first round of eliminations concludes.

"You'll live." You tell him impassively. "Anyway, who do you think'll win this tie breaker? I'm thinking the red head."

"Mm," He hums as he seems to genuinely ponder the thought for a second longer, "I think the same."

"The winner is Kirishima! He advances onto the second round due to Tetsutetsu's defeat from metal fatigue!" Present Mic announces, proving Keigo's earlier point correct which he will surely be a menace about.

"Told your ass there had to be a downside to the metal." He proves your thought process correct.

"I literally agreed with you."

"The first match of the second round is an exciting one! Unlike the others..." The latter portion is muttered lowly, "The man who won a huge victory in the first round, quite literally leaving the audience frozen, from the hero course, Shoto Todoroki!"

"Man?" Your head cocks in curiosity, "I thought they were around my age?" You mention.

"Well yeah, but he's not gonna call him a boy." Keigo answers.

"Well, why not?"

"Well, because it would be insulting."

"Well, why is it insulting if it's the truth?"

"Well, because of our fragile masculinity."

"Bingo! I'm glad you're self aware, at least."

"On the other hand, this guy barely made it past the second round! Let's see what he'll pull out of his inventory this time, from the hero course, Izuku Midoriya!"

"Okay, for real this time," Keigo assures, "What do you think of this match?"

"Well, we haven't seen anything quirk related from Midoriya, ignoring his broken fingers from his last match since we have zero idea how that occurred, and from what we could tell, Todoroki is a very well rounded student. Whether this is another short match will depend entirely on what Midoriya demonstrates." You judge.

"Ding ding ding! Correct again, my pupil. It also depends on their limits as well, whether they're physical or quirk related, they've both got them. Since we haven't figured out finger breaker's quirk, I'd say his lean on the physical side. I'm just wondering what're Zuko's." He builds on.

Humming to yourself, you use the opportunity to voice a question that has been teetering the edge of your mind. "I've been wondering, did Todoroki inherit Endeavor's quirk at all? All I've seen is ice, which I'm assuming is from his mother." You ask, before a sudden chortle escapes your lips involuntarily, "Which is kind of ironic. What are the chances of fire Mario and Elsa falling in love?"

He ponders your question for a second, before surrendering and rendering himself as useful as ever, "Now that you mention it, I don't know."

"Start!"

Present Mic's highly pitched screech acted as the push to start for both boys, Todoroki being the first to move and conjure up splinters of his icicles heading directly towards his opponent, giving the illusion that a hasty match is in the cards for the dual toned boy. Seconds away from being frozen where he stood, Midoriya avoided the attack by shattering the ice and hurling it back to its creator. Gusts of winter air fill the stadium, hugging person to person, effectively tussling hair and drying eyes.

"He mirrored his attack?" You utter questioningly.

"His finger," Keigo notices, "It's broken again."

"So, he negated it... with just a flick of his finger?" You ask dubiously, your eyes squinted in apprehension.

"Finger blaster." Keigo whispers in suspense.

Your head shakes with confusion, "That means, it's his quirk that hurts him. The same thing happened earlier, which means he has no control over whether it hurts him or not. Can he not manage the power output? If not, then that was an all or nothing attack, which means-"

"It's all he's got." Keigo finishes your sentence.

Astonished and baffled all at once, you breathily broach, "It's almost as if he's a toddler with a newly developed quirk..."

"Time traveler?" Keigo offers.

"Honestly, that's more believable than developing a quirk in your teens."

Hit after hit, the same attack and defense commences, and each time the pair of boys end up a closer proximity than before. Broken fingers being pushed to their limits, knuckles crunching with force, and alizarin crimson ejecting in streams. Little by little, the young aspiring hero protégé Todoroki exhausts himself, that fact not going unnoticed by you.

Sinking into the couch, you scrutinize the screen before you, "Huh, he's slower, almost sluggish in his movements. I'm guessing Midoriya isn't the only one giving all or nothing."

"Those powerful attacks must be taking their toll on his body."

You hum in agreement, "Which is to be expected. After all, having enhanced tolerance for low temperatures doesn't mean that you're completely immune to their effects."

Whether because of the mention of glacial temperatures or the AC directly above your seats, Keigo's velvet wings subconsciously huddle closer to his body, offering their unwavering warmth. "Finger blaster kid might be able to predict his attacks now."

Prodigious flames emit from the taller boy, exuding light that almost blinds you. "He's using his fire." You whisper, almost as if afraid one exhale would make it all disappear.

"Well, there's our answer, I guess. I just wonder why he didn't use it before." Keigo says just as mesmerized.

"Perhaps he felt he didn't need to."

Fire and ice against what seemed to be powerful wind currents was set to destroy both opponents, though luckily, UA bore some safety precautions. Pro hero Cementoss held no hesitation when creating his signature wall of cement in an effort to nullify the powerful explosion the teens would surely create with the combination of their quirks.

Unfortunately, not even the wall of cement was enough to halt the attacks, because though it minimized the effects, the Pro Hero did not succeed in neutralizing them.

"Jeez, I can't see a thing! Hey, who won the match?!" Present Mic asks Midnight who was still recovering from the explosion.

Green unveils itself from within a layer of thick billowing steam that envelopes the stadium, and there stands Midoriya, bruised and battered, on wavering legs that fail to uphold his weight before long.

"Midoriya is out of bounds!" She exclaims, "Todoroki advances to the third round!" Her palm slices through the air once again, finalizing the results.

Picking your jaw up off the ground for the umpteenth time, you sit taken aback at the outcome of the stress inducing match.

The next couple of matches were a blur, with some spent consoling the man beside you when his favorites would bear the short end of the stick. Todoroki vs. Bakugo was the grand finale, and while it had looked to be in the dual toned boy's favor at one point, it came as a surprise to many when he willingly allowed himself to act as Bakugo's Howitzer practice dummy. The blond emerges victorious, much to his dismay, as the first place winner of this year's annual sports festival.

His bite was indeed as strong as his bark, and what a loud bark that was. The Pro's resulted to restraining his body to a thick pillar of cement, with his mouth muzzled by a decently sized slab of metal.

"Yikes, that is not pretty. I wonder how hard it was to even get him in those things." You winced.

"He looks like he has rabies." Keigo tilts his head in inspection. "And a face only a mother could love..."

"Anyway, is it just me or are these first years very different from the usual. Like, weird kind of built different." You question.

Crossing his arms and facing you entirely, he ponders your question for a moment, "Do you think it has to do with the quirk singularity theory?" He offers.

Mimicking his motions, you shake your head, "I don't know. Either that, or there's something in their food."

Keigo chuckles at the thought, "Har Har, that's funny, but speaking of food~"

Rolling your eyes, you dramatically belly flop yourself into his lap and groan tragically at the mention of a topic very sensitive to yourself. "Kei, I will literally die if I have to eat protein shakes and avocado for lunch again." You whine, and you turn yourself to face him with the best puppy dog eyes you could conjure. "I'm craving ramen, real ramen, can't we sneak some of that for once?"

Unfortunately due to your tedious meal preps, you're only allowed to indulge in a small portion of your chow desires, and strictly during dinner time. Though, since being allowed to move in with the man before you, you've had a fair amount of leeway. 'What the commission doesn't know, won't hurt them.' is what Keigo always says.

"Do you want take out?"

"To be honest, homemade ramen is perfectly fine. As long as I can choose the toppings myself. We have some, right?"

"I think we should, it's probably old though, are you sure ramen is fine? That's kind of basic, no? I can order anything you want."

As you mull your response over in your mind, your lips pursing in thought, Kitty's soft paws came padding down the stairs. It seems she has awoken from her nap and decided it wouldn't be too much of a hassle to join you both once again. Taking her rightful spot on your lap, you bury your fingertips into her fur as she shifts herself to fit her own comfort.

You hum softly, "Yeah, ramen sounds perfect."

And you meant it, the thought of such a mundane activity with both Keigo and Kitty, still in your matching sleepwear, not worrying about whether your actions were at the approval of the higher ups, sounds like your personal heaven. It was as if you were but a mere civilian who never bore the burden of reoccurring nightmares and visits from demons of slumber.

Keigo knew that as well, which was why he so readily agreed to your request. He understood, just like he always had.

Going about your day and savoring the sweet taste of rare normalcy caused all thoughts of class 1A and the sports festival to appear as nothing more than dark shadows in the back of your mind. Blissfully ignorant as you were about the leaden presence hovering above what seemed to be such a bleak future, and the significant impact your soul would have to brace for.

What is it that you would find, and what was it that you would have to sacrifice to have a future at all?

There wasn’t much happening this chapter, but the next should move the story along much more.

- arlo <3

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hwajin · 4 months

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

☆ — chapter one; Soda Pop :

✞ 「 .✶۪ : see series masterlist and warnings here

✞ 「 .✶۪ : chapter word count: 12.1k

✞ 「 .✶۪ : chapter warnings: fluff and angst, y/n's kind of an asshole, first mentions of cheating!!, stupidity and immaturity

✞ 「 .✶۪ : heavily inspired by: 'nana' by ai yazawa!

author's note: it's finally here!!!! i've been crafting on this series for a good year now, and while i know it's nowhere near good because serieses aren't my strength at all, i hope you'll still enjoy it!! pleaseee please please let me know what you think of it, every bit of feedback is highly appreciated <3333 enjoy <3

The sound of console buttons and video game soundtrack filled the stuffy studio, particles of dust dancing in the burning summer sun. Han bit against his lip piercing while he plugged his guitar into the old AMP the bunch of you had found on a flea market two years ago – it’s been roughly thirty dollars, and you had sworn to have found heaven back then; admittedly, though the old box was working to its’ best abilities, it was high time to hunt for a new one. Han’s heavy silver rings scratched against the yet untuned strings of his instrument, and the sound was almost uncomfortable; though never quite, for it was music after all.

You would never grow tired of it, you thought. Of music, of everything revolving it – it was your everything, your earliest memories, your dearest experiences; your closest friendships, even. Ever since your parents had bought you your first electric piano – one for kids only, and not of best quality altogether though you had loved it all the same – notes and tunes had been all around you, always. With seven years old you’d been signed up for your first piano lesson, which no other kid in your course had been as excited to visit as you had been; with ten years, mere three years later, when Han had moved into your neighbourhood with his parents, you’d convinced your own to let you visit guitar lessons with him. They hadn’t needed much persuasion; they’d noticed early on just how much you enjoyed the hobby, and they’d never been ones to forbid you passion. There had been fights when your parents had realised you’ve been far more serious about music than they had imagined, or hoped, even; at fifteen years old you had planned to drop out of school with your best friend, and both your and his parents had lost hours of sleep and nerves convincing you of the opposite. Two years later, at seventeen, both you and Han were sure not to apply to college, initially – that, too, had caused tears and frustration over both of you and your parents. You and Han, having felt pressured to take action, had decided to apply to a college, somewhat pretentiously, where you would start an amateur band – it would keep both you and your families happy.

You set up your microphone, guitar long in hand, the worn-out leather band cutting into your neck, pulling at loose strands of hair, the weight of your instrument laying heavily on your shoulders. You were used to it; enjoyed the feeling like nothing else.

“Guys, wrap it up, some of us have classes soon.”

Just then Changbin’s groan sounded against Jeongin’s shout of victory – in three years of knowing the pair there has been only one occasion on which Changbin has won a game of Mario against Jeongin; that the younger had been knocked out drunk back then, Changbin never wanted to admit. The older man threw his console onto the carpeted floor in frustration, emitting a cloud of dust where it hit – his determination to win was admirable, if you were honest, though his pouting and sulking was amusing every time anew.

“Bro, I swear you’re dead next time.”

Jeongin snickered as they both made their way to their positions behind you, and the rest of you erupted in a fit of protests and laughter. “You should accept defeat to be honest, I’d be embarrassed by now if I was you – there’s bad game play, and then there’s you.”, Han’s voice thinned out towards the end of his sentence when Changbin shot him a deadly look – the younger momentarily busied himself with his guitar again, merely smirking to himself at his friends’ sensitivity.

“Guys, c’mon now, we don’t have all day.”

The two friends both mockingly imitated you, though got behind their instruments – Jeongin stood behind the long-ready piano, Changbin picking up his long-tuned bass. The small college studio momentarily filled with vibrations and resonances of instruments – Jeongin playing warm-up chords, Changbin letting chime a long tone, Minho, who all of you – after you’d seen a commercial on the TV you had now long forgotten – had started calling Lino over your years of friendship besides his very active protest against it, gave a couple experimental sounds against the snare of his drums behind the thin plexiglass he was seated. It was heaven to your ears. There was nothing, you’d argue, that you loved more than the sound of the small room filling up entirely with the harmonies of your instruments, every single one coming together to play the songs Han wrote so diligently for your little amateur band besides his college assignments. Not that he was taking them too seriously, anyways – he planned to be a musician, no matter the cost.

“Alright, everyone in position, everyone ready?”, you waited for the lot to groan softly in agreement, looking back at them all to give you a nod, “I’ll count in…”, the tension in the studio thickened now, all bickering forgotten; and everyone waited for your commando, “five…”, a beat, your voice sounding through the room, “six…”, another beat, your voice louder now, your fingers ready on your instrument, everyone else watching you intently, adjusting in their position, “five, six, seven, eight!”

The room erupted in deafening volume, Jeongin’s synthetic piano sounding softly against Lino’s loud kick drums, Changbin’s bass harmonising with Han’s guitar; your voice sounding above it all.

It hadn’t been until you were out of school four years ago when you had started singing, so, naturally, you weren’t the strongest vocalist; it was Han who had convinced you to give it a try, arguing the tone in your voice to be unique, and diminishing, simultaneously, the necessity of looking for a vocalist for the band you had started planning back then, already. Your skills had gotten better over the years – your bandmates had made it fashion to remind you of it, no less because you yet needed to learn to acquire confidence in your skill. Four years later – you liked your voice, and the five of you had found the sound that fitted it best, despite your remaining weaknesses.

‘Hope’ – the name of the band, the name of Han’s and Jeongin’s favourite cigarette brand. You had been nineteen and not very creative, had all, except Lino, met on the first day of college which only half of you took seriously – you were one those after your initial rebelling against it, wanting something stable and secure in case practical music wouldn’t work out in the long run; so, you’d decided to study theoretical and historical music, hoping to find yourself in the same field after all. You enjoyed your studies – as much as one could enjoy talking of chords and cadences and harmonies instead of playing them, or discussing composers of genius minds who have died centuries ago –it was no comparison to the time you spent in the studio, the passion it brought, the utter joy that coursed your veins whenever you held your guitar in hands, stood before your microphone stand. Mozart and Bach could only spark your interest so much, if the small, dusty college studio and your bandmates in it were right around the corner.

Changbin and Jeongin were both English students; both figured that taking a universally, to quote them, ‘easy major’ would allow them to focus on their music, and to spend as little time in a classroom as it was humanly possible to still pass – you wondered if they’ve ever seen one from the inside, altogether.

Lino on the other hand, a business major and taking his studies with diligence, though never seeming to be actually doing his assignments, only ever having finished them with perfect grades, seemingly magically, didn’t put too much hope into an amateur band, and simply enjoyed his hobby while working towards his future career. It was a shame, though – he was a genius drummer, his loudest when he carried two sticks in his hands; you didn’t remember if you’ve ever truly heard his voice over the past years, though he was compensating his usual silence the moment he sat behind his instrument; and if it wasn’t his instrument, he preferred spending his time with cats rather than with humans.

And lastly there’s been Han and you. Best friends since you were little, though you’ve never visited the same school, so all the more excited when you had decided to apply to the same college together – despite not for the same majors, you would still be together. The band was his idea, initially.

“LOOKING FOR: DRUMMER, BASSIST, PIANIST, SECOND VOCAL FOR AMATEUR BAND. CONTACT HERE.”

had been written on the hundreds of flyers Han had taken with him for the first day of college you had anticipated giddily, and he had hung up the pieces of paper on every free space of wall and pillar he could find around campus – back then you hadn’t been aware of needing a written permission of the colleges’ office to hang up advertisements, and Han was forced to take down his flyers within the same week –, you had laughed at him and called it silly; though Changbin and Jeongin, friends since a little before college, had sat next to you both at the first-semester-students ceremony, and had caught eye of the papers in Han’s lap.

“Wait, it’s your flyers we’ve seen around? We’d be so down!”

You had eyed them sceptical back then – they had looked far too typical for an amateur-college-band, almost, heavy silver chains hanging around both their necks, their nails coloured pitch black, Jeongin looking at you with a nose piercing and blond streaks in his hair, their outfits raven and dark; though you had looked at Han, unevenly self-bleached hair, an eyebrow piercing adorning his face, his own scratched down black nail polish begging to be reapplied, boots on his feet two numbers too big, and you’d noticed, almost shamefully, that all four of you had looked like the prime example of people to form an amateur-college-band on the very first day of classes. It hadn’t needed much more conversation after that; the two friends had been welcomed into the band that had previously consisted of only you and Han, and Lino had contacted you three days later – right before Han had bashfully taken off his flyers.

It had needed some time until the five of you had started to click and work together; though yours and Jeongin’s voice had mixed well from the get-go, and everyone’s skill had been to a far higher standard than either you or Han would have anticipated. Lino had surprised you the most; while Changbin had been cocky from the first day you met him and Jeongin had been confident about his skills, Lino hadn’t talked much, nor had he looked, even, like a typical drummer. Not that there was a certain look to them, you simply wouldn’t have expected that under the quiet nature there was so much vigour and emotion, so much volume the moment he had given you a first idea of his level and skill, to see if he was a fit for your band at all; it had been fascinating, was to this day.

The song ended, the cups of your fingers aching, your neck strained, your voice in need of water; it was a successful practice. Jeongin and Changbin both expressed sounds of satisfaction, Han joining them while the echo of your instruments vibrated in the room for a couple moments, before they died out eventually.

“That was so good! The best we did so far, I think!”

Voices sounding through the room, and you turned around to look at your friends. Everyone joined into exclamations of praise, turning off and unplugging their instruments, stretching, cracking their knuckles. Conversation of pride filled the room; the praise never lasted long, though.

“Bin, stay in my rhythm a bit more next time, especially in the second half – don’t get too excited.”, Lino’s voice from behind the glass while he made room to get up from behind his seat. When you had first started practising with him, the tone in his voice during words of critique almost scared you, though with time you acquired to him, and learned to love his honesty – he was never condescending about mistakes, and always accepting of bettering his own errors.

“Yeah, I noticed too, my bad. I lose my count after the chorus. And I was distracted by you two,” Changbin gave a quick look between you and Jeongin, “you need to harmonise better. There was some dissonance after the first part, you need to sit down and figure out the second half better.”

You nodded at Jeongin, he returned it, knowingly. There were never hard feelings after critique, not anymore – initially, when you had started out, all of you had wanted to prove your rights, all far too proud to accept defeat, though now you loved your bandmates for being able to speak what’s on their mind, for it would only improve you as a whole.

“Well, and you two lovebirds were perfect, as always.”, Jeongin commented nonchalantly while unplugging his piano and mic. He meant you and Han, though neither of you were bothered by the comment. It was a running joke; you bore the longest friendship in the group, harmonised near perfectly every practice – how could you not, if practising and playing the guitar together had been everything you’ve busied yourselves with when you’d been younger? Despite having tried to convince the rest of the band that neither you nor Han bore any feelings for the other, nor would fuck to ‘get it out of the system’, as Changbin had so lovingly commented once, the jokes never ended; you had simply grown indifferent to them. You snickered, shooting your best friend a quick look; he winked at you approvingly, turning off the AMP and packing away his fire-red guitar – you followed him, unplugging and turning off everything that needed to be unplugged and turned off, before putting your own black instrument on the designated stand in between Han’s and Changbin’s ones. Lino already waited by the entrance door, bag thrown lazily over his shoulder, a pack of ‘Hi-Lite’s in his hands, one cigarette between his lips. He offered Changbin one when said male reached him by the door, and didn’t bother offering the rest of you any – you didn’t smoke not to damage your voice, Han and Jeongin couldn’t stand the brand the other two men smoked. Han got hold of his bag lying on the old leather sofa and his scattered belongings – headphones, notebook and a pen, a snack he had bought earlier, a pack of his beloved ‘Hope’s – and gave Jeongin a cigarette while catching one between his teeth himself. The bunch of you made it out of the studio – Lino, as the oldest, bore privileges over the key to the studio, locked the room and scurried over to the rest of you as you already made your way to the main building of the University. You weren’t a college band, not officially, though your location of practice was on campus – you had asked Mr. Hwang, your music teacher and head of the music department, if there, by any chance, was a forgotten room the five of you could use. To your surprise he had been most enthusiastic about both your question, and your band in general; allegedly he’d been in one as well when he was younger which had never lead to success, so he took pleasure in encouraging you with your own; his visiting during your practices weren’t a rarity, and the five of you were quite fond – and amused, slightly – of his support.

“Ji, you have fire?”

The guitarist searched for a lighter in his jeans’ back pocket, handed it to everyone after lighting his own cigarette.

“God, I need this before class.”, Changbin expressed in exaggerated exhaustion, blowing out blue smoke into the hot summer air. His black hair fell over his darker eyes, and you giggled at his comment.

“Do you, now? As if you and Innie will go to class today.”

Han laughed softly at your words, blew out his own puff of smoke while Changbin and Jeongin started to get defensive – a habit they acquired lately, because both of them were on the verge of failing their semesters. You knew they’d skip their lessons anyways.

Lino was the first to bid goodbye, having to walk opposite of the rest of you for his classes. He left saying he’d be back after his hours for another session of practice; the five of you had acquired to practice twice a day, more if the time gave chance. You all saw him off, continuing your journey further down campus. The heaviness of your boots crunched against the pavement beneath your feet, the black of your clothes attracting the burning sun and making you sweat more than it was comfortable; though you were used to it. Changbin and Jeongin separated at last, despite making their way to their classroom they surely wouldn’t have enough self-control to truly sit there for a whole two hours. You teased them about it one last time before they saw you off with curses and middle fingers, and you and Han made your way to your favourite spot on campus; the vending machine right behind the music building.

Ever since you had started college you had come here with Han to get a drink before most of your classes – it surely wasn’t a healthy habit, it was your favourite one, though. You had deemed it a necessity to find a spot which throughout your college years would work as a safe haven against teachers and possible annoying co-students, a spot where you could talk music and gossip and, inherently, everything and nothing, entirely undisturbed. The vending machine didn’t stand far from a huge weeping willow, working perfectly against the summer sun, and it was being refilled only about once a week – it was an old and shabby machine, and you’ve never seen anyone but you two in the proximity of it.

“God, I’m so unmotivated for class today. Wish I could spend your free window with you.”, you expressed in anguish as you and Han reached the dispenser and the shadow of the tree with sweat-laced faces. Han chuckled while plopping down on the bench by the tree trunk, leaning back, eyes closed and played malicious joy writing his features.

“I told you, we should both drop out and focus on the band. I don’t even know if I’ll go to my one class for today.”

Your loose coins clinked soundly in your palm before you threw them into the vending machine, pressing the number two for a classic can of Coca Cola. You huffed out in amusement at Han’s proposal, snickered at his laziness.

“It’s like you wanna fail. You know your mom’s gonna kill you if you change your major again.”, you bickered while taking the cool bottle out from behind the plastic hatch; the cold condensation felt nice against your hot skin, and your mouth watered in anticipation for a freezing drink. “What are you doing with all your free time skipping class, anyway.” Your tone wasn’t condescending, nor was it much lecturing; you’d lie pretending you didn’t care for your best friends’ education and future, though, and his nonchalance towards it was concerning more often than not – you weren’t even sure what his major was at this point, and it worried you that he might not know, either. He did have the talent to become a successful musician, yet the industry had never simply relied on skills; it was luck and appeal and timing as much as all else.

“Well, first of all; duh, I wanna fail. At least I won’t have to study anymore, and my mom won’t be able to tell me I didn’t try.”, he returned with pride you didn’t quite deem appropriate given the context, and you tsked while he made his way from the old bench to the older vending machine, playing with the loose change in his pocket.

“And second, I use all the free time to write songs for the band you’re in, by the way, so you’re welco-”, he traced off, something external catching his attention mid-sentence, something yet unknown to you, and the man went from cocky demeanour to absolute and utter frustration in mere seconds, “No!! No, this is so unfair, they haven’t refilled my fucking root beer yet!!!” His sorrow echoed through the open, and you needed a moment to register his words, the true mundanity and vanity of them before you started laughing at him whole-heartedly. He went to lean against the glass of the vending machine dramatically, a puffed cheek against dirty glass and it mushed his face, driving to humour you further. One hand of his slid down the glass where the empty spot of his favourite drink stood in all its’ pride; it was almost Oscar worthy, and, to take matters further – and to make you laugh some more, you were sure – he topped it off with fake-crying; you almost choked on the Coke you had started drinking already. You had always adored his humour, his ability to bring light-heartedness into all and every situation – you knew he prided himself in the sounds of your laughter, often took jokes far beyond limit, until your stomach pained, and tears smudged your mascara.

“You know, I don’t even feel bad for you. Root beer is fucking disgusting; it’s a sign that you should change your go-to drink.”, the cold, bubbling liquid felt nice against your lips when you took a gulp after your snarky comment, which earned you a snarkier look. You shut up with a last giggle, and watched your friend carefully eyeing the available options for a drink, brows furrowed as though a far tougher decision than it was, lips caught between his teeth in utter – yet playful – seriousness.

You loved him. Not romantically, never romantically – you cringed at the thought alone as you sat and lay your eyes on him, huffing out in amusement about his seemingly real frustration; yet you loved him. There was no other person dearer to you than him; you’d had your ups and downs as young teens, when hormones had been the only thing ruling your bodies and brains, though you had survived that time, and had been closer than ever afterwards. He was fun; there had never been a boring day if it was him by your side. He didn’t take himself nor others too seriously, viewed the world carelessly, which you had always admired – there’d been days you needed a listening ear, and days where you needed someone to get you out of the static of your own thoughts. Han had always been able to provide both, never not taking you seriously, besides his immaturity, for the lack of a better expression; he had always been the shoulder you cried on after heartbreaks, or fights with your parents, or ulterior and general hopelessness; and he had always been the happiness you craved for right after, his talent to distract you with music or video games or his own banal miseries far more admirable than he’d ever admit. Around him, you bore no filter, and you knew he didn’t either; with him you were human, had always been.

“Guess I have to be basic and take a Coke too, then.”, he tsked as you watched him dial the same number you had after throwing in his share of coins, and you laughed at his comment. His lip piercing was caught between his teeth as he made his way over to you onto the picnic bench, swinging one of his legs over the seat – his large boots always looked too big against his slim body, almost comical; yet it suited him, strangely. His dry, bleached hair fell over his eyes in bangs as he settled in comfortably, sipping his drink with another exaggerated sigh and faked disgust on his features at the loss of his beloved beverage; you scoffed in amusement, taking another big gulp of your soda. While Han enjoyed a free window after practice – and had both the courage and enough lacking willpower to not visit the class he had scheduled right after –, you had to rot away in music class until the five of you were able to meet up again, for afternoon practice; the hours during classes you always spent counting the minutes to be back in the studio, and sometimes the temptation of dropping out and embracing the band full time with Han by your side was so calling, that mid-lesson texts of it, and hopeless, juvenile plans of a music career weren’t a rarity between your best friend and yourself – the guilt of giving up with no solidity beneath your feet yet always took the upper hand, so big plans of bigger stadiums stayed texts, and you continued spending your daily classes in excruciating boredom.

During the couple minutes you had together, right after practice and before your next set of lessons, Han and you talked of everything and nothing. More often than not, it was involving music, his ideas and plans for new songs, possible schedules to practise, mistakes you and he had noticed in the rundown before and needed to correct for the rundown after. Rarely, though not never, both you and him would express doubts or feelings of hopelessness regarding the band and its’ future; another point you were ever comfortable speaking of in the presence of only him. Not because the others wouldn’t understand, or care; they surely would, and you thought they could even be decent listeners and advisers, much to your surprise had you first met them. Yet you preferred to save insecurities for later, when you and Han were in lonesome, could talk undisturbed; neither did you know of the importance the other three bore for the band, nor did you think it a good idea to talk of pointless negativity – ‘Where do we go after college?’, ‘What if the band never really breaks through?’, ‘Do we want it to break through, or are we simply five friends enjoying music and each other’s presence?’ –; you deemed those thoughts to lead to discouragement to practise and play altogether, let alone keep the motivation should you ever decide to take the professional route. Yet, you could always talk of such fears with Han, for he always shared your worries; though currently, he was rambling about a new song he was planning – one he was allegedly writing specifically for you, and for your voice.

“I’ll show you the song when I’m done, I still have to edit a ton and it’s basically completely unfinished, and…”, a sip from his Coke and he looked at you, curiously, “I know you’re not the most confident in your voice, and the song might be out of our skill range…”, Han watched you listen to him carefully, piercing eyes following his every word, “but I’m writing this song to fit your range and tone perfectly, like- I’m writing it for your voice.”, his hands fiddled with the tin of the can under your gaze, almost nervously, as if confessing something he shouldn’t. His cheeks painted pink, only a shade or two yet you noticed, and he seemed to suddenly blink more than usual; strange. You emptied your Coke in a last gulp and Han’s eyes caught yours before you scoffed, softly.

“It’s unlike you to be so nervous about it. I’m sure it’s gonna be a good song, and I bet we will like it – I know I will; it’s written for me, basically.”, you snickered, and Han merely replied with a choked chuckle.

“I’m not… nervous about the song. I actually think it’s the best I’ve made so far, and, like- I think it’s gonna sound insane live, just… I don’t know. Whatever.”, another chuckle, forced, almost, and he avoided eye contact; very strange, truly.

You watched him carefully, wondered where the sudden insecurities stemmed from. Music, and songwriting in particular were his passions as much as they were yours, yet admittedly, he bore far more talent than you did; you had always admired it rather than growing envious of his skill, so far more confused now at his sudden humbleness.

“Show me the song when you’ve finished writing it, I bet it’s nice. Don’t be weird about it.” You nipped at the can of Coke one last time before throwing your worn-out bag over your shoulder, sighing exasperatedly. “Anyways, I have to hurry now. Don’t want Hwang to scold me in front of everyone for being late again.”

Han mumbled a reply, and you cocked your head at him in curiosity one last time – he wouldn’t leave a nagging thought uncommented, not if it was truly bothering him, though maybe he wouldn’t want to distract you before class. He would surely, you thought, mention whatever was making him nibble at his pierced lip and light another cigarette before you were even out of sight later before practice, and you took a mental note to ask him when you’d see him again. You left your empty can of Coke by the bench – you always allowed Han the pleasure of the deposit money for both his and your drink; he never not returned it by standing you a soda every once in a while – and made your way apart from him, from the cooling shadow, from the freezing drinks inside the dirty vending machine, from the comfort of your best friend – you bid goodbye with a last “See you later!” and disappeared behind the corner towards the music building, not without questioning Han’s last seemingly troubled expression.

☆.☆.☆

You sat behind your shabby, wooden desk in the hot, sweat-scented classroom, dimming out the chattering and gossip all around you with your earphones, scribbling doodles and lyrics into your notebook. Your blue pen materialised hearts and clouds and words into your yellowish piece of paper as you waited for Mr. Hwang to enter the classroom, as you waited for the two hours of boredom to pass as quickly as it was possible – or for your teacher to talk of a subject which could interest you, for that matter.

You furrowed your brows at the verses you were trying to make sense of; you weren’t much a songwriter, and despite Han’s patient teaching for the past couple months and your urge to improve your skill you were far from happy with any recent results. Your texts didn’t seem to carry a red line, context was hard to make sense of; you wondered if you had any talent for songwriting at all, or if you should leave said work to your best friend. You’ve acquired a habit of writing down anything you could think of for the sake of practice, to gather any spark of inspiration in written form, and going over it with Han on later occasion – only few verses and sentences of yours found themselves in a couple of his songs, and though you wished it could be more, he made it fashion to remind you it was already something to be proud of.

The heavy creak of the door and the following footsteps were the reason you stopped the music which blasted in your eardrums before taking out your earphones, the silhouette of your teacher strutting through the now murmuring classroom, whispers which sounded like questions, and a general confusion spread between the students; unbeknownst to you, yet, as you packed away your phone and opened your notebook on last weeks’ notes, before you finally converted your eyes to the front, finally caught a peak of you teacher; though it wasn’t the teacher you’ve expected to walk into the classroom, not Mr. Hwang, and your jaw would have hit the rough wood of your table if you’d had been any slower at gathering yourself. The man – not a stranger, though unseen and unthought of by you for the past five years – made his way into the spacy classroom, brown briefcase in hand, white dress shirt hugging the lines of his muscles, the ones on his arms exposed as he’d rolled up his sleeves. His attire was missing the tie you remembered him in, and, different to five years ago, the two top buttons of his shirt lay open around his chest – not showing inappropriate skin, though enough to tease, almost, to make you drool in your seat. His black dress pants moved with him as he settled behind his desk, briefcase on the table, one watch-adorned wrist making its way into his pants’ pocket leisurely as he looked around the class. He was visibly older, now that you had a good view of him – smile lines deeper, skin more textured, a certain calmness writing his pleasant features –he was just as attractive as you remembered him to be; more so, you’d dare to argue.

“Hi, my name is Mr. Bahng. Professor Hwang suddenly fell ill, unfortunately, and I’ll be his substitute teacher for the time being. I normally don’t teach college classes, but other professors sadly didn’t have the time – I’m well acquainted with Professor Hwang, though, so I agreed to take over his class for a few weeks.”

He was friendly. A charming smile adorned his face, a slight blush played around his nose as he looked around the room, looking at each student for a second or two before locking eyes with the next. For closure, for trust. Then he locked eyes with you, and it felt just like five years ago, when you were fresh eighteen years old, and a bored high school student in your last year before graduation.

.☆.

“I’ve never been so excited for class, oh my god.”

You had sat giddily in your seat, anticipating the arrival of your new music teacher. You had only seen him once so far, last week, when he had freshly relocated to the high school you’d gone to, and had been, quite literally and much to Felix’s misery and irritation, head over heels for the man – not because your friend had borne a crush for you; simply because you’d been utterly annoying with your high school love for your teacher. You’d known your yearning had been futile even back then, had known that Mr. Bahng wasn’t possibly interested in a mere girl who had just turned eighteen, yet you’d been young and in need for fun distraction, for amusement. And if that meant drooling over a young, hot teacher who had been just your type, it seemed, then you couldn’t complain.

Next to you, Felix had huffed in amusement as you kept eyeing the entrance door of the classroom, then the clock on the wall in front of you, then the door again. He had prepped his material for class already, in much contrast to your own entirely empty desk; saved for a piece of paper and a pen borrowed from your dearest high school friend.

“Your crush is getting unhealthy… he’s not gonna fuck you, you know.”

Felix hadn’t been judging, yet his voice had been teasing. You’d shot him a glance, had tsked at him which your friend returned with a mocking impression of you – fluttering eye-lids, airy lashes, a dumb-ish smile adorning his face.

“I know he’s not gonna fuck me… that’s not the point, though. Class is boring, and you take your academics way too serious to distract me from it.”, you’d retorted sarcastically, which Felix had accepted with a light-hearted scoff, going back to his notes from last week. You hadn’t been wrong; he wanted to get into college, and with good grades preferably. He’d known you had other priorities; he’d respected, enjoyed, even, your passion for music, and you'd always have the talent for it. The two of you had always been inherently different, though it had never bothered your friendship in the slightest.

Just as Felix had been about to retort with a snarky comment – or another far too accurate impression of your behaviour whenever Mr. Bahng was around – the door to the classroom had opened, and your music teacher had walked in – dress shirt buttoned up all the way, sleeves rolled down even in the hot weather, a careful tie adorning his fit. There’d been fewer lines of muscle back then, though they had been prominent enough to drive your teenage mind utterly insane. Your eyes had been glued onto him as he had welcomed the class, and Felix had struggled containing his laughter; you had been bashing your eyes at him, and you had been wearing a stupid smile around your lips at a mere look at him, just like your friend had mocked about earlier – and you had been either unaware of it, or you hadn’t been bothered enough to care.

You had eyed your teacher the entire lesson, and as much as Felix had wanted to stay focused, he had giggled and laughed at you, amused at your heart-eyes for someone so entirely unattainable. More often than once you had been in need to copy Felix’s notes because your thoughts – and eyes – had been elsewhere than the board, and more often than not Felix had pretended to stop helping you out in class any further, until you’d gotten over your crush; only in light hearted manner, though, because he couldn’t truly deny you of his help, would have felt far too bad to. Though, Felix had always admired your self-reflection in the matter of Mr. Bahng – there hadn’t been one incident in which you’d been unaware of the hopelessness and the unattainability your one-sided love presented – much to his dismay, because during free windows you would complain about it to no end –; and altogether, you had never spoken of love, in the first place. It had been butterflies, distraction from lessons, stupidity and immaturity – and you had always been aware of it; had always been aware of the impossibility.

.☆.

“Oh! And…Y/N, right? It’s nice to see some familiar faces!”

While you had been deep in thought, eyes wide and mouth agape – looking but a deer caught in the headlights, and upon the realisation of your expression you grew bashful – Mr. Bahng had named few students he remembered teaching back in school, happy some chose to follow the musical path before he started with the class, not lingering on you for a second longer after you nodded and smiled in approval; it almost frustrated you, his lack of attention to you – though anything else would have been strange, admittedly.

He had changed almost tangibly, though not by a lot, and into a direction far more pleasant than you'd had dared to expect. There was a change to his behaviour; when you had first seen him teach, he had been nervous, clammy; despite never in loss of control over the class he had clearly not borne much faith for his skills as a teacher yet. Now, standing before you in all his glory, black hair carefully slicked back in purposefully messy waves, constant lazy smile painting his features, he was more confident, far more secure in himself. It made sense; he’d been a fresh teacher five years ago, when he had walked into your classroom in uncertainty, so the gained experience surely did his practice advantage. He spoke with ease – about what, you weren’t quite sure –, each of his word dancing past his lips in serious and clear, yet laid-back manner, his writing on the board as messy as you remembered it, and more cursive now, his eyes finding home on every student sitting in class for a few moments before he moved on; he wasn’t pushing, yet he lured you into trusting him, into listening to his lesson – if you hadn’t been far more interested in his alternative qualities.

Mr. Bahng had always been a good teacher – though it had barely been the quality you liked about him most. You weren’t realising the pain your teeth caused your lips while you were looking at him, melting at the sight you had entirely forgotten over the past years. It was embarrassing, the way your eyes scanned the outline of his shoulders straining against his white shirt when he stretched to write on the board, how they followed the lines of his arm, the tensing of the muscles there when he applied pressure to the charcoal. You watched his hands – veinier than you remembered – as he erased older writings with a wet sponge; the water dripping down his skin felt far more erotic than it should, and, as though teasing on purpose, he got rid of the fantasy far too quick with a simple tap of a towel, leaving his hands dry, and you hot and bothered.

It was embarrassing, the way you couldn’t get your eyes off the curve of his back, and how the tucked-in button-down hugged around his torso, the slimness of his waist in contrast to his shoulders. He presented himself so very matter-of-factly before a class not his own, and it didn’t leave you cold – the subtle dominance, the care he radiated got you squirming in your seat, fiddling with your pen. The two hours you usually spent listening and taking notes were spent in utter awe at the man, in fantasising – you suddenly wished to be kissing down his chiselled jaw which tensed with every of his word, dreamt of licking down the vein on his neck which appeared whenever he turned his head to his right. His hands danced upon your body in your imagination, pressing you against his table, hovering over you and engulfing you whole, sending shivers down your spine with every kiss he granted upon your neck, with every bite he teased against your skin –

You coughed, without much purpose but it tore you out of your thoughts, and you straightened your back to sit up-right in your chair. You grew bashful at yourself, your imagination and the wet patch between your legs; you wouldn’t have expected the man to have the same effect on you as five years ago, and if you truly thought about it, it was quite embarrassing. You hadn’t even thought about your high school music teacher the moment you had graduated, had forgotten him entirely; now you were sitting in his class again years later, as though freshly eighteen anew, a dumb student yearning after a far older man; only now, you noticed as you watched him talk, the circumstances were far different – far more to your advantage. Technically, Mr. Bahng wasn’t your teacher anymore; he was teaching you, though you doubted it to count. He’d be gone again in a few weeks, when Professor Hwang felt better – so, you convinced yourself, he wasn’t your teacher, not technically. The age difference had stayed the same, quite obviously; though now it didn’t seem to quite bother you, not anymore – you’ve been with guys his age, and not rarely. Now you were older, and your crush of far better solidity, realer, almost; you could have him, could manage to wrap him around your fingers. The chances were far better. You weren’t, in fact, freshly eighteen anymore, nor were you a dumb student; and you bagged experience. It wasn’t of advantage to you that he remembered you from school – there was a risk you had stayed a student in his memory, young and immature and far too involved into a music teacher, though you didn’t think that would stand in your way; Mr. Bahng would be easy prey, surely. He wasn’t an impossibility anymore, he was there and real, easy to seduce.

“Let’s see… Y/N, you know the answer? You look sort of distracted.”

You hadn’t much realised the shameful path of your thoughts until the very man you had been sinfully thinking about had started speaking to you himself; you had, in fact, been distracted, and, much to your embarrassment, did neither know the answer nor were you aware of the question he had asked, altogether. You blushed, apologised bashfully – he simply continued with an understanding hum and a quick, kind gaze your direction, before picking another student to answer his question; you needed him, as soon as you could have him.

You’d be ashamed of your fantasising and longing, if it had been under different circumstances; though expectantly, you weren’t at all surprised about the tension flooding in the pit of your stomach at the sight of Mr. Bahng, or the way your thighs rubbed together when his eyes scanned yours for mere seconds; it had been ages since you’ve last been intimate with anyone, and your body was urging for closure, for contact and touch – it wasn’t an absurdity that the man who had caused many sleepless nights prior was now the culprit of a similar outcome.

You picked up where you had last stopped your train of thought; you could seduce him. Surely, if you craved intimacy and closure there were far easier men to aim for – but where would be the fun in that, truly? You had always liked a challenge; you had always liked him. And though your skills hadn’t been of much use lately, you believed yourself to have the charm – there wasn’t anything speaking against your plan, if you thought about it. If you disregarded the morality of the situation, that was.

The two hours of boredom flew past you today. Your notebook was entirely empty; you already dreaded having to find someone ready to lend you their notes of the lesson, though you cared only little while you watched student by student disappearing into their next lessons after Mr. Bahng had dismissed the class, each student opening the opportunity of talking to your teacher further and further. You took your time with your own belongings, dragging out the process of packing away your paper and pen, searching around in your bag for your headphones though it wasn’t at all necessary as they lay right atop your other stuff, only standing up when the last student left the hot classroom; and you found yourself alone with Mr. Bahng. He smiled up at you kind and unknowing as you made your way up to his desk, eyes not much lingering on you as he continued collecting his own materials and leaving the desk ready for the next professor; only when your smiling figure hovered over his own across the desk he looked up at you from beneath his lashes, his seating position painting the illusion of curious puppy eyes – he was far more attractive in the close up, and excitement, a sense of anticipation filled the entirety of your chest.

“Y/N, hello! Do you… need help with anything?”

You stood and stared; you hadn’t even thought of things to talk about with him, hadn’t prepared a pretentious question that could work as a possible opener – suddenly you grew embarrassed, bashful. You felt stupid under his gaze; what the hell were you doing?

“Oh, no… I just wanted to say hi! I haven’t seen you in ages… are you doing alright? Are you still teaching in *insert name of school*?”

Not bad, you thought, though you cringed at yourself; you wondered where all the previous confidence went the moment you stood before the man. The effect he had on you was far too embarrassing. You were far too old to feel like a teenager in love.

The teacher cocked his head at you, brows raised; he hadn’t expected the question, hadn’t anticipated small talk, seemingly. Yet he huffed out in amusement after blinking at you for a few seconds, and your heartbeat against the bones in your chest was deafening. You hoped he couldn’t hear it.

“Uh, yeah, it has been a while… I didn’t expect to see you here, to be honest.”, he snickered, stood and continued packing his stuff. “You were… never really good in my class. I never knew you had an interest in music.” Seemingly harsh words though it was a light-hearted comment as he ended it in a laugh, and you joined his amusement. You were sure you were blushing, though you decided to ignore it.

“Yeah… I never had an interest in school, you know. I always liked music, though. I just prefer listening to and making it, instead of… just learning about it.” Your voice sounded smoother now; he was easy to talk to, kind, funny. He gave you a quick look before continuing collecting his variation of pens and a last notebook, a smirk dancing around his lips – god, you needed him.

Mr. Bahng hummed approvingly at your words, locking eyes with you after snapping in the locks of his briefcase. A smile and a cocked head, and you bashed your lashes at him; just like Felix had mocked five years ago. What were you doing, truly?

“Making it? You’re a songwriter?”

The genuine interest in his voice made you light-headed, stole every thought from you. His dark eyes pierced through your own, unmoving and sure, and you almost trembled under his gaze; if you wanted to get anywhere with him, you needed to channel the charm you thought you acquired, and grow resistance against the giddiness he caused in the pit of your stomach. Your current attempts were all but miserable.

“Uhh, not really. Not yet, that is. I’m... my friends and I are in a band, though. We’re practising here on campus.”

You tried to sound as laid-back as possible, watched his reaction carefully; you enjoyed being able to look at him to your desires, eyes travelling his features up and down, growing weaker any time you passed his plush lips he couldn’t seem to stop wetting with his tongue, or his jaw which tensed with every word he spoke. He was as irresistible as you remembered him to be, and you needed to learn to have the same effect on him. You had a time limit after all; Professor Hwang wouldn’t be sick forever.

His brows raised the moment he heard the word ‘band’ – his mouth formed a silent ‘ah’, and your body heated up at the anticipation of his next words; he was interested in you now, and you deemed that to be of advantage to you.

“In a band, huh?”, he huffed in reminiscent amusement, eyes growing softer, “I love that. I’m jealous, actually. My friends and I had always been so busy in college, but making music together has kinda always been… a dream, you could say. If I can be so honest.”, his cheeks blushed at the sudden confession, the tips of his ears reddening; he looked even more insatiable when flustered.

The man swung his briefcase over his shoulder; the conversation was obviously coming to an end, yet you felt as though you couldn’t let it. You didn’t expect to fuck him right then and there, today, to succeed with your plan in the short span of ten minutes – yet you needed more of a lead than you currently had.

“Well, you’re never too old to start. Except, you know, you’re busy with… a wife and kids, or whatever.”, you laughed at your own joke, eyeing him curiously; and the man didn’t join your amusement. His smile drooped, the creases between his brows deepened; and only now you noticed the shimmering gold band around his left ring finger. Undeniably, he did have a wife, and kids possibly; his reaction and the ring spoke for themselves. Yet, undeniably also, and much to your contentment – he didn’t seem to be on good foot with the subject. As the pair of you continued making your way to the door of the classroom you apologised upon having noticed his silence and sudden clamminess, yet, internally, didn’t regret your joke in the slightest; any form of closure and trust you could tickle out of him would work best for you in the long run. You flinched at your own sadism and the utter lack of remorse you felt at your planning. Though, there wasn’t any reason yet to feel guilty; as of now, and as far as everyone could be concerned, you were a student talking to a substitute teacher you’d known from high school. Whatever developed would be as much in your hands as it would be in his own; after all, no matter what your ultimate plan would be, Mr. Bahng would need to be the one accepting or dismissing your approaches. So really, no matter how you viewed the situation, you couldn’t be the villain in the picture. Not really.

“No, no, don’t worry. We’re just… my wife and I had been hitting rough patches lately, for some time. Nothing crazy, just- typical marriage stuff. Not that it is of any interest to you.” Flustered again, his face changing into a light tone of pink, and he hid behind the classroom door he held open for you. 'Rough patches. Some time now.' – his words shouldn’t fill you with the excitement they did, and for only a second you wondered if your plan – dumb, now that you truly thought about it – was futile, immature altogether. You’d be a homewrecker, you’d be moving in morally grey area, you’d get yourself into a messy situation which would distract you from music and the band if you let it get to you; though then you watched the teacher exit the classroom behind you, a hand in his pocket to fish out his keys, warm and curious eyes on you as he locked the door – any doubt ceased to exist that very moment and having the man fall for you over the next couple weeks materialised as a plan in your path of thoughts again after you bid goodbye, the pit of your stomach ripe with giddiness as you hurried to the studio; Han would die hearing the news.

☆.☆.☆

When you opened the door to the studio the soft vibrato of an electric guitar filled your senses; right before Lino’s classes start, he hands the key over to Han, to let him use the studio in his free windows while waiting for the rest of you. You knew the stuffy room was Han’s favourite place to be creative in, to use for writing songs and practice whenever the five of you couldn’t get together. You would always be the first to meet him right after your music classes, the others arriving about half an hour later – though today you took longer, so you didn’t have much time to gush about your news.

“Hi! You’re late today. Did Hwang keep you?”

As soon as Han had heard the door open his eyes had searched for your figure, and the sounds of his guitar died into nothingness. He took his instrument off – the worn-out fabric having left a visible red mark on the soft skin of his neck – and plopped down on the sofa positioned in a corner of the room, right beside the set-up of instruments. He chewed on a piece of gum, lounging onto the old brown leather after placing his guitar on its’ standee; he hadn’t yet noticed the buzz you radiated as you closed the door behind you and made home in the dusty studio, throwing your rucksack against the sofa carelessly. Without awaiting an answer from you, Han started talking mindlessly, scrolling through his phone in the process.

“I actually thought we could practise this new song I finished earlier. I could play it for you when everyone’s here and go over it all. It’s not the one I was telling you about befo-“

“Wait, wait, wait, I need to tell you something. Urgent. Don’t need the others to know.”

Your voice cut off his, and Han’s eyes lost the screen of his phone now. He converted them to you, perplexed; finally, he noticed the blush around your cheeks and neck, the mischievous sparkle in your eyes, the smirk on your lips – you had been up to no good. You stood against the backrest of the sofa, watched him sit up a bit to look at you properly. His eyes were curious, his phone gone in his jeans’ pocket again, his brows slightly furrowed; the look in your eyes was almost scary, your hovering body over his own near bone-chilling.

“Do you remember Mr. Bahng.”, your voice was almost trembling, and he thought to see stars in your eyes at the sound of the name, whereas his heart stumbled in its rhythmical beating at it and calmed only seconds later. The tempo had increased though, and he felt the heavy muscle pump against the bones of his rib cage in silent fear of your next words. He looked at you wordlessly, speechless.

“My high school music teacher.” Your face emitted the same excitement and giddiness as it did when you talked of your many celebrity crushes, in anticipation of something Han wasn’t even sure of, nor wanted to know. You must have taken Han’s silence for memory loss, though he surely didn’t need the explanation.

Mr. Bahng; the name couldn’t not ring a bell. Though the both of you had never gone to the same school, there hadn’t been a single Wednesday in which Han hadn’t been victim to your gushing and thirsting over a man almost double your age, and the whining about the unfairness of the situation – if you’d been born just a little later, or Mr. Bahng just a little earlier you would have had a chance to get into his pants, yet you’d been left to only yearn for him from behind your desk, every week anew, a hopeless teen in a bad romance movie. Han did remember your high school music teacher; though he couldn’t make sense of the importance of him now. And he was scared to find out about it.

After his further silence you continued, Han’s face unchanged.

“Hwang is ill, and Mr. Bahng is gonna be my substitute teacher for a couple weeks. He’s so hot actually... I forgot how hot he was.”, excitement in your voice, and suddenly words gushed out of you in a waterfall, “He like- I didn’t expect him to walk in at all and then he suddenly stood there at the desk and he remembered me and he got so much hotter and like- I sat there and I felt like I was in school again but I realised I’m not in school anymore and am way older now so the age difference isn’t that weird anymore, you know?” Han almost hadn’t caught the question, realised too late that you expected him to say something, anything. Wrongly so, because he was still processing your words. You were excited, far too much for his taste, though he wasn’t sure why he despised the anticipation in your voice when you talked about your teacher. And, besides; ‘age difference’? ‘Not weird anymore’? He wouldn’t be able to answer even if he wanted to, because he couldn’t find any correlation in your words. When Han didn’t make a sound after a whole twenty seconds, when he kept looking at you with big, questioning eyes and a mouth agape you sucked in your breath, stepped closer to the backrest of the sofa. “Do you know what that means!?”

That sparkle in your eyes again, and Han did, in fact, not know what any of your words meant – still his heart sank, his gut felt as though having taken a punch. He wasn’t expecting anything he’d be excited to hear.

“I can fuck him now.”

The boy choked on his piece of gum, coughing in reaction to your words – his eyes watered, his palm beat against his chest in order to get rid of the sting in his throat, to fill his lungs with proper oxygen again. He hadn’t expected your words; and yet internally, he must have. His body had reacted before you had declared your news; when you had first mentioned your teacher. The name itself sent a set of shivers down Han’s entire body. The absurd confession of wanting – and planning, apparently – to fuck said teacher was even worse. A feeling he couldn’t quite explain found home in his chest, in the pit of his stomach, in the veins pumping right beneath his skin. His hands felt clammy, far too sweaty. What was that reaction? It’s not like he was jealous, he couldn’t be; your words couldn’t make sense to him, though, sounded utterly wrong. Fucking? Your teacher? It wasn’t like you.

“That’s insane. He’s your teacher.”, Han retorted after far too many moments of silence in which you had nothing but stared at him, expectantly. Han reciprocated your gaze with an emotion in his eyes that caused you to furrow your brows; it wasn’t agony, per se, but it was more than worry. It confused you.

“Well, he’s not really. He’s only here for a couple weeks, it doesn’t count.” You made your way over to take a seat next to Han, shoving his legs to the side to make room. He let you, feet flapping off it without resistance, the heaviness of his boots against the wooden floor echoing through the room; the strange expression in his eyes deepened, and it was too intense for you to keep looking.

“That’s still… he’s still a teacher. Like, he’s in a power position, you can’t- you can’t just fuck him. That’s insane.”, Han’s voice was far too agitated for your liking. “And besides, I doubt he’d fuck you. You’re just, like- a student. What’s in there for him except the loss of his job.” He didn’t look you in the eyes while talking – a rip in the old leather sofa was far more interesting to him suddenly, and his teeth nibbled on the silver metal of his piercing. The fingers in his lap fiddled; he was too nervous, too upset and it angered you.

Your head snapped at him; you wouldn’t have expected him to be so against the idea. Maybe you had been dumb, after all. Could Mr. Bahng lose his job? Have you been delusional, too enamoured by his looks you had forgotten over the past five years and influenced by the lack, the drought of any recent intimacy? But then again; Han’s reaction enraged you. It felt like jealousy, far less like the worry you would have understood. And you couldn’t make sense why it did.

“First of all, don’t act all high and mighty when I know you’d happily sleep with like half your current professors if you’d be given the chance – the only thing you ever tell me about class is how good Mrs. Yoo's ass looks in the skirts she’s wearing.”, your voice sounded loud through the room; not truly angry, but defending, maybe. You were too stubborn to admit the stupid plan was all but immature; and you despised that Han wasn’t as excited as you had been. His behaviour ticked you off; it didn’t occur often that the both of you weren’t on the same page about something.

“And besides, maybe Mr. Bahng is horny for me, too. His marriage is shit, as much as I know, so he might- “

“Marriage?! Y/N, don’t tell me you’re serious?” Han’s voice vibrating through the studio made you flinch in your seat, and you looked at him, eyes wide and brows scrunched into one thin line. You knew where he was coming from; but he acted differently altogether. You knew he wouldn’t be in one boat with you about the marriage bit, but you hadn’t imagined him to react this way, throughout the entire conversation; he was jealous, and you had never seen him this way. You couldn’t wrap your mind around it, and the irritation over it caused your head to ache.

“Well, I am serious. Just because you can’t get laid doesn’t mean I can’t have some fun with someone I’ve had a crush on since forever, now that the opportunity is there. Besides, I haven’t even fucked him yet, so get your head out of your ass.”

Your words were harsh, and you regretted them the moment they had materialised in the stuffy room. The studio tensed, your bodies did; and you stayed silent. You didn’t apologise; your stubbornness wouldn’t let you. Additionally, you didn’t even believe to be in the wrong, not entirely. Sure, you were moving in morally grey areas, and you had hit a sensitive spot within your friend; but you hadn’t lied, and he knew it as much as you did. Yet he only kept looking at you, for two seconds, for six, for ten; with every second you grew more and more bashful under his gaze, with every passing second the words you’d said sunk into his brain, embedded there. Until he truly grasped them a whole of twenty seconds later; the fact you were ready to screw your teacher, the fact you’d thought Han would have been excited about the news, the fact you wouldn’t apologise now or rethink your plan in the several moments he was granting you stabbed a wound into his fastening heart. A wound the motive of which he wasn’t all too sure about, yet it felt deeper than he’d anticipated it to. You stayed silent and he stayed looking at you; until he couldn’t bear holding your gaze anymore.

“I need to go out for a smoke.”

The guitarist got up, almost tripped over the dirty carpet under the sofa as he made his way out of the studio. You were fuming, felt guilty, felt bad; you were 22 years old; how could you still fight with Han as though you were both mere teenagers? How could you continue being so very stubborn, believe with so much conviction to still be in the right?

Han didn’t get the chance to open the door to the studio; before his hand could reach for the door handle Lino walked in with the rest of your bandmates, all chatting and quarrelling about something unknown – and, in your current state, uninteresting – to you, before they all fell silent at the sight of the both of you; Han’s head hung low, the usual excitement when everyone arrived absent, you sitting in the corner on the sofa with crossed arms and a look in your face which nothing but scared the rest. Changbin looked from Han to you and back to Han again while Lino and Jeongin made their way inside – slowly and quietly – to set up their instruments; not without questioning looks in their faces. The tension in the room was tangible, and the silence between the two of you was unusual, so you didn’t blame them for their sudden bashfulness.

“Yo, did you two fight? You look beaten up man.”, Changbin expressed with a palm to Han’s shoulder. You ignored his question, got up from the sofa to set up your guitar. You would get it over with practice, and see Han again tomorrow; everything would be settled by then, as always. You would talk again as though nothing happened, if you only survived today.

“It’s nothing, just need to get out for a smoke.” Han’s voice not convincing and to make matters worse, he shoved Changbin’s hand off, and the elder looked at the others with confusion-written eyes when Han left the studio without another word. All three of them looked at you then, wordlessly; though you continued setting up your instrument, throwing the leather band over your neck, plugging the cable into the AMP before turning it on, and soft vibratos halled through the room as you started tuning your guitar. None of them said a word, neither did you; you didn’t as much as look at them. Maybe you weren’t all that grown-up, far more immature than you believed yourself to be. Maybe the idea with Mr. Bahng was stupid, and Han had been right entirely; and the fight for nothing, inherently. It wouldn’t be the first time your ego was too big for your wrongdoings to be visible to yourself – though, in the heat of the moment and in your anger, you didn’t want to admit it to yourself, so you continued sulking, until Jeongin declared to go out for a smoke as well, and the others agreed to join him; leaving you in the studio by yourself, alone with your thoughts – you were thankful for it, if they’ve left on purpose or not.

Han was in the wrong, you thought. Not that you were entirely in the right, either; but he had overreacted, surely. Mr. Bahng wasn’t really your teacher – he wouldn’t lose his job if he fucked you, not if no one caught you until he was gone again. And that was only a matter of weeks; you weren’t sure how long it would take to persuade him – if it would work at all –, so, for all you cared he could be gone before you caught the chance of getting into his pants. You remembered your previous train of thought, and Han’s words; if there was nothing in there for Mr. Bahng, the situation would dissolve, anyways. Eventually, it was up to him if he’d accept your seducing or not – you would simply open the opportunity, everything else wasn’t in your hands anymore. The marriage was the only thing you felt worse about after having talked to Han. You felt guiltier now, were aware that you shouldn’t pursue a married man; and yet, again, you remembered your thoughts you had brewed on when you’d sat in the classroom. If Mr. Bahng’s relationship was so great and worth working on, he would shut out your attempts. He would pretend not to notice your flirting – however you would you didn’t know yet – or he would shut you off clearly, verbally. You would only offer yourself; the rest would be up to him.

It was your stubbornness, surely, and maybe you should simply sleep over your thoughts for a night, but no matter from which perspective you looked at the situation, you couldn’t truly feel guilty. Or maybe you didn’t want to – whatever the reason was, though, giddiness filled your insides again at the thought of next weeks’ class and the possible start of your attempts; until then Han and you would laugh about your fight, and he’d be as excited as you were.

Outside, Han was puffing blue smoke into the scorching air. Changbin and Jeongin talked of something he didn’t pay attention to, Lino eyed him occasionally, which he didn’t notice; neither of them talked to him after he had shut off the question if he was fine with a voice that led them to understand he wasn’t really, but wasn’t in the mood to talk about it, either. He was thankful they didn’t push him, that they acted indifferent.

It’s not like he was jealous – he was simply being a good friend to you. Who knew what kind of trouble you would find yourself in if you fucked your teacher; surely, he was only being caring, prioritizing your well-being. The stinging pain in his heart when he remembered your excitement he chose to ignore, and the insides of his stomach flipping and squeezing together in agony at your carelessness about his reaction, about the entire situation he couldn’t quite interpret, so he chose to ignore that, too. Because if he thought about it too much, confusion and perplexity formed his entire being; confusion about his own reaction, perplexity about the fact he had expected to be excited with you but couldn’t be, physically. As though something was holding him back from feeling happiness about your own, when it involved another. He was angry, he was irritated with himself; atop all, he hated fighting with you, deeply. You were the one person he shouldn’t fight with, ever, the one anchor in his life. If things were bumpy with you, everything else felt out of balance.

“C’mon, let’s practice.”

Han hadn’t noticed how the others had grinded their cigarettes with the soles of their shoes, and with a pat to his shoulder Changbin entered the studio first, followed by Jeongin, then by Lino; who didn’t go in without a last concerned look at his younger friend who was eyeing the asphalt beneath his feet. Han almost didn’t want to go in, didn’t want to face you – he feared his bodily reactions if he happened to see you, he feared to feel the sting in his heart again, the one he found so hard to understand, to name. He threw his cigarette on the ground, tapped out the burning, orange blaze with the pad of his boot. He would get over with practice; tomorrow you and him would be back to the old same again.

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