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celestie0 · 5 months ago

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gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch2. you may now kiss the bride!!

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, n have been taking care of your sick mom ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, mild love triangle(s), gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 2/x (probably 10)

ᰔ words. 16.8k (i be yappin)

a/n. AHHH thanks very much for 2k followers!! yippeee :”) i had a lot of fun writing this chapter of ihm i feel like there’s a lot of silly but a lot of angsty too and i got to set up a lot of secondary plot lines in this chapter which was fun. i really hope you enjoy!! see ya at the bottom!!

nav. ch1 :: ch2 :: ch3 :: ch4 :: ch5 (pending)

“Can you chop down that stupid avocado tree of yours already? It keeps dropping its devilish spawn all over my herb garden.”

“Wow. Good afternoon to you too.”

Gojo scratches the back of his head from where he’s opened the front door of his house, standing in his pajamas and you briefly glance down at his bunny slippers before looking back up at him with a ridiculing face before pushing past him into his house.

Gojo’s house is almost the exact mirror of yours, as are most houses in the neighborhood, but it’s been a while since you’ve been inside of it and so you take an indulgent look. A cozy family room to the side, which you see he’s decorated with a coffee table and a loveseat, and the staircase is visible from the entrance. A modest dining table sits where the carpet turns into wood, and you’ve noticed he’s made the effort to place real hardwood on his floors contrary to the laminate in yours. Ok, show off. Your eyes take in the paintings on the wall, and you remember how his house almost looks fake, like in the way he sets up props in open houses he’s showing for clients, as if someone lives here and yet somehow there’s no real living proof of it.

And because it’s pretty much the exact same layout as your house, you know exactly where the pantry room is, and you grab a bunch of Doritos and Pocky from his secret snack drawer.

“Oh yes, go right ahead. Please,” he says sarcastically as he leans against a support pillar near the dining room and watches you stuff your face with his snacks.

“So,” you say, muffled, “did you grab the paperwork?”

“No, I didn’t.” He glances at his watch. “My friend’s a family law lawyer, and he’s gonna be here soon to help us out with the prenup.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh my god, you’re being serious about the prenup? You really think I’m trying to gold dig at the cobwebs of your bank account? How little self respect do you think I have?”

“...do you really want me to answer that questi–”

The doorbell ringing startles you, and you quickly wipe at your face to clear any crumbs before setting the wrappers in your hands onto a bookshelf as you watch Gojo head to the door and open it.

You hear another distinct masculine voice ring in the air as Gojo exchanges pleasantries with him in the form of a handshake and a familiar hug with a few pats on the back, and then the angle Gojo twists his body reveals the man standing outside the door. He’s a bit shorter than Gojo with a lean build, clad in a fiercely formal black suit and tie with polished shoes. His hair is well-kept, short and raven black, and his eyes are sunken with what you can only imagine is fatigue. And it’s kinda hot to you, unfortunately, after years of working the night shift, you’re starting to find dark circles under people’s eyes to be extremely attractive.

“Uh, y/n, this is my friend, Higurama. Hiromi Higurama,” Gojo says, gesturing between the two of you, “and Hiromi, this is y/n. My obnoxious neighbor. Careful though, if you get too close she’ll bite off your fingers.”

“I’ll bite off a different appendage of yours if you don’t shut the fuck up,” you snarl at him, and Higurama takes a step inside the house to greet you with an outstretched hand.

“Hi, it’s lovely to meet you,” he says, and you’re a little startled by the politeness, but aptly shake his hand and nod before squawking out a likewise!!

You look past Higurama at Gojo who’s got an eyebrow raised at you, and then your eyes are on Higurama again as you watch him set his briefcase down on the dining table. “Are we ready to discuss?” he asks, brown eyes darting between the two of you. You nod and take a seat across from him, and Gojo first grabs everyone some glasses of water before he takes a seat at the head.

“So,” Higurama starts, “I take it you two are madly in love and would like to enter a marital agreement to declare your affections for one another in the court of law under just circumstances?”

You blink at him. “Y-Yes. Very just circumstances. Nothing shady going on here, we are indeed very madly in love and would like to get married.”

“Why the fuck would you say it like that?” Gojo chirps in but not before sighing.

“T-The way he asked was really nerve wracking!!” you counter. And then your eyes widen when you look at Higurama again, who has a slightly amused tug to his lips. “...oh, you already know this marriage is a fraud.”

“I was just testing you,” he casually says, “in case they mention any suspicions in court. Seems you should just let Satoru do the talking.”

You pout a little and sink further into your seat, then bring the glass of water up to your lips.

“Well, in any case,” Higurama says, and then he goes on into the details of what to expect in the courtroom. He pulls out paperwork for the marriage license application and starts to walk the two of you through the prenuptial agreement.

“It’s my understanding you’re both desiring a prenup for this marriage?” Hugurama asks, brow furrowed slightly as he rustles through the endless papers in front of him that he was drowning in.

You briefly glance at Gojo, who’s also looking through all the papers with a concentrated look on his face, his features tense and he’s slightly worrying his bottom lip through his teeth. He’s thinking way harder about this whole prenup thing than you would, and you realize he’s genuinely taking this very seriously.

“Um, yes,” you acquiesce, suddenly feeling a little guilty. And you remember who’s the one in need of the favor here. “I’m okay with the prenup.”

Higurama tells you two about the implications of the prenup, what can and cannot be included under state laws, and stresses the importance of full financial disclosure and fairness in the agreement to ensure its enforceability in the event of a divorce. Basically, don’t fucking lie about anything or else you two could sue each other to hell for it should divorce occur. You both agree, and you’re feeling sick to your stomach with anticipation.

“Alright,” Higurama interjects your thoughts, “I will begin to draft the document then. Let’s start with assets.”

Gojo drones on about his tangibles, intangibles, cash equivalents, stocks, yada yada and you open up with yours too, but you can barely hear anything you’re saying and you can hardly hear what anyone else is saying either because you’re just dreadfully awaiting for Higurama to finally bring up—

“How about debts?” he asks, mindlessly as he types away on his laptop, as if the question doesn’t make you want to throw up.

Your breathing picks up in speed, and you’re nervously fidgeting your hands over the surface of the table. You glance over at Gojo again, this time startled to find his eyes are on you too. His gaze briefly flickers to the shuffling of your fingers, then it meets yours again as he tilts his head slightly in a silent ask of you good?

“Uh–” you start, when you feel Higurama’s eyes on you too now that the silence has stretched on for too long, “I’m…well, I’m in a bit of…debt. From nursing school, a little bit from undergrad still, actually…”

“Okay,” Higurama says, “how much would you approximate? I’ll need the official loan statements soon, though.”

“Well, I’m paying off slowly…but last month I have around seventy-thousand still to pay off.”

“Alright,” Higurama accepts, “and you, Satoru? Student loans?”

“Oh, I don’t have any,” he says, “I paid them off a while ago.”

You feel like you’re being opened apart at the seams, and suddenly feel ashamed.

“Alright, what about other debts? Credit card debts? Any loans to know about?”

You figured you just needed to rip the bandaid off.

“Um,” you say, “I’m about three hundred thousand dollars in medical debt from my mother’s treatment loans.”

The room goes quiet, there’s no more rustling of papers or the mechanical jumping of keys on a keyboard, hell, even the birds outside stopped chirping to display their disbelief.

“Wha–” Gojo starts, like he can’t help it, before he catches himself out of politeness, but he’s still looking at you with concern and shock. “y/n…what happened?”

You look over at Higurama too, and he’s completely turned away from the document he was drafting on his laptop, full attention on you, and his brow is creased with the same amount of concern. And you feel like you’re in therapy. You also feel like you’re about to cry.

“Well…it’s just,” you start, throat feeling raw, “my mom couldn’t qualify for medical loans because of years of poor credit, and insufficient income, and her cancer treatments became really costly, and so–” you suck a breath in, because your voice cracks slightly at the end. You were not about to cry in front of them right now. “And so I decided to cosign on her loans so she could receive treatment, and stuff kept coming up, and I had to work reduced hours for a couple of years when she was first diagnosed, and…some payments got away from me, and so then…there was interest, and…it’s…I guess over five years, things just…accumulated.”

They both sit there in stunned silence, shifting uncomfortably in their seats, like they understand your situation is so fucked in its entirety that they can barely even bear to put themselves through the trouble of even imagining themselves in your shoes, let alone fathom that you’re living in them.

Higurama clears his throat and redirects his attention to the computer. “That’s… no problem for the prenup. Thank you for being honest.”

“Hey,” Gojo interjects, and his hand reaches out to lay over your fidgeting hands over the table. His eyes are serious. “Why didn’t you–” he starts, and his face softens slightly when you can’t help the small sheen of tears that reaches your eyes, “...why didn’t you say anything about this? I mean, anytime we’ve talked.”

It’s your turn to look at him with a tense expression, and you slowly withdraw your hands from the hold of his palm to place them in your lap under the table. “Uh, why would I share about my financial woes to my neighbor? Don’t most people just act like shit’s normal with their neighbors?”

“I guess, but I didn’t know it was that ba–”

Higurama’s phone starts to ring, and he glances at the Caller ID before sighing slightly. “Sorry, I have another client I need to see soon. We’ll have to wrap this up, but I’ll continue drafting this document. Please send me your relevant statements for any loans and–” he glances at you, “...associated debts.” He starts to gather his things at the table, then neatly tucks his papers into his briefcase before placing his laptop in there too. He reaches to shake Gojo’s hand first, then shakes yours, and holds onto your hand a second longer to gather your attention. His eyes are almost solemn.

“I truly hope your mother gets better soon,” he says to you, tone contrite.

You slowly nod and thank him, and then Gojo goes to see him out the door.

The house feels quiet when Gojo closes the front entrance, and he stays facing the door for a few seconds before slowly turning around to face you, back leaning against it as he crosses his arms in front of his chest, and just when he opens his mouth to speak, you cut him off.

“I really–” you say, “...I really don’t want to talk about it.”

His face contorts into confusion, and it looks like he’s about to protest, but you allow yourself to show the slightest amount of the hurt and the worry on your face, and he realizes that means he shouldn’t try to push it.

“Okay,” he says, and quietly.

Things are awkward in the air for a second, so you waltz over to the window and watch through it as Higurama gets into his car, some type of sleek old black Mercedes Benz but it’s polished to perfection, and you let out a content sigh.

“What?” Gojo asks you, tone a little short.

“Ohhh, nothing,” you say, bringing your hands up to cup your cheeks to feel their warmth as you take in the image of Higurama’s slender legs in his business attire, “I just…” you sigh again, “I just loooove men in suits. I wish I knew more men that wore them often.”

A beat of silence. “Um. I wear them often?”

You turn on your heel to face him. “Yeah, but you wear them in, like, a slutty way. Higurama,” you say, pointing with your thumb facing the window, “wears them in the actually respectable workplace way. Hence why it’s hotter on him.”

He scoffs. “And yet you’re always staring at my ass from afar when I’m wearing my tailored trousers.”

“I seriously wonder what it’s like to be so fucking delusional all the time,” you shake your head at him and he looks like he’s got a comeback on his tongue but you sshhhhhhhh him and walk back into the heart of the house. You look over your shoulder briefly, and see Gojo’s standing where you were standing at the window a few seconds ago, looking out onto the street, and he’s grumbling something under his breath you can’t quite hear. And then you hear the sound of Higurama’s car driving away.

You circle around the dining table, and take a seat to look through the marriage paperwork Higurama left behind for the two of you to fill out.

“Bring the paperwork over to the kitchen island,” you hear Gojo say as he makes his way to the kitchen, “I’ll fix us some coffee.”

The island has a seated side to it with bar stools that raise high and turn in fully 360 degree fashion, so you swirl around in your seat to make yourself dizzy while Gojo brews some coffee with his espresso machine.

“Mm…smells nice,” you comment, still swirling.

“Milk? Sugar?” he asks you, and you stop swirling to answer him.

It’s not the first time you’ve been to Gojo’s house. When he first moved in next door, you brought him a plate of cookies as a welcome to the neighborhood! gift and he had invited you inside and fixed you a cup of coffee then too. The house was mostly empty back then, he’s made a lot of good work in filling it with furniture in that sort of IKEA catalog fashion, and you can clown on him for it all you want, but it still looks nicer than most homes you’ve been in. Anyways, you only visited him in his house a couple times after that before you realized you hated him. Because he blasts loud music at the most random times, which you’re convinced he’s just trying to show off the sound system he probably spent an unnecessary amount of money on, not to mention an unnecessary amount of time installing. He also always forgets to mow his fucking lawn, and it drives you nuts because then the weeds spread over into your lawn, but it’s not like it matters because you hardly mow yours either, but still. And that fucking boat. That fucking boat he keeps right at the edge of your driveway that taunts you and your ability to pull into garages after every single one of your dreadful night shifts. One of these days, you might just steal it and drive it into the ocean so it drowns. Wait, boats don’t drown. That’s the point of boats. They’re buoyant. It’s okay, you’ll find another way to get rid of it. The boat, you mean.

“Here you go,” he says, sliding a cup of coffee to you across the island. You peer inside at the brown liquid, and the scent alone awakens your senses.

“So, logistics,” you say.

“Logistics,” he repeats after you as he stirs a spoon in his mug.

“We need to make this believable,” you say to him, “otherwise the marriage could be invalidated, and we could face criminal charges, and I could lose the insurance benefits for my mom, and potentially get sued by said insurance companies, and get thrown into jail for life, and—”

“And how much sleep have you lost thinking about this?” he asks you with a sigh as he brings his mug up to take a sip.

“I’m being serious, Satoru,” you say to him, “I…would just rather err on the side of caution. It’s a small town, people talk. And sometimes those people know the law.” You shudder.

“Who the fuck is out there that would be so pissed about us getting married just so you can help out your sick mom?” he asks.

Your eyes flicker downwards slightly in consideration. You can think of one person, at least. And when you look up at him, you’re surprised to see there’s a similar look on his face, as if he could think of a particular one person too. But before you can dwell more on the expression on his face, he grabs the paperwork in front of you and looks through some of it. “You should get started on your paperwork. Higurama filled most of mine out for me already, so you’re the one he’s waiting on.”

You groan and stretch your arm out across the island counter, then lay your head on your upper arm. “Sigh, why couldn’t he have done that for meee tooooo.”

“Probably because he doesn’t know you?” Gojo snorts. He’s silent for a moment as he takes another sip. You can’t see his face. “So,” he starts, “I mean. If we’re going to make this believable, which, to be honest, I don’t think a single person in this neighborhood would find us getting married believable, but still, if we were to try making it believable, wouldn’t it make sense for us to, uh, I don’t know, live together? Like what regular married couples do.”

“I am appalled you would even suggest that.”

“It’s going to look like we’re just faking it if we don’t at least cohabitate together,” he tells you.

“We can’t do that,” you sigh, “I bet you’d try to touch me inappropriately.”

“What???”

“Yeahhh, I don’t know, you just—...you just seem like a guy with very little self control.”

“...y’know what? This is over. I’m calling off this engagement,” he says, and he walks over to the dining table with his coffee cup in hand and you lift your head up off your arm in a panic.

“Wha–...no!! Wait!!” you say, grabbing all the paperwork off the island and bringing it to the dining table where he’s taken a seat. “Please marry me. I need it so bad.”

“Woah,” he says, looking up at you, and there’s a darker glint to his eyes. “You need it so bad? Can you say that again?”

You curl up the papers in your hands into a makeshift hollow pole and whack him across the head with it. “This is exactly why I think you would touch me inappropriately.”

He grumbles slightly as he nurses the spot you whacked him with two of his fingers rubbing the area, and then he fixes his hair with a comb of his hand through it. The sleeve of his shirt drops a little from the movement, and you can see the muscles of his arm flex, then your eyes are quickly darting away so he doesn’t catch the line of your gaze on him. What the fuck. That was weird. You blame ovulation.

“Alright, fine,” he says, and he grabs the papers out of your hand, “also don’t bend these. It bothers me.”

You circle back to the kitchen to grab your abandoned coffee cup, and then bring it to the dining table to sit down with him at it. He places your half of the papers in front of you. You glance down at the first few boxes to fill out, and you already feel like giving up.

You glance up at him for a distraction. “Aren’t you going to ask me how long I want you to be married to me for?” you ask him.

“Uh, how long do you want me to be married to you for?”

“Forever,” you say. To scare him.

“Yeah, right.” He waves his hand in the air dismissively.

You sulk because it didn’t scare him. “Six months.”

“More plausible.”

“Really,” you say earnestly, “six months.”

He looks up at you now, a curious expression on his face. “Why specifically six months?”

Your eyes find the color of your coffee fascinating once again. “I don’t want to put my mother in hospice for too long. I’ll miss her,” you say, “it’s just…something I’m trying out for now. And to just get a bit of a caretaking break, and also so I can pick up more shifts at the hospital to work on paying off my debt. It’s just…temporary.”

His shoulders roll back once and he sits up a little straighter, holding up one of the pieces of paper to study it better while he clicks his pen. “Alright. Whatever works for you.”

You twiddle with your hands again, blinking a little in consideration as a few moments pass by. “Uh…about living together. That’s fine. I suppose.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Really?”

“Yeah. But no touching,” you point at him with a strict finger.

He tilts his head back up to the ceiling in annoyance. There’s a roll in the muscles of his throat as his jaw goes slack. You squirm in your chair a little. Ovulation, you think.

“I’m not going to touch you, y/n,” he assures you when his chin tips back down. You just stare at him for a few seconds as he seems to be in thought about something, and then his eyes meet yours. “Whose house are we going to live in?”

“Mine,” you say, “yours looks like a shitty catalog. It’s lame.”

“True,” he says, “yours feels homey. I like that.”

You’re a little taken aback by his words, and then purse your lips together. Your sort of go-to thanks expression reserved for him. “So, are you gonna sell your house then?”

“Huh? No way,” he shakes his head, “I’ll just see if I can rent it out for now.” He shakes his head even more. “I mean, god no, I wouldn’t be caught dead selling a house. Not with these market conditions. You know how much it’s already risen in equity within just the past few months alone? In five years from now—”

While Gojo continues to drone on about the lunacy of not holding onto property in this housing market, your eyes widen slightly at his words, like your body realizes a truth to what he’s saying before your mind does.

And then that’s when it hits you.

How you can help pull yourself out of debt.

You slam your coffee mug down on the table with a little more fierceness than you probably should’ve.

“Hey,” he scolds you, “can you be careful with that?”

“We’re not going to live in my house,” you say, ignoring him, “we’re gonna live in yours.”

“Huh?” he responds, “...but I thought you said mine looks like a catalog.”

“A shitty catalog.”

“Did you need to specify?”

“We’re not going to live in my house,” you tell him, with resolve, “because I’m gonna sell my house.”

He sits up a little straighter at your words. “Like, the house next door?”

“Mhm,” you nod.

He sighs. “Were you even listening to me? It’s so much more worth it to–”

“I don’t care,” you cut him off, “I need the money now. Not five years from now.” Your eyes glance down at your hands, and your tone becomes quiet. “I…I don’t even know if my mom has five years left to live.”

A silence settles in the room, and you see in your periphery that Gojo’s stiff and still, like he’s barely allowing himself to breathe as if you’d find it abrasive, and when you look over at him, his expression is soft.

“I know,” he says. “It sounds like a plan.”

“Will you help me sell it?” you ask him. “I’d…need a realtor.”

“Sure,” he easily agrees.

“Okay…” you say, and take a sip of lukewarm coffee, as if you haven’t just decided on an extremely major life decision. “Um. I’ll go get the paperwork then. From my house.”

“Oh. Right now?” he asks you, and he leans forward in his seat a little to get a closer look at your face. “I mean, don’t you want some time to think about it before putting it on the market? We can wait for a little bit.”

“No. That’s okay,” you say, standing up from your chair, “I’ll…go get the paperwork.”

He nods at you slowly, but his eyes are observant, and you ignore it to keep up the momentum of this decision that was definitely the right decision by all means and one that you should not be hesitating on at all as it is such an epiphany that can help clear your debilitating financial burdens.

“Drive safe,” he says to you when you grab your purse off the coffee table in the family room.

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

The outside air is breezy, it’s a nice day with the sun shining down and sparkling off of sprinkler dew drops on overgrown grass, and you hop across with a pep in your step as you make it to your house next door. You’re always quiet when opening the door, because you never know when your mom is sleeping or not, and since her bedroom is downstairs, she’s privy to noises. Once you’re inside, you check to make sure she’s sleeping with a small creak open of her door, only to find that she’s sitting on her rocking chair and looking through a box of paintings.

Your heart twists at the sight, and you gently knock the door with your knuckles.

She glances up at you, and you can always tell from just the look in her eyes if she recognizes you or not. Because they’re warm and gentle when she does, but they see right past you to the wall when she doesn’t.

“Hello,” she says, “can I help you?”

You come up to her and kneel down beside her, placing a hand up on the rocking chair arm rest while she looks down at you.

“Hi, mom. It’s me. Your daughter,” you gentle reintroduce yourself. It’s what her neurologist suggested you do anytime she can’t remember you, but it rips away a piece of your soul each time.

Her eyes still see past you, abstract, empty with no feeling as she wraps her head around your words. “I am no one’s mother,” she tells you, tone sounding sharp and like she’s a moment away from terror.

“That’s okay,” you quickly remediate, feeling hollow inside from her words but you always had to be the sane one, so you direct her attention to the box in her lap. “What are you looking at?”

“Oh, I just found these paintings!” she exclaims. “I thought they were wonderful. Do you know who drew them?”

You smile up at her. “You did.”

“Me?” she blinks at you. The wrinkles in her forehead crumple with surprise, “oh, no, dear, I could not paint such things with detail. Look at me!” She holds her hand up. “My hand is trembling!”

She’s getting weaker. You make a mental note to bring it up to her doctor.

“You used to hold a paint brush like it was just an extension of your hand,” you tell her, picking up one of the paintings out of the box, “you were an art teacher, mom.”

“Don’t call me mom,” she says to you, that sharp tone from earlier cutting through to your soul. “I am no one’s mother.” Her eyes shimmer with a light sheen of tears.

You stare at her, brow pinching together with hurt, but you bite back the part of you that wants to beg her to remember you, to take one close look at you, and see you with warmth and not emptiness. But she sees past you all the same.

“Can you do something for me?” you whisper to her.

“Yes?” she asks.

“Could you please lay down? You need some rest.”

“Are you my nurse?” she asks.

You breathe in deep. “Yes.”

“Am I…” she glances briefly at her reflection in the vanity mirror, her eyes flitting up to the head scarf on her head that covers the absence of hair, “am I sick?”

You exhale. “Yes. You need rest.”

“Oh…” she acknowledges, “why, yes. I do feel…a little frail.”

“I know,” you comment, and you put the box down on the floor then help her up onto her feet slowly by holding onto her arm, and you guide her to sit on the bed and take her medications. She then lays down, and you nod at her reassuringly before you head out the door and close it behind you.

Your lip trembles with the threat of a sob as you stare straight forward at the wall in the dimness of the hallway. But a harsh bite to the plush of it ceases the quiver.

You make your way up the stairs to go grab that binder you had with the mortgage and house information, plus some of your recent utility bills. Except the binder is hard to locate, and you’re rummaging through the cabinets in your closet, the drawer of your nightstand, you’re even looking underneath the bed. But when you lift your head up from under it, still kneeling on the carpet, and glance at the wall, you notice something.

48’’ eight yrs. what a big girl!

46’’ seven yrs. big jump

41’’ six yrs.

37’’ five yrs. my little princess

…

–all written in graphite pencil, scribbled up the wall where you would stand tall against as a kid, your mom marking your height at every birthday. And your eyes start to well with tears.

This was your childhood home. With magical corners tucked away where you used to play hide and seek with your dad, with your old bedroom you used to play in with dolls and have tea parties with all your stuffed animals. There’s still a stain of fruit juice on the carpet underneath the rug that you never told your mom about because you knew she would be mad at you and would scrub it out, but it was in the shape of a heart and when you were a kid, you thought that meant you would find your prince charming some day. This house holds so many memories, like birthday parties and Christmas Eve and the sunflower patch in the backyard where you laid Sniffles to rest.

And it holds the familiarity of you that seems to be slipping through your mother’s fingers with each passing day, all those memories you created with her now solely yours to keep and no longer to share. But you realize at this moment that you’re not alone. This house still holds those memories with you.

Your eyes flicker to the graphite pencil marks on the wall again, and the tears flow freely.

In the moments where she cannot remember that you are her baby, this house remembers for her.

Your sleeve wipes at the dampness on your cheeks.

But it’s never enough, is it? And it’s never that easy, either. Life was never that easy, and you don’t always have the choices you might think you do.

You find the binder, and grab all the utility bills too, and head downstairs. You pass by your mother’s room with softness and sleuth, and guilt in your heart when you realize what you’ve chosen to do. There’s no pep to your step when you make it back to Gojo’s.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

“Sooo,” Gojo says, after about twenty minutes of looking through all the house paperwork in the binder at the dining table, “your mom transferred ownership of the house to you as a gift deed when she was diagnosed?”

“Mhm,” you say.

“She paid off quite a bit of it,” he comments as he looks through banking statements, “but still not enough to pay off your medical debt, unfortunately.”

You sigh. “I know. It was never really a house she could afford anyways. She just received it from the divorce, and I remember we were supposed to downsize, but…she didn’t want to.”

“I see,” Gojo comments, “well, it’s alright, it would still help you a lot for sure. How many years are left for your solar panel lease?” He has a pen in hand and a custom realtor notepad in front of him with his messy handwriting all over it.

“It’s new,” you say, “still got thirty years left.”

“Jeez, okay. How much per month?”

You scavenge through the bills on your table. “Ummm um um ummm…….”

“You should really…get more organized.”

“You should really mind your fucking business.” You find the bill. “$285 per month.”

“Okay,” he scribbles it down, “does it offset your electricity bill?”

Your shoulders sulk. “A little bit.”

“Yeah, it might scare some buyers away.”

You sigh. “Oh and then the HOA too.”

“HOA?” he looks up at you with a puzzled expression on his face. “We don’t have an HOA in this neighborhood.”

“We don’t?” you blink at him. “Then who have I been sending $195 dollars to every month?”

“…….....you’ve seriously gotta be some special kind of stupid.”

After panicking for five minutes while checking your credit cards for fraudulent activity, Gojo gets done cutting up an apple for you.

“Here,” he says, sliding the plate to you, “since you look like you’re about to faint. Knowing you, it’s probably just low blood sugar.”

You dramatically sigh and sink in your chair. “I can’t believe I spent the last three years paying an HOA that doesn’t even exist…”

“Hey, on the bright side, there’s some dude out there on an exotic vacation that’s very thrilled by your idiocracy right now.”

You shoot him a look. And then you hang your head low to drink your extremely cold coffee that you were still nursing, before downing it all in one go. Your eyes catch the marriage paperwork that Gojo was reviewing earlier, and you see Higurama’s pre-filled in information that he typed onto the papers before printing them for him.

“Hm,” you hum, “it says here that you’ve been married before. You might want to get that fixed before we submit these.”

He stands up from the table, two of his fingers hooking onto the handle of his coffee cup, and he glances into yours to make sure it’s empty, briefly flicking his eyes to you and you shake your head for no, no more coffee, thanks before he wraps his other two fingers around the handle of your mug as well. The clink of the two porcelain mugs in his hand startles you a little as he walks past you to the kitchen sink. “There’s nothing to fix about that,” he says, his tone level and easy, “it’s true. I’ve been married before.”

Your eyes widen at his confession, and you quickly twist your torso in your chair to stare at him. Or at least, the back of him as he turns the faucet on and begins to rinse out coffee mugs.

Married? Before? There are so many questions swimming through your head right now, ones that you desperately want answers to, biggest of all perhaps being now who the fuck would actually want to marry him??? for real??? you’re telling me this self obsessed dork proposed to a real life woman with a pulse and she actually said ‘yes’ to him??? who was this woman, and which psych ward did he find her from???

But he’s so quiet from where he stands, broad shoulders less pushed back like they usually are, and something tells you he wouldn’t entertain any of those questions from you right now. A glance at the paperwork, though, tells you the divorce was recent. Less than a year ago. Around the time he moved in next door.

He still has his back facing you, and you try to sneakily catch a glimpse at more info under the Wife section on the prior marriages form. You can see the paper says maiden name: Inoue and you’re just about to sneak a peak at the first name when—

“You want to stay for dinner?” he asks when he turns around, leaning back against the sink counter. “I’m ordering pizza tonight.”

You’re surprised by the sudden invitation, and shuffle the papers over one another again. “Oh–that’s…that’s okay.” You glance at the clock he has hanging on the wall. “I’ve got work in a couple of hours, so…I should really get going. Have a few errands to run before then.”

“Okay, so, we’ll…talk later?”

“Yeah, later,” you stand up from your chair, and for some reason, the air feels a little heavier to you now. “Uh…” you start, awkwardly scoffing a little, “wow. Bachelor life again, then, huh? Probably just–...probably just beer and pizza every night?”

He purses his lips together, humoring you with a small laugh that comes out as a scoff through his nostrils. “No. Not really. I only order pizza when I close a sale on a house. My way of celebrating.”

“Oh,” you respond, “I see.”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he says.

“I live next door,” you remind him.

His eyes widen slightly. “Oh. Right.”

“H-Hope the traffic’s not too bad!” you joke.

His laugh comes more genuine now. “You’re stupid.”

You head towards the door, and when he opens it for you, there’s a chill of air outside and it’s darker now, hues of dark gray, purple and a slight orange still present on the horizon paint the sky and you step outside then turn on your heel to face him.

“Um. Congrats, by the way. On the sale,” you tell him, “enjoy your night. And I’ll see you this weekend?”

“Huh?” He raises an eyebrow. “What’s happening this weekend?”

“We–” you scoff, “we’re getting married this weekend?”

“Oh!” he exclaims, tense, “right, yes, see you this weekend. For marriage. Of us.”

You roll your eyes and make your way down the concrete pavement that leads its way to his house, and leads its way away from it too. And when you walk back to your house, it’s not with a sulk, but it’s not with a pep in your step either. You just feel…neutral.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

“So, tell me about this fake husband of yours,” Hana says, leaning against your work-on-wheels as you attempt to catch up on charting notes with 4 hours and 15 minutes and 53 seconds left on your shift (it’s not like you were counting though).

“Yeah, in a sec,” you mumble as you punch in keys.

6/2/2024 0344: patient placed on 5150 hold on 5/31 at 1745, continually monitored by ED tech. all objects have been removed from pt’s room to prevent any danger to self or others. however patient accessed hand sanitizer dispenser on the wall at roughly 0320 and ingested all the hand sanitizer. notified MD of toxic ingestion, follow up plan is to coordinate care with poison control. no further orders at this time

“Okay, what were you saying?” you look up at Hana again and rub the tired out of your eye with a balled up hand, along with all the mascara.

“Your fake husband!! Tell me about him!!” she chirps, shaking your work-on-wheels in excitement and the blur of your computer screen makes you feel dizzy.

“Shhhhh,” you hiss at her, “keep your voice down when we discuss illegal activities.”

She rolls her eyes. “Why are you always so paranoid? I’m already sick and tired of you charting incessantly every five seconds to save yourself from medical lawsuits that you haven’t even been accused of.”

“In a medical lawsuit, the chart is the law, Hana,” you say eerily with a shiver, and her words remind you to continue your detailed charting. “Never forget that.”

She sighs. Her gaze travels across to the other end of the emergency department, and you assume she’s staring at the asses of the EMT boys again, so you glance over your shoulder too.

Except instead, you see the worst person on the planet.

Well, second worst as of right now.

The worst person title was reserved for someone else.

Approaching from down the hall is Yuna, your ex-best friend, a bounce in her step as she walks with a sort of allure as her hips rock side to side, her mile-high ponytail swaying in beat with the rhythm as well, and the ashy blond highlights in her hair hypnotize anyone she waltzes by.

She was the kind of nurse that all the other nurses are jealous of. Always has cute little accessories and stickers on their badge, is wearing the fancy FIGS scrub sets that hug her sporty curves in all the right places, paired with those little shoes with the ankle socks, and she most definitely gets her water goal in for the day because she’s always sucking on the straw of her periwinkle Stanley cup around the ED all night just like she sucked the cum out of your boyfriend of seven years just twenty-four hours after the two of you had broken up–

“y/n,” she casually calls your name, leaning her elbow up on the cubicle divider of the nursing station. “It’s time for you to take your break. I’ll watch your patients.”

“I’m not taking my break,” you say, trying to relax the grit to your teeth which makes your eye twitch out of frustration instead. “Now get the fuck away from me before I call a Code Black.”

She sighs, rolling her eyes and smacking loudly on her gum. “Yaga said you have to take your thirty tonight. Something about how you haven’t clocked out for a break in more than two months and the hospital could get sued for that.”

“The hospital has way bigger cases they should be biting their nails about getting sued over,” Hana snorts just to butt in on conversation.

“C’mon,” Yuna says, her fingers reaching out to touch the handle of your work-on-wheels, purposefully stretched so that you can eye the perfect sparkly manicure to her nails. You curl your fingers into the skin of your palms to hide your gel polish that’s long started to scrape off. “Go clock out.”

“I’d rather die than listen to a single fucking thing you tell me to do,” you tell her, plain and simple.

“y/n!” a loud masculine voice calls from the other end of the Emergency Department, and all three of you visibly shrink a little in your stances out of fear. Head nurse Yaga. “Take your break, or I’ll be damned to let you set another foot in this hospital!!” he’s yelling at you all the way from the entrance to the CT scanner.

“But–”

“Now!!!!!”

Your eyes flicker to Yuna, who has an amused look on her face and a tilt to her head, and then you’re grumbling before logging out of your computer then stepping away from it. “Draw a CBC & chem on Beds 24 and 28 at 4 AM sharp,” you grumble to her, and she just gives you one of those tight-skinned smiles.

The break room is empty, with shades of beige on the walls and even more depressing shades of gray on the lockers. There are all sorts of things pasted on the walls, like photos from staff Halloween and Christmas parties, drawings that pediatric patients have made in appreciation of their nurses, and employee information that Yaga’s constantly shoving in everyone’s faces.

Okay, the backstory with Yuna. Pretty simple. You two had been best friends since high school, like inseparable best friends. Y’know, sneaking out late at night to use fake IDs at the bar, cover for the other when you’re busy losing your virginity to your high school boyfriend in the most dishonorable way possible, rooming together in college, sobbing and crying through all of nursing school together, ride or die type of friendship that you think you’d only find once in a lifetime. Except turns out your best friend, who you’d considered a sister, had eyes for your boyfriend since you started dating him in college, and the second that dickwad dumped you, you catch her sucking him off in the back of his Toyota Camry when you go to pick your stuff up from his place. Yeah, ouch. You lost the two closest people in your life, all in the matter of twenty-four hours, so pardon yourself for being a bit bitter about it.

But being bitter is the coping mechanism. The real way you feel comes in the form of tears prickling in your eyes and the pain in your throat as you try to swallow away the knot that’s suffocating you from the inside out. A type of loneliness that leaves you stranded even in a room full of people. But at the very least, this room is empty, so no one has to see the crack in your resolve.

There’s no time on a thirty-minute lunch break to have a full mental breakdown, so you sparsely wipe at your tears and head back to your shift.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

If you want to know who actually holds the worst person on the planet title right now, well, you run into him on a Tuesday afternoon while on a grocery run after you just woke up from barely sufficient post night shift sleep. Bitter and drugged by Melatonin was not a state of being you needed to be in right now, but you’re out of orange juice and you’re having Vitamin C withdrawals which warrants a trip to the store. Unfortunately, the town only has one grocery store, which means you were bound to run into pestering ex-boyfriends at least once every full moon.

“Get the fuck out of my way, Choso,” you snarl at the man who’s walking backwards ahead of your grocery cart, trying to stop you in your tracks so you’d just chill out and listen to him for a second.

“Can you just chill out and listen to me for a second?” he asks you, irritation evident in his voice like you’re being the difficult one here.

“I already told you that I quite literally never want to see your stupid ugly face ever again for as long as I live,” you say, and you ram your grocery cart forward with so much force the metal hits his knees and he doubles over the basket indignantly with a groan.

He seems like he’s had enough of you evading him, so he jams his foot under the wheel to keep you from moving forward, and you’re scowling at him and struggling against his foot-stop but to no avail.

You briefly consider abandoning your cart all together and just bee-lining for the exit, but he’s a cop, so he’d easily be able to tackle you to the ground if you tried.

“What do you want?” you snarl, impatiently tapping your foot with every miserable passing second spent in his presence.

“I just–” He sighs, “I just want to talk. And to know how you’re doing. You won’t pick up any of my calls.”

“Huh?” You blink at him. “I’ve had you blocked for the past two weeks. You shouldn’t even be able to call me.”

His eyebrows raise. “Really?...who have I been dialing then?”

“Fuck if I know,” you shrug, and you use his moment of confusion to swerve your cart off to the side and make your way down the refrigerator aisle. Ohhh, dulce de leche gelato sounds nice, and it’s on sale. You grab a jar.

Choso’s trailing behind you as you eye price tags and sale signs in the open chill of the yogurt section. “Babe–”

“Don’t–” you immediately cut him off, spinning fast on your heel and he stops himself just in time from crashing right into you. You hold your index finger up in the air between the two of you with a clench to your jaw so tight it feels sore, and through gritted teeth you say, “don’t call me babe.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. It’s habit.”

Indeed, habit. Seven years of him calling you babe, or baby, or boobie (idk don’t ask). Your favorite though? Babydoll. He’d always call you that when he’d make sweet, sweet love to you while you were wearing his favorite flimsy little piece of lingerie–babydolls. Even now, the memories have your cheeks feeling hot. But he doesn’t get to call you babe anymore, and he doesn’t get to fuck you anymore, or talk to you anymore, or breathe in your general direction anymore, because he betrayed you. He wasted your time, and then he betrayed you.

Seven years of your sexual prime, where you could’ve been fucking hunky firefighters and bisexual Europeans, wasted on a man you weren’t even going to marry in the end anyways. Now you’re pushing thirty, and the idea of having to date again makes your skin crawl with anxiety that turns into fury because your doom is all caused by the man in front of you.

Whatever, forget about the sex and the impending loss of a woman’s novelty within society for a second. You loved him. A part of you still loves him. You wanted to marry this man. You thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with this man. Little sheriff deputy’s wife, Mrs. Kamo, the perfect number of letters to get on a bejeweled license plate. You had envisioned all the cute little quotes of adoration that would be imprinted on your wedding reception’s custom-made doily napkins with everyone that’s ever meant anything to you sitting at the table, ready to celebrate the love that you thought was real and true and brave and strong and one that would last forever.

But he abandoned you when you were at your lowest. And he fell into the arms of the one person you thought you could turn to crying when the relationship crashed and burned in the first place. And the problem with living in a small town is that everyone knows everybody’s business, so now you’re just the woman that wasted her youth on a man that played her like a broken fiddle. Utterly heartbroken, and humiliated.

So, yeah, he doesn’t get to call you babe anymore.

“Listen here, asshole,” you say, stabbing him in the chest with your finger, so he can feel even a fraction of the pain you’ve felt in the past three weeks, “I couldn't care less if you live today, or die tomorrow. So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave me alone. Or I’ll file for a restraining order.”

“Really?” he says, brows pulled tight together in disbelief, like he just can’t understand what he’s done to make you act this way, and quite frankly, that only makes it sting even worse, “after everything we’ve been through, you’re just going to throw away the past seven years?”

“What the fuck are you saying?!” you all but snap at him, and an elderly couple that’s passing by flinches a little from the noise and you wince in apology before glaring at Choso again. Your voice is hushed this time. “You’re the one that broke up with me, but I’m the one that’s throwing it all away??”

He purses his lips together, and you notice how dark the circles under his eyes are. He shuts them tightly and leans back away from you, which makes you realize how much he was leaning into your space just a second ago. “I know that we…aren’t dating anymore. But, I mean, c’mon, y/n, it’s me. Just because we’re not together anymore, doesn’t mean that I don’t still…care. I want to know how your mom’s doing, and how treatment has been for her, and–” he glances up at the ceiling briefly, as if to mislead you into thinking that the next thing he says is just as nonchalantly desired as the other things he listed, “and I want to know how you’re doing, too.”

“You don’t deserve to know how I’m doing. Continue to wallow in your pathetic self righteousness, or go run with your tail between your legs to that two-faced rat I used to call a best friend. Either way, I don’t give a damn,” you say, in a way that very much sounds like you give a damn unfortunately, and spin on your heel to continue pushing your cart down to the juice section.

“Yuna and I–” you hear him say behind you, and just the mention of her name on his tongue makes your heart ache in your chest, to the point you need to place a flat palm over it just to alleviate the pain, “I–...I broke things off with her yesterday.”

Fuck. Pretend like you’re not fazed by that info. Pretend like you’re not fazed by that info.

“Okay? Whatever,” you barely manage to say.

He’s silent for a moment behind you. The wheels of your cart squeak as they roll.

“I mean, we’re not together anymore. I’m not seeing her anymore,” he clarifies, as if he didn’t believe you heard him right the first time.

“Cool,” you comment, tone colder this time, since you had the practice round.

“You don’t–” Choso starts, a rattle of hurt and confusion in his voice, “you don’t care about that?”

“Nope.”

He reaches out to grab your wrist, and the contact burns through your skin, like something so familiar yet so foreign. You turn your head to look at him.

“I…” he starts, and you can see his chest rising and falling with more intensity. Oh god. Please. Please don’t say it. You’re not sure you can handle hearing it. “I really miss you.”

Damn it, he said it.

Your posture relaxes slightly when you take a long look at him. You finally notice his hair has gotten longer in just the three weeks you’ve been apart, layered locks curling at the end of his neck, and it’s the first time you’ve noticed such a small detail because you were so used to spending everyday with him. He spent most of the week at your house, since the two of you could never formally move in with one another after your mother was diagnosed and it was easier for him to come by to yours so you could continue to keep an eye on her. There’s no option to live on your own and start your own life when you’re taking care of someone sick. They become your priority, not yourself, but you’d still make every single sacrifice you’ve made for your mother over and over again in a heartbeat if you had to relive the past five years.

But that meant that you never had a real and true chance to live the life that you wanted with Choso. A place just for the two of you, lived in intimate solitude and not with the cries of your mother down the hall when she feels too sick to get up out of bed or when she cannot remember her own name. But you had never been this far apart from him to where you notice his hair is an inch longer than it was the last time you saw him. He was never that far away, as he is now. And you’ve just now realized it.

“I don’t,” you start, swallowing the lump in your throat and your voice quivers ever so slightly when you speak, “I don’t care that you miss me.” You take a deep breath. “I’m getting married this weekend.”

His face entirely relaxes, like a calm before the storm, before it twists with so much confusion and incredulity and shock and–was that horror on his face?

“What?” he practically spats out, “it’s only been three weeks since we broke up!”

“Uhh,” you glance up at the ceiling of the store, just in time for an employee to make an announcement on the overhead for a manager at checkout lane 2 please, and then you glance back down at him, “I was having an affair while we were dating.” An easy lie.

He scowls. “Yeah fucking right. There’s no way you’d cheat on me.”

His words burn bitter. The fact that he couldn’t even fathom you hurting him the same way he hurt you makes you clench your teeth. Because he knew you were better than he was, and that you were too good for him, and yet he still wasted your honor.

His friends, who used to be yours too, have probably fed him lies since the breakup. Like it’s okay, man. You broke up with her before you got involved with someone else. You didn’t do anything wrong.

But you say bullshit to all of that. Because after seven years of being together, you can’t just cold turkey a relationship like that to sleep with someone else, and then claim it’s not cheating. Technicalities like that were no vindication if the betrayal hurt all the same in the end. Because it still felt like you got cheated on regardless.

“Whatever. I don’t need to explain myself to you,” you tell him, “I’m getting married this weekend, so I really don’t give a damn about anything between us anymore. It’s over.”

“Who are you marrying?” he asks, suddenly breaking a sweat over the news like he’s starting to suspect you’re actually being serious.

“My neighbor.”

His face twists with disgust. “Old man Jenkins? He’s eighty-four years old.”

You roll your eyes. “Not the one on my left, you idiot. My neighbor to my right.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up in a ridiculing smirk, and the sight of it makes your skin crawl. He scoffs. “There’s no way. You hate that guy.”

“It’s true. I’m marrying him.”

“Seriously??” He guffaws at you, leaning in closer to you and you lean away until your back is resting on the handle of your shopping cart. “The obnoxious realtor I once heard you talking in your sleep about how much you want to murder him and then dump him in a lake?”

“What?! I talk in my sleep?!” you gasp.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. You have for years.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that?!”

He looks annoyed. “Because you’re such a hypochondriac. You would’ve thought you had a brain tumor or something, and I’d have to deal with the paranoia that follows suit.”

“Choso,” you say to him with a strict tone, jutting your hip out to the side in preparation to scold, “my mother has Alzheimer’s, which is genetic, and I was having an abnormal neurological symptom for years which has studies to show is an early indication of dementia and you just chose not to tell me because you didn’t want to be annoyed?!”

“See?” he gestures to you, “you’re doing it right now. How did we go from just sleep talking to ‘I might have dementia’?”

“We,” you point between you and him, “are never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever getting back together. If there’s one thing you can pull through that stupid skull of yours, make it that.”

“Excuse me,” you hear a tiny voice squeak out, and you turn to your right to see a little kid trying to push past the two of you to grab a box of GoGurt in the Yogurt section. You move your cart forward by bumping it with your butt to get out of the kid’s way, and Choso circles around to the front of your cart before you start moving forward again. Like he’s literally stopping you from moving on from him.

“You’re lying about marrying this guy,” Choso says like it’s a fact. In typical cop gaslighting fashion. “You’re just saying that to make me jealous.”

You roll your eyes. “No. I’m just that hot and gorgeous that I made a man fall in love with me in three weeks.”

“He’s in love with you?” he asks.

“Duh, he wants to marry me. When you dumped me, I found comforting solace in my next-door-neighbor, and we fell into bed with one another, and now he feels the obligation to provide for me for the rest of my life. What’s so hard to believe about that? You didn’t find abrupt matrimony odd when we binged all three seasons of Bridgerton two months ago.”

“That show is set in the fuckin’ regency era,” he hisses at you, “look around. There’s plastic bags of Hot Cheetos with Red 40 in them everywhere. Does this look like the 1800s to you?”

You have to be careful with him. He’s a cop, who could arrest you for medical insurance fraud, and would also have a personal vendetta against your marriage because boo hoo he misses you. But yes, he was right, you did want to make him jealous, and you just can’t help it.

“Well, me and him have a love that no one else can understand, so suck it. I’m marrying him, and he’s super into me, and he can’t wait to spend the rest of his life with me, and he desperately wants to put babies in me, and–”

“And where’s the ring he gave you, then?”

Fuck. You briefly flick your gaze down to your left hand and note the daunting absence of a shiny diamond on your ring finger. Note to self, Gojo needs to buy you a ring.

“I left it at home,” you mumble.

“Uh-huh, as all newly engaged women who have been waiting for a ring all their life would do.”

That pisses you off. Because you were waiting your whole life for him to put a ring on your finger, and he never did.

“Go fuck a fleshlight,” you snarl at him, unfortunately in earshot of the GoGurt kid and his mom shoots you a nasty look, but you’re a jaded woman after everything you’ve been through and you ram your cart into Choso so hard you swear you could’ve cracked his knee caps, and he doubles over in enough pain for you to have the time to leave him stranded there as you push your cart all the way to the end of the store.

You finally make it to the orange juice section, the one thing you needed, although your cart is filled with things you didn’t need, because that’s always how these grocery runs go. You try to take a few breaths to calm down the fast beating in your heart after that confrontation with Choso. You’re not good with confrontation, even though it might seem like you are, but you’re just putting on a face. Acting strong, when really all you want to do is curl up into a ball and cry. But there are bills to pay, and images to upkeep, and orange juice to replenish.

Your hand reaches out for the handle on the refrigerator door, but just before you curl your fingers around it, another hand beats you to it. It’s a large and masculine hand, with veins disappearing into the cuffed felted fabric of a suit jacket, and the knuckles turn a shade lighter than the olive skin around them when the fingers flex around the handle.

You glance up at the person standing next to you, who you register towers over you in height. He has long, sleek black hair that shimmers under fluorescent lighting, some of which is tied up and out of his face, while the rest cascades over his back. But there’s tendrils of hair falling over the left side of his face, barely distracting you through the intensity of purple in his eyes when he glances at you.

��Ah, apologies,” he says, and the way he speaks is so calm and gentle, different from the intimidating aura he holds himself with. He retreats his hand from the handle.

“Oh, that’s–” you find yourself stuttering, “...that’s okay.” You grab the handle and open it, the chill rush of the fridge hitting you as your eyes peruse the selection of orange juice cartons while his eyes remain on you. You awkwardly glance at him again. “Sorry, d-did you also need to get orange juice?”

He nods. “Yes, I did.”

Not a man of many words, you think to yourself. Or maybe just around people he’s just met.

Your eyes catch the familiar labeling of your go-to orange juice, the one with no pulp and has added Vitamins D and E (basically the one for children), but you realize there’s only one left. You grab it anyway and put it in your cart. When you glance up at the handsome stranger beside you, there’s a slight look of amusement on his face.

“Seems we both have the same taste in orange juice,” he comments.

“Oh no,” you say with a small laugh, “I’m sorry. It’s the last one.” Your eyes widen. “You–…you can have it, if you want–”

“Oh, no, no,” he shakes his head, long hair swaying with the motion as he holds his hands up in front of himself, “please. I will just find a nearby store.”

You tilt your head. “Oh there’s no other stores nearby…unless you get on the highway for at least twenty minutes. It’s a…small town.”

His lax expression finally cracks into one of subtle surprise. “That’s interesting.”

“Are you…new to town?” you ask.

He nods with a small smile on his face. “Indeed. Well, just visiting. I’m from New York.”

“Oh! Wow, that’s a long way from here.” You briefly register that he does look like a city man. Upscale restaurants, skyline views, premium outlets. The subtle fragrance of his cologne smells expensive too. “What are you up to while visiting?” You mentally facepalm yourself for asking personal questions, but he seems mysterious and you like peeling the layers back on people like him.

His expression drops, turning almost solemn and his eye contact that was previously very direct is suddenly averted elsewhere, “Just…visiting some old friends.” There is no elaboration.

“Ahh…I see,” you say, picking up on the hint that he has no more words to give you. “Well…I’ll be taking the orange juice…maybe try one with pulp?” you suggest a little cheekily.

His lips tug upwards in a lopsided smile, one you’d call a smirk if you weren’t so mesmerized to define it as one, “I’ll think about it.”

You hum slightly in polite acknowledgement of him, then push your cart back towards the heart of the store without a word of goodbye.

Odd stranger, who’s good at giving misleading answers. You wonder what life he’s come here to escape.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

It’s a bright, picturesque Sunday morning, with children laughing and squealing out on the streets in front of your house as they ride their scooters up hot pavement while their parents catch up on PTA drama on the lawns. You’re standing in front of your full length mirror, trying on dress #3 for your little meeting with the courthouse today. And by little meeting, you mean your wedding. You’re getting married today.

The dress you have on falls to below your knees and has buttons all the way from the hem right up to the base of your neck, where the collared neckline wraps around you like a noose. Suffocating, way too prim and proper, although it’d make your grandma very happy and adored to see you should you show up to church service in it.

Your bed is cluttered with clothes you’ve thrown across it as you try to find a good dress. Your hands move with impatience as you skim through the rack of your closet for another dress to try on, since you’re starting to push the time a little too much. You’ve only got ten minutes before you need to leave.

A dress tucked in the corner of your closet catches your eye and you pull it out. It’s a cream-colored milk maid dress with an underskirt to puff out the A-line silhouette, length down to your shins that would be oh-so-flattering with a cute pair of heels. There are small red flowers adorning the pattern, with tiny green leaf details as well. It was cute and sweet and feminine, something you haven’t worn in a long time unlike your usual monotonous hospital scrubs, stained sweatpants and adult onesies.

It was the dress your friend Sana convinced you to buy when you thought you were going to get engaged. In the first two years of your relationship with Choso, you two talked about marriage non-stop. You both had just graduated college when you first started dating, and it felt like your lives were finally starting. At the end of the second year you two had been together for, after Christmas dinner with your family, he pulled you into his arms and you squealed with glee as he spinned you around in your childhood bedroom upstairs and told you how much he wanted to marry you, and that he was going to propose in the new year.

Your mother was diagnosed with cancer in January, and he never brought up marriage ever again.

He still stayed with you for five years after that though, and swiftly dodged every single question you ever asked him about his impending proposal. For five years, you were fed every excuse in the book. And in hindsight, you feel like an idiot for staying, and for still holding out hope, when what you were really holding onto was heartbreak. The feeling of not being enough, like someone was just tolerating you, and not loving you. It was easy to ignore at times, given how occupied you were with driving your mother to chemotherapy appointments and reading up on books about which diet works best to slow down the development of Alzheimer’s because your mother started showing signs of dementia just two months after the cancer diagnosis. But in those moments of freedom, where you had a moment to breathe, all you could breathe was a suffocating smoke. Because you stopped feeling wanted or loved in between all of it.

But there was a trip he planned for the two of you to Greece. It was after your mother had first successfully gotten into remission. A gasp of fresh air amongst all the pain and suffering, and you could only assume that he wanted to celebrate by taking you on a trip. Sana was convinced he was going to propose to you on this trip, and you wondered if maybe he was just waiting until your mother felt better before he proposed so that the two of you could enjoy being newly engaged without the pressure or worry. Sana took you shopping, and you bought this dress, one that clings to your form in a way that made you feel beautiful. Made you feel wanted. Made you feel worthy of being loved. Because all other parts of yourself had been overlooked and paid no attention, but you thought a dress could save you.

He never proposed. You left Greece with an extra suitcase of souvenirs, but without a ring on your finger or even a compliment on how beautiful you should’ve looked to him standing there on that beach with this cream-colored dress on, arm wrapped around his. And it was at that point you became numb, and you existed in limbo for the remaining four years of your relationship. Until he finally did what you silently begged him to do, with every sullen look in your eyes when you glanced at him. Maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, what he did to you. Something you willed him into because you didn’t have the strength to leave, and so he had to.

You hold the dress up to your form in the mirror. It’d still fit you, and it’s far too pretty to have only worn once. But you’ve been numb for so long now, you don’t even remember what it’s like to feel pretty in a dress. You unbutton yourself out of dress #3 and step into failed proposal dress #4, and as you slowly zip up the back of the dress, you’re met with resistance.

Fuck.

The last thing you need right now is a weight-related meltdown.

You tug up on the zipper even more, harshly, to the point you hear a stitch rip and you gasp and try to do it slowly so as not to completely tear the dress apart. But it’s not fitting. It should fit. You just assume the zip is stuck, or it’s too rigid after years of no wear.

You’re about to do another colossal yank upwards that could potentially dislocate your shoulder when you jump at the sound of your phone chiming with a notification. And then multiple.

“What...the hell…do you want…” you sigh to nobody, swiping your hands across the pile of dress fabric on your bed to find your phone, and when you do, you quickly tap on the screen to see the messages.

|| 11:32AM neighbor (avocado tree): Hey, are we still getting married today?

First of all, wild fucking thing to nonchalantly ask.

|| 11:32AM neighbor (avocado tree): Your car’s still parked out front, so I wasn’t sure if you’ve left yet. I was just about to leave, and then the thought occurred to me that we should probably carpool?

|| 11:35AM neighbor (avocado tree): But just wanted to verify, are you sure you want to go through with this? You’re not having cold feet? Won’t be a runaway bride? I’m not gonna be left at the altar, wondering where I went wrong?

You roll your eyes, breathing heavily still from the struggle of zipping up your dress.

|| 11:36AM You: yes, we are still getting married. I just can’t zip up my dress for the life of me

It takes him a whole minute to respond.

|| 11:38AM neighbor (avocado tree): Do you need help?

You blink at your phone screen. Help? What kind of help? Helping you zip up your dress?

You look over your shoulder to the full length mirror, eyeing your back. The dress was zipped up to just above the small of your back, with the rest of it flayed open to reveal the expanse of your skin. Setting your phone down, you roll your shoulders back once and flex your fingers to try again in securing this dress, but to no avail. You curse yourself for not having the flexibility, and to be honest, you’re not even sure if you can take the dress off anymore to get into something else with the way the zipper won’t budge neither up nor down. Well. You’re just going to have to wear this dress for the rest of your life now. A scary predicament.

You pick your phone up again.

|| 11:41AM You: yes

It only takes about two minutes for him to text you that he’s at your front door, a surprisingly considerate gesture considering your mother is sleeping downstairs so it’s good he didn’t ring the doorbell, and you tiptoe your way down and over the creaky floorboards of the stairs to the front entrance.

You slowly crack the door open only a couple inches, hiding yourself from him behind it as you peek at him. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he says, and he glances at his watch. “We’ve got to hurry.”

You nod, and take note of his appearance. He’s wearing a dark fitted navy suit over a white dress shirt, which to your surprise, doesn’t have the top two buttons sluttily undone for once. His suit pants are perfectly tailored to his ankles and you can barely see the exposed fabric of black socks before they disappear into his polished Oxfords. He looks like he’s going to a wedding. Oh wait, he is.

He raises an eyebrow at you when you refuse to reveal yourself by stepping away from behind the door. Even his hair is particularly kept and proper, swept off to the side slightly in a way that makes him look younger and you feel nervous from the intensity of those eyes, which are usually somewhat hidden by the fringe of his snowy hair, now look at you unwaveringly with no obstruction. You feel like you’re seeing him in a completely new light, and for some reason, it makes you cower behind the door even more.

“Uh, are you going to let me in?” he asks you, his foot tapping lightly on the welcome! mat.

“Yes,” you say, but you make no movement to prove your word.

“y/n,” he says, “we need to get going.”

You sigh, tapping your fingers against the stained glass window of your front door to release some nerves before hesitantly stepping to the side and pulling the door open all the way, then you’re standing in front of him in full view. You catch a glimpse of the black tie hanging from his neck that’s secured all the way up to the collar of his shirt, before you finally look at his face.

Those striking eyes of his round slowly until he’s looking at you wide-eyed, blinking in some sort of dazed surprise as his gaze eventually sweeps down your entire form to take in the sight of you standing barefoot on wooden floor in your cream-colored dress, and you swear you see the muscles in his jaw jump. His brow furrows like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“You–” he starts, that shocked blinking still taking place on his face, and you grasp the fabric of your dress in front of you from the anticipation of what he’ll say, “...you look beautiful.”

A silence settles between the two of you as he continues to roam his eyes all down you like there’s nothing that could stop him from doing it, and you feel heat in your cheeks from his compliment. It’s just a silly little cream-colored dress. One that didn’t look pretty on a beach in Greece, so why would it look beautiful on you here right now? While you’re standing at the dusty front entrance of a decades old house? He’s bullshitting you.

“You know you don’t have to compliment me, you know that, right?” you squeak out, trying to keep your tone level and easy to fight back the raw feeling in your throat, “this isn’t a first look. There are no photographers around to capture your reaction. We’re not actually getting married.”

“But–”

“Can you just help me with the dress?” you cut him off so he doesn’t say anything else that makes you feel pretty right now.

“...sure,” he agrees, and he steps inside your house. You start to walk upstairs, and he follows suit, and you suddenly feel his eyes on your back so you turn around and walk up the stairs backwards while facing him.

“I don’t understand the concept of first looks anyway,” he says out of nowhere to cut the silence, “isn’t it a bad omen to see your partner before getting married?”

“That’s such an outdated superstition,” you tell him as your feet finally press firmly flat at the top of the stairs.

One of his feet is placed next to where you’re standing up straight at the top, while the other is still on the third step down. And it’s like he’s kneeling on one knee in front of you as he looks up at you. After a moment of deep breathing on your part, you finally step away from the top of the stairs so he can finish walking up them too.

“I don’t know what happened,” you say to him as you make it to the front of your full length mirror, “I was just trying to zip it up but it got stuck. And it’s not unzipping either.”

He comes up behind you, and you can see in the mirror that he’s put a decent amount of space between the two of you from the way his arms are reached out in front of him just to access the zipper. He tugs up on it.

“Hm. It…” he struggles with it, “it seems…” he yanks again, “jammed?”

“Fudge,” you mutter under your breath (more ladylike perhaps, as opposed to fuck) and you sulk your shoulders. “But will it close at all, do you think?”

He takes a step closer to you, and his cologne has the fragrance of woody oak with undertones of citrus, like something expensive and sophisticated. His hand sweeps your hair off to the side and over your shoulder to the front so he has a better view, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck from the motion and you try to fight the shiver. A glance to the mirror, and you see his eyes are set on the exposed skin. He tugs to pull your dress together, and is able to cross the fabrics. “Yeah, it should. I think just hold your breath for a second? I’m going to try to see if zipping it down helps unjam it.”

“Okay,” you say softly, and he eyes you in the mirror at the sudden subservience.

You try to hold your breath as he tugs down on the zipper, and you hear the metallic click when he succeeds in unjamming it before he zips it down just an inch. You can feel the small of your back exposed to cool air from the motion.

He’s suddenly frozen entirely behind you, the knuckle of his index finger brushing against your skin as he continues to pinch the zipper between it and his thumb. You feel his slow exhale on the back of your neck. You’re too scared to look at his expression in the mirror.

“Sa–” you stutter through a gasp, “Satoru.”

“Sorry,” he says quietly, and then he’s shifting on his feet once before slowly attempting to zip the dress up.

He’s met with a slight resistance just underneath your shoulder blades. “Hey. Just hold your breath.”

“I’m trying to,” you tell him, almost whining, because it’s hard to stop breathing when your heart is beating fast and it needs the oxygen supply.

“Do you want to try on a different dress?” he asks you.

“No,” you immediately answer him. You’re not sure why, but the idea of wearing this dress for the rest of your life doesn’t scare you anymore. In fact, you never want to take it off.

Your hands twiddle with the flimsy string at your collarbone that you tied to connect the fabric across your chest, and then you realize. “Oh…maybe I need to–” you tug at the end of the string, “undo this? That might make it looser?” You finally glance at the mirror to seek his approval of your suggestion.

His eyes meet yours, and when he sees what you’re referring to, his eyes widen. “But that would–”

“Just don’t look,” you say simply.

You two remain looking at one another in the mirror, and you see his chest heaving slightly through the tightening of his dress shirt against the expansion of his breathing. Like you’re asking the impossible of him.

“Or I’ll kill you,” you say.

He sighs, and his eyes flit down to your zipper again. You swear you feel his hand tremble slightly. “Alright.”

You pull on the end of the string, watching him in the mirror to make sure his eyes don’t wander, and the fabric covering your breasts falls open, but you use a hand to still sparsely cover your skin with the cloth where you can. In the reflection, you see his jaw clench but his eyes remain on the zipper, and only briefly flicker to the bed once. Then he’s zipping up your dress with ease.

You quickly tie the string above your chest once more to cover yourself up, and then spin to face the mirror, petting down the fabric of your dress and throwing your hair back over your shoulder. It was a snug fit, but at least it still fit.

He’s a step behind you with his hands shoved in his suit pockets, looking at your face with a slight tilt to his head like he’s studying you in the mirror just as much as you’re studying yourself. And then he pulls his hand out of his pocket to glance at his watch again. “It’s almost noon,” he says.

“What?!” you bark at him. “We’re fucking late!!! Why didn’t you say anything?!?!”

“Huh??” he baffles. “I’ve been trying to tell you we need to rush this entire time.”

“Oh my god, oh my god,” you say, pacing your room to find your things in a scurry, picking your purse up and then grabbing your Manila folder of paperwork from your desk, and you try to walk past him to the door when you trip over the five pairs of shoes that you had been trying on earlier, almost twisting your ankle, and you gasp then grab onto his suit jacket for purchase before his arm attempts to reach out to hold you upright but to no avail since you tug on him as you fall straight backwards onto your bed and bring him down with you.

His hands sink into the soft mattress on both sides of your head, wrists tickled by your hair, as he hovers over you, and your fingers quickly curl into little balls at your chest as you shrink underneath him, looking up at his surprised expression, likely from having to suddenly brace himself from falling right on top of you.

You both look at each other, blinking as you come down from the sudden chaos, and his tie that’s hanging from his neck brushes against your knuckle and falls over your hand to graze the skin above your breasts. His eyes briefly flicker to the sight, and he catches himself only to stare at your lips instead.

Even through thick layers of fabric, you can see the thick curves of the muscles in his arms, pulled taut from how he’s holding himself up over you. And for once, you wish the buttons of his shirt were undone, so you can see what he’s hiding underneath. The hair he had swept up above his eyes now falls freely with gravity, soft tufts that dangle above you and shadow over the blue of his eyes as he looks at you with a furrowed brow that–...that makes him look handsome.

You must be ovulating.

No, wait, you finished ovulating a couple days ago.

Oh god.

Was your next door neighbor hot this entire time?

There was simply no way.

You refuse to believe it.

You’re laying still like a deer in highlights, motionless underneath him, before he curls his arm around your waist to bring you up with him as he stands up straight, and you only spend a moment pressed up against him before you get yourself out of his grasp by pushing flat palms against his chest, and then the two of you are in proper distance from one another once again.

“D-Don’t ever do something like that ever again,” you stutter, shimmying your hips slightly to pull the snug fabric down your waist from where it had risen up.

“I didn’t do anything,” he grumbles, and he runs a hand through his hair. Now it looks like it always does, no longer prim in style.

“Whatever, let’s just go.” You slip your feet into one of the pairs of heels sprawled across on the floor, and then you head straight for the door. “You drive.”

You hear him sigh behind you. “Yes ma’am.”

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

The courthouse is bustling with people when you two arrive but Gojo’s pleasantly able to pull into an open curbside parking spot right in front of the entrance. You’re surprised when he comes around to the passenger side to open the door for you, and you swat his hand away when he offers it to you too, but you probably should’ve taken it, since you almost twist your ankle for the second time today as you step out onto the curb and get used to walking in heels again like a newborn fawn.

“Should’ve taken my hand,” he says to you, smile turned upwards into a smirk as he watches you struggle while he’s a few steps ahead of you.

“Give it to me then,” you grit through your teeth as you wobble, giving up your pride to avoid adding yet another medical bill to the list of debts in your name.

“Nah,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, “too late. Lost your chance.” You curse his entire lineage in your head.

You two make it inside the courtroom, and the first person you look for is Hana, whose head you catch at the front row much to your pleasant surprise since she is your sole witness to sign on the marriage certificate today. But in your study of the room to find her, you notice that there are a lot of other people in here as well.

“Don’t tell me…Did you invite people??” you ask Gojo, grabbing onto his sleeve to get his attention and also for balance, but he doesn’t need to know that latter part.

He glances down at you. “No? Why would I invite people to my fake wedding?”

Your eyes peruse the room once again, and you realize that most of them are just old retired people with nothing better to do on a Sunday than visit the courtroom. Some are elderly couples, eyeing you and Gojo as you two make your way down the aisle with sweetness in their eyes like awwwwwww to be a young couple in love once more <3 while they wait for the judge to call on their hundreds of unpaid parking tickets because they don’t know how to access an internet portal.

“D-Do you have the marriage license?” you squeak out to Gojo, who has now adjusted his walking speed to match yours.

“No, I left it at home,” he tells you in a flat tone. “Of course I brought the marriage license.”

“I was just checking, jeez…” you grumble.

Gojo hands the clerk the folder he was holding in his hand, and you hand in yours too.

Oh god. Your peripheral vision already recognizes him before your brain can, but you see an extremely familiar silhouette standing guard off to the side of the Judge’s bench, and your gaze immediately snaps in that direction.

Choso stands there, in his Sheriff Deputy’s uniform, his thumbs tucked into his vest as he puffs his chest out in assertion of his oh so important duty securing the courthouse on a Summer Sunday from any devastating danger, such as an elderly man not wanting to pay a parking ticket and then proceeding to charge towards the judge at 2 MPH, and you can’t help but roll your eyes from his attitude and scowl at him. Of course he pulled some strings and saw when you were getting allegedly married and decided to show up on that exact day. Whatever. You’ll pay him no mind. As long as he doesn’t speak now.

You and Gojo walk back to the lower desk in front of the Judge’s Bench.

“Ah! y/n, hello my dear, how are you?” the judge calls out to you.

“Hi Judge Jin,” you say meekly with a small wave, your voice echoing in the room, “good, and yourself?”

6/4/2024 1232: Judge Jin is a 72 y/o man with a past medical history of hypertension, hypercholesterolemia, hyperglycemia, GERD, liver cirrhosis and COPD, who endorses a social history of frequent tobacco usage and occasional alcohol consumption. Patient presents to the ED with chief complaint of chest pain, onset two hours ago after he drank three bottles of beer, and—

“Much better since you took care of me last week!” he humphs, patting his stomach.

You snap out of your automatic charting that was droning on in your head on reflex from how many times Judge Jin has shown up to the ED for acute chest pain which almost always ends up just being beer-induced GERD.

“At the hospital!” you clarify, “for taking care of you at the hospital!”

The man laughs heartily from where he sits up at the raised platform bench. “Yes! And Mr. Gojo! Nice to see you as well.”

You flit your eyes to Gojo, like you know him too? He only briefly spares you a sidewards glance before looking back at Judge Jin. “Likewise, sir.”

You postulate he scammed the fuck out of the man into signing a forty-year lease on a condo in the shady part of town, and you’ll leave it at that.

“I have to say, I am a little shocked by this matrimonial partnership!” Judge Jin chimes in. “But do you both swear to enter this marriage under just circumstances? I will need verbal affirmation from you both.”

Gojo raises his hand up in the air to swear on it, and you remember that he’s possibly done this before. Y’know how people have a courtroom wedding before a real wedding, something like that. And maybe that’s why he knows to raise his hand, because you didn’t even know you were supposed to raise your hand until now.

A real wedding. Something you’ve pictured a lot in your head, and so much more different than the arrangement you find yourself in right now. And because the pain of imagining yourself tying the knot with someone is too much right now, especially when the man you thought you were going to marry stands in uniform five feet away from you and probably doesn’t even recognize the dress you’re wearing right now, you glance over to Gojo and you try to imagine what a real wedding would’ve been like for him. Since he’s done it before.

He probably had a tacky wedding, like in a barn with barrels of beer used as tables with barely flickering string lights hung across wooden planks high on a triangular ceiling. The reception and the ceremony likely happened under the same roof, because he seems like the minimalist type, more focused on the feelings behind it and all, and not the grandeur.

Or maybe he was into the grandeur. Maybe he had a wedding on a skyline penthouse in the city, wearing expensive cologne like the one he’s wearing now, and a Dior suit he got custom made because it was a once in a lifetime occasion so why not? The image becomes a little too vivid in your head now, where you can picture this woman he’s marrying too. Pretty, tall just like him, wearing a ball gown white dress. He would’ve told her she looked beautiful, too. He would’ve told her he can’t wait to spend the rest of his life with her. Vows uttered shakingly into the microphone at an altar while the sun is setting far into the sky, shimmering off of high building windows until the air is golden and it reflects off of his and his soon-to-be wife’s face. And when they’ve professed their love for one another, he grabs her by the waist and dips her in a kiss, for the perfect picture against the perfect backdrop in front of all the perfect little people because there probably was a photographer at that event, wanting to capture the moment.

You snap out of the dazed moment when a loud voice calls out your name, and in a shock, you glance back up at Judge Jin who’s looking at you with slight irritation.

“Huh?” you squeak out, and then turn to look at Gojo, who’s got a look of mild concern on his face as he raises an eyebrow at you.

“Please swear that this marriage is under just circumstances,” Judge Jin states with a cadence that indicates he’s commanded this of you multiple times already.

“Oh!” you stand up straight, “I—…I’m sorry.” You hold your hand up. “Yes, I swear this marriage is under just circumstances.” Just like Higurama had you practice. He’d be proud. Phew, the hard part was over.

The rest of the ceremony goes by in a rather fast blur, and it’s a little awkward when you both have to tell Judge Jin that you don’t have any vows to exchange at the moment when he offers the time for them, but Gojo comes up with some lie about how the real vows will be at our formal ceremony, and Judge Jun seems entirely satisfied and a little too ecstatic by the answer before allowing you two and Hana to sign the marriage certificate.

“And rings?” Judge Jin asks as he peers down through his glasses to the paper he was holding at his desk. “We can now make time for the exchange of rings.”

You’re prepared for Gojo to come up with another lie about how the real rings will be at our formal ceremony, but you see him shuffling with something in his pocket in your periphery. Hm? You glance down at his hip, and you see him pull something shiny out.

He turns to face you, and he holds his hand out to you with an up-facing palm. You blink at him and then glance down at his hand. And then you look up and blink at him, and then glance down his hand. And then you look up and blink at him, and then gl—

“Give me your hand,” he says to you, a little hushed and rushed.

“Why???” you ask, baffled.

“So I can put a ring on your finger?” he says, like it’s the most casual thing. Like getting a ring slipped onto your fourth finger is the most casual Sunday for you, when it’s something you’ve dreamt of your whole entire life.

You finally take a long hard look at the ring he’s holding in his right hand. It shimmers with every glint of light in the courtroom off of every angle, no doubtedly precisely cut diamond from a jeweler who really cares about their craft, and you swear you’ve saved a similar looking ring to one of your Pinterest wedding boards before.

You hesitantly bring your hand up and hover it over his.

“Your left hand, silly,” he tells you.

“Oh, right,” you say, and hand him your left one instead.

He holds it in his hand that is much warmer than yours, and it’s so tender, the way he gently slips the ring onto your finger. It fits with ease, perfection actually, and you can’t help raising your hand up in the air, spreading your fingers weakly as you admire the stone now sitting above your knuckle. It’s pretty.

You feel Gojo’s eyes on you, as he’s halted in frame, and you glance past your hand to look at his face. You dislike him. You do. You should. He’s your annoying as fuck next-door-neighbor. So then why does your heart feel like it could burst right now?

A glimmer of silver catches your eye, and you look down at his hands as he slips a silver ring onto his left hand while facing you before he turns to face the front again, signaling the end of the ring exchange, except you didn’t get to put it on his hand. He didn’t give you the chance.

“Alright! Wonderful!” Judge Jin exclaims, whose eyesight is probably too poor to have seen that it wasn’t even a proper ring exchange. “With the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife!”

There is scattered applause across the courtroom, a few cheers as well, as you two stand in front of the court of law in holy matrimony.

Judge Jin glances at Gojo. “Well, young man, you may now kiss the bride!”

“Oh—…that—” you stutter, “that’s not necessa—”

“Okay,” Gojo says, more to affirm Judge Jin than in acknowledgement of your protest, and in a series of what feels like just one motion, he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you two him and then he—

He kisses you.

He kisses you like it’s real, like there’s history, like it’s a pure thing meant to last and not something you quite literally put a time stamp on. The kiss muffles the small sound that comes from your throat, your hands held up in the air in some slight surrender before they slowly settle on his shoulders as he bends you backwards over his forearm to deepen the kiss and the cheers surrounding you grow with a fervor that has your cheeks burning red but for some reason you don’t want it to end—

And then he pulls away from you, eyes darting across the features of your face in close proximity as he exhales slowly, like a release, and it feels like the two of you are the only ones in this room before he glances at your lips one last time and then he releases his hold on you. You stand shocked, and briefly glance at Choso, who looks like he’s about to burst a fuse off the top of his head.

What.

What?

And just like that, you were married to your insufferable next-door neighbor.

[end of chapter 2]

a/n. thank youuu soooo so much for reading this chapter of ihm!! i’m kinda liking the writing style i’ve adopted for this series, it’s kinda lax n lenient sort of like a stream of consciousness and i hope it doesn’t come of too crass of informal lol i’m just playing around w some writing styles rn. ANYWHO i hope you enjoyed!! btw i picture choso as long-hair choso in any modern au (and not pigtails choso) so if you see me describing his hair in the way that i do, that’s why lol. love you all so much, hope to see you in the next one <3

➸ take me to chapter three!

note: please do not ask me for updates or when i will next update (read rules)

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comphy-and-cozy · 2 years ago

Text

You Got What I Need - Brock Boeser

Pairing: Brock Boeser x Reader (f)

Summary: When Brock says something horrible in the midst of an argument, you take off and leave him alone to face the consequences of his actions. Will he be able to win you back, or are you gone forever? Chronicling the aftermath of a fight, featuring big brother Anders Lee.

Word Count: 5.5K

Author’s Note: I had so much fun writing my first fic for @antoineroussel’s fic exchange, I had to do it again as a pinch hitter 😜 This was written for @dazeddobson - this may be a little bit (read: a lot) self-indulgent and contrived but hey, it’s our world and these boys are just living in it, right? I tried to cater to multiple of your likes/asks! Hope you enjoy, beautiful!

Warnings: Angst, language, alcohol use, references to sex/adult themes, brief hockey violence, a little bit of toxic masculinity. Also included: some protective Islanders to make you feel nice and soft.

When Elias answered his door, seeing you with red eyes and a duffel bag was the last thing he was expecting. No, scratch that; having you collapse into his arms, choking out a sob, was the last thing he was expecting.

As soon as the initial shock wore off, he was holding you, hushing you quietly as you let your tears out, spluttering out nonsensical words as you tried to explain what happened not even an hour prior.

You and Brock had spent the afternoon at the dog park, bundling up in the cold January air in Vancouver, carting Coolie and Milo for a day to frolic in the snow. When you got home, rosy-cheeked but feeling warmth in your heart, you got a group FaceTime from your sister, Alexis, with your brother, Anders, to inform you of some big news: She was pregnant with a baby girl.

Of course, you and Brock were over the moon for your sister and her husband, knowing that they were both looking to start their family, and you were already excited about the idea of being a cool aunt. Anders promised to outfit her in Islanders gear, to which Brock jokingly said he’d be battling to make her a Canucks fan instead.

After some happy tears and many congratulations, you finally hung up the call. Brock smiled, beaming at you. “I’m really excited for them. I’m gonna be an uncle!”

“That you are, baby,” you smiled.

He grinned, hand moving to poke you in the stomach. “I can’t wait til we start a family and have little Boeser babies of our own.”

You laughed, lighthearted as you said, “We’ve got plenty of time before that, Brock.”

His face fell. “What do you mean ‘plenty of time’?”

The smile on your face faded too, and you realized the serious turn this conversation was about to take, unable to brace yourself. “I just… I’m not ready for kids yet, Brock.”

“Well, yeah, we’re gonna move to Minnesota first, buy a house, settle down. And then we get married, and then the babies come,” he said matter-of-factly.

You hesitated, and Brock noticed. You saw the hurt in his eyes as he watched you search for the right words.

“Yeah, B, eventually,” you said, emphasizing the ‘eventually’. “But not right now.”

“But — I thought we talked about this. We’re ready.”

“No, Brock, you are ready.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked. The frustration in his voice was evident, rising steadily along with yours.

“It’s not that I don’t love you or don’t want to commit to you, I’m just not there quite yet,” you explained.

“Well, it sure sounds like you don’t want to commit to me,” Brock snapped, your words hurting his heart. “How am I supposed to plan a future with someone who won’t even move with me? It’s not like it’s a big deal. You are literally from Minnesota, too.”

“Because it’s not that simple, Brock! That’s a huge ask — for me to pack up and leave my friends and my job and my entire life here, regardless of who’s waiting for me in Minnesota. Why don’t you understand that?” you tried to explain, pleading with him to step into your shoes.

“I would do it for you,” he said coldly.

You scoffed. “We’ve hardly spent any time in New York since we started dating.”

“We could!”

“No, Brock, we go where your career leads us, when it leads us. Which is fine with me, because you’re doing what you love, and I know what I signed up for by being with you – obviously, I know what it’s like to have a professional athlete in the family. All I’m saying is it’d be nice if we could do some things for me when it’s not all hockey, hockey, hockey,” you said.

“Are you fucking serious?” Brock’s eyes were blazing now. “Do you see this? All of this? I do all of it for you, Y/N!”

“Sure, that’s why we spend so much time in New York,” you retorted, your tone scathing.

Brock scoffed, running a hand through his hair. His cheeks were tinged pink, heated from the argument, as he laughed darkly to himself. “How could I be so stupid thinking you’re the one?”

At his words, you swore you could feel your blood boil. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Brock?”

Brock’s eyes were dark, but not in the way you were used to, in the way that meant he’d have you moaning his name shortly; instead, they were hurt, angry, and betrayed. He looked at you, and you barely noticed the moment of hesitation in his eyes before he spat, “I’m just not sure if you’re the person I want to spend the rest of my life with anymore.”

He closed his mouth immediately, regretting the words as soon as they tumbled out. Your eyebrows raised, in shock at his words, feeling the deep slash in your heart as they settled in. Staring at him for a moment, you gave him the opportunity to follow up, to say something else to soften the blow, but he didn’t take it, instead glaring back at you angrily, an angry flush in his cheeks.

Turning on your heel, you left him standing in his own silence, moving to the bedroom to pack a bag. Instead of stopping you like you expected, he just watched you walk out the front door, not glancing back once.

The next morning Brock groaned as he stretched himself awake, rolling over to press a kiss to your temple, but was met with the snoozing bodies of Milo and Coolie instead. Blinking, Brock lifted his head to see the rest of the bed was empty, cold from the absence of your body.

It was in that moment that the memory of the day before came flooding back, and he closed his eyes, the regret sinking deeply into his soul as he remembered the things he said. He had taken the evening to cool off, thinking that you two just needed some time apart before you’d come back and talk things through.

His heart hurt at the notion that you still hadn’t come home, and he had to admit he said some nasty things, but what worried him the most was the validity of them. Was there truth behind the statement he made? Did he not want to spend his life with you? You had been right; you two were at such different parts of your life, so it only made sense you were looking for different things. Was it really unfair to ask you to change that?

Brock checked his phone, hoping to see a message or missed call from you, but was met with nothing, other than a text from Elias letting him know you were with him and safe. Sighing, he glanced at the clock, realizing he needed to head to the rink soon for practice; he’d deal with what he was going to say to you later.

After a grueling practice, Brock caught up with Elias to hear what had happened after you left. Understandably, Elias was pissed.

“Dude, I can’t believe you fucking said that to her,” the Swede shook his head angrily as he packed up his bag.

“I know, man, I just…” Brock trailed off, absentmindedly fiddling with the label on his Gatorade bottle.

“Did you mean it?”

“Did I mean what?”

“What you said. That you don’t want a future with her,” Elias said, watching him intently.

Brock sighed. “I don’t know, man. I mean, I love her so much, I love her more than I’ve ever loved anything. But she’s right. We’re at different points in our lives, and we both want different things. I’m ready to settle down, start a family.”

“How’s that gonna go when you don’t have someone to settle down with? That takes time, you know, and apparently you’re running out of that.” Elias raised an eyebrow. Fuck, he had a point.

“Well, how am I supposed to feel, knowing that she’s not willing to commit to me?” Brock’s defenses were up, not yet ready to admit that he was wrong.

“Dude, she packed up her entire life and moved with you to Vancouver,” Elias pointed out dryly.

“Well, true, but —”

“All she wants is to spend a little more time closer to home when you have the time. It’s not that much to ask, bro. She’s given you everything.”

Well, shit. Elias was right again. “Fuck, man. I fucked up.”

“Ya sure did, Boes. She’s still at my house. You should swing by and talk to her,” Elias suggested, and Brock agreed, getting into his own car to follow him to his house.

When he pulled in the driveway, your car was gone. He and Elias both took to calling out for you, but to no avail. Figuring you must have gone home, Brock turned around and headed back to the apartment you shared together.

It was when your car wasn’t in that driveway either that he started to worry. Heart rate speeding up, he fumbled with his key and pushed through the door, frantically hoping and desperately wishing that at this point your car had been stolen, because at least it’d be better than the alternative —

Tearing through the house, Brock called for you. Milo padded out, confused as to why his dad was acting so funny, and it was when he looked down at Milo that he realized something was missing.

Coolie.

Brock’s heart sank. It couldn’t be — you couldn’t have —

He flew up the stairs to the bedroom, furiously tugging open the dresser drawers to find them empty. Throwing open the closet door, he found your half empty, the hangers hanging neatly on the rack. Barely a single trace of you left in the home you’d made together, gone like you’d never been there at all.

“Fuck,” Brock cursed. He was sure his heart was about to explode, hardly refusing to believe that it — you — were gone.

In that same instance, Brock realized that he had a phone that could contact you. Hands shaking, he clicked on your contact, his favorite photo of you on the beach from a vacation to Mexico a few years ago. His heart nearly thumped out of his chest as he waited to hear your voice on the line, hardly able to handle the anticipation as he listened to ring after ring after ring. When he heard the automated message, he hung up and chucked his phone on the bed, slamming his fist against the wall.

Eyes closed, Brock rested his head against his hand, trying to regain his breath before he figured out what to do. When he opened them, he realized he had put a hole through the wall. Fuck.

He tried calling once, twice, three more times, before he realized you were probably purposely ignoring him, and he sat on the edge of the bed as the realization sank in that you were actually gone. Suddenly, it was like he could see how much of you was in him, in this house, in the life that you had built together. How could he ever see a future without you?

Brock was distraught, beside himself, without any idea where to turn or where you even went. How was he supposed to get you back? As he contemplated his options, a worse thought entered his brain: What if he couldn’t? How was he supposed to live without you?

A week had gone by, and Brock still had received no word from you, only a single post on your Instagram story of the Empire State building, letting him know that you had gone to New York, presumably to stay with your brother. Since you left, he’d also been having one of his worst stretches of his career, consistently missing chances and giving away pucks, letting his opponent’s rookie deke him in a glaringly obvious move that almost had him benched for the rest of the game. Not only was he hurting at home, but now it was affecting his work, too.

He tried texting, tried calling, even messaging on Instagram, with no response. Not even a ‘read’ notification to prove that you were giving him the cold shoulder (though he knew you were). He wasn’t going to even attempt calling Anders – he wasn’t that stupid – but he did call Alexis, desperately begging her to have you call him. She said she’d pass along his message, but she didn’t think it’d do any good. She was right.

Brock knew he had fucked up, but what hurt the most is that he didn’t even have the opportunity to apologize or explain himself, and now you were in this limbo where he didn’t really know what to call you. Was it over for good? All signs pointed to yes, considering every trace of you was gone from the house, but he couldn’t help but hope — hope that you’d give him the chance to talk it out and at least end it to his face. He just had to figure out how to get to you.

It was a Friday night, and after practice, he was off for the night. He wandered around the house listlessly, with the home feeling empty and cold and nothing like a home without you in it.

He had finally found you, the girl of his dreams, but he just couldn’t get things right. How could he have fucked up so royally, letting his emotions get the best of him in the heat of the moment? With just a few simple words, Brock was sure he’d ruined his life. Kicking at a tuft in the carpet, he went into his dresser drawer, ignoring the empty drawers next to his, and pulled out the ring box that he’d been hiding and saving for the right time.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he opened the box and looked at the ring, the diamond glinting in the light, imagining how pretty it would look on your finger. He had an entire folder on his phone dedicated to the comments you’d make here and there about other girls’ rings, taking note of what you liked and didn’t like, until he pulled the trigger and bought one that was perfect for you. With a sigh, he carefully returned the ring box to its hiding spot, and moved to break out his guitar, strumming lightly.

He had a whole proposal planned, was going to sweep you off your feet before asking you to make him the happiest man in the world and be his forever. He knew how much your music meant to you, and had made an entire playlist of all your favorite songs to listen to whenever he missed you — needless to say, it had been playing on repeat since you left, only making the ache in his heart swell harder.

Brock’s fingers found their place on the strings, playing the familiar tune he had been practicing for months. He strummed the chords of “10,” envisioning the look on your face when he’d surprise you, playing your favorite song, before getting down on one knee.

As the song played, he could have actually kicked himself. In another world, he’d laugh at the irony of the song — your song — and how it painfully juxtaposed the situation he was in now.

I never had it so easy She taught me how to be She’s a keeper And I ain’t goin’ nowhere

She’s fire, a messiah She ain’t a ten, she’s higher And I don’t wanna waste no time She’s flawless, I’m in awe She ain’t a ten, she’s more My eyes never wander, there’s no need to explore She’s everything that I’ve Been looking for

She’s the one I’ve waited for

Brock swallowed the lump in his throat, bitterness resting on his tongue. He’d never forgive himself if he lost you forever because of a few stupid words — words he didn’t even mean. He looked at his phone one last time, hoping for a text he knew wasn’t there, and then he made up his mind.

He stood up, grabbing his duffel bag that he usually brought on road trips — a gift from you for Christmas one year, embroidered with his initials — and shoved some clothes in, not really paying much attention to what he was packing. He sent a quick text to Elias, giving Milo a scratch behind the ears, and then he was in his car on his way to the airport.

He had to see you, to try one last time.

When you left, you knew you may have been a bit melodramatic, but leaving was the only option that felt right; you didn’t feel comfortable in your own home anymore, not after the words that Brock had cut your heart with. So, you called Anders, who, of course, welcomed you with open arms.

He’d picked you up from the airport, listening with an expressionless face as you told him what happened. Naturally, playing the role of your protective older brother, he offered to murder Brock and hide the body, and you laughed as you declined, citing that it might make his job a little difficult to do in prison. Really, you weren’t sure what was next, only that you needed some time to think and to let your heart heal from Brock’s words.

In the same vein, Anders and his teammates were excited to have you in town, surrounding you with love and laughter from the minute you set foot on the Island. Though it didn’t fill the gap in your heart, the warmth was a soothing comfort that you desperately needed.

When Mat asked you to hang out, you accepted instantly. Did you know he had a crush on you? Yeah. And was there a mutual attraction there? Maybe. But he knew, and you knew, that even if you were spending time with him, maybe even flirting with him a little, that that was all it could be for now, both because of Anders and Brock. You weren’t sure what your relationship status was, but you didn’t think you were single — at least, not yet. Still, it was nice to feel wanted and appreciated, and it didn’t hurt that Mat was sweet and kind and caring. And maybe it felt a little bit satisfying to know that someone was interested in a future with you, even if you really only wanted a future with one person.

Brock’s nerves were out of control as he drove to Anders’ home, getting halfway there before he realized that hadn’t looked in a mirror all day and had no idea what he even looked like, so he made a pit stop at the nearest supermarket to freshen up.

As he was leaving the restroom, he fell upon a familiar face: Noah Dobson. Noah greeted him with a quick hug and a short smile, and in that moment Brock knew that he knew.

“Hey, man, it’s good to see you. What’re you doing here?” Noah asked, though Brock also suspected that he knew the answer to that, too.

“I just… I have to see Y/N,” Brock explained. “Do you… do you know where she is?”

Noah shifted on his feet, casting his eyes down. “Yeah, I think she’s… out tonight.”

“Out? Out where?”

Noah hesitated, and Brock nodded silently to let him know he was ready to hear whatever he was going to say next. “She’s out with Mat. I’m sorry, man.”

“Mat? Mat Barzal?”

“Yeah. She’s been spending a lot of time with him since… since she got here. She doesn’t seem good though, dude. Whatever happened between you two fucked her up.”

Brock cursed, running a hand over his face in frustration. It broke his heart to hear that you, too, were hurting, maybe just as bad as him, though he couldn’t decide what was worse: you being in pain, or you being over it already.

“Yeah, man, I know, I fucked up big time.”

“Yeah…” Noah trailed off awkwardly. “Well, good luck, dude.”

With a nod of thanks, Brock walked back out to his rental car. He could drive to Anders’, waiting awkwardly with your menacing big brother who probably wouldn’t hesitate to murder him, or he could wait it out. It wasn’t a difficult decision to make.

Brock drove around aimlessly, not sure where he was going. Part of him hoped he’d run into you and Mat, and the other part of him never wanted to see his face with yours ever. What were you even doing with Mat anyways? What did Noah mean by “spending time together”? Were you two fucking? Was it more — already? Would it be cheating if it was? Fuck, he just had to get to you.

Eventually, he decided to get out and walk around as a way to help relieve some of the pent up energy and kill some time before he thought you might be home. He wandered the streets, taking in the sights and sounds of Long Island.

Then, he heard your voice. Your laugh, actually. A rush of excitement flooded through him, oddly mixed with a deep fear that resided low in his gut. He looked up right as you were walking out of the restaurant, laughing at something Mat had said. He was laughing, too, and Brock’s blood started to boil when he noticed Mat’s hand resting on your lower back.

It also happened at that same moment that the coffee he had grabbed slipped out of his hand, spilling all over the sidewalk, and of course, attracting the attention of you and your date.

“B-Brock?” you called, as he hastily attempted to clean up the mess he had made, trying to act nonchalant.

He stood up, clearing his throat, attempting to act casual even though he knew how fucking crazy he looked flying all the way here to see you, unnanounced. “Hi. You, um, you look really nice.”

Brock could see the hesitation in your eyes, clearly having an inner battle with yourself about what to do next. You folded your arms, not wanting to accept his compliment. “What are you doing here?”

He sighed, the entire speech he had prepared flying out the window as his heart softened seeing you in front of him. “I had to come see you, baby. I need you to know I’m so sorry for what I said. I know I fucked up, and you have every right to hate me, but please just hear me out.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s left to say? You made your feelings pretty clear, Brock.”

“No, baby, please —“

“I’m sorry you came all this way, but I think you should leave.”

“Y/N, please, I love you,” he begged, desperately searching for the words that would convey how he felt. “Please. I can’t do this without you.”

“Brock,” you said, your tone final, though he could’ve sworn he heard a waver in your voice. “Please leave. Go home.”

With that, you turned on your heel, walking the other direction with Mat. Brock stood, dumbfounded, numb, frozen to his spot, as he watched you walk away from him forever.

Brock took a breath to calm his nerves — it was more than just the usual pregame jitters; this time, he knew you’d be in the stands watching him. Or, watching Mat. Or maybe both? He didn’t know.

Once he had left New York, at your request, he was completely distraught. He returned to Vancouver hopeless, depressed, and a complete shell of himself, certain he had lost you forever. Elias came to check up on him the next day, discovering him asleep on the bathroom floor at 2pm, surrounded by empty bottles of Tanqueray.

Elias had heaved Brock up, forcing him into the shower and getting him some food and a Gatorade to replenish his system. He winced upon hearing Brock retching in the shower, and knew in that moment this was so much worse than he feared.

“Come on, buddy, I got you,” Elias grunted, helping Brock out of the shower, into some sweatpants, and onto the couch. “What happened, man?”

Brock recanted the whole horrible story, feeling his heart shattering all over again as he replayed the image of you turning away from him. He was sure he’d be haunted by that vision for the rest of his life, never able to forgive himself.

“We’re gonna get through this, okay, brother?”

As Brock skated out onto the ice, he felt the familiar adrenaline rush through him, though this time for a different reason than normal. He swore he could feel your eyes on him, and as he skated through warmups, his eyes darted around to find the familiar warmth of yours. It wasn’t until he was about to skate off to head back into the locker room that he finally spotted you, eyes gazing at him. He offered a soft smile, which you returned.

After the incident, Elias had helped Brock to get back on his feet, bringing him to practice and, between him and several other guys, checking up on him regularly. What Brock didn’t know, though, was that Elias had (somehow) recruited Anders, and the two were working overtime trying to convince you to talk to Brock when the Canucks visited New York two weeks later.

Somehow, by some miracle, it worked, though Elias never knew that it was actually Mat who talked you into seeing Brock. You begrudgingly agreed to talk, less because you were ready to see him, and more because you knew that you owed it to him to hear him out. The arrangement was that you’d meet with him after the game was over, because you didn’t want to distract him from playing with his full focus. Joke was on you, though, because he could do nothing but play out every possible scenario in his head, completely distracting him from the game itself.

Still, the game was underway, and Brock was able to get himself out of his head enough to focus each shift, sort of. Right from the get go, it was a chippy game — or at least, it was for Brock. It seemed every Islander on the ice had it out for him, checking him and slamming him into the boards whenever they had the chance. He couldn’t help but notice that he was being attacked more than anyone else, and he had to admit, he admired their tenacity.

At the start of the second period, the Canucks were up by one, until the Isles scored to tie up the game, equalized by none other than Mat fucking Barzal. Brock grimaced watching the celebration, his eyes immediately darting to you, his heart sinking as he watched you cheering with elation.

You continued to watch the game, torn between watching Mat, and the rest of your Isles, and Brock. As the Canucks entered the Isles’ zone, you watched Elias set up a play, winding up to take a shot, when all of a sudden your eyes were directed to a commotion on the opposite side of the goal. Gloves were flying, and there was a tangle of blue and green as you realized what was happening; Tito – Tito! – had dropped his gloves in favor of landing a solid punch to Brock’s face, delivering a beat down, keeping the advantage from the get go. The two men wrestled their way to the ground, punches flying.

Eventually, the two were broken up, and the adoration in your heart you felt for Tito was quickly shrouded by fear and worry as you watched the trainers run over to Brock, blood dripping freely onto the ice. He was escorted off, leaving for the rest of the game — which, at that point only had 5 minutes left anyways.

Somehow, someway, the Isles ended up winning the game, 3-2, but you could hardly be bothered as you raced down to the locker room, flashing your visitor’s badge from Anders. You waited impatiently, anxious, for the guys to wrap up their post-game scrum before you were allowed in, seeing Brock with a butterfly bandage on his cheek and a tissue sticking out of his nose to stop the bleeding.

You couldn’t help but giggle a little at the sight, relieved that he was awake and seemed to be doing fine, and then he caught sight of you, his heart leaping through his chest.

“Hi,” you offered shyly.

“Hey,” he said, trying to keep his voice normal.

“How’re you doing?” you asked.

“Oh, I’m good, Beau got me pretty good but I’ll survive,” Brock responded, smiling a little and wincing slightly at the movement. “Have to say, those guys sure love you. Was a little nervous your brother was going to take off his skate and slit my throat.”

With a dry chuckle, you hummed, your heart fluttering at their display of loyalty throughout the game. You made a mental note to thank Tito, the unlikeliest of fighters.

“How are you?” his question pulled you out of your musings, and when you looked at him he was glancing at you anxiously.

You weren’t sure your voice would speak at this point, but you tried anyway, croaking out a quiet, “I’m good.”

He cleared his throat, attempting to swallow his nerves as the room cleared out. “You want to talk?”

You nodded. “I think I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for shutting you out like that when you came here to talk; I was just surprised to see you and didn’t know how to react. I know me leaving like that was… maybe a little dramatic. I just needed some time… time to think.”

“Oh, no,” Brock shook his head. “I shouldn’t have surprised you unannounced like that in the first place. It’s my fault.”

You bit your lip, falling silent, not sure what else to say.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry, for everything. I said some really stupid shit that I didn’t mean, and I know that doesn’t change the fact that I said it, but I just need you to know that I love you more than anything in this world, and this time away from you has only made me positive that you’re the one I want to spend my life with,” Brock said, all in one breath. “I’d wait fifteen years for you if that’s what you needed.”

You looked up at him, suddenly shy at his outpouring of emotion. It was redeeming and wonderful and sweet, all at once.

He took another breath, saying slowly, “But I understand that I fucked it up, and I’ll spend the rest of my life waiting for you.”

“Brock,” you spoke finally, your voice small. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, his eyes cast down as he gestured behind you. “You’ve found the one. You should go be with him. I’m happy for you, Y/N. I really am. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, was for you to be happy, even if it wasn’t by me.”

“Mat? Brock, he’s not the one,” you said, resisting the urge to giggle at his dramatic speech.

“He- he’s not?”

“No, Brock, he never was. We’re just friends,” you explained. .”Do you really think my brother would let me date Mat Barzal?”

Brock shrugged, realizing that maybe he’d made a few assumptions along the way. Then, taking a deep breath, you added, “It’s always been you.”

The silence hung in the air for what felt like an eternity as Brock stared at you. Were you really saying what he thought you were saying?

“Brock, what you said really hurt me, because you’re the only person I want a future with, so hearing that you didn’t want that was… tough,” you continued. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t still love you.”

“Oh, baby, I love you too,” Brock sighed, relief flooding through him at hearing those words from your lips. He stood up quickly to pull you into his arms, wrapping themselves tightly around you. As you returned his embrace, you could feel him shaking slightly, and you realized he was crying.

“B, why are you —”

“I just love you so fucking much, baby.”

“You are an idiot, but I love you for it,” you grinned, and the next thing you knew, he was kissing you like he’d never kissed you before. His lips pressed firmly against yours, like he was trying to pour every emotion he had for you into the kiss, holding you close to him.

Brock’s hands slid from their place on your back, one trailing up to cup your face, the other taking hold of your hip, as he softly ran his tongue along your lip before slipping it into your mouth. You sighed against him, the mood instantly changed.

“Back to the hotel?” you asked against his lips, and he chuckled, nodding in agreement.

“Unfortunately I don’t think I’m allowed to fuck you in the visitor’s locker room.”

#brock boeser fic #brock boeser fanfic #brock boeser blurb #brock boeser imagine #brock boeser x reader #brock boeser x y/n #hockey fic #hockey blurb #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #vancouver canucks fic

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1kook · 4 years ago

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BORN SINNER III

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summary; Regardless of whether you are a liar or not, that didn’t make it okay for Jungkook to lie to you. warnings; virgin jungkook, timid jungkook, church boy jk, a LOT of religious themes/discussion, catholic guilt, fear of sinning, mentions of masturbation, heavy doubts, a little paranoia/fear of being outcasted, jk has a crush, confessions, making out, boob lover jk has his boobs touched, groping/petting, light praise, very brief/light choking, jk is horny like 75% of the time, positive character development <3 rating; m (18+) wc; 9.5k

banner; as always, by @jamaisjoons !! ty ty ty!! <3333

notes; i have to apologize for delaying this update for so long. truth is, it was difficult to write the next part bc i felt like i had trapped myself in pt2-- jk wasn't showing ANY progress & i started to really hate his character. LUCKILY, with the help of my amazing editor n wife @kigurumu *audience cheers* i was able to put him back on the right track towards redemption! (& even more painful angst in the future!) sadly, that means that this part doesn't include any explicit smut, you'll see why. still, I'm very proud of how much i was able to build his character in this part and i hope you enjoy it!!! lemme know what u think <3

in the future, i will try my best to make sure the chapters aren’t so spaced out. again, i am so so sorry about taking so long to update this series

He gets your text the following Tuesday morning.

Now, Jungkook has never been one to be overly invested in his cell phone; he uses it as much as he needs to, just checks his emails, takes some photos, and sends texts when necessary. But you had set up a particularly unique ringtone for yourself the other day, had sweetly asked for his phone as he laid against your chest. His skin had felt warm and the slightest bit sweaty, his body pressed so closely against you that he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began. “Did you have fun?” you asked, fingers combing back his hair. He had hummed, eyes fluttering shut to the faint tapping of your fingers across the keyboard. If he closes his eyes, he can still remember the soft beating of your heart beneath his ear, the leg you had hooked around his waist to pull him closer. The memory makes him shiver.

It’s a high-pitched bell sound that alerts him of your messages now, completely unlike the classic default tone he had set for everyone else.

From the other side of his room, Jungkook immediately pauses to look at it, the lit up screen glaring back at him from its idle place on his bedside table. He always leaves it there in the mornings, beside his rosary and the picture of his family, as he gets ready for work.

He knows exactly who it’s from— after all, that’s what you wanted when you stylized your ringtone —which is why his hand trembles in excitement as he unlocks his phone.

[❤️]: picnic tomorrow? 🥰

[❤️]: after my last class of course

Jungkook’s first thought is that this was a date, his first one with you since he had met you. His heartbeat hammers at the thought, at the mere suggestion that the two of you would be able to spend more time together this week outside of your usual weekend… acts. Additionally, if you’re asking him on a date, then surely it means you view Jungkook as a potential suitor, just as he does you? Do you want to maybe date Jungkook? Jungkook certainly wants to date you— in fact, if he starts gathering his courage now, he might be able to properly ask you out tomorrow.

Jungkook’s second thought is of that guilty, gross feeling that’s been gnawing at his insides for three days now, and how it was inevitably going to get worse when he saw you again.

He had lied to you, Jungkook recalls, sinking down against his mattress, shirt half buttoned, as he stares at the screen. He had lied to your face during a critical moment, had felt that seed of doubt in his chest blossom more than ever. And not only had Jungkook lied to you, but he had lied to you about his feelings toward you. How could he ever hope to hold you close, to date you, when he couldn’t even be honest with you?

The memory of your curious gaze presents itself at the forefront of his mind, the soft sound of your laughter ringing in his ears.

You had been so sweet to him despite his blunder, had cupped his face and kissed him on the lips when he dropped you off outside your apartment. “Not today,” you crooned, unbuckling yourself as Jungkook’s eyes trailed over your throat— ignoring your cross —and down your chest. “I have schoolwork to catch up on. But soon, okay?” Another sweet peck had left him trailing after your touch, your finger bopping the tip of his nose playfully. “Call me when you get home.”

And because he was so terribly, irrevocably smitten with you, Jungkook had done as you said and called you. He’d called you and then had whimpered against his sheets as you generously talked him through another sinful deed. You had softly sighed his name over the line, told him he was handsome and that you missed him. That you wanted him in your mouth—

And of course, he had felt… something afterwards.

This is where his dilemma begins: Jungkook had felt something afterwards, and he’s not sure if it had been entirely good or bad. The longer Jungkook stays around you, hangs out with you, does things with you— the more he can feel parts inside of himself change. Because after the phone call, Jungkook had felt two distinct emotions within himself, both of which were up for questioning.

First, there was that one feeling he was becoming all too familiar with, the crushing guilt that would consume him following any sexual interaction with you or himself for that matter. Why was he like this? Why did he indulge himself in such heinous pleasures when he knew, knew better than anyone, what committing such acts meant for the future of his soul? He was practically dooming himself the way he was now, but Jungkook just didn’t understand— why did something so bad feel so good?

But alongside that gnawing guilt was this tiny, weirdly pleasant satisfaction, a gratification that superseded the relief felt by an orgasm. It was this oddly serene feeling that settled over Jungkook in the moments following a climax, the soft brush of your hands through his hair, the low lilt of your voice. They made him feel like he was floating on the softest of clouds, kissed and pampered by its wispy tendrils. It made something inside of Jungkook feel different, new. Good.

(In the back of his mind, Jungkook realizes he’s always felt that way. At the height of his pleasure, at the faintest brush of your hands against his. It was a staple of your presence, one that made Jungkook feel like he was walking on air.)

From whatever angle he looked at it, it just didn’t make sense. They were contrasting emotions; while one made him feel godawful, the other one practically made him transcend. The fact they could coincide, exist all at once, had Jungkook’s brain folding in on itself as he tried to figure out why. They kept him up the last few nights, eyes blankly staring up at his ceiling following his evening prayers. Mulling over everything he’s ever learned and been told, always circling it back to your beautiful presence in his life.

He knows sex in itself is not bad— after all, that was how the beautiful process of life came to be —but years upon years of studying his religion, cultivating his faith, had all led him to the same conclusion: premarital sex was wrong. And for the past few weeks, well. That’s all Jungkook had been doing with you.

It seems like every time you meet, you’re dead set on pleasuring him, turning Jungkook into a shivering, teary-eyed mess while you grinned from above. That confused him too— as far as Jungkook knew, the whole point of sex was to chase after your own pleasure, something you admittedly did not do. It was always Jungkook’s pleasure, Jungkook’s enjoyment that you wanted, covering him in languid kisses and long caresses until he was inevitably shooting his hot cum all over your lap and into your hands.

You had told him it was okay, that he should never feel bad for enjoying himself. But, to return back to his original dilemma, he doesn’t quite know if he can trust your word.

You’re a liar, that much Jungkook can look past his rose-tinted glasses to admit. While you may not have lied to him (or at least, Jungkook wants to believe you haven’t), the fact still stands that you are quite willing to deceive others in order to get what you want. He already knows you aren’t the biggest believer of the Church yourself, that you frequently brush off your religious duties in order to fulfill your own desires— the aforementioned sexual cravings probably the biggest one —so, quite frankly, Jungkook is untrusting of the rest of your practices. Were you lying to him, telling him all was well, just for your own benefit? Just because you wanted to drag him along on your lustful adventures? He wasn’t sure, and as much as he wanted to trust you wouldn’t, there’s a shred of doubt that plagues him.

But still.

Regardless of whether you are a liar or not, that didn’t make it okay for Jungkook to lie to you.

He taps his phone against his chin, brain a frenzied mess.

If Jungkook really wanted to pursue this relationship with you, he needed to be honest with himself and with you. Did it bother him that you were so flippant with the Church, the one he himself feels so devoted to? Yes and no. Jungkook has never been one to impress his beliefs on others, and truthfully, he would not be the slightest bit bothered if you don’t believe in the same things he does. Would there be some awkwardness in your relationship? Certainly, but at least Jungkook would know the real you from the very beginning.

But to him, posing as an avid follower when you really aren’t rubs part of him the wrong way. He’s slightly put off by that aspect of you, and justifiably felt that anyone would feel such a way if someone were to use something they love as mere leverage for their own personal gain. And to make matters worse, now that he’s been made aware, it weighs down heavily on his conscience.

Part of Jungkook, as selfish as it may be, wishes you had never revealed your secrets to him. He may have been left in the dark a total fool, but at the very least he would have been a happy fool. Would he still feel guilt about all the sexual deeds he’s partaken in with you? Sure, but at least he would only have himself to blame. The way things are now, he’s unsure who really needs to be condemned.

Realistically, it is Jungkook’s fault. He knows how you are and even more, he knows you would never proposition him for any such sexual deed if he told you no, if he simply denied you. But he doesn’t tell you no, and that’s the problem: Jungkook really likes you as you are now, questionable behavior be damned. He likes you when you make him cry and when you pinch his cheeks and when you snake your hand down his pants.

He still thinks you’re amazing, gets this fluttery feeling when you look at him with that sparkling gaze of yours. Your laughter makes him smile, even if you’re not laughing at something he said, because the sound is just so comforting, warm and soothing, makes his entire body relax when you chuckle. You have this gentle touch, these delicate hands that carefully comb his hair back for him in the car sometimes, tracing the side of his face softly. Your smile makes him dizzy, makes him want to cup your face in his hands and kiss you breathless. And, of course, he can’t complain about your… other talents when he’s only been on the beneficial receiving end of said talents. That aforementioned satisfaction, as small as it may be and as difficult as it was to admit to, was something Jungkook has begun to look forward to on the occasions that you meet.

But his inability to overlook his own beliefs and your confusing nature brings about a great strife within Jungkook. It’s the reason he hesitates outside the church after dropping you off, his car running as he glares at his steering wheel. Everything in him says to go inside and confess to his sins, relieve himself of this overwhelming sense of guilt and shame to the closest person to his Lord.

But he’s scared.

Scared that, despite the oath of confidentiality, word will get out. His fellow brothers in faith will hear about what he’s done and call him out for his lecherousness. But even worse, he’s scared of what will happen to you. Would Jungkook’s life be over if he were thrown out of his beloved church? As dramatic as he may be, no. But he recognized that there were different standards to which men were held in this society, that an act of desire by him would not ruin his name the same way it would you.

And Jungkook didn’t want that. He wanted to keep you safe. Wanted you to be happy and smiling, regardless of how conflicted it made him, because he likes you. He likes you so much, despite the fact he has yet to uncover the true extent of your character.

But the cloud of mystery is partially what intrigues him, has him pondering over your very existence instead of getting ready for work as he is now. He’s terribly enamored, thinks about you and prays for you every night. So maybe Jungkook is still the fool, because he still daydreams about you when he knows he shouldn’t.

His phone buzzes in his hand—

[❤️]: i miss you bunny ☹️

—and his decision is made.

Tuesday passes by in a blur and before he knows it, it’s Wednesday afternoon and you’re texting him the location of one of the parks in the city. You had told him not to worry about the food because you would bring it. Jungkook’s only job was bringing the picnic blanket, a huge checkered thing he had spent all morning rifling through three stores for. He wants to impress you, desperately so, that he’s even wearing a nicer outfit today, darker tones unlike his normal warm palette because he had heard a woman at his job say men look cooler in dark colors.

Suffice to say, he sticks out like a sore thumb at the park, the stark black of his jeans contrasting with the vibrant green of the neatly cut grass. Jungkook has half the mind to feel self-conscious about it, but then you’re calling his name from a couple meters away and his breath leaves his lungs.

“Hi,” you greet, the handle of your wicker basket held tightly between two hands; Jungkook rushes to relieve you of the weight. “Did you wait long?” you ask, rewarding his gentlemanly behavior with a chaste kiss against the corner of his mouth that kick-starts his heart back into action and has his face burning up.

In all honesty, you have never dressed very modestly— not that you had to, nor that there was anything remotely wrong with that. Jungkook has spent many a mass service fighting the urge to glance down the front of your dresses and tops, ignoring the cleavage you liked to show off now and then. But apparently, what Jungkook had seen up until now was your version of dressing modestly. The dress you show up with today, an off day where there are no church ladies to impress and no unspoken dress codes to follow, makes his brain short circuit. The thin, thin, straps that hold it up giving him an all access view to the broad expanse of your shoulders and chest and collarbones and boobs—

“No!” Jungkook rushes to reassure you, fighting down the blush that threatens to travel further down his neck when you carefully straighten out the collar of his shirt for him. “I- I, um, just got here.”

You beam at the news. “I bought cheesecake,” you tell him, looping your arm through his as you tug him along. “I hope it hasn’t melted yet!”

By the time the two of you settle at a suitable spot near the lake, the cheesecake hasn’t melted. It’s still cold and solid, tastes like heaven on Jungkook’s tongue, and you laugh when his eyes light up. You look gorgeous like this, nestled against the checkered picnic blanket with a glass bottle of sparkling water in your hand, sandals just beside the edge of the blanket. There’s the faint chime of a bicycle bell somewhere to his left and the chatter of birds as they flock over the pond. Wonderful sights that would normally take his breath away and make him marvel at their beauty, but when you smile at him so gingerly like that, all Jungkook can think about is you.

He watches you slip a strawberry past your lips. “Tell me about yourself,” you hum, seemingly out of the blue, wiping the corner of your mouth with one careful finger. “Other than, like, church stuff,” you tease.

As you lean forward for another one, Jungkook’s brain stutters for a moment, eyes focused on the curves of your boobs as they naturally follow the movements of your upper body until he’s dizzy. “Huh?” he says, and you snort. “Oh— me, right, yes um—“

“Your favorite color?” you suggest, tugging the skirt of your dress tighter around your legs. It’s not cold, but there’s a slight breeze that keeps rolling over the two of you, pushing your floral scent over Jungkook and fluttering through his hair. “Right now, all I know is that you like cheesecake because you ate three slices at the bazaar the other week,” you chuckle.

It’s such a basic question, the bare minimum of knowing a person. But when you look at Jungkook like that, blinking those long lashes at him, it makes him forget his answer. “Um… Red,” he murmurs, watching you tug off the stem of the strawberry in your hands. “And white.”

You nod, and then you’re stretching a hand outward to offer him the aforementioned strawberry. When he doesn’t open his mouth right away, you silently demonstrate first, until Jungkook is slowly parting his lips and accepting your strawberry. The flavor bursts on his tongue, sweet and sticky, coating the very tips of your fingers when you don’t pull away fast enough. Jungkook averts his gaze when you pop them between your own lips and suck them clean.

“Red and white,” you repeat, unaware of the lustful images that flicker through Jungkook’s mind, the way his eyes unconsciously drop to the front of your dress, at the crevice between your breasts that he remembers oh so well, the tight suction around his cock as you— “They make pink, which is my favorite color.” He desperately clears his mind of the memories that flash before his eyes.

It’s a pretty color, fit for a pretty girl. Jungkook keeps the thought to himself as he watches you sift through the contents of your basket. It’s the perfect compliment to give you, he knows it’d make you happy, but his valor disappears when you throw him a soft grin and he’s transported back to a more recent memory, the memory in the car instead.

A bad influence, he had called you, had watched your eyes well up with an emotion he had never seen on you before. Sadness? Disappointment? Disgust? He wasn’t sure, all Jungkook could really remember was the acidity on your tongue when you had repeated the words back to him, the ghost of your touch when you had abruptly pulled away from him, shut him out. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you so closed off before, not even when he had first met you and you were parading around with that staged shyness.

And even when Jungkook had corrected himself afterwards (read: lied to you to cover his tracks), the emotion had lingered. Even when you had playfully brushed him off, he had caught your reflection in the window beside you as he drove to your place. The sullen look on your normally happy face, lips down-turned, eyes lowered. A look he had put there.

And now he’s watching you carefully rip apart bread to throw at the birds with a tender smile. A cloud moves and suddenly the sun is beating down on your little picnic again, casting a beautiful glow across your skin that renders him breathless for the shortest moment, trapped by the sheer beauty you exude. You’re absolutely ethereal, and yet he had questioned you. Your morals, your character, everything.

“__?” he says before he can stop himself.

You hum, “yes, bunny?” before pausing your little feeding task to glance back over at him. When you look at Jungkook like this, meet his gaze straight on, he doesn’t see an ounce of ingenuity in your eyes. It might be Jungkook’s lovesick heart speaking, but he can’t imagine you ever lying to him. He looks away first, frowning at the various fruits sprawled between the two of you.

You care about him, that much Jungkook wants to believe. And his beliefs are confirmed, when your voice drops an octave lower, becomes softer, as you murmur, “is everything alright?” The fruits are carefully set aside, breaking the wall between the two of you until you can shuffle forward, your knees bumping against his. Hands reach for his, thumbs rubbing soothing circles against his skin.

Before you can repeat your inquiry a second time, Jungkook finds himself asking, “do you like me?”

Jungkook’s sudden inquiry makes your cheeks heat up just the slightest, your startled inhale barely contained.

It’s like a scene straight out of a teenage romcom— a confession in a park, your hearts bared for each other. But it’s a little awkward, you have to admit, unintentionally giving Jungkook’s soft hand a nervous squeeze as his question rolls over in your mind.

Duh, you want to say. But there’s something about the look in Jungkook’s eye— the eyes he very purposefully turns towards your hands, the hair he had let loose today providing him ample protection from your gaze —that has you pausing, carefully considering your next words.

You had hoped by now that it was obvious, that Jungkook understood how much he meant to you, and didn’t require some dorky confession in the park. Partially because, well. This wasn’t your usual role. Usually, it was the guy confessing to you, raving about all your redeeming qualities in an effort to win you over. But with Jungkook, all you know about relationships is flipped upside down, forcing you to play a position you’ve never played before.

Jungkook wasn’t like you; he was soft and sentimental, practically wore his heart on his sleeve for the whole world to see. And it was a massive heart, filled with so much love and adoration for the world around him, that you felt bad when he wore such sullen expressions on his face.

Expressions like the one he has now, lips pressed together tightly as he misreads your silence. He has honest eyes, a dark toffee color that sends tingles down your spine when he looks your way. They glimmer with a sort of innocence for the world, a thin sparkle that makes him look like a prince sometimes. He was devastatingly handsome, and now he was upset. “Um— it’s okay,” he stammers, trying to move the conversation along. But his eyes flicker around nervously, anxiously. Like your silence has left a burn mark on him, painful and delicate to the touch.

His comment isn’t completely unexpected. How very on-brand for big-hearted Jungkook to try to save you from an uncomfortable interaction, even if it was caused by him. “Um…” he murmurs, “it’s okay. If you don’t, uh. Like me?”

It sounds flimsy, even to you.

“No, no,” you rush to correct, your ability to speak slowly coming back to you only after the fact. “I do,” you admit, nerves on edge at this rather foreign situation. “I… like you a lot, Jungkook.”

You shouldn’t be surprised by his reaction. Jungkook blinks slowly, like his brain is still processing the information, and then, ever so artfully, goes up in metaphorical flames. “O- Oh,” he stutters, reaching a free hand up to press his knuckles against his face. The rosy hue that had first blossomed over his cheeks has now started crawling down his neck now, up his ears. It’s terribly endearing. “I— um. I didn’t know,” Jungkook rambles, and it’s so cute, so sweet, how a simple confession from you renders him this flustered.

His face emanates a warmth tangible even on your own skin, lips cutely quirking to the side as he fights off a bashful smile and the raging blush your words bring about. It certainly is a sight to see. His hair tickles his eyebrow, swept out of its usually neat style, but it makes him look all the more gorgeous. “Cute,” you chuckle, feeling the slightest bit shy at such a warm response from Jungkook. You sit back, giving him the space he needs, and turn your attention up at the big blue sky instead. “Really? I thought it was obvious,” you hum.

Part of you actually feels really awkward; as you said before, everything is so brand new with him. With Jungkook, he flips everything around for you, makes you actually admit to your emotions as opposed to simply going along with his. It’s a nice change of pace, as difficult as it may be, and the results are rather… cute as well. (He bites down a smile, but the action makes his normally soft cheeks look more pronounced than usual.)

“Because, I, um. Me too,” he says, voice wavering. He clears his throat and tries to meet your gaze under his fringe, but doesn’t last more than a second before he’s pointedly glancing at the picnic blanket beneath the two of you. “I’m— I like you too,” he admits, ears tinted a bright red. You figured as much but it was always nice to hear, especially from someone like Jungkook. “A lot.”

“Thanks,” you smile, placing a hand on his thigh.

His lips pull into a shy smile, aimed at your knees because he can never look you in the eye when you shower him in praise and other gooey, mushy feelings. It’s the same in the car or against your front door— he always manages to give your hand a tight squeeze, maybe even a kiss if he’s feeling brave. But the second you try to tell him you’ve had fun or that you’ll miss him, it’s like all his courage fades away, leaving him a blushing, smiley mess.

He was cute like that. Despite being so kind and caring, it was like Jungkook’s entire being stopped functioning when those types of gestures were aimed at him. So you relished those moments, looked forward to them with a fluttery feeling in your heart that couldn’t be tamed.

Today, he throws you for a loop. Just as that proud, giddy smile appears, cheeks and ears a pretty pink, it fades away. The excitement from your mutual confessions seems to remind Jungkook of something else, something less warm, that has him quietly mumbling, “I’m sorry.”

It’s confusing, to say the least. Just a moment prior, he had been pursing his lips in a silly attempt to hold back a smile. Now he’s staring at the ground with a rather pensive look, his apology sitting heavy in his throat. “What for?” you tentatively ask after one long beat. It had been so sudden. In your mind, there isn’t a single reason for Jungkook to be apologizing to you, especially so out of the blue. There is, however, an inkling of fear brought upon by what can only be classified as insecurity; you had just confessed your feelings for each other, why was he sorry about that?

Jungkook exhales, a quiet sound that is nearly lost among the bustling noises of the park. If you hadn’t been sitting so close, maybe you wouldn’t have heard it at all. “I just,” he huffs, pointedly glaring at some random spot of grass beside you. His features look sharper than ever now, jawline defined, brows narrowed together. It’s a rather misplaced realization, but Jungkook looks absolutely gorgeous with distress painting his face. “I was… being selfish before.”

In the few weeks you’ve known him, you’ve come to realize Jungkook was many things. First and foremost, he’s an absolute gentleman. Raised on manners and compassion, looking after others everywhere he went. He was caring and sweet, loved this world and the people in it so much. Soft-spoken but straightforward. He was dreamy, disgustingly so.

But selfish? It definitely sounds like something Jeon Jungkook is not.

Before you can interrogate him even further, it seems like Jungkook is dead set on getting through this alone. “I- I’m sorry,” he repeats, eyes downcast. Noticing his wavering confidence, you resign yourself to listening, hand giving him a reassuring squeeze. Finally, after a short moment, Jungkook murmurs, “...in the car.” You tilt your head to the side curiously, waiting for him to go on. “I said, um. Something rude.”

It takes a moment for the memory to load, and when it finally clicks into place and begins rolling, you find yourself muttering a faint, “ah.”

If it’s what you think it is, he’s talking about last weekend outside of the church. That terribly awkward encounter that had left a sour taste in your mouth afterwards. A bad influence, you recall him saying, the memory of his voice looped in your mind the entire drive to your place.

In all honesty, it had stung a little. While you were aware that Jungkook had an ongoing mental battle, you hadn’t realized your role was that big in it. It’s the reason you had sent him home that day, made up a lie about schoolwork just to give him some space. It’s nothing new, everyone’s had someone think badly of them before; gossipy classmates, rivals, maybe even random strangers on the street. But it felt different when it was coming from someone as sweet as Jungkook, so polite and righteous, who wouldn’t even hurt a fly. Like he was stating a fact, not an opinion.

It was a slip-up on Jungkook’s end, that much you could tell. Because he had been frantic to correct himself afterwards, had looked at you with these fearful eyes, like one wrong move and you’d slip from between his hands. Luckily, you weren’t that sensitive— definitely not as sensitive as him, at least —and such a comment had been practically meaningless moments later.

Still, in those few moments where it was meaningful (read: the short period it took for Jungkook to get home and call you, the words looping around your brain until the harsh ring of your cell phone finally interrupted), it had left you wondering. Have you been pushing him too far, asking for too much? The way you saw it, you always gave Jungkook room to object to any of your advances. You know he’s trapped in his thoughts more often than not, but you pay attention to him, you really do. You make sure to take his reactions into account, try to offer solutions where possible. But, for the briefest moment, all of those efforts had felt fruitless that day in the car.

What you say next is not a complete lie; sure, Jungkook’s comment had hurt for a bit, but here he was now apologizing for it. That was a good sign… right? “It’s okay,” you brush off, patting his cheek softly, hoping with every fiber in your being that it really was okay.

Your voice is gentle, soothing his doubts. Just moments prior, Jungkook had felt like he was asking for too much, especially when your feelings toward him were up in the air. But your earnest confession soothed the ache in his heart. It’s all he’s wanted these past few months, to belong in your heart like you do his.

But the guilt from before, the tumultuous feelings he’s been harboring towards you since the weekend, dampens his excitement. From your confession alone, it doesn’t seem like you questioned Jungkook. You weren’t put off by who he was, what he loved. So why couldn’t Jungkook be like you, think like you?

“I’m still sorry,” he says again, feeling like a broken record when he catches this sympathetic smile on your face. The scraps of eloquence he had gathered while originally apologizing seem to fade away, leave him a stuttering mess when he tries again. “That was— I shouldn’t have said—“

“Hey,” you cut off, placing a hand against his cheek. It stops his fidgeting, forces him to meet your gaze head on. There’s a smile on your face but something inside of Jungkook says it doesn’t feel real. “I like you, Jungkook.”

And it’s true and genuine, your words so honest it pains him to think he had ever thought otherwise. And you’re still smiling, even after being hit with the implication that Jungkook questioned your character and maybe that’s what hurts the most. That you still try to put on an easygoing expression for him after he’s said something hurtful. It’s the car all over again, that blank look in your eyes when he had spoken carelessly.

Before he can apologize for the umpteenth time, you’re shaking your head softly, smiling anew. But this time, he can’t tell if it’s real or not. “I brought orange juice,” you say, expertly moving the conversation along. And just as Jungkook has been thinking for weeks now, it’s like you know him so well. You know when things make him anxious or uncomfortable, know just how to help him out.

There’s a feeling of guilt that blossoms in his chest, but this time it’s different.

It’s not the usual sticky gross feeling of before, the one that has him staying up at night repenting for all his wrongdoings. It’s a personal kind of guilt that comes along with the frank realization that, while you have been learning and adapting to being around Jungkook, he has not been doing the same for you.

Though you may be a little playful at times, you don’t tease him for who he is, don’t stomp all over his beliefs as much as he deluded himself into thinking you do. (That whole, faux-believer thing was a different circumstance.) Like with the cross in his house the other day. As much as Jungkook wanted to believe what you had done was evil, he had, quite honestly, enjoyed himself afterwards. There wasn’t that heavy discomfort sitting on his chest anymore, that sense of shame lingering as you’d kissed his body and let him caress yours too, in the safety of your eyes only. It was enjoyable and fun, had felt exhilarating to be so intimate with you.

And instead of being thankful for your mindful efforts, he had questioned your sincerity.

The picnic goes by in a flash. Jungkook is sad he can’t enjoy it to the fullest, his brain filled with clamorous thoughts that circled around to torture him every few minutes. Still, the entire date feels like a dream, vibrant and beautiful, leaving him in a daze. He doesn’t want to wake up.

By the time you suggest wrapping up, the sun is setting over the horizon, the windows and lights of the buildings around you slowly flickering to life like a sea of tiny stars. He feels weak in the knees as he helps you pack everything back in your basket. “All set,” you smile, walking beside him, knuckles brushing against his until you fulfill Jungkook’s wordless wish and slip your hand into his.

Jungkook agrees, hoping his hand isn’t sweaty and that you mean what you say. “I- I liked the food,” he remembers to mention, the fact that you had so carefully and lovingly prepared all this not entirely lost on him. His compliment, as simple as it may be, has you beaming at him as you exit through the park’s front gates. His car is parked along the street, the sleek vehicle coming into view as you round the street corner, hands still fastened. “Um,” he mumbles, pausing beside it. You turn to face him, eyes clear and content.

All good things come to an end, he supposes, reluctantly letting go of your hand when you tug. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” you say, stepping up close, chest pressed against his. His breath hitched in his throat, eyes going wide when you nuzzle against his neck. Your hands slip around his waist. They wrap around him perfectly, make Jungkook feel like he was made for you.

By the time he’s springing into action, jerkily raising his free hand up to your back, you’re stepping away. “Call me when you get home,” you wink, sending shivers down his spine when he remembers what happened the last time you said that.

But Jungkook doesn’t think he can wait that long.

You’re slipping further and further away, fingertips just barely brushing against his forearm, when Jungkook jolts into action. “How are you, um—“ he stammers, feels too big for his shoes when you tilt your head curiously. And then, “d- do you need a ride?” he mumbles, cheeks warm.

It’s a feeble attempt at asking what he really wants. Offering you a ride home, while not a bad idea considering it was late and you had taken the bus here, is nowhere near what Jungkook really wants. What he wants is standing before him, thin spaghetti strap slipping down their shoulder, eyes sensually half-lidded and you know this too— because, again, you know Jungkook so well, know what he wants even if he can’t say it —as you step into his bubble again, peer up at him with your arms held behind your back.

“A ride home?” you ask, blinking your long lashes in a way that robs him of his breath. And he can see that switch flick on inside of you, watches that pure and innocent gleam in your eyes slowly become replaced with something mischievous. Jungkook nods dumbly. “I’d love that.”

Jungkook blinks. “Great,” he chokes out, neatly dropping the wicker basket in his hands. In a way, it brings him back down to reality, lets him snap away from your hypnotizing gaze as he reaches for the keys in his pocket. “Let me— I just have to— yeah,” he stammers, clicking the button on his car keys one too many times, has it perkily beeping. Your lips press together into an amused smile, the last thing Jungkook sees before ripping himself away from you and yanking the back door open.

He nearly throws the basket in like a madman, glassware be damned. It’s his last shred of rationality that tells him not to, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge as he steps up to the edge of the sidewalk and carefully places it on the floor behind the passenger’s seat.

When Jungkook rises back up, there is a hand that brushes against his forearm, a gentle touch that has him throwing a curious glance your way. He’s not expecting to be so entranced by the dreamy look in your eyes, feet glued to the ground as you trail your hand down, catching his wrist between your fingers. You’re standing so close, making Jungkook feel like he’s trapped between you and his own car. His entire body is on edge when you lean in, placing a soft kiss against the very corner of his mouth. It leaves a tingling sensation, and accompanied with the growing warmth beneath his skin, feels like he’s been burned. “I had fun,” you murmur, voice low. It sends a shock of electricity down his spine, a wave of exhilaration that has him fully turning to face you as you eventually step away, that same playful grin on your features again.

A surge of confidence and greed overcomes him, has him stepping forward into your space despite the nervousness that builds within him. There’s a hint of surprise in your eyes that you quickly mask, placating his bumbling nerves with a delicate hand placed over his heart. He can’t breathe when you lean in, softly humming, “kiss me?”

Jungkook’s lower lip wobbles. “O- Okay,” he concedes, voice but an airy whisper that is soon swallowed up. You taste like fruit and orange juice, remnants of your picnic clinging to your lips as you slowly consume Jungkook’s entire attention with this soft brush alone. It’s a rather short affair, one that ends all too soon when you pull away with a soft sigh against his lips.

Your smile is so pretty when you angle it at him, has him taking one jerky step backwards. His back hits the car, feels trapped. But he isn’t scared, doesn’t find himself anxiously awaiting your next move. “Good boy,” you purr, reaching one graceful hand forward, playfully tugging at his tie, wrapping it around your knuckles as you use it as leverage to pull him close again.

You’re just so pretty, Jungkook has always thought so. From the moment he first met you until now, there is something about you—a glint in your eyes, a quirk to your lips—that has had him under your spell for weeks now.

Had Jungkook seriously despised you and your ethics, perhaps this feeling would have gone away. But the fact of the matter is that you make Jungkook’s heart hammer dangerously in his chest, a shot of adrenaline through his veins when you look at him with those low-lidded eyes, touch him with those experienced hands. He wants you so bad, even after all he’s learned, all he’s seen. He wants you over him and under him, pressed against him from head to toe. He wants and he wants, and he knows it’s bad to want so much, to be so greedy. But with you around, Jungkook finds himself giving into that greed, clutching at it like a lifeline. “We can, um—,” he stammers, placing one uncertain hand against the top of the door frame beside him. You raise your brows, egging him on yet patiently waiting all at once.

Your gaze is so strong, and it’s in moments like these that Jungkook feels that feeling crawl up his throat. A serpentine gaze, a sticky sweet tongue. Everything he’s ever known says it’s wrong, but his heart and your confession says otherwise. He looks away, throws a bashful glance at the plush leather seats behind him. “In… inside?”

And the offer has you positively beaming before him, that same flirtatious shimmer in your irises doubling at the words that roll off his tongue. “Oh my,” you swoon playfully, stepping back to, Jungkook assumes, allow him to get in.

He plops down, feels like he would break out in a sweat if the evening temperature wasn’t so cool. The car’s interior blends into the shadows, his clothing practically indiscernible against the dark shade of the seats. A stark contrast to the pretty floral dress that suddenly spills itself over his lap when you climb in, the door tugged shut beside the two of you. All is silent, your thighs over his, hands on his shoulders. “Hi, bunny,” you murmur, lips pulled into a smirk, provocative yet playful, like you know something that Jungkook doesn’t.

Jungkook’s throat feels dry but he still manages to gulp. He’s drowning in your perfume and your body lotion, in the faint smell of the outdoors clinging to your clothes and your hair, the absolutely heavenly scent of just you in your entirety. “Hi,” he whispers back, voice lost beneath the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears. And his quiet greeting is rewarded with two soft hands that crawl up his neck, cupping his face in their palms.

“You were so sweet today,” you purr, nose nudging against his when you finally lean in, pressing your breasts against Jungkook. A tiny gasp catches in his throat, his hands instinctively going to your waist. “Can I kiss you again?”

Jungkook has never wanted anything more. “Please,” he exhales, feeling like he’ll explode if you don’t kiss him soon. You take his request in stride, jut your face forward just the slightest bit until your mouth is pressed firmly against his, the movement of your lips a practiced rhythm that he just can’t seem to master. He still tries his best, puckers his lips when he feels it’s right, tilts his head when you urge him with a soft nudge. He tries his best and hopes it’s enough.

By now, Jungkook has come to understand that there is a pattern to your kisses. You always start off slow and relaxed, mouth languidly moving against his as you lure him across a tightrope of anticipation. They gradually become more intense, pulling out whimpers and sighs from Jungkook that he had never known were possible. It’s a carefully crafted art form, the tongue that slides out from between your pillowy lips, dips into his own mouth with a giggly pant. “Good boy,” you hum in between, hands burying themselves in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Always so good.”

Jungkook shudders when you eventually part, can’t catch his breath fast enough before you’re reaching for the buttons on the front of his shirt, easily undoing the casual tie too. “Relax,” you tell him, bypassing his lips for the warm expanse of skin just below. You kiss over his chin, down his neck, as your hands crawl beneath his shirt and around his naked waist.

He’s ticklish, and when you brush against his ribs, he unwillingly releases a sharp huff of laughter. It’s followed by a wide-eyed look of embarrassment, cheeks a warm hue when you lean back in surprise at this new bit of information. “I— sorry,” he blurts out, because he doesn’t know proper make-out etiquette, doesn’t know anything really, except what you’ve shown him.

But the sound makes you snort, looking at him with this gaze that drips with honey. “So cute,” you tell him, placing a chaste kiss against his lips, before disappearing back down to lavish his throat with filthier kisses. And with you laving your tongue across his skin, biting at every inch available, Jungkook is left to fuzzily stare over the crystal clear windshield. He’s struck with the faint realization that if someone were to look hard enough, they would see him through the tinted glass as he fell apart into the hands of a pretty girl.

The soft smack of your lips against his skin is sensual, makes every hair on his body stand stiff. Your lips trail down the column of his neck, placing a bruising kiss at the juncture where it meets the rest of his body. “Oh,” he sighs, eyelids fluttering when a hand squeezes at his chest, thumb against his nipple.

Another muffled giggle pressed against the base of his neck, and when Jungkook focuses his eyes again, he catches his own gaze in the rearview mirror.

The sight of him is… weird to say the least.

Even in the dark, his lips look thoroughly debauched, puffier and redder than usual, slick with saliva that isn’t entirely his. He doesn’t tell himself to, but his mirrored counterpart peeks his tongue out, runs it along his top lip sinfully. Startled by his own appearance, Jungkook jolts in place, feeling you shift in his lap with a soft little whine. “Bunny,” you frown, and Jungkook watches your side profile in the tiny mirror as you sit back up, press your lips against his ear. “Sit still for me,” you tell him, hand slithering up his chest, around his throat. Over his Adam’s apple, squeezing just the slightest. It’s not tight, but it knocks the air out of his lungs when he sees the action mirrored back at him on the reflective surface.

That familiar guilt sticks in his throat, evident when your hand slips away and he swallows harshly, the protrusion just beneath his skin bobbing up and down.

In the back of Jungkook’s mind, he can recall the religious story that surrounded this bodily feature; a sin and the consequence. A garden and a fruit, a beautiful woman by his side.

Your hand creeps down between your bodies, palming over his quickly fattening cock, and Jungkook swears he sees stars, a strained whimper escaping from his lips that you giggle at. “Oh my,” he huffs, clutching at the skirt of your dress. You nuzzle close again, pressing a tender kiss against the side of his neck.

Your hands are so soft and sweet, brushing over his cock like you’re simply caressing him out of adoration and not because you want him to cum, staining his seats and your dress. Either way, Jungkook can’t even begin to imagine what you must be thinking; before the date and his confession, he had been afraid that you would discard him. Maybe Jungkook wasn’t what you wanted, maybe he wasn’t what you needed. You were so confident in yourself and your actions, a stark contrast to Jungkook and his constant uncertainty, his fear of doing the wrong thing plaguing him at all hours of the day.

Even now, with your hands expertly tugging his zipper down, he finds himself going back to that story. That apple in the garden, the consequences it had hailed. Never mind the fact you’re on top of him, claiming to like him, with your hands touching every inch of his skin. He keeps looping back to that Biblical verse instead, thinks about it when your fingers meanly let the elastic band of his briefs snap against his skin. “Ouch,” he flinches, voice a soft whine. He turns too quickly and too suddenly, nose bumping against yours because you’re still so close.

You smile, puckering your lips for the lightest of kisses. It’s the little things like that that make Jungkook’s entire thought process stall, distantly aware of the fact that it’s, like always, you leading the majority of your encounters once again. Even during your picnic, it had been you who had practically held his hand as you navigated through basic information, asked for his favorite color and his favorite drink. Had it not been for your own proactive tendencies, Jungkook fears he would have never known your favorite color was pink or your favorite day of the week was Thursday.

It’s a fact that makes him pause, jaw tightening as he once again realizes how little effort he was putting into knowing you. For someone who claimed to like you a lot, he rarely did the work to prove it. Even now, he’s too unsure of who he is and who you are to indulge you properly, instead watching you lead the scene as usual. Before he can stop himself, a sigh is escaping his lips.

It must convey his emotions perfectly, because it’s enough to make your wandering hands pause by his waist. “Everything okay?” you ask, always knowing what he’s feeling. And it sucks that he couldn’t say the same for himself.

“N— Yes,” he rushes to say, looking up at you with round eyes, the moonlight painting half of your face a paler color than usual, the other side shrouded in darkness. It makes your eyes look darker, makes Jungkook gulp loudly when you turn those inquisitive eyes on him.

His answer doesn’t seem to convince you, and it’s with little to no hesitation that you sit back. It puts a distance between the two of you that Jungkook can’t say he’s a fan of. “Jungkook,” you say, voice stern yet warm, one hand reaching up to brush your knuckles against his cheek. “Tell me what’s bothering you?”

It makes Jungkook nervous. He knows he thinks too much. Part of him fears that oversharing with you will drive you away, put you even farther than you are now. Maybe next time it’ll be a room’s length away, a football field’s length away. And he doesn’t want that; he wants to hold you close, he really does. But there are traditions he carries and beliefs he holds dearly that make it hard for him to do so, as much as it pains him.

The only reason he knows he’s frowning is because you press your pointer finger against the corner of his mouth. You lean in close, nose bumping against his. It sends your scent billowing over him, makes him dizzy when he becomes aware of the hand he’s got on your bare thigh, the rumpled skirt of your dress pushed away. “Talk to me, bunny,” you murmur. You don’t make a move to kiss him, a fact that Jungkook feels both grateful and disheartened by. “Please?”

And he can’t deny you, not when you ask so nicely. You have this metaphorical grip on Jungkook, a tight hold around his throat that has made him act impulsively these past few weeks, desperate to be with you, to please you. Even now, despite how much he wants to withhold his thoughts, he finds himself quietly admitting them instead. “I want to know you,” he mumbles, unable to meet your eye. You don’t push him to. “I really, um. I like you, __. A lot.” It’s a repetition of his earlier confession. And still, it makes him nervous. A thumb brushes against his cheekbone, encouraging him to meet your solemn gaze even if it means being a blushing mess afterwards. “Before we, uh, do… things.”

His words may be choppy and incoherent, but you understand him all the same. “You want to go out some more,” you clarify, removing your hand from his cheek. The phantom trail of your fingertips on his skin remains, feels colder when you lean away to allow him some more space.

Jungkook nods quickly, hoping this rush of adrenaline might help him through this. He bites down on his lower lip, carefully analyzing your expression for any signs of disbelief or disgust. But all he sees is understanding, a cool expression that makes Jungkook’s heart thunder. “I…,” he says, glancing down at where he’s still got his hand on your naked skin. Something inside of him tells him to rub his thumb across it, an action he doesn’t think through until he hears a sharp inhale, watches goosebumps rise over the skin. “I’m sorry,” he rushes out, snatching his hand away before he can do something else of a similar sort. “I- I just—“ said hand now waves around wildly beside him “—I really like you, as a, um— uh. A person. And I—“ and this is where he becomes aware of his unbuttoned shirt and the way you’ve got your pretty pussy pressed against his thigh now “—I, um. I want to know me— I mean, you —better? More? Like—“

His embarrassing babbling is cut off with a gentle kiss to his lips. No tongue, no saliva. Just soft lips against his, a delicate hand against his shoulders. When you pull away, Jungkook unconsciously trails after the touch, eyes half-lidded and in a daze when you place a palm on his chest. “I got it,” you say, lips quirking into a tiny smile. “I want to know more about you too, bunny,” you admit, reaching for the front of his shirt. He watches on with flushed cheeks as you slowly button it up for him, finishing it off with a playful tap against the underside of his chin.

You glance out of the window thoughtfully. Jungkook is suddenly reminded of how pretty you are, your skin practically glimmering under the pale moonlight. It catches on your necklace, a thin chain with a cross on the end. If he focuses his eyes behind you, his own reflection stares back once more. Jungkook’s entire body threatens to lock up tightly, but a single kiss on the cheek from you interrupts the process. “Do you wanna date?” you ask, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Jungkook can’t agree fast enough. “I— yes,” he gasps, leaning forward too suddenly. It makes you flinch back in surprise, back pressing up against the driver’s seat behind you in surprise. You wouldn’t have fallen or anything, but Jungkook reacts like it was a serious possibility anyway, grasping at your waist and pulling you snug against him, soft thighs sandwiching his tiny waist. “Oh, God,” he frets, immediately moving to release you.

But you catch him with two arms thrown around his neck, pulling Jungkook close to you for another kiss. Deeper and… meaningful, your satiny lips carefully slotted against his. While it surprises him at first, Jungkook finds himself melting into it soon enough. This was okay, he tells himself, and for the first time in a few weeks, he finds himself believing it.

It was just kissing— intimate yet appropriate kissing —between two people who were seeing each other. Him, properly seeing you. His heart threatens to burst out of its cage for a second. It’s the first time since he’s met you that he can fully say he hadn’t felt nervous about his actions, hadn’t felt like he was committing some grave sin for chasing after your touch. It was just a kiss, simple and sweet, making both of you smile bashfully when you eventually pull away. There was no lying and no guilt, no tears and no stress.

It felt good.

#networkbangtan #bangtanhq #jungkook smut #jungkook fic #jeon jungkook smut #jjk smut #jeon jungkook fic #jjk fic #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x reader smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x reader smut #bts fic #bts smut #mine

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pentacentric · 9 months ago

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Ugh, sorry to pile on to this more (because it's already awesome and I can just say "preach!" and that should be enough) but I just want to add to this that I agree there's absolutely no reason you have to change your mind. If you want to open up to enjoying fics that aren't currently working for you, sure, that's fine and please ignore all this. But you don't have to buy into the "top Sam/bottom Dean is best and canon" thing. It's not. I am a huge bottom Sam fan. Which (as pointed out) doesn't mean submissive but for the sake of this, since we're talking about fandom, which tends to conflate the two, I'll focus on the 'submissive' interpretation. And I still actually don't think canon precludes bottom Sam at all! Bratty subs are a thing and Sam makes such a glorious one! I mean, I actually started off pretty agnostic and not having a preference in regards to their dynamics, but as I watched the show I started leaning bottom Sam more and more. I get a little frustrated too when I see people state that their preference is canon. When it gets down to it, that's all it is, preference. We've never seen fucking on screen, we've never seen them talking about who needs to buy the lube. There's no canon on who tops or bottoms

First off, like @blacknidstang said, people have different sexual dynamics with different partners, or even different dynamics with the same partner in different situations or moods. Lots and lots of people are vers or switches (or any of the other many many dynamics that don't get touched on often in media or fic). Of course, there are plenty of people have roles they prefer/stick to pretty much 100% of the time, but the opposite, where it's all very fluid and changing, is also totally normal in my experience. And some (a lot) of people don't even have those kind of dynamics at all! Sometimes no one is submissive or dominant they just do what feels good to them both at the time and it doesn't mean anything more than that.

And whole "Dean is always open and vulnerable" and "Sam is always aggressive and dominant" isn't even entirely true in canon. We see Ruby giving it back to him—biting his lips hard, scratching him, rolling on top—and the script of Baby has him in handcuffs underneath Piper in the car. He lets both Eileen and Amelia lead and set the tone for his relationships with them from what was shown, and it seemed like Jessica was also pretty assertive. I think Sam's passionate and tends to like it rough, but that doesn't mean he needs control 100% of the time. Maybe it's that Sam's sometimes going to be more dominant/aggressive with some women because a lot of them tend to appreciate and expect that from him. Big guy, dangerous looking, but also gives off a sense of empathy/sweetness/restraint that makes them feel safe enough to indulge in that dynamic with someone they don't know. That's my interpretation and it's no less valid than other ones. I personally think he can both give and take. And, of the men we've seen him have chemistry with in the show (Brady, Paul, and Eli come to mind, and I think Sera intended an actual hookup with Eli but the showrunners shot her down)—none of them have seemed like stereotypical soft/twinky/submissive sorts. His dynamic with men could be entirely different than it is with women (again, my experience says this is not uncommon at all).

And for Dean, we've rarely seen him with someone who isn't a one-night stand. He's not being 'open' with all these women he doesn't know, that's been made clear by how much he lies to them (the kind of cheesy/skeevy pickup lines and scenarios he uses) and how he rarely gets attached. He's getting pleasure without having to work too hard for it (not a condemnation, he sees this kind of sex as fun and not serious and he's not going to angst about it). Yet he's shown as usually setting the overall terms of these flings—he pursues/flirts with women, he leaves when he's done without remorse, he still hooks up with other people when he is in one place long enough to see someone more than once. The exception to this where we've been shown an actual sex scene is Cassie and, while that scene was sweeter and softer than Sam's are, it still seemed pretty equal to me as far as dynamics go. A woman being on top (for part of the scene) does not automatically mean a weak or submissive man, no matter what the freakin' producers might think (they fretted over showing that on tv, lol).

I could go on about how someone like Sam, that has had his autonomy taken from him without his consent his whole life might relish the opportunity to choose when and to whom he gives himself to (and the related arguments I've seen about Dean and hell and SA apply just as much, if not more, to Sam since it's explicitly canon from what Lucifer has said both in Sam's head and outside of it). I could also talk about how someone who overthinks things and lives in his head like Sam does would just love how subspace brings him into his body and how it can turn his brain off for goddamn once. And Sam has had to fight to keep control over himself—his feelings, his urges, his decisions, his sense of self—his whole life…letting go of that control, handing it over to someone, would be such a release. I could also argue over that Dean would love to have his headstrong little brother (who constantly chafes and spits at Dean trying to control or take care of him) willingly give up his control to him in this specific situation. He may like that he doesn't have to be restrained and soft with Sam—Sam can and has taken punches from him, and a lot worse from everything they fight.

Anyways, I also didn't mean to do the opposite of what you asked, and @blacknidstang said it much better and more succinctly than I did, but I have several drafts sitting in my account where I go off about this and I haven't gotten around to posting them yet and I may never so I figured this is a good chance to get some of it out, heh. Just wanted to reiterate that you are not wrong and you can go on enjoying all the hot bottom Sam action you want without feeling weird or wrong about it. I personally think you're in good company.

idk what's wrong with me, but I just CANT see Sam as dominant over Dean. Like, I totally get where it would come from, but I just cant see it with Dean. Sam does snap at Dean and is stern sometimes, but in a relationship idk. seems like Sam would be submissive for Dean. (guys I totally love blood lust Sam and souless Sam, but they seem like versions of Sam that he wants to keep away from Dean) Maybe the feisty part of him translates to a bottom that takes what he wants??? AHHH

change my mind!! there's so many bottom Dean fics but why does it seem so ooc?? I WANT TO SEE WHAT YOU SEE

#sorry sorry sorry #this is so long #i will also always fight for bottom sam we need more not less!

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itsthegameilike · 3 years ago

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Best Books of 2021

Time once again for my annual books-everyone-should-read list, as I’m in a horrendous slump and am unlikely to finish even one more book before the end of the year. Being an author is hard, and while this is perhaps not the best place to eloquate my adoration, it’s the only social media site I use. So here we go:

Empire of the Vampire - Jay Kristoff Thought I’d start out with a bang. Is Jay Kristoff often a lot? Yes. Does he read pornographic, not just in sex, but in violence? Sure. Was this the best book I read all year? I think so. Listen, it’s indulgent, it’s got many well-worn tropes including a sadly underwhelming love interest, but its also riproaringly fun. The vampires actually eat people, the main character is a half-vampire who smokes dried blood, and the historian vampire listening to the mc’s story is my favorite character of the year. It’s vampires the way they’re meant to be and I consumed its ~800 pages in a day and a half.

The Kingdoms - Natasha Pulley Natasha Pulley has managed to fully cement herself as one of my favorite authors of all time and it’s because of this book. It can be confusing and if you don’t enjoy her writing and her proclivity for technical details, it can take a number of pages to get a hold of you, but it does and it holds the best queer romance I read all year. There’s time traveling and ships and the ocean and a couple that can hold more angst than you. I read this in a day and then read it again a week later, because it wouldn’t stop sitting with me.

The Priory of the Orange Tree - Samantha Shannon I finally got around to reading this after my sister reminded me that I’d just sat down and read a 800 page fantasy book and I could probably do another. And boy was I glad I did. Every character in this book meant something to me and all of their arcs were so satisfying. It’s very much a character study in a fantasy world, with enough plot to sate those who prefer plot. I, of course, prefer character studies so I was in heaven. Seriously, if the length is daunting to you, don’t worry about it. I hardly noticed.

A Marvellous Light - Freya Marske I’m realizing all of my books might be queer, but that’s fine. I’m powering ahead. This book was lovely. It reads very much like the best of fluff and hurt/comfort fanfiction and I mean that as the highest compliment. It’s a regency era love story with lots of magic and there is almost zero plot and you don’t even care because the main couple is beautiful and funny and intricately explored. Not a stone is left unturned in who they are and what they mean to each other. A quick and heartwarming read, perfect for bad days or long winter nights.

The Last Graduate - Naomi Novik Man, this book. Listen, if you liked A Deadly Education, you will be thrilled, because this book is better. Like a lot better, actually. You’re now settled in the world and El now has friends and Orion and opportunities to use her destructive magic to its full capacity. Both El and Orion shine in this book, as they rightfully deserve to, and I won’t spoil the ending, but also, this book gets the top award for leaving me on the floor, curled in a fetal position.

Aristotle and Dante Dive into the Waters of the World - Benjamin Alire Saenz It wouldn’t be me if I didn’t include this book, mostly because the first changed my life and I still reread it once a year. Was this one as good? No. But I thought it deftly handled growing into a relationship with someone else and how complicated that can be when you haven’t done it before and Ari grew SO MUCH. The whole book I was a sobbing mess because I was so proud of him, all the time. These characters have always touched my heart and that didn’t change. They’re just as human and just as kind and Saenz’s writing is just as sparse (in a good way) and hard-hitting.

Embers - Sándor Márai My first not queer book, huzzah! Also my strangest offering, but before Empire of the Vampire came along, by far my favorite book of the year. It’s about two men in their eighties who had been friends for most of their lives, until war and a woman tore them apart. They come together and simply talk about what happened between them, exhume their friendship, if you will, and it’s a stunningly lovely look into the ways we can love each other, deeply and poignantly, while still committing harm. The turning point in this book is jarring and perfect and comes as a complete, delightful surprise.

Any Way the Wind Blows - Rainbow Rowell Okay, so if you read the second book in this series and hated it, we’re the same. You should still read this one, though, because it’s incredibly good and rights a lot of the wrongs of the second. Simon and Baz are treated with such care and their relationship is given so much room to grow and shine and you get to see just how much they love and respect each other, how willing they are to fight for each other. It also has one of the best breakup scenes I’ve ever read ever. As an aside, while perhaps polarizing, I thought Agatha was given her best arc yet and she really deserved it.

The Poppy War - R.F. Kuang I’m just putting the first book in this series on the list, but all three are incredible and must reads. They can often been quite harrowing, as they’re directly based on the Second-Sino Japanese War. You get everything, though. You get the wise, but slightly deranged mentor, connections with gods, white colonizers as the villains, and the best friendship I have read in ages. Maybe of all time. Rin and Kitay are everything to me. Their relationship is complex and full of love and they have one of those good old fantasy life bonds and I just... ugh this series is so good.

The Binding - Bridget Collins I read this too long ago to form like a good summary of this, but its a love story to stories and a beautiful study of pain and the ways in which we try to cope with it, sometimes vastly to our own detriment. The main couple is beautiful and you spend the whole novel rooting for them and I don’t know what else I have to say, only that I gave it five stars and I remember that those five stars were well deserved and wholehearted.

HONORABLE MENTIONS: Down Comes the Night - Allison Saft, The Lost Writings - Frankz Kafka, The Jasmine Throne - Tasha Suri, The Sailor Who Fell from Grace - Yukio Mishima, Dark Rise - C.S. Pacat (god if only the beginning had been as banger as the end), Our Violent Ends - Chloe Gong

#book recs #books #empire of the vampire #the poppy war #the binding #any way the wind blows #embers #aristotle and dante dive into the waters of the world #the last graduate #a marvellous light #the priory of the orange tree #the kingdoms #best books of 2021

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daydream-believin · 3 years ago

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MERLIN’S APPRENTICE & MERLIN’S CHAMPION || trollhunters

warnings: swearing

a/n: if rott gave me anything it gave me this idea

I KNOW I SAID “JUICY” BUT REALLY THAT WAS JUST THE ANGST POTENTIAL,, THAT IM NOT INDULGING IN THIS POST IM SORRY LMAO

OKAY WHAT IM REALLY TALKING BOUT HERE IS A GOOD MERLIN/ARTHUR BUT IT ACTUALLY WORKS

no sorry i haven’t seen bbc merlin don’t come for me i’m ignorant

OKAY SO

we know douxie kept an eye on the human trollhunter and co

but douxie’s really having a hard time convincing himself he’s just doing his job

he’s actually enjoying this a little too much despite how boring staying in the shadows is

and he’s kinda worried?

so he’s got this bright idea: you know what would better help him keeps tabs? if he befriends this person

and so he does

fuck merlin’s shadows

sod the rules

ofc he’s very up front about knowing they’re the trollhunter and that he’s merlin’s apprentice

we wouldn’t want that to become a huge festering secret that eats douxie from the inside out until the inevitable reveal when merlin calls them both to help with the arcane order and they realize they’ve both been lying to each other’s faces for months/years and neither of them know if they could ever trust the other again, right? — phew *catches breath*

but before you know it, mr. casperan and mx. trollhunter are best friends

he’s basically the toby to your jim

and you’re very happy to have a best friend like douxie

he understands that monster hunting hustle

he’s the only person you can vent to and actually talk about what’s going on without sounding like a loon

and douxie likes being able to tell someone all his frustrations with merlin, since you’re also in that boat with him

you spar sometimes. it’s fun, but you’re very careful not to accidentally hurt your friend (he’s extremely careful not to hurt you or wound your ego by effortlessly wiping you out)

ofc, there’s the occasional, brushing of hands, faces a little too close together, accidentally winding up on top of one another, purposefully winding up on top of one another 👀 you know how sparring be

you and douxie are a duo. a duo who have become trollmarket’s resident troublemakers, to vendel’s exasperation

you guys tease each other a lot

you do a lot of stupid shit, cause hey, now you have magic armor and a magic sword and a magic best friend, did you think you wouldn’t get up to some shenanigans?

douxie is your impulse control and he’s not a very good one, as he’s just as bad

truthfully archie has the brain cell

and pranks? gods the pranks. you two are always either pranking each other or you’re teaming up to prank some other troll who said smth mean to you in the pub. vendel had to personally put a stop to it (read: chew you out)

doux thinks the world of you tho, you’re such a noble knight, and likes to tell people about how you’re a cinnamon roll, so innocent, so pure

and then they meet you and you directly contradict those statements

trollhunter: i’ve never done anything wrong in my life, ever

douxie: i know this and i love you

(spoiler: you’ve done lots and lots of wrong)

doux spends an awful lot of time slinking around trollmarket now, and he’s in the know for everything that’s happening

(no more being kept in the dark for this wizard apprentice)

and doux knows merlin won’t completely approve of this, but hey, it’s not like he’s helping and thus directly disobeying

really, he’s not helping you at all, it’s really fucking annoying

okay so mayyybe the occasional healing spell. you’ve got those puppy dog eyes he can’t say no to

but you understand his sense of duty, or whatever it is that drives a follower, technically being a follower of merlin yourself

you respect the old geezer (as you have not been turned into a half-troll yet) as a wise mythical figure, and as your best friend’s father

and what a perfect match you are for each other, champion and apprentice, mutually being screwed over by a guy you both think has all the answers

you and douxie help each other grow in your self-worths, that you two are more than the chances merlin has given to you

unfortunately, mortifyingly, you have caught feelings.

douxie has also caught feelings, and is saying nothing yep you have enough on your plate without him putting this on you so he’ll just quietly pine and suffer don’t mind him choking to death in the corner when you take off your helmet and throw back your hair

y’all’s problem really starts manifesting itself as protectiveness. you are really protective of your wizard and he is really protective of his knight

lots of things said that are Not What Friends Say but neither of you really want to be the one to point that out

lots and lots of i love yous that slowly get more and more serious until it’s not exactly platonic anymore

and it’s just really nice to have someone to get coffee (or your favored hot drink) with at four in the morning after a tussle with a troll

and that’s basically how you and douxie spend the bulk of trollhunters, just vibing

as much as you can vibe, with all the changelings and shit trying to murder you all the time

then merlin wakes up and shakes up your world

you are aware of your impending doom

you’re aware of it

merlin keeps looking you up and down like he’s mentally making up the measurements of your coffin

and tbh the idea of fighting gunmar freaks you tf out

and you’re supposed to win that fight?

gods

you’re preparing for your nightmares coming true soon

truthfully you knew your fucking job had a 100% mortality rate

you don’t want to die with regrets

you spill

you spill all the things you’d wanted to tell him and how much he means to you and that you couldn’t bear it if you were a goner before he knew

miraculously, douxie feels the same and tells you all the things he’d been holding back and and what you mean to him and how much he wants to protect you, that you’re gonna make it, if he had anything to say about it

and everything is perfect for one night

now you have a real reason to win

not that saving humanity isn’t a big responsibility on your shoulders and definitely A Reason

but knowing douxie’s waiting for you, for the life you’ll build together after this, the peace you’ll both have, it’s absolutely a big motivation to give your all and come out victorious and survive

hahaha loser you don’t know about the arcane order

and then merlin uses your microwave to cook a weird potion

you and merlin are alone in the house, but there’s no real mind games necessary. you may have grown past thinking he was a god, but in the end, you’re still a follower of merlin, and if merlin thinks this could give you an edge, well, who are you to question his methods

doesn’t mean you aren’t nervous as your master hands you the bottle

yet you don’t even hesitate to drown yourself in the black abyss of the tub

whatever it takes amirite?

and now you’re a half-troll

a sexy half-troll, if you do say so yourself

yeah, no ‘i’m a monster’ angst here, you’re loving the power-up

you’ve got to treat it like a cool new power-up or you will cry actually tbh i lied about the no-angst thing a new body is disorienting

your only real concern is douxie

not concerned for long tho, he sees you and the first thing out of his mouth is “nuclear!”

and he senses your concern, so he does go out of his way to assure you that boy, girl, enby, or half-troll, he loves you for your soul, darling

also again half-troll! you is hot as hell so he’s not really losing anything here 👀

he makes sure you know that too, not to let any insecurities fester

him raking his eyes up and down you gives the opposite effect of the dread merlin sent down your spine doing it

anyways,,,

doux helps out a lot more in the eternal night

like helps merlin re-defeat and re-seal morgana

he’ll do it again in few weeks but with a bigger role you know, this is practice

thank merlin for that edge YOU ARE THE LAST TROLLHUNTER YOU ARE VICTORIOUS YOUVE GOT GUNMARS HEAD IN YOUR HANDS HAHAHA

but now you’ve got to go to new jersey

douxie’s been instructed to stay in arcadia tho 🥺

it’s okay, you’ll see each other again soon

sooner than you realize

and until then you talk each other to sleep every night over the phone <3

merlins glad, actually. he’s glad hisirdoux found some solace. even if it is with the lamb he was raising for the slaughter. maybe things will go okay for them. the time map suggests it might be so

hisirdoux may have done things in a way he didn’t quite approve of, but that’s because he’s becoming his own wizard, and merlin is proud

#okay okay i’m done #see you in wizards #douxie x reader #hisirdoux casperan x reader #tales of arcadia x reader #tales of arcadia imagine #douxie imagine #hisirdoux casperan imagine #hisirdoux casperan #douxie #douxie casperan x reader #tales of arcadia #my writing

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jennagrinsoverml · 4 years ago

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ML Fic Recs - Ladynoir

I think most readers can appreciate a good rec list, but it’s often the same fics that I see recced again and again. I get why they’re recced - they’re amazing! But I want help finding fic I haven’t already read. So I decided to be the change I want to see in the world. The rule: the fic must have less than a thousand kudos on AO3 (but I’m trying to limit to fics that have less than 500.) Obviously this means a lot of my favourites are not included here, but you’ve probably read all of those already anyway.

If you enjoy these, please reblog so more readers can find these awesome fics!

To get things started and in honour of the quality ladynoir content we just got (which I’m hoping will inspire even more quality fan content!), let’s have some ladynoir recs. Fics are in no particular order.

Amnesiac? More like Amnesi-Chat by therealjanebingley

Oblivio's back, and this time only Chat Noir gets hit. Based on his limited knowledge and the way Ladybug acts towards him, he makes some assumptions.

One-shot. This is hilarious. From Chat’s genuine glee about his superheroes to Ladybug’s affectionate indulgence to having Chat provide an “outside perspective” on Ladybug’s non-platonic behaviour towards him to the teasing... I could see this actually happening in an Oblivio 2.0 episode.

Experimental Kisses by @komorebirei

Ladybug watched him. Maybe it was guilt, maybe sympathy, maybe a streak of playfulness. Maybe the traumatic akuma experience had softened her up. Whatever the reason, a thought wafted lazily through her mind and out of her mouth. “You know… you’re right. It isn’t fair, is it?”

Chat Noir looked up.

“I remember my first kiss, but you don’t.” She hummed and tapped her chin, making a show of remembering. “It wasn’t a bad kiss, but we were in the middle of fighting an akuma, so I didn’t get to enjoy it much, either.”

Oops—that came out sounding a little, no, a lot more flirty than she had intended. Anyway, if she was going to commit to this idea, she may as well go all in.

One-shot. Ladybug offers to kiss Chat since he doesn’t remember their kiss and the way she reacts to the kiss...it lives in my mind rent-free. I have fallen asleep many a night fantasizing about what the repercussions of the kiss might look like.

What's your favourite colour? by @hermionemonica

Ladybug and Chat Noir sit on a rooftop, watching the sunset.

One-shot. This fic is short and sweet and absolutely lovely. It’s set post-reveal and despite only being 566 words it’s full of sweetness and feeling.

Margins of Error by orphan_account

“Do you…” Ladybug's voice is at an almost-whisper. He can feel her breath fire-hot against his face. “Do you want me to show you how I think they should write our kiss?”

Adrien isn’t here anymore, leave a message after the tone.

Adrien was raised on order. His life is meticulously planned, each day as reliable as the equations he studies in physics and calculus. But Ladybug- Ladybug always has him at a loss.

One-shot. Okay, so I know the author of this one since I download all my favourite fics, but since they’ve orphaned it I’m going to respect that. However, since the author was kind enough to leave the work up so people can continue to enjoy it, I’m going to suggest that people do so! Ladynoir kisses featuring my absolute favourite dynamic: sexually assertive Ladybug and receptive Chat Noir. (Don’t take this to mean the fic has sexual content - it’s just kissing.) AMAZING.

Liquid Luck by @somethingvaguetodo

Ladybug enlists Chat Noir's help in decoding the remaining ingredients for the power-up transformation potions. Together, they work on creating them, and possibly destroying the barriers between them.

Multi-chapter. The riddles of the secret potion ingredients are fun to think about, Ladybug and Chat Noir both get to show off their smarts, and the trust and support between the two of them is showcased. Perfect ladynoir.

when you weren't mine to lose by @bugsandchatons

Change is a scary thing, especially when it feels like nothing has stayed the same.

It's been a year since Marinette became the Guardian of the Miracle Box - a year of struggling beneath a burden she never asked for, a weight that has her leaning on her partner more and more as the hours fly by, of letting him come to her, too, when he needs a soft place to land. A year of falling for the boy who takes on the world by her side with a smile made of sunlight, and fighting the growing urge to tell him what he means to her.

After all, they'll have time enough for that when Paris is safe.

But when the unthinkable happens, Marinette learns the tragedy of loving someone quietly, and the lines she'll cross to save him.

Multi-chapter. This is what happens when Ladybug loses Chat Noir. It hurts in all the best ways and the writing is absolutely gorgeous and somehow we still get a happy ending!

well if i'm beautiful and you're beautiful then who's saving paris? by celebreultimaverba

Chat flirts. Surprisingly, it works.

And then it backfires.

One-shot. This one is so cute and sweet! It’s a quick read but you’ll be smiling by the end of it.

sometimes the dreamers finally wake up by magesamell

"Four days ago a mermaid flooded Paris and an ancient guardian introduced himself to his father as a substitute Chinese tutor. He had thought that would be the end of it."

Ladybug tells Chat Noir all of her secrets.

One-shot. Post-Syren. The fic we all desperately need about Ladybug actively working to restore the balance of her and Chat’s relationship after Fu messes with that. It’s not overly romantic, but it’s absolutely perfect.

i fall in love just a little, oh, just a little by @mlady-noir

If she was asked, Ladybug wouldn't be able to give a specific date when her heart decided to fall for her pun loving partner, but she could point out the night she realized it.

One-shot. Sofffffttttttt. This is just a beautiful narrative of Ladybug’s fall for Chat with a sweet, sweet ending.

Someone I Can’t Fall In Love With by @yslen54

Ladybug agreed with Chat Noir when he suggested that they should finally share their identities with each other, but she’s been dreading it ever since.

One-shot. This is short and sweet. An identity reveal that explores Ladybug’s feelings for Chat Noir and then plays with the divided heart trope.

The following fics are amazing and absolutely worth reading, but do feature sexual content, so minors beware.

You can’t stay away from me by plikki

When Adrien sides with his father, he expects to protect Ladybug and buy some time. He doesn't expect that his emotional state will make it so much harder to resist the girl that he loves, until he just gives in.

Multi-chapter. Rated M. Not-quite an enemies AU, but with all the beautiful angst and tension of one. There’s a fair amount of sex, so be warned but it’s SO SO GOOD. And all of the pain and angst is followed by a sweet happy ending.

baby, we don't have time to be coy by Molebear

"What are we doing?" Chat breathes, the words sending a tendril of lucidity back into Ladybug's hormone-addled brain.

It's a fair question.

The origins of this tryst are a little hazy in her mind at this point. Something about a lovesick akuma, maybe? Ladybug vaguely remembers Chat Noir getting struck by something, only seconds before it hit her too. There was a fight, or... there was something she and Chat Noir had been in the middle of doing - something important, like.... save-the-world important - before she'd dragged him underground with the sole intention of climbing him like a tree.

A scorned lover gets akumatized and gains the power to cast Lust. When it comes to distracting Paris' beloved superhero team, this power turns out to be... rather effective.

One-shot. Rated M. The UST of this one damn near killed me. It’s hot AF and I would commit homicide to read the conversation these two have after that lmaoooo

Charmed, I'm Sure by @chatonne-rousse

Friends with benefits. It's right there in the name, and it's what they are - friends. Best friends. This is just a way for two consenting adults to relieve stress after akuma fights, with the only person they'd trust with this level of intimacy. Really, what could go wrong? (The real question is, what could go right?)

Multi-chapter. Rated E. The sex is really, really hot. It’s in character and full of emotion. And there’s an amazing identity reveal followed by “I’m so happy it’s you!” sex.

A Little Too Far by imploder

Ladybug gets handsy, and Chat Noir lacks self-control. Alternitavely: "Plagg's Worst Nightmare".

One-shot. Rated E. This one is hot and in character and just absolutely amazing steamy ladynoir content. Features my favourite: sexually assertive Ladybug. Because who doesn’t love playing with gender role stereotypes?

#ml fic rec #fic recs #ladynoir #ml love square #ml lovesquare #jennarecsml

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oddberryshortcake · 1 year ago

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Thank you a ton @basuralindo and also @memoryoflife for the tagging! I love this stuff and I realized I’m kind of insane because I got 2 bingos

For some added context!

The first place I posted my fan fictions was FF.Net. I no longer post there as AO3 just has a better format, but I do fondly remember the days of making all my files a keyboard smash and not remembering which one was which lol. One of them is deleted I’m pretty sure, and I sent a lot of pdfs of my fics to people who asked for them before I deleted. Bless them but I can definitely write better now. I’m sure another one is stuck out there in purgatory filled with cringe that I cannot destroy

I exclusively role-play in private discord chats with @cozymochi. We’ve made some pretty amazing stories through that, all of Catalyst originated from making a genuinely amazing story through making stuff up on the spot. It’s also a great exercise to better understand the characters.

I recall beta’ing for someone but I cannot remember who. I’ve also done that a lot in undergrad so maybe I’m just done. Pretty much all my fics go without a beta, with Cozy pointing out mistakes when she reads it either published or sent to her first lol

MOST of the fics are self-indulgent fr, but I also try to make sure it’s enjoyable for everyone if I post them

SOMETIMES I’ll leave kudos with my account and on guest. wHY DON’T THEY LET YOU LEAVE SO MANY MORE

I don’t really do ship stuff now, but one of my fave ships as a young teen was m/m. I love a good couple that plays off each other well. I’ve definitely started doing more generalized stuff thats always just a bit vaguely melancholy. I also love fluff a lot, even if hurt/comfort and angst is THE stuff.

My published fics on the account I use here are IZ and TWST. I have another AO3 for DND stories with characters me and my friends use. I also had a lot of YGO Zexal fics but they’re either in my drafts, on an abandoned AO3 account or on @antidotenurse

I ALWAYS RESEARCH. I cannot write without research. People don’t realize how fun it is to learn about what you’re writing and gain new knowledge. I’m so used to it being a history grad student that it’s basically second nature.

My ‘outline’ is just random bullet points of stuff that needs to be implemented and isolated dialogue bits lol it’s always out of context, but it helps me remember it

I live for any sort of feedback 🥺 like if there was something in particular you enjoyed please let me know!

I don’t really get art of my fics and I don’t recall commissioning for any either (my memory is terrible I know) but Cozy has helped me visualize original characters I've implemented, and I have written fics off of stuff she’s drawn so that’s pretty close!

I get amazing ideas in the middle of the night and I always have to choose between waking myself up and writing it down or going to sleep and forgetting everything 😔 it’s a tough choice, but now that my insomnia isn’t so bad, I can choose write a typo written blurb in my notes more often

I have written tipsy! and also written terribly ill so close enough

I have published a few poems and I’m getting one of my research papers published, but it’s not really the same as a book or a short story. I used to have a site for my writing and after a bad breakdown I’ve had a lot of that stuff is gone, but maybe I can start anew someday! It’s not like I’m stopping anytime soon :)

I don’t want to bother anyone with tagging, especially in case they’ve already been tagged, so if you want to do this (it’s fun) then please consider me tagging you!!

Fanfiction Writer Bingo

I was tagged by @backwardshirt in this post!

Ooooh I got a Bingo! I got TWO bingos! THREE!!!

Couple Clarifications:

oh yeah I had a wattpad phase. No, you won't find anything written by me currently on wattpad.

Good luck finding my smut content; it's a secret ;) (if you're under 18, do not ask me for it at all, please)

I never get anything I write beta-read before posting. I don't have that kind of restraint, I want to post when I want to post and I don't want to wait for someone else to read it over (and I am really my own hardest editor anyway; always have been).

"Fanfiction is an actual genre" - I did not mark this one because it's not true? Fanfiction has many genres within it. It is Actual Writing, most definitely, but it isn't it's own genre. It spans across all genres. (it's like saying "novellas are a genre" or "comics are a genre"; no. They are a Form of Media, and very valid, but not a genre)

Yeah, someday I would love to publish original works and be able to make a living doing what I love. I even have some original stuff in the works to hopefully publish, but sometimes I go back and forth with the idea, unsure if I really wanna go down the money route. Yes I know professional writers should have editors and alpha readers and beta readers. But it's different than fanfic. I don't feel like it's the same, so therefore for me it is not and I can justify it. Like how I don't mind being told what to do at work but I will fight anyone who tries to tell me how to live my personal life. :D

Fandoms I (currently) write for:

Bleach, Blue Exorcist, Twisted Wonderland, JJK, Fire Force, BNHA (sort of)

Tagging: @kimium; @azurexsnake; @filipinoizukuu; @kamikazequail; @moonlarked; @sithmonarch

No pressure to participate, but feel free and have fun! (if I tagged you and you don't write/don't currently write, don't sweat it, seriously there's no pressure 💜💜💜. If you write but don't post/haven't posted yet, that's fine too and you can still participate! All fanfic writing counts!!)

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mrwinterr · 4 years ago

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So Happy

Pairing: Rockstar!Bucky Barnes AU x Female Reader

Summary: After a night with your favorite artist, you’re left wondering where you both really stand.

Warnings: Smut 18+ (consensual, but unprotected sex, oral [male & female receiving], vaginal penetration and fingering, size kink and dirty talk). Language. Light mentions of substance abuse. Lying asses. Internet toxicity (I hate it here sometimes). Angst, I guess...TIME SKIP...and absolute horrendous fluff (that’s not my brand, alright).

Disclaimer: You can read part 1 here! It would make some sense.

A/N: This follow-up is still based on some true events. Can’t hate the players, hate the game. For the most part it’s made up because some of us deserve the ending we think we deserve. I’m dedicating this to @shawnie--jo for all the love, enthusiasm and the patience because this took me a while. It’s a doozy! & with that note, enjoy!

“You owe me,” is the first thing you hear your friend say the moment you stepped foot back into the hotel you had booked for the night before. It was in a much different tone than of the one she had in line for the concert.

Frozen in place, you turn your attention to her sitting figure on one of the single couches of the lobby. She wasn’t happy that much you could tell judging by the expression on her face and the way she sat impatiently, one leg over the other and her arms crossed against her chest.

The bag next to hers on the ground adjacent to her feet were your belongings. The way it was misshapen suggested she had hastily shoved your things back in it for you. She must’ve been in a rush to leave before checking out or…

“You owe me $50 for the late check out fee,” she clarifies, ceasing all thoughts of why she was currently pissed at you.

Now begins the walk of shame. It wasn’t something you were used to. Could you even call this that? You had no reason to feel ashamed because you were completely aware of last night’s events. You defended your decision as so! Then why did you feel this way?

Perhaps it had to do with you just now returning to the hotel you were supposed to have been checked out of hours ago, but instead you’re greeted to your more than displeased best friend staring daggers at you for a different reason.

Sheepishly bringing a hand to rub the back of your neck, when you’re close enough to her, you open your mouth to begin apologizing, but she wasn’t done as she got up on her feet to level with you.

“You said you would be back before check out,” she said voice slowly rising in volume, no matter the distance between you two was close or not, you could tell this was just the start of a catalyst, “and it’s...oh,” she stops to look down at her phone, which shined bright revealing her lock screen and more importantly the time, “...only three hours past check out!” Yup, not happy with you at all.

“I know you’re upset,” you start with the obvious, “and you have the right to be. I said I would be back in time, but I wasn’t,” maybe admitting you were wrong would allow her to see you were indeed aware of your mistakes, soften the blow to come a little bit.

“Upset? I’m disappointed!” she says, her arms falling to her sides and with a look of disbelief but is quickly washed over with indisposition. “Some sell-out rockstar invites you over to see him and you lose your sense of mind?”

“Look, I’ll pay you back. It’s no big deal.” At least on your end, you’re trying to remain calm even when her tone and choice of words get under your skin. You didn’t need this weekend to end on a bad note.

“This isn’t about the money!” She proclaimed.

“Then why are you bitching at me? I’m a grown adult! I know what I did-” Yeah, at least you were trying to stay composed, right?

“Do you?” She challenges. It’s one of those rhetorical questions, in which she didn’t need an answer to, but you were still going to give her one.

“Yes, ok. I slept with Bucky and I don’t regret it.”

The defense you put up so quickly around you weren’t something your friend was used to witnessing...maybe to your parents, yeah, but not at her. Sure, you’ve both had the occasional quarrels, but your relationship and sexual life was different because she really cared for your wellbeing and would be damned if someone hurt you.

“I’m just worried,” she admits for her initial brute front, “what you did was totally unlike you and I…”

“What?” You interrupt her, growing more tired of this conversation by the second.

“I don’t trust Bucky.” She blurts out.

You scoff at that reasoning, “you don’t know him-”

“And you do?” This time she interrupts and catches you off guard on that one. “You’re right. I don’t know him, but you said it yourself. Bucky meets tons of people every day. He’s on the road a lot. It’s easy for him to get lonely.”

There it was again. The self-conscious thoughts questioning everything about last night’s events. In a pathetic display of defense, you start counter-questioning her with some of the statements Bucky said to you. Why would he tell you all those sweet things and pretty promises if he knew he could have you so easily? Why would he think you weren’t like the other women out there who exposed their escapades for their 15 minutes of fame? What made him think anything of you? There were other girls in the crowd.

“He’s going to tell you things he wants you to hear to get what he wants.” She really believed that. She knew what some men were capable of. She had more experience than you and you often turned to her for things like this.

Her last sentence was something to let sink in. The way last night played out and the last few hours you spent with Bucky; you were blinded by a rose tint world.

Earlier that morning...

“You know,” Bucky starts with his gaze first set on your face, slowly starting to drift down your body trying to catch a glimpse of uncovered skin that the blanket was doing a horrible job in concealing. You watch with bubbling desire the way he bit his bottom lip and eyes growing darker, ”...if you ever need anything. I’m here to help. I can get you out of that town and you can stay with me in Brooklyn. We’ll find you a place to work in that’ll appreciate you more.”

He was a dream. He was so sweet, but you weren’t going to deny it. As much as you adored what little you knew about the real Bucky, a part of you that was always so careful was also skeptical. That voice in the back of your mind, whether it was your parents, teachers in the past, PSA spokespersons or your best friend, was still trying to tell you Bucky wasn’t an exception.

Then on the other hand, you were finally getting what you wanted. You weren’t a little girl anymore. You could take care of your own heart. Why couldn’t you have some fun? Indulge a little. Life is too short to sit around and wait. If he was serious about any of the things he said, then great! If not, oh well, you’ll live. What’s life without experience, right?

You just never imagined any of the harmless mentions or replies through social media were going to get you in bed with him and so smitten.

When Bucky pulls his lips away from you, he repositions himself on the bed to lie on his back and bask in the comfortable silence. You’re still on your side, but your eyes suddenly widen as you curiously take a peek over his frame and notice the red numbers of the alarm clock on the bedside table. The curtains were drawn shut, so you had no trace of the actual time of day.

“Shit,” you muttered to yourself, but was no use. It was just you and Bucky in the room and he’d definitely wonder why you’d grown frantic.

“Whoa. What’s the rush?” He says slowly sitting up, still exhausted, and watching you throw the hotel comforter over your body to get out of bed. You didn’t even care that you were naked in front of him. He’d have a souvenir to remember you by.

The sex tape was the least of your worries though. You fucking missed check out! You can only imagine the look on your friend’s face when you reunite.

“I missed check out,” you respond while momentarily being thrown off course in search of your underwear, but then instantly remembering how Bucky tore it off of you, and you did your best to push aside last night’s activities.

“What?” He asks, rubbing his face trying to rid himself of sleep. He had to get going too. The band was off to play in the next city in some hours. Unfortunately, you didn’t have enough time to take off from work to follow him.

“The hotel I’m staying at. I missed check out and my friend is going to be so pissed at me,” you explained beaten. You can’t for the life of you see where your clothes were in the dark room.

Drawing the curtains open or switching the light on without warning wouldn’t be ideal to the both of you and not only that, the effects of the substances your body was coursed through, the physicality of you and Bucky’s actions last night, the consequence of it all topped with the lone fact that you’re now standing naked in front of Bucky starts to seep in.

You try not to stand there awkwardly and do the only thing you can do. Inhibition creeping back in, you cover your face with your hands and breath in and out, hoping the floor would swallow you whole so you could escape this embarrassment and your friend’s pending wrath.

“Look,” Bucky says now in front of you, pulling your hands away from your face, he’s naked too, washing away some traces of vulnerability away, “you’re already late. You can’t change that. We can only keep moving forward,” he says, his arms slipping around your body to pull you close to his.

The sudden jolt from the skin-to-skin contact quickly subsides with the warmth of his body transferring onto yours. You hold onto his biceps and nod in acceptance. Any attempt to rush back to your hotel wasn’t going to do you any favors now.

“So then, what do you say we get cleaned up and try to enjoy our time together?” The way his head tilted to the side, a not-so-subtle hint in the direction of the shower in the bathroom, his smooth voice and his eyes half-lidded, ready to get lost in you one more time.

You said it yourself, life was short, so if you already knew your friend was going to chew you out, why deny yourself of its pleasures right now, especially if it’s coming from Bucky.

“Can we just get going? We’ll catch traffic on the way back to the city if we just stand here and keep putting each other down,” you ask, slightly shaking your head of the early morning activities and straightening yourself up, bending forward to pick up your bag and sling it over your shoulder.

This little spat would eventually pass. None of the arguments you two had were ever threatening to your friendship with each other. You’ve both fought over things much more critical that it’d be a shame to let it be over someone like Bucky.

Before you could turn back around to exit, your friend grabs a hold of your arm and stops you. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. I could be wrong. Bucky could be the one, but I want you to be smart about doing whatever you end up doing with him. I just want you to ultimately be happy,” she says wholeheartedly.

You knew she was only coming from a good place. She only ever encouraged you to do your best and the right thing. She was the one you sought out advice from and she never led you astray. In the end, you knew you couldn’t ever truly be mad at her. You owed her more than $50 alone.

“Thanks. I’m sorry for snapping at you. I know your intentions are in the right place and I really appreciate you for everything. You even agreed to come to this show with me! But I’m only human and I’m going to make mistakes along the way,” you say and notice the fallen look on her face, but you don’t give her long enough to feel sorry for you with your follow up statement, “...if I get hurt, it’s going to suck, but I’ll get back up, learn from it and move on. Plus, I’ll have you there by my side to tell you I told you so...again, and we both know how much you enjoy that!” You end it on a joking note.

A look of hope creeps back in on your friend and she’s pleased to see your resilient attitude again. You give her your best steadfast smile and it seemingly proved to be successful enough for her to accept your answer as she pulls you in for a warm hug.

You wonder, what Bucky’s motive was? He was Bucky Barnes. He could have anyone. Why did he trust you enough to be intimate with? What was his game? You just had to keep telling yourself for your sanity and wellbeing, with or without Bucky, in the end you’d still be happy.

The months to follow after that tour, you and Bucky had continued to stay in touch. You genuinely felt happy. He was giving you attention! From daily texts and long phone conversations or video calls, some rather suggestive than most, you were able to really learn a lot about each other. While you minded his glamorous lifestyle, each interaction erased all notions of it and he was just another normal human being.

If you were being truthful, a part of you was hoping whatever the two of you had was exclusive. You didn’t want to admit it, but you were in a way reserving yourself for Bucky because you felt there was something between you two and maybe he was just like you and too shy to be the one to bring it up first.

At times you’d find yourself being the one to initiate conversation...especially when the communication started becoming less frequent. They then reduced to just Holiday texts and suddenly they’d become unresponsive and you’d even be left on read. He never flew you to Brooklyn. He never followed you back on social media. You’d accepted he was most likely busy and the excuse of not wanting to attract unwanted attention to you, but the reality of it was he had seemed to move on.

It’d been close to a year and things were really quiet. The Avengers hadn’t released anything new nor did they have an upcoming tour to rehearse for. You’re trying to not let Bucky’s silence bug you and do what you’ve always told yourself - keep living your life. You weren’t going to lie to yourself, you were angry at first for letting him get to you like that and realize that boys will be boys. They would never grow a real pair and be straight with women. They always had to go and sugarcoat everything. You had to accept it. Don’t hate the player, hate the game. You were just a one-night stand and the worst part of it was that you consented to it, so you couldn’t hold anything against him.

Things picked back up in your life, work demanded more of your time and you were dating again, taking it very slow and casual. You knew nothing more would come out of it, but it was enough to distract you from Bucky. Life was slowly returning back to normal, even though it never truly could be, until you notice Bucky is posting regularly on his social media accounts again.

It’s not so much that but is one of the comments from another user that is a constant in each sporadic post. You recognize the user as an international model from another country. Curiosity gets the best of you and you decide to check out her profile, noting all the photos of them together and realizing that while you thought Bucky went M.I.A., he was spending his free time getting cozy with her in exotic places.

Her comments start out harmless in the beginning, but quickly become more and more persistent until one sets the record straight. It read, “that’s MY man” followed by a number of heart eye emojis.

You didn’t even know Bucky and the model knew of each other, but why wouldn’t they? He was exposed to extraordinary people, so finding someone in the business was a better bet than settling with you. They lived in a totally different world than yours.

There’s a plethora of thoughts that run through your mind. This is why he isn't responding to you. He had a girlfriend, who was in a much different league than of your own, and he didn’t really go public with it on his end. It made you sad, that much you could admit to yourself because you held back for him, but you weren’t going to admit this feeling to him or your friend or the world. You were going to prove to them you’d do the same thing - move on.

It’s a rather slow day at work and you’ve resulted in mindlessly scrolling through your Facebook newsfeed, but growing tired of lame memes and life updates from people you haven’t spoken to since high school, you switch over to Twitter for a more different kind of news and also a bit of some entertainment.

You’re not expecting the particular topic to be trending - #BuckyBarnesIsCancelled. You’d manage to move on from whatever it was between you and Bucky and returned back to your daily routine. You tried to remain a fan of The Avengers, but it wasn’t the same. The fling, if you could call it, with Bucky wouldn’t let you. You’d always be grateful for how their music impacted your life, but you’d have to keep living your life despite what transpired.

Sitting up from your slumped position in your office chair, you ponder for maybe two seconds before clicking on the hashtag. Things were still pretty quiet with The Avengers, with the exception of paparazzi photos here and there, but this seemingly came out of nowhere. What stupid thing did he get himself into?

“No way,” you mock at the headline. Claims of Bucky being mentally abusive, and an addict were being made left and right.

You scrolled through the timeline and threads of replies to find the source of it all and you were shocked that it came from none other than his own girlfriend...well now ex-girlfriend you assumed. The vindictive side of you only allowed a small part in finding some humor in this, but if Bucky was any bit of the Bucky you spent the night with and got to know for those few short months then this was sad for him.

There wasn’t much you could do though. What were you to do? Send him a message of condolences of some sort? He’d probably just leave you on read. Whatever you two had was long over.

Bucky’s agency did well to defend him and save his reputation. They released one statement to clear things up. There’d been images before of him partying and no doubt high on some substance, but that didn’t prove he was an addict. Then again, did you ever really know him? You’d been exposed to that stuff around and because of him. Some people just had more access to certain things than others did.

In some time, when things leveled out once more, he seemed to be back in the clear, but at a rate where people have already decided whose story they believed over the other, whose side they were on, the damage had been done. If there was a recurring theme here, Bucky had one thing to do after the scandal - move on with his life.

It felt a little strange being here again. If you take into consideration some of the things that had already happened, a lot has really changed since you were last in a line to see The Avengers live.

The band had taken a short hiatus to let the fire die out from Bucky’s scandal. It was probably a smart move - to let people cool their jets and forget. It was last reported Bucky had turned a new leaf...something about getting help. Steve took time off to focus on other projects...something about humanitarian work. Sam released some solo stuff...something with a different sound, but still as successful. The time off was probably the best for the guys.

There weren’t as many people it seemed, but enough for them to play in one of the city’s largest venues. You suppose that’s what a span of three years could do to an artist. When the tour was announced you weren’t sure if you should buy a ticket or not, but it’d been some time since you had a night where you could forget about the stresses of the world for a few hours. Never mind the short stint between you and Bucky, you were still a fan of their music and the joyous feeling you got from it was timeless.

This time you were alone. You didn’t even tell your friend they were touring again. Bucky was almost a nonexistent topic for a good while now. Plus, she had her own life to live and couldn’t always be there next to you. You were the bigger fan after all. On top of that, she would’ve most likely have advised against you attending.

Your attire was not to impress, electing on something casual and comfortable with a simple pair of jeans, a leather jacket over a nice top that did a better job at controlling your cleavage than the last one, and cute boots. Yeah, a lot had changed, but the scene didn’t as there were still a mix of fans, old and new, over and under dressed.

The guys still had it. They looked great! They definitely belonged on the stage for the world to see. They even played a 3-song encore. You could tell they loved doing what they did and anyone who was a fan could feel the passion and energy they poured out in the performance.

You’re currently sitting in the seat of your car, head resting against the headrest as you try to unwind a little from standing for a few hours and from the walk back to the parking garage when your phone vibrates and chimes loudly.

You glance over at the device you placed next to the driving console and your eyebrows scrunch in confusion at the name that appeared. Bucky Barnes. You’d never deleted his number and his text message thread had remained at the very bottom of your messaging app all this time. A sense of apprehension flows through you as you wonder what he could possibly want. How do you just text someone after ghosting them for over a year? Not to mention to someone you did something so intimate with and made all those promises to in the past. How does one do that?

Not wanting to dwell on it any longer or slip into restless thoughts about Bucky again because it wasn’t a walk in the park to forget about him, you open the text. It asks if you were in attendance because he claimed to have seen you in the crowd. This time around you’re not overthinking about what to respond with, you simply say yes. He’d been quick with his next message asking if you were still in the area to meet up.

The wise thing would probably be to reject the invite, but you find yourself once again staring at a hotel door waiting for him to open it. Initially, you’d suggested he tell you what he wanted to say via text, but he said it was something that had to be told in person. So, having been through what you had as a result of meeting up with him in the past, you had some sense of mind this time, you’d just have to make another mental note to not jump into bed with him again. If you were being truthful to yourself, the sex tape left you feeling a little cheap. He didn’t even send it to you as some form of fucked up courtesy or assure you that it wasn’t ever going to get leaked and luckily it hasn’t. You hoped he’d deleted it.

It was almost like Deja vu. You might as well have been reliving the night the first time Bucky invited you over to his hotel room. In the beginning it was kind of awkward and quiet, and it was exactly that years later, just with added history of course.

You’d chosen to sit on the end of one of the beds while Bucky moved slowly around the room trying to gather his thoughts and where to start. He notices the change in you. You were more confident and as you should be. Bucky Barnes couldn’t intimidate you this time. He had more to be embarrassed about than you did now.

Even though you had nowhere to be in the morning, it was getting late and you really would just like to get this meeting over with and Bucky was stalling.

“Bucky, why did you invite me here?” You say, the one to break the ice. He finally stops fidgeting around and focuses on you.

“I...I wanted to apologize,” he starts off, and you’re unmoving silence allows him to continue, “I realize how much of a complete dick I was to you…”

“What do you mean?” You ask. It’s not like he spread any dirty rumors about you or anything. He didn’t need to apologize for anything that you’re aware of. Maybe for leading you on, but you came to terms some time ago that maybe he didn’t owe you an explanation or perhaps you’d never get one. Yet here you both are.

“I used you,” he explains, now you’re confused, and he can see you’re not getting it entirely, which pains him. You didn’t think anything he did with you was wrong because you consented to it. It took two to tango, right?

Except it wasn’t like that at all and he wanted you to know how he strung you along all just for a quick fuck in the beginning and to cover his tracks he acted like he cared in getting to know you afterwards not realizing something purely good could come out of it for him. The confession wasn’t meant to hurt you again, but for you to realize your worth. He messed up with someone so special.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I remembered you from years before when you tripped in front of me,” there’s a small trace of happiness in the fond memory, “...and when I saw you in the crowd that night, fuck you looked so good and you still do…” he ended up a flustered mess after that small admission.

“Where is this going?” You ask hoping he’d get back on track and reveal the rest, trying to keep the fact he admitted an attraction to you in the back of your mind.

“Right...I’ll admit my ego got the best of me. The band was doing so well, everyone noticed us! I was getting attention from all kinds of people! I got hooked to different things,” suppose those articles were true then about him getting clean, you thought to yourself, “...it does get lonely on the road and I was so desperate for anyone,” oh you hoped and prayed he wouldn’t say what he was going to say next, but he does, “...and I knew there wouldn’t be that much effort on my part to get you to sleep with me.”

Great. Your friend was right then, and he was just like any other house name artist.

“Um...okay, that’s not something I was wanting to hear about myself,” you said after letting that sink in. Did you still appear to look easy?

“No, I’m sure it’s not, but when we were alone together everything was just easy-”

“Yeah, I got that. I’m easy!” You interrupt, and now you’re angry. As he’s trying to explain his actions, you started thinking about how mad and hurt you were when he started ghosting you. You couldn’t be upset about him getting a girlfriend, but the fact that he didn’t think he could continue even being your friend and instead just chose to ignore you was the better option was hella annoying.

“That’s not what I meant!” He says trying to justify his choice of words.

“Then how did you mean it?” You demand, and Bucky is a bit stunned with your new attitude. He foresaw that he would have a difficult time in explaining himself, but he didn’t think it’d be this hard dealing with how much his actions affected you.

“Everything was easy with you because you made it easy to feel,”

“I don’t know if I understand,” you say and attempt to get up, “...maybe this was a bad idea.”

“No, please. Let me finish,” Bucky is quick to get in front of you as he pleads for you to stay. You give him a slight nod and sit back down.

“Things with you were easy in a sense that being around you I was able to just be myself. I’ve never said those things to girls before you! I didn’t have to impress you with anything flashy. I even forgot I was some rockstar! You’re an incredible person, really-”

“I’m sorry, Bucky, but I just can’t,” you say, hating to interrupt him again, but you’re not ready to hear any of this, “...none of this still doesn’t sound right. It was just one night and then how do you explain just ghosting me the moment you get a supermodel girlfriend?” that last part came out unintentionally feisty but might as well let him know how you’d felt, “You couldn’t even be my friend when you were with her! I guess it was easy to just forget me too…”

Bucky lowers his head ashamed of how he handled that and just nods in acknowledgement of his actions, “you’re right. It doesn’t make sense, but what I feel is even harder to explain...”

“None of this accounts for her,” you demand. A part of you just wanted to know where she came from. How did it happen? Who asked who out? It wasn’t important information to know about, but the urge of human curiosity was large.

“She wasn’t even my idea,” he muttered, not really wanting to talk about her.

“What?” You ask.

“Getting with her was the label’s idea,” he admits, hating he was coerced into the idea of an on-screen relationship.

You scoff at the stupidity of fake relationships in the Entertainment industry. Why did people get their rocks off over it? Were OTPs really that a big deal? Are people so bored with their own lives that they have to push corporate into bringing two people who don't have feelings for each other together? However, Bucky thinks you don’t believe him and given how little you developed in trusting him with things, he’s not entirely wrong.

“I know it was a dumb thing to agree to and it’s one of the horrors working in this business, but I know now I should’ve just been forward with you,” Bucky says, voice still riddled begging for forgiveness.

“Why couldn’t you then?” You interrogate and notice the creases of distress on his face soften. “If I made it so easy to feel, then why wasn’t it just that to tell me the truth?”

“I-I don’t know,” he replies.

“Yes, you do,” you retort, and pretend you’re going to leave, but by doing so you know it’ll only get him to spill the beans quicker.

“I was scared!” He admits, stepping in front of you and keeping you still in your place on the end of the bed.

“Scared? Of what? Me?” You ask incredulously looking up at him.

“Yes!” He says and kneels down in front of you. “You’re so perfect! You’re real! You don’t treat me like I’m some celebrity. You didn’t even participate when people started cancelling me or whatever! You could’ve and you had every right to expose me, but you didn’t!” Your act did the trick, because the words just kept coming out of Bucky.

“I’m so sorry for ignoring you, for not telling you I was with her, but the more I got to know you, a part of me got really scared that I couldn’t keep being the kind of man you deserved because of my problems,” by this point, Bucky has placed both his hands on either side of you, his arms trapping you, “...trust me, I had a lot of time to think about everything I did wrong and what harm my reckless lifestyle has on others…I just feared it was already too late, but the one thing that I always thought about that helped me get through it was the lone night I had with you. I was so happy! I wanted that again...I had to get back to that, so I invited you back to try,” you didn’t even realize how close his face was to yours. He looked so torn and you hated seeing him like that, but there was nothing you could say that could fix things right now.

Bucky now felt vulnerable and almost pathetic. Just because he wanted another shot of happiness, and with you of all people, what made it okay for him to think you wanted to try again? You weren’t so certain of what you wanted with him anymore.

“Wow,” is all you give. You’re not sure what more you could add. After all that, he actually liked you? Were you still sure you weren’t living in some fanfic world? You needed some time to think about that and much to Bucky’s expectations, you weren’t going to come to a conclusion before you left this room tonight.

“Is there anything else you want to say?” You offer him the floor, and he gets it. You’re not going to say anything particular to his confession, at least not now. He’s not upset at all. It was a lot to take in. He had time to think, and he had to respect the time you’d need now.

He nods and backs away, realizing the close proximity, “just one question,” you nod this time and let him ask, “do you regret it?”

You know what he’s referring to, sleeping with him, the sex tape, the countless conversations, meeting with him right now - everything.

“No,” you answer honestly.

He lets out a weak smile, looking down sheepishly and adds, “I’ve never done anything like this with anyone before, I promise.”

He could promise and swear up and down all he’d like, but how could you be really sure? The only response you could give him is a small, neutral hum in acknowledgement.

Bucky knew this conversation wasn’t going to go as he had hoped. He really didn’t have a plan, he just really wanted to see you again. He goes silent and you know at this point, everything was all laid out. Time would tell the rest if this was worth saving.

“I can forgive you. I know I can because in a way part of moving on allows one to do so but completing a session or doing time in rehab doesn’t really prove anything,” you said brutally honest with him, he looks up at you almost defeated and just waiting for the final blow.

“You said a lot of promising things back then and you said a lot more tonight,” you add on, and gently begin to remove his hands from the spots either side of you to let you free, and get up to head out, however not with one more thing he could reflect on, also giving him hope, “...you need to show you’ve really changed,” then the conversation was over.

In some ways, these events needed to happen. He had to hit rock bottom to learn from his mistakes and kick out the bad habit. He knew now that he had to work hard to give you a reason to trust him and maybe even in the long run be with him.

On the other hand, you had to go through this whole thing in order to not base your happiness on someone else. You could be happy on your own and open enough to be with someone that wasn’t Bucky.

For the next few months, to your surprise, Bucky had actually made an effort to keep in touch with you. It wasn’t overbearing and he minded your space as well as he could from a distance, given that he was still busy with the band and other duties that came with his status.

While at times he could be flirty, you learned it was part of his charm. Your friend wasn’t entirely thrilled when you’d admitted to her that you visited Bucky that night. You might’ve not shown it, but she knew how much his past actions affected you. Granted it did its job in teaching you a lesson and in return allowed you to be more confident and to not take anyone’s bullshit, she’d be damned if Bucky tried to pull another act like that around you again.

By now, you were comfortable enough with him to even tell him about random dates you’d gone on; none proving to be long-term, but it was nice to confide in someone else other than your best friend and get an opinion from a male perspective.

You weren’t going to lie, there was a part of you that still liked Bucky more than a friend, but you weren’t sure when it was okay to willingly go all in again with him. Sure, you’d given him another chance, but just how low could people really go to get what they wanted? Some people could just be really manipulative, and you weren’t wanting to ruin what you’ve both rebuilt for yourselves. Either way, you’d be happy with him in your life even as a friend, which is how it could’ve gone if he’d been honest from the get-go.

The year was coming to a close and you’re at your job’s annual Christmas party. You’d managed to convince your friend to be your plus one, but she claimed she didn’t need bribery because your company always ordered outstanding catering and who in their right mind would turn down free food anyways?

Aside from pretending you were having a great time talking to your co-workers, most of which whom you barely spoke to at the office and as faux-friendly as they were tonight, you felt stupid for glancing at your phone every now and then hoping to get a message from Bucky. He’d been keeping you entertained the first half of the party until he just stopped responding.

Your friend had ditched you to take advantage of the open bar several minutes ago, so you were sitting at a table alone trying not to look pathetic. You started thinking of when an appropriate time would be to leave when the Market Manager of your job took the mic. Too late, you thought to yourself and decided to get comfortable in your seat and listened to what cheesy Holiday speech they had to give, but what you hadn’t expected was a surprise guest.

“What the hell?” You said to yourself as you watched Bucky, Steve and Sam shake hands with one of your bosses before settling into what would appear as an acoustic performance.

How’d they manage to get in contact with your job? Who gave them the in? Bucky knew what you did for a living, but you never stayed on that subject long enough to think much about it. Then your friend slides into the empty seat next to you, a drink in one hand and a knowingly smirk on her lips, one that suggests she was definitely in on this act. You didn’t realize how long you’d been staring at her with a stupid look of disbelief all over your face until your name is echoed throughout the speakers.

It snaps you out of your trance and you focus your attention to Bucky on stage, a huge smile on his face. All formalities set aside, he highlights you and your friendship before jumping into their new single, which was widely popular right now. Normally, you weren’t one to take compliments easily, not used to so much attention, but the whole world disappeared with Bucky.

Once their little set was over, the majority of your colleagues enjoyed the performance and asked for photos, to which the guys were more than happy to appease to. Your friend had managed to escape your clutches once more, this time abandoning you for the dessert table. You’re not alone for long as Bucky occupies the seat left open next to you. You look around your surroundings, hoping there aren’t any more surprises in store, and practically attack him with a big hug.

Bucky’s chuckle is muffled, his face buried in your hair, as he wraps his arms around you to return the gesture. When you pull away, you’re almost left speechless, but you’re dying to know how he managed to get here. He was technically still on tour and this was not one of the passing by cities.

“How?” You ask.

“Hi to you too,” he said with a cheeky grin, to which you playfully slap his arm, and he responds with your friend’s name. He explained how he’d wanted to see you and how much he had to grovel for your friend to trust him. She’d helped him arrange a meeting with your boss, who turned out to be a huge fan of The Avengers, and even sneak them inside the building all under your nose. She wasn’t easy to persuade, but if she was convinced enough to work with Bucky on anything then you knew this meant something more.

The initial notion of wanting to leave the party immediately vanished and you wanted nothing more than to just sit there in Bucky’s company all night. Steve and Sam greeted you and you never realized that this was actually the first time meeting them formally and not outside of a venue. They weren’t rockstars to you any more than you were just a fan to them. They were Bucky’s friends, of course he’d confined to them on his end as much as you did with yours.

At some point they had excused themselves to catch the last flight headed back to Brooklyn, but Bucky had decided to stay longer. When it was time to leave, you found out Bucky hadn’t planned long enough to where he would stay the night in your city. The original plan was to fly back home with the guys and pick up on the remainder of the tour. They had a few days off, but it was just a few days shy of ending, and he couldn’t wait that long to see you.

It’s funny how life works because this time you’re the one inviting him to your place. You weren’t going to blame it on the open bar or how late it was or the underlying tension that was surrounding you two, but one thing was certain, it was mutual, and you both weren’t going to deny the attraction any longer.

You’d missed the weight of Bucky’s body on yours more than you’d realized as your hands held his face, keeping his lips attached to yours. You could taste the remnants of the unfinished drink he’d abandoned at the coffee table on his tongue. Bucky’s hands hiked your leg over his waist to get you to lie flat on your couch.

You’re the first to attempt to remove clothing by popping open the buttons of his button-up shirt before completely ridding of the item leaving him in his thin undershirt. You feel his hands slide up from your hips along your back as they dig into the minimal space the arch of your back had created for him to slowly unzip the back of your dress. With your lips both still attached, you manage to sit up, your dress falling down and bunching at the waist in the process, exposing your breasts. He couldn’t have picked a more perfect time to see you in an outfit that would not work with a bra.

Bucky curses breathlessly when he pulls his lips away from yours for a quick breather, but in the process, he takes a peek at your half naked body. You can tell he’s just itching to touch you and you take the commanding lead and place his hands on you. The atmosphere grows thicker, him kneading your breasts, you smash your lips on his in a sloppy lock.

You push Bucky down on his end of the couch and manage to kick your loose dress all the way down your legs and off your body. Bucky’s hands travel down to the curve of your ass before he grabs a handful of flesh, causing you to moan into the kiss. Your hands rake through his styled hair, the product he used unstiffening and his hair falls limp in your grasps.

Bucky’s hands started to aid your hips in moving roughly against his clothed member, desperate to relieve some friction, and you internally blushed remembering how thick he was, how full it felt to have his cock stuffed inside of you. You didn’t remain celibate during the hiatus of your relationship, you both had urges, but Bucky had really ruined others that came after him.

Your lips drifted down Bucky’s body, kissing at the skin of his chest in the pattern following the swoop-line seam of the undershirt that he was still wearing. You skipped the expanse of his toned stomach, until you’re met with the small amount of skin that peeked between his bottoms and hem of his undershirt. You slightly lift the material up and place small pecks at his lower abdomen, which causes a low groan to rumble in Bucky’s throat.

Your fingers deftly unbuckle his belt and unbutton his pants, with the zipper pulled apart, you’re marveling at the imprint of his hard cock, already twitching and staining his boxers. You manage to break your gaze and look up at Bucky, who is desperately pleading with you to proceed. Your eyes never leave his as you lower your head closer to his member, tongue darting out to the dark spot of his boxers, tasting the precum.

The contact causes him to squirm and lips form in a tight line. You pull down his pants and agonizingly peel off his boxers slowly, dragging it down to his thighs, just enough to expose him enough for you to work with before you wrap a hand around his length. Bucky’s upper body is supported by his bent elbows so he could watch you.

You kiss the tip of his leaking cock, a small string of his precum sticking to your lips when you pull back, to which you run your tongue over. Bucky’s head falls back just in time when your lips enclose the head, tongue twirling around the ridge and teasingly at the slit and loving the sound of his breath getting caught in his throat. You inch your mouth down his length and your vacant hand gets quick to work on what you’re not able to intake while the other runs up his exposed abdomen, your fingers curling in and lightly scratching down as it runs down to massage one of his thighs. You can feel the muscle in his thigh flex at your touch the more your head bobs up and down on him.

A plethora of curses spew from his mouth, but the rush of sucking his cock, the gurgling of your spit mixed with his precum and occasional choking noise when your throat contracts around him, is all you can hear from your perspective. When you part from his member, you’re breathing intensifies, desperate for more air to enter your system, eyes slightly watering, lips swollen, your hand lazily slathering the wetness all over him.

“You’re so good at that,” Bucky comments and he finally manages to pick his head back up to look at you. He reaches forward to swipe at the mess on the corner of your chin, but you’re hungry for more, and you move your head to the side to suck on his thumb, eyes closed as you hum at the taste of his skin and essence.

Your soft tongue running against the pad of his somewhat calloused thumb, it pops lightly when you release the digit, a small, devious smile on your lips as you scoot away to lie on the other end of the couch. He’s almost at aghast by this, but even back then you were just always full of surprises around him and he wasn’t going to deny the appeal of your sexual allure.

Bucky is quick to get to your side, completely riding himself off the rest of his clothes - the undershirt, pants and boxers - he had dressed to impress but right now nothing more than but overdressed. He gently parts your legs, kissing up your calves and thighs, until settles between them, you can feel his warm breath fanning against your scantily covered core.

Unlike last time, you’re not afraid to watch him and he sends you a knowingly wink, quickly ascending up to give you a sweet kiss, while his fingers slip inside your panties and between your lips. Your hips eagerly thrust upwards hoping his fingers slip in.

“Baby, we got all night,” he says cradling your face in his other hand. You let out a small whine, but regardless attempt to be patient. Bucky studies your face, mesmerized by every structure and unique feature, then what felt like an eternity, but in reality, was only a few seconds, he sinks a finger inside your wet pussy.

As soon as the gasp leaves your lips, his lips swoop in and tongue instantly dipping in search of yours. The heated kiss only heightens the sensation in the pit of your stomach, your hips losing control and every buck up into his hand, your clit rubs up against his palm, invigorating it. The curl of his finger, lightly probs at the right spot inside you, you uncontrollably squeal against his lips, with a hand against his chest you gently push his body away from yours.

“Oh my God! Fuck, Bucky…” you say with your head tilting back to the curve of the couch’s arm. You feel Bucky’s lips kiss and suck at your exposed neck as his fingers continue their handy work, the lewd noises causing your eyes to roll back.

His lips find their way next to your ear, gently nipping at it, and you could just drown at the sound of his husky breathing and filthy words. “Can I taste you?” He asks. You’re not sure why he was asking, you’d want nothing less. You nod almost instantaneously before allowing him to remove your panties.

Bucky’s hungry eyes remain fixated on your glistening core, “oh, I missed this pussy,” he comments before his tongue fondles the lips. He has a hand lying flat against one of your legs, pressed on the couch to keep them spread apart, the other blocked by his body. His routine contrasts his old with how his tongue moves in slow and calculated laps. His mouth was very talented, given whatever style he chose to play.

You’re tethering on an orgasm and Bucky wanted nothing more than to watch you come undone for him. Bucky’s fingers and tongue work in tandem and fast to help you reach a climax.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” Bucky manages to ask in between, eyes peering up at you. You don’t actually answer because you can’t concentrate from the pleasure he’s bestowing and the impending release. “Good. I want you to cum. I want all this pussy has to give,” his voice hitting a different low, even his fucking voice was so sexy. Your hands clutch on fistfuls of the couch cushions when you feel the first wave of pleasure wash over your body, your hips stilled in place as Bucky laps up at your arousal.

“The sweetest thing ever,” Bucky mutters mostly to himself, but hearing that comment only feeds your ego, which never is a bad thing in an intimate setting. Your chest heaves up and down from the impact. Just as Bucky is about to crawl back up to parallel, you stop him with a foot at his chest. He grabs your small foot in his hand and blinks at your resistance.

“Sit back,” you command. He drops your foot and watches as your body maneuvers around to climb over his. He didn’t even realize his body had complied to your demand, absolutely hypnotized by you.

You lean in for a deep kiss, one that leaves his brain a mush, yours too almost that you have to steady yourself with one hand on the couch armrest. You reach a hand down between your bodies and grab a hold of his hard cock. Your fingers tracing along the vein before you start rubbing his head through your sensitive, wet folds. Bucky’s hands lay lightly on your hips, trying with all his might to not force you to take him all the way in. A large part of him liked this dominant side of you. There was so much about you he was dying to unearth.

“Baby, please…” he begins pleading as you barely press the tip of his cock just at your entrance before you slowly lower your body down to engulf his entire length. You sit still once you’re sure you’ve bottomed out, not noticing Bucky’s fingers digging into your hips, sure enough to leave crescent marks and tiny bruises.

Bucky’s face is buried in your neck, your cheek pressed against the top of his head, lost in the mop of dark hair. You feel his cock twitch inside of you causing your hips to ground on his. He was in so deep, you weren’t sure how long you were going to last in this position, but you’d be damned if you denied it.

You start with slow swivels before sliding back and forth on his cock. Bucky’s hands released their death grip from your hips, one travelled to the front to grope at your breasts while the other supported your body settling itself on the small of your back. Your hands set themselves on the back of the couch on either side of his head, using it as leverage to ground down harder on him.

“Mm, I missed fucking this big cock,” you lean down to whisper right in his ear, “you’re so deep, Bucky.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he spits out curse after curse at your dirty words. “You gonna cum on this big cock, hmm?” He asks. The question comes as a challenge and you weren’t ready to give up the ropes to him.

“Yeah, is this big cock gonna cum inside this tight pussy?” You counter the question, speeding up your gyrations until you start to feel the burn in your thighs and stomach begin to twist. He lets out a low, long growl, his eyes lulling shut and head falling back against the couch, ready to succumb to euphoria.

“No,” you say, suddenly ceasing all movements to pull at his hair. The sharp pain in his scalp causes his eyes to snap open and look up at you. “Keep your eyes on me,” you command much like how he did with you the first time. You watch him swallow the knot in his throat and give him a wicked smile before picking back up where you left off.

Your hands are sprawled on his sweaty chest as you bounce up and down his length. Bucky’s senses are on overdrive, the way your pussy naturally hugs his cock, walls squeezing occasionally, your breasts swaying right in front of him, your skin shining from the layer of sweat coating your body, and the look of immense pleasure written all over your face because of him.

“Baby, I’m gonna cum,” he says over and over as some form of warning, hoping you’re not far behind.

The way his face contorted in ecstasy, lips parted, sweat building up on his forehead, the tip of his cock stabbing at your sweet spot, you were about to cum too. His words become a muffled mess when you attempt to silence him with a bruising kiss just as you reach your high, pussy clenching tight around his cock milking him of everything he’s got. Each spurt of his hot cum that shoots inside you causes your hips to stutter in response. Bucky attempts to keep them at bay with a hand pressed against your back, keeping your body close to him and in the process also instilling his seed is rooted deep inside of you.

“God...damn,” Bucky says short of breath when your body lies limp against his. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, you haven’t attempted to move just yet as you both sat there with his cock still buried in. When you manage to sit up, you stare back at Bucky with tired eyes, but there’s a smile on both your faces. It only slightly falters at his next words.

“I love you,” he says earnestly. Thankfully your silence doesn’t bother him, “...you don’t have to say it back,” he adds, “I just wanted you to know. You’re so special,” he proclaims and your heart leaps at the very admission. You only nod for now but give him another reassuring smile because in time you knew you could allow yourself to love Bucky and be loved by him in return. It wasn’t a conventional meeting, but this was your life, not everyone else's.

When you finally manage to pull yourself off his cock, it slips out fluidly with a trail of his cum following in suit. You knew you’d curse yourself later on, but you’re both too tired to clean the mess right now. The pair of you settle into a lying position, facing one another, encased in each other’s arms. It’s a moment of bliss as you both just lie there, his eyes closed and a smile seemingly permanently etched on his face, only around you.

“Hey Bucky,” you pipe up breaking the silence. He hums in response, “I want to know something...” you start out with.

“Anything,” he says, eyes still closed, his hand running up and down your arm, an indicator that he’s present and listening.

“What happened between you two?” Curiosity getting the best of you once more, you’re hoping this doesn’t ruin the moment, but you had to know. What went wrong? Besides, if this was going to work, he was going to have to be honest.

“Uh, she saw something on my phone…” he said cautiously, “...that involved you.” Your eyes widen at that. It couldn’t have been the sex tape you hoped.

“Bucky, no!” You gasp, sitting up and just hoping he doesn’t confirm it.

“Relax!” He says pulling you back down with him, “She was psycho. She went through my texts and saw some of the photos we used to send to each other. She must’ve thought they were recent.” He explains like it was no big deal.

Your heart stops racing slightly, you’re a bit relieved that she didn’t go as far as posting any of the photos on the Internet. You knew you were risking it by sexting with Bucky, but what was that saying? Hell hath no fury…and in a blind rage, she lashed out only on Bucky, but if she was a psycho, who knows what else she might’ve found on Bucky’s phone.

“Bucky?” you figure you might as well know now.

“Yeah…”

“What did you do with that sex tape?” You’d been dying to know if it was safely stored away or if maybe he even still watched it or just deleted it.

A big toothy grin spreads across his lips, his pearly whites on full display as he laughs at the question before he reaches over to the table next to the couch, where his cell phone rested on.

“Want to make a sequel?” He asks suggestively with a smirk on his lips and waving his phone at you, to which you playfully attempt to snatch from his grasp. He’s too quick, but nonetheless he replaces the phone in its original spot before focusing his attention on you alone.

“You don’t think this is all weird?” He questions almost hesitantly while tracing the outline of your jaw delicately. You’re not thinking that at all. You’d both been through a lot during the last few years that the only thing that was normal now was what you both had.

You shake your head in response, too tired for words, and drowning in the blissful moment. Bucky nods before declaring, “good because you make so happy,” then ending the night with sweet kisses.

“Hey, it’s me. I know you’re busy at the studio today...” you start, cell phone pressed against your ear. You’re attempting to leave a voicemail to your boyfriend, who was expecting your arrival later that day, “...but I just wanted to assure you that this isn’t weird, and I can’t wait to see you...I love you, Bucky,” you finish up the message and stuff the device into your bag just in time to hear the voice of the airline staff making the pre-boarding announcements booming loudly from the speakers.

Now boarding Group B for flight #107 to JFK Airport...final destination Brooklyn, New York.

A/N: We’ve been in quarantine for so long, I don’t remember how airport announcements are like anymore and I was only in Brooklyn last Spring…RIP to the good times.

A happy ending was weird to write in the end and I actually don’t like this particular Bucky so it could’ve gone really bad, but I said to myself, no, not this time, I can do what the title says and let them be just that - happy. I too can be happy if you give this a like, reblog or comment! Thanks for reading!

#mrwinterr writes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #rockstar!bucky barnes #rockstar!bucky #rockstar!au #bucky barnes #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan fanfic #so happy

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blossom-hwa · 4 years ago

Text

Bloom, Bloom, Pow! |1| - CHANGMIN

Happy Valentine’s Day!!!! Please enjoy the first half of nearly 17k of pining for the boy I would be pining for if he was in my life <3

Special thanks to @wingkkun for helping me come up with several parts of this story!! I don’t know how you deal with me, Kai, but I really appreciate it <3

(Suggested playlist: Bloom Bloom, DDD, and Just U by The Boyz :D)

Pairing: Changmin x gender neutral!reader

Genre: fluff, angst if you squint, university!au

Triggers: cursing, alcohol

Word Count: 9.4k

Dancing with you, Changmin feels like flowers are blooming in his heart.

Part 1 | Part 2

TBZ Masterlist | Interwoven

~ you

It starts like this.

Ji Changmin is notorious for his dancing, not because he’s bad at it (he’s arguably one of the best students in the dance department), but for his habit of moonwalking through the university halls. Headphones stuck in his ears, phone in hand, he twists and twirls around campus, eyes closed in concentration or fixed on some faraway point in space, lost in the realm of his music.

And the strangest thing is, he never bumps into a single person.

Oh, he might brush against an arm or two. His fingertips might graze a shoulder with a butterfly’s touch, his feet just barely skimming over another’s shoes. But crashing into someone? Knocking into a wall? Never.

It’s fun to see, really, when you cross paths with him or when he shows up on the school Snapchat story. Even though you only know Changmin by name (Kevin talks to him, but you haven’t had the pleasure), there’s something endlessly graceful and fascinating about the way he moves, slipping through the crowded halls with the cheerful air of someone who doesn’t care about what other people around them think.

It starts with an impulse, just something to lighten up your mood. You’re walking to one of your least favorite classes (look, writing might be fun, but certainly not the way your professor teaches it) when Changmin’s bright orange mop of hair appears ahead. A slight smile creeps up your face as he comes closer, an unstoppable force parting the crowded sea of students.

An idea pops into your mind.

Trip him up.

Briefly, you question yourself. Why?

Like that meme, your brain supplies a concise answer. You gotta.

You’re grinning, moving before your mind can even process what your body has decided to do. Stepping awkwardly around a couple of other students, you place yourself right in Changmin’s path.

He twists.

You turn.

He lurches.

You step.

He flashes you a confused look, his usual faraway gaze replaced with something bemused and even slightly annoyed. For a second, you feel a flash of uncertainty – what if he doesn’t see this as the joke you mean it to be? After all, you don’t even know each other. How is he going to take this?

But he must see the teasing smile on your face and the glint in your gaze because his eyes sparkle, lips stretching wide into the brightest grin you’ve ever seen him wear. His moves take on an exaggerated cadence, arms stretching widely, legs smoothly twisting around your much less graceful feet as he twirls, just avoiding your flailing hands jokingly trying to stop him.

Changmin wins, of course. Your mediocre attempts at obstruction are nothing against his skill. As he slips away, he flashes you a smirk of farewell, leaving you with only the memory of a bright smile, graceful limbs, and an awkward dance.

You expect it to be a one-time thing. It’s so stupid when you think about it later – what the hell possessed you to do that, anyway? You’re cringing just thinking about it – so there’s no way, you tell yourself, no way that Changmin would bother to acknowledge your presence again. When you walk down the same hall a few days later and see a bright orange head of hair artfully bobbing in your direction, you just smile a bit at the residual memories.

But Changmin catches your eye, his gaze brightening when it meets yours. As the curve of his lips widens, one graceful finger twitches slightly in a tiny gesture – get over here. His eyes glint – try me.

A grin spreads across your face as you step closer. Why not?

And so, again, you dance.

. . . . .

~ changmin

Changmin doesn’t really know what makes you so special. He doesn’t know why he indulges your twists and turns, weaving in and out of your awkwardly stepping feet on the way to class. He doesn’t know why he didn’t just give you a weird look the first day you stepped into his path, avoided you as best he could and walked away.

But that would’ve erased the smile on your face, he reasons, thinking back to the memories. It would’ve extinguished the sparkle in your eye, muted the brightness of your expression into something far less brilliant. And despite the fact that Changmin barely knows who you are, has only a vague recollection of your name from when someone once called to you down the hall, in that moment, he subconsciously knew that there was nothing he would willingly do to dim your sparkle. Not a sparkle of beauty, necessarily, or of mere physical loveliness. No, in your smile, there’s something deeper, something brilliantly incandescent that strikes right into Changmin’s heart.

Other people think it’s stupid. Younghoon, for example, wonders if he’s gone absolutely nuts the first time he witnesses the dance (well, Changmin calls it a dance – Younghoon says it looks more like a cult ritual). “What the fuck was that?” he asks after you walk off, raising an extremely confused eyebrow.

Changmin just shrugs, watching your figure disappear down the hall before slipping back into his usual moonwalk. “I don’t know,” he replies honestly. “We just do it.”

“You’re so weird,” Younghoon mutters, shaking his head slightly. “Do you even know their name?”

Again, he shrugs. “Y/N, I think?”

Younghoon chokes. “You think?”

If Changmin thinks about it, it is kind of stupid. You stepped into his path in a crowded hallway and proceeded to try and trip him up, all while wearing a huge grin on your face (that Changmin thinks is beautiful, but he won’t dig into that just yet). Changmin, instead of trying to get away, decided to indulge your fun. You’ve never exchanged a single spoken word – he isn’t even sure you know his name, though he can’t really say anything because he isn’t sure he knows yours – and you’ve rarely interacted, even nonverbally, beyond a few smiles and the little confrontation that happens every Monday and Wednesday at approximately two-ten in the afternoon when the two of you walk down the same hall.

But it doesn’t feel stupid, not in the moment. It feels right, somehow, grinning as widely as his lips will allow while you try to step all over his toes. You never manage to trip him, not in those few seconds of dance, but Changmin appreciates the effort and laughs along with you, exaggerating his movements and pretending to almost fall, just to see the smile on your face grow wider.

So the stares don’t matter, not to Changmin. He can stomach the strange glances, the hidden smirks, the subtly raised phones trying to catch the scene for the school Snapchat story (anyway, if it bothers him enough, he can terrify Jaehyun into deleting it). He can shrug off Younghoon standing like a silent tree nearby, stuffing his face with bread and praying no one associates him with his squirrelly best friend, because seeing your brilliant smiles and hearing your stifled laughs are more than enough to get him through the rest of the day.

“You never smile that widely around me,” Younghoon remarks one day, “and I’m your best friend.”

Changmin just shrugs as he flashes you one last grin over the sea of students in the hall, turning back to face his friend. “Well,” he says, purposely trying to be infuriating, “there’s a reason for that.”

Younghoon whines, of course, pouting his lips in the way that wins him so many admirers around the school, but Changmin ignores it in favor of thinking about your smile, your laugh, the way your eyes sparkle and your limbs fly in your attempts to throw him off his balance.

Yes, he thinks, there’s a reason.

The reason is that your smile is more beautiful than anything he’s ever seen.

. . . . .

~ eric

Eric considers himself pretty well-versed when it comes to feelings. He’s fallen in love a lot, even with people he often doesn’t even know too well. Something just always pulls him in – a particular smile, a mischievous glint of the eye, the way they tap their pencil against their chin when deep in thought. He falls easily, quickly, and a little too hard, and as a result, he can recognize the look in his own eyes (and in others’, too) when he’s fallen head over heels for someone lovely.

He doesn’t have too many problems shooting his shot, either, which is nice. Sunwoo’s told Eric several times that he’s jealous of the way he can walk up to someone so easily and go, “Hey, I want to get to know you a little better – mind if I take you on a date?” To Eric, though, it’s just part of the process. He gets nervous, no doubt, but more often than not, if he’s courteous, he’ll at least meet a new friend, even if the feelings don’t end up being reciprocated.

When Eric slams into you on his board one day – what the fuck were you doing, anyway? Trying to trip up that wide-eyed kid with the dimples? Though to be fair, he shouldn’t be skateboarding in the halls – the first thing he notices is your pretty smile, the embarrassed grin you give him as he apologizes profusely, extending a hand to help you up. His heart thumps once.

True to himself, Eric’s ready to drop a flirty pickup line, make you laugh a little, and ask if he can get you a coffee or something to make up for the trouble. The words are forming on his lips, just about to burst from his throat when he feels a laser gaze glaring holes into his back.

Against his better judgement, Eric looks back slightly. The doe-eyed boy you were, what – interacting with? Dancing with? He needs to go over that scene in his head again – is staring back with so much concentration it looks like he wants to tear out Eric’s entire soul.

You drop Eric’s hand and he looks back, startled by the sudden lack of touch. “Don’t worry, really – I’m not hurt. Thanks for helping me up,” you say.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Your voice.

If Eric’s heart wasn’t already fluttering over your smile, it’s certainly fluttering now over your voice. God, it makes Eric want to just be your friend, at the very least. There’s a perfect mixture of warmth, gentility, and kindness in your tone, sprinkled with something so very sweet that soothes his ears.

Hell.

But by contrast, your smile is distant, like you’re thinking of something beyond the moment. Eric takes the current brief silence to look where your eyes flit off to, trying to see who you’re fixated on.

The doe-eyed boy is walking away, shifting gracefully through the group of students currently converging on the path. Your gaze follows his disappearing figure, something longing and endlessly lovely in your expression.

Ah, Eric realizes, heart sinking slightly. You’re already in love.

The memory of a gaze glaring holes into his soul briefly flashes in his mind, causing Eric’s slightly dampened smile to curl into a light smirk.

From the looks of it, the doe-eyed boy seems to be in love with you too.

Eric looks at you again. “I’m really sorry about that,” he says honestly. “I definitely shouldn’t have been skating in the hall, but I’m glad you aren’t hurt. I hope I haven’t made you late to class?”

You shake your head, smile now focused. You’ve returned to the present. “You’re good,” you reply, briefly checking your phone. “I’ve still got a few minutes.”

“Well, just the same, if you ever want payback in some form or another, just ask around for Eric Sohn.” Picking up his board, Eric flashes you a smile, wishing slightly that your longing gaze was fixed on him, not the dimpled boy who’s long since disappeared. “I can buy you a coffee or something to make up for it.”

“Might take you up on that one of these days,” you grin. “I’m Y/N. Wanna exchange numbers so I can leech that coffee off of you?”

Heart thumping wildly, fingers tapping quickly, Eric enters his number into your phone, saving himself as Eric Sohn 💙. He hopes you don’t mind the emoji.

“Blue heart?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you take the phone back. “Not a red one?”

Can’t exactly do that when it’s clear you’re in love, he thinks, though he doesn’t say that out loud. “Nah.” He shrugs. “Figured that’d be too much. Need to get to know you a bit before I do anything more, right?”

A sweet, soft smile spreads across your lips, and Eric has to fight hard not to melt at it. “I appreciate that, Eric,” you say, pocketing your phone. The way you say his name blooms in Eric’s ears. “See you later, maybe?”

Eric knows he probably shouldn’t make judgements so quickly, but it’s hard not to believe in your sweetness with your kind voice and gentle smile. You deserve love, he decides in that moment, with the doe-eyed, dimpled boy who clearly loves you back.

Mentally, he puts a stamp of approval on the mission formulating in his brain as he nods. “See you,” he says, grinning.

Even if he isn’t the one you’ll fall in love with, he can at least help a new friend find their happiness.

. . .

~ kevin

Kevin thinks there’s a special place in hell for lovebirds who clearly like each other but won’t even consider the notion of actually talking and maybe going on a god damn date.

And there’s an extra-special little island in that ocean of fire for such lovebirds who have never spoken a single word to each other in their lives and have only communicated through stupid smiles and mushy eyes and worst of all, motherfucking mating dances.

Yes, that’s what he calls your tiptoe-tap dance-whatever-the-fuck-they-are dances with Changmin. You hit him the first time he said it out loud, but what else can he call it? There’s no other term that fits the situation nearly as well. It’s weird and strange like most mating dances are, and most importantly, the two of you are head over heels in love.

“We’re not in love!” you snap when Kevin brings it up. “How can we be in love if we haven’t even spoken once?”

Kevin nearly spits out his drink.

“You’re telling me,” he enunciates slowly once he’s recovered, “that you have never spoken to this guy, the same guy you were worrying about to me yesterday because you didn’t see him in the hall on schedule, not even once?”

When you nod yes, scowling in embarrassment, Kevin legitimately faceplants into the table. He stays there for several whole minutes, trying to digest the situation and the sheer idiocy of two of his closest friends.

Doesn’t matter. You’re clearly in love, or at least have a very hopeless, incurable crush on Ji Changmin. And if Changmin’s face is anything to go by, he’s head over heels for you too – Kevin’s never seen his friend with that big of a smile on his face or that sparkly of a look in his eyes.

He wants to vomit just thinking of it.

Okay, fine, so maybe some of this abhorrent disgust is due to the fact that Kevin is single and not exactly ready to mingle after several disastrous blind dates. Maybe some of his annoyance at your mating dances is unfounded. But in his defense, the two of you are stupid as fuck.

He’s in the middle of complaining about this mating dance phenomenon to his freshman friend, Eric Sohn, when Eric puts out a hand. “Wait, stop,” he says, halting Kevin mid-complaint. “Are you talking about Y/N and that… that guy, with, like, really round eyes and a dimple?”

Kevin’s eyes narrow. “How do you know them?”

“Well, uh, I accidentally crashed into Y/N on my board while they were doing…” Eric helplessly waves his arms around.

“The mating dance,” Kevin supplies.

“That’s a horrible name, Kevin.”

“It’s the closest thing that explains it.”

“Well, whatever.” Eric cringes. “I gave Y/N my number in case they wanted me to like, buy a coffee or something in exchange for nearly committing a murder. So that’s how I know them. Not sure of the other guy’s name, though.”

Kevin sighs. “Ji Changmin.”

“THAT’S CHANGMIN?”

“Shut up!” Kevin snaps. “Just let the whole dorm hear your screaming, won’t you?”

“Sorry,” Eric snips back, though more quietly this time. “But you all talk about how he’s scary as shit and always dancing? He wasn’t dancing when he walked off, and he looks like… I don’t know, a child? I thought he was a freshman.”

“Wait.” Kevin puts his hands on Eric’s shoulders. “You just said Changmin wasn’t dancing when he walked off?”

Eric slowly shakes his head. “I don’t think so?”

“Oh, my dude.” Kevin begins shaking Eric back and forth. Eric’s head wobbles on his neck for several seconds before he comes to his senses and knocks Kevin’s hands off of his shoulders, scowling. “Eric Sohn, you are fucked.”

“What?” Eric’s eyes immediately turn panicked. “Why?”

“Ji Changmin dances all the fucking time,” Kevin says, putting his head in his hands. How has Eric already fucked up this badly in his first year? Kevin’s a mess, but he can say he’s solidly a B-level mess, meaning he more or less has his social shit together, even if not his academia. “If he wasn’t dancing when he walked away, that means he was pissed off.”

A beat of silence. Then – “Would it help if I had a semi-sort-of plan to get him and Y/N together?”

Kevin’s head snaps up. So maybe Eric isn’t entirely clueless. “So you know they’re literally in love with each other?”

Eric rolls his eyes. “It’s so obvious,” he whines. “Why haven’t you even thought to play Cupid?”

“Because Y/N is stupid and won’t admit that they have feelings, and I haven’t talked to Changmin that much this semester because we have different classes,” Kevin groans. “They’re both so stupid.”

“Eh.” Eric gets a faraway look in his eyes. “It’s hard for a lot of people to realize they’re in love.”

Silence falls as Kevin tries to pin down the familiarly weird feeling his friend is exuding. Eric’s gaze stays faraway, fixed on some point in the metaphorical distance (he’s staring at a wall covered in tacky posters and random sketches – there’s no way he’s enamored with Kevin’s half-baked drawings of trees and scissors and shit).

He looks sad.

“Oh, Eric.” Kevin’s frustration falls away as he pulls the freshman into a hug. “You like Y/N, don’t you?”

Eric doesn’t even deny it, he’s so far past that. “It’s stupid, Kevin. I’ll get over it, I always do. It’s just a crush.”

Not for the first time in his life, Kevin wishes he had his friend’s maturity, even though he wouldn’t enjoy the root cause. Falling in love as easily as Eric does would be too hard for Kevin to deal with. “Eric Sohn, you are one of the most selfless people in the world,” he declares. “You don’t have to do this, you know? If it hurts, you don’t.”

“No, Y/N deserves love.” Eric puts his chin on Kevin’s shoulder. Kevin takes the opportunity to pat his head. “Changmin does, too, and I think they’ll find it together. God knows he was staring holes into my back while we were talking.”

Kevin thinks he’s going to melt. “You’re dumb as fuck,” he says fondly, laughing at Eric’s squawk of indignation, “but you’re sweet. Too sweet for your own good.”

“… Is that a compliment?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be.” Kevin pulls back from his friend. “Ready to play Cupid?”

Eric nods, sadness partially replaced with mischievous fire. Kevin will take that much for now. “Yeah!”

. . . . .

~ changmin

Changmin doesn’t expect to be punched in the gut when he’s going with Younghoon to get a stupid cup of coffee.

Okay, no one actually punches him. But it certainly feels that way when he sees you sitting with the skater boy kid who knocked into you the other day, talking at a table by the window.

Younghoon doesn’t notice at first, just goes up to the counter to order at the (overpriced) campus Starbucks. Changmin loiters nearby, waiting for Younghoon to get his drink and come over, all the while trying to not obviously stare at you and the other kid having an animated conversation just a few feet away.

“What’s with the pout?” Younghoon asks, trying unsuccessfully to scare Changmin with his sudden presence. His own lips turning down with his failed attempt, he follows Changmin’s gaze to the two students sitting by the windows.

“I’m not pouting,” Changmin says, pout deepening.

Younghoon nearly spills his coffee, he snorts so hard. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll just pretend you’re not moping over someone you’re head over heels for whose name you don’t even know.”

If Younghoon actually spills his coffee when Changmin elbows him in the ribs, no one can tell. The look he gives the taller boy is enough to silence him for the next half an hour, at least.

He tries to focus, he really does. Though the drinks are overpriced, Changmin won’t deny that the coffee-scented air of the Starbucks is pleasant. It’s mid-afternoon, a time when most students are in class, so it isn’t too loud, either. But despite all of this, Changmin can’t focus on psychology. His eyes keep drifting over to the table by the window, where your conversation still hasn’t ended.

“Ji Changmin.” Younghoon waves a hand in front of his face after his concentration wanes for the umpteenth time. “You came here to study.”

This time, Changmin doesn’t deny the pout that settles on his lips. “I know,” he says, genuinely upset now. He wants to focus and get this studying done, he really does, but he just can’t put his mind to it.

Younghoon sighs. “Why don’t you just try talking?” he asks, eyes flickering over to where you’re still chatting animatedly with the skater boy. God, it’s been at least half an hour – haven’t you finished your drink? Why aren’t you gone yet? Why are you still here, invisibly punching Changmin in the chest every time you smile at the skater kid?

The words slip out of Changmin’s mouth before he can stop them. “What if they’re dating?”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Changmin realizes just what he’s indirectly admitted to his best friend.

Fuck.

“Well, that’s the first step.” Younghoon reaches over and pats Changmin on his slumped head. “Admitting your feelings. Proud of you, Changmin.”

Scowling, he slaps the hand off his hair, ignoring Younghoon’s yelp of indignation. “Not funny,” he whines, putting his head back down. “What if they are?” God, he should’ve helped you up before that skater boy did, run over and given you a hand first. Now skater boy’s on a date with you and Changmin feels…

Oh, God.

He’s jealous.

Shame and embarrassment flood his face at the realization. This is gross, his mind wails. Why does he feel jealous over you, someone he’s never even spoken to? The only semblance of interest you’ve given him is your initiation of the sidewalk dance. And maybe your smile.

Changmin’s pout deepens impossibly further. Actually, you probably give your lovely smile to every person you meet. He isn’t special. In fact, he’s betting that the skater kid fell for your smile too, the smile that makes it feel like stars are raining around his feet.

“Hey, earth to Changmin?” Younghoon waves a hand in front of his face. “You good?”

“No,” he replies, burying his head in his textbook again. “Leave me alone to mope.”

Younghoon just snorts, pats his head, then goes quiet, presumably back to studying. Meanwhile, Changmin doesn’t even bother to make a pretense of looking at his book anymore. He just stares into darkness.

Feelings, he decides, fucking suck.

. . .

~ you

Eric, you come to find, is a really fun guy. He might be a little awkward, but he’s clearly got a warm heart, and with every second you spend with him, you find yourself feeling more and more comfortable in his presence. With him, an entire hour and a half pass in a flash before you check your phone and realize you have class in less than ten minutes.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize, hastily putting your things together. “Time passed so quickly. I didn’t keep you from doing anything important, did I?”

He just waves a hand. “Don’t worry!” The bright smile that’s been gracing his face this entire time grows even wider. “I don’t have a lot on my plate at the moment. It was fun talking to you.”

“Me, too.” You push your chair in. “Let’s do this again sometime? I’ll buy my own coffee, though.”

Eric’s grin makes him look like a puppy. You have the irrational urge to pat his head and coo. “Of course! See you later, Y/N.”

“See you.” Waving once, you exit the café, ready to head off to class.

Just outside the building, though, something makes you linger. You feel weird, like someone’s staring. Quickly, you look back through the window of the Starbucks. Eric’s still there, talking to a tall boy in one corner, but he isn’t looking at you.

Your gaze shifts, and invisible heat floods your cheeks as Ji Changmin stares back from behind the glass, seated at a table at the far end of the café.

He’s wearing glasses today, you notice blankly. They’re round, frame his eyes perfectly, and make him look god damn adorable.

Your heart flutters.

For a moment, you just stand there, rooted in place. What do I do here? you think desperately. What are you supposed to do when you’ve never actually spoken to him, only exchanged greetings in the form of weird dance steps (if they can even be called that) and, well, smiles?

Oh. Smiles.

Those work, you guess.

Slowly, you curl the corners of your lips into what you hope is a grin. It grows wider as Changmin smiles back, eyes crinkling and teeth showing as he waves to you from inside the café.

Your mood, already lightened by your conversation with Eric, skyrockets impossibly as you wave back, mouth splitting into a grin that stretches from ear to ear.

God, since when did just seeing Ji Changmin make you feel this happy?

In a moment of heightened stupidity, you point up to your eyes, drawing circles with your fingers in a motion that you hope indicates glasses. Changmin points to the frames on his face, and you nod, hands forming two thumbs ups, which your unthinking brain hopes will convey the fact that you really like how he looks with them on.

It feels like it should be impossible for Changmin’s smile to get any wider, but it does. Through the window, you watch him clap a hand to his mouth shyly, shoulders shaking slightly as he presumably laughs. It makes you laugh, too, and you wave one more time before walking away.

Then what you did actually hits you, and like that first time you stepped in Changmin’s path, you put your face in your hands and cringe as hard as your body will allow.

You really did that, you scold yourself. You really made circles with your fingers and gave him fucking thumbs ups because you liked his glasses.

You’re a fucking moron.

. . .

~ eric

When Eric walks up to Changmin’s table to talk to his friend, he immediately reevaluates his entire opinion of the doe-eyed boy.

His face is buried in the textbook when Eric starts approaching (which, first of all, mood). However, when he gets closer, Changmin lifts his head out of the pages and fixes him with the deadliest, pointiest glare that Eric has ever faced in his life.

Eric now sees why Kevin calls Changmin scary as fuck. The stare he gave when Eric crashed into you was nothing compared to this.

His eyes feel like daggers slowly slicing into Eric’s skin.

“Um.” Eric stops a couple feet away from the table Changmin’s sharing with the friend he needs to talk to. The friend looks up curiously, and Eric seizes the chance. “Can I, uh, talk to you? For a second?” he asks, desperately hoping they can get away from Changmin’s glare as soon as possible. “Please?”

The friend blinks once, then nods. “Be back in a minute, Changmin,” he says, about to stand up.

“Why can’t you talk to him here?”

Oh, God. If Eric wasn’t ready for the whiplash that came with seeing Changmin’s soft features versus his sharp glare, he really wasn’t ready for the soft tones of his voice contrasting with the venom blended in. Everything about Changmin, at first glance, screams innocence and sweetness.

What the fuck goes on behind that exterior?

“Um,” Eric stalls, desperately trying to think of an excuse. “I –”

“Don’t be rude, Changmin,” the friend cuts through smoothly, standing up. Eric immediately feels dwarfed by this guy’s long legs, but he doesn’t care as much as he normally might because he’s so glad he’s getting rescued. “Let’s go.”

The Starbucks isn’t large, but Eric follows the friend to a far corner, away from the table. Once they’re there, he clears his throat. “Um –”

“Are you dating them?” the tall guy interrupts. “The one you were here with before?”

Once the question settles in, Eric starts shaking his head violently. “No, no, I’m not. No. I just – well, I slammed into Y/N on my board, so I offered to buy coffee for us sometime to make up for it?” He tries to smile. “Not dating.”

“Oh, thank God.” The friend rubs his forehead. “Changmin was going to have an aneurysm.”

Well, that confirms that his near-death at the eyes of Ji Changmin wasn’t in vain. Relief and sadness run through Eric’s brain at the confirmation that yes, Changmin is head over heels for you. “Yeah, uh, I was actually going to ask about that.” He swallows. “Are you and Changmin close friends?”

A curious look. “Yeah, you could say that. Why?”

“Well, I don’t know if you know Kevin Moon, but he’s sick of watching Y/N and Changmin pine over each other without bothering to make a move,” Eric rushes out. He can still feel Changmin’s gaze boring holes into his skin. “But Kevin doesn’t have classes with Changmin this semester and he definitely hates my guts, so…” He sighs. God, this is harder than he thought it’d be. “Basically, are you tired of watching them pine, and do you have the time and energy to play Cupid with us?”

For a moment, Changmin’s friend just stands there, staring him right in the eyes Eric. Then a smirk spreads over his face. “Of course I do,” he says, now grinning like a god damn maniac. “Count me in.”

A breath of relief rushes out of Eric’s lips. “Thank God,” he mumbles. “Give me your number. We start plotting this weekend.”

His phone comes back to him with a new contact named Kim Younghoon in it. “Why are you doing this, anyway?” Changmin’s friend – Younghoon – asks as Eric puts the phone away. “What’s in it for you? Didn’t you only meet Y/N when you crashed?”

“Their pining is disgustingly obvious,” Eric says matter of factly. “I’ve been Kevin’s friend for years, and now I’m also Y/N’s. Why not alleviate both of their pain by getting them together?”

Younghoon looks at Eric, almost like he’s appraising him. Eric feels kind of like a bug under a microscope and he’s absolutely sure this tall guy is going to take back his agreement and call him weird before he suddenly smiles widely. “You’re cool,” Younghoon declares as though he’s just made a scientific discovery to rival Einstein’s photoelectric effect. “Looking forward to... whatever this is.”

With that, Eric ducks out of the café as fast as possible, leaving the smell of coffee and (thankfully) Changmin’s burning stares behind. Once outside, he pulls out his phone again and creates a group chat.

To: schemerz

Eric: younghoon and kevin say hi to each other

Kevin: hi younghoon

Younghoon: hi kevin

Step one of operation cupid is complete. Eric grins.

Eric: pack your bags boyz we begin scheming tomorrow

Younghoon: why do we need to pack bags

Younghoon: are we going somewhere

Okay, well, maybe this will take some time, Eric thinks, looking at Younghoon’s texts. But it can’t be that bad. You and Changmin are so obviously crushing on each other. It won’t take too much work to make get you two together, will it?

. . . . .

~ younghoon

Younghoon genuinely never knew that trying to get his best friend together with the person he likes could be this infuriating.

It’s not only that he has to continually reassure Changmin that no, skater boy – whose name is Eric Sohn, stop calling him skater boy, I can hear the “derogatory” even if you don’t say it out loud, Changmin – is not dating you, yes, he heard it with his own two ears, and yes, Eric said it with his own words. Saying this over and over, honestly, is annoying enough. Younghoon can deal with that, though. It’s just a product of Changmin’s own insecurity and lovesickness, nothing that he can control.

But actually trying to set the two of you up?

Torture.

They first devise a stroll at the mall, just to get you two to actually maybe talk. Kevin demands that this plan be put first because he cannot stop screaming over the fact that the two of you are so whipped but haven’t spoken a single word to each other ever.

Which, honestly, same. But at least Younghoon doesn’t yell about it in the group chat.

(Sometimes, looking at all of the capital letters in Kevin’s messages gives him a headache.)

The plan is to invite both you and Changmin to the mall, then ditch so the two of you will maybe actually exchange a few words with each other by the end of the day. It’s going pretty well – both of you have agreed to go, completely unaware that the other is showing up – but then you have to cancel because of a sudden quiz you need to study for the next day.

Well, fine. Younghoon just ends up shopping with Changmin for the entire afternoon (Eric still ditches for obvious reasons – cough, Changmin, cough – and Kevin has to study for the same quiz, which he curses about endlessly in the group chat for an entire day). Not a big deal. Younghoon likes clothes, and against his better judgement, he likes Changmin.

So no harm done. Besides, there’s always next time, right?

Wrong.

The university dance team has a concert coming up that Kevin begs you to go to, all under the guise of supposedly supporting one of his friends, Juyeon. When you show up at the venue, Younghoon can still tell you’re confused over why you’re there – you don’t really know Juyeon, he hears you hiss to Kevin, so what’s going on? – but you seem nice enough. Friendly enough. Younghoon likes you immediately.

This plan isn’t as straightforward as the mall-ditching one. A certain Ji Changmin is one of the best dancers on the team, so he has his own solo halfway through the show. Younghoon proposes that Kevin force you to show up so you can melt over Changmin’s performance and either profess your love right then and there (which is the ideal case) or at least compliment the dancer on his skills. Either way, it gets the two of you to talk.

So, suffice to say, Younghoon is pissed when his well thought-out, perfectly structured plan falls apart when you have to leave before the end of the entire show because your roommate needs you to do something or the other that is somehow more important than you confessing your undying love for Changmin.

(Nothing, he complains later in the group chat, could be more important than that. Not even your roommate nearly setting the whole dorm on fire. Eric might beg to disagree, but Younghoon will just tell him to beg.)

Well, it kind of works out. Your roommate’s fuckup doesn’t happen until after Changmin’s performance, and Younghoon gets a front row seat to your jaw literally dropping when he comes onstage and starts dancing the way his dance major body always does. Younghoon legitimately thinks he could pick stars out of your eyes, the way you’re staring at Changmin. And even though you have a hand over your mouth, he can easily tell you’re smiling like no tomorrow.

So Younghoon gets the satisfaction of both seeing your reaction to Changmin’s performance and telling Changmin that his crush watched him dance. The wave of shock that immediately crawls up his best friend’s face makes Younghoon want to cackle and shake his head at the same time. It gets even better when Younghoon relates the look on your face as you watched and the compliments you told him to pass on.

Changmin has never smiled that widely or that shyly, ever. As his best friend since childhood, Younghoon will attest to that. It’s amazing and offensive and slightly gross.

God, Changmin’s whipped.

But this small success doesn’t make up for half of the entire plan that failed. You and Changmin still didn’t talk, after all, even if you fell even deeper in disgusting love. So Kevin advocates for a return to the simple method of making plans and ditching.

This time, it’s a movie that the schemer line (hey, Younghoon came up with that name – he thinks it’s a damn sight better than Kevin’s “The Boyz,” regardless of what the younger boy says) plans to ditch you two at. Kevin suggests horror, mainly because he’s not going to be there to watch it, but also because of the ages-old cliché where you’ll probably get scared and hold Changmin’s hand or some shit.

(Younghoon knows it won’t be the other way around not because of some sexist idiocy, but because Changmin laughs at possession and ghosts and keeps horror movie masks in his room to scare his friends with. He thinks Annabelle and Chucky are cute. Worst case scenario, you happen to enjoy horror too, and the two of you bond over your weird interests. Which isn’t even a worst case scenario, because you two will talk, and that’s the whole point of the plan.)

They really think it’s going to work this time. Kevin reports you arriving on time to the theater and immediately runs off so you won’t see him and start asking questions like why he’s hiding behind the potted bushes outside a nearby bistro. Younghoon and Eric wait with bated breath at the campus café for any last-minute updates before Kevin gets back.

When Kevin actually shows up at the café, having taken the bus back from the theater, they’re about to celebrate a plan finally completed. Younghoon thinks he’s going to start screaming from relief.

Then a text shows up on Kevin’s phone from you, asking why he never showed up.

Panic.

When they finally get their minds together, Kevin rattles something off about a family emergency and a call he had to take, which gets you off his back for a bit. But then he asks if you actually went to see the movie anyway.

It turns out you left fifteen minutes later when no one showed up.

No one.

Meaning Changmin never got there either.

Eric slams his head on the table. Kevin looks like he’s about to explode. Younghoon himself is about to throw his drink at something when he gets a text from Changmin mere minutes later, asking where he is and why no one’s at the theater.

breadhoon: it’s so late?? why didn’t you text earlier??

qminnie: the bus was late :/// why isn’t anyone here? I know it’s not just because the theater is dark, I walked around all the seats and couldn’t find you or kevin

Kevin starts screaming.

As Eric’s shoving a yelling Kevin out of the café and apologizing to the baristas, Younghoon just fires off a quick excuse to Changmin, who’s apparently still at the theater – I’m really sorry, my dad called about something and it ran super late, just watch the movie and let me know how it is – all the while internally screaming as loudly as Kevin physically is in this moment.

Later that evening, Kevin texts the group chat with the question on all of their minds.

moon boy: how is it that all of our plans fucking failed

Younghoon just wants to jump off the top of his dorm building.

It turns out that Eric, despite being the youngest of the three of them, has the most brain cells. He proposes something so simple but with the potential to be so effective that it blows Younghoon’s mind.

“Well, if ditching them to be alone doesn’t work, we might as well just be there,” he reasons over morning cups of coffee (courtesy of Kevin, who lost rock paper scissors and is still pouting over it). “Someone throws a party, we all show up, and we can play, like, mafia. Or truth or dare or whatever. That’ll get them to interact, probably.”

It’s a beautiful plan. Younghoon hugs the younger boy and proclaims him the smartest freshman he’s ever met (“I’m pretty sure I’m the only freshman you’ve talked to this year, Younghoon.”). Kevin praises the higher beings for the seven tenths of a working brain cell that Eric holds.

They work out the details quickly. Sangyeon will host the party – he holds one every other month anyway, so it won’t be too much trouble to let him know what’s going on. Besides, his parties are usually pretty controlled, so less risk of someone doing something illegal and freaking everyone out. Younghoon, of course, will bring Changmin. Kevin will bring you and Eric. In turn, Eric says he’s going to bring his friend, Sunwoo, because, quote unquote, “I need a freshman to keep me sane after dealing with you messes of upperclassmen.”

(Well. He has a point. Younghoon may look put together, but the only things that register in his thoughts most of the time are anime and bread. Kevin doesn’t even bother looking put together, which only speaks volumes about his level of brain chaos.)

“If this doesn’t work,” Kevin declares the moment they finish hashing out the plan, “I’m going to drown myself in one of the fountains.”

“It will work,” Eric says, determined. “It has to.”

Younghoon doesn’t say anything. All of their past failures have taught him to keep his mouth shut. However, if this plan fails, he’ll gladly jump into a fountain with Kevin and inhale water up his nose.

. . . . .

~ you

“You’re not going to ditch me, are you?” you ask for the umpteenth time, narrowing your eyes once more at your (now exasperated) friend.

“No,” Kevin groans, rubbing his temples. “I’m not going to ditch you, and for the last time, there were emergencies, okay?”

You want to give them the benefit of the doubt, you really do. Especially Eric – there’s no way he would do anything malicious to you on purpose (meanwhile, if Kevin was mad enough, he just might), he’s just too sweet. But first Kevin dragged you to this dance show that you’ve never been to before, which was weird enough, and the timing for that last movie cancellation was too coincidental to not be suspicious. If it was just him cancelling, you might not question it, but none of the three showed up.

Kevin’s planning something, probably with Eric and Younghoon. You just don’t know what.

“Uh huh.” You make sure to show your disbelief in those two words as you walk up the steps to Sangyeon’s house. “Damn, it’s been a long time since I’ve been here.”

“It’s so big,” Eric says from behind where he’s finally caught up to you two. His friend, Sunwoo, lingers quietly at his side, though his wide eyes betray his amazement.

“I always forget how big this place is,” Kevin agrees, ringing the doorbell. “Just stay on the ground floor, though, it’s not too bad. And watch your drinks. Sangyeon’s parties are usually pretty chill, but anything could happen.”

You snort. “Yes, Mom,” you mock, just as the host himself opens the door. “Hey, Sangyeon!”

“Y/N!” He pulls you and Kevin in for a short hug, then smiles at the visibly nervous freshmen standing behind you two. “Oh, hi! You must be Eric and Sunwoo, right?”

They just nod, still awed. Kevin stifles a snort as your lips curl into a fond smile – it’s weird to remember that you used to be a freshman just like them,. There isn’t much more time to think, though, because Sangyeon quickly ushers the four of you inside and all of your thoughts drown in the party’s chaos.

A couple of hours pass in mind-numbing peace. Kevin mixes you an atrocious cocktail that you pour down the sink when he isn’t looking. You watch Jacob shake his hips on the dance floor while Kevin twerks to Beyoncé. Even Eric and Sunwoo, who were originally just hovering around you, loosen up after a shot or two and find someone else they know to talk to, a freshman whose name you’re pretty sure is Hyunjoon.

Things are going well, you think in your tipsy haze. No one’s thrown up yet, no one’s passed out (well, Felix looks pretty sleepy, but he’s a sleepy drunk – how much Jisung already managed to give him to drink, you aren’t sure), and best of all, no one’s done anything stupid that’ll go viral on the school’s Snapchat. This is nice.

Then Kevin grabs you by the wrist, done twerking, and hollers unintelligible words in your ear as he drags you to the edge of the dance floor. He says more, but all you catch is “watch” and a yelled “YOUNG BOON.” Or something like that.

Confused, you just try not to spill your drink as Kevin pushes you through the crowd that’s forming in the living room. There’s a lot of yelling and cheering as the music changes, and then someone gets pushed to the middle of the dance floor.

A hand flies to your mouth.

It’s Changmin.

“Kevin,” you hiss. “Kevin! That’s Changmin!”

Even drunk, your friend manages to give you the most judgmental look you’ve ever seen. “No shit, Sherlock,” he snaps. “Just watch!”

For a moment, Changmin just stands in the middle of the circle that’s formed, eyes wide and doe-like (and absolutely fucking adorable, even under the red lighting). Then something in him shifts – it nearly gives you whiplash – and the dancer Changmin you saw that day Kevin dragged you to the concert comes out in full force.

It’s short, his performance, much shorter than the five-minute long solo he had at the concert. But holy fuck, it’s explosive. Even the smallest flicks of his fingers seem to send off sparks of light, red glinting off his face and the buttons on his shirt.

He has you captivated, so much so that you don’t register Kevin shifting until he’s positioned almost directly behind you. Changmin’s dance is winding down, a softer look coming back into his previously focused eyes, and everyone’s cheering and starting to clap before a harsh shove sends you sprawling forward.

For a moment, you stand right in front of Changmin, eyes undoubtedly wide with confusion as the situation filters through your muddled brain. Embarrassment begins to spread through your body as people begin to chant, “DANCE! DANCE! DANCE!”

Fuck.

This must have been Kevin’s plan.

Whipping your head around, you try to find and glare at your friend (you’re seriously rethinking that title), but he’s already disappeared. You then try to shrink back into the crowd, but they don’t let you. Someone plucks the cup from your hand, erasing your last excuse for leaving the circle of screaming partygoers as you look around desperately for a way out.

Then a hand extends into your vision, fingers twitching in a gesture you’ve come to associate with a certain person at a certain time at a certain place, two ten p.m. on Mondays and Wednesdays just inside the literature building.

Slowly, you look up to see Changmin shyly smiling back, eyes glinting in the way you’ve come to (not so) secretly adore.

A grin unconsciously spreads across your face as he launches back into his dance, more laid-back and flowy this time, much like the moonwalks he does down the halls at school. Almost on instinct, you lurch into his space, barely managing to brush over his foot as he nimbly steps away.

On a normal day, the dance you do is already messy and weird to passersby – you’ve made your way onto at least one of the university Snapchat stories already – so you can’t imagine how this looks in the moment. It must seem so uncoordinated, especially with your limbs loose with alcohol (Changmin still moves as steadily as ever, what the fuck) and the fact that you can’t really see where you’re stepping in the dim red light of the room. But it doesn’t matter – Changmin’s grinning so widely and you’re laughing, really laughing, loud enough to overpower what you think is Kevin’s yelling (it sounds something like “WHY ARE YOU DOING YOUR FUCKING MATING DANCE AND NOT DANCING LIKE A NORMAL PERSON?”, so it must be him), and everyone’s cheering and clapping and even though you can see a few phones being pulled out, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter. All that matters is your fingers brushing against Changmin’s, his laugh ringing in your ear, and the smiles on your faces until –

Until Changmin grabs your outstretched hand, tangling his fingers in yours, and encircles your waist with his free hand before dipping you down until his face hovers just a foot above yours.

Someone’s screaming, someone that definitely sounds like Kevin, but you can’t process it. Everything feels like you’re underwater – muffled, blurred, indecipherable. All you can think of is how fast your heart is beating, how hot your face feels, and how intensely Changmin is staring into your eyes.

Holy shit.

You can barely breathe.

When Changmin eventually lets you up to screams and hoots, your knees almost buckle. If not for his fingers still entangled in yours, you probably would’ve collapsed, but he seems to sense this and grips your hand even tighter.

The smile can’t leave your face, even though it turns smaller and shyer as the crowd disperses and you’re left holding Changmin’s hand for no reason. You should let go, probably, but you don’t want to, and Changmin doesn’t seem uncomfortable with it either. Still, the physical link between you two only grows more and more obvious as the two of you stand in silence, unable or unwilling to speak.

Changmin finally breaks it. “Hi,” he says in this voice that legitimately makes you want to crumble into the ground. It’s soft, it’s sweet, it’s something entirely uncharacteristic yet at the same time so fitting for the boy who just danced his heart out on Sangyeon’s living room floor. “I’m Changmin.”

Your voice leaves you, and the minute you take to find it feels like an eternity. These are your first words to him, your mind screams – don’t say anything stupid!

Staring into his sparkling doe eyes, you swallow hard before saying your first words to the boy who may or may not have already stolen your heart.

“Hi,” you say, smile threatening to grow even wider, wide enough to split your face. “I’m Y/N.”

. . .

~ changmin

He’s only heard three words from you, but Changmin thinks he could drown in your voice. It’s lovely, smooth in a way that flows over his body like warm spring rain. Willingly, he would stand under the shower of your gentle tones, putting his face to the sky and letting your words wash over him, soothing his skin.

Vaguely, his mind tells him that it’s way too early to start waxing poetic about your voice. You’ve only spoken three words to him, for fuck’s sake – what is he even doing?

A whisper that sounds suspiciously like Younghoon floats through his brain. You’re whipped.

Well. He just might be.

“Isn’t this kind of weird?” you suddenly say, jerking Changmin out of his you-induced haze. The smile on your face is a little embarrassed, now, and he catches you glancing at your fingers still linked with his. Briefly, he wonders if he should let go – he’s the one who first grabbed your hand, after all, what if you’re uncomfortable? – but you don’t seem to hate it. If anything, your smile grows a little shyer.

Changmin may think horror movie dolls are cute, but your smile is even cuter. He might melt right then and there.

Belatedly, he realizes you’re looking at him, waiting for a response. “Um – weird?” he replies, praying that his voice doesn’t crack.

(It doesn’t, not this time. Thank the lord.)

You look down again, this time at your feet. Probably out of embarrassment. “I mean,” you say, silvery voice tickling Changmin’s ears, “we’ve been interacting for at least several months.” The full force of your smile hits Changmin as you raise your head. “But we’ve barely spoken a word to each other.” When you laugh, he hears bells. “Isn’t that strange?”

“Well, when you put it that way, yeah.” Changmin giggles (yes, he fucking giggles, what the hell, why can’t he sound any cooler than he really is?). “But I think it was lucky. Well, I think I was lucky to meet you.”

He wasn’t supposed to say that out loud. He wasn’t fucking supposed to say that – what’s wrong with him? He used to be so good at watching his words – but at least, despite his embarrassment at having revealed this part of him, he gets to see you flustered. It’s adorable, he thinks, so much more adorable than anything else in the world. “How come you, um, stepped in my way that first time?” he asks, genuinely curious.

Changmin doesn’t expect the embarrassed snort that comes out of your mouth, but it makes him laugh. “You know that meme, the one where it’s like ‘why are you doing this?’ and your brain just says ‘you gotta?’” Rolling your eyes slightly, you snicker. “That’s what went through my mind. You never bump into anyone, so, well, someone had to try to mess you up.”

Changmin’s going to print a hundred copies of that meme and tape them all over his dorm. He will never be so grateful for a stinking Internet horcrux in his entire life.

Well, okay, he’s probably exaggerating. But still.

“That’s mean,” he says, purposely pouting his lips. “Why would you want to mess me up?”

You elbow his ribs, giggling. “Someone has to bring the king down at some point.”

Changmin’s about to take advantage of his current burst of confidence to respond to that – “You think I’m the king?” – and possibly fluster you even more, but someone’s yelling “LOVEBIRDS!” in a voice that sounds a little too much like Kevin’s. Both of you turn around instinctively, which probably only fuels the lovebird fire (though Changmin can’t bring himself to care at the moment).

“WE’RE PLAYING MAFIA!” someone else – is that Jaehyun? Probably – yells. “GET OVER HERE!”

“Mafia?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “That…”

Changmin can hear the exasperated apprehension in your voice. He hears it in his own whenever his friend group gets together to play the game. “Let’s just see what happens,” he suggests, trying hard not to melt when you look over at him. “Someone might do something stupid?”

Your laughter sounds like sparkles, wind chimes twinkling in the breeze. Changmin wonders what he wouldn’t give to hear it for the rest of his life. “You’re right, you’re right.” Glancing once more (and smiling a little wider) at your still-linked hands, you jerk your head in your friends’ direction. “Shall we?”

As he nods, Changmin privately thinks that there’s nothing in the world that could dissuade him from following you.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for this stupid oblivious couple GOD)

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illogicalpunkwrites · 4 years ago

Text

Diplomacy

Hello! Hope everyone is doing well! This is another McCoy fic and I’ve got one for Scotty in the works. Enjoy and thank you so much for reading!

Pairings: Leonard McCoy x Reader

Rating: M (18+)

Warnings: Smut, cursing, jealousy, angst, fluff, the whole works

Words: 4.3k

Tags: @bloodangelballerina @theweepingvulcan91

You groaned as you read the message from Jim, already trying to find a way out of it.

All commanding officers were to go to a Gala on the metropolitan planet of TIbbea. Meaning, you’d have to dress up and attempt to kiss ass to uphold the reputation of Star Fleet.

Fantastic.

XXXXXX

You sat next to Leonard as you sipped the brandy he’d pulled out from his cabinet, some oldies playing in the background. You and Leonard had grown close, surprising everyone by becoming good friends despite the rocky beginnings. Bickering had given way to teasing, but that wasn’t to say that the bickering ended.

“So I take it you’re not looking forward to tomorrow?” He asked and you snorted.

“Absolutely not. They also still haven’t given me a new dress uniform so I’ve got to wear the most uncomfortable thing on the planet. Thankfully, it’s just black but I prefer slacks over that thing any day.”

“Hey, I hate that monkey suit. I think I’d rather wear a dress.” You laughed and rested your head on his shoulder.

“We can always switch.”

“Nah, I don’t think I could pull it off.” He replied and you two simply listened to the music. While ancient country wasn’t your taste, you had made Leonard watch enough of your movies that you owed him some of your time. “At least you can dance, right?”

“Can you?” He made a more or less sign. “I don’t really like to. I’ll stay near the bar and appetizers. Maybe you’ll meet some nice Orion girl to dance with.”

“I’ll just stay at the bar with you, darlin;. Maybe a Ferengi will woo you off your feet.” You snickered into your drink.

“If they buy me a drink, sure.” There was a comfortable silence between the two of you, but you didn’t notice Leonard’s heart nearly beating out of his chest. You only noticed something was off when he dragged his hand over his face. “You alright?”

“Uh, yeah. I was actually wondering if any of the other officers asked you to be their...accompany them to the gala?”

“No, why?”

“How about you go with me? Seems like we both want the same thing of staying out of the way and drinking them out of the house.” He joked. You hoped he didn’t notice your cheeks heating up as you looked back down into your glass.

“Sounds great, Len.”

Stars, he loved it when he called you that.

XXXXXX

The hall was ornately decorated with white walls and gold accents, a grand staircase, and breathtaking portraits of previous rulers of the planet. It seemed like it was something out of a fairy tale or a palace from Europe. Star Fleet took you to so many places but you never thought you would be in as nice a place as this.

You squirmed a little outside of the grand hall, the straps of your heels digging into your ankles, the garter belt that held your phaser chafing against your other thigh. Nyota and Janice had a lot of fun helping you get ready, an unspoken giddiness between the two. When you probed them as to why they were so adamant about getting you ready, they simply smiled and said “no reason”. Luckily for them, Spock had chosen to take Nyota as his date and Hikaru had kindly asked Janice to be his.

You had to admit they had done a great job but you weren’t surprised. Their makeup and hair were always impeccable.

You didn’t notice Leonard standing behind you and staring at you. He was in awe of how you looked. He always thought you looked beautiful but seeing you in your onyx gown was something else. It hugged you in the right places, showed off your shoulders with the loose sleeves, and the slit up your leg made you look like a goddess.

Dear God you were going to be the death of him.

You fixed your hair a little before you felt a tap on your shoulder. You spun to see Leonard in his dress uniform. While you knew he hated the monkey suit, he looked so handsome. His eyes were even brighter than usual and he had run just a little bit more gel through his hair.

“Hello there.” You greeted. He looked you up and down and you ran your hands over the silky material of the skirt. “Told you it was awful.”

“What’re you talking about? You look...you look gorgeous, darlin’.” Your eyes widened and you knew he saw the blush on your chest and cheeks.

“You don’t look too bad yourself.” He offered you his arm and you took it, walking into the grand hall and looking out for your crewmates. You took note of the many different races that were there and the line to great the king and queen.

“Jim needs a chair like that.” You commented, looking at the throne that was decorated with the overarching symbol of the national Tibbean religion. It was imposing to say the least and you wondered if it would even fit in the transporter room.

“What? So his ego can get bigger?” You both chuckled and made your way down the stairs and towards the bar.

“I see we’re sticking to the plan?” You asked.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way. Old fashioned, right?” You smiled, loving how he remembered your favorite cocktail.

“Yes please.” He ordered that for you and boulevardier for him. One of the bartenders quickly made them and slid them over to the two of you, the glasses heavy and almost a little gaudy.

“To drinking them out of the house!” He toasted and you chuckled.

“To drinking them out of their palace.” You corrected. You sipped your cocktail and, though you had many before, it was the best old fashioned you’d ever had. “Damn that’s good. I gotta figure out what bourbon they used.”

“I doubt you’d be able to afford it, darlin’.”

“Hey, if I take more credits from Scotty in poker I just might.” He scooted closer to you so you were practically resting against him.

“You gotta teach me your tricks.” “What? And let you take away my credits? I don’t think so.” You responded cheekily. You watched as Jim approached the king and queen, supposedly thanking them for their invite and talking up Star Fleet.

“It isn’t even a game for you anymore! You win every time.” He complained and you laughed.

“Doctor McCoy, I don’t play games. Poker is just a means to an end to be able to get everyone’s credits.”

“Never took you for a scrooge. You can tell me something”

“I never realized you were so whiny.” You replied and his jaw dropped in feigned shock. “Oh shut it, you know it’s true. ‘Jim, I’m a doctor not a brick layer. Spock you realize this is impossible. (Y/N) you need to be more careful’. Dammit Jim can’t you-” He elbowed you a little and you laughed, his arm going around your shoulders.

“You two certainly look like you’re having fun.” Jim said as he approached with the other members of the crew that had beamed down. You both sipped on your drinks as the others talked about how beautiful the planet was. Scotty was impressed with their liquor selection just like you were, Janice couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw the paintings, Nyota was in awe of the poetic music that played, and Hikaru was obsessed with the native plants that nearly glowed with color.

“Please Spock, dance with me.” Nyota begged, already a little tipsy. She was always a lightweight, ever since meeting her your first day on the Enterprise.

“Of course, ashayam.” He replied and held out his arm for her to take and lead her to the floor. You and Leonard looked at each other, hardly believing the Vulcan could be so smooth.

“Miss Rand, if I may.” Sulu offered his hand, Janice laughing as she took it. Scotty lead Lieutenant Mira, Jim grabbed Carol, which eaft you and Leonard against the bar still. You were feeling the effects of your second old fashioned and decided “to hell with it”.

“Len, come dance with me.” He sputtered into his drink and quickly wiped his chin.

“Uh, I thought you didn’t dance.”

“I never said that, I just never answered your question. So will you dance with me?” You replied, placing your glass down and reaching to grab his hands. “Well...Look darlin’-”

“I’ll dance with you.” A deep voice called. You turned to see a Daliwakan leaning against the bar near you. “I’m Ivvoid, junior ambassador to the Daliwakans.”

“It’s very nice to meet you.” You introduced yourself and your rank aboard the Enterprise.

“Dr. McCoy, CMO of the Enterprise.” He introduced and you didn’t fail to miss how his chest seemed to literally puff up.

“Come, Commander. Indulge in me a little and dance.” Before you could object, he grabbed your elbow and led you to the floor. His other hand quickly went to your waist as you stepped in time to the music.

“You have to forgive me, I’m not a talented dancer.” You told him sheepishly, keeping in mind you had to keep up a diplomatic presence. You wished Leonard was with you instead.

“To be honest, neither am I. But who ever heard of an ambassador who couldn’t dance?” You laughed softly at him as he lead the little waltz you were having. You could practically feel Leonard’s eyes on you. “Who is the CMO to you?”

“What?”

“Who is he to you? Just a crewmate?” He replied and you furrowed your brows at him.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, if I wish to get to know you better I would want to know whether you are spoken for or not.” He replied bluntly. You were a little stunned, something unusual for you. You didn’t realize that was a trait amongst the Daliwakans.

“Well, he is my date for the night.” You explained and you saw the ridges on his forehead raise.

“Just for the night then? You two aren’t together?”

“Well no, I don’t suppose we are.” You replied honestly.

“Fantastic! You know, back on my planet women-”

XXXXXX

Nyota looked over at Spock’s shoulder to see Leonard still leaning against the bar while you danced with someone else. She knew that there was something going on between the two of you, but you were both too stubborn and blind to do anything. If he wasn’t going to do anything, she would just have to push him.

“Spock, let’s move near Doctor McCoy.”

“Are you planning something?” Nyota smiled up at him and he did as she asked. “Doctor.”

“Spock, Uhura.” Leonard replied as he sipped on his third drink of the night. He saw how flustered you were getting and couldn’t help the pang of jealousy in his chest.

“Leonard, why don’t you go over there? She obviously doesn’t want to be there.”

“What’re you talking about? She’s laughing at everything he says and hasn’t stopped dancing with him.” He grumbled.

“Perhaps she is merely trying to be diplomatic. It’s hard to reject an offer from an ambassador.” Spock replied and Nyota grabbed his hand in a Vulcan kiss, showing that he had done a good job.

“Nah, she likes him.” She looked over again and saw how stiff you were. Sometimes she really wanted to slap Leonard for not catching on to the obvious things.

“Really? You think so? Maybe she just needs someone else to go save her, be assertive! Go over there!” Leonard polished off his glass and moved away from the bar.

“Nah, leave her be.” She looked up at Spock and he led her back to the dance floor, hoping to lift her spirits again. Nyota looked across to Janice who sported a disappointed look on her face. XXXXXX

You looked away from the ambassador to see Leonard going back up the stairs of the grand hall. Your eyes widened and you mouth went slightly agape. You let go of the ambassador’s hand and, against his protests, quickly made your way through the crowd.

“Wait, Commander!”

“I’m sorry, I have to go!” You caught Leonard going around a corner and followed him, wondering where he could possibly be going. He went up another set of stairs and you followed, but he had gone into one of the many rooms before you could see which one. You opened each one, looking around, before you found a study. You saw his back turned towards you as he leaned with his palms against a desk. The window in front of him showing the dark purple sky with triple moons illuminating his figure.

“Dammit.” He sighed to himself and you quietly closed the door behind you.

“Hey, I thought we were going to drink the entire bar?” You joked but he didn’t laugh. You approached him and rubbed his shoulder. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” He bit back. You stepped back a little but your hands didn’t leave him. “I’m sorry. Go back downstairs, have fun.”

“I was having fun with you.”

“You were having fun with the ambassador.” He replied and you rolled your eyes.

“He was cocky and dull.”

“You laughed an awful lot.” He scoffed. You pulled away from him and crossed your arms across your chest.

“Doctor McCoy, are you jealous?” You teased, but your teasing nature went away when he didn’t say anything. “Len-”

“Darlin’, I’m fine. I just need a minute.”

“No you don’t.” He turned to see you. Again, he couldn’t help thinking how beautiful you looked against the purple light. “What’s going on? We were having fun, I asked you to dance with me and you didn’t want to, the ambassador didn’t even really ask just took me over, now you’re upset.”

“I never said I didn’t want to dance with you.” He said. “I just didn’t have the...”

“Balls?” He finally laughed a little at that.

“Yeah. He kinda stepped in before I could finally get some.” You heard the music lightly coming through the door and walked over to him, grabbing his arms to wrap them around your waist and you locked yours around his neck.

“There we go. That’s better.” You said. He rested his forehead against yours and you closed your eyes. You swayed together to the faint music, breathing in his musky cologne and your warm and spicy perfume. His arms tightened around you so the tips of your noses touched. You opened your eyes to meet his gaze. While he was someone who didn’t particularly like dancing, he didn’t mind it with you. “You don’t have to be jealous, y’know.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I don’t want anyone else.” His breath hitched as one of your hands slid down to cup his jaw.

“Darlin’, don’t play games.”

“You heard me earlier. I don’t play games.” You closed the gap between the two of you and kissed him softly. One of the hands wrapped around your waist went up to the back of your neck to pull you impossibly closer. It didn’t take him long to start kissing you back, taking your bottom lip between his. His lips were a little chapped but damn did he know how to kiss. You felt your entire body melting into him as every nerve ending fired. You had to keep yourself from whining when he pulled away.

“I’ve been wanting that to happen a long time.”

“Me too.” He leaned down to kiss you again, fiercer this time as he lead you against the desk. His hands went up to cup your jaw as you grabbed at his back, the dress uniform’s scratchy fabric unpleasant against your fingernails. His tongue darted into your mouth and you welcomed him as he teased you. His hands started moving all over you, wanting to feel as much of you as possible. His mouth moved against your jaw, down to you neck and stopped there. Your breathing had picked up as he kissed against the juncture of your neck and collarbone. “Len-” You gasped out when he kissed, sucked the skin into his mouth. You didn’t care about the mark that would be left there as his lips pressed a soft kiss to the red spot he had created. He pulled away to look at you, his lips slightly swollen.

“Darlin’ I need you to tell me to stop if you don’t want this. I’ve wanted this for so long, wanted to kiss you, to taste you, to feel you.” Your breathing picked up even more as you were rendered speechless. “I just need you to tell me to stop and I will.”

“I don’t want you to. Please Len, don’t stop.” you whispered, pulling at the short hair at the back of his head. You leaned forward and pulled the collar of his shirt down and leaned to give him the same mark he had given you. His hand went to your exposed thigh, feeling the garter that held your phaser. “Always have to be prepared.” You joked, breaking some of the tension. He smiled and pulled the phaser to set it on the chair behind the desk. His hand slid up your thigh again and you jumped a little as he finally reached your panties. His fingers creeped in to find that bundle of nerves that was screaming for attention.

“Shit.” He cursed when he felt how wet you were. He started slowly circling it and your hands went to his biceps, squeezing tightly. His finger moved away from your clit and into your core, quickly joined by a second finger. You were tight around his fingers and you wondered how tight you would feel around his cock. He moved his fingers around a little until he found the spot that made you clench around him and moan into his mouth.

“Yes!” You sighed, his thumb going to rub your clit has his fingers curled inside of you. You messed with his shirt with shaky hands, trying to open it to feel at least some of his skin. When you succeeded, you ran your hands down his chest to reach for his slacks. You pressed your lips together when you felt the bit of wetness at the bulge. You unzipped his pants and pushed them and his underwear down his hips enough to free his cock that slapped against his belly. You both moaned to each other as you ran the palm of your hand over his tip. You encircled him and started jerking him off slowly. The coil in your belly was growing tighter as he continually tapped against you while rubbing the most sensitive part of you. While you always secretly admired his hands, you had underestimated how good his fingers would be. “Shit wait, I don’t want to come yet.”

“What do you need? Whatever you want.” He replied desperately.

“I need you inside me now. I can’t wait anymore.” He cured under his breath and you bunched up your skirt so it wouldn’t get ruined. He pulled his fingers and you swore you could’ve come just from watching him smear your wetness over his cock. He wrapped one of his arms back around your waist with the other holding it, your arms going to grip at his shoulders. His cock caught at your entrance and he grasped the base of himself before slowly starting to push in. Both of your mouths dropped open as he sank into you with small rolls of his hips.

“Fuck you feel too damn good.” You mewled as his accent came out even more. He finally bottomed out inside of you and he felt your grip tighten on his shoulders. “You alright?”

“Perfect, you feel perfect.” You two stayed like that for a moment or two, basking in each other before your hips started to roll as best as they could against him. One of his hands left you to grip the edge of the desk as he pulled out to the tip to push back into you roughly. You could tell he wouldn’t be able to hold back as much as he wanted to as your body bounced against him and the desk creaked underneath you and the fact that you knew the grip he had on your hip would leave bruises. You hooked one of your legs higher around his waist and he gasped out when he sunk even deeper into you. The angle allowed for him to hit the spot that he had found earlier and if it wasn’t for him you would’ve collapsed against the desk. You muffled your cries against his shoulder, still cognisant that you were at a gala.

“Shit, darlin’ I’m not gonna last much longer.” You shook your head against him.

“Me neither.”

“Rub your clit, c’mon.” He groaned into your ear and one of you shaky hands reached down to sloppily circle your clit. He cursed and bit his lip when he felt you clench around him tighter. “C’mon honey, come for me.” Your legs started shaking around him and you felt that coil turning even tighter. “Please come for me.” He whined and you felt that resolve snap inside of you, tingling through every part of your body as your back bowed to press your breasts against him. He kissed you to swallow your cries as your body convulsed. He was soon grunting and groaning loader before you felt hotness cover your walls and his thrusts becoming shorter and deeper. His knuckles were blanched as they went to move your hair out of your face, feeling the imprints the lines of the desk made on his fingers and his breath puffing out against you. Your hands went to feel his pecs, to feel his heart beating wildly.

“See? Told ya you didn’t need to be jealous.” You panted and he chuckled against you, the sound reverberating through you. He leaned down to give you a sweet kiss against your forehead and nuzzled against you.

“We should probably get cleaned up.” He pulled up your panties and you stood up from the desk, squirming when you felt come slide out of you. “Maybe that’ll keep you from dancing with someone else.” You rolled your eyes lovingly and grabbed your phaser to put it back in your garter. You helped him look presentable again and kissed his cheek before going to the door. He grabbed your hand and pulled your back to his chest. “This wasn’t the way I thought that this would happen, but I’m glad it did.”

“How did you want it to happen?” He looked down at you and rubbed his thumb over the mark he had made on your shoulder.

“I would’ve taken you out first once I’d finally gotten the courage to ask you out. Maybe I’d take you to a nice restaurant on a planet like this to get some real food, not replicated. I might take you to a place where you could see the stars because you love ‘em so damn much even though you’re constantly surrounded by them. I was actually trying to track down an old movie you loved so that we could watch it together. I was thinking I would make my move then.” You smiled up at him and played with the medals on his shirt.

“Those things can still happen, y’know. We can still do all of that.” You said. “I would really like to.”

“Me too.” He gave you another kiss before you both left the room, hoping you didn’t leave behind too big of a mess.

XXXXXX

“Janice, I thought it would happen too.” Nyota consoled the yeoman as they wondered where the two of you had went. They had assumed you had both beamed back to the ship after realizing the other was busy either dancing or wallowing.

“But it was perfect! It was just like those sappy vids! Pretty dresses, dancing, two people who won’t admit they’re in love! I just want them to be happy.” “Plus it doesn’t help that we have a bet going.” Hikaru interjected. “If they didn’t get together tonight then she owes me fifty credits.” Nyota shook her head incredulously.

“You two are-” She stopped when she saw the two of you walk back down the stairs together again. “Oh stars-”

“Yes!” Janice celebrated. “Pay up, Hikaru!”

“Wait, that’s not proof of anything!” He whined.

“Think again, hickey at three o’clock.” Hikaru leaned against the table near him and groaned.

“What’s going on?” You asked and they didn’t miss how Leonard had his arm around your waist.

“Oh nothing, we’re just about to toast.” They grabbed some bubbly by a waiter walking by. “To new beginnings and old bets!” Your brows furrowed but you drank from the flute anyway.

You’d figure out what they meant later. For now, you relished being with your doctor and friends.

“C’mon, I owe you a dance.” He said in your ear, leading you away from your friends. Unlike before, you assumed a more formal position with your hand in his, the other on his shoulder, and his other on your hip.

“Glad to see you finally made it out!” Jim chuffed. “Must’ve had enough bourbon.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” Leonard replied and you chuckled. Leonard’s eyes suddenly narrowed over your shoulder before you heard a familiar voice.

“Commander, glad to see you made it back! May I steal you for a moment?” The ambassador asked and you sighed.

“No, you may not.”

“But-”

“She said no. Go chase an asteroid.” Leonard replied and you were surprised at the way he talked.

“Excuse me?”

“Excuse us.” You replied and pushed Leonard away from the ambassador before a diplomatic incident occurred. “Y’know, we’re trying to suck up here.”

“Never was one for kissing ass.” He mused.

“Ah, always with that southern charm.”

“It got you, darlin’.”

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