#happy little accident series

[shiorimakibawrites]

The Plan (Happy Little Accident #2)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader Word Count: 3431 Summary: Matt has a plan Warning(s): Undescriptive sexual fantasy (f receiving oral sex, p in v intercourse), horny thoughts, sexual innuendo, flashback, clumsiness Happy Little Accident Masterlist Matt Murdock / Daredevil Masterlist General Masterlist Tag List: @loves0phelia, @sarahskywalker-amidala, @fanfiction-fanatic221, @nowheredreamer, @marshmelloyellow02, @milkbummm, @writtenbyred, @beezusvreeland, @dorothleah, @m1cky-y-y, @yarrystyleeza, @justvalkyrie A03 link

Part 2 - The Plan

“You’ll have to. I can’t.”

Matt ignored his partner’s groan on the other end of the line. He knew perfectly well that Foggy loved his blind jokes just as much as he loved Foggy’s puns. You did too. It was one of the things that he liked about you, that sense of humor.

“Left myself wide open for that one, didn’t I?” you said, ruefully but without rancor.

“Yep,” he said, grinning at you. “But yes, I’ll see you later.” That earned him a smile. “Bye, Matt.” “Bye, sweetheart,” he said.

If he had his way, this would be a short good-bye. He had a plan.

The plan had been underway for a while. Ever since Matt realized that he liked you more than a neighbor or a friend, he had been trying to signal that. Subtle flirting at first as he didn’t want to scare you off. You were rather shy after all. Well he thought he was being subtle. Karen and Foggy had told him that he had been anything but subtle about his interest.

Subtle enough for you it seemed. You had yet to realize that he was interested in you. The same could not be said for your roommate Serena. She had tried repeatedly to get you to see that Matt wasn’t flirting just to flirt. But you kept insisting that there was no way he could be interested in you that way. That he was way out of your league.

Nonsense. If anything, it was the other way around . . .

“Thurgood Marshall’s legal reasoning was full of logical fallacies!”

“What?!” Matt said, snapping back to the present.

“Knew that would get your attention, ya big nerd,” Foggy said. “Now, how long do I and Karen have to wait for you to put your pants back on and join me at the office?”

“I didn’t take off my pants.”

“Kinky.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “Nothing happened.”

“I’m sure.”

“Nothing happened,” Matt repeated. Not that your arousal perfuming the air hadn’t been the sweetest temptation. But he had some self-control. He could refrain from having his way with you on his kitchen counter. No matter how much his mouth watered at the thought of being buried between your thighs. Or his half-hard cock longed to be deep inside you, no more walls between him and those breathy moans of his name . . .

Foggy let out an exasperated sigh. “I thought you said you were asking her out today. Remember that guy at Josie’s?”

Matt scowled. “I remember.”

‘That guy’ hadn’t done anything wrong. Just found you attractive and flirting with you every chance he got. He had no right to be jealous. You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t even his lover. Just a friend and a neighbor. That didn’t stop the Devil inside him from snarling in fury. That you showed no attraction to that man and didn’t even notice his flirting only mildly appeased the beast.

Especially when you returned to the pool table with the stink of his pheromones maring your sweet scent.

The Devil only stopped rattling its chains when, during the walk home, you gratefully accepted the offer of his jacket. This covered that man’s scent with his own. Much better. Curiously your scent still held traces of his. Perhaps he had “forgotten” to ask for the jacket back and you kept using the jacket during the sudden cold snap this week.

Even if those traces had made it even harder to keep his hands to himself. Which was already a struggle. You felt so right in his arms and you smelled so good . . . the crisp apple of the beauty products you favored complemented well with your body’s natural odors . . . .

“Well?” Foggy demanded.

“I was working up to it.”

“I thought you were done being subtle.”

“I am,” Matt said. “But stripping down to my boxers felt a bit much before the first date.”

“Fair enough,” Foggy acknowledged with a laugh. “So what’s the plan, Counselor?”

“You know how we have that hearing in front of Justice Watanabe in an hour? Well . . .”

His good luck had continued. The hearing had gone well. For them at least. Not so much for opposing council. Justice Watanabe had ruled early enough for Matt to arrive at the Daily Grind at a little after ten. Almost an hour before closing time. Good, early enough that he wouldn’t be making a pest of himself. The rich aroma inside was a refreshing change from the streets.

“Hi! Welcome to - Matt!” You said, sounding surprised but happy. A good sign.

“Hello sweetheart,” he said, smiling and hearing your heart make that excited little skip. It happened often around him but he never got tired of hearing it. Same with the rush of blood flooding your cheeks every time he called you sweetheart. “Told you that you’d see me later.”

“So you did,” you said. He could hear the smile in your voice. “What can I get you?”

Yourself, naked, on the nearest flat surface was the answer the Devil wanted to give. But the lawyer was firmly in the driver seat right now so instead he answered, “A latte, please.”

“Gotcha,” you said. He heard the squeak-swish of the marker writing his name on a cup. “Just the drink? We still have one of those cinnamon rolls you like.”

That was surprising. In addition to its coffee, the cafe had become known for its cinnamon rolls. Usually they were sold out well before closing. Especially the ones with the apple topping that Matt was particularly fond of. But there it was, smelling like it had been baked within the last two hours. Upon that realization, his stomach decided to remind him that he hadn’t eaten any dinner yet. By growling loud enough to be heard over the soft music playing in the cafe. Matt felt the tips of his ears flush with blood.

You giggled. “Sounds like your stomach has voted for cinnamon rolls.”

“Apparently,” he said, ruefully. In fairness to his stomach, the food here was very good. Much of it was made in-house with high quality ingredients. The things the cafe didn’t make themselves were sourced from other small businesses with a similar commitment to producing a quality but reasonably priced product. “I’ll take the roll.”

“Coming right up,” you said. “Your usual table?”

“Yes, thank you,” Matt said, paying before moving toward what he considered to be ‘his’ table. It was tucked in the back corner, away from the large windows. This lack of view caused the table to be avoided by most patrons unless the cafe was packed. But that’s why Matt liked it. It was a shame that he hadn’t discovered this place sooner. It was a perfect study spot. Quiet without being too quiet with readily available caffeine and many foods that could be eaten with one hand.

And he might have met you sooner. He remembered you mentioning that you had worked here since college.

Not that he minded your first meeting. It was so memorable. You’d probably say that was a bad thing. He would disagree.

Matt had been aware of someone moving into 6B. Hard to miss the rumble of the old freight elevator, the chatter of unfamiliar voices. Two women about his age, old friends from the sound of things. A theory confirmed when he met one of his new neighbors, Serena the barista, in the elevator the next morning.

He fully expected to run into you in the elevator sooner or later. 

He had no idea how right he was about that.

He was headed toward the elevator when you stepped out of it, struggling with an armload of groceries. He had been about to offer some help when it happened. Distracted by an escape attempt by an orange, you completely missed his presence. Right up until your face smacked into his chest.

You bounced back, dropping one of the bags and scattering its contents. You babbled out apologies while trying to get out of his way without dropping anything else. Never noticing that you were backing up right toward the stairwell. Not until you were teetering on the edge of the top step. And starting to fall.

Matt didn’t think. He just moved.

He made it in time. Barely but he made it. Holding you in his arms, he let out a sigh of relief. Safe. Frightened with your heart beating against your ribs like a trapped bird but alive and unharmed.

“T-thank you,” you said, your voice thin and shaken. “Mr . . .”

“Murdock. I’m Matt Murdock,” he said. “And there’s no need to thank me, sweetheart.”

“Umm . . . sorry about . . . bumping into you like that . . . I didn’t see you,” you said as Matt eased you back on your own feet. Your voice was hesitant but pleasant to listen to. 

“I didn’t see you either,” he said and waited. It didn’t take long.

It wouldn’t be the last time he had saved you from a dangerous fall. Or even less dangerous falls. It was a little concerning how often you lost your footing. But he couldn’t deny that it had some benefits. Namely how often he got to hold you in his arms.

Never for long as he would like but catching you was one thing. Holding you without explicit permission was something else. But it was nice while it lasted. Your body felt so right against his. And those times your shirt had ridden up, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from rubbing his fingertips into your skin. It was soft as satin. It always took more willpower than was pretty to let you go during those moments. His hands itched to explore, find all the spots that made you shudder like that . . .

Matt shook his head, pushing away that thought. This was not the time or place to be thinking like that. He didn’t need to get an erection right now.

He focused his attention on you making the latte. There was something quite enjoyable about listening to you work. Your hands moved with practiced confidence, much like when you were sketching or painting. Humming along with the radio as you measured out the expresso while your coworker plated up his cinnamon roll. The song was a favorite of yours. He had heard you sing it before.

He enjoyed listening to you sing. And talk. What was that Shakesphere line that described your voice perfectly? ‘Her voice was ever soft / Gentle and low, an excellent thing in a woman? Yes, that was it. He had found it comforting on those days when he got overstimulated. He could just tuned into your humming, the beat of your heart, and drown out the painful world.

The grinder was far less pleasant than your singing voice, painful even at this distance. At least the results smelled good with all the rich complexity of good espresso beans. The powerful aroma only grew as you pulled the shot.

Though he found himself curious why pouring in the steamed milk had your heart making that little skip. Your coworker at the bar gave him no clues. Just made him even more curious by whispering “Dark and Beardy in the corner? That him? . . Damn girl! You weren’t kidding!”

“Lex!” you hissed, that delightful flush returning to your cheeks.

“What? That is one fine ass.”

“Lex!”

Matt had to cough to hide his laughter. So you liked his ass. He had suspected as much but it was nice to have confirmed. He managed to get his expression back under control before you reached the table. You were less successful at banishing that flush. Or keeping your heart from speeding up as you approached him.

“Apple cinnamon roll at your twelve o’clock, latte at one, fork is about an inch to the right of your plate,” you said, giving him the rundown that he didn’t, in the strictest sense of the word, need but did appreciate. Just because he could do something didn’t always mean that he wanted to.

And it wasn’t like you knew about his senses. Not yet anyway.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said for the sheer delight of deepening that flush. He couldn’t help it. You seemed to find your blushing embarrassing but he thought it was adorable. While it was tempting to ask you for that date now, Matt refrained. You’d be off work in just under an hour. He could wait.

In the meantime, he could enjoy his meal.

The roll was soft and bursting with flavor as usual. The tart apple was such a pleasing contrast to the sweetness of the sugar and spices. The coffee matched the richness of its aroma. The warmth was also welcome. It was April so the nights were warming up but some were still bitterly cold. Tonight wasn’t one of those nights but it was cool and windy. He hoped that you brought his jacket with you.

“Hey,” Lex said as you returned to the coffee bar, “Mind holding down the fort for a minute? I need to ask Abby something.”

“Go ahead, I’m good.”

“Thanks!”

Lex ducked into the kitchen while you tidied things up at the coffee bar. There were two people moving around back there, the owner Abby and a male employee who seem to be assisting her prepare tomorrow’s batch of baked goods. Matt tuned out their conversation in favor of listening to you softly sing along with the radio as you swept the floor.

The song had finished when Lex returned, making a beeline for you.

“Hey,” Lex greeted you. “You wanna head out early? Abby said it was okay.”

“Hmmm,” you hesitated, fidgeting with the ties on your apron. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Lex said before lowering her voice. “You could bring Dark and Beardy home, see if he wants to taste your cinnamon roll.”

Matt had to pretend to cough again. Her tone made it clear she wasn’t talking about baked goods. Judging by the sputtering and blushing, you picked up on that too. He had never heard it called that before. It was an apt comparison. Soft, warm, good to eat . . .

“Alexandra!” you hissed. He couldn’t help noticing the shift in your scent. The first hints of arousal . . . If nothing else, your body was interested in the idea of him eating you out.

“What?” she asked with faux innocence. “It’s important. Trust me, never date a guy who won’t eat your cinnamon roll.”

“Since when have you dated guys?”

“Hey! I went to college!”

This got you to laugh.

“So, you stayin’ or goin’?”

“I’m going,” you said. “Before I die of embarrassment.”

“Excellent. Gonna share a cab with Dark and Beardy?” Lex asked in a tone that from Foggy meant waggling eyebrows.

“Doesn’t matter if I do,” you said. “Matt has no interest in my cinnamon roll.”

That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart, Matt thought. I am very interested in your cinnamon roll.

He waited until you had gathered your things and said good-bye to your coworkers before standing and calling your name. Despite having already clocked out, you walked over to him.

“Yes, Matt?”

“Are you coming home, sweetheart?” he asked, as if he didn’t already know.

“I am.”

“Why don’t we share a cab?” He offered. “Since we are going to the same place?”

Your heartbeat spiked at the offer. Probably due to the conversation with Lex. Nevertheless you agreed. It didn’t take long to hail a cab and be on your way back to the Kitchen. The cabbie wasn’t the chatty type, seemingly content to allow you two to talk without interruption.

“How did the rest of your lawyering go?” you asked.

“Good,” he answered. “Judge granted our motion.”

“That’s wonderful!” you said. It wasn’t an empty platitude. You actually meant that. One of your most endearing qualities was your sincerity.

“The DA will probably appeal but we can handle that,” Matt said. “How was barista-ing?”

You giggled. “It was fine. Be glad you missed the afternoon rush.”

“Busy?”

“As a bee. Abby put strawberry shortcake on the menu today.”

“Thought I smelled strawberries.”

“Really? Even after they were all gone?” you asked, surprise clear in your voice.

Matt nodded, then waited for your reaction. This wasn’t revealing his senses. Just hinting at them. But it still made his stomach clench.

Fortunately he didn’t have to wait long.

“Neat!!” You said. “You can settle the debate between Serena and Lex about what ‘starry night’ is supposed to smell like.”

Matt blinked, unsure of how to react. On the one hand, relief at your positive reaction to the barest hint of his senses. On the other . . . 

“What ‘starry night’ smells like?” Matt repeated.

“Scented candle they both love but cannot agree on what its scent profile is supposed to be.”

“And that wasn’t on the label?” He didn’t have a lot of experience with scented candles. Most didn’t play well with his senses. Sometimes an individual candle was tolerable or even pleasant but just walking across from a Yankee Candle gave him a migraine. But he had been told the label had the scent profile on it. Or least what the manufacturers thought it smelled like.

“Not really,” you said. “Just something about the woodys aroma of a night under the stars. Serena thinks its oak, musk, leather, and rose. Lex thinks it's applewood, leather, and amber.”

“And what’s your theory?”

“No, no, no,” you said, shaking your head. “Not it. Wrong number. I plead the Fifth”

Matt laughed. “Not going to ask that, sweetheart?”

“Absolutely not,” you said, voice firm even with that little skip of your heart. “I remember the Fresh Rain discourse. Never. Again.”

Matt chuckled as the cab pulled to stop in front of their building. He paid the fare before you could dig out your wallet. You grumbled about it a little but the argument was half-hearted. Perhaps because you were tired. Your steps were dragging a little as you led the way into the elevator. It still smelled faintly of your arousal. Something his dick took immediate note of.

You turned toward the control panel and kicked something small and plastic that smelled like paint.

“Wha-?” You bent down to pick up the mystery object and made a faint groan. “So that’s where the cap went.”

Matt had to suppress a grin. “The cap to what?”

“The magenta paint that I sprayed all over your suit,” you said, blood flooding your cheeks again. “Along with the some of the wall . . . God, I hope the super doesn’t find out it was me who did that . . . the offer to pay for your dry-cleaning still stands.”

“Appreciated but unnecessary,” he said, then took the plunge. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

“Hmm, yes?” you said, after a moment’s thought. “Why?”

“Because I want to take you to dinner.”

“Oh! Okay . . .,” you said, fidgeting with the cap. “As a friend?”

Matt shook his head. “As a date.”

For a moment, you just stared at him with your mouth opening and closing. But then you found your voice, “A d-date? With me?”

“Yes, with you,” he said. “Unless you don’t want-”

“No, no, I want to,” you interrupted.

“Good.” The ding of the elevator alerted them to the arrival to the sixth floor. Matt offered his hand. And, after a moment of hesitation where you surreptitiously pinched your thigh, you took his hand. Your hand felt right in his. Like it was meant to be there.

The only downside was that it was a short walk between the elevator and the door to 6B. Far too soon for his taste, it was over.

“How does seven sound?” he asked, squeezing your hand.

“Seven is good,” you said, tentatively squeezing back.

“Wonderful,” he said, lifting your hand to his mouth. He kissed the skin across your knuckles. The first of many kisses, he hoped. The skin was silky smooth under his lips, tasted of coffee and sugar. So much nicer than his rough hands, crisscrossed with scars and stained by blood.

You shivered. It was tempting, oh so tempting, to trail kisses up your arm until he reached your mouth. To mold his body against yours and fill this hallway with the sounds of your moans. But he restrained himself. Soon, he reminded himself as he forced his mouth away from your skin. Soon. 

“Tomorrow at seven,” he said.

“Tomorrow at seven,” you repeated, your voice a touch breathy.

He waited for you to close the door behind you before entering his own apartment. Phase One was complete. Now for Phase Two.

To be continued . . .

NOTES

Special thanks to Riley aka @chaos-and-ink for answering my barista questions.

Thurgood Marshall (1908 - 1993) was a United States Supreme Court Justice from 1967 until 1991 and civil rights attorney in NAACP (National Association for the Advancement of Colored People) where he argued numerous cases, most famously Brown vs Board of Education that ended school segregation.

Justice - In New York, trial judges are called Justices.

Her voice was ever soft . . . - quote from William Shakespeare’s King Lear, Act V, Scene 3.

Latte - Coffee drink made by pouring steamed milk into shots of espresso (usually around two), the way the milk is poured in can produce patterns like a heart in the crema.

Pulling the shot - refers to the procress of brewing a shot of espresso of pulling the lever that forces the hot water through the freshly ground compacted beans.

Bar - The counter set-up where the espresso and other machines to make the coffee, along with the supplies like beans, milk, syrups, etc.

Dark and Beardy - continuing to be inspired by the leaked Daredevil: Born Again trailer.

DA - District Attorney, the attorney who represents the government's position in a criminal case.

[bugganox]

World Eater

[shiorimakibawrites]

Thanks for including my fic! 🥰 I feel so honored to be sharing a list with such good writers. 🙌

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

「 ✦ matt murdock ✦ 」

╰┈➤ 18+ none of these stories belong to me! this is a masterlist of all matt murdock stories i’ve read and reblogged! just thought it would be nice to have them all in one spot! (if your fic is on here and you wish not to be, please let me know!) some with have summaries if provided <3

╭┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈╮

♦︎ i don’t want to lose you by @sergeantbuckybarnes

•You’re in a wonderful relationship with Matt, but when the Avengers defeat Thanos and everyone who got blipped is back, Bucky Barnes walks into your life again, and Matt is afraid he might lose you.

♦︎ without you pt2 by @foli-vora

•You return after the ‘blip’. Five years is a long time, and a lot of things can happen in that time. Where does that leave you now?

♦︎ neighbor!reader pt2 by @chvoswxtch

♦︎ @bellaxgiornata

• seeking forgiveness

* Matt always made protecting Hell's Kitchen his priority, you knew that when you'd begun dating him. What you hadn't expected was just how much he'd eventually make it a priority over you, breaking promise after promise to spend his time with you. But when you unexpectedly discover that you're pregnant and Matt yet again breaks a promise to you, the pair of you end up in a fight that ends the relationship before you can even break the news. Though when he later learns the truth, Matt becomes hell bent on seeking your forgiveness

• underneath the mistletoe

* Tired of enduring the obvious pining between you and Matt, Foggy and Karen plan a way to get you and Matt to admit your feelings - or at least to kiss.

♦︎ happy little accident by @shiorimakibawrites

•You are a klutz. You are pretty used to tripping over nothing and embarrassing yourself. But this time has to be the worse. Because this time, you have gotten paint splattered all over Matt Murdock. Your handsome neighbor that you’ve has an enormous crush on.

♦︎ my tears ricochet by @peterman-spideyparker

• You and Matt Murdock come from different worlds: Matt, the son of a prize boxer from Hell’s Kitchen, you the daughter of a clothing designer and doctor on Park Ave. Meeting in law school was just chance, just was much as you falling for your friend. But fate had different paths for the two of you that pulled you apart, and you felt pain with each tear. Now, just over ten years later, you two meet again by chance, and everything and nothing has changed.

♦︎ close by @lindisworld

•Soulmate Au! In which [Name] has Daredevil as a soulmate and Matt unwillingly wants [Name] in his life. However Fate does its job and always brings them together.

♦︎ call me by @notquitecanon

•You're the Devil of Hell's Kitchen's favorite late night nurse, but he's been avoiding your fire escape since an unfortunate accident. You both miss each other just enough for some emotions to slip through the cracks. You don't even know his name, but you'll settle just to know he's alright.

♦︎ moments passed by @dameronology

•based on say don't go by t.swift

♦︎ pretty boy by @saberlight1

♦︎ neighbor pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 by @amberlynnmurdock





•masterlist

hopefully all links work, let me know if not <3

last updated march 22, 2024

[kristybluebird]

20 years later RGU

[sniperdadmaccready]

the gameboy advance sp is one of the best handhelds nintendo ever made if not one of the greatest of all time from any company and this is a hill I'm willing to die on

[ladywuvly]

hugh jackman +au. + characters rec list!

masterlist. socials. recs.

head canons |

Sleeping next to Logan means that you never have to worry about feeling cold again by @whispersfromaeons Lumberjack!Logan by @groovyangelkisses - Dinner on a cozy fall night. Lumberjack!Logan by @bpmiranda - Logan who is all too happy to deliver lumber in your part of town even though it is very much out of his way. Oldman!Logan Sitting in his lap by @nymphoniah Oldman!Logan and his obsession with the cute diner girl by @thinkinonsense Dogtags by @silverskyeline - You’re wearing logos dogtags as you ride him. Jailbait by @dollverine - logan and his controversially young girlfriend. I was made for loving you by @hanasnx - “I’m gonna take care of you.” Those six words—six—have defined your relationship with your husband, Logan howlett. Raw by @eloquentlytired  Needed little thing by @nymphoniah - Logan is a munch, and he is absolutely shameless about it. Smoking out the window by @nymphoniah My little princess by @bratscave Belt buckle by @gothgoblinbabe

fics & imagines |

This is ours by @d1stalker - It's your first time back at your grandparents' farm in years, and while many things are the same, one thing is not: they've hired a new farmhand. moodboard!by@divinesols Moanin’ and groaning’ by @shellshocklove - Working for your father's timber business isn't what you saw yourself doing, but when the wolverine comes looking for work it's suddenly not so bad, especially when he can teach you a thing or two. Ain't gon' ever deserve you by @awxcoffeexno - Logan has a nightmare and hurts you by accident - or - the one where you worship his claws the way they deserve. Guilty as sin by @logansbaby - The entire time you’ve known logan howlett, you’ve tried to keep your longings locked. then, one night, all that effort goes to waste when you’re confronted about your feelings. Slippin’ and slidin’ all over you by @sceletaflores - Logan forgot to fix the ac. pretty much anything from their masterlist! I can fix him and fuck him by @filmstarved - Nobody can break through logan's walls with ease like you can. and he actually lets you, welcomes it even. he needs it to breathe and when he's ready to walk out of the gifted youngsters door, there you are again. Fortnight by @pretty-little-mind33 - Your dad sends Logan over to help you build some furniture in your new apartment, unaware you'll end up with Logan's head in between your thighs. Would you be so kind in lending a hand? by @malavera - That friendly neighbor of yours is helping you with your wash day. Your perfume is holding me ransom by @retrosabers - The scent of you is driving Logan crazy. Unexpected tendencies by @figsnpassionfruits - Basically just bathroom sex w/Logan. Stain ‘em baby baby by @darnell-la - Logan had just became apart of the x men. he’s always been known to flirt with whoever he could, but when you came around, he realized she was the only one he wanted to smell like. Claws and marks by @mrsimpurity - Getting logan’s name tattooed on you earns you a very unexpected reaction. A peaceful repose by @d1stalker - After some time away on a mission, Logan comes home, and all he wants to do is be around you. Time after time by @hyper-fixates - 4 times you end up in Logan’s bed, and the 1 time he does something about it. Knuckle velvet by @ohcaptains - Logan walks you home, then lets himself in. Give me all of the ultraviolence by @joelsgoldrush - It’s common knowledge that all humans have needs. Try as you may, there’s a primitive side that you can’t spare yourself from. In which you can’t help but suck Logan off.

series/multi part |

Don't be late by @bucketslutz - You've spent your entire academic career trying to hide who you really are. First day of grad school you meet someone that sparks something deep inside you. Your history professor, Logan, makes you feel things you've never felt from someone before. moodboard! Broken promises by @not-neverland06 - Bodyguard Logan falls in love with congressman's daughter. Cross that line by @healmydesires - For a long time, you were content hiding your feelings, but lately, the longing for someone you can’t have has become unbearable. Despite knowing he could never be yours, you still cherished the sweet ache in your heart whenever he smiled or gave you a warm, platonic hug. Then, one day, everything changed. First Drink by @eyesxxyou - You were everything Logan shouldn't want, young, religious, innocent, you were sweet to everyone, and you've never been touched.

Oldman!Logan howlett

Be my baby by @cavillscurls - Logan fucks you in your sundress. Cant get started by @dollfacefantasy - Logan can't get it up one night and is humiliated. but that just means he'll have to prove he can still satisfy you. Chauffeur by @nanivinsmoke - Mean old logan can’t help but to push the best thing away in his life. and you can’t help but to let go of your worst. Like the first time by @eufezco - It has been a long time since you and logan had sex. you should show him that despite everything he hated about himself, you still craved him. Look at me by @silverskyeline - Logan can't fuck like he used to, but you don't care. you get on top, gladly taking care of him in return. Never is a broken promise by @joelsgoldrush - You are everything Logan isn’t: sweet, trouble-free, much younger—and, to top it off, Charles' caregiver. The grave of lust by @moonlight-prose - When his body doesn't work as it used to and the weary bones that poison his soul begin to ache, you take the lead in a dance you know well. Sweetness of the damed by @moonlight-prose - When night falls and wine overflows in glasses of crystal, logan finds his home in between your thighs. Road trip stop by @fake-bleach - Taking a small road trip where you’re halfway to where you need to be, and you're bored out of your mind. unluckily for you, your boyfriend won't possibly give into your antics. Quiet drive by @wlwloverwrites - Logan likes quiet drives, but there’s only way that can happen when you’re sitting in the passenger seat. Sweet revenge by @eyesxxyou - After catching your boyfriend cheating, you and his father, Logan, go on a road trip to confront him, though, you don't make it far Oldman!Logan by @inkedells - Logan is sick and tired of you treating him like he's fragile. He'll ignore his relentless pain to show you what it's like to be taken apart, rough and slow, then fast and agonizing. Fix you by @logansbaby - Logan is dying. You both know it, but it doesn’t make it any easier to accept. Room for rent by @hauntedhowlett-writes - Logan finds a new roommate.

disclamer! none of these are my works all credit to the authors! Thank you, to every single one of you, for allowing me to fuck Logan Howlett, in every way imaginable. Y’all deserve your pussies ate from the front and back!

[smallestapplin]

Unhinged idea but the reverse harem autobot series has activated every single neuron in my brain

Imagine if the human was in a harem with the decepticons instead and the autobots want to save them, fearing you were being forced into the decepticon’s love (and totally denying the fact that seeing you naked on camera got their spikes painfully hard)

Giving you free reign other than that because my brain is full of the idea and empty as well AUDJSKDJDJDHF

Keep up the good work man, love your transformer fics !! :3 /pos

-Fae (if that isn’t already taken ofc)

I so need to write more of these

Warnings : GN!Reader, cybertronian language is used as it's mainly from their POV, exhibitionism, noncon voyeurism, noncon recording

Minors do NOT interact! 18+ only

-

-

-

You were spotted by pure accident, in fact it was truly a miricale in the first place anyone outside of the decepticons had seen you, but it was Jazz who raised the alarm that the cons had kidnapped a human that left the autobots fuel lines freezing up.

Out on a casual drive Jazz had spotted Knockout not too far away, the con in a line up ready to street race it seemed, but something was different.

And that something was the cute human sitting in the driver's seat. He managed to radio Prowl, swiftly telling him the situation, but by the time the cop bot arrived you and the con were gone. Which left them arguing the whole way back to base.

informing the others was a whole different matter.

"Why didn't you stop him!?" Ironhide shouts, followed by Prowl agreeing with him.

So much yelling and for what?

"Alright that's enough! Jazz, you did the right thing, you could have put the human's life in danger interfering alone."

"But, Prime-"

"No, Ironhide, we need to save that human frm their clutches, but we can't do that if they are harmed or killed in the crossfires or because Megatron doesn't want to let his 'prize' go."

Ironhide growls under his breathe, angry that Prime is right, even if it means someone innocent is in the decepticons grasp. Your safety is their biggest concern, who knows what the cons are putting you through or even doing to you! Them rushing in head frsit will just put you, and subsequently them, in more danger.

They need to get on that ship and survey the area and situation, then they can go about the safest way of getting you out of there with little damage. Maybe thats how Mirage ended up on the Nemsis, invisible to the decepticons that he was careful to walk around as to not alert them.

He has a live feed right to base, so they can see everything he sees while he looks around, sneaking into room after room, peering in and looking for the little human. After the fifth room he forgets it and walks down the hallway, being sure to move out of the way for any con on patrol.

"This is pointless, if we storm them and take them by surprise we'd get that human out for sure!"

Optimus shakes his head, "Not nessecarily, if we do then one of the cons could grab the human a flee."

Bee huffs, though its a mask to hide the worry he feels watching the footage of Mirage walking through the hallways of the enemies ship, listening to their conversations of Knockout and Breakdown

"Seems lord Megatron isn't too happy."

"Yeah, I wonder whos fault that is."

"Our sweetspark wanted out to walk around, how is that my fault!?"

Our?

Sweetspark?

Optimus doesn't take his optics off the screen, even as the whispers and worried words fill the air behind him.

"Did they take a human for themselves?"

"Oh primus, they are using them as a stress toy! That poor person is probably being tortured!" Bumblebee screeches.

Prowl and Ironhide glare at the screen, muttering under theirs breathes, wanting to beat those decepticons helms in.

Ratchet keeps his optics on the screen, scowl on his face, though he can't lie about the worry eating at his spark. Are you okay? He doesn't know enough about human's fragile bodies, so could he ensure you lived long enough to get to a medic who knew what they were doing?

The room quickly falls silent as a sound grows louder and louder. Heads turn back to the screen, watching as Mirage follows quickly behind shockwave, thankfully still undetected, but the sight that greets them leaves their intakes dropped open.

Megatron, with a servo around you, thrusting his spike as deep as he could make it go.

You're sobbing, overloading, begging for him to slow down.

"Aren't you being a bit rough with them? Surely, humans are too squishy for such treatment." Shockwave spoke, merely walking towards where he left his data pad, as if this was completely normal.

"They like it. Isn't that right, pet?" Megatron grinds his spike into you, smirking as you cry out.

"Yes! Yes! M'sorry I should've asked-fuck! Megatron, please...!" You throw your head back, sobbing as it appears you've overloaded again.

Megatron vents, but his smirk never falters.

"So cute like this, taking my spike like you were meant to."

"I told you humans needed more enrichment, they would not have left with Knockout had you given them things to do while we are all busy."

Megatron's face plate twists into a scowl "Silence, Shockwave, as leader they are my Conjunx Endura first, the rest of the ship is just their...consorts."

Mirage is frozen in his spot, unable to look away from you taking such a massive spike in your little valve, and the other autobots are much the same.

So this is how they are using you? But what Megatron said, they couldn't possibly courted a human, they hate humans! Unless its...no, they'd never go that far, would they?

Hot Rod glances around the room, hoping to not be the only one finding the scene before them hot, but he can't read them.

Maybe it's just him, but seeing your soft body mold to the shape of the spike fragging you so good gets his engines purring.

He shouldn't, this is wrong on so many levels and a complete invasion of privacy. But to see your valve overflowing with transfluid like this, it gets him going.

You whimper, your optics look glazed over as you barely manage to look up at Megatron, who can't help but coo at you.

"Have you learned your lesson, dear?"

You fall limp once more in his hold, though you nearly cry once he pulls you off his spike, letting the transfluid pumped into you drop out.

"I did...I'll ask you next time, I promise."

Megatron chuckles, tenderly rubbing his thumb across your cheek, looking at you in such a loving way.

"Good. Now, I have things to attend to, but since you need so much attention, I'm sure Soundwave wouldn't mind keep you occupied."

The blue mech stands up straighter, moving away from his work station and swiftly goes right passed an unamused Shockwave.

Your gaze meets his red visor, which seems to glow. His servos shaking slightly as he takes you from Megatron, uncaring for his leader and Shockwave to make their exit, leaving him with you.

Mirage, despite his illusion feels as though he's exposed, perhaps now is his chance to leave-

Soundwave doesn't get long with you before Starscream barges in, loudly demanding his Conjunx Endura though Soundwave is not amused.

Just when he was getting his alone time too.

Optimus can't take this anymore, comming Mirage to get out of there now.

"Skyfire, go to the Nemesis and get Mirage."

The large mech jumps at his name being called, his face plate bright blue as he squeaks out a 'ok' and rushes out.

Ironhide is beyond appalled, how could those cons do that to you!? But...oh, oh Primus he wants to hold you down and let you take his spike.

The shared thought among the autobots was 'does their valve feel that good the decepticons are willing to share them?'

But oh they want to find out.

Their spikes are pressing against their modest plating, watching such a moment like that was too much for them-

"W-wait I'm-ohhh...fuck!" You squeal, body shaking from your used hole being filled again.

The room is filled with the sound of all their heads snapping to the screen, Mirage didn't seem to have moved, unable to look away or even turn the camera off.

Faintly they can hear Starscream arguing with Soundwave (though it's one sided) as Soundwave gently works his spike into your used valve.

"How dare you, it should be my turn to use their valve!"

"They were given to me, so silence." Soundwave doesn't entertain more of Starscream, focusing on you and pleasuring you.

The doors open once more, giving Mirage time to slide out unnoticed, but just enough to see Breakdown, Thundercracker, Skywarp, and the constructions following suit before the doors close.

Just how many spikes were you taking?

Just how many times a day?

"I uh, I need to go drive- Right, patrol!" Hot Rod and Bee jump up, rushing out of the room in seperate directions.

"Prime?"

Prowl looks to his leader as the larger bot holds his helm in his servos.

Optimus can't face him, he can't face anyone! Why did he like that so much? He should be ashamed, disgusted, but oh Primus above you were quite the addicting sight.

He needs you.

Frag, he shouldn't be thinking like that.

"Optimus, what is our game plan."

Jazz's stern voice cuts through his thoughts.

"I won't be easy, but we need to tread carefully."

Surely it shouldn't be too hard to obtain you, right? It's for your safety after all.

[outoftheseine]

- AZRIEL “THE SHADOWSINGER” FIC RECS 2 -

my broody husband | note: please be aware of the authors’ warnings before reading. fics include canon tw’s like: violence, death, grief. some fics have 18+ content so minors please DNI.

part one | main masterlist

SERIES - MULTI-CHAPTERS

my heart has wings • azriel x reader

↳ by @kymawrites

i got cursed like eve got bitten • azriel x rhysand’s sister!reader

↳ by @daycourtofficial

birds of a feather | we should stick together • azriel x reader

↳ by @serpentandlily (very angsty, unrequited love, death)

cauldron-born | part two • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @itsswritten

only in my dreams • azriel x reader

↳ by @really-fanny-longbottom (angst)

stranded • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @mcuamerica

exiled by fire • azriel x vanserra!reader

↳ by @acotar-writing

and i wouldn’t marry me, either | part two • azriel x reader

↳ by @bluetimeombre

farewell, my love • azriel x reader

↳ by @allhopesforlove

blessed mistakes • azriel x reader

↳ by @mellowmusings

despite the hatred, despite the love | part two | part three • azriel x reader

↳ by @lidiasloca

scattered vows | part two • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @azrielslightintheshadows

betrayal • azriel x oc

↳ by @liahaslosthermind

can’t bring myself to hate you • azriel x reader

↳ by @tadpolesonalgae

the spymaster’s secret • azriel x reader

↳ by @liahaslosthermind

silence | part two | part three • azriel x healer!reader

↳ by @azmageddon

sunlight in burgundy | part two • azriel x reader

↳ by @svearehnn

god’s game • azriel x oc

↳ by @toodelusionalforreality

ONE-SHOTS - BLURBS - HC’S

anything for you • azriel x reader

↳ by @kymawrites (hurt/comfort, fluff, bad periods)

not me • azriel x reader

↳ by @azsazz (smut, angst but fluff at the end)

at the sake of you • s&r officer!azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @websterss (angst, car accident, fluff)

a helping hand • azriel x reader

↳ by @inkedinshadows (angst, comfort)

he’s my mate • azriel x reader

↳ by @moosesarecute (angst, torture, fluff, comfort)

paper trail • azriel x reader

↳ by @acotarxreader (fluff, angst, comfort, tw: dv)

i only pray, don’t fall away from me • azriel x reader

↳ by @ceoofyearning (hurt/comfort, anxiety, nightmares)

centuries coming • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @parkerslatte (angst but happy ending)

dinner and dessert • azriel x pregnant!oc

↳ by @ninthcircleofprythian (smut)

drifting away • azriel x reader

↳ by @solbaby7 (angst, mental health issues)

“i think you are pretty attractive yourself” • azriel x reader

↳ by @narnianflame (fluff)

here without you • azriel x reader

↳ by @readychilledwine (angst)

until the last breath • azriel x reader

↳ by @inkedinshadows (angst, death)

i love hate you • azriel x reader

↳ by @mika-no-sekai-blog (angst, jealousy, fluff at the end)

the other woman • azriel x necromancer!reader

↳ by @tadpolesonalgae (angst, violence)

confession • azriel x reader

↳ by @harrystylesfan2686 (very fluffy)

is it love, or just the fear of loneliness? • azriel x reader

↳ by @lidiasloca (angst, doubts, fluff)

love in ink • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @itsswritten (angst, rejection, blood)

his shadows • azriel x reader

↳ by @cyripticchronicler (fluff, slight angst, a little possessive!azriel)

no damsels here • azriel x reader

↳ by @olive-main (fluff, pining)

in every universe • azriel x reader

↳ by @illyrianbitch (fluff)

by the candlelight • azriel x reader

↳ by @manicmanuscription (suggestive, pining)

flicker out • azriel x reader

↳ by @thelov3lybookworm (angst but happy ending)

healing • azriel x reader

↳ by @cyripticchronicler (angst, torture, comfort, tw: sa)

warm • azriel x reader

↳ by @redheadspark (fluff)

weight in gold • azriel x seraphim!reader

↳ by @yiiyiiwrites (hurt/comfort, angst)

frosted hearts • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @moonlitstoriess (angst, comfort, smut)

a raging storm • azriel x reader

↳ by @svearehnn (angst)

lay your hand in mine • azriel x reader

↳ by @kymawrites (violence, hurt/comfort, smut)

escaping • azriel x reader

↳ by @eviesaurusrex (fluff)

[thisonelikesaliens]

decided to measure against different versions of Yuan (through ep10):

*Adult Yuan versions = before and after NYC

background on this stat i'm tracking (whether Qian is using I/me or Ge when he's referring to himself in direct conversation with Yuan)

i need to figure out another angle to look at this data (or maybe not, i think i'm just overthinking at this point), but i just wanted to note that in that last conversation at the bottom of the stairs Qian did not use "ge" once. sometimes the "ge" comes out naturally, other times he seems to deliberately use it to deflect and avoid confronting his own feelings about Yuan, but in that conversation he used "I/me" 17 times and not one single "ge"

*missed one "ge" in ep1, now corrected

[shiorimakibawrites]

The Opening Act (Happy Little Accident #3)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader Word Count: 8200+ Summary: Your first date with Matt. Warning(s): Anxiety, low self-esteem, swearing, secret identity dramatic irony, sexual fantasies (oral sex, face sitting, p in v sex, groping), implied masturbation, referenced cat-calling, kissing, suggestive conversation Happy Little Accident Masterlist My Masterlist Tag List: @loves0phelia, @sarahskywalker-amidala, @fanfiction-fanatic221, @nowheredreamer, @marshmelloyellow02, @milkbummm, @writtenbyred, @beezusvreeland, @dorothleah, @m1cky-y-y, @cestgrace Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. AO3 link

Part Three: The Opening Act

You patted yourself on the back for your self-control.

You managed to wait until you heard Matt’s door close before you jumped up and down with an excited whoop. A quiet one. Well . . . as quiet as you could make it. Hopefully quiet enough that Matt hadn’t heard it. He once claimed to have excellent hearing. Everything you had observed about him since moving in backed up that claim.

Fingers-crossed that two doors and the hallway was enough space to muffle it. Otherwise Matt might realize that asking you out was a mistake. Between the magenta incident and your inability to walk without tripping over your own feet, you had no idea what had possessed him to ask in the first place.

Whatever it was, you hoped that it stuck around.

At least long enough to discover if Real Matt was as good at sex as Fantasy Matt. Hell, even if he was half as good as that . . . you were going to be a puddle of bliss. Just might ruin you for other men.

Shame since you were probably going to run him off being all anxious and weird.

‘No raining on my parade,’ you ordered the brain gremlins sternly. Matt Murdock had asked you out and you were going to enjoy it, damn it!

“What’s got you so excited?” Serena asked, appearing at the bathroom door.

“I have a date,” you said, unable to contain your smile.

She smiled. “That’s wonderful! With who?”

“With Matt,” you said and waited.

The smile widened, became distinctively smug. “I told you that he liked-liked you.”

“You did.”

“Maybe next time you’ll believe me when I tell you someone is checking out your ass.”

“Matt has never checked out my ass,” you objected. “I’m lucky he can’t see my ugly bubble butt.”

Serena paused drying her hair with a towel long enough to roll her eyes. “You don’t have an ‘ugly bubble butt.’ Paula Little, excuse me Mrs. David Fitzroy, is a jealous bitch and always has been.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it wasn’t so easy to banish that woman’s voice and cruel words from your mind. To forget the utter contempt in her eyes. Which was less often these days. Maybe you’d get lucky and she’ll decide to move to DC full-time.

Yeah right. You getting into a whirlwind romance with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was more likely.

“Perhaps,” you said.

“No ‘perhaps’ about it,” Serena said firmly. “And that woman is green with envy. And about to get greener the next time she decides to ‘grace’ us with her presence.”

“Huh? Why?”

Serena arched an eyebrow, “Because that beautiful specimen of a man across the hall? The one taking you out . . . when is this date?”

“Tomorrow at seven.”

The other eyebrow raised to match its counterpart. “Not wasting any time, is he? That guy at Josie’s must have really lit a fire under his ass.”

“That guy was not hitting on me.”

“He absolutely was,” Serena countered. “Along with undressing you with his eyes. Why do you think Matt kept looking like he had just bitten into a lemon?”

You hesitated. You hadn’t missed those looks but . . .

“How would he know?”

“Maybe Foggy warned him that someone was sniffing around his girl?”

You felt your face flush at the thought. It was a very appealing image. Your ego really enjoyed it. But the sensible part of your mind warned against putting the cart before the horse.

“One date - that hasn’t even happened yet - doesn’t make me his girl.”

“Maybe not, but you wanna be.”

That you could not argue. You had thus far managed to resist the urge to write Mrs. Murdock on your mini sketch book. Serena and Lex didn’t need anymore ammunition. Bad enough that Serena had teased you about how many of those pages had sketches of Matt. Your protests that you had also sketched Foggy, Karen, Serena, and Lex (just to name a few) was irrelevant.

“Speaking of dates, Darien is taking me to Hidaka for our anniversary tomorrow night,” Serena said.

“How romantic,” you said. Hidaka was a restaurant that served steak and seafood, the fancy kind where you had to wear nice clothes to even get in the door. Not quite black tie but definitely not jeans and a tee shirt. You had heard the food was very good but since it was also rather expensive, you couldn’t speak from personal experience.

“And,” her smile turned saucy. “Remember that lingerie set I bought last month?”

“I remember.” You had gone with her to the store. Serena liked having your opinion on such matters. Not because you were any kind of sex goddess. You just loved lingerie. It made you feel pretty. Even (especially) if no one else knew you were wearing it. Consequently your underwear drawer was almost entirely composed of silk, lace, and satin. “Darien’s going to be picking his jaw off the floor.”

“That’s the plan.”

“Coming back here or going to his place?” You asked.

“His place,” Serena said, then grinned at you. “You shouldn’t need your noise-canceling headphones tomorrow. Not unless Matt snores like a bullhorn.”

You flushed. “What makes you think Matt is sleeping over?”

“The fact that you’ve been thinking about his dick since the day you met?”

Your cheeks felt like they were on fire. She wasn’t . . . . wrong. Matt had gotten the starring role in your sexual fantasies very quickly. He also made regular appearances in your dreams. Not exclusively. For example, there had been a couple involving Daredevil.

But mostly it was Matt. And would probably be Matt again tonight. If you ended up touching yourself. You were feeling a little worked up ever since Lex put the idea of him eating you out in your head. Or rather put it back in your head. You had thought about it once or twice . . . dozen . . . times . . . your fingers gripping his hair tightly while those pink lips wrapped around your clit and sucked . . .

This wasn’t helping you feel less turned on . . .

Serena’s laughter interrupted your horny thoughts. “You’re thinking about it again!”

“Am not!”

“Sssuuureee you aren’t,” Serena teased. “Well, I’m going to bed. Long night tomorrow. Enjoy picturing Mr. Murdock, Esquire pounding you into the mattress!”

“Serena!” you whined but she just laughed and headed into her bedroom.

Out of sheer stubbornness, you tried to ignore just how aroused you were. You changed into your sleeping clothes - a simple pair of shorts and oversized shirt. Brushed your teeth, washed your face . . . briefly considered not washing the hand Matt had kissed before good sense won out. Along with the knowledge that, by this time tomorrow, you might have gotten a real kiss from him.

His lips on your knuckles had been so soft. As soft as you had hoped. And dreamed. You had had a lot of thoughts about that mouth. Was Matt a good kisser? How would his mouth gliding across your skin feel? Teasing, feather light brush of his lips? Little kisses? Gentle nips? Particularly to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he made his way up to your . . .

You sighed in defeat. Your cunt was not going to sleep without getting some relief. You slide your hand inside your shorts and gasped at the first touch . . . .

Matt had done his best to tune out your conversation with your roommate. While he couldn’t help overhearing things, he tried to give his neighbors some privacy. Instead he focused on getting ready for his patrol. There hadn’t been more trouble than usual but . . . he froze, the intoxicating scent of your arousal filling his nose.

That it had become familiar over the past few months did nothing to diminish its potency. Neither did all the barriers between him and your cunt. Quite the opposite. His lust for you had only become distilled. Concentrated it until the merest hint, the barest taste, of you was enough to stir his cock.

Go, it begged him. March across that hallway and peel off those soaked panties. They were silk today. He had been the hardest he had ever been in his life the day he realized that you wore nothing but satin, silk and lace under your clothes. Learn to tell the difference by the shift of the fabric against your skin as you moved.

Combined with your pheromones . . . sometimes it took every ounce of his self-control not to pick you up and carry you off to his bed like a caveman.

This was one of those times. He wanted to be gripping your ass in his hands while you ground that wonderfully drenched pussy on his face. He wanted you writhing underneath him, trembling from orgasm after orgasm until the only name you knew was his . . .

He clenched his teeth, shaking his head. Not tonight. Tomorrow. Assuming that was what you wanted. But his erection refused to be dismissed . . .

“Ahhh . . .  Matty.” 

It was the last straw, that sweet little whimper of his name had him leaking and painfully hard.

“Fuck,” he hissed, then pushed down his pants to free his cock . . .

You had fully expected to wake up at some ungodly hour and be unable to get back to sleep. But you didn’t. Much to your surprise, you didn’t wake up until a little after ten. Maybe it was the orgasm? Something about that warm, sated feeling made it easier to settle into sleep.

Idly you wondered if that effect would be enhanced by having Matt’s big, warm body to snuggle against afterward?

Assuming Matt snuggled. You hoped so. Being held in those strong arms, enjoying the warmth of his body and the beating of his heart under your ear . . . it would be such a lovely way to spend a lazy morning.

Serena had already left for work so the apartment was empty and quiet. You hummed as you opened the airtight jar of coffee beans and measured out enough for a few cups. There was just enough. Time for a trip to the roasters, then. A glance at the list on the fridge added a grocery store run to your errand list. It was your turn anyway. You had intended to go yesterday but then yesterday happened.

Your roommate would have gone and done it herself yesterday if she hadn’t been babysitting her brother’s kids. Probably for the best. More errands meant less time to work yourself into an anxiety spiral about your date tonight.

But first, coffee.

Your ears (and nerves) weren’t the biggest fan of the coffee grinder but your mouth wasn’t a fan of pre-ground coffee. It had been fine in high school but after working at the Daily Grind for a year, you just couldn’t stand the taste of pre-ground coffee anymore. It was too stale. The cafe had also ruined you for beans that weren’t locally roasted.

The only benefit to pre-ground coffee from the grocery store was that it was cheaper. But buying something that neither of you would drink wasn’t much of a cost saving. Thankfully your favorite roaster, Connor of Cool Beans, was willing to offer you and Serena a discount for being regular customers. It wasn’t a big discount but every little bit helped.

The delicious aroma, woody with hints of sweetness, rising from your mug told you had made the right choice.

Between running errands and tidying up the apartment (just in case you did end up inviting Matt inside), you were busy enough to avoid any nerves about your upcoming date. Right up until you were putting some things you had borrowed from Serena in her room and saw the dress for her anniversary dinner laying across her bed along with the lingerie, the matching heels waiting patiently at the foot of the bed. And then it hit you.

Your date was in four hours and you had no idea what you were gonna wear.

What happened next probably qualified as panic as you pulled things out of your closet and dresser. Trying to find something that didn’t make you look hideous. A task made more difficult when you remembered that you had no idea where he was taking you or what you would be doing . . . 

Your name being called in a slightly worried voice startled you in looking up from the indecisive pile of clothes on your bed. Serena standing in the doorway, her hair freshly cut into waves that framed her face.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “What’s wrong?” 

“I don’t know what to wear,” you admitted, feeling a little stupid. You were an adult. You should be able to pick out your own clothes.

“Okay,” Serena said, no judgement in her voice. You had been friends for years. She was used to you panicking over nothing. “Let’s take this one step at a time. Where are you going for your date?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s easy enough to remedy,” she said and pulled out her phone. An action that confused you for a moment before you remembered that Matt had given you both his number shortly after you had moved in. Just in case, he had said. Never know when you might need the helping hand of a neighbor. Or a lawyer.

“Hi Matt,” she said. “Where are you taking my roomie tonight? Need to narrow down the clothing options.”

A pause. “I promise.”

That was enough to get an answer. Presumably. She still had her Bluetooth in so you couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation. Didn’t get to hear that deep, soft-spoken voice that made you weak in the knees. Something you were not at all pouting about.

“Good choice! Thanks Matt. Bye.” Serena hung up and slipped her phone back into her pocket.

“Well?” you said. “Where’s he taking me?”

“Can’t tell you. It’s a surprise.”

You frowned. Surprises weren’t your favorite things. They tended to be things like falling on your ass in a puddle or slicing open your thumb on an unexpected knife (never reach into someone’s craft drawer without looking) or getting dumped on Valentine’s Day . . .

“Hey, hey, don’t fret,” Serena said. “You’re gonna like this one. Trust me.”

“Okay,” you said slowly. You trusted Serena. She had been your friend for years before you both decided to become roommates. Well, roommates again. You had shared a dorm most of your time at Empire State. This trust wasn’t quite enough to entirely settle the anxiety. Which paid very little heed to such frivolities as facts and logic.

“Back to the topic at hand, your date outfit,” she continued, eyeing the clothing pile thoughtfully. “One thing I can tell you is that where you’re going isn’t somewhere with a dress code.”

“Which narrows it down from everything to everything minus the dresses in the back corner of my closet.”

“You mean you hadn’t already put your sweatpants collection in the ‘no’ pile? I’m all for being comfortable but that’s more of a snuggle on the couch watching movies on a rainy day kind of date outfit.”

You rolled your eyes. “I wasn’t going to wear sweatpants. It’s just . . . everything else.”

Serena nodded her head. “Let’s start at the bottom and work our way out. Underwear?”

One of the few things not scattered on the bed. You opened the drawer and stared at the possibilities. Maybe keep it simple? Save the ones like the pair with the cut-out heart on the behind for a later date? Yes. Something pretty but unlikely to make you nervous about its boldness . . . especially if said underwear ended up scattered across the floor tonight.

Something like this one, black satin with a matching bra. You set it aside and turned back to Serena. While you were contemplating your underwear, she had been picking out some clothing suggestions. Which seemed to be three choices for a top but only one pair of jeans had been set aside.

“Why those jeans?” you asked.

“They show off that very fine ass of yours.”

Your face flushed. “I don’t have a fine ass.”

“Sorry, darling, you have been outvoted.”

“By whom?” you demanded.

“Me, Lex, Matt . . .”

“Matt has no opinion of my ass.” you objected.

“Bet you five bucks that he does,” Serena said. “And that opinion is ‘hot damn, I need to get a handful of that!’”

“Doubt it,” you said, your face flushing at the idea of Matt grabbing your ass. It wasn’t unappealing . . .

Serena made a huffing noise. “When I’m proven right - and I will be - the ‘I told you so’ is gonna echo across Hell’s Kitchen.”

You rolled your eyes. You loved Serena dearly but she could be so very dramatic.

You turned your attention to the clothes. For all of your disagreement with her assessment of your ass (and its potential appeal to Matt), those jeans were a good choice. Comfortable but nice enough for a date somewhere more casual. Which honestly appealed to you more than somewhere fancy like Hidaka. A special occasion like an anniversary was one thing but for a first date, that was a lot of pressure.

Only thing left to choose was a top. And shoes. But you pushed that out of your mind. As Serena said, one thing at a time.

The fitted tee with the swoop neckline got bounced for being pink. You lived pink just fine but it was too close to magenta right now. And you just couldn’t. Maybe one day, you’ll look back on the magenta incident with fondness or even humor. But today was not that day. The white chiffon blouse with the periwinkle flower pattern was also out. The black bra would be visible. Ask how you knew.

Which left the wrap shirt. It was purple ombre, starting with a plum that was nearly black at the shoulders and ending with a pale violet at the hem. And like the jeans, it was comfortable and looked nice without being too dressy. You added a pair of ballet-style flats and declared yourself done.

“No jewelry?” Serena asked.

“Just my Pixie Dreamgirls friendship bracelet,” you said. “Gotta represent.”

Happily said bracelet didn’t clash with your outfit. Actually none of the outfits Serena had picked out did. Well she knew you liked the band. And that you had intended to wear your bracelet this week to support the band’s mini tour.

Still that grin she was sporting had you narrowing your eyes. Serena was Up To Something . . .

“Well it’s been fun but I’ve gotta get ready for my own date. Darien will be here in about an hour,” she said.

You blinked. Was it that late already? You looked at your watch. Yes, yes it was. Only two more hours to go.

<line break>

You sat on the couch, trying to distract yourself from anxiously pacing with YouTube videos. You were also trying to avoid thinking too much about Serena’s whispered reminder about the box of condoms in the bathroom. Or the handful of them that you had just stashed in your bedside table. Or that you hoped that they were the right size.

Assuming the condoms were even needed tonight. Going on a date didn’t automatically mean sex. Matt might not want to. While certain parts of you were more than eager, other parts were nervous. You weren’t a virgin. You had had sex before. Just not a lot. You seemed to be invisible to most guys. The few who hadn’t . . . were a mixed bag. Interested until they realized just how clumsy or awkward you are. Or just wanted sex.

Mike the Boxer had been an exception. The realization that you made better friends than lovers hadn’t been painless for either of you. Not exactly an experience you were eager to repeat, especially with the added complication of being neighbors who lived right across the hall from each other. Things might be good with Mike now but that had taken time. 

And speaking of time, it had been a while since you had sex with someone other than yourself. Unless your sex toys and Fantasy Matt qualified as partners. In which case, you had been having a lot of sex with a partner. In your bed, in the shower, his desk at Nelson, Murdock, & Page . . .

Knock!

You jumped. Was it . . . yes, it was seven. That was probably Matt. You got to your feet and scurried over to the door. While tempting to throw up the door, good sense had you checking the peephole first. It was Matt. The man you had just been thinking about fornicating with you at his workplace. And feeling rather turned on by this idea . . .

You felt your face flush. And gave silent (and somewhat guilty) thanks that Matt had no way to know this. Okay, be cool and he’ll be none the wiser about you thinking dirty thoughts about him. Step one, open the door.

Matt could dress in a potato sack and still be beautiful. This was no potato sack. This was well-fitting jeans encasing those thick thighs in dark blue denim. This was a crimson red tee shirt that was probably one size too small, making it snug enough to emphasize those big pectoral muscles usually hidden by a suit and tie. The brown leather jacket was looser but couldn’t disguise the broadness of his shoulders. His dark auburn hair looked like it had been freshly blow-dried, neat but so fluffy. You longed to bury your hands in it. And bring that smirking, ever so slightly smug mouth closer to yours . . .

“Hello sweetheart.”

You jumped. And flushed even deeper at the realization that, once again, you had been staring at him like an idiot.

“Hi Matt,” you said. “You look . . . good. Very good.”

You just managed to stop yourself from saying ‘Good enough to eat.’ Or ask him to give you a little twirl so you could see if he looked just as good from behind as he did from the front. A thousand bonus points for you.

Even if Matt looked amused enough for you to swear he knew what thoughts were running through your head. Which you didn’t think he did. Pretty sure you would have been asked to keep your horny thoughts to yourself if he could.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said. “You are lovely as well.”

More blood flooded your cheeks. “What makes you say that?”

His eyebrow arched. “Because you are always lovely?”

Which only made you even more flustered.

“Do you mind telling me what you are wearing?” he asked.

“No, no I don’t mind,” you said, then described your outfit. “Is that alright? I know it’s not very dressy-”

“The place we’re going isn’t a dressy place,” he interjected, then seemed to hesitate. Like he was suddenly unsure of himself. It was hard to tell with those dark glasses. “I hope you don’t mind. If you’d rather-”

You shook your head, then remembered that Matt needed words. “No, I prefer not-dressy. Fancy places and I don’t mix.”

“What makes you say that?” Matt asked.

“People expect ladies to wear high heels to fancy places and parties. The only time I tried to wear high heels . . . it didn’t go well.”

“How ‘not well’?”

“Broken ankle and dislocated my shoulder.”

He winced. “Let’s try to avoid a repeat of that.”

“That’s my plan. They also frown on people drawing on napkins.”

Matt chuckled a little. “Good to know. I’ll be sure to warn Foggy.”

“Foggy’s a napkin doodler?”

“Napkins, margins of his notes.” Matt’s smile was very fond. “Only good part of meetings with Burke & Winthrop is Karen describing his doodles to me afterward.”

“Funny?”

“Very.” Matt checked his watch. You tried not to have dirty thoughts about watching his fingers glide along the rim. You were not entirely successful. “And not to rush you but we need to get going if we’re going to make it in time.”

“In time for what?” you asked, grabbing your purse and jacket. Well, technically it was his jacket. Which you should probably return to him at some point . . . but it was supposed to be cold tonight, dipping down into the thirties. You’d give it back to him when he was dropping you back off tonight.

Assuming you didn’t invite him inside.

“It’s a surprise.”

You forced your mind to focus on here and now. And that expected but still somewhat disappointing answer. “Not even a hint?”

His lips twitched. “Sorry, sweetheart, no hints. You’ll see in a little bit.”

“I have to. We established that yesterday.”

Matt started for a moment, then laughed. Loud and delighted, a pleased smile spreading across his face. He had a dimple. You didn’t know he had any dimples. Just when you thought he couldn’t get anymore attractive. “We did.”

He offered his hand to you. “Shall we?”

You took the offered hand. Your hand felt right in his. Like it belonged there. 

You smiled. “We shall.”

There was something almost dream-like about this, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. It was far from the first time that you had taken a walk with Matt. You had walked home together from Josie’s or the shops. He had asked you to guide him before. But this . . . this was different. 

Perhaps because you never expected Matt to ask you out. Perhaps because you had dreamed of this more than once. Fantasized about taking a walk in the park or visiting the farmers’ market, snuggled into his side as you inspected apples or admired the play of light on the trees. Moments that you could have now, you realized. Assuming this date continues to go well, you could go with Matt to the farmer’s market or for a walk in the park or a thousand other things.

It was a dizzying realization, one that didn’t felt quite real yet. 

But your dreams could never quite replicate Matt’s warmth or how good he smelled. The sense of controlled strength in his grip around your hand, firm but gentle like your hand was something precious and delicate. It was another thing he shared with Mike the Boxer. Mike never forgot how much damage his hands could do.

These differences provided you with a solid anchor that was real. That you weren’t just having another bittersweet dream.

“We’re here.”

You blinked, mind brought back to the present. You looked around to see where he had led you.

The answer was the back of a line to get into . . . you lifted yourself up on your tiptoes to get a better look at the sign . . . The Drunken Duck. You felt your heart skip a beat. The Drunken Duck in Hell’s Kitchen was where the Pixie Dreamgirls were having their little concert. The first stop in a small tour around the tristate area. The very concert that you had been unable to get tickets for.

The others in line were dressed in tees with the band’s name or other merch like your bracelet. And they were excitedly chatting about the band and the upcoming performance.

“Matt . . .” you trailed off, not sure what to say. You hadn’t realized that he even knew who the Pixie Dreamgirls were. While you believed that one day they would be big, right now they were still a local band. One that you only knew about because Lex had stumbled across them one night and spent the next day getting you and Serena addicted to their music.

Lex had been rather disappointed about being scheduled to work tonight. Serena was less disappointed since she had her anniversary with Darien but had talked about attending one of the later dates. The one in Queens later this month for example, all three of you had neither work or a romantic milestone celebration to interfere with seeing the band perform live.

Still your friends had encouraged you to go to the Drunken Duck concert if you wanted. And you had wanted to. Then Lex’s cat Sappho had gotten sick and she needed help with the vet bill. And well Sappho was more important than any concert. There would be other concerts. There wouldn’t be another Sappho.

“Surprise!” Matt said, grinning wide enough to bring that dimple out again. “Is it a good one?”

“The best!” you said. And unable to contain your excitement, you kissed him.

Your boldness seem to take Matt off guard. But only for a moment. Within heartbeats, he was kissing back. The kiss was everything you had dreamed. Those petal soft lips moving against yours, feather light at first but soon firmer and deeper. His hand cradling your jaw . . . his tongue begging for and being granted entrance into your mouth. Your hands in his hair - when had they gotten there - tightening as he teased your tongue into chasing his back to his mouth. He tasted so good . . .

A piercing whistle had you both jumping apart.

The whistler was the bouncer at the entrance of the Drunken Duck, a well-built dark-haired man with a thick beard whose nose had been broken at least twice. He looked vaguely familiar but for the life of you, you couldn’t remember where you had seen him before. It was unlikely to come to you. Your brain was too occupied with how good a kisser Matt was. With those kiss-swollen pink lips and the pulse of want between your legs.

Seeing that he had your attention, the bouncer said, “You’re holding up the line, lovebirds.”

You felt yourself flush. The line ahead of you had indeed gone inside. You were amazed that you and Matt hadn’t been jostled by the people behind you. Very amazed. New Yorkers didn’t have a lot of patience for people wasting their time. The kiss had lasted forever and not long enough in your mind. But you guessed that it either hadn’t lasted enough or the line hadn’t moved while you occupied fast enough to annoy the others behind you.

It probably helped that you didn’t lollygag about getting up to the bouncer and getting your IDs checked. Though the bouncer’s parting comment of “Enjoy the show, Red” was teasing enough to send that flush speeding down your neck.

“Mind guiding me?” Matt asked, after handing over your tickets to the employee at the second door. “I haven’t been to the Drunken Duck before. And it sounds a little crowded in there.”

“No problem!” you said, taking his arm. You put the bouncer out of your mind in favor of guiding Matt. First stop was the bar to get your drinks. 

He was right about how crowded the Duck was. Maneuvering around the excited patrons was a challenge. Everyone was too busy excitedly talking to each other. Very different from Josie’s where the regulars knew Matt was blind and were in the habit of clearing a path for him. But since this wasn’t Josie’s and Matt had already folded up his white cane, you were stuck trying to wade through to the bar without losing each other. 

Which you managed to accomplish. Barely.

Good. You were getting hungry. The Drunken Duck website said there was food. You had been too nervous-excited earlier to eat more than a hardboiled egg and some toast with your coffee. But now you could smell burgers. And your stomach was pointedly reminding you that light breakfast was far too long ago.

“Hungry?” Matt teased.

“A little,” you said, an answer that had Matt’s lips twitching. Like he was holding back a laugh at your very obvious lie. But you were soon distracted away from your embarrassment at your growling stomach by your arrival at the bar. Upon request, the barmaid pulled out a braille copy of their menu along with a glossy version for you.

You or rather your stomach had already decided on a burger. But there were a couple options even when limited to that. All of them sounded good but tonight, you opted to try the veggie burger. Lex had been here before and recommended it. The harder part of picking out something to drink. The drinks menu was far more extensive.

While tempted by some of the mixed drinks, if for no other reason that some of those puns looked fun to say. The Drunken Duck had apparently decided to lean into the name of their business with many, many bird puns. But in the end you opted for a beer. Mixed drinks with punny names were fun but your favorites tended to be sweet enough to make it easy to underestimate how drunk you were getting. Right up until you stood up and found walking even more difficult than usual.

Not something you wanted. First because you embarrassed yourself in front of Matt enough while being stone cold sober. Second because you had it on good authority that you were extremely candid when drunk. And that Drunk You hit on vigilantes.

Serena and Lex claimed that the night you had overdone the cocktails at The Cat’s Meow, you had spotted Daredevil perched on a roof. And then proceeded to loudly compliment his ass. Along with offering to personally inspect his . . . err . . . billy club. According to your friends, the Devil seemed more bemused than angry about these saucy remarks, simply recommending that your friends get you home before you solicited another vigilante.

You don’t remember anything between your fourth drink and waking up with the mother of all hangovers. And you rather hoped that you never would. Drunk You might have the foolhardiness to offer to ride the Devil until he saw God. Sober You had wanted to die from embarrassment after being informed about that offer. Along with all other ones you had apparently made. You really hoped that, if you ever encountered the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen again, that he didn’t recognize you.

Drunk You would absolutely tell Matt how much you would like him to bend you over one of those little round tables in front of the stage. In excruciating detail. Best not to risk it. One beer, then switch to a soft drink. No worries about in vino veritas.

It was a perfect plan.

“What’s your verdict, counselor?” you asked.

Matt smiled. “Leaning toward a burger. Even though those Parmensian-garlic wings do smell delicious.”

You blinked. “If they smell so good, why aren’t you getting them?”

“I’d rather not have garlic breath during our second kiss.”

Your cheeks felt warm. “You want a second kiss?”

“Absolutely,” he said, a hand reaching to cup your cheek. You could no more stop yourself from leaning into it than you could fly. “And a third kiss. And a fourth. Until I’ve kissed you so many times that you can no longer count them.”

“That sounds . . . nice,” you said. Actually it sounded wonderful. So wonderful that you wanted to pinch yourself to make sure that you weren’t dreaming.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Matt agreed. “And if I asked to kiss you right now?”

“I’d say yes,” you said, your voice gone breathy and your heart racing.

“Then I’m asking.”

“Yes.”

And then he was kissing you.

Kissing Matt was just as heady the second time as it was the first time. A feast for the senses. The softness of his lips contrasting with the roughness of his beard under your palms . . . the taste of his mouth, mostly the sharp coolness of mint but underneath something that you couldn’t describe but desperately needed . . . that simple blend of leather, plain soap, paper, and man filling your nose . . . his warmth . . . 

You whined when he pulled away.

“Sorry sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your forehead. He sounded like he was genuinely regretful that he had stopped kissing you. “As much as I’d love to kiss you all night, the show starts in about twenty minutes.”

And you still needed to order your meal and find a table in this crowd. Damnit. You took a deep breath. Then a second one. Until you felt like you could control the urge to climb Matt like a tree. It only took a minute but it felt longer. Especially when the bartender taking your orders gave you both knowing looks. At this rate, your face was gonna be locked in a permanent flush.

Matt paid, under the rock solid logic that he had invited you out. So paying for things during this date was his responsibility. You made a silent promise to yourself to use his own argument against him some day.

The tables arrayed around the stage were even more crowded. And more compacted than around the bar. You had to press tightly against Matt’s side in order for you to walk together. Which wasn’t exactly a hardship. But between guiding Matt while trying not to spill your beer among the tangle of chair legs and feet, it was no surprise that you stumbled.

Alone, you would have ended up on your ass covered in beer. If you were lucky and didn’t knock your head against the table. But you weren’t alone. At the first hint of a fall, one powerful arm snaked around your waist and pressed you against his body. And amazingly you managed to not to lose your grip on your glass. It just sloshed a little.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he rumbled into your ear.

You bite your lip. His breath on the shell of your ear sent tingles down your spine. But his voice, huskier than usual, went straight to your cunt. Matt made a soft noise, almost a whine before nuzzling your neck. “You smell so good.”

This did nothing to cool the heat raging through your body. “Thank you?”

He chuckled. The vibration of it made you shudder. And press your thighs together. It took immense willpower to pull your mind out of the gutter. Thankfully the table you were aiming for wasn’t much further as you were feeling rather weak at the knees. Luck was with you as the table remained free. Maybe because it wasn’t as close to the stage as possible? Maybe if it had been you and your friends, you would have aimed for that one ten feet to the right but you thought it was a little close to the guitar’s amplifier for Matt’s comfort.

Again, you had no idea if the old chestnut about blind people having better senses was true but you had seen him flinch at loud noises. You’d prefer Matt without a migraine. It would put an end to any ideas of hanky-panky tonight. Something you were seriously considering. From the dampness in your panties, you knew your cunt was fully on board with this idea.

Anyway . . . the table you had chosen had a decent enough view. Not the best but the point of a concert wasn’t the visuals. It was the music. And you didn’t need to be close to enjoy that.

Matt didn’t dispute your choice, pulling out your chair for you. Nuzzling your neck once more, his lips brushed across the skin behind your ear. It was the barest touch and yet it felt like a brand. The arm around your waist gave you a squeeze before slowly sliding off so you could sit down. 

Before sitting himself, Matt slipped off his leather jacket. And you felt your mouth go dry.

Those arms . . . your hands itched to explore. You wanted to follow the line of every muscle from those broad shoulders down to the sinewy forearms, enjoying the transition from smooth skin to a healthy covering of dark hair. Trace the veins and scars brought into sharp relief by the bar’s angled lighting with your fingertips . . .  you still didn’t think you could wrap your hand entirely around his bicep. But it would be fun to try, digging your nails while he . . .

“Sweetheart?”

You have got to stop thinking about Matt fucking you while he was less than three feet from you. And maybe actually talk to him. Even if it was really hard not to get distracted by that smirking mouth, wondering what else it could do.

“Sorry,” you said, shaking your head. “Got lost in my head for a minute there.”

“Happens to all of us,” Matt said.

You sipped your beer and cast your mind around for something to talk about. Fortunately the reason for being here provided an easy one. “I didn’t know you liked Pixie Dreamgirls.”

He smiled. “I hadn’t heard of them before you and Serena moved in. But I kept hearing you singing their songs and liked what I heard.”

“I’m glad you liked them despite my singing.”

He shook his head. “Because of your singing.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” you said. You could carry a tune well enough but knew perfectly well that your singing voice was nothing to write home about.

“Just the truth. You have a lovely voice.”

Your cheeks burned. “I do not.”

“You do,” he insisted, his voice firm and brokering no argument. “My eyes might not work but my hearing is excellent. Trust me, sweetheart, I could listen to you all day.”

You felt that flush spread down your neck. Your fingers fidgeted with your bracelet. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Not at all,” he said. “I’m completely serious.”

You shook your head in disbelief. He sounded serious but he had to be exaggerating. No one would want to listen to you yammer on all day. Not even your family or friends who loved you dearly. Matt was unfortunately aware of just much nonsense started to spill out of your mouth when panicked, he had witnessed The Tale of Two Breads among others. There was no way . . .

“You just want to know how far I can fit my foot in my mouth.”

“While it is always interesting to see what your mind comes up with,” he said before his grin shifted into a wicked smirk. “Your foot wasn’t the body part I had in mind.”

“Good to know,” you squeaked out, fresh blood flooding your cheeks. Among other places. Along with bringing to mind your own thoughts on that topic. More than once, you had imagined yourself kneeling between his legs and taking him in your mouth. Wondered how he would taste, how much your jaw would ache afterward . . . what kind of noises he’d make as his thighs trembled under your hands . . .

And just like that your mind was back in the gutter. You shook your head vigorously. You weren’t usually this feral. Was it because you hadn’t gotten laid since you moved into 6B? Were you ovulating? Or was Matt Murdock just so hot that it was impossible to look at him without thots? Some combination of all three?

Or was that smugness in that smirk made it oh-so-tempting to imagine him underneath you, moaning and lost in pleasure . . .

“What’s your favorite Pixie song?” Matt asked, interrupting your dirty thoughts. The smirk hadn’t gone away but he seemed genuinely interested in your answer.

“Er . . . Lavender,” you answered. You empathize with the protagonist giving their crush bouquets of lavender, wishing that they’d recognized the message of love and devotion someday.

“Curious,” he said, then his smirk grew. “I would have thought Candy Apple Red. You sing it a lot.”

Whatever blood had managed to drain out of your face promptly returned. Lyrics about painting your lover’s body with bright red lipstick had provoked thoughts . . . many thoughts. . . ones that would be even more vivid now that you knew how good Matt looked in red.

“And what’s your favorite Pixie song?” you asked quickly. Before your mind could conjure another fantasy. If you couldn’t reign in this horniness soon, you’d need to excuse yourself to the bathroom for some relief.

He made a thoughtful humming sound before his smirk faded into something more sober. Something vulnerable. “Burnt Offerings. It really spoke to me.”

Not difficult to understand why that one would resonate so strongly - a sad but beautiful song about struggling with one’s faith after losing a loved one. You knew about one of those losses but knew there could be more. There was a lot you didn’t know about Matt. You slowly reached out for his hand, uncertain if he would accept comfort. But at the first tentative touch of your hand, he laced your fingers together. You breathed a sigh of relief and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

Neither of you spoke, just held hands, but the silence between you didn’t feel uncomfortable. You only released his hand with one last squeeze when your meals arrived at the table. As much as you would love to keep holding his hand . . . it was a big burger. If you tried eating that with one hand, half of it was going to end up on your shirt. Been there, done that. You lost too many shirts to the staining power of mustard. Or raspberry jam. Or so many other things. Not happening this time. You liked this shirt.

Your burger was good. Which you appreciated. It was easy to screw up a veggie burger. Matt seemed to find his first bites of cheese burger just as enjoyable. The fries were just as good - golden and crisp on the outside, warm and fluffy inside. You’d be adding this bar and grill to the list of good places.

It looked like Matt agreed with you. His first bite had been small, more like a nibble. Then with what looked like relief, his next bites had been bigger. But not hurried. He took the time to enjoy what he was eating. It was a routine you recognized. Both from his patronage of The Daily Grind and your own life.

“You’re a member of the club too, aren’t you?” you said.

“Which club?” Matt asked, his head tilting slightly to one side. Like a curious dog. How cute.

“The Fussy-Eaters Club,” you said.

“Ah yes, I have . . .” he paused, thinking about how to word it. “A discerning palette, I guess. For example, I can tell that Abby prefers Ceylon cinnamon for the Grind’s famous cinnamon rolls as well as its chai but uses cassia in things like the spice cake and gingerbread”

You blinked, surprised. While some customers had commented on the subtle floral notes of the cinnamon in the chai, the only people you had seen correctly identify it as Ceylon cinnamon were chefs and bakers. While Matt seemed to live on take out. There was never cooking or baking smells emanating from his apartment. To the point that you were pretty sure the only home-cooked food he got was from you and Serena or Mrs. Gonzales or that older woman you had seen visiting him when he had the flu last fall that looked a lot like Foggy.

“Supertaster to go with your super nose and excellent hearing?” you said. “Are you gonna save any senses for the rest of us?”

He laughed. An oddly relieved laugh. You had the sudden feeling that you had passed some kind of test that you hadn’t realized that you were taking. “You’ve got the super eye, remember?”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t have a super eye just because I can tell the difference between dark navy blue and black.”

“Save Foggy from appearing in court with a mismatched suit. You know the press would have been all over that. Everyone loves hating on the defense attorney.”

“Right up until they need one.”

“Right up until they need one,” he agreed. “So far, how does dinner and a concert measure up against axe-throwing?”

“Axe-throwing?” You repeated, almost unable to believe your own ears.

“Yeah, Google recommended it as a fun first date activity.”

“Really, axe-throwing?”

“Yep. Right between live music and a walk in the park.”

“Well, it’s something different,” you said. “Be memorable.”

“Very,” Matt said. A mischievous grin split his face. “Should we do that for our second date?”

You giggled even as your heart soared with joy. He wanted a second date!  “I don’t know Matt, blind axe throwing sounds more like a third date thing.”

“Hmm, you’re right. Back to the drawing board.” He pretended to think for a moment. “How about dinner at the new Thai place on 46? I haven’t been yet but it smells divine.”

“I’d love that,” you said, smiling.

Any further conversation was curtailed by Fayola, the lead singer of the Pixie Dreamgirls, asking the audience if they were ready for some music. A resounding Yes! was her answer.

“Well, then,” she said. “Let’s get this party started!”

You felt Matt’s hand lace your fingers together as the first notes of Call Down The Moon filled the air.

It had been hard not to skip all the way home. You were so happy. You had just seen a favorite band perform live and it had been so much fun. Your belly was filled with good food and drink. And you were on a date with Matt.

Matt who had taken every opportunity tonight to hold your hand. Who had listened to your excited gushing all the way home with that fond, little smile that made your heart go pitter-patter. Who had kissed you twice and was probably planning on kissing you again now that you were at your front door.

But you had another idea. One that had your heart racing with a combination of anticipation and nerves.

“Hey, Matt?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Do you want to come in for some coffee?” you asked, hoping he picked up on what you were really asking. There was no one else in the hallway but you had to be ladylike. Couldn’t just come out and say ‘I want you to fuck me stupid tonight.’

And it seemed like he had picked on what you hadn’t said, squeezing your hand. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” he said, his voice husky. “I’d love some coffee.”

To be continued . . .

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Thank you Mama Sapph (@sunflowersandsapphires) on Tumblr for brainstorming help.

Hidaka Steakhouse, Cool Beans, Empire State University, Druken Duck Bar & Grill, and The Cat’s Meow are, as far I know, entirely made up businesses. 

Pixie Dreamgirls also exists only in my head. It consists of three members - lead vocals/guitar, keyboard, and drums. Has two albums - Rainbow Magic and Call Down The Moon.

Freshly-ground coffee usually tastes fresher that anything pre-ground, provided the beans have been stored properly.

Tri-State Area or Greater New York means New York City, downstate New York, northern and central New Jersey, and western Connecticut but increasingly these days eastern Pennslyvania.

In vino veritas is Latin phrase meaning In wine, lies truth. It is referencing how people can be forthright after having their inhibitions lowered by alcohol.

According to a symbolism book, lavender means love and devotion in the language of flowers.

Cinnamon is a general name for the bark of five related trees that used as a spice. The Ceylon variety or true cinnamon is a milder flavor with more floral and spicy notes than cassia or Chinese cinnamon but cassia stands up better to longer cooking or in dishes with other strong flavors where the Ceylon might go unnoticed. Cassia is more common on the US market than Ceylon - the cinnamon at your supermarket is probably Cassia. Ceylon is more likely to be found at a speciality store and be more expensive.

Axe-throwing really was suggested by Google when I searched for fun first date ideas.

[unacknowledgeable]

Yan!batfam x Reader x TMNT (can you tell what I’ve just watched?)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm not really sure what this is i wanted a lil break from the overwhelming angst from my SK!Reader series, kinda just plot points for this idea that I wanna lay out and explore later more in depth, mostly based of 2018, loosely based off the 2012 Turts, the turtles aren't yandere in this, it’s just the general protectiveness of their family lol :p 

The typical neglected batsibling lol, shows up to the manor at age 5, after the disappearance of your mother, 2 years after Bruce adopted dick

Alfred had really put his foot down on you knowing about bruce's “nightly excursions”, citing the different backgrounds and skill sets as to why Dick was allowed and you weren't even told

So, there's already distance, such a huge secret and constant dangerous activities

Someone who didn't have that drive for justice, and two who needed it like air

That, and that bruce didn't really know how to deal with not just some kid, but his kid that wasn't really supposed to exist at all

You were a complete accident, bruce didn't even remember who your mother was without digging into decades old news articles of his past relationships, years after you had already left the manor

On a lighter note, you meet the turtles pretty early on, which definitely saved you in the long run, despite the rocky start

Three years after arriving at the manor, at the age of 8, you run into the turtles while playing (unsupervised, mind you) by gotham harbor

You heard them in one of the sewer drainage pipes, and after some talking, you asked them to play (you didn't actually expect them to say yes, no one ever did)

They were hesitant, they can't just show themselves willy nilly! They got so lucky with April, but that was April, who saw them first and had to ask questions later

But you had asked questions first, so you’ll get to see them later 

You saw their silent hesitation, and at the risk of looking desperate because you were  you offered to blindfold yourself, so you wouldn't see (don't ever do this, y/n’s dumb and 8)

And they agreed! They actually agreed! You’d been so excited! So excited you barely noticed just how many times you fallen, because the boys played a little rough but you were determined to keep up

So when the time came when you had to leave, you were covered in bruises and mud

Alfred wasn't exactly pleased, but you were smiling and happy, so he wouldn't look a gift horse on the mouth

After that you kept going back, day after day, to play by the waters edge, with people you couldn't see but saw you, instead of staying cooped up in the manor, where you saw everyone and were seen be none

Of course, being batman's kid, you were able to deduce that these kids where some type of mutants, you can only get get knocked over so many time before realizing what you're running into is a hard shell and the hands helping you up only having 3 fingers

So eventually, you find out just exactly what they look like, what kinds of turtles they are etc

This totally doesn't spark a near life long love of turtles, leading you to decorate your entire childhood room with the reptiles, nope no way

You meet April later, since she lives a lot further than the turtles do, and while you could get away with sneaking off to the harbor for 1-2 hours just fine, it was a bit difficult finding a time lapse of time long enough before Alfred grew wary of where you ran off too

The turtles think your dad is some kind of bat mutant or vampire, because you talked about overhearing Barbra and Dick talking about bruce being this “batman” once

No they don't realize they were talking about THE batman until they are way older lol

Otherwise they don't really think anything of it bc their dads a rat like, it’s normal for them

Reader definitely is like, super buff in this bc you've been roughhousing with 4 mutant superhuman turtles since childhood, OF COURSE your gonna be buff

Plus your older than them so losing is just a non option for you, your far too competitive for that

You bring Donnie whatever gadgets you can from the house for him to take apart and use

You’ll bring Mikey spray paints and tag the abandoned theme parks together

You get Raph high quality bedding to stop his spikes from ripping them

You taught Leo how to play chess, and you have a running score on whose won, going back yeaaars

You and April end up going to the same school, (you begged Alfred a lot) so you had a pretty active social life outside the manor and you help her with her job searches a lot

I can't decide if I want Gotham and New York to be sister cities, or just treating them as the same place, I'm still figuring that out lol. I just find the hijinxs of the turtles vs. the angst of the batfamily to be so funny and the worms agreed sooo.

~Masterlist~

[evil-maryland]

:D

OOC: NOTE THINGY

20 Notes and ill tell my parents i want psychological help again

100 Notes and ill study ahead in french

200 Notes and ill study ahead in maths(god no)

700 Notes and ill study the whole next theme for the rest of this year for history

1000 Notes and ill actually take care of myself

1500 Notes and ill do own brain studies n stuff

2000 Notes and ill actually do the damn thing ive been trying to do

EDIT1: i forgot to add rules.... maryland pls only like an eight of the postlimit max (this includes all ur blogs) everyone else free tho

[aethon-recs]

40 Tomarrymort Recs for 2024 — Longfic Edition (Part 3)

Part 3 of 2024 recs! See below for a round-up of some of the most engaging multi-chaptered works/longfics that I came across in this ship in 2024 🤍

As with last year, I found each of these fics, in their depiction of the ship, to be a fresh or surprising take on our familiar beloved characters of Harry and Tom|Voldemort, with an emphasis on underrated fics and/or fics that made me think about the ship in some new way. It's amazing to me that even after 20+ years of writing in this ship, there are still so many new themes and tropes and angles to explore. 

Criteria for this list: multi-chaptered, Tomarrymort-centric, with at least 1 update published in 2024. 

Overall, for 2024, I've split up my year-end recs into 3 parts: (1) Completed Multi-Chapter Fics, (2) One-Shots, (3) WIPs. Here’s the link back to Part 1: Completed Multi-Chapter Fics with 30 fics and Part 2: One-Shots with 30 fics. And with these 40 fics, this wraps up 100 recs for Tomarrymort for 2024!

*

a cool drink of water by @zolpidem105 (E, 10k, WIP)

Harry Potter, an apprentice at Police Scotland, wakes up to find he’s not in his bed.  "Awake? Excellent. We should get going," Tim?—Tom—says from the side, sounding far, far too alert for what Harry feels is catastrophically early in the morning.

A Simple Request by @shyinsunlight (E, 70k, WIP)

Harry can't sleep because of his neighbours' constant fighting, and he ends up falling asleep at work. Tom Riddle, CEO, is not particularly happy.

Accidents happen by @themothatyourdoor (T, 51k, WIP)

Harry must have been London's first accidental sugar daddy.

And the Living Will Envy the Dead by @k-s-morgan (M, 114k, WIP)

When Tom looks at Harry, he feels nothing. Until he does, and then Harry’s world starts drowning in blood.

Anytime, Anywhere, Always by @moontearpensfic (E, 30k, WIP)

Tom expects to feel victorious at his greatest enemy's confession. Instead, he develops a crush on him.

Auror Potter by @albondiguilla007 (E, 21k, WIP)

Harry Potter is done. He's been in the past for months now, working undercover. Enter Tom Riddle. Impulse control has never been a strong suit of Harry’s, and this mission is proving to be the most difficult one yet.

By Any Means by @corpium (E, 101k, WIP)

Harry Potter will do anything to protect his little brother, whether that means facing the Dursleys' wrath, dogging his brother's footsteps, or taking down the Dark Lord himself. Absolutely anything.

Crush by @chiocchi (T, 4 chapters, WIP)

Tom Riddle doesn't know what it's like to have a crush. So when his heart starts beating fast every time he sees Harry Potter, it can only mean one thing: His instincts are telling him that Harry Potter is a threat that must be eliminated.

Do It Over by @marrythemonstersao3 (T, 57k, WIP)

Harry wakes up on the morning of his eleventh birthday, ready to do things differently this time. He has no grand plans, just the instinct to be close to the man whose soul he shares.

draw me after you (let us run) by @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger (E, 287k, WIP)

“Harry Potter,” comes the soft, sibilant hiss of a voice he has heard in his dreams, in his nightmares, in his waking hours for years. “It seems I have finally caught you.” 

Echoes by @dracomort (M, 4k, WIP)

Across a thousand worlds, Harry and Tom find each other.

Embryo by @cannibalinc (NR, 112k, WIP)

This is Tom’s destiny, a King among men. No—a god. He need only rise to that which is his for the taking… if only one strange boy weren’t so determined to get in his way.

Hole in the Wall by @elddrmot (E, 77k, WIP)

Voldemort survives the final battle and is imprisoned in Azkaban. After a series of unfortunate events, Harry Potter ends up in the cell next to him.

Ills of Murder by @shadow-of-the-eclipse (M, 90k, WIP)

Harry Potter is a time-travelling, furious mess, and he is going to kill the Dark Lord. Like most of his plans, things do not work out. Tom should not be so obsessed with his would-be murderer.

Liquida Tenebris (Remastered) by @dymis (E, 595k, WIP)

When Harry Potter cast his first Cruciatus Curse, he was successful. In doing so, he awoke the darkness in his head. It whispers, and it's never wrong. The darkness is hungry, and won’t be denied.

Moon Rite by @isalisewrites (E, 15k, WIP)

Voldemort learned the truth: Harry was his horcrux. With a sudden offer of a ceasefire, the decades long war could be over - lives saved and protected - if Harry swore to one agreement: a magically binding marriage contract with Voldemort himself.

No Glory by @obsidianpen (E, 313k, WIP)

The Dark Lord divines what Harry Potter is in the Forbidden Forest, and revelations lead to incomprehensible consequences. Lord Voldemort has won... and the dystopia is damning.

Of Kings, of Pawns, and of Men by @ambivalens999 (E, 166k, WIP)

When Harry succumbs to dementors in Little Whinging, the last thing he expects is to wake and find Tom Riddle’s face staring back at him in the mirror. It only goes downhill from there.

of various storms and saints by MaidenMotherCrone (E, 36k, WIP)

“I am the last Lector. I am my people’s very last hope,” Harry bites out through the teeth of his fury. He is done throwing curses and spells. He is reduced to this, divine rage.  And then, Voldemort is there, looming and dark and great and terrible. “And I will stamp it out.”

One Year In Every Ten by @saintsenara (E, 207k, WIP)

A decade after the final battle, just when the wizarding world thinks itself safe, a serial killer emerges, leaving a trail of dead women in his wake. Each of the bodies bears a gruesome message for the Aurors. A message which claims the Dark Lord has risen again.

Reckless Cartography by @meles-merrivale (M, 39k, WIP)

Featuring Harry and Tom attending Hogwarts together and slowly ruining each other’s lives.

Revolution of Configured Stars by @tollingreminiscentbells (E, 162k, WIP)

In another world, Harry Potter was spared. Raised in Lord Voldemort's Britain, he enters his seventh year wanting to keep his head down. But after a chance encounter with ‘Marvolo Gaunt’, it looks like it may not be so simple.

Saint Harry by @alenablack @chaos-bear (E, 70k, WIP)

The moment Harry is struck by the killing curse, it’s not death that awaits him, but ascension. A story of faith, obsession, and the burden of divinity.

Seaforth by @kippipies (M, 10k, WIP)

For as long as he can remember, Harry's had a normal life, looking after a precocious child named Tom on an isolated island. But everything in his normal life is shattered when he finds out a terrible truth: that a powerful leader called Voldemort is after him.

Seeing Sand by @valkyrie-chemist (T, 95k, WIP)

Anticipation bubbled in Tom’s stomach as he imagined fear and shock Harry’s green eyes. Eyes that snapped open the instant Tom's hand touched the frame of the hospital bed. Eyes that burned gold.

some like it hot by @duplicitywrites (E, 12k, WIP)

When Tom Riddle applies for an internship at the Ministry of Magic, he is assigned to the Department of Magical Fire Control and Containment, a department that boasts a very impressive headcount of one: Harry Potter.

Strings of Fate by @solelyseeking (E, 58k, WIP)

“When I touch you,” Tom says, bitterness clinging to every syllable, “I feel whole.” Harry might just be the first interesting thing that Tom has ever encountered.

Stygian by @crowcrowcrowthing (E, 71k, WIP)

There's a book in Voldemort's private library that can explain this kind of magic. The cover is black and shiny and looks like it's breathing. Harry really wants to take a look at chapter three, no matter what it takes.

Tender Reigns Our Night by noumena (M, 103k, WIP)

Sent on a Ministry mission to fight for magic's survival, Harry goes back in time with two simple objectives: find and destroy any existing Horcruxes, and stop Tom Riddle ever evolving into Voldemort. Harry thus finds himself working alongside Riddle at Borgin and Burke's.

The Longing by @aglassroseneverfades (M, 41k, WIP)

What is possibly most damning of all is that Harry is not thinking of his parents right now as he trudges alongside his companions up to Voldemort’s eerie castle. He is thinking instead, as he often does, of a name that burns too brightly on his wrist in the pre-dawn light.

The Runemaster by @kazisstillawake (E, 43k, WIP)

Harry trips on a rock and leaps through time. 1940s Hogwarts is very different from the home he is familiar with. To make matters worse, he is dumped into Slytherin – Riddle’s territory. But it’s hard to be invisible when you’re a novelty, a new student that knows too much for your own good.

the stars, my destination by @milkandmoon-ao3 (E, 47k, WIP)

Harry is sent through time to the relative safety of 1963 and adopted into the Potter family. Now he’s entering his sixth year at Hogwarts in 1976, with a war brewing just outside the school walls. The last thing he needs is to catch the attention of the rising Dark Lord.

The Unintentional Consequences of Prison Reform by @badluck (E, 28k, WIP)

Harry Potter, newly licensed Mind Healer, puts personal history aside to take on his hardest job yet. “Talk to me, please. Give me a chance to make you better.” Lord Voldemort looks downright murderous.

The Word of Your Body by @ictyn (E, 7k, WIP)

“Have you heard from him?” Albus asks. He only means one person when he asks Harry this question. He’s asked it five times in twenty years, and the answer is always the same. The only thing he knows about Tom is that he’s not dead. Harry would know if that happened. He’d feel it beating inside his heart, inside of his very soul.

Timeless by @perhaps-sunlight (E, 3k, WIP)

In which Master of Death Harry Potter time travels to the 1940s, only fixing Tom Riddle isn’t quite what he had in mind.

To the Hilt by @izharmilgram (E, 28k, WIP)

Voldemort had trusted him with the task of bringing Prince Gryffindor under his control, thus securing the future of Gryffindor within their hands. Tom would do so easily—the prince was a mere omega, docile and sweet, easily swayed—and then Gryffindor Kingdom would be folded into the Slytherin Dynasty. He would prove himself undoubtedly useful, and Voldemort would finally let him rule at his side.

Venom or Valor by @lightningant (M, 52k, WIP)

20 years old and unemployed, Harry decides to use a time turner to travel to 1946. But what he finds isn’t the proud, charismatic Dark-Lord-To-Be, but a neurotic 19-year-old Tom Riddle living quietly in the tiny flat that his retail job barely pays for, isolated and addled by chronic illness.

we made universes out of bitten lips and broken hands by @boyneptunee (M, 68k, WIP)

Seer Harry who tries to write his own future, fuck prophesies and mastermind darklords and evil teachers. He will live his life, and he will enjoy it, dammit. Oh, and there's also Tom Riddle.

What In Me Is Dark, Illumine by @telelli-writes (M, 80k, WIP)

There was a new transfer student, Tom observed at the Start-of-Term Feast as he idly twisted the Gaunt ring around his finger. Featuring a schoolboy on the precipice of becoming a monster, a powerful and mysterious newcomer to Hogwarts, and an initial spark of interest that becomes an obsession.

With a resolute heart by Act_Naturally (M, 243k, WIP)

Triwizard Tournament, but Hunger Games: Tom Riddle needs to win to fulfill his plans. Cedric Diggory wants to make his family proud. Hermione wants her friends to survive. Harry wants a lot of things, including Tom Riddle. 

you speak of the devil (like he's not your friend) by @amuria (M, 64k, WIP)

When Harry wakes a seventeen-year-old Tom Riddle from the Gaunt's Ring, it is to a world where his future self has achieved none of their goals except one. Harry is proof that he's a great wizard after all.

*

[luludeluluramblings]

I’m the anon who sent the pregnant Reader ask! And omg Sugar Baby! Reader is such a delight. Imagine the absolute 😦😧😨 journey on Bruce’s face upon realizing this man who is closer to him in age, old enough to be his daughter’s dad not only MARRIED but had the audacity to knock her up to. I can see little menace Damian asking Husband plenty of indiscreet questions and being straight up rude. Bruce lets him, and he has plenty of questions for the husband, too. How dare he seduce Bruce’s young, impressionable and sheltered daughter, has he no shame?

And of course they offer for Reader and husband to stay at Wayne manor while she recovers. All the hotels in Gotham are suddenly booked so they have to stay over, right? Husband can go right back to work too, Reader will be fine with her family. And why don’t they look at midwives or some of the best hospitals in Gotham, consider giving birth here? Not that they all wouldn’t track the rest of her pregnancy and fly out when she gives birth, but it keeps things simpler.

The sad thing about this concept, fun as it is, it’s that the Batfam is absolutely going to ruin Reader’s relationship either by sabotaging her husband, his business, maybe plant cheating evidence for her to find like Meta! Reader’s prom date. Obviously they will all be there to help pick up the pieces and aid Reader in recovering as well as caring for the baby.

Bruce holding his grandchild and Damian as an uncle too! Wholesome despite the circumstances.

Adding to this and adding a slight NSFW warning for at the end!

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

See, I feel like the counter to this would be Husband having a begrudging Alfred in his corner. Like, Alfred isn’t happy about this guy being married to Reader. But, unfortunately, this is the healthiest relationship anyone in the family has ever been in and he doesn’t wanna ruin that for Reader.

Although, the petty passive aggressive bullshit Hubby’s gonna go through at the manor will probably escalate to the point of them sabotaging his business or making Hubby and Reader snap at the family together.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Reader’s not stupid enough to fall for planted cheating evidence. They know their husband (man’s too old to be trying that nonsense and they also take good care of him themselves.) Plus, they probably told Hubby about how neglected they were by their family. Hubby’s gonna be prepared mentally for the bullshit, even if it does eventually overwhelm him.

But, if you want angst, which I’m guessing you do. I’d say Hubby could tragically die. The family either went to far with the sabotage or an accident happened at work.

(Or, because the dude I imagined Hubby being is Philip Graves, he has to fake his death temporarily for work reasons. Oooo, hubby can grovel and show the Bat family how it’s done when he comes back.)

Either way, you have a distraught Reader. But, I would also add Reader has a difficult pregnancy . That’s why hubby was spoiling her so much.

Imagine the bat family dealing with a hormonal pregnant reader that blames them for their husband’s subsequent death while also being in pain?

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Also, if the family ended up insisting y’all stay at the manor you KNOW your husband would fuck you on every available surface without fucking care. He’d clean you and the place up right after, but everyone in that house would know how good he’d be dicking you down.

Alfred don’t care, he dealt with horny Bruce. Bruce, though, he just sit in his bed silently screaming in his own personal hell. Everyone else is traumatized. Especially when you be calling hubby daddy when he be hitting it just right.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

(I’m tagging this as SugarBaby!Reader and this is going to have to be a series at this point. One day, one day.)

[cinnaminsvga]

Harana | Jungkook

harana (n.): the act of wooing someone by serenading them

→ summary:

Unwilling to settle down with you after five years of dating, Jeon Jungkook decides to break up to chase after his dreams. In the aftermath, you leave your hometown, desperate to forget your past and relearn what it means to be on your own. Two years later while on your way to work, you pass by a familiar voice singing songs about a girl he had left behind.

{or alternatively: Jungkook still sings the love songs that he wrote for you. He still means them, too.}

→ genre: busker!au, exes to lovers, angst, humor → warnings: jimin is insane and kinda crude (he has some issues going on), jungkook is a pathetic wet bunny but he's trying his best, oc has So Many Problems, so much arguing and yearning, ambiguous ending??? but my god there is hope!! the humanity of it all!! → words: 16.1K → a/n: HOLY SHIT IM BACK (kinda) and happy new year!! yeah ok its march but im relearning how to form coherent sentences so be patient ;w; this is the first installment of my hfoh series that i teased a LONG time ago... i made it a resolution to complete this series by the end of the year before i kms (Keep Myself Safe) so here's to a brand new year :D (oh god @ universe pls be kind)

part of the “heart full of hugot” series

Two days before the incident, your shower nozzle decides to explode.

Okay, you have to admit that statement is a little misleading. Shower nozzles, in all its nonsentience, do not randomly decide to explode no matter how much you try to defend yourself to your landlord. Maybe your grip had been a little too harsh that morning, or maybe hanging 5 pounds of hair products on the handle had been a bit too much for the old sport to handle. Or maybe, just maybe, the universe was warning you about the incident.

Whatever it was, it doesn’t erase the fact that your shower would be out of commission for the next week or so (though your landlord seems adamant about prolonging your suffering as long as possible). Until then, you’re going to have to find some other ways to keep the grease and grime from building on you. Heavens know that you already have a thriving ecosystem living in the back of your couch—you don’t need another one growing under your armpits. 

Lucky for you, you have friends. More importantly, you have friends who have showers. There is one problem though—all your friends live on the other side of the country. 

It’s been two years since you moved to the Big City™️, but you have done little to grow your social network. Call it introversion or depression, either way, you have no more contacts on your phone than you did when you left your hometown. Well, except for one person, if you could even consider him one. Frankly, you didn’t have a choice.

“Welcome to my humble abode, stinky,” Jimin greets you as you enter his house. Your nose is instantly assaulted by the smell of Bath & Body Works® Sweet Pea, reminding you once more why you didn’t consider him a friend. 

“Hey,” you reply gruffly, shucking your ratty shoes near his entrance. Your shoes look incredibly out of place amidst the sea of designer Chelsea boots and a singular pair of thigh-high heels. You take a glance at his living room, already feeling worse about yourself tenfold.

You had met Park Jimin by complete accident, much like how his mother probably felt when she first saw him too. You had never known anyone quite as… interesting as him, to put it lightly. 

When you got your job as a hostess for a luxury bar and restaurant, you figured you wouldn’t make many friends with your coworkers. Everyone was so… pretty, but in the shiny, untouchable sort of way. Almost all of the servers were as gorgeous as the models you’d see in magazines. You hadn’t known that the owners only hired a certain “demographic” of people for their restaurant, and you were equal parts flattered and disgusted that you’d somehow made it (though you suppose your bullshitting skills were all to thank). 

Unsurprisingly, even the bartenders were gorgeous, including one Park Jimin. He did have an aura to him that screamed “I’m a cut above the rest and I know it,” but that could just be the gold chains dripping down his neck. You almost mistook him as one of the patrons who mistakenly made his way behind the bar, and knowing the sort of clientele you’ve had to deal with so far, you wouldn’t have been surprised. It took a couple of weeks before you finally found out who he was (and what his fucking problem was).

Jimin was a part-time bartender with a full-time job as a bitch a self-made entrepreneur. Which is to say, he sold… tasteful photos of himself on the internet. You had nothing against his line of work. In fact, you would go far as to say you didn’t give a shit what he did outside of your shared workspace. But if there’s one thing Jimin is, it’s that he hates being ignored. 

So when you were adamant about not oohing and aahing at everything that makes Park Jimin perfect, he made it his self-appointed mission to befriend you. Or at least that’s what he claims, but given how he treats you lesser than the shit that cakes his cheeks, you have a lot of doubts. Perhaps he’s never made an effort to make a friend, hence his inexperience with being a decent human being. Or perhaps he’s just an asshole, but who is to say? The point is: he’s the only person you knew in this godforsaken city who would likely allow you to use his shower without being awkward about it and that’s that. 

The worst part about being an acquaintance with Park Jimin was that he lived in the richest area of Downtown but he wasn’t old money, that’s for sure. His entire essence screamed overconsumption, and his myriad of little trinkets littered across his apartment confirmed your previous assessment. You wouldn’t be surprised if you opened his freezer and found ten types of ice sorted assorted by color and shape like the extra bitch that he was. 

He made his money through sheer force, and it would have impressed you if he wasn’t, you know. Him.

“Bathroom is over there. I placed a towel and other shower amenities that you can borrow,” he says pointing to a door with a large “FART ZONE: ENTER WITH CAUTION” sign taped to it. You don’t ask.

“Thanks,” you say flatly. You wait patiently for his out-of-pocket comment. 

Like clockwork, Jimin smirks. “Sure thing. I gave you the super heavy-duty stuff. Figured you’d burn a hole through my expensive towels with how stinky you are, with your yeasty cu—”

“Aaaand I’ll be done in a few minutes. Thanks again Jimin,” you interrupt, making your way to the bathroom and slamming the door with as much force as you can muster. You hear something fall as the door shuts, and you vaguely hear Jimin mutter something about his “fart zone” signage. 

You begin to prepare your shower routine, humming lowly as you go about your business. You try to ignore the suffocating scent of ten million diffusers entering your nostrils, wondering for the umpteenth time if Jimin is suffering from long-term olfactory dysfunction. 

“Focus, Y/N. The quicker you shower, the quicker you can get the fuck out of here,” you whisper to yourself. However, in your haste, you knock over Jimin’s towel by accident. When the towel falls, a sheet of sandpaper slips out from underneath it, and you stare bemusedly until it finally hits you.

“YOU ARE SUCH A LITTLE BITCH!” 

From behind the door, you can hear Jimin’s infamous cackle. “Did you find the loofah? I got it just for you, darling!” he shouts back through his laughter, and you just grumble back in response. How on earth no one has strangled him to death, you have no idea.

“Whatever. I’m gonna shower now! Go beat off or whatever the fuck you do in your spare time,” you grouse, stripping as quickly as possible.

When the first droplets of water hit your body, you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. You had both anticipated and dreaded going to Jimin’s house, but you desperately needed the shower. So you go through your routine, trying to find some semblance of relaxation throughout the process. However, it seems that Jimin was yearning for a little bit of attention as he chose to recline on the other side of the door and chat your ear off. Peace was never an option, it seems.

“Hey, Y/N! So why haven’t I seen you at work recently?” Jimin hollers from his living room. Despite the wall separating you, his voice manages to retain its volume.

You squirt a large glob of Jimin’s (expensive) conditioner onto your hands. “What do you mean? I go to work every day. You were the one who hasn’t been clocking in.”

You can hear Jimin scoff. “Um, correction! I went to work last Friday, which so happened to be your day off. If I didn’t know any better, I would have assumed you were avoiding me.”

And right you are, you think. But instead, you say, “Yeah, what a coincidence. I’ll be back to my regular schedule on Monday, though.”

“So that means you didn’t see the Justin Bieber wannabe stationed outside the restaurant then?” Jimin asks, voice miffed. “The guy suddenly sat down by the entrance window and a whole damn crowd started to appear! The absolute nerve of these people—don’t they know Park Jimin was just past the doors?” 

This provokes Jimin to go on his long epic soliloquy, which you’ve learned to drown out over the past two years. He could go on hour-long tirades if he wanted, and any interruption from you would just bounce off his nonfunctioning ears. And so, you allow his voice to fall to the back of your mind, similar to white noise if it wasn’t so grating.

However, this was likely your greatest mistake. If you hadn’t been so exhausted, or if Park Jimin hadn’t been so damn annoying all the time, or if the stars had aligned just right… Maybe you would have been forewarned about the incident. It’s as if the universe was screaming at you to pay attention, but alas… You were standing on the proverbial highway, unbeknownst to the incoming traffic because you had your metaphorical AirPods on.

So there you are, completely showered but none the wiser to your impending doom, naively looking to the future with unsuspecting eyes. Even if you had known of what was to come, would avoiding it even be possible? In hindsight, you suppose not, but you still kick yourself for being so blind. If only you’d steeled your heart, then maybe you wouldn’t have felt like vomiting in front of a crowd of innocent bystanders the very next day.

xxx

Monday comes and your shower still isn’t fixed. Jimin makes the benevolent gesture of allowing you to use his shower in the meantime, though you’ll only partake in his offer as minimally as possible. He does mention that he’ll need at least an hour’s notice, warning you about “accidental voyeurism.” You shudder to think of what sort of horror you might find if you did visit him without warning, and you pray for the continued well-being of your retinas.

On your way to work, you’re too busy watching cute videos of animals to notice the unusual flock of people idling close to your workplace. When you get closer, however, the growing commotion is enough to rip your gaze away from your phone, and the sight of the large crowd makes you stop in your tracks. 

It is 4 pm and the usual line of waiting patrons should not start piling up for another three hours, so this confuses you more than anything. You shuffle closer, squinting at the crowd until you notice that they aren’t lined up at all; instead, they have congregated into a large circle, but you are too far to see what they are surrounding. 

An accident? You worry, wondering if something terrible happened. You tiptoe above the heads of people, subtly moving forward to take a better look. Curse you and your curiosity. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself to see something grotesque or astonishing, but instead…

It’s worse.

Inching closer, you can begin to hear a soft thrumming of a guitar and a gentle singing voice that causes alarm bells to ring in your ears. The warm melody digs up old memories of a time long past: of ballads sung outside your childhood bedroom window, of promises whispered under Spiderman sheets, of tender caresses tucking stray hairs behind your ears… They flood your senses, but all you can feel is dread.

It can’t be who you think it is. You accidentally elbow a guy on your way to get closer, unsteadying his grip on his phone. 

“Hey, watch it! I’m filming a totally not-staged TikTok over here!” He yells, but you can hardly pay attention to him when you feel unnaturally drawn to come closer, still. 

You’re nearly at the front, with just a couple of teenagers standing between you and the (not-so) mysterious street performer. But the distance is enough, and your breath catches. You can see him—

Black hair partially hidden under a bucket hat. Boots bigger than Pangaea and a pair of eyes equally as large. Dark ink snaking down his arms, peeking out from under oversized sleeves. Piercings that could rival Park Jimin on a good day. He isn’t facing you, but you can still see his big doe eyes, gentle sloping nose, and pretty lips stretched into a handsome smile.

Your heart is thundering in your chest. This can’t be happening, you panic. After two whole years of rebuilding and reshaping yourself, relearning how to be yourself and not… not just his girlfriend.

Jeon Jungkook stands before you, busking in front of your workplace of all locations. The universe could not have been any crueler to you.

You—you had been known as nothing more than Jeon Jungkook’s high school sweetheart. Buried memories of snide comments from jealous teen girls fill your mind, reminding you of the time when you were coined a simple side piece to the main attraction. Decor, as they would call you. Nothing more than a girl who happened to snag Jungkook before people realized he was going to turn… hot. A hot guy who could sing. An inevitable chic magnet, as they would call him. 

And now, years later after much therapy and soul searching, your worst nightmare is standing in front of you in the flesh. This is what you will eventually dub the incident. 

At that moment, however, there is little to no time to dwell on naming this ongoing core memory. All you can feel is the adrenaline pumping through your veins, as well as the nausea rising up your throat. You stumble backward, blatantly shoving onlookers away as you struggle to find some air to breathe. In hindsight, you probably should have backed away as subtly as possible, but you hope that your dyed hair might be different enough that Jungkook wouldn’t know it was you if he had glanced your way. 

Even when you stagger towards your work establishment, the walls cannot perfectly muffle his soothing singing. You can’t make out the lyrics to his song too well, but his unmistakable voice is hard to ignore. Working as a hostess, your station is also coincidentally as close to the door as possible for maximum torture. 

This can’t get any worse, you think as your mind races with conflicting emotions. You thought you had moved on, thought you were past the pain and the memories, but seeing Jungkook again, unexpectedly, stirs up a storm of feelings you thought were buried deep. Anger, hurt, betrayal—all rush to the surface, threatening to overwhelm you.

But there is no time to unpack all that baggage right now. Time will continue to march on, and your job is still on the line. How can you have the time to have a mental breakdown when you were still living paycheck to paycheck?

But even as you try to push Jungkook out of your mind, his voice echoes in your ears, his image burned into your memory. It's as if the universe is laughing at your misery, reminding you that despite all your supposed growth, you are still just you. 

Painfully and pathetically you.

As you struggle to pull yourself together, a familiarly loud voice rings outside the edge of your consciousness. “Hey, Y/N! Fancy seeing you here…” Jimin greets you, his usual jovial demeanor halting midway when he sees your panicked expression. He clears his throat, perplexed. “Umm… Are you alright there, girl? You’re looking a little pale.”

You do not even have the mental capacity to wonder why Park Jimin was miraculously early to his shift, nor why he seems genuinely worried for you. Rather, all you can do is wave him off and use what little time you have before the restaurant opens to steel yourself for hours of melodious torture. 

“I’m fine, Park. You should get to work,” you grit out, wiping your sweaty palms on your uniform. Normally, Jimin would have teased you about the obvious wrinkles on your skirt. 

“You’re not the boss of me,” Jimin huffs, always the contrarian. He thinks better of it, however, and softens his tone. “Are you feeling sick or something? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

You freeze, perhaps giving yourself away a little. “I’m fine,” you repeat. 

“You know, if you refuse to elaborate, I’m going to have to retract your shower privileges,” Jimin taunts with a smirk. 

You feel a migraine growing by your temple, making you wince. God, why must men be the source of all your problems?

“I’m just… a little annoyed by the busker outside the restaurant,” you eventually admit, trying to be vague. Unfortunately for you, Jimin hates beating around the bush and would never take your crap if he knows something is up.

Unable to withstand the weight of his unimpressed stare, you clarify, “He was someone I used to know, that’s all.” You aren’t going to be any more specific than that, though you imagine Jimin gets the picture. You zip your lips, hoping to whoever is causing you pain that Jimin would somehow let the matter drop and leave you to your misery.

You brace yourself for his onslaught of questioning to come, and… it doesn’t happen. Instead, when you glance at Jimin, he is mysteriously stone faced. You wait for him to speak for what feels like a few minutes, but he doesn’t show any signs of wanting to tease or ridicule you. He simply watches you with a pensive expression. You can barely stop yourself from staring back at him, slack-jawed at his silence. 

Of course, you aren’t just going to question your luck, or what little you have at least. So, you stay silent back and fidget uncomfortably.

Finally, Jimin seems to snap out of his strange reverie. He fixes you with a bizarrely sympathetic grin, patting you affectionately on the back. “I see… Well, if you ever need a drink tonight, head over to the bar for a little sip. I got you covered,” is all he says in response before sashaying away. 

That was so fucking weird. You want to chase after him, perhaps beat the truth out of him. Jimin is nothing but a scheming dick, and you aren’t about to let him roam free with such sensitive information about yourself. Just as you’re about to stomp his ass (perhaps to relieve some of the building tension from your weary soul), your manager pops his head from his office door. 

“Y/N! Make sure you’re logged into the booking system. There’s going to be a party of 20 coming in about an hour,” he reminds you, shooting you an apologetic look. You nod back with a sigh, swiping the booking tablet from the hostess desk and scrolling through the logs. Sure enough, it is going to be a busy night despite being a Monday evening. Perhaps a little busier than usual, in fact.

Whatever. You will use whatever distraction you can get, and perhaps the approaching noise from the restaurant patrons will be enough to drown out the sound of his voice. 

You aren’t religious by any means, but you pray to whatever higher power exists that Jeon Jungkook doesn’t somehow decide to enter the restaurant. Stay outside, you plead. Outside the restaurant and your life, if possible.

Throughout the evening, you do your best to push aside the memories that threaten to resurface. You greet customers with a smile, lead them to their tables, and ensure their dining experience is pleasant despite the anxiety poisoning your insides. It's a routine you've perfected over time, a shield against the chaos of your emotions.

As the night wears on, you can feel Jimin's eyes on you from across the restaurant. You sneak glances back at him, and you blanch at his pitying gaze. If the restaurant had been slightly less crowded, you would have flipped him off. 

He’s probably enjoying my suffering, you think darkly. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, you straighten up and do your best to appear more unaffected. Just as you do so, you can hear Jungkook perfectly hitting a soulful high note. 

“I’m so sorry for thinking I was strong,” you whisper to the universe. “Forgive me for my insolence.” You clench your fist in anguish, ignoring the confused looks from the customers in front of you. 

By the time your shift comes to a close, you are completely and utterly drained. You feel like a snail that has been continuously salted over the past eight hours, and you cannot help but cheer in relief when the clock finally strikes two in the morning. You have to wait for the last few diners to make their leave, but otherwise you are ready to let your bed swallow you whole. 

You stand by your hostess desk, leaning your head against it with a defeated sigh. Jungkook’s voice had died down only a few minutes ago, and you hope that by this point he has mercifully left the premises. You want to take a peek to make sure, but just as you’re about to make your way to the door, you feel a hand on your shoulder stop you in your tracks.

“‘Sup, bitch.” Jimin still has that weird, pitying gaze pointed at you, though his words don’t match it. “Are you okay to go home alone tonight? I can bring your dumb ass home if you want.”

You shove his hand away, ready to bite his head off when you think better of it. If Jimin drives you home, then that lowers the chances of seeing Jungkook down to pretty much zero. 

“You know what? Thanks,” you grouse. Jimin smiles at you winningly, and the image of it brings a shiver down your spine. You hit him, creeped out. “Hey. Stop that, will you? You’re being really weird?”

Jimin scoffs, crossing his arms. “Me? Weird? At least I don’t look like a damn firework ready to explode just because my cringelord ex-boyfriend is singing sappy love songs outside—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you seethe, stomping on his foot. He yelps in pain and slaps your shoulder in retaliation. 

“Ouch! Watch your ogre feet! My shoes are worth twice your monthly rent I’ll have you know,” he bristles. He breathes deeply, likely finding his inner calm (which you doubt exists). “But because I’m so nice, I’ll ignore your earlier transgression and blame it on your underdeveloped amygdala.”

You don’t know what’s more surprising: the fact that Jimin knew what an amygdala was or that he was forgiving you in the first place. “Whatever. Let’s finish closing up and then head out. I’m exhausted.”

You make quick work of your task and when you’re ready to head out, Jimin is already waiting by the backdoor. He’s twirling his car keys with a finger and gestures for you to follow him. As you make your way to his car in the back parking lot, you catch sight of a lone figure standing next to a beat-up pickup truck. He’s leaning against it, his hands busy tuning a battered guitar.

Your breath hitches, and you immediately feel nauseous. Of course the incident has yet to end. The night is young, after all.

Jimin accidentally slams the backdoor closed, and the noise wrenches Jungkook’s attention away from his ministrations. Immediately, his eyes lock with Jimin before finally turning to you. 

Your heart skips a beat as he gazes at you, your mind racing with a hurricane of emotions. You hadn’t expected to see him again so soon, especially not after the tumultuous encounter earlier in the day. What did you say earlier? That “the chances of seeing Jungkook was down to pretty much zero”? 

The chances of seeing Jungkook is low, but never zero, your mind unhelpfully supplies.

There is a long period of awkward silence. Jungkook has his mouth slightly agape, his hand subconsciously lowering his guitar to rest against his truck. To your left, Jimin’s breathing quickens slightly. You, on the other hand, are trying your best not to projectile vomit in this damned parking lot. 

Jungkook is the one who decides to break the delicate silence. “Is that you…?” he calls out hesitantly. 

Don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my—

“Y/N,” Jimin interjects. His gaze is steel cold, uncharacteristic of the carefree boy. He slings an arm around your shoulders, gently nudging you towards his car. With your view still fixed on Jungkook, you miss the way Jimin shoots the other boy with a playful smirk. “C’mon, babe. Let’s go home.”

His words startle both you and Jungkook. “Wha—? Jimin?” you splutter, flushing at his flirtatious undertone. You want to curse him out for his strange behavior, but all the shock has left you mute. 

Jimin all but shoves you into the passenger seat. But just as he’s about to slam the car door, you hear Jungkook call out your name. It’s fleeting and quiet, but you heard him crystal clear.

It breaks your spirit to hear him say your name. For a moment, you feel as though you are floating.

When was the last time he called your name? And so softly, too? If you could replay that moment over and over, would you be able to catch some signs of tenderness in his voice? When you close your eyes later that night, would your dreams show you that he had been gazing at you with yearning? Was any of it true?

As Jimin starts the car and pulls away from the curb, you steal one last glance out the window, only to find Jungkook staring at you with an arm outstretched. You continue to watch him until his figure disappears into the night. 

You are quietly immersed in your own thoughts, the whirlwind of emotions intensifying your persistent migraine. Unaccustomed to silence, Jimin decides to give his unsolicited two cents, as per usual.

“Geez. Didn’t know you were into the whole starving artist type. If I’d known, then maybe I’d stop trying to brag about my fortune to you,” Jimin scoffs. “If loser buskers like him impress you, then maybe I should—”

“Would you shut the fuck up for once in your fucking life!” You explode, whirling to face him with a glare. Jimin has the audacity to flinch, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the road. 

“What the fuck? Why the hell are you mad at me?” 

“What the hell was that back there? ‘C’mon babe.’” You mimic his voice with a sneer. “Why on earth would you do that? Now he thinks that we…”

“Why do you care what he thinks? He’s your ex, remember?” Jimin cuts you off, but you can’t even refute him. He continues, “Figured as much. And judging by how spooked you’ve looked all day, I have to assume that he was an asshole, right? Why else would you accept my offer for a ride home if you really wanted to avoid seeing him?”

You shrink under his accurate assumptions. Damn, were you really that easy to read? “I… I mean, yeah but…” You clear your throat, still feeling wronged by him. “You didn’t have to act like a weird prick in front of him!”

Without warning, the floodgates burst forth. You begin to ramble, the thoughts that have been weighing you down pouring out of you in waves. “Jungkook was my ex, yeah. But he wasn’t an asshole. On the contrary, he was really sweet. The nicest guy in my school, at least. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, that sort of person. I dated him all throughout high school and he was a great partner.”

Jimin hums skeptically. “Then why the messy break-up?”

“It wasn’t messy!” You retort defensively. 

“Could’ve fooled me!” Jimin snorts. “I also frequently act like a trembling kitten when I see my exes,” he says sarcastically. 

You ignore him. “The reason we broke it off was because he wanted to pursue his dreams to become a singer after high school and I wanted to do other things. It was a mutual break-up! Honestly, I’m glad that we did. Too many girls wanted him and all the unwanted attention was getting on my nerves. I was glad to find a reason to end it all,” you explain, hoping you didn’t sound as shaky as you felt. What you said was mostly true, though you left out the important bits to yourself. Mostly to save some of your dignity intact. (Truthfully, you just didn’t want to admit things you weren’t ready to face.)

“Then if you’re so glad, why do you look like you wanted to shit yourself? It ain’t adding up,” Jimin fires back.

“It’s just—” you stammer, trying to find a reason why you were so bent out of shape after seeing him. “I-I was caught off guard, I guess. I knew he was pursuing his dreams to sing and all, so I expected him to leave the country. I wasn’t expecting to see him outside where I work, of all places,” you mutter lamely. You have your head bowed, biting your lips from the nerves. Again, you weren’t totally lying. 

Jimin is silent for a moment, contemplating your admission. When he looks so calm like this, it’s hard to get a read on what he’s thinking. As Jimin speeds down the highway, the street lights illuminate his face in a strange way, and for once, he looks like a stranger. His steely expression makes you nervous, for some reason. 

Eventually, he asks you a question you would never have expected. “And he just let you go?”

You pause. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Jimin huffs, irritated. “He just up and left without a fight? If I were him, I would have…” he trails off, his jaw clenching. 

You don’t know where this Jimin came from. Under the moonlight, Jimin looks livid, but that can’t be right. Jimin, mad for you? Sure, you’ve seen his anger directed towards you, but this? Everything’s gotten so complicated, and you are just about ready to succumb to sleep and hope to wake from this nightmare.

The rest of the drive to your house is silent, save for the sounds coming from passing cars. Jimin pulls up to your apartment complex, his mysterious anger finally subsiding. 

Just as you’re about to reach for the car door handle, Jimin places a hand on your shoulder. “Listen, Y/N. I’ll talk to management tomorrow morning. I know the manager well enough that I can probably convince him to do something about that ex of yours. He’s busking on private property, so it should be easy to get rid of him,” Jimin says, tone serious. He swallows, and for a moment you think he looks a little nervous. “If that’s what you want, I guess.”

His kindness scares you. You want to tease him, ask him where Mr. Bitchy and his $2000 Chelsea boots had gone. Anything to make this air of severe sincerity to abate. This new Jimin feels suffocating. But instead, you nod your head stiffly. 

Jimin makes a pained expression for a moment, but it’s quickly replaced by his usual playful smirk. He slaps you upside the head, laughing heartily at your stunned face. 

“Get some rest, babe. I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” he chuckles, reaching over to open the door for you. You scramble out into the cold city air, taking one last look back at him through his window.

He rolls it down, leaning forward to flash a toothy grin at you. “Hey, stop with all the angst, pookie. Wouldn’t want my favorite toy to get sick from overthinking. Who else would I bother at work if not you?”

You snort, both endeared and irritated in equal measure. He’s right. Everything was going back to normal tomorrow, you’re sure of it. You flip him off with a cheeky grin before making your way to your apartment.

Everything is going to be okay. Jimin says he’ll do something about it, and for whatever reason, you feel like you can trust him on this. Surely good fortune was soon to be upon you. 

xxx

Jimin had texted you while you were still sleeping:

Spoke to Manager Jeong about your little problem. He said he’ll deal with him.

You breathe a sigh of relief, your body feeling significantly lighter. Your sleep last night had been tumultuous and restless. You feel more tired than you did when you went to bed, but all your weariness fades once you read Jimin’s text. 

Once you make it to work, you find that management has gotten rid of Jungkook somehow. Added with the fact that your landlord has promised to look into repairing your shower (no guarantees, but you want to stay optimistic), today has been significantly better compared to yesterday. You even catch yourself humming as you set up your workstation, a small smile gracing your lips.

Jimin has a later shift this evening, and you find that you are somewhat disappointed for once. Your overwhelming gratitude is surely the only reason, otherwise you would never admit to wanting to see him at any given time. 

You are in the midst of texting Jimin about all the good news when your manager passes by your desk. You are quick to pocket your phone away from his prying eyes, ready to defend that you aren’t slacking off… but his demeanor does not reveal any ire. In fact, he looks rather pleased for once.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Jeong. What’s up?” you ask, suspicious. You instinctively fold your hands behind your back; it is a subconscious effort on your part to keep your distance from him. Something about your manager always gives you a bad feeling when he looks a little too happy. 

He grins widely. “Everything is going splendidly, Ms. Y/N. In fact, I think today might just be our lucky day!”

Never during your time working here has his and your luck ever coincided. “Our lucky day?” you echo.

“Why, yes! I spoke with your lovely friend and coworker Jimin this morning,” he starts, and immediately your alarm bells ring. You don’t even bother correcting him about the ‘friend’ part like you normally would. He continues, “He gave me a brilliant idea about the busker who had been performing in front of the restaurant the past two days.”

You nod slowly, not quite understanding. “Yes… The busker has been quite… the spectacle,” you say carefully. Somehow, you know calling Jungkook a ‘nuisance’ would have been the wrong choice in this instance.

Manager Jeong beams. “Exactly! You must have noticed the amount of people we served yesterday despite being a Monday. Additionally, almost all of those new customers requested outdoor seating no less!”

You feel the world tilt on its axis. What is he on abou—?

“What are you talking about?” you exhale.

“Don’t you think it would be even better for business if we got that busker to perform inside the restaurant? Why, it’s a brilliant idea and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it first! Our live band has always been missing something special, and perhaps a vocal accompaniment is the exact answer to our problem! Think about it, the atmosphere would be…”

Manager Jeong continues to prattle animatedly about his plans to your unhearing ears. There must be static or cotton plugging your head because you cannot possibly understand anything he is saying. Jungkook? Inside? Performing at your restaurant? But Jimin said he had spoken to the manager about getting Jungkook away from you! None of this makes sense. 

“That makes no sense,” you verbalize, unknowingly cutting Manager Jeong from his monologue. He halts in surprise, as if now just realizing you were standing there (much less capable of interrupting or disagreeing with him). When he snaps out of it, you sense that familiarly sinister aura emerging from him in waves. You belatedly realize he must have mistaken your outburst as antagonistic.

“Well, Ms. Y/N. Whether it makes sense or not, we have hired Mr. Jeon to perform live at the bar stage for the next four weeknights. If, for some unknowable reason, I am incorrect,” he pauses to emphasize his words, “then his services will be promptly terminated. However, judging by his popularity from simply standing out in the cold and singing silly love songs, I am sure that worry is unwarranted.”

Behind you, the telltale sound of the main door swinging open catches you even more off guard. You do not even have the chance to turn to face the newcomer, only managing to register the gust of cold wind that accompanies their entry.

And so, you hear him before you see him. 

“Hello?” Jeon Jungkook greets quietly.

Even without turning, you can imagine how he looks, how he stands, how he feels, how he tastes—

Manager Jeong claps his hands gleefully. “Splendid timing! Speak of the devil…” The older man nearly skips towards Jungkook like a youthful school girl, accompanied by his uncharacteristic squeals of excitement. 

You can feel his gaze on you, almost tangibly. With nothing but your shreds of dignity left intact, you force yourself to face him. 

He’s still so tall, is all your mind can helpfully supply as you stand feet away from your high school sweetheart for the first time in two years. He’s still wearing the same bucket hat from the night before, semi-shielding him from view. Despite that, you catch a small flash of white graze his bottom lip as he chews the soft flesh nervously.

“Hi, Y/N.” He addresses you directly, completely overlooking your manager without a single glance. Despite his hat, he still has his eyes lasered on you, as if not quite believing you were there. You hate how his attention makes you shiver all the same. 

Even though he ignored your manager (which would have been a major dispute had you done the same), Jungkook still receives a friendly handshake in return. “Mr. Jeon! I’m surprised you know Ms. Y/N, though I’m sure you must have spoken with her when she was escorting guests to the outdoor seating the other day.”

You had actually gotten your co-hostess to seat all the outdoor seatings yesterday, but you weren’t going to mention that.

Manager Jeong claps him on the back, inadvertently causing Jungkook to stumble forward closer to you. He looks up at you then, eyes bugging out of their sockets like a rabbit caught in a bear trap. You stagger backwards in turn, barely concealing the anxiety on your face. Oh fucking hell.

Your manager is none the wiser, of course. “Well, this makes my job much easier! Since you’re both acquainted, I’ll let Y/N show you the ropes. The band doesn’t start their set until later in the evening, but you’re free to take a look at the stage and other parts of our facility in the meantime,” he says, chuffed. Meanwhile, Jungkook looks like he’s been shot by a freeze ray. 

Then, your manager points a sharper gaze at you. “Ms. Y/N, treat our super star well. I know you won’t disappoint me.”

Fucking superstar… You can only nod in defeat. “Y-Yes, sir…” you whisper, clenching your uniform with your fists. It is the only way to keep them from shaking like a leaf. You watch as his figure disappears behind his office door, leaving you to fend for yourself. Powerless, you train your gaze to the floor, unwilling to meet Jungkook’s eyes. 

But the nerves are taking control of your body, screaming at you to eject, eject, eject!

“Sorry, I have to go to the toilet,” you splutter quickly, almost tripping over yourself on the way to the restroom. You dimly wonder if Jungkook is going to think you’re leaving to throw up, but you can’t find any self-respect left to care. All you need is air and space to breathe—preferably away from him. 

You slam open the stall, hardly checking to see if anyone else is around before locking the door shut. You sit on the toilet, plant your face between your knees, and scream. 

Should you go home and use sickness as an excuse? But even if you did, you still had shifts every weeknight. You would have to see him eventually. You can pray all you want that Jungkook will be fired by the end of the week, but even your delusional mind can never fathom the idea that anyone would willingly want to send Jeon Jungkook away. Plus, you remember that the regular band that plays at the restaurant has been wanting to get a singer to accompany them for ages, and you know just how damn affable he can be. They are going to love him, and you hate him for that.

It is clear to you that there is no other option:

You pull out your phone to quickly open up Indeed on your browser, frantically hunting for any openings that might fit your measly qualifications. However, you have to pause in your search to deliberate. Wouldn’t it be better to move out of the country? You had been so naive to think that moving cities was enough distance between you and Jungkook—going across the ocean is the obvious answer. Should you start up your Duolingo lessons again and hope that you can somehow survive in a different continent with only a few dollars to your name? 

You shut your phone in despair. Whether or not your plans of escape are feasible or not, in the short term, you are stuck with having to suck it up and just learn to ignore your ex-boyfriend’s presence. Surely you can force out a fake smile or two, especially with how much practice you’ve gotten after working with unbearably entitled customers. 

Taking a step outside of the restroom stall, you head to the sink to splash some cold on your face. You stare at the mirror, confronted by a girl who looks two seconds away from having a Netflix Original-esque meltdown. You rake your fingers through your hair, doing your best to look like you aren’t about to rush into incoming traffic. To no one's surprise, it doesn't work.

“Okay, I got this. Just pretend like he’s just some guy, because at the end of the day, he is just some guy,” you mutter to your reflection. She looks back at you unconvinced. “He may have broken my heart into little bite size pieces, but who cares! HE’S JUST A GUY!” You repeat the phrase over and over again like a lunatic, in a desperate attempt to cognitively alter your brain chemistry.

At that moment, one of the other stalls in the restroom creaks open, and a girl you recognize who works as one of the dishwashers walks out. You both have a silent eye conversation as she quietly studies your crazed expression and crumpled work uniform. 

Eventually, she awkwardly clears her throat, pointing to the only sink in the restroom. “Uh, sorry to hear about your, uh, guy problem. Could I use the sink please?” 

You hastily back away, allowing her to take your spot. You don’t even have the energy to apologize for your spectacle, just bowing sheepishly to her before making your way back to the main hall. If she rats you out to the rest of your coworkers, then that gives you another reason to move out of the country. Maybe you should consider a name change while you’re at it.

When you exit the restroom, you half expect Jungkook to be waiting for you by the door, but find that he isn’t anywhere nearby. He isn’t by your hostess station either, and you thank your lucky stars for once. Even if your manager had asked you to show him around, you’re sure that Jungkook can find his way around just fine. Plus, the stage is at the corner of the restaurant and is sufficiently far enough that you wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him if you were careful. 

You don’t know which greater entity has been messing with your sanity these past few days, but you hope that they can show you mercy just once—a brief reprieve, if anything. 

You clasp your hands in prayer. I’ll eat more vegetables, I’ll remember to floss, I’ll call my parents from time to time… Just please let me survive tonight. 

“Remember, Y/N… He’s just some guy,” you reiterate through gritted teeth. If a passing coworker happens to overhear your demented chanting, then you pay them no mind.

You walk towards the entrance, flipping the sign to open. You feel like a video game character when you glance at the clock, which signals the start of your shift. You can imagine the red bold text hovering above your head: 8 more hours until freedom. 

This is just like playing Five Nights at Freddy’s, except you’ve only watched the movie and you suspect your life is probably worse than whatever Josh Hutcherson had to survive through. 

You take a couple heaving breaths to brace yourself for what will be the longest eight hours of your life. You’ll show Jungkook just how well-adjusted and mature you’ve become. You are a professional, and not even a boy with angelic vocals will make you crumble. After all, what’s the worst he can do? 

xxx

He could, in fact, do a lot worse than you thought. 

“I have many regrets being born at all,” you mutter bleakly, three hours into your shift. 

Jungkook had started singing only an hour ago, so you had been filled with false confidence at first when the restaurant was filled with nothing but ambient chatter and soothing jazz music. You felt more and more confident as the minutes ticked by and your anxiety slowly melted away. You even forgot that he was somewhere in the back, likely warming up or whatever it is that singers did before a performance. 

However, your brief moment of courage shatters almost immediately when Jungkook finally takes the stage. 

At first, you did your best to tune out his voice, but it’s especially hard when whoever was in charge of the sound system decided to crank his volume to an excruciating level. You wanted desperately to grab some napkins and shove them in your ears, but you suspected that your customers (and manager) would be unappreciative of that gesture. And so there you lay, forced to wallow in Jungkook’s melodious singing like a criminal strapped to an electric chair.

But how much more pleasant an electric chair would be! Why on earth was Jungkook so adamant to sing sad love songs the entire time? Why couldn’t he be like his other singing contemporaries, who loved to write songs about getting bitches and making money? At the very least, even if he wasn’t quite a platinum selling artist just yet, surely he was constantly sharing beds with anyone he pleases? Couldn’t he sing about that?!

(In the back of your mind, you wonder if it would be less painful to learn that Jungkook has slept with multiple people… Because then, it would mean that he had moved on while you stood alone on your island, stranded and yearning.)

You didn’t want to think too deeply about his lyrics. However, you're only human. So when your mind barrier failed and you caught snippets of his singing, you noticed a pattern. There was always a girl in his songs. She was omnipresent, and Jungkook was always pleading for her. Begging and aching and wanting. But most all… he was always repenting. In every song, he always whispered a pious apology. 

You feared what would happen if you turned around in those moments of weakness. You were terrified of admitting something, of letting words spill that had been trapped in your throat for the better part of two years. 

Lucky for you, salvation comes in the form of one Park Jimin. Though, can you even count him as your savior when he had also inadvertently caused your demise?

Jimin doesn’t even have a shift today, so you’re more than surprised when his bright blonde head stumbles through the restaurant doors. His expensive coat is askew and his signature designer shades are nowhere to be found. He is panic incarnate—an expression you have never seen on his face before.

“Holy fuck,” he greets, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. His profanity startles the elderly couple waiting to be seated, their glares menacingly sharp. To his credit, Jimin doesn’t even seem phased.

In lieu of an answer, you gesture vaguely behind you. You can imagine how dejected you must look. “Holy fuck indeed,” you sigh.

It takes a moment for Jimin to regain his bearings. He straightens up and pats down his coat, but his hair is still tousled by the wind. If not for the fact that he has a car, you might have thought he had run all the way here. 

“I am so sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen,” he starts, genuinely remorseful. “I texted Manager Jeong this morning and he said he’d get your ex to leave, but I didn’t think he’d offer the damn bastard a job!”

“Mind your language, Park. I’m still at work,” you scold. You try your best to ignore the scrutinizing gaze of the elderly couple. You lower your voice. “And don’t apologize. I know you’re an asshole, but I doubt you’d actually prey on my downfall like this. I know you’re not into public humiliation.”

Jimin brightens slightly at your joke, but he still looks like a guilty puppy who'd been caught shitting on the carpet. “Yeah, well. I happen to enjoy tormenting you and I won’t let some upstart Charlie Puth wannabe ruin your life. That’s my job.”

You smile wryly at him. “Well, that’s too bad. Jungkook’s been singing for a few hours now and I’m pretty sure Manager Jeong is going to keep him long-term. He might have broken my heart, but damn does he have vocals. I'm sure you'll have plenty competition when it comes to 'who can make Y/N's life feel like hell.'”

Jimin doesn't smile back, but instead studies your face for a moment. Then:

“Do you think if I offer to suck Manager Jeong off, he’ll fire him?”

“What the fuck?” You nearly yell out in surprise, your jaw dropping to the floor. Judging by his serious scowl, you know he's actually considering it. By now, the elderly couple waiting to be seated have left the premises.

Jimin continues, unperturbed. “I know he secretly wants me, based on how his wife seems to have a personal vendetta against me. He definitely wants a taste of my bus—.”

“Stop, I get it!” You wave your hands to make him shut up, heat rising up your cheeks. “Never say that string of words to me ever again. You have just inflicted ten years of suffering onto my poor brain.”

“Hey, I’m just offering solutions here!” Jimin pouts. 

You stare at him, unimpressed. “Save it. You tried solving my problems already, so let’s just accept the fact that there’s nothing else for me to do but to suck it up. It’s time for me to put on my big girl pants for a change.”

“I mean, I could do all the sucking instead, but you’re being a little bitch about it,” Jimin mumbles. He’s lucky you didn’t hear him this time, lest you give him something to really whine about.

“Anyway, I guess this is my life now. Nothing to do except hope that he never tries to interact with me or I can find another job,” you shrug. 

Over your shoulder, Jimin fixes Jungkook with an icy glare that is cold enough to give you the shivers. For the first time that entire night, you hazard a glance back at the stage, finding that Jungkook is already looking back at you.

You whip your head back forward, perspiration forming down your back. For fuck’s sake, this guy.

“Well, let me know if he tries anything. I’ll beat that little freak into the floor if he tries so much as breathing the same air as you.” Jimin huffs, puffing up his chest with false bravado. You can’t help but laugh at his empty threat, knowing that Jungkook could probably bench press Jimin without breaking a sweat. Jimin's muscles are only for aesthetics, after all.

“Don’t worry, he hasn’t actually spoken to me actually. He can keep singing his sad little love songs, I really don’t mind,” you say, like a liar. Jimin snorts, wholly unconvinced.

“Well, if you need me, I’m heading to the bar to grab a drink so I can stare at your ex uncomfortably until he leaves. See you!” Jimin bids you farewell with a cheery grin as he skips a little too happily inside the restaurant.

Why'd you have to befriend the largest lunatic in the city? You massage your forehead with a groan, willing away your growing headache. 

The rest of the night trickles away like molasses. Jungkook continues to sing his heart out, save for an hour intermission where he presumably takes a short break. In his absence, you hear Jimin guffaw loudly, his laughter too sharp to be considered happy. You faintly hear Jungkook shy stutters in response, and you momentarily consider running in to interrupt.

Why? Did you want to save Jungkook from Jimin’s unnecessary harassment? It’s not like Jimin is doing it out nowhere, he was just trying to be… a good friend?

You pause to ponder. As much as you hate to admit it, you know why you want to help Jungkook. But Jimin on the other hand? Why did he want to help you? Questions begin flowing through your head like a whirlwind, and your nausea increases. God, when was your next therapy appointment again?

You save those questions for another day. As you look at your watch, there are only thirty minutes left until two in the morning. You tap your foot impatiently, smiling curtly at departing customers as the restaurant slowly emptied. As they left, you overhear some of your regulars giggling amongst themselves, whispering about the cute new singer and his charming demeanor. 

The last nail on your coffin has been hammered. Yeah, Jungkook isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. 

With the restaurant closing soon, it sounds like Jungkook is ready to end his set as well. 

Throughout the night, Jungkook rarely made a point to speak. The only time he didn’t sing was when he quietly introduced the title of his next song and the band swiftly began the first opening notes. For his last song, however, Jungkook decided to give a little more backstory for his final song. 

“Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for listening to me for the night,” Jungkook says with a soft voice, his tone awfully shy despite his powerful belting throughout the evening. The few customers left give him a warm round of applause, and you hear the familiar sound of his timid giggles spill from the restaurant speakers. 

“This will be my final song for the night. Most of the songs I sang today were covers, but this one is an original. I…” He hesitates for a moment, and something pulls you to turn despite the alarm bells ringing in your ears. You face him, and just like earlier in the evening, he is already looking back at you.

This time, you don’t look away; he does. His eyes flit to the ceiling, and he licks his lips from nerves. “I… I wrote this song a long while ago. I’ve never sang it in public before and I never thought it would ever see the light of day. Until, well…”

He stops again. This time, he gestures to the guitarist in the band, silently asking to borrow it. With a guitar in hand, he smiles a little more confidently at the small crowd of people. He begins strumming the first few notes, and your heart stops. “I hope everyone had a pleasant evening. Get home safe and have a great rest of your week. My name is Jungkook, and this last song is called…”

Before he can sing the first line of his song, you make a break for it.

You slam the restaurant doors open, and the stinging cold air immediately pierces their fangs into your skin. Your coat is still inside, but you can’t bring yourself to reenter. You take a long breath, the chill barely registering in your mind with how loudly your heart is pounding in your ears.

Hearing the opening to that song was enough to bring you back in time, three years ago:

You are in his childhood bedroom, his walls littered with concert posters and his floor a mess with unfolded laundry and guitar picks. The afternoon sun is streaming through his windows, bathing him in gold. You have an exam the next day and he has cram school to go to, but you’ve both chucked your books somewhere on his desk, left forgotten. 

He has his eyes closed, concentrated. You’re both on his small twin bed, squished together side by side and thighs touching. You have your head on his shoulder and he has his hands on his guitar. He strums a few chords experimentally and sings a melody that only the two of you know.

(Not anymore.)

“Are you writing a new song?” you ask, voice a little scratchy. Neither of you had spoken for the past few hours, just basking in the setting sun and Jungkook’s indistinct strumming. But now, his chords sound more sure, more certain of something.

“Yeah, I just thought of it,” he hums. He opens his eyes a smidge, a smitten smile on his lips. You mirror him. 

“What’s it about this time?”

His brows furrow. “I’ve been trying to write about other stuff, you know? Namjoon-hyung tells me it’s important that songs have meaning and impact.” He pauses in his strumming, looking a little conflicted. “And I get what he means. Art is all about saying something, but… I can’t help that there’s only one thing I ever want to talk about. Is that so wrong?”

You chuckle, understanding what he means. You nudge your head against his cheek, grinning from ear to ear. The fluttering in your chest has become routine to you at this point, but he somehow always knows how to increase it tenfold. “God, you’re such a sweet talker. Really, Koo. There’s no need to serenade with love songs—I’m already yours.”

He looks back at you, brimming with tender affection. “I know,” he responds. Then, he takes a pen from his bedside table, and begins writing.

During those years of dating him, you always thought that If he was a waterfall, then you were a teaspoon. You desperately tried to be enough for him, but you’re barely able to fathom the depth of his devotion. Everything about him was excessive, and you could seldom understand how he managed to contain himself. He was born to share himself, to tear bits of his soul so that the world may understand him, love him. His songs were a testament that he was trying to do that, and you always felt so lucky to be able to receive him, wholly and fully.

How cruel was it that Jungkook uses that same song to rip open the barely healed scab on your heart, leaving you bare and stinging and raw all over again.

You have no idea how long you've stood there in the cold. It must have been barely a few minutes when Jimin finds his way to you. He wordlessly shrugs his coat off and places it on your shoulders, but you make no move to acknowledge him. 

You hope your silence is enough for Jimin to infer that you are not in a conversational mood, but he’s nothing if not impatient. He forcibly pulls you to face him, his hands warm even through your clothing.

“Hey, you good? Did something happen?” He asks with barely concealed irritation, but it’s not directed at you. Still, you flinch at his scathing tone, shrinking in on yourself. In your daze, you vaguely notice his resemblance to an angry baby chick. 

“It’s nothing. Go back inside, I’ll be right there,” you mumble lamely, weakly pushing him back towards the restaurant. Jimin does not budge, instead leveling you with a hard stare. This time, you’re sure his irritation is for you.

“You idiot, you literally ran out like someone was out to get you. Of course it’s not nothing,” he grouses. 

You sigh tiredly, shaking your head at him. “We can talk later. It’s almost closing time and I just want to go home and sleep.”

Before Jimin can argue further, the door to the restaurant opens once more, but it isn’t a leaving customer. 

“What the fuck? What are you doing out here?” Jimin all but shouts at Jungkook. He holds up an accusatory finger at him and uses his other hand to nudge you behind him as if to shield you. 

Jungkook winces, instinctively stepping back. Despite being a few inches taller than Jimin, Jungkook’s timidness makes him look smaller. “I… I was just worried about her—”

“Don’t you have a song to finish in there? Talk about professional,” Jimin spits out. Jimin maneuvers you so that Jungkook can’t see you, but you manage to catch sight of how his gaze follows you unfailingly.

“I finished up my set. It’s closing time.” Jungkook responds coolly. He’s still a little quiet, but you can sense some of his natural composure rising to the surface. When he needs to be, Jungkook has been known to stand his ground—usually when it comes to matters involving you.

At this time of the night and after hours of mental torture, the last thing you need is to watch your two worst nightmares duke it out in front of your work establishment. You are beyond exhausted, and you hardly have the fortitude to withstand another minute of their voices ringing in your ears. 

Your eyes well up with tears of frustration, causing the two boys to freeze up in panic. You don’t give them the chance to fuss over you; instead, you haphazardly wipe your cheeks before roughly pushing them back towards the restaurant. 

“Get back to work, you idiots.” Your voice sounds warbled even to your own ears, but you push past your overwhelming emotions in favor of getting back inside to close up. Hell, you might even call in sick tomorrow, just so you can cry pathetically into your bowl of cereal in solitude.

“I’m not even on the clock today!” Jimin complains faintly, but you only push him harder. 

When you all reenter, you walk back to your desk and pointedly ignore the two of them until they awkwardly float away from your orbit. Despite the distance they give you, their gazes are still fixed plainly on you and they feel like knives digging into your back. 

Eventually, all the final customers of the day take their leave, and your remaining coworkers start dimming the lights and bidding their goodbyes. From the corner of your eye, you see Jungkook bowing respectfully to the band, who were giving him friendly pats on the back for a job well done. Jimin walks toward you, his car keys dangling from his left pinky. 

“No thanks. I’ll take the bus home today,” you declare before he can offer a ride. Jimin opens his mouth like a goldfish, flapping his lips dumbly as he stares at you in shock. You have no idea why he’s so surprised, given how you’ve been making it obvious that you need some space.

He looks like he wants to argue again, but thinks better of it. A singular moment of restraint from Park Jimin, which is an act you once thought impossible. Maybe he does care about you more than you thought. 

He stiffly nods at you, shoving his hands and keys into his pockets. He still has a frown on his face when he tells you to text him when you get home. You flip him off with a shaky smirk in response, a feeble attempt to bring some levity back to your now tense relationship. It works a little, and Jimin brightens up significantly. How simple-minded of him.

With a flippant wave, you leave work and head towards your bus stop. At this hour of the night, the streets are mostly dim, save for some street lamps and bars that stay open longer than your restaurant. There are always some people milling about, enough that you never feel too on edge about how late it is. Still, your bus stop is often empty, leaving you to mull over your thoughts in peace.

You are in the midst of jamming your earbuds into your ear when a presence makes itself known beside you.

Is it possible to go through the five stages of grief in under a second? You suppose not, but it’s hard to tell what sort of emotions swim through you when you come face to face with Jeon Jungkook again.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath. You pause the song playing on your phone to glare at him with as much venom as you can muster. 

Jungkook holds up his hands in surrender, doe eyes wide like prey. “I-I’m heading home too! I’m not following you, I swear!”

You groan internally. Figures that you and Jungkook take the same bus home. But hold on— “Don’t you have a car? I remember you were parked near the restaurant the other night,” you note, squinting at him.

Jungkook looks sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. That car was my hyung’s. He lets me borrow it sometimes, but he needed it tonight.”

“Sure…” You level him with a skeptical frown. You remember his hyung, but don’t recall him ever owning a car. You aren’t even sure that his Namjoon-hyung is allowed by the country to drive a car, much less own one. 

He could be lying, but you don’t want to give him an excuse to continue any conversation. So, you busy yourself with your phone and keep your head bowed away from him.

When the bus arrives, Jungkook makes it a point to sit a few rows behind you. Thankfully, he has a better understanding of social cues than a certain Park that you know. He leaves you alone, but your entire body still feels like a rope pulled taut. You have to convince yourself not to look behind you, your morbid curiosity scratching your insides raw.

You are in the home stretch now, and it’ll only be a few more minutes before you get to your stop and make your way to your safe haven. Hell resumes the next day and the next, but at the very least you’ll have your home to yourself. No one could take that away from you.

Again, this is where you learn that tempting fate is never a good idea.

When you exit the bus at your stop, you can hear his footsteps following you. It’s hard not to notice, especially when his large and distracting boots make such a distinct racket that makes him so Jungkook. 

You hasten your pace towards your apartment complex, your shoulders hunched and hands shoved into your coat pockets in an attempt to hinder the bile rising from your stomach. He had promised that he wasn’t following you, but that proclamation seems to be standing on feeble legs with how long he’s been on your tail now.

Your street is filled with rows of low-rise apartment buildings, so you hope that if anything happens, you can yell as loud as you can and alert some compassionate neighbor to come to your aid. (Not that you think he would ever physically harm you, but… You can’t say the same about your mental state.)

Your home is just two buildings away from where you are, but Jungkook still seems determined to follow you to the end. You all but skip the remaining feet to your apartment entrance, your breath coming out in puffs as you finally muster up the courage to face your supposed stalker and give him a piece of your mind. 

“If this is some convoluted way for you to find out where I live, then you aren’t being very subtle about it,” you say, your chin held up high despite the growing urge to vomit pathetically in front of your ex-boyfriend. You have your hand rested on the doorknob, just a moment’s notice away from bolting into your house if the need for a quick getaway arises.

To your surprise, Jungkook wasn’t following you as closely as you expected. He had stopped trailing you about two buildings down, his own hand poised on the door with a look of genuine shock.

You both stand there, staring at each other as mutual understanding dawns on the two of you. 

Everyday, the universe learns of more creative ways to be cruel.

“Oh…” Jungkook’s voice falters. He looks simultaneously frightened and amazed, as if he too finds this entire situation unbelievably harsh. He swallows thickly, looking at you and back to his door in quick succession. “Well… This is a strange coincidence,” he murmurs. 

You want to believe that this was his entire fault, that Jungkook had somehow managed to track you down to haunt you for the rest of your days. You want to believe that he’s a crazed stalker who is willing to find where you work and live so that every hour of your wretched life is filled with nothing but reminders of what-could-have-beens. You just want someone to blame instead of just the cosmos—you want someone tangible to hate so that your suffering can be given some sort of identity. You want to give your mourning and hurt a name so that you can learn how to heal.

You want to believe all of that, but it’s hard to do so when Jungkook looks so incredibly uncomfortable, as if he’d rather melt into the shadows and never be seen again. 

In all your memories, you have never seen Jungkook look so small.

You heave a big sigh, your fingers grasping the door knob so tightly that you half-expect it to be dented from the force. You linger for a moment, your mouth opening but nothing spills out. 

What is there to say? What do you say to an ex-boyfriend that you haven’t seen in two years, who is suddenly so deeply entwined in your life once more? Do you tell him goodnight? Tell him to stay away? Tell him to come home with you?

Jungkook looks equally as conflicted. His lips are pursed tight with words left unsaid. You aren’t sure whether you want to punch the confession out of his mouth or seal them up forever. It feels like eons before he finally breaks the silence with a mirthless laugh.

“I… I just wanted to say—back at the restaurant. When I sang that last song,” Jungkook begins, and his voice feels loud because of how empty the streets are. For a moment, you are reminded of a cathedral you once visited during a vacation, how sacred silence can be. The world holds its breath, waiting for him to speak.

“I meant it all. Every word. Every lyric. I never stopped…”

He trails off, shrugging his shoulders. He stares at you helplessly, but you don’t know what to say. You don’t want to listen any more, but your feet are planted to the ground. You’re frozen like a deer in headlights, forced to brace against him as he crashes into you. 

He continues, “And when we broke up back then… I never wanted that to happen. You broke it off before we could even try something—and I hated how I didn’t fight for you harder. I let you misunderstand me because I was afraid you wouldn’t want to stick around if I didn’t succeed. I convinced myself that I was holding you down, but I never gave you—us—a chance. I never stopped regretting it since.”

“Me? Break up with you?” You echo incredulously. That statement is enough to break you from your trance, the telltale signs of indignation rising up your chest. “How dare you suggest—Me? You were the one who broke up with me, asshole! You were the one who broke my heart and decided to up and leave to god knows where! Only to miraculously respawn right next to me, groveling at my feet with sad love songs as if that’s enough for me to forgive and forget? Fucking entitled bastard,” you seethe.

Somehow, Jungkook manages to shrink more, like a bunny with his tail tucked between his legs. “Yes, you’re right that I broke your heart but… When I told you I was moving away to try and become a singer, it was always with the intention of staying together. I know it would have been difficult, but I wanted you to be with me through thick and thin. But when you misunderstood and took it as a break up, I let you go because, well… I was scared that it would happen eventually. Who wants to date a broke busking fool anyway?”

He laughs, but it sounds watery. He sniffles, and you hope it's only because of the cold. “I tried looking for you, but you blocked me everywhere and no one from back home seemed to know where you went. So I just accepted that we’d never see each other again… Until a few days ago, that is.”

A misunderstanding? Is that what everything boils down to? Years of trying to build yourself back up again, relearning what it means to be happy—all the fallen domino pieces in your life trailing back to a single moment in time? All because Jungkook was scared that you didn't love him enough?

You’ve never felt angrier in your life. You fear what you might say if you continue to stand outside there, face to face with the singular person strong enough to whittle you down to the bone. Jeon Jungkook is all soft smiles and sweet songs, but how come he’s always able to knock you off your axis? Few people on this earth can stitch you up and break you down in equal measure, but somehow, Jungkook manages to do all that and more.

Then, comes the guilt. Had it been all your fault? That you hadn't returned his love in equal measure? Had you secretly given up on the hope of being on his level? Always looking down on yourself: unable to move past your insecurities. Were you terrified of being his side piece, his girlfriend, forever?

Who are you, even? And where do you stand?

(Beside him, is what you want to answer. You don't know if that's the right choice.)

You can’t bear to look at him, least of all answer him. Without another word, you shove your house key into the door before slamming it shut despite the late hour. If you awaken any neighbors, you’ll apologize later. For now, all you require is sleep and hope that this has been all a terrible nightmare.

xxx

Reality is a bitter pill to swallow.

Jeon Jungkook continues to sing at the restaurant, and after only two days of repeat stellar performances, your manager decides to promote him as the official vocalist for the band. It hurts to admit that you're not the least bit surprised; you might have a hard time looking at him, but you can never deny his talent. 

His song list has added a larger variety of genres ever since his first performance. That is to say, he isn’t always singing about lost loves and tragic couples every night. Perhaps it is due to some requests from customers or his other bandmates, but it doesn’t stop him from sprinkling one or two love songs into the mix. 

He doesn’t sing any original songs ever again. That, at least, is a small mercy. He doesn’t make any moves to speak with you either, despite the daily awkward trips back home after the end of your shifts. Whether that’s because he’s given up on you (again), or he’s waiting for you to make the first move, you don’t know. Frankly, you don’t think you have the energy (nor courage) to do anything about it.

It’s a few weeks after Jungkook’s first performance at the restaurant, and closing time is approaching. You appreciate Friday nights the most because it means you’ll have two consecutive days to relax and avoid your problems. It’s also the busiest night of the week, when white-collar workers decide to drink and eat for as long as the night allows them. Busier nights mean more distractions, and you’re willing to deal with twenty Karens over one Jungkook.

During nights like these, your manager occasionally asks you to fulfill some waitress duties when there aren’t enough hands on deck. Normally you’d hate it, but earning the extra tips is enough to keep your grumbling to a minimum To this day, your landlord has yet to do anything about your broken shower, and you’ve finally conceded to the fact that you’ll have to be the one to do something about it. 

As you inform the customers in your area that the last call for orders is approaching, you sneak a glance at the bar to see Jimin dutifully performing his job. That is to say, he’s flirting up a storm, getting women and men alike to blush from head to toe as he serves their drinks with a salacious smirk.

What a swindler, you think to yourself, snorting when he makes eye contact with you. He gives you a cheeky salute, mouthing something as he gestures to the back door.

Despite the semi-fight the two of you had all those weeks ago, Jimin was never one to argue about the same topic two days in a row. When you saw him the next day after your confrontation with Jungkook, Jimin was back to all smiles. You still catch him sending death glares towards Jungkook on most nights, but he doesn’t bring up the matter with you anymore. For that reason, you’ve gratefully settled back into your weird, banterful friendship with him. Even if there’s still a lingering tension between the two of you that you refuse to acknowledge.

You nod thankfully back at him, excited to go to his house and take a much needed shower. At this point, going to his house has become second nature to you, and it gives you an excuse to not see Jungkook at your regular bus stop every day. You have half a mind to never fix your shower for that reason, but of course there is still the problem of having to deal with Jimin every time you need to bathe. You hardly consider yourself an impatient person, but Jimin likes to toe the line far more often than necessary.

You’re down to your last two tables before you can close up shop when your manager suddenly barrels right into your path. You nearly drop your tray of dirty dishes to the floor, holding in a loud yelp as your suspiciously stern-faced manager halts you in place.

“Ms. Y/N, may I have a word with you for a moment? It’s regarding your paycheck for the month,” he barks, lips downturned. He appears disgruntled about something, and it sends a worried shiver down your spine. And here you thought Fridays are meant to be fun. He doesn’t wait for you to reply before he stalks back to his office, an unspoken command for you to follow. 

You unload your dishes in the kitchen before making your way to his office. The small, dark room is cramped with overflowing file folders and coupons from multiple take-out places. You accidentally step on a stack of papers, and upon further inspection, seem to be a pile of applications for new hires. You distinctly remember complaining to him months prior about being understaffed and him replying that no inquiries were coming in.

As you approach, your manager shuffles through your coworkers pay stubs, and you notice yours and Jungkook’s on top of the piles. 

Manager Jeong clears his throat. “Well, Y/N. It seems to be your lucky day. As you know, we split the tips based on your hours and what sort of duties you fulfill. With the new hire we have as our in-house singer, we’ve had to split it one way more to accommodate his arrival. However, he has recently requested to me that his portion be reallocated… to you, Ms. Y/N.”

Your jaw drops immediately. “I-I don’t understand, Manager Jeong,” you sputter. 

Manager Jeong snorts, bemused by your reaction. “Don’t understand? Well, I suppose you’ll have to ask Mr. Jeon if you want his reasoning. Regardless, since we normally deposit your salary straight to your bank account, would it be alright if I hand you his tips in cash for now? He only informed me about his request an hour ago, and the accountant has already clocked out for the week.”

All you can do is nod dumbly back at him. With a huff, your manager presses a white envelope into your hands before promptly ushering you out of his office. “Well, that's settled. Out you go! Have a good weekend, Ms. Y/N. Don’t forget to lock the register before you leave!” He calls out before slamming his door in your face.

It takes you a moment to reanimate back to life. You stare at the white envelope for a long while, unable to fathom the scribbled out name of Jeon Jungkook replaced with your own name. Then, you crumple it into your fist before stomping over to where Jungkook and the rest of the band are in the middle of packing it up for the night.

Jungkook looks up from his guitar case when he senses you fast approaching. For a fleeting second, a smile graces his handsome face before it’s smacked away by your crumpled envelope. 

“Keep your fucking cash, Jungkook. What the hell is your problem?” You fume, cheeks heating from agitation. Jungkook splutters for a moment, prying the envelope away from his face and looking at it in bewilderment. When he sees it clearly, recognition dawns on his face, followed by guilt.

“It’s just… my way of saying sorry, I guess.” He answers you meekly, neck flushing red in embarrassment. Behind him, the rest of the band grow silent at the scene before them, and you debate on telling them to mind their own business when they quicken their pace to leave.

“Well, keep your apology to yourself. There’s nothing to apologize for,” you correct him with a frown. To offer an apology is to offer accountability. You aren’t sure if you’re ready to hear him say that. 

“No, it’s a sorry for… using you, I suppose.”

“Using me?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “For what?”

Jungkook smiles wryly back at you. “For inspiration?” he clarifies. For being the reason I can sing? He leaves that part unsaid, but you can almost imagine him saying it. 

You feel heat rising to your cheeks again, but this time you aren’t quite sure if it’s from embarrassment, anger… or something else.

Unable to conjure up a response to his simple confession, you stomp away from him with a pounding heart and shaking hands. You continue the rest of your closing shift routine instinctually, your body moving on autopilot as Jungkook’s words continue to ring inside your head. When all is said and done, Jimin makes his way to your station with a questioning stare, but you wave him off in favor of stomping ahead of him to the parking lot.

In his car, Jimin rattles off about his latest exploits and purchases, his grating voice a comfort for once. You hum noncommittally during his stories when appropriate, but you suppose your usual indifference feels different, even to Jimin's untrained ears. 

At his house, you drift to his bathroom immediately. You already have a shirt button undone by the time you get a handle on the door when Jimin’s hand stops you in place. You can feel his warmth emanating against your back as he slowly pulls the bathroom door close. With a tired sigh, you reluctantly turn to face him and find him standing closer than you expected.

He has an arm resting above your head, effectively caging you. You feel your shoulders sag. Damn, here comes another confrontation. Why can’t everyone just leave you alone?!

“Talk to me,” he says. No, he demands.

You push him away weakly, but he hardly budges. “Nothing to talk about,” you lie. Had you no filter, you’d be word vomiting all over the place ages ago.

Jimin groans, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Enough with the emotional constipation. I’m here to listen, alright? No teasing or anything, I’m all ears and maybe a shoulder to cry on. Just don’t stain my Chanel top too bad,” he jokes.

You puff out a short breath—a sorry excuse for a laugh. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to talk about it, and that’s that.”

“It’ll make you feel a lot better, though,” he offers.

You scoff. “What makes you think that? What if I just want to ignore all my problems forever and never grow from it? Is that so bad?”

Jimin pushes himself away from you, raising his hands in mock defeat. “You’re so fucking annoying. Can you stop running away from your problems and talk to me? Hell, talk to Jungkook for all I care! Just stop being a doormat and speak your mind for once in your damn life!”

“What are you, my therapist?” You brush past him, shower all but forgotten. You begin toeing your shoes back on, ready to head home tired and smelly. At the very least, you won’t have to deal with this stupid annoying asshole any longer. 

Jimin strides back towards you, but for once he doesn’t do anything to forcibly stop you. Jimin has always been gruff with you, not afraid to push and pull you in any which direction. It’s part of the reason why you can’t take him seriously, even though you’ve recently realized why he was always being such a prick towards you—

“Yeah, I’m not your therapist. But for better or for worse, I’m your friend and I—I fucking care about you, alright? And it sucks seeing that good-for-nothing stick his nose in your business and act like he can do anything without any repercussions.”

Is Jimin being for real right now? “With how often you look at yourself in the mirror, you’d think you’d be better at introspection,” is all you say to that. You shove your feet into your shoes, not caring that you’ve probably put them on wrong. Maybe it’s because it’s Friday and the fatigue from the week has finally settled deep in your bones, but you can’t help but leave one last scathing remark to drive the final nail in the coffin.

“You know, if you were a little nicer to me, maybe I would talk to you. Hell, maybe I’d like you back. But no, just keep being your domineering, asshole self and I’ll keep being the same fucking doormat bitch you know and love,” you spit, turning towards the door and away from his face. You’re not even curious to see how he reacts. “I don’t need protection, alright? When I tell you to stay out of my business, you stay out of it. So don’t try and pretend to be my knight in shining armor.”

There’s an ocean of silence, enough to hear a pin drop. The urge to apologize surges to the surface, but you stamp it down. He’s petty all the time, so now it’s your turn.

Okay, maybe that’s a little too mean on your part, but you’re exhausted. Perhaps it is true when they say you should never act on your anger when it’s past midnight. But can anyone blame you? You’re only a girl, and girls need to snap too. 

When he responds, his voice sounds weak. Park Jimin, weak? It's almost unthinkable. "Why don't you trust me?"

Isn't it obvious? you want to say. But some mercy remains within you. You'll pick up the pieces another time. Instead, you rasp out, “Good night, Park. I’ll see you on Monday.”

The walk of shame back to your house is long and arduous. Your phone dings thrice, likely signaling texts from Jimin, but you turn it off without checking for sure. For once, the weight on your shoulders is slightly lighter. You huff out a dry laugh, realizing belatedly that maybe Jimin is right—maybe speaking your mind has its benefits.

There’s a small park in your neighborhood that you always pass by. You don’t remember the last time you spared it a second glance, but this time you notice a lone figure swinging back and forth, arching dangerously higher than what you would consider safe. From a distance, all you can make out are the person’s comically bright boots, and you have a sinking suspicion you know who it is without seeing their face.

Cosmos, or whoever it is that controls my life, why must you braid our strings of fate so tightly? You ask, but as always, it refuses to reply.

Against your better judgment, your feet bring you closer towards him. He has his back towards you, his feet pumping him higher and higher and you half expect him to swing in a perfect arc like a gymnast on parallel bars. You have to keep your distance a bit, lest you get the wind knocked out of you by his signature stompers. 

You clear your throat, and the boy stops mid-swing and nearly catapults himself into the spongey, playground floor. Hunched over and wheezing, Jungkook directs his shocked eyes at you with a comical stare. 

You raise a hand in greeting. A peace offering, maybe. “Hello—”

“I swear I’m not stalking you!” Jungkook interrupts as he scrambles to his feet. He bows deeply in remorse, the action so endearingly him. “S-sorry, I’ll make my way home now…”

“I don’t own the park, Jungkook. I was just saying hello…” You snort, wringing your hands uncomfortably. You grind your shoes into the ground, the sound of crunching leaves breaking the still air. “A-and… to say sorry, for earlier.”

“Sorry?” Jungkook repeats, confused. When he realizes what you mean, he waves his hands frantically. “No, no! Don’t be sorry! It was my fault for being so inconsiderate. I understand how you might misconstrue my actions, and I made things more awkward. I’ll consider your feelings more in the future…”

In the future… You cough, unwilling to meet his bright and honest gaze. If you stare too long, you fear you might go blind. 

“I come here to the park often, when I feel too cramped inside my apartment,” Jungkook explains, frantic energy radiating off him in waves. He’s gesticulating too much, a clear sign that he’s trying to hide his nerves. You remember how he would do the same thing in high school, whenever he had to present his projects in front of the class. 

You hold a hand up, a weak attempt to get him to calm down. “I’m not here to interrogate you. I just wanted to…” What is it that you wanted to do?

The two of you just stand awkwardly like that, similar to a few weeks ago when you discovered you were neighbors. You’re grasping at straws in your head, both conflicted for wanting to tell him something and running away. Even if you were to talk to him, what would you say? There’s a reason you told Jimin you didn’t want to talk—frankly, it’s mostly because you have no idea what to say or feel. 

But you do know, the universe responds. 

I ask you questions all the time, and this is how you respond? 

Either that, or you’re going insane, the universe remarks.

Jungkook pulls out his phone, his fingers fumbling as he unlocks it. He takes a furtive step towards you, but thinks better of it. There’s a few feet of distance between you, but it feels like worlds apart. Close and yet so far. You recall how you’d easily pull him towards you in the past, how being together felt as natural as breathing. 

“I know you absolutely hated it the last time I played my original song at the restaurant, so I refrained from performing any ever since that night. But that didn’t stop me from writing them. I was fine with keeping them locked in a vault forever, but…” He hesitates, searching you for any signs of discomfort. When he sees the carefully blank look on your face, he continues with trepidation. 

“Can I try a song for you? You don’t have to say yes, and you’re free to tell me to fuck off and I’ll never even look at you ever again. Just…” He flails one last time, a choked sob making its escape from his throat. 

Are you hopeless for wanting to say yes? Or were you reverting back to your old self who relied on him and believed in him so heavily? If you wanted him out of your life for good, you would have quit your job at the first sight of him. Maybe you were masochistic. Or maybe were you hopeful for a new start, a chance to rekindle a relationship that you’ve secretly always wanted to repair.

You have so much life ahead of you. Many more mistakes will be made and maybe they’ll haunt you when you’re older. But would it really be such a terrible gamble to take one more chance? 

You nod, and seal your fate.

He presses play, and the soft strumming of a guitar fills the empty playground air. 

Not for the first time, you wonder how it can be so easy for Jungkook to be so… honest. He spills his heart in every song that he writes, and you know he’s never been a great liar. He can’t help it, being genuine is in his DNA. This crashing waterfall, this boy with overflowing emotions—he sings what he thinks but feels terrified because of it. You might not understand his honesty, but you know that fear. You know it all too well.

He beholds himself to you—raw and unfiltered. A little battered and bruised, but still Jungkook. Behind everything, still the boy you’ve been yearning for.

Maybe this song is what will give you enough confidence to admit everything to him, too. As you stand there, listening to his mellow voice sing confessions to no one but you and the stars, you think you grow a little more courageous that day.

Maybe you won’t be able to tell him tonight. Maybe not tomorrow, nor next week either. But as you gaze back at his hopeful eyes, you know deep in your heart that you’ll find the words you’ve been looking for.

“I’ll keep waiting for you, if you let me.” Jungkook’s voice floats gently to you, and settles in your open palms. This time, you don’t let go

xxx

Months later, Jungkook stops working at the restaurant when an offer from a major record company arrives in his mail. Apparently, a big shot from the local radio station had pitched him to an employee at that company and they were all pleasantly surprised to find a hidden gem at a random bar and restaurant.  

In your apartment, you stare outside your window and to where his home is—well, where it was. You wonder if he finished packing his things, ready to make the big move tomorrow. You stand up with a stretch, sparing a glance at your still broken shower. It would be nice to have one more shower at his place… And after that? Maybe you should start looking for a nicer apartment; somewhere far away might be nice.

Your phone rings, and you see his contact photo light up your screen. With a smile, you answer.

“Come over, if you want. I won’t make you,” Jungkook assures you. 

You laugh lightly, already halfway out the door. 

[crescenthistory]

hey how are youu? I’m new here and I’m completely in love with your work especially with the Barty’s ones! I wanted to request the prompt c 11 (you are okay) with the 4 (near death experience) and if you could make it like part of the series of where they bicker all the time it would be perfect! Anyways I really enjoy your writing and I love how you portray my man Barty🤍🫶🏼

hi there lovey! thank you so much for being here and for your sweet words<33 i combined this request with another i received, i hope that is okay

other request: i headcanon barty as a person who has attachment issues (on the ambivalent side), in the way he loves too much his friends and lovers but at the same time is afraid of intimacy bc he also struggles with showing affection in a non sexual way. so my idea is that (gn)reader and barty have an argument because of their insecurities about trust and commitment, but AFTER they've been avoiding the conversation for too long. it could end very much extremely bad or very good.

you can find the other fics for this specific au here and here

Prompts: C.11 "You're okay, you're okay" & 4. Near Death Experience

Words: 6k

Warnings: not proofread, gn!reader (no pronouns used), use of y/n, reader and barty both have mental breakdowns/spirals, attachment issues, miscommunication, "oh shit! love is scary but i do love you so what now" moments, near-fall on the ice, potions accident, choking in a non-sexual way, infirmary, language, talk of death, injured!reader, heavy hurt but heavy comfort, happy ending

this isn't fun anymore

Your relationship with Barty thus far had been interesting to say the least.

After endless bickering led to an impromptu kiss to shut him up in the library, which in turn led to a heavy make-out session in a nearby cot, which led to a “how does it feel to be my girlfriend?” “I wouldn’t know” “do you want to?” “sure” conversation in the Slytherin common room, you somehow wound up being in an established, committed relationship with one Barty Crouch Junior.

To your friends’ flabbergasted shock, and, quite frankly, your own surprise.

Even more surprisingly so, you loved it – which scared you to no end.

As the weeks began to stretch into months, you felt as if you were losing your footing more and more in your dynamic. What was once flirtatious and intense has now become almost intimate and close. It stills you in your movements as you try and find your bearing.

Who are you to Barty when you are not in the mood to quip? Or even talk at all? Who is Barty to you when you allow him to just be Barty and not sparring-partner Junior?

All good questions to ask oneself, but not as productive to spiral over as you walk with him from Hogsmeade, a little stretch behind your boisterous friends.

There are two reasons for this. One is that Barty has somehow learned to read your emotions fairly well despite your inability to communicate them effectively, and he is now scrutinising your distracted facial expressions. Second, and perhaps most importantly, is that it is winter in Scotland.

In your distracting spiral, you step on a snow that covered a perfectly polished sliver of ice, and your foot slips out from underneath you.

You barely managed to squeak out a shriek, scrambling to retract your hand from Barty’s to catch you as you fall, before one of his hands is around your waist and the other on the back of your neck, stabilising your neck. His wild eyes stare into yours, mild panic seeping away to make place for a wicked grin.

“Careful, sweetheart. Falling for me already?”

You roll your eyes before you let out a breath of relief, hands clutching onto his form as he is still holding you up in his grasp.

“You wish, Junior,” you scoff at him, albeit with a smile.

“Every night, on every star.”

You let him place you onto your legs, arm circling around your waist as a remaining layer of protection. You shiver, brushing off imaginary pieces of snow from the fall that did not occur. In front of you, your shared friends had stopped upon hearing you yell.

“Y/N, you good?” Lily called, concern etched onto her face.

At the same time, Sirius, ever the supportive friend, yelled, “Did Barty finally kill you?”

“Oh yes, Big Black, I am incredibly dead,” you yell back as Barty roll his eyes at you both and mutters something about on the contrary.

Regulus, in turn, says something you can’t quite catch over the distance, but you suppose it has something to do with your nickname for Sirius and its insinuations. Little Black did not enjoy being referred to as such.

The group waits up for the two of you to catch up, Barty enjoying taking his time with a lazy stroll.

“You mind picking up the pace, Junior?” Sirius grumbles.

Unfortunately, that only further encourages Barty. “Why would I? Got a pretty damsel in distress on my arm and all the time in the world.” 

You try and rip out of his arms at that, feigning offence at him, but he only holds you tighter. “How dare you. I am neither a damsel nor in distress–”

He cuts you off with a quick peck on your lips. “You are pretty though. Sorry, baby, had to shut the sod up somehow.”

You turn your head away from him with a shake, trying your hardest not to blush at his words or his actions. You bully Regulus too much for his blushing to commit such atrocities yourself. “Whatever you say, Junior, but you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“You don’t even live together,” Remus comments amusedly.

“Doesn’t matter; the sentiment still stands.”

James and Remus shake their heads at the two of you, while Sirius and Lily nod solemnly in support of you. The whole lot begins walking back the short distance to the castle.

Barty makes a comment of some sort to Regulus that both Black brothers and James quip back at, which starts another tireless spat. You are too zoned out to care what they are bickering about today, disappearing back into your thoughts recklessly, despite the dire consequences from last time.

Attachment issues was such a loaded term, you thought, and you didn’t like to think of yourself like that. Yet the fact remained that the longer you and Barty spent together, the more a part of your brain begins dry heaving and screaming. What began as pure fun, tingles along your spine at every back-and-forth, is becoming realer by the minute, and it terrifies you. Not because you cannot stand a relationship or fear being bound down – because you are starting to care for him. Genuinely, wholly, in a way that aches. You have always been one to shy away from emotional aches, and the fact that you now have to decide whether to withstand it or throw it away for another type of pain makes you lightheaded.

With his arm so securely around yours, with his laughter in your ear, you feel right. You feel content and whole. Why should that make sirens go off in your head?

Most of the time you spend with Barty is with others around, where you can’t fully access your emotions. In the Great Hall, if you eat by yourselves, everyone else is still there, when you walk the hallways or the grounds, there are always students and professors around. Even when you visit his dorm, which is becoming more frequent by the second, Evan and Regulus usually aren’t far. You almost wanted to keep it this way, ensure that Barty only sees the fun and open side of you, keeping everything else under lock and key. You almost avoid him when you are able to be alone just the two of you, because the implications are too vast for you to face them.

He has to know. He has to have seen. Have noticed that you keep pushing one front of you towards him and shielding the rest – and it seems like he enjoys that one, but at some point he must want more. Could you give it to him?

“Okay, what’s going on in that head of yours?” Barty’s whisper cuts through your thoughts as you step through the entrances to the castle, once more slightly secluded at the back of the group.

You merely hum in response, trying to pull yourself out of your spiral to look at him.

“C’mon, baby.” His drawl is teasing, but his eyes seem darker than usual. “You have never gone this long without insulting me somehow. What's up?”

“Maybe you’ve just been on your best behaviour today,” you say conspiratorially, putting on your mask expertly. “Haven’t needed to.”

“Now see, that is simply empirically wrong,” Barty guffaws at you. “Did you hear what I said to Reg earlier?” His raised eyebrow is giving you a silent cut the crap that you aren’t ready to face.

“I’ll be honest with you; I did not.” You look away, pulling your jacket further around you. “I’m just mentally preparing for Potions and Slughorn tomorrow, he said we should expect something big.”

“Should I be concerned that lying comes that easily to my girlfriend?” Barty asks, making you whip your head back to him. He is still teasing, but you really, really don’t like the look in his eyes.

“Should I be concerned that my boyfriend can’t take the hint to let something be?” You didn’t think about the words before you let them tumble, instantly getting defensive.

“No,” Barty says, stopping you with the hand on your waist, looking directly at you. “‘Cause I’m just checking on you when something is clearly wrong.”

“Since when do you check on me?” you say, realising your voice is uncomfortably close to a snarl. Barty does, too.

“Since you decided to take me up on my relentless flirting and enter into a relationship with me. You know, the kind where people care for and look after each other? Or is that not us?”

You stare at him for a second, as it uncomfortably settles into your bones that the odd look in his eyes is hurt. Confusion, concern and hurt. You’re at a loss for words.

“I don’t know what to say to that,” you settle on, feeling dumb but stubborn. 

Barty nods, looking away at last, small frown over his lips. “Well. Let me know when you do. Or don’t, you know, it’s whatever.”

He walks away from you, leaving you to stand alone, looking after him. If your friends realised you’re gone, they have likely assumed that the two of you are in some hallway together making-out. No one would come check up on you.

You trek back and sit down, just outside the entrance to the castle, trying to understand what just happened. Sliding down the wall, you watch as new snow begins to fall, large wet chunks flying through the air. You let them symbolically represent your tears as you keep bottling it all up.

That night, you go to your dorm in silence, telling yourself you’re thankful not to see Barty on the way there. You fall asleep watching the door.

Truth is, you had also been stressed out regarding Slughorn’s Potions class for the day after. As you wake and get ready, anxiety rages through your body for more reasons than one. He had been teasing the class for weeks, saying that you would be brewing some dangerous, difficult potion, allowed into the curriculum as a one-time exception for him.

Technically, this would have been no problem, however you are currently paired with McLaggen in Potions. The biggest twat I have ever seen, as Barty described him. While you didn’t have as intense feelings about him, you knew one thing for certain: the boy was absolute shit at potions.

The kind of awful that you really don’t want to be paired with for some exotic and dangerous potion.

Potions was one of the few classes you and Barty had together as your subject selections were relatively different. He would always walk you from your dorm, first class in the morning, soaking up every minute with you. Some of your best banter came from Potions class, often at McLaggen’s expense, for better or worse.

When you opened your door, you were not entirely sure what to expect.

What you found, certainly was not it, though.

“Regulus, what– what are you doing here?”

Regulus looked incredibly sheepish where he stood, weight leaned on one of his hips as one hand scratched the back of his neck. The other held something in it that you couldn’t quite detect as you took the awkward scene of him in.

“I, uh,” he starts, uncharacteristically inarticulate. “Barty said he couldn’t walk you today, but wanted to give you something for, um, your anxiety? About the class? Or something like that. Anyway, here.”

The tips of his ears were burning red at the humiliation of being caught in the middle of whatever this was. He reached out his hand and opened it to reveal a small potions bottle – ironic – with some purple liquid inside.

“What is it?” you asked, taking it tentatively and turning it over in your hands.

“It’s meant to make you calm down and relax– not that I think you need to do that, just, Barty wanted to give it to you.” Regulus winces at his own inelegance. “I got some from James the other week, he apparently has a bunch stacked up in his dorm with the boys, for God knows what reason. Barty asked for one for you. So, here we are.”

“I don’t really know what to say,” you trail off, looking between the potion and Regulus. “Thanks?” 

“I, uh, will tell him that then–”

“Gods, no,” you cut him off. “Don’t tell him that, he wouldn’t appreciate it.” 

As you seem to be thinking over a response, Regulus adds: “If it makes a difference, he said something to me about giving it to you on the off-chance that he was wrong and a massive wanker.”

You chuckle at that. “Well, he’s always a massive wanker,” you joke on reflex. “But you don’t need to act as an owl, Reg, I’ll thank him myself. And thank you for the potion.”

Regulus seems to let out a breath of relief at that, smiling a bit more comfortably at last. “Great, well, I’ll see you around I guess.”

You smile curtly and give him a quick nod before seeing him all but run off. 

Once he’s gone, you drink the potion and the effects are instantaneous. Your shoulders seem to loosen in places you didn’t know they were wound up, your breathing regulates and your heartbeat slows. A little too late, you mull over that this was James’s potion, and you probably should have been careful, given his track record in class. Nevertheless, the potion seems legitimate. 

With a bit more breath in your lungs, you walk off to class, alone.

Barty could not make up his mind on whether to drag his gaze away from you when it instantly gravitated towards you, or if he could let it linger.

The feelings warring in his chest felt impossible to map out. On the one hand, you had snapped at him when he tried to help, which was shitty – on the other, he still didn’t know what he was trying to help with or what compelled you to snap at him. What you were going through. Which honestly is on you, he thought, wincing at his own frustrations.

He was not one to dwell on small spats, but this was entirely unfamiliar territory to him. Barty didn’t do relationships, at least he didn’t think so before you came in like a freight train consuming his being. It was fun to finally have someone properly challenge him and do so with a beautiful smile on their face – the perfect situation for him. It was fun, until his heart began to hurt when you weren’t near, until it was your laugh that ran through his head, guiding him away from a spiral. Until he realised he was not just down bad for you as Dorcas teased, he was something much, much worse.

And he had no idea how to handle it.

His infatuation with you was all-encompassing, a burning passion and loyalty that characterised having Barty’s affection. He knew it, as did all his friends, but when it is with you, he doesn’t know how to handle it. With a friend, he could snog, even shag, them at a random party and it wouldn’t matter for either of them. With you, that first kiss, first anything, was so much more important. With a friend, if he pissed them off enough, they would just cool off without him for a while and then the slate was clear. With you – he had no idea what he would do if you disappeared. Would you come back? He was acutely aware that this was a dynamic he didn’t know how to explore.

Now, it seemed like you needed his support, but wouldn’t accept it. Didn’t want him near it.

He had to respect that, he thought to himself. So, he did his best to tear his gaze away and leave you be.

With the amount of times your eyes met, he knew he wasn’t being successful. He paid no mind to the fact that you did not avert your eyes, either. 

His feet were tapping relentlessly on the ground, his eyes flicking all over the Potions classroom to keep them from you. Barty was losing his fucking mind and he had no idea what to do about it.

“Mate,” Evan cuts off his distracted mental monologue that Barty himself couldn’t really make sense of. “Would you bloody cut it off? I’m trying to not kill us here.”

Barty does not dignify him with a response, but tries to calm his skittishness, albeit not overly successfully. He zeroes in on Slughorn and his peculiar facial expressions as he, a bit too excitedly for 8 in the morning, continues his explanation.

Something about a healing potion that is so particular that if brewed even slightly wrong, it becomes one of the most effective poisons in the world. Something about corrosive to the touch. Something about bezoars healing.

Barty settles his gaze on the bowl of bezoars Slughorn had on his desk, just in case, with a bad feeling in his stomach. He wondered if you felt the same.

As the pairs set to attempt the feat of making the potion correctly, Barty’s eyes drifted back to you, happy to leave the work to Evan – who in turn was happy to work in the silence without his constant chatter.

Your shoulders were relaxed, though your brows were furrowed together as you reread the instructions for the thousandth time. He wondered if you had taken the potion he sent to you with Regulus, he wondered if it helped you. While he knew in his bones you were lying about it being what bothered you, he still could never be too sure. He wanted you to feel safe, whichever way he could ensure it.

He knows what that’s called, which is why he is freaking out so to speak. 

You kept shooting dirty looks at McLaggen whenever he tried to help, keeping him at arm’s length from the potion, fueling the boy’s frustrations. Barty was quite certain he had seen you threaten him with your wand at one point when he tried to stir the potion. He couldn’t blame you.

McLaggen, as incompetent as ever, was trying to make himself useful by reading the instructions aloud to you, though his exaggerated enunciation was more distracting than helpful. Barty withholds a snicker as he can tell you are silently begging him to shut up. The frustration on your face was palpable, the tension between you and your partner practically humming in the air. McLaggen, ever oblivious, didn’t take the hint.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to–?”

“I’m sure,” you snapped, not looking up from the cauldron.

From across the room, you felt Barty’s eyes on you again. His gaze had become a constant presence, burning into your skin. Even when you weren't looking at him, you could feel him there, lingering, watching, waiting. It was maddening, but also strangely comforting. You knew you had to talk together soon, but you still had no idea how to communicate your feelings, if you even dared to.

You had to snap yourself back into it to remain in control of your little situation at hand.

McLaggen, frustrated by being sidelined, huffed and crossed his arms. “It’s just stirring! How hard could it be?”

“Apparently, harder than you think,” you muttered, casting him a side-eye. The potion was already starting to smell off, and you knew he had messed it up.

McLaggen’s face flushed in embarrassment, and before you could stop him, he reached for the ladle, his ego clearly bruised.

"I'll show you–"

“Wait–”

It happened in a blur. His hand snuck past yours, clumsy and wild. It knocked against the cauldron’s edge, sending it tipping over. The thick, boiling liquid surged out, splashing across the table – and onto your leg.

The pain was instant, white-hot and searing, like your skin was being eaten alive. You screamed, recoiling as the potion sizzled straight through your pant leg, immediately finding flesh.

The room seemed to freeze for a moment, everyone turning to see what had happened. The smell of burning skin filled the air as you stumbled back, falling over your increasingly immobile leg, eyes wide with shock and pain.

The world around disappeared from you as you were consumed by the burning, not even able to hear your gasps of pain.

For that moment, no one did anything.

No one but Barty – Barty moved.

Without hesitation, without thought, he lunged across the room. He grabbed the entire bowl of bezoars, eyes never leaving you. His body collided with McLaggen, shoving him aside with a force that sent the boy slamming into the wall behind, just barely avoiding the poison himself. Barty didn’t even glance at him; his focus was solely on you.

Somewhere in the back Slughorn made a sound of shock and disappointment that Barty blocked out.

He dropped down beside you, taking your shaking upper body in his arms. "You're okay, you're okay," he muttered in your ear, as he cradled your jaw with one hand and opened your mouth with another. With two quick, precise fingers he shoved the bezoar as far down your throat as he could, arm circled securely around your waist for when your body convulsed in response to the intrusion. "You're okay, I've got you," he continued to mumble, as if to himself this time, as he looked at you frantically.

Your body's trembling and your small gasps of pain faded, but your leg was still searing painfully and you still looked completely out of it.

Barty’s heart lurched – he had never seen you like this. Never seen you so vulnerable, so hurt.

“Barty–” you gasped, your voice breaking in panic.

The classroom had erupted into chaos around you – students scrambling away from the spill, Slughorn’s booming voice calling for calm. In it all, Barty's eyes kept looking you over, almost like he was itching to give you another bezoar just in case.

“You’re okay,” he repeated, quieter this time, his voice cracking ever so slightly.

Your breath came out in ragged gasps, the pain subsiding slowly. Barty's hands remained around you, grounding you essentially in his lap, keeping you tethered to the moment.

“Someone fetch Madam Pomfrey!” Slughorn’s booming voice cut through the heavy air as he rushed over, his face pale with panic. “Quickly now! That potion– oh dear–"

McLaggen stood behind him, mouth agape in shock and horror as almost all other students had lined up by the walls, putting distance between themselves and the potion. Everyone except Evan, who remained by his desk, grip tight on the wood as he looked in horror and concern.

Barty ignored him. He ignored everyone. His only focus was you – your shallow breathing, your wide, panicked eyes. He didn’t even realise that his hands were shaking until you whimpered softly, and he felt his control slipping further.

“I’m taking her to the infirmary,” Barty said through gritted teeth, not waiting for permission.

Barty scooped you into his arms, cradling you against his chest as he stood. The weight of you felt so fragile, so wrong. You were supposed to be strong, biting back with sharp quips and rolling your eyes at his antics. Not this. Not in pain and trembling in his arms.

“Now, now, I’m sure Madam Pomfrey can come here–”

“No,” Barty said, his voice dark and dangerous, leaving no room for argument. “I’m taking her.”

“Mr. Crouch– wait! We should–” Slughorn tried again, but Barty was already moving, carrying you through the rows of desks and out the door.

His steps were quick but measured, and you were too disoriented by the pain and the shock to protest. Your head rested against his chest, the steady beat of his heart the only thing anchoring you to reality.

“Hang on, my love,” he murmured, his voice rough and shaky. “I’ve got you. You’re gonna be alright.”

You weren’t sure when you closed your eyes, but by the time you tried to open them again, you were in the infirmary.

Your mind was swimming through a haze of pain and exhaustion. The world felt heavy around you, like you were dragging yourself up through thick water. At first, you weren’t sure where you were – the sterile smell of potions and the soft rustling of sheets felt foreign, disconnected.

Then you shifted ever so slightly and the sharp sting in your leg brought it all crashing back.

The classroom. The potion. McLaggen’s bloody idiocy. The burning, searing pain as the liquid had spilled across your skin.

Barty.

Barty was sitting at your bedside, his usual composed demeanour shattered. His shoulders were hunched, his face tight with worry, and there was a wildness in his eyes that you had never seen before. The sight of him like that sent a pang of emotion through you, more potent than the lingering sting of the potion burn.

You swallowed thickly, your throat dry. “Barty…” Your voice came out in a cracked whisper.

His head jerked up, his eyes locking onto yours in an instant. For a second, the relief that washed over his face was so overwhelming that it almost broke you. He moved closer, his fingers trembling slightly as he reached out for your hand, stopping just before touching you, as if he wasn’t sure if he should. If he could.

“You’re awake,” he breathed, his voice rough with emotion. His eyes scanned your face, searching for any sign of how you were feeling. “Are you… does it hurt? Are you in pain?”

You blinked up at him, your mind still foggy as the events of the day came rushing back in fragments. You remembered the burning pain, the panic that had clawed at your chest, and – Barty. Barty holding you, his voice in your ear, telling you that you’d be okay.

And now here he was, sitting beside you, his fingers twitching with the urge to touch you but holding back as if afraid he might break you further.

"I–" you tried, but your voice cut off, throat hoarse from the bezoar you were increasingly remembering. "I think I'm fine."

Barty just looked at you, still searching, clearly unsatisfied with your answer. What an unfortunate theme for the week.

“It’s… it’s not as bad now,” you managed, your voice hoarse. The burning in your arm was still there, a dull throb beneath the bandages, but it was nothing compared to the ache in your chest. “What happened? After… I don’t know if I really remember…”

Barty swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as he fought to maintain his composure. “Pomfrey patched you up. You passed out from the pain.” He paused, his voice thickening. “It was bad. You could’ve–”

He cut himself off, his fingers curling into fists as he looked away, his throat working visibly. “It was a close call.”

At his words, you realise how hard you were fighting the tears, the bottle you keep your emotions in clearly shattered by your impact with the floor.

"I'm alright," you whispered, to which he just nodded, beautiful face stained by a frown. Yeah, yeah, you thought you could hear him mutter.

"Barty?" you called softly, hoping for his attentive eyes to be back on you – they were in an instant. "Thank you."

"I would do anything for you," he whispered. "I just need you to be alright. I'm so sorry."

"For what?" Your eyebrows furrowed in genuine confusion. "You did nothing wrong Barty. You– you did so good."

Barty leans his head on his fists curled up on your bedside. He was still slightly trembling. "I thought I lost you."

His words hit you like a physical blow. You could hear the desperation in his voice, the crack in his usually cool exterior, and it made your chest tighten with emotion. He wasn’t just worried – he had been terrified. You could see it in the way he refused to meet your eyes now, as if he was still trying to gather himself, still fighting the lingering fear.

Your heart twisted painfully at the sight of him like this, so undone, so vulnerable. It was strange when he was always the one so sure of himself, always the one in control. His usual composed mask had crumbled, leaving raw emotion exposed underneath. You wanted to kiss it better. You wanted to see more.

It was strange, you thought, lying there in the infirmary with a dull ache all throughout your body. Strange how, in moments like these, everything else – the fear, the confusion, the uncertainty – seemed to fall away. All that was left was Barty, his presence consuming every inch of your awareness.

"Barty..." you whispered again. When he looked up at you, his eyes were red-rimmed.

You simply turned your hand laying near his over. An open invitation.

He accepted it immediately, intertwining his fingers with yours and kissing the back of your hand so sweetly it hurt you.

"I thought–" you start, voice breaking from emotion this time. "When it happened, all I could think about was you. How sweet you are with me even when I'm terrible, how stupid it is to let my emotions get in the way of that. I didn't even get to say sorry to you and–" You take a deep breath. "I wanted to. I'm sorry, Barty."

He was shaking his head, cheek against your hand he was holding as it looked at you intensely. "Absolutely not. Apology accepted and then rejected. I don't want you to be sorry."

You try to interject, but he sits up, leaning on his elbow onto your bedside so you are at eye-level. "Nuh-uh. I won't allow it. Thank you, and I'm sorry too, but no."

"Will you at least accept the sentiment that I never meant to hurt you?" you whisper through a tired smile.

"Of course. I hurt myself. I was confused and scared and– shit, this feeling thing is so bloody hard for no reason." You laugh slightly at that, wincing when it pains you. "I hated feeling like we weren't a team."

"Me too," you whispered, not trusting your voice. "I didn't want to fight, I just find it so difficult to trust. That I can, I don't know, show you everything and not run. Because I don't know what to do with myself if you do."

Barty's grip on your hand tightened. "I won't. I swear to you, I won't. That's what scares the shit out of me. How ridiculously much I care about you. What am I to do with that?"

A few tears spilled down your cheeks before you could stop it. His hand instinctively shot forward to wipe them away, frown deepening.

"Can we be scared and confused together?" you asked weakly.

For the first time since you woke up, you saw a smile grace Barty's face, clouded only slightly by his teary eyes. "I reckon we can, love. I– I just need you."

You closed your eyes, triggering the release of a few more tears.

"You'll never lose me," Barty continued, pressing his forehead back against your intertwined hands. "I swear. I don't care what fight we have or how unsure we are. You're the only person who–" He stopped, his breathing hitching as if the words were too heavy on his vocal chords. "I need you."

Your heart clenched painfully at the raw emotion in his voice. The cool, confident Barty you were used to wasn’t here right now. This was a Barty who was terrified and loving, who was stripped bare of all the usual bravado and snark. It made your chest ache in a way that was so full of feeling that it was almost overwhelming.

“I need you too,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He lifted his head slowly, his eyes locking onto yours again. There was something so vulnerable, so intense in his gaze that it nearly stole your breath away. He leaned forward then, hesitating only for a moment before his lips brushed gently against your forehead, lingering there as if he was grounding himself in the feel of you, the reality that you were still here.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured against your skin. “I promise.”

For a moment, the weight of those words hung in the air, settling into the space between you. And despite the pain, despite everything that had happened, you felt a small flicker of warmth spark in your chest.

You brought your free hand up to the nape of his neck, guiding his lips from your forehead to your own, kissing him as softly as you could muster. His kiss was careful as he tried to pour as much emotion as possible. All the things you could not say yet, but cared for each other in spite of.

When you parted, you rested your foreheads together and you let out a shaky breath, your heart slowing as the adrenaline finally began to fade.

You opened your eyes to find Barty already looking at you with a slight smile – the look in his eyes was positively lovesick.

With the ease Barty's touch awarded you, you let out a half-choked laugh, relief expanding in your chest, which in turn widened his smile.

"What's so funny?" he asked, a teasing tone finally making it back into his voice.

"I'm just thinking about how ridiculous we are," you laughed, squeezing his hand. "And dramatic, Merlin's beard."

Barty huffed a laugh in return, shaking his head at you. "You knew what you were signing up for when you got with me. Theatrical is my middle name."

"Oh, so you admit it now, do you?"

"Only for you."

You gaze into his eyes and you realise – Barty is not the only one who is lovesick.

"Tell me now," you said, teasing tone finally back in your voice. It made Barty's heart soar, but not as much as your next sentence. "How did you trick me into falling in love with you, Junior?"

"I trick you? Love, I've been heads over heels for you since the first time you insulted me. You're the one who should fess up."

Barty's grin threatened to tear his skin apart as he shook his head.

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely.” He shifted closer, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a tenderness that made your heart stutter. “You’re impossible not to fall for.”

“Good,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “Because I think you're stuck with me now.”

Barty leaned down, pressing another soft kiss to your forehead, and when he pulled back, his eyes were alight with something that looked an awful lot like hope.

“Stuck, huh?”

You smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t get cocky, Junior.”

“Too late, sweetheart.”

“In that case," you started, trailing off as if you grew uncertain of yourself once more. Barty's hold on you remained steadfast. "Can you stay? Just stay here with me, until I'm dispatched?”

“I’m not leaving,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles in a steady, grounding rhythm. “I’ll stay as long as you want. You've got me.”

You felt yourself relax into the bed, your eyes growing heavy with exhaustion, but for the first time in a long while, the tightness in your chest had eased. As your eyes fluttered closed, you heard Barty’s voice again, soft and filled with so much emotion that it made your heart ache all over again.

“Sleep well, my love."