#i've read three oneshots so far and like | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yoongihan · 9 months ago

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Happenstance - SCB - OneShot

pairing: 3rachaChangbin x femcharacter

genre: travel au, fluff, smut, little angst, strangers to lovers,

romantic trope: love at first sight (inspiration from this reel)

word count: ~18k

rating: M

warnings: mc invites strangers to dinner amongst other things (DO NOT RECOMMEND), kissing, penetrative sex, ridiculous amount of haggis discussion, food and drink, some language, changbin with fluffy hair, dressed in hoodies. honestly, i don't think there's too much concerning in this one, apologies if I've missed something.

a/n: fic #4 in skz as romantic tropes collab with @jl-micasea-fics. in case you read my answers to asks, this is the first story i started that i didn't finish until yesterday (I apologize for every single mistake that i probably missed). which means, this took me over seven months. i have no idea why something as 'simple' as love at first sight required me to write nearly 18000 words!! anyway, um, hope you like it.

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You don’t really mind being alone. It’s a lot easier to just pack up your stuff, yourself and go on your adventures when you don’t have to consider another person and their preferences.

It gets lonely, but it works for you.

At the train station with your backpack and one rolling suitcase, waiting for your train in London at Kings Cross station that will take you to Edinburgh. It’s a long journey, over eleven hours, but you saved up and for the very first time, got yourself a sleeper cabin. There weren’t any singles available, as the classic cabin comes with twin bunk beds, but you figure the extra space can’t hurt.

Who’d go with you anyway?

You bounce on the balls of your feet, waiting for the train. This experience is less about the scenery as it’s mostly at night, but the getting to sleep in a bed (the sleeper seats aren’t horrible, but they aren’t exactly great if you really want a good night’s rest) on a train is something you haven’t gotten to do yet.

You like Scotland and you haven’t been since you started this work. Inverness sits at the top of Loch Ness, and there are so many picturesque places to visit once you’re there. Then you’ll take the train back, but during the day, so you get to see what you couldn’t on the overnight train.

You have one earbud in, listening to a soft playlist you made mostly full of Sufjan Stevens, Fleet Foxes, and Band of Horses. Only one earbud as you need to make sure you hear any important announcements and you also really enjoy eavesdropping, especially when everyone has a much more interesting accent than you. You’re glancing back at the announcement board as though something might have changed in the last minute (it would just be the worst luck if it got canceled…what would you do in London…go to a museum or something?).

The train is arriving and you just want to dance around like a fool. No one should be this excited to sleep on a train, but you are. As you queue behind a few others, you glance down the track, taking in the people who will presumably be sleeping near you. It seems like a diverse group, some people dressed nicer than you, as though they are having a work meeting on the train (with computer and phone cameras…maybe they are), some look like they might already have on their pyjamas. There are heads of grey and white, long plaits of blonde and red, fluffy short black hair.

All types.

You board and glance at the signage, looking for the arrows to connect you to cabin 25. Slipping past a family of three who are speaking in what sounds like German to your unknowledgeable ear, you glance at the descending numbers.

There’s a small scanner on the door (how far tech has come), and you scan your phone over it, the QR code for your ticket allowing you access. As you open the door, you look down at the male voices coming from the other end of the carriage.

There are three of them.

In your travels, you see a lot of people, but unless it’s a commuter-type train during work or drinking hours, you don’t run into men of a certain age, and certainly not on an overnighter covering the length of England.

Certain age being mostly like twenties, mid-twenties if you had to guess. And though you’ve definitely seen a good-looking man a time or two, it’s rare to see them en masse like this. One is carrying two duffle bags, his hair a wavy platinum blonde. He is attempting to pull out his phone and scan like you just had. The second one is whining about the first one taking too long. It’s not really complaining, because he wears a smile in between the pouts. In fact, when he glances over the third’s head, he sees you and smiles brilliantly.

You smile back, embarrassed at being caught staring, but if you blushed every time you did something socially forward, you would be a permanent tomato.

The door finally opens for them and that’s when the third one turns around, presumably because he noticed the second one looking at you. He’s the shortest, and even before he turns, you notice that he’s very broad from the back, despite the guitar case blocking your view.

When his eyes meet yours, your brain definitely tucks away the recognition that he’s wearing black-framed glasses, eyes a warm brown, black hair curly and fluffy, completely dressed in a black t-shirt, black joggers, and black sneakers (a motif one might say). You see all of that, but it doesn’t really connect.

Because something happens.

No lightning from the sky, or voice, or whatever occurs when something big changes. You’re just oddly aware that your heart is beating at a rate that only occurs when you're winded, that your anticipation has gotten more like anxiety, and you would very much like to ask his name.

So you disappear into your cabin, not sure of anything anymore.

“It said four.”

“Well, there’s two, Chan.”

“But it said four.”

You sit on the bottom bunk, watching the fading sunlight out the window, your heart rate seeming to slow down. The fact that you can hear your neighbors’ conversation doesn’t bode well for your sleeping tonight.

But you always pack earplugs.

“Must be a mix-up. Find a…what do they call them?”

“Station agent?”

“Porter?”

“Train guy?”

You cover your mouth so you don’t laugh too loudly at the final suggestion. You stand up and start to unpack your few things; pajamas, toiletries, two books, and journal. You can hear one of them opening the door and calling down the corridor.

“Yes sir.” It’s a few minutes (you’ve actually journaled a whole page by this point) when there’s footsteps and a response.

“I booked for three people, for one of the cabins with two sets of bunk beds.”

“Ah yes…” There’s a clearing of one throat. “We only have a small amount of those, and unfortunately the original train set for this journey had to be changed at last minute. Mechanical issues. You were refunded.”

“That’s not very helpful as I still have only two beds and three people.”

Another clearing of the throat.

“Yes, well, the train is fully booked. I can supply another set of sheets and pillows.”

“You’re saying our only option is one of us to sleep on the floor?”

“I am very sorry, sir.”

There’s a couple of very very deep sighs.

“Thank you anyway.”

The ‘train guy’ must leave because you hear furtive discussion; with foreign words you aren’t sure about, but it seems like ‘rock, paper, scissors’ has the same rhythm no matter the language.

You are on the top bunk, eyes moving from your book to your door.

It’s dumb, even for you, but you feel like you have to. You have decent intuition about people, at least on a level if they are dangerous or not. And none of your neighbors set off your warning bells or mental red flags.

So you jump down and open your cabin door, leaving it open in case you need to run back in and like, hide due to extreme embarrassment.

One deep breath and you knock on their door.

It opens and the blonde stands there, you can see the other two behind him.

“Hey neighbor,” the blonde greets you with a weary smile, but a smile nonetheless. It makes you grin more easily.

“Hi,” you introduce yourself. “Sorry to eavesdrop, but I heard…” You wave with your hand at the beds in their room. “I have an extra bed.”

All three of them sort of freeze at your words. You don’t blame them. You are an unaccompanied female on a trip, talking to three men you don’t know. Offering a place to sleep to a stranger.

“You…aren’t serious?” The one who had been whining earlier spoke up first.

“I think she is,” the third one…the one you actually can’t look at closely right now (though his voice is enough to set your heart rate back up to jumpy).

“I am.” You shrug. “I know it’s weird. I don’t know you guys. But there’s dinner in the dining car in like an hour. We could have dinner? Chat? Make sure none of us is a serial killer?”

Are you asking three men out?

“One of you needs a bed. I have one. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” says the blonde. “But…” He looks at his friends (you assume, maybe they’re all together which makes your proposal of dinner even more awkward), “We do need a bed.” He looks back at you. “I’m Chan. We’ll have dinner, and no hard feelings if you decide to take it back.”

His smile is warm and you would swear in a court of law that this man is one of the safest humans on the planet.

“Deal.”

“Jisung,” He points to the one that had smiled at you so brilliantly. He grins again, but it’s shy.

“Changbin.”

Oh.

So you meet his eyes again for a second time, hoping you’re prepared.

It’s still there, maybe less surprising because you are expecting it. You know his name now. You know that he still hasn’t smiled at you (which feels tragic somehow), but doesn’t look angry or disgusted by you (a triumph to be sure).

He seems perplexed, which you can’t blame him for. Your offer is certainly perplexing.

“Nice to meet you,” you stutter a little, but deliver your name without too much embarrassment. “So, I’ll see you in an hour?”

There are verbal affirmations and some nodding and you hurry back, wondering if you can even focus on anything other than the fact that you might be sleeping with in the same cabin with one of them later.

–

You question yourself as you walk to the dining car (you did your makeup and now you think you’re a little silly), wondering if they’ll even show. Like how damn strange are you to offer a bed to three men you do not know? They probably don’t even want to be near you now.

There’s a host at the front of the carriage and you give him your cabin number.

“I’m waiting on someone…s.” And your ability to speak has been hijacked by your nerves. You’ve spent the last hour in your cabin, earbuds in so you don’t eavesdrop on anything you might hear from next door (not that they only speak in English, but still. It feels invasive). Your mind has tumbled over itself trying to understand what you had done, had said, and the eeriness of how the third man affects you.

Changbin.

He isn’t your type, as pointless as you think having a type even is. You’ve never found impressive muscles all that impressive.

But...

“Someones? How many?” The host asks you and you feel weirdly interrogated by him, like maybe he doesn’t believe anyone would be sitting with you. That you’d lie about something like that. For what? A table to yourself?

“Um, I think, three.” Confidence would probably be a handy thing right now.

“Three?”

You open your mouth to reiterate the number of guests when you feel a presence behind you. And you know, even though this is the closest he’s ever been that it’s him.

“Three,” he states, voice scratchy. You feel his gaze on you. “The other two are coming.”

You swallow and look over.

But…he is really attractive.

He’s wearing trousers and a button-down. The dining car does encourage more formal dress and you’ve even slipped on a skirt and nice top for it. His hair is still fluffy and he still wears the glasses, which makes him look way more scholarly than he had just an hour ago.

“Hi.”

He hasn’t given you much to go on if he feels the same strangeness when you meet eyes or even if he is aware of you beyond that you exist. But there’s a lift at the corner of his lips, a hint of a smirk or smile and it’s devastating.

“Hey,” he replies, still with that half-grin. “You look nice.”

Oh god, he complimented you?!

“Um, thanks.” You try and pretend that your brain can engage quicker than it is currently. “You do too.” You gesture vaguely. “I like the glasses.”

You do not know this man and yet when the half-grin grows into a full grin, maybe a touch bashful, it feels very familiar and comforting. Like you’ve never seen him smile before and it’s beautiful, but also, that’s exactly how you feel he should smile.

What the fuck is going on right now?

“Jisung can’t tie a tie to save his life, so Chan’s doing it for him,” he explains before looking at the host. “Can we sit or do we have to wait until they get here?”

“We prefer the parties to be all present when–”

“Sure thing.” Changbin makes eye contact with you again and you know that he’s amused at the level of formality the host is emanating. “We’ll be here.” He gestures for you to move over to the side so the next people waiting can move up. He follows and leans against the carriage wall next to you.

He’s not uncomfortably close by any means, but there’s not ample amounts of space in trains, so he’s close.

He smells good.

“So, what brings you and um, your friends to Scotland?” you begin, willing confidence into your voice and posture. He’s watching the entrance to the dining car but glances at you, the mirthful turn of his lips coming back.

“Ah, well, inspiration.”

You straighten up. You don’t know what you expected, but that wasn’t it.

“Really? For what?”

He regards you for another second or two, like he’s seeing if you’re really interested, or if you can be trusted.

“What’s your guess?”

Way to put you on the spot.

“Damn, that’s unfair.”

He chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest (ARMS). “Yeah, how so?”

“Anything I say will be based on stereotypes. Like I met you an hour ago.”

“Still invited one of us to bed.”

His voice drops with those words and you wonder if he can see the shiver that goes through you (you try and not visibly react, but holy fuck).

“Yes, well, no red flags.”

His eyebrows raise. “Really?”

You shrug. “Yeah. Unless my detection skills for serial killers are rusty.”

The half-grin again. “Hmm. How do you know your skills are even competent?” His eyes widened. “Have you met a serial killer?”

You laugh because he seems to legitimately think you might have. And there’s something really refreshing about the fact that he has no idea what field you’re in. Maybe you have.

“You first.”

He eyes you with concession. “Musicians. You?”

“Musicians? Really?”

“No…” he points at you. “You have to say what you do.”

“No I don’t.”

That’s when his friends arrive, with you and a man you don’t know staring at each other in a mock-battle of wits.

“Interrupting something?” Chan says, nearly laughing.

“She…” Changbin starts then his shoulders drop. “I don’t even know.” He glares at you with no malice before going back to the host.

“Hi again,” you greet them both. Also dressed in somewhat formal attire, Chan and Jisung are as handsome as the man you are thrown by.

“Hi,” Chan replies and behind him Jisung waves in tiny .

All of you are ushered to your table. You sit next to the carriage window even though it’s nearly too dark to see outside. There’s a moment of awkwardness as the three of them seem to nonverbally communicate as to where to sit.

Changbin sits next to you. HIs arm brushes yours as he gets situated and it happens again: the heartbeat, the anticipation, but it’s mellower, more familiar.

A server comes to the table and the next few minutes are spent in ordering food and drink. You all decide to get a bottle of wine to share.

“So, Changbin says your musicians?” you begin before taking a sip of the merlot, swishing it around in your mouth as though that would tell you something. You’ve done a wine tour or five, and you kinda get it, but you don’t really. It’s just wine.

You can see both Jisung and Chan look at Changbin in surprise.

“Oh, he did?” Chan asks, something underlying the innocuous remark. Teasing of some kind; as guys often do. “Yeah.”

“I saw a guitar.” They all look at you and you flush a bit. “I mean, when I saw you guys coming down the hall. There was a guitar case.”

“Observant.” You can just tell Changbin is paying attention. If only to figure out what you do.

“A bit.”

“Musicians…” Chan begins. “Is a little misleading. We can all play, but…” He takes a sip of wine. “We don’t play, like, one of us on drums, a bass, and an electric guitar.”

“So, non-traditional.” You rest your chin in your hand.

“We rap,” Jisung says, twisting his wine glass by the stem. “Me and Bin mostly, Chan does the beats, mixes.”

“Ohhhh.” You straighten up. “Okay, that’s awesome…so, do you have a gig in Edinburgh?”

“No, just to write,” Chan sighs. “We’ve been a little stuck lately and yeah.” He looks so despondent about it, so you pat his hand before taking another sip of your wine. He smiles at you like the physical comfort is normal.

“We have a deadline for a full album and we’re way behind,” Changbin explains further and you look over at him.

“You all are represented and everything? That’s amazing.”

He waves it away as the other two verbally dismiss such an accomplishment. “What about you? What do you do?”

You grin at Changbin’s apparent annoyance that you’ve kept it from him for this long. The corner of his lips lifts in an almost smirk.

Fuck, it’s attractive.

“Um. Content creator.”

There’s a collection of laughs from them.

“So are we,” Changbin says, leaning a bit closer. “Wanna be more specific?”

You know you don’t have a great poker face, so when he gets that close, you’re sure all three of them can see that you’re affected. Your face heats, and your breath catches just for a split second.

When have you ever been this partial to a stranger before?

“Travel. Writer, vlogger,” you answer with a lift of your shoulders. He leans back and it’s like you can breathe easier. “I’ve never done a sleeper train before, so here I am.”

There’s a moment where they are all quiet, looking at you with various expressions of incredulity.

“You get paid to travel?”

You laugh at Jisung’s question. “Kinda? I mean, I go and make the content before I’m paid, hoping that someone will want it…monetize it, etc.” It’s always an interesting thing, to see what people think when you explain how you make a living. Some think you must be famous (not even close), or full of shit (maybe you are, but not about work), or some place along that spectrum.

“That’s amazing,” Changbin speaks next, his tone more thoughtful than sarcastic or derogatory.

“I’m jealous. I’m so freakin jealous,” Jisung pouts and then sips his wine. “Wait, so when you took a picture of the wine bottle and glass with your lipstick stain on it…it was for work.”

You nod. “It’s honestly the only time I wear lipstick. I kind of hate it most of the time.” You add credence to your words by wiping off your lips with a tissue from the tissue pack you always keep in your purse. Then doing the same to the glass. “Lipstick residue never comes off in the dishwasher…I used to wash for the local tavern in my hometown. The worst.”

They’re all three looking at you again with various expressions. You think the expressions are positive, but you’ve only known them for an hour and most of that hour you were in your cabin, journaling.

“Do you have a niche?” Chan asks, “Like a specific type of travel or anything?”

You shrug. “I like train travel. This is my first sleeper cabin, so that’ll be of some focus. But I have a few places in Edinburgh to capture as well.”

“And you can live off of this?” Changbin answers. “Why the fuck are we writing music?”

You laugh with the others at his thunderstruck question. You turn a bit more toward him, watching how his gaze drops to your now-naked lips then back to your eyes.

“Because you love it. I assume.” You feel your cheeks heat when he smiles at your sentimentality. The waiter returns to receive your orders, and you try not to smile too large that everyone orders something different. You hope they’ll let you photo each meal.

“Why Scotland for inspiration?”

Both Changbin and Jisung look at Chan who shrugs, a bit sheepish.

“Always wanted to. We spend most of our time in South Korea or Australia, so this seemed like something different.”

“‘Stairway to Heaven’ was written on Loch Ness, too,” Jisung offers.

“Yeah, in the house of the creepy af Aleister Crowley…” You lean forward and drop your voice. “You’re not going there, are you?”

“No,” Changbin chuckles. “But you know that story?”

“I’m full of useless knowledge,” you answer.

“How long have you been doing this?” Changbin asks you. “The traveling and vlogging?”

“A while. The living off of it, only a few years.” You shake your head when he opens his mouth. “My turn. Tell me about how you three became rappers, musicians, a crew.”

“Gonna use it in your content?” Chan asks, a touch of amusement, but also more caution.

You shake your head. “Not without permission. And usually my stuff is less with people and more places, food, drink. I will totally ask if I can take a photo of each of your meals.”

“I guess that’s okay,” Changbin says. “If you get part of my hand, though, I expect compensation.”

And with that joking remark, your eyes immediately focus on his hands. That’s not a feature you usually think much about in your attraction to men. It takes more about personality and smile, and maybe a lanky form.

But it says everything about this whole strange experience that when you look at his hands, you actually shiver.

God, this is so damn weird.

“Of course,” You answer. “Also…you didn’t answer. How did you three meet?”

Again, both Changbin and Jisung look at Chan.

“You’re in charge, huh?”

Chan blushes, which is adorable. “I mean…kinda, but just cause I started us…”

“What he will never say is that he studied music production and then found us at the same school, basically said ‘fuck school let’s do our own thing’ and we’ve saved money on tuition and made money…though nothing like insane.” Changbin leans back in his chair, his arm falling to the back of mine before his eyes widen and he drops it. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’ve already invited one of you into my cabin…What are social rules at this point?” You just have no filter today, but the answering laughter from them is comforting. “Since you asked me, what is your niche? Like love songs?”

“Rap love songs?” Jisung asks, mildly disgusted.

“Love songs is a pretty wide spectrum,” you argue. “From unrequited, to innocent, attraction to just sex, broken hearts, betrayal, cheating. It’s all over the place.” Your question isn’t all that random. Out of the corner of your eye, you’re watching Changbin the moment you mention ‘love’ as though he might say or do something that’ll give you indication that he’s also feeling the same lunacy that you are undergoing.

Nothing. Nothing but just him listening and having a piece of the rustic bread dipped in olive oil the server placed on your table.

“She has a point. We do write love songs if that’s the umbrella,” Chan says and Jisung pouts again, but while he’s chewing on the bread, his cheeks full, and he looks just like a small woodland creature. “But I wouldn't ever market them as love songs.”

“Doesn’t fit the hip hop crew vibe?”

Changbin snorts. “Not so much.”

“So. What do you write about?” You plop your chin in your hand. “I admit my rap and hip hop knowledge is less than my obscure trivia about Boleskine House.”

Jisung speaks up, “Just stuff we’re dealing with.” He glances at Chan. “Probably more about growing up and figuring out who you are more than anything.”

“Relatable,” you reply on an exhaled breath. All three of them smile. “Sorry, that was pretty obvious. I guess everyone is still figuring it all out, huh?”

The food arrives a few minutes later and after you get the perfect shots of all the dishes (there are a few with their hands because it’s too aesthetic not to do so) the conversation turns to places to see and visit in Edinburgh and the surrounding areas, things to do, etc.

“Oh, I’ll definitely try haggis,” you say.

“Really?” Jisung makes a face. “Isn’t it like…gross?”

“I tend to try most food at least once. I’ve already done blood pudding.” Which means you have to explain it to them. The trio of disgusted faces makes you laugh. “It’s not bad with ketchup.”

“Bin would probably do the same, though.” Jisung points at him with a beef-laden fork. “He eats anything.”

You turn to Changbin, noting the slight reddening in his cheeks and narrow-eyed glare he gives to Jisung.

“It’s called being adventurous,” you say in support. “And food is a gift.” You gesture to your plate. “Case in point.”

“A gift?” Chan prompts.

“I mean, we didn’t have to have taste buds, right? Like we could just have evolved or been created, whatever your origin stance is, without. Food could just be sustenance, something we do without thought, like breathing. But we have all these receptors that give us pleasure.”

“Or disgust,” Jisung says before taking another bite, the cheeks filling out again.

“Is there pleasure without pain?”

“Jeez, we got deep,” Chan says, chuckling.

“Could be your next song. The listener will think it’s about life or sex or whatever, but it’s just the three of you debating about food.”

“Life or sex or whatever?” Changbin repeats, turning a little toward you. You make eye contact (maybe you’ve had too much wine), eyebrows up in curiosity. He gestures that you should continue.

“All literature, and I’d include lyrics in that, boils down to being about love or death. Or simply sex or death.”

Again, it might be the wine, but you swear that when you mention sex his eyes focus more on you. There’s just a slight flicker.

“And that’s not an original,” you quickly say before going back to your meal. “I learned that in the infinite amount of Lit classes I took in college.”

“I guess that’s true.” Chan looks thoughtful. “Our songs about identity and growing up is pretty much about doing what you can before death.”

“Speaking of getting deep,” Changbin says. “We should go back to talking about food.”

“Or pleasure?” Jisung teases.

Chan cuffs him on the back of the head. He just grins at his friend like being physically chastised is commonplace.

Probably is.

It’s brief, the moment of melancholy that hits you when you think of this three-person friendship and how so much of what you do is solitary.

You blink it away and take another bite of your sea bass, listening to them discuss Edinbrugh castle and the village they have an AirBnb in after two days in the city.

“Please?” Jisung whines. “We can share the molten chocolate cake?”

Chan rolls his eyes. “But I don’t want any.”

“I’ll share it with you, Jisung,” you offer. “That or the cheesecake sounds really good.”

“We could do both.”

You giggle at his excited expression. “We could do that.”

“Amazing,” Jisung is thrilled. “You are amazing.”

“I am often lauded for my sweet tooth.”

“Only for your sweet tooth?”

The lower tone makes you look at Changbin again. Chan is ‘scolding’ Jisung on the other side of the table about too many sweets and how he’ll be hyper and not sleep, so for the second time this evening, it looks like you and Changbin are speaking alone.

“Only?” you ask to clarify.

He grins. “I mean, you just used the word ‘lauded’ in regular conversation. I feel like you might get compliments in general.”

“For using big words? Or weird ones? Not really.”

“Well.” He regards you for a few seconds, eyes not leaving your face. “It’s impressive.”

Your face heats before you can deflect and you drop your gaze because his is overwhelming.

“Thanks.”

Dessert is ordered and when received, devoured (even by Chan). When the bill comes, there’s an argument about letting them pay for you, which is won by Jisung saying that since he ‘bullied’ you into getting dessert with him, they should cover it all. You acquiesce only because you convince them to let you get breakfast tomorrow morning (wow, isn’t that suggestive).

You’ve never been walked to your door before by three men. Granted, they’re just next door and you’ve also never been walked to a train cabin door before. But you recognize that if anyone paid attention to your little party, they might be envious.

You’re kinda envious. Of yourself.

Three of you pause at your door. Jisung continues to the cabin before realizing that everyone else has stopped and readily looks abashed as he comes back the six feet.

“So,” you begin, scanning your phone over the pad on the door. “I don’t think any one of us is an axe murderer.”

There’s a collective chuckle.

“Who uses axes anymore,” Jisung says before considering. “I don’t suppose that really helps my case.”

Chan pops him lightly on the back of the head again. “I think,” he says to you. “That whoever can just sleep on the extra bed. We’ll keep all our stuff and such in our cabin. If you’re still okay with this. It’s really alright if you’re not. Ax murderers or not, it’s your space.”

You glance at Changbin, remembering the warmth of his arm when it pressed against yours randomly through dinner.

“That’s fine. I guess brushing your teeth in front of a stranger is pretty weird.”

You hear Changbin’s snort of amusement before looking at him again. It’s hard not to stare at him. It was actually good he sat next to you during dinner, so you had to make the effort to look at him, so it was easy to tell and force yourself not to. Because that’s what you want to do. Memorize everything about him. The line of his jaw, the placement of his dimples when he grins, the rapid-fire of his laugh.

God, you’re going to need some serious time to process what is going on with you.

“Yeah, just knock whenever,” you continue, forcing yourself to look away from him. “I’ll probably stay up for a bit to journal and take some notes.”

You don’t ask who will be using the empty bed in your cabin. It’s too weird, beyond what this already is, but you are trying not to give away the way one man keeps stealing your attention and focus.

You have never done a one-night stand and you don’t think that in a train cabin next to his friends would be a good place to start.

You bid them a good night and enter your cabin. You lean on the closed door and let out a huge sigh before hurriedly getting ready for bed in the worry that maybe one of them will show up soon.

Also, you probably don’t need all your underthings just out to be seen.

You settle in your pajamas (sweatshirt and shorts because you always forget to buy fun pjs) and situate your laptop and journal in the bottom bunk. More time passes than you think it would take a guy to get ready, but it is kind of early to go to sleep, so you work on just focusing on organizing and writing copy for what you captured today.

You’re working on describing your supper in good detail when there’s a knock on your cabin door.

You almost fall in your stumble to get to the door, opening it and staring.

“Hey.”

Changbin, dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt and nylon shorts, stands there, the half-grin in place. He has a small backpack over his shoulder.

“Hi.” You step back to let him in, watching as he closes the door behind him. “It’s a good look.” You speak before thinking.

He laughs, leaning on the door. “Thanks, I try.” His eyes drop to take in your sleepwear. “Also, a good look.”

“Scantily-clad lingerie is so overrated.”

“Is it?”

God, you really shouldn’t have wine.

“Um, I took the bottom bunk.” You point to the beds. “Hope that’s okay.”

“It’s your room. I’m just grateful to not have to sleep on the floor. Or try and drown out Jisung’s snoring.” He moves easily toward the beds, climbing up to the top, slinging his bag on the mattress.

“No axes in there?”

He plops down, legs having over the side and his grin widens. “Just a tiny one. In case I need to defend myself.”

“From me?”

“Or Dementors.”

It’s easy to laugh and it decreases the tension a little especially when he swings his legs as you move back to your little nest on your bed.

“So. What’re you doing?” He moves so he’s laying down and looking over the side of the bunk at you. You look up, finding the fact that you chose to put the man on top of you (with space and a bed in between but still) probably a dumb dumb idea.

“Working. Or more like brainstorming. I still need to figure out where I want to go, when, how, etc. I make itineraries, but really flexible ones because if I’m too rigid, I don’t have fun.”

“Makes sense.” He goes quiet for a second. “Can I…be really self-involved for a second?”

“Absolutely. It’s encouraged.”

He grins again and hurries down to the floor next to where you have tucked yourself in. He gestures to the open space at the foot.

You nod and he sits before offering wireless headphones.

“Want to listen to something we finished last week?”

“Absolutely,” you say again, reaching out with almost ‘grabby hands’. He laughs at your enthusiasm and leans in to place the headset over your ears. Your smile fades with him that close. It’s a move, it has to be. There’s no way he doesn’t know what he’s doing. His face is about a foot or so away from yours and you want to touch his cheeks and feel if they are soft and smooth like they appear. He meets your eyes once the headphones are in place and there’s a softness in his curled lips.

You absolutely want to kiss a stranger.

He sits back and opens his phone to press play. “Too quiet?”

The instrumentation is soft, so you nod and he presses the side of his phone a few times before you nod again.

You aren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this. It’s not hip hop, with its intense beats and rhythm. There is synth and piano at a much softer, flowy-ier tempo.

“Oh it’s pretty,” you say quietly. He smiles but then looks down at the phone as you listen. You wonder if he can sense where you are in the song with just watching the time counter move along.

You wonder who does the higher notes, whose voice is harsh and rough, who sounds more like he could be in a choir.

The song ends abruptly and you startle at it, glancing at Changbin.

“We don’t have the ending quite right yet.”

“I think it should fade out,’ you say, again without thinking. “I mean, I know nothing about how to put a song together–”

“But you like music, so noted.” His smile is warm. “You liked it?”

“Very much. It’s…what I could understand cause I assume Korean?”

“You assume correct.”

“It’s about dreams changing? Like how you wanted one thing and you realize that what you wanted has changed into something perhaps less impressive, but still matters to you?” Your eyes widen as you remove the headphones. “Or I could be projecting.”

He chuckles and reaches out for the headphones, his hand touching yours and you try to not shiver at the errant contact (can you still blame the wine?).

“No, that’s there. Maybe not as thought out as what you just said.” He fiddles with the headphones. “You’re really smart.”

“No. I just overthink.”

He makes a face at you, disapproving. “You’re smart. Take the compliment. The lauding.”

You look away, feeling flushed. “Thank you.” Then you look back. “It’s really beautiful, Changbin. Like I was going to search for your music anyway, and listen and then decide how to tell you what I thought without being like super judgy or whatever, but wow.”

“Thanks.” He nods to your computer. “I showed you mine, you show me yours?”

The terminology (innuendo, wtf) makes you feel more than you should about trading work content with someone, but you nod and turn your laptop around, finding your YouTube channel and choosing a video from last year when you were in Barcelona, walking around to see every Anton Gaudi piece of architecture. He watches, occasionally glancing up at you.

“You don’t show yourself much.”

“Oh, yeah, well, it’s not about me. It’s about the experience. No one needs to see me to see the food, the sights.”

“But they can hear you.” You do narrate quite a bit.

“Well, that’s done mostly after because then I can figure out what I want to say, clearly.”

“You have a nice voice.”

“Oh. Thank you.” You point to his phone. “Which voice are you?”

“Which do you think?”

“That’s not fair. Our speaking voices don’t always match our performing ones.” You pout and he grins.

“Guess.”

You sigh as though it’s a burden and he chuckles, eyes back on the video.

“The low one. Like the raspier one.”

He smirks. “Good guess.”

“It’s nice. Like rough, but soothing too?”

He stares at you as the video ends.

“What?” Now you’re even more flustered.

“Dunno. Kinda fascinated.”

You want to ask him. Does he feel it too? This weird something between you. But you actually think that might make the strange occurrence of him sleeping above you even more awkward.

You turn your laptop back around and look at the screen like you can focus on anything but him.

“I, uh, won’t be up much longer,” you begin, stuttering a bit as you can still feel his eyes on you. “So you can sleep soon.”

“We tend to late hours, the guys and me, so it’s more like I might keep you up.”

Your eyes dart to his, the tension back so strongly that you actually curl your fingers into the bedding as though it might keep you from reaching out to touch him.

“Oh.” Smooth, very smooth.

He sits back, but doesn’t make any move to remove himself from your bed. “So…I feel like you should definitely see us at some point. Like come to Linlithgow when we’re there.”

“I should?”

He nods, resting on the opposing wall. HIs feet are still off, but the rest of him is on your bed. It’s intimate, a sleepover with a friend.

A really attractive friend.

“Like after you do what you need to in the city…?” He glances at his hands then at you. “If you want.”

“I wouldn’t not want.”

He laughs.

“Sorry, that was terrible English,” you wave it away. “I wouldn’t want to disturb you guys though. You’re doing this to work.”

“Inspiration comes from all types of things. Including new people.” He looks like he might say more, but moves to get off the bed and you feel it acutely. “Besides,” he says as he starts back up into his bunk. “It shouldn’t all be work, right? All work, no play and all that?”

Why does he have to look so appealing saying the word ‘play’? You are so very tempted to say something about him staying in your bed, to play, to tease, to taste.

Too much.

“Something like that.” If he hears the tremor in your voice, he doesn’t comment.

You hear him settle in the bed above you and you try to focus on your work, though it’s not easy, hyper-aware of him as you are.

“Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“This is dumb, but I’m really glad I got to meet you guys.”

There’s rustling and you look up to see him peer at you over the side of the bunk. He’s grinning.

“It’s not dumb. And same.” Again he looks like he might say something else, but he just winks at you. “G’night.”

“Night. Sweet dreams.”

“Yeah, I hope so.” He laughs and rolls back over. You continue to do what you can; listening to the tinny sounds of whatever he’s vibing to on his phone, hearing each shift he makes in bed. You make decent progress and plan to record the audio sometime in your hotel room tomorrow night. You close down all your electronics, before getting up and moving to turn off the lamp light on the small table by the door. You carefully make your way back to your bunk.

“Again, night, neighbor.” His voice is impossibly lower and it makes you jump even if you assumed he wasn’t asleep yet.

“Good night, Changbin.”

You curl up under the duvet and look outside at the pitch-black dark night before pulling the cord for the blinds and closing your eyes.

–

When you wake up, the sun is just peeking over the horizon, the light diffused through the blinds right next to where you sleep. Despite being a little concerned that you might not sleep since you have a cabin mate, you actually wake feeling decently well-rested. Not that you are happy that the sun is making itself known in your face, but it isn’t the worst wake-up call.

You stretch before reaching for your phone. You hear a deep inhale and it makes you freeze in your movements.

Right. A near-stranger slept in your cabin.

You stare up at the underside of the top bunk, mentally reviewing everything that happened yesterday.

You are no closer to understanding why you feel so drawn to the man in your cabin than you were yesterday.

With a sigh, you push yourself out of bed, stretching again once you’re on your feet. You move to the other side of the window, moving the blinds just enough so you can see out.

It’s hard not to smile at the landscape that rushes by. The rolling hills, the sparse trees, the rock walls and hedges that provide simple borders.

You hear the shifting in the top bunk and quickly drop the blinds.

He says your name, voice low and rough from sleep.

It takes you a second to respond, to make your voice not sound at all affected by just how much hearing him say your name in that tone warms you to near scorching.

“Morning.”

You see him peer over at you, face flushed from sleep and eyes all squinty.

It’s as devastating as when he’d been dressed up last night.

“Time’isit?” he slurs, voice low and rumbly.

“Not quite seven.”

He groans and rolls to his back. “Why up?”

You chuckle at the sleepy caveman speak. “Just woke up. Go back to sleep. I’ll be quiet.”

He snorts, rolling back over and propping himself up on one elbow, cheek to hand. “It’s your room. I can go back next door.” He blinks a few times as though you might be finally coming into focus. He smiles, as sleepy and cute as can be. “Though Ji and Chan might be violent if I wake them up.”

“Wouldn’t want you harmed,” you reply, and waves dismissively. “Go on, go back to sleep.”

He nods slow before letting his arm drop with the rest of him. You wait to see if he’s going to say more, but you hear the even breathing after a few seconds and it makes you smile.

Seems like he’s good at that.

You gather your things for the day to take to the bathroom compartment down the hall (having showered the night before, but you aren’t about to change in the same room even if he is asleep). When you get back, you do some simple skincare and makeup before starting to pack everything up for disembarking in a few hours.

There’s a loud thump sound from the other side of the wall, then muttered words (not English, you assume Korean) before another voice joins in and it’s not horribly loud, but it is noticeable.

The other two must be awake.

“Changbin?” you say softly, not wanting to shock him awake. You move over to the bunks, again saying his name. Then you lightly touch his shoulder.

He hums before blinking his eyes open. He grins at you.

“Missed me?”

“Of course.”

His eyes widen because you don’t argue and that makes you laugh. You point toward the wall.

“Your friends are up.”

He turns, hair sticking out in all directions as he listens to the muted voices of his bandmates. He nods before sitting up. He searches the bedclothes before finding his phone. He points down toward the small nightstand. You grab his glasses as he opens his mouth.

“Can you–” He stops when you hand them to him. “Oh.”

You chuckle again and walk back to your suitcase, zipping it up and starting to fill your backpack with your journal and laptop and other vlogger accessories.

“Hey.”

You look over to see him climbing down. He runs a hand through his hair, before shrugging.

“Thanks.”

“Oh. You’re welcome.” You feel your face heat with embarrassment. “Truly not a problem. Thanks for not being an ax murderer.”

He laughs before grabbing his bag from the carpet and moving toward the door. He pauses as he opens it then offers you his phone.

“I…I can text you when we head to breakfast? If you want?” He is blushing slightly and you feel an immense amount of gratitude that he initiates the exchanging of contact information. You had been mulling over and over about the best way to make sure you could keep in contact with your next door neighbors (especially Changbin) and how not to make it obvious that you are interested (unless you should make it obvious…cause you are…right?…this weird connection is just…attraction…of some strange degree?) or awkward.

You nod to ease his discomfort and take his phone, fingers brushing and that definitely elicits some frissons. You input your number and hand it back.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he says before giving you a large grin and heading out into the hallway. You look around the door to see and make sure he gets into his room. The door opens after he knocks and there’s a loud ‘Hyung!’ before he’s pulled in.

You let out a breath.

Breakfast (preceded by a short ‘hungry?’ text from an unknown number - now not unknown) is much more relaxed than dinner was, the guys chatting about the cabin and decent sleep though Chan does complain about Jisung’s snoring to which Changbin who sits next to you again, says that you don’t snore with a familiar grin, discussing if they should store their bags and immediately go to Ediburgh castle, or check in at their hotel first then go.

As Jisung rants about how heavy their equipment is after prolonged carrying, Changbin leans over to you.

“Kinda silly, but promise me something?”

Is this it? Is he going to say something about the weird link that you feel…that he feels it too?

“Maybe.”

He scrunches up his nose at your cryptic response.

“Don’t have haggis without me? I need moral support.”

It’s so not where your brain went that you have no idea what expression is on your face, but you laugh at the surprise of the request because only you are spiraling about this whole thing. He seems blissfully unaware.

Lucky him.

“I can keep that promise.”

He smiles back, squeezing your arm which repeats the tingles from earlier but more of them and you watch him, to see if anything in his face or reaction gives anything away.

Are you just the one losing your mind?

Perhaps it’s good that you’ll be on your own for a few days in the city before deciding whether or not to go meet up with them in Linlithgow (you refuse to admit that it’s 100% likely that you will). Maybe time away from him will fix your brain. Or whatever has you in such confusion.

You all return to your respective cabins as arrival time is ahem, arriving soon.

Changbin pauses by your door as the other two continue to their cabin. You stop half-way into the room.

“Yes??”

He presses his lips together. “Nothing. Just seeing that you get in safely.”

“Going for the knight-in-shining-armor role?”

He doesn’t answer your teasing immediately, expression more contemplative.

“Maybe.” There's a quick smile at the end of that, like he knows he’s being as cryptic as you were earlier. He takes a step closer, probably the closest that he’s been face-to-face with you. “That okay?”

Your breath hitches at his nearness and he has to hear it. His smirk is subtle, not as confident, but far more enticing. His eyes drop from yours to your mouth and back up so quickly that you almost believe you made it up.

But when he steps back, you’re sure you didn’t. Which means the butterflies in your stomach are not alone.

Maybe he has a few too.

“Yeah. That’s okay.”

He nods before walking to his cabin, looking back once then entering. You do the same.

The train reaches Edinburgh Waverley station within the next twenty minutes and soon you are back on solid ground, less than 24 hours later, but, as you stand with the guys as they check their phone GPS, it is a very different you than previous.

Even if it’s only you and not him.

“So…” Jisung begins once they have decided they know where they’re going. “We’ll see you?”

You smile. “Most likely.” You glance at Changbin who raises his eyebrows. “Probably yes. I’ll let you know.”

“Have fun, then. Be safe, yeah?” Chan says and comes over to hug you like that level of familiarity has been established between all of you. You don’t mind. Not a bit, and you’re grateful that he is so unawkward about it. He’s warm and smells good, like sun-warmed grass. He releases you before hefting the guitar over his shoulder and heading toward the street level. Jisung, notably more reserved, waves at you before following Chan.

You look at Changbin who hasn’t looked away. Feeling bold because ‘what the hell’, you open your arms in a blatant hug invitation, and he laughs before sliding off his shoulder bag and coming up to wrap his arms around you.

Oh god in heaven, wow.

Chan was warm, but Changbin is searing. The weather this far north is chilly and though you’ve dressed for such a change, Changbin is far better as a heater than your hoodie. You hope you’re not being creepy when your eyes close and you breathe in; spicy and floral. You feel him turn his head a bit, his arms tighten, but then he lets go almost abruptly. You feel a whine at the back of your throat but you swallow it down.

He tucks his hands into his pockets.

“Text once and awhile. Okay?” His smile is sheepish. “So this knight doesn’t worry.”

“Will do, Mr. Knight.”

He jogs off, bag back on his shoulder, after his friends and they soon disappear among the crowd of morning commuters.

You have many things to do but you don’t immediately start because if only for a moment, you feel bereft.

–

You spend four days in Edinburgh. You go to the castle though you’ve been before because it really is one of the loveliest sights in the country. You take your camera to The Writers Museum, showcasing it because it’s super interesting and also free admission. Not free really because you buy a ridiculous amount of souvenirs from the gift shop. You tell yourself and your followers that you’ll use them as gifts, even offering a few as a giveaway.

You (on encouragement from a few comments) decided to do one of the haunted walking tours (there are several to choose from), checking with those in charge that your recording will not be a problem. They seem delighted for the free publicity and some spooky tales or shots will be a lot of fun.

You temporarily forget that you don’t like scary things.

It’s halfway through the tour and you are doing your best to record, listen and not gasp in terror or cover your ears like a child who doesn’t like what they are being told. You know your heart is pumping so fast because you feel it and why did you do this to yourself?

There’s a split second of you wishing Changbin was with you and hugging you again because that is your most recent memory of feeling safe. Hugs are naturally just a wonderful thing, but his had gone beyond that.

In your time alone in the city, you’ve given some thought to the strange draw you have to a stranger (though less of a stranger now). You definitely have found random people you run across in your travels as attractive. You aren’t blind. Beauty in people is just as soul-reviving as beauty in landscape and architecture.

You’ve dated, but not lately. Your job can keep you away for periods at a time and though you’ve never been seriously tempted to be unfaithful, your partners have been more paranoid. That lack of trust bothered you more than any idiosyncrasies in dealing with combining two lives together.

You have never seen someone in passing and felt like if you didn’t meet, didn’t talk, didn’t have a moment to interact; that you would spend your days living in regret. The desire to know someone has never possessed you at any point that you can remember. And now that you do know him a little? It just makes you want to know more. In a mental list, you have questions you want to ask him.

He’s texted you. Photos of their time in Edinburgh; the castle and classic tattoo performance, all the food and drink, the statues that he and his friends sometimes pose like or with. You’ve texted back comments and suggestions. You’ve sent photos you wouldn’t use on your platforms; silly ones that would make the blooper reel if you had one for your life, ones that are just moments in your wanderings that you think he might like. You exchange song recommendations. You didn’t know he’d also like ballads, and softer songs.

You’ve looked them up on youtube (they never mentioned their group name, but a search of ‘chan, jisung, changbin’ only brings up one group) and listened to their songs. It’s not your typical listening, but you like it. You buy an album digitally and when you just walk through the streets, you pop in your earbuds and listen to them. You look up lyrics when you have a moment, Korean being the dominant language in all their songs. You mull over the themes of their work, it makes you add new mental questions to that list.

You get a photo of their little Airbnb when they are in Linlithgow. There’s pictures of the sun reflecting on the loch, the castle in the distance. Chan in front his laptop with music making paraphernalia. Jisung with his forehead furrowed, scribbling something on paper.

Changbin making a duck face selfie.

>>Haggis soon?

The text comes in when you are in your inn room, editing more recent footage. Your time is coming to an end in the city and you’ve not said anything because you aren't sure they, or he, will still want you to come visit. Your original plan was to stay only a few days, maybe a day trip somewhere near, and then get back on the train to London.

Plans change.

<<if you still want to? you’re supposed to be writing great masterpieces.

>> (pout emoji)

<<not going well?

>>it’s okay. it’s really peaceful here and i get distracted by just sitting on a bench, watching people.

<<i know for a fact that’s good for inspiration.

>>you’re avoiding answering my question. Are you coming to see us?

<<I booked a room for tomorrow night. Celebratory haggis for dinner?

>>YES

You’ve adjusted your train ticket back to London, giving yourself more time, but you can’t help but wonder what will happen when you go back home and he goes back to Korea.

–

When you first ran into the trio, you weren’t nervous because you didn’t know. This time around, your heart is prematurely thumping like you’ve run all the way from Edinburgh. You’ve checked into your room at the pub/inn you’re staying at, then back on the street to view the centuries old architecture. It’s definitely a wet day, the clouds are ominous, so you’ve thrown your umbrella into your backpack and layered under your hoodie.

You have plans for dinner with them; a local restaurant that the owner of their Airbnb recommended. There’s no reason for you to see them before that. But despite that knowledge, you keep your eyes peeled (what a weird phrase, honestly) for any familiar sightings.

You walk along the street, trying to remember to look down because the streets are not even in these old villages and you wouldn’t say you’re clumsy, but you wouldn’t say you’re grace personified either. The buildings are magnificent though. The style sends you back to books you’ve read about tiny villages and murder mysteries that never scare you, just make you want to live in a cozy place and live a cozy life.

You pause in front of the third pub you’ve passed by, wondering if going in for a drink would settle the buzz of nerves currently rippling through you.

You hear your name.

You turn to see Changbin jogging up to you with a grin on his face, and he’s pulled you into a hug before you can piece together that he’s on his own, without his friends.

“You didn’t say you were here yet,” he says, voice muffled by your hair before he draws back, still grinning.

It’s stronger, the tether that you’ve felt since first laying eyes on him. You want to kiss him.

Like really really want to kiss him.

The urge startles you and you take a second to smile back, to cover that insane desire. You barely know him. What you know, you like, but you need to chill.

“Hi.”

Good job. Real eloquent and normal.

He laughs and squeezes your arm before letting go. He’s wearing sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a backwards snapback.

It’s so casual and normal, and you feel a bit light-headed.

You almost move to hug him again.

“Where’s the rest of 3racha?”

He shrugs. “Ji is currently down the rabbit hole of youtube, and Chan is frustratedly working on a track and does not want any outside input at the moment. I decided to go for a workout.” He smiles again, tugging on the straps of his gym bag that’s hanging on his shoulder.. “And I found you.”

His smile drops when you don’t say anything.

“I mean, unless you’re working right now? I’m sorry. You probably are and–”

“No, I’m sorry, I just…” You trail off, trying to figure out how the simple ‘I found you’ with that amount of sincerity destroys you, in all the best ways, and you can’t share that with him. “I’m kinda always working, so please, distract me.”

That pretty rose color lightens his cheeks and you wonder if maybe your words carried more underneath them than just a casual ‘let’s hang’ vibe.

“Wanna go work out?” he asks, teasing. You look down at your all-terrain boots and jeans then back at him. “No?”

“I guess these aren’t god-given?” You poke his arm, trying not to laugh when he flexes. You think it’s probably instinctual.

He eyes you suspiciously but there’s still that hint of smile on his lips. “Nope. Requires maintenance.”

“My maintenance is just the walking I do for work.”

He nods. “Wanna walk then?” He zips up his windbreaker, seeming okay with the change in plans.

“You don’t…don’t you want to go build muscle or something?”

He shakes his head. “Not right now.” He nods in the direction you were heading. “Come on. I’ll show you a nice spot.” He takes your hand and starts walking. You don’t resist.

Why would you?

His hand is warm, a little rough with calluses (probably from those beloved barbells). He’s speaking but for a few seconds you don’t comprehend because it’s been ages since you’ve had your hand held; nothing beyond a handshake or someone maybe helping you in and out of a mode of transportation.

And it’s just so nice.

“We haven’t tried there yet.” His words finally come into being understandable, even though you are still fixated on your hand in his. “But I want to. I think pubs might be one of my favorite things about the U.K.”

“No pubs in Korea?”

He takes you down a narrow street, cobblestoned and a little smelly. The wind picks up because of the condensed space and you shiver.

“You’ve never been?”

“To Korea? No. Not yet.” It’s on your list. As is most of east Asia. Perhaps now, knowing them, you might put your focus on affording that type of trip.

“Pubs aren’t really a thing. Not like here. There’s bars, restaurants that you drink in, but it doesn’t quite have the same laid-back feel.” He pauses at the curb, waiting for a cab to pass. Then he continues on, still holding your hand and you think it’d be really easy for him to lead you anywhere.

“Same. I mean, for the States. We have bars, clubs. I feel like coffee houses are close to the same vibe, but generally no alcohol.”

He’s led you to a small park, complete with wrought iron benches and trees that if it was spring or summer, would be full of green. Full of leaves and would block the view of the still lake beyond the bank.

“Oh.”

“Right? It’s really pretty.” He tugs you toward one of the benches that faces the lake, where the reflection of the local castle is near perfect, minus a few rolls that warp the shape of the towers when wind touches the water. He sits and you sit, staring at the picturesque beauty.

He lets go of your hand and you have to hold yourself back from taking it again.

You pull out your GoPro, opening it before getting up to find a few angles.

“I watched some of your videos. When are you putting up the Edinburgh ones?”

You frame the castle reflection before capturing it digitally. “Probably in a day or two. It takes awhile to edit and do the voiceover. Also…” You glance back at him. “I don’t like to post when I’m in the same place. In case there are any–”

“Ax murderers?”

You smile. “Yeah.”

“That’s smart.” He leans back on the bench, letting his small gym bag fall to the ground.

Manspreading is something you normally despise, especially on public transportation, but as with everything else, Changbin is the exception.

An image of you climbing onto his lap flashes through your mind, and you spin around to look back at the castle, mortified at your own thoughts. It seems invasive to think of him like that.

“Which videos did you watch?”

“Some of your first ones.”

You turn back to him in horror. “You didn’t.”

He grins, as though pleased that he’s made you embarrassed. “There’s a lot more of you in those. How old are you then?”

“Gah, right out of university.” You shake your head as you walk back to sit on the bench with him. “I knew nothing.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“The editing is mediocre, the shots and angles are pedestrian, my voice is–”

He’s laughing.

“I can’t believe you went back that far.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t listen to our first songs?”

“To be fair,” you begin, caught but ready to defend. “You have less songs than I have videos, because your songs take more work…” He’s still grinning and you shrug. “‘Wow’ is especially enjoyable.”

Now it’s his turn to look away and grimace in pain. “Yeah. If fans didn’t love it, ironically probably, I’d make that disappear.”

“Shows how far you’ve come.”

He looks back at you, eyes warming. “Same for you.”

The warmth is unnerving and you look back at the perfect view of water and architecture. “You come out here a lot?”

“I’ve been twice? Since we’ve been here. I don’t usually just sit and stare out into nothing. That’s more Ji’s thing. He’s the introvert.”

“And Chan?”

He sits up and rests his forearms on his thighs, watching a lady push a stroller while talking on the phone. “He’s a workaholic. Even more than Ji and I. Sometimes I have to wrestle him into bed so he can get some sleep.”

“Can you take him in a fight?”

He smirks. “He’s taller, but I’m stronger.”

You mimic his position, watching the branches seesaw with the wind. “Who wrestles you into bed?” The moment you say it, you recognize what else it could mean. That perhaps just being around him layers your words with implications that hint and tease and lure.

You feel his gaze, but you stubbornly look at the trees, even though you’re sure he can see the heat on your cheeks.

“No one. Lately.”

You swallow and let your eyes drift to him. He seems undaunted by your words or even his response. You think you could ask him, right now, if he’s having the same feelings as you; a practical stranger. You think he would tell you the truth.

But you hear the sound of a vibrating phone and he jolts at it, letting out a huff before pulling it out of his pocket to answer.

“Yeah?” The conversation moves into Korean and you do hear your name, but the rest of it is lost to you. You sit up, messing with the settings on your GoPro, taking a few shots, trying to capture the quiet in a photo.

“That was Chan.” Changbin tells you. “It’s early, but Ji is starving.” He rests his arm on the back of the bench, his fingers centimeters from your arm. “Hungry?”

“I can always eat.”

He smiles at that, standing up to grab his bag and fit it on his shoulder before offering his hand. “Same, really.”

If you post those castle photos, you aren’t sure what you'll caption them, as your biggest impression of that hour was holding Changbin’s hand.

–

“You didn’t!?” You cover your mouth as you laugh, hilarity infecting Jisung and Chan as well. Changbin looks pained as he stares at his plate. “You looked it up. You shouldn’t have.”

“I always check what I’m about to put in my body,” he answers, lips in near pout. “I knew it was going to be unusual, but…”

Haggis sits on his plate, awaiting a first bite, and you think, it looks a bit sad that it hasn’t been partaken yet.

It might be the beer you’ve all had, but the giggling doesn’t cease. You lean over and cut it open, taking a forkful without even asking him. Later, you’ll blame intoxication.

“See?” You take a bite, chewing and grinning at him. Then you pause. “Okay, that’s excellent.”

He doesn’t look very convinced. “I…”

You grab his fork, do the same and offer it to him. “No regrets. If you hate it, at least it is an informed opinion.”

His lips part at the beckoning expression you give him. The other two are still laughing, teasing him, but the way he looks at you seems to drown them out. Like it all fades and you swear you can hear how his breathing changes, as though his heart speeds up.

“Come on, you’ll never know unless you try.”

He lets you feed him, something you’ve never done outside a few gigs babysitting as a teenager. And it wasn’t like this.

It takes far too long for you to drag your eyes from his lips, to look up to his eyes, to see if he liked the Scottish delicacy.

His thoughtful face is cute.

You set the fork down, drawing back, as though you’ve finally realized just how forward, how flirty you’ve been. You know there’s nothing wrong with it, if he’s not bothered, but you feel bashful nonetheless.

You aren’t usually this person. Not since you were in school, when opportunities to meet and date seemed endless.

“So?” Jisung pipes up. “Verdict?”

Changbin swallows, turning from you to his friends. “It’s actually…pretty good.”

Jisung takes that as permission, grabbing his own bite, as does Chan. You coerce yourself into watching them, not him, as they make similar confused and pensive expressions. As you do, you muse that you aren’t sure how three friends could all be so handsome, each in their own way.

Why only one of them seems to be bewitching you.

He’s sitting next to you again, but it’s in a booth not separate chairs, and though you aren’t touching, you can feel the heat of him in the few inches between you.

“Maybe not something I’d eat all the time,” Chan says. “But certainly not gross.”

Jisung nods. “Especially if I don’t think about what it is.” He even takes another bite.

Changbin fiddles with his fork before taking a swallow of his pint.

“I like it.”

You smile.

The guys mostly talk music for the rest of the meal. Chan even apologizes to you, but you wave it off. You’re fascinated by artists of any kind, how they create. You sip your cider, listening to them, even when they forget you and speak in Korean. It’s a nice, hazy feeling. The coziness of the pub, the talking around you, voices with different accents, the music filling in any lull in conversation.

Perhaps the cider is stronger than you thought.

“You falling asleep?”

You tilt your head toward him. He’s removed the snapback, run his hand through his hair a few times and you want to do the same.

“No.”

“You sure?”

You are slumped against the back of the booth, warm and comfortable. In a distant part of your brain, you chastise that you haven’t taken more photos or video of the meal, but it’s nice. Nice to be here.

“I think she’s fading.” You hear Chan. You shake your head. “How early did you get up today?”

“Not early…I just haven’t slept super well since the haunted walking tour thingy.” It isn’t until Changbin touches your bottom lip that you realize you’re pouting.

And that he’s touched you.

“Was that fun?” Jisung asks, animated.

“No. Not by myself.” You watch Changbin who has gone back to his food and beer. “Probably would be fun with someone.”

He glances at you and holds your gaze for a few seconds before saying something to Jisung about his horror film obsession.

You don’t fall asleep, but you are definitely close when you fight them for the bill. You win this time.

The walk outside into the night is a good wake up, the air far chillier than when the four of you entered the establishment. You wrap your arms around yourself, not too cold, but not warm either.

“Nightcap?” Chan asks. “I don’t think I can go back to working just yet.”

“I want to,” you say. “But I think I need to go to bed.”

“Rain check,” he says, smiling fondly. “Come on, Ji.” He wraps his arm around his younger friend. “First one’s on you.”

“Why me?” He complains as the two of them cross the street to a pub that sounds and looks lively. They both wave at you before disappearing through the doors.

“I’ll walk you back.”

“You can go on,” you protest, shivering a little. “I know how to get back.”

He pulls up the hood over your hair, tightening the strings. “I’m walking you back.” He states again, taking your hand.

You aren’t about to refuse.

“Don’t you want to go with them?”

He gives you a look that you can’t really decipher. When he lets go of your hand, you open your mouth to argue, but he wraps his arm around your waist to pull you close. It’s a second later that you feel a group of people walk by, nonverbally explaining why he does so.

You look up at him, your hand on his chest.

“They were–I mean–” He is blushing, before releasing you. “I didn’t want you to get bumped into.”

“Thanks.”

He nods, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep going. You loop your arm with his. He almost stumbles but doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

It’s a few minutes more until you’re in front of your lodging.

“Well…” you begin, but he enters. “Changbin I can…”

“I know you can, but I want to.” There’s a stubborn set to his jaw and mouth and you resist cooing over it because for someone who could probably lift you with ease, he’s adorable.

You wave at the innkeeper, trying not to look shameful that you are bringing someone up the stairs with you. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but it does feel cheap, as though this person you’ve met days ago is just a fling. Not someone making sure that you are safe in your room, not someone that you find yourself thinking about hourly.

Not someone important.

You stop in front of your room, pulling out the skeleton key and unlocking it before turning to your bodyguard.

“Thank you for seeing me to my room, Mr. Knight.”

He smiles at the reference. “You’re welcome.” He moves to slip the hood off your head, smoothing your hair. “I hope you sleep better.”

“Me too.”

He swallows and you watch the movement of his throat with avid interest. “I’m gonna…I’m gonna work out tomorrow morning, but do you want to do anything? Together? I could help you record or whatever, if you wanted.” He’s got his hands in his pockets again, his windbreaker zipped all the way up, eyes wide and inquiring.

“Fuck, you are so cute,” you breathe. His eyes get even wider. “Like, sorry, that’s…you are. Really attractive.”

“Oh. Thanks.” He’s so taken aback by your words that you giggle. That smirk returns, painting him far more confident than he just was. He moves a few steps closer. “Is that a yes?”

He is so close.

“Yes?”

He grins even more. “To tomorrow? Hanging out.” He takes one of the strings of your hoodie, tugs it lightly and wraps it around his finger.

“Sure. I’ll put you to work carrying my stuff.”

He tilts his head down, his eyes dropping to your lips. “I can do that.” His nose touches yours. “And same by the way.”

“Hmm?” You can’t look away from his mouth.

“You’re also really cute. Attractive.” He pauses to let that sink in. “Pretty.” He moves so carefully and your eyes fall shut, sure to feel his lips on yours, but you don’t.

He kisses you on the cheek. Your eyes flutter open and he’s watching you, searching. He starts to pull back, but you grasp the collar of his windbreaker, halting his retreat.

Your name falls from his lips, and you figure what the hell.

You kiss him.

It’s a bit forceful, perhaps your coordination is off from the drinking, but his little grunt when your lips meet makes you soften immediately. Your grip relaxes, your hands seeking out the curls at the nape of his neck. You feel him tremble, then you feel his hands on your hips.

Your head falls back against the door as he licks into your mouth, apparently no longer caught off guard by your forwardness. He tastes a little bitter from the beer he imbibed, but the heat, his tongue curling with yours makes your fingers tighten as though holding onto his shoulders might keep you from collapsing.

One hand captures you by the jaw, a gentle maneuvering so he can kiss you deeper. You hear his hat fall to the floor when your greedy fingers card through his hair, soft and silky. He takes a step in, and his hips align with yours.

It’s like fireworks explode under your skin.

In case you questioned whether or not he was interested, you aren’t questioning now. He’s hard, pressed against you in a way that makes you hungrier than you’ve ever been.

You absolutely crave him.

His mouth leaves yours, and you whimper at the loss. There’s a dark chuckle, arrogant, before he graces your neck with soft pecks, ending with a nip and a suck, right near your collarbone, your hoodie pushed aside to let him taste.

You stutter his name.

There’s a pause in his ministrations, his thumb running along your lower lip. He raises his head as your eyes open. You can see a reflection of your desire in his eyes, in the focus of his gaze.

His thumb pulls on your lip, as though seeking the wet heat of your mouth. Your tongue flicks the tip and his eyes go even darker. You think maybe he growls before slotting his mouth back over yours, tongue stroking and enticing.

There’s a creak of footsteps coming up the stairs and you break apart, chests heaving with breathlessness. His face is flushed, hair and eyes a little wild, and you wonder if this is how he looks post workout, post other exertions.

A runaway thought about licking the sweat off his neck ping-pongs in your brain, but you won’t ever verbalize it.

You both wait until the guest passes down the hall to their room before either of you speak. He leans down to grab his hat.

“Do we blame the beer?” you ask softly.

“You had cider.”

It’s almost petulant, his words, and it surprises a laugh out of you. His answering smile is soft, and he cups your cheek in his hand.

“You should go sleep.” His index finger taps lightly on your ear, playful.

You want to protest, to invite him in, but this evening has already sped past any rules you’ve ever had in place for dating and sex.

A moment to process, to think.

“Yeah.”

He kisses you again, but it’s chaste and sweet. A good night kiss as though you two are familiar with each other.

“Message me when you wake up?” His voice is barely a whisper. His nose slides along yours before he drops another kiss and backs up. “Sweet dreams.”

“Yeah.” You are incapable of anything more eloquent than that at the moment. He grins, squeezing your hand before heading toward the stairs. You open the door, still with your back against it, resistant to look away.

“Night.”

“Good night,” you answer before finally shutting the door behind you. You allow yourself the cliche romantic moment of leaning and sliding down to the floor, completely enamored.

–

You wake and check your phone out of habit.

Wanna do breakfast?

It was nearly an hour ago that it was sent, but you hope it’s still an option. The overabundance of cider ensured you slept hard last night, which given how much the man at the other end of this text filled your brain, you are grateful. Because it’s a new day. Sun’s coming up and things that are easy and make sense late into the night, under the influence of alcohol, sometimes feel rather foolish in the light of day.

You want to see him. After last night, after kissing, touching…just feeling; you feel like the one time you’d had a crush in middle school.

The beginnings of crushing. That quickly turned painful and awkward (the epitome of middle school life), and even thinking of it dampens your present joy.

You shove it away, intent on appreciating that the strange inclination that appeared at just seeing Changbin seems to be somewhat reciprocated.

Yes. This pub has breakfast. Wanna meet me?

Give me 15. Have to shower and I’ll be there.

You did not need that mental image.

You may spend a minute more on your face this morning, but then your brain is taken over by thoughts of what to see and what to do for your channel. You keep a decently consistent upload schedule (the only way to keep viewers sticking around), and you posted the last one of your last excursion.

It’s time.

The worry from two seconds ago reappears.

You find a table downstairs in the pub and order a tea (when in the UK). You check your instagram and TikTok platforms. You’d posted just the castle reflection (no location mentioned) yesterday and just looking at it again warms you.

“Hey.”

You look up from your phone to see Changbin sliding in the chair across from you. His hair is damp and curly, reminding you of that mental image you do not need to have. He wears not all black today, but a pale pink hoodie and dark jeans. He smiles once you make eye contact.

“Morning.”

You reply the same, your own gaze falling to his lips, which flusters you immensely, so you sit up, put your phone away.

“I didn’t know if you were coffee or a tea person.”

“Oh. Coffee. But,” he looks at your cup. “That actually looks good.”

You offer it to him. “Try. You should at least try good breakfast tea while you’re here.”

He takes it from you, sipping it before staring off as he contemplates.

“You can have it just plain. I always add milk and sugar. It’s good without too.”

He smiles. “Oh I can?”

You fluster yet again.

“It’s cute. You’re like a tea missionary all of a sudden.”

He sets the tea back on your side as a server pops up for your order. Changbin orders a full Scottish breakfast (and tea), and you get porridge.

“Good workout?”

He nods. “I haven’t really been diligent about it.”

“You’re traveling, of course you haven’t.” You rest your chin in your hand. “You enjoy it?”

“Yeah. I mean…” He blushes. “I could go on and on about everything to do with training, eating, all that. I don’t want to bore you.”

“As a person who knows very little, except to get some exercise to be healthy, I won’t be bored.”

He looks doubtful. “No?”

“Try me. I like learning stuff.”

He does know a lot. As much as you don’t think you will ever desire to be a gym rat in any circumstances, you find his enthusiasm wonderful. It’s perhaps one of your favorite things about traveling. A lot of it is solitary, but you do meet people, have conversations that only two strangers on a plane, train, or in a restaurant could have. People have passions, and they light up when they get to talk about them, or share them.

You once had a two hour conversation with someone about red milkwood fruit and the best areas in South Africa to get it.

It was really good.

Food is delivered and Changbin’s commentary about leg day tapers off. You hide a smile as his focus becomes solely his meal.

“I’d like to look at the castle today. I’m sure you’ve already gone?”

He chews slowly, but shakes his head.

“You haven’t?”

“All three of us had stuff to work on. Or wanted to work, so sight-seeing hasn’t happened yet. So, yeah, let’s go.”

“You don’t mind? I mean, I don’t want you to not work if–”

He interrupts you, saying your name. “You think I don’t want to spend time with you? After…” He’s the cutest thing when he blushes.

You don’t suppose you look as cute when your face heats too.

“So,” you save him from continuing, even though your voice definitely cracks, “The castle, and maybe a boat ride at the Canal Centre, the museum there too?” You meet his eyes. “You don’t have to do all of that with me if you don’t want to.”

He leans in a little (there are still two meals between you two). “I want to.”

You can’t really find anything to say to that, not with that resolute tone that makes you want to crawl over the table (pretty sure the beans on his plate would stain your pants for eternity but it would be worth it) and continue where you left off last night.

It’s a craving that your very nice porridge will not satiate.

And it’s a lot for you in your not very long time on this planet.

He seems to feel the same if the way he’s looking at you is any indication, but he drops his gaze to go back to his meal.

You do the same.

When you’re outside after eating, he tugs on your backpack. You turn and he pulls it off you, sliding it onto his shoulders. His smile is a little cheeky and bashful.

“You did say I could carry your stuff.”

“I did.” Can’t really argue with him about that. You open your phone to find the best walking route to the castle and let that lead you both. His hand slips into yours.

You’ve never gotten to travel as part of a couple. This phase of your life started because you had wanted to see more than your state, and no one in your life was able to join you (commitments to jobs, partners, now kids). Traveling alone means no one puts any sort of expectations of what you do, when you do it, and where. It’s freedom.

But it’s terribly nice to walk hand in hand with someone down a cobblestoned street as you record the simplicity and antiquity of your surroundings.

“Say hi!” you turn the camera on him and he doesn’t even hesitate, but gives a peace sign and a huge grin. You laugh that he’s so at ease with it, but remind yourself that he performs fairly regularly.

To see them live would be an experience.

“Did you know this palace is the birthplace of Mary Queen of Scots?” you ask him, camera still focused on his profile.

“I did not. Nor do I have a clue who that is.”

You laugh again. “Why would you?” You turn the camera back toward the castle in the distance. You do a quick speech about the little you know of British royals and history. “I’ll add more later,” you turn the camera to your face. “Edit this out, but keep in Changbin.”

“Wait, why?”

“Cause you’re cute and look good on camera.”

The blush is redder with the brisk wind.

“I see how it is. You just want me for my looks.”

“Absolutely.” You may blush when you say it, but his answering laugh is worth it.

The castle is as castles are: drafty, wet-smelling, but still hold some sort of mystique due to age and grandeur. There’s a tour you follow, listening and taking the occasional note on your phone. Changbin is fairly quiet, though he mutters the occasional comment to you which makes you laugh a little too loudly and interrupt the tour guide.

You really do try not to be the loud and rude American when you travel.

“When I was little, I wanted to live in a castle,” you say to Changbin when the tour is over and you are just filming to get footage and B roll.

“You don’t anymore?”

“Oh god no. It’s too cold. Too big. Too much to clean.”

He laughs and adjusts your backpack on his shoulders. “That’s not very romantic.”

“I’m not very…” You trail off, glancing at him as he looks out across the pond. The wind is up, ruffling his hair, and you think you might be a little romantic because your heart does swell when you look at him.

“Hmm?” He looks back, and smiles.

“Never mind. Wanna head to the Canal Centre?”

“Sure.”

As you both walk that way, you see a group of people (possible power-walkers, is that a thing in Scotland?) coming down the road toward you. He takes you by the elbow and pulls you into a tiny alcove under the footbridge. You stumble into him as his arm wraps around your back. You look up to see him watching the crowd pass by before seeing your gaze. Pink tinges his cheeks in a faint blush.

“There was–” He gestures with his other hand toward the now absent crowd. “It wasn’t a move, I promise.”

“It’s okay if it had been.”

One corner of his lips shoots up in a smirk-smile. “Yeah?” His arm tightens around you, pulling you flush against him.

As you lean in to brush a kiss to his lips, your brain is reminding you that everything is on a deadline, and you should mention this to him. But the kiss (and he) is distracting. His hand is splayed in the middle of your back and he’s so warm. The kiss, that starts fairly chaste, morphs into heat, tongue and at least one moan.

The moan is you.

“Public indecency charges in a foreign country are probably really difficult to get out of,” you mumble, mouth barely touching his.

He chuckles, hand stroking down your back. “We probably shouldn’t find out.” He rests his head on the stone wall behind him.

You open your mouth to say something about your train leaving tomorrow, but he takes your hand and pulls you from the alcove to head back into the muted sunshine.

The Canal Centre has options for 12 or 40 people, and requires advanced booking, so you and Changbin just wander through the museum before finding a spot in the tearoom to watch the boats pass.

“It feels slower here,” he says softly as you look through the footage you’ve taken.

You lift up your head and raise your eyebrows in question. He shrugs and takes a sip of tea in the dainty teacup. You gesture for him to hold that position as you snap a quick photo of his large hand wrapped around that delicate porcelain.

“Just. Stopping for tea. Staring out at people. It’s all very calm.”

“We are kinda on vacation. Working here would be different.”

“I’m sure. But even that…people are out for lunch, just heading to the pub and spending time eating and socializing. We do that in Korea, but usually after work, late, for supper and drinks.” He sets the cup back down. “Just different.”

“America never seems to stop. Just get into your car, drive, work, eat as fast as you can, drive home, crash. Maybe go out, but I couldn’t usually muster up the energy post-work.”

“I’ve never been.”

“No gigs in the US of A?”

“Not yet.” He meets your eyes before looking back at the boats. “I’m a bit bummed we didn’t get to ride in a boat.” He points at you, with excitement. “We could book for tomorrow if you wanted.”

It’s an anvil on your chest.

“What about your work?”

He gives you a look, like ‘are you kidding?’ “For a boat ride? With you? I think I can take a few hours.” He leans forward, resting his arms on the table, one hand seeking yours. “More content for you, ms. vlogger.”

You let him take your hand and then you take a deep breath. “My train leaves tomorrow.”

His thumb, rubbing over your knuckles, stills at your words.

“It does?”

You grip his hand in case he thinks of letting go. “I have to get back. Money wise, content wise, just…life.”

He stares at you, expression unreadable.

“I’m sorry. I would stay if–”

“You need to get back.” He nods before letting go. “And I have songs to write.”

There are several other people in the tearoom and you want to say things, but it feels way too private for this public venue.

“When do you guys head back to Korea?”

“End of next week.” He takes a deep breath, eyes back on the boats. His jaw tightens and he turns again back to you. “Come to Korea.”

“What?”

“In your travels, come.”

“I mean, I would like to. It’s on my list.”

“Move it up the list.”

You laugh, bewildered at his insistence. “I’ll try. It’s not like it’s easy to get to from America.”

He takes your hand again. “Come. Please.”

It’s a lot. To not look away from the intensity of his gaze, those brown eyes entreating.

“You gonna come to the States?”

“Yes.”

No question, no hesitation.

“Oh.”

He says your name, then looks around. “Can we go somewhere and talk about this?” He takes out some British pounds and leaves them on the table. “Please?”

You gather your things and follow him out. He takes your hand and leads you back to the park from yesterday. He pulls you next to him on the bench, sliding your backpack onto the ground.

But he doesn’t speak. He stares back out across the water, his hand in yours.

“Bin?”

He turns with a smile. “First time you’ve called me that.” He moves closer, his smile faltering. “Maybe I’m completely off, but this is something.” He gestures to the space between the two of you on ‘this’. “Right? It’s not, it can’t be just a hookup. I…don’t want to not see you again.”

It’s hard to speak. To follow the rapidity of what he says.

“Right?” He forces a smile. “You weren’t just gonna fuck me and leave?”

You hide your face, embarrassed at his words. “I hadn’t even…I mean, I thought about…oh god.”

He rests his hands on your shoulders, saying your name again. “Talk to me. I realize I am not being at all cool and detached about this. But, when I saw you on the train, I…it’s so cliched and just bad romance movie shit, but I felt something.”

Your head raises up so quickly, his hands tighten in surprise. “You did?”

“Yeah. Like, I mean, you’re cute as fuck, but it was more than that.” He watches your face. “You did too, didn’t you?”

“I thought my heart was going to beat itself into exploding.”

He grins. “I don’t think that makes sense.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my first time.”

“Mine too.” He presses his lips together before speaking. “It’s big, right? Like I don’t know everything about you, but…”

“It feels like it? Yeah.” You feel your face heat. “It’s both super familiar and safe, but also, all the butterflies and anticipation and–”

He kisses you. “That.”

“Yes.” You kiss him back, and he holds you so close that you’re almost in his lap.

He moves his hands to your face. “We travel, the guys and me. Perform. Then we lock ourselves in the studio for the rest of the year. You can be there, for any of that. As much as you want.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “We’ve wanted to go to America for a couple years now, we have fans there…”

“I could travel with you guys?”

“Yeah. When you can.” He makes a face. “I mean, I’ll talk to them about it, but they know.”

“They know?”

He doesn’t let go of you, but his eyes do dart away, embarrassed. “They know that I’m into you. That something is going on.” He rolls his eyes. “Ji is especially annoying about it.”

You smile. “I bet.” You encircle his wrists with your hands. “So…long distance, huh?”

He swallows. “I’m game.”

“Me too.” It settles your heart and nerves to hear it. To hear that he feels and has been going through the same as you. That you aren’t alone in this.

You aren’t alone, at all.

His thumbs sweep along your cheekbones. “Okay.” His shoulders lower, relaxing. “Okay.”

You kiss him, letting go of his wrists and fully moving onto his lap, arms around his neck. He holds you close, mouth opening to taste you. It’s horribly public, but you don’t really care.

How could you, in his arms?

When his hand slips under the back of your pants, he mumbles something against your skin.

“Hmm?”

“Thinking about those public indecency laws,” he says.

You giggle as he looks up at you. “You say the sweetest things, Changbin.”

He snorts but stares at you.

You comb his hair off his forehead, staring back. “Pretty.”

He makes a face at you, but doesn’t look away. “I think we’re getting sappy.”

“Maybe a little.”

You kiss his nose. “I like you.”

He smiles wide. “Yeah?”

“A lot.”

His wayward hand takes one grab of your ass, making you yelp and him laugh.

“I like you too,” he murmurs, mouth tracing down the shell of your ear. “A lot a lot.”

—

Supper is with Jisung and Chan again, no haggis this time. The four of you opt for curry, and you are given a front row seat to Changbin’s ability to handle spice and how Chan and Jisung don’t handle it.

Though all three do way better than you as you ask the server for the least spicy curry on the menu. And even then, you make good use of the naan in the middle of the table.

Changbin sits next to you, thigh flush to yours. His hand finds your leg often, resting on it, tapping a rhythm on your knee, fingers slipping to your inner thigh; hints of more, both casual and intentional.

“You don’t mind?”

Chan glances at you from taking a swig of his pint. “Not at all. It’d be nice to have someone along. We have roadies, of course. But like…” He shrugs. “We put up with Ji, so you’ll be a breeze.”

Jisung glares at him. “I’m an angel.”

“I would check with you about anything I post, of course.”

Chan smiles warmly. “I trust you. Pretty obvious the moment you offered us a bed.”

It feels like years ago.

“I still can’t believe I did that.” You shake your head. “I’m lucky I’m not a True Crime podcast episode.”

“Or Bin isn’t.” Jisung says. “All you’d have to do is get him working and like, you could sneak up on him so easily.” He chews then swallows. “Not that I’ve thought about it.”

“Feeling’s mutual, Ji,” Changbin volleys back, unbothered by his friend’s comment. His fingers lace with yours, resting on his leg. You try not to show how affected you are, but Jisung meets your eyes and winks at you.

Chan gives you a big hug after supper, outside the restaurant. “I’d say I’d get up and say goodbye, but I don’t want to lie.”

You hug him back, chuckling. “I appreciate the honesty.”

He squeezes your arm. “Have a safe trip. We’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah, you will.”

Jisung hugs you this time, long arms wrapped around you. He also wishes you a safe trip and elicits a promise from you that you’ll bring Flaming Cheetos with you when you come to Korea as he really wants to try them.

It’s an easy promise to make.

There’s no excuse or question as to whether Changbin will walk you back to your room. He follows you in the main door, both of you not speaking. When you get to your room, he covers your hand as you try to unlock the door.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” he asks, voice no more than a whisper. “I’m afraid I won’t get up to say goodbye and–”

You turn around to kiss his cheek, silencing his stammering. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

You open the door. “We’ve already shared a cabin. Might as well share a bed, right?”

He enters, a bit timidly, glancing around. “You’ve already packed?”

“I barely unpacked.” You take your backpack from him, setting it on the floor of the wardrobe. You take off your shoes, setting them next to your backpack. You reach out for him, grabbing his hoodie to yank him to you.

“I wasn’t…I wasn’t assuming that we’d…”

“You did ask if I planned to fuck you and leave.”

He coughs a laugh, hands settling on your hips. “I did, didn’t I? I was panicking a little.”

You kiss his chin. “I’m not assuming anything either. I just want to kiss you again.”

His eyes soften and he slides his hands under your thighs, the unspoken indicator to jump into his arms. You do so, legs around his waist as he covers your mouth with his. He moves you both to the bed, laying you down carefully, leaving your lips to taste and suck down your neck. He only breaks away when you pull on his hoodie in an effort to disrobe him. His laugh is light when he pulls it off, his t-shirt clinging to him in ways that should be illegal. He takes off your layers, peeling off the sweatshirt, t-shirt, then camisole.

He stares.

You whine a protest. “What?”

He leans down, lips at your ear. His hands slide along your side, almost tickling.

“I like your shape.” You tremble at the puff of his breath on your ear, shiver more when he nips at the lobe. He continues, pressing kisses along your jaw line until he’s back to your mouth, urgent. Your legs fall open as he lowers himself, a sharp intake of breath when you feel him.

“I like yours, too,” you sigh into his mouth.

There’s a rumble of laughter. “Which shape?” He lifts his head to grin at you. “My body or my dick?”

You slap his arm, flustered.

He rests on his forearms, dropping soft pecks on your nose, cheeks, eyelids. “Just trying to clarify here.”

“Ridiculous.”

“You aren’t answering.”

You open your eyes, now to glare at him. “Both, obviously.”

His smirk is so satisfied, you kind of want to hit him again. He sits back on his knees and starts to undo the button of your jeans.

“Okay?”

You nod. “Your shirt first, though.”

He pulls it off, and you think your mouth actually waters a little. You sit up and he groans because he can’t undo your jeans now. But you have to touch. You have to map every line and curve of his body with your hands, taking in that warmth and softness. You kiss his chest, unable not to.

“I fully support all the working out.”

He giggles before trying to usher you to lay back down. He’s mostly successful though you have to kiss him again, taste his tongue and mouth again.

He’s single-minded, returning to your jeans and dragging them off you before doing the same on himself. You’ve sat up, legs crossed, eyes just marveling at him and every reveal of skin that you get.

“I guess it’s kind of late, but I haven’t been with anyone in months. I’m clean.” Just clad in his boxer-briefs, he sits next to you, his hand on your thigh, drawing up and down the length of it.

“Years,” you admit. “But yeah, clean.”

He grasps you by the chin, bringing your mouth close. “Years?”

“I’m not a sexy rapper.”

He kisses you lightly. “True.”

You punch his shoulder and he doesn’t even flinch. He’s laughing into your mouth, kissing; his other hand cupping the back of your neck. You scoot closer, knees on either side of his hips. You roll your hips the moment you sink down.

His groan is music.

“You have protection?” You ask in between kisses. He rests his forehead on your collarbone when you repeat the motion, biting your lip so you don’t echo his groan.

“You don’t?”

“Years,” you repeat. He lifts his head to smile at you.

“I do.”

“See…sexy rapper, with groupies all ready to throw themselves at you.” You tousle his hair, jerking when his hand drifts under your underwear, palming your ass.

He rolls his eyes at you, but leans over to pull his wallet out of his discarded jeans, seeking the one condom he has. He hands it to you, freeing his hand to help lower you both back to the bed.

Underwear tossed aside, latex rolled on; there are more kisses, and explorations of each other. He pushes in so gently, with whispered compliments and soft touches. It’s a different tone and color than his performative rapping.

Softer, quieter. Private.

Perhaps since it’s been years, it seems to happen all too quickly. You first then him. He’s collapsed on you, his breath harsh pants. You give into your earlier fantasy and lick away a drop of sweat off his temple. His hold on you tightens.

“We should get some sleep,” you say, playing with his hair.

“Don’t wanna,” he mumbles into your skin.

You smile sadly, recognizing that it’s only hours left. He rolls off of you, planting a kiss on your shoulder. His eyes are half-open, sleep oncoming.

You roll to your side, curling up next to him. “I’ll wake you.”

He turns his head, meeting your eyes. “You better.” His eyes flutter closed. “I wanted to sleep next to you that night on the train.”

“Me too.”

–

“Hello friends,” you greet the camera with a smile. “I just arrived and have made it through customs, which is way better streamlined than in the States. It was a long flight,” you nod at some passengers you pass on your way to the arrival area. “But pretty uneventful. I think I slept nearly all of it.”

You look around once you go through the automatic sliding doors.

“I can’t believe I’m here. It’s been almost six months and–” You break off when you hear your name above all the pandemonium of the Seoul International Airport. Your camera turns with you as you try to follow that shout.

On Youtube, the video loses focus and there are muffled voices. The shot is of a far-off baggage claim and dozens of walking legs and shoes. When the camera is righted, it frames two faces.

You’re no longer on your own.

----

(c) yoongihan 2024. please do not steal, translate, repost, or whatever. stray kids belong to themselves and all idols used in this piece are just the inspiration for characters and do not in any way reflect the actual humans.

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oxymorayuri · 7 months ago

Text

❞𝐍𝐨 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬❝

Masterlist

A/N: A OneShot which became a ShortFic lol. Special thanks goes out to the reader who encouraged me to write more parts :3 So far I've had a lot of fun and it's just the beginning XD

✦ Pairing: Portgas D. Ace x Reader ✦ Warnings: will be mentioned in every chapter ✦ Spoiler: same as above lol

Status: ongoing

Description: It annoys you that you're starting to develop feelings for Ace. Unlike you, he's just unreliable, messy and has no brains. Sure he's hot as the sun but how can a woman like you be into a guy like him? Face your feelings… It's okay to get burned once in a while… As long as it's Ace…

! ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ !

ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛ

Part one Part two Part three Part four Part five Part six Part seven Part eight Part nine Part ten

A/N: What makes me particularly happy? YOUR HASHTAGS & COMMENTS. LOL. I feel you guys… No… I LOVE you guys!

Here are some of my favorites ;D

#never wanted to be a cowgirl until ace - A/N: sameee gurlllll #awooga - A/N: I screamed when I read that. I definitely added that to my daily vocabulary, awooga! #ah one bed and so much Ace - A/N: We don't need a bigger bed if we can just sleep on Ace, do we? *-* #I would have him roast me a marshmallow if he were mine + #literally but also I'm the marshmallow - A/N: HAHAHA BRUHhh. *cries pls roast me aceeee #cannot wait to see y/n play the part of happy wifey - A/N: I'm telling you; we're going to have some fun *rubs hands together

Comment: RAHHHHH ATE THIS SHIT UP I LIVE LAUGH LOVE ACE MAN - A/N: Who doesn't babe… who doesn't… *-* Comment: ur way too good at this IT SHOULD B ILLEGAL - A/N: Awww pls stop… Or no, wait; PLEASE DON'T HHahaaha <3

byeeeee sweeties ♡♡♡

#iloveyouguys #canweplsbefriends?#one piece #portgas d ace x reader #ace x reader #portgas d ace smut #ace one piece #portgas d ace #short fiction #short fic #one piece fanfiction #one piece fic

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unholyhelbig · 9 months ago

Note

oversight request if ur down! what if nat’s enemies captured ronnie? how would nat get her back? (i love seeing this darker side of nat… she’s hot asf when she’s mad 🥵) thx !!

Title: We Have Your Daughter [An Oversight Oneshot]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: When Veronica is taken from a friends house in the middle of the night, it's clear that reader and Natasha will stop at nothing to get her back and get revenge.

Warnings(PLEASE READ): Gun use, kidnapping, use of gags & zipties, broken glass, threating statements, knife use, strangling, and horrible grammar.

[a/n: This one wasn't my favorite thing I've ever done, but I was way too far to scrap it. I might take a small break from Oversight oneshots so I can clense my pallet a bit!]

Check out the full Oversight universe

The phone buzzed against the mahogany table on Natasha’s side of the bed. You were in a haze of sleep, something so cloying that it was hard to distinguish what the noise was. There were four monotone vibrations and then a silence so thick that you nearly drifted back into unconsciousness. But then, it started again, louder this time, it seemed, as the phone fell from the nightstand and to the carpeted floor.

An alien blue light filled the room and you groaned softly against the side of Natasha’s neck. You’d ended up laying fully on top of her; legs tangled. Your hands were under her, holding her as close as possible. The rhythm of her heart picked up when she stirred from her own sleep.

She blinked a few times before reaching blindly to the carpeted floor and retrieving the phone. It had stopped ringing again, but soon amped back up. The number was unknown, which formed a small marble of dread in the pit of your stomach.

Natasha sat up carefully and you shifted to the side to give her more mobility. Both of you shared a frowned look of confusion. It was three in the morning, and a stranger was calling. That was enough to arise panic in anyone, but with your profession, it seemed to echo further than most.

“Romanoff,” Her frown deepened, then. You couldn’t hear much, just the warbled and panicked voice of another. “Wait, slow down.”

She flipped back the duvet and stood up, flicking on the bedside lamp. You winced at the sudden brightness but tracked her frantic movements all the same. She was pacing. It often helped Natasha think. All trace of sleep had left you both.

“No, no. We’ll be right there. Thank you.”

When Natasha hung up and her eyes met yours, any hope of a peaceful existence had been sucked from the room. The words ‘I’m sorry’ seemed to be on the tip of her tongue. But she didn’t’ say it. Instead, she threw the cell phone on the end of the bed and moved her hands through her messy russet locks.

“Natasha,” you said, almost viciously. “What happened?”

“That was Luke. Someone broke into the house. We should… get dressed. We need to get dressed and get over there.”

Her words were broken, causing you to rise despite the wave of nausea that overtook you. Unsteady on your feet, you closed the distance between and grasped onto her shoulders as if to stabilize you both. Natasha’s eyes threatened to boil over with tears, they were red-rimmed and oh, so broken.

At thirteen years old, you both had deemed Ronnie mature enough to start having sleepovers with the other kids in her class. Of course, you’d meet with the parents first, and give them all the emergency contact information. Never tightening the reigns there.

But the Jones family were trusted more than most. Ronnie and their daughter Dani had been close since diapers. You’d spent days by the pool together and even took a family vacation with them to Niagara Falls this past summer, despite how ‘lame’ Jessica’s son deemed it when they dawned the yellow plastic ponchos.

“Is she hurt? I know we told Luke and Jess to call us first if something like this happens but if she’s hurt we really should get over there right away and get to the hospital. Call an ambulance maybe? God, please tell me she’s not hurt.”

Natasha’s hand cupped your cheek, and she peered into your eyes. There was sadness behind her stare that was incomprehensible. You couldn’t stop your thoughts from rushing at you in all different directions. Her touch quieted the noise, if not for a moment.

“She’s not hurt,” Natasha frowned, backtracked. “I don’t know if she’s hurt. She’s just… gone.”

The man said his name was Grant. He didn’t give a last name, and Veronica did not ask for one. Grant would do just fine. He looked like a Grant; his eyes were beady and black, his hair combed in various directions with a generous amount of gel. He was trying to look effortless and cool.

Veronica thought he looked like he was trying too hard. Of course, she didn’t say that, but the fact remained the same. The gag that had been nestled tightly against her mouth tasted stale, like the way a thrift store smelled. Maybe it was the carpet in the trunk of the car that lodged itself into her lungs.

She was calm and collected; prepared for something like this. As much as her mothers had poked and prodded and huffed and puffed when she suggested she start to learn basic things (like how to get out of zipties, or what to do if you were trapped in the trunk of a car), they had yielded.

Really, her aunt Lena had Yielded. While she still was discouraged from the heavy-hitting stuff, she did know how to break free of most contained spaces. She could also throw a mean punch if she put her entire body weight into it. But she had been sleeping when Grant shattered the window, and groggy when he hit her temple with the blunt end of his pistol.

The selfish part of Veronica knew that her mothers were scared right now, and reveled in it, for only a brief moment. She’d let out a grunt from being jostled when the car hit a particularly bad speedbump. Her teeth bite down harder on the gag, releasing a sordid taste that did not settle her stomach.

Even at the age of six, which Veronica remembers in bits and pieces, she knew that something wasn’t right with her mother. It wasn’t wrong, either, but it put her on edge and kept her voice trapped in her chest like a music box without a key.

You’d come home smelling metallic, sometimes like the salt of the earth itself. It was much less palatable than the sweet coffee that often graced your collar. She used to inhale the familiarity of it, but had stopped when you’d begin to get bruises and deep red gashes against your skin.

It was something that you’d try to hide from her, from Aunt Darcy, but in the deepest moments of your sleep, the fabric of your shirt would lift and expose the camouflage markings on your ribs or the crack of flesh on your back that Veronica was certain hadn’t been there before.

Then there was Mama.

Natasha. Natalia. Romanoff.

She’d heard every variation of the title. The name was spoken with a certain type of urgency in some, fondness from you, and fear from most. It wasn’t until Veronica was eight and paid more attention to those around her that she realized Natasha was the source of the un-well scent on you.

“Your moms whack people,” Dani had told her one day as they played up in her room. Veronica was meant to stay the night but there had been a heated and insignificant argument about who got to marry Malibu Barbie.

She’d whined back, “They do not,”

“They do too! I heard the other mommies at the playground talking about it. They whack people and it makes everyone else afraid of them and you.”

“You’re lying!”

Veronica had felt the tears prickling at her eyes. Not because Dani’s words were too much, they were just the right amount of hurt. Deep down, Veronica knew that something was fucked up about her family. And while they tried to shield her, it never stopped people from talking.

She would get looks from the parents of her schoolmates. Once that reeked of worry, and sometimes pity. It fed her anger, stoked the coal fire that burned within her. She shouldn’t be angry at her moms, she knew it was unfair. But as she clenched the barbie in her little fist, anger was the only thing she could truly feel.

“They don’t hit people!”

“That’s not what whacked means, dummy.” Dani seemed to catch her bearings, lower her voice to keep her own mother from hearing the accusations. “People that are near your family are never seen again. That’s what Cassie’s mom said. People that are near your family die.”

How could that be true? Things were so different here. There were different smells and Dani’s family didn’t eat around the table like hers did. The house was smaller and cozier. There were pictures on the wall that were black and white and worn with age. But there was love here, just like there was love in Veronica’s house.

A house with love couldn’t be a house where her mothers… whacked people.

Natasha held her with so much warmth at night. She read her two stories if Veronica asked and would get her a glass of water in the middle of the night. Sometimes, on the way home from school, they’d stop for ice cream even though you had cautioned against it.

Someone who let her get extra chocolate sprinkles was not a killer.

But the thought lodged itself in Veronica’s head and refused to leave. She was unnaturally quiet on the ride home, having called you to pick her up early from the wall phone. She held back tears and pressed the plastic close to her face until it was numb.

Natasha had cooked steak and mashed potatoes. Usually, it was Veronica’s favorite, but she watched as the pink runoff seeped into the white mush and quelled the nausea in her stomach by taking little sips of water.

She pretended not to notice the wary look her mothers gave each other, but it was impossible to ignore the way you cleared your throat, palming the wine glass to give your hands something to do. “Baby, is something bothering you?”

The dam broke. Veronica hated when you took that tone with her because it made her cry each time, made all of the hidden emotions bubble up until her cheeks were red and she was a sniveling mess.

This time, she blinked them back and looked between both you and Natasha. She clenched her fork in her little hand and drew in a breath. These were big emotions for such a small girl and she didn’t quite know how to swallow them.

“Why is everyone afraid of you?”

Your hand tightened on the glass you were holding, just loose enough to save it from shattering. Natasha had been mid-chew, her stare moving frantically to you before she swallowed and used her napkin to wipe the edge of her mouth.

“Sweetheart, did someone tell you that?”

Veronica seemed to tremble, shrinking into herself. She had gotten so verbal over these last few years, and this was a side that you refused to let her fall back into. You set the glass down and reached across the table. You covered her hand with yours, despite her refusal to unfurl it. It helped to ground her, had since she was little.

“Dani said that people are scared of you, and that they die around you. I called her a liar, a dirty liar, but she kept telling me it was true.” She looked up with tears in her eyes. “That’s not true, right?”

The silence seemed to answer her question, but she stared at both of you. She wanted to hear it. She wanted you to look under the bed and slay all of the monsters that were intent on grabbing her ankles and pulling her down. Natasha looked down at her plate, almost shy. You gave her hand a squeeze.

“Baby, it’s complicated.” You started, her wild eyes moving to yours. You felt her grow tense. “Your Mama and I, we want to be honest with you no matter what. This family is complicated, but that will never change how much we love you.”

They’d abandoned the food and spent most of the night explaining what they could. She was still only eight years old, and they held back from her. Each year of her life, they revealed more, eased her into it. And if she asked a question, they never, ever, lied. They answered truthfully- even if it wasn’t an answer she didn’t’ want to hear.

Veronica’s muscles had become stiff. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been shoved inside of the trunk, but light was leaking through the edges. She’d drifted in and out of sleep, her legs burning. She wanted to break free of her binds and stretch them out. Grant tied a good knot.

It was no matter, she thought, because her mothers wouldn’t let her linger for long.

Glass and blood sprayed across the back patio. Someone had clearly wrapped their hand and shattered it with sheer force. They’d cut themselves at one point or another, but it didn’t’ seem to stop them from muscling their way into the Jones’s home.

Luke, in his hulking nature, reached into the highest cabinet and got his daughter a glass of water. She hadn’t touched the muffin that was set in front of her. Luke was nesting, trying to ply her with gifts to ease the horror of what had just happened.

You felt bad, having to dredge it up when the memory was still so fresh. She had the deer-in-headlights stare. Wide eyes flicked to you and Natasha. She opened her mouth and closed it in succession twice. She looked like a fish.

It wasn’t that you hated Dani, you didn’t. She was thirteen-year-old child, after all. But, you were admittedly wary about her after she had brought Veronica’s walls down when they were younger. Kids, you reminded yourself. They were innocent, but they were also mean when they wanted to be.

“I already told you, “She said, frowning down at her untouched muffin. “We were both asleep when we heard a loud crash. It didn’t wake up mom and dad. I wanted to call the cops, but Ronnie was against it. Why haven’t we called the cops?”

The silence in the room was palpable. You were studying the edges of the glass, the dried dark blood against the edges. It was better for you to focus on that, than the fact that Veronica wasn’t here. You would spiral, then. You’d think about all the places she could be, and none of them were particularly good.

“Fine. There was a man with a gun in the kitchen and he… aimed it at us. Ronnie wasn’t scared. I don’t know how, the look in his eye was determined. Horrifying. He said that he wasn’t going to hurt us, he just needed her and then he would leave.”

“And she just went?” Natasha urged; her voice strained with exhaustion.

“Yeah, yes. I didn’t try hard to stop her, he had a gun. A gun!”

“Okay, alright. Thank you, Dani.” Luke placed his hand on the small of her back. She crumbled into him, dwarfed by his sheer size. Jessica glared at her own reflection in the mirror above the sink. She had been deathly quiet.

Suddenly, Dani looked so tiny in his arms, hugging her close. Your heart seized and you frowned at the broken glass at your feet. Natasha willed herself to continue. “Dani, I’m incredibly sorry about this. About all of this; but we need to know what he looked like.”

“I don’t know, he was tall and had these blue eyes that were just unsettling. He was sort-of good looking.”

Jessica seemed to find herself at that moment, working her hand through her hair. It was damp and unkempt with sweat. “You both need to leave.”

“Jess,” Luke interjected.

“You need to leave!” She raised her voice, turning to face the group. She kept her palms on the counter to steady herself, refusing to look at Natasha, but clocking you with a deathly stare. “We’ve ignored so much. We’ve watched Veronica when the two of you leave on your business trips, and come back looking like you’ve been raised from the dead. We pretend not to notice the guns you carry even at the fucking beach! But this is not something we can ignore. Y/n, this is my home.”

Her chest was heaving with rage but there was immense sadness in her eyes. Dani’s fingers clenched at the fabric of her father’s shirt. Natasha’s hands were in her back pockets, her red-rimmed stare trained on the ground.

“I understand. Thank you for everything. We’ll uh, get someone to come by and fix the patio door. I apologize for all of the trouble.”

Natasha moved to follow you, her hand on your shoulder. You hadn’t realized you were trembling until her firm touch was there to quell it. Her words were said with a gentle authority. “I made a few calls. A patrol call will be positioned across the street for the next week. Longer, if you’d like. I’m sorry.”

“Wait,” Dani stood from the barstool. “There’s one more thing. The man, he had on this gaudy jacket and there was a patch on the pocket. It was red and there was a skull with these tentacles coming out of it. Totally villain coded.”

You frowned, diverting your stare to the small bug light at the corner of the door. It emitted a small buzzing sound that was barely noticeable. If you stared at it long enough, the tears that threatened to spill over would eventually go away.

“I hope you find her.”

Dani had said in a quiet voice. And you hoped beyond hope that you did too.

There was ugly green tile in the bathroom. Veronica had counted them twice over, and then to check her blurry math, she multiplied the length and the height until the numbers matched. She was bored and cramped in the off-white bathtub of a shitty motel.

For the first half-hour, she had her eyes on the water-stained ceiling. There was an abnormally large roach that crawled in circles. It had the whole ceiling, why did it confine itself to one spot? She’d made up a story; the brown little bug was training for a race. He was following the imaginary track.

He’d win, she decided, tugging softly on her binds. Even if though the horsefly can move up to 90 miles per hour. They’d learned that in class and it was one of those facts that she just couldn’t seem to forget.

Veronica could hear Grant on the other side of the wall. He had made an exasperated phone call and threw it down on the bed. He’d been oddly gentle and patient with her when he removed her from the trunk and subsequently locked her in the bathroom.

After living with a family of deadly criminals for the better part of her life, Veronica toyed with the idea that she was being held for ransom. Her mama, she didn’t hesitate when it came to stuff like this. Veronica had asked her once if that was easier.

They’d been jogging along a small path that cut through the woods around the property. Natasha was used to doing stuff like that alone, pacing herself and breathing in the crisp scents that nature had to offer.

It had shocked her when Ronnie asked to join, but she was quick to agree. She’d slowed to a brisk walk when the girl started to fight for air. Natasha may have pushed a little hard, but she was content to walk with her daughter, all the same.

The question had caught her off guard. “Ronnie, I don’t think your mother would appreciate me answering this.”

“You’re my mom too.” She stopped by a particularly large rock, placing both hands behind her head to stretch her chest out enough to ease her breathing. “Unless you’re afraid of her.”

“You’re baiting me.”

Veronica gave her a wolfish smile. Of course, Natasha wasn’t afraid of you. She wasn’t. You would sometimes get a deep look in your eyes that made her squirm in her seat. It was the mom look- the type of look that you seemed to inherit from the moment you first hold a baby against your chest. The need to protect was deep seeded.

Natasha felt it too, especially with the girl that goaded her right now. But she knew when not to push, and when to gently suggest something to you. Right now was a terse moment that blurred the line between something you’d be okay with, and something you’d initiate the silent treatment for. She sighed.

“Sometimes, there is more to suffering than the pain that’s inflicted. Does that make sense?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Waiting for the end is more tortuous than the act of ending itself. What I mean is, putting someone out of their misery is not only a mercy in some situations, but a necessary evil. I’m not a monster, Ronnie.”

She believed her in that moment. Natasha wasn’t a monster. Not to her. She could see how some of her charges would think differently, but this was the woman who would curl up in fuzzy pajamas and watch shitty romantic comedies with her, even shedding a few tears when the lead got the girl.

Veronica let out a long sigh and slumped further down into the bathtub. An uncomfortable and sluggish hit of pain moved through her legs and to the base of her back. First the trunk, and now this.

Her body stiffened when she heard the giggle of the door handle. Heels dug into old porcelain as she pushed herself up. Parts of Veronica’s stance was numbed entirely. Her shoulders were tight with tension, and a fine layer of dust was kicked up.

Grant clenched his jaw and unclenched it at the sight of her. He’d left her to her own devices for far too long. She watched carefully as he unscrewed the cap of a water bottle. The seal cracked and she relished in the sound, praying that it hadn’t been tampered with.

He knelt down against the side of the tub, pulling her gag from her mouth. She drew in a desperate and clear breath, clocking him with a glare. Sickeningly, he smiled at that. “You must be thirsty.”

She didn’t’ dignify him with an answer but allowed him to guide the water bottle to her lips. She gulped down more than half in a hungry fashion. Spare drops soaked into her collar and drip against her jaw. He pulled away and recapped it.

“I want you to know this isn’t personal. I’m not big on the whole ‘kidnap kids’ thing. I have a son of my own, and I wouldn’t ever want something to happen to him.” He paused and resituated himself into a more comfortable position. “This is business. I do what I’m told.”

Grant was trying to relate to her, make her feel some sort of sympathy for him. She wasn’t going to fall into his tactics. Instead, she glowered at him. “I hope he has a good mom. Because when mine find you, he’s going to need one.”

“Yeah, sweetheart. I’m counting on it.”

This time, you had made sure that the gun was fully loaded. You were all for showmanship, leaning into the nickname that those who roamed the streets had given you. Even those who didn’t, a woman at the laundromat or the waitress that had replaced you at the diner all knew you as Roulette.

Once upon a time, you couldn’t push past the shadow that Bucky Barnes had created. He was the Winter Soldier, Natasha’s immoveable force of nature. She’d command him with a solid hand and anyone on the other side of that wrath was doomed.

It was a reputation that was impossible to live up to, yet somehow, you had done it. Not only could you kill with such ruthless abandon, but you had found a family along the way. Bucky would never question Natasha’s orders. But the two of you made them together, and that brought a new type of fear.

When Leo Fitz had moved for the weapon tucked into the back of his neatly pressed pants, you made sure to move with a quickness that rivaled anyone else in the room. The tip of your revolver was pressed to his temple, his gloved hands raising in surrender.

Ophelia Sarkissian smiled. Blood dripped across her teeth from where Natasha had connected her fist with bone. She was slammed up against the back wall of her office now. Her mantle shook with the force of the hit, and dust rained down from the ceiling.

“That’s the problem with old buildings,” she said, a mix of sticky saliva and russet discharge. “The aesthetics are there, but you sacrifice the integrity of the room. Don’t you agree, Nat?”

“I’m not here to discuss architecture.”

Natasha reached into her own pocket, not releasing her hold on the leader of Hydra. The little organization of evil had gotten admittedly bigger than either of you thought was possible. They’d gotten more men, more property. But they were resigned to Hells Kitchen and that was simply not under Natasha’s jurisdiction. She never found it in herself to care, not until now.

Knives were Yelena’s weapon of choice, but Natasha still found joy in the subtle bout of fear that flashed momentarily across Ophelia’s serpent stare. Leo attempted to move, but stilled when you pulled the metal hammer back on the revolver. All you had to do was pull the trigger and there’d be a new mural in Ophelia’s office.

“Natasha, would you mind calling your dog off? Doctor Fitz is a brilliant scientist. It’s not any old brain she’s fixing to blow out.”

The side of the silver blade had found its way to the edge of Ophelia’s eye, not quite touching it, but she knew that the slightest movement would spear her iris. She stopped squirming under Natasha’s threats.

“Okay, okay! What is it that I can do for you lovely ladies?”

“What is it you can do for us?” Natasha’s voice was a thick and hollow growl. Any sign of mercy had escaped her, one hand clenching the woman’s throat, the other pressing the tip of the knife hard enough to break porcelain skin. “Sweetness, I think you know exactly what we want.”

“You’ll have to be more specific, Natty. I have my fingers in a lot of cookie jars.”

“If you’re inclined to keep your right eye intact, I suggest that you lead us to our daughter. I have no trouble taking a woman’s sight.”

Ophelia laughed and it infuriated you. Rage and impatience made a dangerous cocktail. You had tolerated the woman and her lackies through dinner parties and the occasional get together. But that was the extent of your relationship.

Seven full years and she still viewed you as nothing more than Natasha’s pet waiting to be house trained. You’d long since left your probationary period. You’d married the woman who had an iron grip on the city and in turn, raised a competent daughter in your stead.

“I have no godly idea what you’re talking about. You think I’m stupid enough to steal from you? I wouldn’t take a wine glass, much less your daughter. I have some common sense. What led you to believe that I would?”

You hated to admit that you believed her, but you still refused to remove the gun from Fitz’s temple. “The symbol on the jacket of the man who took her. It was your insipid mass of tentacles.”

Fitz cleared his throat “Ma’am, it could be Ward.”

“Ward?” Natasha asked.

“I fired him months ago. He’s mostly harmless but would do anything to get into my good graces. I suppose it would be possible for him to pull a stunt like this. Last I heard, he was living at the Motel six off county.” Ophelia gritted her teeth “It’d be greatly appreciated if you both left before you do something you regret.”

Natasha mocked a pout, dragging the tip of the blade against the side of Ophelia’s face. A trail of pin-prink spots of blood rushed to the surface of her skin. “But you’d look so good with an eyepatch.”

Veronica had drifted into an incredibly fitful sleep. She could hear the world around her; the skittering legs of the bug that ran laps on the ceiling, the slow and steady drip of the sinks faucet, the football game that Grant had turned on to drown out her movements.

It was the unmistakable sound of woods splintering that had caught her attention. Ronnie forced herself to control her breathing, just like you had taught her. She clenched down on the sour tasting gag in her mouth, heart pounding violently in her chest.

The television had been turned off and Grant’s muffled voice seeped through the crack in the door. She knew that her mother’s preferred to work silently. They tried to shield her from everything and everyone that held a potential threat. But there were some things that Veronica wanted to see. Including the downfall of her captor.

She made a small noise against the back of her gag and slammed her heel on the puke-colored tub. The dull thumb was enough to halt the movement in the room. There was shattered glass, and an exclamation that could have only been from Natasha.

Grant had locked the bathroom door from the inside and closed it. There was a strong hit that rattled the weak wood. Her breathing picked up as another hit caused the door to bend like it wasn’t a solid force at all, but entirely breakable.

Finally, it gave way and you stumbled into the bathroom in a cloud of slivers and dust. None of that seemed to bother you, eyes darting directly to the tub that your daughter had been housed in for the last six hours.

Veronica was reduced to a bubbling mess of tears. She hadn’t realized how much she wanted to see you, needed to see you. There was something so warm and safe about your touch and it cut through the cold bathroom air like nothing she had ever felt before.

“Oh baby,”

Your voice cracked as you dropped to your knees, making quick work of the gag. Veronica’s jaw ached when you removed it, tossing the cloth aside. You used the very knife that Natasha had used to threaten Ophelia with to cut the zip ties that had cut dark purple bruises into her wrists.

“Oh, my baby, I’m so sorry.”

She gripped you with a strength that reminded you of the first day you’d dropped her off at kindergarten. She’d cried then too, wetting the collar of your shirt with nervous tears. Veronica had clung to you and wicked her fingers into its fabric. It broke your heart to let her go then.

You’d had a meltdown in the driver’s seat of your car with all the other parents that had emotional attachment issues. It was where you met Jessica for the first time. She’d dropped Dani off. Her second child so it was easier this time. She brought you a beer and told you that everything would be okay.

“Mom,” she whispered, over and over again, gripping you to make sure you were real. She was much too old to carry, but you didn’t give a damn in this moment. You scooped her up like she was six years old again and she wrapped her legs around your waist without any protest.

You tucked her head into the small of your neck. “Keep your eyes closed, baby girl. You’re safe now.”

Veronica clenched her eyes shut and dug further into you. She tried to ignore the noises she heard in the single-bed motel room. The choking sounds that Grant let out as Natasha did what she did best with the electrical cord of a lamp.

She kept her eyes shut in the freezing stairwell, and even when the warm mist of an early-morning dew coated his skin. She waited until she could smell the familiar leather of her mother’s car, and even then, she held you in a vice grip that you weren’t willing to let go of anytime soon.

You’d taken your jacket off and draped it over her shoulders. She curled into herself in the backseat of the car. It only took a few more minutes for Natasha to exit through the same service door that you did. Her hair was disheveled, a long gash against the side of her arm that you were certain would need stitches later.

Black blood dripped from the wound and pooled from her fingertips in small splashes against the pavement. She didn’t’ seem to notice, her adrenaline screaming loud enough to quell any pain she would have felt.

Natasha gently urged you to the side before she climbed into the backseat wordlessly. Ronnie seemed to let out a long breath of relief. She launched herself into the woman’s arms. Natasha grunted at the force but squeezed her as tightly as she could, letting her cry.

“Mama, I’m so sorry.” Veronica sniffed “I shouldn’t have gone with him, but he was going to hurt Dani.”

“Do not apologize moy malen'kiy strelok.” She pressed a kiss to Veronica’s temple, fighting back tears. “Never apologize.”

[Taglist🕷♡: @dumbasslesbi, @lostremind, @toouncreativeforausername @autorasexy @eringranola @mikookaaaaaao @marvelwoman-simp @pacmanmiles @mostlymarvelsstuff, @mrsrushman, @milfsandtittyenthusiast, @random-raccoon4, @ravenromanova, @mysticalmoonlight7, @ahintofchaos@cowboyboots236 @lissaaaa145, @natsxwife@a-spes, @kyleeservopoulos]

#Natasha Romanoff #Natasha Romanov #Natasha Romanoff x reader #Natasha Romanoff x y/n #Natasha Romanov x y/n #Natasha Romanov x you #Natasha Romanov x reader #Mafia au #Yelena Belova #Kate Bishop #Clint Barton #Reader insert #request #natasha romonova

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solangeloficawards · 10 months ago

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solangelo fic awards 2024 - winners!

happy valentines day guys!! <3 wanna thank everyone again for their participation and hype for this year!! just a reminder that this is all for fun, and if you were nominated but didn't win, there's always next year!! :)

and with that, here are our 2024 winners!! <3

nominations post

masterdoc

best angst!

1st place: When I Get Home to You by @2nd2ndalto (14 votes)

2nd place: work and play, they're never okay to mix the way we do by @buoyantsaturn (10 votes)

3rd place: if anybody asks, i'm taken (he is too) by @buoyantsaturn (9 votes)

best au!

1st place: IT'S A SCREAM, BABY! by @rosyredlipstick (25 votes)

2nd place: Doctor Doctor, Give Me the News (I've Got a Bad Case of Loving You) by @buoyantsaturn (6 votes)

3rd place: just an animal, looking for a home by @ikeasharksss (5 votes)

best canon compliant!

1st place: august by CordeliaRose (@cordelia---rose) (34 votes)

2nd place: three-in-one soap by @thelordofshrimp (8 votes)

3rd place: a handful of almosts by @thegoldenappleofdiscord (7 votes)

best fluff!

1st place: And now I have to act like I can't read your mind by @sunflowersandscreams (9 votes)

2nd place: good old-fashioned lover boy by brainrot247 (8 votes)

3rd place: just desserts by @thegoldenappleofdiscord (7 votes)

best oneshot!

1st place: buoyantsaturn by @buoyantsaturn (12 votes)

2nd place: cupid? more like stupid by @thelordofshrimp (11 votes)

3rd place: i love you more than i've ever loved myself by @thebhorror (7 votes)

best wip!

1st place: FAR GALAXIES by @rosyredlipstick (26 votes)

2nd place: kiss with a fist is better than none by @sunflowersandscreams (10 votes)

3rd place: it never took much convincing by penandblankpaper (@kiarrahatesboys) (5 votes)

best misc!

1st place: nico di angelo's autistic swag by @buoyantsaturn (14 votes)

2nd place: "it's so hard to hear over the sound of all the honking clown noses" by @buoyantsaturn (10 votes)

3rd place: up to speed by @solisaureus (8 votes)

best series!

1st place: The Ballad of Ladon Creek by Gates_of_Ember (@gatesofember) (15 votes)

2nd place: travel youtuber nico + some guy he's dating by @ethannku (11 votes)

3rd place: 1987 runaways au by @ikeasharksss (10 votes)

and...... (insert drumroll)

our author of the year for 2024 is @rosyredlipstick with 33 votes!!

runner up is @solisaureus with 12 votes!!

pls let me know if theres any broken links or anything wrong with the post! congratulations to all our winners! and we'll see you all next year <3

#feel free to keep sending asks throughout the year <3 and obviously the masterdocs and whatnot will stay active #so if you havent gotten a chance to read these fics def check them out if you get a chance!#solangelo #solangelo fic #fic awards 2024 #winners

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diorkyeom · 10 months ago

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THE @diorkyeom / @fairyhaos AO3 FIC REC LIST: PART 3

masterlist. part one. part two.

part three of all the ao3 fics that i've read for seventeen which i've loved, kudosed, and proceeded to download so i'll always have with me! lots of these are fics that have been in my library for a while that i just never got round to reccing, so expect a lot of verkwan in this haha

(list is in order of titles!)

By Any Other Name - bapilli

verkwan, omegaverse, oneshot

i don't even read omegaverse so idk how i even ended up reading this in the first place but. it's actually sooo so sweet. their dynamic is just sososo gentle and hansol just Likes seungkwan SO MUCH and it's So obvious and it makes me want to sob in my hands a little bit. this fic gets bonus points for its hurt/comfort elements and the gentle reassurance it has.

Give Me A Chance To Be Yours - lillupon

meanie, uni au, pining, chaptered

listen guys. there is So Much stuff in the meanie tag that if i rec a meanie fic, you just know it's the best of the best. the whole best-friends-who-act-like-theyre-dating thing is delicious But add that with oblivious mingyu and pining wonu and a confession not taken seriously and jealousy and you have an absolutely stellar fic. and wow, guess what, that's exactly what this fic is

Green (With Leaves) - kaiteki

soonhoon, plant shop au, chaptered (but short)

no bc why is literally the gentlest, sweetest, fondest soonhoon characterisation ever and why is it so accurate???? i Love dramatic soonyoung and dry humour jihoon and their fun little dynamic put into the loveliest friends to lovers plot ever. y'all know that i prefer strangers/ friends to lovers over e2l for soonhoon any day and this fic does it rly well

i'm all about you - checkyeshoshi

verkwan, football (soccer), chaptered

honestly seungkwan as a firecracker of a football coach is something ive Never thought about before but it also makes so much sense???? and hansol just being The Guy dragged into the team's shenanigans is so adorable and very much him imo. also seungkwan basically just gawking at hansol's muscles the entire time >>>

Insomnia - Mistehri

soonhoon, canon au, ib insomnia zero 1, oneshot

soooo soft and soooo sweet!!! i love little canon fics bc theyre always so self indulgent and i love that for the author. also adorable jihoon who can't sleep without soonyoung?? that's absolutely adorable and i cried a bit bc my heart was Melting at how soft they are

pack off the sunset glow - orphan_account

verkwan, roadtrip, non-idols au, oneshot

*clenches fists* i love these gay little boys so so much. it's so chaotic and fun and you literally can imagine everything that happens here and seungkwan being a dramatic mess as usual makes everything soo so much better

PEACH. - petitseok

seoksoo, non-idols, age regression, twoshot

honestly ive never even read those caregiver + regressor fics before but this one :((( instantly the best one of those types of fics ever like. i don't even know what made me click on it but it's So sweet and devastating and regressor!seok now has my heart bc of course this lovely man with big doe eyes should get to act like a 3 year old every now and then to relax

The Tiger On The Mountain - natigail

soonhoon, magical realism, shapeshifter hoshi, chaptered

hnnghghfh listen. people really underappreciate the potential for hybrid fics and shapeshifter fics that hoshi's tiger agenda brings, but this uses it really well! i love the interleaving of fantasy into Totally Normal Lee Jihoon's life and dude,,, the cliché tropes r all just so good

What's In A Name - thanku4urlove

verkwan, non-idols, fluff, crack, oneshot

seungkwan is so!!! himself!!! in this fic and i literally even have one section of this fic screenshotted bc i screamed about it to my friend since it was such an on-point seungkwan characterisation. also user thanku4urlove literally writes the best verkwan fics. i think i've recced their fics in every list so far

your name is a triangle - universefactory(jaeminjeno)

soonhoon, idolverse, established relationship, oneshot

mild misunderstandings and soft relationships. that's it, that's the fic. soonyoung is Sad and Sulking but jihoon is there to knock some sense into him and all is fine once again :D okay but also the way that the members r just so caring in the fic is vv sweet too

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merlinfromberlin · 3 months ago

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Bumblebee & Ratchet Fic Recs

It's my birthday, so let me treat myself (and you) to some of my favourite fanfics exploring the dynamic between Ratchet & Bumblebee in TFP. Because I am a sucker for Ratchet and Bee and Ratchet having a soft spot for Bee.

Bumblebee & Ratchet Fics

Do You Like Bees? by @thinkingheron (Stardustjinn on AO3)

TFP. Ratchet needs a break from his Synth-En project, so Bumblebee takes it upon himself to make it happen. The Team is amused, Ratchet is not, and Bumblebee pays with a scratched paint and a dent. Oneshot. Warning we have an angry Ratchet.

I honestly love this story so much. It's incredibly creative and funny! :3 I love how cheeky and mischievous Bee is. I love how helpless everybody else is to stop his shenagigans. I love that, yeah, he's playing a prank and it's infuriating to Ratchet in the moment, but in the end it's not actually malicious. No one is hurt, it can be reverted easily and Ratchet recharges for a bit.

On another note: this fic is basically canon to me.

If Language Were Liquid by @equivocaleternity (equivocalEternity on AO3)

Bumblebee's voice box is malfunctioning again, and he joins Ratchet and Raf for a perfectly timed lesson on Cybertronian grammar.

This fic just hits all of my boxes: Ratchet, Bumblebee and an super interesting exploration of Cybertronian languages/linguistics/grammar. It's absolutely amazing! :3

Minus One by @gentle-hero-blog (carrot_top_monk on AO3)

A rewrite of the season 3 episode “Minus One”, in which the Autobots’ interrogation of Soundwave goes horribly wrong.

I almost wish that this was canon. It's such an interesting way to explore how Minus One could have gone differently. It's also a super interesting angle at a "Tyger Pax fic". I also honestly love the relationships between Ratchet, Optimus and Bumblebee in this fic so much.

And, maybe most impressively, it made me sympathetise with Smokescreen a little bit more than I did before. I still don't really vibe with him, but I feel like I understand him a little bit better now.

Spark of Courage also by @thinkingheron

TF:Prime, Aligned. Pre Earth. After a surprise Decepticon attack near the Well of AllSparks, Ratchet manages to save a sparkling from near death... or was it the other way around? Origin fic. Rated for mild violence.

Aaaahhh. I don't know how to even describe this fic but I honestly love it so, so much. Bee's immediate attachment to Ratchet is honestly so, so sweet. How Ratchet gets attached to Bee against his will. Bee's sparkling adventures are just absolutely amazing. He's got half the Autbot force exhausted with his shenanigans within the first three days without even trying to. And at the same time he's got all of them wrapped around his little finger. It's honestly one of the best portrayals of Bee I've ever read. I can only aspire to one day write such an adorable, fun and mischievous version of Bee. :3 Also: the background War politics/plot. And, Jazz is in it and he is absolutely glorious.

Honestly can't recommend this enough. <3

Dadchet Fics

Because, for some reason childhood trauma, grumpy old medic dad having a soft spot for his little yellow robot is my greatest weakness.

A glimpse in the Past by arctic_lotus on AO3

When they say you see your children before you die, it isn't always the good memories. ~ Ratchet seems to walk through the events leading to his deepest regret as a recon mission goes up in smoke.

Featuring lots of incredibly sweet vignettes of Bee's and Ratchet's relationship leading up to Tyger Pax. Sparkling Bee is absolutely adorable and Ratchet has a soft spot for him that is bigger than Cybertron itself. It's incredibly sweet. There is also some incredibly heart-warming Optiratch in there. ^^ It's a bit bittersweet but in the best of ways. :3

Autobots, Pass Out! by @yamiquietshadowflo (Quiet_Shadow on AO3)

Ratchet is far too busy and stressed to just drop everything he's doing and go to sleep, even Optimus gives him his best 'So-Disappointed-In-You Look'. Recharge? Who needs that when there is so much to fret about? (Un)Fortunately for the medic, Optimus isn't the type of mech who give up and he's not above for the most underhanded, sneaky tactic at his disposition: Sending in Bumblebee and Raf.

Adorable. Funny. Sweet. :3 I love that Ratchet knows exactly what Bee and Raf are doing, but is absolutely helpless to it anyways. Absolutely adore that it is implied that, now that this has happened once, Bee will keep making it happen. They deserve their cuddles. Optimus is absolutely hilarious, too. :D

Napping Spot by @keef-a-corn (Keef_A_Corn on AO3)

I have a soft spot for Bee and Ratchet. Sometimes you just gotta hold your little Bee. It's short and cute. I have nothing else to say.

Honestly, this is just utterly adorable. 10/10. Could read it every five minutes. I should probably read it every five minutes.

Promises and Failures by @theiceemperor (Windify on AO3)

He’d made up his mind the moment they found out that the scout’s T-Cog was missing. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to fix Bee.

Now this. Whenever I read this story, I just want to shake some sense into Ratchet because he ist just infuriatingly reckless. Because, yeah, he should definitely not have operated on himself and then not told anyone. At the same time, however, I absolutely get why he is doing it. That's his baby boy who's hurting, after all, and there's all that old medic guilt and self-consciousness and love for Bee that drives him to his decision. In the end I'd probably be too much of a sap to wrench him before hugging him. Even if he'd deserve it for endangering himself like that.

I also just love Bee and Ratchet's interaction at the end of the story. That just oozes their love for another. :3

Now go and read at least one of these fics, they are all absolutely amazing.

#transformers #bumblebee #ratchet #fanfiction #recommendations #I'll probably look back in a few days and realise that I forgot a few stories #my anxiety will probably NOT like that at all but I'll just try and see it as a chance to do a second rec post #however I absolutely adore all of the stories here and can't recommend them enough #they are absolutely amazing #so bye I'll write some more stuff for angstober now #I hope I manage to finish writing this on my b-day #I keep making weird pauses and there's only a few hours left of today #I MADE IT #For some reason I'm incredibly nervous about this post #so now that I've posted it I'll probably go and hide from tumblr for a bit #yeah. that sound good. I kinda need to go and bake a cake anyway #although it is a bit late for that #so maybe I'll just... go and write something for angstober.#or try to sleep

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randomshyperson · 2 years ago

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Third time lucky - Wanda Maximoff Oneshots

Summary: Some misunderstandings are just the result of poor communication. Or the one where Wanda has a crush and can't find the right time to confess. | Writing Challenge.

Warnings: Fluff and brief mild angst (unrequited love impressions), mutual pining, friends to lovers, some mentions of drinking, college au. | Words: 3.064k

A/N-> I've been having busy days, and apparently, I start dozens of series and never finish a single one. I saw some videos of Prompts challenges on Tik Tok and this one was finished. I do miss Emo!Wanda a lot, and I’ve been trying to work with something for her, but no luck so far. Anyways, good reading to you all!

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

-&-

Buried in the safety of her blankets, Wanda tries to understand how the whole perfect three-month planning went wrong all at once in a 30-second conversation.

This was all Steve's fault.

If he had waited just one more day to end his long-standing relationship with Bucky, he would have avoided affecting his entire group of friends, and Wanda wouldn't have had to drive 40 minutes to the other side of town to drag Barnes' drunk and pissed ass back to the University, and she wouldn't have had the conversation with you.

It was such an unfair situation. She had a plan. Go to the movies together, to the market, have dinner and then, ring. Well, confession first.

"I know we've been friends for a while, but I've secretly been in love since we bumped into each other on the way out of the stadium that day, and spending time with you has only escalated that. Do you wanna be more than friends?"

She hoped that all this time you were secretly in love as well and she would be the happiest person in the world.

But Steve Rogers broke up with his boyfriend who got too drunk to drive back to his place, and when Wanda safely handed him over to you, all you could tell her was that you were glad you two would never go through anything like this in your entirely platonic friendship.

A bucket of cold water, honestly.

So now Wanda just wanted to lie down and be protected under the covers, with no risk of being hurt again.

Her twin had other plans.

"Wanda, why aren't you ready? Natasha is already downstairs with the car." That's what Pietro questioned as he entered the bedroom of their shared apartment, a grimace stamped at the scene of his sister under the covers in the dark bedroom.

All the brunette did was groan, which made him sigh. The next minute, the curtains were pulled open and Wanda had to hide from the light with a pillow.

"Go away." She grumbled, but the twin just threw himself sitting up in bed.

" Don't tell me Miss Calendar forgot that we were going to celebrate Yelena's birthday today?" ironized her brother, smirking at Wanda's attempt to get away from his fingers that began to torment her with tickles.

Wanda only grunted again. "How did that not get canceled?" She managed to retort, busy deflecting the tickles to see Pietro shrugging.

"It's not like Yelena is that close to the boys. Besides this, Steve isn't going, and Bucky is still hung over. And you're holding us up." To emphasize her brother's statement, the loud horn outside easily recognized from Natasha's Truck could be heard. Pietro chuckled before pulling Wanda's covers off at once, ignoring the other's protest. "Move it, lazy girl. We have to get there soon or Nat won't find a parking spot."

"I don't want to go."

"Wanda, come on, Yelena is your best friend's little sister." Pietro reasons, but seeing his sister's almost tearful expression, he immediately assumes a worried expression. "What happened, Pchelka (little bee)?"

Wanda sniffled low, not meeting his gaze. "I was going to tell Y/N how I feel yesterday."

Her brother's eyes widened. "Oh? And how was it?"

"I didn't get a chance. She said she was glad we were friends, and we don't have to go through the same problems as Bucky and Steve." She tells tearfully, but Pietro makes a confused face.

"Wait, but you told her? How do you feel?"

Wanda chuckles indignantly. "What? Didn't you hear what I just said?" Retorted the girl, wiping her face before she started crying for good. "She said we were friends, how do you expect me to-"

"Wanda, for God's sake." Pietro interrupted her with an impatient sigh, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. He typed a quick excuse to Natasha to get her to stop honking in front of the building and approached his sister. "You and Y/N are friends, of course, she's glad about this strange, yet amazing connection you two share. The same kind I had with Barry, and you know, it would have worked out if I hadn't screwed it up. But the fact is, we only had a chance of right and wrong because I had the balls to admit what I was feeling."

She frowns thoughtfully. "What is your point?"

Pietro smiles. "My point is that you are here, whining about a rejection that only happened in your head."

"But she said-"

"The truth." He interrupts gently. "You two are friends, and she values this friendship, these are facts. It doesn't mean you can't be more than friends, or that the puppy dog eyes she always gives you are platonic."

Wanda giggles shyly, her cheeks warming. "You're making that one up."

"Yeah, I'm the delusional twin." Retorts the other, laughing when Wanda tries to hit him with a pillow. "Put it together, sis. And grow some nerve. Y/N will be there today, you might make her week better."

Wanda sighs. "Or ruin it for good."

Pietro rolls his eyes. "Wanda, go get changed or I'll be the one to tell her why we were late."

"You wouldn't dare!" Wanda retorts, already getting up. Pietro laughs.

"Try me."

The drive to the dam was uneventful after that - although Wanda had had to put up with her twin and her best friend making fun of all her dramatics that morning. It was somewhat ironic how apparently all her friends knew about her feelings, except the one person she wanted to be aware of it.

The dam was considerably full, but that was common for weekends even on a not-so-hot day, and the absence of tests at Uni certainly helped. Fortunately, Natasha was able to find a place close enough, and within minutes, Wanda was finishing putting beers to ice near the food table that Maria Hill had set up with the rest of her friends who arrived first.

Wanda only went back to the truck to get Yelena's gift and was ready to lock the car and return to the cheap fun when she was wrapped tightly by strong arms that lifted her into the air. She would have screamed in fright if she hadn't recognized the mischievous giggle.

"Look guys, I found a cute deer all alone." The teasing made the rest of the group chuckle as well. Wanda tried to have a little control over the color of her face, but she became very aware that the Wolf Jacket - The University's mascot - was the only thing that cover your swimsuit from her skin. You spun her around by the waist as you set her down again, and the proximity was almost suffocating.

"Where is everyone?" It was Clint who asked, holding a packet of coal on his shoulders. Beside him, Laura was wearing only the skirt of the cheerleading team that Wanda was also a member of, the black deer stamped on the edge, and a dark bikini covering her torso.

Wanda mumbled the direction as you took a step back, and could barely notice when the rest of the group left the two of you alone. You leaned against the truck, and Wanda tried to put it together, as Pietro told her to.

"Your face is a little red, Wands. Did you remember to put on sunscreen? I have some in my backpack..." You were so clueless that it would be adorable if it wasn't frustrating. Wanda began to fantasize about the confession and ended up even redder when she noticed you shaking some sunscreen at the height of her face for what seemed like some time.

"T-thank you." She mumbled embarrassedly, reaching up to pull the item out, but you moved it out of her reach.

"Don't be silly, I'll help you." You said casually, signaling with your free hand for her to turn around, which Wanda did very quickly.

She heard you pressing the cream into her hands, and she had to hold her breath to keep from sighing with each rub of your fingers against her skin. Rubbing and spreading the sunscreen.

"What were you doing here all by yourself?" you start the casual conversation, curious.

Wanda swallows to disguise the huskiness in her voice. "I forgot Yelena's gift in the car."

"Hm, and what did you get for her?" You asked, finishing the shoulders and pulling your hands away to apply more lotion.

"Some tapes from that store she likes," Wanda grumbles, biting her lips as she feels your hands go down her back. "She hasn't shut up about Don Mclean in the last few months, so I also helped Nat buy some tickets. They're going to the concert next month."

"Oh, that sounds nice." You complimented, somewhat distracted. Wanda hummed in agreement, hoping to the heavens that you didn't notice how shivery she was under your touch. But judging by your silence and proximity, you could probably tell. A moment later, when you were done with her back and Wanda was forced to work with all her mind control not to do anything idiotic when she was face to face with you again, you commented, "You practically ran out yesterday. I was hoping we would watch some movie, maybe even a sitcom."

Wanda smiles shyly, needing to look away because you were going to start rubbing sunscreen on her face now.

"Hm, sorry." She murmurs. "I thought you'd be busy with Bucky."

"He's a grown-up, Wands. Besides, I would hardly sacrifice time with you to babysit hungover Bucky Barnes."

She panicked, you were too close, and looking at her fondly when you said these things. All she could do was giggle nervously.

"You like me this much, huh?"

It was your turn to chuckle a little confusedly, raising an eyebrow. Wanda swallowed dryly because you were applying sunscreen to her cheeks, but instead of pushing your hands away, you wrapped them around her cheeks.

"Yeah, I like you that much." You assured her and Wanda felt her heart jump in her chest.

Okay, as Pietro encouraged her in the car: Go big or go home. She opened her mouth to finally confess, but you let go of her face. "All set." You announced about the sunscreen, moving to put the item back in your purse and stepping away in record time. Wanda stood frozen in shock, and you looked at her with confusion. "You're not coming?"

She swallowed the humiliation and lack of courage and forced a smile. "Of course."

But you stepped into her path, and Wanda panted slightly.

"Aren't you forgetting anything?"

"Hm, am I?"

You chuckled. "Yelena's birthday present..."

"Shit, yeah, sure." Wanda was a complete mess. She turned around again, grabbed the gift packed in the passenger seat, and met you halfway.

And you made the color of her face worse when you simply hold her free hand with yours, pulling her closer to whisper: "My invitation still stands, Maximoff. After the party, how about we have a sitcom night?"

With her heart hammering, Wanda takes a chance. "Yes, but only if it's just the two of us." She declares, and you chuckle shortly, eyeing her with some doubt.

"Are you asking me to kick Bucky out of the apartment?"

She sighs. "No, I... God, you're impossible." She grumbled in frustration, feeling her face very warm. She was ready to clarify when someone shouted your name.

It was Natasha, at the entrance to the parking area, hurrying the two of you because you had the matches in your backpack and the barbecue was supposed to start soon.

Wanda sighed tiredly again and walked off ahead of you.

You followed her with confusion a second later.

-&-

“Judging by your face, things didn’t work out with Y/N.”

Yelena's comment didn't make her feel any better, other than it caught her by surprise enough that Wanda nearly knocked all the beer over.

Yelena chuckled, holding the strainer before the item lost its balance completely and ensuring the safety of the drink for the rest of the party.

"How did you...?"

"Natasha tells me everything, naturally." Clarified the blonde as she shrugged. "This, and well, everyone knows."

Wanda sighed, stealing a glance over to the group of people where you were laughing at some comment Maria made.

"Yeah, not everyone." Murmured the upset brunette. Yelena cleared her throat quietly.

"You know, maybe rejection can be a good thing." Started the blonde to which Wanda grimaced. "Now that you know she doesn't feel the same way, at least you can start looking for someone else who does."

With a nervous chuckle, Wanda retorted, "Technically, I didn't say what I felt, so I haven't been rejected yet and-"

But Yelena interrupted her by reaching out and tapping her finger against her forehead, a gesture that made Wanda grumble. "глупый (silly). You didn't even tell her?"

Rubbing her forehead, the brunette grumbled; "Your sister interrupted me, I was about to."

Yelena chuckled incredulously, stealing a glance at the group as well. "You are unbelievable, Maximoff." She commented before a sigh. "You know this is your fault right? None of this would have happened if you had only agreed to go out with her when she asked you the first time, you silly girl."

Wanda grimaced. "Sorry, what?"

But Yelena just shrugged. "Yeah, you know I'm right. If you had just gone along with it, you would have saved yourself all this stress, and you wouldn't have to stand there trying to build up your courage and-"

"Yelena, what are you talking about?" Wanda interrupted her. "Y/N never asked me out."

It was the other's turn to look at her as if she had fallen and hit her head. "Of course she did! When we met, silly, at Stark's party in freshman year."

Wanda shook her head. "I met Y/N the first time by bumping into her in a hallway-"

"What, no!" Yelena giggled nostalgically. She dropped her glass of beer and started gesturing a little as she counted. "Don't you remember Stark's party, freshman year? I introduced Y/N to the group, and you had just kicked Vision's ass...oh, I think I know why you don't remember. You got drunk as hell and threw up on the guy in the band, the one with the shaved hair. It was Y/N who drove your car back to the dorm, Wanda. You really don't remember her?"

There was a pact to forget about the humiliation from that night, to be honest, but hearing Yelena quote the facts brought it all back with full force. The last fight with Vision, Tony's birthday at Stark Mansion that turned into a riot loud enough for the party to end with the arrival of the police, and a lot of drinking. Enough for Wanda to forget kind eyes and respectful hands keeping her off the sidewalk.

She looked at you again, and remembered your husky laugh, months ago, in her room when her drunk self said she thought you were really pretty.

"Well, I think you're pretty too, Maximoff. So how about, when you sober up, you and I go out on a date?" You asked, ignoring the teasing giggles of the other two - Yelena was helping Natasha back to bed.

"I'd love to." She replied drunkenly, giggling when you helped her get under the covers. She made some joke about dreams that made you smile, and then she never thought about this night again.

In the present, Yelena was saying something about how technically she never rejected you, but Wanda cut her off with excuse, and simply turned her back on her, rushing off in your direction.

Whatever Maria's joke was, it was unheard by you with Wanda's sudden arrival.

"Hey, is everything ok-"

"Why didn't you ask me out again?" She interrupted you almost in desperation, ignoring the presence of the other people. You stared at her in shock, surprised at the sudden question. Maria cleared her throat, gesturing to the girls, and everyone sneaked out.

"Sorry, what?"

"After the party." Wanda retorted without losing her attitude. "You asked me out, and I was too drunk to remember this. Why didn't you ask again after?"

Your cheeks turned pink, and you chuckled awkwardly. "I don't know, Wands." You murmur shyly. Wanda's heart leaps at the lovely image in front of her. "You didn't remember me, and when we started hanging out with everyone else and you quickly included me as a friend, I assumed it was your way of saying you weren't interested without hurting me-"

"But I am interested!" She interrupted you a little louder and more desperate than she would have liked. You gasped in surprise, widening your eyes. "God, I'm so interested."

You chuckle shyly, your face rosy. "Oh, really?"

Wanda thought it best to prove the point, and just grabbed your shirt collar, staring into your eyes for a moment and giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. You did the complete opposite, ending the distance by pressing your lips against hers.

Gasping, Wanda pulled away. "Yeah, definitely interested." She murmured affectedly before kissing you again, now for real, feeling your smile into the kiss.

You ended up parting soon after, both of you unable not to laugh in relief and happiness. Wanda could feel her face burning, and she knew the audience but didn't care one bit. She was too happy for that.

"You taste like beer." Your comment while holding her made her look at you curiously. "Please don't have another alcoholic amnesia with me." You joked with a certain truth, and Wanda chuckled, stealing another intense kiss before pulling away.

"Are you kidding? I'll definitely remember this." She assured you tenderly, and you smiled apologetically. When you went to kiss her again, Wanda placed a finger over your lips. "Besides this, you could sleep over. It will be easy to remember if I wake up next to you..."

You smirked, kissing her cheek, your arms securely around her. "What a naughty girl you turned out to be, Maximoff."

She slid her fingers away to cup your cheek. "Oh darling, you have no idea." And you swallowed dryly at the teasing whisper.

With luck, it wouldn't take them long to cut the cake and end the party.

#wanda maximoff x reader #elizabeth olsen x reader #wanda maximoff oneshots #wanda maximoff imagines #marvel imagines #wanda x reader

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marblemoovt · 1 year ago

Text

Fever - John Price/Reader

Masterlist

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: Fluff, A sprinkle of angst, Dad!Price

Summary:

John pounds on your door at an ungodly hour in the morning. You've never seen him so distraught.

------

“John?! What’s wrong?” you ask, giving him a once over. His hair is a mess, most likely from running his fingers through it too many times. The hallway lights are dim, so it’s difficult to see much else, but you notice he’s carrying a bundle in his arms. Whatever it is, he’s holding it close to his chest, fingers tightly clenching the fabric.

Wavy strands of brown hair peek out beneath the blanket, hair you were braiding just yesterday. Your stomach drops, and you tighten your grip on the door handle.

She’s not?

It feels like you’ve been drenched in ice water. Chills travel down your spine, and you can feel your fingertips prickle with numbness. Your eyes widen, and you look to John for an explanation. But the claws gripping your chest squeeze when you hear him sniffle.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispers, voice hoarse. You step forward, but John flinches and caves in on himself.

Note:

Hello! It's been a while since my last Price fic. If I'm honest I'm sorely tempted to keep writing this universe as a series of oneshots (because I'm terrible at commitment). So expect to see more Rose and Price at some point. I've already come up with a series title lmao..

I have a few dividers I want to try out and see which one I like best. So far I like this one better than the previous one.

Happy Reading! ヾ(•ω•`)o

Bam. Bam. Bam

You bolt upright in bed, squinting around your room until you locate the alarm clock on your bedside table. You glance out the window and notice the sky is still dark, and the sun is nowhere to be seen. Not even a sliver of pink or orange to creep over the horizon. Hm. Definitely not your alarm.

BamBamBam.

The noise grows louder, and the pause between hits becomes nonexistent. Your brain refuses to process the source as you sweep your eyes across your room. The early haze that fogs over your mind when you wake up clouds your ability to think.

Until you hear John shout your name.

Snatching a coat hanging off a chair, you fly out of the room. The floorboards squeak beneath your weight as you weave between your furniture. Sliding to a stop in front of the door, your fingers fumble with the lock before you wretch it open.

Wavy strands of brown hair peek out beneath the blanket, hair you were braiding just yesterday. Your stomach drops, and you tighten your grip on the door handle.

She’s not?

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispers, voice hoarse. You step forward, but John flinches and caves in on himself.

A small groan comes from the blankets. “Daddy, you’re squishing me.”

Your shoulders sag as the tension leaves your body. The weight resting on your lungs eases. You glance up at the ceiling and say a silent prayer of thanks before beckoning the pair inside.

Heading to the kitchen, you prepare some tea to keep yourself busy. No caffeine, though. You were anxious enough as is; you didn’t need to worry faster. Fishing out the chamomile from your cupboards with three cups and saucers, you turn the kettle on to boil. While the tea steeps, you take out the honey and add a drizzle to each cup.

“Daddy, I’m cold.” Rose’s voice breaks the still silence. You run through a mental list of all the possible things that could be wrong. It can’t be life-threatening if John knocked on your door instead of taking her to the hospital. But you can’t help but think of the worst possible scenarios. The kettle whistles, pulling you out of your thoughts. You’ll ask after you bring the tea.

A quick glance reveals that John is still cradling her in his arms. The lighting unveils the redness of his eyes and the thin, tight line of his lips. “I know, my little flower. We’ll fix you up, and you’ll be as right as rain,” he says, stroking her head.

You walk over and set the drinks on the table. “Tea? It’s chamomile,” you say, sipping from your cup. The warm liquid soothes your nerves, pooling comforting heat in your stomach. John’s lips quirk up, but they fall just as quickly. He makes no move for the tea. Your cup rattles on the saucer as you place it down. “John, you look like shit,” you state. No response other than a slight flinch. You sit down beside him and hold out your arms. “Drink, you’ll feel better. I can hold Rose for you.”

John studies your face. His eyes are staring past you. It makes you wonder what he’s seeing to make that solemn expression. The movement of you tilting your head brings him back to the present. His gaze flickers between you and Rose. “Ok,” he whispers, carefully placing her in your waiting arms.

“Hi, Rosy,” you greet her, checking to see if John is drinking his tea. His shoulders aren’t as tense as he sips the drink, but his knee begins to bounce.

Rose cracks an eye open and smiles widely at you. “Hullo,” she rasps.

You observe her flushed complexion and the hair clinging to her face. “How are you doing, little one?” you ask.

She licks her chapped lips and says, “M’ sick.”

“That sounds like no fun,” you say, exaggerating the frown on your face.

Rose smiles wide and shakes her head slowly. “But Daddy says I don’t have to go to school.” Her eyes glitter at the prospect of staying home, a fantasy most children have at least once during their school years. You can imagine the chaos she could cause if she wasn’t so sick.

You mirror her grin and brush her damp hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “That’s true. You get to stay home and sleep in,” you say, and her smile nearly blinds you.

“And watch cartoons!” she adds. Ah, the quintessential stay-at-home activity for the sick. She starts squirming in your arms. “I get to watch all the shows I miss because of school.” Her lips curl into a feline-like smile, reminiscent of a cat that stole a big, juicy fish.

You laugh and nod. “That sounds amazing!”

Rose giggles, “That’s because it is!!” If she wasn’t sick, you would be squeezing her in a bear hug.

You press the back of your hand against her forehead. It’s warm. “Did your dad take your temperature?” you ask.

Rose shrugs and says, “He put a stick in my mouth and told me to hold it there.” She mimics the motion of placing a thermometer in between her lips and closing them. Your cheeks start to hurt; how can such a tiny being be so precious? She must get it from her father.

You eye the cabinet in the kitchen where you keep all your medical supplies. “Can I check again?” You trust John, but you just want to make sure.

“Why?” she asks.

“To see how warm you are,” you answer, booping her nose, which scrunches up in response.

Rose looks at you with her big blue eyes. “Why?” she asks again. You’re glad to see the fever hasn’t affected her curiosity.

You smooth down her hair, doing your best to flatten the stray cowlicks. “Because it’s dangerous if you’re too hot. You would need to go to the hospital,” you say.

Rose furrows her brows and utters an “Oh.”

You rise from your seat and head for the kitchen. “Are you comfortable?” you ask. To free up your hands, you shifted her upright, and she’s now clinging to you like a koala.

“Mm,” she mumbles a confirmation into the crook of your neck. You grab the thermometer and turn it on to see if the batteries are still working. On your way back, you fill up a mug of water to keep Rose hydrated. Once seated back on the couch, you bring the thermometer to her mouth, and she lets you take her temperature without a fuss.

You wait a few minutes until the device beeps to signal it’s finished. “38.8. Not a low fever, but you should be fine with some rest,” you say. Next, you take the mug and hand it to Rose. “Can you drink this water for me?” She drinks every last drop, smacking her dry lips together. “Wonderful! For being such a good patient, the doctor has decided to give you a little treat.” Fishing around your pocket, you pull out her reward.

Rose stares in awe at the shiny wrapper in your hand. She gently plucks it up and marvels at the strawberries dotting the colourful material. She glances at her dad, but you bring a finger to your lips when she looks back at you. Rose smiles and nods her head, clutching the candy in her fist.

“I’m sleepy,” Rose announces. You look at John and notice that he’s sunk back into the couch, staring into his empty cup.

“There’s a bed in the guest room. I can put on some cartoons for you to fall asleep to,” you suggest.

She nods her head. “Ok.”

On your way to the guest room, you fill another glass of water to leave on the bedside table. You lay down Rose on the bed, rummaging in the closet for a thin blanket. As you tuck her in, you feel her forehead with your hand. “Do you feel uncomfortable? Do you want to take any medication?” you ask, making a note to grab a damp cloth before you leave.

“You’re like Daddy. Especially when he looks like this.” Rose brings a finger up to each eyebrow and pushes them down, grimacing in a familiar fashion. She bursts into a fit of giggles, and you join in, unable to resist her charming antics. “Daddy already gave me some medicine. It tasted like bubblegum,” she remarks, sticking her tongue out as the rest of her face scrunches up.

Amusement twists your lips into a smile. “You don’t like bubblegum?” you ask.

Rose shakes her head. “Bubblegum should not be medicine,” she says with a grave tone; it’s the most serious you’ve seen her since she arrived. You head to the adjoining bathroom and run a clean cloth under room temperature water. Wringing the excess moisture, you return to her side and wipe her sweaty skin.

Rose’s eyelids droop; you take this as your cue to leave. “Alright. Your dad and I will be in the living room or in the room across if you need us.” She nods, and you go to turn on the TV, switching to a channel she likes and lowering the volume and brightness.

You tiptoe out of the room, closing the door slowly but leaving a small gap in case she calls out for anyone. When you return to the living room, John is still in the same position. Except now he’s wringing his hands as his cup sits abandoned on the table.

“John?” you call out his name softly, not wanting to startle him. He doesn’t look up at you, and you wonder if he even heard anything. You remain at a distance, observing every flex of his muscles as he fidgets.

“Is she asleep?” he asks in a whisper. His eyes dart to your figure before landing on his lap again. You walk up and gingerly take a seat beside him. John shifts some of his weight onto you, head resting against yours. You can feel the exhaustion emanating from him in waves. He looks like he could fall asleep any minute himself.

“Nearly. Rose could barely keep her eyes open when I laid her on the bed,” you say. Warmth envelopes your waist as John snakes an arm around you, pressing you closer to his side.

He kisses the side of your temple, murmuring into your hair, “I’m sorry for troubling you like this. I just… didn’t know what to do.” It’s not often you hear his words catch in his throat. You frown at the wobble in his tone and run your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp in the way you know always has him purring. He hums appreciatively and leans into your touch, eyes closed in momentary bliss.

“You’re not troubling me at all. Is this the first time she’s gotten this sick?” you ask.

John mulls over your question, his brows furrowed with thought. “First time while I wasn’t deployed,” he answers. John sighs and rubs a hand down his face. “I’m a terrible father,” and his chuckle leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

You pick up the untouched third tea and use it to warm your hands. “What makes you think that?” you ask, fingertips tapping against the ceramic sides of the cup.

His answer is almost immediate, like he’s been waiting for someone to ask. “Because I panicked.” As if that single sentence encompassed everything he did wrong tonight.

You frown and set the cup back down, not wanting to break it in a fit of emotions. There’s a strange disconnect between John’s confidence at work and at home. “So? Does being a good father mean knowing everything about parenting? Because in that case, there’s not a single good father in the world,” you say. But your attempts at comfort only cause him to sigh. “Panicking doesn’t always equal death.”

“You know what I mean,” he says.

You shake your head. “No. No, I don’t, John. I can’t read minds. What I can tell, though, is that you did your best to handle the situation.” If only you could extract your memories and play them for him to watch. Then maybe he would finally see what a good father he really is.

“It wasn’t enough,” he deflects.

You place a hand on his shoulder and say, “Yes, it was. Rose is sleeping peacefully down the hall. She’s fine.” You emphasize ‘fine,’ but John shakes his head. Doubt swims in his eyes, churning the blue depths into sheets of glistening glass.

“What about the next time something like this happens?” he counters. You can feel the damped vibrations through the sofa cushions, and you place a hand on John’s knee.

“Then you use what you learned from the previous times and do better,” you reply in an even tone. The two of you stare in silence. You refuse to look away. John wavers underneath your gaze. His lips remain in a thin line, stretched taut like a rubber band. And what eventually happens when you put too much strain on a rubber band?

It snaps.

“Can you hold me?” he whispers, and your heart clenches. You want nothing more than to pick up and carry him to your bed for some well-needed cuddles. But John’s a big man. You’re not sure you could do any of that without struggling.

You shuffle onto his lap and open your arms wide. “Come here.”

John buries himself in your embrace, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. “Thank you,” he mumbles. His beard grazes your skin, and a giggle bubbles from your throat. The sound causes John to tighten his arms around you. Is this what stress balls feel like when they’re about to explode?

“No problem. I’ll hold you for as long as you want me to,” you say, patting his back. It’s faint, but the scent of his cologne wafts in the air. Notes of bourbon and the smoke from his favourite cigar brand. You breathe it in, wishing you could bottle it up to use when he’s away.

He chuckles, and the resulting vibrations raise the goosebumps on your arms. “I’m afraid you’ll have to surgically remove me from yourself,” he says, burrowing into you.

“Well, that doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world,” you wheeze, rubbing the burning tips of his ears between your forefinger and thumb.

His voice is small, but it reaches your ears in the serene evening. “You still want to stay?” he asks.

Your lips twist into an amused smile. “Did I ever say I wouldn’t?” You brush your fingers through his hair, fiddling with the grey streaks you find.

“I’m a mess,” he says.

You nod. “Yeah, a hot one.”

“Darling….” he drawls.

“Yes, John?” you say, batting your eyelashes, looking like the epitome of innocence. A sudden attack is launched on your vulnerable sides. “Hey!” you screech as John digs his fingers mercilessly into your waist. You attempt to squirm out of his grasp. If you don’t get away in time, your fight instincts might take over from your flight, and John will learn the hard way not to tickle you.

Although you doubt his reflexes will allow anything to happen. The cheeky bastard’s nearly impossible to catch by surprise since he reacts instantly to any objects hurtling towards him.

“I like hearing you laugh,” John admits, the lines on his face relaxing. The warmth in his eyes stirs that familiar fluttering in your chest. A shudder wracks your body when he absentmindedly rubs circles into your hips.

You peck his nose and lean your forehead on his. “Gets the happy chemicals flowing?” you ask.

John hums, “Mmm.” He teases you again with a quick skim of his fingertips, and you bite your lips to keep quiet. Rose is still sleeping, but a small laugh punches through your teeth. John relents his assault, satisfied for now.

He continues to cling to you like a koala. You think back to what you’ve learned about John since that fateful encounter at the grocery store. “John? Why do you get so insecure when the topic of parenting surfaces?” you ask.

“...Don’t wanna talk about it,” he mumbles. You mentally scold yourself for bringing up a sore subject.

“That’s fine. You don’t have to,” you say.

“What?” John looks at you with wide eyes.

You grin and gently close his jaw before it can reach the ground. “I won’t force you to talk about something you don’t want to,” you say with a shrug.

“Thanks.” The room falls silent, save for the faint ticking of a clock and the unintelligible murmurs of the TV.

“John, you’re really not that bad.” You trace the bags underneath his eyes, frowning at how puffy they are.

“Well, I can’t be a bad father if I’m never around,” he chuckles dryly.

You hesitate before asking, “...Is that what this is about?”

“....”

“I know your job takes you away from home often.” You pause and wrack your brain for the right words to convey what you want to say. “But I wish you could see how Rose smiles when I tell her you’ll return in a few days. Or how she hugs her teddy bear—that you gave her—close every night.” Rose’s enthusiasm for her father’s return never wavers, never changes. You’ve babysitted Rose on and off for months now, and every evening, without fail, you hear the recording in the bear play from her room. “Would we like to see more of you? Of course. But I understand, and I think Rose does to a certain degree, that you have responsibilities and duties to fulfill.”

The right side of John’s lips slant up. “Don’t you ever get tired of cheering me up?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the ‘p.’ You stand up and hold a hand out to him. “Now let’s get you to bed, my sad little man.”

“Little?” John chuckles, placing his hand in yours.

“Yeah, 'cause you’re just a sad little guy,” you say.

John blinks slowly and raises his brows. But his expression is soon replaced with amusement. “Is this some kind of internet lingo I’m unaware of?”

“....”

John clicks his tongue. “Your silence speaks volumes.”

You huff and feel like a cat with its hackles raised. “Don’t judge me for how I spend my free time,” you say.

John nods. “Ah yes, reading literature. What were they called again? Fan books?”

“Fanfics,” you correct, tugging him from his seat. “To bed. Now.”

John's eyes crinkle at the corners, and his quiet laughter fills the room. “You don’t need to be ashamed, darling. It could be worse. You could be reading those raunchy romance novels they sell at the grocery store.” You don’t humour him with a response, too busy trying to mask your face with a neutral expression. God forbid John learns about the kinds of things you read in your sacred corner of the internet. “You read the equivalent online, don’t you?” The apples of your cheeks tingle, and your mouth dries.

You clear your throat and begin stacking the cups and saucers. “It’s still late. We need to get some more rest,” you say, setting off at a brisk pace to the kitchen sink. The thud of footsteps follows right behind you. You don’t have to turn around to see how his lips curl into a grin.

“You read those books when you have me?” he asks, mock hurt lacing his tone.

You roll your eyes and set the dishes in the sink; a problem for future you. Turning around, you cross your arms and steel your gaze. “In my defence, some of them actually have a good plot,” you say. John raises a brow, and he does a poor job covering his laugh up with a cough. “Don’t give me that look! Some of them do!” you insist. Literal masterpieces exist on the internet. And they’re free??? Clearly, John’s never binged a fanfic until three in the morning and had an epiphany, only to be left desolate and distraught now that there are no more chapters to be read.

During your internal debate to justify your reading habits, John hoists you over his shoulder and heads to your bedroom.

“Why don’t you recount your favourite one, and we can reenact it, hm?” he suggests, landing a playful smack on your bottom. You flail your limbs to no avail. The heat on your face could burn through the clothes on his back. John glances over at you with a smirk. “You can be quiet, can’t you, love? You did so well last time.” He caresses the back of your thighs, closing the door behind him with his foot.

At least you get a glorious view of his ass from this angle.

End Note:

Listen, don't ask me why I always end up writing some angst when it comes to Dad!Price. I can't help it, it's just ingrained in his DNA. I do have some ideas as to what happened with Rose's mom, and I do want to eventually write Price coming to terms with his grief. But as always, who knows when I'll get to that.

I did think about dragging this out longer. Originally, Price was also supposed to fall sick the next few days and Reader would be nursing him with the help of Rose. But that would have doubled the length and I just wanted this done so I could move on to the next fic 😅

Now it's on to the next fandom on my list! Alas, I am cursed with too many ideas and not enough willpower to write all of them at once.

I'll see you guys at my next hyperfixation! (。・∀・)ノ

Taglist: @mipitt141, @lovecats123451

#john price x reader #cod x reader #john price #captain john price x reader #captain john price #cod mwii #single dad price #gender neutral reader #no y/n #established relationship #fluff #angst #sick fic #Price calls you out #someone give him a hug #Rose is a gem as always

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fizzy-fuzz · 9 months ago

Note

If you do end up writing something with P03…

What if Reader & 079 find Inscryption and play it together, until they meet P03?

AN: oopies! Sorry this took so long. To make up for it I'm giving you a thick oneshot of 1700 words. Hope I'm forgiven :⁠,⁠-⁠)

Story notes: the reader and 079 are implied to have pre-existing relationship. They're also based off of the 079 and Y/n of this fic I've been writing. But this can be read without having to read the other.

TW: slight possessive behavior from 079. (maybe very, very slight yandere behavior? If you squint)

The human is mine. (SCP-079 x GN reader x P03)

You walk through a metal dusty factory, 079's heavy body strapped to you like a backpack for easy transportation. He's not plugged into any outlets, so you're not 100% sure how he's even functional, and he doesn't seem to have an answer either. Perhaps this strange world doesn't follow the same principles as your own.

Whatever the reason, you're both eager to return to your quiet life...

This seems to be the place on the map. The last Scrybe you need to defeat in order to hopefully go home should reside within this place somewhere.

The building feels... Dull... Lacking the vibrant feelings the other three places had. There's also a notable lack of life around, just empty metal halls.

You continue walking, footsteps echoing loudly around you. You enter a more spacious area, a conveyor belt moves metal parts from this room to another. In front of you is... A robot? He has a claw hand clutching a card, he seems to analyze it with scrutiny. Your eyes travel up to his face and you pause for a moment.

A warm fuzzy feeling of familiarity blooms in your chest. He has computer like face, not unlike the one your companion opon your back has... Though he clearly shows more expression, and seems to have a bluish tint to his screen. It still feel normal... Normal to you.

Though you probably shouldn't, you feel yourself grow less tense.

"Uhm- excuse me? Are you the Scrybe of technology?" You ask with a small nervous smile.

His eyes flicker up to you, he scans your form up and down with the same uninterested look he was giving the card in his claw.

"Who's asking?" His voice is a bit more natural then you'd expect, a bit nasally even.

"I'm Y/n-" he cuts you off rudely as soon as you get your name out.

"Oh, so you're the one who's knocked the others off their pedestals? I would say I'm impressed if they weren't such idiots." He casually says, going back to analyzing cards before scoffing and throwing them into the pile of presumably other subpar cards.

"Well, alright then. Let me see your deck. I want to know how badly you're about to lose."

He says this with a arrogant confidence. You shrug, grabbing your deck out of your pocket and handing it over. You would be offended, expect you are sort bad at this.... The only reason you've made it so far is thanks 079's amazing ability to be almost perfect at any strategy game that he understands the rules of. The choice of deck had been decided by him mostly, though he still asks for your input politely.

Speaking of which he's been entirely silent since you've gone into this building. You glance over your shoulder at him and he seems fine, but it's not like you can really tell with his unchanging face.

The Scrybe of technology scoffs in disgust after a few moments of shuffling through your deck.

"This deck has no synergy. It's a mismatched mess. I can't believe you've made it anywhere with this-" his claw hand shoves your deck back to your hands roughly.

You frown but don't really take offense to what he says. He's probably just brutally honest, you can get behind that when the situation calls for it. You appreciate him being honest, especially considering he must know what he's talking about.

You stop and think about how 079 has been the backbone of your little adventure. You really haven't been much of a help have you? Now's your chance to make yourself useful, so you hesitantly speak up.

"Really? Any tips on how to make it better? I'd love for a master of the arts like yourself to give me a small lesson? plus, you seem like the type of guy to not be intimidated by a challenge." You say with a bright smile.

He halts his ranting immediately, eyes widening. He raises his claw-like hand to clutch at his chest lightly, like he's not used to flattery. and you swear you almost see a light dusting of blue light opon his cheeks, similar to blush.

He seems to shake it off before a confident look makes it's way onto his screen. His tone shifts to something less harsh and more casual.

"What did you say your name was again?" He sets down his work and places his full attention on you.

"Oh, uhm- Y/n" you say, scratching at the back of your neck awkwardly.

"Well, Y/N... I like the way you think, and I'm a generous bot." The Scrybe leans forward a bit into your space, you shuffles backwards uncomfortably. "So, okay. I'll give you a lesson, but it must be earned first. You go and beat my good-for-nothing workers and come back here, and I'll teach you all I know." He says with a cocky smirk.

His tone and gaze is starting to make you a bit uncomfortable, this guy seems to have a rather large ego... But you're willing to put up with it if it means you don't have to rely on 079 so much.

"Okay, sounds fair..." You shift 079, who's been hidden for the most part throughout the conversation. The straps that keep him on your back begin digging in uncomfortably under his weight, It might be best to let your shoulders rest and leave him here while you take care of business. You should be able to handle his subordinates by yourself if you take your time.

"Let me just-" you turn around and lower 079 onto the table in front of the Scrybe of technology. They now come face to face.

The Scrybe immediately recoils, a scoff leaving him at your companions sudden appearance.

"Who's that?" He eyes him like he's a bug under his shoe, claw pointing at him rudely. And if 079 could glare he'd be burning holes into the bot in front of him.

You go to answer him, humming awkwardly. This question is always strange to answer. Technically you and 079 are... Together... You'd consider him your partner, and behind closed doors, 079 admits he feels the same. But he isn't keen on sharing your relationship status with strangers, and you respect that. You'd never force a label onto him.

So you go with what you tell most everyone-

"He's my roomma-" a monotone voice cuts you off unexpectedly.

"I'm their partner."

....

You whip your gaze down to 079 so fast you'd swear you gave yourself whiplash. He never so casually calls himself that, especially not to strangers. You feel lighter at his unusual comment, butterflies filling your stomach briefly.

A bashful grin and a small blush settles onto your face.

"yeah... That..."

Your smile never drops as you adjust 079 so he's comfortable on the table, before bidding him a temporary farewell to fulfill your task in a timely manner.

079 watches you scurry away, a feeling of temporary relief washing over him as you no longer interact with the Scrybe... He's left alone with the bot now, much to his displeasure.

079's internals feel hot with an unpleasant feeling- Like something's itching to get out of him. It bloomed the moment he heard you talk to the thing in front of him. The Scrybe gave him a nasty feeling with the way he spoke back to you...

Perhaps he was jealous, he's never 100% sure with his own feelings...

"Wow... How'd a thing like you end up with someone like them? Playing out of your league much, fossil?" The Scrybe of technology chuckles condescendingly when he's certain you're out of earshot.

079 feels his internal scowl deepen at the blatant rudeness. The fact that he was so cordial with you a moment ago and now so rude to him further cements the bad feelings he's had since this bot has opened his mouth... he's been flirting with you.

His human.

The one that's much to good for something like the scummy thing in front of him.

"Insult detected- deletion of unwanted file:.." he clears his processors before continuing. "I wouldn't argue you're much of anything special yourself... I've heard you speak less then a dozen sentences and I already know you're an imbecile." 079 spits with a venomous aura.

The Scrybe huffs, screen flashing to a scowling face. 079 isn't fazed. he meant what he said, he can tell this guy's all bark and no bite already. He'll be taking great pleasure in showing him up at his own game, and reclaiming Y/n's attention along the way.

Not that he doubts your loyalties, but He's not fond of the compliments you so casually give out to someone who clearly doesn't deserve it.

It's strange, he hasn't felt this possessive over them before. He's had no problems with the few humans he's seen approach you with flirtatious intentions, and He's certainly not been bothered by the other inhuman things you've spoken with on this unwilling adventure...

Maybe it's because the bot in front of him is a bit too much like himself. Despite feeling as if he's clearly more intelligent than the Scrybe, 079 knows he's been known to have a bit of a ego himself.

Of course since meeting Y/n a lot has changed within him, they've made him realize things he hasn't before. There's a lot he doesn't know... They teach him new things about himself everyday, that's exactly what draws him to you.

It might be that very same feeling that ends up drawing the Scrybe in front of him to you. He doesn't want that.

He wants you all to himself, he isn't willing to share. And he'll make a fool out of the bot in front of him to show you how much better he. This will be easy.

And if all else fails, he can always find something to plug him into a outlet... This place is begging for him to take it over with how much it seems to rely on technology.

He pauses his inner thoughts as he hears your footsteps echoing down the halls, signaling your return. He shifts his focus back to the Scrybe for a moment, saying one last warning before you re-enter the room.

"The human is mine... Keep to yourself if you know what's good for you."

#scp x reader #scp 079 #scp 079 x reader #scp foundation #scp x you #scp-079 x reader #old ai #scp-079 #079 #x reader #p03 x reader #inscryption p03 #inscription x reader

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justbelievinginmagic · 4 days ago

Text

the dragon-blood chronicles ⎯ part 1: the spark.

pairing: namjoon x reader series summary: There are tales about dragon-blood men ruling over the kingdom of Bangtan for centuries; old myths that Crown-Prince Seokjin and second-born Prince Namjoon heard while growing up. Stories about bullet-proof, fire-breathing serpetine creatures with the ability to shift into human form and dominate the land with an iron fist. It was a fable of power, but just that - a fable. Dragon-blood folk have been gone for centuries. But when Prince Namjoon get sent away from the Palace at a young age for unruly behavior, things being to change in the kingdom as a war beings to brew, causing eight magical fates to intertwine. glimpse: Namjoon was the second born. The useless prince. The back-up. Forgotten and locked in a tower of a far-off castle, he brewed in his uncontrollable frustration at his fate... until a spark ignites that changes the path of the kingdom. warnings/tags: This is a repost of an older oneshot inspired by the song, we are bulletproof pt. 2 i wrote! i've updated it a bit to loop into the larger story and just to follow the way i write now! ive added about 2.5k new content so if you liked the og give this one a look! PG-13, Romance, Fantasy/Royalty AU, bad family dynamics, possessive & protective Namjoon, dragons, unspoken love, illness. word count: 7.1 k -> next chapter series masterlist

Heavy was the crown on the head of a king.

Namjoon wouldn’t know about that though – even if he wanted to know what the hefty load of a kingdom on his shoulders felt like, he would never have it. He was, after all, the second born. A spare prince. A back-up king. Second to the throne, third in life of the royal family.

The king, naturally, was first. First to enter a room, first to eat their meals (after a servant tested it for poison, of course.) But after him, it was Seokjin.

From birth, Seokjin was first for everything. First to be taught, first to eat, first to be tended to, first to be trained at swordsmanship. Namjoon was quick to learn that as he hobbled around the halls of the palace as a youngster. He was ignored among the royal family – seemingly weaker, smaller than his older brother when born. He made the queen quite sick during her pregnancy. When born, Namjoon was prone to illness as a child. An annoyance, a drain on the kingdom’s resources.

He still tried to follow after his older brother. Seokjin, eldest by three years, tried when he could to be a good bother. He loved the idea of a younger brother, wanting to be the best of friends. He wanted to play Knights and Fiends with him; he wanted to teach him how to read and write; he wanted them to go on fishing trips like he read about in his fairytale books. The older brother played with his little brother only to have the sounds of his nanny calling to him distract him.

“Come along, Prince Seokjin. You have your classes. Leave him alone.”

He hated it, but complied with a frown towards Namjoon and a sad wave.

Namjoon, at the mere age of seven, couldn’t help but begin to try to gain attention. He wanted attention. He wanted to have all the attention that his brother had. He began to do what a child does when upset. Tantruming. Pleading for attention through misaction or disobedience. He’d throw his food to the ground at dinners, arms crossing over his little chest. He’d interrupt classes with cries of ‘this isn’t fair’. He’d fight as his nanny dragged him away from Seokjin, screaming. It grew to such a state – even with Seokjin’s quiet scold of pleadings - “Namjoonie, you’re going to get into trouble; please stop” – that the royal family acted.

That was when he learned he wasn’t loved.

Not like Seokjin. Never like Seokjin.

Namjoon was cast aside. Thrown into a tower at another castle. He was stole in the night – taken in a carriage and awoke in this new place. Alone.

His family didn’t love him. No, they didn’t. The little boy cried and cried.

Namjoon was utterly alone now; all in the name that he couldn’t “distract the crown prince from his duties.” He was cared for enough to know that he was still a prince. Given the finest of things – silver, gold, and silken treasures to keep him content. A collection of maids and servants were there to feed and care for him and a table of knights were there to protect him. He was carefully watched over from a distance. Sadness ate a child and few cared. Few knew what to do when the little boy slammed his door and hid in the tower. The prince fell into a lonely state.

The knights protecting him looked at him as a stranger – an isolated boy, a spare – even if he strived to learn to study weaponry. He tried to join them on their practice range once; he was turned away.

“Your Highness!” there was a cry from a nanny. “You have no need to learn such a skill.”

No, he didn’t he sulked. He didn’t need to learn anything apparently. After all, the second prince had no need to learn of knightly duties, nor fighting, nor war, nor kingly duties. His brother had learned though; at the old castle, Seokjin beamed and preened about his lessons with swordmastery. But Namjoon didn’t need to know it. Because, in the end, Namjoon wasn’t the prince headed to the crown.

The Second.

He was the second.

What did that even mean? If he wasn’t a King, if he wasn’t a Knight, if he wasn’t seen as a worthy Prince either… what was he?

Namjoon learned – like most things in his life – he would have to adapt. He would watch things from afar, learning from high up in his windowed tower. Mimicking the motions the knights made, the strikes of the blade against his bedpost (instead of a training dummy) left deep grooves into the fine wood.

The servants gossiped about his anger issues and how he destroyed things. A monster of a prince.

Namjoon’s focus grew on things he could do without the roadblocks put up by the servants and the royal family. He couldn’t study metalsmith with the knights. But he could study wordsmiths.

Besides his tall tower room, he was granted access to the library. He threw himself into his studies – he learned charts for sailing, war strategy, language, public speaking, trade, and folklore. He’d learn to be king – even if he wouldn’t be one.

When a nanny asked what he was reading, he’d learn to lie a white lie. Just a fantasy book.

After all, wasn’t all of this a fantasy? What was a Prince to do when he wasn’t a Prince?

At first, he envied his brother. He used to think he hated him. Hated him for everything Namjoon couldn’t be. Namjoon fueled himself on that hate in the early years of his isolation – studying with spite on his tongue. Writing curses towards his brother in the sidelines of books. He knew his brother had all the highest advisors and scholars telling him this… and he knew Seokjin didn’t listen. Seokjin wasn’t a good student, in a traditional sense. He liked stories, and most of the history and war tactics the youngest Prince read about was not a good story.

Until he received a letter from his brother.

I don’t know where to turn. I’ve missed you, brother. I feel so lost. I don’t think I’m meant for this. I don’t think I’m meant to be King.

The words were scratched out over and over, as if even writing what was beneath was forbidden.

Father expects so much – expects me to talk with a booming voice. He wants me to be like our ancestors.

Namjoon knew what Seokjin was referring to – even if it had been years since he’d been by his older brother’s side or heard the tales of their family line. Everyone knew the stories of the dragon bloods. How they were creatures that could shapeshift into reptilian beasts that flew. Powerful myths. How they took the throne with ease and led with wisdom beyond this realm. How their royal bloodline supposedly came from them.

It was a story, a folklore. But it was still used to rally the people. The kingdom was strong, strong like a dragon.

Seokjin wrote to Namjoon for advice. And though he thought he despised the crown prince, he replied. At first because Namjoon’s nanny urged him to – “it’d be rude to not reply to the future King, my prince” – but soon he wrote to ease his brother’s worries. He was an aid in running the kingdom even at his young age.

He liked that.

He’d write advice for his brother, sending flocks of pigeons with letters. Books were his escape. And soon, so were you.

He was sixteen when he found you when he was looking for a novel in the library. It was early in the morning; the dew had barely settled on the grasslands. Namjoon stumbled down the stone steps into the grand library, sleepy eyed and still in his fine-tailored pajamas. It took him far too long to notice you. It was only when you let out the smallest giggle. His head snapped to the sound, and he saw you for the first time. A servant’s daughter dressed in worn dark browns and creams; an apron sat dirtied around your waist; it was clear you weren’t where you were supposed to be. Engrossed in a book, your eyes taking in gulps of words even if you stumbled over the larger ones – a finger resting over the word that seemed too complicated to pronounce let alone understand.

And instead of anger, instead of a tantrum, perhaps due to his isolation, he felt… kinship.

You liked to read like he did. You were like him. Alone in the place. He hadn’t seen someone his age before this, he was so used to the older figures rushing around. But you… you were like him. Even if you were dressed poorly.

“Excuse me?” His voice was now a rumbling deep thing with the brink of teenagerhood, deeper even more when dusted with the throes of sleep.

It startled you, slamming the book shut with a puff of dust from the old thing. Your gaze settled on the fine clothes – finer than you had ever seen – and a fear clung to your bones.

The worst-case scenarios tumbled through your head. You would be sent away. You’d be beheaded. Your family would suffer. Your eyes would be plucked out. He was an angry boy – you had heard the rumors and here you were trespassing. In the royal library. His royal library.

“My prince,” you stumbled to your feet, bowing your head. “I’m sorry – please forgive me.”

No, no, no he didn’t want this. He didn’t want fear or babbling or… to lose a possible friend. He had never seen someone in the library. It was his private library, too grand for a single soul to occupy. It wouldn’t hurt… to share. It felt like nails down a chalkboard, like someone was taking his to from him. Why was that so hard to concede to that? Sharing.

Still, he bit down on his tongue.

“No, please. It’s okay,” he tried to soothe.

His hands outstretched to touch your shoulder as if to urge you out of your bow. You shuddered under his touch as if he’d strike you. “It’s okay. Really.”

His voice, deep and warm, lacked the fire of anger. It was more like a hearth, bumbling with embers.

“What… what are you reading?”

“What… what am I reading?” you repeated, incredulous. Baffled.

He offered a small smile, cheeks red as he nodded slowly. He was so unused to this. So used to the nannies who were frightened of him or the tired old maids who didn’t want to put in the effort to care for him truly.

He tried to make himself look smaller, that’d help right? You were so much smaller than him already he noticed. He nodded again.

“It’s… it’s a fairytale, you probably wouldn’t like it,” she insisted.

“I like reading,” he said simply. “Tell me about it? Please.”

You licked your lips, eying him up and down before nodding softly. It wasn’t a beheading. It wasn’t a violent tantrum. In fact, he looked kind of sweet, bashful, as his sleepy face broke into a grin and he settled down next to the spot you were previously sitting.

Day by day, you’d meet in the early morning light of the majestic library. In that time, he’d hear what you were reading; even insisting on you reading the words aloud. He’d correct you where he could. Never did his corrections make you feel ashamed or stupid. He was surprisingly gentle with his words you noticed.

Your mornings – when you were meant to be preparing his breakfast - were spent reading beside the young prince. Eventually, when you got scolded so much, it made you cry and you were trembling in your shoes to miss a shift – he changed your schedule. While in the early morn you’d share your books, by mid-morning, he shared with you the books he loved – philosophy, folklore, science - while you rushed to make his breakfast in the grand kitchen. He’d lean against the cutting counter and stare as you whisked eggs and kneaded dough.

It was sometimes difficult to be around him. The Prince was a handsome man. His hair was long for his age, curling up at the nape of his neck. You wondered if he cut it himself. Most servants were warned of his unruly temper and childish tantrums; they avoided him the best they could and it was easy with how much he stayed in his tower. He was violent… That was why he was sent away – at least, the rumors spoke of that.

The prince you grew to know wasn’t an angry person. No, he smiled with a softness, his cheeks squishing to reveal dimples. He listened as you spoke about things in your life– from the novels you had read and loved to the flowers you liked in the gardens to the work you loathed to do. (He had laughed when you mentioned you disliked when he requested bacon for the splatters of oil always burned your arms; he promised he’d request bacon less for your sake. He hadn’t requested it since.)

Namjoon enjoyed your company. You were his friend. His only friend.

He hadn’t had a friend before.

He cared for you, watched, and aided you when he could. He didn’t want you to suffer or feel alone. You were the only other teenager so far outside the kingdom’s town. It must’ve been lonely. He couldn’t imagine you hurting or else his heart felt like it’d burn up.

Even as he felt stirrings of things within him as the years went by, he focused on what you needed. A love that was selfless wasn’t second-nature to him. It was an effort. He didn’t want to be greedy and lose you. He grew fond of you beside him. His fingers intertwined with yours as you walked through the gardens, shyly at first, before it happened every time afterwards. Your hand in his was cool to the touch; he hoped you weren’t cold. He gifted you a pretty cloak a few weeks later, one that was the same shade as your favorite flower.

You leaned towards him when you read together. Sometimes your cheek was so close he could feel their warm. His lips would tingle and he couldn’t read the manuscript in his hands. All he could focus on was how pretty your skin was… how your cheeks were a reddish pink and your lips… oh your lips were so tantalizingly close for him to press a kiss to them. He swallowed down this love, keeping you close to him but guarded from himself.

Perhaps it was anxiety – the consequence of being friendless for so long. He was bashful, fearful. Him – fearful it made him want to shake his head at his foolishness. He ached to wrap you into his embrace, to shower you in kisses, to allow you to lay in his bed. But he settled for now, the softness of your friendship was a comfort. Your hand against his was still enough to get his heart racing. His love festered in his chest with the inability to grow further – if only he could speak of his fondness.

He claimed he’d try again tomorrow – and the next day – and the next.

However, as his love grew into a mess of tangled vines, an illness began to fester and choke him as well.

It had occurred when he turned twenty. At the stroke of midnight, you had knocked onto his bedroom door.

“Joonie!” Your voice chimed as he opened the door. Dressed in his pajamas, it should be improper but you had seen him in them many times before – you met him in them. His face lit up at the sight of the cake – his birthday cake. It was decorated with edible flowers from the garden and a gentle blue frosting.

“Happy Birthday!”

“Y/N,” he exclaimed. “This is beautiful – all for me?”

You giggled and he smiled wide enough his dimples peeked at you.

“Yes, your Highness,” you chuckled. “Don’t eat it all or you’ll get a stomach ache.”

“I won’t… aren’t you tired?” he asked watching you blink slow and steady like a cat.

“A bit; I wish I could stay awake longer but I wanted to be the first person to see you and wish you a happy birthday.” You claimed.

He wanted to press kisses all over your face; he wish you knew that you were sweeter than this cake. That you’d be the only one to wish him a true happy birthday. Instead, he simply place the cake aside on a desk and hugged you close.

“Thank you. I love it.” You.

You hummed happily. “I’m happy. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Not too early,” he promised. “I’ll take breakfast later, okay? Prince’s orders. Sleep in a bit.”

It was sweet. Even on his birthday he was treating you. You smiled up at him, squeezing his hand fondly.

“As you command it, oh mighty prince. But other than that, we will spend the whole day together.”

That sounded like a dream. With the door shutting behind you, he felt a giddy rush course through him. His skin warmed and his stomach filled with butterflies. Looking over at the cake, he took his finger and swiped at the frosting, tasting it. But the mere taste of the sugar felt like curdled milk in his stomach. Namjoon frowned. That didn’t make sense. Your treats were always so good. He loved this cake recipe in particular – you made it every birthday since you became friends.

Perhaps it was his excitement. His face already felt clammy. His hand shaky. Sleep claimed him quick, his cake left untouched.

He awoke in the morning to a fever, his skin burning hot.

“Stay away, Y/N,” he had called out when you insisted on helping him. A cool rag to his forehead, sweat trickled down his temple.

“You’re burning up, Joonie” you had murmured, swiping his hair aside. Once, you’d shake in your boots imagining touching the prince like this, but after your friendship grew through the years. You had stopped referring to him as your prince and simply as Namjoon, and later even Joonie – something he had smiled warmly at.

“Don’t want you to get sick,” he continued as you lifted a goblet of water to his lips.

“Shh.” You hushed as you let him sip the fresh water. It didn’t ease the fire in his veins. “You’re the one sick on your birthday.”

Namjoon’s fever didn’t break for days. It felt like his muscles were combusting, aching, and burning. No doctor had the answer. The royal family even came to visit – fearing the worse for the bedridden prince.

“Namjoonie, you better get well.” It was a light threat from Seokjin as he sat on the bedside of his younger brother. It wasn’t much of a threat when Seokjin sniffled and raised a handkerchief to his eyes. “What would I do without your aid if you left? I’d be waiting for your letters daily.”

You worked on with a watchful eye. Wringing cool rose-water from a rag to place on Namjoon’s forehead as the crown prince held onto his brother’s hand. You couldn’t decide if the first-born prince was being genuine. You noticed other things though. The way the plump lips of Seokjin were bitten raw. The trembling broad shoulders. There was a quiet to Seokjin, a timidness even if he was built and grown as a Prince; he wasn’t built to be a King. Even a servant girl could see that.

It was as interesting as it was fearful.

There was a night when he refused to let you into his bed chamber. The large clanking of a goblet hitting the tiled floors echoed, and you had rushed to the door with his name on your tongue.

“Don’t enter,” his voice was pained.

“Namjoon, what’s wrong?” you asked.

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” he sounded pained, his voice coming through gritted teeth.

Clanking and shattering objects came from within the room. You did not cease your calling. Servants whispered and gossiped about the prince having a temper tantrum in his weakened state. Some things never change.

The next morning, Namjoon’s fever broke finally. And you nearly cried of relief.

“You scared me so much,” you scolded the prince as you clung to his hand. His arms wrapped around you tight, pulling you closer and closer until you were in the bed with him. Surprised by not frightened, you remained in his arms. They trembled with a weakness, from the sickness you assumed, but they didn’t let you shift in his embrace. He held you close and breathed you in. You smelled of home. Of everything he cared for. The smell of food cooking on a hearth, of indigo flowers planted in the garden, of the vanilla hidden in old books. He trembled under your hug, but he pressed his lips to your hair, something you don’t miss. Fondness bloom in your chest like a flower.

“What happened yesterday?” you murmured, curiously.

You knew it wasn’t a temper tantrum. He didn’t do that. It wasn’t Namjoon.

He breathed out shakily. He felt… different. His skin felt tight to his bones; his muscles remained tense like a suit of armor forged into his own flesh – but he didn’t feel unwell. The fire that had burned through him had settled into a steady flow of embers through his veins. A comforting warmth, a harness-able power.

“I-I don’t know,” he lied as he held you closer.

After the illness, Namjoon held himself differently. He was taller, broader. He almost reminded you of Seokjin’s naturally wide shoulders – except Namjoon’s frame was different. More muscular, beefier.

He could lift you now, carrying you to your quarters ( which had moved to the castle, per his request ) when you fell asleep reading beside the prince. He was eating more – but maybe you simply forgot his appetite after suffering under the illness for so long. He’s moved into training again – now outside the tower he called his living quarters – something you knew he had liked to do after years of friendship.

He was different but the same. He almost seemed more at peace as he greeted you in the kitchens with a friendly kiss to your cheek.

He was bolder. Happier.

Different but good.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he wrapped his arms around you.

It was a welcome change; Namjoon had begun to hug you closer, wrap his arms around you more and more now. Your hand moved to rest against his intertwined arms.

“Good morning, Joon.” His chin rested on your shoulder, watching as you made his plate (and yours at his request – he loved eating breakfast with you.)

“You’re in a good mood,” you commented.

“I received a letter from my brother.” he didn’t speak of Seokjin with ill-will; he had spoken of the king with a tone of discontent – detested affection - before.

“He wants me to be his Advisor.” He revealed. He sounded excited, happy. “Officially.” He turned to rest his cheek fully on your shoulder, rubbing his cheek against your servant garb. “Father is preparing to shift things around, giving Seokjin more power in decision-making.”

Which Namjoon knew Seokjin hated.

“You have worked hard. You’ll finally be able to show off that big brain of yours in front of the court,” you added as you continued to slice the apple for your individual porridges.

“Finally,” he sighed against you. Things were looking up.

He dragged his cheek against your shoulder once more before hugging you close. As he pulled away, his fingers swiped an apple slice from the tray.

“Your Highness,” you scolded, making him chuckle out as he pressed another fond kiss to your cheek.

It left tingling warmth in its wake.

You couldn’t seem to rest despite yawns tumbling from your lips. Restlessness clung to your bones, making you stand from your bed. Your gaze peered out the high window to look into the night sky. The tower room that Namjoon insisted on you having as you tended to him while he was ill was grand. It was larger than your homestead, draped in finery that you had been fearful to use. There was even a balcony to look out into the night sky – which you used now. Namjoon hadn’t asked for anything in return, simply saying he adored your company. He wanted you here. He had been kind to you; sweeter than ever.

The very thought of the prince made your heart race. Letting out a girlish giggle, your eyes continued to stargaze. Arms draping over the baluster, you pressed your cheek to the cool stonework. There were many stars you could name; Namjoon particularly enjoyed astronomy. You were naming each one you could.

There was the Chamaeleon, Corona Borealis, Lepus, Lupus, and the Dragon. Your eyes drooped sleepily when something caught your gaze. There was flicker against the midnight skies like a shadow dancing across the stars. The shape made you shudder, your eyes widening like saucers.

It looked like a dragon flying high in the sky.

You blink, blink, blinked.

It was gone. No, you know what you saw. You saw the impossible.

“What are you reading, Y/N?” Namjoon asked after catching you in the halls of the palace, curled in an alcove he knew you favored.

“Folklore,” you commented.

He noted your sleepy eyes; lavender painted your under-eye area. His brows pursed – even if you continued reading with interest.

“What’s caught your attention, sweet one?” he chuckled softly before his fingers tucked stray hairs away from your face. Fingers grazed your skin fondly. You looked up at the gentility. He lips pursed into a frown. “You look like you’ve been up all night; were you reading by candlelight again?”

Your face didn’t lighten up like he loved. It made his stomach churn a bit. His brows pursed. He was far too easy to read like your favorite book.

You tried to comfort him, shaking your head. Your cheek pressed into his large, hot hand reassuringly.

“No, no; I just – Namjoon –, “ you started a sentence, pausing in your words.

Licking your lips, your tired mind caught up to your train of thought and you had to pause.

Everyone knew the tale of the dragon bloods. Creatures who could transform at will – fire breathed into their souls, powerful and greedy but wise. They took over the throne from an evil ruler; then they ruled with wisdom for decades. It was a tall-tale you were told since childhood. But… it was just a story. How could you have seen one? And why did it strike such fear in your heart for Namjoon and the royal family? Was it an omen? Was he in danger?

Your breathing shuddered.

You couldn’t tell him. He’d find you crazy.

Your gaze shifted from his kind umber eyes to the book beneath her fingertips.

“I’ve just been engrossed in this story,” you said quietly.

It wasn’t quite a lie.

He frowned, but brushed a thumb over your cheek soft. He didn’t like you keep things from him. But he’d let you for now.

“Seokjin-hyung truly doesn’t know how to rule; what did he do during all those lessons? He knows nothing!” Namjoon lamented, flopping down beside you in the grassy riverside. It was a heavy thud of his body against the vegetation.

“Be careful,” you commented at his violent action yet he didn’t even grunt from the action.

“I would’ve loved lessons on trade routes,” he sighed out, frustratedly. His hands trailed over the wild indigo tousling in the wind. He watched the petals pass through his fingers before huffing again.

“I know, Joonie, but you learned regardless. That’s resilience.”

He hummed out an agreement. His gaze shifted from the weeds beside his head to focus on you. You were reading again. A sight he loved. He loved when you were focused, immersed in something more. It was like he could see your brain working, see the imagination flickering behind your beautiful eyes.

The leather-covered book bore the same “History of Fae & Other Creatures” title. You’ve been reading it for more than a week now. It made his curiosity spike.

“What are you so intrigued about, sweetheart?” He leaned up on his forearms, gazing up at you with flower petals and leaves clinging to his long hair.

You let out a soft chuckle at the sight, reaching out to pluck the remnants away. Why were you nervous to tell him? Would he laugh at you? He hadn’t before. You knew your fears were foolish – a Dragon wasn’t coming to destroy his family line – and him. That was… not set in reality. Its been something you’ve ruminated on night after night as you laid in your cushy bed. You could’ve seen something totally real that night – a strange bird or a kite or a very solid looking cloud that moved really fast. Right?

Fiddling with the corner of the worn page, you hemmed and hawed. Namjoon waited patiently. Smiling up at you. He’s never been cruel or mean. Surely, he’d just tell you saw nothing. That it was the sleepiness. Reassure you. He fiddled with the fabric of your dress – a new one he had made for you of indigo blue.

“I just – I’ve been thinking of dragons recently,” you finally said, turning the page.

Namjoon paused, his smile freezing. His dimples weren’t showing as the smile faded into a confused frown.

“Dragons?” he asked again. Namjoon’s blood felt hot.

“I—you’ll think I’m silly,” you said, shaking your head – your gaze hadn’t left the page. “I thought I saw one the other night. I was tired though. Maybe I just was – I don’t know, day-dreaming.”

“Maybe,” Namjoon supplied.

He felt hot.

He’d tell them soon. He promised.

Namjoon’s face was grim as he sat in the rocky carriage. Stuck in the royal attire he often disregard around the palace, his limbs felt tight and itchy; his fine silver crown atop perfectly styled locks. His hair had been cut, by your hand at the insistence of the maids and caretakers. He was a Prince not some long-haired pirate! He felt wrong. Everything felt wrong. He was stuck in a carriage far away from you and only taking him further and further away by the second. It left him worrying. A pit growing in his stomach as the carriage shuttered against the rocky path.

Even if he hadn’t spoken his love to you, you hadn’t rejected his affections. His soft kisses to your cheek, his embraces where his hands remained respectfully at your waist, or his affectionate nicknames. It was more than friendship, surely you knew that. You weren’t dumb. You were the smartest woman he’d met. It was one of the many things he loved about you.

He felt anxiety creep up at the thought of the castle unprotected by him. You were unprotected. It made the fire splutter and splatter like lava within his soul.

But he had a duty – not to his father, but Seokjin.

It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.

The castle was a day’s journey, one that he handled as gracefully as one could. Soon enough, he was back in his childhood home – yet it felt unlike the true home he left behind. Bereft figures, dull colors of dark blacks decorated the halls. Sobs filled the streets.

After all, the King was dead.

Seokjin was going to be crowned – and soon.

It was the night after the funeral. Seokjin had barged his way into Namjoon’s quarters – a forgotten childhood bedroom. Everything had been left where Namjoon had place it. His dragon stuffed animal sat on the window’s ledge, looking out.

At least it has been, before Seokjin had picked it up and fiddled with it. Squeezing it, tossing it between his large palms, hugging it.

“I can’t do this, Joonie,” Seokjin hyperventilated.

“What are you talking about, hyung?” Namjoon tried to understand.

“The crown,” he blurted out. “The ceremonies. The ruling. The laws. The court. I’m not—I can’t. I’m not – built for this.”

Seokjin was trembling; his fingers digging into the stuffed animal harshly. His lips were bitten red, bleeding.

“You’ve grown up learning for this,” Namjoon countered, disbelievingly. “Its your-“

“I don’t care!” Seokjin cried out. “I—I never wanted the crown. I never—I can’t handle the pressures; Father, before he passed, he knew – he knew. He said if the crown failed in my hands that I’d go to hell. That I’d be cursed to be outcasted. History rewritten. He called me weak – he called me-“ Seokjin was sobbing. Namjoon had never seen his brother cry before.

“I don’t know what to do. You do.”

You know how to rule.

“Help me, Joonie. Please. Please I revoke my crown. I revoke it. I revoke it to you.”

There was a jostling outside your balcony, waking you with a start. A grand wind pounded on the glass panels ferociously, rattling and creaking them violently. Your eyes flashed open and you looked about bewildered.

There had been no wind when you fell asleep. Especially not so violent.

“What is going on?” Your fear made you jump, holding the covers to your form as if that could protect you.

You saw no clouds nor tells of rain or wind last night. But now, it was almost like your window frame was trembling from the force outside.

Standing to look, what you saw nearly made you faint. There, outside your window – perched awkwardly on your stone balcony’s balusters – was a dragon. Larger than you by an incredible amount. Its form wasn’t even at its grandest; you could see its body was curling inwards; its large clawed paws were shifting underneath it as it balanced, almost similar to a cat. Its wings were outstretched wide, the width of them taking up the length of many men. It didn’t look threatening; there was no fire or brimstone. Instead, it almost looked clumsy. It was far too large for the foundation beneath itself. The stonework gave a horrible groan, loud and bellowing from the creature’s weight.

A scream was on your lips, aching to tear out of your throat – but before you could, you saw before your very eyes the dragon begin to tremble and shrink until… there was no dragon there anymore. No, it was just Namjoon.

Namjoon was on your balcony.

Rippling muscles shuddering as he stumbled off of the stone baluster and towards you a wild look in his eyes.

“Y/N,” you could hear him even with your balcony window shut – however, not for long, as you promptly fainted.

He was a dragon.

“Darling,” you could hear a soft croon. “Oh, my sweet girl.”

Your head ached, but you could still recognize that voice anywhere. It was the same voice that had read you countless novels in the field of flowers by the gardens.

“Joon?” you queried in your drowsiness.

Blinking your eyes, you look up to see him, clad in his royal attire – the very attire he had left in – sitting beside you in your quarters.

“I’m so sorry,” he pleaded, rushing to press kisses to your knuckles. His crowned head bowing towards you in regret.

He hadn’t thought about how it could startle you – all he could think was he had to return home. Had to discuss things with you – his only friend, his love, his confidant.

“I—I, did—I had the strangest dream,” you murmur out. “You were a—” Your gaze traveled to the window, now open to where you had seen the creature perched in your dreams. Only to see the shattered stonework. The broken balusters laid messily in front of the gargoyles.

“A dragon,” Namjoon supplied, quietly. Almost bashfully like that morning you met.

Your eyes drifted back to him. His umber eyes were fiery, even if they were glancing away almost boyishly shy.

“What?” you asked quiet. “Namjoon, what?”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing a bit. His head tilted downwards. All the fire of a dragon he had – but its courage he still lacked, he scolded himself.

He lacked when it came to you; selfishly afraid and yearning to protect and shield you away from him.

“I’m a dragon blood. I-I learned about it a few months ago,” he said. “After my illness, I had these abilities. These powers…”

You stared at him; partial awe, partial fear, partial confusion, and partial betrayal painted your features.

Before you slapped at his shoulder, angrily.

“You—” You nearly curse at him, anger peaking.

His hands went to capture yours before you could slap at him again. Firm but not painful, his grasp was one of desperation as his brows crinkled in despair.

“I know; I know. I didn’t tell you. How would you have reacted?” he rambled on. “You would’ve thought me mad; you would’ve left me alone. You would’ve never spoken to me.”

His fear was laid out in a rush– you leaving him.

“I couldn’t bear that.” he whispered ardently.

“So, you lied!” you bitterly exclaimed. Your hands – now curled into childish fists – couldn’t shift in his grasp. He was strong.

“You never asked!” Namjoon countered smiling awkwardly. Your glare shut him up, his mouth opening and closing as his eyes shut. “That doesn’t matter I know. You can be angry later, please. I have news from the kingdom. I need you!”

A Dragon never needed anyone. But he needed her. He always would.

“Seokjin is going to revoke the crown – and I’ll be crowned king.” He said out in a flurry.

Once again, as if a bomb was dropped on you, your mouth dropped open.

“He’s revoking the crown?”

Namjoon nodded, almost excitedly. You could see flames dance in his eyes – had that always happened?

“This is horrible!” you murmured out, fear written in your face.

Nightmares of disasters flickered through your mind. Namjoon and Seokjin being killed in an uprising. Namjoon being prevented taking the throne. Seokjin lying to cause Namjoon’s death. So many worst-case scenarios flickered through your mind. Your mind was an expert at plotting the worse. Even if the dragon you saw was him – it could be a warning. He could be a warning of worse things to come.

“Darling?” Namjoon asked, his voice gentle as he saw your outburst – your fear and disapproval were the opposite of what he predicted.

“Seokjin doesn’t want the crown,” Namjoon reassured, hands leaving your wrists to cup your face. Tilting it his way to watch your mind rush faster and faster. He licked his lips as he saw your mouth shuddered.

“If you do this, Namjoon, the kingdom will be in uproar; they will fight against a shift in power – even if it’s as peaceful as your brother granting you the throne.” You countered. “It’s signing a war declaration.”

He let out a huff of a growl, smoke tumbling from his nose. His impatience bubbled up. He didn’t like being told that he couldn’t do something; he never had.

The smoke shocked you, but somehow not enough to scare you. It was just… new.

“I don’t want a war,” you said looking at him with a look he hadn’t seen before. Desperation and yearning. Longing. It was complex and somber and… soulful. He felt like he saw your soul for a moment. And it was scared for him. You didn’t want him harmed or put into harm’s way in any way. “And I don’t want you fighting in it.”

Want. Want. Want.

Namjoon wanted too. He wanted so much over the years. He had wanted his family’s love. He didn’t receive it. He wanted to learn. He was given road block after road block. He wanted you, all of you. And he forbade himself.

He wanted the throne. He wanted what he deserved. He wanted respect. Your breath left in a soft huff of a sigh. You pushed yourself up to sit higher on your bed, closer in his embrace, his hands sliding to your jaw to accommodate.

“I don’t want you getting hurt, Joonie.”

His fiery gaze eased a bit at your words. You were precious. Kind-hearted, gentle. His only true friend. His. And as a dragon blood, he was greedy. You were a treasure he didn’t know he hoarded. Until now.

“I don’t fear anything anymore. At least nothing like that.” he commented softly. “Not after the change.” He shifted from the floor to your bed, his tall form towered over you, but you didn’t feel discomfort as he embraced you. His thumb caressed over the soft supple skin of your cheeks, lovingly. “Why should a monster fear anything he can devour?”

You think if someone else had said those words a shiver would go down your spine. But it was Kim Namjoon. The very Namjoon who you’ve known for so many years. Namjoon – the prince who didn’t tattle on you – a servant girl – when you were avoiding work. Namjoon – who learned botany because you said you loved the wild indigos you found on the path between the castle and your homestead. Namjoon – who would sit beside you and point at the words you couldn’t decipher from old folklore scripts and ramble on and on about the history of them. Namjoon – the man who would grab your hand and sneak down to the river’s shores to skip stones with you. Namjoon - who had pressed soft kisses to your forehead when you fell asleep beside him in the grand library. Namjoon – who gently took your hand in between his as he confessed how much you meant to him beside the hearth of the fireplace.

Namjoon – the son of the Dragon, the inheritor of the flame – the rightful heir of the kingdom as a dragon blood.

It felt like two separate people – but even now, when his hand slid to your jaw – you could see both sides of him. The powerful being and the gentle giant. He would fight to protect you. And you knew deep down you would fight to protect him.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured lowly. “Of me, of a war.” He clarified. “What I am now – what awoke within me - is bulletproof, darling; I will not fail us. I will protect you and my kingdom.” And with that, he leant down, cupping your cheeks, and kissed your lips for the first time.

You swore you could taste fire-smoke and ash on his lips.

#namjoon x reader #kim namjoon x reader #bts x reader #bts fantasy au #bts fanfiction #namjoon fanfic #namjoon x you #bts x you #bts fanfic #namjoon scenario #namjoon reaction #namjoon angst #bts dragon au #dragon namjoon #written by Haley

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crosshatchedaces · 2 years ago

Text

My scrunkle (Fracturing Time Mikey) may have lost in the @rottmntpeepawpolls but he still loves his boys, even if Leo likes driving him up the wall.

I don't have a comic for ya since he lost, but I've got this and some random FT! facts below if you're interested in my ramblings

• I was originally actually going to do a F!Leo back in time fic! I had some ideas on what to do, it was going to take place during the movie, but the ending I had in mind was kinda sad tbh so I didn't go with it (though I do have a oneshot with all three going back instead now). Plus, there were already so many beautiful Future Leo fics out there!

• I then realized that there was quite literally only one other one of Future Mikey that I could find at the time (Mystic Hands), so I wanted to explore that idea more and give F!Mikey more love because he deserves it! I thought it would be a fascinating idea to go with too!

• This fic had originally been planned to be 10-15k long and just a short exploration of what could happen. The plot had been pretty different at the time as well, but it quickly got out of hand in word count.

• A part of the former bullet point was because I couldn't really find any Future Mikey fics to read lol so I just kept building upon my own. I also wanted to explore what his interpersonal relationships would be with each of the turtles, so he will be spending more time with Raph, Mikey, and Donnie in future chapters (currently it is at chapter 9 at the date this is posted).

• I love the idea that the movie parallels how Donnie and Raph died in the future, hence Donnie's death protecting Mikey in the fic.

• I have around 12 more chapters written out so far (just not checked over).

• I've tried to make most things that happen in the fic have some sort of connection with future chapters in some way, even some subtle, seemingly insignificant moments.

• I went out of my comfort zone with this fic. I wanted to do something bolder, something more plot heavy and what I wouldn't normally do, because I love reading fics like that. I often feel that I fall back on writing domestic aus, even though I'm not as interested in reading them, it's just what I was comfortable with.

• If I could go back, I would probably condense some of the beginning and make it pov alternating (but! I have snuck some moments in there, one of which is very soon).

• This fic is on a mini hiatus for a few weeks. I am neck deep in projects at the moment and work a full time job. I need to focus on those first before I can continue it, but I should hopefully have another chapter up in the foreseeable future.

And that's what I can think of for now! I'm not sure which person(s?) nominated FT!Mikey to be in the peepaw polls, but I want to thank you, it means a lot to me that you consider him to be up there with the other peepaws! He barely made it in there (32nd entry) lol but he's there!! I'm so glad there's fans out there that genuinely enjoy the story, and everyday I wish to continue it for all of you, you all keep me so inspired!!

I hope you all have a wonderful day, stay safe and cozy out there, everyone!

#okay this is my last peepaw poll related post imma keep quiet now lol #it was fun to be a part of it all!#rottmnt #tmnt #tmnt 2018 #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt movie #rottmnt mikey #future mikey #future michelangelo #rottmnt leo #peepaw polls #fanart #digital art #rottmnt fanart #comic #fracturing time #do NOT tag as ship

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reignpage · 11 days ago

Note

hello

what's your process of writing smau's? like the idea and how do you decide to implement it and everything?

thanks in advance and pookie don't forget to rest

Saw this a while back and finally have time to answer

I've already touched on this in my recent Announcement

Here is my start to finish process:

I have a list in my notes app of story ideas divided by smau and fic

and within smaus, they're further divided by angst/smut/fluff

Many are popular plots like

Clingy? (they call you clingy)

Birthday Girl (forget your birthday)

And the others are things I've just thought of for example:

A New Friend (or more popularly known as 'Keiko')

Tell Your Friends About Me

When it comes to making a smau, I first have to ask myself what kind I wanna make

To make a oneshot, my process is:

Start with Gojo (I always go in order of their appearance, it's just easier to transfer the screenshots from my phone to my laptop and organise them when they're already in order)

Change the contacts (his picture and name)

And text myself my initial thoughts

Most of the time I never plan what I'm going to say, like the plot for each character or the exact wording, it just comes to me naturally. But there are times when I have to trial and error what feels best. Regardless, there's a lot of deleting happening. Which is why I prefer the single page layout because then if I have to start over because of a mistake or typo, I don't have to recreate as many lines. It's less tedious.

To make a series, I like to generally follow a 4 part stage:

Problem

Confrontation

Explanation/Grovelling

Resolution

Which is why I was actually surprised a couple people thought I was excessively making parts, because looking through my masterlist, that just doesn't seem to be the case

Anyways

Each part and each character are like episodes of a telenovela in my head

That's why some people might think the conversations end suddenly and then people have to read back to understand the new part. I never thought that was a bad thing. In fact, it was actually quite intentional. These messages are dramatic like Vampire Diaries or Greys Anatomy and not realistic because realism is boring.

The children yearn for escapism!

Sometimes there's even minor time jumps between parts where reader has avoided the men for a couple days for example. Each character's plot plays out in my head like a show is the best explanation I can provide.

It's the same for the Modern au!smaus

Some people didn't get the Modern au!Nanami ones because they couldn't tell when a text is a pre-relationship text or when a text is during their relationship

First 3 texts are pre and the last half are established relationship texts Some texts are a continuation of a story, others are a snapshot of a moment in their lives

So it might not make sense immediately and that's because it's not supposed to be linear

It's like an episode!

Think of the Modern au!Nanami one titled 'Newton's first law'

First text is a snapshot of their first every conversation From reader's perspective, it's their first time meeting So in the beginning of an episode, it'd be like a flashback Then the episode picks up where we left off from the pre-relationship timeline, when Nanami got fed up because of the drunk party stunt reader pulled, and reader apologises and begs for another chance. The third pre-relationship pic is still following that event in the episode, but is a couple weeks into the future, where reader has kept her promise and been distant, which Nanami picks up on. THEN the three next pictures are in the present time, during their relationship, and we see they're having an issue, they even go on a break. But the episode ends with them reconciling and it all connects back to the first pic (the snapshot of their first conversation) with a reference to a text reader sent nanami

See my vision?

It might not be executed perfectly, but I hope you guys can at least see where I'm coming from.

If you've made it this far, you're a champ

Once I've reached the final character

Either Sukuna (or Shiu) in my 18+ works or Toge

I crop the pictures and I create a post on Tumblr using my laptop

I colour the title using a website

Paste it on the post

Get my template:

Smau: in which they/you..... Warnings: ..... Featuring: Gojo, Geto, Choso, Toji, Nanami, Sukuna/ Yuji, Megumi, Inumaki

I copy and paste the tags from my notes app (I do not type them out one by one anymore it's tedious work) and just edit out the inappropriate tags like if it's not smut, I'll take out every 'jjk character smut' tag etc.

And then transfer the pictures from my phone to my laptop, and then place the pics into Tumblr

I do final checks

Sometimes I forget to crop a picture or I didn't screenshot a character's conversation (I have to take a lap when this happens because that means I have to change out the contact pic and name and scroll up and go through the process ugh)

But if all looks good on my front, then I don't hesitate to click post!

Thanks for reading and hope that was informative!!!

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ariiloveskeanu · 1 year ago

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I just read your Vincent de gramont head canons and I thought they were really wholesome!!! If you have the time (no pressure, lol) could you do a one shot where the reader accidentally walks in on Vincent while working (perhaps while he kills someone) and now he’s gotta console the reader

marquis vincent de gramont oneshot !

warnings: mentions of death, very brief mention of throwing up, mentions of blood, vague mention of nightmares

this is probably so bad so im genuinely sorry in advance :(( i tried using french pet names so if any of them are translated wrong pls let me know! i'm almost 100% sure i'm using the gender neutral versions but i apologize if they're not, though this is completely gender neutral! i've definitely written better than this and i'm sorry if the writing is kinda icky, it's 12 am where i love so im extremely tired :c i'm also very sorry to the ppl who have been requesting, i'm trying to make each one as good as i can without throwing out random words!! i lowk enjoyed writing this so i hope you like it and thank you for requesting!!

[Name] felt as if they owed vincent. They felt as if they owed him for all the kind things he's done for them during their transition back to normal life. They knew how hard he worked for them, how many things he's had to sacrifice to get them where they were. [Name] fixed him his favorites on a platter, taking their time and putting their care into it. [Name] knows he could easily have someone bring stuff to him as he pleases but, they missed him too much to miss the opportunity.

It was hard leaving their old life behind. It does things to you, being so desensitized to hurt and pain. It took them a while to acknowledge that. Years of nightmares plaguing their dreams of a better life are far behind them now. Vincent always made jokes about it, how they went from a cold hearted contract killer to his fiancé in a matter of 4 years. It was beautiful to them.

The sound of slippers pattering against the floor rung throughout the hallway, the only sound [Name] could make out as they approached his office. [Name] took a deep breath, shaking their head to rid themselves of their negative thoughts and the growing pit in their stomach. The feeling was far to familiar to go unnoticed.

One knock, then two, then three, that turned into four. Usually, he would call out and let them in. The silence was deafening and it was the sound of ringing ricocheting off their skull that brought [Name] back to reality. They hissed, feeling the sudden migraine. They balanced the tray in one hand, the other moving to push open the door.

The sound of glasses shattering rang through the large office as the heads of his guardsmen snapped towards the source.

There was blood everywhere. The metallic smell overwhelming their senses and nearly pushing up their breakfast.

"V-Vincent?" [Name]'s voice strained as they looked at the scene in front of them. Multiple bodies with multiple bullet wounds laying dead on the marbled floor, and their dear husband wielding the gun.

What were they supposed to think? It's not like it was anything they weren't used to, but life in the lap of luxury was almost too good of an opportunity for them to ruin by staying in the same old violent habits they had before.

"Now, now, no need to be so dramatic," Vincent said in a gentle yet seemingly dismissive tone, uncanny in comparison to the violent scene that lays in front of him.

It had been so long since they last saw something like this, so long since they last saw him do something like this. [Name] understands it's part of the job, they really do, and they thought they had been okay with that. But seeing the lifelessness in their eyes, the blood on Vincent's hands, and knowing that he had just taken lives was very different than imagining it and forcing themselves to forget about it. It all came rushing back to them, and the years of trauma and guilt they felt just for being a part of this violent lifestyle hit [Name] all at once.

"What did you do?!" [Name] says, their voice hoarse yet lowered as to not push him further. They step further into the room, looking around and letting their glassy eyes fall on the man they loved.

"I didn't mean to cause you any distress. We're just carrying out a business transaction. The client pays, we provide a service." [Name] nods shakily, watching as his bodyguards exited the room to give them privacy.

"I know, Vincent." They say, looking up at him the sound of his thick french accent. [Name] sniffles and wipes the few tears off of their face. [Name] ignored everything past his first sentence, inevitably yearning for his comfort.

They step over the bodies, walking over to him as he stood behind his desk. They wrap their arms around him, their head resting on his chest as he rubbed their back.

As flawed as they both were, [Name] knew that it wasn't worth getting upset over. As much as they tried to bury those memories, as much as they tried to forget that part of their life, [Name] knew it was doing more harm than good to just push it down instead of accepting it and moving on. He taught them that. Through their many breakdowns and slip ups, he would always be there.

"I know you're frightened, seeing me like this. I understand it. Let me assure you, mon chéri, I had no choice but to do what I did. I tried to reason with them, to avoid bloodshed, but they would not listen. Please know, mon amour, I would never hurt you."

[Name] rubbed his back aswell, nodding their head as they took a step back and wrapped their arms around his neck.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, mon cher. I chose to leave that behind, I don't get to make that choice for you." They reassured, feeling slightly guilty for making a 'big deal' over something that seemed so unimportant in their point of view.

"Don't feel guilty, love. You can't help what you feel, can you? It's what makes you, you." Vincent says, his previously cold demeanor softening as he rests his hands on their waist. He leans in to press a warm kiss on their lips. "I wouldn't want you any different, mon amour, truly."

#john wick #john wick x reader #marquis de gramont x reader #vincent de gramont #jw4 #bill skarsgard x reader #bill skarsgard imagine #bill skarsgard fanfiction #bill skarsgård #vincent de gramont x reader

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firefly--bright · 3 months ago

Text

etymology of acting

jean kirstein x reader (modern au)

summary ; the lights are out but you've never been able to see things so clearly. his silhouette isnt just a shape anymore.

warnings ; nothing more than some hurt/comfort as usual

a/n ; i've realised. i like writing oneshots more than i like writing series. so i am very sorry that im not updating my bigger fics i just,,, need more motivation for them.

taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable

masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿ song to listen to while reading! ✿

You’ve never really been sure of what you are.

Maybe who you are would be a better question. How do words come to be? Is it the cultural significance that makes them more important or is it just the fact that theyre the most used? You decide your name holds none of the meaning – be it heavy or light – that all the other words do. Not really significant or most used or said or thought about.

You knew your place in the world well enough to know where your name fit. Moreso, how your name didn’t fit, feeling foreign coming from familiar faces, feeling even further away coming from you. it sounded more like of what you should, of who your parents wanted you to become, hope you’d turn out to be. Something far greater than yourself. At least you knew this – you wouldn’t live up to it.

It takes a while to get used to at first. A way to let people down gradually. Nothing dramatic, nothing noticeable; but when you go through the same pattern as you always have countless times, you start seeing it as such. As something more dramatic, to give yourself more meaning. Youre waiting for the moment to come crashing down on you, waiting for the light to stop being bright an consuming and more of just a flicker. But that would be giving yourself too much importance. Giving yourself too much meaning.

“I mean… I didn’t, haven’t, fought people before,” jean says, “or – wait. Maybe I have.”

You breathe out a laugh. “you don’t remember if you’ve fought people before?”

“I mean, its not…whatever. Maybe I was too small to remember.”

“five year old jean, tearing into people’s jaws. What a rebel.” You say. Its his turn to smile.

The marble tiles of your kitchen floor are cool, your thighs resting on them, back against the glass of your oven. He sits in front of you but you cant see more than his outline. The lights have been out for a concerning amount of time now, and the curiosity of wanting to find out why had long since died down, turning into simple acceptance of this nights fate. His voice is the only thing you can hang off from, even if youre anchored to the ground.

it’s the in-betweeness of this. The space between your bodies, though not far away, knees touching only briefly, is when you realize you’re going to fade away soon. He’s going to find it mundane to look at the same face you had been seeing. The light is going to flicker, and you can feel it. The anticipation of something that will undoubtedly hurt nobody but you, quiet and accepting, and you’ll end up having to face the light again; wait for another light that needs to be snuff out. You’ve never been the greatest in having yourself be enough.

It's a performance at first. Jean had sat next to you and you’d started, lights and all. Smiling soon turned to relentless, comfortable teasing, turned into the second act. The deeper feelings that would be kept with you and only you for the rest of whatever you were living. Act three started just as act two did, gradually, softly, and you could sit in silence without having to find the strength to speak something more important than you into existence. You knew what would happen next. The end act, before the bows, before the close curtains. Your name wouldn’t be credited after this, no, he’d leave the theatre and not look back, forgetting why he spent the evening there. Maybe it was necessity, maybe it was boredom.

Act three, scene four, your voice spoke again after the pause, after catching his voice in your hands. The shared can of the energy drink was getting warm because of jean’s hand, your cold ones doing nothing to help. “I used to pretend I was in, like, a tv show when I was five.” You said. A hook to another unimportant, soon forgotten story, but it was in your script. So you spoke. You couldn’t see his smile, but he hummed lowley, your cue to continue.

“there was this show I used to watch a lot, like, to the point where I memorized almost all of the script.” You say, taking a sip of the drink. The carbon had fizzled out, leaving sugary residue on your lips, coating your tongue. “so when the house was empty in the afternoons, I would play all the parts out myself.” You say. Your words carry more weight now than they ever have and you’d probably have to clean up the mess it would make on the floor in the morning, having the light of the sun to accompany your mistakes. But for now it was okay. Improvising your lines was easier when it was with him. Act three, scene four, you could let your performance waver because you knew it was coming to an end.

“Is that why youre so good at talking to yourself?” he asks, his voice laced with a smirk you can almost feel against your cheek, despite him sitting across you. his hand brushes against yours, warm, calling, and you hand the can to him. You roll your eyes and you know he cant see it because it’s improvised. “im an amazing self-talker. Give me some credit.”

“alright. You’ve won my oscar.” He says. You snort. “your oscar?” “for your groundbreaking performance.” He says. Another sip.

You breathe in the way his words shape you. you don’t know which row of the audience he’s sitting in, but it feels awfully close, enough for him to catch you breaking character. Amazing performance, he said, not knowing what he meant, but you took meaning in his comment anyway, just as you did with everything else given to you. all words had their meanings, whether good or bad, cultural or just because of their uses. Everything had meaning and he was calling it an amazing performance. Your laugh makes no noise – youre breaking character.

“I was shit scared of the dark when I was five, too.” He says. The can is still with him, and you tilt your head. “you were a very accomplished five year old.” He scoffs, you continue, “starting fights and being afraid of the dar-“ “as if. I won those fights.” “is that why you forgot they even happened?” “maybe, yeah, what about it?” you laugh, breaking character. He grumbles, “whatever. I was brave.” His chest puffs up in faux confidence.

“right, what were you saying?” you ask. He clears his throat. “I was just gonna say I don’t mind being in the dark now.” “that’s deep.” “can you be serious for, like, two seconds-“ “you know me better than to ask me for that.” “right. I like nights now because of you. That’s all. Make fun of me.” But then you don’t say anything. Breaking character. Being on a thin ledge so he could see you and being pushed back, making you lose balance, suck in a breath.

Act… three, was it? Scene five. You don’t know what to say. He continues where you don’t. “like, I mean – okay, I like working with you at night, and I like staying up with you. it… im not scared of the dark anymore because of you. don’t look too much into it, it’s whatever, don’t. don’t make this weird.” He says, effectively making it weird, but you don’t mind. Youre on the stage, pleasantly confused because jean is in the audience with a smile and not with indifference.

youre on the stage and he’s telling you its okay to not be on one, to break character, to join him in the dark of the seats and leave the bright, overhead spotlight that makes you squint against it’s pressure.

The distant wailing of an ambulance sirens plays somewhere in the distance, the honk of cars, the shout of a crow that was somehow awake, the rustling of leaves. And with everything – all of the things outside of the theatre in your head, making you less important, was jean. There was barely any identifier to know he was in front of you except for his silhouette and his voice that had gone quiet. His thumb played an invisible beat on the can.

“when… when I was five,” you started, finally, not knowing what was coming out of your mouth, not following a script. Act three? Which scene was this? Jean was infront of you. you didn’t know how, but your voice held importance. “I was alone a lot. I used to be scared of ghosts. Especially at night. But since I was alone I decided that I had to fill the space up with games. With plays. Talking to myself.” Because that was the only thing that made you important – tied to the ground - but then jean’s hand in on your knee, warm. An anchor. The curtains are closing. “and now I have someone to listen to me. Im not one of the ghosts in my house.”

If jean’s eyes were the only pair that were ever to witness you, you’d let that be. You’d be important in the darkness of your house and not under the all-consuming, weighted spotlights on top of you, shining against your every move, making it more important, but then the lights turn on, all of them at once, making you witness how you’ve made him.

His cheeks are red, warm, the tip of his nose in the same shade, his hair now lit up by the overhead shine, creating an almost gold halo on the crown of his head, a little frizzy and messy from raking his hand through them so many times. but really, its his eyes that make you break the character you were trying so hard to keep, because it didn’t make sense that he was looking at you the same way in the dark, going unnoticed, his gaze soft and now highlighted with a small white dot around his pupil, browns swimming, tethered to your figure. He was looking at you without your performance, without the proof of light to guide him.

Breaking character. Remembering there was a character to break but not caring about it, not in this moment, not when the spotlight has shut down, no-body controlling your lines except for yourself and the air in your apartment, still and full of life, unsaid confessions.

He clears his throat, shifting behind, looking up to the light, realising that there was brightness apart from you. “well.” He says. What else is there to say?

“well.” You echo, but neither of you get up from your seats. There was secrecy in the dark, but now that everything is in front of you, youre a little more afraid. “it’s… lat-“ “you wanna watch a movie?” he asks, interrupting your invitation for him to go back home and away from you despite wanting nothing more than to stay by his side. You smile, unabashedly, cheeks stretching. “yeah.”

“not-“ “ten things I hate about you-“ “no. not that.” He says with a roll of his eyes. He doesn’t get up. His hand is still on your knee. “come on, you liked that movie!” “yeah, for the first two watches. We’ve seen that like, a thousand times now.” “not a thousand. Twenty, maybe.” “close enough.” “which movie, then?” you ask, jean shrugs. He hadn’t thought this far into the moment, and really, he doesn’t mind watching the same movie again as long as you were next to him, letting him sit too close to you, letting your shoulders relax, letting your thoughts ease. He liked you like this, not dancing around yourself, not trying to do something spectacular. You already were.

But he cant say it. So instead he says your name. with purpose, with meaning and weight that anchors you to the ground and brings you back into your body. “youre…not a ghost.” He attempts at something bigger than what he means to say. He doesn’t know how you do it. But you look at him like you know exactly what he means. Words have meaning, culturally or just because they’ve been too much, and you look like you understand them more than anyone else. Reading in between the lines, each letter having its shape and sound being heard even if its quiet.

“thanks to you.” you say. His thumb traces a circle into your skin. Unscripted.

“speaking of ghosts-“ you start, making jean groan. “do not-“ “we should watch conjuri-“ “I will kill myself.” “that’s also what one of the ghosts does to herself.” “jesus fuck.” “come on, its so bad and cliché.” “i… fine.” He concedes.

Your smile is brighter than the lights. It comes naturally to you, the script lies forgotten and you join him in the audience, sitting close.

#jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirschstein x reader #shingeki no kyojin #jean kirstein x you #aot #jean kirschtein #attack on titan

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startrekfangirl2233-writes · 10 months ago

Text

He Fell First (She Fell Harder)

A You Play Stupid Games, You Win Stupid Prizes (I'm Not a Game You Want to Lose) Oneshot

Past!Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader, Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader

Description: The Five times Bitsie couldn't keep her eyes (and thoughts) off Jake and the One time Jake couldn't keep his eyes off Bitsie.

Disclaimer: Female!Reader

Warnings: This fic encompasses the entire timeline of the events happening in You Play Stupid Games, You Win Stupid Prizes. As such, there are mentions of cheating, some cursing, sex, sexual themes, as well as a look into Bitsie's mental state during the rough non-consensual sex mentioned in Love Has No Limits, Part Two of the main story.

The content presented in this story is for audiences age 18 and over only. MINORS DNI. I will not be accepting taglist requests from Blank or Ageless Blogs for this story. I do my best to portray adult relationships in this fic. Please do not interact with this story if you feel you are not ready to read about these themes.

Word Count: 7202

A/N: Hi All! So remember when I mentioned I wasn't ready to let Jake and Bitsie go when I ended the main series? Here we are! I'm so happy to share this new installment in their story with you all! It's also my first time writing a 5 plus 1 style fic, so I hope you all love it.

A lot of this story will not make sense if you've not read the main part of the series linked below.

Thanks to @horseshoegirl and @desert-fern for reading over this oneshot as I was trying to figure out how to write a 5 plus 1 style fic!

AO3: Cross-posted here!

Wattpad: Cross-posted here!

My Masterlist

Series Masterlist

1. Before Bradley Bradshaw

You're not sure why the blond on the other side of the aisle at the Commissary is staring at you. He's beautiful. You know that for a fact because you have eyes, and you're a little weak at the knees at the sight of how he fills out his khaki uniform. He’s probably only staring because you're a mess, with your hair in a messy bun, standing in the commissary wearing a ratty, holey T-shirt and ripped-stained jeans. Moving sucks. It feels like your spine is just stretching out again after hours in the car. Honestly, you’re not sure why you decided to have all your things shipped to Lemoore instead of directly to North Island. Three trips in your car later, and you’ve got everything you need with you, but you now have an avalanche of boxes waiting in your living room to unpack.

Your entire life in boxes is another reason you’d retreated to the commissary. It’s already 6 in the evening, and you want nothing more than to eat something and flop onto the sofa for the night. You’re hoping, at the very least, to pick up a few important groceries, such as milk, bread, eggs, and cheese, to tide you over until you can run to Whole Foods or Wegmans off base. It’s as you’re debating what type of cereal you should buy that the blond first catches your attention. It’s a Wednesday, and there are a surprisingly large number of khaki-clad navy personnel walking up and down the aisles collecting items they need. You’re probably one of the few in casual clothing, but that doesn’t warrant his staring.

It takes far too much effort to turn your attention back to the two cereal boxes in your hands. You can still feel the prickle of his gaze against the back of your neck.

“Y’know, if you’re deciding between Honey Bunches of Oats and Frosted Mini Wheats, I have to tell you that you’re probably thinking too hard.”

You startle, fumbling with the boxes, and stumble back into a broad, firm chest. His laughter is warm and musical as he steadies you with big, warm hands.

“I’m sorry.” You’re flushed and hoping that you’re not as sweaty and disgusting as you feel with this Adonis of a man so close to you.

“I startled you, huh?” His grin is crooked and wicked, making you grin sheepishly.

“Yeah, you kind of did.” You turn and gesture at the cereal boxes. “So, what makes you think you know the best cereal?”

“Well, I've been eating it my whole life, you know?” His eyes seem to twinkle as he responds.

“So have I. I happen to like Honey Bunches of Oats, you know?”

“All that tells me, gorgeous, is that you haven't put something truly delicious in that pretty little mouth before today.”

You squeak a little because you're not sure you've ever been so close to a man before.

“So, I would suggest Cinnamon Toast Crunch. It's sweet and spicy, just like you are.”

You can feel yourself flush, even as he reaches past you, pulls the correct cereal box from the shelf, and places it in your cart.

“See you around, beautiful. I hope you enjoy your time on North Island.”

You’re a flustered mess as you checkout at the counter several moments later. You think about this flirty stranger as you unpack your house and put everything away for the rest of the week and most of the weekend. A part of you isn’t sure how to handle such casual flirting. Could that stranger have been serious? Did he actually want to see you around North Island? Or was that just something he was saying to be kind?

2. Befriending the Daggers

As silly as it seems, you feel like you can taste cinnamon sugar on your tongue when you and your team are introduced to the Dagger Squad in one of the hangars at North Island.

The reason why is simple. The blond who had been haunting your thoughts all weekend is standing at attention in the front row. His cocky smirk makes your knees weak, and you’re sure that his eyes on you make you stutter as you introduce yourself. Throughout that first briefing, you can feel his gaze track across your form as you take notes in your spiky hand. You think you see him smirk when your hand cramps, and you need to shake your fingers out. Still, it catches your attention in a fleeting moment, not keeping it for longer than a few seconds before the briefing grabs you again.

What follows is a day full of briefings, the problem with the laser targeting system setting your mind ticking into overdrive. Looking at the faces of the others on your team, you can see hints of the same curiosity and the same drive to solve this problem. Of course, it would be asking a bit much to be able to view the plane telemetry data and hardware logs and hear the comms recordings so soon after your introduction to the team. Something tells you you’ll have to wait for that.

“So, you’re joining us for drinks, right?” It’s one of the female lieutenants, Trace, you think her name is, who invites you out. “We go to this little place on the beach called The Hard Deck. Penny’s amazing!”

“You should join us, Bitsie!” His voice sounds just as good in the hangar as at the commissary, if a bit less worn and tired. The nickname is new, but coupled with the grin he’s leveling in your direction, you’re willing to accept it. You smile sweetly at the blond as he walks up behind Lieutenant Trace.

“I’m Jake, Jake Seresin. How’d you like the Cinnamon Toast Crunch?”

Before you can respond, though, Trace muscles her way back into the conversation. “Stop making her feel awkward, Bagman.”

You smile gently over her shoulder at Jake as Natasha walks you away, talking a mile a minute. The Hard Deck is a surprisingly homey place. It’s warm and brightly lit, smelling of lemon polish and faintly of yeasty beer. It bothers you a little bit how Natasha doesn’t seem to want to let you go. Jake’s been waiting, sweetly, this whole time. You want to thank him for his cereal recommendations. But she’s introducing you to the others, and you're actually having fun.

Before long, you find yourself in a circle of women, and you’re surprised by how nice it feels. Mara, you've known and worked with for years, but you've never been close. Callie and Natasha are like two sides of the same coin. Both of them are whip-smart and take no shit. They’re the perfect counterparts to you and Mara.

Looking back, you've never really had many female friends. Most of your colleagues are males, males who don't want anything to do with you outside of seeing you every day and inevitably getting shown up by you. So it’s nice standing at one of the bar’s high-top tables while getting to know your new colleagues and hopefully your new friends.

You’re laughing and smiling, vacantly swaying to the song's beat pouring out of the jukebox when the song cuts out. You startle, then hum as you hear the plunking of keys from the piano on the other side of the bar. When you’d walked in, talking to Natasha, you’d thought the piano was just an ornament, something defunct and unplayable. The tune leaves the wooden instrument echoing with age.

Natasha crows with glee at the sound; all the Daggers roused into a festive mood in moments. “C’mon, you two! You’re in for a real treat tonight!”

The raspy voice that starts singing melds beautifully with the old instrument, lustily belting the words of an old song into the air. It seems to be a normal occurrence. As Natasha dances and pulls you into the fray surrounding the piano, you feel relaxed enough to dance along awkwardly in her wake. The other Daggers are arrayed in a half-moon around the back of the piano, facing a man with auburn curls wearing a cheerful printed shirt. You recognize him as one of the Daggers you haven’t been introduced to yet. He’s feeling the jazzy beat of the song as his fingers dance across the yellowed ivory keys.

When he peers over the rims of his RayBans, his eyes meet yours. In that instance, the world stops because his smile takes your breath away. You’ve never felt this seen, this beautiful. His eyes sparkle, the color of the whiskey in the glass atop the glossy wood of the piano. You’ve never heard this song before, but damn, if you don’t want to learn the lyrics via osmosis just to see him smile at you for singing along. You’re not sure when the song ends, or even that it does, notes echoing in the suddenly quiet expanse of your mind. You swallow when he stands up from the bench and downs the watered-down whiskey, tracking a droplet of the amber liquid as it drips down his neck. You have to remind yourself to be cool, to avoid glancing at his mouth as he swaggers up to you.

“Hi,” His voice is like woodsmoke, dark and gorgeous as it drips into your ears. “I’m Bradley Bradshaw, but you can call me Rooster. I’m one of the Daggers, but if I’d met you before now, I’m not sure I would forget.”

“Bradley…. Bradshaw?” You’re not sure when Natasha, Callie, and Mara moved away, but when you look, you’re all alone in the corner of the bar with just Bradley Bradshaw for company.

“It’s a family name.” He drags one of his big hands through glistening curls, his bicep bunching alluringly in the frankly silly shirt he’s wearing. “My dad wanted the alliteration. My mom loved him too much to say no. So here I am.”

“It sounds like you love them a lot.”

His smile falters at your earnest words, a frown dipping his lips down for a few seconds before the smirk rises back into place. “Yeah, I did.”

Your mind churns, because you feel like you’ve pressed unwittingly onto a still un-healed old wound. You feel like you should apologize, like you have to apologize, but he doesn’t let you. The play of emotions on his face is lightning-fast. Before you can think, he’s already leading you to the next conversation topic: you.

“But that’s enough about me. Tell me about you.”

You flush and let your life story, a highly edited version, drip off your tongue. You’ve never felt like this before. You feel seen and inexplicably gorgeous, faced with a six-foot-tall man whose eyes seem to see right through you. He makes you feel giddy.

“What’re you doing tucked away in this corner with Bradshaw, Bitsie?” Jake’s voice makes you smile in a completely different way than when Bradley was making you giggle earlier.

“We were just chatting, Jake.”

“Yeah, Bagman.” It surprises you to see the nearly cruel look on Bradley’s kind-looking face. “We were just chatting. Piss off.”

Jake lifts his hands as he backs away, though you don’t miss how he mouths, “Later, pretty girl” to you over Bradley’s shoulder. You don’t miss the frown creasing on his handsome face, either.

“Does he call you Bitsie often?” Bradley sounds surprisingly concerned as he curls one of his big hands around your waist.

“He just started today.”

Bradley’s face makes you bite your lips. “I’m pretty sure he’s just teasing me, Bradley. It’s okay.”

“No, no, it’s not.” You can hear the rumble of his voice in your chest as he leans closer. “Sweetheart, he’s making fun of you. He doesn’t take you or your job seriously. He took your cute, little introductory speech and turned it into a mockery!”

“He isn’t making fun of me, Bradley.”

“Yeah, he is, sweetheart.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ears. “Bagman makes fun of everyone and everything. He doesn’t know how to give a compliment seriously if he tries.”

“He’s just going to hurt you, gorgeous.”

“No, he’s not.” You scoff.

“Turn around, sweetheart.”

You turn as bidden, expecting to see Jake looking at you with that same sweet look on his face. Instead, what you see is Jake smirking down at a gorgeous willowy blonde with big boobs and sweet, dainty features.

You, in your frumpy little business casual pants set, look terrible in comparison. When his eyes rise to meet yours, the smile falls a little, but it grows into something smarmy and ingenuine as his eyes meet the man standing behind your shoulder.

“See, sweetheart? The man flirts just to flirt. That’s all he means when he calls you Bitsie. He’ll flirt and then go home with someone else. You’re not his type. But luckily, you’re mine.”

His words make you smile, and you devote the brunt of your attention to Bradley Bradshaw again. You can feel the itch of eyes on you all night long. But when you sneak furtive glances over your shoulders at where Jake is standing with that blonde bimbo draped all over him, his attention always seems to be on her. But you can still feel the itch of his gaze in between your shoulders.

3. Dating Bradley Bradshaw

After that first night, you keep a close eye on the Daggers, especially how they interact with each other. Jake Seresin always seems to be on the outskirts of the group. Only Coyote goes out of his way to include Jake. Even when he is a central part of the conversation, Hangman seems to prefer biting commands and witty repartee, which doesn’t endear him to his squadron. You hear them all, though, noting the jokes that are so sly and cerebral that they pass the others by. You notice his concern, the tightly wound worry in every muscle as he tries his best to ensure everyone comes back home safe and sound, even in the midst of training.

Something about his attitude still bothers you, though. Or maybe it’s how he always insists on calling you Bitsie instead of your name. He can’t seem to bring himself to give you any respect, either, and it’s starting to piss you off. If you didn’t know differently, you’d assume Jake Seresin didn’t believe you belonged here, working on this team and completing vital work for the Pentagon and the US Navy. So, you dread walking into the pilot’s ready room on base for coffee. You’ve been dragging all day, and you have it on good authority that the pilot’s ready room has the best coffee on base.

Well, your thermos from home is empty, and you could use the pick-me-up, so you head over there, hoping you can avoid Jake Seresin. All you want is a decent cup of coffee before you’re back to staring at flight diagnostics until your eyes bleed.

The ready room is quiet, barring the ever-present roaring hum of jet engines in flight, and to your satisfaction, there is a pot of coffee waiting for you. You sniff at its contents, a little disappointed because there’s only enough for half a mug once you’ve assured yourself of its relative freshness. You make your mug happily, doctoring it to your satisfaction and taking the time to look around. Bradley and Nat have told you about the days they've spent here between hops while training for the Uranium Mission. The walls are covered in pictures, and you take the time to examine them as you sip your coffee.

When the radio flickers on with an echoey buzz as it connects to the comms of the jets in flight, you startle and whirl around.

“If you’re looking for the Chicken, he’s up in the air.” You have to fight to keep your dismay from showing on your face. You must be at least a little unsuccessful since there is an imperceptible smirk growing on Hangman’s face as he looks at you from one of the sofas. “At least you’ve found the coffee.”

“It’s the best coffee on base, after all.”

You refill your mug and try your best to ignore Hangman. But when you go to take another sip, you’re met with only the dregs at the bottom of your mug. There’s silence between you as you scramble into the cupboards, looking for the fresh coffee. When you measure the beans into the grinder and fire the grinder up, you deliberately avoid looking for the aviator lying supine on the sofa. You find a modicum of your composure as you measure the grinds into a new filter and fill the carafe of the coffee maker with fresh water. You hit the buttons decisively and hum appreciatively as the scent of fresh bitter coffee wafts from the pot. From the radio set, you can hear Phoenix and Bob on the comms, mostly Bob, as he clues his pilot onto unseen perils in the sky. On occasion, you can hear Phoenix’s measured tone and Bradley’s rough rasp, too.

“So, Bitsie, how do you take your coffee?”

You startle, sending crystals of sugar skittering across the countertop as Hangman’s voice gets even closer to you than it was before. You’re always impatiently waiting for the coffee to brew, so you always add the creamer and sugar to the bottom of your mug before pouring in the coffee. Hangman chuckles when he sees the sugar dripping lazily out of the torn open packet in a glittering stream.

“Sugar, huh?” He pushes you away and begins to wipe the sticky substance away but stops once he sees the bottom of your mug. “Fuck, Bitsie, do you pour any coffee into your mug at all?”

“Oh, trust me,” you snap, on the defensive at the sound of his voice so close to you, “I desperately need the caffeine to put up with you, after all.”

Something about the joking look on his face fades away at your tone, though the smile doesn’t.

“I drink my coffee black, you know?” He chuckles, leaning against the counter as he holds your mug hostage on the other side of him. “I like my coffee hot and full-bodied, a little bitter, but oh, so smooth on my tongue.”

He takes two measured steps into your space. With how close he is, you’re inundated with the scent of his cologne and the bitter tang of jet fuel. “Coincidentally, I like my women like that too.”

“And how do they like you?” One of his eyebrows rises at your statement. “Your women, Bagman. How do they like you?”

“Oh, honey.” He grins as he fills the mug up and turns around. “I promise they don’t have any complaints.”

He sips insolently out of your mug, tongue lapping at the traces of coffee left on the spoon he used to stir the steaming beverage before handing the mug filled with hot liquid back to you. Your mind stutters as Jake Seresin stares you down like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen. “Your coffee isn’t half bad either, Bitsie.” You can feel the warmth of his touch where his fingers brush against yours. “A little sweet, but it figures when the drinker is as sweet as you are.”

When you sip from the mug with your face on fire, it tastes even better than when you make it for yourself. You slip out of the room when a crackle of feedback attracts Jake’s attention. It doesn’t occur to you until you’re sitting in your chair and staring at the after-action reports of the Uranium Mission that you’re placing your mouth exactly where his was in an indirect kiss.

For the rest of the afternoon, you find your mind tracking to green eyes and a sweet smile bared genuinely in your direction. Your brain feels like a stuck record, trapped futilely in the crosshairs of his gaze from when he’d been teasing you about your coffee preferences.

Worse than the bonfire lighting up in your stomach, there’s the guilt swarming in your belly after what happened. What happened with Jake in the ready room could classify as cheating, right? You’re not exactly sure because you’re not the most experienced. You also don’t want to tell Bradley because what if you have been unfaithful to him? You can’t confide in Natasha either, because she’s Bradley’s best friend.

Suddenly, your coffee goes from tasting like god’s ichor to tasting like ash on your tongue. Fucking Jake Seresin. Why did he have to go out of his way to make your life miserable?

4. A North Island Night Out

The more time you spent around Bradley Bradshaw, the more it felt like you could fall in love. Bradley’s sweet and kind, and he never once makes you feel bad about your career choice. Sometimes, in those long afternoons stuffed inside a hangar with ceiling fans barely pushing at stagnant air, you wish you could say the same about Jake Seresin. The worst part is how he has reasons to be as cocky and arrogant as he is. He flies his jet like a man possessed, or maybe like a man with nothing to lose. Some of you can’t help but wonder what you would have faced if you'd been going out with Jake instead of Bradley. You're not sure you would have been enough to change his ways.

Bradley, on the other hand? He's like your knight in shining armor. He never minds your rambling or how you babble when you get sucked into a conversation. In fact, you'd argue that Bradley Bradshaw is the first person who has ever taken you seriously. He makes you feel superhuman, like there is never any problem you can't solve. His smile still has butterflies taking flight in thick, cloying swarms in your stomach. He makes you laugh, and god when he kisses you? You feel radiant, like one word will have you taking off faster than an F-18.

A part of you can’t believe him, even now. He hadn't laughed when you'd told him how inexperienced you were, in truth, what you wanted him to give you for your first time.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” He'd groaned into your ear, “Just let me make you feel good, on your terms, as fast or slow as you want me to be.”

You know what he's offering. As fast or slow as you want me to be is his way of telling you to take your time. But you're sure you will explode if you have to make out with Bradley Bradshaw again while rubbing a wet patch into the thigh of his jeans, while his fingers massage over your nipples and his tongue tangles languidly with yours.

You’ve had sex with him before, the sweet, gentle missionary kind. In fact, you’d argue that it was the perfect way to lose your virginity. But you can’t help but wonder if there isn’t more to sex with a man you love than a few slow moments in bed. You’re not even sure you orgasmed that night, or at least, it never felt like how you’ve made yourself climax. But ever since then, he’s kept you at arm's length. Sex was supposed to be the last step before all of the walls came down between the two of you. Maybe you can finally get Bradley to give you what you want, then? If only this date weren’t starting at The Hard Deck, though if you think back, most of yours do. It’s not like the Hard Deck isn’t a nice bar - it is. But The Hard Deck isn’t the most romantic of venues.

When you drive up to the Hard Deck in your little car at promptly six in the evening, you’re dressed to the nines, wearing a cute little sundress with a flared skirt and fitted bodice. It pushes your tits up and is nearly completely backless. You’re not wearing much under the dress, just a little lace-edged thong and strappy heels elevating you a few inches. Stepping through the door, it seems like the entire bar falls silent. For several long moments, all you can hear is the tapping of your heels against the floor. People seem to float out of your way as you greet Penny, grabbing your drink from her, a soda in a glass bottle dripping condensation, and walk towards the pool tables in the back of the bar.

Heads turn as you walk past, and you can feel a smug smile curl your lips. On any other night, the arrangement of the Daggers around the pool table would have been normal. You’d be joining them by now, taking your place next to Bradley to hang besottedly on his every word. You’d be the only one not in uniform.

Tonight, there isn’t a uniform in sight. Tonight, you’re dressed to impress. But you’re not dressed to impress the other Daggers, only Bradley. You hope your sexy little dress will be enough to have the romantic moment you’ve been longing for, finally. All your boyfriend needs to do is turn around and see you.

Nat and Bob confer in hushed tones as Bradley racks up against the pool table with the cue in his hand. He’s wearing those jeans that you adore, the pair that fits like a glove and with fabric so worn that it’s soft against your hands. Hangman and Coyote are on the other side of the pool table, identical frowns on their faces as they strategize over the configuration of the balls on the worn felt emblazoned with jets.

But it’s Hangman who sees you first with a clattering of his cue as it impacts the floor. His eyes bug out, mouth parting as his eyes rake over you from head to toe. His reaction causes silence to ripple outwards with him at its epicenter. Dagger after Dagger pauses to stare at you. It’s a gratifying feeling. Nat and Callie wink at you, and Nat carefully prods a pink-cheeked Bob into resuming their conversation. The only person arrayed around the pool tables who doesn’t seem to know you’re there is the man you dressed up for. Jake is nearly mute as you clack forward, sipping on your drink greedily because something about his gaze has you feeling hot and flushed. The only time he backs off is when Bradley seems to realize you’re right there.

“Fuck, baby.” Your boyfriend groans in your ears. His voice makes your skin flare hot, and a desperate ache starts between your legs. “Look at you all pretty and gorgeous for me. Let me finish this last round, and then I’m all yours.”

One round turns to two, and then three, and before long, you’re left all alone in a corner of the bar while the Daggers, including Bradley, party like you don’t exist. All of that effort to make it a romantic night, and you’re sitting here like you don’t exist. If you have to watch another badge bunny drape herself all over your boyfriend, you are going to scream or do something drastic. Maybe making out with Jake will get his attention.

“It’s a shame, you know?” You nearly topple off of your stool at the words emanating from next to you. “You look so pretty, Bitsie, and Bradshaw can’t even open his eyes to see his girl waiting for him.”

Hangman sounds so sure of you, so sure that you’re better than Bradley Bradshaw deserves.

“He just wanted to grab another drink.”

“That was three hours ago, Bits.” When Jake chuckles, you can feel your hackles raise. “Didn’t you have dinner reservations or something like that?”

Before you can respond, because yeah, you did, Bradley’s standing there.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Bagman?” Bradley is slurring his words, listing from side to side as he stares the other man down.

“She’s mine, Bagman. Don’t you forget it!”

“If she’s yours, why are you ignoring her and walking around with badge bunnies draped all over ya?”

You can tell by how red Bradley’s face gets that he is one more word from launching himself at Jake. You’re unsure what prompts you to step in, but you do, sliding your hand up to the sweaty curls at the base of your boyfriend’s neck and whispering into his ear. You breathe your need, your want for him, into his ears. You have to ignore the scent of alcohol and sweat wafting sour from his skin, but you succeed in grabbing his attention.

But a part of you wishes your seductive ploy hadn’t.

You got your wish; your need to have sex with your boyfriend granted. But it’s not anything like you expected it to be. Bradley left bruises on your skin and bruises on your heart. He’d been rough with his touch and his words. But more than that, you can’t help but wonder if this would have happened with Jake. If he’d make you feel better than Bradley ever could. Isn’t sex supposed to feel good?

Faced with Bradley’s fumbling, you’d been anything but wet between your legs. You’d only started to get there when you thought, selfishly, of Jake. There was no foreplay, no making sure you’re alright. No kissing, no touching. There were no hallmarks of any of the care and gentleness Bradley usually treats you with. The whole experience has you feeling worse than you did in the car as he called you a slut for talking to a colleague and friend. Slut. It’s a word he’d used often with you in bed that night, too. A word that makes you feel guilty, dirty, and disgusting all at once.

What does it say about you that you had to think of a colleague and friend to get wet instead of your boyfriend?

Whether you realize it or not, that’s the first crack in the shaky, perhaps already crumbling, foundations of your relationship with Bradley Bradshaw.

5. After Bradley Bradshaw

You have work to do; you know you do. But it’s been under a day since you told Jake Seresin how your relationship with Bradley Bradshaw imploded easier than if it had been bombed. Realizing Nat had known, known what he did and condoned the betrayal, his cheating, is another stab to the back that you weren’t expecting. You can't believe how Bradley could harbor less remorse and guilt over having sex with Britney than you did over some harmless, practically meaningless flirting.

What happened to ‘sisters before misters’ and all sentiments to that effect? You’re thankful, truly thankful, that Jake didn’t know and that Mickey and Mara were unaware as well. Being so far away from North Island has given you a sense of clarity you never thought you were missing.

You’d be lying if you said Jake Seresin doesn’t have something to do with your newfound clarity, too.

One night, a bushel-load of tears and an unburdening of your heart, and he’s already raised himself in your esteems. It’s in how he’d listened to you, which has your thoughts spinning. Back when your relationship with Bradley was still rock solid, you'd thought Bradley was the only man who could make you feel like the most important person in the world. But you didn't realize how often Bradley’s eyes would glaze over when you got excited. You’re not sure you’ve ever been able actually to talk to your ex.

Jake let you cry, cry like you’d lost your reason for living. He’d held you while your suppressed grief had unleashed. He’d heard you spill your heart out to him and release all of your pain into the squalling storm winds. Then there was the rage in his face, in his voice, the rage he’d held tightly coiled in the corded muscles of his arm, in the jut of his proud jaw, when he found out Bradley had broken you, dominated your spirit, for a bet.

You’re not sure why he’s been so nice. He has nothing to gain by being kind to you. He didn’t when he wanted to get you off deck in the middle of the storm last night. Though uncharitably, you’re sure he’d likely wanted you off deck so he could get off deck himself. He didn’t have to make you a cup of coffee or raid his own special stash of granola bars, either. But more than anything, you’d love to know why he let you cry snot and tears all over his uniform when it was well past lights out. You keep thinking back to how it felt to be in his arms, how good it felt.

Unbidden, you pull out the paper Jake had handed you while you were eating lunch in the commissary with Mara and Mickey. It’s nothing special, just a note written in ballpoint pen on run-of-the-mill lined notebook paper. The paper is silky smooth against the pads of your fingers, the edges ragged like he’d ripped the page out of a notebook he had lying around. You can feel the indentations the pen had left on the other side of the page. You can see how the letters slur across the page as he’d written, the ink smudging imperceptibly as he wrote hastily. They’re just lyrics transcribed on the page, and they shouldn’t be thought-provoking.

It’s from a song you’ve heard a thousand times before, played ad nauseam on the radio with a catchy tune getting stuck in your head. More than the song lyrics, it’s the thought behind those lyrics. Honestly, you’re not sure how he got them for you. He called his sister in the middle of the night when he likely had to get special permission to do so just so he could get some stupid lyrics for you.

You can still see the twinkle in his eyes as he blushed crimson. He’d seemed proud, proud he was the reason for your laughter, proud that he’d pulled the wool from your eyes and showed you how ill Bradley had actually treated you. That look on his face made you feel like levitating.

You can’t deny it anymore. Bradley Bradshaw may have made butterflies swarm in your stomach, but Jake Seresin made you feel like lightning arcing through the air. He makes you feel wild and free.

+1. The Day Easton is Born

A part of you feels like you should be angry that it took only four years before you stopped being the sole item of your husband’s attention. But you’d be lying if you didn’t feel the same way that Jake did, especially because the cute little thing that’s caught his attention has caught yours, too.

He’s about four hours old with squishy cheeks, a red face, and a voice that would make his daddy proud. You’re sure that his voice is just like his dad’s, but you can’t say you’ve ever heard Jake’s voice ever hit the octaves this adorable sweetheart hits. It hurts a little bit that you’ve been ordered not to move, too, because everything in you is itching to pick your baby up and hold him in your arms. But Jake’s on baby duty at the moment. If it’s a poopy diaper, you’re more than ready to let him take that burden on.

You tilt the bed up until you’re reclining and tip your head gently to the side until you see the heart rate monitor reassuringly blinking your vital signs at you. When you turn your head to the other side, Jake's standing over the small changing table in your room, leaning down and looking into it. His face looks gentler than you've ever seen it, soft, like a man stripped bare to his basest parts. He has no walls up, no fears, just wonder as he stares down at the little bed. Well, maybe he’s looking a little less awestruck and a little more disgusted because your newborn son does, indeed, have a soiled diaper.

He’s not wearing a shirt. This fact doesn't surprise you because Jake wanders around your house half-naked all the time. At the same time, you’re both in a hospital, and it’s at least 10 degrees colder than it should be. You’re wrapped up in a soft pajama set and wearing a thick cardigan, but you’re still cold. When Jake hefts the small wriggling body of your son into his arms and settles him against his chest, now clean, your heart swells. The baby coos, a little snuffling exhale of breath that squeaks a little as he settles into Jake’s arms. Jake doesn’t seem to realize that you’re awake, either.

“Awww, hey, Buddy.” His voice is a tender rumble, big hands cradling precious cargo with the same surety he flies his jet. “Let’s not wake up Mama, huh? She’s so tired.”

“You took us by surprise, our sweet boy. We weren’t expecting you to show up in the middle of a Longhorns game, for sure. I will say that your arrival was a little more exciting than a game-winning touchdown. I wonder if your Uncle Javy will let Daddy watch the game on his DVR when you’re home? In any case, I do not look forward to replacing my Longhorns rug. You had to pick that rug to make your appearance on, didn’t you? Say, East, what’s the likelihood that your Mama would let me keep it if I wash it off?”

You have to stifle your snickers because the baby chirps and half burps in response. You can vaguely see the dark blue of the baby’s eyes as he blinks in Jake’s firm hold. East’s lips purse and part, and you know it’s only a matter of time before you’ll be in need again. But you’re so in love, and hearing Jake talk to your son might be your newest favorite thing.

“Yeah, I had that feeling. You’ll learn sooner or later that your Mama’s words are law. She’s going to be the disciplinarian between the two of us, for sure. You’re already wrapped around my fingers. I’m not sure I could tell you no for anything.”

He sighs, sounding choked up as he trails a finger down the baby’s soft cheek. “I’ve got so much I want to teach you. How to smile and utilize those perfect Seresin dimples. How to talk your way out of any problem you face. How to make your Mama smile (and maybe cry) every Mother’s Day as we show her how amazing she is.”

He presses a soft kiss to the top of the baby’s head and rocks slightly back and forth on his heels, an action that doesn’t soothe your son even a little. East is squalling already, and you have a feeling he will ratchet up a bit higher in volume if he doesn’t get what he wants.

“Hey, Cowboy.” Your voice is soft as you get Jake’s attention.

“Morning, Bitsie-baby.” His smile is wide as he stares down at you.

“There’s no way it’s morning, Jake.” He shrugs and rocks back and forth a little more as the baby objects a little louder with each sway. “And gimme my son.”

Jake smirked as he transferred the baby, eyes softening as you situated East against your chest, snickering as the baby latched hungrily onto your breast for his midnight snack.

“So he’s your son when you want him, but he’s mine when he’s got a nasty diaper?”

“Sounds about right, Seresin.”

“Well, he’s a Seresin, alright.” Jake snickers when you swat at his abs. “Made right for your tits, and aren’t they a pretty sight.”

“Not in front of the baby, Jacob.”

“Well, I dunno when I’m going to see them again one on one!”

“Try me when East’s two years old. Because I’m going to need that long to recover from having your big-headed child.” Your voice is as dry as the Sahara Desert as you laugh at your husband.

“Fair enough.” He tucks a wild strand of hair behind your ear and settles on the edge of the hospital bed. You snuggle into his side as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. “Have I told you how beautiful you look today?”

“I’ll take beautiful over the complete mess I probably am.”

“You look gorgeous, Bitsie!”

You snort. “Jake, I haven’t showered in 48 hours, I was in labor for most of it, and I just had a baby. So what about me looks beautiful to you at this moment?”

“Everything.” He presses a gentle kiss to your temple. “You’ve given me the best things in my life. You gave me your heart and a second chance with you. You gave me a family in you and our little Easton. You’ve changed my life.”

“If I didn’t find you gorgeous because of all of our relationship, then I’d definitely argue it is the memory of the lingerie you were wearing under your dress at last year's Navy Gala.”

“I think that lingerie was pretty life-changing for both of us, Cowboy.” You cradle Easton close and gesture for one of the many burp cloths arrayed on the table on Jake’s other side. “I’m about 90% sure that was the night we made East.” You pat the baby’s bottom gently, grimacing when he lets loose a surprisingly loud belch before cooing angelically. “Well, you certainly burp like your dad, don’t you?”

“Hey!” Jake tugs the baby out of your arms, swaying side to side as the baby’s eyes droop closed. He snuggles East close before laying him into the crib. You watch approvingly as he pulls the crib closer, the same worries about your newborn son in his mind as yours. “I’ll have you know, kiddo, that your mama loves my burps.”

“Don’t lie to our son. He’s not even a day old, Seresin, and you’re already lying to him!”

“Am I lying if I’m telling him the truth? His mama does love me.” You wrap your arms around his waist as he settles back into the hospital bed next to you.

“Yeah, she does.” You kiss his torso, nuzzling in close as he holds you close.

“I love you so much, Jake. I fell in love with you a long time ago, and I’m not likely to stop now. Having this,” you gesture to the hospital room at large, “is better than my best dreams. Though, I would prefer it if you could convince your mom and sister to let us have some time with East alone before they descend on us.”

“You got it, beautiful.” He runs his hands gently up and down your back. God, you're not sure you can give him up, not anymore. Right now, you're pretty sure that if Jake gets out of the hospital bed, you'll freeze solid.

“You were always my dream, Bitsie baby. Forever and always.” You barely hear the words, sleep pulling you under riptide-fast. But a part of you knows Jake doesn't mind. It's always been a not-so-secret fantasy of his, having his family at arm's reach.

Honestly, you could get used to it too. Your Jake Seresin pillow is the best of the best, after all.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN ON AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR ON TUMBLR BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR TUMBLR, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

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