#if you read my fic Milk Run you already know all of this as its explored in some depth

[charmwasjess]

Okay, I LOVE the Headcanuary prompt for today, so I'm jumping in even though I haven't been keeping up with it.

prompt 8: Birthday

As homage to Christopher Lee and Liam Neeson having birthdays one week apart (May 27th and June 7th respectively), I headcanon that Dooku and Qui-Gon are also spring babies a week apart. Of course, Qui-Gon will never learn this, as Dooku, in classic "unwanted child" trauma, compulsively despises his birthday and goes out of his way to avoid any reminder of it, as it's all tainted with the whole spine wolf snackpack situation from when he was a baby. This will become cruelly ironic when he becomes Count and the secret he's kept his whole life from his actual loved ones is now a matter of public record -- in fact, a Serenno national holiday celebrated by strangers who don't know him at all.

Bonus: and I'm pretty sure @readalong is the person who first pointed this out to me when we were feverishly discussing That One Book, but that would make Sifo-Dyas the only friend in Dooku's Jedi life who knows the date and has actually celebrated the day with him, since their friendship in the Creche clan pre-dates Dooku finding out who he was and all the associated Serenno trauma about him being born Force sensitive and hated for it.

[ssa-atlas-alvez]

hey could I be 🦕, if it's not taken?

I also have a request lol, could u do a meltdown comfort fic? ( definitely not requesting this be I had a meltdown over not having the right pasta sauce for my comfort/safe food) like where a male reader has a bunch of little things built up and it spills over when there's no more of readers comfort/safe food and they end up lashing out and having a meltdown because of it

anyways have a good evening,thx!

Hiya, I'm really sorry thats taken 😔 (I need to make a list lmao) - assuming you're not the other 🦕 anon currently in my drafts 😅

I hope this is okay, I don't have autism or meltdowns, so feel free to let me know if I've gotten anything wrong. I don't think the reader in this has a meltdown, he was distressed and then stims to regulate his emotions. But yeah, feel free to let me know if I get anything wrong, I don't want to offend anyone or anything.

Warnings: reader is distressed, meltdown

"(Y/N)? What's wrong-"

"Can you just fuck off?!" Everyone falls silent as the words burst from your mouth. You immediately look down, mentally scolding yourself for yelling at Hotch like that. Hotch. Of all people. Who had been nothing but kind to you since you joined. Who always made sure you were okay. Who was also your boss. "I- I'm sorry-" Your voice is quiet and Hotch has to strain his ears to hear you.

Instead of yelling, like everyone assumed he would, his gaze softens as he looks at you. "How about we head up to my office for a few minutes, okay?" His voice is reassuring and is doing nothing for your guilt and the dread for what he would say when it was just the two of you.

You hadn't meant to snap at him, but everything had just built up and built up and it was your tipping point. You should have just gone home.

It had started this morning when it turns out you had run out of milk - meaning you couldn't have cereal and a cup of coffee for breakfast. Then, you couldn't find the socks you had planned on wearing, you missed the early bus because of how long you had tried to find the socks you wanted to wear, and that made you almost late for work. And then, when you opened the fridge, it turns out someone had eaten the last of your safe foods you kept stocked up in the fridge.

You knew no one on the team would have taken it, they knew you were particular about your food (that's how you had worded it when you first joined the team - they knew the reasoning behind it now, of course but its still how you described it). And they always tried their best to make sure that you had food in the fridge that you liked.

You follow him to his office silently, you don't miss the look he shoots the rest of the team - who quickly make themselves look busy. So you don't feel more on edge than you already do. Your heart twinges at this. You had just yelled at him and here he was, being incredibly sweet to you.

When you reach his office, he shuts the door gently behind him and motions to the couch, you sit. "You don't have to speak until you're ready, whatever you need to do to help regulate your emotions is okay."

You take a moment to process his words before you give a small nod. It takes a few seconds before you gently start to rock, humming gently to yourself. Hotch sits down on the couch, at the other end. He wanted you to know he was there if you needed him, but enough space to do what you needed to. He slowly picked up the book on the coffee table, flicking to the page he was currently on.

Eventually, when your stimming comes to an end, Hotch closes the book. He had been keeping a close eye on you, not really paying attention to the book. He had just wanted to make you comfortable.

"You weren't reading," You state quietly.

"I wasn't," Hotch says with a nod.

"Thank you," You reply. You knew what he was doing - he had done it a few times during similar situations.

"That's alright," He gives a small (rare) smile, "Did you want to talk about what's going on?"

"It's just been a bad day." You shrug, "No coffee, no breakfast, wrong socks, and now no safe food," You felt your cheeks tint pink ever so slightly in embarrassment.

Hotch just nods, "I understand. What snack in particular were you craving?"

"I wanted a chocolate muffin," You shrugged, running a hand over your face. All you could think about was how stupid this all was.

"Is that the Starbucks one?" When you nod, Hotch smiles slightly and rummages about in his desk. "I had a feeling that this might happen at some point. So I stocked up on your safe foods." He said, pulling out a muffin. "There you go. As for drinks, take whatever you fancy,"

You look up, eyes slightly wide at the unexpected kindness. "Thank you,"

"That's alright, and (Y/N)?"

"Yeah?"

"Anytime you're feeling overwhelmed, or if the day isn't going quite right, you're more than welcome to come sit up here, okay?"

"Okay."

[givemea-dam-break]

that funny feeling (locklyle)

a/n: this is my first locklyle fic please by kind lmfao. convinced to write this by the amazing @neewtmas and @waitingforthesunrise, so i hope you all enjoy this - it was inspired by the locklyle angst playlist a bunch of us have going so be warned :) this also brings holly munro into the story, but don't worry if you haven't read the books because i don't mention her too much. it isn't too long since i'm just testing the waters for my locklyle stuff lol

warnings: big sad taglist: @wellgoslowly @galactidiot

part 2

The days were beginning to melt together.

How long had he been lying here, hoping, praying, for Lucy to come back? For her to walk through the front door, bags in hand, declaring that she was coming back? That she never meant to leave? A few weeks, maybe. Or was it months? He had lost track of time.

Her absence was a tangible thing, something that he could reach out and feel so acutely that its sharp, jagged edges sliced his fingertips and cut deep into his heart. But, even still, sometimes he'd forget. He'd make her a cup of tea in the morning, just how she liked it - more milk than he or George would take, sometimes with a spoonful of honey if she wanted a little sweetness - only for it to sit atop the counter, growing cold. Neither he nor George had the heart to empty it into the sink. Holly would arrive, expecting it, and dump it out, but Lockwood knew that it pained her to do so too.

Waiting was useless. There were things that needed to get done. Cases for Lockwood and Co were piling up after the antics of last November, and they were steadily gaining a reputation. He needed to focus on that. On the thing he had always wanted.

But what was it worth when the one person he wanted most wasn't there, right by his side?

Part of him hoped that Lucy would see his pictures in the newspaper. Maybe she'd miss him as much as he did her, maybe it would be the thing that made her realise that she didn't need to leave. That she could come back.

He still couldn't make sense of her sudden resignation. She was worried that she couldn't control her Talents well enough, that she'd put them all in danger. But how could she? When she was the very thing that had saved Lockwood time and time again?

So, there he lay, sprawled on the attic's bed. The bed she once lay in night after night for years now. It still smelled like her; of lavender and some nice soap he couldn't distinguish. His excuse? This room was once his, and he was feeling reminiscent. He missed looking out of the window onto the street behind Portland Row, down into the back garden where the apple trees stood tall. He missed the warmth that flooded the room during the day, and the calm, soothing cool at night.

Everyone knew better, and he knew that, too.

Sometimes he'd just lie there, thoughtless and quiet. Other times, he would talk as if Lucy was there in the room with him. He'd practice his speech, the one he'd use to finally get her back, gazing at the picture he kept on her nightstand - one of the two of them and George she'd taken on an old camera she'd found stuffed in the wardrobe. She'd run down the stairs excitedly, demanding a picture, and George was forced into it, which his half-smiling expression showed. If Lockwood looked close enough, he could see the faint green glow on the lower right side of all of their faces from Skull, who had been pulling horrid faces at them.

He loved that picture with his whole heart. Her smile, so radiant, was completely and entirely entrancing, and she just seemed so, so happy with her face pressed up against his. So what went wrong?

Heaving a sigh, he released the pillow he so often clung to desperately like a child, and sat up. There were things that needed to be done. Research for a case. Make some new salt bombs. Have a shower. Had he already had one? He couldn't very well remember.

He could hear George clattering around downstairs doing God knows what - he wasn't too fond of the idea of finding out, petrified at the thought of finding his best friend half-naked doing some sort of yoga again - and there was Holly just down the stairs, muttering something or other. She did that often now. He could never tell what it was she was saying, but he recognised the lost look in her eyes. She and Lucy may not have been on the best of terms, but she missed her. Badly.

This was always the worst part. Starting the day.

Without Lucy, the whole routine felt empty. Where was her smile, or her snarky comments directed at Skull, the same ones he often worried were actually for him? Where were those bright eyes that would look at him with such happiness when he paid her a - supposedly - mindless compliment? Or the moments where she'd put him in his place with just a few words? Oh, how he missed those dearly.

It always left a funny feeling in his chest, thinking about those times. A mixture of a strange grief, a mourning for someone who had not died but rather had left of their own volition, and of horrible loss, almost like losing a limb. Like losing a crucial part of himself. Because, really, that's what Lucy was to him. She was everything.

Even still, he dragged himself from her bed, lingering for a moment in the doorway of the bedroom like he always did, before trudging down, down, down to the kitchen.

Relieved to find George not in the midst of a horrific yoga demonstration, but rather shoving pots and pans into the cupboards, he brewed himself some tea.

He tried to ignore the way his hand hovered in front of Lucy's mug, which was stained from the tea they never seemed to be able to fully scrub away, and sat at the table, staring into the murky brown of his brew. Lucy always made it look so much more appealing.

No matter how hard he tried to disregard the little things, she seemed to be everywhere he looked. There was a sketch on the thinking cloth of Inspector Barnes as an elephant, tooting his trunk. And, there, the vase of flowers she'd set during their last meal together, a bundle of long-since-wilted lilacs she'd picked from the back garden. Over on the counter, there was a large circular ring where Skull would often reside, covered by a teatowel, and it was as if his evil had seeped from the silverglass and into the countertop, never to be removed.

Lockwood wondered if Skull, as crude as he was, was at least keeping Lucy company. He'd hate for her to be on her own.

"I don't know how Holly does this," George grumbled. He shoved another pan into the cupboard haphazardly. "It's impossible."

As if on cue, the pans toppled, crashing down around George and onto the floor. Holly appeared seconds later, scolding him as she easily slotted them in and shut the door.

Like every other day, there was a certain tension in the air that none of them seemed to be able to shake, no matter how hard they tried. Holly could bring all the almond-iced doughnuts she could carry; George could make the most absurd comments to ever have graced this earth to make them laugh; hell, Lockwood could smile and charm all he wanted, but it never amounted to anything. Not without Lucy.

He had been searching for a reason to get her back since the day he'd left her at that café, too frustrated and dejected to even try and continue the conversation. Were there any cases he could hire her for now that she was an independent agent? That seemed like the only logically sound way to get her to be with them again. To be with him. He couldn't just turn up to her new flat, so far away from Portland Row, and beg her to come home. No matter how badly he wished he could.

So, he picked up his newspaper and flicked through it, hoping to forget about her for just a moment.

But it was impossible. How could one simply forget about Lucy Carlyle? Lucy Carlyle and her jibes; Lucy Carlyle and her beautiful smile and eyes; Lucy Carlyle and the warmth she provided Lockwood with. Especially when her adverts were in the paper.

Lockwood could not forget about her for even a moment, something he had come to realise every single day since she'd left. Not after she'd allowed him to feel. To feel pure joy and humour and wonderful frustration and love.

That's perhaps what hurt the most about it all. Not her reasoning. Not the suddenness of it. Rather, the things she'd arisen inside of him, feelings he hadn't truly allowed since the deaths of his family. Letting people in was far too real, and he didn't want to permit them to the same fates as the other people he had loved and lost. But Lucy, oh, Lucy. She was supposed to be different. She was supposed to stay.

But she left, and he missed her more than should ever be possible. He knew he should've expected it, but he had allowed himself to hope. Lucy had sparked that hope inside of him, and even now it still lingered, waiting for her to return.

He was stupid for it, he knew. It was the only thing that kept him going - the notion that she may decide that she was wrong and come back to him. But it was unlikely to happen. So he had to come to terms with it, as would Holly and George.

And, so, her seat would stay vacant. Her mug would remain stained. Lockwood would creep into her room at night, falling asleep under the watchful eye of her photograph. All the while, she would sleep beneath a different roof, under the same sky, so, so far from him.

[chimielie]

there are many benefits to being a marine biologist

summary: Goshiki x F!Reader. Ponyo!AU. one part fairytale, one part growing up, one part love language exploration. you fall in love with a human boy and then move mountains to find him again.

word count: 8.7k

cw: nothing. gets better as it progresses imo

a/n: i started writing this maybe two years ago for a contest held by two users who are now both inactive i think? the outline for this planned for like two more acts, but i thought it should stop rotting in the drafts and i like it as is now. i do have quite a lot of worldbuilding not in the fic (mostly regarding goshiki's family, who i named after the original ponyo characters lol) so please, if you happen to read this and have questions about this little story that's been living in my head, feel free to ask :)

The day before he finds you, it storms like the world is going to end.

Seawater washes into the road as the sea swells in thick knots, rising and never quite falling as far as it should. Blooms of white—foam and algae and debris, and drowned souls if folklore was to be believed—swirl on the surface, which waits to break against the cliffs until the wave inflates to grotesque proportions, as though it’s a fist hammering against a wall. The wind tries to match the hysteric sea’s beat, and comes screaming in from the horizon, wrapping around whatever it finds in its path if it cannot blow through it and squeezing like a python. With it blows in the fog, until the atmosphere brings a river of milk, writhing over the pine islands so they become black spikes against which the ocean hammers.

Tsutomu stands against the back door of his home on the cliff, hands pressed to the glass, careful not to let his breath obscure his vision any further than the mist already was. Even inside the house—where the air is still warm, where the wind can’t creep in—he can hear the crash of waves and the shriek of the typhoon, even if they’re reduced to a low-crooning song punctuated by the steady rhythm of his mother’s voice.

“Transmitting from JA4LL. JA4LL. Come in, Koichi. This is Risa and Tsutomu.”

She’s been speaking steadily into the microphone for a few minutes already, and Tsutomu pads over to press his cheek into her side, fists his hands into her shirt while she pats him on the head. When the headset crackles to life, he jumps and she doesn’t. His parents’ voices wash over him warmly, and he relaxes, hoping the weather will calm soon so they can all go to Tashirojima together.

Sound asleep in a bubble deep beneath the sea, you don’t even know that there’s a storm on the surface.

“Wake up, girls.” You wake when your father speaks to you, swim eagerly to the border of filmy water and press your nose to it in a sort of nuzzling good morning kiss. “I—yes, good morning, hello—I said I’d take you all to work with me today, if you’d like—stop pressing on the bubble, you’ll pop it!”

You do happy flips when you’re let out of the little aquarium, linger at the back of the school of your sisters as your father quickly becomes engrossed in his work. He’s often distracted and always scatterbrained, but centuries of experience have made him an expert at marine wizardry. There’s little he loves more than his work, except perhaps your family, but he’s unfamiliar with the care and keeping of young goldfish and your mother is away right now.

This is how you slip away: with discretion from your sisters, distraction from your father, and a rush of excitement you’ve felt almost never in your entire life. It’s not that you don’t love your family, that you want to run away; it’s just that your sisters are all still babies, freshly hatched, and you get bored in the little bubble, always having to watch your father work and never getting to do anything. There’s no room for anxiety in your fish-body as you swim towards the surface, wriggling your fins frantically and buoying yourself with upward currents whenever possible. 

The first sight of sunlight streaming through the aqua is mesmerizing, and you kick doubly hard for the remainder of the journey. 

The surface is the most incredible thing you’ve ever seen. Exhausted from the swim, you flop onto your back on top of a passing jellyfish and stare in wonder at the coastline. There’s a road, and little metal vehicles crossing it, and houses tucked into every crevice in the hills. There are jagged cliffs that look like they were hewn in half by some godly hand (one of your uncles, maybe). And on top of the tallest cliff, there’s a little house, so small you can hardly see it, yellow and red and white, and you find yourself fascinated by it.

When he wakes, Tsutomu finds himself in bed, his eyes stuck together with leftover sleep. He remembers, just barely, being carried by his mother’s strong arms to his room, the press of her lips to his forehead. It’s not an unusual occurrence, so he starts his day as usual. Breakfast is leftovers from the fridge, his mother is still half-asleep sipping coffee at the breakfast table (she’s always groggier after a late night up speaking to his father), and he walks down the path to the beach, carefully balancing his favorite toy—a beach ball light enough for him to carry and shaped like a volleyball—in his arms. 

It’s clear today, almost like there was never a storm at all. The sky is a cheerful blue dotted with puffy white clouds, the temperature warm enough to only require a t-shirt, not cold enough to make him uncomfortable. The sun shines down on the beach with a smile, the morning light nearly shining a spotlight on the red lump just above the waterline.

“Eh?” Tsutomu says to himself, walking closer and struggling to peer past the bulge of his volleyball. He sets it down carefully, stopping it from rolling away with his foot, and bends at the waist to look closely at you.

You stare, eyes bulging, back up at him. A little boy, the likes of which you’ve never seen before, fringe falling into his face, is the most magical thing you’ve ever seen.

“A goldfish!” He declares triumphantly as he identifies you. “Hello, Miss Goldfish.”

You flap a fin at him as best you can. He giggles and scoops you up in both hands, wading into the water and holding you just beneath the surface so you won’t dry out. You spin in his hands, and nuzzle his chubby palm. 

“Tsutomu!” Someone calls from above. “Time to go!”

“That’s my mom,” Tsutomu says to you. “We’re going to work at the senior center. Well, she’s going to work, and I get to go to school right next to there, ‘cause I’m five years old.” He adopts a wise expression. Five is the oldest he’s ever been, and it feels very big. You splash. Me too! Me too! “It was nice to meet you, Miss Fish. My name is Tsutomu. I hope I see you again. Bye bye!”

He lets go of you gently, and turns to find that his ball has rolled into the water, a little too deep for him to reach without soaking his clothes. You, still watching the curious human boy, see the frown on his face, the tremble of his lips and watery eyes, and dart off quickly. When he looks down, you’re gone. He stands on the sand in front of the ball, watching it float further away, listening to his mother’s increasingly aggravated shouting for him to come up from the beach, and feels stuck with the tide of unhappiness rising in him. He reaches up with one fist to wipe at his watering eyes.

Shock overwhelms him when a stream of water hits the ball, pushing it against the current, intermittent splash carrying it all the way back to shore. His eyes stop watering from the pure amazement of it all as he watches a little red spark flash with every spurt of water, and he has to shake himself before wading back in to grab it.

“Thank you, Miss Goldfish,” he cheers when he finally lifts the ball clear of the surf. “You’re amazing!”

There’s nothing but pure childish admiration in the words, which makes you as happy as he is. You like this boy! He thinks you’re amazing!

You flip in the air, coming down with a splash that sends droplets of saltwater all the way to Tsutomu, who shields his face and twists his whole torso away with shrieking laughter. 

“Tsutomu!” You say happily. He untwists to look at you, bobbing in the water. 

“You said my name! You really are amazing!”

“Tsutomu!” You cheer, and then again for good measure.

“Tsutomu!” His mother roars, coming into view on the beach, and her ferocious tone hardly seems to dent his mood. 

“I have to go now. Thank you a lot, Miss Goldfish,” he waves at you and begins walking back to his mother, who’s standing with her hands on her hips and her lips set in a scowl.

“Tsutomu!” You say in farewell, and begin the swim back home.

“Mom, I made a friend! I saw a goldfish, and she talks, too. She said my name! Isn’t that so cool?” Tsutomu bounces up to his mother with his fists clenched and raised in the air, as though he’s declaring victory, and her irritation dissipates almost immediately. She laughs and swings him up onto her shoulders.

“That is cool, but we’re going to be late. Think I can drive over before they open the drawbridge?”

You’re lucky your father doesn’t notice and you know it. For the rest of the month, you listen attentively as he explains, half-mumbled and face pressed up against a blackboard, the things he believes children ought to know: potionmaking, mostly, the way that those potions affect the environment, and the filthiness of humans. You try your best to be good, but you file as much information about magic away as you can and know in the deepest depths of your heart that it’s so you can see Tsutomu again.

You sneak away again, maybe every month, and rarely have to wait longer than a few hours for Tsutomu to come rushing down the path from his house, huge smile on his face, shedding his backpack and shoes. During low tide, he can reach what becomes a tide pool, and often he shows you things from his day-to-day life. You love hearing him talk, sometimes practicing human speech by following along with his words. He gives you a name, better than the one your father calls you, you think, shaping it in your mouth. While you watch with great interest, you never bring him anything.

You are a fish, after all.

As the years pass, your visits to the surface become more infrequent. You worry about your human-hating father catching you, and your education has intensified as you age. Your little sisters are starting to grow up and, though they’re still captivated by stories of your Tsutomu, you worry about fostering jealousy of the dry world in them. One daughter your father may not notice missing for a day, but where one of your sisters go, almost all the rest will follow. 

“What does Y/N mean?” You ask innocently one day, when the two of you are eight years old. You bob in the water, and he sits on a rock, the surf spraying up around him but never reaching high enough to soak him.

“Mm,” he says, looking down and kicking at a pebble. “Beloved.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know,” his grin is childish, and the effect is only lightly diminished by the way he’s clearly struggling to maintain eye contact with you. You splash him, and he shrieks and falls into the water. Both of you come up giggling. Whatever the true meaning of his name for you, you know that whenever he says it, that’s what he means; and that is all that matters.

Although he waits patiently for you for many years, Tsutomu tells you one day with a serious face that he’s going to be going to school further away, in Sendai, and will have less time to spend watching out for you. You have a year left before this happens, he says, so your visits resume a near monthly routine. Sometimes, you simply spend hours after he’s left staring at the house on the cliff and imagining living there with Tsutomu and loving him the way he tells you his mom and dad love each other.

When he leaves for school, crying a little while you blink up at him, you absorb yourself in your studies. When you really, really miss him, you swim up to the surface and remind yourself that someday, you’ll be old and strong enough to live up there with Tsutomu. The next time he sees you, he’s twelve years old. People call him Goshiki-kun, not Tsutomu-chan, and his voice cracks when he speaks. On the train ride home from school, he worries that you’ll laugh at him, like his peers do, that the way he’ll surely tear up upon seeing you is unmanly.

It’s July, the month of salt-making rituals, and this becomes the marker of your visits to Tsutomu. To his immense relief, you still call him by his first name, you don’t laugh when his voice breaks, you throw your whole body at him to smack his cheek like you’re trying to hug him with your fins. You missed him as much as he missed you, he can tell, and the both of you spend hours catching up.  You get two more years before disaster strikes.

The day you’re due to visit the surface, it storms again. You know what lightning is, now, know the acrid scent of sky-fire splitting the air, the brutal strength of riptides and currents. When you break into the air, you find that a gray mist lingers over the bay and the mood of the few people you see appears dismal. When you look up to Tsutomu’s house and see that it shines as cheerfully yellow as always, that yellow and red seems to creep into your bones until you feel sure that everything is alright. This is a kind of magic your father has not yet taught you.

This has always been your secret, safe harbor. You don’t expect anything to go wrong here—not when you’re accustomed to submarine chemical vents and shining anglerfish in the deep blue depths. Here it has always seemed safe, calm, kind.

You learn today why your father despises his former kin so much.

There’s silt in the water, probably stirred up by the storm that took away the cheeriness of the sky. One fish swims by you, its eyes bulging frantically. Then another, and another. It’s only when an entire school passes in the same direction that you hear the ship coming closer and realize that you should probably be heading that way yourself.

You’re too late, and so are the rest of them—something huge, bigger than the mouth of a whale, you think it must be, traps you, pressing you together with sifting mud and other scales and glass, like your father’s bottles. You try to move your tail and push yourself out, but you’re packed so tightly in with a million others doing the same that the action is impossible. 

You’re starting to panic.

Then, the boat attached to the net you’re in swings around, taking you and everyone else with it, and you find yourself face to face with a glass jar. Worse, you find yourself slowly being pushed into it by the sheer unluckiness of your position and the crush of animals trying to escape the churning mud and human garbage.

You push more frantically than before, thrashing your entire body violently.

“No, no, no, no!” You wail, the words bubbling in the water. Then you fall through a gap in the net.

Unable to right yourself in time, you find yourself stuck halfway into the jar, and your wriggling only makes it worse.

You can’t—you can’t breathe. This was a mistake. You’re so scared.

You have to take the last resort. You send up a prayer to your mother—please, don’t let him be too angry—and send out a spell with the last bit of energy you have. A signal that will ripple all the way to your father.

You run out of oxygen, and everything goes black.

Tsutomu has been waiting a long time by the beach. He got up early to watch the sunrise, carrying a thermos of hot tea with him as he sat by the water and wondered what your life was like through the months you don’t see him. As he wakes more fully and the air starts to warm (though not by much) he walks alongside the waterline, testing how far he could go in without getting the hem of his pants wet, how long his toes could stand immersion in the cold seawater. He ponders why you keep visiting him, year after year, bringing him good luck and sunny skies.

You’re more to him than a symbol, though; you’re amazing.

As he settles himself, he starts to walk back to the tidepools, hoping you’ll be there. He knows it’s a little early for your visit, but you’re unpredictable; besides, he’s sure you care about your weird human friend as much as he cares about his fishy one.

Near the stairs, something rolls on the sand, flashing gold. Tsutomu squints at it, then picks up his pace. Shit, shit, is that—

It is. He picks up the jar, lips pressing into a pout when he sees that you’re unmoving. He runs up the steps to his home, taking them two at a time, all the while talking to you like you can hear him through the glass barrier.

He collects a bucket and stands next to the garden hose, trying to shake you out of your jar. He thinks that it would require too much force than would be safe to get you out, but you’re clearly suffocating in there. He squats on his heels, turning the jar over in his hands and wracking his brain for a solution.

“Tsutomu, you’re gonna be late for practice!” His mom rounds the corner, startling him, and he drops you. “Tsutomu—what was that?”

You’re out of the jar, but now you’re lying in pieces of shattered glass. Eyes round in distress, Tsutomu snatches you up and plops you into the full bucket of water.

“Nothing,” he says, voice suspiciously shaky.

“Okay, well, we’ve gotta go, so get in the car now.” She jerks her thumb towards the vehicle. He nods and peeks into your bucket. You stare up at him, as alert as ever, and he breathes a sigh of relief. 

In the car, you swim happily in circles, raising your head out of the bucket to peer out the window.

“What’s in the bucket?” His mom says with interest, and he presses a hand over the opening of the bucket, trying not to giggle as you nuzzle his palm. 

“It’s for a group science project—Mom, watch out, you’re gonna make it spill!” She side-eyes him, knowing her son has never been so conscientious of a school project or of his own messes before, but lets it slide. There’s no point in prying when there are only so many options to be found on the beach. The worst that can happen is that he lightly traumatizes some sea creature, and she doubts that Tsutomu’s conscience and childhood obsession with marine life could let him do that. Besides, she smiles to herself. The sea is basically in his blood.

Tsutomu rushes out of the car, managing only a “Thanks-Mom-love-you-goodbye!” before he’s dashing to the gym, gaze bouncing between your bucket and the ground to avoid tripping so fast watching his eyes makes you dizzy.

He sets you down on the bench closest to the court.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He whispers, picking you up to make sure there’s no glass embedded in your skin. 

“I’m okay!” You beam up at him. “Tsutomu rescued me!” 

He smiles at that, blushing faintly, pretty eyes squinting, and you pop out of the water to splash him lightly.

“Hey, I have to practice in this,” he frowns.

“Sorry,” you say, abashed, but he shoots you a small smile and you know it’s alright.

Listening to Tsutomu explain volleyball is entirely different from watching him play it. You didn’t really understand it when he spoke, before, but now you understand the difference between a fishing net and a volleyball one, as well as other crucial aspects of the game. There’s a lot of yelling, and squeaking, and it’s a little hard to see from inside your bucket, but you don’t mind. You bob up every so often, trying to find Tsutomu on the court, though it’s hard when he moves around so much.

At one point, he jumps up and slams down the ball in what’s clearly a perfect line even to the untrained eye. Around him, his teammates burst into cheers (“Nice going, bowlcut!) and you get so excited you mimic them, whooping and doing a flip in the air.

“Eh? What was that?” Someone you can’t see says, and then Tsutomu is there, grinning widely at you from above, eyes watering slightly.

“Oi, Goshiki,” a boy with hair as red as your scales slides an arm around him. “What’s this you’ve got?”

Tsutomu opens his mouth, but you beat him to it, using the name he gave you without a second thought.

“Huh? Wow, you have a smart goldfish! Reon, come check out Goshiki’s goldfish!”

Reon simply looks at you and says, “Cool.”

“Be nicer!” The redhead says, smacking him lightly on the shoulder. “She can talk!”

“I can talk!” You echo. Reon repeats cool, unfazed.

“What are we looking at, Tendō?” A boy whose shirt reads Yamagata slows his jogging to a stop, one hand running through his hair as he looks at the red bucket.

“This is Y/N,” Tsutomu says. “I found her on the beach.”

“Are you going to eat that?” A voice deeper than the others makes you poke your head further out of the water than before. It’s a boy like the others, with greenish hair and a huge stature. He reminds you, oddly, of your mother. Big and bea-uti-ful!

“No!” Tsutomu yelps. “No, we won’t! Ushijima-senpai, sir,” he adds, voice calming to a lower pitch as he does.

“Are you sure?” Asks Tendō, a sly expression crossing his face. Tsutomu pushes him away hastily and steps protectively in front of you. 

“Yes! I mean no! I mean—”

“Alright,” Ushijima-senpai says slowly. “Welcome to our practice, then. I hope you enjoy watching volleyball.”

“Enjoy!” You do another flip. “Watching Ushijima-senpai!”

“Okay—” Tsutomu says, picking up your bucket, looking around as he tries to find his way out of the circle of boys.

“What’s wrong with your fish?” A boy with long bangs and pointy features grabs the bucket and peers at you. You don’t like this pointy human. “Why is it talking?”

You say nothing, hollowing your cheeks in preparation to spit at him.

“Give her back,” Tsutomu narrows his eyes. “Careful, Shirabu.”

“Is no one else concerned about the talking goldfish?” Shirabu looks around at his upperclassmen. “What the fuck, Goshiki?”

“He’s right,” Ushijima says thoughtfully. “The fish could be a spy. For Karasuno, perhaps.”

“What?” Shirabu’s outraged yell is shortly cut off by Tsutomu’s fearful-yet-determined denial that you would ever do such a thing to him or to Shiratorizawa.

A deep sigh, sounding somewhat like it’s exhaling the speaker’s entire soul, interrupts them both.

“Can we please stop staring at Goshiki’s pet and get back to practice?” A boy with ash blond hair says, and immediately, a few of the others nod and disperse.

“She’s not a pet,” Ushijima says, while Tsutomu splutters incoherently. “Or sushi. She’s a friend of Goshiki. But you’re right, we should be practicing.”

“T-thank you, Ushijima,” Tsutomu says haltingly, eyes shining in admiration. “I really appreciate it!” The captain only needs to look back at him, his face unsmiling but not at all unfriendly, for him to continue. “And I apologize for distracting everyone, I’ll get back to work now! Thank you!”

The rest of practice goes smoothly, although you get a few lingering stares and an odd few minutes of interrogation from Shirabu while they’re on their break. He tries to explain that you can talk, and this is bad, and it’s a demon, to an old man with white hair, who merely hums when he looks at you and tells him to do an extra fifteen laps as a punishment for talking nonsense about magical goldfish.

Once the games have all finished and Goshiki’s changed into street clothing, though, something horrible happens. He’s picking you up, ready to transport you to his mother’s workplace so you can drive home, but then someone taps him on the shoulder. He startles, water sloshing over the sides of the bucket, and lifts up the bucket to his chest to prevent any further instability.

“Goshiki-kun,” a girl human says. “Could I speak to you outside?”

“Ouuuu,” you hear Tendō’s voice from across the gym. “Little bowl cut is receiving a confession?”

“Uh, um, yes, you can,” he says, and when you turn his cheeks are scarlet. “Let me just pack up the rest of my things, and I’ll m-meet you out there.”

“Sounds good!” She says, and you don’t like the cheery note of her voice or the way she brushes her hand against his bicep. You make a face up at Tsutomu, but he doesn’t seem to notice, lost in his own head.

You swim all the way to the bottom of the bucket, only to feel him poking you not a minute later.

“Don’t be grumpy,” he says. “Please? It’ll be just a second.”

You flap a fin at him and make an enthusiastic noise.

It is not, in fact, a second. You wait for an eternity (and you know about eternities) for the girl to stop stuttering her way through telling Tsutomu that she thinks he’s really smart, and she likes his bowl cut, and you can just see the word amazing forming on her lips before she says it. Her hand is stretching out, dropping something shiny into his hand, and you hate it, you hate it, you hate it.

You act before you think. Your cheeks puff up and you take a big breath in and then there’s water, all over her pretty pink cardigan. She shrieks and then starts to cry a little, and you stick out your tongue and blow a raspberry at her before diving back down, flipping your tail with sass as you go.

“I’m really sorry,” Tsutomu says frantically, offering her a wrinkled handkerchief. “It was an accident, I swear. I-I really appreciate your confession and, um, I’m glad you were comfortable enough soo that you could come to me, but, oh! My mom’s here, I have to go! Bye!”

You swivel and watch as he picks you up and bolts away; her tears seem to have dried a bit as she stares after him in bewilderment. Not for the first time, you wish you had two legs and hands to hold onto Tsutomu. You wish that you could stay on shore with him, and keep away all the girls like her forever.

You know it’s childish, but you don’t care. Does it matter that it’s an immature thought when it’s completely impossible?

In the car, Tsutomu is quiet. Even his mother seems to notice his pensive aura, and frames her questions about his day carefully to avoid sounding like she’s prying.

“What’s that?” She asks, and he unclenches his hand, looking as mystified by the object in his palm as you feel. It’s a pin, gold and pink and shaped like a heart. “Oh, my gosh, is that from your girlfriend, Tsutomu?”

“No,” he says immediately. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

You frown, bumping the red walls of the bucket, and he trails his fingers through the water. Something coppery floods your senses, and you dart over to nuzzle his hand instinctively. In his palm, there’s an angry red mark, oozing little droplets of blood. When you poke it, he winces. 

It tastes weird when you lick it.

“Hey!” He jerks his hand out of the water. “Whoa.”

Where Tsutomu knew he had been pricked by the pin a few minutes ago, there’s no sign of injury, even though the water surrounding you still has a faint tint in places. You watch him with round eyes, and he offers you a smile and a pat on the head. Amazing.

“What did you think, Y/N?” You stick out your tongue.

“Girlfriends suck,” is your opinion. “Pbbbt.”

The wind blows the longer strands of Tsutomu’s straight hair to the side as he stands next to the garden hose, refilling your bucket with fresh water. Above you, the sky is a weak blue, it’s brighter shades concealed by layers of white mist. A lush, slightly overgrown garden is what hides behind the picket fence you can see from the seashore, full of plants that look so familiar to the kelp forests you’re used to, yet so different. The upper lands are so strange. You’re glad Tsutomu’s mom doesn’t keep her garden dry and cut into shrubbery, like some of the houses you saw on the way to his school.

“Who are you?” Tsutomu’s voice is stiff, like his form as he drops you into the now-full bucket of fresh water while you crane your neck to see past his legs.

“Where is she?” Booms a voice you know all too well. It cuts off when he sees you, lips pursed while you try to look as inconspicuous as possible. “Captured by a human boy? Bad, that’s very bad. Give her here—“

“No!” Your friend yelps. “You want to take her? Y/N, I’ll protect you.”

“Protection?” Your father sneers, his hair puffing up threateningly. “I felt her signal for help—very good, by the way, your spellwork is coming along nicely. Give her here, now, I’ll be drying out soon.”

“I don’t care! Y/N wouldn’t do that, we’re friends,” Tsutomu says, casting a glance down at you. You nod, your tongue feeling stuck.

“My daughter would not befriend a human—“

“Y/N loves Tsutomu!” You cry. A light blazes in his eyes at the words, and his posture straightens.

“And I love her!”

“Eh?” Your father looks between the two of you. “That’s nonsense, Brunhilda, you know what humans are like, and what’s a Y/N, anyway?”

“It’s me!” You flip in the air, surging with defiant energy. “It’s my name.”

You choke midsentence as a hand closes around you; the world goes up in bubbles, and all you can hear is Tsutomu screaming your name, over and over.

Over.

And over.

And over.



“Again!” You sigh and twitch your fins lazily, watching with hooded eyes as lines only you can see race across the model mountain, glowing faintly before they settle into the material. The warding spell is clean and simple, requiring no complicated incantations or strange ingredients. However, it needs time to sink in, and when a hermit crab scuttles over the map and right onto your now-invisible lines, the whole thing goes up in a puff of smoke.

“Y/N,” your father says sternly, having given up on Brunhilda some time ago, when you refused to answer to it. “This is meant to be a demonstration for your sisters. These spells require layering, you know, one spell to ward and a secondary spell to, in a way, ward that ward. This creates an effect…”

You say nothing, merely letting a current of water roll you onto your side, your eyes rolling up to stare at the ceiling. You can feel the sympathetic gaze of your father—you know that he didn’t intend for this to happen. He only wanted to save you; he couldn’t have known that Tsutomu wasn’t the threat. You know he worries about you when he thinks you can’t hear him. You hear his every prayer for your mother to come back, to make things right, to help you see things his way. It’s only on the third point that he loses you. You didn’t want things to be this way either.

When you lost Tsutomu, something inside you boiled up and nearly steamed over. You can only remember wanting to go back, to go home to him, desperately trying to rejoin him on land. You love your father, and you only want his understanding. He left behind his humanity for your mother; why can’t you gain it yourself for Tsutomu?

The lid had clamped down on that furiously bubbling emotion, and in response it had gone to sleep, simmering but never fully boiling away. At first, you had been unmotivated even to eat or wake when your sisters did. Four years later, you still miss him: you go about your day to day life just fine, but you lack your childhood verve.

Even now, you can feel yourself slipping into slumber, exhausted by just a few minutes of magic. Your father’s voice and the clamor of your sisters meld into a comforting hum, lulling you further. You barely register the feeling of your father carrying you to your aquarium, the whisper of his goodnight lost on your drowsing mind.

When he was fourteen, Tsutomu’s mother found him in the garden. There was a wet trail leading right off the bluffs, a red bucket lying on its side, and her son, sitting with his knees under his chin and crying his heart out. The garden hose was still on.

She didn’t ask what happened, just turned off the hose and crouched next to him, arm over his shoulders, until he looked up at her with puffy eyes and wordlessly followed her into the house.

Risa had always known that she could be a little sharp with her words, and so she used food to express herself more often when she wanted it to be soft and soothing. She mixed her son some tea, the way she had every time he’d gotten sick when he was little, slid two slices of bread into the toaster, and hoped that the warmth of what she gave him would travel into his heart and help it heal a bit. Tsutomu cried into the toast a little, once it had been lavished with butter and honey, but it was just sniffling and not silent sobs, so she didn’t mind much. Then they sat on the couch and she rubbed his back while old tapes of his very first volleyball games played on the TV.

Tsutomu never told her what had happened that day. He could tell that she was curious, but unwilling to pressure him, and he wasn’t sure how to explain it. She’d always spoken about you in the same manner most adults used to describe the imaginary friends of children, and correcting that assumption seemed beyond the dignity of the man he wanted her to see him as. He knew that she guessed that he’d knocked over the bucket and sent his fish back down into the sea, and it wasn’t an unreasonable explanation. Fourteen year old boys weren’t the most rational creatures, and he could very easily have been sent into a similar kind of spiral had the fish just been a regular goldfish. It wasn’t, though, and he’d never cried so hard over any girl since.

He misses you. Though it doesn’t ache as sharply as it did when the fear of facing off against your father was fresh in his mind, he still thinks of you with a pang of sadness. There had been a sense of belonging with you he knows was more than a fleeting feeling. He hopes you’re happy in the ocean, learning new magic and spending time with your sisters, and once you’re queen of the sea, maybe you’ll come visit him. He’ll show you his cross spike.

“Again!” Shirabu barks, and Tsutomu has no trouble complying. He empties himself of every concern outside of the game and slams down a serve, just outside of the zone he wants it to land in. Without prompting, he picks up another ball and does it again.

Over and over and over.

Electricity was already crackling in the air when he woke up.

Everything felt uncomfortable, like the pressure in the atmosphere would pop and the sky would fall down in flaming pieces around them. It’s gray, like it was the day you went home. You’ve been lingering even longer on his mind than usual, and he just hopes that the knot in his throat will go away if he hits enough perfect shots. It would probably help if his partner for the day weren’t allergic to acknowledging when he does something right.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Shirabu says. Tsutomu makes a face at him and serves one more ball, the sound of it hitting the ground echoing obnoxiously. These days, he and Shirabu are good friends, though they’re still hiding behind the thin veneer of antagonism they’d held for each other in their first years. Being teammates at Shiratorizawa means being bonded for life, after all. There’s no sense in fighting it. The powers that be (also known as Coach Washijō) are as inexorable as fate, after all.

During the school year, Tsutomu lived in the dorms, like most other academy students, but living a mere half hour ride away meant he often visited the school over summers, too. It’s a little bittersweet now to know that each day spent practicing in this gym could be his last; though he has some time before university begins, he’s not sure when graduates are supposed to lose access.

“I drove with my mom,” Tsutomu says, “so I’ll be meeting her at the senior center. You’re coming over to watch the Rockets game later, right?”

“Sure,” Shirabu says, slinging on his backpack. “I have to bring some homework, though, I have too much preliminary coursework already.”

“You asked for it, smartass,” teases his friend.

“That’s gonna be Doctor smartass to you.”

Despite the short walk between the academy and the senior center, Tsutomu is soaked by the time he walks inside. He’s careful when taking off his raincoat and shaking out his umbrella, placing it into the designated stand, stamping his boots on the absorbent mat a few times to be safe. Just past the welcome desk, he can see his mother, pushing rambunctious Mrs. Suzuki down the hall, probably to her daily bingo game, where she’ll fleece the other players just like she’s done every day for years. Mrs. Fukuyo is sitting near the terrace doors, gazing out of the big window at the wet world outside.

“Hello, Tsutomu-chan,” she says, beckoning him to sit down, taking his hand in both of hers. “Or should I say Goshiki? You’re an adult, now, aren’t you?”

“Basically,” he says, lifting his chin. “One more week.”

“Oh, yes, you’re very grown up,” she says. “I remember when you were just starting secondary school. You were a bit skinnier then, and you wouldn’t eat fish.”

Tsutomu flushes.

“A lot can happen in a week,” says Miss Itoh, who often plays Mrs. Suzuki’s partner in crime when she deigns to attend bingo, as she passes by. “You be careful, Tsutomu, with all this weather. It’s bad luck.”

“There’s always weather,” sniffs Mrs. Fukuyo. “And we need the rain.”

“I’ll take care, don’t worry,” Tsutomu says politely. “You do the same, please.”

“Good, good,” Miss Itoh sounds distracted. “Happy birthday. Keep out of the rain, you’ll get sick. And don’t go sailing.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he stands to bow as she leaves the room.

“She’s crazy,” Mrs. Fukuyo sighs, half-joking. “But even a broken clock is right twice a day. You’re a good kid.”

“Thank you,” he says, stiff and awkward, cheeks glowing red.

“Tsutomu, there you are. Sorry to keep you waiting, I’m done now,” his mother lands a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Hello there, Mrs. Fukuyo. Doing well?”

“I am, thank you,” says the elderly woman. “Just telling your son what a strong man he’s grown up to be. He’ll take good care of his mother.”

“I will,” Tsutomu says with conviction. His mother’s pride beams down on him like the sun splitting the clouds.

“Thank you,” his mother says. “The storm rages on; we should probably go.”

“The roads aren’t safe,” says the the woman at the check-in desk as they prepare their rain gear to leave. “You should stay here for the night, Risa.”

Her jaw tightens. “I need to be there if Koichi radios in. We’ll make it just fine, don't you worry.”

On a nondescript day in August, you wake up.

Something tastes different on the current, and you feel almost like you’re regarding the world with new eyes again. You remember, with fierce and reckless abandon, what it is to love.

“Good morning,” you greet your sisters cheerily.

“Good morning!” They echo back, beaming at you. They feel it too, you can tell.

You eat your breakfast with gusto, examine your scales and scrub each until they shine. You kiss every sister you see on top of her red-gold head.

“I want to see Goshiki,” you tell your father, watching as his hair stands on end at the name, bracing yourself so the surprised jolt of power he emits doesn’t knock you down.

“No,” is all he can muster for a moment. “The human world isn’t safe. Look at what happened to you the last time you went up there.”

“I would have been fine because of Tsutomu,” you say, “And I’m even more powerful now than I was.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snaps back. “They taint everything they touch. You’d have to-to literally, actually become a human to return to the surface. I don’t want them taking you. I don’t want you to get hurt.” You take a deep breath.

“Fine,” you say. “Then I’ll do it myself.”

You exhale with controlled force, closing your eyes and concentrating on the slow beat of cold blood in your veins.

“What are you doing?” Starts your father, nervously, but you don’t hear as you focus intently on the warmth spreading through you.

Pop!

You open your eyes, magic still swirling around you, and beam.

“Feet!” You chirp. “I have feet!” A little more pushing, and—

“Are those legs?” Your father shrieks. “Stop this right now!”

“No,” you say fiercely, and release an explosion of power so potent it rocks you backward. Seconds later, you realize that you’ve blasted a hole in the wall and the barrier ward; seawater rich with plankton rushes through, followed by barracuda with bulging eyes and squirming eels. You have hands, now, and something odd is happening to your scalp. You use one of the new extremities to reach tentatively up and pat your head.

“Hair!” Your sisters, freed from their own bubbles by the commotion, float around you. A shock of hair has sprouted from your scalp like a crop of coral. It tickles your forehead.

“I did it,” you say quietly, breathless. “I’m human.”

You look around for your father, but only see the tail end of him dashing into one of his back rooms, his nervous muttering echoing around the room.

Perhaps if you were human from the beginning, your mother would have taken you to the sea, held your hand as you beheld the glittering waves for the first time, and warned you never to turn your back on the ocean. Alas, you weren’t and she didn’t, so you fall with no resistance forward when a rush of water slams into your back, grinding your face into the floor and sweeping you away while you flail your little hands helplessly.

You’ve only felt so powerless in the water once before. Scrabbling for purchase as you freewheel through the halls of your home, you catch your fingers—there’s still a little rush of joy from it, you made them, you have fingers—on the spokes of a great wheel and cling for dear life. It creaks and turns, and you yelp, your words turning to bubbles that rise and pop against the ceiling, against which the water now reaches. The wheel turns again, and you try to hold your breath (something you’ve never done before) as something in the door clicks. There’s a moment where you think it’ll hold, and then you rock forward a little more, and it swings open. The ocean, eager to fill everything and make it its own, changes its course, and you tumble into the room, eyes widening when you see the enormous cauldron filled with something richly luminous and golden. Even submerged, the scent of the potion is strong, reminiscent of plant rot and blooming flowers, the same perfume that your mother exudes. For a moment, you gain breath, lungs and gills morphed and confused, and then you’re pulled back beneath the surface and pushed right into the pot.

You shut your eyes, the golden glow permeating even through your eyelids, and oddly enough, you can breathe like it’s pure oxygen. You can feel your spell being taken away from you, your limbs becoming fins, and you open your eyes.

I want to be human, you cry. I want to see my love.

The cauldron erupts, pushing you out of it on the top of a geyser. You hear popping noises and try to stand, looking down to see several of your sisters caught up in the fount of bubbling-over magic, thrashing joyfully as they try to wave at you with suddenly huge fins. 

You wave back, and gasp involuntarily when you see your own hand. Five fingers, covered with soft skin, veins carrying warm blood and strong bones beneath it. Your sisters may have grown far more in the span of the last few seconds, but you’ve reached an entirely unfamiliar size and shape yourself. You stretch your legs, examining your toes, the way your dress—the same color as your scales and a little iridescent, just like they were—flows around you, and beam at your sisters.

Thank you, Mother. You bow your head quickly in short prayer.

“Let’s go see Tsutomu!” You call out, and your sisters leap in answer. The surface world is so different through the eyes of a human. Your head is turned constantly to the shore as you race on the bubbling foam towards the highest hill you can see, a speck of yellow and red on top of it growing closer with every step. Lights turn on and off in the windows of homes, a thousand little fireflies glowing smaller in the distance. Trees, shivering and shaking in the wind, make up the landscape, shaping it into something that looks almost soft from so far above.

The broad panorama isn’t without more minor detail, though: with some fascination, you see two glowing eyes staring at you from along the road. Their owner steps out of the shadows—a furry creature with pointy ears and a tail and a sleek white coat of fur. Another cat follows him into the light, this one black and her eyes shiny green, unlike the first’s calm blue. The white cat rubs his cheek along the other’s, winding around her while she stands stock-still. Quick as a minnow, the black cat swipes at him, but the white cat darts away, checking over its shoulder to see if she’ll follow. You beam broadly and speed up, eager to situate yourself in this strange and exciting new world Tsutomu comes from.

Tsutomu can’t remember a time his mother’s spent the night away from home. Every night, without fail, if she knows that his dad will be in the harbor, she sits at home and waits for him, beaming their signal in start-stop patterns, having whole conversations with him in flashes when the radio reception isn’t to be used. It’s not often he’s away from home, either; it makes him uneasy to be away from the open sea. A closed horizon is a strange sight to him, like being a bug trapped in a bowl.

His parents’ commitment to each other has shaped him, something he’s always known. In sickness and in health, they swore to each other, and they kept it. For better or for worse.

His mother certainly seems intent on plowing through the worst to get to his father, now, the rain hitting their windshield in sheets and the water sloshing around their tires. Tsutomu doesn’t protest at all, just hangs on to the grab handle and stares out at the behemoth waves.

A flash of red shines in the corner of his eye. He sucks in a sharp breath, twisting fully around. He squints, trying to make out shapes through the rain.

“Get back in your seat,” his mother blindly swats at him with one hand, eyes focused on the road. “You’re throwing off the weight distribution.”

Tsutomu ignores her, white knuckling the cushions of the car as he watches you, dancing in the rain, running with the waves. You duck and weave, your dress red against the cold, gray sea.

“There’s a girl in the water!”

“What? Where?”

His mouth lies, but his heart knows the truth, knew it as soon as he saw you.

“There,” he points, but you pull ahead of them, and then there’s nothing but lightning flashing in the distance. “Never mind. Never mind. We just—we just need to go home, sorry.”

“Right you are,” his mother says, and drives the gas pedal into the floor.

Tsutomu is a shipwreck. Tossed around on the waves of his thoughts, he finds himself cresting and falling, one emotion followed immediately by another. It can’t be you. It is you. Tsutomu doesn’t care what you are, just that he can see you again. He wonders if this is what drowning feels like.

Their wipers battle to slough off the buckets pouring from the sky, and Tsutomu’s heart drops to his soles when a smudge of red reveals itself just to be his old bucket, hanging off the fence. His mom parks and he tries to regulate his breathing, unbuckling his seatbelt and getting out of the car on shaky legs.

“Is that…” His mother says, trailing off, and his head snaps up, the car blocking him from whatever she sees.

He walks around, trying desperately not to break into a run, trying not to get his hopes up.

Barely audible over the sound of storming, the pat-pat-pat of rapid footsteps is his only warning before—

You crash into Tsutomu, both faces scrunching up from the impact, both losing your footing on the wet pavement and falling further into each other. He knows it’s you even with his eyes closed. He would know you in every world and the next; he would know you from the beat of your heart and the touch of your skin and the way he loves you, loves you, loves you.

For a moment, before you hit the ground, you feel like you’re flying with him.

You spill together onto the driveway like an egg cracked into a pan, still holding each other in a bone-crushing embrace. You inhale his scent deeply and nuzzle into his wet-rain-jacket shoulder, and he cracks his eyes open, afraid you’ll disappear when he comes back to reality.

Tsutomu says your name quietly, on tenterhooks, almost all the breath in his body taken out of him.

You lift your head and say his louder, eyes wide and bright and wet. He can’t stop his tears from welling up, but he can blame them on the rain.

You kiss his cheeks where the salt might dry, one then the other, soft as the breeze. Tsutomu can still feel your smile, unfading. The sky turns gold around you.

[sleepy-wyvern]

Hey Wy 🫶🏼 um, can I request some small angst (I honestly don’t know if you do angst) and big fluff with Eddie M? I’m having really bad day, I got bitten by dogs twice today and I had fight with my brother. I cried almost all day and I just want to feel love from Eddie. 🥺

Hey!! I definitely write angst! I’m so sorry you had a bad day Luna, that makes me so sad to hear ): I wrote this little fic for you, hope this helps, even a little and you feel better very soon. I hope this is angsty enough for what you were looking for. 

First pic, second pic

Milk Chocolate Oneshot Eddie Munson x Female!Reader Fluff

1k word comfort fic <3

The sight of your tears is one that Eddie Munson will never get used to. The way his heart squeezes to see you sad, and breaks when tears flow down your cheek.

You felt bad to make him worry about you but you weren’t sure how long you could sit in the driveway, drowning in your music, head on your steering wheel as tears dripped onto the old leather. 

You knew he would be in your shared apartment, waiting for you to get home and soon he would be calling, or searching so you had to go in. You swallow back a sob as you grab your bag, holding your jacket tight to your body.

Your hands shake as you fumble with the keys in your pocket, taking longer to open the lock as you normally would from the shaking. As soon as you close the door behind you, you drop your bag and jacket with a thud, loud enough to alert Eddie of your presence.

“Hey honey,” he called from the living room, nonchalantly. He was in an entire different world than yours at the moment, not that you faulted him for it. In fact, you’d rather him stay in his happy bliss.

You say nothing in response, scared your voice would break and give your emotion away. Yet your silence was a big enough clue, as you walked down the hallway.

“y/n?” Eddie called out from across the house, but you closed and locked the door behind you.

You slid down against the door, feeling the cool tiles beneath you. You pull you knees up to your chest, burying your face in your shaking arms. Tears ran down your cheeks as you let yourself unfold in the privacy of the bathroom.

A soft knock on the door echoed through the room “y/n, is everything alright…?”

“Go away,” you murmur, running your face along your arm with a sniffle.

You heard a small thud and the slight clink of his metal chain on the floor which signaled he was sitting on the other side. 

You sit together in silence for a few minutes until the slight vibrate of your phone reminds you of its presence. You debate whether or not to answer but curiosity wins as you pull it out of your pocket. It was a text from Eddie; no words, only a gif. It was from the video nearly 13 years ago, when she sang "You Belong With Me.” It was a simple, short looping video of Taylor Swift holding a notepad with the text “you okay?” written in black sharpie.

You couldn’t help but let out a laugh, even in the worst of times Eddie was there trying to cheer you up, even when you told him to go away.

You hear him stand, leaving for just a minute before you hear him slump against the door again. Out of the corner of your eye you see a slip of white paper being stuffed underneath the door along with a black marker.

Want food? It read.

You smile down at the paper, grabbing the marker.

What kind? You slide the paper back underneath the door waiting for a reply.

The paper came back to you with the word Pizza. 

Yes, you reply.

Well that’s good cause I already ordered it. 

You laugh as he slides a chocolate bar underneath the door, with another piece of paper that reads Peace Offering.

You stand, opening the door slowly revealing Eddie sitting up against the wall. He looked up at you with large brown eyes, showered with concern and eyebrows sad. He stood immediately, wrapping his arms around you tightly. His strong grip helped steady you as you crumbled in his embrace.

Tears fell off your cheeks and dissolved into the fabric of his long sleeved shirt. His dark hair tickled your face as he bent down to kiss the top of your head. 

His arms guided you to the couch, sitting you down on the cushion. He ran his fingers through your hair, pulling it back out of your face while you sobbed into his chest. He said nothing but just sat with you, running his hand along the length of your back.

You opened the wrapper of the chocolate, it crinkled softly.

“Are you… are you eating chocolate while crying?” he asked with an eyebrow raised, pulling back to look at you.

“Yes,” you pout, putting a small square of it in your mouth.

He giggled burying his face into your hair again, showering the top of your head with kisses. You let the chocolate melt on your tongue while he laughed, a sound you couldn’t resist as it lightened the feeling in your chest. 

“You are-” he had a deep, content sigh in between his sentence “so beautiful” the words rolled off his tongue and into you.

You snuggled into him, curling your legs up into him and leaning your head against his chest taking refuge in his beating heart. You took a piece of chocolate holding it up to his lips he gingerly takes it, smiling down at you with a charming grin as he bites down.

“Don’t ruin your appetite for pizza,” he mumbled into you, making his chest rumble against you.

He pulled the soft, fluffy blanket off of the back of the couch, pulling it over you both creating a wonderful safe warmth. He ran his hand along your back in the way you loved that he frequently did to put you to sleep. 

You spent the rest of the night curled up together beneath the tv playing your favourite comfort movies and shows. He spent the entire night by your side, only leaving a moment for when the pizza came. Even then, he returned quickly to wrap his arms around you and hold up the slices for you to bite into. Even when you went to the bathroom he sat outside the door, patiently waiting for you to return with an innocent look in his eyes.

“I love you,” he whispered into your ear as the evening turned to night.

“I love you too,” you whispered back.

Although you knew this wouldn’t be your last day of frustration and sorrow you knew he would be there for every single one. Always.

----

💙💙💙💙

Thanks so much for reading, if you liked this fic and feel inclined to feel free to comment/heart/reblog I treasure every one!

My requests are currently OPEN! Turnaround time is 1-3 days depending on complexity of prompt!

Have a great day my lovely reader!

-Wyv

💙💙💙💙

[klaineccfanficlibrary]

2. Page-turning Fanfic Underneath it All by Heartsmadeofbooks 3. Fanfic that made you reach for a box of tissues- Hummel’s Home for Non-Conforming Adolescents by BeautifulUnseen 4. Fanfic where one has an unusual occupation- Dance Me To The End Of Love by Kurtswish 5. Wild Card - Love, Blaine by GleefulDarrenCrissfan 6. ? 7.written for a challenge- The Prom-us Misc authors

8. Made me lol - Chocolate Milk byCoffeeAddict80 9. Trope you don't usually read- Everybody's Naked and There's a Country to Run by CoffeeGleek

Thank you for your card! Find them on A03

2. Page turning fic: Underneath it All by @heartsmadeofbooks

Blaine first meets the mysterious Kurt Hummel at his brother's engagement party, and he's immediately struck by the quiet, handsome stranger. He doesn't expect their paths to cross again, but when life gives an unexpected turn, Kurt might be the only one with the power to help him save everything he cares about.

3. Fanfic that made you reach for a box of tissues- Hummel’s Home for Non-Conforming Adolescents by @beautifulunseen

Blaine Anderson had learned from the time he was marked as Non-Conforming that his life would never go according to plan. Still, the last thing he expected was Hummel’s Home and its head boy Kurt, who had, against all odds, escaped the same fate. Dystopian AU.

4. Fanfic where one has an unusual occupation- Dance Me To The End Of Love by @kurtswish

While unwinding at a club, Blaine Anderson meets a stranger who promises him one night of passion. When the night is over, Blaine wants more, so does Kurt; but what Kurt offers him is not quite what he was expecting.

5. Wild Card - Love, Blaine by @gleefuldarrencrissfan

Blaine Anderson is a typical teenager. Except he’s not because he’s hiding a huge secret. He’s gay. But after reading a confession on the informal Dalton blog, he discovers that he’s not the only closeted boy at Dalton. After a moment of courage, he emails him and ultimately starts up a friendship that will change life as he knows it. Loosely based on Love, Simon.

6. Summer story ------- no choice

7. Written for a challenge- The Prom-us Misc authors @gleefuldarrencrissfan @esperantoauthor @hkvoyage @hippohead @honeysucklepink @grlnxtdr30 @justgleekout @notyourdayrdream @missflurry @starpunchsoup Kellyb321

Kurt and Blaine met just as they did in canon, and even though Blaine realizes when Kurt sings Blackbird that he's in love with Kurt, he never says anything, and Kurt goes back to McKinley. Blaine transfers to McKinley for senior year, and they are best friends, bonding on being the only two out guys at McKinley until Karaofsky comes back. And he's out and proud, and he wants Kurt. And so he asks Kurt to be his prom date, repeatedly until Kurt, in frustration, finally blurts out that someone already asked him. He said the first name that came to mind, Blaine's. On top of that, he tells Dave that they are now dating. Now, Kurt needs to convince his best friend to take him to the biggest event of their high school year, senior prom. Tropes: Fake Dating, Friends to Lovers, High school Klaine, Canon Divergent

8. Fic made me laugh out loud - Chocolate Milk by @caramelcoffeeaddict CoffeeAddict80

Based off a prompt found on tumblr -- “Yes, I know this is a bar, but you’re a really hot bartender, and I panicked and said “CHOCOLATE MILK” when you asked me what I wanted to drink, now I just want to crawl away and hide forever” AU

9. Trope you don't usually read- Everybody's Naked and There's a Country to Run by @coffeegleek

A take on the "prince/king!Blaine and prince/king!Kurt are getting married and have to do it while naked in front of their loyal subjects" trope. It’s pure crack taken seriously. I’m blaming the heat. The fic started as this wisp of an idea and a single funny Kurt line. It was supposed to all be fast paced and instead sometimes dissolves into a bit of world building, exposition, and Kurt feelings. I do try my best and hope that at least some of the jokes and humor land. It also developed a full blown plot that has a beginning and an end.

[fountainpenguin]

"He's always running with no one to keep warm. It's like he's flirting with the smoke alarm..." (x)

---

New Criminal Experience chapter today!

Chapter 7 - “Freed”

❤️ Read on AO3

💙 Start from Chapter 1

💚 More Pixels Imperfect fics

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Mumbo hatches an allay egg. Is that in a wandering trader's job description?

(First 1,000 words under the cut)

---

Several minutes later…

Egg hatching is a slow, ugly process. It's all kicks and little throbbing membranes visible through the shell. It takes an account creation to spawn a hybrid (and that's a whole theology in itself). Between has 100 dragons (or rather… 99; 98), and it can take days or weeks for an egg to have its turn. The rarer species may not hatch for months- Like the allay eggs. Mumbo kept them in Little Sun, awaiting Doc's green light to bring them to their new home.

The Allay Dragon was still alive last time he went to Crystal Cove. Mumbo holds the egg in both hands (mostly in his lap) as the baby inside pauses for energy. The rough wall behind him presses cold and hard against his head. Each individual block bears against skin. Is it comfortable? No. But is it safe here? … Nah, likely not. Carrie's patrol members could stumble across him at any time. And who knows if there's an enderman on the floor below, studying the ceiling tiles and readying themself to grief the block of their choice? Oh, this could go so badly.

If the allay's a hybrid, then somewhere in the multiverse, this newbie already exists in a form (on some secret little pocket server, dragged beneath Between as though by squid tentacles) that walks and builds and plays.

New accounts draw energy directly from the player who created them, but only on a server. Only while actively engaged. When that borrowed energy withdraws, the new player is left wobbly-legged and bleary. That's when their world fades out around them. They wake here in Between, swaddled in an egg. Born of a dragon. Part human in creation, blessed with lore, concept, and culture from the outside world. Part mob-themed dragon, blessed with a vessel to carry them through life even without a player's aid. Born of milk. Raised in love.

"Shh, yeah, look at you," Mumbo whispers, brushing his thumb across one cracked piece still clinging on. It's like a rose petal in his hand. The membrane pulses underneath. Is that a wing? Yeah, that might be a wing. That can't be right. It would've had to turn over. Maybe it's a foot.

"Not a first-timer," Vee muses, still washing things in the tub. What- Because he's not losing his mind? He'd laugh if he weren't shaking. Yes, well… even amidst new life, there are chores to be done. It's a lot of work, holding a baby and keeping still.

"You neither, yeah? Didn't you sit with ravager eggs 'til one hatched a mob?"

"Yeah, that's how my tribe's always done it. Some try to tame the wild ones that roam the emerald savanna, though."

"Oh, I don't fancy that."

"BigB and I picked ours out together," she murmurs, and leans her head in closer. Mumbo watches her eyes flick across the cracking egg in his hands. He's never felt her breath dance and swirl like this. They've never been this close. Vee lays a hand against his rolled-up sleeve. "Did it stay warm, you think?"

Stay warm. Now, that's the hardest chore of all. Mumbo doesn't answer, tightening his arms around the living, breathing egg. Funny… It even feels more alive now that it's been sparked with life. Are his sleeves enough? Is HE enough? He doesn't have the serpentine body of his mother, with her golden scales and spiky gemstone wings. Mum can wrap many, many times around many, many eggs in her nest of maple twigs and leaves. Wandering traders hatch from dark blue eggs flecked with gold. The allay in his arms is not the first one he's ever seen crack before reaching its final destination.

His earliest days are blurry ones. In Between, his eyes were darkened with lens caps, his body weak and skinless as he suckled and learned to build his own strength. Walking's easy, you know, when you're fed energy from the outside world. With a player in control, you can sprint like the wind, leap with deer, and skid sideways by the rivers whipping down the hills. But walking takes time (speaking takes time; opening your eyes takes time). Dragon milk's the key to surviving your early days. Milk is energy and energy is life.

I hope the allays get by okay on the substitutes I have.

… Ah. Those went over the cliff with Buzz, didn't they?

I wish my mum were here. I expect the Ender Dragon will tense if she sees me getting close. Dragons view wandering traders as neutral creatures; at least, that's what his mentors taught. In fact, that's the whole reason he stood before Impulse when the Firefly Dragon arrowed through the swamp to snuff at them. But meandering through a dragon's territory without upsetting her is one thing, and sneaking close enough to steal their milk is quite another. My own mother won't let me touch her belly gems.

Gah. Hatching is ugly even when babies are sweet little things. And carting them across Between feels like charging across a volcanic coast biome filled with magma blocks and hot sand, even when passing eggs to grateful new parents is the most rosy feeling in the world. Yet despite the danger, you play your role over and over, because it's in your code and it's beautiful. The urge and the journey and the game.

Mumbo stares at the damp, glowing membrane that kicks beneath the shell. Is the baby allay doing all right? While there's no such thing as an egg turning out a "dud" - there are new accounts created every day, after all, and life will spark in a valid egg eventually - a few conditions must be met for an egg to hatch a hybrid instead of a mob. It must be unbroken. It must not be abandoned in an unloaded chunk for more than moments. When hatching time arrives, it needs to have enough headroom. They can't be in your inventory.

And it must be kept warm.

Vee's still waiting for an answer to that question. Are they warm; are they safe; are we raising simple mobs or children who'll be like us someday? He kept the eggs bundled in his satchel. Carrie sort of had them wrapped in the llama blankets. That might have been enough to stave off the chill of permafrost and wind.

But this past hour hasn't been exactly kind to the eggs, so Mumbo draws unsteady breath. "I don't know. We've been running about. I don't know."

If a mob hatches from the egg, the account meant to sync up to this one will take whatever else it can. Maybe not its first choice of species, but there are other options. If you like allay culture, you might try life as a rascal hybrid- They're classed as fey and just as rare. You still get to gather things and hand out gifts. Or if the size and wings were to your taste, vex are an allay's nearest neighbor (biologically speaking). Heck, plenty of allay get turned into vex before long. It's like that for villagers, too; some become zombies, others witches. There's an old rumor that if you're bitten by a llama on a full moon night, you'll wake up a wandering trader, but that can't possibly be true.

"… Maybe it would be for the best," is Vee's tactical reply. What? If the allays are born mobs? Mumbo flickers his eyes to her. She doesn't look at him, rubbing fabric on fabric to peel off a dirt stain. And she's probably right. She's got keen instincts. They keep her alive.

With the soul spawner out of the equation, a newborn allay hybrid is doomed to a life in Between without taking risks. Avoiding danger. Certain biomes. Certain play. Of course, a slain mob won't respawn either, but at least it's… less aware of everything. Itself. The world.

That its mother's dead.

[Full chapter on AO3 - Link at top]

[whatsthisascianbullshit]

Everyone has weird and wild dreams - what's one that your character has had? Describe it in great detail!

(Literal months later ooof TT^TT the idea I immediately had for this has been haunting me while I had some Particularly Cruddy health months but I could not just describe Muireann getting her Echo as a child and it uhh turned into a fic ^^; )

Ralenne was walking through the forest, which was strange because she knew she had just gone to bed. Mama had read her a story because she wouldn’t make the special tea the Sylphs had given her. And then she fell asleep. So this must be a dream - which was exciting! She started skipping, swinging her arms about wildly. Things didn’t hurt in dreams, she could run and play all she wanted.

“Kind skipping one!” there was a Sylph just ahead of her waving her over.

“Hello leafy one!” Ralenne jumped over in a single bound giddy at the dream-powers she had.

“These ones must thank skipping one for helping flightless one.”

“Oh no it’s ok, these ones already gave me milk tea as a present.”

“Lord Ramuh wishes to thank skipping one also as part of bargains with light one.”

“Oh ok.” Ralenne had heard of Ramuh, he was a primal, a god worshipped by the Sylphs but not like the Twelve were worshipped by everyone else. Primals were supposed to take over your brain but her Sylph friend was still green and besides, this was a dream and Ralenne could control it so she would simply just wake up if he grabbed at her head.

She followed the Slyph past the Hawthorn hut, through Little Solace, and all the way into the Sylphlands. Ralenne’s eyes were wide as she took everything in - if plants and trees could be welcoming hosts these certainly were. The branches reached and curled delicately around lanterns softly illuminating the path before her. She could catch glimpses of a brilliant night sky through the canopy of brightly burning stars hovering in place like thousands of tiny suns. 

Waiting. 

Ralenne hurried to catch up with her guide.

“Skipping one must go to the alter alone, this one is sorry to not be of more help,” the Sylph fluttered down to hold her hand, “thank you again, skipping one - these ones hope you will visit to play again!”

Ralenne squeezed the tiny twig-like hand carefully, “This one would very much like to play with these ones again.” 

Turning to face the alter erected to Ramuh she felt the warmth of the forest leave her. Like the whole world was holding its breath. She gulped in a breath of air so big holding it puffed out her cheeks. Papa would say she looked like a nix. The alter was akin to a mossy stage and yet she could swear she heard her cautious steps echo as though she was stomping on flagstones.

“Child,” a voice that Ralenne could only describe as grandfatherly - despite not knowing her own herself - boomed behind her, shaking through her bones like thunder, “you have done a great kindness to the children of the forest. I see now you are indeed the one of whom she spoke.”

“Mister Lord Ramuh, I thought the Sylph I helped was a boy though?” her confusion earned a rumbling chuckle.

“You will know her in time.” A crackle of lighting urged the canopy overhead to pull back and the waiting, judging stars once more stared back down at the two of them.

“You must have patience,” Ramuh placed his hands on her shoulders, holding her steady as the stars started to move and sparks of levin crackled across her shoulders and down her back, “and resolve to hear those that ask for your aid. You have shown you think of others’ needs, that you feel kindness in your heart. You shall be the measure by which I judge man.”

There was a woman speaking also, the same three words over and over - but everything hurt so much and she could not turn and run from the stars. They were falling - flying - towards her. She needed to run. She needed to - 

“Ralenne!” Her mother’s voice was raised but laced with worry as she lept awake. “My darling what in the heavens has you so tortured?”

“Stars’re falling ‘n’ they’ll hit me.” her throat was dry, she must have been screaming in life as she was in her dream.

“Oh my darling, Lenne - they cannot fall that close. And if they did these walls protected against the wrath of all the elementals, mere stars cannot harm you here.”

[princesssarcastia]

in this land of milk and honey, we're too shy to say we're thirsty

here, have 1.5k of fic i just wrote about mission: impossible: rogue nation.  AU of the scene where Ethan Hunt wakes up a captive of the Syndicate, where Ilsa Faust gets to run the interrogation the way she wants to, instead of being interrupted by the Bone Doctor.  title from “Little Mercy,” by Doomtree. read it on ao3 here.

“What Vinter and the rest of his stupid ilk never realize is that torture doesn’t work, especially on their own kind.  Pain is cheap.”

-

Ilsa grabs her tools by rote memory, uninterested in taking any care in the work she’s about to do. This isn’t the first time she’s worked someone over for Lane, and it won’t be the last time; she needs to stay numb to it, numb here in the moment and numb after his latest acquisition bends and twists, numb when she has to stand there in the aftermath as the others move in to take what they want from him, numb to the part of her that wants to perk up at the praise following a job well done.

The door groans under its own weight when the guards push it open for her, and she sees the man tense ever so slightly where he’s tied to the post.  Conscious, then, but not quite awake.  Her heels click in the silence after the door slams shut. 

She leaves the lights off; the shadows help, sometimes, with some agents.  Paired with the right kind of drugs, the right kind of touch, darkness can add a dreamlike quality to an already intimate process.  People like them feel safer in the dark.

This one is dangerous. Lane wouldn’t take such a personal interest if he wasn’t.  So, she slips off her shoes, sets them on the table with her tray and her jacket, unbuttons the top button of her shirt and rolls up her sleeves.

Ilsa turns around and—

He’s awake now.

He’s staring at her.

She stares right back.

The moment yawns and stretches between them, arching languidly.  Ilsa breathes in sharply, quietly, and takes a step toward him, still caught on his eyes—although the rest of him is hardly a chore to examine. 

He doesn’t move, focused intently on her.  Assessing. Calculating.  It feels—it feels a little like when Lane looks at her, like he’s cataloguing her expressions and picking apart the things that make her tick.  But it doesn’t make her want to curl up and hide when this man does it. 

“Nice shoes.”

Ilsa blinks, then quirks her brow, amused.  That’s a new one.  

“American intelligence, yes?”  A soft opener. 

He tilts his head, silent, but clearly not buying that she doesn’t already know.

“But not the CIA,” she continues, moving closer in even steps.  “No, you have too much personality for that, I can already tell.”

Now he’s amused, letting his lips twitch, but he keeps his silence.  She starts turning his reactions in her mind, letting her gaze fall over the whole of him to catch them all.  This one is a talker; she just needs to get him started.  And stop getting distracted by his eyes.  There’s something about them that draws her attention, but Ilsa can’t figure out what.

“How long have you worked for the IMF?”  She stops well outside of his reach but still close enough to see his chest rise and fall minutely with each breath.  If she focuses, she imagines she might be able to see it twitch with the beating of his heart.

“How long did you work for British intelligence, before you turned traitor?”  He fires back.  Right on the money.  Not that it’s a difficult guess, given where he is and how she speaks.

“Twenty years,” she says calmly, and watches him mentally turn on a dime, reassessing.  “They recruited me right of secondary school. I imagine it was much the same for you. Sometimes, they catch people later, but MI6 knows how to recognize a good asset in the making fairly early.”

Ilsa takes a step closer. “The agency was my whole life.  It consumed all my time and energy.  My waking hours and my sleeping ones.  And I was…eager to please.  An excellent agent, willing and capable of doing anything they asked of me.  It was hard, sometimes, but in the end it was worth it because I knew everything I was doing was for queen and country.  The greater good,” she adds, letting her mouth twist wryly. 

He watches her for a moment, and she lets him, lets the silence sit, lets it build.  It’s an obvious enough cue, and he’s curious enough now to take the bait.  He wants her talking as much as she wants him talking, neither of them in control nor sure they have the upper hand, yet. 

“What changed,” he asks finally, and Ilsa’s gaze catches on his eyes again.

“I woke up,” Ilsa takes three steps to her left, changing the angle of approach.  “I realized, one day, that I only thought I was fighting for the right side because it’s what I chose to believe.  None of my experiences actually supported that conclusion.

“Have you ever killed an innocent person, Ethan?”  She doesn’t wait for his answer.  “I know I have.  On accident, sure, as an unintended casualty of my mission; but on purpose, too.  Sometimes it was the mission.  To make things easier for MI6, for my handler, for England.  For their convenience.”

Now he shifts, the cuffs on his wrists and ankles clinking.  He doesn’t respond, but she can see it in his eyes.  He has.  Of course he has.  No one in their line of work hasn’t. 

That fact of life actually bothers him, unlike Lane and the rest of the men here.  The same way it bothers her when she forgets to be numb.

She knows what it is in his eyes, now, that’s pulling at her attention. 

His eyes are kind.  He looks kind. 

It’s impossible. 

“I realized I was only loyal to them because of a lie I was telling myself.  And that loyalty certainly wasn’t returned.  The agency doesn’t exist to care for its agents, it exists to use them up until there’s nothing left.  How many times did they leave me out in the cold, dangling in the wind, to survive or die under nothing more than my own ability?”

“That’s the job,” he says, with a hint of condescension.  It grates.  He probably means it to.

“That doesn’t make it right, the way they treated me.  The way your government treats you.”  

His eyes shift.  He knows her game, now, has mapped out the path she wants to take, the weak spots she’s aiming for.  The muscles in his limbs tense and relax minutely, imbued with the strength of surety, surety that what she’s trying to do won’t work. 

But his faith in himself is misplaced, because now she can tell he hasn’t realized yet that what she’s saying is true.  He’s like her, two, five years ago: unable to value his own life.  What his handlers do to him doesn’t matter because he doesn’t matter; you can’t hurt someone if they don’t see themselves as person capable of being hurt.  It’s fine if they use you because you’re letting them.  You’re a tool; if you’re not being used, then what’s the point of you?

The truth is, it does matter.  It does hurt them.  And they only let themselves be used because the right people broke them at the right time, cracking them wide open to let someone else in to twist them into knots.

Truth will out.  It’s more powerful than people like them, steeped in lies and deception, ever expect, which is why Ilsa is so fond of using it.

Faster than the eye can properly see, she lunges for him, sinking her needle into the meat of his bicep and depressing the plunger.  Too quick for him to stop, although he pulls his legs up to kick her in the chest and send her sprawling.

Truth will out.  But of course, the drugs help. 

His kind eyes blink rapidly, then slowly, clearly tensing to try and fend off unconsciousness that isn’t coming.  Oh, it won’t knock him out.  Unconscious is no use to her.  But it’ll ease the way for the truth; make him more pliant, more sociable, more open to suggestion. 

What Vinter and the rest of his stupid ilk never realize is that torture doesn’t work, especially on their own kind.  Pain is cheap.  Their bodies are disposable, their lives are disposable.  Ethan Hunt would happily die for the IMF, for the greater good, probably even for his fellow agents.  He’s a fighter, this one.  He’ll die before they break him. 

But if Ilsa can lay the truth of their lives out in front of him in ways he can understand, it will plant seeds of doubt his lived experiences can’t help but nurture.  Doubt is more dangerous than pain.  

Ethan Hunt and his kind eyes will never work for Solomon Lane, not after Lane shot that poor woman in the head in front of him.  Not after Lane made him feel helpless—and she’s sure Lane did, it’s his favorite way to make people feel, and he’s spectacularly good at it.  

She just needs to make sure Ethan doesn’t work against them.  Finding the ways his handlers have made him feel helpless is a good place to start.

Ilsa waits for his pupils to blow wide and his pulse to slow in his chest and neck before she starts. She stays where he put her on the floor, only shifting enough to sit up.

“How long have you worked for the IMF, Ethan?”  She asks softly.

One breath.  Two breaths.  He blinks again, licks his lips.  

 And tells her.

[llycaons]

hi!! i hope you're having a great day!! i wanted to ask if it's okay i asked for some writing advice? (if not, that's totally okay you can ignore this) <3 i want to write a fic specifically with cql characterizations where wei wuxian comes back as qin su after 13 years and he has to act as qin su while getting revenge for her (kind of like the double i guess? hehe). i thought it would be a fun plot but im kinda struggling on how to involve lan wangji without making it obvious that they're close with jgy in the picture. also i feel like wei wuxian would come up with so many schemes to expose jgy but i dont think im as smart as wei wuxian to come up with them loll so any ideas/advice would be amazing, i'd appreciate it so much!! idk if this fic will see the light of day but its fun writing some of it

also thank you sm for compiling links with palestine donations <3

Hello, anon! Thanks, I'm home tonight making food and catching up on errands :) I hope you're doing well too! answer got long hehe

I'm always happy to get fic asks, and of course I'll chat this question through, but I should disclaim that I'm not a writer, either by inclination or training. I like to read, and give my opinions on what I read, but I'm much better and more comfortable reacting to what I've been given than generating any new content or ideas myself. So while I'm more than happy to guide you through these questions, I'd also suggest reaching out to other fic writers, and looking through tips and suggestions geared towards writers as well. And maybe something will come to you in the middle of it, too! Feedback from friends and discussion on what you've already done is another great way to spark ideas!

i want to write a fic specifically with cql characterizations where wei wuxian comes back as qin su after 13 years and he has to act as qin su while getting revenge for her (kind of like the double i guess? hehe).

Okay! so cql characterizations with qs instead of mxy. I really like this idea, how exciting! qs is such an underdeveloped character and this is an opportunity to explore her and get her some justice. And yess THE DOUBLE MENTIONED!!! I've just hit episode 28....big things happening in the jiang household.

I've actually read something with this concept before, but it was....not executed so well. I don't know much about writing advice, but I can tell you what I thought didn't work for that one. The writer was bizarrely fixated on qs's 'soft' body and breasts...just breasting boobily all over the place leaking milk it was SO weird 😭The obsession with her body felt extremely creepy and misogynistic and bioessentialist and also just, besides the point!

Obviously the body that wwx comes back in is important, but it's not the single defining feature of his new life and it won't determine his identity, he might have some feelings about it either way, but it's HIS, and he can now do as he pleases with it. And he knows it used to belong to someone else who had a whole life and motivations and fears and griefs too, and I love it when he respects that and honors that, much like xff does for jl.

The double, much like cql, is very much about reputation, and if wwx comes back in qs's body and needs to remain undercover, he might care about maintaining her reputation as part of his caretaking of her body and her legacy, or he might not. Those are themes you could pay with!

I also like fics that have wwx look at his new body and see the marks on it and think about what mxy went through and what kind of life he might have lived...old scars, aches in his joints, a crooked finger, internal likes and dislikes that don't align with wwx's own...they tell you something about mxy/qs without them being in the picture any longer. It's a really neat character building device!

I'd say this could run into some very sensitive territory very quickly, so if you aren't trans I'd suggest looking into how to respectfully and authentically write trans men, and/or find a sensitivity reader. Tho this wwx isn't...exactly? trans, it's something I think is worth thinking about anyway. (Unless he was trans in his first life of course!)

and he has to act as qin su

so let's focus on this part - the great thing about wwx is that he contains absolute multitudes. the wwx in mxy's body came back, figured out his personality, and immediately started playing it up, and it worked with his personality bc he IS a silly prankster, but he's also an extremely intelligent and socially intuitive survivalist capable of being quiet and understated. if he had to act like qs for a BRIEF amount of time in order to figure out the situation and get out, he probably could. though the conduct training he'd received as a young master wouldn't be the same qs would have received, he could probably figure it out, think quick, observe, etc.

moving on to our next question!

how to involve lan wangji without making it obvious that they're close with jgy in the picture

the thing is though, wwx really couldn't be himself and stay in disguise or very long. the big joke in cql is that wwx came back as 'mxy' then immediately dressed in his classic colors, starting hanging off lwj's arm, acting confident and charming, knowing a suspicious amount of the ghostly path, PLAYING THE FLUTE...which is why someone clever like jgy would immediately realize that 'his wife' is actually the yllz come back.

I personally don't think it would be as satisfying to keep it a secret for very long because wwx is always at his best when he's unencumbered, and because hiding doesn't really suit him anyway, but for an AU where wwx MUST be at koi tower, or MUST maintain that facade...hmm...honestly I think having jgy recognize it's wwx almost immediately would make more sense anyway. and then it's jgy's word against wwx's acting skills which would also be kind of wild...OR then maybe there's a reason he can't say anything to reveal it? maybe wwx finds the letter qs's mom's maid sent and holds it over him, and then lwj is there to back him up should jgy threaten wwx, so jgy has to rely on tricks.

basically I don't think there's any way jgy wouldn't realize the truth, even without lwj around. he's too clever, and wwx doesn't know qs at all, and the circumstances around the sacrifice summons are so violent and bloody as to be hard to conceal. presumably qs does it while jgy is traveling? that would give wwx some time to gather himself, figure out the lay of the land, meet the maids, etc...then jgy comes back, and maybe wwx fools him? ah, but even if lwj comes, then only having wwx and lwj talk as qs and lwj in jgy's presence wouldn't be very fun! either qs or jgy has to leave if the facade is to be maintained! and even then jgy would be suspicious!

maybe 'qs' could insist on lwj coming in as like, an impartial observer for whatever 'she' claims is happening? and then 'qs' could travel with lwj on their investigations for the wangxian and lwj could rely on his reputation as a peerless untouched jade etc. etc. and 'qs' could bring 'her' maids along to 'chaperone' but then they'd be in on it so wangxian could continue unimpeded? or impeded! up to you hehe! but the maids knowing might be helpful to get in jgy's way

also i feel like wei wuxian would come up with so many schemes to expose jgy but i dont think im as smart as wei wuxian to come up with them loll so any ideas/advice would be amazing, i'd appreciate it so much!!

unfortunately I'm not so good at idea either I'm sorry 😭 but I'd definitely suggest looking to canon - the suspicious music cultivation, nmj's death, the theft of the musical scores from the lan secret library - in wwx's investigation. if you follow canon wwx's thought processes, it'll be more in-character too! ALSO if you're inspired by the double, lean into that! it's a marvelously intelligent show, and xff is a brilliant social strategist, and in this AU you can absolutely have wwx act like xff in her investigations as well! wish i could be of more help....

idk if this fic will see the light of day but its fun writing some of it

Well I may not be a writer but I really do admire and appreciate the courage and vision of all the creatives in this world. Whether or not your fic makes it, I hope you have a great time planning it out and crafting it! I hope some of these ideas helped or inspired you, and I cannot recommend enough getting a friend who also likes the show to sit down and read through what you've got, to provide feedback and suggestions, and for you to bounce ideas off of. Based on what my friend says, it's part of what's making their fic happen. Like I said, I'm happy to offer my ideas on these one-offs, but it's probably more helpful when it's someone who knows you, and who knows your writing style and tastes and preferences :) even the ao3 reddit might have helpful ideas if you ask!

also thank you sm for compiling links with palestine donations <3

ah of course! we all do our part <3

In conclusion, I'd say

do research and be proactive in depicting wwx in qs's body respectfully. it's an exciting idea, and I love trans wwx, and it'll be cool to see more of these works out there if it happens

look for ideas from multiple sources, including writing blogs, other fic writers, canon, and other media you're drawing inspiration from

remember that wwx is capable of self-control BUT isn't really much of an actor longterm (outside of his masking bc of trauma reasons)

jgy is VERY perceptive, but wwx is very socially intelligent as well

your best bet for jgy not knowing is literally having them in physical proximity as little as possible. maybe qs needs to take a road trip to gusu. for her health.

maids and servants are invaluable sources of support and insight! qs's maids will be wwx's best allies, against jgy (and maybe for wangxian hehe)

that if you want jgy to know about it and to stay quiet you'll need wwx to be able to blackmail him or control him somehow

social pressures and conventions definitely matter to the su family, so they'll need a story for appearances, but won't really matter to lwj, so if you want a dramatic reveal of wwx being a heretical liar who 'stole the body of an innocent woman' lwj will be RIGHT there with him. romance <3

wwx is concerned for lwj's reputation but not his own

wwx MIGHT be concerned for qs's reputation, but might not be

wwx hasn't been able to smile politely and act nice to his open enemies for a very long time, but he's also very flexible

you have an exciting and dramatic challenge in front of you! should this fic ever be published I'd definitely love to take a look <3 I hope this helps - good luck!!

[princecharmingwinks]

Sterek Fic Rec - February 2022. Hello! It’s my birthday month wooo. Anyway welcome to the next addition of my recommendations, sorry I’m late! It is reading time!

Leaf Bandit by paintedrecs (1/1 | 7,274 | Teen)

When Derek moved from New York to Beacon Hills, he loved everything about his new small town life: except for his next-door neighbor, whose excessive and inconsiderate use of a leaf blower was quickly becoming the bane of Derek’s existence.

The Treehouse by rieraclaelin (1/1 | 1,766 | General)

It has a lot of sweet memories, and some not so fond. But its favorite story, the one it will whisper to the leaves at night when the moon is bright and full, is the story of the wolf who fell in love with the human.

A Knight in Shining Flannel by Elpie (Horribibble) (1/1 | 3,650 | Teen)

When a frantic phone call from his daughter sends him speeding across town, Derek Hale is prepared for the worst.

What he finds instead are the Stilinskis.

-

An AU featuring tiny werewolves, awkward single dads, and one bad babysitter.

Derek and Stiles, sitting in a tree…house. by DropsOfAddiction (1/1 | 8,947 | Explicit)

Then Stiles hears the growl, familiar and furious.

“Oh shiitake mushrooms,” Stiles groans, turning around. “Heeeeey Derek. Isn’t it a little past your bedtime?”

Derek looks as pissed as Stiles has ever seen him and it kind of gives him a little bit of satisfaction, so he snuggles closer to Ricky. Derek bares his teeth at them, thankfully still human and his nostrils flare wildly.

“You’re drunk,” Derek accuses him flatly.

“You’re drunk,” Stiles tells Derek nonsensically.

“This is the ‘not boyfriend’ I’m guessing?” Ricky looks down at Stiles, eyebrow cocked.

Derek full on snarls at that and for the first time in forever, Stiles starts to worry he might lose control of the shift.

little boy lost by crazyassmurdererwall (smartalli), smartalli (1/1 | 14,862 | Teen)

If someone asked Stiles to write a parenting book, Stiles would say the best and most important rule is to love your kid. Just love the hell out of them, and make sure they know it.

The second most important rule would be don’t turn your back on a curious three year old with supernatural speed.

Stiles is currently failing at the second rule. Badly.

erroneous manoeuvres by slippingfromreality (1/1 | 5,382 | Teen)

“Hey, Stilinski!”

Stiles clenches his teeth. “What do you want, Hale?” he shouts back, not bothering to turn around. The smug smirk that’s most likely waiting for him is already seared into his mind from overexposure.

“A date!” the answer comes, still as loud, and most of the bystanders giggle or snort in Stiles’ direction.

Stiles rolls his eyes. This is the third time this week. He’d complain that Hale’s jokes are getting pretty stale, but he’d probably be milking this situation for all that it’s worth, too, if their roles were reversed. ���Wrong aisle,” he grouses back, “try the bakery section. I hear they have fresh tarts.”

Or, in which Stiles grievously misjudged his bullying situation.

Let Me Protect You by christinchen (1/1 | 1,904 | Teen)

He’s screaming, yelling Derek’s name as he watches the other man go crashing to the forest floor. There are shots being fired, bullets flying through the air as Stiles runs. He doesn’t even care if he’s being hit, all he needs is to reach Derek. Derek who is lying on the ground, entirely too still, not moving, not getting up.

The Stuffy Paradigm by Nutellargh (1/1 | 1,644 | General)

“It’s not just that we have to arrange forty stuffed animals every time we make the bed. It’s that they must be in an extremely specific order, like Blinky and LouLou can’t sit next to each other because ‘they have history’. And you want to know the sick part? I want to know what it is!”

The Hands-On Experiment by mintedpotters (1/1 | 6,040 | Explicit)

Excerpt: --- “Dude! Magic? Not as made-up as we thought! Call me back!” Stiles shoved his phone into his pocket, his legs and lungs burning as he tried to keep up with Derek, who was loping through the trees as if it was the easiest thing in the world for him. Which, yeah okay, werewolf, it probably was the easiest thing for him to do, but who cares about semantics when you’ve got an actual sorcerer chasing you through the woods? ---

Tonight Looks Good On You by teacupboyfriends (1/1 | 2,469 | Explicit)

“I don’t think you really want me to get off of you.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because you’re holding onto me, dumbass.”

Or, Derek needs to go to work, but it’s hard to do with a grumpy little human in his lap.

princecharmingwinks special mention (I just loooove how Derek is written in this. Gosh so sweet!)

Something to Remember Me By by 1lostone (1/1 | 5,038 | Explicit)

At a graduation party, Derek makes some assumptions.

Stiles sets him straight.... so to speak.

And there we have it! Sorry again for being 2 days late, life happened. Hope you enjoy these recs and remember to leave kudos and comments for our fab writers. Till next time!

[hellogoodbye14]

Okay I dunno if you take fic requests but I would love to read one from you based on this prompt 💕💕💕💕

Azriel complaining to Rhys about Nyx bullying him because he keeps asking for hugs and kisses and its harmful to his broody bat facade and "Cauldron Rhys I can't babysit him, HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY NO TO HIM!!!??" while Rhys laughs and the distressing effects of an adorable child on his spymaster.

I m just a sucker for fluff and fun and Uncle Az 😁😁😁

Ask and you shall receive fam ❤️ (also might have gone overboard with this but oh well!)

“Unci Assshh!”, yelled the adorable toddler from across the training field.

Nyx was walking - well more like stumbling- between Feyre and Rhys who each held onto one of his tiny hands to help him balance his walk.

His tiny wings ruffled with each excited step and Rhys just laughed at Nyx’s clumsiness and determination to get to the spymaster.

Feyre and Rhys let go as they neared Azriel and Nyx threw himself at Azriels right leg. Azriel chuckled and ruffled his nephews head. Nyx as usual tried to crawl up Azriels long leg and managed to get to his thigh this time. Azriel gently grabbed Nyx by the scruff of his shirt behind Nyx’s head, like one holds up a puppy. Nyx squeeled with laughter and reached out to play with the shadows around him.

“Hey little troublemaker”, said Azriel as he carefully moved Nyx to his shoulders. The toddler was now joyfully yanking at Azriels hair.

Feyre winced, “sorry Az, he’s been yanking at everyones hair these days.”

Azriel just smiled and said it was no problem at all.

His highlord then gave him a list. Yes a list. One he always gave if Nyx was left with anyone who had to babysit. He had the list at each of the houses. One specifically addressed to every.single.person. To say Rhys was a motherhen was an understatement.

Feyre just rolled her eyes at her mate and motioned Azriel to bend down so she could give Nyx a peck goodbye.

“Be good for uncle Az”

“Unciiii Asssshhhhh!” , the toddler yelled in excitement.

Rhys smiled at his son, “we’ll be back from winter court in about two hours at most. Thank you for doing it again. Oh also under any circumstances NO sugar for him.”

Azriel nodded as Rhys reached up and ruffled Nyx’s hair who in return waved at his father and said “byeee daaaaa!”

Azriel was about to turn and take Nyx flying when he bumped into Gwyn.

“Oh hey!” , but the valkyrie was already cooing at Nyx who now reached out his hands to be picked up by Gwyn.

“Look at you, you little munchkin!”, she grabbed his tiny fist and pretended to munch on them, “oh i could just eat you up.”

Nyx squeeled with laughter.

“Umm.. I’m still here you know.”

Gwyn looked up at a frowning Azriel.

“You get my attention at training everyday, this one is too adorable to ignore.”

Azriel shook his head and rolled his eyes. His shadows as always were reaching out to Gwyn, and Nyx was taking full advantage of it and playing with them.

“Guys!”

Emerie came running out, “we need to go to Illyria for a bit, Nesta says they need help with the commanders meeting.”

Azriel frowned, “Cassian needs me to look over the trainees while he deals with the commanders?”

“Yeap”

“I have Nyx. I can’t train them.”

“He said you only have to stay and overlook it. Give some pointers, not engage them in any training yourself. He’s swamped.”

Azriel reached out to Rhys and Rhys offered his approval to take Nyx with.

Gwyn frowned down at the toddler,

“Will it be safe for him to be there?”

“Feyre says Rhys has a shield around Nyx which equates to the shield around Velaris. Besides he’s with us, it’ll be fine.”

“What did Rhys say?”, asked a surprised Emerie.

Azriel smiled, “He wanted to come back and take Nyx but Feyre told him to shut up and stop being so over dramatic.”

Emerie laughed, “sounds like Feyre. Okay lets go.”

Luckily, the weather at Illyria was on the mild side today, Azriel regardless made sure Nyz was covered and warm. The toddler was taken with Gwyn, not that Azriel could blame him. Any time Gwyn tried to leave the ring, the toddlers face would scrunch up, alerting everyone that he will wail like hell if Gwyn leaves.

Azriel had Nyx buckled and wrapped against his torso, and the toddler squeeled, clapped, and offered “wooaows” at the training illyrians. The illyrians were surprised to see the high lords son but still offered smiles at the toddler, they however turned their gaze away from Azriels stare in fear. Well that was until, Nyx called out and demanded attention, “unciii asshh, kiss”.

The blades the illyrians used faltered at that and gwyn straight up laughed at Azriels red cheeks. He nonetheless couldn’t refuse the adorable violet eyes looking up at him and gave Nyx a peck on the cheek.

The request was repeated another two times, until Nyx started getting fussy. It had been over an hour and Azriel had settled Nyx down on the mat and gave him some snacks. Healthy Rhysand approved snacks. But no. The toddler wanted candy.

“Buddy I have no candy, and your dad said no”

“Unci Ashh pleeease?”

Azriel sighed and looked up at the heavens. He could never refuse this child anything. Lord help him. Where the heck would he find candy in illyria? Gwyn ruffled in her pockets and got out five different candies.

Azriel lifted an eyebrow, “really?”

Gwyn just shrugged, “what.. I get hungry after training.”

“Well aren’t you the answer to all my prayers”

Gwyn blushed at that.

Another hour passed and Nyx was fussy again, Az sat down at the bench and tried to rock Nyx to sleep but the toddler was not having it. He turned around to make sure all the trainees were far away taking their break and looked down at Nyx. He then begun singing light notes of a song Nyx always loved. As he sang, his shadows gently caressed Nyx and soon his nephew was asleep in his arms.

Azriel carefully without jolting Nyx stood up and turned towards the ring. A ring packed with trainees who were gawking at him as if he was an alien. Well they obviously heard their stern spymaster sing a lullaby. Gwyn had returned from Emeries shop with Emerie as well and looked at him funny.

“What?”

She shook her head, “nothing. You have a beautiful voice Azriel.”

Azriel nodded his thanks and felt his cheeks burn.

“I’m taking him to the cottage, are you coming with?”

“Emerie is meeting Mor here in a bit. She’ll winnow us back.” Azriel nodded at the pair and turned to take Nyx inside the cottage. As soon as he got in, Rhys and Feyre had winnowed in.

“Is he okay? Didn’t trouble you too much?”, asked Feyre as she carefully took a sleeping Nyx into her arms.

“He’s fine and he was great.”

Feyre nodded and moved towards the kitchen to warm up some milk. Rhys gave a gentle kiss on Nyx’s head before she left the room.

“Why is there a chocolate stain on my sons mouth?”, said Rhys throwing an accusing look his way.

“Rhys, I can’t say no to him okay?! Its fucking impossible! He looks up at you with his puppy dog eyes and says please and I CANT SAY NO.”

Rhys just laughed.

“No I’m serious! And he is taking my rep to shit okay, I have a reputation to uphold. Everyone was scared of me, NOW THEY LOOK AT ME LIKE IM A CUTE LITTLE BEAR WHO SINGS LULLABIES!”

At this point Rhys was doubled over, holding his hand against his stomach. “Stop! lord this is too good. My high, mighty and terrifying spymaster brought down to a little bunny you said? By a toddler.”

Azriel sniffed, crossed his arms across his chest and rolled his eyes, “I said bear not bunny.”

Azriel could hear Feyre’s laughter from the kitchen as well, “not funny!”

“Oh my gods, its hilarious! I cant even right now”, she called out from the kitchen.

[letarasstuff]

Misunderstanding or wrong language?

(A/N): This fic is based on this late night thought I had. I really had fun writing it and I hope you enjoy reading it :) Any necessary translations that aren’t explained over the course of the fic are put down at the end.

Summary: Out of all sudden Spencer’s daughter is able to speak a different language. Where does she know it from?

Wordcount: 1.1k

✨Masterlist✨ ______________________________

Spencer is set on a calm morning with his daughter. He wakes her up and prepares her breakfast, a bowl of cereals, like any other morning he is at home. As the father pours the milk, (Y/N) sits down at the kitchen table.

“Here you go Sweetheart. Bon appetit”, he says in a terrible faked French accent and puts the bowl and a spoon in front of her. “Danke, Daddy.” Without even sparring him a look (Y/N) dugs right into her breakfast.

Spencer freezes for a moment. Did he misheard it or did she mispronounce the word? “What did you say, Sweetie?” He takes a seat next to his daughter and watches her curiously. “I said ‘thanks’”, she answers with her mouth full. “Baby, we don’t talk while we eat. You can after you swallowed, alright?”

The little girl nods and continues to devour her meal.

Later that morning both of them stand in front of the little one’s classroom. Spencer crouches down in front of her. “Ok Sweetheart. Have fun and be nice to your teacher and the other students. I love you.” Then he hugs her. “Have fun at work. Ich habe dich auch lieb”, she whispers into his ear.

Before the father is able to ask her about it, (Y/N) lets go and runs into her classroom. She instantly sits down at the book corner and begins to read. Spencer smiles at that sigh and makes his way out of the building to the metro.

As soon as he gets into the office, he searches for a certain black haired woman. “Emily”, he says breathlessly while entering the kitchen, “How much do you know about European languages?” Confused Prentiss looks up from the coffee machine, at which she stared for several minutes already. Mornings are rough.

“My knowledge is big, but I don’t think it meets yours. Or is the great genius suddenly at a loss?” She teases the young doctor. But this doesn’t bother him. “I have quite an extensive knowledge on that subject, but I can’t speak any except for English. But I know for a fact that you do and I have a suspicion. That’s why I am asking you: When you hear any European language, can you tell which one it is?”

Emily arches an eyebrow. “I guess. I don’t know all languages and I’m not sure if I can point at one, because it’s hard for me to differentiate between the several Scandinavian ones and between the eastern languages. But give me an example and I see what I can do.”

Spencer takes a deep breath and recites what his daughter told him over the course of the morning. “Danke. Ich habe dich lieb.”

The other agent mulls over the words for a few moments before answering: “This is German. It means ‘Thanks. I love you’. Where did you hear that?” “(Y/N) said it to me today. I don’t know where she learned it, but I had to know what it was at first before asking her. Thank you for your help, Emily.”

The rest of his work day consists of filling out one report after another, drinking copious amounts of coffee and wondering about where his daughter learned German phrases. Luckily for him he gets done with today’s workload earlier and Hotch dismisses him sooner than expected. That means he is able to pick (Y/N) up from preschool herself, calling off the babysitter.

“PAPAAAA”, screams his child excitedly as soon as she spots him. Suddenly a small weight collides against his legs. Spencer pets her head, smiling at his daughter.

“Hello Doctor Reid. Are you able to spare a few minutes?” Her teacher asks hesitantly. Confused, he nods and sends (Y/N) off to play for a bit.

“Thank you for your time, I appreciate it. Uhm, I noticed that (Y/N) began speaking in a foreign language, I don’t know which, and I really support you teaching her. But a little heads up would’ve been nice, because I don’t understand what she is saying since she switches between it and English constantly and then (Y/N) gets frustrated by repeating herself to me and the other children. So I advise you to work on the conscious use of one language or another, it’s in your daughter’s and your interest.” Spencer looks dumbfounded at the teacher.

“Uh, I didn’t know (Y/N) is fluent in German since this morning. She suddenly began speaking it and I’m not sure she knows it from. But thank you for pointing the problem out, I’ll take care of it.” After biding their goodbyes, Spencer takes his daughter home.

They play together with legos, then the young doctor reads to her. (Y/N) sits on his lap with her head on his chest. “Ok Sweetie”, Spencer says as he moves her down beside him, ”I’m going to make dinner. Do you want to continue that book on your own or do you want to watch TV for a bit?”

“Can you put on Dora the Explorer? But the one from last night? I really like her new voice”, she asks her father. “Sweetheart what do you mean? Dora doesn’t have a new voice.” Spencer slowly thinks he gets to the reason for her sudden bilinguality.

“Of course she does, Daddy. She sounds like this: ‘Swiper nicht klauen! Swiper nicht klauen! Swiper nicht klauen’!” All at once he understands it. Spencer accidentally put on Dora with the German dubbing and since there are English elements and it’s a kids show, she was able to understand it. All the things shown there are pretty easy to understand.

“Sweetheart, Daddy did there something yesterday and I need you to listen to me closely. The Dora you watched yesterday was a different one from the one you always watch. She spoke another language, this is what you mean by a new voice.” The rest of the evening Reid tries to explain the concept of different languages to his daughter and its meaning.

“Daddy”, she asks him in the end as he puts her to bed, “Can I still learn German? I really like it.” It makes him happy to see her taking a liking in something, even though it’s different from what he likes. He is ready to support anything (Y/N) does or wants to do.

“Of course, if you want to. I’m gonna get you enrolled in a class tomorrow. But now it’s time to sleep for geniuses. Good night, my little genius. I love you.”

“Gute Nacht, Daddy. Ich habe dich auch lieb.” Even though he really doesn’t have much of a clue what she just said, Spencer loves to hear it.

Translation: Swiper nicht klauen → Swiper, don’t steal Gute Nacht → Good night

Taglist:

All works:

@agentshortstacc

Criminal Minds:

@averyhotchner

Spencer Reid:

@calm-and-doctor

x child!reader:

@ilovetaquitosmmmm

[matbaerzal]

Like This Pt.1 | T. Jost

Summary: Tyson is the best roommate you could ask for, you can't imagine ever living with someone else... no- no not like that, your relationship is purely platonic! > (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) A/N: First fic of the year hafsjkhf.... The reader studies Special Education, which will play a small part throughout this fic. Warnings: A short mention of sexual dreams Reader pronouns: she/her Words: 2,4K Tagging: @konecny-s @vitekvanecek @idontgiveaflyinggrayson69 @ricohenrique @notaccurateornice @tysojost @justjosty ... lmk if you want to be tagged ❤️

As you reach the door to your apartment you shift your second grocery bag into your left hand before fishing your keys out of your pocket. You hurry to turn the key in your lock as your arms are tired from the heavy weight of the amount of food you’d bought. You huff out as you open the door, absent-mindedly throwing the keys on the side table as you set the groceries down on the floor.

“I’m sorry, can you give me a minute?” you hear Tyson speak as you take off your coat and shoes. In the corner of your eye, you see him put his phone down before pushing his chair back, standing up, and walking over.

“Hey, how was work?”

You huff out a breath in reply, and when you see him grab the groceries you almost try to object, but relief washes over you before you can. You follow him to the kitchen with the intent to sort the food so he can get back to what he was doing, but he brushes you away.

“Go sit down - relax” he gives you a pointed look.

“Thanks” you smile, hesitantly making your way to the couch.

“You hungry?” he speaks over his shoulder as you sit down.

“Very” your stomach grumbles as if on cue.

“I made some dinner earlier, want me to heat it up for you?”

“Don’t you have an interview” you shout back.

“Eh, they can wait” he shrugs

Without waiting for you to reply he takes out the tupperware from the fridge before putting it in the microwave. Once it’s heated up he brings it over to you, along with a glass of water before he gets back to his interview, apologizing profusely to the journalist on the other end of the call for keeping them waiting.

Living with Tyson had its ups and downs, but all in all the two of you fit together well as roommates. You’d met him during his first year in Colorado, back then you were living on campus. You’d planned to move in with a friend of yours, but after she graduated she got a job offer in another state and decided to move, leaving you practically homeless as there was no way you’d be able to afford to live on your own at the time - and there was no chance that you were ever moving in with your dorm room roommate again. Tyson offered for you to stay with him for at least a little bit until you figured things out. Then he realized he really liked having you around. You’d hesitated, thinking he was just trying to be nice, before he practically begged you to stay.

Hundreds of comments from friends asking if you’re dating or having sex later, you’re still living with him - not dating, not having sex, never even having kissed, and neither of you wanted to cross that line. With the way you and Tyson clicked, there were a lot of people who had trouble believing you were just friends, but at this point, you felt like you knew each other too well. All your dirty laundry had been aired out between the two of you - both literally and figuratively. The smell of his week-old workout sweat in the laundry room was enough to put you off. It wouldn’t be fair to say it hadn’t crossed your mind though. Objectively he is very attractive - you can’t deny that - perhaps, maybe your mind traveled places as he walked out of the bathroom after a shower with only a towel wrapped around him. You knew for a fact that he’d thought about you too, having drunkenly admitted to you that he had a dream about you once - which explained that one morning where he wouldn’t meet your eye and couldn’t have gotten out of the door quicker.

But neither of you ever acted on your attraction, it was pushed into the back of your minds - ignored completely. Because that’s all it was, an attraction, and nothing more.

You watch him as he continues his interview, zoning out as you eat your food. You hear every tone of his voice, completely focused on him but at the same time not registering a single thing he’s saying. It’s only when he looks over at you that you’re shaken out of it.

“Is it alright?” he whispers, covering the microphone.

You shake your head as you're brought back to the real world, it takes your brain a few seconds to catch what he said and your cheeks feel warm as he chuckles - “Hm?”

“The food? Is it alright?”

“Mm, yeah” you take another bite, resting the fork in the food container as you reach for the TV remote to distract yourself.

You’d been swamped with work lately, between your studies and your part-time job as a teaching assistant, you barely had time to take a breather. Your third year studying Special Education at the University of Denver was hectic, any time not spent at work or on campus or studying at home was spent either eating or sleeping in your bed. Tyson could see how tired you were whenever you came home, he always cooked a little extra for his dinner so you wouldn’t go to bed without eating first. His mediocre pasta meals always tasted like heaven after the long days you had.

By the time Tyson plops down on the couch you’re finished eating and zoned out on an episode of New Girl.

“Do you have any plans on Sunday?” he asks and you shake your head - “just studying, writing”.

“Wanna come to the game? I completely get it if you just want to stay in-”

“Are you kidding? I’d love to” you perk up, you hadn’t been to a game in who knows how long and you’d put aside your assignments at least for a little while if Tyson ever asked you to. He never had to ask before, you’d come whenever you had time, but it’d been seven weeks now - Tyson kept count.

“You sure?”

“Yes, Tys, really” you pat his thigh - keeping your hand there a touch longer before removing it when you meet his soft eyes.

--

You wake up late on Sunday, head stuck to the pillow, body hesitant to leave the bed. You’d already woken up once and decided to sleep longer so you force yourself out of bed, put some clothes on and go to the kitchen to grab a bowl of cereal. Just as you get the milk from the fridge your apartment door opens, signaling that Tyson’s home from his morning skate.

“Good morning” he smirks at you, his eyes running over your thrown-together outfit and noting the remnant of sleep in your eyes.

You nod, trying to speak through the mouthful you just took, making Tyson squint his eyes in a laugh. He waits patiently for you to finish so you can repeat your question to him - “how was the skate?”

“It was alright, easily gonna have a nap after I eat though”

“Want some cereal?” you arch your brow. He stops and thinks for a second, contemplating if he should say yes, or make his usual scrambled eggs - “you know what? Yeah” he decides. You raise your brows at him, about to make a comment but he interrupts you. “Yeah, yeah pour me a bowl before I change my mind”.

You hold your hands up - “wasn’t gonna say anything” you try, but he doesn’t look convinced. You rush to get him a bowl and a spoon, setting them down for him, pouring in some cereal as he comes over to sit next to you on your kitchen island. He pours the milk himself before lifting the bowl to clink against yours, muttering “cheers” before taking a spoonful into his mouth.

You sit in comfortable silence as you eat your food, moving around each other as you put the bowls in the sink to worry about later. You walk to the couch and open your laptop to get some work done before you have to get ready for the game.

“Do you ever take a break?” Tyson yawns, laying down on the couch next to you, his head landing on a pillow close by your thighs.

You figure his questions rhetorical, but his eyes stay on you as you start typing away on your essay. “I’m taking a break later, y’know, at the game”

“No, I mean like a real break, like flat out on the couch, books closed-”

“You’re funny”

“I’m serious”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have time for breaks Tys”

He goes quiet after that, a thoughtful look on his face as he settles into the couch, your eyes linger on him for a moment before you go back to writing your essay. It doesn’t take long for his breath to get heavy, the small snores escaping him making you smile. As you skim through an article you might use for your essay your free hand finds his hair - his curls too soft to resist running your hand through. His snoring stops as your hand first makes contact making you freeze, but he’s nuzzling into the pillow and snoring again before you know it.

Even after you’ve read the article your hand stays in his hair and you do your best to type with one hand, only opting to use your right hand when absolutely necessary. You were in tweaking stages so luckily you could keep one hand planted in his hair most of the time. You’re checking the clock here and there, knowing he didn’t set an alarm and that he didn’t like napping too long on game days, but just as you’re about to wake him he leans into your touch, eyes slowly blinking open as he hums, absentmindedly you brush his hair away from his forehead - “sleep well?”

“Like a baby” he smiles, “what time is it?”

“uh, two-thirty” you glance over at the little clock on your computer.

He leans into your hand one more time as if to savor the feel before he starts to get up, once on his feet he stretches his arms above his head, you can’t help but look as his t-shirt lifts to reveal his stomach, but you avert your eyes quickly and hope he doesn’t notice. If he did, he doesn’t comment, “want me to make dinner for you too?” he throws the words your way over his shoulder as he makes his way to the kitchen. “What’s on the menu?” you tease, fully well knowing the answer, even saying it with him once he replies - “chicken and pasta”.

You turn your head to look at him, and he can’t bring himself to be annoyed at you when you smirk at him.

“Yeah, yeah” he brushes you off - “do you want some or no?”

“Yes, please” you smile.

He quickly makes the food, the recipe burned into his brain from making it time after time. He puts a little extra cheese on your plate, coming over to the couch with both plates once he’s done. You close your computer, place it to the side, and take the plate he hands to you with ease. Once your plates are scraped it’s time for Tyson to get ready, change into his suit and leave for the arena.

He walks out of his room wearing one of his three-piece suits and if you didn’t have the restraint you’d built up over the time you’d lived with him you’re sure you would’ve drooled at the sight. You’d think he was doing it on purpose, but you’d never let your weakness for the vest-jacket pairing slip, and he looks oblivious as he meets your eyes. The little spin he does for you does nothing to help and you have to give yourself credit for being so collected when he raises his brows as if to ask: “Is this alright?”.

“Looking good, Tys. I’ll see you after the game” you get off the couch as you speak and give him a quick hug, his phone pinging with a message signaling that JT is waiting for him downstairs as you break away.

“See you later,” he says.

“Kick some Dallas butt.”

He laughs as he walks through the door leaving you to yourself. You don’t wait long until you start getting ready yourself, not being able to focus on your writing with the anticipation of the game in the back of your mind. You put your lucky Avalance hoodie on, grabbing your coat before leaving with more than enough time to catch the warm-ups. There’s a couple of familiar faces there when you arrive. You’d met the players’ girlfriends a few times, mostly in this exact setting and you fell right back into the group again. You felt for them, having to watch their boyfriends play such an unpredictable sport. You guess you could imagine how it felt at least a little, living with Tyson and all, but the energy they brought to every game was admirable.

The game was tight, the boys fell behind in the first period but in the second and third they were no doubt the better team, but the puck just wouldn’t go in the net. With ten minutes left they manage to tie it and with 5 minutes left Tyson takes a tripping penalty. They killed the penalty and scored not long after to secure the win, but you could see Tyson beating himself up over the penalty that could’ve cost them the game. The look on his face as he sat in the penalty box is something you keep in the back of your mind as you leave with the girls to meet him.

He’s one of the first ones to come out of the locker rooms, head hanging low. Gabe pats him on the shoulder before he greets his wife, Tyson throws a forced smile towards his captain that seems genuine to anyone that doesn’t know him the way you do. The smile reaches his eyes once he sees you though and he drapes his arm over your shoulder when he reaches you, leading you towards the garage - “Let’s go home”

To be continued...

---- Copyright © @matbaerzal (2021)

[idreamofplaid]

Privacy

Summary: Cordell is a passionate man, but he’s a dad too. It doesn’t mean he has to choose between the two.

Rating: Explicit

Characters: Cordell x Reader; Stella and August mentioned

Word Count: 2417

Tags: oral (male and female receiving; squirting; dirty talk)

@walker-bingo Square Filled: Swallowing 

A/N: This works as a stand alone fic or can be read after Putting the Past to Rest and Quieting the Demons Inside as a third part. I see Cordell with the same reader in all three. 

Cordell kicked the door closed behind him while his hands pulled up your skirt so he could hold your ass and squeeze it while his tongue twisted around yours, hot and clearly seeking more. You lifted one of your legs,wrapped it around his waist, and he held it there. You could feel the bulge in his jeans growing as he hardened against you.

“Damn, baby. I didn’t know you could dance like that.” The memory of your moves on the dance floor at the Tumbleweed earlier that night served to stoke the flames of the fire already burning inside him, and his kiss got even deeper.

You reached for his hand, making sure yours dragged across his growing cock as you did. Your fingers twined through his, and you pulled your lips from his. “C’mon, cowboy. I’ve got something for you.”

You led him over to the couch, and he followed you like a cross between a puppy and a bloodhound that’d caught the scent of something he needed to find. You gave him a tiny push, and Cordell sat down on the sofa just where you wanted him.

His legs were spread wide, giving you plenty of room to lower yourself between them. The denim covering his crotch was stretched to its limits, but you’d help him out with that. You pulled his zipper down in a slow tease, then reached inside to pull out his cock. 

It was a thing of beauty. Cordell had a cock that men would sell their souls for. It was thick and long, standing proudly, and tempting you with the pre-come oozing from his slit. You dipped your head forward and licked his tip to get a taste.

Cordell closed his eyes and leaned back, stretching his arms across the back of the sofa. You closed your lips around him and let your mouth sink down over him. “Fuck, baby. That’s good. Your mouth is so hot and wet.”

You took him deeper in your mouth and circled your hand around the base of his cock to stroke the part that wouldn’t fit. Then he started to make those noises that drove you crazy. They were deep grunting moans that came from down in his chest. 

The pre-come was flowing into your mouth now. “Do you know how good you taste, Cord? I believe I could live off you alone.”

You felt his hand go into your hair, and you hummed with pleasure. You waited for his grip to tighten; it didn’t. Instead he said, “We can’t do this. Not here.”

You let go of him with a pop as your mouth left his gorgeous cock. “Cord, what are you talking about?”

He was already doing his best to tuck himself back into his jeans. “Kids. My kids could walk in any minute.”

The blissed out look he’d had from his approaching orgasm just seconds before had been replaced by a slightly panicked expression. You took off his cowboy hat and tossed it on the couch beside him, then you straddled his lap and started to run your fingers through his hair. 

“Calm down, baby. Didn’t you say Stella’s at soccer camp, and August finally got the nerve to ask out that girl he has a crush on?” You dragged your fingertip down the side of his face. “We’re alone.”

Cordell put his hands on your waist. His eyes still had that spooked look in them. “But what if the date goes bad and he comes home early? I don’t want him to find me doing...this.”

He looked up at you with those beautiful “I’ll be any damn color I want to be” eyes.

He was silently pleading with you to understand. “I want to finish this, Y/N. So bad, I do. I just can’t do it right here.”

You smiled at him. “All right then. Take me to bed, Cord, and bring the hat. I want that on you.”

He grinned back at you, grabbed his cowboy hat, and put it back on his head. “Yes, Ma’am.” Then he scooped you up and carried you to the bedroom.

When he put you down on the bed, you immediately went for the buttons on his shirt, opening them with an urgency born of being made to wait. “Now that we have all this privacy, I want to see all of you. Every muscle. Every inch of your skin.”

You stripped his shirt off him, flung it across the room, and ran your hands over the taut muscles in his shoulders. Cordell closed his eyes and sucked in his breath at the feel of your touch. “I believe we were in the middle of something, cowboy.”

You unbuckled his belt and snatched it from his belt loops with a flourish, dropping it on the floor. Your tongue made its way slowly across your top lip. “When I get a taste of you, I just want more. So. Much. More. Strip for me.”

This time when he said it, it was a whisper. “Yes, ma’am.”

Cordell started with his boots. Once his feet were bare, he slipped his jeans down over his narrow hips and down his long sculpted legs. It left him in only his boxer briefs, his hard cock straining against them.

You tilted your head and gave him a wink. “Those too.”

Cordell peeled off the last bit of clothing standing between you and what you wanted. You lightly scratched your nails over his chest. “Now lie down. I’m hungry for you, Cord. I want to taste you.”

He lay back on the bed. “Oh fuck, darlin. Please, do.” 

You hovered over him, blowing on his cock until you felt his body tense. “C’mon, baby. Please.”

“Well, when you ask so nicely.” You sucked him down into your mouth until his cock hit the back of your throat. “Mmmm.” You hummed around him. 

You ran your tongue up the underside of his cock, stopping when you got to that sensitive spot under the head and flicking your tongue over it. He’d grabbed a fistful of the bedcovers. “Fuck, Y/N.” 

“Does my cowboy like that?” You sank your mouth over the length of him again, moving your head up and down his shaft.

Cordell reached for your head. “Y/N, I’m gonna….” His fingers tightened in your hair. “Fuck, baby. I can’t hold it. If you don’t stop….”

You didn’t stop because that was exactly what you wanted him to do, shoot his load down your throat, and you were going to swallow every drop you could milk out of him. When he came it was with a deep moan and a shout.

Cordell made a beautiful picture, lying sprawled out on the bed, chest heaving, legs still spread, and his spent cock lying soft on his thigh. Miraculously, the cowboy hat had stayed on his head through it all.

You crawled up his body, took the hat from his head, and put it on your own. “How do you feel now, cowboy?”

Cordell sat up and turned toward you so he could run his hand down your side until it came to rest on your hip. The sheer size of his hands and feeling them on you could make every nerve in your body tingle and your core start to ache.

His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide, filled with lust and satisfaction. He smiled at you, making those sey dimples pop out on each side of his mouth, and in his honeyed Texas drawl said, “I don’t think we’re done here yet, little lady. I believe it’s your turn.”

He took his hat from your head and flung it away, flipped you over on your back, and eased his hands up your thighs, pushing your skirt up as he did. “You have the softest skin, baby. You’re gonna get me hard again just touching you.”

“I have no objections to that. Your cock is beautiful.” You ran your hands over your breasts and down your stomach, then back up. Adding your own touch to his was heightening your arousal. You knew he was watching you. Cordell liked to watch.

You had to look at him, needed to see that intensity in his eyes that he got when he was watching you. He watched your hands move over your body, then his eyes fixed on yours, and he said, “Well, how about this?”

Cordell lay down over you, pinning you to the bed with the weight of his body. His mouth claimed yours in a searing kiss that left you breathless. While he continued to kiss you, his hand made its way between your legs. “Any objections?” he asked. You shook your head.

He ripped your panties from you, and the sound of the fabric tearing sent a shiver up your spine. Cordell moved down your body, opened your legs wider, and positioned himself between them. “I’m needin’ to taste your sweetness, baby. Need it bad.”

You put your hand on the back of his head. “Take it, Cord. Take anything you want.”

He went down on you like it was his personal mission and delight to make you come until you were weak. Cordell was a gifted man with his tongue, and he was using those gifts. He lapped at you, flicked your clit, and fucked you with it until you squirted all over his face.

You floated for a few seconds in the blissful feeling of being well fucked, and he hadn’t even put his cock in you yet. When you felt him hovering over you, you opened your eyes. “Cord,you’re going to kill me one of these days, but I’ll die happy. Death by orgasm isn’t a bad way to go.”

He was sliding his tongue around his lips, drinking in your juices that were still visible on his face. “Just the opposite, sweetheart. I’m gonna make you feel alive.”

Cordell was just as good with his fingers as he was with his tongue. You squirted again with two of his fingers buried inside you and the base of his hand rubbing your clit. Your arms loosened your hold around him, but you didn’t let him go. “Oh, God. Cord, I...I’m so….”

He licked the shell of your ear. “C’mon, baby. You’ve got one more for me, don’t you?” He leaned in close to your ear. “I want to feel you come around my cock.” You moaned in response to his words and the feel of his tongue on your ear. “I’ve got one more for you.”

You put your arms back around him. “Yes. Yes. Oh my Holy God yes.”

You could feel his cock sliding against your entrance, and you could feel his smile against that tender place just beneath your ear. “You like that? You want it?” His voice had gotten so deep you thought you might come from the sound of it alone.

“Cordell Walker, you know I want it.” You rubbed your core against him to prove it. 

His smile got bigger. “I know you do. I just want to hear you say it.”

Lifting your hips wasn’t working either, so you gave in. “Alright. You win. I want your big thick cock inside me. I want you to split me open with it.”

Cordell kissed you with his own perfect blend of passion and tenderness. “We’re both about to win, sweetheart.” He slowly took off your clothes, relishing seeing your body revealed before him. Then he proceeded to fulfill his promise.

The fucking that followed was legendary. If a porn movie married a romance novel, that union would have produced the kind of sex you had with Cordell. He knew your body so well, knew where to kiss you and when, knew how to angle his thrusts and adjust his rhythm to draw out your orgasm and make you scream.

The only thing better than feeling like your body was flying apart because you were coming so hard was seeing the look on Cordell’s face when he came. The feeling it gave you when you saw his eyes squeeze shut and his mouth fall open, knowing you could do that to him, was like nothing you’d ever known. And when it was over, he always held you a little closer.

It was like that now. You were lying in his arms, your head on his chest, tracing tiny little swirls and circles over his heart and his pecs with your fingertip while Cordell was combing his fingers slowly through your hair. You lay there in comfortable silence for a few minutes before you kissed his shoulder and moved to get out of bed.

As much as you wanted to stay there in that bed with him all night, you knew you couldn’t, not yet. Cordell reached for your hand and grabbed it, stopping you for the time being. “I’m sorry, babe. About before. Stopping you, I mean.”

You kissed his cheek. “I understand, Cord. You’re a good dad. I admire that about you.” You looked down at his hand holding yours and rubbed your thumb over his fingers. “You don’t want your kid to catch you doing that - ever, but especially not now. The idea of you being with any woman other than his mom is going to take some time.”

You kissed his cheek again and let go of his hand. “That’s why I have to leave. His curfew’s at midnight, isn’t it? That gives me fifteen minutes to get out of here before August finds me in bed with his oh, so handsome father.

Cordell watched you getting dressed for a few seconds before he got out of bed and started putting his own clothes back on. When you were both dressed, he put his arm around your waist and pulled you to him. “Y/N, I promise you’ll be able to stay the whole night soon.”

You kissed him long and lingering on his mouth; it was goodnight. “Don’t rush it, Cord. Your kids come first. When the time’s right, we’ll take the next step,”

You picked up your tattered panties from the bed, put them in his hand, and closed his fingers around them. “Why don’t you keep these?”

He grinned a little sheepishly and bit his bottom lip. “I promise I’ll buy you some more.”

You lay your hand on his cheek. “Oh, I’m counting on it. I’ll wear them for you the next time we’re...alone together.”

Everything: @gambitwinchester @princessmisery666 @peridottea91 @logical-princey @emilyshurley @beenlovingromansincedayoneish @fangirlxwritesx67 @waywardbaby @atc74 @mariekoukie6661 @tumbler-tidbits @fandom-princess-forevermore @terrarium-jpeg @emoryhemsworth @crashdevlin @jules-1999 @cosicas-cuquis @sammyimpala-67 @queenoftheunderdark @dean-winchesters-bacon @timelordy-fangirl2 @sweetness47 @hobby27 @awesomesusiebstuff @kickingitwithkirk @sandlee44 @supernaturalgrandma @dawnie1988 @volleyballer519 @kdfrqqg @lizette50 @daisymoder72 @sorenmarie87 @lovealways-j @mrswhozeewhatsis @spnbaby-67 @wayward-and-worn @asthesunwentdown @thinkinghardhardlythinking @petitgateau911​

Walker: @lovealways-j​ @sams-sass​ @thinkinghardhardlythinking​ @girl-next-door-writes​ @awesomesusiebstuff

[hansolmates]

the proposal (m)

banner done by the ammmahhzzing @eerieedits​

summary; Jeon’s the editor-in-chief for Big Hit Publishings, a closet romantic with a penchant for antagonizing his assistant on the reg. When his work visa is in the process of being renewed and he takes a trip to Norway, his eligibility to stay in America is on the line. However Jeon Jungkook doesn’t go without a fight, and in order to save his job he offers you a proposal you can't refuse. pairing; editor!Jungkook x assistant!reader (f) genre/warnings; the proposal!au, fake marriage au, enemies to friends(!!!), friends to lovers, bouts of flangst, dry humping, slight blood but not too bad, lang, alcohol, poor jjk discovers he has the ability to feel emotion, poor y/n is in the middle as always w.c; 20.1k of endless banter and koo hiding his romantic side a/n; yeah, it’s almost summer. But i think we need a lil holiday magic in our lives! I rewatched the proposal this weekend and whipped this up. Why is koo so gosh darn easy to write? This is my longest fic since i wrote maze runner back in 2014!! i rec this extension to get fully immersed in 2pov! Enjoy and pls tell me if there’s any errors im too poopied to proofread it again drabbles; 01

“When I hired you, you basically signed a contract that said you’d do anything for me.” 

“Yeah, Jeon. I did. That meant like, getting you coffee or working late hours—normal work stipulations,” you can feel the hair on your scalp growing thinner, “not commit fucking fraud!” 

Your boss looks moreso frustrated than you are, but you cease to care. Jeon Jungkook has been nothing but a thorn in your side since your employment at Big Hit Publishing two years ago. Being a budding author who wanted to graduate from online sites and freelancing, you accepted the job as the editor-in-chief’s assistant in the hopes of getting your first book published. 

However, your dreams of being an editor are quickly dissipating, especially when Jungkook corners you this afternoon and announces that he may have left America during the time his work visa was still processing. He may have to give over his editor-in-chief position because there’s no way he can get a work visa processed in time. As a result of this information, he may have told his supervisors that you seduced him on a late night one year ago, and you two fell in love and have been secretly engaged ever since. 

Because y’know, your citizenship to this country is an asset to the company. 

“We didn’t have to go to Norway to PR Emma Watson’s autobio,” you huff, fingers going pale from how hard you were gripping your iPad. Jungkook is an esteemed workaholic, and you have no idea where it stems from. You remember that trip to Oslo, Jungkook insisting that you and him both go to make sure everything goes smoothly.

“You weren’t complaining when we went to that restaurant with the open bar.” he runs a hand through his coiffed hair, making the pomade untack from its style. “You got so drunk that Emma held you while you cried about global warming.” 

Wholly unamused, you frown. “Jungkook, can you please take this seriously?”

“I’m taking this seriously, you’re not the one who’s about to be deported in two weeks!” Jungkook hisses, face dangerously close to yours. Not that anyone would know what he’s saying, but you can tell from his defenses that he genuinely is nervous. 

“You wouldn’t be deported if you had just set an earlier appointment to renew your Visa!” 

“I wouldn’t be deported if you had just set an earlier appointment to renew my Visa!” 

At least twenty pairs of eyes are watching your confrontation, probably making their own conclusions as to what you two were fighting about again. Curse this office for having full-walled windows, you often feel like an ant in a plastic farm. Your work relationship is an anomaly to the rest of the staff. Before you started working at Big Hit, Jungkook’s assistants did not last long. Within the first week of working, you understood why. 

Jungkook whirls around his desk, glaring at the glass doors as he puts himself between the staff and you. “If you don’t marry me,” he says lowly, close enough for his hot breath to fan your face, coupled with his fresh-scented cologne. It annoys you how good he smells. “You’ll also be replaced because they want to give the my position to fuckin’ Karen of all people,” you fight the twitch of your lips. The only thing you two mutually agreed upon is the hatred of his co-editor, Karen. “All of the late nights we’ve worked together, the gallons of coffees you consumed, putting up with my shit, your dreams of becoming an author,” his eyes flicker to the way the grip in your iPad trembles, “will go down the drain and turn to shit. Whether you like it or not, we’re in this together.” 

Pretending to be unfazed, you bat your lashes, “So are you saying, you need me?” 

“For fuck’s sake—”

“Ah-ah, Jungkook. I’m not going to ask you to get on one knee, but you should at least tell me how much you need me.” 

You assume with great confidence that the only reason you’re kept on Jungkook’s payroll is because you’re not afraid to stand up to Jungkook’s bullshit. He looks positively disgusted at the mere thought of paying you an iota of a compliment. You’d say on average, you get half a compliment a month from Jungkook. You say half because he’ll compliment you, then downplay it with whatever flaw he can fabricate to get under your skin. 

He loosens his lavender paisley tie, annoyed. “Fine. I need you. I need you because you’re the only one who knows me well enough to be my wife. You’re the only woman I’ve had full conversations with in two years and knows all my dietary restrictions, favorite books, foods, and hobbies. By process of elimination, you are my best candidate.” 

“Romantic,” you roll your eyes, “I guess I do,” you push him away with a finger to his chest, “but I want a raise. And after we finish Sorn and Mark’s project, I want you to read my novel.” 

“Done and done.” 

“Well Jeon, I guess you’ve wifed me up with your ways of seduction.” you muse sardonically, feeling more upset for yourself than anything. 

“Fantastic,” he sighs, finally throwing his tie across the desk and plopping in his armchair. “Cancel the call with Janet, call PR about Irene Kim’s interview on Ellen, and order me a medium rare steak from J.J. Bittings with a side of brussels.” 

“Right,” you mutter under your breath as you pull up your checklist, as if you didn’t just give away your life to the Devil incarnate. 

Jungkook’s back is already facing you, focusing on his computer displaying two new manuscripts. “Oh, and on your way to J’s don’t forget to pick up your ring at Saks.”

“Bitch, you’re asking me to pick up my fake wedding ring?” 

Unbothered, he shrugs. You see the planes of his shoulders stretch beneath the blazer, because he’s deemed this conversation long over and he has work to do. “Yeah, but it’s real diamonds.” 

You’ve been seeing red for days. 

While the rock on your ring finger is indeed beautiful because Jungkook has impeccable taste, it drags you down and arouses the elephant in the room everytime you show up for work. 

You get enough stares on the daily, and you were just getting used to the looks of pity and sympathy for working under Jungkook, but now there are only snickers and playful winks as you trudge down the cubicles every morning. Everyday feels like the runway at a shitshow, and you are the headliner. 

Taehyung clapped you none-too-hard on the back when you showed up to work the next morning, congratulating you on the engagement. “Can’t believe you’re fuckin’ the big boss!” 

The rest of the staff poke their eyes out of their cubicles like Digletts, and you shush them, using your hand to make them sink down. 

Coffee is spilling down your shirt thanks to him, and you reach for tissues in his cubicle. “Can you not say it like that, please?” 

“Oh, come on. I heard from the supervisors Jungkook went on about how you seduced him late at night and took charge,” Taehyung wiggles his eyebrows approvingly, and you fight the urge to not throw up your coffee in his face. “How do you keep it so professional? Or do you save all that pent-up energy for after hours?” 

“You disgust me,” you grimace, stepping out of his cubicle and immediately regret wasting your five-minute break conversing with the typist.

Striding back into Jungkook’s office, he doesn’t hesitate to rattle off the next items on today’s agenda. He barely looks at you when you stride in, too focused on whatever corrections he’s slashing in red ink. 

“Did you get Taemin’s second draft?” 

“No, and I told him that if he can’t get me the draft by tonight he won’t get a publishing deadline and the number of copies published will be decreased by a third.” 

“And Taehyung’s author agreed to our stipulations?” 

“Of course, she’d be dead not to.”  you mutter, “she’s a nineteen year old Influencer, what would she know?” 

“Exactly, that’s why we milk it out as long as we can.” Jungkook throws the first draft in a large, intimidating pile, mixing in with all the others like a needle in a haystack. “Which is why it’s important we snag dinner with her this weekend, we can really—”

“What, this weekend?” your sense of equilibrium cracks, and you walk forward to put his hands on his desk. “I took this coming week off for Christmas. I’ve planned this for months.” 

“I know.”

“I can’t just cancel my flight! I saved up for that!”

“And?” Jungkook brushes off your fury like a piece of lint, “I’m Korean. Christmas is a fake holiday for me.” 

“You can’t just tell me I can’t go home to my family, it’s the fucking holidays!” 

“Why not, I’ve done it before. Remember on Valentine’s day when I told you the only date you have is a date with Kwon Boa’s publicist? Or on Secretaries Day when I argued that you don’t feel appreciated by society anyway and therefore why bother taking one extra day off? Or during Easter when your family screamed in my office on speakerphone that you should quit—”

“Okay,” no need to be reminded of how much you’ve wasted your life for this man, “but this is different. I’ve already bought plane tickets and this holiday is special. It’s a whole family reunion in the Poconos and we’ve reserved over five houses to fit all of us! I can’t just ditch!” 

“But I need you!” he replied just as hotly, in a tone that reminded you so many times of how tethered you are by this man. Two years have gone by, and the only thing that kept those strings together is the constant ache in getting your first novel published. “With all the marriage stuff and stupid extentions we had to make on these writers there’s no way we can get everything done before winter ends!” 

“You’ve done it before, why can’t you just ask Taehyung to assist—”

“Trouble in paradise?” 

A chill travels up your spine, and you and Jungkook exchange panicked eye contact. A tiny, pretty blonde lady struts in the room like it's hers, plopping a fruit basket atop Jungkook’s manuscripts. 

“If by paradise you mean our relationship, then no.” Jungkook’s the first to recover, meeting you at your side and stretching an arm around your waist. “I’d say work-wise things are getting a little rough, but nothing we can’t handle. We’re a team, after all.” 

“I just wanted to stop by as I was in the neighborhood,” the woman says, making herself comfortable in a leather seat reserved for guests. “Congratulations again on your engagement.” 

You tack on a smile, squeezing Jungkook’s arm a little too hard, but it’s enough to make the lady in front of you smile back. “What brings you here, Taeyeon?” 

Kim Taeyeon is Jungkook’s immigration liaison, AKA the person responsible for making sure you’re not breaking the law. She’s a pretty thing, with eyes sharp but a smile that’s soft and deceiving. 

“It’s just a shame you two have to rush a civil wedding,” Taeyeon sighs, looking at the window overlooking the city. 

“Ah, it takes some of the planning stress off my back, really.” you force a laugh, tugging Jungkook to sit on the couch opposite her. “At least one thing is done. The thought of planning a whole wedding with over two-hundred people is so stressful.” 

You weren’t really going to have a white wedding with Jungkook (however you may have entertained the thought, which is reflected in your Google search history) but you had to keep up the ruse that you were. A civil wedding in two weeks, then a quickie divorce a year later. 

“I know! My wedding was a real mess let me tell you, straight out of a movie!” Taeyeon is certainly the type of person to make you feel at ease, so at ease that it’s simple for you to melt your front. “But besides the point, are you two doing anything special for the holidays?” 

“Ah, well I bought a flight to meet my family in the Poconos,” you start, trying not to succumb to your nervous habit of wringing your fingers. You grab Jungkook’s hand as a reprieve. 

“And you’re not going?” Taeyeon’s gaze snaps, yes snaps, to Jungkook. 

You try to step in, realizing your flaw. “We’ve just been so swamped with work, all the immigration stuff and with these book delays Jungkook suggested he stay behind—” 

“But we’ve decided to prioritize our personal life and enjoy Christmas with our family,” Jungkook swoops in, threading his fingers between yours. He flashes Taeyeon a smile, and from the way his face lights up and his nose crinkles, you could’ve mistaken it to be genuine. “I’ve never experienced a big family Christmas, y’know. I’ve missed snowboarding too, I used to do it a lot in highschool.” 

“Oh, that’s just so sweet!” Taeyeon cooes, clasping her hands together. “Do send some pictures when you come back!” 

“Of course,” Jungkook stands up and attempts to leave Taeyeon out. You follow in tow, She obliges easily, mentioning something about just wanting to check in and she also has work to do. 

“Also,” Taeyeon’s head flickers to the people sitting outside Jungkook’s office. “You should manage those workers out there,” she looks at you, sympathetic. “Apparently, they didn’t peg you as the type of person to sleep their way to the top. And that’s just what I heard from walking down the hall once!” she laughs, tinkling brighter than a windchime, but you just tighten the grip on Jungkook’s palm. “Such a childish assumption. Things can be much more complicated.” 

She tips a “happy holidays” off her shoulder, and you both are smiling like the loving couple you are. As soon as the elevator doors close and Taeyeon is really gone, Jungkook moves to let go of your hand, but you hold him in your grasp. 

“She’s onto us,” you snap, tugging him closer to you so your co-workers wouldn’t read your lips. 

“Don’t you think I know that?” he bites back. He looks offendingly at the fruit basket adorning his desk. 

“What if we get caught, Jungkook?” you start to spiral, feeling your deepest fears crawl to the forefront of your brain. You’ve done extensive Google research on commiting fraud, and if you do get caught, Jungkook will never be able to come back to this country and you’ll have a fine of up to $250,000. Your boss doesn’t pay you nearly enough to get by with that kind of debt. “We’ll ruin this company, and our lives, and any hope of being published or credible.” 

“Hey, relax,” Jungkook whispers in your ear, the tone oddly comforting. He pulls you into his arms, and you barely have a chance to recover when he squeezes you extra tight around your waist. Jungkook only ever hugs you when doing PR, and even then it’s an awkward half-hug. Hell, he never hugged you on your birthday. “This is what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna book my flight to the Poconos, bring some manuscripts so we can work remotely, and no one will ever know.” 

You sigh into his arms, nodding tiredly. It feels nice to be hugged like this. His arms are strong and warm, and you feel small and protected. It’s been a while since you’ve felt like that. Maybe Jungkook did have a heart under all that muscle. 

“I’m putting up a good show, aren’t I?” he says, and you feel your heart drop just a little. Disappointed, but not surprised. 

From your view facing the cubicles, you see at least half the employees comically bugged with  heart eyes at you, enamored by your fake relationship. 

“Do not stretch your long-ass legs on this plane, Jeon,” you nudge your smaller leg away from your section of leg room, “Jesus, we’re flying economy!” 

It scares you how little you fought against Jungkook joining you for the winter holiday. It is the logical decision after all, Taeyeon is on your trail about your sudden engagement and you both needed to keep up the ruse. That includes going on family vacations. Also, the fact that Jungkook works through Christmas because he doesn’t celebrate it does make you feel a little bad. You can’t remember the last time the man took a vacation. 

The man in question barely moves at your weak attempt, and stretches his leg even further across your seat. “Sorry, babe,” he says, fishing around his seat for the included blanket. 

“It’s fine, Kookie.” You reply sweetly, and decide to kick off your shoes to drape a leg over Jungkook’s thighs, “you’re like a portable footrest!” 

He looks absolutely insulted at your objectification, but smartly decides to choose his battles and lets you keep your position. Tucking himself in with a scratchy blanket he waves you off, “Whatever, just wake me up when we arrive.” 

“What, no.” you pull up your iPad, shoving the note entry in his face. “I know everything about you, and yet you know nothing about me. I made this easy on you and just wrote everything down. You just have to read it.” 

“Seriously? I’ve known you for over two years, I’m sure I know enough about you.” 

“Really, then how do I like my coffee?” 

“Uh… hot?” 

You give him a look and he knows. With a sigh he grabs the iPad from your hands. Within seconds he’s giving you another dirty look, as if he’s skimming a conspiracy novel. 

“You know all this random shit about me?” Jungkook asks, scrolling down as to what feels like your life story. 

“Yes, because unlike you, I listen when you talk.” 

“Fine. What’s my favorite type of weather?” 

“A warm and sunny day, which correlates to your favorite kind of date which is walking along the beach at sunset. Cliché much?” 

“Okay, rude. Who’s my favorite artist?” 

“You like a little bit of everything, but since seventh grade you’ve been pining for IU. In the office, you like to sing along to Lauv and Hozier.” 

“Favorite movie?” 

“The Marvel Series. But you really like 5 Centimeters Per Second, you like the romance.” 

“And how do you know my favorite anime movie is 5 Centimeters Per Second? I’m pretty sure I’ve never told you that.” 

“Jeon, when we were promoting Momo Hirai’s self-help book at Anime Expo you were gone for two and a half hours at 1:50 sharp.” your boss’ Adam’s apple bobs and he swallows thickly at your admonition. “And low and behold, you gave yourself thirty minutes’ time to line up early because when I checked the schedule Makoto Shinkai had a panel on ‘The Otaku’s Perspective on Romantic—”

“Alright alright, I get it.” Jungkook slumps in his seat, as comfy as it can get with your legs draped around him and a seat at the far end of the plane. You know he’s trying to hide a blush, and you feel proud for making him a little flustered. “You’re lucky I’m a fast reader.” 

The plane ride goes relatively fast, with Jungkook asking quick questions about your family and other random things. It’s like playing a game of 20 Questions, instead it’s the final boss battle with 200 questions and if he doesn’t get them all right, the penalty is deportation. 

When you land, you’re both stiff and glazed over. Once you exit the terminal, Jungkook ditches you for the bathroom and says he’ll meet you at the luggage pickup. You give yourself a few moments, gearing yourself up for the long week ahead of you. At the luggage pickup, you see a tall man watch the revolving conveyor belt with interest. Either that, or he’s zoning out. 

“Joonie!” you cry, nearly dropping your phone upon seeing your big brother. He’s dressed comfortably in a grey sweat ensemble, as if he rolled out of bed and came straight to the airport. 

A bright grin takes over his face, and he doesn’t hesitate to smush your body against his. Under his tall frame you sway, your toes barely swiping the ground. “You’re alive!” he cheers, pulling back and holding your shoulders to get a real look at you. “I can see you’ve gained a little weight, eyes are a little dark, but I’m glad the Devil let you go. I still can’t forgive him for making you skip out on Jin’s wedding.” 

You don’t appreciate the way that Namjoon picks and prods at your exhaustion, but you know he means well. While he does not know your boss by face and name, he had enough artilerary from the billions of phone calls to learn about the Devil and the havoc he’s wreaked upon your life.

When you don’t respond he gets the cue that you do not want to talk about work this week, and he smacks his lips together. “But nothing a little R&R can’t fix! The ski resort nearby has a really nice outdoor jacuzzi and we could set an appointment for facials if you’d like. Or we could do absolutely nothing and turn into baked potatoes and watch movies until our eyes burn up.” 

“Both would be great,” you smile softly, catching two familiar suitcases make their rounds on your flight’s conveyor belt. You grab your pink luggage with one hand, and Jungkook’s black chrome one with your other. 

“So, where’s the new beau?” Namjoon rocks back and forth on his heels, hoping to get a glimpse of the mystery boy you mentioned you’d be bringing as of two days ago. 

“He really had to go to the bathroom,” you squint your eyes to make out the newcomers exiting the dropoff area. “Oh, there he is. Kook!” 

Like a goddamn model, he struts in your field of vision like nobody’s business. Unlike you who stayed in your apartment all day before leaving, Jungkook decided to spend a few hours at Big Hit in the morning to tie up most of the loose ends before your trip. He’s talking to what you assume to be is a client, noting the way his brow furrows as he clutches his phone with a tight hold. He’s changed out of his tie and leather oxfords, but he’s dressed crisply in a dark button up and blazer ensemble, still wholly overdressed for a family reunion. 

Namjoon starts behind you, “He looks...” 

“Handsome?” you goad, elbowing him, “Charismatic? Undeniable presence?” 

“Hard.” 

You don’t know what to make of that adjective, and you subtly shrink further in your jacket as you mull over the implications of his word choice. 

Jungkook steps up to the two of you, ending his call. His eyes float between you and your brother, and he manages to put two and two together. “Hey man,” Jungkook gives a practiced smile, extending a hand. “I’m Jungkook, I’ve heard lots of things about you.” 

“Good things, I hope.” Namjoon chuckles, returning the handshake. “I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you, though. Can’t wait to get to know you this week.” 

“Looking forward to it,” Jungkook takes his luggage and Namjoon grabs yours, leading you two out to his minivan. While Namjoon is preoccupied with getting the car started, Jungkook looks at you as if he’s already regretting making the trip down. “This girl has two braincells to her name. I just got off the phone with Sorn’s publicist.” 

“What trouble can an influencer do?” you reply in disbelief. 

“Exactly, influencing is the trouble,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “she did some mukbang and now she’s in the hospital for food poisoning.” 

“Ah, don’t get too worked up,” you help him lug your suitcases in the trunk. You spot Namjoon subtly eyeing you two from the rear mirror. Pressing a thumb between his brows, you make work to melt away the 11-shaped stress lines on his forehead. “Let’s just send her a Lush gift basket and she’ll be fine.” 

You ignore the way Jungkook’s gaze lingers on you longer than needed, running over to your seat at shotgun. 

The inside of his car smells like bergamot and lemon, and the sweet, vulnerable side of you wants to cry over how much you’ve missed your brother’s scent. It’s been way too long. 

Once you’re all safely in the car and driving Namjoon says, “So, are you going to hide the engagement ring or give the family a collective heart attack?” 

You tense, hands automatically floating to the teardrop diamond weighing heavily on your ring finger. The story that you two contrived about your relationship isn’t too complicated, but complex enough that it seems convincing. Instead of being your boss, Jungkook is your Literary Agent who gives you referrals to new and upcoming authors. You working closely together and bonding over the stresses of the publishing world, have kept a secret relationship under wraps for over a year to avoid any unprofessionalism or favoritism. 

“I was thinking about that the whole ride, actually,” you twirl the metal back and forth, watching it gleam in the light. “Mom and dad know, but I don’t wanna lie to the rest of my family. They’ll freak out because it’s the first time they’re meeting Kook and we’re already engaged. It’s just a location thing, y’know. You guys don’t live in the city so we’ve never had a chance to really talk it out.” 

Namjoon snorts, “Or, because your boss never gives you a break.” 

If Jungkook finds any offense, he doesn’t show it. Putting what should be a comforting hand on your shoulder, he says from the back seat, “I already told you babe, do what makes you comfortable. But I don’t want to lie to your parents early on, you don’t wanna make the situation any more complicated.” 

In other words, you better tell them about our engagement because Taeyeon could be hiding in the bushes waiting to catch us. 

“Smart man,” Namjoon says shortly, but you can’t tell whether it’s a compliment or not. 

“Yeah,” you exhale, turning to smile stiffly at Jungkook, “no use hiding the inevitable, right?” 

The next couple hours are overwhelming. There’s a party right when you walk in your winter villa, your parents throwing you a reunion party (not for your family, but for you specifically because you’ve been MIA since Big Hit) with the house filled to the brim with family members. Within seconds your favorite cousin checks out the rock on your finger and screams that you’re engaged. 

Everyone must be so high off the fact that you’ve made it to a family event that they’re elated you have a life outside of work. Jungkook is treated like a prince, charming the hell out of all your aunties and baby cousins. 

“Oh, pumpkin!” your auntie squeals, linking arms with you while you’re trying to eat your dinner, “I just hugged your fiancé, and he has abs! Lucky you!” 

“Auntie,” you hiss playfully, “you hugged him that tight?” 

“He’s part of the family, isn’t he?” 

“Right,” you force a smile, downing your glass of champagne. The bubbles burn your throat pleasantly. 

“Babe, can you come here for a second?” Jungkook manages to swim his way through the throng in the living room, holding out a hand for you, “your mom said that our room is ready, care to lead the way?” 

His smile, as pretty as you can care to admit, renders your aunt speechless, and she lets him whisk you away to a long hallway that leads to a set of bedrooms. Jungkook lets go of your hand as soon as you're alone, letting his palm run along the pictures that decorate your hallway. 

He stops at a picture of you and Namjoon as kids, faces tanned and lips cherry red from your twin popsicles melting on your hands. “Wow,” Jungkook pretends to be alarmed, “I didn’t know you used to be cute, what happened?” 

“Shut up,” you smack his hand away, walking ahead of him. 

“I thought you guys reserved a bunch of houses, why does the furniture look worn and there’s pictures of you everywhere?” 

“Our extended family has reserved houses, but this is actually my family’s vacation home. I used to go here every winter and summer break,” you reach a bedroom in the corner of the hall, smiling at your wooden name tag hanging on the front, “this is my old room.” 

It certainly doesn’t have that youthful charm it once had, but there are still bits of your childhood scattering the room. There’s ticket stubs and photobooth strips tacked to a corkboard near your desk. Books that you would reread cover to cover are organized proudly on your shelf, worn for wear. 

Jungkook groans in relief, plopping his body down on your freshly made bed. “Your family’s really clingy.” he sighs, throwing an arm over his eyes. 

You turn to give him a snappy answer, but it dies in your throat when you see what he’s laying on. The familiar family quilt sinks under Jungkook’s weight, mocking you. You shriek, throwing your arms over to lug his body to the other side of the bed. Bundling up the quilt in your arms, you glare at a very appalled Jungkook. 

“The hell is wrong with you, woman!” he cries, not loud enough to escape the room, but enough to have your body vibrate in annoyance. 

“Jeon, they put the fucking baby blanket in my room,” you mutter more to yourself than him, folding it under your arms. 

The blanket is comfy in your grasp and you’re sure it’s clean, but the fact that you weren’t actually married and in love made its appearance a whole lot worse. 

“So?” his eyes are wide in confusion, “my mom still has my baby blanket too, I’m not gonna shoot anyone because of it.” 

“It’s not my baby blanket,” you admonish, “it’s the baby maker blanket. A weird family tradition when someone gets engaged.”

“Which means?” 

“They’re expecting us to fuck and have children.” 

The thought of procreating and starting a family with you must’ve caused all the champagne to return to his throat, and he looks a little pale. “I think I’m gonna be sick.” he lies back down on your mattress, and you leave him be so you can chuck the blanket back in your parents’ room. 

You’re barely out the door when a young man is waiting out in the hallway for you, poised to knock. “Hey, baby girl.” they throw you an easy lopsided grin, opening their arms to you. 

In your haste, you slam your bedroom door a little too loudly. “Yoongi!” You let yourself sink into his waiting arms, reveling in the familiar embrace you missed so much. Yoongi is Namjoon’s best friend and work buddy, not to mention the man you’ve had a crush on since you were able to walk. While you can safely say at this moment there is nothing serious going on, a small part of you always wishes there could be. 

His voice husks in your ear, “Why are we hugging in between the baby blanket?” 

“Oh!” you brush past him, opening the door to your parents’ room and flinging the offending item as far into their room as possible. “Sorry, Jungkook and I were a little freaked out when we saw it. We’re definitely not thinking about children right now.” 

“Jungkook,” he hums, and your smile falters just a tad when you see the way Yoongi tips his head down in thought, “It was quite the news. Congrats though.” 

You want to say what you’re supposed to say, that yes, you should be happy. But the selfish part of you does not want this exchange between you and Yoongi to be happening. When you get your quickie divorce in a year, the small, hopeful part of you hopes you and Yoongi could be something. 

Before you have a chance to fabricate a response, strong hands encircle your waist, and you feel Jungkook’s chin digging into your shoulder. 

“Thanks, man,” Jungkook’s voice rumbles, “we really appreciate it.” 

Yoongi gives a nod, muttering something about catching up later before he walks back to the party. 

It’s then that Jungkook’s weight feels impossibly heavy on your shoulders. “You know, you’ve been doing a really shitty job of being my wife-to-be ever since we landed,” Jungkook whispers, feather soft lips dusting across the shell of your ear. It’s an act so intimate you can imagine your family passing down the hallway could be mistaking you two for speaking unthinkable acts. A toddler cousin spots you two and giggles, babbling something to your uncle about how you’re hugging. “You did so well when we were with Taeyeon and Big Hit.” 

“It’s not the same when I’m lying to my family,” you turn to face him, equally simmering. “These are people that actually love and care for me, unlike you.” 

“At least I care about what’s most important,” he grits back, “our jobs, our futures. Is that not enough for you to keep it in your pants?” 

“Excuse me? You don’t even know him!” 

“I don’t have to know him because I’m holding you right now and you’re practically sweating through your cardigan.” he grimaces, digging his chin further into your collarbone, literally trying to get under your skin. “Your face looks like a cherry tomato.” 

You turn your head to bite back, your noses touching. The staring contest seems to last for days. Unlike Jungkook who doesn't know how to register basic human emotion, you still have hopes for a life after this. Before you have a chance to answer, your favorite cousin enters the hallway, oblivious to your concerns. Jimin’s red all over, passing you two flutes of blush champagne. “Hurry up, we’re making speeches!” 

Champagne is overflowing like Niagara, and you and Jungkook are the reason for it as you’re thrusted into the living room. Your weird uncle is in the middle of a long-winded speech about his fishing business and how dreams are made from ‘bait and a dream’. You make eye contact with him, and he gestures wildly to you and Jungkook. 

The crowd proceeds to go wild, echoes of speech! Speech! Reverberating throughout your living room. You and Jungkook share uneasy smiles, unsure of where to go with this show. 

Deciding it’s your family by blood, you start first. “Honestly, when I moved to New York I wasn’t expecting to feel so lonely,” you clutch your flute with both hands, swirling your drink absentmindedly. You then turn to Jungkook, giving him a tender smile which he returns back just as fondly. “Until I met Jungkook. I’m really happy that I get to share this week with the people I love the most, so let's drink to family!” 

Jungkook lifts his glass, “Thank you for the warm welcome, I can’t wait to spend time with all of you. This is my first Christmas with a large, loving family. Cheers to that!” 

The room erupts in cheers, allowing themselves to clink glasses and chase down their respective drinks. Even the little ones crowding the kiddie table in the back are enjoying their apple juice while making silly faces at the new couple. 

Jungkook weaves his arm between yours, and you get the signal to do a couples’ drink. He eyes you with mischief, as if to say we did it. After you two take your drink, Jimin’s the first to drunkenly yell, “Ohmygod just kiss already!” 

“Kiss kiss kiss!” 

“This is going on my story so make it good!” 

“Kiss him before I do!” 

“Oh my god,” you groan, throwing your forehead on Jungkook’s chest. Your family really is something else. 

As if the chants can’t get any louder, it’s hard to focus on anything but Jungkook’s presence. Jungkook lifts your chin up, murmuring, “Let’s give the people what they want.” and he presses his lips to yours. 

It’s awkward at first. Why wouldn’t it be, you’re making out with your boss, in front of your family, pretending to be engaged. But Jungkook doesn’t let up, parting your lips slightly to deepen the kiss. As much as you want to make up how terrible and disgusting kissing Jungkook is, it really isn’t. His lips are soft and he tastes like the peach champagne, and his grip on your waist is strong and warm. 

He leaves you breathless when you pull away, a smirk on his lips for a brief moment before he turns shyly to your family who are probably foaming at the mouth now. 

Maybe it’s the champagne coursing through your veins, but why does it suddenly feel so hot in the middle of winter? 

The first day back starts off wholly uneventful, with Jungkook working on some manuscripts and you preparing dinner with Jimin. Most of your family is on the resort hitting the slopes, so you’re quite thankful for the reprieve since the party was so overwhelming. The blonde is all smiles as he bumps the oven closed with his leg, letting your lasagna bake to perfection. 

“I’ve missed you so much,” Jimin rests his head on your shoulder, “it’s definitely not the same when we’re adults. Frankly, it sucks balls.” 

“Big balls,” you agree, gnawing on a leftover baguette from last night. 

“Speaking of big balls,” Jimin wiggles his brows as you attempt to move farther from him.

“Please don’t say it.” 

“C’mon! Just tell me if the sex is good!” 

“No!” you cry, flicking your crumbs at him. 

“I will open this oven,” his hands are already on the handle, “and your dish will undercook.” 

“Don’t you dare!” he opens the oven a tad, and you slam your hand down. “Fine! The sex is fantastic, happy?” 

“Ewh, no!” The storm door swings open, revealing Namjoon, Yoongi, and Lisa, Namjoon’s lady friend. “I didn’t need to hear that, thanks.” 

Your face looks absolutely pained as you watch the two older men walk in. They were the last people you’d ever want to share about your sex life too, even if it is fake. You can only bear to look properly at Lisa as they kick off their boots and shake the snow off their heads. Lisa pokes her tongue in her cheek, looking at you with a wild look in her eyes. “I’ve heard so much about your current drama. Can’t wait to hear the 411 from you, though.” 

Yoongi looks unfazed, then again you never really know what’s going on in his head. “You guys wanna go to a movie tonight?” Yoongi asks, grabbing a slice of the baguette and dipping it in a dish of olive oil. “I think the one that’s showing is based on a book your company published.”

“Is it ‘Rotten Love’?” 

“That’s the one.” 

Pushing yourself off the counter, you nod eagerly. “I’ll go tell Jungkook to get ready. We can eat dinner real quick and then go right after,” you grab a bottle of water from the fridge, “Joonie, set up the table please.” 

Jungkook doesn’t notice you walk in, and you can hear the faint sound of Muse blasting from his Airpods. He’s on your floor, doing pushups while reading a transcript under him. This time he’s using your iPad, every few seconds taking a thumb to scroll down. Sweating through his shirt, you can see the beads running along his silver reading glasses. It’s completely contradictory, your muscle bunny of a boss getting in his reps while psychoanalyzing a potential novel, but somehow it works with him. 

“Maniac,” you mutter, bending down to place the cool water bottle on his cheek. He stops abruptly, like you’ve pressed the pause button on his seemingly robotic arms. Seriously, you can’t fathom how he manages to do both. You swipe the iPad under his body in place of a white towel, which he accepts gratefully. This isn’t the first time you’ve had to snap him out of it, sometimes you’d catch him at the company gym nearing 10PM, reading on the treadmill. 

“What time is it?” he asks, fluting the water bottle down his throat. 

Ignoring the way his neck glistens in sweat, you say, “It’s almost seven. C’mon, we’re gonna eat dinner and watch a movie. You’ve cooped yourself up in this room all day, time to interact with the world.” 

“What movie?” 

“The book we published in 2018, ‘Rotten Love’? They made it into a movie,” and you can’t help the wry grin that takes over your face when you say your next words, “guess who directed it.” 

He sighs, rubbing the towel over his damp hair. The normally styled strands fall limply at his forehead. “I don’t remember, I shifted over that project to PR. Any director’s fine, but please please please don’t let it be—”

“Jung Hoseok!”

“Son of a bitch, we gotta go.” And it’s the first time in a while you see a genuine smile graze his features, one not laced with you and your marriage. It’s an old pastime for you both to get picky over Jung’s work. “I swear, he better not put his scenes all over the place like last time, I got whiplash.” 

After a quick dinner you all pile into Namjoon’s minivan, making your way to the theatre. The drive is fast, and before you know it you’re waiting in line to get inside. It seems that the PR between the film studio and Big Hit did a good job assisting, because there’s a sizable line despite being half an hour early. 

“So honey,” Lisa leans into you, squishing you further into Jungkook’s shoulder. “Did you like, help out with the publishing of this novel? To be honest I don’t even know what your job is,” Lisa admits with a shrug, “you’re not a glorified coffee girl, are you?” 

“No,” her mixed enthusiasm never fails to stump you, “Ah, but I really didn’t do much in the production of ‘Rotten Love’,” you reply easily, relaxing into Jungkook as he moves to drape an arm around your shoulder. “I just told my boss to sign some documents n’stuff. It’s really nothing—”

“Babe, are you kidding? You ran the whole freakin’ project!” and you’re in shock, because for the first time in the history of ever, Jeon Jungkook is paying you a real compliment. “It was her first assignment when she got hired as the big boss’ assistant. A lot of people in the office doubted her,” he squeezes your shoulder, “but not for one second did I doubt her, you could see how hard she worked to make it perfect. I heard the boss was really impressed, too.” 

You remember that period of time. Jungkook made you dive headfirst into the publishing for ‘Rotten Love’, letting you sink or swim in his decision for keeping you employed. After a full month of meetings, negotiations, and debating whether you should have caffeine IV’ed in your body to save time on eating, you got Jungkook’s evaluation. You remember the stoicism in Jungkook’s frame as he surmised your work, throwing you a flippant “it’s decent” before sending you off to do more work. 

Relief flooded your system after those two simple words, because that meant you had a chance and you could keep your job. But this? If what he’s saying is true, you’re on Cloud 9. 

“Awh, thanks Kook.” you squeeze his arm, letting your fingers trail down to lace your fingers with his. 

Lisa’s face is all scrunched, and she doesn’t hesitate to stretch over you to smush Jungkook’s cheek between her two fingers. Her blue nails dig into his soft skin. “I like him, honey. Keep him, he’s so cute.” 

She leaves you alone after that, skipping over to bother Namjoon about buying an extra bucket of popcorn. 

“At first I was nervous having you near my family for a week,” you say brightly, rubbing a thumb over his hand, “but I kinda like seeing you try so hard to not rip other people’s heads off.” 

He puffs out his cheeks in an attempt to soothe the stinging. “Could be worse, I could be engaged to Karen.” 

With that you laugh, loud enough to turn heads and have Jimin and Lisa send you adoring looks. Jungkook sends you a nervous smile, the one that he’d always send you during team meetings when he was unsure of how to respond to something. Instead of giving him a smart answer, you get on your tiptoes to pat his reddened cheek. “But she’s right, you are kinda cute when you wanna be.” 

Instead of replying, he squeezes your hand tighter to lead you inside. 

Everything is smooth sailing after that. You, Jimin and Yoongi are saving the seats while Jungkook, Lisa and Namjoon are getting the refreshments. Jimin is prattling on about a new job interview and you’re listening attentively, while Yoongi shoots off advice every time Jimin says he’s nervous. 

Yoongi looks past Jimin to give you that gummy smile that always made your chest ache. “Chim, remember when she applied to work at Jamba Juice?” 

“Oh my god,” Jimin giggles, clutching your arm. “When you had to do a trial run in front of the manager? You forgot to put the lid on the blender and you sprayed the staff with green juice?” 

“The stains took forever to get out,” you pouted. “And I didn’t appreciate the snaps you saved of me. I got nervous because you were recording me!” 

“Am I hearing some juicy details about your childhood?” Jungkook appears, passing a huge tub of buttery popcorn to Yoongi. 

“Emphasis on juice,” Yoongi says tartly, popping a handful of kernels in his mouth. 

“Yes, do you wanna see a picture of your fiancé covered in green juice? She wore a low-cut shirt that day so it got deep, man.” Jimin says, using his hands to gesture obscenely to his own chest. 

You’re mortified, and you push down Jimin’s phone and cover whatever receipts he has on you. “Jimin, I’d like to stay engaged, if you don’t mind?” 

Your not-so-favorite cousin cackles in response, telling Jungkook that they’ll talk later. 

“Here,” Jungkook cooly hands you a King-Sized KitKat. 

“Awh,” you marvel, immediately opening the wrapper, “you actually read my notes and found out what my favorite candy was?” 

He scoffs, dark bangs blowing up. “Who doesn’t like KitKats?” but you’re giving him the look, and he sighs, “C’mon babe, just gimmie a break.” 

“Ha-ha,” but you break off a piece anyway, lifting it to Jungkook’s lips. It’s then that the theatre starts to dim, and the telltale signs of the movie begin. “Ready to rip Jung Hoseok to shreds?” 

“Always.” 

Barely fifteen minutes pass and Jungkook is spreading his legs. You’re about to kick him before he leans in to whisper, “They made Renee too dull,” he sighs in disappointment, as if he sincerely had high hopes they’d bring the novel to justice. “I mean, I get it, in the novel she’s supposed to be a plain Jane. But she isn’t grey.” 

“Right?” you lean into Jungkook, throwing your legs over his thighs like you’re back at the airport. This isn’t out of intimacy, you think to yourself, you just need to be close enough to Jungkook so you don’t disturb the other patrons with your talking. “She’s either a bad actress or they messed up her character. I really got upset when I read this part, but it’s kinda bland on the screen.” 

As much as you love Jimin, you know he’s not going to get your over-criticality over the media. Yoongi and Namjoon are on the other end of the row, but they wouldn’t be too pleased having you gab over the movie because you’re too much of an aficionado. Jungkook is the only one who can tête-à-tête, or in this case, Kit-a-Kat with you. 

You sigh into his shoulder, inhaling his clean scent. “Let’s pray Jung didn’t completely butcher the chapter where Kenzo reflects on his penniless journey.” 

“I’ll leave the theatre right then and there if that happens, care to join me?” 

“Already out the door, bossman.” 

Jungkook looks away from the screen briefly, reaching forward to take an obnoxiously big bite of the KitKat in your hand. You stifle a giggle, and before you can soak up his cheeky grin he’s already looking back at the movie. 

You wonder what Jungkook is like outside of work, if he has that side to him. A little part of you wishes that this playfulness he’s exuding is real. Not to your fake marriage, but a playfulness he can execute to a person that he really likes. Two days out of the office and you’re starting to see that Jungkook has the capabilities to enjoy life, however simple it may be. 

The movie is finished in a blur, and you and Jungkook are still bickering over the intricacies of the film compared to the novel. The night air is cold and burns your cheeks, reminding you exactly how late you’ve been out.

“Well, I thought the romance was so boring!” Lisa blurted, wanting an in. Her lime green ski jacket glares in your vision, and you move away from her immediately. “No one cheated on each other, there was no drama, or evil best friend!” 

“Whoa there,” and you see the little fire in Jungkook’s eyes, one you’ve learned early on to stay away from when you spent hours in his office debating over manuscripts and plotlines. He stares down at Lisa, really stares down. “You think every romance needs some sort of internalized conflict for it to be good? Why can’t they just grow and learn from the external conflict together? It’s literally useless for them to break up over and over just—”

And that’s your cue to walk ahead of them, because while you did agree with Jungkook, you’ve heard this debate one too many times. Ever the closet-romantic at heart. You hope Lisa doesn’t lose her patience and punch him out. 

“Hey,” you feel a hand pat your hair, and you look up at Yoongi. He looks absolutely fluffy in his long puffy jacket, and he matches your steps with his. “Do I look ugly tonight, or something? I feel like we barely exchanged two sentences with each other.” 

“What, never!” you chastise, “you always look good, Yoongi. And we have the whole week to catch up, remember?”

“Really, then why don’t we go out in two days to pick out a tree for your house? Joon and I are planning on going.” 

“I would love to go pick a tree!” you exclaim, “the last time we got a tree together was when your brother had to lift.” 

“Great,” and he pats your head again, but this time his hand lingers to finger the ringlets of your hair. “It’ll be just like old times, baby girl. I’ll pick you up at 9.” 

Unbeknownst to the both of you, Jungkook’s argument ended minutes ago and he’s mulling over a new type of internal conflict. 

“Owie, ow, ow—fuck you! Ow!” 

“Well if you just hold still,” Jungkook grimaces, taking his turns with both hands to simultaneously wipe the injury with a cloth and then pressing the affected area with an ice bag. 

“Buh ih hurths!” your voice is muffled by the cloth, stained red with freshly bloomed blood. 

The ski lodge started off great. You enjoyed a fabulous beligan waffle breakfast courtesy of Jimin’s parents, and then made the trek to the slopes. You’ve been here dozens of times, so you didn’t feel an inclination to gravitate to any of the fancy schmancy sports. You were fine playing shuffleboard inside, but your inner youth complained that it’s the holidays and you should be getting out more.

Jimin and Jungkook (who claimed he hasn't snowboarded since he was 16 yet he’s doing tricks like a goddamn Olympian) were shredding on the slopes while Namjoon and Lisa were skiing on a smaller hill. You and Yoongi watched safely from the lift, riding it like a kiddie attraction. You must’ve taken the lift at least ten times, complaining about how you’re both too lazy to function and you could really use a hot chocolate and a fireplace. 

After the fifteenth time on the lift, legs numb, you stumble over with heavy boots to where Lisa and Namjoon were waiting for Jimin and Jungkook. They wanted to walk around more and see if they could try a more difficult slope. 

While you were waiting, you had to admit that Jungkook did kind of cool all decked out in his gear. A competitive, playful smile was easily reflected in his gaze despite his helmet and goggles. 

That slight admiration is knocked right off your feet when Jungkook speeds by way too close for comfort and you’re in his path. Jimin had already slowed next to your friends and family, looking at you in anticipated horror.

It’s far too late, and despite the fact that Jungkook manages to pull your body to his while you wipe out, your face crashes into his helmet and you taste metal. 

Mildly disoriented from the impact, Jungkook’s muffled string of curses nurse you back to a decent consciousness as he tries to carry you to the lodge.

“Holy shit, I got that on camera!” Jimin cries, gesturing to the Go-Pro nestled in his helmet. 

So now you’re in pain and it’s all Jungkook’s fault. Your bottom lip is split, and the burn on your face won’t go away. 

You watch as Jungkook dotes on you, his bangs pushed up everywhere due to his grey goggles haphazardly being propped upon his forehead. His pink tongue sticks out as he concentrates on not getting blood on your sweater. It’s just you and him that are stuck around in the lodge after you got pummeled, standing by the fire while everyone else continues on with the fun. 

“Why were you over there anyway, in the middle of the slope?” he scolds. 

“It was the slow down zone, Jeon. You were the only one not slowing down, you speed demon.” 

“Sorry,” he says gruffly, pressing a little too hard with the ice and you wince. He lets up and presses the cloth to your lips to soak up the moisture.

“Did you say something?” 

“I said, I’m sorry.” 

You sigh dramatically, “I wish I had a camera to save that shitty excuse of an apology.” 

“Speaking of cameras,” he shucks his phone out of his pocket, handing it to you. “Jimin uploaded the video.” 

That man, you don’t know where he has the means to quickly upload and edit things, but if it’s for the ‘Gram, it’s worth it to Jimin. You open Instagram and immediately click on @chimmyboi’s story, immediately wincing as the first few seconds reveal the brunt of the impact. He should really put a disclaimer before uploading content. 

The tumble between you and Jungkook doesn’t look so bad, but it’s when you get up does it look gnarly. Your chin is dribbling in red liquid, and Jungkook’s throwing off his helmet and goggles in a panic. 

He makes a half-assed snowball where you’re lying on the ground, pressing it against your mouth. With his other hand he pulls you into a sitting position, not caring that you’re staining his clothes as he hauls you on his body. 

“Ohmygod,” you splutter, trying not to move your lips, “I look like I got decked with a hockey puck.” 

“It wasn’t that bad, don’t be a baby.” Jungkook sees the piecing glare you give him, and he sighs. “Okay, it looked pretty bad. I was a little worried back there, but now the bleeding pretty much stopped and holy shit—stop smiling! You’re making it open up further!” 

“You were worried?” 

“Shut up.” 

The ice bag is watery and not doing much anymore, but Jungkook still insists to cool your face down. You lift a hand to his cold ones, attempting to take the bag and cloth from his grasp. 

“You should go board with Jimin and the rest of them. I can take care of this.” 

“It’s fine,” he reasons, reaching for the ice bag but you hold on tighter. 

“C’mon, I know the only thing you were looking forward to this entire trip was going snowboarding. I’m a big girl, I can be alone for an hour or two.” 

Jungkook locks his jaw, gnawing at his cheek as he mulls on his decision. “Wouldn’t I look like a bad partner if I leave you?”

“Nah, this has happened before. Almost always someone gets injured on the trip. Last time something like this happened I was eight and I got five stitches on my leg. This is nothing. You’re fine.” 

“But still.” 

“Fine, you wanna make it up to me?” 

You scan the room for any ideas, and it settles on a trio of girls huddled by the register of the built-in café. They’re pretty snow bunnies, decked out in sweater dresses and fur lined boots. They remind you a little of The Powerpuff Girls, all in pastels and attached to the hip. Their gaze has taken hostage in Jungkook’s frame, blatantly ignoring the fact that majority of his attention is directed towards you. You wonder why you haven’t noticed them sooner, because now the staring is getting borderline discomforting. 

Slipping off his goggles with your free hand, you gesture subtly to the girls. “They think you’re hot. Go flirt with them a little and get me a free drink, I’m sure they’ll pay for you.” 

He doesn’t understand the correlation, “Why would I do that?” 

You shrug, separating the strands of hair that stick to his forehead. “Lisa and Namjoon do it all the time when they go clubbing. They compete and pretend they’re single for like two hours, and then they keep a tally of how many people offer to buy them a drink.” 

“That is completely different, but I’m open to trying it when we get back to the city.” he acknowledged briefly, getting up from his crouching position. “I got a better idea.” 

Puzzled, you watch him saunter over to the register. Like bees to the honey, the girls follow Jungkook with their eyes, watching him exaggeratedly mull over the menu. 

He spares the slightest of head inclinations to the drooling trio, “Hello ladies.” The smile is not flirtatious, but kind. 

You suppress a giggle, burying your chin in your scarf as you watch the whole interaction. You don’t even know why you asked Jungkook if he would flirt with those girls, as he kept most of his dates private over the years. You picture a college-aged Jungkook getting his daily breakfast on his way to class, ignoring the way his presence attracts heads. 

The barista hands Jungkook a tray filled with a plastic cup of ice, and a cup filled with something hot, and a chocolate croissant. He grabs a straw from a tray, stabbing it in the hot drink’s lid. 

“Excuse me,” one of the girls coquettishly puts her hands behind her back, puffing her chest out as she leans over Jungkook’s order. “The regular croissants actually taste better in my opinion.” 

“Well my wife’s had a hard day, so I think she deserves something sweet.” 

He doesn’t even turn around as he makes a beeline to where you’re seated on a loveseat, carefully placing the tray on the coffee table. 

“Your better idea was making them jealous?” you ask, unsure of his intentions. 

He shrugs, “College-Jungkook always wanted to show off his girlfriend like that, so indulge me for a second, alright?”

Rolling your eyes you reply, “My life is about indulging you. Don’t forget the trips I’ve made to the grocery store when your personal fridge was out of banana—”

“I thought I said we don’t speak of those hard times,” he cuts you off, “ever.”  

You stop him from filling up your ice bag with the ice he brought. “C’mon Jeon, you’re burning daylight out there. I got this. You’ve stalled enough, go have fun in the snow with Jimin, you adrenaline junkie.” 

He scrunches his nose, but relents when you throw him his jacket and goggles. Before he pulls on his gloves, he cups your face with both hands to pull you in a kiss. His hands are cold from the ice, gluing you in place in fear of him kissing you too hard. But it’s barely that, a brushing of lips so tender as he takes extra care with your open lip. 

“Is this also a self-indulgent request?” you pucker, “who knew there was a hormonal teenager under that editor-in-chief’s body.” 

His eyes flicker to the audience in the back, and you don’t need to look behind you to note that they’re glaring daggers in your head. It’s like you’re straight out of a rom-com. 

“You’re leaving me to the bunnies,” you say teasingly. 

“Then hurry up and get better so you can join us,” he taunts, “or else you can’t help me bury Jimin in the snow.” 

It’s a tempting offer that makes you down your drink so you can enjoy the rest of your day. 

Light seeps through your windows, rays kissing your eyelashes and willing them to open. You groan, hand splaying out to wake up Jungkook. When you find his space empty and cool, you sit up and search for your fake-fiancé. 

He’s on the floor, smack in the middle of his morning workout. Your iPad is under his body, and somehow he’s managed to find a setting where the document scrolls for him automatically. He’s not wearing his Airpods, so you rasp, “Jeon, you’re crazy. I get the morning workout, but you don’t have to look over any more transcripts. I think you’ve read enough for this week.” 

“It helps me ignore the burn,” he says shortly, and you see the ripples of his back flex with every push-up. “And I wouldn’t have to do so much reading if my assistant would just do her job.” 

“I already told you, I’m not working during my vacation.” you throw off the sheets, padding to your closet. “I’m going to pick the tree today. You should go to the mall with my mom and Jimin to pick out some new ornaments.” 

“What?” he gets up, and you ignore the perfect view of tight muscles decorating his abs. Exactly how long was he awake for to have sweat clinging to his shirt? You’re going to short-circuit and it’s barely 8:30. “But I wanna go help pick out the tree.” 

“You don’t have to do that, Joon and Yoongi got it.” 

“Yoongi, really? You think he can carry a tree?” 

“This isn’t a pissing contest, Jeon.” you settle on a burgundy Patagonia jacket and grey leggings. “Besides, Yoongi and I are just friends.”

“You sure about that, baby girl?” 

You whip around to poke at his chest, and you ignore how smug he looks. “Do not test me, Jeon. Like you said, I’m with you every step of the way in this marriage. I’m not going to jeopardize that over some childhood crush.” 

“Wow, your life is really turning into a Wattpad entry,” he admonishes, “fake-fiancé still pining over his older brother’s best friend, really high-qual stuff.” 

“I’m serious.” you grit, “I took a week off so I can get away from you and that was ruined, so I would like a little bit of space today.” 

And that gets Jungkook to back away. His face deflates a little, and you feel a little guilty for making him upset, but you stab that thought down and convince yourself that he deserves it. It’s not like he cares about you, he just wants to show off to the boys.

“Fine,” he turns around to put on a fresh shirt, and you almost notice the pout marrying his face. “You could’ve just told me you wanted space. I’m getting kind of tired of you too, you know.” 

He flops on the bed and you huff in reply, quickly throwing on your attire inside your closet while he watches a YouTube video. You check your phone, and at 8:59 a knock is at your door. Jungkook doesn’t bother to get up to answer, and you open the door to see a sleepy Yoongi with a paper cup in his hand. 

“An English breakfast with two sugars and a dash of milk, baby girl.” 

You mask your wince at the pet name. It hadn’t bothered you when you were young, but its starting to feel coddling now that Jungkook is making you hyper-aware of the attention. “Perfect,” you faux-beam, the hot beverage warm your fingers. 

“I’ll just warm up the car and—”

“Babeeeeee,”  the deepest, sexiest voice echoes from your bed and out in the hallway. He sounds absolutely tempting, and needy. You freeze at the way your boss can so easily pretend he’s exhausted and wanting you, “come back to bedddddd. I’m not done with you yet.” 

Yoongi’s ears are red, “Aaand, I’ll let you finish whatever business you have.” 

The older man bolts out of there, and you snap your head back to look at an innocent Jungkook. He tilts his head at your bout of anger. 

“You know, I have half a mind to fling this tea down your shirt.” 

“What?” he looks at you like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. “He can’t be the only one who can call you baby.” 

Honestly, you didn’t mean to lash out on Jungkook like that. You did need to put up a face as you were each other's significant others, but it doesn’t mean you have to be together all the time. To top it all off you’ve been feeling weird as of late, and you can only attribute these terrible feelings to a certain brunet who’s been sleeping in your bed. 

But you pin these feelings for another time, because you need to enjoy what little quality time you have with your brother. 

“Hey, whaddya think of this one?” It's just you and Namjoon picking the tree, and Yoongi’s sitting in the cabin keeping warm. He said to call him once you’ve decided, since it is your house. 

“Hm, it’s fine.” you shrug, inhaling the pine. “Maybe a little too tall.” 

Namjoon nods, and you follow him to the next row of greenery. He’s been pensive this whole time, and you have a feeling he’s hiding something. Surrounded by pine and the fresh winter air he says, “Hey, I just wanna say sorry.” 

“Why, did you like that tree over there? I don’t mind it, we can go back!” 

“What, no? I’m sorry for being weird around Jungkook.” 

“Huh?” sure, you noticed the weird language and terseness he gave Jungkook initially, but you chalked it out as big brother issues. 

You two continue to walk around the forest aimlessly, not really tree hunting. 

“I was just upset that the engagement was so sudden,” Namjoon starts, and you feel the guilt start to set camp in your stomach. “And I don’t know, at first he just didn’t seem like your type? I always thought you wanted to date someone gentle, someone you could hold and depend on. He looked so serious, and maybe a little immature.”

“He is a little immature,” you agree softly, digging your boots in the snow, “but I don’t love him any less because of it. We’re growing together.” Shit, why was that so easy for you to say? 

“Figured,” and Namjoon stops to place a hand on your shoulder, “I see the way he looks at you, and you can’t fake love like that.” 

Namjoon’s admonition is so convincing that you almost convince yourself that it is something. 

Something is bothering Jungkook, and he doesn’t know why. 

It’s not the billions of charges he made on his credit card for new ornaments, because it simultaneously inflated his ego and impressed your mom. 

It’s not the way Jimin hangs onto his every word and doesn’t let up, because it is refreshing to have your cousin find a genuine interest in him. 

Jungkook, Jimin and your mom have been taking laps around the mall for the past hour. They’ve floated around here and there, picking out whatever catches their eye for the tree. 

Jimin’s in the middle of explaining the Jamba Juice story when a glimmering window display catches his eye. 

“Hun, have you not bought her a present yet?” your mom says over his shoulder. 

“No,” he exhales, embarrassed that he just admitted he didn’t think of getting you anything in front of your mom. “She doesn’t ask for anything, really.” Besides her book published, a raise, and a potential promotion as editor, but they didn’t need to know that much. 

“Good thing you’re with the right people!” Jimin cheers, ushering him into the jewelry store. 

Funny enough, he knows exactly what to get you. Once he points it out, Jimin and your mom “ooh” and “aah” respectively, agreeing that what he chose was perfect. If you had asked Jungkook a week ago what kind of jewlery you like, he’d give you a dumb look and say “something shiny.” But that’s what’s bothering him. He just walked right into the store, saw what was right, and everything just clicked. 

Jungkook pins that thought for later, because once their shopping is done they’re back at your villa, arranging the ornaments and detangling the lights that have been holed up in the closet for eleven months. 

Jimin and he are sitting on the living room floor, stabbing thread through popcorn. He really only saw this craft in the movies, and the small part of him is amazed that you and your family go through the hard work to make your holidays so warm. 

Your mom appears from her bedroom, clutching something in her hand. She sits in front of Jungkook, a huge smile on her face. 

“Before you say anything,” and it strikes him how similar you are to your mother. There’s that tone he always receives before he gets new news, or the way you’re eager to share something that will make him happy. “I don’t want you to think this is a luxurious gift or anything. But I realized that you don’t have a wedding band so I went through my old cases and found this.” 

She opens her palm slowly, revealing a simple black band. 

Jungkook’s lips part to form words, but his vocal cords betray him. At first glance, this ring could’ve been mistaken for one of Jimin’s plentiful rings adorning his fingers. Upon closer inspection however, Jungkook notes that this band is thinner and more worn. The metal looks strong and old, the slight scratches and faded color revealing that it was a well-loved piece of jewelry. 

Your mom is offering Jungkook a wedding band. 

“If you don’t like it, that’s okay!” your mom says quickly, nerves radiating because of Jungkook’s silence. “It was my grandfather’s. Don’t feel as if you have to accept it. It’s not a wedding band persay, but I think it matches and it looks about your size and we didn’t get you a Christmas gift so—”

“It’s perfect.” Jungkook tells her firmly, sending him a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you, I guess we kind of rushed the engagement so I didn’t think of getting a band of my own.” 

Your mother is grateful, dropping the ring in Jungkook’s awaiting palm. “I think my daughter should be the one who puts it on you, don’t you think?” 

“Right,” he echoes, and he just stares at the ring in his hand, feeling weird in his chest. He can’t remember the last time someone put this much thought in getting him something this significant. He can’t accept this ring, but he can’t refuse it either. “I could never find something with this much value from a little shop in New York, so thank you.” 

“Oh, and while we’re on the topic of New York,” Jimin puts down his completed popcorn wreath, “y/n said she already put in her off days for Easter, so you should too. It’ll be at my place this year, and I live by an indoor skydiving zone. She mentioned you’re an adrenaline junkie.” 

“She also mentioned that your birthday’s in September.” your mom pops in, “We were thinking we could take Friday off and stop by for the weekend. I’ve always wanted to see Hamilton!” 

Jungkook knows they’re trying to cheer him up. They’re trying to make him feel part of the family, feel wanted. But he can’t remember the last time he’s felt wanted unless it’s for a book deal or a business exchange. It’s been so long since he’s felt this warm, and he didn’t realize how much he yearned for it until he proposed to you.

“Hey man,” Jimin puts an arm around his trembling shoulders, “are you alright?” 

“Fine,” he’s crying, and doing a shit job at hiding the tears. “It’s alright, I just,” he can’t even find the strength to get up and walk away from this. Is it pathetic that he’s breaking down in the comfort of your cousin and mom, starved for affection? “I just, I miss my family. It’s just the four of us, but they’re all the way in Korea and it’s been awhile since I’ve really celebrated anything with them. They visit sometimes but it’s not the same, y’know? And work is so stressful but I’m not in a position to say that. And your family is just so, so nice and it makes me miss them even more. You’re all so lucky to support each other like this.” 

Jimin and your mom sandwich him like an Oreo. It’s almost funny, how two smaller humans are comforting this big human and not the other way around. “Poor baby, it’s your family too.” 

Pathetic. It’s pathetic how much he wishes to have a family like yours, but he can’t have that. 

“Can we please not tell y/n about this?” Jungkook wishes, leaning his head on your mom’s. “She’s going through a lot right now with work and stuff, I’d rather just talk to her about this after the holidays, if that’s okay.” 

“It’s quite alright, sweetheart,” your mom runs a hand through his hair, and his eyes automatically flutter closed, “just remember, your feelings matter too, okay?” 

You and Jungkook slip into bed at the same time, murmuring half-hearted “how was your days” and brief descriptions of your outings. It’s a little awkward considering the morning’s events, but not unbearable. 

“The tree smells really nice,” Jungkook tries, looking up from his phone. 

“Yeah, makes the whole room smell like Christmas.” 

“Yeah.”

“Did you have a good time shopping, find anything good?” 

“Yeah.”

“That’s nice.” 

[11:29] Jimin: hey, you know my room’s right next to yours right? 

[11:29] Jimin: we share a goddamn wall and im NOT hearing shit

[11:29] Jimin: are you putting that baby blanket to good use ;)

[11:30] You: YOU”REE DISGUSTING are we even family!!!!  Can i disown a first cousin?? 

[11:30] Jimin: i’m just sayin.. U said it was fantastic

You throw your phone away, letting it slide off to the mattress and onto the baby blanket. Yes, the baby blanket is unfortunately here to stay. Over the course of three days, the quilt is like a ball in a tennis match between you and your mother. You’ve given up and just kept it on the floor. 

“I have a question,” you say aloud, motioning to your bed partner. 

“Shoot.” 

“Was it true when you said I was the only girl you knew well enough to be your wife?”

“Of course, that’s why we’re here.” 

“I’m just wondering, because I really thought you could pick any girl in the office to be yours.” you stuff your hands under the covers, playing with your ring. “I mean, you’re kinda-sorta handsome. You could’ve picked someone just as pretty and they would have studied your whole life story for you.” 

Jungkook's phone falls in his lap, and he looks at you like you’ve lost a couple brain cells. “Normally, I would eat up the fact that you admitted I was attractive. But do you realize you’re just as beautiful, if not more?” 

What? 

“I know it’s unprofessional, but how professional can we get when we’re married, but you’re the whole package, y/n.” and he says it with such fervor, you can’t formulate a response. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else. No one else can take my shit and throw it right back in my face, or debate with me for hours on end about a novel’s direction. Only you can do that.” 

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, “thanks, you’re right. I’m just clouded, and stressed. And Jimin’s being an ass and it’s really bothering me.” 

His chocolate eyes flicker in the darkness of your bedroom, making note of your phone on the floor. “What’d he say?” 

“It’s stupid, he said that he thinks it’s weird he hasn’t heard us bang all week,” you force a laugh, “it’s my fault though, he wouldn’t get off my back so I gave up and told him the sex was fantastic.” 

“Are you worried he’s unconvinced?” 

“A little, maybe? I don’t know.” you’re wrinkling your bedsheets now, turning the cotton into putty as your sweaty palms wring at the edge. 

“I don’t mind giving him a show.” Jungkook blurts, and you instinctively pull the covers closer to your chest, even though you’re fully clothed. 

“What, like fake moan into the wall?” 

“There are things you can do over the clothes,” he says matter-of-factly, pulling the sheet of his bedside down slightly. “And you just said you’re stressed. I’d be a bad fiancé to not let you relieve some of that tension.” 

Jungkook opens his arms and gestures for you to get on his lap. Your body is hot all over, and you can’t tell if it’s because you’re horrified or aroused. Maybe a little of both. 

“Are you kidding—you’re my boss!” 

“And we’re consenting adults!” he narrows his eyes at you, “don’t say you’ve never thought about it before.”

And the sick, twisted part of you has, a lot. There’s something about a man in a tailored suit and owning up to its power that’s really attractive. Not to mention all those times they’d be traveling for work, stumbling for a quick McDonald's bite at 12AM and he’d be dressed casually in tight black jeans and combat boots. The energy really kept you on your toes. 

“Wow, I really hate late-night talks. All the secrets come out, don’t they?” 

“If it makes you feel better, your ass looks great in pencil skirts,” you turn to him with flared eyes, “what? I’m just trying to let you know I mayhaps find you attractive.” 

“Mayhaps you should stop talking before I regret this.” 

His eyebrows lift and disappear from his bangs, the hair freshly dried and fluffy from his late night shower. He then pats his lap with a little blasé as if to say “hop on”, and you ignore the way how good the seat looks, his boxer briefs doing nothing to hide his unmentionables. 

Trying to fight alongside your last drop of dignity, you take your time. 

“C’mon y/n, don’t make it weird.” 

“It’s been weird, Jeon! Jimin’s next door!” you hiss, backing away slightly, “Give me some time, I can’t just hump my boss!” 

“You’re not humping your boss.” Jungkook has the audacity to grin, the expression looking absolutely sinful in the moonlight. “Think of it as your lover wanting to make you feel good.” 

The bridge between love and hatred is a fine, fine line stemmed by passion. 

Careful, you lift your blankets up and slip out of them, moving to sit up. It’s ridiculous, tiptoeing around your bed to avoid any sudden creaks in the aged wood of your mahogany headboard. 

“We’re out to prove to your family we fuck on the reg,” Jungkook snips, “you can make noise.” 

Within seconds, he’s hauling you on his lap. You squeak in surprise, feeling the thin material of his boxers seep through your thin silk shorts. You wriggle around, monitoring Jungkook’s expression. He does not allude too much, but you take note of the way Jungkook secures you with his hands between the swells of your thighs. 

“I’m not a rollercoaster, stop adjusting like you’re gonna buckle up.” 

Jungkook’s dry humor lightens the mood considerably, and you can’t help but smile timidly at his attempt to make you feel at ease. He lets you take your time, and you never imagined someone so demanding in the office can be so… kind in bed. 

You dip forward to kiss his lips once, twice. He looks needy, but lets you set the pace. You appreciate that. You’re salivating at his willingness to make you feel good, and you whimper as he nibbles on a sensitive spot on your neck. 

You need more. Sensing your urgency when you jerk his chin up, he muffles your sounds with a harsh kiss, taking care to moan deeply into your mouth. The heat is luxurious on this winter night, burgundy kisses exchanged between the sheets like secrets. His tongue slips between your teeth, tasting every inch of you and exploring you like the deepest texts. 

He pulls away slightly, and you’re drowning in his gaze. “Am I still just kinda-sorta handsome now?” he nips at your neck, sucking on a spot between your jaw. 

“N-no,” and you pull him up by the chin, taking in his messy hair and glazed eyes, “you’re fucking sexy,” and you tug your mouth to his once more. 

You don’t even realize that you’re rolling your hips until Jungkook breaks the kiss in favor of grabbing your hips, making sure your core is nestled perfectly between his hardening length. It doesn’t take long for the both of you to get wet, and the silk glides easily between your thighs like butter.

“That’s it, baby girl,” he encourages, one hand reaching up to cup your breast, “use me, make  yourself feel good.” 

“Please, don’t call me that,” you whine against his mouth, trying to keep the mood in, “Babe is fine, but baby girl makes me feel like a little kid and I’m not a little kid.”

“You damn right,” and he lifts his hips to meet yours in a sharp thrust, and you gasp hotly into his mouth. It’s too late to muffle your moans, not when you’re drenched with two pathetic pieces of fabric stopping the both of you. “You’re a gorgeous, intelligent, strong, amazing woman.” 

With every compliment, he does all the work, thrusting with each adjective like he’s blessing poetry into your body. 

“J-Jungkook,” the name is muffled against his shoulder, too fuzzed in ecstasy to be embarrassed by the drool coating his tank top. His hair tickles your shoulder as he nips at your clothed breasts, swirling around your nipple. “I-I, m’gonna come,” 

“You’re almost there huh?” and he slips a hand between you two to find that sweet spot, swirling designs between your shorts. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

And you’re shaking, collapsing into his embrace as he rides out your high. He cradles one hand in your hair as you rub furiously against his other, chasing your pleasure like a starved animal. 

“K-Kook,” you murmur into his neck, finding the strength to roll your hips one more time to check. “You’re still hard, do you want me to help?”

“No.” he’s forthright, and as tired as you are, you force yourself to pick your head up. Sweat lines his brow and his face is flushed, but he’s already helping you off and handing you a tissue from the nightstand. 

“What?” you’re hurt, and don’t want to admit why. 

“Don’t feel like you need to,” he grunts into your forehead, dipping a chaste kiss right in the center. “Just let me do something nice to you for once.” 

As much as you want to, you don’t complain as he tucks you in. You don’t complain when you see a wet stain on his Kirby boxer briefs. You don’t answer back when he checks his phone one more time and pulls you in to press a kiss to your cheek. It’s 12:31. 

“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs into your skin, and turns over so his back faces you. 

Christmas is a loud and eager affair. The entirety of your family piles into your house while still in pajamas, aunts and uncles from other villas running in with their children with their newly opened toys and gadgets. There’s a buffet style breakfast piled on the kitchen island, and you’re all eating in the living room while watching holiday movies. 

Jungkook melds right in, unsurprisingly. He has your baby cousin Dante in his lap, teaching him how to use the controls of his new Nintendo Switch. 

Despite only meeting Jungkook a few days ago, you notice that some of your family have taken the liberty of giving him small presents. You spot a simple silver chain around his wrist, courtesy of Jimin, and a fluffy grey scarf wrapped around his neck, courtesy of your aunt’s impeccable knitting club. 

“He fits right in, doesn’t he?” 

Yoongi hands you your usual cup of tea, and you accept it gratefully. You’re sitting right next to the tree, and you notice that some of the ornaments are miniature books. You absentmindedly run your fingers over the carved wood, especially on the ones that are your favorite titles. 

“Yeah,” you hate to admit, so you whisper it into your mug. But Yoongi can hear, he always does. “I didn’t think it would be this easy.” 

“Easy to love him, or easy to fit into this family?” 

You splutter into your mug, and Yoongi does the right thing by patting your back. It feels a little bit like he’s burping a baby, but otherwise, it soothes your lungs. 

“I am happy for you, you know.” he says, knocking knees with you. “It might not seem like it now, but I truly am.” 

Deciding not to dwell on his subversive confession, you thank him for the tea and excuse yourself. Dante seems like he’s got the hang of MarioKart, so you tug Jungkook by the hand and lead him back into your bedroom. 

“I got you a present, but I didn’t feel like making a scene about it,” you pull out a pink gift bag, tufts of white tissue paper sticking out. “Also, it’s kinda cheap and it was a last minute thing, so don’t have any high expectations.” 

“Gee, you’re really making me feel deserving of this gift,” but he takes his time in unraveling the bag anyway. 

He pulls out a shiny onyx black mug, rolling it between his hands. On one side it’s engraved in gold cursive “World’s Best Boss” but on the other side it’s engraved, “World’s Best Husband”. 

“Subtle,” he grins, pulling you into a hug. He gets that it’s a gag gift, but because it’s from you, it's a lot more meaningful. You could’ve easily delved into his bank accounts and see what he buys for himself, but you decided to take the more personal route. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs into your hair. And to really throw you off he says, “For my gift, I’ve decided to publish your novel.” 

You shove him away as if you’ve been stung, and you barely have the voice to ask, “Are you serious, you’ve read my novel? I didn’t even send you the first draft!” 

“We share the same Google Drive, it was easy to find. If you had noticed, it’s the only thing I’ve been reading this week,” he shrugs as if it’s nothing, but he’s in actuality giving you your lifelong dream. “You deserve it, really. I’m sorry if you felt like it wasn’t ready to be read. But it was wonderful, you’re a real wordsmith.” 

“I’m not upset,” you can’t be, not when he smells so good and he’s trying to hug you all over again. “How many copies?”

“10,000.”

“20,000.”

“15,000, and I’ll even give you permission to dedicate your novel to me.” he raises his brows irreverently. 

You scoff at his arrogance, but you don’t admit to confessing that along with professors and your family, you would be dedicating it to him. “Well my gift feels like absolute shit,” you deadpan, “can I have a do-over tomorrow? We can go to the mall or something.”

“You’ve done enough for me,” he disagrees, breaking away from you to place the mug on your desk. “Agreeing to my farfetched proposal, letting me into your home. I think that’s an amazing gift.” 

“You’ve been way too nice,” you look at him wearily, noting the rosiness in his cheeks. 

“You say that like it’s not possible!” 

“Who knows? Maybe the Christmas spirit has performed a miracle, who am I to judge?” and you can’t get enough of the man, running into his heart one more time. Pressing your ear to his chest you sing, “Well, in the Poconos they say, that Jeon Jungkook’s heart grew three sizes that day.” 

It may have not grown three sizes, but if the living room wasn’t so loud, maybe you could’ve heard his heart beating three times as fast. 

The calm after the storm is your favorite part of Christmas. Most of your extended family has left to mull in their own homes, leaving your family to laze around until it’s just you and Jungkook that are awake. 

Jim Carrey’s version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas is playing on Netflix, arguably the only superior rendition of the children's book. The tree is still glowing by the fireplace, soft white lights trickling in the darkened room. 

Earlier in the night, you and Jungkook had cuddled up in the middle of the couch under a blanket, and were too lazy to move even when the entirety of your family vacated. Either of you could’ve easily shoved each other off and went to bed, but here you are, making offhand comments over hot cocoa. Each second that passes by, you’re more aware of how well you two sink between the fabric like you’re meant to do this. The domesticity terrifies you, but you don’t dare to point it out. 

“How does his face do that?” Jungkook turns to you, contorting his face into funny expressions. It’s a poor attempt at the green creature on the screen, but it makes your mouth twitch and you fight the urge to giggle. “It’s like he’s made of rubber.” 

“He has a sense of humor, unlike some people.” 

“Very funny,” he says, turning away to take a sip of his cooca. 

Sinking further into the couch, you unconsciously latch onto him more, savoring his body heat. “Can I confess something?”  

“What’s up?” 

“A week ago, I loathed you. I used to have recurring dreams about you getting run over by a Wonderbread truck. And I was driving the truck.” 

“Wow, that makes me feel so much better.” 

“No really, if I had the opportunity to watch you get hit by a cab, I would’ve paid for it.” 

“If it were possible for me to file for divorce at this very second, now would be time. You are a walking red flag.” 

“Okay, but!” you shush him with a finger to your lips, and he goes cross-eyed at the touch. “After seeing your stellar performance this week and an impeccable display of human emotion. I think after all of this, we could be friends.”��

“Fwends?” he says through your finger, mouth smushed. “Why whuh we?” 

Instead of lifting your finger right away, you swipe at his cherry lips, getting rid of the marshmallow sticking to the corners. 

“Because we get along.” you say simply.

“Because we’re supposed to be getting married.” 

“No! We’ve always gotten along! We’ve just been too up our asses to notice!” you sit up, appalled. “Here’s my theory, a change of setting has suddenly spurred on your character development—”

“—y’know I really don’t appreciate your use of literary jargon, it’s really pretentious—”

“—because without your external conflict, you have a chance to let loose and enjoy your life for once!” 

Jungkook frowns, adjusting his frame so he slightly hovers you. He’s pretty like this, dressed in fluffy black pajamas and his face soft. His eyes absorb the Christmas fairy lights, and you notice for the first time in two years that there are no longer purple bags under his eyes. 

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, voice so small you wonder if he’s worried to crush the moment. “Friends are hard.” 

You shake your head vehemently, “Friends are easy, keeping them is the hard part.”

He doesn’t know why he’s being so weird about this. You’ve worked for him for over two years, you know him as well as you know your skincare routine, down to the last detail. 

“Jeon, don’t think too hard about this,” you try to get him to lighten up, the intense look in his eyes throwing you in for a loop. It makes the little hamster wheel in your head spin rapidly, and you wonder if you’re really crossing a line. “Jimin said you had a really good time yesterday, I was almost jealous I couldn’t come shopping with you.” 

He cracks a smile at that, “Yeah, Jimin and I shared a moment,” and he leans down to the shell of your ear, “and he said he really enjoyed our moment last night.” 

“Oh my god!” you grab a nearby throw pillow, chucking the rough fabric in his face. 

He breaks into a laugh, but not the wine and dine chuckles that he’d have between terse negotiations for work. It’s a full out giggle, like he’s proud to have riled you up enough to break your resolve. Who knew your angry face could be so cute? 

“I guess if we’ve crossed a line, might as well make it all the way to the end,” Jungkook says easily, running a hand through his chocolate tresses. 

You and Jungkook are leaving the day after tomorrow. Most of your stuff is packed and ready to go, and you’re currently spending the rest of your night at a sit-down dinner with your immediate family plus Jimin. 

It’s peaceful, you muse. Jungkook even offered to help cook. Back at Big Hit not once did he ever bring leftovers from home, always insisting you order something for him during work. Kimchi fried rice is a simple dish, but Jungkook had taken great care in making sure it was cooked properly and adjusted to your family’s tastes. 

Your parents are glowing and enjoying their time with the whole family, a rarity that grows more valuable with age. The meal soothes you like a balm, reminding you of old conversations that had you spew milk out of your nose or Namjoon accidentally spilling beans on your lap. 

“Oh, you should also clear your schedule for the first week of September,” Jimin says absentmindedly, shoving another mouthful of fried rice. “Besides Easter, Jungkook says we can celebrate his birthday and visit for the weekend.” 

“Seriously,” Namjoon balks, sitting up straight as he regards you in disbelief. “You’re sure your Devil of a boss will enjoy you out of his chains for two vacations, god forbid you take the holidays off again.” 

The grip on your fork tightens, but you steel yourself. Honestly, you were wondering why it took Namjoon this long to let it all out. He was always vehemently against your job, as he was the person who got the brunt of your vents when you were stressed. Probably for the sake of Christmas he let it go, but now that it’s over, the topic’s fair game. 

“Oh, c’mon Joonie,” your mother frowns, “not at the table.” 

“He isn’t that bad, Joon.” you reason, completely ignoring Jungkook as you stare straight at your brother. “He means well—”

“Means well?” Namjoon barks a laugh, as if it’s the most laudable thing. “Sis, you cried everyday for a straight month after you were hired.” he places his hands on the table, regarding you carefully, “I had to personally call your doctor in New York to get you sleeping pills, and not to mention that two weeks ago, you were crying again because you were worried he forgot your vacation and would make you work! Don’t tell me he ‘means well’ when I’ve been busy picking up the pieces!” 

At this point, you’re livid. Jungkook’s right here, and while you can’t go ahead and out the fact that he is your boss, you can still have his back. 

They don’t know that you’ve picked the pieces back up, reinforced yourself to create a better version of the person you once were. 

“He does mean well,” you cry, matching your brother’s red tone to a T. “He’s just stressed and genuinely cares about the company. I choose to work long hours because he takes his time in making sure the work we publish is worthwhile, and I support that. He’s hard on me because he knows I have potential. He’s going to make sure I succeed.” 

Namjoon looks at you like you’ve grown two heads. “You’re seriously defending your shitty boss?” 

Jimin puts a hand over Namjoon’s in an attempt to placate him, but he shoves it away.

“Honestly,” Namjoon spits venom, “how can you possibly stand to be around someone who makes your life so miserable?” 

Your meal has gone cold, and your fists clutch desperately at your jeans. The breath is robbed from your lungs, and you can’t look at anyone for fear of them regarding you with guilt. You know since the day you got hired that your family wasn’t exactly enthused at your boss’ level of expectation and work output. But they don’t know the industry, and they don’t even really know Jungkook past the surface level. . 

But you know in their eyes, they’re right. Their daughter left their comfy home to pursue her lifelong dream, only for it to be broken in a matter of weeks. It’s natural to feel protective, and while you’re resilient and were able to get it together as of late, it wasn’t enough for them to understand. As someone who loves you, it’s obvious they’d want to blame your boss, blame Jungkook for your suffering. 

You imagine your father would ask Namjoon to step outside, or your parents would make Jimin pull you and Jungkook out. Neither of those things happen.

A warm, large hand is placed on top of yours. You look towards Jungkook, face unreadable as he squeezes your thigh. 

“Namjoon’s right.” Jungkook utters, pressing his lips together. “You deserve to be treated with respect. The boss has never appreciated the hard work you do, at least not out loud. You’re too good for him.”

“Jungkook,” you gape, putting your other hand over his. 

He pulls away at your touch, glancing at the clock. “This dinner was wonderful,” he says gently, looking apologetic to your parents. “Excuse me, but I promised to call my parents at this time.” 

The excuse is completely half-assed, but no one says anything as he leaves, walking out the door without a coat. The table is terse, with your parents attempting to coax out dessert while Jimin clears the dinner table. You refuse to look at Namjoon, who has no idea why you’re so upset. You wait five minutes before you mumble about getting Jungkook a jacket. 

However, when you open the door he isn’t sitting on the porch. He’s all the way up the street, too far for you to be heard with a yell, and walking farther into town. The black hoodie falls to your side, disappointed. 

Jungkook does in fact, call his parents. Your mother suggested it when she gave him the ring, thinking it would ease his homesickness if he made a better effort to communicate his feelings. 

And so he spends over an hour huddled in a cafe, talking about nothing and everything with his mom and dad. He tells them about the little novelties he’s experienced this week, like making popcorn strings and picking out themed Christmas ornaments. He tells him how he promises to book a flight back to Korea as soon as his work visa goes through. While he doesn’t mention the proposal, he mentions you. He prattles on and on about how strong and beautiful you are, and how you’ve crept up on him and made him realize how awful of a person he was. 

His mom prattles excitedly through the line, saying that women make you realize how much better you can be for them, but she doesn’t know the half of it. 

Jungkook sat there in your dining room, Namjoon boldly telling you off about how miserable he’s made you. 

And yet still, you defended him in ways he never imagined. Your relationship has always been mutual, and prickly at best. You balanced each other out, but he knows he doesn’t deserve you. When he first hired you, he rendered you indispensable like all the other assistants that couldn’t handle it. You’d break eventually. 

And you did break. But you picked up the pieces and put yourself back together, and you didn’t resent him for it. He hated that. How can you trust someone who’s hurt you so much? 

He can’t let you go through with this marriage. You’re wrong. You don’t need him to be successful. 

[11:09] You: mom unlocked the door for you. Jimin and i went out for drinks so idk when ill be back

[11:09] You: please don’t be mad at me

Silly girl, why would he ever be mad at you? 

His plan is simple, Sneak into your villa, grab his luggage, and try to book the earliest flight back to New York. Then, he can come clean to Taeyeon and spend the year in Korea while they work out his visa issues. He’ll quietly pack his things and clear out the office before Monday.  Hopefully by the time he makes it to Busan, he can forgive himself. He’s going to regret missing your expression when you get to hold the first physical copy of your novel. 

This plan proves difficult when he sees Namjoon waiting outside for him, sitting on his luggage and reading a book. His long legs are splayed across the porch, and he doesn’t spare Jungkook a glance.

“Knew something was off,” the older man doesn’t look up from his novel, “found the mug on her desk, bossman.” 

Muttering a curse under his breath Jungkook opens his arms, “Are you gonna beat me up now?” 

“What? No, I’m a lover, not a fighter.” Jungkook scoffs, and watches Namjoon roll his luggage to the back of the van. “And out of the kindness of my heart, I’ll save you the Lyft fare and drive you to the airport.” 

Is he that predictable? He flinches at the sudden jet of the ignition, and he takes heavy, snow-laden steps to the passenger seat. Once buckled in, Namjoon tosses the book in his lap. “Some light reading for the drive.” 

If Namjoon wasn’t the driver, he wouldn’t hesitate to chuck the book at his big, intelligent head. Instead, he glowers, clutching the book tightly. It’s only when they round the corner to a house brightly decorated with lights, does he see what novel Namjoon’s plucked. 

A Mutually-Assured Attachment. Jungkook tosses the book back and forth between his palms, noting the soft cover is so worn it could melt apart in his lap. It feels tended and loved from years of use. 

It’s Jungkook’s first novel, and you had a copy. One of the first editions, if he remembers the cover art correctly. Granted, he thought you had some of his books purely because of your job, but not one from your childhood. Frankly he thought this should have never been published, but he was nineteen and that in itself was a large feat. 

He carefully peels the pages, and takes out his phone to shine the flashlight mode. At the very front, blood red ink is scratched next to the title: “this is THE most pretentious title i’ve read in my life! Don’t disappoint me jeon!!” 

Your handwriting’s all over the place. He sees graphite, gel, and glitter pens mark the margins, as if you’ve come back each time to write something new. The annotations vary, from “this part sucks” to “shit, that’s good i should do that”. You draw little pictures of the objects he’s contrived, from the little brass locket one character cherishes to the facial expressions you imagine they hold. 

And at the very end, your handwriting sits neat and bold on the inside cover: I can do better than him. 

Jungkook chuckles to himself, turning off the light. You’re always right. 

Namjoon senses the younger one is done, and he clears his throat. “I really really don’t understand what she sees in you.” 

“I don’t understand either,” Jungkook agrees easily, his finger tracing your handwriting. He muses that you were always out to get him, even if you didn’t know it. 

Namjoon masks his surprise by clearing his throat. “But I’d rather seek to understand than live the rest of my life having my sister resent me. I don’t really know what you two are going through, but if she trusts you with her life, I’ll try. Emphasis on try.” 

“I don’t deserve your trust.” 

“You damn right you don’t,” succumbing to his impulses Namjoon makes a sharp turn, and Jungkook holds his stomach together before it flies out the window.  

You come home to find your room cold and barren. All of Jungkook’s things are gone, except your Christmas mug. 

You at least thought Jungkook would spare you a goodbye before he ditched you. You hoped you’d at least consider each other friends who provide explanations after all of this. 

Lifting the mug off the desk, you hear a little clink in the glass, the chime unfamiliar. Hurriedly, you pour out its contents. A heavy, tungsten black ring lands in your palm. You clench the metal between your fingers, hugging it to your chest. 

Mind made up, you dash out to the hallway, nearly bumping into your cousin. At the same time you and Jimin blurt, “We need to go to the airport.” 

Apparently Namjoon warned Jimin that something fishy’s going on. Namjoon didn’t know what, but he had the inkling that Jungkook was hiding something. Once Jimin received the text to meet them at the airport, he flung you in his sedan and floored it. Flushed with adrenaline, Jimin is speeding with a fervor you’ve never experienced. 

“Can you please, take the edge off and tell me what the hell is going on?” 

Just like how Jungkook didn’t want Big Hit to go down the drain, you didn’t want this week to be in vain. You can’t wait a year for Jungkook to come back, and you didn’t want to publish your first novel without him by your side. 

“Long version or short version?” 

“The in-the-middle version. I don’t think I have the brain capacity to absorb all your drama right now but I really need some answers.” 

“O-kay. Basically, Jungkook isn’t a Literary Agent. He’s my god-awful boss. Or was awful, I don’t know. Jungkook left the country before his work visa was fully processed. That’s a breach, so he needs to live in Korea for a year to come back. But he can’t run Big Hit remotely, so he proposed to marry me to attain citizenship.”

Your head whips to the dashboard and you cry out, barely stopping the impact with your hands.  

“Sorry, sorry!” Jimin’s eyes are focused on the red light, absolutely terrified. “Bitch, you’re committing fraud with your boss! You could go to jail, that’s like, the hottest love story ever!” 

“But he’s going back to Korea because now he suddenly realized he can forge basic human connection.” you mutter, “so no, we’re not going to jail because he’s decided to do the right thing.” 

“So what you’re saying is, Jungkook has achieved self-actualization and decided to peacefully move to Korea and sacrifice the company for you.” Jimin is carving his free hand in the air, gesturing wildly. “Don’t you see! He really likes you.”

“Yeah, so now we need to go to the airport and tell his dumbass this isn’t the time to be selfless.” 

Once you find a spot you’re rushing out of the car, weaving between carts and people to find the correct terminal. This airport is much smaller than JFK, so it’s easy for you to navigate and get past the TSA. It also helps that Jin’s wife is an attendant. 

“He chose the 1:45 flight in Terminal 31A,” Mijoo chirps from her tablet, leading you in the right direction. She’s dressed impeccably, the odds and ends of this airport glued together by her impeccable organization. She points to the clock, which glares a digital 1:18AM. “You have time.” 

“Thank you Mijoo,” you exhale gratefully, “and I’m so so sorry I skipped your wedding!” 

“This is the 300th time you’ve said it,” Mijoo rolls her eyes, pushing you and Jimin forward, “But I’ll make sure not to miss your wedding.” 

You’re sweating from your down jacket, and you can’t believe it’s really all come down to this. The one person you’ve spent the last two years of your life doting on, and you didn’t want to stop. You wanted him not just for the publication of your novel, but because you needed him. 

Jungkook’s sitting in the waiting area of Terminal 31A, looking wholly inconspicuous as he reads a book and has his hood propped up. 

Fists balled, you stride forward only to have Jimin tug you back. “What?” 

Jimin pulls off your thick coat, making haste to wipe the sweat off your brow with his sleeves and flatten your messy hair. “What?” he tilts his head to the side, “you need to look good before the big confrontation. I’m recording this for archival purposes. Do you have any lip balm by any chance? You look chapped.” 

You slap his hands away, but those grubby fingers just come back with a vengeance. “My life is just a big show to you, isn’t it?”

“Living vicariously all day, every day.” 

While Jimin parts your bangs, the intercom cuts through the air. 

“The 1:45 flight to John F. Kennedy International airport will now commence boarding. Please line up according to the ticket class.” 

Jimin smiles at you, squeezing your shoulders and gestures for you to go. To your horror, Jungkook is first in line. Panic bubbles to your throat.

“Jeon Jungkook!” you cry, voice echoing throughout the terminal. “If you so much breathe in the direction of that plane I will call Mark Lee right this second and tell him the book series is off!” 

Like a deer in the headlights, Jungkook heeds to your voice immediately. In his stupor you jog forward to snatch his wrist and pull him out of line. You don’t let go until you’re away from the long line, and Jungkook tugs his wrist away. 

“Don’t you dare call him,” Jungkook looks serious, as if you didn’t drive all the way to stop him from making the biggest mistake of his life. “I will never forgive you if you terminate Mark Lee’s contract.” 

“And I won’t forgive you if you get on that plane.” 

Pain flashes in his eyes, and he shakes his head. “I need to. I can’t let us—let you go through with this. You and your family deserve better.” 

“What? Jungkook, I agreed to this just as much as you did.” 

“No, you didn’t.” he’s adamant, and steps back with every step you take forward. “As your boss I threatened you, held it over your head like an ultimatum. I’ve hurt you,” his voice cracks, looking at you desperately, “why would you want to be stuck with me when I’ve made your life miserable?” 

“If I really wanted to leave, I would’ve done it a long time ago.” You reason, “Do you really want to leave the company behind? To fucking Karen?” 

“Of course I don’t!” Jungkook exclaims, “but it isn’t worth hurting you, hurting your family and everyone that loves you.” 

“And what about you? You’ll be hurt when you leave,” and you step forward, so close that your chests are touching. You take hold of his hands, clutching them between your small ones. “Don’t go, stay with me in New York. We’ll both work hard and try to not run each other to the ground. Let’s be better together.” 

You’re practically begging, biting your lip raw and hoping Jungkook understands how good this change is for the both of you. 

Jungkook is conflicted, looking back and forth between the airline boarding for JFK and your watery eyes. He hates seeing you like this. He can’t imagine you, the strongest woman he’s ever met, crying because of him. Namjoon’s voice echoes in his mind and he tries to smash it to the edge of his memory. But as always, you’re right. 

He replaces your grip with his own, and gets down on one knee. 

Jungkook says your name like it's the sweetest of songs. You’ve never seen him so terrified. “y/n, I didn’t do it right the first time, so let me try again. Please, marry me. Marry me because I want to date you. I want to take you out and give you what you deserve, what we deserve. I want to do better for myself, do better for you. I’ve realized you’re the only person that makes me feel like I’m simultaneously on fire and on thin ice,” he pulls out a velvet box from his pocket, revealing a thin band with interlocking black and clear diamond studs. It’s a pretty little thing, with a groove in the center so it stacks perfectly with your engagement ring. “This was supposed to be your Christmas present, but I chickened out at the last second,” he says sheepishly, tucking his head in. “But if you let me put this ring on your finger, I promise to be your home away from home.”  

With a sob you fall to your knees, throwing yourself onto Jungkook. A small “oof” escapes his lips, and he struggles to hold your waist so you both don’t topple over. “Yes, yes, yes!” you cry, pulling away to cup his face with both hands, pulling him into a sweet kiss. 

Jungkook’s smile takes up his entire face, and he eagerly pecks your lips one more time before ripping the ring from its holder and stacking it on top of your engagement ring. The teardrop diamond is nestled perfectly between the thinner band’s V. “Pretty,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours. 

“Wait,” you pull out the black ring that you found in your room, holding it to his face. “I’m assuming this is yours?” 

“Yeah,” he replies, “your mother said it was your great grandfather’s. It’s not an engagement ring, but it’s the thought that counts.” 

“It matches,” you hum, placing his simpler band in his ring finger. Once it’s on, you take a deep breath. “Shit, we’re really doing this?” 

Jungkook pulls you to stand, wiping the happy tears from your cheek. “We are, we’re a team, remember? We’ve crossed the line and we gotta finish it.” 

And he picks you up, the workouts definitely paying off as he spins you around like you’re the leads in La-La Land, drunk off the happy chemicals firing in your brain. Jimin whoops and hollers, along with all the other patrons in the vicinity of the airport terminal. 

Your real-fiancé puts you down, the both of you now hyperconscious of the stares people give you. Other people have filmed the proposal as well, completely smitten by your confessions. 

“Jungkook,” you giggle into his shoulder, “you were right. Our story is straight out of a Wattpad entry.” 

“Down to the super cheesy in-public airport proposal?” he chimes, pressing his forehead to yours. “Couldn’t have asked for a better love story.” 

“I can’t wait to fall in love with you,” you whisper, quiet enough for his ears only, “for real, this time.” 

“Not that it’s a challenge,” he teases softly, “but I’m already halfway there.” 

some months later.

“Like the new office, boss lady?” your new assistant (yes, you have an assistant!) asks kindly, his bubbly presence uplifting you immediately. He leads you to the window box, filled with tiny plants. “I figured you like succulents, because you have no time to water them and they’re prickly like you.” 

“Very funny, Seungkwan.” you chide good-naturedly, picking up a succulent with a yellow flower in the middle. “But thank you, your interior design skills are outmatched. I can’t wait to work with you.” 

“Me too, your social commentary you published on the literary industry? And you managed to lace it all up in an inconspicuous fantasy novel?” Seungkwan boasts, “I applied for this position right then and there.” 

“Thanks Seungkwan, why don’t you take your lunch and we’ll meet back at one to discuss our plans for next week.” 

“Sounds good, do you want me to pick you up something?” 

“I’m good, I’m meeting with the bossman.” 

Seungkwan gives you that look, his lips jutting out in a suggestive manner that almost makes you burst into giggles. Your assistant decides not to bother you until after you’ve eaten, and bids you goodbye. 

Just when you get a moment of peace, a handsome face pokes his way inside. “Hello editor,” Jungkook knocks on your door for the sake of attention, but you’re already dragging him into the office and shutting the door tight. “Like your new office?” 

“Love it,” you moan, gesturing to Seungkwan’s light filtering curtains. They’re not dark, rather a tasteful sea green, but they’re opaque enough to stop wandering eyes from peeking into your space. Your personal space was a qualm that immediately needed to be mended after your experience in Jungkook’s office. “A lot more private than your office.” 

“A little part of me hates how much you deserve this promotion,” he sits on your desk, and doesn’t hesitate to pull you between his legs, letting you lean into his chest, “but I do love the added privacy.” 

You fiddle with the buttons of his navy collar, his strong thighs trap you between him, “Why, miss me already?” 

He shrugs, “Taehyung doesn’t look as good as you do in a pencil skirt.” 

You laugh, brushing the strands of hair that fall from his coiff. “No one looks as good as I do in a pencil skirt.” A firm grip confirms that, two strong hands cupping your backside. “Mr. Jeon!” you gasp playfully, pushing him away slightly to pinch his cheeky grin. “Can we save this for later? I’m hungry, but we can always continue this for dessert.” 

He groans in your neck, “Love the sound of that, Mrs. Jeon.” 

bonus.

“FUUUCCCKKKKKK YEEAAHHHHH!” Park Jimin’s voice bounces off the walls of Taeyeon’s office, his face taking up the entire screen of his desktop as the camera shifts harshly between him and you and Jungkook at the airport. “My cousin’s not going to jail! WOO!” 

Taeyeon pauses the YouTube video at a particularly unflattering screencap: Jimin’s nostrils are flaring wildly and he looks fairly high mid-scream. 

A low whistle escapes Jungkook’s lips, “Wow. That video’s viral,” he looks to you appreciatively, “if Jimin kicks off his YouTube career, you think we can milk a memoir outta him?” 

“Potentially,” you reply nonchalantly, playing with your rings. 

“So,” Taeyeon’s voice is icy, slashing between your casual conversation, “you’re getting married, for real this time?” 

“Yep,” Jungkook pops. 

“Alright,” and from her desk she pulls out an ungodly stack of documents, one that mirrors your own back at the office. “Jungkook, you’ll stay with me. y/n, you’ll go to Vernon’s office and he’ll give you the same spiel. We’ll interview you privately with the same questions. A hair out of place and you’re in trouble. You sure you want to go through with this?” 

You and Jungkook exchange looks, betting your own company that you got this in the bag. 

“Hit us with your best shot.”