#it doesn’t matter where you go for undergrad it’s what you fucking do with it

[theresa-of-liechtenstein]

“maybe you should have transferred after your sophomore year” that is quite literally the devil talking

[awrkive]

THE LOVE PROGNOSIS, fin. — JJK (m.)

for as long as you can remember, you’ve always been a hopeless romantic.

the girl who’s always dreamt of cheesy encounters with her soulmate, grand love declarations, and a cute little beach wedding to boot. but reality pretty much slaps you hard right on the face, because love, unfortunately, doesn’t come grand — it’s simple and it’s quiet, but it is quite painful, especially when the love that you’ve been seeking for all your adult life has just been right under your nose all this time.

PAIRING jungkook x female reader // mingyu x female reader

GENRE r18+ (angst, fluff, smut) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

CHAPTER WORD COUNT 43.2k idcccccc atp😭 take ur time!

CHAPTER WARNINGS/MISC medical!au, roommates!au, surgeon!jk, surgeon!reader (they are both 4th year residents and are co-workers), corporate lawyer!mingyu, oc and jk are bffs since med school but their love language is fighting each other <3, jk and mingyu are bffs during undergrad, hopeless romantic!oc. dont read further warnings if u dont wanna be spoiled: ANGST. im aware i kinda overkilled it here but uh.. hear me out! explicit sexual content [ male mast*rbation, oral s*x (f&m receiving), making out, dry h*mping, penetr*tive s*x (protected and unprotected, missionary, cowgirl, doggy, spooning), a bit of c*mplay, jk <3 boobs, ily kink (redacted) cries during sex lol ]. FLUFFy fluff fluffff 😖 some of the scenes give very much like 2000s romcom vibes but idc sue me also theres a #merder reference ifykyk

NOTES we have finally reached the end! sorry it took me a month to get this out sjdfhd but its here and its long as fuck n im so proud of this and happy that i finished a series!! for once!!! will always love my silly tlp couple and the characters 🥹 let me know ur thoughts on my inbox oki and circulate by liking and reblogging if u enjoyed reading hihi ty ok bye enjoy reading!🫵🏼🫵🏼 [ important: pls make sure to read the note below ]

[ SERIES MASTERLIST ] // [ MAIN MASTERLIST ]

A day passed since the fiasco at the villa happened and Jungkook and you have acted like total strangers since then. The rest of your friends easily took notice of it; the silence between you two on the ride to the airport, the not-so discreet way you avoided each other at the waiting area, even going as far as exchanging seats inside the plane when on any other day, you two didn’t mind being close together physically. 

Jungkook knows absolutely that the avoidance is doing you both a disservice. You’re both grown adults and going to extreme lengths to ignore each other – like not even looking at the other when you bump in the hospital hallways – is a one-way ticket to your relationship’s foundations crumbling. 

That thought terrified Jungkook so much that he decided to come clean tonight. Talk to you properly when his mind is cleared and there was no Mingyu to aggravate his thoughts and project actions he’s not necessarily proud of – because the fight was juvenile, he knows that. Him committing and giving in to violence is not something he wants you to see, no matter the context. You were right when you said that was not him, and Jungkook can’t have you thinking otherwise.

When he steps in front of your apartment door, he thinks if you’re already there. He isn’t entirely sure. You two haven’t seen each other at the hospital and you haven’t been texting him either.  You might still be doing your rounds, he thought, but when he opens the door to your unit and trudges his feet to the living room, he catches a sight of you going out from your bedroom.

The two of you freeze upon seeing each other, but Jungkook’s surprise soon turns into confusion when he notices the carry-on luggage in your hand.

“Oh, you’re here,” You utter, filling the silence in the air. “I was just going.” 

“Where?” Jungkook instantly asks, taking you both by surprise. 

But you quickly recover. You give him a small smile – but what Jungkook clearly sees is a wince.  

“I’m going over to my sister’s,” You must’ve seen the way Jungkook’s boring holes at your pink luggage, and so you take a glance at it momentarily, tugging on the handle to scoot it over closer to your side. You clear your throat. “I’m staying there for a while.” 

Jungkook feels a certain weight drop on his shoulders, his lips parting at your declaration. 

“__, i-if this is about what I said, you don’t have to leave—”

You cut him off quickly. “No. It’s not that. I just… I just need some time away.”

Even though he doesn’t like the implication, he gets you.

Blinking, he thinks what to say next. Jungkook doesn’t want to say the wrong words – he’s well aware of the fact that he's put his foot in his mouth back at the resort, and he’s not fucking up the second time around. 

While he intended to talk to you tonight to address the elephant between you two, he also understands completely why you need time for yourself. It was too much. He told you a lot of things and he can’t expect you to process all of them in a single day.  

So, he nods, still stricken, heart heavy when he looks at you again. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” You repeat, voice a little louder than him. A pregnant pause, and you’re pulling up the handle of your luggage again, the wheels gliding on the floorboards as you begin to head towards the door to your apartment.

Jungkook doesn’t mean to sound so alarmed when he suddenly blurts out, “Now?” 

He doesn’t even know why. It was the obvious. You’ve packed your things – you’re heading out. But he couldn’t stop himself. It’s like there’s a sense of fear clouding his mind the more this moment of you leaving stretches out further.

You stop on your tracks, blinking at him. “Y-yeah?” 

“Oh.” Jungkook feels his hand itching to do something. Something stupid like grab your wrist gently to make you stay. 

But he knows that’s futile. He doesn’t have the right to make you stay if you don’t want to in the first place. 

“Seokjin’s actually coming in a few minutes,” you tell him, glancing at your phone. “My sister’s still at work, so she made him pick me up.” 

Jungkook can only give you a nod.

It makes sense for your brother-in-law to come pick you up. It also makes sense for you to stay over their place considering that their apartment isn’t that far from the hospital and you won’t have a hard time commuting to work if you planned to stay there for a little while. 

He wonders, though, why you aren’t staying at Doyeon’s instead… he doesn’t know if you’ve talked already, but from what it seems, you aren’t talking to the rest of your friends, either; judging by the way he hasn’t seen you together with any of them at the hospital. Taehyung had suggested that maybe you just need time, to which Doyeon and Nayeon agreed to. Jungkook can’t help but feel bad, though. You’re seemingly coming out isolated at the end of his own doing. If you’re avoiding your friends just because of him, that would be extremely unfair to you. Taehyung, Doyeon and Nayeon are just as much as your friends as they are his, and during these times, you should feel comfortable taking solace in their friendship like how he’s leaning on them currently.

Guilt washes over him at the thought. He can’t bear thinking about you hurting in the process of all of this. He just wants so badly to make it up to you, for you both to be okay again. You didn’t even have to acknowledge what he said – about him being in love with you. You could totally ignore it and act like it never happened, go on about your days like nothing changed as long as you’re by his side.

It hurts. It hurts that even when you’re just physically within his reach right now, he can’t seem to get a hold of you. And he has no one to blame but himself. 

A phone rings and Jungkook watches as you fish out your device from your pockets. 

“Must be Jin.” you say, picking up the call. You exchange a few words with your brother-in-law for a few seconds before hanging up and looking at him again. “He’s outside already.” 

Jungkook nods, biting back the words that consist of something stupid like “don’t leave”. 

“Your car…?” He hesitates, remembering how you’d drive to work. 

“It broke again yesterday. I’m actually… uh… thinking of just selling it. Get it over with.”

Your car. You mentioned your parents have turned it over to you during your junior year in college. It always broke in the most inconvenient times – like the one time you had a bad date, and you panicked-texted him about the car towing company not picking up. It was a Sunday and Jungkook was supposed to go over some paper works, but he scrambled out of his room to get you – and he didn’t regret it one bit because you were actually crying the moment he arrived. You had been overstimulated, what with another failed date and your broken car – it was all too much. And you just needed Jungkook to be there. You told him so. 

Jungkook cherishes those moments a lot. Not because you cried in them – he always felt like it was a punch to the gut whenever he sees you even an ounce of upset – but because it tells him that you trust him with that vulnerable side of you. It means he’s important enough to you to let him in your life. It’s one of those moments where Jungkook truly steps back to reevaluate your relationship – because sure, it could be merely friendship to anybody, but Jungkook doesn’t really think so. Your bond runs deeper than friendship, and he doesn’t even mean romantic. It’s the… camaraderie. The partnership.

He could’ve confessed a long time ago – that’s what people kept saying, but what they don’t know is that he has so much to lose. You are more than just the woman he would love to kiss and make love to or call his girlfriend – you’re the love of his life, you’re everything to him. And if he can’t have you in any way, he’d truly break. 

And now that everything’s said and done – with him finally baring his truth to you – it’s come to this.

You, leaving.

The silence that follows pricks Jungkook’s skin like needles, and the creak of your steps on the floorboards ring in his ears – a daunting harsh whisper of your farewell – although it’s just temporary. 

But something worries him. 

What if it’s not temporary? What if during your stay at your sister’s place, you decide to completely get rid of his company for the good and better? 

It’s all those frantic thoughts that urges him to call your name, but he doesn’t expect your voice overlapping with his as you say his name at the same time. 

Jungkook’s lips curl up slightly. “What is it?” 

Predictably, you wave your hand at him. “No, you first.”

“It’s okay.” 

Your hand hovers over the handle of your suitcase as you pass by him, stopping on the threshold of your apartment. “I just…” you trail off. You look at Jungkook for a moment. “I just wanted to say bye. And uh… that… I drank all your banana milk in the fridge. But I’ll wire you the money later. Or buy you another batch and I’ll give it to you at the hospital or—”

Jungkook cuts you off by calling out your name, broken by a laugh of amusement. His first smile today, maybe. You look at him wide-eyed. It’s fascinating the way you have him completely wrapped around your finger and you’re not even doing anything.

“It’s fine. You don’t need to wire me anything.” 

“Oh... well, I’m still sorry.” He nods, giving you a small smile. “What was it you wanted to tell me, then?” 

Right now, he forgets what it was even all about. “Just, uh, please tell your sister and Seokjin hyung I said hi.”  

Jungkook doesn’t want to delude himself into thinking that your face flashed a look of disappointment for the briefest moment after he said the words. At the back of his mind, he thinks you were expecting more – but he knows he’s reaching, grasping for straws, and he’s just desperate for anything from you he can’t really rationalize his line of thinking. 

So with a final wave of your hand – a bit timid – you turn around and open the door to your unit, and Jungkook watches as your form disappears completely, leaving him stoned in his position in the middle of the living room for a long time; head empty, body numb, until he gathers time to collect himself and finally move over to the bathroom, where he takes a cold shower in hopes for an improved mood.

It didn’t really do anything, and he found himself having a hard time sleeping – waking up randomly during the wee hours of the morning.

When he stirs awake from his blaring alarm at 5:30, he’s nothing but adrift.

It feels weird when he goes to the kitchen and he doesn’t see you, as he expects you to be there in whatever worn up shirt from high school you still have, making toast or some quick breakfast – with your playlist playing from your phone – but you weren’t. 

And Jungkook remembers that would be the case for another few days to come. Something he has to be okay with.

For the meantime.

He hopes.   

Jungkook doesn’t get drunk often, but now, his friends are assuming he is. For the record, though, he is not drunk and they are just exaggerating. Sure, he’s staggering and he’s mixing up his syllables and grammar – but he swears he just feels a little woozy.

“Jungkook,” Doyeon calls him, laughing a bit. “Come on, Taehyung’s driving you home.” 

“Don’t want to,” He says as he takes another swig of his fifth canned beer he’s been consuming since they all arrived at the barbecue place. “I can handle my alcohol.”

Which — fair. That’s not new news. But still—

“No shit, you have a shift tomorrow at eleven in the morning. Don’t be stubborn. It’s time to go home.” 

“It’s fine, I’ll Uber back.” 

Jungkook watches as Doyeon rolls her eyes. 

“Are you really moping right now?” 

He sends her a glare – one that she predictably does not take seriously. “‘M not moping. You’re moping.” 

“And I’m Kate Bush. Taehyung, can you just drag Jungkook out of here? I think he’s gonna cry any minute now and the auntie is closing. We gotta go.” Nayeon butts in, and even though her words may seem harsh around the edges, she looks at Jungkook with a concerned gaze. The playful atmosphere from earlier now dissipating.

Jungkook appreciates the warmth that he gets from Nayeon’s gentle approach to everything – but right now, all it does is make him feel pitiful. Doyeon’s right. He is moping. Moping for something that should’ve been within his control in the first place.

“Man, you know you bench way more than me. I can’t carry you out all by myself if you’re all drunk and shit.” Taehyung nudges him on the shoulder, enough to make Jungkook move from his seat. He only grumbles.

Doyeon sighs. “What do you want, Jungkook? Call __? Tell her you’re getting wasted and come pick you up?” 

Jungkook visibly flinches at the mention of you.

Ever since they arrived at the restaurant, Jungkook has noticed that his friends have been deliberately omitting your name in the conversation – until now, anyway. He thinks they all planned this spontaneous hang to “cheer him up” or whatever the fuck Taehyung said on their way here – which seemed like a slip-up, because Doyeon had hit the back of his head lightly right after saying it. 

They’re walking on eggshells around him like he’s some kind of house of cards – one nudge and a blow and he comes crumbling down.

Jungkook hates getting doted on like this. It’s not like you two broke up. They just knew that you went to stay at your sister’s place for a while and you never said when you’re coming back. He hasn’t had any encounters with you at the hospital nowadays – you’re getting good at hiding from him and the rest of the gang, and every single day bleeds into countless sleepless nights. You’ve been gone for five days; no calls, or at least a text. And it seems like you deactivated your IG. You aren’t tweeting or reblogging shit on Twitter as well. You’ve gone completely silent – and with every waking moment that Jungkook spends a day without your presence, it feels like you’re slowly slipping through his fingers.

“No.” he glares at the three of them. Standing up, he feels his vision dancing at the sudden action.

Well. Maybe he is sort of drunk. A little. 

“Hey, man, let’s go.” Taehyung ushers once again. This time, Jungkook acquiesces but with a groan. Nonetheless, he lets Taehyung wrap his arm around him to prevent him from tripping on his own feet.

When Jungkook manages to stand firm on the ground, he shuts his eyes tight to get a hold of himself and once again look at Doyeon and Nayeon who are still sitting by the table. With a confused expression, he asks, “Thought we’re all going?” 

“Minhyuk will pick me up.” Nayeon says. Jungkook nods, directing his gaze to Doyeon.

“Somebody’s picking me up, too,” When Jungkook squints his eyes at her, she rolls her eyes. “Don’t start. Tae, drive safely, okay? You didn’t drink, right?” 

Taehyung shakes his head and gives both women a reassuring nod before they head out of the building when goodbyes were bid, with Taehyung still pressing a hand on Jungkook’s back because he’s still a bit unstable on his feet. It’s not bad, though, Jungkook doesn’t think so. He just feels dizzy and shit, but it’s not anything water can’t solve.

Fuck, now he wants to get in bed as soon as possible. After a cold shower. 

“Sorry, man.” he says as he plops down on the passenger’s seat, buckling the seatbelt around himself. 

Taehyung comfortably settles on the driver’s seat, adjusting the rearview mirror a bit before starting the engine. But not after he responded to Jungkook with a snort, “It’s fine.” 

It’s a quiet car ride and Jungkook can already feel his eyelids threatening to fall, the haze of sleep already clouding his mind. He can’t recall how far it takes from the restaurant to his complex, but soon enough, Taehyung’s voice wakes him up from his stupor. 

“You okay there?” 

Jungkook hums, leaning back to relax his nerves. A minute flies and he sighs loudly, making Taehyung look at him momentarily.

“Don’t sleep on me. Again, I am not willing to carry you all the way to your apartment, fucker.”

That makes Jungkook laugh, a snicker escaping past his lips. It makes Taehyung do the same, scoffing at his friend as he did so. The car ride continues into a stretched-out comfortable silence before Taehyung breaks it with a question of, “You two still haven’t talked?” 

Jungkook stiffens at the mention, and he knows his friend notices the way he did, but he quickly tries to shake it off. “Yeah. She’s still at her sister’s.” Taehyung nods. When Jungkook looks at him, he decides to ask, “What ‘bout you? She reached out yet?” 

“No.”

Jungkook inhales a sharp breath. 

This is bad. You’re ignoring all your friends because of him. 

“Sorry.” Jungkook says after a pregnant pause.

“What for?”

“Dunno. Feels like it’s all my fault,” a sigh escapes past his lips again. “You guys don’t deserve to get caught up in this.”

“Jungkook,” There’s a lilt to Taehyung’s voice that reminds Jungkook again that the man beside him is older than he is and sometimes, Taehyung can be way more mature, almost like an older brother. He forgets their age difference most of the time. “Don’t say that.  __ just needs her time. She’ll come around.”

The smile Jungkook gives his way is bitter but it’s a smile, nonetheless.

“I don’t know, Tae,” He leans his head back on the seat, staring at nothing in particular. “It’s different this time.”

“You’ve fought before,” Taehyung points out. “How is this different?” 

Jungkook does know what he’s trying to point out. He may be referring to the time in third year of med school when you didn’t talk to him for a month – but still. This, right now – whatever is happening – is far from what happened back then.

“Just different,” He shrugs, a poor attempt at nonchalance so Taehyung doesn’t think he’s being pathetic. “I feel like this is it.” Taehyung looks at him curiously when the red light turns on. It makes Jungkook squirm, but he voices out what he feels, anyway. “I’m losing her.”

That felt weird the moment it slips his tongue. For the past few days, it’s been in his head – making up the mess of his thoughts. When he said that, for once, it felt like finality. Like its verbalization actually made it real. 

He does feel like he’s losing you. And it feels like the absolute truth.

“You can’t say that when you haven’t even talked to her, Jungkook,” Taehyung says and he says it so firmly. When Jungkook studies the older guy’s face, it’s etched with sincerity, especially when he adds, “Do you really think she’ll let go of an almost decade-long relationship just because of what happened? Frankly speaking, even if she does not feel the same way about you at all, I know her enough to know that she’ll have at least the decency to let you down properly. I think she’s just trying to think all of this through. She’ll talk when her head’s clear.” 

Jungkook finds himself processing his words. You are exactly like that. You’re the type of person to need your personal space when you’re confronted by huge predicaments. When he thinks about it – you have so much on your plate. Mingyu, him, your relationship with each of them; Jungkook realizes things must be so hard for you right now, both emotionally and physically. And you’re dealing with all this while still showing up for your rotations.

“You’re right.” Jungkook whispers. 

“Just… time, okay? You both need time.” Taehyung says and for once, Jungkook smiles a genuine one. 

The light turns green, and Taehyung continues to drive. 

Taehyung decided to turn up his jazz playlist and it eased Jungkook’s mind a bit. But it did lull him to sleep all the way to his apartment complex. Thankfully though, it only took Taehyung a few seconds of nudging him before he stirred awake, disoriented when he opened his eyes only to hear his friend say they were already there, ushering him out of his car. 

He said his thanks to Taehyung, and his friend made sure to tell him to take it easy before he took off. When he was gone, Jungkook went straight to the elevator to press his floor, mind and body working on autopilot as he sauntered over the hallway to stop in front of his unit.

When the door opens, he feels a sense of calmness at the sight of his own place with everything at his disposal including the bathroom that he quickly head towards, not hesitating to strip himself naked on the way to the shower, letting his clothes form a heap on the threshold; bare and naked without a care in the world.

Stepping into the shower box, he turns the showerhead on, hissing at the cold water spraying onto his skin. He needed the cold to get rid of his sluggishness – and it works just as instantly as he’d hoped. 

Both of his hands shoot up to brush his hair off his forehead, and he stays in that position for awhile; with the water running on his body and his head leaned back a bit, eyes closed as he relaxes. 

He mindlessly reaches for his shampoo bottle, but when he opens the cap, he smells a completely different product. What welcomes him when he opens his eyes back again is the familiar sight of Bath and Body works bottle. Your water lily springs body wash.

Despite his current headspace, it brings a smile to Jungkook’s lips.

Right.

He’s noticed in the past few days that you left it in your shared bathroom. Considering all the things that you still have around the apartment, it didn’t really look like you packed a lot of things when you left – which should ease Jungkook’s mind. Still, though; the small size of your luggage and the quantity of what you brought with you do not matter when you still aren’t home. 

And with that, Jungkook feels himself slipping back into… mulling again. And he can’t help but heave out a sigh. 

He just… wants to rest for tonight. Just wants his head emptied out. Relax. He feels like he’s been on edge for the longest of time and he just needs some sort of – he’s not sure – comfort? Maybe something along the lines? 

And as if his hand has a mind on its own, he grips the bottle of your body wash and squirts an ample amount on his palm, the scent of water lily springs surrounding the confined space of the shower immediately. 

He lathers it all over his chest, inhaling the gentle waft and how it weirdly calms him from the inside. The room smells just like you. He smells just like you. And it isn’t the first time he’s doing this – he’s always liked the way you smelled, and he may have used your body wash by accident countless of times. Jungkook sometimes does it just to tease you – because you always point it out when you notice that he smells the same, and then you get all irritated and it makes Jungkook keen because you’re just so goddamn cute when you glare at him and when you get mean. Teasing you also means that you’d get mad enough to sulk at him, and that gives him the opportunity to make it up to you; and making it up to you means he gets all of your attention. 

It’s pathetic but Jungkook’s not ashamed to admit that – just to himself, though. He likes when you give him attention, can you blame him?

His mind goes back to the memory of you cuddling with him on the ground at that random playground near your complex, how you snuggled up to his arm, giggling and threatening him to stop using your body wash. He remembers all the times you would cook together on nights when you’re both free – lounging on the couch mindlessly, either watching a show and debating over useless, stupid stuff – or when you would force him to rub your foot or massage your neck. Jungkook doesn’t relent until after you complain for a good five minutes. He’s gotten better at pretending overtime that he doesn’t look forward to touching any part of you.

At that thought, he recalls the way your back felt on his hands when he rubbed sunscreen all over it when you were at the resort. How the plane of your gorgeous skin felt so smooth to the touch, how you make him feel even with just the slightest baring of your skin. 

Jungkook shuts his close when his mind goes into overdrive.

You. You. You and your bikini. You and your short shorts that might as well just be panties in disguise. You and those cute little, tight camisoles you always wear around the apartment. How he could just sometimes see the outline of your nipples where the thin material of your shirt clings to. How your bare legs look so good when you cross them while reading the paper on a Sunday morning by the kitchen island. How your breasts look like they could fit in Jungkook’s big palms with a bit of overspill – enough to drive him insane. 

These are the thoughts in Jungkook’s head as he continues to lather the liquidy texture of your body wash all over his body – and when his hand finally nudges the dick in between his legs, he groans. 

He’s not a stranger to getting off to the thought of you – you’re a gorgeous woman and it doesn’t really help the fact that he’s been in love with you for god knows how long – but it doesn’t mean that he does it guilt-free. He almost always feels like shit afterwards. 

But he can’t help it. Not when you’re all over his head again. Not when he’s thinking about how good it would probably fucking feel if he could just have a taste of your plump lips. How it would feel if he could just suck on your neck, paint you with his love there, down to your cleavage then play with both of your tits with his hands – be greedy with it – get your nipples rock hard and pretty tight for him, suck and latch and nip and lick them, make sure it’s all wet before he goes down more south. 

God. He thinks about it all the time. How’d it feel to go down on you. You’re so fucking pretty he could just imagine how gorgeous you would look down there, too. Were you the type to like getting eaten out? Jungkook hopes so. Because he would do everything to satisfy you. Fuck, he’d be so good to you. He’d tease your clit with his thumb first and you’d tell him that you’re aching for him bad – and he’d cave in and get his first taste with the flat of his tongue and fuck. You probably taste so good he’d crave it for days to come. 

The next thing Jungkook knows, he’s holding the base of his cock firmly, feeling it getting harder every second. It grows in his hand as he continues to think about eating your pussy, imagining the sounds you’d let out, how you’d look extra beautiful getting fucked by his tongue. Shit. He’d do it so well if you just asked. 

Jungkook traps his bottom lip with his teeth as he starts teasing his own cock, already in its full mass, hard and standing tall against his abdomen. He can see the shiny texture of his tip, precum leaking out, begging to be touched. He doesn’t wait any second to thumb the liquid off his head, letting out a half-sigh, half-hiss at how sensitive it felt, especially when he runs it over the veiny base.

Inhaling a sharp breath, Jungkook steps back a bit to cup his balls, squeezing it just enough to make him close his eyes. He repeats the motion of sliding his hand up and down his erect cock, feeling himself getting wetter at every second that passes. 

He gets a picture of you on your knees, and as he pumps himself at a slow pace, he imagines it’s you instead kneading him. You have slender fingers and pretty nails, it would feel so much better if they were wrapped around his cock right now. Your nails would scrape against his length, and you’ve held hands enough times for Jungkook to know that his hand is significantly bigger than yours, so you probably won’t fit all of him in your hand – but that’s alright. You’d tease him on the tip instead, spread his precum all over, get him needing and wanting more. 

Jungkook’s hips start to buck as he speeds up his pace, this time jacking himself harder as his mind jumps to more thoughts of you  — but this time around, you’re not on your knees: you’re pressed on the glass wall of the shower box, your ass bent for all of him to caress and squeeze, and you’re craning your head to look at him with hooded eyes, lips parted into a gorgeous “o” as you beckon him to come closer and put his hard dick in your warm, tight, and aching pussy. 

“Fuck.” Jungkook curses as he lets his forehead fall to the wall, resting there for a few good seconds, other hand scrambling to turn off the shower and quickly shutting his eyes close as he pictures himself thrusting into you instead of his stupid fucking hand.

“Shit, shit, shit—” He hisses, hand going faster around his length, pumping himself desperately to the thought of his dick sliding in and out of you.

Your moans would fill the tight room, and you’d sound so pretty. You’d be so pliant against the strong arm that he would wrap you with — and Jungkook would make sure to flick your nipples and fondle your breasts as he pounds into you from behind.

“Fuuuuck…” 

He grunts and he moans, hand impossibly going faster — dick getting harder. He just wants a release. He wants to cum so bad — to kiss you and love you and have you say it back with the same earnestness as him. 

Jungkook wants so badly to have you in his arms right after he eats you out, to cuddle with you and pretend like you have all the time in the world after he’s made sure to make love to every single inch of your body. To caress your hair and press a kiss on your head anytime he likes – because he’s allowed to. Because you love him. He just wants to be able to touch you in any way possible. Run his fingers over your back, kiss your cheeks, and your scrunched nose. Just wants to bury his face in your chest after a long day at work. Hold you tight against him. Have you close to him, whenever and wherever. 

But he doesn’t have all that. He can’t have all that. Not when you don’t even feel the same. Not when you reacted that way when he told you he loves you more than just his best friend. 

“I’m sorry, but I just can’t wrap my head around it. You’re not telling me the whole truth and frankly, I don’t believe you.”  

Your words ring in his ears as he continues to jack himself. 

The memory is still so vivid in his head — the surprised look on your face — certainly not the pleasant one. You were so… surprised. And angry. Like you didn’t believe any of what he said. Like you were trying hard to convince yourself that whatever you were hearing from him wasn’t true. 

Because she doesn’t feel the same way. Jungkook thinks.

He remembers the night you left. How you could barely look him in the eyes. 

“Shit—” Jungkook hisses as he squeezes his balls, hand pumping faster around his swollen cock. He closes his eyes as he tries to regulate his breathing, his stomach tightening at his impending release – and it’s the last thing he does in favor of his own sanity before his mind slips back again to life without you in it. 

He would never have you. He can never be anything to you anymore. 

He will never be, especially as he looks down at his hand on his cock.

How pathetic.

What would you think if you were to see him right now, getting himself off by imagining it’s you instead? You’d be so disgusted. You’d look at him like he’s a different person and feel betrayed because – how could the person you trust think about you like this? 

There’s that sense of self-hatred again that Jungkook feels whenever he jacks off to you. That fear of you finding out and not liking it. 

Jungkook tugs at his cock angrily as he thinks about all that, and he doesn’t notice that the stinging in the sides of his eyes would soon turn into tears running down his cheeks as he tries to reach his climax. 

You would hate him so much. You don’t even like him anymore. Don’t even want to live with him anymore.

But he just wants to cum so bad. Just wants to feel some sort of clarity. Delude himself into basking in that quick dopamine. 

He traps a sob in his throat as he makes quick work of his cock, and with one last squeeze around his tight balls, he shoots his hot cum to the wall, hips bucking at his orgasm. 

Letting out a series of hushed curses, Jungkook continues to pump his cock for more until he feels sensitive, and his dick turns soft and languid against his legs. 

He grabs the shower head to spray the cum off the wall, feeling the water already turning lukewarm. When he finishes cleaning his mess up, he grabs your body wash and exits the shower, throwing the bottle in the trash can with haste as if it burned him. As he turns back around, he catches sight of himself over the lavatory’s mirror. 

There are dark circles under his eyes — not too visible — but they’re there. His eyes are red from crying, and suddenly his body itches. He should shower again and actually clean up this time.

But Jungkook realizes as he stares at himself again… he has never looked so tired. Not even in med school. Or during internship. 

This whole thing is taking a toll on him – he knows that well by now. Even his friends do as well. He’s fucking up his sleeping schedule and he’s not even eating properly. He hits the gym not because he wants to but because it helps shut down his head.

Jungkook sighs. 

He’s long accepted that the love he holds for you is so big it sometimes borders on piteous. He’s spent so many years going into this kind of phase where he just mulls over the same thing; that he loves you, but you will never ever feel the same way back.

And the thing is, he's always been okay with it. Jungkook loves loving you. He’d be a fool not to when he genuinely thinks that you were made to be loved.  

But at this point, he just feels… tired.

Exhausted. Empty.

He wants to sleep. He wants to rest. He wants to wake up the next day and not feel like shit anymore.

Maybe Doyeon was right back at the villa.

It is time to move on.

And maybe… just maybe… unlike all the other times he’s attempted to do the same thing, this time around will be successful.

Your 7am to 2pm shift had just concluded when you arrived at your sister’s place, only to see them both all dolled up, ready to go out.

They told you that you could come with them if you liked, but of course you refused. You’re not the type to interrupt a date and they were certainly too in love for your liking. Don’t get you wrong, you love that for both – but you’re getting pretty sick of romance these days and you’re trying to avoid it as much as possible. Seokjin made sure to throw another one of his “Don’t mope around, okay? We have Macallan in the cupboards. You know the one.” jokes, though – having already known why you’re here in the first place – and your sister pinched his ear painfully enough for you to ignore and roll your eyes at him lightheartedly. 

Which leads you to now, binge-eating a left-over tub of vanilla ice cream on a Sunday afternoon from last night’s impulsive purchase. You know it’s going to make you feel like shit later, but you can’t really bring yourself to care – not when the ice cream tastes too good paired with a Sex and The City episode. 

You like to delude yourself you’re the early season Miranda; independent, boss bitch, career-driven, straightforward but kind. But you had a mortifying realization that maybe you’re actually Carrie. You’re both so obsessed with love and glorify the idea of “The One” that you overlook red flags in a guy just to stay in a relationship. And for what? To be completely broken and fucked over in the end of it all. 

But you don’t want to be Carrie – sure, she has a special place in your heart as a fictional character but real-life Carries, with all of their delusions and ideals, are not meant for the real world.  

“You’re watching that show again?”

You almost fall over the couch when you hear a familiar voice behind you, and when you crane your neck to look who it was, your eyes widen.

“Mom!” you exclaim, rightfully surprised. Your mother – in the flesh – smiles as she sees you grin. “Oh my god, I didn’t know you’d be here— wait, how’d you get inside?”

She waves you off. “You know your sister and Jin gave me a duplicate key to their place. Anyway, I’m just here to drop off some side dishes. Also, I know what you’ve been up to. And stop eating that ice cream.”

You pout, taking the tub away from you. When you see her walk towards the kitchen with her bags – presumably the side dishes she was talking about – you follow behind her steps, helping her load the containers in the fridge. 

“What do you mean you know what I’ve been up to?” 

“You and Jungkook fought, I heard.” 

“Mom,” you say with a tone that tells her you don’t want to talk about it at all. 

“You know I’m going over there shortly to give him these, right? Supposed to be for the both of you, but oh well, you’re lounging around here.” She says. 

“I’m not lounging around here. They love that I’m here.” You counter, referring to your sister and Seokjin. It almost sounded like a whine, though, more than anything. But it was true! They like you being here! They’ve always treated you like their child… but you know you’re kind of pushing it with your sixth-day-stay. 

Your mother looks at you disapprovingly, loading the last container before shutting the fringe doors shut. 

“Whatever you’re fighting about, you know avoiding it is not going to make it better.” 

You sigh. “I’m not even sure if we’re fighting, anyway.” 

“What’s that mean?” Your mom asks, sounding confused. You can imagine.

“I don’t know… just – I don’t think we’re angry at each other.”

“Not being angry at each other is worse than being angry at each other. That sounds like withdrawal.” 

You wince at her words. “Maybe.” 

Your mom sighs. She takes out a bit from the container of stir-fried zucchini and slides you both a plate. “Have you been eating real food? You look like you’re not eating properly.”

Teenager and college you would’ve rolled your eyes because she always says that you’re losing weight and blah blah blah, but it’s not even true. However, you do know she’s just concerned, though, and so you nod your head, picking up a zucchini and eating it.

“Yes. Jin’s a good cook.”

She nods, eating as well. “So is Jungkook. He hasn’t talked to you at all?” 

You thought you’ve dodged the topic of Jungkook completely but apparently your mom’s still on that. You nibble on your bottom lip as you think what to say.

“He… uhm… he didn’t text or call.” Well. There was one time. Two days ago. And it was just a simple text about informing you of the sudden change in the OR schedule. You replied to it with a thanks and a smiley face, but he didn’t say anything after that — not that your thanks should guarantee anything. That was not exactly a conversation starter.

Still. 

“Have you talked to him?” 

Shoot. 

You shake your head a bit. 

The truth is that you can’t be sad about Jungkook not reaching out when you haven’t been doing the same thing either. You’re running away from him – you can admit that. The past week hasn’t been your proudest moment. You’ve thought it over countless times; why you just can’t go ahead and speak to him – because heck, for eight years you’ve always done a good job at it, communicating with each other when things went wrong. Like when he teases you too much and you actually get offended, and the same goes for him.

But what happened wasn’t just something that came out of a supposedly lighthearted banter. It wasn’t your usual banter at all. 

“What happened, sweetie?” And this time your mom’s voice is bordering on concern. 

You don’t look at her when you say, “Jungkook said he’s in love with me.” 

You don’t get a reaction. At least – the reaction you were expecting. You thought she would gasp, or at least let out an, “Oh”, but there’s none of that. When you peer up at her, she just nods. 

As if the news was no surprise. 

“And I take it didn’t go well?” She looks at you gently. 

“N-no,” you stammer. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you say, “It was – it was so messy that day, mom. You know we went to that resort for his birthday, right? He and my boyfriend fought, and just – so much happened. I don’t even remember half of it. Just that he told me he’s been in love with me for the past eight years.” 

Your mom nods. “Your boyfriend… is that Mingyu?” 

“Yes.” It feels weird to call him your boyfriend now. You used to be so giddy calling him that. But right now, it feels almost icky. 

“Why did Jungkook and him fight?” 

You told her what Jungkook told you – everything, and your mom is sweet almost all of the time but as she listens to everything that Mingyu supposedly did and say – especially about you – she can’t help but knit her brows in that quiet anger you know all too well now. But it soon dissipates to worry. 

She steps closer to you. You look at her with a sad smile. With that, she encloses her arms around you, and you let your chin fall on her shoulder as you reciprocate her hug. You almost cry when she squeezes you. “How are you feeling then, sweetie?” She asks, voice so gentle and soft. Comforting. You think this has been what you needed all this time.

“Like shit.” you chuckle. “I’ve never been so tired. I haven’t even talked to Mingyu yet – I haven’t been talking to anybody, even my friends. I don't know why I’m like this.” 

“You know I worry for you.”

“Hm?” 

“You’re such a lovely, sweet girl. And these men keep breaking your heart. I wish I can ease your pain, honey. You have the biggest heart in the world.” 

You nibble on your bottom lip as you feel that stinging in your eyes at her words. You remember Jungkook saying almost the exact same thing.

“Jungkook told me that sometime ago.” you say, holding back the cry you know is coming out any second now. 

“He knows you well.” She says as she caresses your head. 

“I just…” you let out a sigh again, trying to shake off the oncoming tears. “When he told me he loved me all this time, I said I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I still can’t.” 

“Do you think he would lie about something like that?” 

It’s firm and final when you say, “No.” Because you know in your heart that was true. Jungkook is anything but a liar. And especially about something like that… you just don’t think he would ever hurt you intentionally. That’d be cruel and Jungkook was never cruel. It’s just not in his nature. 

“Hm. Then is it because you don’t feel the same way at all? That’s why you can’t believe it?” Your mom asks and it’s the most groundbreaking question you’ve ever heard after a while. 

Do you just… not feel the same way? 

That was definitely the biggest question you’ve been avoiding answering. 

But as your mom pushes you slightly so she can look at you earnestly, gently, like she has no expectations whatsoever – just here to hold and comfort you – it beckons you into spilling your emotions. 

“I… I really don’t know, mom.” You intake a sharp breath. “He’s been a constant presence in my life for eight years. We’ve never– we’ve never considered the possibility of being more than just friends. I– I don’t know why he would love me. Or fall for me. He’s never shown interest, the way I saw it – but these days I’ve been rethinking that and I’m beating myself over for being stupid because it’s like – how could I have not known? He’s always been so caring towards me. Always makes time for me. He’s never let me down and he’s just – he’s my person, mom. Always has been. And how could I have thought that he didn’t mean for that to come off as purely platonic?” you stop, feeling your lips wobble. “It’s just… I don’t know. I don’t know what to feel. All I know is that these days without him have been so painful, especially when we haven’t properly talked. I miss him everyday and it kills me that we aren’t like before right now. I want to be by his side all the time, and I think I may have taken that for granted for the past eight years we’ve known each other.” 

You don’t realize you’ve let out so much, but your mom just lets you snuggle closer to her, knowing that you’re feeling a lot right now. And you do. You haven’t talked to anyone about what you really felt – not even your sister, even though you knew she did her best to do so – but as your mom soothes your back with the gentle rub of her hand, you let yourself be comforted. 

“You know what I think, honey?” 

You look up at her with teary eyes, nodding weakly.

She gives you a small smile. “Do you remember that time when I thought he was your boyfriend when you brought him for Christmas?” 

Nodding, you chuckle. Second year of med school it was. Eunwoo was in Switzerland for a a big project – and Jungkook’s parents weren’t in town. You both didn’t have anybody to celebrate Christmas with and so you ended up asking Jungkook to come home with you. 

It wasn’t just your mom who thought he was your boyfriend. Your sister and Seokjin also assumed the same thing. 

Around that time, you haven’t introduced Eunwoo to them yet so basically, they didn’t know that you were taken already. 

“I think this is just me being old… but you kind of… you get to know these things, __. You’ll see somebody's eyes, they way they gaze at somebody. When we were opening those gifts during Christmas eve, I saw the way that kid looked at my daughter with so much adoration that I even thought you were just being coy about him being your boyfriend.” 

Your lips curl into a tight line. 

You… certainly did not notice any of that. Did that really happen?

“I think Jungkook’s a good man, and your dad is fond of him – he asked me yesterday if you’re gonna bring him for Thanksgiving or Christmas, he misses his chess buddy, it seems. No pressure, though,” your mom chuckles. “But Jungkook’s smart, kind, polite, works hard, really charming—” you laugh again, despite yourself, because that’s definitely true. He charmed your parents so quickly with ease. It’s just really about his pleasant personality that attaches people to him. “But most especially, he makes you really happy. I liked that Jaehyun guy and Eunwoo because they made you happy when you were together. Up until they didn’t. I only like people who are good to you, sweetie. That was why I liked your ex-boyfriends for a while,” She begins caressing your head again and you feel like a little girl again, finding comfort in your mom’s bedroom after a bad day at middle school. Your mom smiles softly before she continues, “But those men hurt you. And they leave you. And you know who hasn’t in the past eight years? The only one who’s been consistent in making you happy?” 

It’s Jungkook. He’s always been under your nose while you cried over other men, and he was there to support you through it all. He’s the one who makes you laugh at his stupid jokes. The one who sits with you in your feelings on days when you don’t feel your best. He’s the one who lets you cry on his shoulder when a surgery doesn’t go well, the guy who would drop everything for you with one text or call, the guy who gifts you stupid, stupid random things because they reminded him of you. He’s the guy who shares his playlists with you, comments silly stuff on your equally silly posts, and he’s the only one who has never, ever made you feel like you’re not enough. He’s the only one who has never left and hurt you. 

It’s always been Jungkook. 

Your mom doesn’t need to say the name, though, just one look at you and she knows you're thinking the same thing. 

It’s during midday at the hospital when you see Jungkook again.

The elevator dinged and the doors finally opened on your floor, but you froze in your position when you saw who was inside the whole time. 

It was Jungkook, sitting slightly on the handrails while crossing his arms. His posture straightened for a bit as he met your eyes, looking equally surprised as you. But then he recovered and relaxed in his position just as quickly. 

You couldn’t read the look on his face.

Taking a hold of yourself before the door automatically closes, you stepped a foot inside the lift and pressed on the button of your floor immediately. The 7th floor button is lightened up, so you assumed Jungkook was gonna get off earlier than you since you were going down on the sixth floor. 

The confined space had never felt more suffocating. You could feel there was something in the air – a thick tension that was getting too hard to bear every second you felt the elevator moving down. 

There was a lump that formed in your throat, especially when you caught a glimpse of the reader going floors down fast, and the 7th one was nearing. 

Your heart beat erratically against your chest. You didn’t even feel that nervous back in the OR twenty minutes ago.

But you figured it was the first time you felt close, after all.

It was funny, really – what you felt at that moment. Being physically close to Jungkook had never made you feel like that – like you’re on edge – you’ve always just approached it as something natural, like you were meant to be that way. And those times, you never really thought about the contact ending. 

But in that moment, it felt like he was slipping away – even though you were not even holding him in the first place. 

It was probably why you let out your next words, craning your neck to the side to try and look behind you where you knew Jungkook was at. 

“I miss you.” 

You barely said it. Felt like just a soft whisper as the words slipped past your lips, but there was a break around its edges – like it was the most vulnerable thing you’ve ever said. 

It was. 

And you didn’t exactly know why you did it. 

Maybe you just wanted him to know. Maybe you just wanted him to understand that… that you were still there. And that you missed him. Every single day. Regardless of what happened. 

There was a thick silence that hung in the air after that, and you should’ve taken back your words right after they came out. Embarrassment should’ve clouded you by then. But you couldn’t bring yourself to do so. 

That was as honest as you could get. 

You didn’t even expect a reply – assuming that maybe Jungkook hadn’t heard it. 

But you heard the soft tap of his steps on the floor and felt his overwhelming presence coming near you. And just like that, you knew he was behind you. Close. A hair's breadth away. 

Then, you hear him let out a soft sigh, and you could feel his breath brush against your ear as he leaned down. You never realized how much you craved his affection until you felt him slightly nudging his cheek against the crown of your head. 

It made you keen. Made you shut your eyes close. Basking in the moment, but you didn’t ignore the pain that it caused. 

Because somehow, despite what might seem like a sweet gesture – the whole thing felt like goodbye.

It was so intimate, though, that you almost forgot that you were currently on the 8th floor and he was dropping off on the next. 

The elevator dinged like a wake-up call. And when you opened your eyes, Jungkook had already peeled his body away from you. Nibbling on your bottom lip, you fought the urge to cry as you saw him walking out. 

Before the door closed, he took one look at you. His mouth opened, as if wanting to say something. You waited. But he closed his lips again, not bothering to look back for even one last time before the elevator doors closed in front of your face. 

The interaction left a certain melancholy in your heart, and it made you run on auto-pilot when the elevator stopped on your floor. 

You never expected for the encounter to happen – but it did, in its own way. And now you have to deal with the consequences of your impulsive actions.

Your mindless walking has led your feet to somewhere a bit secluded. It’s far across the hall, and you recognize it as some old, empty ward. You and your friends have one on the 5th floor but you don’t think you’ve never really been here before and so you weren’t sure.

But you’re desperate to let out a good cry. Maybe not exactly cry – but just be alone for awhile. The hospital and your schedule are busy enough as they are and it’s enough to keep your mind occupied since the morning – but that interaction with Jungkook at the elevator reminded you of the weight that you’ve been carrying lately and you just… want to dissipate a little. Even if it means sacrificing your three-minute lunchtime. 

You don’t suspect anything as you twist the doorknob open – surprise to see it’s not locked like you thought it would be. 

And the sight leaves your mouth hanging open. 

“Oh my god.” 

“What the fuck.” 

“Shit!” You watch as Doyeon pushes off the man wearing a white lab gown on top of her – a very familiar figure that you can only recognize as none other than the attending surgeon Dr. Kim Namjoon. 

A panicked, “I’m sorry!” leaves your mouth before you turn on your heel, ready to fly off the scene when you hear Doyeon’s voice calling you from behind.

“Wait, __!” 

You hesitantly look back.

It’s obvious what they were doing before you entered the room. Doyeon’s hair is unusually out of the ponytail she always shows up to work with, and Dr. Kim… Jesus. He’s always been so intimidating to you – with his tall stature and his aura that reeks so much of authority, even though he doesn’t even try, it feels so fucking weird to suddenly see him with his hair all mussed up when it always looks kempt every single time you see him along the hallways of the hospital. Right now, he looks coy, like he’s shrinking himself as he avoids looking at you.

“Dr. __, I am so deeply sorry,” His apology sounds so remorseful that you feel bad for even having to barge in. You can see Dr. Kim fumbling with his coat as he looks at Doyeon like he’s looking for help. Doyeon looks at him, but she just… rolls her eyes.

“Joon, just–” She cuts herself off, shutting her eyes close. Seemingly agitated. Or embarrassed. You don’t know why you’re still here. “You should leave now, I’ll talk to __.” Doyeon lets her gaze fall back to you and your eyes widen at the declaration, not really knowing if she was serious or not. 

You mean… what are you even going to talk about? Sure! You’re shocked as fuck to see them together in that position but you’re not about to ask her about her sex life!

… Okay. So maybe you are a little bit (only a little) curious about that.

Dr. Kim has always been a mystery to all of you. Taehyung and Jungkook admire him so much, the latter lowkey idolizes him at this point. Nayeon has always spoken highly about him and you’re literally a fan of all his work in his field, especially his books. It doesn’t help that he’s attractive as hell, too, and you all may have gossiped about him at one point in your lives – so sue you for being curious! You’re just human.   

“You sure?” Dr. Kim says, barely spoken, but you don’t miss the gentle way he holds Doyeon’s shoulder as he asks that, the way his face contorts into a concerned expression when he looks down at her. One quick interaction and you instantly realize that oh… this is serious. 

They’re not just having casual sex in this ward.

This is Doyeon’s boyfriend.

Your bestfriend nods at him and you step aside to give Dr. Kim some space to leave the room, still visibly stunned. You thought he was going to leave when he utters another apology again. 

“__, I’m really sorry about this behavior. Doyeon and I—” 

Doyeon groans. “Joon, oh my god. It’s fine.” 

You watch as Dr. Kim’s (who Doyeon apparently calls “Joon”— what the hell) lips fall into a thin line. “Fine. I’ll go. We’ll talk about this later, alright?” 

“I know.” 

He gives you both one last glance before the door closes on you.

You swear you tried to look for cameras everywhere – like they do in The Office – to see if the whole thing was a prank. But no. Your life’s unfortunately not a sitcom.

“I told him to lock the door earlier,” Doyeon starts, sounding defeated as she falls back on one of the emergency beds. Sighing, she covers her face with her hands. “This is so embarrassing.” 

At that, you can’t help but react immediately. 

“You’re embarrassed about the fact that you’re fucking an insanely stupid hot, intelligent man?” Your brows knit. 

Doyeon looks at you and you both stare at each other. She holds her own, like she usually does, but for the first time ever, she breaks and chuckles. The laughter turns hilarious, and you follow her into the bed. 

“God,” she utters. She licks her bottom lip and looks at you shyly. “I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.” 

“I mean… what did you mean to do instead?” 

She hesitates. “I’m not sure.”

You frown. “So, you just… you just weren’t going to tell me? Us?” You didn’t bother to hide the tone of disappointment in your words. Doyeon looks a little ashamed when you verbalized that.

“It’s not that. I just didn’t know how,” She says. You knit your brows in confusion. “You know I’ve always been… private about my dating life or whatever. I don’t tell you guys I’m dating until I’m sure the guy and I are official. I… I don’t even date a lot in the first place.” 

Well… that was true. You nod at her, giving her a reassuring smile. “Yeah, I get that.” Doyeon smiles a little. “How long?” 

There’s a pregnant pause before she says, “Uh… since Feb?” 

“Jesus.” She winces at your reaction. You stare at her with your jaw slack. “What the fuck, Doyeon? Nine months?”

“Well, technically, eight but—” you look at her dryly and Doyeon gives up on her attempt at being facetious. “Okay. I’m sorry. It just happened.” You raise your brow at her. She sighs. “Okay, so we may have hooked up last year in December. You remember the Christmas party at the Ritz?” 

Your mouth just hangs wider, looking at her incredulously. Every drop of information she lets out just grows your surprise bigger, and you have nothing in substance to say except, “You… whore.” 

Doyeon laughs so loud you worry it might have been heard from the outside, but you wince at the slap that follows on your shoulder as she giggles nonstop. 

“Shut the fuck up, oh my god.” 

“No– I just– Oh my god, was that the reason why you bailed on our own Christmas party over at Nayeon’s?” She nods at your question with her lips pursed. You scoff, still not believing it but just overall amused in general. “You’re really throwing me a curveball here, babe. Like – I have never ever heard you talking about Dr. Kim except when you said you’d totally fuck him in that one drinking session. And then, you actually fucking did.”

She rolls her eyes, scoffing. “He started asking me out on dates in January and he asked me to be his girlfriend in Feb. I don’t even know how it happened. It just did,” She shrugs, as if she just said that the skies are blue. “I’m pretty good at hiding, huh?” 

You don’t hide the way you instantly frown.

“I’m happy for you, Doyeon, I really am. But… did you not feel like you could tell me? Or any of us?”

At least she looks apologetic, nibbling on her bottom lip before she says, “It’s not that, __. I didn’t know how to tell you guys. There’s this – there’s this thing when you date a co-worker, especially in the hospital. He’s an attendant, and he’s about to be chief of surgery next two months, you know that right? And it’s just— I know you will never think it, or the rest of our friends – but I just. I didn’t want anyone to think that I’m… that I’m sleeping my way here, you know? It’s fucking weird. And Ms. Yan from fuckass HR hates me for some reason. I’d be public enemy number one around here, __.”

You wince hearing her explanation. Nodding, you rub her shoulder to offer some kind of comfort, noticing that she’s actually silently fuming just by the mere thought of that. Meaning she must have been thinking about it for quite some time now. 

“But you know we’ll never think of it like that, right?” You confirm with her, just to be sure. You love Doyeon – she’s basically your sister at this point – and you don’t ever want her to feel like she can’t trust you.

“Of course. I don’t… I can’t really offer you any explanation other than I got scared and just wasn’t ready. Joon wants to let people know… and I don’t know. I guess I’m thinking about that too nowadays.” She says, and she’s not really looking at you anymore, seemingly deep in thought.

You begin rubbing her back. “It’s fine if you’re not ready yet.” 

“Oh, this is getting kind of mushy. I hate it.” Doyeon says dryly. You push her slightly which sends her sideways a bit, earning a laugh from her.

“Joon, huh?” You decide to tease to lighten up the mood. Instead of backing down and getting shy like you expected, Doyeon raises her brow. “Can I be honest with you, though?” You say, fiddling with your fingers. She nods so you tread lightly to your next words. “This will sound crazy, I know, but for the longest time I thought Jungkook was your secret boyfriend.”

“What the fuck?” Doyeon says, sharp and almost… disgusted. You don’t expect such a reaction. 

“Okay, you don’t need to sound so disgusted. Jungkook’s a good-looking guy and he’s very decent.” You say, sounding weirdly defensive – even to your own ears.

“No– that’s not what I meant—” Doyeon cuts herself off with a laugh. “That’s actually really funny, though.” You look at her curiously. “Somehow, I thought about you thinking that. Especially after that time at the villa when you walked in on us talking by the pool deck.” 

“I…” you try to come up with an excuse, something to deny her claim, but nothing comes, and your eyebrows knit in confusion because you actually don’t know yourself why you felt that way back then. You still remember the weird feeling that flared up in your chest upon seeing them in such an intimate position — with Jungkook’s head on Doyeon’s stomach and her caressing his head. Maybe you’re more malicious than you let on, but can she really blame you for thinking there was more to that? Besides, Jungkook’s second closest in the group is probably her. It made sense to assume they were secretly together. 

“God, don’t,” Doyeon says incredulously. “Obviously, he’s not my secret boyfriend. I don’t like him and he does not like me, at least not that way. That man only has heart eyes for you and I’m only into Namjoon, thank you very much.” 

You wince. “Sorry.”

“But were you really jealous that time, though?” Doyeon asks, intrigued. “I mean, I thought about it. You were acting weird. But I kind of just shrugged it off.”

“I was not jealous, what the hell,” you quickly say. “I was just surprised. And you’re both really close, so I don’t know.” 

Doyeon arches her brow. “You’re also both close, so going by that logic, are you two together?” You frown at her. She laughs, knowing she proved her point. “Alright, enough about that. How have you been these days?”

You stare at her before sighing.

“I’ve been wanting to say sorry.” 

“Damn straight,” she tells you immediately, like she’s been looking forward to it. “Like, you bitch– I thought you died. Not talking to me or to anybody for a week is crazy.”

“It’s not my proudest moment.” 

“Why?” 

You subtly inhale a shaky breath. “I… to be honest? I thought you guys were mad at me.” 

“What?” You can hear the incredulous tone Doyeon’s taking on. And you slowly realize that you completely just conjured a whole ass narrative in your head the whole time. 

“I know. I feel terrible about it. But I just… I couldn’t help but think that I ruined… things.” 

“Oh…” Doyeon says, and she cranes her neck down to meet your gaze as you’re tucking your head down slightly. “Why did you think that?” 

You open your mouth and close it, trying to find the right words.

“I… know I was completely being ambitious when I said I wanted to bring Mingyu along to the trip – and I realize I shouldn’t have done that. Our relationship was still so fresh, and I was already bringing him along to what was supposed to be our vacation. And the fight happened and the whole thing just went to complete shit. We didn’t even get to spend our five nights there because you guys had to book us a flight immediately and I just… I guess I just feel so bad about it. Had I not invited him… the trip would’ve been way more different. Happier, that I’m sure of.”

“__,” Doyeon calls your name firmly. “That was not any of your fault. Sure, you should’ve consulted with us – because I’m not gonna lie, you threw us in for a surprise when you said that Mingyu was coming, but that fight was not your fault. At all. They physically fought each other on their own accord, even though they knew they were already too grown to be doing that shit. Don’t feel guilty about what those men did.” 

You bite your lip. “Still. They— uhm. They apparently fought because of me. It’s stupid.” 

“Exactly. But… Mingyu kind of deserved it. Sorry.” Doyeon comments. 

You wince. “You know?” 

“Jungkook told us about it, yeah.” Doyeon says, as if hesitant to even mention his name in the conversation. 

You sigh. You’re not really surprised. “Did he… did he tell you guys… everything?” 

“He did.” Doyeon confirms. “It’s not actually new news for us, __.” 

You look confuse when you meet her gaze. “How do you mean?” 

She presses her lips into a thin line. “He’s in love with you. We’ve known for a while,” You stare at her, mouth agape. Doyeon reluctantly adds, “Since med school.”

“Oh.” You close your eyes for a moment. “Even Nayeon?” 

She nods. “Yes.” 

You’re silent for a while before you look away. Nodding, you whisper, “I see,” You sigh. “I don’t even… I’m not even surprised about that. Even my mother knows — I mean, Jungkook didn’t tell her of course, but she said she knew he had feelings for me.”

“I think… everybody knows, __.” Your eyes fall to Doyeon. She gives you a gentle smile. “Everybody who sees the way Jungkook looks at you immediately knows right away. He doesn’t have to tell someone he likes you for them to know that. Taehyung and I figured it out ourselves as well. And then Nayeon met you both and she did the same thing. Just had to fish out the confirmation from Jungkook himself.” 

“That’s…” you trail off, not really knowing what to say. “I’m really stupid for not noticing all this time, huh?”

“Hmm… maybe. Sort of. But also, not really. I guess it must’ve been just different for you. We’re just bystanders of your interactions — when Jungkook teases you like a fucker it’s easy to assume he’s flirting with you, but it must’ve been annoying as hell for you.”

You chuckle a bit. But it’s with fondness as you agree, “Yeah…”

“He sucks ass at flirting.” 

“I agree…” you trail off. “I – well, you probably know, but I told him I don’t believe him,” Doyeon hums, listening in. “I regret saying that. It really hurt him. But… who can blame me, Doyeon? I mean, am I not right for having doubts? Being confused? I mean, okay, yes, I was taken for the first four years we knew each other but I was— I was available two years ago and he didn’t— he didn't do anything. Why didn’t he do anything?” The words are coming off as a rant, you’re fully aware, but you let yourself go, anyway. “He was dating all those women and I just… how am I supposed to believe him when I thought he showed me the opposite?” 

“You mean how were you supposed to believe him when he sleeps around?”

You shut your eyes close. “I don’t– I don’t necessarily think he sleeps around, okay? Jungkook’s not a fuckboy or someone who sleeps with anyone with a pulse. He’s too grown for that shit. But I… I just meant, that… he dated a lot all throughout the time we knew each other, so where was I in the equation? You know what I mean?”

Doyeon stares at you for a bit, then she nods, looking ahead. “I know what you mean.” 

“Yeah?”

She nods. Then, “Are you worried he’s not sincere about his feelings? Because he dated a lot of people?”

“I-I’m not sure about that.” But maybe, that thought bothers you a bit.

“When was the last time he was with somebody?”

You don’t mean to sound defensive when you retort back with, “I wouldn’t know that. Contrary to popular belief, Jungkook and I do not actually talk about everything, and that includes our sex lives, but I know when he’s… seeing somebody.” 

“How?” Doyeon asks, looking at you. She wasn’t trying to trick you into anything, just genuine curiosity written all over her face.

You shy away from her gaze. “Four months ago… Nayeon’s engagement party. He was checking that woman out.”

“Oh… Kwon Jihyo?” 

Your brows furrow. “You know her?” 

Doyeon nods. “Yeah. Physio class back in freshman year. I talked to her at the party as well,” you grow more confused and Doyeon adds, “Also, she’s gay. Married with two kids.” 

“Oh.” 

That earns a chuckle from Doyeon. Tapping your arm, she tells you, “You don’t have a gay radar, it’s fine.” 

“Oh my god…” you slap a hand on your forehead. “I teased him about sleeping with her after the party…” 

You’ve always seen Jungkook as a regular ladies man in your head due to the fact that he gets women, quite very easily. Empirically, Jungkook goes on a lot of dates. But to be completely honest with yourself, you don’t even know the extent of those said dates. Jungkook doesn’t exactly oppose it when you lightheartedly tease him about being a playboy, but you do notice when that puts him off a bit.

Maybe you should’ve pried – maybe he gets put off because it’s simply not true? But you don’t think it’s not not true either, so… do you really think he sleeps around?

“Look,” Doyeon suddenly says which makes you look at her, snapping you out of your own messy thoughts. “I’m not trying to defend him or put in a good word for him or whatever. But I do know that you know him better than I do, so I’m sure you don’t actually think he isn’t sincere about his feelings for you. If you’re worried about his dating history, talk to him about that – but if we’re going by technical definition here, I don’t think Jungkook sleeps around, __. He doesn’t have a new woman switched out for another every seven business days, does he? Or is that a wrong assumption—”

“God, no,” you roll your eyes at her. “And anyway, why are we talking about this? I don’t care who he has sex with. He can do whatever he wants. He’s a grown man.”

“Yeah… but you just said it’s sort of the reason why you’re holding back.”

You feel blood rushing to your cheek because… that is true. You don’t even know why. Because you stand for what you said that he can do whatever the hell he wants. He’s young and he’s objectively attractive and he can have sex whenever he wants…

But somehow, that very thought — of Jungkook being with anybody that way, suddenly made a weird feeling flare up in your chest. You’ve never really paid it mind before, but right now that you now know what you know…

“It just kind of hurts a bit, I guess.” You say, not looking at Doyeon. “I mean, it’s irrational, really. I don’t expect him to be celibate for the eight years he’s claimed to love me, that’s just insane. I’ve also had sex with other people throughout the time and it would be unfair of me to dwell on the fact that he’s been with other people in the past when I also have but… it’s just… you know…” you trail off, and you feel like you’re gonna burst with so much embarrassment from the thoughts running through your head.

“I know… what?” Doyeon says, trying to fill in the gaps.

“I guess I just…” you swallow the lump in your throat. “I guess…. I guess I just expected him to want only me.” 

“Oh.” you look at Doyeon. “Oh wow. That’s…” 

You huff. “It’s childish, I know. It’s so stupid – I can’t think that. It’s unfair for him.”

Doyeon shakes her head. “No, I mean, I get that. I get that completely,” She scoots closer to you. “You have to know, though, that for the past eight years, Jungkook has tried many times to move on from you.” That words felt like a bucket of cold water. He’s tried…? Doyeon gives you a small smile when she notices the way your face fell. “It was really tough for him when you and Eunwoo got serious, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He tried seeing other people, in the hopes that they could make him feel what he does for you. He didn’t do that in vain – like he did it maliciously in hopes that you would get jealous or whatever. He did that – he does that – because he also genuinely wants to be with someone who can reciprocate his feelings. Min Sora was really close… but I don’t really know what happened to that. I’ve assumed since then that he must still probably love you. And he still apparently does, even to this day. I’m not saying all of this in favor of him, okay? But do you not want to give him a chance because of that? He really loves you, __. He admires you a lot. You don’t know how much he’s just in awe of you. He talks about you a lot when you’re not around, and he’d ditch just about anything to get to you with one call. Look… I don’t know what you feel, and at the end of the day, you call the shots. But I think he’s worth it, __. Because I know him as well and everybody knows he’ll treat you right. You just gotta give him the chance.”

You take in Doyeon’s words carefully.

“That’s not really the only thing I’m skeptical about,” you sigh. “Him having slept with other people is not the top of my concern, because we weren’t in any relationship. Again, I couldn’t have expected him to be celibate all this time. What I’m really worried about is the fact that he’s so— he’s so important to me, Doyeon. I’ve known him for eight years and he’s… he’s quite literally the best thing that ever happened to me—” you stop for awhile because you feel your voice breaking, just in time when the sides of your eyes sting with precedent tears. But you can’t cry right now. You’ve done that a lot in the past few days.  “And if— and if I do feel the same, and then we do this thing, what if it all goes wrong? I don’t – I can’t really bear the thought of him not present in my life. I have never considered that ever since I’ve known him. I’m so lucky with my friendships but my romantic relationships all suck. They’re shit. And I don’t want to have a shit romantic relationship with Jungkook, because that would mean I’d lose him. And I don’t want to lose him… do you— do you get me, Doyeon? I’m so scared. Because there's this part of me that wholeheartedly believes what he said, but there’s a bigger part of me that’s in denial because I can’t stop thinking about things going wrong.” 

“Hey,” Doyeon gently calls, and you don’t realize that you’ve been holding back a sob because the moment she scoots closer, arm circling your back, you bury your face in her chest and let out a quiet cry. She cradles your head, and you close your eyes at that. “What if things don’t go wrong, though? What if it works out?” 

You sniffle. “But things always go wrong for me and my boyfriends. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but they just never end well.” 

Doyeon lets out a heavy breath. “I completely understand that. Again, you know Jungkook better than I do. Better than anybody I know, really. You would know exactly what he’s capable of – and that includes the possibility of him hurting you, or the lack of it thereof. It’s really your choice, __. Just… just talk to him, okay? He’s been wanting to, but you’re not reaching out and he said he didn’t want to suffocate you or anything like that.” 

You quickly perk up at that. “He said that?” Doyeon nods. It makes your shoulders deflate. “But… but we were in the elevator today and he…”

“He what?”

“He… uhm… well I said something stupid,” you wince, wiping the stray tears from your cheeks. “I said I miss him, but he didn’t – I don’t know. He didn’t say anything,” Nibbling on your bottom lip anxiously, you look at Doyeon reluctantly, gauging her reaction. “I think he actually hates me now.”

Doyeon is quiet for a moment before she speaks. “You just… you really have no clue how much he loves you, huh? You can kill a close relative of his and he’ll make excuses for you, I don’t doubt that even for a second,” She says and for a moment you’re a bit offended because you’re getting kind of tired of people pointing out that Jungkook being into you is obvious like how the grasses are green, but Doyeon shakes her head, face in pure disbelief. And you just know she didn’t mean it that way. She genuinely looks baffled. “You really need to talk, __. This is… it really hurts seeing you both like this."  

You tuck your head down. “I’m thinking about it.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I think… I’m going back to our place tonight. But I’m not sure. I’ll probably chicken out last minute.” 

Doyeon pats your arm. “Do it, okay? Just be honest with yourself and to him. You both need that.” 

You give her a small, weak smile.

You’re pretty much drained the moment you arrive at your place. Sighing heavily, you punch in the passcode and almost feel your knees buckling at the sight of the interior of your apartment. 

It feels like it’s been so long since you’ve been here, and coupled with the discussion that you had with Doyeon yesterday, everything suddenly feels overstimulating and there’s an urge at the sides of your eyes to cry. 

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you breathe in and out as you enter the threshold, noting the fact that nobody is at home. Or Jungkook isn’t present anywhere in the living room. You’re a bit grateful for that if you have to be honest to yourself – after all, the last time that you talked to him did not exactly go as well as you’d like. 

He could be in his room, though. That’s what you assume as you go straight over to the kitchen in hopes to heat up the take-out that you bought at the driveway. As you leave your phone on the counter, you notice the to-go container from Chipotle on the same surface, as well as the laptop that is left open beside it. 

So Jungkook is home. 

The question is, where could he possibly be, leaving out his stuff here in the kitchen? Might be in his bedroom to grab something real quick? 

You don’t mean to do the next thing that comes to your mind, but your feet – your stupid feet – track back from the microwave to the island, and your eyes betray you as they go look and read the words on the screen of Jungkook’s macbook. 

The tab that shows is an apartment listing website, and besides are more tabs that show some familiar real-estate names you’ve come to on the internet before when you were looking for a place. 

It makes you freeze in your spot, eyes glued to the daunting images of the apartment layout that Jungkook must’ve clicked on awhile ago, and you take note that he’s seemingly, specifically, looking for one-apartment bedrooms and studio apartments. 

Your mind goes into a sudden haywire at the sight. 

What does this mean? 

“Oh, hey,”

The embodied voice makes your head snap to its direction, and you see Jungkook standing in front of you in his sweats and shirt – his usual home clothes – with a charger in his hand. 

“Jungkook.” You say, or more like, breathe out. Your heart feels like it’s somersaulting for some reason at the sight of him. 

But Jungkook looks just as surprised as you. 

“I… I didn’t know you’re coming ho– back.” He says, and there’s a twinge in your heart that you ignore when you caught him pointedly avoiding the word home when pertaining to your place. Somehow, that felt intentional.

But you give him a smile. Probably a weak one. Probably doesn’t really look like a smile at all and more like a grimace. If Jungkook notices, he doesn’t say anything. Just goes straight to the direction of the highchairs on the island and plug in his charger for his laptop. 

Then, he turns to look at you. “Uh... you just got off from your shift?” 

“Yeah. You too?” You say, nibbling your bottom lip with your teeth. A nervous habit. 

“Nah, got off a few hours ago.” 

“Oh. Okay.” 

“Yeah.” 

You nod your head. You stand there for a while, letting the silence that’s admittedly awkward hang in the air. 

It’s weird, really. Jungkook and you usually have a lot to say to each other – but right now, there doesn’t seem to be a single thing you can say to one another. 

It breaks your heart that’s the current case. 

“Well, uhm. That’s Zillow.” You say, pointing to his laptop. The moment the words left your lips you swear you could have slapped yourself. 

How stupid to ask him about it. How incredibly stupid for that thing to be your choice of topic after weeks of no proper communication with him. 

Jungkook seems surprised at this, though, turning his head immediately to look at his own laptop. There’s a certain jerk in his movements when he moves his fingers to the trackpad that closes the entire window of the internet and shows his wallpaper instead. 

“Oh. Yeah. That was… Zillow.” 

Stupid, stupid you makes everything even more awkward when you say, “You’re looking for a place?” 

Jungkook stares at you for awhile. There’s a pregnant pause, and then he nods his head. A bit hesitant. But his voice is full when he speaks. 

“Yeah.” 

So, he’s moving out. That’s what you think as you avoid looking at his face and let your gaze fall back to his laptop. 

You give him a small smile. 

“Ah. Good luck with the search, then.”

Your heart completely breaks when you say the words.

Suddenly, the words of your supposed confession get stuck and they die in your throat. You let yourself believe that coming home tonight would fix everything; you just had to go inside, talk to Jungkook, tell him you were sorry about what you said – and the rest would just do its thing and you'll be back to okay.

But he's moving out, and every bit of hope in you shuts down.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything for a while, and you’re just about to turn on your heels to go to your room but then he utters lowly, almost like a whisper. 

“It’s not final.” 

“Hm?” You hum, not sure if you caught that. 

Rubbing the back of his neck, Jungkook looks away as he says again, “I mean, I’m just looking. I was gonna talk to you before I finalize my plans.”

“Talk to me? Why?”

“Since we’re on a joint lease and all that.” 

“Oh.” You nod to yourself, dumbfounded. It's embarrassing the way you lit up with expectation when he said it wasn't final, for it to completely die anyway when he said that. You feel like you're not wanted. “Yeah. Right.” 

“I assume you’re tired from your shift, though, so maybe we can go over it tomorrow? Or any day you like, really.” Jungkook shrugs. 

“No, tonight’s fine,” You wave your hand, walking towards his direction and seating yourself on the chair beside him. You try to focus all your attention on the screen in front of you instead of Jungkook’s overwhelming presence. You’ve always thought he was big but tonight, he feels even bigger and you’re intimidated. “Are you writing a notice to the landlord?”

“Yeah – I mean, after we talk about the move, that is.” 

“Wow.” You can’t help but let out. “You really thought about all this while I was away?” 

You regret the words just as instantly as they leave your mouth. 

Looking at Jungkook hesitantly, you watch as his face falls, mouth opening and closing, as if at a loss for words. 

You take them back before he says something. “Sorry — I didn’t mean for it to come out that way.” Sharp and edgy, clipped and… angry. Sort of accusatory. Like you’re pinning something bad on him.

“It’s fine.” Jungkook says after awhile, returning back his gaze on the laptop. 

His withdrawal makes you deflate. He seems so uninterested. Is he done with you? Just like that?

“You know what,” You utter after a pregnant pause, standing up from the chair and getting back on your feet. “I actually have a headache. I think we should go over this tomorrow.”

Jungkook looks confused but he nods, anyway. “I just… stocked up on Advil yesterday. So, if you need it… it’s just in the kit.” 

“Sure. Thanks,” You give him a small smile. “I’ll, just go, uh, shower for a bit.” You point to the bathroom across from you. 

Before you go, Jungkook calls your name.

“__.”

You turn around to look at him. “Yes?”

“Are you…” He trails off. You wish he’d look at you like he usually does. “Are you back for good?”

You don’t expect that question at all. But you collect yourself on time to respond. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

Jungkook’s expression is something unreadable, so you throw him an awkward smile. You’re not sure if he returned it, because everything is becoming too much, and you can’t help but overthink every single thing he does. So, before you can dwell on that, you go straight to the bathroom to do your business. 

You shower quickly – you can’t focus when you know that Jungkook is just outside, and he can probably hear the water running. You’ve never really paid thoughts to these stuff except the first few weeks of moving in with him, but right now, there’s a certain awkward tension in the air and it’s slowly suffocating you. You needed to get out of the shower box quick.

And so you did, but you don’t expect the series of knocks on the door, with Jungkook’s voice behind it. 

“__?” 

“Y-yeah?” You stammer, wrapping your towel around you (that Jungkook thankfully hasn’t thrown out yet) with haste and getting to the door immediately to answer him. 

When you open it, Jungkook visibly freezes for a bit. And you realize you’re in nothing but a piece of cotton; bare underneath, droplets of water running through your body from the tips of your uncovered, wet hair. 

You consciously tighten the towel around your body, making sure to act unbothered when you say, “What?” 

Jungkook seems to snap out of the moment just as you did. When you follow the hand that he lifts, you see your phone in it. Weirdly enough, you had time to notice the way the device fits so small in his hand when you can barely wrap your phone around your fingers yourself.

What the actual fuck are you talking about, you tell yourself at the back of your head. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck—

“You left this on the counter. Mingyu’s been calling you.” 

It’s like you’ve been suddenly hit by a truck upon hearing the name.

“Oh. Okay. Sorry about that.” You take your phone when he offers it to you. You don’t know why but you avoid Jungkook’s eyes as you step out of the bathroom and press the decline button, causing the ringtone to stop abruptly. 

You don’t look back at him as you enter your bedroom, locking the door and throwing your phone on the mattress and going straight to your closet.

Nothing much has changed since the last seven or so days. What would change, anyway? It’s not like Jungkook has some sort of business in here. 

When you finished dressing yourself up with your usual pajamas, a worn-out tee and a pair of short shorts, you go over right to your bed, picking up your phone. 

The notification bar says that you have six missed calls from Mingyu and two texts. An upgrade from his three to four times in the previous days. 

See, it’s not only Jungkook or Doyeon or Nayeon or Taehyung whom you’ve been avoiding. It’s also Mingyu. The last time that you two talked was when you said goodbye to each other when he was catching his flight from the resort. You’ve completely shut everybody out after that thing happened, and again, it’s not your proudest moment. You’re only non-confrontational to a certain degree, but you usually handle your problems like a grown woman. 

You just really don’t know how to handle this one. 

But Mingyu’s been calling, and you haven’t answered or replied to any of his messages ever since. 

It’s just… everytime you think about him… it hurts.

It hurts to think of somebody you’ve given your trust to, only for them to step on it without any remorse. It hurts that you once thought he was going to be the one, only for him to end up as someone you’re starting to… hate. It hurts extremely that just eight days ago, you held this high level of adoration for him, but now you don’t feel anything at all but simmering anger. 

Sighing, you click on his message instead of sliding it out, gearing yourself for what you’re about to read.

gyu😽 [10:15pm]: Dinner at my place tonight? gyu😽 [10:32pm]: Can you pick up my calls?

You scrolled through the other ones he sent in the past week, and you find out that they’re simply just a variation of “do you want to have dinner together tonight”, “why aren’t you picking up?” and shockingly… a couple texts of “i miss you”. 

You’ve only been bullshitting when you told Jungkook that you had a headache, but right now that excuse might be true because you can feel a tick in your head, a certain bang on the front, and you just want all of this to end. 

Letting out a controlled breath, you swallow the lump in your throat as you type a reply. Finally.

You [10:50pm]: Can we talk tomorrow? 

To your surprise, Mingyu responds quickly.

gyu😽 [10:51pm]: of course. dinner?

You [10:52pm]: yeah. i get off at around 8 tomorrow.

gyu😽 [10:52pm]: I have some paperworks to attend to but 8 is fine by me.  gyu😽 [10:53pm]: Can we go to a restaurant? gyu😽 [10:53pm]: I haven’t cleaned my place so I thought we could go outside

You [10:54pm]: It’s alright. Also, no need to pick me up. I’ll uber. 

gyu😽 [10:55pm]: You sure?

You [10:56pm]: Yeah.

gyu😽 [10:56pm]: Alright then.

You don’t get a lot of sleep that night.

“Hey, sorry I’m a bit late. The partners had a meeting over at the firm,” Mingyu says, loosening his tie a little, breathing a bit sharp as he takes the seat across from you. 

You nod, giving him a small smile. Taking a sip from your water, you watch as Mingyu fixes his tie again, some sort of attempt to look kempt, like he hasn’t just run here. He was in a rush, and you feel bad that he had to go over here quickly when the partners meeting was probably something important. He could’ve canceled and you wouldn’t have mind. 

“So. Hi,” Mingyu greets you as if he’s making up for his rash entrance earlier. He gives you a smile, the one that’s his usual charming smile – you remember fawning over it the first time you met him. “How have you been?”

“Fine. I’ve been doing well.” you answer. In your lap, your fingers fiddle with each other.

You’ve thought about how you are going to go over this, but obviously the scenarios that played in your head yesterday and before you went here were so much more different than now. You weren’t an anxious mess in your imagination.

Mingyu nods. “That’s good to hear. Been doing fine as well.” He says casually. 

That makes something flare up in your chest.

Fine? He’s been doing fine? 

Before you can say something, a waiter comes up to your table to give you the menu, and that effectively keeps you from saying the words you were probably going to regret as soon as they come out of your mouth. 

You both tell your respective orders to the waiter before he walks away, leaving you two nodding and smiling ahead. When he’s gone, you’re left alone with Mingyu again. 

You look at him — and his usual suits and tie ensemble would usually make you gush internally about how good he looks, how you can still see the way he’s built under the pristine fabric of his clothes, and how attractive he is the way he carries himself. 

“I’m glad you called me tonight, sweetheart.”

And you don’t expect the way the hairs on your body tingle with… ick. 

“Sure.” You say, drinking from your glass of water again.

Just get over it, your mind convinces you. But how are you going to approach it?

Moments pass and then suddenly, Mingyu lets out a heavy breath. You peer up at him, raising a brow. 

“Alright, I’m not gonna skirt around this anymore, __,” He says, and his eyebrows are knitted in what seems like confusion when he meets your gaze. “What’s going on with you? You’ve been avoiding me.”

The confrontation somehow eases you even though it shouldn’t.

Licking your bottom lip – an anxious habit that you try hard to forgo – you compose yourself before you say, “I have. Yes, you’re right.”

“Why?” Mingyu asks with genuine curiosity. 

Somehow, this bothers you. Does he really not know or he’s just pretending not to know? Whichever it is, it does not really make you feel any better about him. If he’s pretending not to know, then he’s an even bigger asshole than you’re letting him on, but if he does not know, then that’s just even worse. Imagine doing all of those things and not being aware that you did something wrong enough to upset people? 

“I have to be completely honest with you, Mingyu. I want to break up.” 

The words come out easily as opposed to what you expected. 

Somehow, it’s strange, really. You’ve never dumped anybody before. Of course, you don’t count those casual dates you’ve had in the past two years because they were never that serious. But usually, in your long relationships, the other guy does the dumping and never you. 

So, right now, as you sit across from Mingyu, finally declaring what you’ve been thinking over the past week, you feel a sense of liberation. A cliché, really. There’s a feeling of discomfort gnawing at some parts of you, but you choose to ignore it, bravely meeting his gaze instead. 

“What?”

“I want to break up with you.” You reiterate, this time fuller so he knows your decision is final.

His mouth opens and closes, and there’s a pregnant pause that hangs in the air before he finds his tongue. “But why?” 

“Are you serious?” You can’t help but snap. “Do you really not know?” 

“No. Fill me in, because I’m confused.” Mingyu doubles down, and it fires you up a little bit. 

“Mingyu, Jungkook told me everything,” You say, and you notice the way his expression changes into something more… unreadable the moment you dropped Jungkook’s name. “And I mean everything. What you did with his girlfriend back in college, and what you said about me to goad him into a fight. I mean, what were you thinking, Mingyu? All of that was just… low. Even for you. I can’t believe you’d do any of that.” You catch your breath after you say the words, not realizing how heavy it would feel to let them out. You’ve never been confrontational, would prefer if the other person did all the talking, and to do this right now is taking so much from you.

“He told you everything?” Mingyu asks again. You watch as he relaxes his posture, and you grow confused when his lips curl into a smirk. “I knew he would do that. Come crying to you with his lovesick head. Did he finally grow some to tell you he loves you, then?” 

You recoil, not expecting that. “That’s none of your business.”

“It is my business. You’re my girlfriend.”

“I’m not anymore.”

Mingyu inhales a sharp breath. “So, you’re choosing him?” 

“I—I— what?” you blurt out, surprised at his audacity. “I’m not choosing anybody. And it’s really bold of you to assume that you’re still one of my options after all that.” 

Scoffing, Mingyu drinks from his water. He looks at you with a blank stare as he says, “Well, be honest with me now. Do you love him?” 

“Do I love him?” You chuckle, not the least bit of humor in it. “You don’t really deserve my honesty, Mingyu. You had all of those four months to be honest with me and you didn’t do shit. Don’t ask me any personal questions and expect me to give you an honest answer. Because I won’t give you any of it.” 

“You said a lot of things but I know you love him just as much as he loves you.”

“What are you talking about?”

This time, Mingyu’s tone borders on sharp when he leans down to get to you closer so you can hear him clearly. “You think it was easy for me to be in a relationship with you when all you could talk and think about was Jungkook? Jungkook who was only supposedly your bestfriend?” It’s said with so much wrath that you can’t help but physically recoil at his words. When you don’t say anything, Mingyu continues, “Jungkook told me this movie’s good, Jungkook said their aglio e olio tastes great, Jungkook and I were just talking about this — I could go on how many times you’ve always managed to insert him in anything even when we’re together, but I did not want to be that kind of boyfriend who got jealous over their girl’s friends, and I was that for you – and you think I’m the bad guy here?”

You blink, mouth opening and closing. You fish for some words, something to defend yourself with. Have you really said all that? Did you really do that? Did you really talk about Jungkook enough times that Mingyu took notice of it? 

You’ve always thought that your friendship with Jungkook is platonic. You’ve convinced yourself of that and Jungkook seemed to think the same — at least that���s what you thought prior to his confession – and you like to think that your friendship works, even though the majority of people don’t agree that opposite genders can be purely friends.

But… did you think wrong? Did you really just convince yourself it was platonic when all along… it was not? 

You don’t exactly recall the moments that you talked about him while you were with Mingyu. It’s hard to when talking about Jungkook just comes like second nature. You don’t count the times you see the grass being green – because they are and will always be green. 

And that’s what Jungkook is to you. He’s been such a constant presence in your life that you can’t help but bring him up in any case because… because it just feels right to do so.

Now you think about your relationship with Eunwoo. How he never really liked Jungkook. Did he think the same as Mingyu? Did you also talk about your best friend too much in his presence? Did he count the times you mentioned Jungkook’s name in your conversations? Do you really talk so much about him?

“See?” Mingyu says after a while and it snaps you out of your stupor. “Don’t tell me I’m a liar when you’ve also been lying to me this whole time.” 

“How dare you?” You snap at him. You can take him pointing out about the thing with Jungkook, but never this. “I didn’t hide anything from you. I was not the one with the history of cheating with their friend’s girlfriend and I didn’t talk behind your back like you’re merely just a piece of meat.” 

Mingyu visibly stills and you bite your lip after saying the words. You didn’t mean for it to come out that way. Didn’t really mean to say that in the first place. But it’s done and you can’t cry over spilled milk. 

Doesn’t negate the fact that you feel like shit, though.

“You think I didn’t regret what I did?” Mingyu says, a little quiet this time. If you weren’t at the quieter part of the restaurant, in a booth where the sound of the classical music and people’s chatters are muffled, you won’t hear him at all. “Jungkook and I were close, __. We really were. And I fucked up and ruined his trust. But you also don’t know how and why that happened. Jiyeon was already cheating on him before she hit on me–” 

“Oh, so is that the part where you volunteered to be one of her “victims”, too?” You say sarcastically, cutting him off, incredulous about the fact that he’s really trying to make excuses for himself right now. 

“We were fucking drunk– and high, okay? We didn’t know what we were doing.” Mingyu says through his teeth, and it’s the first time you see him lose control. He’s always so kempt and so composed, it’s baffling you’re seeing him in this state.

But you refuse to believe his bullshit. 

“You know what, I don't know why you’re saying this to me. You should be saying this to Jungkook and frankly, I simply don’t care. What happened back then is between you – don’t include me into any of your arguments ever again,” You say exasperatedly. “My issue is that – and why I’m breaking up with you in the first place – is that you lied to me, Mingyu. You lied to me about so much. And If I were to go through this relationship with you longer, I don't know what else you’re going to lie to me about, and I don’t want that. Let’s not waste each other’s time and end it right here, right now.” 

Mingyu leans back on his seat. “I can’t change your mind even if I apologize to you about that, huh?”

You shake your head.

He nods. 

“Alright.” 

You look at him again.

Kim Mingyu has sharp features that usually make him look broody from an outsider perspective, but you’ve seen the way he smiles and how gentle he looks when he does. Right now, though, he looks… genuinely sad. 

He lied to you, yes, but somehow, there’s still some part of you that wants to know if he felt the least bit genuine about you. That it wasn’t all just a ploy to get to Jungkook. 

“Did you really like me? Even for a moment?” You break the silence, voice breaking slightly at the end. 

Mingyu looks up at you and you don’t expect the way his lips curl up into a small smile. “Yes, __. I did. I liked you the first time we met and believe it or not, I still have feelings for you right now.”

You look away to avoid his intense gaze. 

It’s weird. It’s so weird. Because even though you know in your heart that he’s not and will never be good for you and that he’s not a loss, your heart still aches at the declaration. 

“I don’t really know if I believe that.” You say, almost like a whisper. 

“I’m sorry, then.” Mingyu says, and it sounds so sincere that you start to feel some sort of stinging in both sides of your eyes.

In what seemed like forever, the waiter arrives with your orders, and you both look up and offer him a hand in placing them on your table, bidding him thanks as he once again walks away. 

You and Mingyu both look at your food. 

“I think I’m going first. I have a trial tomorrow, so I need to take care of that.” He says suddenly. 

Nibbling your bottom lip, you watch as he begins to fix his shirt, ready to stand up. 

“Okay.” 

“__?” You look up at him when he calls your name. He seems to hesitate for a bit, but he says, “Can you… can you tell Jungkook I’m sorry?” 

Staring at his face, you try to look for a hint of sarcasm. Or anything indicative of malice. But all you see is sincerity. 

At that, you shake your head. “No.” Mingyu’s face falls. “Talk to him yourself if you really are sorry. I’m not your mailman, Mingyu.” 

He sighs. “Alright. I guess you’re right,” And then, “And I’m saying sorry, to you too, you didn’t deserve that. I was angry, and that’s not an excuse. So, I’m sorry. Will you…” he clears his throat. “Will you ever forgive me?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. Probably.” 

Mingyu gives you a timid smile. “Okay.” 

When he takes out his wallet and a black card from there, you instantly stop him from calling over the waiter. 

“No, it’s fine, I’ll take care of it. I’m the one who invited you here.” You say, talking him out of paying. 

He shakes his head, insisting, “It’s okay.”

“Seriously, I can handle it.” 

Mingyu lets out a chuckle which makes you smile a bit before you scold yourself. 

“I know. But can you let me? This is… this is probably the last time we’ll see each other.” 

At that, you relax back in your seat, staring at him. He stares right back at you. 

With a slow nod, you let him call over the waiter.

He departs with a small goodbye that you return with a timid wave. 

When you go home that night, you cried yourself to sleep, thankful that Jungkook hasn’t come home from his shift yet.

Things are… fine. 

Unlike your previous break-ups that left you in agony for the following days after it happened, the one with Mingyu did not really leave a huge emotional impact. It makes you wonder if you’ve overestimated your feelings for him… makes you question yourself if you really thought he was the one when things were fine, and you both dated happily. 

You don’t bother yourself looking for answers, because the relationship is done and there’s no point in going over the details when it’s you yourself who ended the ties. 

While that is not the sole reason of your melancholic feeling these days, it lies on another person; your roommate, Jungkook – your best friend of eight years who’s apparently been in love with you the whole time. 

It’s only been a few weeks ever since you talked about him moving out. He said it was about time for him to leave the place – he’s been here longer than you, after all. He wrote and sent the notice to his landlord, and it’s been about two weeks since then, so you assume he’s already got his approval. 

While things may look normal and right from an outsider’s perspective… things aren’t exactly the way they were before.

Jungkook and you are close. You share almost everything together. Your friendship has been honed throughout the many years and obstacles you’ve faced together and so it’s only natural for you two to be as close.

But nowadays… you can feel that closeness slipping away. It flares up something inside you; like that feeling of grief when you remember that friend in highschool who you stopped talking to after graduation. You don’t know exactly what the reason is for the abrupt end of communication, but the finish line is there and you’ve both reached it without the other knowing – and you’re left fending for yourselves, looking ahead at your own worlds and letting your lives flow to the stream of the river. 

It’s strange, really; how everything feels somewhat normal but also really under that condition. 

Jungkook and you would text each other nonstop – he could be in his own room, and he’d still text you about random shit that ends up with him going to your room anyway just to annoy you for a bit before you kick him out and you both go to sleep. He’d ask to borrow something – anything, ask your food preference for the night, and he’d always ask you when your shift ends so you can go together if your schedules align. Meanwhile, you ask him to join you in the living room for spontaneous movie nights, ask him to give you a massage, and you’d both talk about your days, catching up on the hours you weren’t together.

And now there’s none of that. 

Now, you both greet each other when the other one gets home almost like a chore. Like how your roommate from college used to welcome you when you arrived at the dorm from classes. When either you or he is in the living room or something, you’d both tell each other that “Dinner’s in the fridge, you can microwave it”, instead of “What do you think we should have for dinner?”. Jungkook asks if you need a ride to the hospital because he knows you don’t have a car anymore, but you refuse because it’s obvious it’s just for formality. 

You don’t know if it’s just the overthinker in you, but it feels like Jungkook’s pulling back and he has no intention of making things right – or talk about what happened. 

He’s so… he’s so civil.

And you miss him so much it makes you sad.

It makes you confused. Sort of mad. He makes you feel a lot of things – but you hate that you’ve just been compartmentalizing and not doing any processing at all. 

You spent the past few weeks pointing out to yourself the differences that your relationship is going through. You spend some nights beating yourself up whether to go barge in his room and confront him with everything – but you do none of that. 

Instead, you pretend everything’s okay. At the hospital, you’ve no longer avoided him and said hi which he returns with a smile. Nayeon, Taehyung, and Doyeon, thought at first that everything’s back to normal, but you know they’re slowly realizing that it has not. 

Tonight, though, at Nayeon’s reception party after her wedding, you try hard to ignore all those angsts and choose to enjoy yourself instead. It’s Nayeon’s big day. The last thing you wanted to be was a bum.

Everybody is socializing with each other, and since you’ve had your fair share of conversations with other people at this point, you choose to sit out on the dance.

Suddenly, Billy Joel’s Uptown Girl is playing and the majority coos and exclaims in excitement as they hurry to the dancefloor, some taking their partners along with them.

“Look, they’re playing your favorite song.” 

Your head snaps to the side in reflex to see who it was, only to see Jungkook. Words get caught in your tongue for a moment, a bit surprised to see him. You mean – sure, he’s been here for a while. It is Nayeon’s wedding, after all, but weirdly enough, you two haven’t shared a conversation yet throughout the day. 

Until now, anyway.

Recovering from your initial surprise, you scoot over to the side, giving him space to maybe… sit beside you? 

“That’s not my favorite song.” You scoff, sipping on your champagne right after, looking right ahead as you feel Jungkook situating himself on the chair beside you.

“Oh… has it changed now?” Jungkook says, and there’s a lilt of teasing tone to it that you look at him in wonder. 

Meeting his gaze, you find he’s just smiling at you. He’s in an off-white tux, a lily pinned on his chest pocket. He’s done his hair in that usual way he cleans up for formal events like this, gelled and parted slightly off center to show off his forehead. It’s slightly longer than you’ve last noticed it looked, and you think he hasn’t been trimming it… 

Nonetheless, he looks simply put… dashing. 

“I change my favorite song every five to seven business days,” you say coolly. “Anyway, why aren’t you there?” you point to where the flock of people is having a ball to Billy Joel.

Truthfully, you kind of wish you were there as well. You’ve always danced to that song in your room or in the shower.

“I’m right where I want to be,” Jungkook shrugs. “Why aren’t you there?” 

You lie, “I’m right where I want to be as well.” 

He hums. “You don’t want to show them your moves?” 

You look at him in disbelief, gawking at him. “Are you teasing me?” 

Jungkook widens his eyes, but you know he knows what you’re talking about, and it sounds like he’s trying to keep from laughing when he says, “No. I just happen to know you’re a great dancer.” 

With that, you feel yourself getting carried away by how easily your conversation goes. It makes you think about the old times – where talking to him always made your day because he's funny and he makes you laugh and you make him laugh.

“Fuck off. You know very well I have two left feet.” You chuckle, shaking your head at him.

“Wasn’t the case when you were dancing inside a boiler room during med school at that rave party we went to, but okay.”  

You can’t help but laugh louder, and with that, you jab a lighthearted slap to his bicep without thinking too much of it. 

“I told you that never happened.” 

“Oh…” Jungkook puts down his champagne and cocks his head to the side. “What happened?” 

You giggle. Yes, giggle. Like a schoolgirl. And you watch as Jungkook joins in your laughter, taking the glass close to his face to sip from it. 

Then: “You wanna dance?” Jungkook suddenly says, but he’s looking at the dancefloor. 

“Hm. Dunno. Uptown Girl isn’t exactly rave music.” 

That earns you a chuckle from Jungkook. “But it’s fun music, right?” 

Soon after, he stands up from his seat. You look at him questioningly, but he mirrors it back with an expectant gaze and a raised brow. Seeing you getting apprehensive, he offers his hand and that’s when you roll your eyes, taking his hand as you pretend to stand up against your will and follow him to the crowd.

You chuckle as Jungkook suddenly sways his hips to the upbeat of the song, moving his arms around playfully. You’d like to think he’s doing that intentionally – to make you laugh? Loosen up? Whatever the idea behind it, it’s effective, because you can’t stop laughing as you watch him. 

“Come on, we do this all the time!” Jungkook says over the loud music and people’s candid chattering.

And he’s not wrong because you do have mini parties in the living room of your apartment, pretending like the city before the glass wall across the area is your audience. 

But you two are usually drunk during those moments, and right now, with only one glass of champagne, you’re not near being tipsy. 

“This is so silly!” You exclaim, but you find yourself matching Jungkook’s spontaneous choreography, and it earns you a laugh from him as well. 

“And when she’s walking, she’s looking so fi-i-ne,” Jungkook sings along, gesturing to you. You cover your face because you can’t stop laughing at how he looks – how you two must look – but you’re almost sure nobody’s paying attention because everybody is just having fun on their own. He has a good voice, though – even though he’s trying to act goofy with it. Jungkook doesn’t like when people point it out, or more like, gets shy when you bring it up. 

Suddenly, he steps closer to you and reaches for your hand. Looking at him with confusion, still with that wide grin on your face, he gives you a playful smile before he guides your arm upwards. You utter a sound of a delighted snort, understanding where he’s getting at. With Jungkook guiding you, you do a mildly successful turn that makes you both laugh because as you were just getting back in your original position, you almost trip. Good thing that Jungkook’s there to catch you by the waist, the contact only lasting for a brief second before he lets go to dance on his own again. 

“I wish I was an uptown girl!” You yell over the music.

“You’re kinda an uptown girl if you think about it.” Jungkook responds, nodding his head as if he believes that. 

You chuckle, shaking your head at him. “No.” 

“Yes, you are. You’re sophisticated and elegant.”

“Well, this—” you point between your bodies, “– is not very sophisticated and elegant of me.” 

“Touché.” Jungkook laughs.

“But will you be my downtown man?” You say, not really thinking too much about it but then you suddenly realize what you just said and you’re about to add something to it – like putting a disclaimer that it was just a joke. 

But then Jungkook leans closer, ducks down to level with your ear. “I can be if you want me to.” 

The song ends and you barely had time to process what just happened before the soft piano progression of Carole King’s Will You Love Me Tomorrow begins to play. 

You hear the collective “Aww”s from the audience and you watch as everybody suddenly pairs up with someone else. As the first lyric of the song is sung, you can feel the upbeat energy from earlier dropping to a calmer atmosphere. Romantic, you’d say it is.

When you look at Jungkook again, he has a small smile on his face. It’s as gentle as the piano behind the song. 

“Can I?” He says. 

You nibble on your bottom lip. “You want to?”

Jungkook only nods, still smiling.

“Only if you want to as well.” 

You look around again. It’s not hard to spot Taehyung from afar on the dancefloor as well, with a gorgeous Hyerin in his arms. He doesn’t seem to notice you looking, though, but you watch the way he ducks down to whisper something in her ear, prompting a laugh from her. 

Putting your gaze back to Jungkook, you blink as you say, “It’s… okay, I guess.” 

“Okay?” Jungkook clarifies. You nod your head and he smiles that dashing smile again before he steps closer to you.

Slowly, he puts a hand around your waist. And you know he did it awhile ago, but the contact ended so briefly that you didn’t really have the chance to… somehow… savor it, maybe? But right now, as you fumble with your own hand, deciding whether or not you should put a hand on his waist as well, the proximity makes your breath hitch. 

Your heart beats abnormally fast against your ribcage, and usually, it’s not hard to stare Jungkook in the face – but you find it a difficult task to do nowadays. 

Jungkook, unsuspecting of your inner dilemma, only seems to notice your confusion with your hand placement, chuckling as he guides your wrist to his shoulder. He raises his other arm with yours and interlocks your fingers with his mid-air.

“There,” Jungkook says once you’re in the right position. “Now we look like professional dancers.” 

You wince. “What’s the next step?” 

“You’re taking this very seriously,” Jungkook snorts as he begins to move his feet. 

You try to match his pace, and that distracts you from the fact that you're so close you can smell his cologne very well. 

“Where did you learn this?” You ask instead, quite amazed at how Jungkook is approaching this. It’s not like you’ve never slow danced in your life – but you weren’t kidding when you said you have two left feet. 

“Wikihow.” 

“Wow.” 

“They can be super reliable at times,” Jungkook chuckles as he continues to swing you both gently. “Stop looking down.” 

You groan. “Ugh, no. I’m trying very hard not to not step on you.”

“So what if you step on me? Just relax.” 

Jutting your bottom lip out, you look up at him. “My heels are Louboutin.” 

“Even better.” 

“Stop.” You break away from his hold with your other hand to jab at his chest lightly. Jungkook lets out an “Owe!” but you know it didn’t actually hurt when he just grins down at you, placing his hand on your waist instead so now he’s just… simply holding you.

You ignore the weird feeling in your chest at the action, choosing to keep your hand on his chest. 

“You wanna know something?” You whisper. Jungkook hums. “I didn’t go to prom in highschool.” 

“What? Why?” Jungkook genuinely seems surprised to hear that.

You smile sadly, looking back at the memory bitterly. “Changsub and I were fighting around that time because I saw him at the mall with some girl the previous week. I was so angry that I didn’t care about what I’d be missing out on. My mom tried really hard to get me to attend, but I was very stubborn. Now I still regret not going to prom. My dress was really pretty back then too but I didn't even get to wear it.” 

“Damn,” Jungkook utters. “He really was such a dick to you, huh?” 

“Yeah. But it was still on me, though… I can’t believe I let a boy make me miss out on prom night.” You pout.

Jungkook’s quiet for a while before he abruptly stops his swaying. You look at him in confusion as he lets go of your waist. 

“Well, I don’t have a corsage… but this can maybe do?” He fumbles with his chest first before he takes out the silk lavender handkerchief from his suit’s pocket that matches his tie and the lily on his chest. He looks at you for a while before he takes your wrist in his hand. Your brows knit together as he ties the fabric around your wrist, making sure to finish it up with a ribbon – an attempt at a ribbon, that is. 

You chuckle. “What’s this?” 

Jungkook grins. “You wanna know something too? I didn’t have a date on prom night – was too scared to ask anybody out. I went home after the first hour. Wasn’t really a fond memory. So, prom night definitely sucked for me… what I’m saying is that, it’s not really all that.” 

You duck your head down to laugh, partly to hide the flutter in your heart at his words.

“So, like, is this our – what – our upgraded prom night?” 

Jungkook nods proudly. He takes both your hands as you laugh, wrapping them around his neck, taking you by the waist again. 

This time, you don’t feel like your breath is being taken away.

You feel… serene. The beating of your heart is back to normal. You realize, there’s a sense of comfort that comes from being close to him like this – talking and laughing like good old times. 

You miss him. You miss him so much and you can’t believe you ever considered accepting a life without him in it. 

“The dress looks good on you, by the way,” Jungkook comments, and it sounds so sincere that you can’t help but smile. As if that wasn’t enough to melt your heart, he adds, “And you look really beautiful.” 

“T-thanks,” you stammer, taken aback at the almost intimate way he looks right into your eyes as he said that. You tighten your hold around his neck. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” 

“Thank you.” 

You both chuckle, though there was nothing really funny said in particular.

Carole King’s gentle voice soothes you as Jungkook takes the lead of the dance. You’re not even doing anything other than just going with the flow, letting him take you wherever. There’s a moment when you were sure you stepped on his shoe, but Jungkook’s quick to dismiss you with a hush and saying it was nothing. 

Tonight with words unspoken,

You say that I’m the only one

But will my heart be broken,

When the night meets the morning sun

You scoff as you finally hear the lyrics.

That may have taken a hit on you. 

“This is so stupid.” You say.

Jungkook’s quick to react.

“Rude. I’m literally giving you a prom night from scratch.”

You look at him and you feel bad because he genuinely seems offended at your supposedly throw-away comment.

Shaking your head, you tap his chest lightly. “No, no. I mean– the lyrics. The song.”

Jungkook arches a brow. “I have a video of you crying over this song in your car when it came up on your playlist.” 

“I didn’t cry over this song.” You roll your eyes. 

“Not as much as you did over Silver Springs, anyway.” 

“Oh my god, why do you know so much, Jesus,” you hiss, embarrassed at being confronted by your dramatic antics. “I just meant, why are they playing such a sad song at a wedding? Who approved this?” 

“Eh,” Jungkook shrugs. “Maybe Nayeon’s a Carole King fan.” 

“Is she?” you ask, genuinely curious. If she is, she never told anybody.

“Maybe…?” 

You can’t help but laugh because of how the conversation progressed. Jungkook laughs as well, and he takes the jab you send to his chest with a light hand. They’re really hard, you think, and you don’t know what comes over you as you lean your head down and let your body fall towards him, laying your cheek on the lapel of his suit. It’s warm.

You feel Jungkook stilling in his position at your sudden action, but soon enough, he does nothing to pry you off like you feared for a moment he would, tightening his arms around your waist and swinging you both in that kind of laxed way. 

Shutting your eyes close, you let the soft melody of the song ease your nerves, basking in Jungkook’s presence and his familiar scent. 

You stay like that for a while, and just when the song is coming to an end, you feel Jungkook’s breathe in your ears, his lips almost brushing to the tips of your ears when he says, “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything back then, but I really miss you too.” 

You drank more champagne than you anticipated and it’s why you wobble your way into the bathroom to do some half-ass retouch. Just as when you were putting away your make-up, Nayeon comes out from one of the cubicles. 

“Hey, you gorgeous, gorgeous girl,” She says with a huge smile, now changed into a much simpler dress, in contrast to her voluminous one earlier.

You mirror her grin, opening your arms wide to engulf her in a hug. “Hi to you too. Congrats again on the wedding. I’m so incredibly happy for you. You and Minhyuk are perfect.” 

When Nayeon breaks apart from your hug, she looks at you closely. “I saw you with Jungkook earlier. Lots of people saw you two earlier.” 

“What?” 

“I mean… slow dancing to Will You Love Me Tomorrow in a weirdly intimate way was kind of insane, if you ask me.” 

“Oh, uhm…” you feel blood rushing to your cheeks as you grow embarrassed at the thought of people catching you in that position. You remember after the song ended, you made up some excuse about going to the bathroom to pee and you did – but you pointedly tried to stay out of Jungkook’s sight ever since.

One step forward, three steps back.

“How are you two by the way?” 

“We’re fine.” You say, giving her a reassuring smile. 

Nayeon stares at you for a moment. Then, she sighs. “You’re not, are you?”

“No, we really are. We’re– we’re talking, right?” You point out.

“But… he’s moving out of your place.”

“Well, he needs a change of scenery. He’s been there for four years so he must be tired living there.” 

Nayeon stares at you again and when you look at her face, your heart twinges as you see the disappointment written all over her features. 

“I don’t understand you both, really. You have this… this beautiful thing going on and you’re choosing to ignore that? It’s obvious that you feel something for him, __. Just be honest with him and see where it goes. I know you two are pretending that everything’s fine but you’re both hurting each other and you’re acting like it’s nothing – it’s all just unnecessary angst at this point. What are you two doing?” Nayeon asks. 

“I…”

“Come on, __. Do you really want to let each other go? Do you really want to drift apart? Because it’s been almost a month of pussyfooting. And I don’t know if you’re just expecting that your luck is not gonna run out, but it is going to. And I know you’re going to regret it.” 

You stare at Nayeon while listening to her words. You don’t expect the sharp edges to her voice. You’ve always thought that if someone was going to call you out on your bullshit – it was going to be Doyeon. She’s the bluntest in the group and would not hesitate to tell someone if they’re being a bitch or not – so you don’t expect Nayeon to be like this at all because she’s always been a soft-spoken sweetheart.

It's not like Doyeon hasn’t been harsh, either, though. You had a drink with her and Taehyung a month ago and let’s just say she kind of ranted about you feeling like you’re in a romcom or something. 

She shuts her eyes close, and you can just feel her frustration emanating. “I’m sorry – I know I’m being harsh right now. But I just can’t bear seeing you two like this. I just got married today and I feel like I’m learning and realizing so much right now and one of those is that I’m extremely lucky to have found someone I’m so sure of, and while Minhyuk was saying his vows I looked back at my past relationships and just thought that… that I’m so glad I was finally at that point and… and right now I can’t stop thinking about you two,” Nayeon sighs. “You two love each other so much. Everybody can see it. Why are you both running away from each other? What gives?” 

You look away.

You both do love each other. They are right.

And while you can’t exactly say if what you feel for Jungkook right now bounds in being in love – there’s quite literally only one thing in the world that you’re certain of, and it’s that he’s the most important person to you – the only one you can think of spending a lifetime with and not get sick of it.

And that was something.

But…

“Because it’s scary.” You say, finally.

“What’s scary?”

You inhale a sharo breath.

“For eight years I’ve always thought that we were only platonic. But somewhere in my head I always thought that he was my soulmate, you know? I thought about us ending up together and I remember liking that thought. But years went by, and nothing ever happened and I swear I was happy with Eunwoo but you know what I’m ashamed of all this time that I never told anybody?” Your vision of Nayeon gets blurry as you begin tearing up. “I think… I have been in denial for so long. I think… I think I secretly looked for a part of Jungkook in Eunwoo and I think Eunwoo knew that. I think everybody who I’ve ever been with knew that except for myself. Because I was in denial. Even right now, I’m still in denial. You don’t know how – you don’t know how strange it is to suddenly wake up and realize that you don’t see your friend as a mere friend anymore. You don’t know how hard it is to overthink things – like what if it doesn’t work out and everything falls apart? Our friendship is so important to me, I hold it in the highest regard, and I don’t want anything to ever go against it. But now I’m doing that myself and I just… I hate it. But I don’t know what to do. Jungkook’s moving out just like it seems like he’s moving on and I’m scared that I’m too late to do anything.” 

Your speech leaves Nayeon’s mouth agape, clearly not expecting your outburst. But she recovers quickly. She steps closer in front of you, and in a second, engulfs you in a hug. 

“I’m sorry,” you sniff, making sure to not let your tears fall down her dress. “I think I’ve been keeping that for a long time.”

“It’s okay… I’m glad you said that.” 

“Yeah… I think I’m glad too,” you both chuckle. 

“__?”

You hum.

“Just talk to Jungkook. If you’re worried about him moving out, he’s not. I can tell you that much.” 

You break the hug and look at Nayeon. “Nayeon, he literally has everything packed. I think he’s leaving early in the morning tomorrow.”

Nayeon fixes a strand of stray hairs from your hair framing your face. “Hm. He has?” You nod. “Well, as I said, he’s not leaving. Trust me. But you have to tell him everything that you told me just now. Be honest, __. It feels scary right now but, try to take a leap of faith, okay? This is not some toxic positivity shit or anything like that, but just be honest, alright?” 

Nibbling on your bottom lip, you look at her hesitantly. “Are you… are you sure?” 

Nayeon nods, and she looks so sure of herself that it may have fired up a little bit of hope in you. 

The party is still ongoing, but you decide that it’s time for you to clock out. After you bid your goodbyes to Nayeon and her now husband, to Doyeon and to Taehyung, you head out of the venue to try and book a taxi. You couldn’t find Jungkook earlier at the party, so you decided to send him a text that says you were going home. 

“Need a ride?” 

The ever-familiar voice expectedly appears to be Jungkook when you look at him. 

“Hey,” you greet. “No. I was just about to book an Uber.” 

Jungkook’s brows furrow. You think he looks handsome under the moonlight. “We can ride together in my car. I’m going home as well.”

“N-no, no, ‘s really fine,” you wave your hand, emphasizing your point. 

Jungkook grows more confused. Then: “Are you drunk?” 

You wince, hating that he instantly knows right away. 

“Sorta, kinda…” 

“And you want to Uber?” You pout. You hear him scoff. “There’s no way I’m leaving you alone in this state. Okay, let’s get you to my car.” 

“I’m fine, really,” you say but it sounds whiny even to your ears. 

“You can be stubborn all you want. But in the passenger’s seat.” Jungkook gives you a sharp stare, but his hold on your wrist is gentle as he guides you to the parking lot. 

He wears the seatbelt around your waist and lets you settle on your seat, rounding the car to get behind the wheel right after. You look away. You thought he'd be more... not nice to you since you just left him earlier with a poor excuse.

You feel guilty. So guilty. Jungkook is so... he makes you feel so loved but you're just... so confused. You're so scared it doesn't even make sense.

When he starts the engine, he asks, “Why did you drink so much?” 

It's easy to ignore the heavy thoughts in your head when you're half-asleep at this point.

“I dunno. The champagne was so good… I bet it was probably expensive. I can’t have that much free stuff until –” you stop, as if remembering something, sitting upright. “When is Taehyung’s wedding?” 

“He doesn’t have a wedding, ba—__. He hasn’t proposed to Hyerin yet.” 

You slump in your chair hearing that. 

“Why? They’re so perfect together… they should marry…” You say before dropping back down to your seat again. The AC in Jungkook’s car whirrs softly in your ear, and when you look to the side, you find yourself staring at his side profile.

He’s taken off his white coat, now left with a white shirt and his purple tie. He’s pushed the sleeves up to his forearms, showing the veins all over them.

“Jungkook.” you call him.

“What is it?” He says, momentarily looking at you before focusing back on the road.

“Can I…” you look at his hand. You sniff. “Can I hold your hand?”

Well, he does not expect that at all. But he smiles anyway, taking off one hand on the wheel and reaching for your own hand over the center console. You watch the way his huge palm dwarfs your own, and you almost sigh in relief when he laces his fingers with yours, squeezing your hand as he rests it over his thigh.

The last thing you hear is Jungkook’s soft chuckle before you completely drift off to sleep. 

When you awake, you’re in your room. Seconds after regaining consciousness, you notice the banging in your head – and when you blearily open your eyes, reaching around for your phone, you don’t find it. 

Groaning, you stand up from your bed, realizing you’re now in a shirt and some pajamas. But weirdly enough, you seem to still have your bra on.

You peek through the inside of your shirt and alas, the white lace of your bra from last night’s event welcomes you, and when you stretch the waistband of your shorts to check on your panties, you still adorn the pair of white thong, which means only one thing. 

You haven’t changed completely out of the garments you’ve worn to Nayeon’s wedding and you wonder how it all happened. When you look to the side, your clutch is placed on the nightstand and so you grab it, relieved to find your phone there. 

Shockingly, you read it’s only over 2 am. 

With furrowed brows, you go over to the mirror to check your ensemble. Your face isn’t and doesn't feel as heavy with make-up as it was back at the venue, and you’re definitely dressed down now. 

You remember passing out in Jungkook’s car after he insisted that you ride with him… and everything had been a blur since then. 

Suddenly, an idea goes into your head. 

Did Jungkook… change your clothes and remove your make-up? That’s the only plausible thing that you can consider because you honestly don’t remember ever dressing yourself or going to the bathroom to remove your make-up. And if you did change out of the gown, you would've opted out of your underwear as well. 

Maybe Jungkook did all that. 

And the thought makes you smile. But it drops just as quickly. 

You head towards your door and go straight knocking on Jungkook’s bedroom. 

You don’t expect him to be awake at this point, but when you hear steps coming your way and the doorknob clicking, you stare at Jungkook wide-eyed when he welcomes you with his presence behind the door.

“Hey,” He greets, predictably surprised to see you. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah…” your eyes don’t mean to subtly roam his room. Then that’s when you catch it. The bags lying around his bedroom floor and the neatly piled boxes to the side. Your eyebrows meet each other. “You’re packing?” 

Jungkook nods. “I’m leaving tomorrow, I told you that, didn’t I?” 

“Y-you did, yeah.” You stammer, blinking at him. You suddenly feel like throwing up. “Well, I just came to thank you for…” you trail off, gesturing to your clothes.

Seemingly getting what you mean, Jungkook’s lips curl up into a coy smile. “I hope you don’t mind. I tried to wake you up, but you were complaining about your dress when you were sleeping…”

“Yeah… I’m glad you took it off.” You wince. “That sounds wrong. Anyway, the make-up, too. I have to ask, did I throw up on you?” 

Jungkook laughs, incredulous. “No, no, you didn’t. Are you seriously worried about that?” 

“I just feel bad.” You give him a tight-lipped smile. 

“It’s okay. You should sleep now, it’s late. Do you have a shift tomorrow– or later, actually.” 

“Yeah, I do. But it’s the evening shift. So. You?” 

“I have the morning until three in the afternoon.” 

Nodding, you ask, “Are you leaving at three then? I mean, to your new place?”

“Yeah. Will just pass by here to get some of my stuff.”

You try to look for something on his face. But Jungkook looks casual at best. Now you remember what Nayeon told you. Was she lying when she said you’re going to convince Jungkook not to move out? Because from the looks of it, Jungkook doesn’t seem like anything would budge him from leaving tomorrow. He seems so set on a mission, and you can’t lie and say that it doesn’t break your heart. 

You find yourself thinking about the events at the reception party. How he threw you a quick prom, told you you were beautiful… how he said he missed you. 

Was that all a lie? Just something he said to avoid some sort of dead air? 

Because if he truly misses you, then why would he leave? 

You find yourself getting annoyed. 

“I’ll be back to my room.” You say to get out of the situation. You notice Jungkook getting taken aback by the change of your tone, even more so when you turn on your heels quickly to take the two strides it takes you to your own bedroom. 

In there, you throw yourself on the mattress, the impact affecting you a little bit. You must still be drunk because you feel your vision getting blurry a bit but as you quickly shut and open your eyes, everything goes back to normal. 

You sigh. 

Well, maybe you’re actually meant to be alone and it’s true that you’re not meant for any romantic relationships. You’ll die alone and you’ll just have to deal with the heartbreaks you went through your whole life. 

A stray tear escapes your eye, and you quickly raise the back of your hand to wipe at it. You glare at the wall dividing your and Jungkook’s rooms, finding it annoying that you’re not really mad at him. It’d be so easy if you were mad at him… but you have no reason to.

But why is he so stubborn? Why isn’t he saying anything? Can he just… can it just be him who takes the leap of faith, so you won’t have to? You know that’s unfair, though. It’s juvenile. 

In a burst of courage, you take one pillow from your bed and stomp your way out of your bedroom, finding yourself in front of Jungkook’s room again and knocking. 

He opens it, rightfully surprised to see you again. “H-hey, __, I thought—”

“Can I sleep here?” 

You can see the way his face contorts into confusion. “What?” 

“Can I sleep in your room?” You reiterate, but you’re already forcing your way in. You throw your pillow on his own heap of dark ones, frowning when you see the bags on the floor. “Are you just going to pack forever? You’ve been packing since yesterday.”

Your clipped tone throws Jungkook off a little bit, but he doesn’t point that out, though, when he speaks. “No. I’m actually done now.” 

“Okay? Well, then, let’s sleep.” You say, staring at him. He looks stoned in his position from the edge of the bed, so utterly confused. 

“Are you… still drunk?” 

“What? No.”

“O… kay?” Jungkook looks extra cautious when he seats himself on the mattress by your feet. “Are you sure?” 

“About what?”

“I don’t know. About not being drunk and… sleeping here.” 

“Yeah,” you answer, pointing out the obvious. “Why are you acting like we haven’t had sleepovers before? You used to sleep in my room when there was a spider in your closet.” 

Jungkook makes a face. “It was a huge spider.” 

You roll your eyes, going into a lying position, making sure to leave some space for him on the side. “Jungkook.” 

“Okay, I’m going. So demanding.” 

He playfully clicks his tongue as he lays on the bed as well, sliding his body across the mattress. He doesn’t expect the way you take his arm to spread it on your side of the bed, and you don’t let him say another word when you lay your head on it, keeping your hands close to your chest as you snuggle beside him. 

You could feel there was a moment there that Jungkook stiffened for a bit, but he relaxes just as quickly, feeling him caress your head tentatively as if feeling you out before he goes for it completely. 

“This is what you’re gonna be missing out on when you move out.” you mumble.

You’re grateful when he only says: “Hm?”

“Nothing.” You open your eyes and because of the close proximity, your eyes are at the level of the side view of his chest, and you see the way his thin white shirt clings to his body, rising up and down with his breathing. “I saw your keys earlier. I’m glad you like the Claddagh.” 

Jungkook laughs. “The Claddagh, huh? I knew you knew what that keychain meant,” You frown when you realize you were supposed to pretend you didn’t know that. Oh, well, he figured you out right away, anyway. “I really like it, by the way. It was very thoughtful,” Jungkook says. You can’t see him in your position, but you just know he has a smile on his face. He sounds like it. 

“Thank you. I thought about gifting you a watch… but watches are expensive, so…” You decide to joke, and Jungkook laughs which makes you smile. 

“I would choose the Claddagh any day. I just… I really like it. I interpreted it as a deep sense of belonging and shared history, and I’ve known you for eight years, so that seems very fitting. I’m glad you chose to give me that.” 

It was also a reminder of your relationship. Your love for each other. The loyalty that lies in its foundation, and how you’ve managed to build that over the years. Jungkook’s ultimately your soulmate – that you’re sure of – even though that’s a bit of a cliche and you don’t exactly believe in it entirely. A bit of a conflict, really, since you’re a hopeless romantic. 

But you’ve long known that you and Jungkook are more than just friends. You trust and respect each other beyond words – and it’s more than what you could say about your previous romantic partners. Sure, there was that sense of admiration for one another with your ex-boyfriends, but Jungkook is different. He’s always been different. 

You’ve known that all along – but it’s only now that you decided to read between the lines. 

And you want to tell him that. So badly. But you choose to let the gentle tips of his fingers lull you to that comfortable annexe of warmth, easing you from overwhelming thoughts. 

Has Jungkook always felt like the embodiment of comfort for you? Has he always felt like everything good you can imagine having in your life?

Then, you feel him lean down to the top of your head. “You smell so nice. You aren’t my soulmate after all.” 

That makes you violently crane your neck up to look at him. “What?”

“There was this article that Tae sent to me. It was from Cosmo, I think. It says you’re not supposed to be able to smell your soulmate.” He says, looking so serious that you can’t figure if he’s bullshitting you.

You lean on your elbow so you can look down properly at him, saying, “That’s not even plausible. Since when was Cosmo reliable to you? That’s ridiculous. We literally have four hundred different types of olfactory receptors which help us perceive various smells – I mean, unless you’ve damaged them somehow, or there’s a disruption in your signal transduction, or you’re anosmic – which I know you’re not – then I don’t think that’s true.” 

Jungkook laughs and you can’t help but frown. 

“It made sense, okay? If you ignore the science stuff.”

“You’re a doctor.” You quickly counter.

He rolls his eyes. “I mean, for the record, I believe in the existence of extraterrestrial life, so that’s that.”

“Ugh,” you flop down on the bed again, falling back on Jungkook’s body. He scoots closer to hold you close against him, which you welcome casually. You don’t even know how you got this comfortable, but you’re glad either way. He feels so big and warm. “Are you going to show me that Youtube video of top ten UFO sightings around the world again?” 

“You don’t think that Nebraska one looked very real?” Jungkook says with disbelief.

“No,” you turn to Jungkook only to find him already looking at you. “They were college boys, Jungkook. They probably just turned nineteen or something. Have you seen their eyes in the video? It was pixelated as hell, but if I were that high—”

Jungkook suddenly snorts, effectively cutting you off. “Ohh, if you were that high?”

You jab at his chest which only makes him laugh louder. 

“I tried my first weed with you.” You pout.

Jungkook catches the stray hair that falls from behind your ear and hides it back there again as he says, “You coughed nonstop and had a sore-throat the next day. You have baby lungs.” 

You roll your eyes and go back to lying on his arm. “Whatever. All of that still doesn’t justify that we’re not soulmates.” 

“The concept of soulmates doesn’t even have a scientific explanation.” Jungkook chuckles. 

“No…? But there's psychological research about it; the attachment theory, look it up.” 

“There’s also cognitive dissonance.” Jungkook pitches in. 

“That’s so mean!” You gasp, but you know Jungkook’s only teasing when you see that he’s got that huge stupid grin on his face.

He apologizes in between his laughter, squeezing your waist a bit before he says, “Okay, okay. But what if you’re my soulmate, but I’m not yours?” 

“That’s not how soulmate-ism works. Isn’t it nice to think that there’s like a system to it? Like if you’re my soulmate, then that would automatically make me your soulmate. It doesn’t make sense otherwise.” Your eyebrows knit together as you explain.

“I guess you’re right…” Then you hear him letting out a loud sigh. “For what it's worth, I think I’d be really happy if I was your soulmate.”

You smile against his pec after he says the words. 

You like Jeon Jungkook. You like him so much it’s starting to feel unbearable.

There’s silence that hangs in the air for some time before you look up at Jungkook alarmingly. “Kook.” He doesn’t say anything. You lean on your elbow again to peer down at him, only to see that he’s now closed his eyes. “Jungkook.” 

Finally, he stirs. But his eyes are still closed. “Hm?”

“Don’t sleep yet.” 

“Uh-huh.” He gives your waist a brief squeeze again.

“I’m watching you.” 

He chuckles. “What is it?” 

“Let’s talk more.” 

“How are you still not sleepy?” 

“Because…” you drop your head down to his chest this time. “I want to know if you could ever —” you shrug, staring at his ceiling. “—cannibalize someone.”

“I like this. Conversation’s getting raunchy,” You hear him snorting through his breath. “Is this your pillowtalk?” 

“Yes.” 

“In that case, that’s an interesting question. I have never really thought about that.”  

“Really? Never?” 

“I’ve never been in any situation where I had to think about that, thank god.”

You laugh together. “Okay, but if you really had to, would you?” 

“I don’t know… I’m a huge germaphobe, you know that. But I guess humans inherently have indomitable spirits and that conditions us to do whatever it takes to ensure our survival under extreme conditions. I don’t think I’m beyond that.”   

You nod against his chest. Mindlessly, you start tracing random lines over his shirt, and you wait for Jungkook to pry your hand off or say something to stop you or ask you what you’re doing, but he doesn’t really say anything. 

“It’s fascinating, right? The way we can just alter our brains and mindsets when we’re put under certain conditions. It’s amazing and weird at the same time how we work psychologically.” 

“Exactly.” You feel Jungkook nodding. 

“This is– of course this is not an extreme condition where I have to cannibalize someone,” you chuckle, which earns the same thing from Jungkook. You continue, “but you know when you’re experiencing a heartbreak and you think it’s the end of the world but then you wake up one day and suddenly you’re fine? 

When Jungkook turns quiet, you know you’ve touched on a subject that feels personal. 

You sigh. “I broke up with Mingyu awhile ago.” 

“Oh.”

You hum. “Yeah… like a month ago?”

“Ah. I had a hunch.”

“But you didn’t ask,” you smile. “Well, anyway I just want you to know.” 

Silence.

Then, “Do you feel… do you feel sad about it?” 

“That’s what’s weird,” you say. “Because I don’t necessarily feel sad about the break-up, or the relationship. But it’s more like – the thought of breaking up with somebody again.” You chuckle, but there’s no humor to it. “I feel like you can only take so many break-ups in your life before you completely give up on love, you know? And it’s like… I don’t even get it… I mean, I’m decent, aren’t I? I can hold up a conversation, I make sense, I have a good job, and I don’t look bad – although, maybe that’s what’s wrong all along?” You swallow the lump in your throat. “Am I ugly?” 

“Hey,” Jungkook calls, and you feel him rising from his lying position just as you feel tears slowly streaming down your face. 

You scold yourself for it – because what the hell even is this about? Just earlier you were talking about cannibalism and now you’re tearing up. Your emotions are all over the place, and it doesn’t help that Jungkook’s quick to dote on you, guiding your back as you both sit on the bed instead.

You inhale a sharp breath. “Look at me, I’m a mess,” you look at him through blurry eyes, hoping to look apologetic at the very least for barging in his room at fuckass o’clock and disturbing his packing and not noticing that he’s been in love with you for the past eight years. God, you want to say sorry for a lot of things. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying, it’s not that deep.” 

“If it’s bothering you then it’s a big deal. And I’m looking right at you,” Jungkook wraps an arm around your shoulders as he looks you in the eyes. “I’m looking at you and you’re beautiful, you’re intelligent, and you’re the funniest person on Earth I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. I’m so glad I met you.” 

“Well… do you still feel that way when I only ever seem to come to you when I wanna vent or cry?” You ask, attempting to joke, but your voice breaks at the end.

It cracks a smile on Jungkook’s face though. “That’s not true at all. You also come to annoy me.” 

Your laughter turns into a sob and that’s when Jungkook wraps an arm around your shoulder to pull you close to his side, letting your head fall to his bicep and resting his chin on top of yours. It’s a barely-there gesture, but you’re pretty sure you feel him kiss the crown of your head. 

“I know… I know we still have a lot to talk about, __. That we’re glossing over the important things. But I want to say sorry. I never said sorry about what happened back at the resort. For Mingyu. For doing what we did. I never said sorry about bombarding you with all those things and for taking so long to talk to you just because I was scared. But right now, I’m saying sorry. I have been completely unfair to you all this time.” 

You quickly get out of his hold to look up at him. “No, you—” 

“Just…” Jungkook cuts you off. “Just let me, okay? I know you’re gonna say none if it was my fault but you’re right about what you said. You’re right about doubting my feelings for you.” 

“Jungkook…”

He nods. “I was in denial for the most part about my feelings for you. Ever since that thing happened with Jiyeon in college, I found it hard to trust somebody again. I slept around in my last year of college because it made me feel good about myself, made me think I was desirable and that someone cheating on me doesn’t mean shit when I had all those women who willingly slept with me. I was like that during my first year in med school, too. Couldn't really get serious with somebody because – because what if they do the same thing again?” Jungkook smiles bitterly. “And then… I met you. It started out as a crush and I was so sure it wasn’t going to be more than that, but then, we were in almost the same classes and we became friends,” Jungkook looks at you fondly and you almost melt in his arms. “And then I found myself liking you, and then I fell hard – really fucking hard,” he chuckles to himself. “It was during spring break of second year when I realized I was fucked and that I was in love with my best friend.” 

“S-spring break?” You whisper, not sure what he meant. 

“You don’t remember it?” Jungkook asks. He looks over your face and suddenly he’s caressing your cheek with his fingers. He swipes his thumb over it, wiping a stray tear away. He smiles before he says, “I caught the flu that time. I called you, but you were over at your parents. Then the next day I woke up and you were at my place telling me to take care of my health because how can I study medicine when my immune system is shit.”

“Oh, that…” you trail off. Suddenly, the fragments of that time become clear to you. The flu wasn’t that bad, only took him three days to fully recover.

“Yeah. But then that was also the time when you told me Eunwoo asked you to be his girlfriend and that you said yes.” 

You inhale a shaky breath.

“I– I tried to forget about my feelings, because I didn’t want to harbor all those feelings for you when you already had a boyfriend. I went to all those dates in the hopes that I could feel something from someone. I tried to date Sora. It was good. It was a good partnership. But then… Eunwoo proposed, and I don’t know – I guess I deluded myself so bad that I have fully moved on from you since then – but then I was faced with the reality that you were going to spend your life with somebody else and I didn’t know how to deal with it. I was so bad at handling my emotions. So stupid. Sora broke up with me because she figured I love you.” 

You stare at him with your mouth agape. You would've never guessed why they broke up. You always thought they were so perfect for each other… 

“And yeah, the break-up with Eunwoo happened and it took you two years to heal. I didn’t want to make a move because I simply didn’t want to be that kind of guy who takes advantage of a woman’s vulnerability after a break-up, you know? And we moved in together two years ago and…” You wait as he trails off. “I guess I just got comfortable with our set-up.” 

“How do you mean?”

“It was like, everything I imagined us to be. Living together, sharing everything together. I thought no one could take that away from me, even if I didn’t ask you out. I’m not telling you to believe it, but I wasn’t with a lot of women for the past two years… yeah, sure, I dated them very briefly, but it was out of genuine attempt to find somebody for myself because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship by confessing. Being your best friend was and still is more important to me than being your boyfriend. I couldn’t care less how I can have you; I want you in any way – and if that meant being your platonic friend the rest of our time, then I was that. I am that. Even now.”

You can’t find your words. You’ve imagined your talk countless times in your head, but they all fell short to give you a taste of what the real thing would be like. 

“So… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for keeping my feelings for nearly eight years. I’m sorry I kept something important to you about Mingyu. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner. Just… I apologize. I feel like I broke your trust.” 

It’s quiet for a while before you break the silence.

“Jungkook,” You call him. He meets your gaze. It’s soft and it’s sweet and you realize he’s always looked at you like that. How could you have not noticed? “You’re very important to me.” 

“I’m glad.” He smiles. A small one that makes him look all boyish. The urge to keep him in your pocket even though he’s much bigger than you becomes huge.

“And I want you in any way, too.” You say, staring intently at him. 

You watch as Jungkook stares back at you. There’s an agonizing stretch of seconds when you see his eyes darting down from your eyes to your lips, and you don’t mean to bite the bottom one, suddenly feeling the thick tension rising in the air.

“Can I hug you?” You swallow the lump in your throat. 

“I would really love that.” 

You don’t know how it happens, but the last thing you see is Jungkook’s wall clock pointing to 3:15 am before you let your eyes rest.

[ READ BELOW ]

this chapter is not over yet! tumblr has a 1k paragraph/block limit in a single post and so i can't put the whole thing in this. please look thru the reblogs to read the last scene of the chapter and the EPILOGUE or click on this [ link ]

[nathanbatemanfucker]

The Bee and the Bear, Chapter 3: Like a Bear to a Hive

summary: carmy cooks Bee dinner.

pairing: carmy berzatto x f!reader (Bee)

contents: 18+/NSFW/heavy content/eventual smut, mention of suicide/mental illness, grief, longing, pining, angst, friends to strangersish to lovers, food and alcohol mention

wc: 2.7k

an: god i love these two so badddddd. i love their tenderness despite the awkwardness…i love how palpable how much they mean to the other is. PS this isn’t beta’d so if you see something insanely fucked pls let me know! PSS totto’s market is real and located in chicago…highly recommend it!

series masterlist

< | chapter 2: Back in the Beef

You can’t figure out what to wear. You’ve been back and forth, digging through your suitcase like a madwoman and standing in front of the mirror in your childhood room. This crisis is silly, it shouldn’t even be a crisis. Carmy has seen you in more than 80% of your wardrobe. Sure, you’ve gotten clothing for work, some racier things from your bar crawl days in undergrad. You’d brought neither of those categories with you– jeans and sweaters, a polished suit suit for Mikey’s funeral.

But, how do you dress for hanging out with Carmen Berzatto for the first time since you were just a teenager?

The answer is a paradox because its unclearly clear. This isn’t a special occasion and it is decidedly not a date. You’re a faithful woman, one who’s trying so desperately to protect your heart while simultaneously letting yourself have this. It feels pathetic to think about how long you’ve been waiting for a moment like this.

There was a time where missing Carmy completely consumed you. This is your way of letting yourself heal, or maybe it’s just going to make that feeling resurface when you inevitably go back home and history repeats itself. Your thoughts start to grow, mind swirling with doubt when your phone begins to buzz where its sat on your bedside table.

A picture of you and Kyle pops up on the display, his contact name a simple blue heart.

You answer it quietly, “Hello?”

“Hi, honey.”

“Hey,” You breathe, falling back into bed, giving yourself a reprieve from staring at every piece of clothing you’d packed.

“You sound tense,” And while he’s bringing it up, there’s no true concern that you can detect in his voice.

“No, not tense at all, just—pretty tired.”

It isn’t a complete lie. Despite feeling wired and on edge about seeing Carmy, there’s a heaviness to your limbs– fatigue from the last few days.

“Oh, are you heading to bed soon?”

You take in a shaky breath. Outright lying to him isn’t an option, you’re a good partner— a faithful partner, so you’ll just be honest. You close your eyes, struggling to keep your voice nonchalant, “Actually I’m getting dinner– well Carmy’s making dinner.”

Silence stretches between the two of you and you open your mouth to say something, anything but Kyle beats you to it.

“First time you’re seeing him since you moved out here, yeah?” He asks quietly. There’s a stillness in his tone that sends a chill down your spine.

“Yeah, it’ll be good to catch up with him. See what’s changed since we were babies.”

“And you still trust him? I mean its been–”

“He’s one of my best friends, Kyle,” You say quickly, before he can voice any of his opinions on Carmy or any of your other friends from home.

He doesn’t understand your bond with Nat or Carmy or Richie— hardly understood why you felt so compelled to come home from Mikey’s funeral when you hadn’t seen him in years. Kyle has no friends from his childhood, it’s just him and the steady, sterile climb into corporate America, full of empty smiles and cold happy hours. He doesn’t understand the warmth that ties you all together no matter how far you go, like the roots of a tree.

“One of your best friends? That you haven’t seen since before you could order your own glass of bourbon?” He challenges, chuckling under his breath.

“He means a lot to me. You know that.”

“How could I forget.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration, “Please, Kyle, it's not like that. It's never been like that. We’re platonic. I know it's weird for you but just– it's nice. To have him back after all these years. After losing Mikey.”

“Alright, I’m sorry. I know how much that little group of friends means to you even if they all have a weird way of showing it.”

“Thanks. I’ll let you know when I make it home?”

“Okay. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

Your conversation with Kyle feels like a cold shower. You’d just lied to him and now you’re second guessing everything. Should you really be doing this? Would this just be torture? Is having him in this way worse than not having him at all? Things with Carmy had never been voluntarily platonic.

Your phone buzzes and you think that its a text from Kyle– an overprotective “be careful” or “are you sure?”. To your surprise, its Carmy. Was he canceling? Why did that make your heart ache when you were just rethinking this yourself.

Bear 🤎: Looking forward to tonight. 8 still ok?

You stare at the text for several seconds, unaware of the soft smile that spreads across your face. He still has a contact photo– the two of you together for the last time before going off sitting outside the Adler Planetarium listening to the lakeside waves. Sugar had taken the photo while Mikey and Richie shadow boxed in the parking lot like a couple idiots.

Another text rolls in, pulling you from that memory.

Bear 🤎: We could do it sooner if you get tired early.

You: 8’s good, I still have to get wine.

Bear: See you soon.

You: Soon.

For a moment, you wish that you and Carmy were having lunch– you could take a walk down the Chicago streets, the wind whipping at your cheeks and clearing your head. But it’s nearly 7 and that wouldn’t be the safest thing to do. Finally you dress, settling on jeans and a chunky knit sweater that’s your favorite color. You bid your parents goodbye, ignoring their strangely wide smiles at the mention of Carmy and head for their car. Your favorite little store, Totto’s Market is just around the corner and you park the car and pop inside, needing to get in and out since your forgoed paying the meter.

Wine is an easy pick, one of your favorite whites that’s on the sweeter side. Dessert proves to be a challenge— Totto’s always has an assortment of killer pastries, flavorful ice cream and unique delicacies. You decide to play it safe with something you know Carmy will love: a orange and pistachio scone. He appreciates the brightness of citrusy paired with the earthy, salty pistachio, not to mention the buttery, crumbly scone. You’re out in less than 10 minutes and head towards Carmy’s.

When you pull up to his apartment building you do pay the parking meter, the hopeful part of you paying for a few hours. It could be something quick, dinner could be done and plated, awkward and over in no time. But you hope that that spark is still there, that he’s missed you just as much as you missed him.

He appears at the door pulling you out of your thoughts. He’s in a white t-shirt as always, but this one looks pristine with no wrinkles and is tucked into a brown pair of dickies instead of his usual messy jeans. He smiles bright, his eyes crystal blue, “Hey, c’mon in.”

“Yeah, sure,” You say awkwardly, following him inside.

“Whatcha got here? Lemme see,” He says, taking the bag from you once the two of you make it into the kitchen– you hope he doesn’t notice how slick your hands are, how they stuck slightly to the handles of the paper bag.His grin widens as he pulls out the bottle of wine you got, eyes flickering up to meet yours. “This is perfect.”

“Yeah? You’re not just humoring me.”

“I’m not, it’s a great pair with dinner. Sit,” He points to one of the bar stools tucked under the counter and you do, hoisting yourself up.

“What’s this?” He holds up the pastry bag, before opening it and inhaling. “Whoa.”

“Orange and pistachio scones. I didn’t know what you were making so I thought I’d go light for dessert.”

He gives you a nod of approval and sets down the bag, bending down to get a pot from the lower cabinets.

“I get to watch, hmm?” You ask, surprised but excited.

You hadn’t anticipated that he’d start cooking after you got there. Sure, he’d asked you to hang out but since then you’ve been wondering— is he doing this out of guilt? Out of pity? It had you thinking that he’d want to spend a limited amount of time with you, even with his enthusiasm. Your brain cycles through that back and forth, basking in his eagerness and questioning it many times in the span of minutes. But now you’re here. Now he’s cooking for you and those voices are a little softer in your head, overwhelmed by Carmy.

He shrugs, shifting awkwardly, “Thought I’d do it this way, for old time sake.”

“For old time sake,” You repeat quietly, watching as he starts to putter around the kitchen.

He heads for the fridge first, grabbing a couple wine glasses out of his freezer and pouring you both a glass before he gets started on prep. There’s soft music playing that you finally notice as you settle in, the gentle picking of guitar, accompanied by a piano melody.

“Actually…you still remember how to dice?” He teases, glancing over his shoulder at you, as he opens a container of eggs.

“Taught by the best,” You hop up, bringing your glass of wine with you as you join him at the prep station.

He looks smug for a moment before his brows knit together, “Wait— didn’t Mikey teach you how to dice?”

“I did say the best.”

He tries to look put out with you but the edges of his mouth twitch begging to smile. He nudges your shoulder, “Bull.”

“I think Mikey would disagree.”

“‘Course he would.” He’s quiet for a moment, squinting over at you, formulating his next words, “Where were you— when you?”

You take in a deep breath, shoulders dropping lower than before upon your exhale, “Uh, at work actually. Showing a new client around the gallery.”

“Sugar?”

“Richie. Sugar was…well she was telling you I’d imagining. Or falling apart. Both probably.”

“Yeah.”

The two of you slip into a comfortable silence, working at your respective stations. You glance over at him a few times, wondering if you should say what’s on your mind or leave it be.

“Say it.”

“Huh?” You finish chopping, looking up from the cutting board.”

“Whatever’s on your mind. You can say it.”

Incredible how after all this time apart, he can still read you like an open book. You shouldn’t be surprised since you can do the same to him…but what you’ve felt for him has always been different than what he felt for you. Right?

You sigh, shrugging a bit as you gather the onions you’ve successfully diced up in a pile, “Oh, uh, I was just…I realized I hadn’t said I’m sorry. About Mikey, I mean.”

He’s quiet for a moment, though his hands don’t stop working until he looks over at you, “Me too. For you. For all of us.”

“He’s your brother, Carm, you don’t have to extend me sympathy.”

“He meant a lot to you, too.”

You nod, staying quiet; there’s no use in arguing with that logic. He thanks you for dicing and tells you to go get comfortable on the couch while he finishes the rest. You protest insisting there's more you can do to help, but he gives you a no nonsense look pointing to the couch. You hold up your hands in surrender, grabbing your wine glass before taking a seat. From here you can still see him from the waist up and you watch him move around the kitchen. His quick, graceful way makes you realize that you would have just been in his way, slowing him down. As time passes his apartment fills with the scent of herbs, spicy chilis, aromatic tomatoes, and toasty bread.

Dinner is ready in no time at all– he isn’t an award winning chef for nothing– and you return to the counter when he plates the food at the bar. The two of you take turns talking, him first about the special changes he’s made to Mikey’s family spaghetti recipe, you about how well the gallery is flourishing, how its taking up too much of your time and that you haven’t gotten to create as much as you wanted in the coming months.

Your stomach is overtly full by the time you take the last bite, and you wipe the corner of your mouth with a napkin as you say, “I owe you for this, this was incredible.”

Carmy shrugs it off, “You’ve had this a million times.”

“Not from your hands. Not like this, all those tweaks you made shine through.”

It’s impossible to deny the flush that stains his cheeks but you do anyway, sparing your heart. “My hands aren’t special.”

You knock his shoulder with your own, tone teasing as you say, “Sure they are, they’re attached to you aren’t they?”

Carmy finds himself speechless, unable to do anything but stare at you in a mixture of shock and bashfulness. That soft pink blush deepens, and the plain evidence of your effect on him has your heart skipping.

You clear your throat, looking away from his gaze to fiddle with your fork, “I actually have something for you, give you an excuse to see me one more time.”

“I don’t need an excuse to see you.”

“Carmy,” You say knowingly and he dips his head a little in defeat.

“That’s the past. It shouldn’t have happened and– I’m sorry. Y’know, I’m sorry.”

Your gaze softens, and you reach out to squeeze his shoulder soothingly for a moment, “Don’t—like you said it's the past. I need to call in a favor so give me two days? Friday night?”

He melts under your touch, looking over at you with a soft smile, “Friday night.

“I’ll pick you up,” You offer.

“That much of a surprise, huh?”

“We can’t all cook the surprise, sometimes location is all a girl can have.”

“You’ve got more than that. Way more than that.”

“Oh really?” You roll your eyes playfully before meeting his gaze— its heart stopping. Sobering.

His eyes pierce into you, down to the softest part of your heart, the part only ever reserved for him. “Yeah,” He breathes roughly.

When had you gotten so close to him? You can smell his scent, worn leather and cigarettes, a hint of some citrusy cologne that he dabs behind his ears and the slope of his neck. His eyes are impossible to escape, a deep clear blue full intricacies you can’t look away from. Carmy’s just as entranced as you, drawn to you like a bear is to sweet honey. His thumb brushes your own, and you shiver, a soft jagged breath leaving you at his warm touch.

The spell is broken by the shrill of your phone, a telltale ringtone that has guilt blooming in your chest immediately. It’s Kyle.

Both of you lean away from each other quickly and you reach for your bag on the counter, fishing out your phone. “Sorry, it’s Kyle,” You glance at Carmy nervously, holding up your phone awkwardly before you answer.

He sees the heart by Kyle’s name and his own sinks into his stomach, “No, no, you’re good. All good.”

Carmy’s head feels as if it's about to burst, swirling a million miles a minute though he looks no different on the outside. Kyle? Who the fuck was Kyle? He was this out of the loop, had put so much space between the two of you that he doesn’t even know that you’re seeing someone? How long have you been together? Did you live with him? Did you…love him? Want to spend your life with him? Why would Sugar set him up like this— set you up like this, if you had someone?

He listens to you talk, the light that has been shining in his eyes from the moment you stepped into his apartment dimming with each word he hears you speak.

“Hey, honey. No, no, I’m just about to leave. Well, he didn’t start until I got here. Yes, I’ll call you when I’m home. I will. Love you too. Ok, bye.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, he just gets worried about me.”

“I’d worry about you too.” After a beat he murmurs, “I do.”

“I worry about you too,” You whisper shyly.

“Nothing to worry about here, Bee,” He struggles to keep his tone nonchalant.

The strain in his voice has you looking up at him. His eyes are cloudy, sad. He’s trying to keep it together as always and the sight has your will crumbling. You lean closer again, raising your hand to cup his cheek so that he has to meet your eye.

“You don’t have to pretend, Carmen. You know that, right?”

He swallows loudly, unable to hold your eye contact for more than a few seconds at a time. Nodding he places his hand over yours, rubbing it gently, “I know. But it’s easier that way. For all of us.”

Before you can formulate response he gives your hand one last squeeze and rises to his feet. “I’ll pack up some leftovers for you.”

And just like that, the moment is gone. That little glimpse of your Carmy is overshadowed by the one he’s become.

| > chapter 4: Like a Bee to Nectar

18+ carmy taglist: @treefingers , @mrsdominickstark, @princess-of-fanfics, @whore-for-murdock, @xxxstormyninixxx, @dreamingwithlens, @thecraziestcrayon, @jam1esl0v4, @lilylovelyxo, @jadeittic, @jotarokuj0, @bunnysthngs, @gcidrvsh, @mistalli, @luvr-bunnyy, @s3xymoonman, @cosmicspacewitch, @khena, @r0s3mm, @recklessgiraffelife, @i-am-typing, @salinaiacono6

If you ask to be added to the taglist but didn’t verify you’re 18+ you will not be added!

[gothicprep]

i shouldn’t be trusted with time off. I’m plugging my free time with learning about jojo siwa drama. my idle hands are starting to make me believe the devil is real. but i need to keep up appearances as a moderately intellectual person and spin this by saying “but what I’m really talking about is the meta-conversation around this.”

the basic premise of what I’m talking about here is that ms siwa, who has the personality and demeanor of a SnapBack lesbian but with different aesthetic sensibilities, is just not good at celebrity optics. the reasons why range from objectively petty to cause for pause, depending on who you ask. the comment of hers I’ll be focusing on here is something she said in an interview about wanting to spearhead the genre of “gaypop. like kpop, but gay.” and the reaction to it.

full disclosure – I think this comment is a nothingburger. it comes off as tongue-in-cheek to me, and an interview is not meant to be a graduate thesis. most of the pushback was in the vein of this ignoring other out pop artists, with freddie mercury, elton john, and lady gaga being name-checked directly. must’ve missed the kpop record the indigo girls did but, still.

what i found fascinating about how a lot of the backlash was framed was how there were often sentiments involved like “part of coming out is learning your history”. I sort of wonder where this idea comes from. it’s, like, past 5-10 years recent at the most. and it seems frankly like the version of history being referenced here is very editorialized.

can you really make sweeping statements about what lgbt culture has been like historically, while neglecting to mention that having a bit of an irreverent sense of humor was an implied part of the scene for decades? like how did this never come up?

if I have to speculate where this is coming from, I’d guess that it’s an age thing. lot of the people choosing this line of criticism looked like freshman undergrads. and, hear me out: basically everyone is at least somewhat aware of their sexual orientation before they actually pursue relationships. but that buffer period between knowing this and having any dating experience can be a long one. and that time period can probably be disembodying for some people, and I guess focusing on this is a way to bide that time while still abstractly engaging with that part of yourself. or something. all speculation.

i think I’ve used “affinity-based vs embodied attraction” to describe this before, and I think I will again. it’s the difference between feeling drawn to something and actually going out and doing it. reminds me a bit of that youtube guy who’s insistent that “it actually doesn’t matter that you could make gay sims in 2004 because there’s no queer community in the game”. i don’t exactly take offense to stuff like this, but i sort of read it as “hey, your relationship is actually much less meaningful than the vague connections you have with random fucks you share a demographic category with”. change “relationship” to “creative work” and you get this stuff.

[nightowlwriting]

summary: steve is acting weird. avoiding you, being snippy and mean, leaving the room when you enter. all you want is your boyfriend back, but all he wants is to pretend you don't exist. when he's almost hurt on a mission, you do what you're made to do.

word count: 11k

reader specifics: no race/gender/sexuality/body type mentioned, no pronouns for reader used, powered!reader, insecure!reader

warnings: steve is mean to the reader in the beginning, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, canon-level violence, brief ptsd symptoms, slight description of blood, brief mention of racism in the '30s & '40s

brief mentions of: reader's parents being toxic, homelessness, past accidents, ableism in the past & present

note: this one hurt me lmfao. idk why this went the way it did but i'm not mad at it // also i am a queer, trans, disabled american. i have fundamental disagreements with things that marvel/the mcu as it stands for and some of the more nuanced things that you might not notice unless you're looking for it. this will take place in my writing because i cannot separate myself from the lens in which i consume/create content.

title credit: lil nas x

mobile masterlist - request - support my work? - ao3

Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his. Sure - he’s clever, righteous, courteous… You can’t forget he’s also drop-dead gorgeous because every trashy gossip magazine in a three-state radius of New York doesn’t let you forget. Neither does the sight of him waking up in your bed every morning. (Well, actually, maybe that would remind you if he was still fucking doing that.)

But lately, you’ve had to rely on the fucking tabloids to catch a glimpse of your super-hero boyfriend. The university class you had picked up on a whim at the end of the summer - Life & Times of the ‘30s and ‘40s - avoids any mention of Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos. Not that your classmates do because, Christ on a bike, those magazines manage to catch pictures of you and Steve in moments that you don’t even remember. Plus, you’re an Avenger too. It’s bound to catch some attention when you waltz into a college classroom.

You’re sure if you were an undergrad trying to fill a gen-ed requirement and were sitting next to someone who could kill you without blinking but also dating Captain Rogers you’d be a little distracted too. You try not to blame your classmates too much, but they do make it hard to concentrate with their -really dating Captain America?- and -wonder if I could get an autograph- whispers. None of that matters because you’re learning, really studying, in between missions and missing Steve and believing that maybe the gossip reporters are right.

Maybe he’s forgotten about you.

You grit your teeth and push the thought away. It does you no good right now, while you’re training with Peter. He’s working his way up to bona fide missions and, because you’re the only one on the team who has experience with real-life teenagers outside of saving their lives, it’s up to you to get him to the level that he needs to be. Plus, the mission where he’s going to get his gills wet is just you, Tony, Steve, Nat, and Bucky. You’d much rather be the one to train him because you won’t traumatize him.

Right now, though, you’re just kicking his ass to try and get rid of some of the tension in your body. You feel a little bad about it, but when you started as his mentor you told him point-blank that you’d never go easy on him. That meant if you were having a bad day he either needed to up his game or he’d have a bad day too. It appears he’s taken that to heart as he struggles to dodge the hits you’re throwing his way. He lunges out of the way when you try to land a right hook but practically walks into the leg sweep that sends him crashing to the ground.

“Awe,” Peter groans, letting his guard down. You take the momentary lapse of focus to grab him by the collar of the hoodie he’s wearing and haul him to his feet, jerking one fist back to cold-clock him but he beats you to it. You hear the sound of your nose cracking before you feel it but then the pain rushes you all at once. You’ve had worse but coming from Peter, the move surprises you. You don’t yell out but he does when you push him away from you and call the fight off. Peter practically yelps your name, hands up by his head as he watches you bend at the waist, both hands over where your nose is absolutely gushing blood. “I am so sorry, I just reacted-!”

“It’s fine, Pete,” You shake your head and stand straight again, the blood beginning to leak through your fingers, “Just go get me a towel, okay?” Peter practically trips over his feet to get something for your nose and as you track him on his way into the locker rooms, you see Steve, Bucky, and Nat. The latter are looking your way, eyebrows raised like they’re asking you if you’re okay. Steve hasn’t even broken stride in his conversation so you wave them off with a bloody hand. Peter’s back in a flash, pressing a wet towel into your grasp and snapping you out of your self-pity party. “It was a good hit,” You compliment as you wipe your face off, “I just wasn’t expecting it. Prob’ly wouldn't have landed it if I had.”

He wrings his hands, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m sorry-”

“It’s a good thing, Peter, means you’re getting better.” You deadpan, checking to see if your nose has stopped bleeding yet, “I don’t think you actually broke it, but I’ll go down to medical to check later.” You do your best to clean up your hands with the wet towel, but it’s so soaked with your blood that it mostly just smears it around. You grimace and shake your head. “Well, I should go now before our sparring match ends up looking like I murdered you.”

“I’ll go with,” He offers, “I’m the one who broke your nose.” You let Peter walk you down to medical even though you were originally going to refuse. Perhaps petty, but it was the way that Steve didn’t even look your way as you left that made you let the teenager walk you the two floors to where you’d be able to clean yourself up. He hums in the elevator and you know that he wants to ask you something - it’s the way he holds his mouth when he’s prying for information or keeping a secret that tips you off. Finally, just before the elevator opens, you sigh and turn to him.

“What, Peter?” He grins but then it falls when he has to skitter after you down the hall. Maybe that’s why it falls - the question he asks next nearly sends you to your ass.

“Is everything okay with you and Captain Rogers?” He easily catches up to you when you stop in your tracks, ignoring that you’re still bleeding a little bit down your face and you might be dripping blood everywhere from where it’s run down your arms.

“What?” You do your best to look confused like everything is fine, but Peter is perceptive. He may fumble around and be pretty awkward, but those are really just teenager things that he’ll hopefully outgrow. You should have known that when someone caught onto how bad things are on your end, it would be Peter. (You wonder if Nat or Bucky has brought it up with Steve, considering he’s spent more time with them in the past week than he’s seen you in the past month.) “We’re fine.” Your words are stilted as you begin walking to the medical wing much faster than before.

“I just thought I’d ask, well, because I’ve sort of noticed… Something just seems off, you know? Like, you two used to spend a lot of time together, and maybe it’s the recon mission coming up, but I was just thinking that you two really barely look at each other even when you’re in the same -”

“Peter!” You say his name much louder than either of you expected and both of you jump. “Peter,” You say softer, looking at the glass door to the medical wing instead of him, “Just leave it, okay? It’s nothing you have to worry about, kid.” Peter ducks around to open the door, forcing you to look at him. “He’s just focused on his stuff and I’m focused on getting you whipped into shape for this mission. We only have two days.” Once you’re inside and surrounded by the medical crew Tony keeps on staff, he thankfully drops it. You love Peter, you do, but it’s a lot like having a little brother. You can only love them so much before you want to fucking strangle them. Eventually, as the doctor checks to make sure he hasn’t broken your nose, you have to order him away to go study or something. “I’ll join you later,” You promise him as the doctor prods at your tender flesh, “I have an essay due soon.”

That’s another thing that’s been bugging you that Peter surely picked up on. Nearly everybody knew you were taking a course at the local community college, but nobody knew what it was about. You’d wanted to keep it a secret until you told Steve, but the day you had registered he’d flown out for a two-week mission without telling you or saying goodbye. After that, you decided it didn’t really matter if anyone knew what class you were taking, and keeping it a secret sort of spiraled from there. If they wanted to know they could look it up. Maybe it was petty, but you just wanted the class to be over and done with so you could forget that you really only picked it up so you relate to your boyfriend more.

If you can even call Steve your boyfriend anymore. You’re not so sure where you stand and, honestly, you’re really close to giving up on the relationship as a whole but you can’t do that. Before you were dating, you were friends, and Steve… He never gave up on you. Not once. How could you repay him by giving up on your relationship? The one that you thought was The One? Even if it hurts, even if you’re unsure more than sure these days, how could you? Somewhere, though, you know you deserve better. You don’t deserve the sinking, dark feeling that lingers in your gut for most of your days now or the way that you second-guess every move you make - even in the field. It’s dangerous but you can’t do anything to fix it.

You’re too scared. You know that eventually, it will happen, he’ll break up with you, but you’d like to put that day off for as long as possible. To relish in the love he once had for you, how pure and powerful it was. You’re sure that you’ll never experience anything like that again.

Hell, you might never fall in love again.

Those thoughts don’t do anything to help you, though, so you try not to have them. You get clearance from the doctor and get cleaned up as much as you can without taking a full body shower. The idea to go back to your room and take one crosses your mind but you know that Steve’s probably done training, probably heading back for his own shower, and you don’t want to open that can of worms. Instead, you go to the common room and drop into the couch between Peter and Tony. They’re talking about something something science something something, but you pull your stack of books and notebooks out from the shelf underneath the coffee table and continue outlining your essay from where you left off. The assignment was focused on how the end of WW1 changed American life and then how life changed leading up to and during WW2 but that had hit a little too close to home for you, so you’re writing about the racial tension and overall racism of the times. Tony and Peter keep talking over your back and then you hear footsteps heading toward the common room.

You barely look up when they enter - Nat and Bucky - because it’s fine. It’s normal. They’re just two of Steve’s best friends, that’s all, nothing to be jumpy about. You don’t even register that emotional pain that hits when you realize that, yeah, you’re not one of his best friends anymore. You doubt you’re even considered a friend in his book.

You groan and lean back into the couch, bringing your study materials with you. Peter glances over, skimming over your page and a half of shorthand, and gags. “Jesus, can you write like a normal person?”

“Oh, sorry,” You say lazily, not looking up as you continue to scribble in your incomprehensible code, “I do forget that some of us had privacy at home.” You lift your lips just a little bit to let Peter know you’re kidding, looking up at him through your lashes as you slouch next to him. He looks red in the face. “Besides, once you have to start doing mission reports you’ll be begging me to learn my shorthand and use my stenography machine.”

“I keep telling you that I can update that ol’ thing,” Tony draws your attention. For the first time, you realize that Nat and Bucky are on the loveseat looking at you expectantly. Steve is standing in the corner over their shoulder reading a book from the bookshelf in front of him. His back is tense and he looks like he’s not reading, just listening. You force your eyes back to Tony on your right and shake your head.

“No, because then you’d know my shorthand and it makes me too happy to see you spend hours trying to decipher it.” His eyes wander to your essay again, trying to find any patterns that he can use to figure out what the hell you’re writing on anything ever. He’s opening his mouth to make a smart-ass remark that will no doubt lift some of the weight off of your shoulders when another voice speaks up.

“Wow,” Steve doesn’t even look at you even as he says your name sardonically, “Way to be a team player.” Your mind comes to a screeching halt, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s playing at. Even Bucky and Nat look surprised at the cold way he spoke to you, Tony and Peter both gasping from your side. You can’t say anything, throat tight and burning with tears as you stare at your boyfriend with raised eyebrows. What do you say to that? How do you respond? You know it wasn’t a joke because he’s not laughing, not smiling, not even looking up from that fucking book in his hands. You can’t tell if you’re more hurt or embarrassed, but either way, you don’t want to stick around for someone to get the nerve to say something.

Instead of replying, you slam your textbooks shut and bundle everything into your arms. You doubt Steve even notices that you’re making such a hasty retreat but if he does, he doesn’t say a fucking thing. You feel like you’re in high school - practically running through an empty hallway with your notebooks and textbooks pressed to your chest, trying not to cry. It’s ridiculous. You’re a trained assassin, you’re an Avenger, you are strong and powerful and yet… And yet. You’ve given so much of your heart and soul to Steve Rogers that he can knock you down eight pegs without even trying. Without even looking at you. You can’t wait to go on this fucking recon mission, where you can put all of your focus on making sure Peter is doing okay and gathering the intel. Where you can stop thinking about how easily Steve Rogers seems to be pushing you to the side.

You spend the next two days writing your essay, ignoring almost everyone, and working on your essay. On the day of the recon mission, you’re running out the door for your eight a.m lecture, printed essay in hand, and reminding Tony that he promised to pick you up on campus after class for the mission.

You’re lucky that you went, too. You hadn’t counted on the professor making everyone stand up and tell the class the subject of their essays - didn’t realize that it would be twenty-five percent of the grade on the paper. You’ll never understand college professors and the weird shit they do, but the class is informative and entertaining. He goes around the room, starting on the opposite side of you, so you’ll be last. Great.

Several students did their papers on the propaganda of the time, one student was brave and did her essay on the ethical dilemma of the super-soldier serum and eugenics, and most of the other students focused on pop culture and how it changed. When your professor looks at you it’s almost like he’s expecting you to have done nothing but fawn over Steve and Bucky, considering you know them personally. He looks surprised when you clear your throat, stand and say: “I focused on the casual and institutional racism that faced non-white Americans at the time.” You almost preen when he looks impressed and then the shame fills you. It’s just… You want Steve to be proud of you. You want him to congratulate you on going back to school, even if it’s just for one class. You want him to be happy and surprised that he was the inspiration for taking the class.

Though, lately, the class has been more for you than for him. You like learning new things, pushing the boundaries of assignments, making people uncomfortable with the truth of the times you’re studying as told to you by two people who lived it. It’s nice. Normal.

Everyone needs a little bit of normal.

But, honestly, normal is fucking boring. By the time your class is over and you’re handing in your essay it’s like ants are crawling over your skin. A combination of nerves from the upcoming mission, a head full of fog from whatever is happening with Steve, and a little bit of fear at the thought of taking Peter into the field has you bolting for the door the moment your essay is taken from you. You’d worn your tac-suit underneath a pair of baggy sweats and a loose hoodie, so you don’t even bother slowing down as you head toward the car that Tony has waiting for you. He’s in the front seat, grinning at you from underneath his aviators and Peter is driving.

You slip into the backseat without thinking or looking at who’s there, tossing your bag in the back and peeling your hoodie off. “God, Tone, we’re goin’ to die before we even get to the mission with Petey driving.” You toss your hoodie back to join your bag and finally see who’s sitting next to you.

Of course, it’s Steve. He’s looking at you - but not really. He’s looking through you, like he can’t stand that you’re both crammed in the backseat of Tony’s electric car. His gaze catches you and holds you in place. Everything around you goes cold and fuzzy, making you miss Peter’s indignant complaining that he has his license so he should be able to drive… And then Steve scoffs and looks out his window, ignoring you. It stings but you have a job to do. You make some witty retort back to Peter, but it falls flat as you struggle out of your sweats. This is what life is, you think. Relationships aren’t meant to be forever - you learned that at a young age.

Until your accident at fifteen, you had watched your parents run out of helium, their relationship expanding and cooling in arguments, in days spent not talking, in trips to your grandparents without the other, in passive-aggressive computer searches for divorce attorneys left open for anyone to see. Then, after you were trapped between those machines - after you spent hour after agonizing hour with electricity pressing between your atoms, being torn apart and rebuilt as a young god - after that day you watched them expand against each other before the neutron core of their relationship collapsed on itself and the resulting supernova sent you to the streets. But then Fury found you. Then Tony, then Nat, then Steve.

Your parents exploded out from each other and the shockwaves ruined your life. At least now, your relationship with Steve is ending silently. There’s no explosion, no collapse, no rapid expansion to take over your cosmos. Your relationship with Steve is simply approaching the event horizon, where it will hang in the air until one of you takes the final step and you both become frozen, two collapsing objects on opposite sides of the universe. Maybe that’s what you already are. You feel so far away from him in the back of Tony’s car - like he’s eons and light-years away from you - and you feel so cold. Frozen, down to the bone. It makes you stiff in your replies to Tony and Peter, slow on the uptake when the car pulls up to the quinjet, nearing stasis and unable to respond when Nat asks if you’re okay.

Finally, you turn to look at her, nodding. “Fine,” You clear your throat, “Been a rough day.” You do your best to smile at her, but your face feels heavy. Your chest feels cold and tight, making you worry about your performance on the upcoming mission. When Peter shakes his head next to you, discreetly telling Nat not to press, you’re focused on Steve and the electricity humming in the most base part of your body.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. You turn away and force yourself to smile, throwing a weak and numb arm over Peter’s shoulders. “Are you ready for this, Pete?” You jostle him back and forth, leading him toward the sitting area behind the cockpit. “Gonna get your ass kicked?”

“Please,” He shoves you off, nervously laughing, “Not with the skills you’ve taught me.” He mimics throwing webs, making hissing noises under his breath, and you bark out a laugh, shaking your head.

“You’re payin’ my medical bills when I have to save your ass, Spidey.” You shake your head and strap in next to the wall, Peter taking the seat to your right. Tony, from the aisle across from you, points a thick finger your way.

“You don’t pay medical bills anymore,” He waggles his finger, “So you’ll just have to make him do your homework for a week.”

“Mister Stark!”

“He’ll have to earn shorthand to do your essays,” Nat chimes in from between Bucky and Steve, who are both doing their best to not look at you - or anyone really. “You willing to share that with him?”

You lean back in your seat and jab at Peter with your elbow. “Hell no, so I guess Spider-Boy better do his best.” The arachnid in question grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching in his seat.

“No pressure, right?” He complains, “Not like I’m already nervous or anything.”

“You’ll do fine, kid,” Bucky pipes up, drawing your eyes back to Steve, “It’s goin’ to be a cakewalk.”

“Don’t jinx it, Barnes,” You warn half-heartedly, tucking in on yourself, “We need this to be easy.” From the look on his face - everyone’s face, really - you know that they heard you loud and clear when you were really saying I need this to be easy.

After an uneasy laugh from Bucky, a claustrophobic silence settles over you all as the jet begins to take off. You’re in for an hour ride and plan to spend it going over battle plans with Peter when harsh whispering catches your ear. It’s Bucky and Steve nearly crushing Nat between them until she gets up and sits across from Peter, rolling her eyes. Still, you try your best to run him through the actions you both had planned - the names, the setups you needed to execute them, everything. If something happens to Peter, you’ll never forgive yourself.

And then, cutting through your soft promptings to Peter and his equally soft replies, Bucky’s voice. “Leave it, Steve. Until after this mission.” Even Tony looks up from his tablet, curiosity piqued. Their faces are both red, set hard and angry at each other and your stomach drops. What the hell is going on that Steve ‘Till The End Of The Line Rogers is fighting with Bucky You And Me, Pal Barnes? You must shift, or lean too far into Steve’s eyesight, because for the first time in what feels like years he is looking directly at you - and seeing you, too. It makes your pulse jump and, almost instinctively, you want to reach out and ground yourself on the rubber of the seat underneath you.

You don’t get the chance, though, because Steve speaks. “No, why should I? This is clearly affecting the team.” He’s still looking - glaring - at you like you’ve done something wrong. “What’s the point of waiting? I’ve been waiting to talk about this.”

“Bo, I don’t think this is the time,” Bucky looks over his shoulder at you, then, and you know what’s coming. You know that it’s time, that Steve is about to break up with you in front of your teammates. Your friends. Your family. You steel yourself for the anguish you’re about to feel and then jerk your chin out, hardening your resolve.

“Buck, it’s fine. If Steve wants to address something, he can.”

Natasha says your name, a low warning over the hum of the quinjet. “I think he should wait.”

“Well, I’m not goin’ to wait!” Steve unbuckles himself and stands, “I have tried waiting, and look at where that has gotten me.” He puts his hands on his hips and puffs out a breath. You unbuckle and stand, too, unsure of where this is going. “You need to,” He holds one hand out, pointing at you while his voice shakes. You notice his hand is shaking, too, but fractionally. If you didn’t know Steve as well as you do you may have never noticed it. “You need to get it together.”

“I need to get it together?” You question, eyebrows nearly hitting the ceiling with how fast they shoot up. You’re not totally sure you’ve heard him right because what do you have to get together? The broken shards of your relationship? The information and research for your final paper? The awful way you’ve let yourself be treated for what seems like forever?

“You heard me,” Steve says, at the same time Bucky leans his head back and groans deep in his chest. “What? Someone had to say it.”

“We should wait for this,” Nat speaks up again, but lifelessly. She knows now that you and Steve are both on the warpath, neither of you are going to stop. (That’s also why the two of you work together as a couple so well. Very rarely are you both so worked up about something that you can’t back down, so the other is always there to meet you halfway and get you back to earth.)

“No, no, no,” You say, near hysterically, “No, he wants to do this now? Before a mission? Instead of the fuckin’ weeks we had to hash whatever crawled up his ass and died out? Be my guest. He’s already dragged everyone into this by treating me like a pariah.” You’re not sneering, but your teeth are gritted so tightly together you can hear them scraping and feel a tension headache beginning to bloom in your temples. Bucky looks… Almost incredulous at your statement. Like putting the blame on Steve is a dick move or something.

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy here?” Steve is curling his lip, glaring at you. There’s something behind his eyes, but he’s buried it so deep that you can’t reach it and figure out what it is. “I’m the bad guy, right. Right, right, right.” He scoffs, shakes his head, and then he’s running his fingers through his hair like he really can’t believe what you’re saying to him.

“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” You throw your hands out to the side and let them slap back down on your thighs. “You ignore me, you make me feel like shit, you talk down to me like I’m some insignificant foot soldier. How else am I supposed to take that, Steve?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe ask me what’s wrong? Maybe ask me why I’m acting like this, instead of ignoring all of your problems like a child?” He mirrors your moments, but the sound his hands make when they hit the outside of his suit is more powerful than yours. Fueled by anger, you think. Anger and whatever the hell was in the serum Erskine pumped into Steve.

“Ask you?” You repeat, near-hysterical, “Ask you? Oh yeah, let me get right on that. Hey, Mister Rogers? Mister Captain America? Mister Ignores-His-Partner-For-God-Knows-Why? Hey, just why are you doin’ that?” You’re surprised that you’ve said something so snotty, but you don’t back down. (Steve looks surprised, too, and Bucky has stood up next to his friend like he’s about to start berating you as well. At least he looks more cautious about it, like he’s not totally sure that this fight should be happening.)

The more surprising part of your fight is how fast it’s shut down. Tony and Nat stand at the same time and exchange a glance like they’ve surprised each other. “That’s enough,” Tony starts.

Nat cuts him off. “I don’t care if you fight this one out instead of talking, but if you do it before this recon mission you two are going to blow it. Do you understand me?” She looks dangerous, the sharp edge of a knife spiraling through the air. You force yourself to look away from her, from Tony, from Bucky, from Steve. She’s right. You know she’s right - especially on this mission. Peter is there, going to be in real danger even though there’s not supposed to be one Hydra agent in a four-mile radius. You have to clear your mind and focus on protecting him.

Steve seems to think the same thing because he stands down. When you watch him collapse in on himself, Bucky’s arms around his shoulders, into the little quinjet seats your everything aches. Heart, lungs, eyes - everything. Even though you don’t know what’s going on, what could have possibly happened to make your relationship sink this quickly and out of the blue, you still love him. He’s still The One for you. You still want to be the one to comfort him and make him feel whole when he’s struggling.

But you can’t. You can’t and it kills you.

The heat of battle makes a lot of things fade into the background. Important things like why the fuck are there Hydra agents here? and Steve is going to break up with you when you get back on the jet and Tony swore on the fucking limited edition AC/DC vintage tour poster he has in his office that this would be an easy in/easy out information mission. None of that matters, though, because you’re in deep shit. There are seventeen of them, all primed to the teeth with weapons made to take your team down permanently.

You’re practically glued to Peter, calling out commands and plans for him to initiate. It’s when all of your plans fall through that you take a hit from a heavy fist on purpose, hitting the ground hard. “Plan F, Spidey, Plan F!” You cover the instruction with a groan and then you’re back on your feet, working your way toward him.

“Plan F?” Tony says, somewhere above you in his suit. Your comms crackle ominously as another heat-seeking grenade is launched, interfering with the radio waves your tech relies on. You don’t worry about it, because you know Tony is on it. He’s your eyes in the sky.

Peter is the one who answers his question, watching your close hand-to-hand tilt out of your favor briefly. “Plan Fuck It, Mister Stark.” He grunts as he webs up a Hydra agent, jerking him away from where he was about to slip a knife up and under Natasha’s kevlar. You finally drop the guy in front of you, ignoring Steve’s disappointed Language! and toss one of your knives toward Nat for her to use. Tony is still laughing in your ear, wheezing as he drops down and snags the rifle from one of the snipers and then takes back off.

What your little protégé failed to mention about Plan F is that it’s not just chaos, but controlled chaos. You let loose, letting a soft current cover every inch of your skin as Peter switches to his conductive webbing and takes special care to not web any of his allies. Except for you - if you’re in the way and he catches you in a web it doesn’t matter because you’re you, alive with electricity that drops the men that get caught in the web, too. You rip out of the webs and turn the current off when one of your teammates gets too close.

More Hydra agents are pouring out of the woods, topping out their numbers around twenty-five. That’s twenty-five too many in your opinion, especially when you can see Peter getting tired, his anxiety spiking, his moves having more and more hesitation behind them. You need to get this over with quickly, but you don’t have the options to do that. Steve, Bucky, and Nat are really the heavy-hitters - you, Pete, and Tony are the only ones without serums despite all of your individual abilities. Desperately you reach out for a web that’s still connected to Peter’s arms, pulling him out of the way of a baton that’s about to come down on the back of his neck.

The baton the agent is wielding glints in the coming dusk, freezing you as Peter scrambles past you with a quick apology. You’ve seen that before - seen it, felt it, know it like the back of your hand. There’s no way that you could ever forget that weapon. The man stumbles when his hit doesn’t connect but then rights himself and searches for a new target.

A long, black baton that splits into two prongs at the end is heavy in his hand. Electricity crackles between the bulbs at the end, flashing in the setting sun and your memories. The man only has one, but if it was hooked up to a machine, spinning. If there were four, five, six. If you were pinned between them, screaming in the pain as they rewrote your DNA… You’ve only felt it once, but you’ll never forget it.

And now, you’ll taste it again. On purpose this time. The man holding the stun baton is going for Steve’s back - his strong back, the one that protects people, the one that holds the weight of the world, the one that lays in your bed, the one you see whipping out of rooms as you’re entering just so that he doesn’t have to look at you - and you can’t let that happen. It only takes ten amps to kill a regular human, but you know those things are cranked up to twenty minimum. You don’t want to see how many amps of current it will take to stop Steve’s heart. You’re between the baton and Steve before you can think about what you’re doing or what comes next, the hard bulbs settling unyielding into your side and cranking out maximum power for maximum damage as soon as the current is connected and able to flow from one bulb to the other.

The pain hits you and your throat catches on it. It burns through your body, setting everything on fire - your chest hurts as your heart protests the electrons and then your powers kick in, sweeping them into your very atoms and cells. You’re a live wire now, ears humming and body thrumming with power you’ve only dreamed of. It hurts, and it burns, and you feel tears rising in your eyes because you’re back there - back begging for death or for life or for God and god at the same time - but then it’s over. The man sees that you’re not seizing up, not dropping dead in front of him, and he takes three steps back.

It’s not far enough.

You’ve only felt like this once before - right after you were unhooked from the machine that changed your life and brought you to your new family. You remember how you looked when you were put in front of a mirror with all of the pent up electricity circling your body - how your eyes were filled to the brim and dripping with bright and blue electricity, the way it was jumping across your body, how you didn’t need to breathe because your body was fully saturated with pure, unadulterated power. You wonder if you look like that now and assume you do because you can see the bright blue reflecting in the terrified eyes of the Hydra agent.

Your suit, unlike everyone else’s, is not grounded. It’s metal, metal, metal. You’re made to conduct, born for it, and the earth beneath you comes alive with bright white as you release all of the energy, the power, surges down and out. You’re practiced. You can reach out and feel the synapses and neurons of every human being in the clearing, know exactly where your teammates are standing, and know exactly how to target everything but them and the pitiful amount of electricity their brains carry. You grin, something truly feral and unhinged, and you can see the fear in the Hydra agent. Then, you let go.

You know that everyone is going to be pissed. (Maybe not everyone.) You’re not built for this, not made to take down nearly twenty fucking people at once. As you let go, you feel what they feel. The seizing muscles, the stopping of their hearts, the inside of their bodies crisping against their bones. At that moment, that delicious moment, you see the universe.

You become God. You become everything - your mother and your father and God and god and anyone else who’s watching your life from the ether. You become the judge, jury, and executioner of souls that you don’t know from Adam. You become lightning, and thunder, and exposed nerves of the cosmos at the same time. The world bends to your will and you relish in it, taking that power in your fist and wielding it to protect the man you’ll love for the rest of your life and the family that you’ve made. You will stop at nothing to end this, even if it means turning yourself inside out to do it.

You damn near do turn yourself inside out too, but that doesn’t matter, does it? The blood spilling from your ears, nose, and eyes feels like heaven. It’s hot, and thick, and it’s proof of the power that your body holds. You’re a temple and a sanctuary, a war-room and a bunker, a field of flowers and a sun-dry desert. It does not matter if Steve doesn’t love you at that moment, because you are love and hate wrapped into one package. You are everything and nothing, spread thin at the beginning and the end of time.

And then none of that is true. You are just… You. Standing in a clearing, surrounded by twenty-something dead Hydra agents and your terrified, terrified family. It hurts to breathe and you can taste blood in your mouth, but that’s an afterthought. Steve is still standing behind you, but he is alive. That is what matters.

This is what love is, you think.

Pain and pleasure.

Even if he leaves you, you will always love him.

Pain and pleasure.

You’re weak at the knees when he finally turns to see you - and you’re a sight. Struggling to stand, fingertips blackened with soot but not burnt, blood pouring from your nose, ears, eyes… You look like death, but you feel like life. Someone says something behind you - Peter, maybe? Or maybe Tony, in your comms? - but you don’t hear it. Everything tunnels out, your weak knees finally collapsing as you keel backward.

Steve bears down upon you almost immediately. You’re halfway to unconsciousness when he wraps you up in his arms, keeping you from falling in with the pile of bodies around you. He’s saying your name, harsh and soft and then in a voice like he’s ordering you to wake up. You loll about as he drops you down onto a patch of clear grass, hands searching your body for wounds. When he skims over your side, where the baton has burnt through your suit and your flesh, you surge back toward being able to have cohesive thoughts. The pain brings you back, hands wrapping around Steve’s arm and calling out his name. “Steve! Fuck, that hurts!”

“Honey,” He breathes, “Fuck, we have to get you back to the jet.” His jaw ticks, hair dirty and loose from its normal style. “Why’d you do that?” Steve doesn’t wait for an answer from you, ordering Peter to web something up to carry you over your protests.

“I’m fine,” You argue, only slurring slightly, “I feel fine.” But you’re going to let Nat and Bucky load you up on the webbed stretcher anyway because it’s the first time Steve has cared for you in a long time. You want to relish in this moment, the way that he didn't say your name but called you honey.

Well, and because Natasha slides a thumb across her neck over Steve’s shoulder in a silent threat.

You groan when Bucky accidentally grabs your calf where there is an absolutely awful stab wound, but you wave off his apology. “How could you have known?” To be honest, you hadn’t even known it was there until his Vibranium hand was slipping against it and sending shockwaves of pain through you. Peter is next to you the whole time that you’re being carried back to the jet - Tony staying back to begin scanning the bodies of the Hydra agents for the information you need and any other information they may be carrying. The poor kid is nearly at a breakdown, so you reach out to him and shake his arm when his fingers twine with yours. “Chill out, kid, I don’t know how you got it into your head that this is your fault, but it sure isn’t.” He sniffles, but hands back with Steve as Bucky and Nat get you situated in the small medical room of the jet. They transfer you and then make to leave, only Bucky hesitating near the door.

“Stevie’s goin’ to be here soon and… I don’t know what made you do what you did but you have’t explain it to him. He’s bendin’ over backwards to figure it out, and we don’t have’a clue. Came out’a nowhere.” He looks at you for another moment before shaking his head and stepping out of the room. Your head is spinning, partially from what Bucky just said and partially from the pain and stimulus of electricity. You wait there, then, because this is it. This is the event horizon. You wait there, eyes closed, until you hear footsteps approach the med room, and then the door slowly opens. Steve says your name, holding all the finality and weight of an atomic bomb. You don’t open your eyes until he swings a chair next to the stretcher and lays a hand on your calf.

“You don’t have to do this,” You finally say, pushing yourself up onto your elbows to watch him. “I know that you don’t want to.” Steve only scoffs and begins to wash the stab wound using a packet of soap and a water bottle. You say his name twice before he looks at you, something between hate and hurt curdling into a glaze over his eyes that stops you in your tracks.

“Just let me do this. It is the least that you can do.” His words are painful and stilted, like it’s taking force to push them past his teeth. You lay back down and close your eyes, content to just feel the pain of Steve beginning to stitch you up and then dress the wound before you feel the pain of Steve leaving you like you knew he always would. (Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his.)

When he’s done he sits back and puts his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He heaves a heavy sigh and then shakes it off, “I’ll dress your burn, and then we’ll talk.” And normally, yes, you would agree but this is too important. You want to get it over with so you can lick your wounds metaphorically and dress them literally - and then you want to go home, you want to pack your bags, and you want to disappear and remake your life somewhere else.

Some far-off place where everyone you know won’t take one look at your face and know that you’re still painfully, deeply in love with Steve Rogers, end of your semester be damned. Family you’ve made be damned. You can’t sit around and be in love with him like a neon sign on a dark highway while it’s painfully clear that he hasn’t had a sign on his highway in a long time.

So instead of agreeing, you swing your legs over the stretcher and swallow your flinch when the burn pulls tight. Steve opens his mouth to argue but you give him a tight-lipped shake of your head and his jaw snaps shut. “No,” You say, voice not giving in to the emotion swirling in your chest. “I have let this go on long enough.”

It’s the wrong thing to say because Steve fucking scoffs again and looks away from you. “One day was long enough.” He says, cutting straight to your core. Okay, ouch. You take a deep breath and shake your head to try and bite back the tears that are inevitably rising in your eyes. If one day was long enough for him to realize he doesn’t want to be with you, why did he let it go on for nearly a full year? Why did he spend so long leading you on, pulling you by a thread before garroting your heart with it? What was the point?

“If you want to leave me, just say that,” You reply harshly, standing and wobbling away from him. He just watches you go, watches the way you struggle past the lead weights your muscles have become, the way you’re starting to feel the stab wound on your leg, the way the skin on your burn is beginning to blister and only just now losing its heat. He just watches you, where the Steve that loved you once upon a time might have helped. You turn your back on him, hands on your hips so that you can hide the way that you’re crying and your hands are shaking.

“If I want to leave you? If?” He says. You hear the scrape of his chair as he stands, “I think after what you’ve done, it’s not an if, sweetheart.” The way he says it tastes like iron. Steve never calls you sweetheart like he never calls you by your name. It’s always honey, lover, dovie. You don’t turn to face him because you’re struggling to keep yourself above water. “I spent so long thinkin’, wonderin’, askin’ myself - God damnit, will you look at me?” You turn slowly, not because you’ve never heard Steve speak like that but because his voice is desperate and raw. When you turn, you’re not sure what to expect. Maybe him, standing in front of you, broad-shouldered and disappointed like in those PSA’s he had to film once. Maybe he’d be angry, hands clenched at his sides and eyes narrowed like he gets in meetings when he doesn’t agree with something but he’s out-voted. But you never expect to see him crying, lip wobbling, folded in on himself like a young boy instead of the strong, invincible man you’ve come to love.

He looks so different.

It hits you, then, that you’re not looking at Steve Rogers. Not really. He's not Steve Rogers, not Captain America, not even Captain Rogers. You see him as he was - before America spat it’s untruths all over him and injected him with a serum that changed who he was, is, will be. He’s not the able-bodied man that you know, not strong and unreachable, not the heartthrob that overshadows the team during press events. He’s not America’s Darling, not really. Not where it counts.

You’re looking at Stevie Rogers. Stevie Rogers who, for all intents and purposes, was supposed to die before he made it out of toddlerhood or soon thereafter. Stevie Rogers who the doctors said wasn’t supposed to survive. Stevie Rogers who grew up sickly, rattling painful breaths and never playing ball with the neighborhood boys. Who couldn’t walk until middle school when he got his braces off. Who never had a partner because Bucky, strong and handsome and tall Bucky, was always deemed the better option. Who believed in his country so much that he tried to sneak into the second world war, subjected himself to a painful medical procedure so that he could change his very DNA to be what the world wanted him to be.

Captain Steve Rogers. Captain America. Strong, blond, patriotic, resilient.

You’re sure that if men don’t want to go to therapy now, in the modern age, they certainly didn’t want to go in the ‘40s. So where did that leave Steve, your Steve, standing in front of you and looking small, and broken, and sad, and alone? Did they expect him to take his new, taller, working body and run with it? Did they not think about how he would lose a part of himself in the process? How did they expect him to go from disabled to abled without some disconnect?

You think about the You That You Were Before and the You That You Are Now, and how you lost a part of yourself when the accident gave you your powers and how you’d lose yourself if someone figured out a way to take them away. You Before formed your identity around being normal - living in a shitty home with shitty parents, sure, but normal - and You Now form your identity around your powers, your team, your job, your love. If you lost those things, what did you have left? Who would you be?

When Steve lost his identity and became everything that America wanted everyone to think that America was, what did he have left? Sure, he could tell himself that he represents America - strong and patriotic and just - but it must have conflicted with everything he knew about himself before that. You know that disabled people now know that American society is unjust, unfit for them with abled people not willing to make room to allow them to thrive. You can only imagine what it was really like for Steve in the ‘20s and ‘30s and ‘40s. What he had to do just to survive. (Medical experimentation, you remind yourself. Did they know it wouldn’t kill him? Did they know his body wouldn’t rip itself apart with the new sinewy muscle they were packing on? Did they care? Or was he just a body they saw as broken? A project to fix? To turn him into something more like them and call it patriotism?)

You shake your head at him, still filled with despair, and try to figure out what he’s talking about. “Stevie,” You start, pet name easily replacing what you had been calling him because it’s not fair to shoe-horn him into a body that doesn’t feel like his own. You wonder if he still expects the bone-grinding pain that he used to tell you would happen when it rains. He raises a hand, a strong and family hand, shaking his head.

“I just need to know why I wasn’t enough for you,” Steve looks sad, slouching in on himself like he’s expecting to get his ass handed to him in another alleyway and hope Bucky is there to save him. “I need to know why you wouldn’t just break up with me if you wanted to see other people so badly.” You suck in a shocked breath because, okay, that’s not what you were expecting. Between that and the paradigm shift you’ve had on how Steve must view his identity, body, and self, you’re stunned. Steve continues like he doesn’t even register that you look shocked and pale and now you’re crying because he thinks you’re cheating on him? “And I get it. I get it. You have no idea how much I understand. If I were you, I wouldn’t want me either, okay?”

You cut him off there because what the actual God damn fuck is he talking about? “No, Stevie, I’m not cheating on you.” You shake your head again and this, your statement, lights a fire in him. He still looks like Stevie rather than Steve, but there’s anger there. You imagine that’s what it might have looked like moments before he got himself in trouble back before he was serumed. “I’m not.”

“Oh, yeah?” He challenges, jaw ticking and chin jerking up, “Oh, yeah? You can’t lie to me. I know, okay? The act is up, it’s over, I know, okay? You can stop pretending.”

“Steve, I do not fucking know what you’re talking about but I”m not cheating on you!” You raise your voice, not really angry but more out of necessity. You need to get it out of his head that he is anything less than everything you want - that you could possibly love anyone more than you love him.

“I wanted to clarify something for you,” Steve says like he’s reading an old script from when he was just a beefy, red/white/blue stage prop for the American military, “I am excited to meet with you, but there are some rules. Do not talk about Captain Steve Rogers. I don’t want to hear about him,” As he continues to recite something that has clearly hurt him, you go lax. You know exactly what’s happened - your fists unclench, your jaw drops a little bit, and it feels like someone has gutted you, “I think it is wise to keep work and pleasure separate, and it’s a rule I will enforce heavily. I look forward to seeing you again.” He’s sneering at the end, tears falling down his ruddy cheeks.

“Steve,” You try again, but he cuts you off.

“Am I just work for you?” His voice is shaking more than you thought possible, and so are his hands. You’ve never seen Steve so off-kilter, so thrown, and it breaks your heart that yes, technically, you’re the cause of this. Before this, before this horrible misunderstanding, your relationship with Steve was the paragon of trust so neither of you cared if the other read emails or texts. You remember the email - the email from your fucking college professor - because it had made you so angry that he’d referred to your relationship with Steve as something as simple and base as just pleasure - like you could even put words to the galaxy of a relationship you had with Steve - that you’d gone to the gym to work off some of that irritation. You hadn’t wanted to take it out on anyone accidentally. When you came back from the gym, Steve was gone on that two-week mission that he’d left on without saying goodbye.

Oh, God. You feel sick to your stomach as the paradigm of the way that Steve’s been treating you shifts violently to the left. You have to physically hold yourself up and try to speak past the lump in your throat. Steve looks… Brokenly smug. Like he knows he’s right, but he’d rather gnaw his own legs off than be right.

“No,” You croak, “No, Steve, you’ve got it all wrong.” You want to reach for him, but it feels like the room is closing in on you. You’re second-guessing everything now - especially what you’ve just said. How many people said the exact same thing to him pre-serum because they said something meant for Bucky to him? How many times did he hear that when he was getting a new diagnosis, hoping for the best? How many times had his own mother said it to him when he told her something someone had said, fresh-faced and not yet used to the way that abled people sometimes treated disabled people? You think you might be sick. “That email was from my professor, Steve. I’m not cheating on you, I’d never.” He laughs darkly and sits back down in his chair, head in his hands again. You try to gather the strength to move toward him when you see his shoulders shaking, a telltale sign that he’s crying.

“A professor,” He says with a watery laugh, “Right.”

Finally, you realize that he needs you, needs to know you love him, that you’d do anything for him. You can iron out the kinks later - figure out why he didn’t want to come to talk to you past the original hurt, why he treated you so coldly, why he didn’t trust that you wouldn’t do this to him - but now, you need to show him that you’re here. That you choose him. That you’ll always choose him.

You make your way to him and set a shaking hand on his shoulder. For a brief second you think he’s going to shake you off but then Steve’s hand shoots up and latches onto where your hand is resting, dipping his head to press against your arm. “Stevie, please,” You say, unsure of what you’re asking him to do, “I picked up a class, just one, and it’s… I picked it up for you, it’s about the ‘30s and ‘40s and…” He looks up at you and he looks so broken - face ruddy and wet with tears, lip wobbling, chest heaving as he tries to not sob. His brows are knit and he looks confused, “I just wanted to be able to understand you better. You had to leave so much of yourself at the door when you joined the Avengers, had to leave so much of yourself in the ice… In Erskine’s lab… Stevie, I just wanted you to be able to be you when you’re with me. I wanted to know the you that you were before you became Captain America.” Your voice is shaking, knees knocking together, and honestly? You feel like you might blackout.

“What?” He rasps, “What?”

“He sent that email because too many kids signed up for his class thinking that they’d be able to look at pictures of you and Buck for a semester. Emailed me directly because he knows we’re…” You choke on your words, shaking your head because you’re not even sure there’s a we anymore, “Because he knows I’m on the team. Didn’t want me walking in and making his class about just a few years in the ‘30s and ‘40s rather than the culture of the time.” You don’t know how else to explain it to him, but Steve isn’t saying anything - practically isn’t moving or breathing- so you continue to try and explain what’s really happening as best as you can, “And - and that email made me so angry because he singled me out, didn’t email anyone else about it, and I left to try and work some of that out; I didn’t want to take it out on you, or let it spoil - let it spoil… But when I came back from the gym, you were gone. You were gone for two weeks and I didn’t know why.” You’re crying harder now and pretty sure that within the next sixty seconds you’re going to collapse if you don’t sit down.

Steve shakes his head, still looking like he doesn’t understand. “What?” He says for a third time, “A class? A college class?”

“I just wanted to feel closer to you,” You confess, “Just wanted to understand a fraction of your life without making you do the heavy liftin’ and teachin’ me. Shouldn’t have’t do that,” You’re sobbing, barely biting out your words as you realize that something you’ve done to strengthen your relationship with Steve has destroyed it, “Shouldn’t have to explain a whole different time just to feel loved, Stevie. Should be able to be with someone who understands without you havin’ to explain.” You’re not sure you can say Peggy’s name out loud, and you hope he understands what you’re saying without making you actually say it, “Should’a been able to have love with someone who knew, and I know I’m nothin’ compared to what you should’a had, but I want to be. I want to be in the same ballpark instead’a watchin’ from the stands.” You wipe your face with your free hand and look away from Steve when he stands in front of you. You don’t want to see the look on his face - what he’s thinking about what you’ve said.

He says your name and you glance at him, but his expression stops him in your tracks. Where Steve looked broken and hurt and fuming with anger to hide the anguish, now he looks stricken. You shake your head, “No, no. I didn’t say that to make you feel guilty-”

“You think that I care about whether or not you can understand the ‘40s?” He cuts you off, hands moving to curl around your biceps, “You think that I care whether or not you can relate to a time in history when you weren’t even thought of?”

“Of course I love you. I love you more than anything in this world, but you shouldn’t have to not care, Steve,” You argue, shaking your head, “That’s what I’m trying to say. You should be with someone who understands without explanation. I just wanted to give that to you - didn’t know that this would happen.”

“I should be with someone who loves me,” He argues back, “If you love me, that’s all that matters. My past be damned.”

“But your past is you!” You try to pull away from Steve, but he anchors you there. You’re dizzy from being so close to him after this long, but also because of how many different twists this situation has taken. You can barely keep up with how bad your communication with Steve has become - barely keep up with how you need to fix it, or how to fix it. “Your past is you,” You repeat when you realize that Steve isn’t going to let you go. “And you shouldn’t have to give that up so that someone will love you.”

“But you love me,” He says desperately, ducking his head so that he’s nearly nose to nose with you, “You love me, right?”

“More than anything,” You say, closing your eyes and relishing in the feeling of being so close to Steve, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I don’t care about what anyone else thinks, or anyone else. I’ll even stop goin’ to class if you want me to - Steve, I just can’t do this anymore. Can’t do this thing where you don’t talk to me about what’s botherin’ you.” You’re choking up, barely whispering, but you know he hears you. YOu can feel his warm breath on your face, “Nearly fuckin’ killed me.”

“I thought it was goin’ to be easier,” He breathes, nose bumping yours, “When you eventually decided to leave me for him. Thought I was savin’ myself some trouble.” You can practically taste his tears as they fall again, “Buck and Nat tried to tell me that you weren’t - that you wouldn’t - but I just couldn’t believe them.”

When you open your eyes, his are closed. This close to him you can see the soft freckles that are blooming over his eyelids, his soft eyelashes kissing his cheekbones. You can feel him breathing, feel him nearly pressed against you in a way that feels hauntingly nostalgic and terrifyingly fleeting; like you’ll be able to feel his warmth for years to come, but he’s about to disappear. “That’s okay,” You finally whisper, “It’s okay that you didn’t believe them. That you thought what you thought. It’s okay.” He shakes his head against yours, opening his mouth to protest, but you refuse to let him feel guilty about feeling this way - you have plenty of time to sit him down and talk to him candidly about the way he acted because of these feelings, anyway. “If I would have been in your place I’m not sure I would have believed them.”

“I treated you so badly…” He shifts and wraps his arms around you. It’s almost immediate - you relax into his arms and wind yours around his waist, keeping him pulled against you as he presses his face into your neck and you press your cheek against his chest. “So awfully.”

“We’ll talk about that, okay? But later. Right now you just need to know that I love you, Steve. I love you more than I can tell you - more than I can express.” You want to kiss him, but you can’t. Can’t kiss him, you need to wait for him to kiss you, for him to close that gap and show you that he still loves you like you love him. “We’ll have to have a talk, a long and hard conversation about this, Stevie, but for now… For now, I’m just content to be with you, okay? MIssed you so much.”

He sighs, nose pressing against yours again. “Missed you too, dovie. Missed you more than I can even say,” His voice breaks as his lips brush yours. Your relationship is not without its flaws and problems - Steve’s actions when he thought you were cheating on him are proof of that and, well, the fact that you didn’t realize what was happening, why it was happening, or a large part of your boyfriend’s psychological makeup having an impact on your relationship while it went unknown by you… There is a lot of work for the two of you to do, a lot of work to do, a lot of communication to be done… But you’d do it all for Steve, over and over again.

When he presses forward and presses his lips gently to yours, you know that he’ll do it all for you, over and over again, too.

[wing-ed-thing]

Modern AU Akatsuki Headcanons

These are more akin to how I personally write the Akatsuki in a Modern AU. I usually like to keep things as close to canon as I can, but I put a little of my own creative flair on these.

For now, we’re going to ignore everyone’s homicidal tendencies and assume that everyone’s a relatively normal, functioning member of society.

Warnings/Tags for Language, Mention of Alcohol, Drinking of Alcohol, Reader Insert

𓆃Deidara (19)

💕Graduated a bit over a year ago from high school and got an average class ranking. 

💕His grades were actually better than Deidara, or anyone else for that matter, expected. He took a lot of art classes (which tend to give high scores by default) and he excelled in Advanced Placement Chemistry which boosted his GPA.

💕Isn’t quite sure about secondary education. Took some time off to do art on his own, but he never really put a definitive end on his gap year. 

💕If he went to college, he’s ideally enjoy something in pyrotechnics. It’s something that he thinks about from time to time. That’s the only draw for him, but he doesn’t like the prospect of more school, although he does miss chemistry.

💕Works as a barista which got him hooked on caffeine. He makes great coffee but doesn’t like to make a fuss about it (because you should be focused more on his art over the frappe he made you). 

💕Gives his friends their drinks for free. 

💕An uncaffeinated Deidara is a useless Deidara.

𓆃Hidan (22)

💕Played baseball since he was little up through high school where he got recruited by a college team. That’s where he is now and has no idea what he’s doing after he graduates

💕Frat boy dude-bro, would not have gone to college if he wasn’t recruited

💕Will drink all night resulting in the most wholesome version of “boys will be boys”, will hug you gently from behind and rest his chin on your head (or at least he’ll try to)

💕Hidan will try to bench press you at some point. Doesn’t matter your body type, he thinks that he can do it. 

💕Tried to be an English major without knowing how many “boring-ass books” he’d have to read and how many essays he’d have to write

💕Gotta keep your grades up for athletics, so he has mostly shoo in classes

💕Not to say that he’s not good academically, but he just needs his area of excellence. If he doesn’t care, he’s failing, but

💕His history and religion classes are his favorites so he’s majoring in that. He could read and talk about that all day. His essays are a bit all over the place but he has excellent insight

💕Needs reading glasses. His far vision is fine but he has to hold things a foot or less from his face in order to make out any details

💕He plays baseball with contacts in. Hidan likes the colored ones but they’re “expensive as fuck”

𓆃Itachi (21)

💕Full-ride scholarship and early graduation, top of his high school class

💕That wonder-kid that everyone loved but no one really talked to. The kind of guy that answers a question in class and ends up teaching the teacher something as they let him talk

💕Graduated with a bachelor’s degree and a master’s degree this year by going through a fast-track course. Is currently pursuing a PhD 

💕Was a teaching assistant, a residential assistant, and a lab assistant in his undergrad

💕Surprisingly crafty, he made some great door decals for his residents (although you had to give him a bit of help)

💕Kinda socially stunted, has a hard time truly relating to others his age but can win over older people in a heartbeat 

𓆃Kakuzu (91, but for the sake of the AU we’ll put him in his late 30s/early 40s)

💕The type who relied on himself, got lucky in life, but calls that luck hard work (although he does admittedly work hard)

💕Veteran

💕Works in finance and has a knack for stocks and trading. Doesn’t mind white collared shirts, but it drives him crazy if his tie isn’t right. 

💕Cut off all friends and family as his relative wealth grew. He’s not a millionaire that you know of, but then again he’ll never tell you how much money he has. He’s comfortable, or as he’d tell you, ‘none of your business’. 

💕Very cheap, complains over the cost of coffee but has a very nice penthouse apartment. 

💕If you ever encounter an emergency and can’t cover the cost, the money will show up but Kakuzu doesn’t want to hear about it. He expects you to pay him back in one way or another. Will take the smallest favors as payment depending on how close you are, how stressed you are, and how generous he’s feeling

💕Cutthroat financial advisor. He loves slashing budgets and reworking large financial projects. Likes firing people even more. His skills ensure him work almost anywhere

💕Drives himself to the point of exhaustion, sometimes just needs someone to sit with him quietly and drink with him

💕Only the best bottles

𓆃Kisame (32)

💕Was really sporty back in his day. He dabbled in swimming, hockey and football before eventually being recruited for swimming

💕Likely would have gone to college even without the recruitment. Studied marine biology and would spend most of his days doing marine labs. 

💕Went to bootcamp but didn’t pursue in a military career. 

💕He got very aquatinted with the local animal and plant species and joined a few advocacy programs during his time in college

💕After school, he stuck with environmentalism and worked as a personal trainer part time after getting a certification online (he think’s that the course was a waste of money, he took it twice)

💕Currently considering teaching after seeing an open position as a gym teacher. He’s actually very good with children

💕Looking to keep saving up to settle down somewhere nice after bouncing from apartment to apartment. Never really put any effort into meeting anyone, but would like to

𓆃Konan (35)

💕Kinda struck out and lives in the city. She really likes the atmosphere and art scene. Gets takeout often since a lot of the good food places are just a short walk from her apartment

💕Single, still has a hard time after her boyfriend Yahiko’s death. Studio apartment full of canvases and pain. Looks great even in painting clothes

💕Used to work as a waitress and folded the napkins into origami shapes when she was bored. Hated customer service but got recognized for her artistic talent by a local gallery

💕Her first sale got her ecstatic, but she tells you often that she still has things to learn (you don’t quite understand what that means)

💕Recently started submitting more pieces and is slowly profiting off of her good work. You insist on taking her to dinner each time she sells another work, but it takes some convincing

💕Overall quiet and humble, likes nights in picnic style on the floor

𓆃Obito (31)

💕Had a hard time the first portion of his life. Obito was placed into the foster system after the death of his close family in a tragic accident. Spent time in the hospital for lasting injuries

💕Struggled with making connections and expressing his feelings. Spent much of his time in the public library (having no money to go anywhere else), particularly in the maker space working on projects

💕Joined an engineering program for troubled youth under Madara where Obito spent his summers and after school time working on projects. 

💕Obito now works designing and manufacturing medical parts and machinery. He donates a portion of his salary to the public library maker space. 

💕He likes working in the city and often bikes through greens on his way to work. 

💕Has a bad habit of dating younger women in their 20s

𓆃Pein/Nagato (35)

💕Sustained serious injuries during a mugging gone wrong. Has many, frequent hospital visits for his chronic conditions and often has to stay in the hospital for periods of time

💕Still never got fully over the trauma of that night in which his childhood friend, Yahiko, died from his injuries on his way to the hospital. 

💕His nurses know him well, but he’s never been the talkative type. They still greet him warmly regardless. He actually enjoys it

💕Has dinners with Konan at least monthly, sometimes the two of them visit Yahiko’s memorial and share a bottle of wine. They’re not super close, but they’ll likely stick together for the rest of their lives in a similar routine

💕Joined a some religious support groups which actually helped him. Actually found a great community of old ladies who keep trying to fix him up with their granddaughters 

𓆃Sasori (35)

💕Studied a double major: mechanical engineering and art. Sasori has always been good with numbers and wanted something stable to fall back on/support him as he did art on the side

💕Was featured in many articles, contests, and exhibits for his complex figures which included robotics, puppets and animatronics 

💕Currently works with large movie production studios doing intricate props. He quickly became a specialist in realistic, human animatronics and is often invited onto sets for producers to collect his input

💕Has a habit of casually flexing. Doesn’t really care about how much money he has or the fact that he happens to find himself in the presence of A-list celebrities 

💕Will casually remark that he was invited the birthday party of some amazing actor but turned it down because you said you desperately needed him to help you fix your garbage disposal

💕Genuinely doesn’t care, prefers helping you fix your garbage disposal

💕Doesn’t know that most of his accessories are designer and will give them to you upon realizing the brand.

𓆃Zetsu (Unknown Age, so I’m gonna have fun and place him in high school)

💕Twins who no one can tell apart, but they don’t really get it. Neither of them think that they look that different.

💕In the horticulture program and they both spend much of their time in the greenhouse tending to the plants, even when no one is there. They like cultivating succulents because they’re easy and have since despised the mass obsession with them

💕Kuro Zetsu more spends his time in the Technology/Engineering Club. He likes to work on cars in his free time and occasionally races tractors.

💕Shiro Zetsu is on the honor roll and on student council enjoys riding horses. He can ride without a saddle. 

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed and otherwise supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

@brokennerdalert​

[palbabor-writes]

Practicum

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: SMUT/18+ only, unbalanced/unhealthy relationships, student/teacher sex, tw.dubcon, tw.sub/dom dynamics, brat taming, fingering, masturbation, a table is pretty roughed up in this, so pls hold a brief moment of silence for it    

Words: 12,857

“So, you just want me to read from the book?”

“Yes.”

“And...answer questions?”

“That’s what I said,” Shigaraki smirks, already reaching toward his bookshelf, tugging the heavy Intro to Biology text out and shifting it into his large hands.

You bite at your lip again and pass your gaze from his amused expression to the bland cover of the textbook, debating your next move, trying to walk yourself through all the ups and downs. It’s too simple; too easy. It’s not like him. He’s got something else in mind, why else would he fucking look like that? It’s not a bad look. No, it’s a look that makes your stomach flip and head spin.

“Stop being so suspicious,” Shigaraki scolds, drawing your wandering attention back to him. “I don’t bite, that is, unless you want me to.”

Notes: the title was selected because it’s got the word cum in it. ahhh, the things that crack me up. anyhow. 

this is part of the BNHA Degeneracy server’s 9 to 5 collaboration! i had a ton of fun participating in this and thank you guys for making this so freaking awesome! special shoutout & thanks to @albinoburrito​ & @kugutsuu​ for their beta edits! this was a departure from what i usually write about and i appreciate all of your notes and help!  

Practicum prac·ti·cum /ˈpraktəkəm/ noun a practical section of a course of study

It’s your senior year, they said. Live a little, they advised. Stop and take a breather, you’re practically home free! Take some easier classes. Focus on what’s in front of you, it’ll be over before you know it! On and on and on. 

Spring semester is almost here. You’ve applied for graduation, the cap and gown ordered, and you have a shiny class ring sitting on your pinky. It’s in the bag. Just breeze through four more classes and you’re out. Well, it would be an easy shot, if you hadn’t put off this one class. 

It always popped up, so it’s not like you could plead ignorance. Your advisor warned you, each quarterly meeting, that you needed to get it out of the way. Take it seriously, he cautioned, clacking out his notes, typing down that you’d failed to heed his sage advice, again. If you wait too long, you’re not going to get the professor that you want.

That was the other problem. You’re a procrastination superstar. If there was some kinda award for putting off assignments, you’d have won it ten times over. You liked the heart pounding race to the deadline, the sleepy boasts that you’d tackled the project within hours of its due date. 

It’s a stupid habit. Every semester you promise yourself that you’ll do better. You won’t wait, you’ll tackle things one assignment at a time and turn them before the hard cut off at 11:59 pm. Who the fuck did you think you were kidding? Certainly not your friends, or your advisor. He could read you like a book. Hell, he’d even sent warnings. 

‘Don’t forget about the deadline for senior registration!’

‘You don’t want to be on a waitlist. You especially don’t want to take one of the harder professors. These are freshman level classes, they’re designed to flunk undergrads. Don’t forget (Y/N), chew them up and spit them out tactics are employed.’ 

But you had. You’d set an alarm on your phone, then neglected to give it a title, so you’d only chuckled and smacked the chirping into silence that morning, snoozing the all important deadline away. 

Fuck. 

Most of the classes for biology are wait-listed. No, scratch that, all the classes for Intro to Genetic Biology are wait-listed. You opt into the waitlist for all of them, just in case, and a week later your phone alerts you that one has an open seat. Actually, it has several open seats, too many open seats to be natural. However, you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so for now, you’re enrolled in BIO 1208: Principles of Cell and Organismal Physiology - For Non-Science majors. 

Perfect.

Yeah, no. You’d looked up the professor, since the whole open seat thing was still giving you the heebie-jeebies, and your heart dropped. You’ve heard of him, most of the student body has. His classes are notoriously small. Not because the university limited them, or planned for smaller class sizes. No, his classes are tiny because he is infamous for failing students. 

Most, when they realize they’re scheduled for his bio classes, frantically drop, taking the withdrawal and praying for better luck next semester. Others, brave souls who think they can come out unscathed, attempt to grit their teeth and push through. But, by midterms, they’re war torn and haggard, shaking their heads and praying for a ‘C’, at best. Fewer still, pass.

This pedagogy isn’t a sign of good teaching; quite the opposite, in fact. You don’t want your student body failing. Yet, year after year, Professor Tomura Shigaraki keeps teaching the same Intro to Bio class. It boggles the mind, but you’ve never had to worry about it. Well, until now. 

When you’d received the notification that you’re enrolled in the B section and spied the name Shigaraki under the professor listing, you’d scarfed down your suddenly flavorless lunch and dashed up the steps to the student advising hall, praying there was some way you could wiggle your way out of this growing disaster.

“I’m pretty sure I told you to take it earlier and to take it in the fall when there are more freshman level classes available. I swear I said that to you. And, AND, I even sent you emails, several times if my sent inbox is to be believed, to NOT forget when senior registration ends.” 

Your advisor is peeved. You don’t blame him. He’s right, this is your fault, but there’s gotta be some kinda loophole. Something, fuck, anything, that can pull you from this mess. 

“I know, I know! I’m so sorry. You’re right. But, I mean, can’t I just hold off for another week? See if the waitlist clears?”

The man that you’ve known for four years, that’s seen you progress from freshman to senior, steeples his long fingers and purses his lips, likely debating on a tactful scolding, or a firm rebuttal. He takes a deep breath and you can’t help but sink into the soft cushioning of the chair, your nose wrinkled and brow furrowed, mentally preparing yourself for the worst.

“Do you know how many students we require to take BIO 1208?”

“No,” you gulp, nibbling on your lower lip nervously. 

“Over 7,000. Do you want to hear the statistics that would need to shake out in your favor for you to miraculously avoid taking this specific class? Nothing is going to open for you, it is this class, or no class.”

You sigh, and your advisor nods, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Well then, I suggest you brush up on your study skills. Find a classmate that you can compare notes with, join a study group, go to the student union and ask for a tutor. I would hate to see you back here for the summer semester. You’re scheduled to walk the stage this spring and you’ve worked hard for this, so don’t fuck it up, okay?”

You’ve attended this university for four years, but the first day of term always gives you the jitters. It doesn’t matter that you know your way around, or that you know ten professors by name, and bump into several friends on the way to your next building, you’re always buried in your phone, checking and double checking the next class’ room number. 

Despite all that caution, you’re lost.

In your defense, it’s your first time stepping foot in the Graduate & Research building and the whole concrete block is a fucking maze. There must be a basement because the numbers don’t match up with the floors and they seem to jumble further every time you round a corner. Like what the hell? How can this next room be GR 3.03.05 when this is clearly only the second floor and GR 2.03.11 was right down that other hallway?

Exasperated, you lean against the nearest wall and tug your phone out again. Shit. Class started ten minutes ago. 

Part of you wants to call it a day, end the search here and try again on Wednesday. Maybe take a few extra minutes to scout out the building next time and have some idea of where you’re going before the start of class. 

Ugh, why is this so stressful? 

It’s the first day of classes. Surely Professor Shigaraki won’t mind if you’re a few minutes late; besides, if you’re lost, others must be too. 

You tuck your phone back into your pocket and resume the hunt. Two hallway turns later, you find your mark.

Your hand pauses beside the heavy wood, and you take a steadying breath. Again, why are you so nervous? Just go in and take a seat, it’s easy, stop freaking out over nothing. 

The door groans open, hinges protesting the sharp push, and you stumble into a darkened room. The low glow of the projector doesn’t help your blurry vision. Ah, shit, it’s one of those older rooms, so it’s built like a bad movie theater. Oh well, better get to a seat before he spots you. 

Swiftly, you make your way toward the raised steps of the aisle and the second row of chairs, plopping into the first one you reach that’s empty. You’re too busy fiddling with the zipper of your backpack to notice that the speaker has stopped his rasping preamble, but as you pull your laptop out the ominous weight of that heavy silence hits you and you toss a hooded stare toward the front of the lecture hall. 

Immediately, your eyes land on the professor’s and you feel a low shiver shake up your spine. 

He’s watching you. 

The gleam of the overhead projector makes his red eyes flash, and he openly scowls at your gaping expression, his lips curling into a dark sneer.

“Well, thank you for joining us, Miss…?”

He’s waiting for your response and you squeak out your last name, mindlessly rubbing your moistening palms against your thin skirt. 

“Ah, Ms. (L/N). Now that you’ve graced the class with your belated presence, may I continue?”

“Uh,” you gasp out, your mouth dry, tongue sticking to your teeth, “I’m sorry. I got–”

“I didn’t ask for an explanation, or in your case, an excuse. Or are you now attempting to disrupt this class purposefully?”

“Wha– I-I’m–” your words stumble to a halt, voice failing under the intense glare that he’s giving you. “No,” you finish lamely, ducking your head, nails digging into your sweaty palms. 

“Thank you. Do me a favor, stay after class.” His voice is gravel, threatening and low. You don’t like the edge in his tone. It makes your skin prickle and your knees knock. He sounds like the kind of guy that you don’t want to run into in a dark alleyway, or a classroom, for that matter. Even so, it’s not your fault, and despite your feelings of unease, you can’t tamp down your need to protest his unreasonableness. 

“But, professor, I didn’t mean to–”

“If I need to repeat my insistence for silence, I’ll make things easier on both of us and fail you now.”

Stunned and fuming, you bite your tongue and lean back into your chair, crossing your arms and blinking back mounting tears of frustration. Great, just great. It’s the first fucking day of class and it looks like you’re already on his shit list. And for what? For being late on fucking syllabus day! What an ass. 

You look over at him as you defiantly finish setting up your computer, hoping each pull of a zipper or screen reboot will grate under his stuck up skin. He’s not inordinately tall, or old. In fact, he looks like he might only be in early 30s. He has long white hair that’s pulled back into a low ponytail and, from what you can make out in the dim lighting, some kinda skin condition on his forehead. That, or he’s prematurely wrinkled, and let’s be honest, if he’s gone through life with that big of a stick up his ass, he deserves each and every pull on that mottled skin of his. 

You linger in your seat when class is over, lips pulled into a thin line and legs crossed. Finally, when the last student has left the room, professor Shigaraki flips a switch beside his elevated podium, filling the lecture hall with a sharp, fluorescent light. He pauses by his raised computer system and clicks off the overhead projector, blanketing the massive room in an uncomfortable silence. 

“Since you missed the part of class where I go over the syllabus, I’ll give you a brief rundown. Under no circumstances will I tolerate tardiness. If you do it once more I’ll mark you absent and three absences knock you down a full letter grade.”

Glumly, you cross your arms and peer up at him, finally able to get a good look at his face. Your first observation was correct. His skin is sharper around his forehead, but his wavy white hair does a pretty decent job of covering up the imperfections. He has two scars: one nicks across his right eye and the other splits down his rough lips, parting the skin and granting him an even more foreboding appearance than his already gruff demeanor does. He’s dressed in a dark pair of jeans and he’s wearing a low slung v neck shirt. It’s a brilliant red and it brings out that otherworldly glint of his red eyes. Shit, you think bitterly, while he’s not conventionally handsome, he’s not exactly hard on the eyes either. 

You shake your head against these unproductive musings and curtly snap out a clipped, ok.

“What was that?” Shigaraki scoffs, tilting his head at your sullen figure. “Speak up.”

“I said,” you bristle, eyes narrowing and chin lifting, “Okay, I apologize for interrupting your lecture, it won’t happen again. But, in my defense, if I’m allowed to do that in this class, I’ve never been in this building before, and it’s not like–”

“You’re a senior, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Then you’ve had four years to figure out the layout of this university. The excuse of ‘being lost,’ isn’t an option for you. You know the buildings and you’re fully capable of turning up early to sort out the rooms.”

You let out a long sigh and look away, mumbling vague protests. This guy is ridiculous. You’re not a science major and it’s not your job to know the ins and outs of each building. How fucking stupid. Who does he think he–

“Speak up. I won’t ask you again.”

You bite your lip and look back at him but he’s moved in that distracted moment, silently stepping down from his raised platform and is now leaning over the first row of chairs, looming over you. You can’t help your sudden flinch as you sink further into your chair, away from him.

“If you’re gonna complain, Ms. (L/N), I’d much rather hear it. Don’t you think It’s rude for you to mutter under your breath about me? You don’t see me doing that to you.”

“Fine,” you blurt out, turning away from his insistent, and all too close, gaze. “I was saying that I’m not a science major. I get that I’m a senior, but you can’t seriously expect me to know every nook and cranny of this campus.”

“No, but I can ask for you to be a little more thoughtful. I put time and effort into my lessons and I won’t have you undermining them by bouncing in here with those legs and that flouncy little skirt.”

You’re about to counter his little haughty speech on politeness when you finally process that final comment he’d breathed out. Flabbergasted, you raise your head back to his, but he’s already moving away, snatching up his shoulder bag and waving you a curt goodbye as he presses open the squeaky door. “Next class is at 10 am sharp, so be on time Ms. (L/N).”

You’re still slumped in your seat when the door glides shut again, your eyes wide and jaw no doubt comically unhinged. 

Wait. Did…did he really just say that?

Obviously, for the next class, you’re early. You’re so early that you’re the first one in the lecture hall. You select a seat toward the back and fiddle with your computer, checking your messages, adjusting your brightness, replying to old emails, anything to keep your head down and attention occupied. 

The door opens and, despite your best efforts, your head flies up, expectant and tense, ready to meet those red eyes of his head on, to show him you’re here and he better… oh. It’s not him. It’s two chattering freshmen. One of them gives you a quick smile, but they both quickly take their seats, a few rows over, and continue their soft conversation, leaving you to fall back onto your earlier distraction tactics. You twiddle with your phone and shoot off a few texts, change your wallpaper, accidentally close an app you meant to leave open, and then the lecture hall door reopens.

He steps in slowly, completely ignoring you and the other scattered students, opting to sort out a few papers and set up his login on the school computer. The minutes tick by and you can’t seem to jerk your eyes away from him, suddenly fascinated by his languid movements. He looks more relaxed than he did on Monday, looser and fluid, completely in his element. True to his word, at ten am on the dot he begins class. 

Professor Shigaraki has an interesting voice. It’s low, calculated, bordering on a rasp. It’s one of those tones that makes you want to lean forward and listen up, even though he’s only discussing cellular biology. Which isn’t exactly the sexiest topic for that shockingly dulcet timbre of his. 

Wait. Sexy? 

Your pen falters against your notebook, and your eyes drift up to his frame. He’s switched the lights off again and the shine of the overhead projector is the only illumination in the hall. His white hair gleams in the dim lighting and his long hands animatedly illustrate his points, elegant fingers opening and closing, gesticulating about the intricate nature of the human genome. You’re so focused on watching his movements that your elbow partner has to push the slip of paper onto your collapsible desktop. You blink at the sheet, your pen nearly clattering from your hand, and you twist to peer at the unfamiliar student beside you. 

“It’s the attendance sheet and, um, I think you’re the last one,” they whisper, careful to lean away after they finish their explanation, not wanting to draw professor Shigaraki’s ire. You maneuver the paper under your pen and scribble down your name, biting your lip and silently berating yourself for your poor selection in seating. Great, now you’ll have to take the paper down to him after class. What if he talks with you again? Shit. 

At 11:25, class ends. You collect your things and plod down the steps, the attendance sheet clutched between your fingers. He’s just snapping the projector light off when you reach his podium. 

“I, uhh, have the attendance. You want me to just leave it here, or…”

“I’ll take it,” his hand is extended toward you and those red eyes are fixed on you now. It’s not the same disgruntled stare he’d given you on Monday. No, this look is a little more curious. Again, you’re taken aback by your reaction to him. He’s not even saying anything, just patiently waiting for you to deposit the sheet into his open palm, but there’s something about him that’s making your heart race. 

Maybe it’s those eyes of his. 

They are an unusual color and they have a strange intensity to them. Right as they narrow, the vermillion shining under the sharp lights; you press the paper to him and he pulls it from you, studying the names that are listed. 

You want to say something. Maybe toss him a quick, friendly, goodbye. Or apologize for the other day? Ugh. What can you even say? ‘Gosh, so glad I was on time today! All that fascinating information about the genetic code! So glad to be here!’ No, that sounds stupid and a little patronizing. Besides, why do you want to talk with him at all? He’s an ass, remember?

“Did you need something?”

His question snaps you out of your stupor and you numbly shake your head at him, already lowering your gaze, but his exhaled chuckle makes you pause, your fingers curling around your backpack straps.  

“I know I upset you the other day, but I appreciate you taking the effort to correct your mistake.” 

“Oh,” you breathe, your eyes finding their way back to his. “Yeah, well, like you said, I’m a senior. Gotta take responsibility for myself someday.”

“Ah,” he smirks, that long scar on his lip quirking upward. “Seems like you’ve got some determination after all. You might be more interesting than I gave you credit for.”

“God,” you scoff, popping out a hip and crossing your arms at the bemused leer on his face. “Just come right out and say you think I’m a bad student, why don’t you?”

“Don’t worry,” he amends, tucking the attendance sheet into his shoulder bag and snapping the clasps closed. “There’s plenty of time for you to end up right back at square one with me.”

He’s already halfway out the door by the time you right yourself from the shock of his last comment and you follow him, a string of low curses falling from your lips. 

The spring semester always flies by, and before you realize it, a full month has bled away. You’ve kept that same seat in Shigaraki’s class and at the end of each session you head down to his little platform, attendance sheet outstretched. Each day of class has a different ebb and flow. Sometimes he chats with you and it’s gotten easier to talk with him, both of your eyes holding and lingering, lips raised into calculating smiles. Sometimes it almost feels like he’s flirting with you. Other days he only spares you a curt nod, his white hair curtaining his expression from your curious gaze. You’re not bothered by these silences, not when you’ve got your secret weapon. 

The days that you like best, the ones that you plan, sorting through your closet until you’ve found the perfect choice, are the days when you wear one of your skirts. You’d even gone on some skirt shopping sprees as of late. On those days he doesn’t just make some sort of fleeting eye contact with you, no, on those days he stares. 

At first, you’d tested out your theory, staggering your outfits, careful to not screw up your suspicions with a hasty miscalculation, but as they say, the third time’s the charm. How did he expect you not to notice? He never bothers to hide those sharp ogles and recently you’ve made a point of dramatically gathering your things when you wear these cute little ensembles, bopping down the steps so his eyes have to work to follow the line of your hips and the long paths of your bare legs. One rainy afternoon you’d worn over the knee stockings, that came to an abrupt halt over the plush skin of your upper thigh, under your mini skirt and he’d practically leapt over the podium to grab the sheet from you, his eyes hooded and dark, almost wild.

“Test, on Friday,” he warns, eyes finally rising to meet your bemused expression. “Don’t stay out too late tonight.”

“What makes you say that?” you ask, brushing at a rogue fold in your skirt, luring him back to your legs. 

He scoffs at you, that jagged scar arching into a smirk. “Humph. You’re dressed up. Most of the students just wear the sweats, or pjs, and call it a day.” 

“I like to put a little effort in all that I do,” you retort, grinning up at his vermillion stare. 

“Yes, so I’ve noticed. You certainly look the part…and you’re keeping up with the workload of this course.”

“Ahhh,” you crow, clapping your hands excitedly. “Are you saying I might get an ‘A’ in this class? Be the first time someone’s done that in a while, from what I’ve heard around campus.”

Shigaraki sneers and tuts out an inaudible reply, leaning a little closer to you, making you inadvertently fall back a step. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Awe,” you pout, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m doing ok on all the quizzes and the classwork.”

“So far,” he taunts, his pearlescent hair falling over his broad shoulder.

“Tch. Don’t be like that. I’ve been studying.”

“Sometimes it takes more than that.”

“Oh?” you smile, raising your chin. “What else should I be doing, professor?”

“We’ll know that after Friday, won’t we?”

God. 

You’d felt so confident when you’d turned in your test and that stupid, horrible, sexy little quirk of his lip scar that he sends you, when you’d handed him your papers, carries you on some strange, half aroused cloud all weekend. Maybe, just maybe, this class won’t be so bad after all.

The tests are handed back the following Friday, passed from row to row so everyone can fish out their papers and marked Scantrons. Yours, since you still occupy that final seat on the back row, is the last. Biting back a grin, you flip it over, so ready to see that A, that grade that you worked so fucking hard for, that… wait.

The gross flash of red across the top of your paper leaves you reeling, your breath catching against the back of your throat. It’s not a terrible grade, well, it wouldn’t be, but there are only three tests in this class, so it’s going to plummet you down to a B. One more fuck up will leave you with a C, or worse, an automatic failing grade. 

No. No, no, no, no. 

You can’t afford a bad grade, you honestly can’t even let yourself slip to a B. Your fucking cap and gown have just come in and with them that cord that you can wear around your neck at graduation. The one that marks you as honors cum laude. Fuck. You’re already pulling one B, in one of your other classes, because you’ve been focusing so much time and effort on this one. Another B will strip that cord from you, leaving you barren, with a less than ideal GPA. 

God fucking damn it.

You glare up at Shigaraki, who’s busy taking the rest of the class through a review of genetic mutations, but you can’t hear him anymore, too incensed, too overwhelmed to even care about what he’s saying. The test crumples under your fingertips, the paper shaking in your hands, and you seethe, your teeth biting your lower lip to pieces. 

It’s not fair. You’d paid attention. You’ve taken all the notes. Read all the chapters. Drilled and studied till your eyes had drooped, heavy with exhaustion. You’ve done it all right. Plus, he’d been so fucking flirty, so open with you. You’ve never chatted with a professor this way, never gone out of your way to wear clothes they like, that make them watch you, their eyes hungry pinpricks as you walk to them, mindful of the luscious sway of your hips. 

No. Fuck him. Fuck this class.

Before your elbow classmate can leave, you ask for them to hand in the attendance sheet. You barely hear their response, too busy slamming your laptop into your backpack. As you storm past the podium, you can feel his eyes on you. The distant sensation of his gaze makes your flesh prickle, but you ignore your involuntary reaction and shove your way out the door. 

“(Y/N), you can’t switch classes this late. It’s almost midterms. Besides, I don’t think anything has opened up and if you’re going to drop it, you’ve gotta get the signature of the professor,” your advisor tells you, blinking at your stony expression over his thick glasses. “I don’t get it. Why do you want to drop it? Your grades are alright and it’s just one test. You can always try–”

“Gimme the paperwork.”

Shigaraki’s office is on the top floor of the research building, tucked away down another winding and weaving hallway that once again requires your careful inspection to navigate. When you finally hit the right set of doors, you slowly make your way forward, counting the numbers up as you pass. His door is wide open, a yawning cavern that’s filled with the distant light of a lamp. You brush a hand down your skirt, smoothing away any wrinkles and steadying your nerves. 

You’d tossed on the skirt this morning, before you’d gotten the grade, and you hadn’t thought to go home and change, too consumed by that simmering rage bubbling within you. And now, like this fucking class, this skirt felt like a mistake, something stupid and vapid that you wished you had time to change out of. He’d told you he liked your attire, liked that you put effort into your outfits. At the time, you’d been so thrilled and excited that he’d complimented you, but now you wish you were confronting him in baggy jeans or lazy sweats, anything that would turn that avid gaze of his away from you. 

Lost in thought, you waver beside his open door, nibbling on your lips and tugging at your clothes. It’s now or never. No point in putting it off. What’s the worst that can happen? What can he do now? Or, a darker side of you whispers, what do you want him to do to you? What? That’s a stupid thought, you scold yourself, lifting a hand to the wall and rapping against the beige paint, announcing your presence. 

When the sound fades away, swallowed up by the empty and darkened hallway, you poke your head around the corner, searching for him. His head is tilted quizzically, and he blinks twice when he spots you, that all too familiar smirk lifting his lips. 

“Ah, Ms. (L/N), what can I do for you?”

His voice is softer than usual and your name sounds like honey, his tone resting on the syllables and consonants for a beat, almost as if he’s savoring their lift, their sound. You can’t help but swallow heavily at his appraisal. Suddenly this may be a terrible idea. 

Ugh. Get a grip (Y/N). 

“I-I need you to sign this withdrawal paperwork,” you finally reply, digging in your bag and tugging out the thin leaflet, holding it out to him. He’s silent after your demand, meditatively threading his fingers and peering up at you, his red eyes bright. 

“Step inside and shut the door behind you,” he instructs, his gaze never falling from yours. Despite the simplicity of his request, you can’t help but bristle at his imperious tone. Why does he always have to sound like that? Like he’s seconds away from taking control of the situation, or of you? He’s always one stupid step ahead, and no doubt he’s going to try and talk you down. Or, he’ll sign it and say that he always knew you were a screw up, someone who only did things halfway, who could never match up to his lofty expectations. Humph, the sooner you’re outta here and out of his class, the better. So, you obey, closing the door and petulantly flopping into the unsteady chair that sits in front of his low desk. 

He maintains that uneasy quiet, his red eyes whisking over your disgruntled face, waiting, watching. Unable to take this strange standoff, you push the university paperwork toward him, sliding it as close as you dare to his bent elbows. “I would like to withdraw from your class,” you repeat, lips setting into a thin line. 

“Why?” he asks, cocking his head so his loose white hair falls a little further down his rough brow. 

“Something came up.”

“Hmm, I can try to work with a new schedule, if it’s your job, or home life,” he counters, eyes narrowing as he sharpens his observations of your brittle expression. 

“It’s not that,” you smart, crossing your arms. Great, he’s going to make this difficult. 

“Then I suggest you tell me what’s on your mind,” Shigaraki replies, mirroring your movements and leaning back in his chair. 

“I don’t think this class is working out for me.”

He exhales a soft laugh at your lie, and you watch that tiny mole at the edge of his chin lift in his quiet mirth. “This is a freshman level course and you’re a senior. You’re in my class because it’s likely the last pre-rec that you need to take before you graduate.”

“Um, yeah. But–”

“And now, you’re wanting to drop it because of one poor grade.”

You grind your teeth and fix him with a stark glower. “I–”

“There will be two other tests. If you read your syllabus, you’d know this.”

“I read the syllabus. Your tests are worth a stupid amount of points and it only takes one of them to tank my grade.”

“Frankly, you did better than most of the class. You only need to work on practical application. I said that the written portion would be a major component of the exam. I also provided you with a review and a rubric. So I’m not sure–”

“Your grade drops me to a ‘B’, and that ‘B’ pulls me from the honors list. And… well… I thought that…”

“Oh? What did you think?” he presses, his voice suddenly dropping to that lower octave it had drifted into when he said your last name. 

“I thought I’d get a better grade,” you spit out, turning your head and biting at your lip again. 

“Why?” he counters simply. His obtuseness is making your blood boil.

“What do you mean, why?” It takes all of your will to not slip a ‘jackass’ into that question. 

“It’s not a hard thing to answer. I graded you fairly and according to my rubric. Why exactly do you feel you merit a different grade than the one you earned?”

You fall into a frustrated silence. You can hear your heart pounding against your ribs and you want to scream at him, to leap over his desk and shake him until his teeth fucking rattle. Your shoulders are rising and lowering disjointedly and his vermillion eyes are honed in on your face, shifting over your pinched expression with a distant interest. You can feel tears pricking at your eyes and you hastily rub a fist over them, brushing away any rogue drops of moisture.

“How can you ask me that? You think I didn’t notice you staring at my legs? Or that you always had something to say to me when I was wearing a skirt? What was I supposed to think, huh? I fucking thought shit like that was gonna help, ok? God, I’m so stupid. I can’t… fuck.” 

Shigaraki arches forward when you finish, a deep sigh leaching through his parted lips. His teeth snap together when you look up at him, your eyes gaining back some of that earlier defiance, and he gives you a quick grin, clearly pleased by your shift in attitude and pushes your paper aside, fixing you with a dark look. “Here’s a thought, since you feel you’re so different, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a chance to make up the score.”

“I don’t care about the score anymore. I wanna drop your class,” you snap, but it’s a halfhearted barb. Something has changed in his demeanor. He’s dropped the concerned professor act and is leaning so close you can hear his steady intakes of air. He’s only a few inches away; if you want, you could touch him.

“I doubt you want to attend a class in the summer. Besides, they won’t let you walk if you haven’t finished your freshman level courses. And you can’t tell me you don’t want to graduate, to earn that cord that lets you into the honor cum laude. So stop pouting and hear me out. I think you’ll like what I have in mind.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever like anything about you,” your voice is sharper than you mean it to be, but the challenge makes Shigaraki smile. As it crosses his cracked lips, it pulls that scar up and it makes those eyes of his glow. He looks like the cat that’s got the cream and you’re not sure how to respond, so you cross your legs and wait for him to make the next move. 

“You sure about that? Well, I’ll have to change your tune then, won’t I? But that can wait, lemme tell you what my requirements are. I’ve got a copy of the textbook in here. I’ll have you review some of the major concepts, you’ll read the passages aloud so I’m sure you’re on the right track, you’ll hand the book back to me, and then I’ll verbally quiz you over the material. If you answer them correctly, I’ll bump you to an ‘A’ on your test.”

You have to actively work to keep your mouth closed. “So, you just want me to read from the book?”

“Yes.”

“And… answer questions?”

“That’s what I said,” Shigaraki smirks, already reaching toward his bookshelf, tugging the heavy Intro to Biology text out and shifting it into his large hands. 

You bite at your lip again and pass your gaze from his amused expression to the bland cover of the textbook, debating your next move, trying to walk yourself through all the ups and downs. It’s too simple; too easy. It’s not like him. He’s got something else in mind, why else would he fucking look like that? It’s not a bad look. No, it’s a look that makes your stomach flip and head spin. 

“Stop being so suspicious,” Shigaraki scolds, drawing your wandering attention back to him. “I don’t bite, that is, unless you want me to.”

Your eyes boggle and you have to clench your thighs tighter, your stomach churning, you feel light-headed and you can feel your core fluttering with your sudden arousal. “Wh-what did you just say?”

“Stop gaping at me like that, you’ll make me blush. Now come on.”

Your jaw snaps closed and you shake your head, trying to clear your mind from your whirling emotions. He takes this reaction as a surrender and stands, stepping toward a marred table that rests a little ways away from his desk. He licks his thumb pad and flips through a few pages before finally settling on an appealing section. Once he places it on the table, he twists back to you and crooks a finger your way. “Come here,” he orders, his voice deep and languid. Obediently, you rise on unsteady feet, hands tugging at the length of your skirt, careful to keep it pressed down as you walk toward him. 

He makes space for you to stand in front of the book and shifts back, one hand resting on the table, propping him close to your bent figure. You look up at him, but he only nods his head toward the table, a wicked smile curling the corners of his lips. Blink a few times but finally, the words clear and you can see the block of text that’s in front of you. It’s passages on DNA encodes and RNA proteins, hefty stuff, things that you had to make flash cards for. This isn’t going to be easy. If anything, he’s picked some of the harder concepts, the ones that take steady knowledge in the foundations. Flustered, you look back to him, but he’s moved. He’s leaning against the wide window beside the table, a dark mark against the glass.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, a laugh bubbling in his tone.

“There’s no way…” you stammer, shaking your head at him. 

“Want me to throw a curve in?”

“I should ask what kinda curve, but knowing you, it’s likely gonna be something terrible.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he rumbles, stepping away from the window and leaning close to your stiff form. “It just takes an open mind and some enthusiasm on your part.”

“Enthusiasm?” you question, trying your best to withstand his closeness. You can feel the heat radiating off of his broad shoulder and if you tilt a little nearer, you could graze against him, or feel his breath on your skin. 

“You’re right,” he amends, his forearm contacting your side. You startle at the touch, a gasp falling from your lips, but you don’t pull away and you can’t stop staring up at him, your eyes wide. “Obedience is a better word. From here on out, whatever I tell you to do, I expect you to obey it, although it’s not exactly, ah, school approved.”

“You want me to suck you off or something?” you sneer, hoping to stumble him off his guard, even if it’s only for an instant. Too bad he’s always one step ahead. 

“Don’t be vulgar. Think outside of the box, (Y/N). Do you think I’m going to go for something so short sighted when I could have you bending to my will? Obeying every little demand that I make? I’d much rather see if that skin of yours tastes as good as it looks, then simply have you on your knees. No, I want you to fucking scream for me while I stuff you full of my cock. But first, you need to put in some work. You should know that by now.”

Oxygen is suddenly very hard to come by and you can feel your mind hazing over as you stammer up at him, your mind flitting from word to word disjointedly. Shigaraki grants you a wolfish grin, and he dips his lips beside your ear, whispering over those tiny hairs that rest against your tender skin. “I’ll make this part easy. Nod and I’ll give you the first set of instructions.” 

What did he say? Nod? What happens when you nod? Fuck, why are you letting him do this? Is your grade really worth it? Are you that desperate that… that… 

Shigaraki is whispering other promises over you as you war with yourself, speaking his words gently, slowly, his breath hot as it fans over your neck. It’s like you’ve fallen under some kinda spell and before you realize it, your traitorous head is bobbing up and down, letting him know you want him to keep going.

“Perfect,” he sighs, his lips grazing over the shell of your ear, jerking a shiver from you. “Now, lean forward and put your hands against the table.” 

You do as he says, but he’s not satisfied with your positioning, his fingers wrapping around your wrists and yanking you forward, jutting your ass out and pressing your chest down, maneuvering you until your nose is right above the pages of the textbook. “There we go,” he rasps, pulling away so he can admire your splayed form. “Hmm, your legs are too close together. Spread them.” Knees trembling, you obey, gasping when he runs a palm against the curve of your thighs.

“You’ve got such nice legs (Y/N), so let’s put them on display, shall we?” His fingers search against the top of your skirt and they still when he reaches his prize: the zipper. When he pulls it down, you let out a sharp squeak of protestation but he silences you with a swift pinch to your side. 

“Now, now, don’t be like that. You nodded, remember? Besides, you could have left when I told you I’d give you a curve but you couldn’t help yourself could you? You want me to keep going and to do that, I need you to take this skirt off. No, don’t move. I’ll get rid of it for you. Why don’t you focus on the task at hand, hmm? Aren’t you supposed to be reading for me?”

You arch away from his fingers and he chuckles at your impudence, one large hand hooking under your chin and pulling you toward his face. His red eyes blaze as they find yours, the dark pupils threatening to swallow up that deep vermillion. “Let’s start with the second paragraph. If you do well, I might grant you a reprieve.” 

Jerking your face from his grip, you twist back to the text, trying, and failing, to ignore his inquisitive fingers, unable to resist sighing as he works one up your inner thigh. He pauses when no words fall from your lips and you grumble out a few low curses before acquiescing to his silent demand. 

“The flow of genetic information in cells from DNA to mRNA to protein is described by the Central Dogma, which states that genes specify the sequence of mRNAs, which specify the sequence of proteins. The decoding of one molecule… the… the… molecule… by spec-specific…”

He’s slipped your skirt down over the swell of your ass, but he’s taking his time, flexing out the front of the material and dipping his fingers over the bump of your lower stomach, kneading into the delicate flesh that’s stretched out for him. You can’t help the twitch of your spine and you involuntarily wiggle, palms slipping forward, dragging you further along the tabletop. Shigaraki chuckles above you, running his rough lips over the back of your neck.

“You’re so sensitive. I’ve barely touched you.” 

He circles his hands back to your skirt and edges it along, lowering it sharply on one side and then giving the same treatment to the other. You’re doing your best to keep up with your stammering readings, but it’s difficult when he keeps sighing and running his long nails across your newly bared skin. Finally, he works the skirt down and it thumps against your bare ankles; the fabric tickling your skin. 

Meanwhile, his other fingers skitter against the elastic band of your rapidly dampening panties. Once he hooks the lace under his hand, he yanks them along your legs, trailing them sinfully slowly, ensuring that they glide down the billow of your thighs. His teeth nip at your ear when you stumble to a halt in your recitation and your hands tense over the grains of wood beneath them, your nails pinching into your palms. “If you stop, I stop,” he warns, his head bumping against yours, his sharp nose pressing against your pulse.

“You’re not exactly making this easy,” you grumble, doing your best to ignore his renewed pets and strokes. 

“Stop complaining,” he smirks, leaning away from your head to peer at your newly exposed flesh. “You better pay attention to what you’re reading or you’re not going to pass the questions I’ll be asking you.”

“Yeah, yeah, ow!” you squawk, whipping your head around to glare up at him. He fucking pinched you again! This time, he’d slipped his hand between your spread legs and tweaked your inner thigh, painfully. 

“Read,” he repeats, running those guilty fingers upward, lingering beside the heat of your cunt, careful to not get too close. When you start on the next sentence, one of his hands tugs up the fabric of your shirt, snaking upward until he’s thumbing against the wire of your bra. Once again, you falter to a halt and exhale a wavering breath. 

Goddamn it. This review is no review. You’ll be lucky if you can even recall what a cell is if he keeps this up. You hear his ominous intake of air and quickly resume your recitation, mumbling something about RNA and mRNA differences. 

Wait. Didn’t you just…  

“Looks like you’re having trouble listening to me. I told you to read aloud, not to repeat the same passages over and over.”

“Hey, at least I’ll have a firm grasp on those. You should ask me something about that s-section… ah–”

The hand that was resting under the cup of your bra has made its way underneath the lightly padded material, and his thumb and index fingers have trapped your peaked nipple between them. As soon as your snarky comment left your mouth, he’d twisted the bud, squeezing it until it throbbed. 

“Pay attention,” he commands, shoving your bra upward, freeing the globes of your breasts and cupping both of his broad hands under them. Your abused nipple stings and the mixture of sharp pain and jarring arousal goes right through you, stoking that coil that pulsed within your core, and sending a tacky flush of your essence down your spread thighs.

The next few words are a struggle. The text keeps blurring and your breaths are coming in fast and heavy. Shigaraki is still feeling you up, keeping his lips close to your ears, rasping sharp commands to you and dealing out lightning fast rounds of pinches and squeezes each time you falter. 

“I–I can’t… I don’t even know what I’m reading anymore,” you bemoan, your hips pressing against the edge of the table, legs trembling as you attempt to keep them apart. He’s deliberately ignoring your throbbing clit and a desperate edge is creeping into your voice. 

“Are you always this whiny? Fine. I’ll give you a moment to read without any distractions.”

Thank God.

True to his word, he slips away from your back and you’re left shivering against his sudden absence. Despite your quaking, you’re determined to make the most of this chance and you quickly read out the paragraphs that are on the second page. As you ramble down to the last bit of text, you realize you can’t hear him anymore and when you finish the last sentence; you start to really wonder where he’s drifted off to. A tense silence follows your completion of the material and you arch up on the tips of your toes, jutting your ass out and stretching the stiffened muscles of your lower back. 

“Didn’t say you could stop reading, and judging from all of your complaints, I don’t think you got some of those earlier concepts, so I’d suggest doing a quick review,” he taunts, the sudden rasp of his voice startling a low gasp from your lips. 

He’s close; somewhere behind you and to the left from the sound of it. You try to twist around, your chest lifting from the table, and when he notices, his hands return, creating a rough pressure against your neck as he forces your body back down. His weight plasters you to the surface, scraping your partially exposed stomach and tender breasts over the nicked wood. Shigaraki is merciless in his swift correction, his breath puffing out angrily behind you. “Didn’t say you could move, either.”

Stunned, you freeze. Your arms are arched awkwardly, but he keeps his weight against you, flattening your breasts and forcing your back to arch into an awkward bend. Fuck, you think, how are you supposed to stay like this? Your legs are already aching and if he shifts away again, he’s likely going to expect you to maintain this absurd pose.  

“Yes,” he groans, his voice catching against the word, “Good girl. Now, stay just like that.”

Damn it.

“Go on, read the first part again,” he instructs. 

“The entire genetic content of a cell is known as its genome and the study of genomes is gen-genomics. In eukaryotic cells, but… but not in p-prokaryotes, DNA forms a complex with histone proteins… with histone proteins… sub-substance… of…”

His teeth have latched onto your neck, and he’s sucking bruises into your tender skin. He’s still pinning you to the table, but his hands are widening their explorations. He’s started dragging a fingernail across the puffy folds of your cunt, teasing against the dripping and swollen flesh, chuckling when you buck against his hold. 

“You always seem to lose it when you get to cellular modulations.”  

“I–I–It’s not… I can’t help that you keep…” you whimper, your fingers curling under your palms, head shaking back and forth. You can’t think. He’s not being fucking fair, and you can’t even string your goddamn words together. Shit. “Y-you’re not being fair,” you accuse, falling on the only thing that keeps running through your mind, your splayed feet shifting uncomfortably under you.

“Not fair? Not once did I say fairness would come into this arrangement,” he lifts himself off of your back and leans beside you, one arm planted beside your crooked elbow. His fingers trace over the curve of your ass, cupping at the thickest part of you and squeezing. 

“But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get a little satisfaction out of this arrangement. I bet you look good when you cum. And you’ve been working so hard to get my attention these last few months. So careful to do what I tell you. Looking at me with those big eyes of yours, all wide eyed every time I catch you looking at me. And don’t even get me started on your lips. You’re lucky I didn’t fucking bend you over after class, especially when you started wearing all of those cute little skirts for me. Ahhh, don’t moan like that, I won’t be able to help myself if you do. Let’s see how you’re doing, shall we?” 

Without warning, he slips his longest digit into your cunt, groaning loudly when he’s sucked into your welcoming heat. Your pussy, hungry for any kind of scrap, ripples around his intrusion, clamping and pulling, desperate for more. 

“Fuck,” he groans, his weight falling against your shoulder. “You’re soaking.” His elegant digit pushes deeper and you roll your hips under him, urging him closer, sighing when he sinks to the last knuckle. As he pulls his finger back, he adds another, swiftly v-ing the two before curving them together as they slip back out, dragging a steady line of pleasure from your quivering cunt. Shigaraki whispers another round of awed praise against your ear, his voice dark and breathless. 

A third digit is added on another trip out, and it creates a ragged sensation within you. It’s close to what you like, but he’s stretching you too far and it’s starting to hurt. He either needs to speed up, or give you a little more pressure. If you can hump your clit against the edge of the table, maybe it’ll give you the friction that you need. When you mindlessly buck your hips, your thighs threatening to lose that spread, he stops, holding his fingers inside you, laughing as you agitatedly try to shift him back into his earlier rhythm.

“So eager. I’d say you’re ready for my questions.”

“W-what?” you gasp, wholly focused on making him restart the push and pull of his fingers inside you. 

“I’ll start you off with something easy. What’s the cell membrane?”

“W-what? The cell… ah–” 

“Answer me. Now,” he grunts, leaning forward, re-steadying you as his fingers pull outward, dragging against your sensitive folds and schlicking through your arousal lewdly, loudly. You moan and your eyes roll back, completely ignoring his demand as you fall into the haze of pleasure that comes after his movements. 

His free hand travels up your neck and he tangles his fingers into the tendrils of your hair, yanking and jerking at the strands, demanding your attention.  

“I said, answer me.”

“Shigaraki–I–fuck. I can’t even… ugh… think right now!”

“Do you want the grade, or not?” he questions, his voice tense. “Answer correctly and I’ll give you what you want.” 

“I–I don’t think I can,” you whine, pressing your hips back as he thrusts his fingers forward again, curving them upward, searching for the spongy pad of nerves that rest against the front of your pelvis. 

“Oh? What happened to wanting that A? What about your graduation? You gonna let me fuck up your entire college career? I can do it, you know. I’ve done it to so many simpering freshmen. I fail kids left and right and you’re no different, (Y/N). 

The university lets me ahh–there it is! God, you’re so fucking wet. 

Where was I? The university can’t say no to me; they let me do what I want. I bring in too much money, too many tempting grants, and that’s all they really care about. So what’s it gonna be? Let me see that you can answer this basic crap and I’ll pass you. Or would you like for me to tie you down and force it outta you another way?”

He’s picked up the pace of his fingers as he rambles over you and a swift press against that newly discovered spot inside you has you falling to pieces in his hands, popping up onto your tiptoes and rutting yourself against the surface of the table. “O-ok, God, ok! Just–fucking repeat the goddamn question,” you pant, head slumping forward, forcing his fingers to tighten against your hair to hold you upright. 

“What is the cell membrane?” 

You wince your eyes closed, trying to rack your brain to focus on something other than the heavy pressure of the three fingers that are teasing their way across your dribbling pussy. He’s moving his presses with a lackadaisical, inconsistent rhythm now and it’s hard to fucking think. You can’t tell if his next thrust will be hard, or soft, or so rough that it’s bordering on that bittersweet line of pain. 

You shake your head, doing your best to ignore the mounting pressure that he’s building inside you and the ache of your neck and legs. Finally, after another sharp tap against that secret bunch of nerves at the front of your cunt, you latch onto a vague remembrance. 

“It… it’s a double layer of–of phospholipids that make a boundary between the cell and t-the surrounding… ugh… it controls the passage of materials.”

“Very good. Elaborate on the cellular wall.”

He’s unrelenting in his domineering treatment, twisting and frigging his fingers each time your breath hitches, and your arousal is leaking down your legs, making your skin stick and pull. It’s too much, you can’t! How can he even ask this? Words are falling from your lips incoherently, and all too soon you’re gasping out his name rather than reciting the answer. 

“Cellular–oh, fuck, Shi–Shigaraki–Please, keep–don’t stop! S-Shigaraki, God that… feels… ah–keep going!”

He ignores your request and pulls his fingers away, robbing you of that sweet pressure that he’s so carefully mounted within you. 

“I’ll count that one as incorrect. Your ‘A’ is swiftly becoming an ‘A’ minus, (Y/N)” he snarls, his teeth gritted, hands falling to the swell of your hips, wet fingers digging into your soft skin. 

“What? No! You didn’t give me enough… e-enough time! How can–can you expect me to answer that qui-quickly!”

“Let’s try another.” 

It hurts. That ache that he’s drawn out of you is starting to sting and throb and he’s being such a dick about it! You twist and grind under him, and he traps your disobedient hips against the rough siding of the table.

“I don’t–” you protest weakly, your legs trembling and chest heaving under his weight.  

“Do you want this? Wouldn’t you like to pass this class? To graduate with honors?” he growls, leaning closer, his hands braced against you, his fingers no doubt leaving bruises on the supple crest of your hips. 

“You’re such an ass! Yes! Fuck, please! I–I want it so fucking bad!” you cry out, your voice drifting into a sob as you croak out the last plea.

“Then answer another question. What’s diffusion?”

“D-diffu-diffusion is the process by which molecules move from an a-area of… of… fuck- of high concentration, to low concentration. Shigaraki!”

“I should count that as another miss, but you got the major concept correct.” He removes his fingers from your waist and yanks your ass toward him, keeping your overeager hips away from the fleeting relief of the sturdy table. “Pop your legs together,” he commands, one hand wrapping around your arched throat, squeezing until you obey. His other hand drops to that thatch of curls that rest between your quivering thighs and he gathers up your gossamer strands, rubbing against your clit for one hazy instant, sending a flash of spots across your vision.

“Mmm, now that’s a pretty sight. Good girl, don’t move,” he reminds you and you want to scream at him. Right before you can spit some frustrated vitriol out, he’s releasing your neck, his hands dropping from your skin and letting you fall back to the uneven surface below. Just before your chin contacts the wood, his hand is back in your hair, tugging you upward, holding you a few inches above the table. The sharp pain makes your scalp tingle and you unconsciously rut against the tempting heat that’s now plastered to your ass. He’s hard. You can feel the stiff bulge of his cock straining against the front of his dark jeans, pressing into the cleft of your posterior. 

“T-that’ can’t be comfortable,” you pant, twisting your head so you can look up at him from the curve of your shoulder.

“Oh? You worried about my cock?” he asks, his red eyes flashing down at you challengingly. You don’t bother giving him a verbal response, opting instead to grind your ass up, catching against the jut of his length, earning yourself a low groan. His lips curl when you repeat the motion and you realize you love watching that smug face of his drift into a look of tense pleasure. It makes his scar on his lip flush and those red eyes of his fall to a lazy half mast. He spies your arched brow and pleased grin and pushes himself off of you, leaving you alone and open on the table.   

“Keep pushing your luck. I’m more than happy to drop you back to a B.”

“What?” you scoff, teeth clinking together as you clench your jaw. “I didn’t move!”

“No, but you’re trying to take control of this and we can’t have that can we?” Shigaraki sneers. “Now, how shall I punish you?”

“P-punish me?” you stammer, a chill racing down your spine. 

“Ah, I know. This’ll really piss you off,” he twists from your strained gaze and walks back toward his desk. What? What the fuck does he mean? You can’t see him from this angle, not with the way your legs are stretched and back is lowered, but it doesn’t stop you from trying, your chin lifting upwards as you do your best to keep him in focus. 

Ugh. It’s no use. He’s slipped past your field of vision. 

Hearing is likely your best bet, so you shift your forehead back to the table and listen, straining your ears to pick up any morsel. Something opens and closes and you catch the sound of the wheels of his chair as they shift, squeaking across the floor, and the groaning of the springs when his weight is applied to the cheap leather. 

Okay, so he’s in his chair. Is he just gonna look at you? That’s not… wait… 

There’s a faint clicking sound. 

It’s both familiar and unfamiliar to your ears, but once the teeth slide over the last pull, you realize. It’s a zipper. 

Oh fuck. Is he going to jerk himself off? With a gasp, your head whips back around. He’s still positioned himself away from you, and you can only just make out the sounds that are accompanying the undoubted rise and fall of his fist. All you can see is a tiny sliver of his body, but you catch sight of the coiling muscles on his neck and you notice that his head is dipped forward, pearl white hair settling across the cut of his collarbone. The one red eye that meets yours is blazing and hungry, it makes every hair on the back of your neck stand up.  

God, he’s staring at you, watching you, getting himself off as you’re half naked and bent over a desk in his office, fully subjugating yourself to his whims and fancies for the sake of your grade. 

Damn it, (Y/N). This should not be a fucking turn on. You should be disgusted, but the flush of slick that drips down your thigh says otherwise. 

He lets out a choked moan, picking up the pace of his hand, letting you hear the click and slip of his palm as it strokes up and down his cock. A shiver echoes up your spine and your hips seem to have a mind of their own, grinding your clenched thighs over the dip of the table, easing the clenching pulsations that your cunt is shuddering through you.

“Look at you, so desperate for my touch that you’re humping the fucking table. Such a dirty girl, and so disobedient. You’ve only answered a few of my questions correctly and yet your slutty little mouth and body keep pushing at me. Making me put you in your place. Let me ask you something, why should I go out of my way to fix your grade when you can’t even prove to me you understand the simplest concepts? 

Ah, here’s a thought. What if I told you I’ll wave the other requirements; no more readings, no more quizzes, but I won’t let you cum? What if I just get myself off? You’re putting on a such a good show for me! Why should I bother with seeing that you’re satisfied when that table seems to do the job for you? Sound good? Or would you like for me to come back over there and make you cum?”

“I–I don’t… I don’t want…” You can’t get the words out, your tongue feels leaden between your lips and you can’t think of anything but the steady itch that’s spreading from your clit. 

“Speak up,” Shigaraki demands, slowing his jerking fingers. The chair he’s sitting in groans as he leans forward, and his eyes wide as they take in the delicious sight that’s propped before him. “You don’t want to cum? Is that it? You’d like for me to get myself off and leave you there?”

“No!” you cry out, your fingers digging into the scuffed wood of the table. “I-I want you to make me cum.”

There’s a sharp clatter and you jump at the abrupt noise. It must be the chair you think, your heart pounding against your chest, waiting for Shigaraki’s next move. He only lets a few seconds drift by before he presses himself back to you. He leans his broad chest over your back, the front of his legs pushing against the back of yours. His exposed length is wedged firmly against the cleft of your ass and its tempting hardness makes you squirm under him, but he’s propelling you forward, pinning you against the rough wood, and you can only flail uselessly under his control. His lips skim over your neck and he bites into your skin, sucking and licking bruises as he inches closer to your pulse.  

You say his name pitifully, wantonly, and he lets out a shaky gasp. Something about your tone has shifted something within him and you can feel his cock swelling, dripping a rope of wet pre-cum down your shaking leg. 

He leans away, removing his sticky hardness from your ass. “Seems your priorities have shifted. You’re a little preoccupied right now, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice gravel scraping against your overwhelmed senses. You let out a weak moan and he snaps into action, his fingers pushing under your flattened stomach and tugging against the fabric that he finds. He yanks you upward, pulling your shirt up as he goes. His palms dip under your half lifted bra, and he cups at your breasts, massaging the rounded bulbs and plucking at your peaked nipples. Your head lolls back, and he sucks at your earlobe again, his breath warm and rasping as it passes by. 

“Hold still,” he commands. 

It’s not an easy position, this stretched upward arch that he’s forced you into, but it’s worth it when you feel his cock pushing between your tensed legs. He doesn’t thrust into you, opting to run his weeping tip against your slippery folds, pressing until his bulbous head is twitching against your pulsing clit. 

Goddamn it, you think as he stills, his lips smacking open-mouthed kisses over your shoulder, it’s not enough. You wiggle your hips back and forth and he abruptly exerts a firm pressure against your windpipe, leaving you sputtering and gasping. “What’s wrong? Not happy with this? Do you think you deserve something more? Do you think you’ve earned that?” He shoves you back against the surface of the table, his broad chest following the plane of your back, trapping you under his heavy form. 

You’d replied, you know you must have, but you can’t hear yourself anymore, your attention attuned to the warm length that’s pressed against your shuddering folds. You’d likely thrown in a please for good measure because Shigaraki rewards you with a quick peck to your shivering neck and his thumb, swirling it around your clit, creating a cresting ache that leaves you mumbling incoherently, a thin line of drool slipping from your parted lips. As he keeps that faint osculation up, your fingernails scrape over the wood of the table, your feet lifting you onto your toes, curving your back, and shoving your leaking pussy into his open palm. 

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” Shigaraki says, a breathy desperation lingering around the edges of his rasping voice. “But it’s just not enough, right?” 

You nod, licking up some of the excess saliva that’s built under your heavy tongue and crane your head back at him. His eyes are the first thing you see. They’re wild, ravenous and glinting with a roughness that makes you whisper out a soft whine. Fuck. It’s not supposed to be like this. You’re not supposed to want him this badly. Goddamn it. Now that he’s caught your gaze, he won’t let you look away, and he presses himself closer, his cock twitching and warm, the tip rubbing back and forth, keeping time with his circling thumb.

“You gonna fuck me, or not?” you finally ask, unsticking your lips and smirking up at his hardened face. 

“Tch. Don’t rush me,” he grumbles, removing his hand and teasing cock from your cunt, watching as your body convulses under him, your pussy quivering against the excess stimulation that he’s wrought over you. Your thighs burn, aching to break free from his control, to rub against that throb, that tingling that keeps shuddering outward.

“One more question,” he tells you, lifting his dripping thumb to his lips and sucking off the traces of your arousal. The sight of him licking his pink tongue over his gleaming knuckles almost makes you lose your balance, your arms shaking precariously under you. 

“A-another? Come on,” you pout, your eyes following the curve of his wicked lips, watching as his scar quirks upward, amused by your useless defiance. 

“Make you a deal, answer it correctly and I’ll give you my cock. Sound fair?”

“Ugh, whatever, just hurry up,” you snap, so impatient and turned on that you can hardly think. 

The tip of his cock presses against your sopping entrance, pushing forward just enough to part your dripping folds but stopping before he clears that first, tight ring of flesh. The promise of his dribbling tip makes you lose any semblance of self-control. You thrash under him, but he traps your disobedient hips against the rough siding of the table.

“No! Don’t stop! Come on Sh-Shigaraki–Don’t be such a fucking–ah–” 

“Do you want this? Do you want my cock?” he growls, leaning over you, his fingers squeezing down, no doubt leaving bruises in the supple crest of your hips. 

“Yes! Fuck, please! I–I want it so fucking bad!” you cry out, your voice drifting into a sob as you croak out the last plea.

“Then you better answer. What are cytosines?”

“They… they’re n-nitrogenous base… fuck… base that pair… that pair with guanine during D-DNA replication… I–please, please, Shigaraki! Fuck me! I want your cock! Fuck me, fuck me!”

Thankfully, he either takes pity on you, or can’t control himself anymore, his hips surging forward, gliding his thick length into your cunt and snarling at the mind numbing heat that waits for him. He keeps driving upward until he bottoms out, sharp hipbones grinding against the plushness of your ass. 

He’s not gentle with you, no he’s animalistic and raw, his thrusts papping into you with a terrifying strength. You would have liked something slower, something that lets you enjoy each imperfection and dip that raced along his cock, but this, oh, this is an exception because this is perfect. It’s not what you want, but it is what you need. 

The heavy fullness that he’s stuffing you with leaves you breathless, but you somehow manage to gasp out a string of nonsensical praises each time he drives back into you, overwrought by his roughness. 

This coupling isn’t kind, isn’t right, and is not healthy, for either of you. No, not with the way he’s using your shivering body, distracted with slacking that euphoric thrum that’s making his cock pulse and swell inside you.

But fuck it feels good and you can’t help but tremble with delight. These intoxicating thrusts of his ram him up against something that’s buried deep inside you, and each time he hits it another star of bright pleasure races through you. The familiar coiling of release is steadily mounting with each rapid fire rut he gives you and if he could just, ah, there’s something that’s… no, fuck, it’s, it’s not going to work. It feels good, but it’s missing one vital ingredient, one thing that he’s neglected to pay attention to, to notice. 

Your clit needs to be tweaked and rolled, and right now it’s pulsing away against the table, beating a sad tattoo into the grainy wood. Oh well, you think, head fuzzy, lost in the euphoria of his powerful cants, grinding your ass into his hips as he digs into another teeth chattering thrust. He’ll likely finish soon, and you’ll probably need to get yourself off later. It’s not something new, and it’s not like he’s going to care enough to focus on that, on you. This whole thing has been about control, so there’s likely no room for your own pleasure.

“What’s wrong,” he gasps out, his fingers lifting from your hips to curl beside your turned head. 

“What? N-nothing–I–” you pant, eyes rolling back as he hits that spongy patch of nerves again. 

“Tch. Hold on,” he interrupts, his voice rasping and breathy. He pulls himself out of you with a grunt and yanks you upward, hauling you onto the tabletop and flipping you on your back, bending your stiffened legs and bracing your knees against his lean forearms. 

He holds you apart, spreading you open with his powerful hands. You can see him properly now, and the sight makes your breath catch against the back of your throat. Fuck, he looks good. 

His long white hair is draped across his bare shoulders and his eyes are blazing pits of hunger, devouring the sight of you with those red irises. His jaw is clenched, and he glares down at you from his imperious height, his nostrils flaring as he drags in a quick intake of air. To your shock, he gives you a little time to acclimate to this new position, opting to languidly step forward, letting his slippery cock head press and tease at the dip of your opening. But right when you think he’ll move again, he stops, his eyes roving over the lines of your face. 

His sudden stillness makes you peer quizzically up at him and you scoot closer, your feet lifting from the table. The movement snaps him out of his stupor and he grabs your ankles, roughly pinning you back down.

“Keep still,” he snarls through clenched teeth, that scar of his lifting. 

You nod mutely and he rewards your unquestioning obedience with another powerful thrust, sinking his swollen cock back into your waiting cunt. He lets out a sharp groan and grabs at your hips, jerking you forward, already drifting back into that all-consuming rhythm he’d started earlier. His ruts are a little slower from this angle but, in no time at all, that familiar ache pools in your core, stoking and building at an alarming rate. The driving force of his hips soon has you blinking back spots and distant stars, and this time he adds the all important pressure of his thumb, circling the finger pad over your clit and dragging a broken moan from your quivering lips. 

“So that’s what you needed. You close?” he grits out, his lips set in a curled scowl. He’s lost some of that early control, his hips stuttering as they connect with yours, his power lessening, cooling, as he looks for your release. 

“I–I think–oh fuck, do that again. Yes! Just–ah!”

He angles your hips upward and gives your clit another quick oscillation, pressing down until you’re gasping. “There you go. That felt good. You’re getting tighter,” he laughs, looming over you, shoving your heaving chest downward as he jerks your hips into him, forcing your body to do most of the motion, making your shoulder blades scrape across the uneven wood. “Cum for me. Fucking cum on my cock, (Y/N). Cum and I’ll give you your A, I’ll give you whatever the fuck you want.”

Your spine arches as you break around him, your cunt greedily pulling him deeper, slipping him past the barrier of your tender cervix and earning you a weak shout of praise from Shigaraki. Seconds later, he’s pulsing and twitching against your walls, the warm pooling of his cum filling you up and spilling down your spread thighs. 

His head drops to your shoulder and the rough skin of his forehead sticks to your sweat dampened flesh. For a long moment you’re both still, each of you struggling to catch your breath, luxuriating in the tingling sensation of release. 

“I fucking hate you, you know,” you gasp out, your arms circling his back, fingertips etching vague patterns over his neck and shoulders. 

“Ha,” he snorts, “I’ll have to remember that. Don’t worry (Y/N), I’ll pay you back for that little remark next time.”

“Oh? Next time?” you chuckle, moaning as he twists out of your hold and pulls his softening length out of you. 

“I’ll fail you on every assignment if you try to keep away,” he threatens, his eyes falling to the gaping mess that he’s left behind. You cross your legs, denying him the satisfaction of leering at your dripping pussy. 

“Fine. But next time, fuck me on something softer than a damn table.”

tags: @spicy-skull​, @xwildskullx​, @yixxes​, @ghstmthr​, @rekoii​, @diaouranask​, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love​, @libiraki​ <--- i’m coming for you. you’re gonna have to read for this, lady. so, uh, i’m officially noneconing you here. 

notes: you made it! this thing is a monster & i’m so sorry i can never stfu

[cinnamonest]

Albedo idol girl darling thoughts M A N I F E S T E D

----------

Well, to be entirely honest, he thinks the whole idol thing is a little dumb.

For someone like him, at least. He's a PhD student in his final semester, lots of work to be done and all that. So, you know, he's a responsible, accomplished adult. Not the kind of person who gets into "that stuff," as he calls it in his head.

Nor does he even know how he encountered it... He just takes the occasional break from work to mindlessly open whatever app first pops into his vision and scroll through the feed. He's never watched anything like it in his life, so he's not exactly sure why he gets recommended some idol girl thing, and even less sure why he taps it without really thinking. Probably one of those videos that gets recommended to everyone. Well, can't be that, it doesn't have that many views... Probably loosely connected to some video game he's searched before or something. He's familiar with idols and what they are, and the subculture surrounding them, but he's never really cared about it.

Honestly, it's kinda pathetic that a bunch of grown adult men get so obsessed over these girls, he thinks as he watches. He's seen the type. Lonely, asocial dudes, most definitely virgins whose only female attention in their entire life is their mother, well into adulthood with no real social group to speak of.

...Not that he's much better off, but he hasn't quite sunk down to their level. The only reason he doesn't talk to people much is because they're busy, and he's even busier. He managed to make a few friends in undergrad years. Well, study partners who mooched off his notes since he was one of the top students, but same idea. They were people he spoke to more than once, which is what constitutes a friend, right? And for the record, one time in high school a girl in his class said she liked his hair. He hasn't changed the way he wears it since. Whenever he's sad, he thinks about that compliment from 10+ years ago, and it makes him feel a little better. But now, he's constantly slammed with work and research.

And his acquaintances are also all busy. He sees notifications every now and then from social media he never checks. Everyone is getting married at this stage in life, both friends and even other PhD students in his department. Not that he's ever been invited to a wedding, he just overhears a lot of conversations, sees notifications of posts. And he will too, eventually. He just has to finish up his degree, and then... Meet a girl. Well, that's actually the second step, step one would be finding out how to go about meeting a girl. He's... Never done it before. Probably does not happen sitting in the research lab at 11:30 pm on YouTube. He's talked to one of the other PhD students who's a girl before. And only stutters sometimes. He was even able to look her in the face while he talked to her once. That's a good start.

Ok, so maybe he is a little bit pathetic, but not as bad as... These guys. Reading the comments of the video actually make him feel a little better about himself, because frankly, they're kinda wild. The worship and fawning over girls is one thing, but they even have timestamps referring to various members like "she's super cute here!" Or "you can kinda see her thigh at 3:12!" Etc etc. Yeesh, creepy. And they get into comment fights over who is the best member, as if it even matters. It's fascinating in a human-social-experiment sort of way, the manifestation of a subculture and how humans interact with each other. On and on it goes, hundreds of commenters. He pays more attention to the comments than the actual video, but the song is kinda catchy in that annoying sort of way, and the girls are cute, just kinda... The typical thing he'd expect from idol groups. But the building will close soon, so he taps back to home screen and swipes the app closed.

Unfortunately, the algorithm remembers.

And he's not certain why he clicks the next one either, the following day. The lunch breaks he takes are usually pretty rushed. Not that he has specific class times at his level of academia, but he likes to get his work done. He intentionally eats either a bit later or earlier than the lunch crowd to avoid crowds and interactions. Finds a nice secluded little table tucked away. So when he opens it back up, what do you know, several more videos get recommended. It's absent minded when he taps on one, the kind of numb-brained entertainment every modern person indulges in, videos you wouldn't really be interested in but just watch because they're there.

Ok, this is really creepy. These dudes have made compilation videos of close ups of each specific girl. It's the same group as the video he saw before, same little lewd costumes. Admittedly the girls are kinda cute. He can kinda understand the appeal. But he's not like those guys, he would never become like, obsessed with them.

The song is actually really catchy. The kind of mindlessly addictive, repetitive pop music that's the same four chords over and over, each song is so similar you can't really tell them apart, but it gets stuck in your head anyway. This group has... nine members. Who needs that many singers in one group? It's not like a band or anything, they all just sing and do their little choreography. Guess that's a form of talent, even though he doesn't really get it.

Some of the groups he sees in recommended videos are cute and wholesome, and while this group is cute too, there's a very... Blatantly intentional lewdness to their poses and costumes. A hypersexualized sort of cuteness. Clearly marketed at lonely losers who have nothing better to do with their time than obsess over a girl who will never even know they exist.

He taps another video.

So many compilations, yikes. He has to give the guys credit, they're insanely loyal to the individual member that they decide to fixate on. Oh, and they even make official figurines and posters for these girls, that's... Something.

And a few days later he can kinda recognize the girls. They have color themes, you know, identical costumes except each girl's is a different color. This lead one is red, this main backup is blue, etc etc. Lots of bright colors. Kinda hurts his eyes to be honest.

And he's seen compilations of every girl except... The pink one. The pink one is always kinda off to the side. Well, these groups do have their favoritism, there's apparently one or two lead singers in all of the major idol groups, and the rest are basically backups and dancers. Still, a lot of dudes get super devoted to the non-main girls. So yeah, he's never seen a compilation for the pink one... He can't always exactly remember which one is which but now he's seen enough to know the other girls' names. He's not sure what hers is though. So he googles it and gets the name.

Wonder why she doesn't have as many videos...? Oh, it's because she's the newest member. Only been around a few months. There's... A whole board dedicated to the group, which he's getting this information from. Wow, pathetic. What kind of person spends their free time browsing a forum for an idol group? Well, he's just doing it to find information, not for fun or anything. He was just curious. Now he knows and he can forget about it and never look at anything related to them again... after he types her name and group name into the YouTube search bar and checks the results out, that is.

Oh, so they do have some compilations for her, just not many. "(Name) thigh compilation." Fuck, these people have no limits to how creepy and pathetic they can get, he thinks... as he watches the video. Ok, admittedly there are some good thigh shots there. There's a comment. "At 4:26 you can see her panties." Pathetic. They're not wrong though. Just to be sure, you see, he tapped the timestamp, and you can, in fact, see them. Stripes. Cute.

But he still has to do his work. Can't get too invested in watching mindless videos all day. He's got a thesis to work on.

That makes him curious, though, he thinks as he goes about his research. Do these girls go to school? Do they like, skip college, or do they join some kind of performing arts school or...? So he googles it. He can remember the pink one's name now, so he just finds her Wikipedia page. Oh, so she joined right out of high school and has been in various groups ever since.

Wait, various groups? So she has more groups she's been in? What are those? Before he typed her name into the search along with the group name, but if he just searches her name he gets... A lot more content from earlier years. Huh. Didn't know some of them did group-hopping like that.

Still, no education. Must be all smiles and body and no brains. Guess that's all you really need. Yeah, looking at that whole act they do... All giggly and childish and lewd... She's probably not too bright. At least she's pretty and sings nice. And the thighs are rather good. Smooth looking. They have a sort of jiggle when she jumps up and down on stage. The thigh highs they make those girls wear have that nice little dip where the skin is compressed by the fabric. Like... right there at that closeup. He takes a screenshot.

It's readily available, he's already seen the video and knows the best parts, whereas searching for porn would take time. The sooner he can get the daily stress relief out of the way the sooner he can work on his thesis. So this way is faster. That's why he's jerking off to the thigh video and not taking the time to look for porn. Plus, it makes him cum faster. Which it probably shouldn't since it's just thighs, but... Probably has something to do with the tease of it all maybe. That makes sense.

Or maybe it's that cute little giggle he can hear at some parts. She smiles and jumps and spins and laughs.

...It makes him wonder what she'd look like crying. Scared. Whimpering. Covered in bruises and bite marks. The contrast between that state and the one on the screen. The process and the things he could do to get her from one to the other. Yeah, he realizes, it's that thought, rather than the happy giggling on video or tease aspect, that makes him cum.

He's aware that his... tastes... are a little on the fucked up side, but hey, there's plenty of bastards out there far worse than him.

One day he discovers she has social media platforms. He... Doesn't really have any. He doesn't have Twitter or Instagram or any of that but... He downloads the app and makes an account for each. Just to follow her. Ooh, they even have the option to get a notification every time she posts... That's good. Otherwise he might check too frequently. He sets a special sound effect for notifications for her socials. The first few times, you see, he would get super excited when his phone went off, only to be disappointed when it was just a work email. Thus, he made the separate sounds.

He wouldn't say he has a favorite, that sounds really cringey you know? He just... Likes her more than the others. ...Dammit, that's what a favorite is. Ok, maybe he has a favorite, that's not that bad. He's not obsessed. He hasn't bought any merchandise at all or anything, especially not member-specific merchandise. Which they do have, because he visited the store page for a while and spent all his willpower physically restraining himself from buying something. It's not that he's biased, he just thinks she's objectively better than the rest of the group. Which can be backed up with evidence, anyone with eyes could tell by watching the performances.

As to what specifically draws him to her... he's not certain, to be honest. Maybe it's because she's the least appreciated out of the group, new and all. The less popular one. Or maybe her personality... She seems so sweet, even though he knows it's probably just an act for the fans. Or maybe just those thighs. That's also a valid possibility.

He cracks and buys some of the merchandise. Only about $300 worth. But honestly, he gets more invested into just printing out pictures of you. Pasting them onto the wall above his desktop. It keeps him going when the nights are hard.

But he refrains from ever commenting on anything. Some of these losers are just... so embarrassing, he can't stomach the thought of being associated, even if it's just an anonymous comment online. It's still pretty... Distasteful. He still browses the boards every day. You're his lock screen now. And home screen. And also your solo is his ringtone. He only sets his phone on sound when he's alone at home, though, when he's at work he puts it on vibrate. He... doesn't want anyone hearing that. No offense. He has some appropriate amount of shame, unlike the other bastards.

And the girls probably know that most of their fans are these kind of loser men, right? She'd probably be surprised someone nearly graduating with a chemistry doctorate is sitting around watching these dumb videos. Is that more or less pathetic? He thinks less, hopefully.

In fact, the other fans kind of irritate him. They're really cringy and annoying and it gives him secondhand embarrassment. And something... Deeper. Something about seeing the comments upsets him on a visceral level. It's gross. Sure, he's grateful for the dudes who sit around and make a list of timestamps for upskirt shots and the like, but... It kinda bothers him, feeling like there's some other dude out there sitting around, watching these long videos with his gross eyes and recording the times of shots that get him off. It feels gross. But more like... A violation against you. Sure, your group is very blatantly sexualized and intentionally risque in clothing but... Still, it feels wrong for someone to go through and get to see all of that.

Well, someone else. It's ok for him, since he's not a gross degenerate like the rest of them. He does genuinely see himself as... Above them. You know how like, back in the day, how the nobles used to sit around and watch plays from the far back while the peasants gathered around the stage? It's like that. He's not a gross loser or a NEET or anything like that. He's got a life. Well... Not a social life, but he's doing better than them, at least he has a degree, and soon a higher degree, and a job. He has a lot of things they don't. Basic hygiene. Student loan debt. And uh... Well, he's probably more pleasant to interact with, at least he's not gonna be frothing at the mouth like an animal if he saw you in real life. He would certainly freeze up, but that's preferable, isn't it?

And one day there's a video circulating in the idol community - not that he's a part of it or anything, he just keeps getting the dumb videos and watching them for mindless entertainment - where some girl group had an attempted kidnapping. Not her group, but some other group. The video has gone viral. Some dude tried to rush the stage and pull one of the girls away. Apparently the cops found he had an obsession with her.

What an idiot. If you're gonna kidnap someone, put some effort in, jeez. It's not hard to figure out how to do it right.

If that were him, he wouldn't be that stupid, he'd just look for an interval where she's alone. They have those solo or breakout group songs where some of the girls are backstage, just get her then. Memorize the concert schedule, wear something over your face, chloroform her, and stuff her into something and walk right out. Easy.

....

He catches himself in the thought and realizes that might have been a bit creepy, but he was just thinking in terms of hypotheticals. If he was the kind of crazy to do that, that's what he'd do, that's all.

He's always enjoyed entertaining strategic thoughts, really. He's had a couple fantasies about how he would commit murders of this or that person before, and he's never murdered anyone, so thoughts don't lead to actions. He just... Really doesn't like those people, and the fantasies help him... Deal with it. He just likes to strategize about methods, and how he'd get away with it... Stuff like that. Actually, he's convinced it's a very normal thing, but no one wants to admit it. Everyone has detailed murder fantasies every now and then.

Which is why this is no different. He's just strategizing because it's fun. He has no intentions of doing anything for real. He just plans out the details like a game. And tells himself to just never think about it again.

Until one specific night that he's staring down at his screen. Lying in bed. He should be asleep, he needs to be up early tomorrow but... He's just checking to be sure he's reading this correctly. You're coming to his town? He wouldn't think so, since it's not too big, just your average college town. But still, you'll be right here, right in his general vicinity, not far away at all.

Not that he'd ever actually go to such an event. No way. He hates crowds with a passion. He hates loud environments even more. A concert is like his worst nightmare. Besides, knowing the general audience of your group, it'll be a bunch of sweaty NEET dudes who haven't showered in a month and haven't crawled out of their house in even longer. No thank you.

But.

That's when the thought pops back up. It's been a few months since that night he had that strategizing fantasy, and, well, he tried to forget it but... It kinda lingered in the back of his mind. And now it's back in full force.

He shrugs the idea off. It's crazy. He'd never actually do something like that. It was just a fantasy.

...But he could get away with it if he wanted to.

He's not scared or anything, no, he's confident in his strategizing. He knows he could. Totally. It's foolproof. There's no need to carry it out to know that, besides, what would he even do with you?

Well, he's pretty certain he does know what he would do with you. He's watched that thigh video maybe a hundred times now. And even if he won't admit it, he's jerked off to the exact same fantasy for like, several months.

He doesn't really... Think about it. Just kind of slips into subconscious actions. Autopilot. One click and well, there goes $400 on an amp case. His eyes gaze over the dimensions... And then there's your height on the Wikipedia page... Yeah... That should work. He gets it sent to the address a few doors down just in case, and snatches it from in front of their door, but he finds himself backpedaling. What the hell is he doing? He would never actually go through with this, what a waste of money... But he still opens it. Sets it beside his front door. Tests the wheels to make sure they work.

He knows how to make chloroform. He doesn't need YouTube tutorials (unlike a certain someone else), he knows exactly how to do it, even alternate methods besides the usual acetone and bleach combination - so long as you end up with the same chemical makeup, it's all the same. He just goes with the traditional way though... Doesn't really know why he does it. Just mutters as he stares down at the concoction wondering why he wasted his time... But he pauses before pouring it down the sink, and instead puts it in a container and keeps it on the counter. Your weight is on Wikipedia too. Taking into account your height and weight you would need about... Yeah, a very specific amount to knock you out for about three hours.

The concert day draws closer and closer and he can't sleep very well. His mind keeps running what-ifs. Just, hypothetically, what if he did go through with it? What then? What would he do long term? How would that all work out?

Well, you'd probably hate him for a while, right? But that changes. Stockholm syndrome sets in. He would know, he had to take Psych 101 back in undergrad, and the professor talked about it for a full 10 minutes, so he's basically an expert. It's been like, 7 years since then, but he still kinda remembers it. He remembers that it's supposed to set in at about 2 weeks, and solidify with time. If the captor is nice, that is, which he totally would be. ...Maybe not in bed, but most of the time. He would be nice to you, and you would start to like him. Besides, they said Stockholm syndrome set in faster if the abductor has good qualities, so, he could also reason with you, remind you that you're lucky you got abducted by someone with money - or, well, he will have money once he graduates! - and isn't some ugly gross slob. He's clean and neat. Sorta... He'll clean up all those dishes that have been sitting there a few days now, pick up all those clothes off the floor... Ok, now he's clean and neat. And, uh, what else would girls care about... He's smart. He's pretty sure he can say that with confidence, if nothing else.

Ok, so, it would work. He could... Keep you kinda... Tied up here... If you started complying within that two week period, he could get you up and walking before atrophy set in. You'd probably have to get used to the lifestyle... Right now he's kinda on a budget, but, he can get you things to keep you occupied... And so, yeah, it could work. It's simple, just keep you with him and isolated for a few weeks and uh, you'll transform into some kind of hypersexual obedient cumslut and never want to leave. That's... How Stockholm syndrome works right? Maybe he should have paid more attention in that class... Oh well. He never liked psychology.

So the day draws nearer and nearer and he starts really getting into the right... Headspace. It's a sort of manic state that he's in. Operating without really thinking, all inhibitions removed by simply refusing to think about it. He lets the subconscious take over and do all these little things to prepare, until finally that day is tomorrow. And then he kinda snaps back to full awareness and questions, again, what the hell is he doing? He can't just... Kidnap a person! Normal people don't do that... It's illegal, he'll get caught, it'll ruin his life and....

What life does he really have to ruin?

That's the thought that sort of solidifies the decision. He realizes why he's even on this path in the first place. Sure he's got a lot of academic accomplishments, but his life is... Rather empty. He doesn't really have anyone. Maybe that's why he's slowly become... Consumed by this obsession that yes, he's now willing to admit to himself is indeed an obsession. It's kinda slowly taken over his everyday life without him even noticing it was happening. He's... Kinda miserable. And very lonely. And... If nothing else... This one girl makes him feel kinda happy.

... Which is why he's going to go through with it.

And he slips back into autopilot, ends up standing outside the building. It's every bit as loud and headache-inducing as he knew it would be. Ugh. He can't wait to get out of here. If this doesn't work, well, he'll be forced to turn around. The plan is a very simple one, actually... Act like he's supposed to be there. And he does. Dresses in all black like stage technicians do, dragging his big amp case behind him, holding a bunch of cords from random things he grabbed in his house, and tries not to look nervous, keeps a neutral face and walks straight forward and... He slides right in. The security guards off to the side don't even bat an eye.

And then he has a moment of "well, I didn't expect to get this far." Pauses. So uh... what now? Well, probably should find you first. He memorized the setlist, so he knows when you'll be off... And alone. Right now there should be three of the girls backstage. It's pretty easy to find where you are, but he's paranoid that the amp case is too loud as he's dragging it around. It's necessary, though. And then, finally, he stumbles upon the room... Opens the door, half expecting to be immediately stopped, but... He can just kinda waltz right in here, some open backroom, a person here or there coming through, a lady that looks like a makeup artist doing something over there, and an actual, real tech guy over there... And over to the far back corner... Oh. That's you. He takes a moment to revel in the sight, unable to move or even breathe, and has to mentally prepare himself before moving forward. He's... Not sure exactly what to do at this point... It's kind of perfect, to be honest, there's no one around you, and you're right out of sight, where he could turn the corner and not be seen. But he's not sure how to... Approach? He thinks about it as he walks, but again, autopilot is on in his brain and he's just numbly walking forward. Does he just... Keep walking until he's right at you and just... Or...?

And a miracle happens. You hear someone coming and you turn and smile and ask are you the tech guy here to fix my mic? You point to the little microphone attached to your face. They told you someone would be coming to fix it before your next song. You presume that's him, since he's dressed in all black like all the other stage techs. He hesitates a moment, wide eyed, but then nods. Yeah, that's him, he says. His voice cracks when he says it. It's kinda cute.

You smile at him. It's wide and sweet and genuine and it almost makes him pass out on the spot. He has to swallow for a second before continuing.

But, uh, he can't do it right here he says, because fiddling with it could disrupt the uh, frequencies, cause that really shrill sound you hear sometimes. So, um, come over this way a sec, over in this dark corner of the studio conveniently out of the view of all people and security cameras. You don't know how any of that stuff works, so you trust him, it's his job after all. So you get up and straighten your little skirt out - wow those are even more revealing in person - and walk over it the dark corner where he's waiting and... it's the last thing you remember.

He does a quick look left and right to ensure no one saw you collapse in his arms, but sure enough, this area is empty. You fit into the amp case with ease. Just curl your body up and pop the lid on. Wait, can you... breathe in there? Well, it won't take long to get outside. He just rolls the case right out the door, right past the guards again, and no one stops him, no one suspects a thing. Puts the case in the backseat, opens the lid, does a quick check go make sure you're breathing alright. So he props it open by keeping a book in between the case and lid as he drives home.

Once he does get home, he just does the same thing he did before - close the lid, roll you into the elevator and up the stairs and into his place, looking back over his shoulder over and over. And once he gets you inside he just kinda... falls to his knees. Shivering. Disbelief. Because holy shit he actually did it. He actually went through with it and it worked. He sits there and stares at the case and - oh, fuck, gotta open it again for you to breathe. Actually, he might as well... take you out... when he first shoved you in, he was so high on adrenaline he didn't really process any of it, but now... he almost can't bring himself to take you out. That means he has to, like, touch you. He's gotta take a moment to mentally prepare for that. So he does. Deep breaths. And finally, with trembling hands, pulls you out, carries you on shakey legs over to the bed and sets you down.

You know, you're a lot... Smaller... Than you looked on screen. Sure, he knew your height and weight but... somehow you still seem so much smaller than he expected. That's good. Will make everything a lot easier, since you're easier to restrain. And your thighs. They're... so soft. This is so much better than the video. They're so... fleshy and warm in person. Perfect. And wow, that skirt thing is... scratchy. Actually, up close, that whole outfit thing you wear looks super uncomfortable. It probably is. ...Well, guess he now has a reason to take it off.

The rest of your skin is... also fleshy and soft. Warm. Your face... chest... stomach... everything. Your tits are really cute, too. It occurs to him that all those rabid commenters on all those boards and videos would probably kill to be him right now, pinching and squeezing at your nipples. He's seeing something they will never see. It gives him an ego boost, to be honest, makes him feel proud to get a sort of one-up on them. He gets you naked, but refrains from pulling your legs apart. He probably... wouldn't be able to control himself, and he's aiming for some self-control right now.

So he waits. Breathes deep. Restrains himself with every ounce of willpower he has. It occurs to him he has no fucking clue what he's gonna say to you. Unfortunately, that thought occurs to him as you're starting to twitch and mumble, so, he doesn't have too much time to think. Oh, fuck, you're not restrained... well, he bought some duct tape and handcuffs and blindfolds off of amazon too, so he quickly puts those in place as you're starting to wake up, and then finally, you come to full consciousness -- that telltale jerking at the restraints, the muffled little cry of confusion and fear. It's kinda hot to be honest. Well, fuck, very hot actually. You're so scared. It gives him a rush of power. Said rush goes straight to his dick.

He's got a mixed twist of guilt and arousal at the whole thing, but... he's still trying to have some self control... and if you start begging and pleading and crying, it would be too much. Oh, no, not that it would be too much in terms of guilt, no no, just that he wouldn't be able to stop himself from fucking you if he sees you cry. So he leaves the restraints on for now, so he can't see your face emote.

Then, he does something really, really mean. He knows it's cruel, honestly, it's just... so cute. What that is, is that he does nothing. Says nothing. He goes about his work, typing away, knowing you can hear, but doesn't say a word. He knows you're awake, he just wants to see how long you can sit there scared out of your mind before you finally make another noise to draw his attention. Right now, he thinks, you're probably debating, you're probably questioning whether you should keep quiet and make him think you're still out or make a noise... but eventually you will. He can see you trembling. You're probably thinking so many horrible things right now, wondering what will happen, what he'll do to you... it fills him with a sort of sadistic glee that overrides the guilt it comes along with. Sure, the guilt is there, but fuck, he could almost cum just watching you shiver, and that's more important.

And you finally make a noise. A little whimper. He stops typing, and swears he sees you tense when he does. And when he stands up, walks over to you (making sure to stomp hard and walk slow for extra effect, watching the way you curl in on yourself with each step he takes), and stops right in front of you. Finally, tells you not to scream. He's gonna give you water, ok? You nod. And, surprisingly, you don't make any move to scream or anything, you let him give it to you. You don't move a muscle besides your shaking and sucking the straw and swallowing the water. You must be really scared of him. He knows that's technically not what he should want, but... it feels nice.

He spent that time of silence coming up with what to say to you. He says that for now, you're going to stay right here. Don't ask questions. Don't make any attempt to escape. If you really need something, tap the headboard until he hears. Understand?

You're... Surprisingly receptive. You give a twitchy smile and stammer out an o-okay. He's almost pleased, but quickly realizes what you're doing.

You've been trained for this, you see. This kind of thing is attempted rather frequently in the industry. You received training for this situation - comply, don't fight, prioritize your safety, because in 99% of these cases, the missing idol is found and recovered within 48 hours. So you do what you were told to do -- smile, pretend you're ok with it, don't do anything to anger your captor.

He knows that too. He doesn't do much in that 48 hours, in fact, he even tells you he's waiting to "see what happens." He knows he can't control himself very well, so he stays in his living room for the most part and works on research, it might be pointless if he's in jail a few hours from now, but oh well. Sleeps on his couch. He offers to feed you, but you say you don't feel good. He understands.

See, in his mind, if he gets to fuck you once or twice and then be hauled off to prison and never touch you again, well, that would be actual, literal torture, so much so that never fucking you at all would be more bearable. So that's why he forces himself to wait now. He feels like he can't breathe, he's so nervous, like any moment police are going to come knocking on his door. Every little sound makes him jump. He can't sleep.

But 48 hours pass and... nothing happens.

He breathes a bit easier. Finally dares to go online, which he's been avoiding, and check on your situation... Oh, wow, social media has exploded over your disappearance. But... They have no leads. Nothing. Says she basically vanished out of thin air. Situation is, quote, "looking hopeless." Huh. He did an even better job than he thought he did. There's videos from loved ones begging the captor to let the girl go, offering to give him money even. A lot of money. But, you're more valuable than any monetary measurements could ever conceive. And he's happy. It really worked out. Everything went right, and for once, he has something that really, really makes him happy.

Likewise, the 48 hours are even more torturous for you. You start out telling yourself it'll be fine. Hopeful. But that hope in your chest slowly, gradually dies out as you realize you've hit the 48-hour mark. Even for a normal missing person, you've always heard that if they don't find them within 48 hours... the chances of ever finding them goes down significantly. But, that's because they're usually dead, right? And this guy won't kill you, so, your chances are better, right...?

He comes back after that 48 hours and finally, for the first time since you woke up, crawls onto the bed, touches you, grabs your hips with his hands. Tells you that, well, they haven't found anything yet and it looks like they aren't going to, so you're officially his now, and he's no longer worried. You should accept it. It'll make things easier for both of you if you do. You'll get adjusted in no time, you'll see.

Unsurprisingly, you're a bit less compliant than you were when you had hope. You whimper and and struggle, but it's really weak. So much so it's cute. You ask who he is. No one important, he says. Just... A fan of yours. You can hear clothes shuffling. He doesn't waste time, he's already waited two whole days suffering, so he gets his dick in you pretty quickly. Manages to make you cum. It horrifies you and kinda surprises him too to be honest. You must kinda like pain, huh. Well, that works out well.

As time goes on, what hope you had left dies completely. Weeks pass. You realize they're not coming for you. In an attempt to get you to accept it, he even shows you that you've been replaced. They're rather quick to fix the absence. They have a new girl in your spot by the end of the month. He quickly realizes maybe he shouldn't have told you, from the way your face falls and you get all hysterical. Sorry. It's the way the industry is. Don't worry. She's not even half as cute as you.

He shows you the announcement when they close the investigation, too. This also earns a rather hysterical response, but he thinks it's important you see it, so you can finally come to terms with your fate, the way things were always meant to turn out. He gets a bit frustrated. Just accept it. It's not that hard. The sooner you do, the happier you'll be. It's for your own good that you accept it.

And you do. Try as you might. You begin to make conversation. He's the only source of interaction you have. You learn about him and his life. You become invested in it. You start to cum more easily. When he's sitting on the opposite side of the bed typing away, you find yourself slowly wiggling your way over and pressing yourself against the warmth, and he certainly doesn't mind. You ask him about his research just to hear a voice talk.

And sometimes you sing. It's absent minded, soft and quiet, when you have nothing else to do. He likes that a lot. You get sweeter. Nicer. Fight less. It does take a bit longer than two weeks to set in fully. But it does in the end.

He can't be with you 24/7, as much as he would like to be, so sometimes he has to tell you to just hang on a little while. Be good and sit still for just a bit. He'll be back soon. Just give him an hour. You're just really distracting and, well, his progress report is due tomorrow morning.

And you keep getting upset over the new member, bring it up a lot... It must have really bothered you, huh. Well, don't feel bad about being replaced. To him, nothing could ever replace you... you're still his favorite.

[clairenatural]

destiel, some sort of au, 1.4k of pre-marriage stress turned to fluff that I wrote at 4am. enjoy!

There’s a knock on the bathroom door, and Dean jerks his head up towards it.

Don’t be Cas, don’t be Cas, don’t be—

“Dean?” Cas calls.

Fuck.

He debates telling him to go away. He debates not answering. Neither will work.

“Sam send you?” He settles for instead, and he hates how shaky his voice sounds.

“Yes.”

“I told him not to.”

“I know. We decided I should come anyway.”

Dean almost laughs at that—at that absurd response to this absurd situation. It comes out more like a cough. He stares down at his dress pants, his shoes. They’re new. It’s all new.

When he speaks again, his voice is soft, and he refuses to look at the door. “What are we doing here, man?”

There’s a sigh from the other side. “Theoretically, we’re getting married, but—” a soft thump, as Cas leans against the wood, “—I suppose that’s really up to you.”

Dean grimaces. There’s no anger in his fiancé’s voice. No malice. Concern, maybe, but he’s doing a good job wrangling it back into the same even tone he uses with his panicked undergrads. Dean hates it, being talked to like some scared kid, but he is hiding in a bathroom at his own wedding, so. He suspects he deserves it.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, so quietly he’s not sure if Cas will hear him. For a long minute, the only response he gets is the swish of fabric as the other man slides down the door, the telltale clacking of dress shoes as he situates himself on the hardwood. Then—

“I love you,” Cas starts, and it’s so much more than Dean deserves at the moment that he suddenly feels like he might cry. “You know that, right?”

Dean blinks. “I—yeah. Yeah, of course I do.” He shifts, and suddenly the toilet seat is digging uncomfortably into his thighs. “I love you, too.”

“Good,” there’s another soft thump as Cas leans his head back against the door, and Dean hates how relieved he sounds. “Okay. So—” his voice is less steady, now, and a pang of guilt shoots through Dean’s chest. What is he doing. “If you don’t want to do this, we won’t.”

Dean had already pushed himself off the toilet seat, but now he freezes. “What?”

“We can go home, right now. We won’t get the deposits back, but I’m sure our guests would enjoy the free party, and we—”

“Wait,” Dean has crossed the room, now. “You’d do that for me?” There’s a piece of Cas’ coat peeking under the door frame. Dean stares at it. “And we’d—”

“Order pizza, and pretend it’s a normal Saturday, and talk about this in the morning.” It’s not the we’d be fine he was hoping for, but it’s better than he expected.

Dean sighs and turns, mirroring Cas in sliding down his own side of the door to settle on the tile floor. “You deserve so much better than that, man.”

He knows Cas is tilting his head. “Is that what this is about? What I deserve?”

Dean pauses. “No,” he lies.

“Okay. Is it about what you deserve?”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” Dean snaps, and then immediately feels like the scum of the Earth.

Cas’ weary sigh will haunt him for the rest of his days. “I’m not. I’m just—I want to understand.”

I want to understand why you’re hiding in a bathroom on our wedding day. Why you’re doing this to me. To us.

Yeah, Dean does too.

Before he can respond there’s a flurry of footsteps, followed by a rushed whisper and what sounds like gesturing before the footsteps recede.

“Sam?” he hazards a guess.

“He’s just worried.”

“He always is.” Dean pauses. “Are guests getting worried, too?”

“…Yes,” Cas answers slowly, and then too quickly. “But they don’t matter. This isn’t about them.”

Dean groans, pulls his knees up to his chest, and buries his face in his hands. “’Course they matter,” he grumbles into his palms. “That’s why we’re here,” by here he means the fancy mansion estate Naomi had wanted them to rent.

“Dean, you know I would have married you in a courthouse.” He sounds puzzled, now, which is at least a nice departure from exhausted/crushed/dangerously calm.

Dean does not know. “What?”

Cas hums. “Or in a roadside chapel. Or in one of those Vegas Elvis churches.”

He feels incredibly dumb for not knowing this.

Cas is still talking. “And I would have waited 5, 10 years.” He pauses, thinking. “20, even.” 

Dean feels a little breathless. “You were serious, earlier? When you said…if I say no, we’ll go home. Just like that, everything’s cool?”

“Just like that,” Cas agrees. “Although ‘cool’ is a strong word.” At least he’s being honest. He takes a deep breath before continuing. “My point is, Dean, that I am already yours in every way that matters, and I will remain so for as long as you’ll have me. Wedding today or not.”

Dean groans and leans his head back against the door. “That simple, huh?” he grumbles, even as his brain is yelling yes, it is.

“I think that’s part of the point,” comes the reply, and there’s a smile in his voice for the first time in the conversation.

“...Me too,” Dean replies after a beat, and it’s as soft as his earlier apology but this time he knows Cas can hear him. “You gotta know that, Cas.”

“I do,” Cas confirms, and it’s less unsure than Dean was afraid it would be.

Dean starts to smile back but catches himself, instead dragging a hand across his face, because despite these warm fuzzies—“You’re still gonna regret this.” It’s a neutral remark. Like a fact.

He can almost hear the eye roll.

“You’ve been saying that for our entire relationship, and yet I am not the one hiding from our wedding in the bathroom,” Cas replies, and Dean would call him out for being a smartass if he didn’t have an irritatingly valid point.

“Yeah, but—” he starts a futile attempt to argue, but Cas cuts him off.

“I could sit here and list off all the reasons why I’m here—why I’m choosing to be here—but I have some very well thought-out vows on the subject—” Dean is suddenly acutely aware of the paper tucked into his own suit jacket “—and I’m prepared to spend the rest of our lives convincing you that you deserve me, and I deserve you, and we deserve us.”

And that…..that actually sounds pretty good.

Okay.

Okay, yeah.

He rolls this over in his head for a moment before nodding and preparing to stand, to apologize, to—something. But Cas obviously takes the silence as there being something (else) wrong, because after a few seconds of shuffling his fingers slide under the door.

He’s (awkwardly, as much as the tight space will allow) holding his engagement ring.

He took off his engagement ring, and now he’s giving it back, and Dean’s not sure what could have gone horribly wrong in those few seconds of silence but this is obviously the other shoe dropping, already¸ and—

“Will you marry me?” Cas asks, voice muffled from where his face is obviously pressed against the wood.

Dean freezes. He stares at the ring. He remembers buying it. He remembers giving it to Cas in the first place. And now he's hiding in the bathroom on their wedding day and his perfect dork of a fiancé, who he will never deserve but who loves him so much anyway, is...proposing back.

He picks it up and puts it on his own finger, and it looks out of place and it doesn’t fit right, but suddenly he’s grinning so much that he doesn’t care. He stands quickly and yanks the door open, then reaches down to pull his startled fiancé up off the floor and into his arms.

“Yes?” Cas asks, pushing back just enough to be able to breathe, and suddenly the whole weight of the situation hits Dean at once. His grin falters.

“Yes—yeah, of course. I’m giving you the ring back, obviously, but—Christ, Cas, I’m so sorry, I don’t—”

Cas puts a finger to his lips, cutting off the babbling. “Wedding first, apologies after.”

Dean nods. Cas lets his hand drop but Dean catches it, presses a kiss to his fingertips, and links it with his own. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. Cas reaches out for his face with his free hand and smooths his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone.

“I love you,” he says, very seriously.

“I know,” Dean smiles, and it’s only a bit nervous. He risks leaning down to press a kiss to Cas’ forehead. “Come on." When he steps away he also steps forward, tugging Cas by the hand down the upstairs hallway. “Let’s go get married.”

[titan-fodder]

Prima Vista Part IX

[ previous ]

Rating: E (explicit; mdni) Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader wc: ~ 14.3k

Warnings: timeskip, mutual pining, author doesn’t know shit about science subject matter, explicit sexual content, ass play, snowballing, tooth rotting fluff A/N: This is it, y’all. This last part was so much fun to write, I can’t even put it into words. The feedback on this has been incredible, so a big thank you for that, and before anyone asks, I have a handful of spinoff oneshots planned for this series. Enjoy~

- NINE YEARS -

“Hey, don’t forget about the meeting at three.”

 Mike glances up from his computer to find Henning leaning through his office doorway. It’s the first time Mike has looked away from the screen in at least an hour, and he blinks at his colleague several times in an attempt to get rid of the gritty feeling in his eyes.

 “Yeah, thanks,” he nods, rubbing a hand down his face. “Definitely would’ve forgotten about that one.”

 Henning leaves with one rap of his knuckles against the doorframe, and Mike checks his phone to see how much time he has before he has to make his way to the conference room. It’s twenty after two, so he spends a little while longer reading over the journal that had been sent to him, only tearing himself away when his alarm goes off at 2:55. 

 He waves at a few people as he passes, shows the reserved smile he’d mastered upon entering the corporate world, then walks into the large meeting space and sets his little notepad on the mahogany table as he sits down in a plush rolling chair. 

 This meeting has been planned for a few weeks now, a team of researchers contracted by the government to study Lake Sina and everything wrong with it. Its water quality is at an all time low, and it's up to Mike and his team to figure out a way to change that so it can be purified enough to distribute to the public. There are a few large cities close to the lake, all of lower income and all struggling with their water systems. If Sina can get clean enough, it would solve a huge crisis that most people don't even know is taking place. 

 Tomas, Henning, Lynne, and Nanaba are already in the room, and after a few minutes, another group of four walks in, all unfamiliar except…

 Mike’s eyebrows knit together as he stares. He can only see a profile from where he’s sitting, but it’s one he recognizes. The time he spent admiring it, mentally sketching every feature—of course he’d recognize it. Recognize you.

 There is a pounding in his chest that Mike hasn’t felt in years, and his palms are suddenly damp. The collar of his shirt is too tight around his throat, and he reaches up to undo the top two buttons so that he can fucking breathe, but Jesus Christ, he can’t believe it. It feels like a lifetime has passed since he last saw you. 

 He wonders if you’ll have the same reaction when you finally notice him, if you’ll gawk at him or grin or run away. He wouldn’t blame you if you tucked tail. That last conversation—if it could even be called that—is not one of Mike’s fondest memories, and he can’t imagine the toll it took on you, what you must have felt going into your final year of undergrad. 

 “Is there a remote for the projector?” You call out to the table, and your voice sounds exactly the fucking same. It makes Mike want to slam his head into the wood, but before he can, you zero in on him. 

 He watches as your eyes grow, jaw setting, shoulders rising with a deep breath, and oh, you’re panicking. You’re panicking just like he is.

 “Um,” you cough and shake your head, then lean over to speak to one of your people before basically jogging from the room.

 No one seems to think anything of it. Mike has to white-knuckle the arms of his chair to keep himself from getting up and following. There's no reason he should follow, though. The two of you haven’t spoken in almost a decade. He has nothing to share with you, no reason to talk to you on a non-professional level. You don’t know each other anymore, and that’s fine. It’ll be fine. 

 A mousy looking man starts passing out little binders to everyone at the table, then introduces himself as Moblit and the other two in the room as Hange and Abel. 

 "And, the other girl you saw is—"

 "I'm back, I'm here," you announce as you step into the room, closing the door behind you and introducing yourself with a wave. "Did we get the projector working?" 

 "Yes," Abel answers, passing you the remote that Nanaba had procured a few minutes ago. 

 Hange plugs a cable into a laptop and the white screen is lit up with the image of the well known lake, once beautiful, deep blue but now a murky brown. 

 Mike has been preparing for this project for a few months now, going to an off-site lab to look over the samples being sent in or dropped off. He knew there was a research team studying the lake, but… what are the odds that you would be part of that team? 

 He supposes your jobs could overlap just like your classes used to, but you had told him you wanted to go into natural hazards ("You're a natural hazard," he had replied with a snort). Of course, that had been a long time ago, but how had that dream morphed into hydrology? 

 Before the presentation starts, Mike's boss, Keith Shadis slips through the door and takes his seat at the end of the table. You're quick to grab one of the binders and walk it over to him, flashing a smile and never letting your gaze flit to Mike. 

 Hange does most of the talking, going over all of your findings while all of you "braved the wilderness". Moblit and Abel insert a few things here and there, and then Hange clicks to a slide with a graph on it and hands the remote to you. 

 "If you turn to page seventeen in the binders, you can probably get a better look, but this shows how much the level of pollution in Lake Sina has risen in the last year alone. We took samples over…"

 You keep talking, but Mike loses his focus, watching your hands move as you speak, the way you're rocking back on your heels, and how you look anywhere but at him. 

 Even though there's a tiny tremble in your voice, you sound passionate, and why wouldn't you be? Mike is passionate too. About the same god damn thing. 

 With a PhD in environmental science, his specialty is pollutants. It's something he's been interested in since grad school because the earth is beautiful but in an awful state, and Mike wants to fucking change that. He's written journals and articles, worked with leading experts, and it's what he's decided to dedicate himself to, so why is it that this life that he's built for himself is suddenly intermingling with yours? How—

 A hand comes to rest on Mike's and he startles at the touch, jerking his head upward to see Lynne with raised eyebrows. 

 "Mike, I get why you're lost in the pollution sauce, but if you click that pen one more time, I will throw you out of this high-rise."

 He stares at her for a second before chuckling and tossing his pen onto his blank notebook. He hadn't even realized he'd been doing it. It's a little embarrassing, actually. How many people noticed? Did you? 

 The presentation ends with Hange telling everyone that they're happy to be teaming up with the Corporation to work toward a solution and a plan to clean Lake Sina and possibly implement it into larger bodies of water.

 The planning stage of the project will more than likely last for a few months, meaning you'll all be regulars in the office which Mike isn't especially thrilled about, even if you will be sequestered in a little annex and spending a lot of your time in the lab. Mike will still have to see you and work with your team, god, probably have to talk to you. 

 The floor opens up for any questions, but Shadis is the only one who speaks, wanting clarification on some statistic that Mike is going to have to read over later. Once the boss is happy, he stands, then walks behind Mike's chair to slap him on the back and say the last thing Mike wants to hear.

 "This is Dr. Mike Zacharias. All of you should get familiar with him since he'll be heading this project."

 Mike sits up a little straighter and forces a tight-lipped smile that all of his colleagues know is fake. 

 "Happy to be working with you." 

 It isn't a lie. He's been excited about this project for a long time now. He just wasn't expecting such a massive wrench to get thrown right into the middle of it. 

 The four of you start packing up your materials. When Henning tries to hand you his binder, you tell him, "No, those are for you to keep. Just to get a real grasp on what we found out there."

 Mike knows he's staring, swiveling back and forth in his chair, twirling the pen he's picked up again, and he wonders if it would just be easier to rip the bandaid off. Exchange hellos, go over the bare minimum—how long he's been with the company, how long you've been researching. Just enough to appear casual, like you didn't break Mike's fucking heart in college. 

 And, then he thinks about just avoiding you altogether. There's always the chance your issues could come up in conversation, and it's so far in the past now, there's nothing either of you can say to make the other feel better. This can't be about closure. It's just a job. That's all. 

 "Wow, everyone really… cleared outta here."

 Mike's vision unfogs, and he glances around to find that yes, you're the only two left in the conference room. Fantastic. 

 You're wrapping a cord around your elbow then shoving it in a laptop bag, and he can tell you're moving as fast as you can, ready to get the fuck out of there. 

 "Uh, yeah," Mike agrees, pushing himself to his feet and grabbing his notebook to curl in his hands. "Everyone's just ready to get back to work, I guess."

 "Yeah. You can only hold someone's attention with a PowerPoint for so long."

 Mike's mouth is too dry, and it feels like he needs to cough, but he doesn't want to startle you, so he just quietly clears his throat in an entirely ineffective way and tells you, "Good PowerPoint, though."

 You snicker, not loud enough to hear your real laugh, and Mike doesn't know if he's grateful for that or not. 

 "Thanks. Mobs made it."

 Slinging the bag over your shoulder, you finally look up at Mike—really look at him for the first time—and he sees your expression go soft, mouth twitching like you’re caught between smiling and frowning, and Mike is taken back to the first night he met you when he wanted you to shotgun that disgusting beer. 

 You blink at him, open and close your mouth, and Mike is waiting with baited breath for you to say something else, but all you do is hold your hand out for him to take the projector remote from you. 

 "Here."

 He grabs it with two fingers, careful not to brush your hand. Fuck, he wishes his heart would stop beating so hard, it's incredibly uncomfortable. 

 "I feel like I should say something," you murmur, "But I have no idea what, so I'm just gonna tell you I look forward to working with you, Dr. Zacharias."

 He grins. Widely. He doesn't mean to, but he does. It's been so damn long since anyone has said his last name like that. 

 "Do you, though?" He asks. 

 "Do I what?"

 "Look forward to working here."

 "Oh, uh…" You bite your lip, start rocking on your feet again, then shrug. "I guess? I mean… Big project."

 "Very big."

 "It's important to me. I can't say that I was expecting—"

 "Me?" Mike offers with a tilt of his head. 

 He's standing too close. It feels like he is, anyway, so he moves back to lean against the conference table. 

 "Yeah, pretty much," you laugh. "It's been a while."

 Mike wonders if you remember that night as well as he does. No matter how much he's tried to forget it, that image of you with fat years rolling down your face just will not leave him. Do you remember how it felt? Can you remember everything he said to you? 

 Before Mike can respond, you wave a hand. "Anyway, I need to go help set up our little area, so…"

 "Yeah, for sure. I'll be around."

 After powering through the last hour of his day, Mike bolts from the building. He needs to get home. He needs to get a drink in his hand. He needs to unwind and not think of you. 

 He needs to fucking call Erwin. 

 "Hey, bro, what's up?" 

 "Dude," is all Mike says at first. 

 "What?" 

 "You will never fucking guess who's on the team we’re working with on the Sina water project."

 Erwin hums in a sing-song sort of way, then chuckles. "Funny, I got a similar call about an hour ago."

 "You guys still talk?" Mike asks a little too loudly. 

 "Yeah, man. Not every day or anything, but—"

 Mike rolls his eyes. "You're unbelievable." He isn't mad, and Erwin knows this. He's just a little surprised. His friend hasn’t as much as uttered your name in the last ten years. 

 "Yeah, whatever. How'd it go from your perspective?" 

 "It—Wait, what did she say?" 

 "Oh, no no no," Erwin laughs. Mike here's a distant, "Hold that, please!" and figures he's making his way to the elevator to leave work as well. "I am not getting caught up in your bullshit again."

 Pouting, Mike finally turns on his car and pulls out of the parking lot. "Fine. It went… Well? I think? I mean, super awkward, but that isn't surprising."

 "No name-calling or confessions of undying love?" 

 "No, I'm not twenty-two anymore."

 "Could have fooled me," Erwin snorts. 

 "Fuck off. It was a good presentation, but she was nervous, and I couldn't tell if it was from having to speak in front of people or if it was 'cause I was there, and then we talked afterward—nothing important or anything, just, like, an acknowledgement. You know, you're here, I'm here, we have to find a way to co-exist, except neither of us actually said that," Mike has to take a deep breath. He's rambling, he knows, and Erwin is just listening, probably storing it all away to make fun of him about it later. "It was okay. It could've been worse."

 "Could have been better too."

 "What? How—"

 "Could have bent her over the desk and—"

 "Dude!"

 Erwin breaks into that deep laugh Mike is so used to, tells him, "I'm just saying! I know she's still cute. We have each other on Facebook."

 He's right. Too right. You are absolutely still cute, all dressed up in business casual attire, so different from the leggings and hoodies you used to wear. Your face has matured slightly—naturally—and your hair is different but still suits you. Mike has no idea how he's supposed to work with you for the next few months. 

 "I can't deal with you," Mike grumbles. "Why did I even call you?" 

 "Probably because I'm the only one who has an inkling about what you're going through right now," Erwin replies. "Aside from her anyway."

 "Yeah, yeah."

 They chat for a little while longer until Erwin gets to the bar he's apparently meeting some coworkers at, and Mike spends the rest of his drive listening to music too loud as he tries and fails to clear his mind of you. 

 *

 You're pacing. You have been for the last hour. The food you made for yourself went cold some time ago, but you're too busy whining into your phone to notice. 

 "Just—like—what the fuck am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to work with him like this? He's overseeing the whole fucking project! I can't just avoid him!" 

 "Okay, first thing's first," Hitch stops you. "I need you to take a deep breath for me."

 "Hitch—"

 "Breathe!"

 You inhale through your nose then blow out through your mouth, but that's obviously not good enough for Hitch because she demands, "And, again."

 "What are you, my therapist?" 

 "I mean, I usually act like one, so… anyway, while you're calming the fuck down, I'm gonna call for backup. Hold please."

 Dropping yourself onto the hotel couch, you try to relax even though you know it'll be impossible because—

 "You're working with Mike?" Rhi's shrill voice meets your ear, and you have to pull the phone away. 

 "Rhi, you're supposed to help me calm her down, not add to her panic," Hitch reminds her. 

 "Yeah, no, that's not gonna happen," Rhi tells her, and you laugh to yourself. 

 "Agreed."

 "Okay, so tell me what happened. Oh my god, did you cry? Did he cry? What'd Erwin say when you told him? You told him, right?" 

 You've gotten used to Rhi's rapid fire inquiries a long time ago, so you have no problem answering, "We walked in for the big Sina presentation today, and he was just there, and I was freaking out, so Hange had to do most of the work but still made me go over my findings 'cause I understand them better than they do, but anyway. I don't think he was paying attention at fucking all which is cool 'cause I wouldn't have been either, and then we talked for a second afterward, but there were no tears. There was almost vomit 'cause I felt like I needed to throw up, but I kept it together. I think."

 "Okay, and Erwin? What'd he say?" 

 You snicker to yourself. "He made fun of me for a little while and then he told me to talk to Mike once I calmed down just to catch up and then to—this is verbatim, by the way—to possibly have dirty sex in Mike's office."

 Both of your friends howl, Hitch being the first to gather herself enough to giggle, "He fucking would say that, oh my god, I hate him."

 "Same," Rhi drawls. "Okay, but is there the possibility of dirty office sex?"

 "Wha—That's what you're taking away from all that?" You splutter. 

 "Uh, yeah."

 "I'm kinda curious too," Hitch pipes up. 

 You wave your free hand around in confusion and tell them, "I—we—no! We don't even know each other anymore. We said, like, four words to each other today, and it was fucking weird, so no. Pervs."

 "Do you want to, though? Has he aged well?" Hitch asks in a low, sultry voice. 

 You click your tongue and pause, not wanting the first thought that pops into your head to be what comes out of your mouth because yes, holy shit, yes, Mike looks so fucking good. It was one of many reasons you were so tongue-tied in front of him. 

 He's still impossibly tall and broad, but in slacks and a button up. The beard he’s always had is short and rugged and a tad darker than the hair on top of his head that he's let grow out long enough to tie in a bun, and it fits him too well. You thought you were gonna start drooling on his fancy shoes. 

 "He's alright," you play. They see right through you, falling into another long fit of laughter until you admit, "Okay, okay, he's still stupid hot, alright?" 

 "God bless. I'm so happy to hear that. I'm so happy for you."

 "Why would you—"

 "Just promise you'll invite us to the wedding."

 "I think you guys are getting a little ahead of yourselves."

 "Oh my god, we have to call Marie."

 "And, Maddie."

 You shake your head as the other two start going back and forth, talking about you like you're not even there, bringing up college memories, old parties you'd all gone to. 

 "Hey, remember when you hated me?" Rhi questions, and both of you snort. 

 "And, you hated me right back. Stole your man or whatever."

 Hitch mutters a quiet, "Ew, fuck that guy."

 And, Rhi picks up, "Yeah, fuck that all-American, record-breaking pitcher."

 The three of you talk well into the evening, eventually switching to Zoom so that you can all see each other and add Maddie and Marie into the call. You and Hitch break open bottles of wine, but Rhi and Maddie don't drink, "Solidarity with this pregnant bitch," Maddie says, and Marie lifts her glass of water to cheers via internet. 

 Sophomore and junior year of college, you never would have expected to get close to anyone other than Hitch, but through a few shared classes and petty curiosity, all of you ended up seeking solace in one another and came out on the other side as best friends. Hitch was even Maid of Honor in Marie and Nile's wedding. Against all odds, everything turned out pretty wholesome. 

 "I genuinely hope it works out," Hitch says now, words long, lazy, and starting to slur together "Like, even if it's just you and Mike making up and being, like, cool with each other again."

 "Hitch, you're drunk, please go to bed."

 "I am drunk. But, I still mean what I said. I miss when you guys were just best friends."

 "Why?" You question with a head shake. 

 Hitch sighs, "'Cause you were so happy."

 "No, I—"

 "I mean, you were still all… weird and guarded, but that dude made you laugh and smile so much."

 "I daresay I even saw you giddy on a couple of occasions," Marie hums. 

 "Whatever. I just want it to be… not awkward."

 "Then, talk."

 "Mm, pass."

 *

 A light knock on the wall of the impressively large cubicle gets your whole team's attention, all of you glancing up to find Mike standing in the little entryway, hands in his pockets.

 "Hey, just checkin' in. Have you all gotten settled?" 

 "Yes!" Hange is up on their feet. "Great accommodations, and that lab you guys use?" They moan, and you can tell Mike is trying not to laugh because his mouth is twisting to one side like it always does when he tries to appear unaffected by something. However, you know well that it is very hard to remain unaffected by Hange Zoe. 

 "Yeah, we haven't had a lab that shiny in a long time," Moblit chuckles. 

 "Don't you work in government buildings?" Mike frowns. 

 "You ever seen the inside of a post office?" You question, immediately regretting it when those light green eyes land on you. 

 "Uh, yeah?" 

 Smirking through the butterflies, you tell him, "Those are government buildings too."

 "Don't mind her. She's just being a smartass," Abel says.

 Mike is really fighting that smile now. Even pinched to one side, you can see the way his lips are trying to curve upward, and you have to bite yours and look at the floor before you start acting like a god damn school girl. 

 It's nearing the end of the first week at your new location. It hasn't been terrible, and some of the strangeness is beginning to wear off, but it's still jarring to see Mike walk around or hear his voice carrying through his office door. 

 Neither of you have gone out of your way to talk to one another. Anything project related, Hange handles for the most part, and if anything is delegated to you, you try to pass it off to Abel because you're just not ready to be alone in a room with Mike. Your brain and your heart can't take it yet. 

 You can't deny that you're curious, though. You wonder what his life is like now, what his job is like outside of what you've seen (which, admittedly, is not much), what he does in his free time now, who he spends his time with. You couldn't help but notice (you made a point of looking) that there isn't any type of ring on his finger which is pretty fucking surprising since, well, Mike has always been a catch. How has someone not come around and swiped him off the market? Or, does he just not wear a wedding band at work? Or, does he just have a girlfriend and is waiting to take the next step? So many questions you have no business asking.

 Mike hums, rubs at something probably nonexistent on the carpet with the toe of his shoe, and mumbles a little, "Nothin’ I haven't dealt with before," that makes everyone look at him curiously. "With co-workers, you know. Lotta sass in the office."

 You stifle a laugh and stand up. There are a lot of sassy things you could say, but you figure none of them are actually appropriate, especially since Mike is technically your boss now—why is that so hot?—so you just slip out of the cubicle, doing your best to not brush up against Mike. He apparently doesn't care, though, because while he moves to the side, he does the thing that all men do, placing a hand on the small of your back as if to guide you past him, and it makes you burn. 

 "'scuse me," you squeak, relieved to be able to run to the restroom where you can sit in a stall and scream to Hitch through texts. 

 You are dying—mostly because you don't know what you want. Do you want to be friends? Do you want to seduce him? Do you want another nine years away from him? You have no idea. 

 You were sad for a long time after that holiday break. You trudged through your spring courses, took more classes in the Summer, then started all over. Hitch had to physically drag you out of your tiny apartment a few times but never to any parties, thank god. Just to lunch or the library, and eventually, Rhi, Marie, and Maddie came into the picture. Further into the picture, anyway. 

 While they got you laughing again, though, that ache didn't ever fade. Mike's words replayed in your head in a constant loop, day and night for months. I can’t do this anymore. Start fresh. Shouldn’t be hard for you. You were mad at yourself for a long time, for ruining everything and hurting him. If you could have gone back to the start of it all and done things differently, you would have, but you just had to sit with all your mistakes instead. 

 Then, your anger shifted toward him. Because you weren't the only one who messed up. You may have been the first one to, but he did some shitty things too. He's the one who didn't care even after finding out it was Zeke who blocked his number. He's the one who refused to believe that you and Erwin weren't actually a couple. He's the one who brought Rhi to the ranch house with the specific intention of hurting your feelings (and to wet his dick). 

 And, he's the one who didn't want to work things out. 

 You understand his frustration. You broke his heart, after all. But then, he turned around and broke yours too. 

 It was nine years ago, and you've moved on. You've dated people since then. You've fallen in and out of love. Mike wasn't even on your radar until Monday, but now… Now, there's no forgetting him. Old wounds get jabbed every time he peeks around the corner, any time you hear him laugh or see him smile, and when he actually looks at you, fuck, it's like someone is ripping stitches out of your skin.

 It is not a productive work environment. 

 Your team hasn't noticed much other than Moblit asking what has you so tense these days, but no one has made any connections, and you'd like to keep it that way. Hange would have a fucking field day if they found out. 

 There are many meetings to toss around ideas, plans and blueprints that get scrapped. You stumble through presentations, trying not to look directly at anyone as your cheeks heat up and your hands shake. 

 "You've never been nervous about stuff like this," Abel tells you in the conference room one day as everyone else files out. "What's up with you?" 

 "Nothing," you shake your head. "Don't worry about it."

 "Nothing my ass," he grumbles, walking out without you. 

 "You really should try to relax," Mike tells you from where he's still sitting at the table. "No idea why you're so nervous."

 Everyone else is gone which means you're free to squint at him, scathing retort on the tip of your tongue, but when you see that he's smirking at you, the words dry up. 

 "Don't play dumb, Zacharias."

 "I'm not playing anything," he tells you. "But, I do need to know how long we're gonna keep up this I don't know you-you don't know me thing."

 "You literally just said—..." Taking a deep breath, you look over your shoulder to, one, form a coherent sentence in your brain, and two, make sure no one is close enough to hear it when you say, "What would you prefer we do? Not like we can just pick up where we left off. Unless, you know, you wanna go back to being incredibly fucking pissed at me for months on end."

 "Man, you really are tense about this," Mike chuckles, and you're torn between slapping him and jumping his bones, so you do neither. Fuck, why'd he have to wear the purple tie today? It looks so good with his complexion and complements his eyes. A few strands of hair have come loose from the bun at the back of his head, and he shakes them out of his face like he used to shake his shaggy bangs, and all you can do is stare and squirm and tell him, "I have to go."

 "Go where?" He asks, standing from his chair. It feels like he towers over you even from across the table. 

 You hold your hands out and gesticulate a little frantically, "I don't know—work? Maybe?"

 He's extremely amused, even laughs as you make your way out the door, then calls, "Whenever you're ready to talk, just let me know! You know where my office is."

 "I don't wanna talk!"

 You really don't. But, you also really do. 

 *

 Mike starts having fun with his new department (you specifically) around the third week. 

 He's never seen you like this before, having to mentally prepare yourself before you walk into any room, like you have to be ready for him. You nibble on your lip and rock on your heels. Your hands shake in meetings when you have to point to pictures or graphs. 

 It’s just so unlike you. He got so used to the surly, uncaring girl in college, never happy to see Mike until you gave him a fair chance (and decided you enjoyed his cock). He expects everything to come out of your mouth to be sarcastic or suggestive, and when it's not, it takes him off guard.  

 Mike is nervous around you too. He can easily admit that. But, his neverending panic really just manifests in the form of nausea and heart palpitations which he thinks is better than trembling and stuttering, but it's still mildly distracting. 

 Every once in a while, he catches a glimpse of that old side of you, though, a mumbled smartass remark or an unimpressed expression, and he has to make a conscious effort to not grin like an idiot because he's still trying to decipher his actual feelings. 

 Is he supposed to act like nothing ever happened, or should he hold a grudge? What seems more natural? What feels more natural? 

 Mike knows the answer to that last question, but he hasn't fully accepted it. 

 "It's kinda cute, actually. Like, I walk into the room and she gets this little doe-eyed expression. Looks like she's about to run away."

 "You're kind of a sadist, you know that?" Erwin says. 

 "I mean, is it so wrong to get a little satisfaction outta this?" 

 "I think so, yeah. You're driving her crazy, dude."

 Mike smacks his lips and rolls his eyes. "Man, how would you know—"

 "'Cause she told me!" Erwin basically shouts like it's obvious. "The words came out of her mouth. Mike is driving me crazy. Just like that."

 Pouting, Mike takes another sip of his beer and lets his eyes travel to the bottom of the TV screen to check the score of the game he isn't watching. 

 "Well, it's not like I can really do anything about it. She'll only be here for a few months."

 "Do you happen to know how long it takes for a stomach ulcer to form?" Erwin asks. 

 Mike frowns. "Uh, no?" 

 "Well, neither do I, but I'm pretty sure it's not very long."

 Both of them laugh. Mike mutters something about Erwin being fucking stupid, and then Erwin sighs and speaks, "I am begging you, dude. Please just get a fucking drink with her or something."

 "We don't mix well with alcohol," Mike snarks. 

 "What's the worst that could happen—you end up in bed again?"

 "Well—"

 "Honestly, both of you could probably benefit from a good fuck, but what do I know? I'm just the guy both of you call for this shit."

 "Alright, I get it. I'll… see if she's up for something," Mike mumbles. 

 "I mean, I wouldn't open with sex, maybe start off with lunch or…"

 "I'm hanging up now."

 Mike doesn't actually know how to ask you, though. You're so fucking skittish around him, and you're obviously worried about people finding out you have a history, so he's gonna have to be strategic about it, maybe plant the seed a few days before or—

 "Hey, listen…" You appear in Mike's office doorway, long cardigan falling to your knees and swishing behind you even after you've stopped moving. "I know it's almost five, but I'm, like, right in the middle of mapping out a new plan, and I don't wanna lose steam, so is it cool if I stay late?" 

 "Yeah, I don't care," Mike answers, tacking on, "S'long as you're okay with being here late with me."

 "Oh, th-that's—" you splutter for a little while, and Mike raises his eyebrows. "That's n-not necessary. You don't have to, like, supervise me or anything."

 "I'm not supervising you," Mike snorts. "I'm trying to finish my piece for a journal."

 "Ah, right, that's… yes." You shoot off a half-hearted finger gun, and Mike wants to hop his desk to get to you. There you are. There are your dumb fucking mannerisms, please, just act like yourself, for the love of god. 

 "Okay, well if you need me, uh, I will probably be on the floor in the annex, so…"

 "We do have chairs, ya' know," Mike smirks. 

 "Yeah, but it's easier to just spread everything out so I can see it."

 "Want a corkboard? You can make it look like you're doing a murder investigation."

 "Hmm, might make it look more official," you muse, making a face of contemplation. 

 Before you can actually say yes, Mike pipes up again. "I don't actually have a corkboard. It was a joke."

 "Yeah, I know," you snicker. "Wouldn't be big enough anyway."

 Too many responses flood Mike's brain at once, causing him to bite his tongue because every last one of them is gross, but you must be able to read it on his face because you point and tell him, "Stop."

 "I didn't say anything!" He laughs. 

 "You don't have to. I know."

 Mike rolls his eyes, "Okay," and looks back to his computer, hoping the screen is high enough to hide his grin as you turn and walk away. 

 The next hour is spent editing the same paragraph over and over with no real motivation because everyone has vacated the floor except for you and Mike, and this could be a good time to talk to you, but he also doesn't want to disrupt your work. Just because he can't focus doesn't mean you can't. You'd only get upset if he distracted you from your work anyway—it's happened before—redirecting your attention from a textbook or study guide to… other things. 

 He goes down a rabbit hole, reminiscing on those occasions, then tweaking them just a little to fit into the current setting, and it's the absolute last thing Mike should be thinking about, but it's Friday, and you're slightly more casual in your flowy cardigan and tight jeans, and all he wants is to get one teeny tiny look at your ass in them because he knows your it’s perfect. He's seen it in leggings and cheeky little boy shorts and lacy thongs, and there is absolutely no way he can go out to talk to you now. 

 Also, he really needs to write at least one paragraph before leaving tonight. It's all about water and waste and pollutants which is the shit Mike knows like the back of his hand. He'd just rather have said hands on something else. 

 "Yeah, this isn't gonna happen," he mutters to himself, taking his hair down to scratch at his scalp. He's better off just going home. 

 Mike packs a few things up before stepping out of his office, closing and locking the door behind him. Half the lights are off, but the portion over the annex is shining brightly. Mike stares in that direction as he debates telling you he's leaving or bolting without saying anything. 

 It's the thought of you walking out to your car alone that makes his mind up, and Mike saunters to the annex and finds you on hands knees surrounded by several sketches, crumpled notes, and the set of blueprints that Mike is pretty sure got thrown in the recycling on Tuesday. 

 "Where'd you even find those?" 

 You don't look up when you answer, "Recycling comes every Monday."

 "So, you went… dumpster diving?" 

 Lifting your head, you squint up at Mike, tracking him as he squats on the other side of your organized chaos. 

 "Is it dumpster diving if it's all paper?" 

 Mike shrugs. "Dunno. How's it comin'?"

 "I'm comi—It!" You correct a little too loudly. "It's coming! It's coming along just fine."

 "Yeah?" Mike chuckles. "Cute Freudian slip there."

 "It was not—" You grit your teeth, fingers curling on the papers they're resting on, then question, "Did you need something?"

 "Just came by to say I was leaving," Mike tells you. Something catches his eye, though, some of your notes scribbled just big enough for him to read a few of the words from where he is, and he grabs the sheet to look it over more carefully. 

 Irrigation plans, specialized pumps, introducing new life into the lake, specifically filter fish…

 "I was just vomiting ideas out on paper, it's nothing important."

 Mike hums and reads further. Some of it is familiar because Mike has considered some of these himself, but while your engineering thoughts are a little vague, the ideas that lean more toward the biological side of things are pretty interesting, even if they're just sloppy bullet points and arrows. 

 "You wanna vomit on a person instead?" He asks, chuckling at the look you give him. 

 "Ew."

 "Just spitball. Throw it at me."

 "Oh, I'm gonna throw somethin' at you all right."

 Mike slips his bag from his shoulder and sets it down before sitting on the ground, picking up the papers closest to him. 

 "Tell me about the xylem tissue method," he prompts. 

 You don't speak right away, just chew on your lip while staring at the sketches on the ground, but then you nod and sit back on your heels. 

 "So, we know that white pine trees are a natural means of filtering, but there aren't any around here. I know it's more of a long-term plan, but we can't just go with a temporary fix, so I was thinking—"

 Mike listens. To everything. Everything you can think of. He watches too. You rub your hands over your jeans and flick hair from your eyes. You change positions, sitting on one foot while resting your chin on your knee as you think out loud, then move to sit cross-legged only to get up to pace the length of the cubicle, barefoot since your heels were kicked off long ago. 

 He asks questions or makes suggestions here and there, and soon it isn't just you who's brainstorming.

 It's easy. It's what Mike knows, and it's obviously what you know too, and a couple of hours pass before either of you realize it. 

 "Shit, it's almost ten," you state, looking at your phone. "Sorry, I didn't mean to keep you here so late."

 "It's fine. Wouldn't have stayed if I didn't want to."

 Mike stretches as he stands, twisting to crack his back and rolling his neck. You gather up all the papers, straightening them into a neat pile then putting them in a drawer at the bottom of your desk. 

 You walk out together, still chatting in the elevator and out to the parking lot, and Mike feels good. He feels like… He feels like he did in college. 

 "Please tell me that is not your car," you say, eyeing the boxy, white Mercedes that is, in fact, Mike's. 

 "What of it?" 

 "These fucking Jeeps are so ugly, I cannot believe—"

 "Uh, it's not a Jeep. It's a g-wagon, thank you."

 You roll your eyes. "I liked your Wrangler better."

 "I bet you fuckin' did," he mumbles, too lost in the memory of you riding him in said Wrangler to think about how you might take the comment. 

 "It was easier on the eyes," you explain. 

 "It was a frat boy car."

 "You were a frat boy!" 

 "And, now I'm a professional."

 "Are you, though?" You tease, expression skeptical save for your tiny smirk. 

 "Most of the time."

 The only other vehicle in the lot is a Land Rover, considerably larger than the little hatchback you used to drive but very fitting for someone in your line of work. Mike thinks about mentioning that it's basically the same as his Mercedes, just not as expensive and with rounder edges, but he knows you'll just get indignant and defensive. 

 He walks you over to your car, and you don't question it, just open the passenger side and throw your bag inside. 

 This is your chance, Mike realizes. Just ask. Ask her to go somewhere else and talk about something other than work.

 "Hey, uh, do you wanna grab a drink or something?" He tries, heartbeat picking up once again. His eyes are a little too wide as you regard him carefully, studying him like one of your samples.

 Then, you shake your head. 

 "No, Mike. I don't wanna grab a drink." His stomach opens up, the heat that comes with embarrassment creeping up his neck. 

 "Oh, sorry, I just—"

 "But, there's a breakfast place close to the extended stay they put us up in. I've been wanting to check it out."

 And, like that, his hope is restored. Hope for what, Mike doesn't know, but it's certainly there, blooming in his chest like unkempt wildflowers. 

 "Yeah?" 

 You nod. "Yeah. I'm still not really a morning person, but d'you wanna meet there at, like, ten or so?" 

 "Tomorrow?" 

 "I mean, if that works for you."

 "Yeah!" Mike clears his throat, lowers his voice so that he sounds a little less excited. "I'm usually up and moving by eight."

 "God, why do you hate yourself?" You cringe. 

 "I've always been an early riser."

 "Not from what I remember."

 Mike leans against your rover, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, maybe not when I was kept up into the early morning hours, but usually I was up before everyone else."

 You post up across from him, one hand on your hip, and Mike realizes this is gonna go on for some time. 

 "Kept up? Like you didn't wanna be?"

 He's fine with that. He'll stand out here talking with you until the sun comes up if you'll let him. And, maybe after that too. 

 *

 Breakfast is good. Breakfast is safe. Breakfast is the start of the day and free of alcohol. There is nothing suggestive about breakfast. 

 Except breakfast has become a habit. For the last three Saturdays you’ve sat at the little cafe next to your hotel talking with Mike for at least an hour. You’re kind of getting to know him again, but most of the conversation consists of stupid jokes or blatant deflections. 

 His parents are still doing well, both in their sixties now, but Scout, unfortunately passed away a few years ago. Hearing it makes your eyes burn, and watching Mike’s face fall actually makes you wipe at your own rapidly forming tears. 

 He still keeps in touch with several of his frat brothers—Erwin (obviously), Nile, Gelgar, and some of the younger kids, Jean, Marco, and Connie.

 “Yeah, I’m actually pretty close to Marie now,” you tell him. “And, Maddie, and Rhi.”

 “Rhi?” He looks incredibly surprised.

 “Yeah,” you laugh. “Bonded over the woes of college boys.”

 “Didn’t see that coming.”

 “Neither did I, honestly.”

 Working with him is easier now. The ice has been broken. The boundaries have been set even if they are unspoken. You still do your best not to touch him at all, never stand too close or brush against him in any way, but you’ve loosened up a lot, and your team seems to appreciate it. Unfortunately, they also start to notice the way you light up a little too much whenever you’re around Mike, and naturally, Hange just had to comment on it a few days ago. 

 “You have a crush on the bossman or somethin’?”

 “What? No. We just work well together, I guess.”

 You do not tell Mike about this exchange, in fear of him prying. Well, do you have a crush on the bossman? You’re not ready for that, probably never will be. 

 There are a few breakthroughs in the Sina project. The research team gets extra funding to run more trials, and you start to stay late more often, sometimes in the tower with everyone else and sometimes in the lab. Things are progressing nicely. 

 Eventually, breakfast turns to lunch, lunch turns to dinner, and then you find yourself in Mike’s apartment, sitting at his kitchen table while he cooks.

 “So, we talk every once in a while now, but it’s usually really awkward. Like, I still don’t ever know what to say to him.”

 “Do you find it weird that he reached out in the first place?”

 “Kind of? When I was younger, I always hoped he would, but now that he has, I almost wish he hadn’t. Does that make sense?”

 Mike shrugs as he pours noodles into a strainer over the sink. “I mean, he’s your dad, so yeah, it makes sense. What he did was super shitty, but I figure it’s hard to forget the good times and just abandon all hope.”

 “Yeah. On the bright side, he sends my brother money for commissary, like, every week, so that’s nice.”

 It took a little while, but you’ve let yourself open up to Mike much easier this time around. Whether it’s because you already know you can trust him or because you’ve gotten the closure you needed for so long, you’re not sure. You just know it’s been easy. 

 Unfortunately, with vulnerability comes feelings, and you are having a lot of those. Too many. You’re glad that it’s not debilitating dread and nervousness now, but the overwhelming affection isn’t any less distracting.

 Watching Mike move around his kitchen, though—clad in a t-shirt, faded jeans, and the dish towel thrown over his shoulder, you are painfully reminded of why you got so attached all those years ago. 

 It isn’t fair. You really didn’t want to fall back into this hole. You knew it was a possibility as soon as you saw him at that first meeting, but you were trying to put it off until you had to leave. 

 Because that’s the plan. You come in. You complete the project, get them started on a long-term plan for the lake, then head back to your home facility and wait for another job to be assigned. You can’t just stay here, even if the idea gets a little more tempting every day. 

 You’re just friends, though, just spending time together because it’s familiar. It’s nice being back on the same page, just letting the past stay there.

 “So, it’s been about two months,” Mike starts, and something about his tone makes your stomach drop. “I feel like that’s an appropriate amount of time to wait before finally addressing the elephant in the room.”

 So much for letting the past stay there. 

 Groaning, you rub your hands down your face. “Do we really have to?” Of course he would want to talk about it now that you’re comfortable.

 “I really think we do.”

 “Mike, that was so long ago. I was a dumb fucking kid. What do you need to know other than that?”

 He braces himself on his counter, face serious. “Nothin’ really. I just want you to know that I was a dumb kid too.”

 “Yeah, and we’ve grown since then and gotten over it, right?”

 He lets out a long sigh. “I had gotten over it, but working with you every day has kinda... brought some things back to the surface.”

 Staring at him, you swallow and try to stay calm. You know where he’s coming from, and it’s a little comforting to know that he’s been experiencing at least some of the emotions that you have been, but you don’t know whether or not it’s a good thing. 

 “I get it. I’ve been struggling too, but there’s nothing we can really do about it.”

 You’ve thought about just taking the plunge and sleeping with him again. It would be nice—really fucking nice—but it would only make things worse. 

 “I guess. It’s been cool to hang out again, but…” Mike chews on his lip for a moment before finishing, “We’ve never been good at just hanging out.” 

 The reminder makes your skin prickle with heat, and you shift in your chair, reeling in your thoughts before they run wild. 

 “Yeah. If it would be easier to just not hang out, I’d understand.”

 He turns back to the stove to stir something and turn on the vent then twists back around. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

 “Then, what are you saying?”

 Mike makes a little disgruntled noise, hanging his head like he’s getting frustrated. “I’m saying some days are hard. I tried to keep some distance, but that lasted for about a week, and now you’re here, and even though you’ve changed some, you’re still you, and I’m still me, and… Some days are just hard.”

 Some minutes are hard, you think to yourself. You can be going about your day like someone who isn’t completely fucking smitten, and then you see Mike, and he nods or grins and suddenly all you want is to be alone with him and trace over his lips with yours, feel his hands on you, run your fingers through his long hair. 

 “If I could take those feelings away from you, I would,” you tell him, and it’s apparently the wrong thing to say because he frowns.

 “Do you not feel the same way then?”

 Your reply is almost instantaneous. “Christ, Mike, of course I feel the same! I was in love with you! I didn’t know how to show it back then, but that’s what it was, so yeah, I feel it too, but there’s no point in—in analyzing it or turning it into something—”

 “You were in love?”

 “Dude. Yes. It took me a while to realize it—like, way too long—but yeah. Definitely love. Junior and senior year wouldn’t have sucked so much if it was just lust or infatuation or something.”

 “Sorry.”

 “Don’t be,” you wave him off. “I fucked up. You had every right to be pissed.”

 “I could’ve handled it better,” he mutters.

 You shake your head. “Dumb kids, remember?”

 Mike looks genuinely upset, and you don’t know what to say anymore, so you get up from the kitchen table and walk over to him. You have to physically urge him to turn and face you, but once he does, you wrap your arms around his torso and sigh. He immediately locks his wrists behind your back, resting his chin on your head, and it feels familiar and right and a little bit like home. You can smell the fabric softener that clings to his shirt and the fresh scent of his deodorant, different from what he used to wear, but that doesn’t make it bad.

 “Can we wait for a while longer before we decide to act like dumb kids again?” You ask.

 Mike chuckles above you. “You say that like you’re positive we will.”

 You’re just being realistic, and you tell him as much. The chances of you leaving the city without having sex at least once are slim to none. You figure the two of you will break and indulge in one of those ‘just for old time’s sake’ fucks, but if Mike keeps talking to you like this, admitting feelings and what not, you’re gonna lose it much faster than you’d originally planned. 

 “Yeah.” You feel him nod. “Yeah, we can wait.”

 When he kisses the top of your head, you almost give up then and there. 

 *

 This fucking sucks. Everything sucks. Mike was never one of those people who looked back on college as his glory days, never really had the desire to go back to it, but now he feels like he’s reliving them because he’s back to being twenty-one and obsessed with a girl—being obsessed with you. 

 It wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t know that you felt it too, but you admitted it, so now the only thing that’s stopping the two of you from exploring that avenue is, what, fear? Again?

 He gets it. He does. You don’t want to fall into something serious only to leave, but it’s possible to navigate relationships like that. Long distance-works. There’s technology for that like phones and video chats and sex toys. Then, there’s always the option of just relocating. It would be drastic, but Mike isn’t against the idea. Arrangements would have to be made, but he could swing it. It’s a little crazy so early on, but...

 He’s not gonna push it, not in a blatant way, but he’s gonna try his damndest to make it harder for you to go. He grows bold enough to start touching you more. A hand on the small of your back as you leave a room together, an arm around your shoulders when you watch TV over dinner, tucking hair behind your ear (“God, that used to be Erwin’s, like, go-to move.”). It’s fucked up because he knows your colleagues are asking about it, that he’s subjecting you to their interrogations, but he can’t help himself. He can’t stop.

 It definitely has an effect on you. You get flustered every time, can’t look at Mike for a while, and he hopes it’s because you’re thinking about other ways he could touch you—has touched you—f you’d just give him the chance.

 He thinks he has the patience to keep it up, wind you up more and more every day until you spin out of control and into his bed. You’re still spending time with him outside of work, still sharing pieces of yourself, and you’re not stopping him from putting his hands on you. so it’s only a matter of time.

 It comes to a head in his apartment after dinner. It’s so simple, something Mike didn’t even do on purpose, but as you���re washing your hands, he comes up behind you and reaches past you for a paper towel. He puts a hand on your hip without thinking, and his chest presses against your back, and then you’re exhaling in one quick huff and squirming to turn around.

 “Okay.”

 “Okay, what?” Mike asks, confused as he takes a step back. 

 “Okay, I’m ready to act like a dumb kid.”

 You don’t even dry your hands, just curl your fingers into his shirt and gaze up at him with dilated pupils, and Mike is elated.

 “Oh, thank god, fuck, thank god.”

 He leans down, and you stand on your tiptoes, and when you meet in the middle and he feels your lips on his for the first time in almost a decade, he groans. 

 You pull him closer, tilt your head further back to give him better access, and Mike cradles it in his hands. He tries not to breathe too heavily, pant like a fucking dog, but he’s been waiting for this since he saw you again. Maybe before that. He thinks on some level he’s been waiting for this since he left you alone in the ranch house, a little voice nagging at him to go back, to fix things, and he just never did. 

 “This is stupid, this is so stupid,” you murmur against him. “Only gonna make things harder.”

 “Just stop thinking about it,” Mike replies, nipping at your bottom lip. He doesn’t want you to think about it because he doesn’t want to think about it otherwise he’ll blurt out everything he’s been stewing on for the last couple weeks, the possibility of a real relationship, of you staying or him going, and that's too much. 

 You both shed clothes on your way to the bedroom, a trail of shirts and pants until you’re naked and laid out for him, and Mike swears he just might cry because you’re so beautiful, just as he remembered with a little more meat on your hips and thighs, a new scar on your calf that he asks about before brushing his lips over it. That leg is already resting on his shoulder, and once he gets situated on his stomach, he throws the other one over himself.

 His mouth starts to water as he gazes at your pussy, so fucking pretty, hole fluttering when he spreads you open. You can’t answer his question about the injury as he lowers his face, pressing the flat of his tongue to the sensitive skin then dipping it inside of you. 

 “Oh, fuck.”

 You taste and smell and feel perfect, and the only thought in his mind is to devour you. He won’t stop until you’re crying, drool leaking from your mouth and your cunt. And, he knows exactly how to get you to that point. 

 Mike flicks over your clit until it grows firm against his tongue then sucks it into his mouth. The noise you make goes straight to his cock, and he starts to rut into the mattress to get some kind of friction. He can already feel precum dripping from his tip, knows you won’t be the only one getting messy tonight, but he doesn’t care. He’s never cared. 

 Mike only pulls away when your thighs start to tremble around his head, and it’s only to mark them with bruises. It reminds him of the last time, when you’d let him fuck you in a fit of desperation. It had been his undoing. He thought of that night for years, and now that he’s able to do it all again, he can’t help but confess, “Fuck, I’ve missed your pussy,” just before he spits on it. 

 Your chest is rising with every little whimper you release as your nails dig into your palms. He’s never been happier to have long arms, able to reach up and massage your tits, stretching his fingers out to span across your chest, thumb on one nipple, pinky on the other, and as he teases both of them, he moans at the fresh slick that coats his tongue. 

 “A finger,” you pant, “Give me a finger, fuck, at least one, please please please—”

 You’ve always been so cute when you babble. Mike can never say no when you talk to him like that, but after assessing and deeming you fit, he slides two fingers into you at once, still sucking your clit.

 You swear loudly, almost in surprise, but that doesn’t stop you from moving your hips, fucking yourself on every digit as your jaw drops open. 

 Mike wants to see your face—has to see it, so he licks up your body, stopping to tongue over your nipples as he goes. He never falters in his thrusting, still knows the exact angle he has to crook his fingers to hit your g-spot. Your back arches, and you plant your feet flat on the mattress to give yourself more leverage, more control. Mike smirks down at you, enjoying your euphoric expression as he grinds his palm against the bundle of nerves that is the key to making you fall apart. 

 “Oh my god—oh, god—fuck, Miche.”

 His breath catches in his throat. God, he hasn’t heard that in too long. He never told you, not that he ever had to, but hearing you call him that drove him crazy, made him fall further in love and lust at the same time, and hearing it now has the same effect.

 “Please,” you whine, then repeat it, spreading your legs to coax him deeper. “Fuck, I need you so bad, s-so bad.”

He’s in the perfect position to rub his cock over your stomach, smearing pre everywhere it touches. From the beginning, Mike has loved leaving traces of himself on you, always felt like he could almost smell it on your skin, like a sigil to ward off others.

 He places a soft kiss at the corner of one closed eye, then on the other, and when you open them to look at him, he sees that they’re filled with tears. 

 It makes him pause, but you keep riding his fingers and beg, “Don’t stop, please don’t stop, m’fine, just—”

 “Why're you crying then?" he grins, leaning down to lick your bottom lip. "Feel good?" 

 You nod, raising to your elbows to force your mouth against his, sliding your tongue inside then whining when Mike pulls away, but it's only to gather the spit in his mouth. When he kisses you again, he makes sure you take it all, pushing saliva past his teeth and onto your palette, and when you swallow, Mike makes a noise of satisfaction. 

 "That's my fuckin' girl."

 That wide, fuck-drunk smile he loves so much spreads across your face as you accept the praise you never would have when you were younger.

 Mike noses just under your ear then asks, "You ready for my cock?" 

 "Always,” you breathe. “Always ready for it."

 "Yeah?" You nod, face scrunching up, and Mike thinks there's a chance that you're—"Gonna come for me first?" 

 Your muscles are starting to tense, hips stuttering, and he can actually feel your pussy spasming around his fingers. 

 "Come on, baby, you can do it. Just—'

 Your eyes roll back as your body pulses. Mike's hand is coated with slick that he can't wait to lick off, and he fucks you with his fingers until you go limp. 

 He cleans his hand then slithers back between your legs to catch everything that's leaking from you. You release a pitiful moan when he traces a circle around your entrance then squeal when he rubs his beard over it. 

 "Jesus fuck!"

 "Sensitive?" He teases before crawling back up to kiss you. 

 Holding himself up with one arm, Mike takes hold of his cock, painfully hard at this point, and parts your wet folds with his tip. He slides it up and down, teasing both you and himself and gasping every time it just barely dips inside of you. 

 "Miche, please."

 "You sound good when you beg," he tells you. You've been doing an awful lot of that tonight. 

 "Good enough to fuck me?" 

 "Mm, maybe," he plays, but he's cut off when you lift yourself just enough to take his cockhead inside of you, squeezing it so that he swears. 

 It completely dismantles any self-control Mike thought he had, and he gives you everything he has in a single thrust that makes you scream his name. 

 "You asked for it," he tells you, starting to pull out. 

 You grip his biceps, shaking your head. "J-just stay still for a—oh god, oh god…"

 Mike doesn't move, lets you adjust while he enjoys the way your cunt clenches around his cock. You're panting, eyebrows knit together, and apologize, "Sorry, give me… a minute. Been a while since I've taken anything this s-size."

 It's juvenile, but Mike's chest still puffs a little when you tell him that, and that feeling only grows when you give him the go ahead to move and he pulls out to see that his cock is already covered in white cream.

 Breathing out a quiet, "Fuck," he slowly pushes back in, mesmerized by the way it creates a thick ring at the base. "So pretty," he mutters, rubbing a thumb over the skin that's stretched around him. "Such a pretty pussy."

 He lets a string of spit drip from his mouth and onto your clit then strokes the swollen bud in circles, the pad of his fingers brushing over the tiny hole that makes you twitch every time. 

 Mike falls into a very slow, deep rhythm, torturing you as he drags his cock over every inch of your satin walls. Tiny gasps are pushed from your throat with every thrust, growing louder when Mike sits back on his heels and pulls your hips up to meet his. It leaves you helpless, only able to claw at the blankets, but your efforts are half-hearted, the press of Mike's cockhead against your g-spot obviously making it hard to do just about anything. 

 "I—I—I—..."

 "You what, baby?" He coos while admiring how big his hands look where they wrap around your waist, holding you mostly still as he drives his cock in and out of you. 

 Your cunt is pulsing again, so tight around him as it drips with slick and cream. The sounds it's making, an obscene balance of suction and squelching, has Mike shaking over you because it's so lewd but so familiar, and god, he has missed this. 

 And, you're right. It's stupid because he's just putting himself in the same place he was in ten years ago, but now he's a grown fucking adult, able to handle himself better, communicate better, fuck you better. 

 Tears leak from the corners of your eyes when he picks up his pace, and he groans when he presses in just a little too far, cockhead nudging against the wall deep inside of you. Your eyelids flutter, toes curling where your feet dangle and shake on either side of Mike. 

 His hips start to snap against yours, his balls swinging every time, and Mike remembers how nice it felt when they'd slap against your clit, the way you'd sing for him, and well…

 "Turn over," he breathes, pulling out and helping as you get to your hands and knees. 

 He takes the time to appreciate the view, letting the weight of his cock settle on your back just to get a visual of how much you take of it, what it might look like deep in your ass and what it would be like to see your stomach bulge from it. 

 Another day.

 Not wasting any more time, Mike sheathes himself inside you once again, spreading your cheeks and spitting on your puckering hole so that he can press against it with a thumb. 

 Your pussy opens up for him, like your body is begging him for more, so Mike fucks you harder, faster, slipping the tip of his finger into your asshole so that you tense up and say his name drunkenly. 

 His heavy balls hit your clit over and over, making you squirm and swear, head hanging back in an invitation, so Mike uses his free hand to grab you by the hair, pulling and glancing at what he can see of your face to make sure he isn't hurting you too much. 

 That grin is back, crooked and shiny with drool you keep having to suck back from your teeth. Mike hasn't felt this good having sex in god knows how long (he knows exactly how long it's been), and he thinks out loud, "Always take my cock so well. Always been able to…"

 "Feels so good, Miche," you cry, "You feel so fucking good, oh my god."

 He takes you like this until you can't hold yourself up anymore, elbows buckling underneath you, and all he does then is fall onto his back and pull you with him, letting you ride him like this and dragging his nails down your spine. It curves under his touch, arching and bowing as you lean forward to plant your hands between his legs and bounce on him. 

 Mike has a perfect view from this angle, huffing at the way your puffy lips open for him, clinging to his cock and dripping gossamer strands. Pressure slowly starts to build in both his gut and his balls, a hot sensation that grows, making him feel full and swollen and fuck, he can't wait to fill you up, can't wait to see you sloppy with his cum again. 

 But, not yet. Not yet. 

 Pushing you until you move off of him, Mike grabs his pillows and shoves you down on them, kissing you again before burying his face between your legs. Your hands are immediately in his hair, and he smiles when you tug at it a little harshly, using the strands as a means to guide Mike right where you want him. Even though he's taking this little break to let himself calm down, he can't help but press his hips to the mattress. He's hot and throbbing and dripping pre, ready but not ready to unload everything inside of you. He doesn't want it to end too soon, wants to savor every second because you're here crying and pleading for him, pushing yourself against his face only to pull back when he sucks on your clit. 

 He's able to fit three fingers inside of you now, keeps licking and fucking you until you whisper a slew of curses and start to warn him, "You're gonna make me—" breaking into a high-pitched moan as you squirt into his mouth and all over his hand. 

 "Fuck yes, again, come on, baby, do that again."

 Mike coaxes another out of you, groaning at the feeling of you dripping down his face and chuckling at the way you shiver and sit up. Your eyes are barely open, head swaying back and forth, but you plant a hand on his chest with the confidence of someone who doesn't look like they're about to pass out, shoving him back until he lays down. 

Straddling him, you sink down on his cock and bite your lip as you rock back and forth for a few seconds. Mike can feel fluid dripping over his pelvis, murmurs, "So messy," while pulling you down for a lazy kiss. 

 He lets you ride him, lets you think you're in control for a while until your legs start to get tired, rhythm becoming slower, and then Mike takes over. He lifts and drops you to his content, hips meeting yours as he fucks up into you. Your own hands cup your tits, pinching your nipples and putting on a show as you bounce up and down. 

 "You're so good," you breathe. "So fucking good to me, god, Miche, right there."

 He's on the brink, so close to his climax, but he holds back, giving it to you just the way you want it until it starts to hurt, and then he grunts, "'m gonna come, baby, I have to. Fuck, please, please, let me—"

 "Yes, yes, wanna feel you…"

 Mike's head sinks further into the pillow as his hips move without any thought on his part. He spills inside of you, hot ropes of cum filling your cunt so that it starts to leak out around him, then shooting even more inside of you. 

 "Jesus fucking—"

 Your muscles clench, squeezing and milking him until Mike starts groaning and twitching from overstimulation. 

 He could die right here and now and be totally fine with it. He really could. But before he can let that happen... 

 Mike urges you back, letting you get situated on your pillows again as he gazes at your stretched pussy and everything dripping out of it. 

 As soon as you stop moving, Mike is working his tongue inside of you. He can taste both himself and you, feel it coat his tongue as he drinks in as much as he can before sliding up to your face and taking your chin so you'll open your mouth. 

 The first drop makes you open wider, sticking your tongue out so that Mike can fill your mouth with his cum and spit, and the fact that you let him is so incredibly arousing, he just might fuck you until he's coming dry. 

 The little pattern is repeated a few times, Mike licking your pussy then spitting everything into your mouth, but he leaves some for lubrication, shoving the last of his cum back inside you when he starts fucking you on his fingers. He keeps you pliant, sucking on your clit so that he can slowly ease his pinky into your ass, and it isn't long before you're letting out breathy little sounds and tensing underneath him. 

 He takes care of you through your orgasm, looking at your face from where he lays. You're so pretty when you come, mouth open, eyebrows high, the picture of ecstasy, and Mike wants to remember it forever. He wants to keep you like this forever. 

 You shudder when he pulls his fingers from you, whine when he slowly laves over your sensitive pussy with his tongue, but after several long licks, Mike crawls back up to lay next to you. 

 "God damn," you laugh. "I had almost forgotten how good you are."

 Mike smirks, kissing your temple and nipping the shell of your ear. "Almost?"

 You nod, a spent smile making your lips curl. "I don't think I could ever fully forget even if I wanted to."

 Humming, he traces fingers over your stomach, now sticky from the mess of precum he had basically slathered you with. 

 "Yeah, we were pretty good for each other when we weren't being stupid," he muses. 

 He should probably step away for a few minutes, hop in the shower and wait for the flood of chemicals in his brain to fall away. 

 "We were, weren't we?" 

 "Mhm."

 Mike dips to press his face into your neck. He just can't stop touching you, can't stop breathing you in. He needs to memorize everything about this—how soft you are underneath him, how you smell like sex and sweat and your perfume, how quiet your voice is when you speak to him. 

 He feels your body rise and fall with a heavy sigh, and he's about to ask if you want to rinse off, but you open your mouth first, thoughtful when you tell him, "I loved you so much, Miche."

 "I know," he replies. Even if he couldn't see it then, he can now. You may not have told him to his face, but if Mike had been just a little smarter back then, he would have realized you were telling him in different ways. "I loved you too."

 He feels you pet his hair, probably a tangled wreck from being pulled. "I, uh…" You swallow hard, and Mike rests his chin on the hand on your chest, your heart beating against his palm a little too fast. 

 "You wanna shower before you say whatever you're about to?" 

 He knows what you're about to tell him. He just wants to make sure you don't regret it when you come back to yourself. "Yeah, probably."

 Both of you leave the bed on unsteady legs, Mike leading you to the shower and setting it to your favored temperature. He stands under the spray with you, taking the brunt of the water while kissing you. You move slowly, tangling your tongue with his, mapping out his body with exploratory hands. 

Mike is the one to break away after several minutes, insisting on soaping you up and dragging his loofah over your skin. He even sinks to his knees, gentle as he cleans your thighs and between them, careful not to get suds anywhere they're not supposed to be. When he’s finished, Mike presses a kiss to your pelvic bone before standing again, grinning when you pull him back to your face. 

 He doesn't have the same, short refractory period he used to otherwise he'd fuck you against the tiled wall, but he's content to stay like this, sucking on your lip and pressing against you. 

 Even after you've been given the chance to get your thoughts in order, you still blink up at Mike, water droplets dotting and falling from your eyelashes as you tell him, "I love you. I still love you. I don't think I can stop."

 He holds your head in his hands, brushes his nose against yours as his chest swells with more emotion than he thinks he can actually handle, and his own confession is easy: "I love you, too." Another soft peck to your lips before he adds, "I think you already knew that, though."

 "Wasn't positive."

 Mike knows there are logistics to consider, but the two of you can work on that later. For now he just wants to finish rinsing off and crawl into bed with you. 

 He should probably change the sheets, though, and find you pajamas, so Mike does exactly that as you traipse back out to the kitchen for some water, wearing absolutely nothing and making him bite his lip. 

 He puts new bedding on the mattress, then digs through his dresser for a t-shirt and boxers. Something catches his eye, printed material that almost makes him laugh out loud. He doesn't know why he still has the shorts, especially since he ruined the shirt a long, long time ago, but he's so glad he does. 

 Pink and covered in palm trees, he can't even fit into them any more, but it's fine. He thinks he knows how he can repurpose them. 

 But first, he needs to call his mom. 

 *

 It's an easy fix, really. Before the Sina project even comes close to wrapping up, Mike finds a place for you in his department, something you hadn't thought possible, but apparently he's kind of a big deal in the field. 

 When he makes you the job offer in the conference room, he's able to keep it professional for a whole three minutes before you agree to the terms, and then he's out of his chair and picking you up to swing around. Just like that, the whole fucking office knows about the two of you. 

 "Ha! You owe me fifty bucks, Moblit!" Hange shouts for everyone to hear, and you shake your head as the quiet man asks if he can Venmo them. 

 "I fucking knew it! I knew there was something going on! God, that's so satisfying. I'm not even mad that you're leaving us."

 "It's been going on for a long time now," you snort. 

 Hange leans against the wall and wriggles their eyebrows, "Yeah, what, like, the whole three months we’ve been here?" 

 "Try ten years," Mike mutters, and the eyes behind Hange's glasses nearly roll out of their head. 

 You and Mike have to sign a few things, contracts and couples disclosures and what not, but you don't mind. 

 The first thing you do is ask for a few days off in order to move, and Mike naturally does the same to help. You live just over three hours away, but are able to recruit some help in the form of your old friends. 

 You let out a shrill scream when you see Erwin step out of his car outside of your apartment complex, all but throw yourself into his arms so that he laughs and squeezes you tight against him. It's been a couple years since you've actually seen him, the distance between you just a little too far, but it's so nice to stare at his stupid face again. 

 Nile is also there with a very pregnant Marie on his arm, and Hitch and Rhi arrive as all the guys are carrying down the first load of packed boxes. 

 "Damn, it has been a long time since we've all been together," you say, looking around at everyone and grinning after you tape up another set of cardboard flaps. 

 "Yeah, kinda weird how we all just get along now," Hitch giggles. 

 "It's almost like we're adults or something," Rhi adds. 

 You pass her the box, but she just groans and passes it to Erwin. 

 Everyone takes turns making trips to Mike's apartment, and the moving effort takes three days in total. You really need to find a way to repay all of them, maybe suggest a nice dinner. 

 "God, why do you own so much shit, babe?" Mike asks after loading the last shelves of a bookcase into his car (that you still hate). 

 "Because everything has sentimental value. Don't judge me."

 "Oh, I'm judging. When'd you get so soft?"

 You roll your eyes and reach past him to close the trunk door. 

 The others are all standing in the parking lot with you, antsy and excited for the two of you, or so you assume. 

 "I really can't thank you guys enough. You've made this so much easier," you tell them. 

 Erwin grins widely and pulls you into a hug, and to your surprise, Hitch slides around you to hold you from behind. It makes you laugh and call them dumb, but when they step back, you're hit with the realization that they weren't just being goofy; they were strategizing, keeping you shielded from Mike who is now kneeling on the asphalt and chewing on his bottom lip. 

 Your eyes grow wide, and you step back only to run straight into Erwin's chest. He puts two, grounding hands on your shoulders, and you can almost feel his smile as Mike reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box. 

 A small pink box. 

 A small pink box with pieces of fucking palm trees wrapping around it. 

 "Did you get that fucking upholstered?" You shout, and Mike lets out a giddy laugh, his eyes so narrow from grinning that you can barely see the green. "I don't even wanna open it. I cannot believe—"

 "Good thing you don't have to open it then," he chuckles. “I do.”

 "You are fucking impossible, you know that?" 

 "Yeah," he agrees before prying the ridiculous box apart and revealing a ring that makes you tear up. 

 It isn't huge, but it's far from plain, sparkling stones wrapping around it with a larger, round cut in the middle. It's extremely pretty and very you, and oh, you wanna put it on, you wanna put it on right now. 

 "Don't look too impressed. Mom helped me pick it out, and it’s all ethically sourced, of course," Mike says, and you wipe your eyes while giggling. 

 "Oh my god, she's crying!" Rhi yells. 

 "Shut up, it's because of that atrocious box."

 Mike looks behind you at Erwin. "I knew she'd love it."

 "Yeah, good call, bro."

 "I hate both of you."

 "Still gonna marry me, though, right?" Mike is still grinning, but you can see the barest hint of worry in his eyes, and you can't blame him because this is big. This is commitment. Marriage. He wants you to marry him. 

 And, some will say it’s too quick, that you’ve only been actually dating for a couple of months, but it makes sense because if you’re being honest, you never really fell out of love with Mike. He’s always been nestled deep in your heart.

 "Against my better judgement," you smirk. 

 He stands up quick enough to make himself dizzy, has to brace a hand on his car as he kisses you. 

 "Finally!" Erwin shouts, clapping his hands and being joined by the others. 

 Mike slides the ring from the terrible box, pushes it onto your finger with shaky hands, and when you admire it in the sun, you look at him and nod. "Very nice, Zacharias. Even in the parking lot setting."

 "I just wanted everyone to be here! If we went somewhere fancy, you would've figured it out."

 That's true. Going to some nice restaurant or quaint little park would have definitely tipped you off. 

 "Also, you know once we're married, you will also be Zacharias."

 "Yeah," you nod thoughtfully. "Yeah, I guess I will be. Hey," you look at him with raised eyebrows. "Wanna shotgun beers at the wedding?" 

 Mike laughs loudly. "That is how it all started, isn't it?" 

 "Yeah, this stupid frat boy in a Hawaiian shirt came up to me and demanded I shotgun a room temp beer."

 "Sounds like an asshole," Mike chuckles. 

 You shrug as he pulls you into his chest and sigh into his shirt, "He turned out alright, I guess."

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: I

“And I can't wait another minute

I can't take the look she's giving

Your body rocking, keep me up all night

One in a million, my lucky strike.”

— Lucky Strike, Maroon 5

A/N: this idea started as just random concept drabbling between leyla @sunflowervolvimp3​ and i and we never really thought it would amount to anything tbh!! but as we started putting more and more into the plot and characters, we made the spontaneous decision to make it a full on, multi-chaptered collab fic! we have so many ideas planned and so much to elaborate on and we’re just so mfing excited to share it with you guys :’) any and all feedback is greatly appreciated 💌 we hope you enjoy the first part and that you fall in love with this stupid emotionally unavailable moron the way we did! happy reading!!

andrea’s askbox : leyla’s askbox : ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : 

word count: 17.2k

content/warnings: vampire!harry being a lowkey asshole while downing straight tequila like a psycho, getting to know The Crew, Mitch being the iconic legend he is, mentions of smut, and Harry working his immortal charm on an unsuspecting human girl with a peculiar scent and intriguing personality

///

Harry hates clubs. 

In his two hundred years of life, through many trials and tribulations, through tricky scenarios and annoying encounters, through thousands of unappealing circumstances and patience-testing events, he doesn’t think anything quite compares to the crowded, nerve-wracking experience that is a Los Angeles club on a Friday night during peak hours. 

According to his wise, humble opinion, it’s absolutely fucking petrifiying. He’d rather swallow a stake than have to spend hours in a dimly lit room with synthetic smoke choking his lungs, half-conscious humans stumbling around into him, and the stench of sweaty bodies mixed with liquor fumes, alongside the faint yet unmistakable waft of vomit. 

Yeah, Harry would definitely rather eat a red oak spear than have to shoulder that.

Despite his intense hatred for this Californian city during its after-hours, he can’t deny that he fits right into the scene perfectly. Decades of grooming and practice have made him a prime candidate for the fast-paced characteristics that come with the party nightlife. 

Fitting into these aspects aren’t something he had learned willingly; he didn’t really have a choice on the matter, considering his entire existence depends on mortals immature tendencies to get properly shit-faced and make stupid decisions in tightly-packed glorified bars. Harry never understood that— how a fog machine, strobe lights, and an undergrad amateur DJ could ever seem more appealing than the quiet, stable ambiance of a semi-formal bar. How deranged do people have to be to actually enjoy strangers spilling alcohol on them while attempting to shag someone else two feet away on the dance floor? 

Whenever he dwells too much on that thought, he gets a spiking migraine. After this long, Harry’s just come to terms with the fact that humans are regressing as a species. His conclusion is a bit cynical, perhaps, but hardly difficult to accept. One look at a news outlet provides enough proof to launch an Ivy League research project on the matter. 

He really shouldn’t be complaining, however, because the combination of overflowed close quarters and dampened inhibitions makes it the ideal hunting ground. Picking up a living blood bag at a club is basically as easy as walking through a vineyard and plucking grapes right off the stems. It’s practical, it’s fool-proof, and if he plays his cards right, he gets to feed and gets his more intimate needs tailored (a combo that he and his friends refer to as Laid and Drained).  

So regardless of his distaste towards clubs and their eager inhabitants, Harry had learned to mold his persona to fit the bill, making himself as approachable and desirable as possible. His life literally hangs in the balance; he’d put up with throngs of drunk sorority girls and their affinity for shitty perfumed drinks if it means avoiding desiccation. 

It’s not like it’s hard. All Harry has to do is make himself look more appealing than the other hundred men milling around the establishment, which— if he’s being brutally honest— isn’t that challenging. The moral, physical, and ethical standards of men have dropped frighteningly low since his time. Most of the ones that creep around clubs are overconfident, overzealous, boundary-lacking douchebags who think they’re entitled to a woman’s attention, and therefore make complete, utter fools of themselves in the process of trying to court one into their pants. Buying a girl one Sex On The Beach and dry-humping to Daft Punk isn’t the way to convince her to come home with you. 

Harry has developed his own guidelines and tactics for securing a nightly bedroom companion, and his ideas have been working wonders for him for decades now. 

The first and foremost rule is to clean up nicely. Personal appearance is everything. Humans are visual creatures; they build first impressions solely based on outward attraction. That trait is enhanced the higher their blood alcohol content rises. The drunker someone gets, the shallower they become, and it’s Harry’s job to work that to his advantage. And at the risk of sounding shallow himself, he thinks he does pretty alright in that department. 

Especially tonight, present in all the elements of his physique. He’s clad in a pair of high-waisted tan trousers that have been ironed to a crisp, his fitted graphic tee tucked neatly along his waistband beneath his black leather belt. His t-shirt is probably his favorite part of the entire look. It’s a baby blue sturdy cotton number with pastel yellow detailing along the cuffs and collar and a giant cartoon puppy in a striped bowtie taking up its center, smiling cheekily at the onlooker. Arranged around the doodle in faded Times New Roman bubble letters are the words WE’RE IN THE SHIT. 

Harry loves the irony of the article— the innocence of the drawing juxtaposed by the crude message. The piece is a conversation-starter— people almost always comment on it— and that’s exactly what he needs. Something to draw attention to himself and shadow all the other men. Something that shows he has a personality; that he has taste and a good sense of humor and isn’t just another walking genital. Plus, what person doesn’t enjoy a funny little contradiction, especially when it’s this cute?

On top of his graphic top, he’s wearing a tartan cropped blazer (open, of course) with a creme background and royal blue lines. The hem ends at the bottom of his ribs, exactly where his pants begin, and the jacket's hand-sewn buttons and strap detailings show that it's an expensive garment. It shows that he puts money and effort into how he looks, which is something anyone would appreciate when scoping for a possible hookup.

Harry’s shoes are the most casual factor of his fit. They’re a pair of light yellow Vans that match the collar of his tee. They’re plain, but he keeps them clean and they tie the whole look together without a hitch.

Accessories are everything, as well. Aside from the pearls arranged around his prominent collarbones, the gold-dipped cross hanging from a delicate chain around his neck, and the matching dangling cross earring on his right earlobe (again, he adores irony), he’s sporting a plethora of chunky rings on his hands, each unique and effortlessly complimenting his appearance. On his left hand, his index finger dots a ruby jewel embedded into a thick rusted band, another large metal one with dancing bears on his middle, and two clunky golden letters on his last two digits— his initials, HS. On his opposite hand, he has a medium-width plated ring on his middle finger with peace engraved along its rounded edge, an elegant lionhead number with an amethyst stone snug in its mouth, and along his pinky is a decently-sized opal set into a delicate polished frame. 

His two last rings are the most important of all. The lionhead is his daylight ring, which he hasn’t taken off since he transitioned. It keeps him from bursting into flames everytime the sun hits his skin. The opal was his mother’s, and it was her favorite. 

Harry’s attire is something he’s immensely proud of, even though a good amount of people deem him eccentric in the eyes of modern masculinity. He couldn’t give less of a shit. With his lightly tanned skin, alluring cologne and lacquered nails, his shirt stretching across the defined muscles of his chest and stomach, his broad shoulders and tapering waist, his thick thighs, sharp jaw, jade eyes, loosely tousled chestnut curls, and the vast array of dark ink littering his arms...

He looks good and he knows it. And all the people whose gazes glue to him as he passes by know it, too. Especially a random group of young women in line, who ogle at him shamelessly as he casually strolls past. He treats them to a sly wink, an irresistible dimpled smile, and a soft, cheeky greeting of, “Ladies.”

He gets off on the way they swoon at his refined English accent, giggling and waving. 

The only other component Harry has for succeeding in the club environment is simple, but it’s important: Don’t seduce, romanticize. 

Anyone— even inebriated idiots— can try and seduce a woman. And if she’s had enough tequila shots to cloud her thoughts, they just might succeed. But only a real man can romanticize a girl, and it yields way better results. 

Females are an emotional sect (Harry says that with zero misogyny; it’s just a scientific fact and he actually praises it), which means that if you entertain their interests and fluff their egos, they are bound to fall right into the palm of your hand. It changes the game completely because then they don’t feel that they have to pleasure you, they want to. They pursue the guy who flirts without being too vulgar, who appreciates and acknowledges their efforts, and who can go head-to-head with their wit by carrying unforced banter. They chase after him because he’s showing genuine kindness rather than just sexual interests and if he’s that attentive on the getting-to-know-you front, one can only imagine how skilled he could be in other bases. Chatting up a girl the right way, with patience and courtesy, builds credibility and prowess. And as a thank you, they’re usually more than willing to pay special attention to your needs, as well. 

Thus, romanticizing is always the expert move. So, yes, Harry detests clubs and the disaster that is adult recreation. But he’s fucking amazing at playing it to his favor. He’s great at calculating everything down to the smallest detail and he’s going to piggy-back on those skills for the rest of eternity. He’s so good at what he hates that his closest friends have anointed him the title of Walking Paradox. He’s more than happy to keep it. 

All of these thoughts are circulating around his skull, hyping him up for the game ahead as Harry and his friend group walk up to the bouncer at the entrance of the club they had chosen for the night, faint stars twinkling in the dark sky as the sounds and lights of the city fall away into background static. 

They cruise by the long line of people, hearing sounds of disagreement and grumbling coming from the other patrons waiting to get in. Harry casually tucks his large hands into the pockets of his light brown slacks as he pulls up in front of the burly bald man, who is wearing a black shirt with the club’s name printed in neon letters. The security guard is at least five inches taller than him, overswollen biceps and pectoral muscles rippling under the flimsy material of his work outfit as he crosses his arms over his barreled chest, cocking a single thick eyebrow at the seemingly young vampire. 

Harry delivers a good-natured smile up at the employee, despite the man’s obvious begrudging disbelief at what he is about to try and do. His friends chat quietly behind him, uninterested in what is happening; after years of being acquainted, they know that Harry is going to get exactly what he wants. He always does. 

He’s the best of them, that much is obvious. Not only when it comes to his experience with persuading sexual partners and getting himself a decent dinner, but he’s the best at convincing just about anyone to do anything, neutral of gender. He’s the second oldest of the crew, yet he seems to have the most knowledge and practice under his belt; his easygoing charisma, undeniable good looks, and dazzling smile could sway even the most stubborn of souls. Frankly, he’s so successful in getting his way that no one cares to try and argue for the leader position. Not when they can just sit back and let Harry do all the work. 

“Good evening.” Harry’s deep voice chimes giddily in the direction of the bouncer, his accent particularly heavy for no real reason. “How you doing tonight, mate?”

The guard— whose name tag reads Brock and Harry has to actively stop himself from snorting at how fitting the name is for such a brick of a human— looks down at him with a stony expression, voice flat. “I’m good.”

“Well, that’s great to hear!” The curly-haired boy’s simper widens, dimples popping into place as he skates into his next question with dramatic friendliness. “Haven’t had anyone cause you any trouble tonight, have you?”

Brock blinks once, attitude remaining coldly indifferent even in the face of Harry’s cheeriness. His words, however, are snipped and pointed. “Not yet.”

“I’m guessing you’d like to keep it that way.” The young man comments sympathetically, nodding his head along with the worker. “Totally understandable.” 

“Good.” The employee remarks in the same detached tone, shifting on his feet, obviously growing uncomfortable and irritated with the conversation. “So I’m guessing that means you know you have to get in line.” 

Harry glances over his shoulder at the lengthy expanse of people gathered along the side of the building, a light wind filtering through his freshly-shampooed ringlets as he studies the way the bright sign on top of the club casts alternating rainbow colors across the crowd. 

He makes a disapproving sound by sucking at his teeth, lulling his sight back onto the guard. “I don’t know, man. At this rate, I feel like by the time we get to the front of the line, it’ll be last call.”

“Maybe.” Brock shrugs offhandedly. “It is what it is, right? Fair’s fair.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Harry returns his gesture, but his posture shows no intention of moving, the corners of his rose lip set in a knowing smirk. “But since you’ve been having a good night, do you think you could find it in yourself to just let us through? We’d greatly appreciate it.” 

The bouncer’s face hardens, any shred of professional amiability washing out of his defined features. “I don’t think so.” 

The vampire’s shoulders sag in exaggerated disappointment. “Are you sure? It’s just five of us. Don’t think we’ll do much damage. Right, guys?”

Harry glimpses over his back to his friends, who let their conversation falter for a moment to throw out a chorus of half-assed agreements, trying to keep themselves from snickering. 

“We promise we won’t cause any problems.” Xander speaks up, jutting his chin encouragingly at the man as his lips twitch slyly. He lifts one of his hands, the smallest finger sticking out stiffly and wiggling around. “Pinky swear.” 

The rest of the group bursts into a round of light laughter, causing Harry to release a few airy giggles of his own.  

Xander looks over at Niall, raising his eyebrows and quipping in an innocent manner. “Right, Ni? No funny business tonight. That means no climbing onto the bar again and stripping down to your socks.” 

“That happened one time!” Niall exclaims incredulously, socking the taller boy in the shoulder as the others laugh harder than before, his blue eyes narrowed and face pinched. “Once! And it was only ‘cause Harry challenged me to a tequila shot contest.”

The Irish vampire’s accented voice drops darkly as he reminisces. “Fuckin’ hate tequila. Makes me act like a moron.” 

“As if you’re not one already.” Mitch pipes up in his usual soft dialect, chuckling as he ducks away from Niall’s vengeful fist. 

Harry cranes back to face Brock, thumb playing with his daylight ring as his hands stay relaxed inside his trousers. He shrugs one shoulder easily for emphasis. “See? You can let us through. We pinky swore.” 

The entire charade seems to have only infuriated the security guard more than before, his brows now fully furrowed and a deep, unamused frown etched across his previously pursed lips. His voice is on edge with barely controlled anger. “I’m not putting up with any shit. If you want in, go to the back of the line. If not, leave.”

Harry sighs grandly in defeat, head shaking slightly. “Guess I’ll just have to go the other route, then.”

The creature takes a step forward towards the employee, close enough that their chests almost press together. The bulky man stands his ground, though there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes at seeing the smaller boy make such a bold move. 

“What the f—?”

Harry locks gazes with Brock, pupils dilating to twice their size, the usual emerald shade of his irises flickering a haunting red and looking sinister in the buttery light of the street lamps. Horror breaks across the worker’s face, the ability to form coherent sentences disappearing from his demeanor. Harry’s heightened senses can hear the way his heartbeat spikes, blood instinctively rushing into his chest as a response to the adrenaline materializing in his veins. The activation of human’s fight-or-flight modes is always so oddly pleasurable. Just feeling how they react so drastically makes Harry’s fangs tingle with longing. Fear is a good condiment, he’s learned; it gives blood’s usual metallic flavor a certain twang.

But at the moment, a beverage from this specific tap isn’t the one Harry has in mind. He has his interests set on something much tangier and full-bodied; maybe Casamigos golden tequila, or Don Julio's Blanco. Preferably mixed with a young office secretary or a Bath and Body Works employee instead of lemon and salt. 

All in all, Brock is just collateral for a much bigger prize, which lies behind the roped off area he holds dominion over. It’s Harry’s job to break that dam. 

Before the large man can fully react, the vampire begins working his compulsion strategy, tone coming out level and soothing, thick with persuasion and teetering along a sleepy undercurrent. “You’re going to let us through, and you’re going to forget we ever met.”

The guard’s pupils enlarge to match Harry’s, the look of utter terror on his face melting right off. His features go slack as the monster’s magical influence works its way through his brain, coating every neuron and bending him to the deliverer’s will. The man reaches over and removes the velvet rope blocking the group’s path, stepping off to the side obediently with an empty expression present across his appearance. 

The leader of the group smiles just as brightly as he had the second he’d walked up to the door. He passes by the worker, giving him a hard pat on the shoulder and feeling the muscular man strain under his supernatural strength. “Thank you very much. You have a nice night, Brock.” 

Harry’s friends follow behind him, echoing his parting message and sharing a collective chortle.  

The second the group dives past the frame of the club entrance, the whole ambiance of the atmosphere changes. Harry walks across the top ledge of the establishment, coming to a halt at the railing that overlooks the main level of the club, his inhumanly sharp eyes bouncing around all the corners of the building to construct some type of familiar layout in his head. Amidst the blinking lights, thick artificial smoke, and swaying bodies, his keen instincts sketch a mental image for tonight’s hunting ground. 

The bar is at the far left corner of the club, squared off and taking up a large chunk of the colorful tiled dance floor. The music station extends across the entire wall at the opposite end of the tavern, stocked with massive speakers and a professional turntable. Harry’s brows jump in mild surprise— it’s not every day that a club puts so much effort into their mixer. 

The animated dancing area is packed with people, the crowd all jumping and grinding to the beat of the bass, moving as one large mass while the rotating strobe lights hang from the cavernous ceiling, bathing their moving silhouettes in neon reds, drunken blues, groggy purples, and electric yellows. The dim surroundings and heavy fog make all the hues more intense, giving the endless party that timeless quality which people tend to enjoy about nightlife. It’s the night to remember effect that movies and shows always hyperbolize; he thinks this way because he’s well aware that not even a third of these people are sober enough to know what the fuck they’re doing, let alone recall it the following day. It’s comically ironic, really. 

But Harry profits off that liquor amnesia, so he brushes away his sardonic skepticism for the time being, settling his lean forearms onto the metal railing that lines the second story of the venue, which is meant to keep shit-faced customers from creating a messy lawsuit. He carefully absorbs the grandeur of it all, leaning his weight forward with a detached sigh, already flickering through the mental menu of his favorite drinks that he has expertly memorized. 

He’s in the process of choosing between a Manhattan— it isn’t a very complicated drink, which is exactly what he’s looking for; something simple and strong— or just straight tequila in a glass when he suddenly feels a familiar presence arrange itself beside him, bumping his shoulder playfully with their own.

Harry snaps out of his recipe retrieval, eyes casting to the side to land on his best friend of almost a century. He cocks an eyebrow expectantly, waiting for the thin, bearded man to make the first move towards conversation.

“You’re a real dick, y’know that?” 

The green-eyed vampire sputters into spontaneous laughter, the edges of his eyes crinkling as the small pits in his cheeks jolt awake. His tone is humorous and full of fake insult for the hell of the joke. “Wow, alright. So I get us into the club that you chose and that makes me a prick? Good to know. You can handle the muscle next time, then, if you’re gonna talk shit.”

Mitch cracks a gentle jesting grin, which is very on brand for him. He doesn’t seem like much, with his skinny, lanky frame, delicate features, shoulder-length hair, and somewhat scraggly stubble. He’s quiet, reserved, and hardly engages with anyone outside of their immediate group. He’s always been that way for as long as Harry could remember. 

When they had met back in 1924 at a speakeasy in New York, Mitch had given off a mysterious vibe that Harry had found amusing and intriguing. His slightly sickly appearance and distant persona made the younger vampire want to get to know him better; it was just so peculiar that this seemingly impassive man was working at an illegal bar as a live musician. One would think that a performer would have to display an engaging character to keep a loyal audience, but Mitch had been all the talk of the underground despite his unemotional coolness. It was startlingly unorthodox and Harry just had to know more. 

Therefore, with a bit of help from his convincing supernatural abilities, he’d secured a spot as the black market club’s leading vocalist. He wasn’t anything worth a Grammy, but he could keep his singing in tune and follow Mitch’s guitar rhythms easily enough, all thanks to his limited experience with piano. He fit right in. 

From the first show they had put on together, it was like they had known one another in a different lifetime. They clicked so flawlessly it was almost fictional. 

Harry was lively and charming on stage, working the crowd to his favor as easily as he could knock back a shot, wrapping every single patron around his jeweled pinky without breaking a sweat. His witty temperament countered Mitch’s timid disposition perfectly and that uncommon dynamic had been the foundation to their friendship. Their humorous shenanigans on stage (which included Harry pinching at Mitch’s ass and making vague vulgar motions at each other while harmonizing) was a hit within the drunken community, and it bled into their personal lives. They went from only interacting on stage to sharing drinks together afterwards, to hanging out outside of work, to deep late night conversations about the world and their experiences.

Soon enough, they were closer than either had expected to become. And once they found out each other’s true identities (Mitch had transitioned during the American Revolution, when a vampire in his battalion had given him blood to heal from a wound, unaware that the next day, Mitch would suffer a fatal gunshot to the stomach that would trigger his transformation) they grew inseparable. They had remained that way ever since. 

Despite his friend’s withdrawn tendencies, the older vampire never hesitates to make his opinions heard, obvious in how he’d just full-bodied Harry with that snarky comment. Even when it’s at his expense, Harry appreciates and respects the rawness of it. He loves the way Mitch is honest and straight-forward with everything that crosses his path— it’s one of his favorite traits about him and definitely one of the characteristics that had led Harry to deem him his best friend. He’s probably the most fulfilling person Harry has ever met and their friendship brings him a type of comfort that he doesn’t receive from anyone else.

Vampires can be so detached and cold not only towards humans, but towards one another, and it gets old at times. It’s unsettling not having someone to truly confide in, and Harry is grateful that Mitch had been so willing to fill that position.   

Due to this, Harry rarely takes genuine offense in Mitch’s digs. They’re normally expressed as a joke and they’ve both been alive for so long that thick skin is a default.

“How was I dick?” Harry inquires, slinking his head to the side with entertained curiosity. “If anything, he was the one being an asshole. I asked him to let us in nicely and he practically spit in my face!”

Mitch snorts in amusement, shaking his head lightly as his eyes streak across the humongous room in the same cunning manner Harry’s had. “You and Xander didn’t have to mock him that way.” 

That’s another thing that makes Mitch the better half of their power duo— he still has a decent shred of humanity in his unbeating heart. Pessimistic conclusions aside, Harry does have a bit, as well...but his is more like a paper-thin pencil shaving than a shred. Barely there, but there, at least. 

The young man returns his companion’s snort, rolling his eyes up to the hanging lights over their heads. “Was just some harmless teasing. Nothing bad came of it.”

Mitch scowls scoldingly. “It was unnecessary and mean.”

Harry mimics his expression with his nose scrunched sarcastically. “We were just taking the piss, and it’s not like he’s gonna remember it anyways. Stop being such a kill-joy.” 

“Stop being such an arrogant little shit.” 

“Or what?” Harry tilts his chin up challengingly, the amber specks around his pupils glinting tauntingly, faint black veins momentarily webbing across the whites of his eyes. He sweetens his voice into a honeyed drawl. “Are you gonna spank me, daddy? Have I been a bad boy?” 

Mitch belts out a feathery chuckle, shoving his friend with enough strength to send a regular human flying across the deck. But since the taller vampire matches his force, he hardly moves an inch. “Fuck off.” 

“I’m being serious!” Harry cackles, turning his hips and sticking out his ass towards his visibly disgusted acquaintance. “Go fucking in, if you want.”

He lowers his voice into a sultry hum, wagging his backside jestingly. “I like it rough, baby. Why don’t you bend me over this railing and show me who’s boss?”

It’s Mitch’s turn to roll his eyes to the ceiling, voice deadpan. “I think I’ll pass.” 

Harry juts his lower lip into a theatrical pout, sniffling faux tears. “You’re rejecting me that quick? Who’s the asshole now, huh?”

His best friend doesn’t even blink. “Still you.”

“I can live with that. And it’s probably a good call on your end to give up all this,” he signals vaguely up and down his tight torso with a ringed hand, grinning as he watches the veteran vampire pretend to gag, “because I don’t think Sarah wouldn’t be too happy about it.” 

Mitch’s humorous face immediately drops, eyes narrowing at the change in topic. “Very funny.” 

“I know, right? I’m a proper comedian.” Harry quips proudly, batting his lashes mockingly. “Where is Sarah, anyways? Have you heard from her lately?” 

Sarah and Mitch...They’re a complex couple, if they can even be called a couple. The two are more like occasional friends with benefits, “occasional” meaning “once every couple of months, if Sarah happens to be passing by.” 

Their relationship is open and very loose, mostly due to the fact that Sarah is fairly new to the world of blood-driven immortality and has decided to take full advantage of it. She’s been using compulsion to travel the world for the last three years since she changed, which had been the result of an unfortunate car accident. 

Mitch had been seeing her casually beforehand, keeping her around for the purpose of having a conventional feeding arrangement. Every time vampires feed, they heal the wounds they inflict with a bit of their blood, proceeding to then wipe the person’s memory with compulsion in order to eradicate any chances of getting caught. The caveat is that if a human dies with vampire blood in their system, they become one. 

Sarah’s death happened the day after she’d spent a night with Mitch, and one can imagine how distressed she had been when she'd awoken atop a metal table in a morgue within the basement of a hospital. Mitch had been there from the very first second she’d opened her eyes to her new life. Or rather, her dead life. He had helped her get accustomed to the next stage (meaning having to cut family ties in order to avoid a catastrophe— the less people that know the truth about the supernatural, the better) coaxing her through transition and teaching her the way to go about the rest of eternity without putting herself and others in danger. 

Vampires rarely have any compassion for life (usually out of spite, which stems from how their own lives were taken from them), so it’s not uncommon that bodies are found drained of blood in back alleys, abandoned warehouses, and washed up on banks of oceans and rivers. It could be either of two reasons, or even both: the monster doesn’t care about the consequences of their actions, or they never learned to control their urges. 

Harry’s crew isn't that careless. Through Mitch, they had learned restraint, taking up his practice of feeding enough to satisfy themselves without killing the host, healing them, and then erasing the occurrence from their memories. Mitch had come up with the tactic to cling to his humanity— to be as kind and nondestructive as possible— but if Harry’s being honest, most of their friends only play along because it’s convenient. No bodies means no police involvement, and no police involvement means being able to settle down in one place for an extended period, not having to stress about the annoying process of bouncing around the world for the rest of their lives to avoid detection. 

Keeping low was for the best, and when things get rough— whether it be a mistake on their part or a disastrous bender caused by another vampire passing through— they resort to drinking from blood bags until things tide over. Mitch has a contact at the nearest hospital, which is how he gets access to the stock, as well as how he managed to clean up Sarah’s passing so quickly. 

All in all, Harry had only mentioned Sarah to tease his friend, knowing the slight sensitivity that comes with the subject. Vampires rarely form emotional bonds, typically because it can get really messy, really fast, whether that connection be to a mortal or to another creature of their species. All of them have baggage of some sort— you can’t die, resurrect, be forced to abandon your family, and be a slave to drinking blood for the rest of eternity and just...be normal. That type of extreme emotional turmoil is corrosive towards love. It’s always better to just avoid it all together. 

That’s why this is so habitual to joke about; it’s a way to deflect. 

Mitch sighs grandly, Harry’s question echoing in his skull. “I don’t know where she is, to be honest. Last we talked was, like, four weeks ago, I think. She was in Japan, said she was drumming for a new upcoming band. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Harry nods his head once in understanding, itching to steer the theme of their conversation elsewhere now that he knows the topic is in a more sensitive state than he’d imagined. He doesn’t want to push Mitch into a depressive episode when they’re supposed to be having a good time. Spending the night consoling his sulky friend in the bathroom of a club is the last thing he wants right now. 

“I guess that makes Sarah the asshole, then.” He pokes jokingly, bumping the older vampire’s hip with his own. “She’s ghosting you. Get it? It’s funny ‘cause she’s actually dead.” 

Mitch’s sad expression shatters like glass, replaced by one of unamused secondhand embarrassment at the shitty pun. “I fucking hate you.”

“All the people who were ahead of their time were hated.” Harry sing-songs, turning up his nose haughtily. “Copernicus, Socrates, Einstein— all of them were hated for being geniuses. I’m willing to carry that same burden.” 

Mitch blinks at him three times. “No one hated Einstein.”

The curly-haired boy’s lips twitch darkly. “I’m pretty sure Japan did.” 

“You’re going to hell.” 

“I’m already there, mate.” 

Mitch shakes his head, but even through the black lights, Harry can see him trying to ward off a laugh. After a moment’s pause, he speaks up again softly. “It’s not that hard to refrain from humiliating innocent people who are just doing their job, H.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re still on that?” The broad monster groans in exasperation, palms slapping down on the metal rungs below him. “We were just having some fun! But fine. If it helps you fake sleep at night, I’ll try and keep my condescending flare to a minimum.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Mitch responds peacefully, tapping his nimble fingers casually along the railing, his action much less violent than his companion’s. “S’not too difficult.” 

“Whatever.” Harry scoffs, returning his intent gaze to the dance floor, scoping out the scene once again in hopes of finding a proper meal for the night. 

He zones in on a group of young women gathered along one side of the bar, their messy giggling and lack of balance giving away that they’re obviously sloshed off their faces. Seems promising enough. 

When he talks once more, his tone holds an attitude that plays on a grumble, but it’s somewhat distracted. “The least you could do is let me have some fun, considering I didn’t even want to come.” 

Mitch huffs, making an entertained noise in the back of his throat. “You say that every single time we go out, and yet you always end up taking someone home. Don’t know why you’re complaining.” 

Harry side-eyes him from his peripheral vision, the corners of his pretty cherry mouth dipping down grudgingly, mood defensive. “You drag me to these things so I’m not going to apologize for making the best of it. I put a lot of effort into my pick-ups! I deserve to get my dick wet.” 

“God, please don’t say that again.” His best mate physically makes a vomiting sound. “You’re acting like a spoiled fraternity douche.” 

Harry’s gaze ignites into flames, his back straightening out as he fully turns to face the shorter man. He’s never been insulted so low before. “Take that back!” 

“Take that back!” Mitch mocks in an exaggerated, high-pitched British accent, attempting to stifle giggles. 

“Take it back! You know how much I hate Gen Z.”

“Okay, boomer.” 

“You’re older than I am!” 

“I know. Your lack of maturity is a constant reminder.”

Harry opens his mouth, prepared to make a sharp comeback about how Mitch should have left the shaggy-haired stoner aesthetic back in the eighties, but then a heavy Irish accent interrupts his rebuttal. 

“What’s all this about getting your dick wet?” 

Both of the vampires turn towards Niall, finding Xander and Adam accompanying him in a loose semi-circle. 

Xander isn’t paying any attention, too busy tapping away at the screen of his smartphone, apparently engaged in a very riveting conversation with whoever is on the other side. Adam has his hands tucked into the pockets of his plum purple wind-breaker, looking over Harry’s shoulder, seeming to be adamantly searching for someone in particular amidst the mob on the level beneath them. Niall is the only one interested in their dying conversation, probably only because he heard something crude being mentioned. 

“It’s nothing.” Harry dismisses, but he can’t help but stick Mitch with a glare. “What’s the plan for tonight, then?”

Adam speaks up for the first time. “Charlotte and Ny texted saying they got here about ten minutes ago. Mentioned they were dancing near the DJ station, so I think I’ll go find them.”

“Sounds good.” Harry bobs his head in accordance. “We’ll see you out there, yeah?” 

Adam returns his action, turning on his heel and heading for the stairs that lead to the bottom floor. The leader of the group watches him trot onto the large spiral staircase, disappearing into the thick throng of people scattered across its wide steps. 

Harry shifts his attention to Xander, snapping his fingers a few times in his direction and giving a two-toned whistle. “What about you? What’s got your head?”

“Not what, who.” Niall teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and making kissy faces at their friend. 

Xander ignores him, glancing up at the green-eyed brunette to let him know he’ll be with him in a second, returning his focus back to his iPhone. After a few more elongated moments of typing, the older man finally locks his device. 

“I have a date.” He throws out casually, almost as if it should be obvious. 

“A date?” Harry reiterates slowly, not quite buying it. Xander doesn’t date. He couch-surfs just as much as Harry does. 

“Mmhm.” Xander glimpses behind his fellow vampire, eyes carrying intention. “It’s just a random dude from Tinder. I thought it’d be easier to set something up beforehand, just so I don’t have to spend the whole night trying to figure out if a guy is making eyes at me or trying to keep his whiskey down.” 

“Smart.” Harry shrugs his sculpted brows, impressed. A cocky grin toys with the corners of his mouth. “But we both know no one will ever compare to me.” 

“Right.” Xander scoffs in a deadpan manner, gifting him a tight, aggravated smile. “If only you weren’t such an emotionally unavailable prick.” 

“Oh, like you’re mentally stable enough for a relationship?” Harry bites back, but it holds no true malice, just some petty rivalry. “Piss off.”

“Happily!” The other vampire exclaims, clasping his hands together for dramatics. “Have fun finding someone out there. I’m just gonna grab a to-go box for my already prepped meal.” 

Harry doesn’t bother watching him leave. Instead, he turns to Niall, pointing at him to symbolize it's his turn to share his plans for the night. “What have you got, Lucky Charms?” 

His friend breaks into a jolly cackle at the nickname, arms falling crossed over his chest, hands absentmindedly squeezing his elbows in thought. “Well, I dunno, Tea and Crumpets. What’s your game plan?” 

Before Harry can answer, Mitch butts in, feeling left out of the banter and somewhat hurt that no one had assigned him an alter ego. “What’s my country-derived nickname?” 

Niall gives the American a slow once-over, shifting in his dark brown Clarks boots, fitted navy slack riding up his thighs and allowing his rainbow polka-dot socks to peek out. He hums lowly in the back of his throat, a grin spreading across his rosy cheeks. “Biscuits and Gravy.” 

Harry chimes in, his own arms casually folding over his strong chest, index finger tapping on his bottom lip as if mulling something over. “I quite like We The People, actually.”

The Irish lad snaps his fingers as if having a sudden epiphany. “Uncle Sam!”

Harry’s emerald eyes twinkle with glee at seeing the way Mitch’s go half-lidded, no longer entertained. “Four Score And Seven Years Ago.” 

“Okay, I think that’s enou—”

Niall wags a finger at Harry, lifting one shoulder in question, seeking approval on his next idea. “Star Spangled Banner?”

Harry copies the boy’s motion from before, snapping his fingers and making jazz hands. “I Pledge Allegiance.”  

“Ok, I get it!” Mitch whines with annoyed finality, pushing off the metal railing with a curt grimace on his scraggly face. 

“You asked!” Niall rationalizes between hiccups of evilly delighted joy, cupping his stomach as if to keep it from splitting open. 

“Won’t make that mistake again.” The older creature grumbles, leaning his back against the rungs and looking off towards the distance, communicating that he’s done being a part of the conversation. 

Once Harry manages to reign in his giggles, he rubs at his nose with the side of his finger, releasing a wistful sigh. He refers to the question Niall had stated before their little bullying fest. “I think I’m just gonna do what I always do— sway a nice, pretty girl into doing some not-so-nice but very pretty things.” 

“Solid.” The Irish bloke remarks, toying with the plastic buttons on his silk beige top. “Not much to do other than that, to be fair. Adam’s usually my wingman, but I guess he abandoned me for a girl’s night.” 

“Mitch is mine, and he knows better than to dip on me.” Harry roughly nudges his best friend with his elbow, dodging to the side when Mitch tries to hit him in return. 

Niall hums softly in amusement. “Maybe I should make Adam sign whatever contract you drafted for that poor bugger.” 

The curly brunette snorts. “Good luck. Adam’s as stubborn as they come. But, hey, if you can’t find anyone, just come to me.” Harry’s irises flit crimson for a millisecond, an ominous smirk buckling his features. “You know I’m always happy to share.” 

“Thanks,” his friend exhales flatly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“If you’re taking tips,” Mitch pipes up, vaguely signaling at Niall’s shirt with his chin, “maybe don’t wear that stupid shirt next time. The elephant doodles look ridiculous.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not taking fashion tips from anyone who actually enjoyed living in Ohio, then.” Niall snaps in an exaggerated American accent, middle finger jutting towards the other man. “The only thing you know how to dress is a cornfield scarecrow. Must be why you look like one.” 

Harry forces down more laughter, clearing his throat softly. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t get hammered— girls hate that.” 

“Note taken.” The pale boy runs his fingers through his hair, fixing it up and adding texture to appear more laid-back and rugged. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Later.” The younger vampire recites, giving a big thumbs-up. 

“Good luck out there. You, too, Boston Tea Party.” 

With that, Niall saunters away, leaving a fully laughing Harry and a grouchy Mitch in his wake. 

The two acquaintances decide to follow in everyone else’s example, descending down the looped staircase and chatting about Mitch’s latest gig at a new bar downtown. 

Harry praises Mitch's talent with his guitar, specifically the fact that he found a hobby which he enjoys so much that he’s willing to keep it as a permanent part of his life. It’s easy to get bored of things when you have hundreds of years ahead of you; everything can seem pointless, in the end. But Harry doesn’t think Mitch has ever let himself fall into those types of dark headspaces and he finds that extremely admirable. 

Harry wishes he could say the same. He’s no musical prodigy, that much is obvious, but he is an expert at playing a few specific French songs on the piano by memory. He rarely does it, though; only when he’s in a low state of mind, which— given the origin of how he learned said classical pieces— isn’t something he’s proud of. They’re tied to a very gruesome part of his past that he’d rather bury deep inside, but he can only push back his troubles for so long before they begin to leak out, staining the clean sheet of recovery he had sewn into place. Those arrangements just bring him a warped sense of comfort he can’t explain.

Even though he’s aware of the destructive aspects of the songs, he finds himself humming one now out of instinct as he elbows through squished bodies and flailing limbs. The second he notices he’s doing it, he cuts it off, focusing all his intention on making it to the other side of the room to the bar. It’s a hard trip when it feels like the walls of the building are closing in on him. 

When Harry finally breaks free from the Human Centipede re-enactment that is the club dance floor, he practically collapses onto the sleek glass counter. Death was less painful than that walk. 

He cranes his neck to the side wildly, suddenly remembering that his much smaller, much skinnier, much more crushable friend had been in tow behind him. To his utter shock, he watches as Mitch calmly weeds around grinding drunk couples with the poise and grace of a swan, filling the empty spot besides him without a single ailment in the world. 

Harry blinks at him blankly in silence, almost as if he’d grown an extra set of fangs. 

Mitch flags the bartender from all the way down the counter, not bothering to meet the green eyes peering at him in disbelief. “You’re so fucking dramatic, H.”

“How did you not die? Again?” Harry sputters, sight jutting all around the older vampire’s body, looking for any battle wounds or missing appendages. “I almost lost an arm in there!”

“It’s a good thing it wasn’t your favorite one, right?” Mitch smirks at his own lewd joke, the simper molding into one of genuine kindness when the mixologist slides up in front of them. “Hi, how are you? I’m good, as well, thank you for asking! Yeah, I’ve got something in mind. Don’t worry, I’m not one of the ‘just make me something sweet’ type of assholes.”

Harry zones out the rest of the friendly chat Mitch entertains with the employee, letting his gaze wander around the large auditorium-like room. He dances his vision over the DJ remixing music on top of the stage, head beginning to bop along to the beat that is currently shaking the seven foot tall speakers. He’s pleasantly surprised at how good this specific producer is. 

He continues scoping out the rest of the venue, taking notes of the different clusters of people that seem to hold promise for the plans he has in store later tonight. A small group of hippie friends here, a two-party duo of tipsy stoners there, and a clump of college students at the edge of the ruckus, stumbling around loudly. Things are looking somewhat decent, in his opinion. The hippies seem to be catching his attention more than the others— specifically, the one that looks similar to Stevie Nicks. That’s a fantasy that’s been waiting to be fulfill for decades now. 

Harry lulls his head forward again when he feels Mitch give a squeeze at his elbow, telling him that the bartender is waiting to take his order. He decides to go for the gold tequila, asking for it straight in a highball glass without any garnishes. The worker’s eyebrows jump up slightly at the unorthodox request, but he drops a polite, “Coming right up.” either way.

“You truly have no flavor.” Mitch tuts once their waiter has stepped away to prepare their drinks. “No taste buds whatsoever.” 

“Yeah? Well, you can suck my flavorless dick.” Harry chimes brightly, eyes crinkling shut as a result of a theatrical smile. 

The younger vampire goes to turn back around, legitimately interested in the girl he’d seen that looked like one of his seventies celebrity crushes, already running through scenarios in his head on how he’d get her into his bed for tonight. Weed and ABBA are probably good conversation starters for that, if Harry’s undisputed people skills have anything to say about it. 

As he’s rotating his torso, a blurred image catches his eyes. He does a double-take, honing in on a group of girls that look faintly familiar. He scans them carefully as they huddle around the corner of the bar area, laughing and toasting along to the multiple conversations they all have going at once. They look like the typical posse that would be a backdrop clique in a mainstream movie. 

He knows where he recognizes them from— it had been the same girls he’d spotted earlier up on the second deck.

Harry expertly surveillances each woman, picking out potential candidates as easily as he’d pinch petals off a flower. The one in the center of the group is obviously the leader, present in how she’s the prettiest and is somehow managing to juggle all of these interactions at once. It means she’s used to being the center of attention— probably strives under it. He throws her out as a potential; the last thing he needs is someone who everyone knows and seeks out. He wouldn’t be able to sneak away with her quietly. 

The rest of the girl crew all seem to be the same status-wise, appearing as supporting characters to the main one in the middle. He could choose any one of them blindly and it wouldn’t make a difference. They all seem so tight-knit, they probably share personalities, at this point. It’s like dipping his hand into a jar of jelly beans and they’re all the same flavor. That notion makes him laugh to himself a bit; maybe Mitch was right about his lack of taste. 

Then, Harry spots her, and all the other women immediately go up in smoke. 

It’s hard not to spot her. She sticks out like a sore thumb, but not in a good way. 

The prospective contender is off to the side, sitting atop a barstool with her feet tucked along the footrest, tapping them against the metal rung awkwardly. She’s talking to one of the other people in the group, but the interaction seems forced and not very satisfying, obvious in both of their faces. She’s tracing her middle finger around the edge of her glass cup distractedly, the contents inside barely touched, the ice in her drink long-melted. She seems disinterested in the chaos her friends are causing, her expression bored and borderline regretful, as if she doesn’t want to be here. 

The further he sizes the girl up, the more appropriate she looks for the role he needs filled. Since barely anyone is paying attention to her, that means he can lead her astray without too much resistance from her acquaintances, if any at all. She appears somewhat unimportant to the narrative— merely a background extra— and it makes him wonder what she’s doing with this clique of women that can’t seem to be bothered by her presence. It’s sad, really. Sad, but beneficial, because that means he can succeed in making her the supporting protagonist of his narrative, at least for tonight. 

The girl is attractive, but not anything astronomical. She’s unconventionally pretty in a way that makes her relevant, but not particularly distinct in the eyes of regular men with presumptuous standards. She’s easy to pass up, and if Harry hadn’t been actively pursuing someone of her bashful persona to card into his plans, he wouldn’t have noticed her. At the risk of once again sounding shallow, Harry’s aware that— physically speaking— he’s very much out of her league. His above-average appearance gives off the vibe that he’d fit better with the leader of the group instead of with her, but he doesn’t want someone that would raise suspicions as a result of their absence. This girl, sitting along the edge of the party with barely any purpose and no one to really question her whereabouts, is exactly what he’s looking for. She’s perfectly imperfect for the cause. 

Harry continues to examine her meticulously, analyzing other traits that can give him a better feel for her character. She’s clad in a pair of high-waisted pastel pink silk pants that stop right at her ankles, accompanied by a flouncy creme lace blouse tucked into her waist. Tan wedges, no accessories, delicate rosey nail polish, and minimalist makeup. The boldest thing about her is the brick red shade of her lipstick, which is easily shadowed by the sparkly sequin dresses, five inch heels, and layered tops her friends are wearing. 

Harry likes her outfit, though. It’s concise and safe, which he can appreciate. Yes, perhaps she looks like she belongs in a dentist’s office rather than a Los Angeles nightclub, but he thinks there’s beauty in simplicity. She looks cute, and that’s good enough for him. 

“She seems interesting.” Mitch’s soft voice snaps him out of his detail-hungry haze, drawing him back into the reality that is the black lighting of the club and the deep booming of the music’s bass. 

His friend slides his tall drink across the glass counter, the amber liquid inside warping his reflection. 

“I suppose so.” Harry answers passively, shrugging one shoulder in indifference while accepting the cup, ringed fingers clinking against the crystalline surface. 

He takes a leisurely sip from the straight tequila, its tangy kick sending a warm surge up through his ears and down his throat, spreading into his chest and along the trench of his tummy. Alcohol really is the cure to everything. 

Mitch gives him a deadpan look, the strobe lights alternating across the glossy surface of his hazel irises, highlighting smugness. “You’ve been gawking for five minutes. Put your pride back in your pants and go talk to her.” 

The curly-haired vampire flashes him a light smirk over the rim of his drink, absentmindedly tapping his two initial rings along the bottom of the highball cup. “Ever so blunt, aren’t you?”

Mitch scuffs, taking a swig from his trusty beer bottle. Out of everything, that’s the one aspect Harry despises about his best mate— that he goes to a club and orders the same drink every time. Where was the fun in that? Where was the excitement of trying something new? When you have an eternity, the least you could do is utilize it to your advantage. Cycling through every cocktail in human history is a prime example of making the best out of immortality.  

But Mitch is a creature of habit— as are most of their kind— and Harry knows he won’t shake easily. Not when it comes to surrendering his preferred beverage, and definitely not when it comes to sticking his nose in Harry’s intimate business. Meddling and being irritating are what best friends are for. 

“What can I say? Pep talks are my forte.” The older monster remarks sarcastically, bumping his bottle against Harry’s glass in encouragement, using the spout of his container to point in the general direction of the mysterious girl. “Now go make dinner.”

“But, darlinggggg,” Harry whines playfully, a smirk still tugging at the corners of his slightly liquor-swollen lips. “I made dinner last night. Isn’t it your turn?”

Mitch rolls his eyes and shoves Harry’s shoulder harshly, with just enough force that it actually has some type of impact this time around. “Just go, before she gets creeped out by your staring.” 

Harry’s own irises copy his friend’s actions as he pushes himself up from the bar, rubbing at the new sore spot on his shoulder with an exaggerated pout present. “Ow.”

Mitch blinks at him flatly, fighting off a grin. “You’ve had worse. Go.”

Harry swivels on his heel, once again facing the group of tipsy girls at the other end of the counter. It appears that most of them have dispersed into the dance floor, having found partners to entertain them for the time being, moving to the music as if there are no other people in the room. They had left behind three of their companions, one of which is Harry’s aspiring hookup; he gets the feeling that the two girls had stayed behind out of the kindness of their hearts, feeling too guilty to leave the runt of the litter all on her own. He hopes that’s the case because if so, the second Harry inserts himself into the situation, they’ll take that chance and split, leaving him to tend his meal in peace.

He tucks one large hand into the front pocket of his trousers, the grip on his glass tightening a smidge, rings biting into his skin as the condensation of the chilled tequila cools the small spike of pain. He spins his lionhead ring around his finger within his slacks, gradually drifting closer as he goes through a checklist of prized pick-up lines he could use to garner her attention. He ducks and dodges inebriated club-goers with ease now that he’s had something to take the edge off, finally reaching the end of the bar, slowly coming to a halt right behind his target for the night. 

Harry nearly passes out as soon as her scent hits him. 

It’s faint and tender and nothing quite like anything he’s encountered before, a mixture of honey and lavender that permeates through her normal perfume. He feels like his head’s been put through a wringer, his whole body clenching for a moment as raging sparks erupt across the pit of his belly. He indulges a deep breath, willing the blazing current away in order to keep his cool, but all he can see flashing before his eyes are images of her leaving traces of that smell smeared all over his face as he bobs his head between her quivering thighs.

He takes another penetrating inhale, centering his mind back into the present. He needs to behave.

Her friends spot him immediately, their side of the conversation faltering to ash. They give Harry a wide-eyed once-over, mouths parting in slight shock as they drink up his attractive appearance, gazes lingering along his thick chest as it strains the baby blue material of his tee. Their sights drag across his broad shoulders, dainty collarbones, and strong neck, faces gawking without remorse, blinking emptily at the slope of his sharp jaw and the peaks of his prominent cheekbones. They seem to be at a loss for words the second his dimples indent into place, his brows shrugging in a half-assed greeting before he cocks his head to side a tad, voice velvet as it directs towards the girl they had forgotten existed.  

“I’m guessing you’re the designated driver?”

Y/N jumps slightly in response at the new addition to the painfully dying conversation, not recognizing the heavy English accent and deep baritone that booms behind her. She had been wondering why Melissa and Isabel had stopped talking so abruptly, and she now has her answer. 

Y/N slowly goes to cast a curious glance over her shoulder and Harry can hear the pulse flaring in her neck from the sudden intrusion to her surroundings. His fangs prick along the inside of his bottom lip due to carnal instincts; he has to will them back into receding. 

 When her eyes land on the owner of the random words, her finger immediately halts its swirling motions along the hem of her glass.

‘Fuck.’ is the only thought that registers through her short-circuiting mind. 

The lanky, curly-haired brunette that stands before her gives a gentle yet confident smile, the gesture dazzling even in the low lighting of the atmosphere. He’s absolutely gorgeous, with deep pits carving into his cheeks, perfect teeth complimenting full cherry red lips, eyes the color of a rainforest canopy, and a broad frame that is somehow not overwhelming. He’s sporting neatly ironed tan slacks, a fitted cotton shirt with a cute yet crude graphic at its center, a fancy plaid coat, and crisp yellow Vans without a single smudge in sight.

Y/N can’t help but take notice of all the little details of his fit, especially the accessories. A beautiful pearl necklace laid along his delicate clavicle, a cross resting between his defined pectorals, and a matching earring dangling from his earlobe. Not to mention the array of clunky rings arranged along nimble fingers, hugging a tall glass carrying caramel liquor and somehow managing to dwarf the cup’s size. The extra decoration is sensual in such an unexpectedly delicious manner. 

The hand he has tucked in his pants ducks out to comb through his dark auburn ringlets and Y/N can feel her mouth water at the new round of elegant rings. The action activates the cologne Harry had thoughtfully spritz in specific pressure points along his body, the scent of tobacco and vanilla traveling through the fog-heavy air and causing Y/N’s stomach to summersault. 

The young man is as close to flawless as anyone could ever come. 

Y/N feels an unmistakable sharp pain shoot through her ankle, and she comes to the realization that it had been the tip of one of her friend’s heels. The reality check jars her out of the embarrassing daze he’d spelled onto her, open mouth snapping shut and her lashes fluttering over her previously unblinking eyes. 

“Oh! Uhm—uh—” She clumsily twists sideways to fully face him, swallowing thickly and tasting the remnants of the alcohol she’d barely been nursing. “N-No. I’m not— well, I don’t think…? We Ubered here so that wouldn’t make any sense ‘cause I have no car to drive...so...” 

The boy chuckles softly at her choppy monologue, his laughter warm and inviting, similar to the look reflecting off his shiney irises, the golden flecks around his pupils seeming to swell and shrink from the rainbow lights cascading across them. Despite being caught off guard and utterly embarrassed, she can’t seem to break eye contact with him. The longer she gazes into his eyes, the more relaxed she begins to feel, a fuzzy heat stemming from the center of her belly and spreading up her neck and ears. 

Y/N gulps heavily like before, willing her tongue to produce a less embarrassing comment. “Sorry. Let me...Let me start over…Hi.”

“Hello.” He quips back playfully, lopsided grin widening in fond amusement. He lifts his drink up a bit in greeting. “M’Harry.”

“Y/N.” The girl squeaks out, copying his gesture because it’s easier than forcing her disoriented brain to try and come up with its own. 

Harry flirts his intent up and down Y/N’s body slowly, checking her out without any subtlety. He wants her to know he’s interested. 

When his sight locks with hers again, he bats his lashes sultrily and pours as much passion as he can into his tone, accent weighing in just right. “S’nice to meet you, Y/N.”

Her entire face prickles at how her name sounds dripping from those faultless raspberry lips. She’d pay anything to hear him say it again. “You, too.” 

This is not what Y/N intended. This is most definitely not what she’d intended to happen when she’d reluctantly agreed to go out with some coworkers on a Friday night, giving in simply because she had promised herself she’d be more social within her new job. 

She had moved to California roughly two months ago, wanting to get away from her old life in the small, boring town she hated to call home. Buying the flight had been a drastic decision made when she had been under the influence of something she’d rather not admit, but the following day— after she had sobered up from a wicked hangover— she found herself not wanting to cancel the trip. Found herself craving the excitement and adventure of beginning anew somewhere far away from everything she had ever known. 

All of Y/N’s friends back home had supported her without hesitation, egging her preposterous idea and congratulating her on “getting the fuck out of here.” Her family had been a little less supportive, but after a few heartfelt chats about following your ambitions and a budgeting lesson from her cousin, they had gingerly gotten on board. They understood that keeping her trapped in that lame town where nothing really happened wasn’t the way to ensure her success in life. Therefore, the people closest to her had swallowed their opinions and respected her choice to dive off the deep end, in search of something better beyond the borders of their tiny city. 

Within a week, Y/N had secured a decent job at a semi-popular cafe, courtesy of a connection from a family friend. Within two weeks, after many sleepless nights full of Rocky Road ice cream and the bright white pages of ApartmentFinder.com, she had managed to book a nice flat close to her place of work. It was a miracle, if she’d ever seen one. Especially within the crowded, expensive community that is Los Angeles. Within three weeks, she had been walking out of the giant glass building that was LAX with only two suitcases in tow, boarding an Uber to her new life. 

Things had never seemed more picturesque, she’d thought. Everything was falling into place in a way that seemed almost blessed by the universe.

Then, the culture shock hit. 

California was different. It’s was so fucking different than anything she’d ever faced and she wasn’t prepared for the social difficulties she’d have to hurdle. All her life, Y/N had grown up with the same people around her, spending every school year with them up until graduation, expanding her friend group as time passed. Even after high school, she’d remained closely connected with most of her graduating class. The region she lived in was tiny, tight-knit and friendly; it was hard not to. She couldn’t even go to the store for groceries without bumping into at least three people from her Algebra II class. 

Point being, it had been ages since Y/N had been put in a situation where she actively had to try and make friends. She’d been through that challenge way back in kindergarten and had never been hit with it again. 

Until it smacked her across the head here in LA.

Y/N didn’t mesh well with Californians, she quickly found out. They were all about crazy parties and club-hopping, whereas Y/N had been raised on community cookouts and mass sleepovers. They enjoyed getting cross-faded and streaking down the beach at two in the morning, meanwhile Y/N liked stripping down to her undies and spending the night binging Queer Eye while stuffing her face with Cheeze-Its and Snickers bars. They freely boasted about their sex adventures while bussing down tables at the restaurant, while Y/N’s intimate life had been nonexistent since the move. 

It was just...startling, to put it lightly. It wasn’t what she had expected at all, and that’s mostly her fault for not doing the correct amount of research before jumping headfirst into a cliche LifeTime film. 

Therefore, Y/N had made a pact with herself one month in, swearing to let loose and allow her surroundings to sweep her into a new dynamic— into a new, social butterfly version of herself. She’d started accepting the invitations from her coworkers to go out at night, and she’d started putting more effort into being open to wild experiences, no matter how scary they might seem. Shutting down and refusing to mold to her environment would only result in her having to return home with her tail between her legs, and she’d rather jump naked off a pier than see her parents’ faces wracked with pity. 

And that’s exactly what she’d done a couple nights ago, at the encouragement of the group of girls she was at the club with now. It had, in turn, ended in her coming down with a mild cold, but at least now she’d be able to tell her friends back home a cool story about dropping inhibitions. 

Dropping inhibitions is also why Y/N’s here tonight, dressed in the most party-like outfit she could put together, prodding an overly-boozy drink into her system, attempting to release some of the tension that had been building in her head for the last couple of weeks since she’d left her old life behind. That’s why she’s here, with strands of her blow-dried hair catching on the dark red gloss Melissa has slathered on her mouth in a thick layer. That’s why she’s here, with synthetic smoke scratching at her lungs and drunken men and women bumping into her every two minutes, most of them too busy sticking their tongues down each other’s throats to realize they’d almost toppled her off her seat. That’s why she’s here, with a blasé expression plastered across her features as her coworkers talk over her head without a second thought, her mind far away from the walls of this overhyped horror house. 

Y/N had been thinking about how she’d just started her Disney+ membership, finding comfort in putting together a mental checklist of all the movies she’s going to plow through the second she sets foot past the doorframe of her apartment. Indulging on her childhood was an ideal form of escapism, in her opinion. She’s positive Walt Disney would agree. 

That’s what her brain had been lost in when Harry’s deep, melodic voice had interrupted her daydreams, sending her spiraling into an embarrassing performance of nerve-induced hysteria. 

Now here she is, blinking back at him dumbly, eyes the smallest bit damp from the smoke machine and neon flashes of light. And here he is, smirking at her over the rim of his glass, eyes raking down her wired up body suggestively as he takes a calm sip from what appears to be the straight tequila in his colossal, bejeweled hand. 

The English boy takes a gradual step closer to her, wanting to make sure he’s not crossing any boundaries that would make her uncomfortable. The scent of his cologne intensifies and she feels a fiery heat suddenly pour between her clasped thighs. It just hits her how long it’s truly been since she’s gotten laid and fuck, it’s sad.

Harry begrudgingly peels his attention away from Y/N for a second, aiming his words towards the girls standing behind her with their mouths still opened stupidly. Even from a respectful distance, his warm breath still washes across her jaw and cheek, causing electricity to zip down her spine. “You don’t mind if I steal her for a bit, do you?”

‘Yeah,’ Y/N thinks in the back of her muddled skull, ‘that’s definitely tequila.’

Isabel and Melissa slowly shake their heads in unison, glancing at each other as if to confirm he’d just spoken to them. 

The edges of Harry’s lips jolt into a kind, easygoing smile. “Thank you. Promise I’ll keep her safe.” 

Y/N feels her heart hiccup at his statement. If she’s not insanely mistaken, it appears to have carried an undertone of dirty intentions. God, she’s praying she’s not mistaken. 

The two girls clamber away on their tall pumps, rounding around Harry and pausing for a moment. They make moaning faces and vulgar motions behind him, encouraging Y/N to pursue the stranger. She then watches them disappear into the throng of crowded bodies, leaving her alone with the beautiful boy and her heart slamming against her ribs. 

Y/N focuses back onto Harry, licking her itching lips lightly, not knowing what to say next as he settles himself beside her. He rests his forearm on the counter along with his drink, tucking his other hand back into  his trouser pocket and fixing himself into a comfortable standing position, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. The friction between his jacket and the bar rides his sleeve up an inch or so, and Y/N gets a view of the anchor tattoo he has along his wrist, as well as the upside-down cross inked between his thumb and index finger. 

Harry catches her looking, mouth twitching with a smidge of arrogant self-assurance. He loves when girls drool over his tats. 

“I have more.” He remarks lightly, a pang of condescending pleasure shooting through his chest at the way she jerks and pins her gaze down to the floor. 

Blood rushes into her cheeks at the realization that she’s been caught and Harry’s teeth grind. It’s so hot watching her fidget for him. Maybe he finds her more attractive than he’d originally let on. “Would you like to see them?”

Y/N timidly coaxes herself into locking stares with him once again, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, barely nodding with a soft, “Sure.” 

She looks so pretty like that, he notices, staring up at him all doe-eyed and shy. It’d probably look even better if she were on her knees.

Yeah, he definitely likes her more than he’d thought. 

Harry proceeds to shift about, shrugging his coat off his strong shoulders, letting it slip down his lean arms and reveal the plethora of dark tattoos strewn across his left arm. Y/N watches avidly, drinking up every flex of his biceps under the black paint and every twitch of his pecs beneath his cotton shirt, the tendons along his throat going taut for just a moment. That moment is enough for her to etch the image into the back of her eyelids for the rest of her life. 

Harry tosses the article onto the table, extending his arm over its surface for her to get a better reading. She doesn’t miss the chance, her pupils tracing over every line and stroke of the pen, over every shaded area and meticulous detail. 

His voice comes out as a low, garbled murmur, his own irises studying her features with just as much intensity. “You can touch them, if you’d like. I don’t mind.”

After a moment of hesitation, the brim of her crystalline cup is replaced by the ridges of his smooth, tanned skin. She drags her digits over the naked mermaid, tracing the curve of her figure and the dip of her tail, then passing onto the stem of the large rose, ghosting over every thorn and prickle. Harry can feel her heartbeat through her fingertips and it’s making him throb. 

“They’re very pretty.” Y/N whispers, allowing her touch to fall away, palm finding refuge across the counter. “Did they hurt?” 

“A bit, yeah. But I’ve gotten so many done that I think I grew numb to the needle after a while.” Harry answers, shrugging one shoulder to show it’s no big deal. He grasps his glass once again and takes a drawn-out swig, extending the action just so she can see the way his Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows. Once the cup is back in its place, his tongue peeks out and swipes any leftover liquid from his rosy lips, which then settle into a coy simper. “Plus, I kinda like the pain.” 

Y/N’s breathing stutters in her lungs and she swiftly swerves the topic onto something much less explicit. “So why’d you ask if I was the designated driver? That’s kind of an odd question. Very out of the blue.” 

Harry lulls his middle finger across the hem of his glass, exactly how she had been doing earlier, the motion weighed by an innuendo. She seems to understand it, present in how she bites into the inside of her cheek. “I just figured that a pretty girl like you would have easily found someone to dance with. So when I saw you sitting here looking all bored with your drink barely touched…I just assumed, I suppose.” 

And there it is again— the blood pouring into her face. Christ, if she keeps that up, he’s going to fucking lose it.

“Thank you, that’s— that’s really sweet. Proper gentleman.” 

Harry runs his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes snapping to her tinted mouth for a second, establishing some sexual tension that he’ll expand on as they go. “Who doesn’t like a guy who knows how to treat a girl, right?” 

Y/N clears her throat softly, obviously phased by his forward compliment, but she tries to play it off. “To answer your question, I— uhm...I’m not really one for the club scene, I guess. Don’t really like it, but I didn’t want to be rude and turn down the invitation.” 

‘Good girl,’ Harry thinks, silently cheering her on for having more brain cells than the typical human. 

“Well, that’s where we share some common ground, then.” He chimes brightly, a soft smile bringing his dimples to life. “I don’t care for clubs, either, but my friends have an affinity for them so here I am.”

He gestures vaguely towards the general direction where he’d left Mitch, continuing his rant. “The choking smoke, the annoying strobe lights, the crowded floor, the drunk morons—”

“Bumping into you without giving a shit.” Y/N finishes his sentence, her vulgarity drawing a boyish giggle from her companion and now she’s convinced she’d do anything to hear him laugh like that again. “And there’s always a faint smell of vomit coming from somewhere.”

Harry slaps his hand down against the glass table in passionate agreement, voice pitching up slightly as his brows jump in emotion. “Right?! It’s fucking disgusting. Don’t understand how anyone could genuinely enjoy it.” 

Y/N nods vehemently, sharing the same expression of utter distaste towards the subject. “It honestly doesn’t make any sense to me, either. Why come here when you can go to, like, a nice bar somewhere, y’know?”

Harry blinks at her in astonishment, her opinion mirroring his own with psychic-like accuracy. “My thoughts exactly.” 

“Great minds think alike.” Y/N responds playfully, taking a hearty gulp from her drink since the first time he’d spotted her from across the room. 

After a comfortable pause, Harry speaks up, also entertaining another sip from his own drink, which is now nearly empty. “Are you from around here?”

She can’t be. Rarely anyone born and raised here is willing to bash the status quo, and never so openly. 

She’s once again mesmerized by the attractiveness of his rings, but manages to get her composure in check. “Kinda. I moved here about two months ago.” 

Precisely his point.

Harry releases a curious hum over the cup between his lips. “Let me be the one to officially welcome you to Cali, then! Where people go to shitty clubs for fun and tan themselves into a strip of leather.”

Y/N sputters out a half-suppressed giggle and Harry’s brows almost furrow at the weird fluttering in his stomach. He rarely gets it.

Y/N takes another deep gulp of what he thinks is probably an Old Fashioned, silently praising the way she’d finished it off so quickly. She crunches an ice shard between her teeth and lets it melt across her tongue before engaging again. “I’m guessing you’re not from around here either though, are you?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to chuckle a bit and she fights off an endeared smile. 

“What gave it away?” He asks, purposefully doing a thicker, fuller accent, his teasing nature making the grin she’d just stifled fully break through.

Y/N lifts a shoulder offhandedly. “Your accent seems a little too…posh for this area. Or even this hemisphere.”

Harry scoffs softly, the pinky around his glass sticking up jokingly as he kinks an eyebrow at her, a few rouge curls falling across his forehead. “Keen ears, mate.”

Y/N lifts her drink up a bit with a playfully knowing air, mimicking an English dialect. “Cheers.”

He places his empty cup down on the counter, his middle finger once more ghosting around the edge absentmindedly. She notices the pastel yellow polish covering his nails, tiny black smiley faces decorating the lacquer.

“I like your nails.” She admires, tipping her empty lowball towards his hand for significance. “Did you do them yourself?”

Harry glances at his fingers, stretching and wiggling them out, his features taking on a bit of pride. “Sure did.” 

“Don’t think I’ve ever met a guy at a club who could pull off nail polish so easily.” 

The left edge of his lips flicks upwards. “How do you mean?”

Y/N’s gaze bounces back to his and the tone twirling in his jade irises tells her everything she needs to know about keeping this conversation going: he enjoys being praised. 

She chooses her next words carefully, wanting to appeal to his interests. “I mean that it looks amazing on you. The color suits your skin nicely, makes your hands look good.” 

Harry breaks eye contact, glimpsing down at his shoes and she realizes he’s actually trying to hide a blush. The fact that she had managed to coax one out of him boosts her confidence while simultaneously making his own waver. He’s never like this— never so easily flustered. He needs to get it together.

Harry tilts his chin back up, lower lip strung between his two front teeth. His voice comes out as a flirty laugh.

“Known you for maybe,” he looks at the beautiful watch on his wrist symbolically, “ten minutes, and you’re already stroking my ego just the way I like it. I think that’s a record.” 

Y/N doesn’t know if it’s the liquor she’d just consumed too quickly, or if it’s Harry’s intoxicatingly alluring scent dulling the region of her brain that controls fear, but she’s suddenly filled with a strange surge of courage and her thoughts are spilling down her semi-numb tongue before she can stop them. “I’ve been told I’m pretty good at stroking, so an ego’s not too hard to handle.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow, surprised at her brazen reply. He might have misjudged her more than he assumed. However, he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy this girl more than the one he thought he was going to receive. There’s just something about how she can match his banter without a problem, and how they share a lot of the same thoughts and opinions, that just lights a fire in his stomach. 

“Is that so?” His voice lowers in pitch and he scoots a step closer, fingers just barely brushing against her arm as he repositions himself against the bar. His question comes out as a sultry murmur. “What else can you handle?”

Y/N knows that she’s starting to cross a line, and with every passing moment, the likelihood of returning to her friends is getting smaller and smaller. She’s not mad about it. Riding off of the wave of confidence that had inflated her ego earlier, she mumbles her response back with the same tone and texture. “How about you buy me another drink and then maybe you’ll find out?”

Harry gives her a boyish grin and the indents that pop into his cheeks nudge his appearance from an incredibly attractive man to an adorable cheeky boy. He motions to the bartender for another round of drinks, only letting his eyes flicker away from her for the moment it takes to do it. “How do you like LA so far?”

“It’s...alright.” It’s Y/N’s turn to move closer to him now, flicking her hair off her shoulder, hoping that the motion releases the perfume she’d dabbed on her neck while getting ready. Judging by the darkening of Harry's eyes, it does just that. “It’s definitely a change in pace from where I used to live, but I think I’m slowly gaining the reigns. I feel like once I get acquainted, I could grow to love it.”

“LA’s definitely a toggle. You could either vibe with it, or it’ll eat you alive and spit you back out.” 

She bats her lashes at him in stunned fright at his bluntness, his face deadly serious without any twitch or give. 

Harry then bursts into high-pitched laughter, eyes crinkling shut and nose scrunching. “I’m just fucking with you, love. Ease up, hm?”

“You asshole!” Y/N exhales grandly, half in relief and half in indignation, slugging him on the shoulder. All she feels is hard muscle beneath. 

He continues to cackle, sticking his tongue out at her. “Looked like you were about to cry.” 

“It definitely crossed my mind, yeah!”

The bartender arrives with their fresh drinks and Harry tells the man to but both of Y/N’s on his tab. She feels her cheeks glow, telling him he doesn’t have to, but he waves it off and says he’s more than happy to serve such a nice girl as herself. Especially if she “hates the same things I do. Think of it as your initiation gift into the Anti-Club Club.” 

A handful of heartbeats tick by, full of comfortable quietness as they both savor their new beverages. Harry pipes up first, regaining their topic from before.

“But, yeah, Cali’s for sure a special place. You meet some cool people if you hang around for a while. But sometimes,” he pauses for a second, eyes gleaming with something she can’t quite interpret. “But sometimes you can meet a really interesting person in just one night.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” Y/N clicks her nails against her Old Fashioned distractedly as Harry fixes her with that beautiful emerald gaze that makes her ears tingle. She cocks her head to the side knowingly, flashing him a soft smirk. “Sometimes, you just happen to meet that one in a million.”

“A lucky strike.” He adds, lifting his tequila an inch off the counter and tilting it towards her in what appears to be a toast, irises dancing with a certain type of suggestive mischief. “To meeting interesting people.”

The human girl clinks the rim of her lowball to the edge of his cup, shrugging her brows and reciting his comment back to him. “To meeting interesting people.” 

Y/N measures how the rest of their interaction goes by how quickly her drink shrinks. 

When she reaches down to the first ice cube stacked on top, Harry has managed to coax multiple rounds of laughter out of her, his humor startlingly similar to her’s in the most refreshing way imaginable. She quickly learns that despite his broad shoulders, lean torso, dark inking, and flawless features, he’s a complete and total dork. His personality consists mainly of voice impersonations and contorting his expression into an endless array of silly faces, which she takes to easily.

By the time Y/N’s amber drink has reached halfway down its container, the default touch barrier between the two has broken completely. There had been a few caresses prior, but now it’s more frequent, more noticeable, and each touch extends in time. She had been the one to initiate getting physical, which had sat so right in her stomach because that meant he was respectful and patient— definitely unlike most men in clubs. 

The mortal girl had gently shoved Harry’s chest when he’d made an nonchalant joke about how losing his swim trunks at a nude beach had been both the best and worst experience of his life, her cheeks boiling as she had felt nothing but more toned muscle beneath the cotton fabric of his top. She had gone back to tracing at his tattoos the further they got into sharing anecdotes and opinions, glancing up at him for permission in the middle of their exchange and smiling to herself when he’d nodded casually without a second thought. As the conversations continue, they both unintentionally get closer in distance to the point where the arm Harry had settled on the bar is now fully wrapped around the small of her back. She willingly leans into him, their knees and thighs brushing with every shift of their bodies and those minute moments begin to pile up their excitement.

By the time the alcohol in her possession bottoms out, she is nearly sitting in his lap, faces only a few inches apart. Y/N can’t recall half of what she had said, the subject having steered into so many different places that she couldn’t be bothered to keep track. Besides, she’s too focused on trying to keep a straight face as Harry plays footsie with her below the counter, his light yellow sneaker toying with her heeled velvet wedge. 

An important question on his behalf snaps Y/N out of her flirty stupor.

“So how do you like your new home?”

She blinks at him slowly, partially to try and give a seductive tinge to the interaction and partially because the liquor has started to truly settle in. It takes her a few heartbeats to process the inquiry. “I love it, actually. It’s a place of my own, for the first time ever. I couldn’t be happier.”

The corners of Harry’s swollen lips tick in genuine happiness on her behalf. “That sounds amazing. Congratulations on such a big step.” 

“Thank you! What about yourself? Renting anything neat?”

“Oh, I own a condo here.” He mentions casually, outlining the criss-cross pattern along the circumference of his highball glass. “I used to visit so often that I finally just decided to pull the trigger on one.”

“Look at you, investing in real estate.” She says in a teasing voice, her heel grazing around his calf slowly, cheeks sizzling as he parts his legs a bit to allow her the pleasure of traveling higher up.

“Mmhm.” Harry licks his red lips, free hand starting to trace over her own. The tips of his fingers are calloused and cold, the motion of them over her skin almost pulling a tremble out of her body. She does her best to restrain it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “Is it nice?” 

“Hm?”

His lips twitch in endearment at how he’s managing to make her lose her train of thought. “Your apartment, darling.”

She rests the rim of her drink on the bottom of her lip as she speaks. “It’s nothing huge or fancy, but it’s a decent size and l can call it home. Can’t get much better than that.”

Y/N loves how Harry's eyes flit to her lips for what she thinks is the billionth time tonight, his vision sketching along the curve of her cupid’s bow and dotting every peak.

Another warm glow of confidence spikes through her veins and she’s talking before she can analyze her thoughts. “Well, at least I think it can’t get much better than that. Although, I could just be biased. Could probably use an outside opinion.” 

It takes Harry a moment to register what she’s suggesting, a light blush creeping up the base of his neck as he realizes how he’s stopped so abruptly. Humans usually never get him this unnerved and it’s one of many times she’s made it happen. “An outside opinion?”

Y/N lists her head to the side. It sounds like he’s accepting the vague invitation, but she’s so anxious to mess this up that she’s second guessing herself with every passing second. However, with every touch, she wants Harry more and more, and that’s enough to propel her towards a more direct approach. “Mmhm. Like yours, maybe. Would you like to come back and see it?”

Harry pauses for a few of her heartbeats, and then bobs his head in acceptance. She can breath again. 

He finishes off the last inch or so of his tequila, a wicked grin creeping its way across his pretty, flushed mouth, long fingers carding into his loosely arranged curls. “I’m more than happy to be of service.”

A smile works its way onto Y/N’s own face at his response, her foot dropping back down his leg slowly. “I’m glad to hear.”

“Mm.” Harry takes her hand completely now and she almost moans at how much bigger his are, his rings pinching a bit, skin rough in some areas, but silky smooth in others. And strangely icy, but she enjoys it. “Shall we say goodbye to your friends first? I wouldn’t want them to worry about you.”

He knows her “friends” couldn’t care less, but he wants to be as much of a gentleman as possible. Romanticize, romanticize, romanticize.

Y/N snorts, knowing full well that they’d probably purposefully embarrass her in front of him as a joke. 

She squeezes his grasp lightly, giving him a soft smile. “You’re sweet, but it’s fine. They were actually behind you earlier, encouraging this whole thing, so I’m pretty sure they won’t mind.” 

Harry hums deep in the back of his throat and the sound melts into a cute chuckle. “I’m glad they helped, then. Think you can deliver them my thanks some other time?”

The young woman chews on the inside of her cheek at his comment, realizing that it suggests he aims on keeping her occupied for the rest of the night and well into the morning. She has to will herself not to lurch forward and kiss at his annoyingly perfect lips right then and there. “I’ll make sure to pass the message along.” 

With one last cocky simper, Harry helps her down from the stool and pays off their tab, offering her his jacket since most of her outfit is made of flimsy fabrics. Y/N takes it appreciatively, lashes fluttering when his scent envelopes her like a blanket. It’s the unique smokiness from his cologne, mixed with a slightly sweeter smell that she assumes is his shampoo, and a bit of something that reminds her of a vanilla candle. The aromas are sewn into every thread of his coat and she can’t wait to have those scents glued all over her more deliberately later tonight.  

Harry turns and plunges them into the throng of partiers, weeding through bodies with a type of determination that makes her insides twist. His arm comes up in front of him as he plows people out of the way with absolutely no regret, leaving her to throw out a few half-assed apologies in his wake. The idea that he’s excited to be alone with her has Y/N’s insides churning. 

Once they escape all of the grinding limbs and tight spaces, stumbling into the cool air of the starry night, she takes a huge gulp of air. She prays it will tide over the jitters running along the inside of her tummy. She has just now realized how riled up he’d gotten her and it’s all coming to a raging boil. 

Harry paces past the bouncer, throwing up two fingers in parting. “Later, Brock.” 

The security guard gives the young vampire a confused look, not recognizing him at all and wondering how he knows his name. 

Y/N repeats Harry’s phrase for the hell of it, squeezing his hand jestingly and he glimpses over his shoulder, grinning at her with sheer amusement and something much deeper swirling around the specks of copper in his irises. If there was a bit more light, perhaps she would have noticed the way his irises had glinted blood red instead of olive green.

She ogles at the way his back muscles shift and flex below his pastel blue shirt, her mind vaguely taking note of the light yellow detailings along the cuffs and collar. The tee is intriguing and fun and she hopes he’ll let her sleep in it after they’re done. 

She also gets distracted by the baby curls decorating the nape of his neck. She’s itching to tug at them and see what his response would be. Would he shiver in her grasp and let out a soft moan, or would he smirk darkly and tell her to go harder?

Harry suddenly halts, snapping her out of her thoughts as he presents his car. Y/N’s jaw nearly falls off. “This is yours?!”

She gawks at the vintage jet black convertible before her, feeling like she isn’t worthy of its chic presence. It looks new, shining in the street lamps like a thousand diamonds, not a scratch or dent in sight. 

Harry unlocks the passenger’s door, opening it and guiding her inside with a gentle pull at their clasped hands, shrugging his brows playfully. “Hope it’s not too shabby for your liking.”  

“Are you kidding?” The human mumbles in awe as she ducks down into the patented leather seat, running her free hand over the elegant cover. She sighs softly at the way his smell is lingering inside the vehicle, just as much as it sticks to his clothes. “I feel like I should bow to it or something.”

He laughs fully now, leaning down to get a view of her sitting prim and proper in his favorite car, looking gorgeous in her flowy silk pants, lace creme blouse, and his own clothes. He gnaws at his bottom lip to withhold a needy groan. “I think you fit right in.” 

Y/N feels warmth erupt into her face and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to distract her fingers from shaking. “Looks like I’m not the only one that’s good at stroking egos.”

“S’hardly a task. You make it easy, doll.” 

It’s the second pet name he’s called her tonight— it’s strangely vintage, same as his car— and she can’t wait to hear what others he has in store. Preferably in the form of breathy pants and broken whines.

Y/N flicks her gaze up at him through heavy lashes, attempting to stifle a sheepish smile. “Quite the charmer.”

A moment of silence suspends in the air, a light breeze filtering through Harry’s curls, swaying the jewelry around his neck as well as the earring hanging from his lobe. Harry speaks up with a type of hushed desire she hadn’t heard from him yet. “Can I kiss you?”

She blinks up at him once in mild surprise and then releases a sigh of utter relief. “Fuck, I thought you’d never ask.” 

Her hand reaches upwards outside the confines of the car, knitting into the thick fabric of his shirt and yanking him down. The second their mouths meet, it sets off a dozen fireworks in the pit of her stomach. His is softer than she had imagined, wet and warm, and his tongue carries the sourness of the tequila he’d been swishing the whole night. 

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat, and then a quiet whimpery moan streams down his tongue onto her itchy skin. “Christ, that was hot.”

As much as she loves the taste of him— the tartness of the alcohol mixed with an inherent sweetness his lips carry— she forces herself to pull away, but keeps her sweaty forehead pressed to his. “Yeah. It was.”

With one hand still gripping the car door, Harry uses his other to cup her chin lightly, guiding her into another kiss. Now that they have both developed a feel for the other, this one is less tentative than the last. She tastes so fucking good on his tongue, like strawberry syrup—probably from her lipgloss— orange bitters, and bourbon. He just has to have more of it.

A helpless gasp escapes Y/N when Harry's teeth graze against her upper lip, only nipping enough that she craves more. More of anything he has to offer. 

He pulls away and the whine that plucks her vocal chords feeds his eternal soul like nothing else has in a while.  

The young man grins at her for a moment, half in smug satisfaction, half red-faced and desperate, before carefully closing the car door and making his way to the driver’s side. He slides in with ease, shuts his own door and buckles up with a click of the belt. The simple action has never looked so attractive before, but she’s certain that anything Harry does with his ring-covered hands would be attractive.  

He fishes his keys from his front pocket, asking her where she lives in order to try and orient himself. As it turns out, she’s not too far away from his own flat. He knows exactly which condominium she’s referring to without having to even search it up— a perk of living here for a few decades.

He also chuckles to himself a bit at the fact that she hadn’t mentioned he shouldn’t drive under the influence. Vampires have an extremely high tolerance due to their self-healing properties, so the drinks he’d had only gave him a soft, warm buzz. He just finds it comical— and slightly arousing— that she’s so eager to get at him that she’d let that detail slip her mind.

Harry starts the car, but doesnt pull out of the parking spot. Instead, he glances at Y/N as a crease appears in his beautifully sculpted brows. The idea of something displeasing him bothers her, and she’s about to ask what it is when he murmurs a quick, “Just a second, dove.” He reaches across to grab her seatbelt, pulling it over her body and securing it into place on her behalf, making sure it’s nice and proper before leaning back in his seat. He doesn’t know why he cared to do it, but he had. 

The simple action leaves another layer of heat on Y/N’s cheeks. Having him bent over her like that was just a teaser of what was going to unfold later and it already has her mind spinning. She can only imagine how much of a mess he’s going to leave her when there’s no clothes restraining them.

“Thanks.” She whispers, playing with the tips of her fingers.

“No need to thank me. Just wanna keep that pretty face in one piece.” 

He plops one hand on the steering wheel as he shifts into reverse, carefully backing out of his spot. His arm ducks behind her seat, head turning and veins chiseling into his neck. It takes all of Y/N’s willpower not to lean up and begin to darken his tanned skin with hickeys. 

Harry cruises up to the exit of the club parking lot, waiting impatiently for the turn signal, digits tapping away at the leather below them. Y/N can see him throwing pained little glances at her from her peripheral vision, obviously restless to feel her skin sliding against his. Each look causes the warmth between her thighs to swell. 

She’s talking before she can stop herself, voice bashful and soft as ever, yet full of boldness from the liquor she’d consumed. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something to you that’s gonna get us both killed.”

The tapping of his fingers halts and he cranes his head to face her fully, ignoring the flashing green arrow on the stoplight before them. 

Harry reaches over the center console, his nose dragging up the length of her cheekbone, causing her to squeak out a tiny whimper at the feathery sensation. It’s the first time tonight he’s touched her so intimately. 

The sentence he grits out next makes her entire body visibly shutter, his breath hot against her ear, damp lips smearing over her jaw as his oath burns into her flesh.

“And if you say something like that to me again, I promise you I’ll pull this car over and make you eat every fucking word.” 

[prouvaireafterdark]

Casual Affair

AKA the “Anti-Forlex Smut”

Technically not a cheating fic, but it kind of has that vibe for a while so if that’s a dealbreaker for you then you might want to skip this one. If you’re looking for unrepentant filth, though, I’ve, uh, got you covered.

Also on AO3!

***

Open Mic Night at the Wild Pony tends to draw a crowd of all sorts: rowdy undergrads from the local community college, older folks trying to recapture their youth with some spirited karaoke, and even soulful academic types like Forrest looking to share their angsty emo poetry. Tonight, as Alex soon discovers, it’s also drawn in Michael Guerin.

Alex doesn’t need to look to know Michael’s staring at him. He can feel his eyes on him like a caress, heavy on the side of his neck before it slides hot down the length of his chest to settle low above his belt buckle. If it wasn’t for the blue-haired historian sitting next to him he’d already have done something about it.

He takes a deep swallow of the beer he’s been nursing for the last ten minutes and tries to ignore him. Maybe if he pretends the restless energy thrumming through his whole body isn’t there, it’ll go away. 

Luckily, he’s got a decent enough distraction; A pair of tone deaf townies are currently massacring “Under Pressure” on stage, a spectacle awful enough to hold his attention like a six car pile up. Alex takes another drink and tries not to laugh behind the rim of his bottle. 

The performance—if one can even call it that—is over in minutes and as the next musician takes the stage, Alex’s gaze finally wanders over toward the bar. Through the crowd of people drinking and laughing with their friends and partners, he catches sight of Michael immediately.

He’s sitting at the bar, but he’s facing out toward the crowd and Alex can’t help but notice how good he looks. With the way his elbows are tucked behind him and resting on the bar top, his chest hair is on proud display through his indecently buttoned flannel and the worn denim of his jeans is pulled tight over his spread thighs. He’s even got his fingers wrapped suggestively around the neck of the beer bottle in his hand—non-alcoholic, Alex registers with no small amount of pride as he catches sight of the label. However messy and complicated things are between them now, he’s glad to see that Michael is making some better choices these days.

Michael notices him staring, because of course he does. He cocks his head and smirks, not subtle at all about what he wants. That look cuts right through him, sending heat down Alex’s spine.

Alex takes a deep breath and turns to face the stage, desperately hoping whatever top 40 hit the new girl on stage is singing will calm his growing erection. Its mindless beat helps him relax, but not enough that Forrest doesn’t notice something’s up.

“You okay?” he asks him, moving his hand off the table to rest his arm along the back of Alex’s chair. Alex tries not to flinch when his fingers comb through the hair that curls along the base of his neck, long enough now that it’s not quite regulation anymore.

“Yeah,” Alex smiles encouragingly, hoping Forrest doesn’t see through him. He shifts in his seat, leaning forward until Forrest’s fingers slip away from his collar. “You want something to drink?”

“Uh,” Forrest starts, looking at his half-empty beer before shrugging. “Yeah, I’ll have another.”

“Great,” Alex says, already standing. “Be right back.”

He makes his way across the bar, trying his best to ignore the way Michael smirks and spreads his thighs a little wider where he sits perched on the edge of his barstool.  

“You’ve gotta stop looking at me like that,” Alex chastises him once he’s close enough. He slides into the space at the bar beside him, facing forward with his elbows on the bar top. He catches Michael’s easy smile out of the corner of his eye, and he’s relieved he isn’t hit with the full force of it.

“I’ve been looking at you like this for over ten years, Alex,” Michael replies. “I’m not gonna stop now.”

Alex tries to ignore the way that makes his heart feel somehow light and heavy at the same time where it beats frantically behind his ribs.

“Why are you even here?” Alex asks, chancing a glance at Michael’s face. 

Like the demon that he is, Michael chooses that moment to bring his non-alcoholic beer to his lips and take a long sip. Alex watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and tries desperately not to think about how fucking tight his throat had felt the last time he’d gotten Michael on his knees. 

He doesn’t quite manage it and either it’s written all over his face or Isobel’s taught Michael some new tricks because he can see smug satisfaction in the way his eyes sparkle in the neon glow coming from behind the bar. 

Alex shifts his stance, dutifully ignoring the tightness in his jeans, and tries again. “You hate Open Mic Night.”

“You don’t,” Michael shrugs, like that explains anything. 

Alex kind of hates that it does.

“I’m not performing tonight,” Alex tells him. 

“No, you’re not,” Michael agrees, and then adds a beat later, “but your boyfriend is.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Alex bristles. Sure, he and Forrest have been hooking up now and then, but he isn’t—he’s not—

“Does he know that?” Michael asks skeptically, interrupting his thoughts. 

Alex rolls his eyes, uninterested in explaining the intricacies of his not-relationship with Forrest. He doesn’t really see how it matters now, after everything they’ve gotten up to in the last few weeks.

Michael just licks his lips and gives him that infuriatingly sexy grin before he leans in and says, “Well, if he’s not your boyfriend, then why don’t you meet me in the bathroom in five?”

Heat once again rushes through Alex at Michael’s proposition, pooling low in his gut. He turns to look at him in disbelief, but Michael’s smile just grows more smug.

“See you soon,” he whispers, and stands up from his seat, his drink left abandoned on the bar.

Alex resolutely does not stare at Michael’s ass as he saunters off toward the bathroom. It’s a good thing too—the bartender steps in front of him not two seconds later.

“What can I get you?” he asks, drying off a clean pint glass with a checkered dishtowel.

Alex clears his throat before he places his order and fishes a twenty out of his wallet. 

He lays it on the bar with every intention that this time he will stand his ground, get his drinks, and rejoin Forrest at their table, but the next thing Alex knows, he’s pushing his way through the crowd and into the small, dimly-lit bathroom. 

He finds Michael leaning against the sink, arms folded across his chest. He smirks when he sees Alex enter, but Alex doesn’t give him long to gloat before he’s crossed the distance between them and has the front of Michael’s soft flannel bunched up in his fists.

Michael’s eyes flash to Alex’s mouth, his tongue peeking out to wet his own lips in anticipation, but he doesn’t make a move to kiss him. He won’t—not while Alex is obviously out with someone else. It’s an absurd line to draw at a moment like this, but Michael told him once that if Alex wants him, he can come and get him, so it’s Alex’s move now. 

Alex thinks it’s more complicated than that, that they still have a lot to talk about before they try to do this thing for real, but what he thinks more is that he wants to remind himself what Michael’s mouth tastes like.

He surges forward to kiss him, slotting their lips together easily. Michael pulls him closer the moment Alex lets him know he can, blunt nails biting softly into his skin as he slides his fingers under the edges of Alex’s shirt. Alex deepens the kiss almost immediately, Michael’s teasing leaving him desperate and wanting. Michael opens for him so sweetly when he licks along the seam of his lips, just as eager for more as Alex slides his tongue into his mouth.

They kiss like that for what feels like ages but can’t be longer than a minute, Alex losing himself for the moment to the scent of petrichor in the air around him and the taste of it on his tongue. He isn’t sure who pulls away first, but the next thing he knows both of their chests are heaving as they gasp into the narrow space between their mouths. 

He opens his eyes to see Michael looking back at him, his pupils blown wide, lips red and wet. He’s so fucking beautiful Alex’s heart aches in ways he can’t describe.

“Mm,” Michael hums low in his throat, nudging his nose against Alex’s cheek. “What would Forrest say if he knew what you were up to?”

“Fuck you,” Alex grumbles, more on principle than anything else.

“Not tonight, baby,” Michael drawls. “It’s your turn.”

With that, Michael spins them around so it’s Alex with his back against the sink and Alex is fairly certain that it’s only by the grace of Michael’s telekinesis that he doesn’t trip over his own feet. He groans when Michael presses in close, as his thigh nudges its way between Alex’s legs for him to grind his hard cock against.

Michael watches him with singleminded focus, his hands on Alex’s hips encouraging him to keep moving against him, until Alex threads his fingers into Michael’s riotous curls and pulls him in for a kiss. It’s desperate and hungry, filled with every ounce of longing he’s felt for Michael just about every fucking day for the last eleven years. 

Michael meets him in the middle, his hands on Alex’s hips tightening their grip hard enough to bruise, and in that moment Alex doesn’t even care if Michael leaves a mark so long as he doesn’t stop touching him. Michael rocks against him as they kiss, grinding their hips together through the rough denim of their jeans until the tease is too much to bear. 

“Fuck, I want you,” Alex gasps when they part, wishing he was steadier on his feet so he could wrap a leg around Michael’s body and pull him in closer. 

“Good thing I have lube then,” Michael says, dipping down to mouth along the sensitive skin of Alex’s neck, careful not to leave a mark. He reaches into his front pocket and pulls out two single-use packets of lube.

Alex’s cock throbs as he stands there, consumed by the thought of Michael working him open in a goddamn public bathroom where anyone—including Forrest, fuck, he’s a terrible person—could hear them. 

Alex is turning around in Michael’s arms and grinding his ass back against the bulge in his jeans before the part of his brain still capable of higher reasoning registers that there’s something missing from Michael’s hand.

“Wait—condom?” Alex asks, eyebrow raised at Michael’s reflection in the mirror in front of him—not that Michael can see it where he’s reattached himself to Alex’s neck, his hands dipping low on his belly now that he’s left the lube on the edge of the sink.

Michael shakes his head with a low hum. “All out. We used my last one yesterday.”

“Already? Fuck,” Alex whines, unable to hide his disappointment. Michael just keeps kissing his neck, seemingly unperturbed by this revelation. “We really need to stop doing this.”

That gets a reaction from him. 

Michael’s grip on Alex’s hips tightens instinctually, but his voice is carefully light as he retorts, “You don’t mean that.” 

God help him, he doesn’t.

“Well then you need to learn to stop at fucking CVS before you make a promise you can’t keep,” Alex argues.

“Who says I can’t keep my promise?” Michael purrs in his ear.

Alex’s breath catches in his throat as he realizes what Michael is suggesting and Michael’s grin widens as he watches Alex start to flush in the mirror.

“You sure seemed to enjoy yourself the last time I fucked you raw,” he continues, voice low and rough as gravel. “You remember?”

Alex huffs an incredulous laugh. Of course he fucking remembers—He’d been twenty two, fresh off his first tour, and just impatient enough to say fuck it after Michael told him he was out of condoms when he showed up at his Airstream unannounced. He came three times that night; twice on Michael’s cock and once more on his tongue when Michael decided he wanted to clean up the mess he’d made himself. 

Alex wouldn’t necessarily call it his finest moment of judgment, but it had been terribly, unspeakably hot.

“So, what do you say, Alex?” Michael asks him when he doesn’t respond right away, grinding his hips suggestively forward. “You gonna let me fuck you?”

It’s a terrible idea. Alex knows this. Michael knows this. It’ll be messy for one thing—What’s Alex supposed to do when they’re done, go back to sit with Forrest while Michael’s come leaks into his underwear?—not to mention unsafe, even with how regularly he gets tested and that Michael’s alien biology makes it extremely unlikely that he could catch or transmit anything.

But even in the face of all the reasons Alex should say no, he would be lying if he said he wasn’t fucking desperate for it.

In the end, he lets out a shuddering breath and nods, “Yeah, fuck, do it.”

“That’s my boy,” Michael whispers, and Alex tries not to whimper as Michael dips down once more to press a tender kiss to the edge of his jaw. 

Without another word, Michael’s hands slide that little bit further down Alex’s front to find his belt. He makes quick work of the buckle and drags the fabric down his hips to the middle of his thigh. 

Michael’s hands are surprisingly gentle as they encourage Alex to turn around to face him, and once he does, Alex rests his lower back against the sink, hands braced on either side of it. Michael presses a soft kiss to his mouth before he drops to his knees, and when he looks up at him through that thick mop of curls, Alex wishes he didn’t look so goddamn pretty down there. 

His eyes stay on Michael’s flushed mouth as he leans in toward his bare cock. He watches Michael roll his tongue over the head, already sticky with precome, watches his eyes flutter closed as he groans at the taste. There’s a rapturous look on his face as he softly begins to suck him, the way there always is when Michael goes down on him, but, as good as it feels, they don’t exactly have the time to indulge Michael’s oral fixation right now.

Alex releases his hold on the sink to thread his fingers through Michael’s curls, gripping just tight enough to tug gently on the loose strands.  

“We have to hurry,” Alex reminds him. “Forrest’s set starts soon.”

Michael rolls his eyes. He looks like he’s about to complain, but then he’s opening his mouth wider to take him deeper and Alex sort of loses the plot after that. 

Lost in the wet, sucking heat of Michael’s mouth, Alex distantly hears the crinkling of a wrapper as Michael tears open the packet of lube and spills some onto his fingers. He doesn’t waste time warming it before he nudges Alex’s legs as far apart as he can and slips his hand between his cheeks.

Alex jumps at the chill as slick fingers find his hole and the corners of Michael’s mouth curl upward around his cock. Alex tightens his grip on his hair just a little in retaliation.

Michael rubs his finger over Alex’s hole, massaging it gently before he tries to breach it with his finger. He slips one inside him as he works his throat around his cock, and it’s not long before Alex’s rim is stretched tight over three of Michael’s fingers. 

“Fuck,” Alex keens as Michael crooks his fingers just enough to brush his prostate, his cock throbbing where it sits on Michael’s tongue. 

Michael hums and sucks him harder, sending Alex’s eyes rolling back into his skull.

“Michael, stop,” Alex whines, fingers tightening in his curls again. As much as he would love to chase his orgasm in the heat of Michael’s mouth, he’d rather do it on his cock. “M’ready, come on.”

Michael pulls off of Alex with a pop and gently removes his fingers from his ass before he gets up off his knees.

“Turn around,” he says, voice low as he fumbles for the other packet of lube on the sink without taking his eyes off Alex’s face. The intensity of Michael’s attention makes Alex’s heart race with anticipation and he’s helpless against the impulse to surge forward and kiss him again, quick and dirty—just long enough for him to get a taste of his own precome on Michael’s tongue before he’s turning around on unsteady legs and bracing himself against the edge of the sink.

Michael doesn’t make him wait for it. In seconds, he feels the insistent press of Michael’s cock against his hole, slick with lube and precome. Alex bears down on it, gasping as the thick head of it finally works its way passed his rim. 

“That’s it, baby, let me in,” Michael murmurs against his ear as he pushes in deeper, his palm charting a soothing path along his flank as Alex tries to relax into the stretch. 

Michael’s cock feels so hot inside him without a barrier of latex dulling the sensation, and Alex can’t help but let out the whimper building in his throat as he presses back against it, encouraging Michael to sink in deeper.

“Fuck, ‘Lex,” Michael moans into his neck as he bottoms out, his hips flush against Alex’s ass. “You always feel so fucking good.”

Michael lets Alex adjust for a moment, dotting his skin with soft, wet kisses until he feels him start to shift his hips restlessly. Taking the cue from Alex, he pulls out halfway and snaps his hips forward in one quick movement. 

Alex gasps again, pleasure lighting up his spine, and arches his back for more. Michael is all too eager to give it to him, increasing his thrusts in power and speed until Alex is a panting mess, bent over and mewling quietly as his hips bump against the edges of the sink.

Alex doesn’t even realize his eyes have slipped closed until he hears Michael whisper, “God, look at you.”

Alex opens his eyes and catches sight of his reflection in the mirror. He can see every ounce of pleasure he’s feeling reflected back at himself, his brow drawn tight and beaded with sweat, his eyes nearly black with how blown his pupils are. A sudden, sharp moan bursts from his parted lips as the thick head of Michael’s bare cock brushes over his prostate and his eyes jump to Michael’s face in time to watch his mouth spread into a smug grin.

“Right there, huh?” Michael teases, angling his hips to hit that spot again a little more intentionally. Alex groans, his white-knuckle grip on the sink tightening even more. “Bet that feels good, doesn’t it? You want more?”

Alex nods his head, not trusting his voice as he pushes back to meet him thrust for thrust. He’s so close already, and when Michael starts moving faster, his hips slapping against the swell of his ass, Alex has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from crying out. 

“Your boyfriend fuck you this good, ‘Lex?” Michael asks him suddenly, something harsh and maybe a little bitter creeping into his tone. When Alex doesn’t dignify that with a response, he continues, “I bet he doesn’t. You wanna know how I know?”

“Michael,” Alex warns, not wanting to hash this out now, but Michael doesn’t listen, only leans in close until Alex can feel his breath puff against his cheek.

“‘Cause that All American Reject is out there on stage right now,” Michael pants into his ear, “and you’re in here, fucking yourself on my cock like you’re dying for it.”

Alex feels a heady mix of shame and arousal as the garbled sound of Forrest’s spoken word registers distantly in his ears, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Michael is reaching between his legs and wrapping his hand around his cock. He slowly drags his thumb over the sensitive head, through the precome dripping steadily from his slit. It’s a dizzying counterpoint to Michael’s frantic thrusts and Alex finds himself on the edge in a matter of seconds. 

“Oh god,” he moans, the back of his head connecting with Michael’s shoulder as he throws his head backward. He can feel it building inside him, his gut coiling tight with pleasure. “Shit, I’m gonna come.”

“Me too,” Michael gasps, the rhythm of his hips growing less coordinated as he desperately chases his own release. “Where do you want it?”

“In me, fuck, Michael, don’t stop,” he replies, too strung out to give a fuck about the consequences. 

“Fuck, ‘Lex, I—“ Michael cuts off suddenly as he comes, and it’s the feeling of Michael spilling hot inside him, groaning low in his ear, that sets Alex off, whimpering as he makes a mess of the cracked tile beneath their feet. 

As he’s coming down, Alex slumps forward and tries to catch his breath, his forearms braced on the sink in front of him the only thing keeping him from melting into a puddle on the floor. Michael stays a warm weight against his back, as if reluctant to put even an inch of space between them, and Alex can’t say he minds one bit.

Just as Alex is admiring Michael’s sated reflection in the mirror, applause suddenly breaks out from beyond the bathroom door, signaling the end of Forrest’s performance. The two of them flinch back into reality, the spell around them bursting like a bubble. 

Alex feels the brush of Michael’s lips against his temple before he stands up straight and slowly begins to pull out. With the high of his orgasm now dissipated, the sensation of Michael’s come leaking out of him when he does is deeply unpleasant and Alex is quick to clean himself up.

By the time Alex refastens his belt around his hips and turns around to face him, Michael is still trying to tame his chaotic curls—a futile effort after all the tugging Alex did when Michael was blowing him. Alex can’t find it in himself to be anything other than charmed.

Michael catches him looking and abandons his work with a smile as he pulls Alex into a kiss, soft and sweeter than Alex is expecting. 

Alex sighs into it, his fingers catching Michael’s jaw to keep him there a heartbeat longer, even as he murmurs, “I should go,” when they part, his face still a scant few inches from Michael’s.

Michael lets out a deep, ponderous sigh that Alex feels against his mouth. “You don’t sound like you want to.”

“Do I ever?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Michael pulls back enough to look at Alex’s face. He stares at him for a long moment, eyes searching for something, and Alex feels exposed, like Michael is looking right through him. 

“What are we doing, Alex?” he asks at last, voice no louder than a whisper.

Alex looks away, cowed by the question. 

He was trying to give Michael and himself space while they figured out who they were now and what they really wanted from each other, but that went out the window weeks ago now, the second a narrow escape from a Project Shepard black site drove Alex to Michael’s doorstep, a USB full of classified research on alien technology held tight between his shaking fingers. 

One moment of weakness had turned into many, many more, but with Michael still on the road to sobriety and Alex still running himself ragged trying to take apart the rest of Project Shepard, it just didn’t feel like the right time to try to chart out their future together. They agreed that keeping things casual and non-exclusive was the safer option for now, that they could give each other something of the closeness they craved without adding in the pressure of being in a real, committed relationship just yet. 

But even as he has that thought, Alex can’t help but hear how ridiculous it sounds. There’s nothing casual about the way Alex brings Michael dinner when he knows he’s too wrapped up in an experiment to remember to feed himself, or the way Michael fixed the automatic setting on Alex’s temperamental espresso machine last week so he could get a few extra minutes of sleep in the morning. They might have told themselves they weren’t ready for a relationship, but, if he’s being really honest with himself, they’re already halfway there. 

And as Alex looks at Michael once more and sees the twin hope and trepidation in his whiskey-toned eyes, he can’t help but think, What the hell are we waiting for?

“Alex?” Michael asks again, head cocked to the side, still waiting for his answer.

“I don’t know,” Alex tells him honestly. “But… I think I’m ready to have that talk now.”

Michael takes his meaning immediately. “Really?” he asks, his eyes lighting up. 

“Yeah,” Alex answers, and the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth is quickly smothered when Michael surges forward to kiss him again. Alex is happy to let him, his heart swelling in his chest with emotions he’s no longer afraid of feeling. 

“Just not here, okay?” Alex continues when they part. Public bathrooms really aren’t the best place for long overdue love confessions and Alex is pretty sure he’s got an angry not-boyfriend to deal with outside. “Meet me at my place in an hour.” 

“An hour?” Michael pouts dramatically. It’s unfairly adorable.

Alex laughs in spite of himself before pulling Michael closer. “We’ve waited eleven years for this,” he reminds him. “I think we can make it another sixty minutes.”

“If you insist,” he sighs, but he’s smiling as he presses another kiss to Alex’s cheek. “I’ll see you there.”

Alex watches him leave, nerves buzzing in his stomach as he anticipates the conversation he’s about to have with Forrest.

His worrying turns out to be for nothing, though—When Alex finally exits the bathroom, Forrest is nowhere to be found. A little asking around tells him he put his drinks on Alex’s tab and left as soon as his performance was over. 

Alex can’t help but feel a little bad about hurting him, but as he pulls up to his house twenty minutes later to see Michael’s truck already parked in his driveway, the man himself perched on the edge of his tailgate with his feet kicking restlessly at the air, he knows he’s made the right choice.

Because so what if he wakes up in the morning to a few angry texts from Forrest? He’ll also have the love of his life snoring softly beside him and another thirty minutes to kill before his coffee is ready, and Alex is determined to never take either of those things for granted ever again.

[cc-tinslebee]

Okay, so, about a month ago, my brain just conjured up probably the most random au possible: Legally Blonde Adam Banks/banksway au.

Believe me, it's as chaotic as it sounds, but lowkey, I'm kind of in love with it.

Adam never joins the Ducks because there aren't any Ducks to join. Bombay never had to do community service with District Five so there was no one to realise that Adam was on the wrong team all along. He continues to play for the Hawks and, eventually, the Eden Hall Warriors, never getting the chance to become the well-rounded individual we know him as because he's never known anything other than his rich privilege and the "win at all costs" mentality. He ends up going to college on a hockey scholarship and not straight to the NHL or the AHL (shocking, I know). While he's unsure of his major and where his life is heading, he finds solace in the fraternity he joins, which, by some sheer twist of fate, Jesse and Guy have also miraculously joined.

And his life is perfect for a while. He's the star player on yet another school's hockey team, all of his fraternity brothers adore him (though, it took a bit for Jesse to warm up to him), and his secret, not-really-official thing with his former teammate is going swimmingly. (Not to slander my boy, but I was picturing Larson for the role of Warner, purely because the alternative seems to be Rick Riley and that's kind of an unsettling image-- though, maybe that's the point?)

But then his secret boyfriend breaks up with him because, with his high aspirations in life, he needs to be "more serious." And dating Adam Banks, a guy in a stereotypical fraternity who only really knows hockey, in 2001 isn't exactly the white-picket-fence life he's looking for if he's going to be a politician.

And since this non-Duck Adam clearly doesn't have the braincells that canon Adam does, in his devastation, he decides it's a brilliant idea to prove that he is serious by applying to Harvard Law. His parents try to talk him out of it, since they want him to pursue his dreams of hockey, but being a lawyer is a respectable career so they can't exactly argue with him.

He gets accepted thanks to Jesse, Guy, and the rest of his fraternity helping him study for the LSAT and keeping him on track. He's trying his darndest when he gets to Harvard, but (despite his struggle not being as significant as Elle Woods'), not a lot of people take him seriously as an aspiring lawyer, considering him a meathead jock who only got in because of daddy's money.

And that's about the time he meets Linda, who he vaguely remembers from his time at Eden Hall. What he doesn't remember is her being so competitive, because she's deliberately beating him at every turn, just trying (and kind of succeeding) at making him look like a fool. To make matters worse, all of the sudden, she's engaged to his ex-boyfriend, who is very adamant about never telling anyone that he and Adam were more than friends (because, you know, early 2000s homophobia and such).

But things get a little brighter for Adam when he meets Charlie, an undergrad teacher's assistant who gives him all sorts of advice about surviving the school. He introduces him to Professor Bombay, who Charlie claims is the only reason he survived his first year and quickly becomes Adam's favourite teacher, and Charlie's childhood friend Connie, who aspires to be a state senator one day. Charlie's charismatic and even if he's not the most well-liked person at Harvard, Adam feels a weight lifted off his shoulders once he becomes friends with him and Connie. Things become a little easier.

Just before he and Charlie start getting really close, Adam meets Casey at a local diner on a day he's feeling particularly upset and alone, and the two start bonding almost immediately. (He bullshits his way into scaring an ex-husband of hers with legal repercussions he has no idea about and she basically adopts him in return.) It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to realise that it's not just a coincidence that Casey and Charlie share the same last name, which results in poor Adam feeling extremely embarrassed for not connecting the dots sooner while Charlie's having the time of his life teasing him for it. Eventually, when the dust of that settles, Charlie and Adam join forces to set Casey and Bombay up, their schemes borderline ridiculous at times, but they'rere not exactly failing.

And after realising he isn't the Warriors moron she thought he was for going on five years, Linda starts warming up to Adam, which is surprisingly nice? She figures out on her own that there used to be something between him and her fiancé, and is more understanding of Adam than she is mad. Linda actually spills to him the lengths Adam's ex had to go through to actually get into Harvard, aligning more with the rumours about Adam's acceptance being bought than having the aptitude for the law that Linda and Adam share. (This may be me saying Linda and Adam friendship rights, what of it-- /lh)

To make things all the better, Bombay chooses Adam, Linda, Connie, Charlie, and Adam's ex to be on his legal team for a murder case he's responsible for (and while he knows about Adam and Charlie's ploys to hook him up with Charlie's mom, they're his favourites, so he doesn't say anything).

And this is just so much better than anything he had before. After all the initial unpleasantness, Linda and Connie become some of the most genuine friends he's ever had. He misses Guy and Jesse, of course, and he'd never take them for granted, but back when he was with them at the fraternity, a part of him was still being as superficial as he had been in middle and high school. Being authentic for once in his life is liberating.

And Charlie's just about the most considerate person Adam's ever met. Adam doesn't even mind when Charlie teases him over his absurd and juvenile insults because he's just this source of light for Adam, supporting him and always pushing him to be the best version of himself. His ex hardly even exists when Charlie's around because his energy is just so contagious that Adam starts falling for him long before he even realises it. (And when Jesse and Guy come to visit, there's a moment where it all clicks and the four of them realise their history together, however brief. I strongly maintain that they'd be that Starkid meme: "Fucking Hawks? We hated you guys!" "We hated ourselves!" But it does make Adam realise how much better off he would've been if he had Charlie and his team when he was little instead of the Hawks, and it just further makes him understand that people like Larson and Rick Riley just aren't worth it.)

But there's also another revelation Adam goes through. Between helping Casey, his rigorous studies, and his position working with/for Bombay, something just clicks for Adam. He likes being able to help people, fighting for the good guys who may not have the resources they need to be properly defended. Practicing law calls to him in the same way hockey did; it's the feeling of knowing this is what he's meant to do. He still loves hockey, he always will, but it helps him finally grasp that there's a world for him outside of it; when hockey ends for him, there's something equally as rewarding that he can pursue, which was something he never thought he would have.

I haven't a single coherent thought about this au past that point except for these little inklings of an ending--

There's absolutely no SA scene like the movie had; Bombay's just Adam and Charlie's favourite teacher and those are his boys, so he's going to make sure they succeed as if his life depends on it.

With that said, Bombay believes in them both enough to let them finish the case because with their joined determination/stubbornness (and Adam's in with the defendant), Adam and Charlie are a force to be reckoned with and he knows it.

After a handful of comedic failures, they do end up succeeding at their attempts to set Casey and Bombay up, and they start living together sometime during the kids' Junior year :) (All I'm asking is for one (1) story with a Casey/Gordon endgame-- I just think they're neat--)

Linda dumps her fiancé (as she should) and goes on to live her best wlw life as a successful lawyer. (If I'm not mistaken, Linda's actress actually is a lawyer, which is a pretty cool fun fact!!)

Adam and Linda's ex gets the Warner ending because, man, screw that guy /lh (rip to Larson if this is him, I'm sure you'll get a nice endgame in some other universe, king)

Honorary mention for Connie, who was going long distance with Guy this entire time to everyone but Jesse's shock, and they get their Game Changers endgame of State Senator Connie Moreau and stay-at-home dad Guy Germaine with their seven -- sorry, three -- children :)

Adam's an absolute bundle of nerves after graduation, which definitely concerns Charlie. So, when he asks if he's okay, Adam starts nervously monologuing about their time together until he runs out of breath. He ends it by proposing to him, and Charlie smiles so surely at him when he says yes. They both become damn good public defenders and stay engaged until the point they can legally get married, but they're practically husbands long before that happens.

Also, if I did my math right (which I should’ve, it’s my entire basis for my Share Your Address series), the Ducks’ would have the same graduating class year as Elle Woods anyway (2004), which is pretty neat!

Thank you once again for listening to me ramble :)

[tsukishumai]

Chemical Reaction - Kuroo Tetsuro

Summary: When the universe hands you a second chance, will you be able to move on from the mistakes of your past? 

college!Kuroo x fem!reader

a friends to friends w/ benefits to lovers type of deal.

Warnings: some light NSFW, slow burn, aged up characters, mentions of smoking, mentions of alcohol, fingering, cursing, and a little heartbreak. angst to fluff

Word Count: 7.3k (it goes by fast, I swear (′ꈍωꈍ‵))

A/N:  Jesus... this started out as a prompt, but it snowballed into whatever the hell this is. And it was supposed to be done by Kuroo’s bday T-T but better late than never! I poured in a lil extra love into this, pls give it a shot, lmk what you think, and I hope you enjoy !

Your history with Kuroo Tetsuro went back a little bit further than you’d like to admit.

He had been in your class for all three years you were at Nekoma, but you had really only popped onto each other’s radars second year.

He had been assigned the seat next to you, and while you were upset that your best friend, Eri, had been sat all the way across the room, you didn’t exactly mind the view.  

Right off the bat, you knew this was going to be trouble for you.

The guy was cute, funny, and smart. How hadn’t you noticed him before?

“Hey, L/N-chan,” he said, already making you blush with the addition of the honorific, “I have many chemistry jokes… but I’m afraid they won’t get a good reaction!”

You couldn’t stop either the face palm or the giggle that slipped out of your lips.

Kuroo was an easy person to get along with. He always greeted you in the mornings, and never really bothered you during class. On the rare occasion he stayed in the classroom for lunch, the two of you would strike up a conversation, but it never went past the surface.

Until about halfway through the school year. Your teacher had assigned a project that required a partner.

You looked to Eri, only to find the little traitor pairing up with the guy she had been eyeing since first year.

You sighed, not even mad at her for trying to shoot her shot.

“Want to be partners?” your head shot to the boy next to you.

“Uhm. Sure!”

And so it went like this; the project was due at the end of the year, requiring a research paper, and a 7 minute power point presentation.

Once or twice a week, the two of you would meet up at the school library either before school or after your club activities.

Kuroo was smart; smarter than you but you’d never say that to his face, so more often than not, the two of you would finish what needed to be done that day, and spent the rest of the time just talking, and getting to know each other.

By the third time the two of you had gotten kicked out by the librarian for laughing too much, Kuroo suggested meeting at his house on the weekends.

Surely that doesn’t mean what you think it means right???

It doesn’t, lmao. This guy was a good student, he made sure you guys finished your parts, because there was no way he was going to get anything less than an A.

Oh, you guys finished a little early today? Great! L/N-chan! Help me with my receives!

As the weeks pass by, there was a mutual progression in the relationship, neither of you seeing each other as project partners anymore, and falling into a comfortable friendship.

For Kuroo, that is. You, on the other hand, just became way too good at acting like you weren’t falling in love.

The school year is coming to a close, and you turn in your project.

Surprise, surprise! You guys got an A.

Seriously, the teacher said she was going to start using it as an example for the future students.

You couldn’t even be happy about your passing grade; you were too sad that your time with Kuroo was ending.

“Well, it was really fun being your partner this year,” you said, and Kuroo cocked an eyebrow at you.

“Why do you sound like someone’s dying,” he joked, “Anyway, Kenma said he bought a new game, but it’s multiplayer. What time are you coming this weekend?”

Bitch, ya heart nearly jumped out of your chest.

For a little while, you were content with things being like that. You had become good friends with not just Kuroo, but Kenma as well. You guys weren’t always together, but definitely made a point to make time for each other.

While you guys were usually busy during the week, club activities, homework and school taking up most of your time, Saturdays at Kuroo’s had become a thing well into your third year. As much as possible, you would try to attend his games, and he would try to bring you snacks when he knows you’re stuck studying.

You tried really hard not to read into the things he would do for you.

Surely, he’s also held Kenma’s bag while walking him home, right?

He’s memorized his whole team’s schedule; it’s nothing special if he also has yours memorized.

You know that he only brought you lunch today because he had to share half of his when you forgot yours.

All normal friend stuff, right! Right?!

“I met a cute girl the other day,” he said to you absentmindedly one morning before class.

Wait. Your chest shouldn’t feel so tight, should it? Your eyes are swimming, and your head is floating. Every breath feels like lead in your lungs, and you kinda wished the ground would swallow you whole.

“Oh, Really?” you tried to be nonchalant, and hoped he didn’t notice the shakiness in your voice.

He nodded. “Yeah… she’s kinda funny.”

But you were really funny, weren’t you? You were the one that made him laugh like a hyena, made him clutch his stomach and gasp for breath, right?

“Is that so?” your mouth felt like sandpaper, “Why don’t you try taking her out on a date?”

You wish you had never said those words.

You knew the girl he was talking about; you had seen Kuroo approach her in the hallway.

She was your teammate in the track and field club; not one of the fastest, but she was beautiful, kind, friendly, and Kuroo was right – she really was kind of funny.

“You should have told him first, you know,” Kenma had mumbled from next to you once, eyes never leaving his game while yours quickly shot him a glare.

It was just the two of you at the lunch table – Kuroo mumbling an excuse about having plans with another “friend”.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kenma just rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

You spend the next few weeks avoiding him; it was easier since he didn’t sit next to you in class anymore, you weren’t really replying to his texts as often, you stopped visiting him and Kenma at practice, and you had missed the game you had told them you would try to go to.

You were kind of starting to realize that it was mostly you that had to go and seek them out.

Now that you weren’t doing these things… where was he?

You would catch a glimpse of Kuroo when he would visit your teammate during practice; he would try to greet you but you’d only shoot him a tight smile.

So when you heard a loud knock on your door at eight o clock in the evening, the last person you expected was the roosterhead himself.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I could tell something was bothering you, and I’ve been trying to give you your space, but… it’s been weeks now so, I just have to know… Are you avoiding me?”

You didn’t really know what to say, if there is even anything else to. Even with your head down and eyes trained to your feet, you could feel the burn of his gaze.

“I...” the deep timbre of his voice always managed to give you chills, “I miss you.”

Is he fucking serious right now? He’s so smart, yet he can’t put two and two together? He can see his opponents’ moves before they happen, yet he can’t even see you standing right in front of him?

“I have feelings for you, Kuroo,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

Kuroo’s eyes widened by a fraction, his mouth slightly hung agape, dumbfounded by your seemingly random confession.

Except, it wasn’t random to you. You’ve been harboring these feelings for months, and after hurting yourself by staying silent for so long, you decided that you deserve better.

You’ll accept whatever the outcome, if that’s the price for your peace.

“Y/N…” it took him a long time to finally speak, and you try to ignore the fact that this is the first time he’s called you by your first name.

His face clearly showed his struggle to get the words out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t… I –“

You raised your hand. You didn’t really want to hear any more than that.

“It’s okay,” you said, giving him a small smile.

And with that, you shut the door on Kuroo Tetsuro.

You do your best to move on, smiling and laughing with friends you wouldn’t usually talk to you, ignoring the ghost of your past that haunt you every time you walked passed by Kuroo and your teammate down the hall.

You throw back a laugh at whatever the person next to you had said, turning away to miss the fact that Kuroo’s eyes always followed you wherever you went.

Graduation day came and in the blink of an eye, your days at Nekoma were behind you.

The days passed, the seasons changed, the flowers bloomed, and then they died.

You started university, moving to a different city and living with the very same best friend whose betrayal to quench her own thirst became the catalyst for your greatest heartbreak.

You’ve forgiven her for that though, you guess.

Life in college was the breath of fresh air that you needed.

New things to learn, new places to discover, and new faces to help you forget the scars of old ones.

Years pass by, and while you’ve allowed yourself to feel the touch of others, allow them to make you laugh, allow them to make you cry, you’ve never really allowed yourself the luxury of falling in love again.

Who has time for that any way?

Definitely not you. You just needed to finish your undergrad, and get into med school.

You had plans for your life, you weren’t going to compromise your dreams just for another person, and no matter whom you dated or how much they liked you, this fact had always rubbed them the wrong way.

You were finally starting your last year at your undergrad, quite possibly one of the most important years of college, what with your thesis, med school applications, and your entire future pretty much on the line, no big deal.

Your first class of the day was chemistry. You had been avoiding the last chemistry class required by your degree, all of your friends telling you that it was one of the hardest classes they’ve ever taken, and so naturally, you ran away for as long as possible.

The class wasn’t due to start for another fifteen minutes when you walked in, giving you a perfect opportunity to grab a seat of your liking.

You ended up choosing one in the third row – you knew that if you sat in the back, you wouldn’t pay attention.

You take out your laptop, books, and all required materials, using this free time to check any emails from your professors.

You were checking the time – 5 minutes left until class started – when you were interrupted.

“L/N-chan?”

Your feel your body stiffen up at the sound of a voice you hadn’t heard in years.

You turn your head to your left, hoping to all the gods that maybe you were mistaken.

“Kuroo?” you said in disbelief, and oh honey… you could not believe he was standing right before you.

Kuroo seemed like he hadn’t changed at all. His hair seemed a little bit more managed, he was a little bit taller, his muscles filled out his shirt better… but he still had the same goofy smile on his face, and that undeniably mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“What are you doing here?” you blurted out. “I thought you went to a university in Tokyo?”

“I did, but I transferred this year,” he said, “This university has a great marketing program.”

“I can’t believe it,” you mumble out, more so to yourself than him, “It’s been years.”

He gave you a smile. “It has.”

He took the seat next to you, much to your surprise. You almost wanted to open your mouth in protest, but what could you say? ‘You can’t sit there’?

You were thankful that the class had only gone over the syllabus, because you didn’t hear a word the professor said.

When you told Eri about it later, she just laughed.

“I always thought Kuroo-san was a nice guy,” she commented, her back turned while she cooked the both of you dinner.

“I never said he wasn’t,” you said, throwing back the rest of the wine in your glass.

“What, you still like him or something?” Eri teased, plating the noodles she had created and setting it in front of you.

“Of course not,” you grumbled, stabbing at the plate with a fork, and the amused look on Eri’s face tells you that her silence was just to placate you.

The next few weeks of the semester went by without any incident.

Kuroo stayed in the seat next to you, and you didn’t let yourself wonder why.

You were proud at yourself for being able to talk to Kuroo the way that you were; he still made the same stupid chemistry jokes in high school, but now you felt like you could laugh at them without choking on the air around you.

It was easy.

Until it wasn’t.

“Alright everyone,” your professor began one rainy morning, “We’re about halfway through the semester, and this is usually around the time I like to assign a little project.”

All of a sudden, you felt a strange feeling of déjà vu.

“Now, it’s only going to be worth about a third of your grade in the class, so I suggest not slacking off on this one. This is going to require a partner, and before you go texting your bestie that you want to ‘link up’, I’ve taken the liberty of assigning your partner for you.”

Oh, Christ. You were praying you wouldn’t get partnered up with a dead weight.

“When I call your name, raise your hand so I could introduce you to your new partner.”

You waited patiently for your name to be called, but Kuroo’s had been called first.

“Kuroo Testuro.”

Kuroo raised his hand.

“Your partner will be... let’s see here… ah, L/N F/N!”

No. No fucking way.

Your arm involuntarily raised, the professor nodding his head in acknowledgement.

You slowly turn to face Kuroo, who had an unreadable smile placed on his lips, your professor’s voice droning on in the background.

“Well,” he said, laughter laced in his words, “Isn’t this familiar?”

At first, you felt incredibly apprehensive at the thought of being partnered with your high school crush, but at the end of the day, you were actually incredibly thankful.

Kuroo was just as smart and diligent as he was back then, and you had every confidence that your project was going to get the highest grade.

You tried to make it a point to meet in public places – cafes, libraries, and the like.

But soon, Kuroo suggested that it would just be easier and more comfortable to meet at either your place or his.

He only ever came by when Eri was home too, which would have been fine if the smirk on her face didn’t make you so nervous.

You noticed that his roommate was always around when you came over as well. You learned his name was Bokuto, and though he was a little loud, his presence was actually a little comforting.

Honestly, it all felt so… nostalgic. Whenever you would finish your work for the day, then the two of you would spend the time talking, catching up, and laughing at stupid jokes, almost as if the two of you were friends again.

Almost like nothing happened between you at all.

“Hey,” you started one day, curiosity getting the better of you after a particularly steamy conversation about past relationships, sitting on the floor with your iPad on your lap and homework strewn about all over the living room floor, “Whatever happened between you and that girl from high school?”

Kuroo just gave you a sad smile, and you thought she must have broken his heart pretty badly.

“Oh that…” he waved it off, “That was a mistake. A big one.”

You figured it was better not to ask any more questions.

Eri walked out of her room soon after Kuroo left that night, her arms crossed and leaning against the door’s archway as she watched you wash the dishes.

You guys are getting pretty close,” she mused.

She couldn’t see you roll your eyes. “Well, yeah, we were pretty good friends in high school.”

Eri let out a humorless laugh. “I stand by my statement that Kuroo-san is a nice guy,” she said, walking up next to you to place a hand on your shoulder, “But I haven’t forgotten how long it took you to get over what happened.”

Your hands stilled in the soapy water for a second, but you chose not to say anything.

“I’m just saying,” Eri started to walk back to her room, calling out her last words behind her shoulder, “Be careful.”

Eri’s words echoed in your head whenever you were with Kuroo.

Every time he offered to pay for your food, you made sure to insist you’d pay for it yourself. If he tried to grab your bag from your shoulder when you walked, you’d hold on tighter and say you were fine.

You didn’t avoid him like you did before, but you made every attempt to keep him at arm’s length.

It seems your attempts were all for nothing, however, when the semester ended.

“Amazing job,” were the words that came from your professor when giving your passing grade.

“We did it,” Kuroo said happily, the two of you making your way out of the class, “It’s finally over.”

“Thank god,” you laughed back.

“Hey,” Kuroo started, though he was looking at everywhere but you, “Bokuto’s gone and visiting his boyfriend for the weekend, but I was wondering if you wanted to come over for drinks later?”

You blinked, trying to even your breathing.

“You know, to celebrate the end of the semester, and acing that nightmare class.”

You should say no, right? Wait, but you’re grown now. You’ve moved on from what happened back then. The two of you did work really hard this semester, what’s wrong with celebrating your achievements?

“I think we’ve earned it,” Kuroo laughed.

“Yeah,” you said, and you were glad for it just from the smile that spread on his stupid face, “We really have! I’ll be there.”

“See you at eight?”

You nodded at his words as he waved goodbye, going your separate ways.

Ten hours later, you were sitting next to Kuroo on his living room floor, sake cup full to the brim as BNHA plays on his TV.

“Ah, Deku’s in the hospital,” Kuroo slurred, sake sloshing out of his cup when he pointed to the screen, “That’s a shot!”

The two of you threw back the warm liquid, and you were kind of worried that it didn’t taste like anything anymore.

“Kuroo,” you laughed, “We’re only on the second episode… and I think I’ve taken, like, twelve shots at this point.”

“This was your idea!”

“Well, I have another idea,” you started to get up, causing Kuroo to get up as well, “Let’s order take out!”

He laughed at your red face, agreeing with you.

You started to make your way to the couch, but all of a sudden, you felt dizzy, a head rush taking over your senses as you stumbled over your feet.

Kuroo caught you before you could hit the floor.

“You okay?” he laughed, and the sound of it elicited a laugh from your own lips.

In a second, the two of you erupted in giggles, snickering at nothing in particular while his strong arms still held you in place.

Suddenly, you were hyperaware of his touch on your skin, and you let your eyes trail from the strong hands around your waist, to the golden honey eyes that were already staring at your face.

You can’t exactly remember how, but the next thing you knew, you were pinned under Kuroo on his bed, his soft lips moving in tandem with yours while his hot tongue took over your whole mouth.

Your arms were looped around his neck, and he slid his calloused hands up your arm.

You felt his hands grip onto your wrists before he pulled them off his necked and pinned them onto the mattress.

You took in a deep breath once he disconnected from your mouth, planting a trail of kisses along your jaw line and down to your neck, before you slid his tongue across your supple skin.

You shivered, acutely aware of the fact that he has you trapped.

“Be careful,” Eri’s words echoed in your mind.

Fuck, you tried to think but it was hard when Kuroo just threw his shirt across the room, hovering over you with chiseled abs and defined muscles.

The heat returned to your body when he lowered his head, and popped a hard nipple into his mouth.

Your body arched at the feel of his teeth grazing against your skin, goosebumps racing when he dipped his hand beneath your underwear, a slender finger gliding down your folds before inserting into you.

You weren’t prepared for the intrusion, and he captured the gasp that came out of your mouth with his lips.

He was now holding down both of your wrists with one hand, never realizing that he was that much bigger than you.

He slid out his finger, bringing it to his mouth to give a long lick, before dipping his hand back down, and pushing in two.

You threw your head back when Kuroo curled his fingers, wondering how the hell he was able to find your g spot so quickly.

You felt like an animal caught in his trap, caged in with your arms pinned down, no choice but to let Kuroo draw out your orgasm while he pumped and curled into you, circling his thumb over your swollen clit.

Your legs were shaking while you screamed out his name, embarrassed that you were cumming so hard when he hasn’t even actually fucked you

He didn’t give you a chance to recover from your orgasm

In one swift movement, Kuroo let go of your hands and pulled out his fingers so he could grab a leg in each hand to fold you over in a press.

You don’t even know when Kuroo had taken his pants – or yours – off, and you didn’t have time to wonder.

A moan escaped your lips at the feel of his length filling you up, and you distinctly hear Kuroo tell you to say his name.

“Kuroo,” you moaned, bringing your hands to his shoulders, grasping at his body.

Every buck of his hips shot a jolt of pleasure throughout your body, unable to escape the feeling with Kuroo holding you down in place.

Who the hell would want to escape from here anyway?

“My first name,” he growled, quickening his pace when he felt your walls tighten around his dick.

“Tetsuro!” you screamed without a second thought, the brutal rhythm Kuroo has set driving heat onto your stomach, repeating his name over and over even after you feel your pussy gushing all over him, your cum dripping down from his shaft to his balls.

“Fuck,” Kuroo growled out, driving into you one last time before he spilled hot white, trying hard to catch his breath while coming down from this high.

The two of you lay together in the darkness for a while, your head on his chest and his arms around his shoulder.

The silence that surrounded the room was comfortable; almost like a bubble of peace that neither of you wanted to pop by saying anything.

“Be careful,” Eri’s fucking voice told you, yet again

While you didn’t regret what had just happened between you and Kuroo, doubts were beginning to creep in your mind.

What the hell was supposed to happen now? You’re not sure if Kuroo was expecting this outcome when he invited you over for drinks, but it happened, and you’re not really sure where to go from here.

You’ve already built a life for yourself – one that was truly yours – and you had a path that you had every intention to follow.

Would Kuroo be like every other guy and run away when he finds out you’re not compromising your plans for him? Would you even want to try to fit him into your plans?

You shake your head.

Jesus, get a grip. A guy dicks you down /once/, and all of a sudden you’re thinking about this shit?

“Y/N? You okay?” He asked from beside you.

You lift your head from his chest, sitting up so you could lean your back against his headboard. Kuroo was quick to mirror your actions.

“Kuroo,” you begin to tell him, and he frowned a little at the sound of his last name, “That was… amazing.”

Kuroo blushed a little at your compliment, though he knew it didn’t stop there. “…But?”

“But,” you bit your lip, “I’m not really looking for anything serious right now.”

Kuroo didn’t respond right away, but maybe that’s because you just kept babbling. “It’s just… I have so much going on with school, not to mention grad school applications are due in a few months, and who knows which university I’ll end up going to after graduation…”

You finally had the courage to look at him, and you caught a glimpse of what you would have thought was sadness in his eyes if it hadn’t been blinked away so quickly, soon replaced with that same unreadable smile.

“Whatever you want, Kitten,” he replied, “This doesn’t have to be anything more than what it is.”

You let out a breath of relief.

He walked you home that night (or morning, considering it was 1am), still trying your best to set boundaries even though you pretty much let him thoroughly wreck you.

He didn’t give you a kiss goodbye, instead sheepishly waving when he sees you entering the door to your apartment, saying he’ll shoot you a text tomorrow.

You thought things would be weird between the two of you after that night, but you were happy to find that it wasn’t.

You had managed to rekindle your friendship with Kuroo – meeting up to study, grabbing lunch if you had the time, maybe catching the occasional movie.

Though, you didn’t tell Eri about the added benefits.

(Kuroo Tetsu-hoe) Today: 12:37AM

You up?

[To: Kuroo Tetsu-hoe] Today: 12:49AM

Yeah, doing my Lit. paper.

(Kuroo Tetsu-hoe) Today: 12:50AM

Wanna do me instead?

[To: Kuroo Tetsu-hoe] Today: 12:58AM

Say less.

ou didn’t have to tell Eri about the added benefits – she wasn’t dumb, where else would her roommate be going in the middle of night?

You’ve had other men before, going through your fair share of sexual experiences before climbing into bed with Kuroo.

But he was still managing to show you new things, reaching spots you never even knew existed before, putting his mouth in places that made your eyes water and lungs burn from gasping for air.

You can’t explain the feeling you get when he’s running his hands across your body, and when he stares at you and nothing but you while he’s pumping into you and making you feel so full in more ways than one, it’s something akin to a chemical reaction.

There was one time, when he took a belt, secured it against his head post before he brought your legs up to –

“Earth to Y/N,” Kuroo said, waving a hand in front of your face.

“Sorry,” you said, shrugging your shoulders, “I was having a flashback.”

Kuroo smirked, knowing exactly what you meant.  

The two of you were lying in bed, your back against his chest and a strong arm wrapped around your waist.

You laid your hand on top of his, fiddling with his fingers and reveling in the calm that always came from being with Kuroo.

“What you thinking about?” You ask, and the way he stiffened up in your grip let you know that something really was bothering him.

It took him a little longer than you’d like before he replied.

“Do you ever feel like… you want more?”

This time, it was you that stilled in his arms.

“Be Careful.”

You turned around to face Kuroo.

“I thought we talked about this?”

Kuroo’s eyes searched your face, for what, you have no idea. But you stared back with just as much intensity, hoping that he would find the answer he was looking for.

Fear. That’s what was written all over your face.

Kuroo let out a humorless laugh. “Forget I said anything.”

He stood up to put his boxers on and slipping on a shirt before heading out onto the balcony that was attached to his room.

You gave him a few moments before getting up to gather your clothes from the floor, silently putting them on before you joined him outside.

You find him leaning against the balcony railing on his forearms, a cigarette lit in one hand.

He doesn’t turn his head towards you, but he does offer his cigarette, and you take it quietly.

You bring the white filter to your lips, taking a deep drag, closing your eyes when you feel your head get lighter, and releasing the smoke from your lungs.

“Kuroo,” you started, voice nothing but a soft whisper, “I’m sorry… I didn’t – “

He raised a hand to stop you.

“It’s fine,” he replied. “Like I said, forget I mentioned anything.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Hey,” he said, taking his cigarette back from you and taking a drag himself, “Kenma’s having a party this weekend. They’re inviting over some old classmates from Nekoma. He says he misses you. You should come.”

Your ears perk up at the invitation, excited at the thought of seeing your old friend and a little happy that he’s moving past the subject.

"Kenma? Is having a party?”

Kuroo laughed. “Alright. Yaku is having a party, but we’re doing it at Kenma’s place. It’s actually not that far from here, just one train ride.”

You chuckled, shaking your head knowingly.

“Yeah, I’ll go,” you agreed, “But, uhm… I’ll just meet you there?”

Kuroo nodded. “Yeah. I’ll just meet you there.”

You didn’t see Kuroo the rest of that week.

You weren’t sure what it was – he wasn’t ignoring you, he replied to your text messages and answered your calls.

But he hadn’t once asked you to come over. And after what happened that night, you were scared to ask him to come over.

The night of Kenma’s party came, and you entered to find way more people than you had expected. You didn’t recognize more than half of the people there, but relief washed over you when Yaku threw an arm around your shoulder.

You didn’t see Kuroo right away when you arrived, but you were too distracted at the joy from seeing some of your old classmates.

You were half way through a game of beer pong with Lev as your partner before Kuroo was able to make an appearance.

He made his rounds, saying his greetings to everyone before stopping at you, giving you a friendly one armed hug.

You didn’t want to admit that you were a bit sad at the generic greeting.

Was it because maybe… you want…. mor –

“Y/N! Shoot the damn ping pong ball,” Lev exclaimed, and you were shook out of your reverie. 

Kuroo excused himself, saying he was going to the kitchen to make himself a drink, but you were too focused on winning your game to notice.

Before you knew it, you lost three to two against Kenma and Yamamoto, cursing at Lev for forcing you to carry the team on your back.

By this point, the alcohol had spread all through your system. You were still able to walk straight, but with considerable effort. The words that came out of your mouth were just a little slurred, and you were kind of having a hard time controlling the volume of your voice.

“Where’s Kuroo?” you asked Yaku, who instantly shot a hand up to rub his ear.

“Jesus, woman, you don’t have to yell, I am /right here,” he grumbled, but he still let you sling an arm around his shoulders for support. “I thought he went into the kitchen to get some drinks?”

That’s right, he said that. But that was hours ago. Where could he be?

You stagger away from Yaku, pushing your way past unfamiliar bodies to get to the kitchen.

The first thing you saw when you tripped into the kitchen was Kuroo, dressed in a fitted black shirt and blue jeans, looking every bit the Greek God he was as he leaned against the counter. His arms were crossed atop his broad chest, a drink in one hand.

He was talking to someone, and you thought you recognized the long black hair that flowed from the back of their head, but were too distracted studying the veins that protruded from Kuroo’s forearms.

You opened your mouth to call out to him when the person in front of him stepped up, pressing their body into his. She uncrossed his arms and snaked two long arms around his neck.

You recognized her in that instant.

It was his ex from high school.

Looking down, you were surprised to see your clothes dry, because it felt like someone poured a bucket of ice water directly on top of your head.

“Be careful,” Eri’s words echoed in your head for the ten millionth time.

Yet here you were

In the same exact place you were a little over three years ago.

You scoffed at yourself.

Well, there’s nothing else for you here now, is there?

You shoot Yaku and Kenma a quick text in a group chat to let them know you were leaving.

The air outside was cold, your breath coming out in puffs. You wrapped your jacket around a little tighter, cursing yourself silently for not wearing a scarf cause it’ll ‘ruin the outfit.’

“Hey, the party’s that way.”

The sudden voice behind you nearly made you jump ten feet in the air.

“Jesus, you really are like a fucking cat.”

Kuroo chuckled.

For some reason, the sound made you angry. You kept walking, following the path of dimmed street lights that led you to the train station.

“Yeah, but home’s this way.”

His heavy footsteps trailed behind you.

“Great, I was getting tired of the party anyway.”

“What are you doing here?” You finally turned your head to him and asked.

Your voice was surprisingly clear and even, despite the unsteadiness of the ground beneath you.

“What do you mean? I’m walking you home.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s late, and you’re my friend.”

‘Friend’. The word made you wince, even though you were the one that drilled the idea into his head.

“I saw you talking to your ex,” you grumbled, crossing your arms and turning the other direction.

You could practically feel his smirk.

“Oya? Is that jealousy I’m hearing in those words?”

You felt your face get hot.

“Of course not!”

- “I thought we were just friends?”

“Will you shut up for once in your life, idiot!”

He wanted to tease you some more, but was stopped by the pensive look on your face.

“Why would you leave the girl that broke your heart behind just to walk me home?”

Kuroo looked at you with a confused expression.

“Girl that broke my heart?”

You nodded. “When I asked you about her, you said she was a big mistake.”

Kuroo stopped walking. You turned your head back to look at him curiously when he doubled over in a full bellied laugh.

“Are you laughing at me?!” You asked incredulously, giving him a glare from where you stood.

“You... you think she’s the one that broke my heart?”

Kuroo wiped a fake tear from his eye.

“Wow. That was a good one.”

“What the hell are you going on about, Kuroo?”

The jovial look on Kuroo’s face slowly faded, the entertained smile on his face shrinking his lips into a thin line.

“Y/N, she didn’t break my heart.”

Now it was your turn to be confused.

“You want to know why I said she was a big mistake?” Kuroo took a step towards you, “It was because of her that I lost you.”

Your jaw dropped.

Kuroo ran his fingers through his hair, ruining the perfectly waxed locks that he had spent thirty minutes styling.

“Please don’t run away when I tell you this.”

You couldn’t move your feet even if you wanted to.

“The only reason I ever brought her up to you in the first place was because I wanted to see your reaction. I wanted to know if you would get jealous. But without hesitation, you told me that I should just go ahead and date her, and you know dumb young men and their pride... then... it just... snowballed into something I didn’t even...”

Kuroo couldn’t finish his sentence.

Your vision begins to shake.

“But... but I confessed to you!”

“Yeah, then you slammed the door in my face and stopped talking to me!”

You couldn’t deny that.

“Do you have any idea how confusing that was for a teenage boy? I had no idea what the hell was going on, one day, I blinked and I was stuck with a girl I didn’t love while I watched my best friend smile and laugh and walk passed me like I never even existed.”

You swallowed the guilty lump that was caught in your throat.

“All I knew was that you weren’t around anymore; you weren’t there to make me laugh with your dumb jokes, you weren’t coming over and leaving your presence all over my room, nothing, it was all gone, and it all felt so fucked up. Being without you felt so fucked up.” 

Had Kuroo always felt this way? Were you really so busy running away from him that you couldn’t even see that he was hurting too?

“Now the universe or the gods or whatever brought me back to you, and it’s like everything makes sense again, and fuck, all I want to do is just show you how much I’ve missed you, how much I care, how much I love you.”

You gasped, and you were waiting for Kuroo to try and take those words back, but the resolve was painted in his eyes.

“But all you do is just keep me at arms length. You wanted to be just friends when I wanted everything.”

You choked back a sob, tears were now steadily streaming down your face.

Kuroo closed the space between you, wrapping one arm around your waist while bring his other head to wipe at your tears with the pad of his thumb.

 “She wasn’t the girl that broke my heart. You were.”

He moved to place his fingers on your chin, tilting your head up to force you to look at his eyes.

He wanted you to see that he meant every single word.

“If this is all you’re willing to give me, I’ll take it. I’ll break my own heart. Every day, over and over again, if that’s what it takes to be with you.”

His voice was in a whisper now, bringing his lips to kiss both sides of your cheeks.

“Because I love you.”

He brought his hands to cup for your face before pulling you in for a kiss.

This wasn’t anything like you’ve ever experienced before.

Every time his tongue brushed against yours, you felt all the love adoration he was trying to convey in this one physical act, hoping he could transfer it all into your lips.

It felt like time stopped just for the two of you, to have this moment in the middle of the sidewalk, bathed in the orange glow of the street light that hung above you.

He pulled away finally, resting his forehead on yours for just a second before he engulfed you with his arms.

His head rested on top of yours, feeling the vibrations as he spoke.

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” he said nervously. “Do you want something more?”

You wiggle out of his grip just so you can move your hands up to caress his cheek.

“Tetsuro... I love you so much.”

Later that night, in the safety of your room and away from Eri’s judgmental eyes at the two of you stumbling in and giggling through the door, you trace small circles on Kuroo’s chest with your fingers while Kuroo had an arm wrapped around you tightly.

“Hey, Tetsu,” you broke the silence with a whisper, “What if I end up going to grad school that was... further away?”

Kuroo couldn’t help but smile and shake his head. You were never going to change.

Not like he would ever want you to.

“Y/N... we didn’t talk for three years, and not once did I stop thinking about you. A little distance isn’t going to get rid of me.”

You try to bury your face in embarrassment.

If he had to spend every day of the rest of his life reassuring you that he’ll be by your side no matter what, well - that’s just too easy.

You find yourself holding onto him a little bit tighter, making a silent vow that never again were you going to push away Kuroo Tetsuro.

[bubbebruja]

Fandom Enemies

Hey, queer kid; female mlm shipper; person worried about pedophilia in fandom; Snape NOTP-er; top!Sirius die hard; reader who just figured out they’re into kink; person trying to figure out all out:

You’re not my enemy. 

Do you hear me? You’re not my enemy. You may have enemies, out there in the world. Hell, you may have enemies right here in fandom. It feels like everyone who disagrees with you is your enemy. It feels like the stakes are so high, you can’t afford to not feel that way. It feels like you’re in danger. It feels like the things you love and care about are in danger.

That’s okay. That’s survival, and survival is beautiful. You feel that way for a reason. Block people and vaguepost and find the community that agrees with you. There’s always someone who agrees with you. You’re never going to be alone.

But you’re not my enemy.

In undergrad, I thought gay marriage was a fruitless argument. Who cares if two gay people can get married, if undocumented people can’t? If you can only marry one person? If you’ll lose your disability benefits if you get married? Who cares about marriage anyway, with troops in Afghanistan and indigenous languages dying?

Old butch lesbians had me over for tea. They told me what it was like in the 80s, when lesbians were the only ones willing to care for men dying of AIDS. They’d married their wives after thirty years of partnership, but they never told me I was wrong. They let me figure it out on my own.

If I’d have thought about it, I would have called them my enemy.

Snape is still one of my favorite characters. I am fascinated by ambiguity. I love a character who plays for the other side, and sometimes regrets it. I love someone whose motives are kind of fucked up.

I found fandom by reading Snape/Hermione fics, where Hermione was fifteen and Snape was 40 and they had to fuck to keep him alive. For the Order. For the war. For the Marriage Law. I got off to those fics. It doesn’t matter why. 

At fifteen, 40-year-old men were my enemy. Unrequited love was a shitty reason to do something good. In the secrecy of a private browser, I still masturbated to fantasies of Snape and video porn of gay men who may not have even been gay.

I like to write characters with kinda fucked up motives. I like to write 40-year-old men. I like to write the kind of kink that makes me uncomfortable. I really like to write the kind of kink that makes me uncomfortable.

You don’t have to read it. Isn’t that amazing? I’m serious. You don’t have to read it. You have so many options of things to read. It wasn’t always like that, you know. There weren’t always choices. You can read it in a private browser. I won’t tell. You can hate it. You can think I’m the worst kind of person. The worst kind of queer. You can think I put your liberation at stake because I wrote Harry getting a rimjob from his DADA professor. His father’s best friend. You can hate me for that. You can still get off to it, and hate me for that.

You’re still not my enemy.

I can be yours. That’s fine. But I need you to know that - if I knew you in person - I’d have you over for tea. I’d introduce you to my two girlfriends. You could lay on the floor with my golden retriever and borrow any book you’d like. You could keep it, even, I’ll get another. I have a sofa bed just in case anyone needs to use it. You could use it. I need you to know that. I don’t think I can quite express why. Maybe one day. 

Once upon a time, I had enemies that refused to treat me as theirs. I think they saved me, a couple of times. Some of them are dead now. I’m really glad they were able to get married.

[peachy-panic]

Only Temporary: Sebastian Tate

Hello. I was completely blown away by the positive response I got on the first piece of Jaime’s story (title under construction). Thank you to everyone who had a kind word to say about it! You made me really happy I made the mildly frightening choice to post.

In the interest of acclimating to the no-rules, freedom-to-post-out-of-order structure of this community, I wanted to introduce a new piece of the puzzle this time, with a new character that will come into play later.

Also, this piece goes into a little bit of the details, but for frame of reference on the BBU-adjacent thing: this story takes place in a not-so-distant future of the BBU, where WRU has undergone some changes. I look forward to exploring this world building more as I go.

Anyway, I’m rambling again. Thanks for reading. Here it is:

WARNINGS: General BBU warnings, talk of institutionalized slavery, classism, and general terribleness of large corporations. Referenced past homophobia and rough parental relationships, briefly implied/referenced non-con.

When Sebastian reflects on the day he graduated from med school, a sort of emptiness is the memory that first bobs to the surface. Among the cheers and camera flashes in the crowd, white coats and proud smiles, what Sebastian recalls most vividly from that day is looking out into the sea of parents and families and people there to support their loved ones on one of the biggest days of their lives, and not seeing a single person that had come for him.

What should have been one of the happiest moments of his life had been quickly overshadowed by the sinking feeling that none of it mattered as much as it would have if he had someone to share it with. Like there was something so fundamentally wrong with his life, that even something as objectively good and right and decent as becoming a doctor could be dulled over into a feeling of nothingness.

Perhaps, he thinks in hindsight, that moment had been foreshadowing for the following months ahead of him.

Watching rejection after rejection pour in from his top residency programs had felt like nothing short of his own personalized nightmare. He had spent several nights in a row on the phone with Alex, his undergrad roommate and only friend, clamoring back from the edge of many a panic attack, spiraling into all-out existential dread about the future and the past and what all of it meant for him if he couldn’t land an internship, let alone a real job out of school. To his credit, Alex never gave up hope in his friend. Or at least, he did a decent job hiding it if he did. Which was probably exactly what Sebastian needed to get through that particularly dark time in his life, and a good reminder of what a solid friend he had. Even if it was a party of two.

Unfortunately, Sebastian did not have the same faith in himself.

He was able to keep up some facade of optimism as his top five were picked off one by one. Telling himself, despite his devastation, that they were a pretty far reach, anyway. Even with good academic standing, it was famously no walk in the park to land yourself at John Hopkins or Mayo as a first-year. He even maintained a brave face as his first few safety programs reached capacity and moved forward without his name on the roster.

It wasn’t until he received his final rejection letter from some internal medicine place in Bumfuck, Idaho that he felt himself slip into dangerous territory. Sebastian knew himself well enough to know his own depressive patterns by then, and he knew it was only exponential decay from there.

Rock bottom came, as it did, in the wee hours of the night, after a full bottle of wine. Alone in his small apartment, surrounded by half-packed boxes with no destination, Sebastian found himself sprawled out on the floor with his laptop hot against his thighs. He couldn’t have explained why he opted for a privacy browser, but something about it allowed him to justify the words that he typed into the search bar.

It was a new low, and one he had sworn to himself he would never stoop to. Yet there he was.

He gave himself a moment to reconsider, to back out of what was undoubtedly a morally-gray train wreck waiting to happen as his thumb hovered over the enter key. And then the alcohol decided to override his moral compass.

Facility Care is the open secret of the medical profession. It comes with its fair share of stigma, and rightfully so, but it is notoriously easy to break into and pays a decent wage.

There are two types of people who end up stooping to that kind of employment. More often than not, it consists of doctors and nurses who had their licenses revoked or suspended somewhere along the line and needed a way back in. As far as Sebastian understood, they aren’t terribly ridgid about the particulars of each circumstance. After all, in the eyes of the law, the patients they would be treating are a price tag away from being entirely expendable.

The other percentage of Facility Care workers, and the reason Sebastian found himself staring at his too-bright computer screen with a sinking feeling of dread that night, are young medical graduates who find themselves in a tough spot. It isn’t difficult to spell out the logic behind that one when you open the WRU CAREERS tab on the home page and see the bright white words printed across the top of the screen:

LOAN FORGIVENESS.

It is shamelessly predatory and aggressively capitalistic, but Sebastian supposes that particular exploitation is pretty far down on the list of transgressions for an institution of legalized slavery. A few broke and hopeless medical students were hardly going to keep the Powers That Be up at night when they were able to rest easy under the weight of hundreds of thousands of stolen lives.

The whole thing is part of the massive PR overhaul the company did a few years back. In a world that was slowly inching toward civil activism and with the accessibility of platforms like social media to hold them accountable, WRU had to adapt to survive. Adaptation, in this case, took the form of changing the barest of minimums in order to keep themselves above board — to the public eye, anyway. Anyone who dares to take a closer look at the policy changes can see that it’s bullshit.

Changing ownership conditions to a rent-by-contract basis isn’t the humanitarian move they try to paint it as. In the end, it probably just equals out to more money in the company’s pocket when they can get more return on their “investments,” and a larger chance of exploitation for the people being moved around.

Getting rid of the Romantic division is an entirely meaningless gesture when they are still loaning out human beings with no legal rights and the inability to say “no.”

And offering an open job market with good wages and healthcare options to lower class individuals is a pretty convenient way to mute the backlash.

Essentially, you can tie a system of slavery and abuse up in a bow and make it pretty on the outside, but at the end of the day, it’s still fucking slavery.

Not that he has any room to criticize now. Now that he’s one of them.

In the end, Seb tries to justify his decision a few different ways. He is, after all, more or less a young man alone in the world. The odds are stacked against him and have been for a while. With only his own two legs to stand on, the only force stronger than his internal ambition is his instinct for survival, and he’s been running on those fumes for longer than he can count.

He had lasted less than two months under his parents’ roof after he came out of the closet at eighteen. It wasn’t exactly a surprise for anyone involved; Sebastian’s parents had known about (and subsequently bottled) his… urges… since he was in high school. Probably before that, if he is being honest with himself. And Sebastian, for his part, had spent the better part of his teenage years mentally preparing for the inevitable. He can recall long, late nights he had spent crying into his pillow and the perfectly-scripted ‘coming out’ speeches he recited to his mirror when he was one-hundred percent sure his parents were asleep.

Of course, none of the preparation had been anywhere near adequate when he actually found himself wilting beneath the heat of his father’s glare, the weight of his mother’s grief.

But. He had recovered. That is the point he tries to remember when the memories sting fresh beneath his skin, even all these years later. He has more-than proven himself to be a survivor. He has worked harder than anyone he knows for every scholarship, every grant, every dollar to put himself through school. Sacrificed nights out and real relationships for night shifts at shitty diners and long weekends cramming for exams. It hadn’t been easy, but he considers it the price he had to pay for his independence. For freedom, to live the life as the person he is meant to be, despite his unfortunate odds. He spent years telling himself it would be worth it. That one day, his hard work would pay off.

He can’t stop now.

Sebastian doesn’t have the luxury of taking time off to reroute when his navigation has gone amiss. He is walking the precarious line of rapidly accruing interest and student loans and a dwindling savings account, and there is no safety net below him.

Beggars can’t be choosers, and as it turns out, beggars sometimes have to compromise their moral integrity in order to survive.

It’s only temporary.

That is the mantra that gets him through the (half-drunken) application process and the (disturbingly lax) interview process. It is a job. One job. In the medical field, though the details are up for debate, and it is real-life money for rent and food and a savings that will hopefully be sizable enough to get him where he really wanted to be. Which is… really, anywhere else.

He can do ‘temporary.’ And perhaps, some misguided part of him thinks he can do some genuine good from the inside, too. ‘Be the change you want to see’ and all that.

It is a far jump from the floor of his apartment, sloshed and exhausted and desperate, to the cold, sharp reality of walking into his place of employment on his first day of work. Ironically, it feels a lot like an echo of the emptiness from his graduation day.

‘Sterile’ doesn’t quite cover it. ‘Sterile’ is the expectation of any well-respected medical establishment, but the inside of the facility walls has been wiped clean of far more than bacteria and germs. It is completely devoid of humanity. The long corridors that connect the medical wing to the general ward are windowless and dimly lit by flickering fluorescent panels that had make his head pound for the entirety of his first week.

He is given an office, though it is a term he, himself, might use loosely, as it is more akin to what was probably a storage closet before the old prison had been converted into the state’s training headquarters. It leaves him just enough space for a small desk and two chairs. On his first day, he asks if it is okay to bring in some personal items to spruce the place up. The older, balding doctor who had been assigned to show him around merely shrugs, and Sebastian decides to take that as a yes.

The small, pink-framed photo of a six-year-old Sebastian Tate in his grandfather’s white coat and an old-school stethoscope around his neck is hardly enough to make the place cozy from the corner of his desk, but it’s a good enough reminder of why he has to make this work.

‘It’s only temporary.’

‘Be the change you want to see.’

He will do his best.