#it's my favorite between the white and brown papers

[sailorsoons]

On the Clock | (c.hs)

Pairing: Vernon x f. reader

Summary: Modern problems call for modern solutions, including naming a random stranger in the book store as your boyfriend to avoid an embarrassing encounter with your ex. The problem? The stranger is Vernon and he’s not supposed to be a stranger at all - he’s your coworker, and now everyone at the office - including your ex - thinks you’re dating. 

Word Count: 20,296

Genre: Faking dating, Coworkers to Lovers, Romcom

Type: Smut, some fluff and crack

Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

Warnings: Reader has some insecurity about how her working hard is perceived, some ranting about Being A Girlboss, a little bit of inner angst, my bad attempts at humor, reader’s ex boyfriend SUCKS sorry to all the Minho’s of the world I named him after, explicit language, some minor commentary on power dynamics, Star Wars Lore, explicit sexual content including unprotected vaginal sex (never do this), oral (f. receiving), nipple play, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, a little bit of a handjob, some cum eating if you squint, Vernon was supposed to be a freak but I made him soft instead, mutual pining.

A/N: Thank you to @camandemstudios for allowing me to be a part of the Lonely Hearts Collab. I’m honored to be among such amazing writers and I cannot wait to see what everyone else wrote. 

A/N 2: Thank you to the (w)hor(e)anghae squad @daechwitatamic @eoieopda and @jihopesjoint for beta reading this and letting me blind pass it over so I wouldn’t have to read it again because I don’t like it :)  

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Whosoever slayeth Cain shall suffer sevenfold… or whatever it is the Bible says. You haven’t slayed Cain and you’re not really sure you believe in anything in the Bible, but you’re certainly suffering sevenfold. Eightfold. Ninefold. 

Sevenfold had been earlier this morning when you dropped your glass of coffee on the ground, shattering your favorite cup and staining your white tile. Several Clorox wipes later, there is still brown stuck to the grout, looking a bit like you had an unseemly accident in the middle of your kitchen. 

Eightfold had been when you decided to fix your weekend by heading to the bookstore. Surely purchasing books that you were going to let sit on your shelf months before reading would fix your day - until someone rear-ended you in the parking lot, leaving a good dent and an apologetic exchanging of numbers and insurance information.

Ninefold comes when you least expect it, standing in the aisle with a stack of books in your hand, eyes flickering over the different titles and ornate covers. You already feel better than you had this morning. The smell of paper, the whisper of turning pages, and the hum of the cafe brewing coffee in the distance immediately puts you at ease. 

You swear nothing can put a damper on a good hour spent between shelves - until ninefold walks around the aisle corner. 

The stack of books in your arm nearly drops to the ground when you see your ex-boyfriend hand-in-hand with his new girlfriend. You wheel around so fast you slam into the person behind you, which does knock all the books from your hands onto the floor. 

A hissed curse leaves your lips followed by a quick apology. You drop to your knees, picking the books up as quickly as you can. The dude you’ve collided with has also dropped his books, the amalgamation of your soon-to-be-purchases making it more difficult for you to pick up your shit and leave the scene before Minho sees you. 

Minho says your name, surprised. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, fingers going rigid on the stack of books in your hand. You shoot to your feet and spin around, breathless as you come face to face with Minho and the new girlfriend that you definitely didn’t look up on social media a few weeks ago. “Hi, Minho.” 

“Wow, it’s nice to see you not in the marketing department for once.” 

“Well, I work there…” You offer a bit sharply, tapering to adjust to a nicer tone. “Hence, you know - finding me there.” 

“I meant you rarely leave there.” He laughs and you feign a grin, eyes flickering over to the rosy-cheeked and very glossy-haired girl on your ex’s arm.

Good for her, you think. I wonder what hair product she uses. 

“This is Mina.”

“Mina?” You ask, sticking your hand out as you shuffle your books awkwardly to the crook over your elbow. She smiles - god she has good teeth - and shakes your hand. “Mina and… Minho. Easy to remember.” 

“It’s nice to meet you. Minho tells me you’re the only ex he’s ever left things on good terms with.” 

Your eye twitches. 

Good terms was a serviceable way to put it, you suppose. Sure, there had been no fighting or infidelity or long distance that put a strain on your relationship. In fact, you hadn’t been aware that there was a strain on your relationship until Minho was sitting you down on his couch and letting you know that it just wasn’t working for him anymore. 

That had been confusing. You hadn’t asked any questions though, opting to sit and stare at him while clenching your teeth, nodding along while he explained that your inability to leave work at work and enjoy home while at home was wearing down on him. 

You’re not saving lives, he’d said. He had been earnest too, which is the crux of it. You’re in marketing. You need to take a breather. 

As if he didn’t come home in a bad mood after shitty sales calls all day, as if he wasn’t stressed when he didn’t hit quota, or didn’t complain about how long the department meeting went - you know. You were there, too. 

So sure, you were on good terms. But only one of you seemed to have been unhappy with where things were going, and only one of you seems to have moved on to someone with really good hair genes and great dental hygiene. 

Your tongue runs over your teeth, suddenly worried that you’d forgotten to brush them this morning. 

“Yeah,” you agree, clearing your throat and choking a bite. “Good terms are always the goodest - best way to end things.” 

“He’s really hopeful you’ll find someone,” she sighs, looking up at him dreamily. “He’s always wanted the best for you.” 

A vein bursts in your head. Well- no. You wish the vein you feel throbbing in your head would burst and knock you out so you’d no longer have to suffer through this ninefold moment of suffering. Perhaps, even, a very attractive medic with glossy hair and good teeth could come save you and fall in love at first sight. 

The genuine way that Minho and Mina look at you tells you that they’re serious, that they see you as something that deserves love too. Said in a cooing voice, said patronizingly, said with a pat on the head and a firm pout. 

You turn with your free hand, grabbing the sleeve of the man who is hovering behind you and pull him over to you, grin growing sevenfold. Eightfold. 

“No need to worry,” you assure them. “My boyfriend is right here! The stars really did align for me, just like you hoped and dreamed.”

Your seconds-old-star-crossed-lover looks entirely startled, looking between you, Minho and Mina. His books are cradled against his chest, his brown eyes wide. He’s actually incredibly cute, his glasses a little askewand his brown hair a little unruly. 

“You’re dating Vernon?” 

You look at Minho, blank. “What?” 

Minho looks at your Very Real Boyfriend. “You’re dating Vernon? From IT?” 

Ninefold, meet Tenfold. 

“Of course,” you answer slowly, looking at your partner of now thirty seconds. “I am dating Vernon… from IT.” 

Vernon (from IT) looks like he would rather be anywhere else than standing in the middle of the fantasy novel aisle with you at a bookstore, your nails digging tighter into his sleeve and your crazy eyes telling him to get with the program. 

Vernon (from IT) clears his throat and nods, looking over at Minho. “Yeah. Hey, Minho.” 

“Wow. This is really unexpected.”

“It sure is.”

Your nails dig in harder and Vernon (from IT) tries to pull away from you but you step closer, leaning toward him while flashing Minho and Mina a smile. “Anyway, no need to worry about me finding a relationship. I am very happy.” 

“Figures you found someone at work again.” He laughs, but the comment lands like a blow. You feel yourself flinch, smile going too tight. “You really don’t leave enough to find anyone else, huh?” 

Vernon (from IT) seems to notice, shifting toward you to slide his arm around your waist. The move startles you, drawing your attention to his face. He really is pretty this up close, his lips the perfect shade of bubblegum pink, his cheekbones high and hidden beneath the rim of his glasses, the tangy scent of citrus on his clothes. 

“I like women who work really hard,” Vernon (from IT) assures Minho. “I’ll never get tired of resetting her password over and over again because she loses all her sticky notes everytime the cleaning crew comes through.” 

If Minho senses the shift, he doesn’t let on. He’s never been great at social cues anyway, which is what makes him a decent salesman. Still, you’re eager to get out of their way and the glare of Mina’s shiny hair. 

“Well,” You state. “We have to get going.”

“For sure. It was nice seeing you outside of work!” 

With a final nod, Vernon (from IT) tugs on your waist. You both navigate awkwardly down the aisle, steps not quite in time and hips bumping. It’s uncomfortable and uncoordinated, but as soon as you’re around the aisle and away from your encounter, the two of you separate. 

Vernon (from IT) looks anywhere but you. His cheeks are tinted pink as he looks up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to foot while you regain all your books in your arm. Embarrassment and gratitude both well up inside of you, one beating the other out.

“I am really sorry,” you blurt, voice a little loud. The people around you startle and you lower your pitch when Vernon (from IT) looks at you, chewing on his lip. “Thank you - I don’t even know how to say thank you for doing that.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Your cheeks heat. “Right.”

“Happy to help, though. You can thank me by swapping books with me, though.”

“What?”

He gestures to your books. “I was standing behind you because you grabbed my books after you ran into me.” 

Oh. Right. You look down at the pile of books in your hand and see a few titles that you own, but did not plan on buying today. You divest yourself of his selections, taking the ones he’d collected off the ground from there. 

“So you really work in IT?”

He snorts. The sound is… a little off. You glance up at him, but his face gives away nothing. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t know.”

His smile is off, too. “I know.” 

You’re unsure how to reply to that, but you’re also uneager to let him go, suddenly. Vernon (from IT) stands there for a second, lips pressed in a firm line and studying you. He really is beautiful, the light hitting his eyes in a way that turns them molten gold and-

“Alright well,” he interrupts your thoughts. “See you later or something.” 

The urge to stop him strikes you, your mouth opening and closing. No words come out. You don’t know what to say - or why you want to stop him, just that you do. He walks toward the front of the store to purchase his books, leaving you standing in the middle of the store and wishing you’d met Vernon (from IT) under different circumstances. 

-

Routine is important to you, especially during the weekdays. Wake up, snooze your alarm for at least fifteen minutes, get up when the second one goes off. Groan as you feel every single joint in your body pop after sitting up in bed. Wonder if you really need a corporate job to pay your bills (decide the answer is yes), and get up to feed the furious beast yowling from the bed. 

The ferocious beast in question has a routine as well. Perhaps not as important as yours, the cat knows when he’s supposed to be fed and when it’s even a minute past feeding time. Halloween takes his meals very seriously, which you respect. 

Your morning continues with the monotonous rhythm you’ve learned to appreciate: make coffee, shuffle back to your room into the ensuite bathroom for skin care, start your morning proper. The only thing that isn’t the same thing every morning is your playlist and your outfit of choice, leading both items up to fate to decide. 

A hint of spring is in the air when you step outside. It’s that kind of sunny day with a cool breeze that promises longer days of sun ahead, despite still being brisk in the morning and biting when the sun sets. 

Mornings during the days that hang between winter and spring are your favorite. You roll the windows down a little on your drive to work, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as you crawl along with all the other commuters. 

Buildings shoot up toward the sky on either side of you. Dozens of banks, private firms, buildings with multiple different businesses and food courts become your entire world as you navigate to the parking garage. It’s already full of cars, but you get special parking.

Well - special as of your promotion just a few weeks ago. The designated parking spot and title bump was all that had come with the promotion, though, much to your dismay. 

Still. You’d worked for this particular publishing house in the marketing department for close to a decade now. You weren’t quite as far up the ladder as you wanted to be, but you were trying to get there little by little. 

So close. No cigar. 

The elevator of the parking garage opens to reveal other office workers already filling the mirror-walled space. You step in as everyone makes room, clutching their bags and briefcases a little closer. You see Mingyu from creative and flash him a polite grin, which is answered with a bright one of his own and a small wave.

When the people not associated with your company shuffle off on other floors, Mingyu slides over closer to you. He’s one of the many designers in the art department, and definitely several rungs below your position, but you started the company at the same time together.

“How was your weekend?” He asks, wagging his brows up and down. 

You frown. His questions suggests there’s something salacious to your wild weekend spent reading books with Halloween, but you don’t think burning the bagel you ate for girl dinner or staying in the same shirt for forty-eight hours straight is what he’s looking for. 

“It was fine?” It comes out as a question. “How was yours?” 

“Hm. It was good. We went out to catch the big game. Seokmin got so drunk he vomited, and Vernon won all of the bets we placed before.” 

Mingyu leans forward, looking at you like you’re supposed to understand something. You don’t get it, looking him up and down with a pinched brow. 

“That’s nice?” Again, it comes out as a question. “Not for Seokmin, I guess.” 

His eyes narrow. Pin you to your spot against the elevator wall.

Then the elevator dings, signalling that you’re at his floor. Creative is an entire level down from marketing, all dim lights and glowing screens for the designers hard at work. Mingyu gets off, still looking suspicious as the elevator doors close and you shoot up another floor. 

Instead of focusing on it, you shrug it off. Mingyu has a penchant for being weird - a creative thing, in your opinion. As soon as the elevator door opens, his behavior is long forgotten as you slip into work mode. 

Everyone greets you with a polite smile or small wave on the marketing floor. The main office is filled with grey-walled cubicles, employees popping up to peer over walls with mugs of coffee and protein shakes and breakfast items as they ask their neighbors how the weekend was. 

A glass wall in the far back denotes the executive and director offices. You head for the one in the back, right corner. Instead of turning on your lights, you let the natural lighting from the floor-to-ceiling windows filter in, keeping the ambiance muted and relaxing. The only additional lights you flick on are the monitor light at your desk and a small salt lamp wedged between the books on one of the many shelves behind you. 

Your office is still slowly being decorated. You’d only moved in after your recent promotion, and it’s still bare of personalization, save for the salt lamp and a few things you’d moved in from your cubicle. 

And the coffee machine - your own private, blessed coffee machine in the corner on a small bar cart. That might be your favorite thing about your office. You like your coworkers - for the most part, anyway - but being able to bury yourself in your work without having to interact with all of them every time you want coffee is nice. 

Sitting down, you roll your shoulders. When your monitor flashes to life, you see the number of emails in your inbox and try not to groan out loud. You’re thrilled to be the new Senior Director of Marketing, but you’ve gone and made the mistake of becoming too important at work, most things unable to move forward without you playing some part in it.

In theory, that was one of the reasons Minho had broken up with you in the first place. Too buried in work, too many late nights at the office, too many dates or movie nights interrupted by the blue glow of your phone screen on your face while you answer urgent emails. 

The thing is - you don’t mind. It doesn’t bother you to pause and send a quick email, or to stay late and help get something launched. You like the intricacies of being a problem solver, and with as fast as your company is growing and publishing new titles, you’ve got challenge after challenge ahead of you. 

It’s easy to fall into the monotony of answering emails, joining virtual meetings and striking your pen through your to-do list. It fills three pages, but it feels good to cross something off, even if you’ve only completed two things. 

By lunchtime, someone is knocking on your window. You look up, surprised to see Seungkwan sticking his head in. He’s the Manager of Digital Marketing and Social Media and he’s dubbed himself as your assistant. 

Other duties as assigned, he always jokes, but you are thankful for him. 

“You have to eat,” he reminds you in a singsong voice, crossing his arms over his chest. His glasses are pushed up into his blonde hair. “Maybe you can take me to lunch and divulge every detail about your new romance.” 

That makes you sputter. “My what?” 

Looking like the cat that ate the canary, Seungkwan slips into your office, clapping his hands together. He sits on the edge of the couch in front of your desk, bounding with energy. 

“Come on,” he whispers, looking at you earnestly. “Everyone knows - you don’t have to keep it a secret anymore!”

“Keep what a secret?” 

He rolls his eyes. “You’re dating Vernon!”

You stare. “Who?” 

“Vernon! From IT!” 

It comes back in tunnel vision. Ninefold meeting tenfold, Minho and Glossy Hair Mina, Vernon (from IT). Suddenly you’re hot all over, feel it creeping up your neck and blooming across your cheeks. You clear your throat, leaning back in your chair as your fingers reach for your water. 

“I’m - oh!” You escape answering for a second by gulping down copious amounts of water, trying to cool the panic that is licking flames up your skin. “Right. Vernon… from IT.” 

“Honestly, he’s cute.”

“Ha. Ha. Yes. Um. Yeah.”

“You’re so cute when you’re flustered. How long have you been dating?”

“Uhh very new. Yes. Super new. I’m sorry - how did you hear about this?” 

“Mingyu told me, but Soonyoung told him and Joshua in sales told Soonyoung because Minho told the Always Closing group chat.” 

“The what?”

He sighs. “Ugh, do you keep up with anything? The sales floor has a group chat. It’s where Soonyoung gets all his tea because he and Joshua room together.” 

“Who the fuck is Joshua?” 

Seungkwan stares. “It is a wonder you even know who Vernon is. I swear you don’t know people you’ve worked with for years.” A thought seems to strike him and he gasps. “Oh my god is that why you’re always going to him for your fucked up passwords?” 

Something Vernon said comes back to you vaguely. Something about forgotten passwords when the cleaning crew throws out your sticky notes. Of course, no one would throw out your sticky notes if you weren’t dropping them all over the floor, but that’s neither here nor there. 

Bolting from your seat, you startle Seungkwan, whose brows disappear in his hairline as he stares up at you.

“Actually, I can’t do lunch today.”

He sighs. “Boss, you have to eat.”

“I am! I am going to lunch with my…. Vernon from IT.”

“Oooo.” He leans back, shaking his head and grinning at you. “Go on then. Make sure you wrap it before-”

“If you finish that sentence I will revoke your privilege to my coffee cart.” 

Seungkwan’s grin only gets wider. “Enjoy, boss.” 

In a flurry, you leave your office. Eyes follow you as you go and suddenly you’re unsure if people are looking at you because you’re walking so fast that you’re almost running, or if it’s because they think you’re dating Vernon). 

Your finger nearly breaks as you slam the button over and over again to shoot a few floors down. It doesn’t make the elevator go any faster. When the doors finally close and you begin to descend, you turn to the mirror walls and panic, tucking stray pieces of hair back into place and trying to fix the mascara smudges from staring at your screen for four straight hours.

A knot forms in your stomach. You press your damp palms against your dress pants, wiping viciously to try and keep the moisture at bay. When the elevator dings and the doors open to the silent hum of the IT department, you think you might vomit.

Unlike the marketing floor, no heads turn as you go. You try to maintain a normal pace this time, marching down the rows of cubicles before you realize you have no idea where Vernon sits. You pause awkwardly, standing on your tiptoes to try and see over the walls of cubicles to spot him.

“Can I help you?” A man sticks his head out of his cubicle, his headphones around his neck. He looks you up and down critically. “You’ll have to have proof of submitting a ticket before-”

“Vernon,” you interrupt him. “Vernon from IT? Where does he sit?” 

For a second, the guy narrows his eyes. Then a lightbulb seems to go off and he grins, leaning back in his chair. He looks far too pleased with himself, and there’s something oily and slick you don’t like about his gaze. “You’re her.” 

“I’m a senior director, yes.” 

That changes his tune immediately. He sits up, clearing his throat. “To the back on the left.” 

“Thanks.”

Following his lead, you pass by several empty cubicles, everyone seemingly at lunch. You take the corner as instructed and find a handful of men sitting in the same cubicle, one sitting atop a desk and swinging his legs, another leaning against the cubicle wall, and the last one sitting in the seat.

The one sitting in the seat is the quarry you seek, his eyes going wide when he sees you storming toward him. He goes rigid in his seat, clearing his throat and slapping the leg of the man sitting atop his desk. He kicks at Vernon before spotting you and immediately jumping down, straightening his shirt. 

Nervous energy crackles as all three sets of eyes settle on you. You stop right in front of his cubicle, trying to put on your bravest smile. 

“Hi?” Vernon asks, looking at the two men on either side of him. “Did you forget your password again?”

“What? No. I don’t do it that often.” He looks unsure, brows raised behind his glasses. You huff, putting  your hands on your hips. “Okay, I forget it sometimes. But no, that isn’t why I’m here.”

“Does your software need updating?”

“No, I-”

“Oh. I did forget to give Seungkwan that new phone he asked for on behalf of the social team. It came in last week - I’ll finish setting it up and-”

“Lunch!” You all but yell, startling all three men. “I came here for lunch.”

There’s a long pause. Vernon’s coworkers look like they’d rather be anywhere else than trapped by you. You ignore them in favor of a quick study of Vernon. He’s in dress pants and a button down shirt that is untucked and a little wrinkled. It’s a far cry from the casual way he was dressed at the bookstore, but it’s still not totally work appropriate. 

Still he pulls it off. There’s something casual and cool about it, aloof in a way that still looks good. His hair is even styled neatly, though a brown lock falls over his eyebrow as he leans forward and asks, “Lunch? The cafeteria is on the first floor.”

The man who had been sitting on his desk kicks him. “She’s asking you to go to lunch, dude.” 

“She’s not-” Vernon pauses and looks at you. “Are you asking me to go to lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Your patience narrows to a tight smile, your words pinched between your teeth, “Because that’s what loving girlfriends do, sweetie.” 

The words land and have an immediate effect. Vernon flushes from the neck up, mouth opening and closing as he presses his palms against his thigh. The man who kicked him snickers and tries to hide it with a thinly veiled cough.

Your gaze narrows and he notices you watching, clearing his throat to stretch his hand toward you. “I’m Chan. It’s nice to meet… Vernon’s girlfriend?” 

You shake his head and say nothing, eyes drifting to the man leaning against the wall. He gives you a small salute. “Seokmin.”

“Oh.” You blink. “The puker?” 

His charming smile drops immediately as he looks at Vernon, smacking him on the shoulder. “You told her about that?”

“I didn’t tell her anything.” Vernon stands, shrugging away from both of his friends’ wandering eyes. “Sure, sweetie,” he answers you, giving you a plastic grin. “It’s your treat this week, right? At that very nice, very expensive steakhouse down the block.”

There’s a glimmer in his eyes that tells you Vernon will only play along if it’s by his rules. You’re at a disadvantage, so you grin and nod, willing to go by his rules for now. “That’s so right, darling. Let’s go.”

“Enjoy lunch!” Chan calls behind you as Vernon shuffles behind you, quickly trying to tuck his shirt. “Don’t do anything I-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Vernon warns, quickening his step to match yours. “Sorry about him.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got my own version of him sitting in my office.” 

The elevator ride down to the first floor and the walk out onto the busy street is silent. It’s not the comfortable, easy silence you might have with Seungkwan or Mingyu - if Mingyu could wrap his head around silence. It's awkwardly silent, both of you looking anywhere but one another. 

You don’t know where you’re going, but Vernon leads you to a Michelin steakhouse down the block, true to his word. You glare at him when you step into the dark entryway where a host with hair as glossy as Mina’s greets you. 

“Two?” You both nod and she grins. “Right this way.”

Vernon follows her first, shuffling behind her as she leads the two of you into the dining room proper. It’s a beautiful establishment with lacquered floors, rich wooden tables draped with fine tablecloths and the kind of glassware that looks like real crystal. 

When you both sit down with menus in hand, the hostess leaves you and you lean forward, hissing, “How much money do you think I make?”

“More than I do in IT,” Vernon answers breezily, eyes roving the menu. For a second, his gaze flickers to meet yours over the top of the menu. It’s the first time he’s really looked at you since you marched into his office. “Consider it an apology meal for the mess you’ve got us in.”

“Hey! You played along?” 

“You’re right, I guess I could have just super embarrassed you in front of your ex-boyfriend. That would have been very polite of me.” 

That stumps you. You open and close your mouth, feeling a bit like a fish. You suppose that’s fair - what was Vernon supposed to do when you’d grabbed him in the middle of a bookstore and staked your claim? 

Sighing, you lean back as your server gives you a moment of respite, filling your glasses with water and going over the specials. When they leave, you grab your glass and take several gulps of water, trying to cool your head. 

It only works a little.

“I didn’t know Minho was going to tell the entire world.” 

“Really? Minho has the biggest mouth at this company. You should see his Teams messages.”

“You can do that?” 

“On the clock?” He asks. When you shake your head, assuring it stays between you, he nods. “Yeah, we can see everything you do.”  

“Oh.” You think of all the terrible things you’ve searched on your work computer like how to get over a breakup and how to tell if my ex still likes me. “Anyway, I didn’t know he was going to say anything.” 

The server returns to take your orders. You order some sort of steak salad at random while Vernon orders something blessedly modest. As the server parts ways, Vernon leans back in his chair and looks at you again, expression unreadable. 

“Well,” he eventually says. “No harm done once you tell everyone we’re not dating.”

“Once I what?” 

“Well you’ll have to-”

“No way.”

“What?” 

“Do you know how embarrassing that would be?” 

He raises a brow. “More embarrassing than grabbing some dude in the bookstore and claiming he’s your boyfriend.” 

The air leaves your lungs and you melt into the seat, your misery showing. “I already said sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Just tell everyone you broke up with me.” 

You snort. “No one would believe that.” 

“Why?” 

Instead of answering him immediately, you busy yourself unraveling silverware. It’s a hard question to answer, not because you don’t know the answer but because you don’t want to tell him. Vernon is quiet, though. Patient. 

He doesn’t press you for an answer, happy to wait you out until you’ve folded your napkin and placed it on your lap, and once again drained the rest of your water. It does nothing for your nerves as you fixate on a spot atop the table. 

“I don’t… date.” 

“You dated Minho.”

“Yeah. That’s uh… it. It’s kind of a running joke that I am undateable.”

He frowns at that. “Respectfully, I find that incredibly hard to believe.” 

“Thanks. I think.” You pick at a string in the tablecloth. “Anyway, no one would buy that I ended the first relationship I’ve had since Minho. I didn’t even end the last one and sort of clung to it in a way that was sort of embarrassing.” 

“I see.”

You’re unsure if he really does. When Minho had broken up with you, you’d attempt to make arguments to keep him around. Offered less work hours, even said you’d go to therapy to talk about your insane need for success. He hadn’t wanted any of it, and you’d eventually realized that he just… didn’t want you. 

They never did, when people realized what dating you entails. Everyone wants a woman who works hard. They like the illusion of it, the woman who gets up early in the morning and goes to workout before going to her corporate job and girl bossing all day long. They desire the woman who dresses fashionably, who wears designer tags and commands a room all day before coming home to make an effortless dinner followed by a luxurious night routine. 

And you get it. You want to be that too. But the truth is most days you wake up past your alarm and rush to the office wearing shoes that don’t match, and sometimes you come home so late and burned out from your job that you eat a handful of shredded cheese over the sink with a stick of beef jerky, only to do it all again the next day.

That wasn’t what anyone wanted. At least, not in your experience. 

“Anyway,” you clear your throat. “You’re right, or whatever. I should just tell them I lied. I’ve given worse news. Just you know - less personal.” 

For a few minutes, Vernon is quiet. You don’t look up to meet his gaze. Instead you watch the ice cubes in your glass melt, little beads of condensation zigzagging down the curve of your glass. 

A sigh makes you look up at Vernon. “What if we dated for like a month or something?” 

“What?”

“I don’t mean really date,” he offers quickly, sensing your surprise. For some reason, that stings a little. You swallow it down past the knot forming in your throat. “It’ll get people off your back or whatever and we can just mutually end things.” 

“Really? You’d do that.” 

He shrugs a shoulder. “I guess, yeah.”

“You can break up with me,” you promise eagerly, leaning forward with the new promise of a solution to your problem. “Everyone will believe it. Just say I work too much and I’m too obsessed with my career.” 

An uneasy gaze flickers in Vernon’s eyes. “It can be mutual,” he says firmly. “That way it ends nicely.”

“Fine. Everyone will think one thing anyway, you’ll get out without a scratch, trust me. Are you sure you’re willing to do this? I can… suck it up and tell everyone I made it up.”

“Do you really want to?” 

“No,” you admit.

“Then it’s settled.” He shrugs, heaving a heavy sigh. “I’ll give you a month and then we can mutually end things.” 

Sticking your hand over the table, you offer it for Vernon to shake. His mouth twitches a little as he smiles, leaning forward to take your hand. His is warm and softer than you imagined, enveloping yours firmly as he shakes. 

“Deal,” you smile, feeling a glimmer of hope. 

Just like that, Vernon (from IT) becomes Vernon (your boyfriend). 

Sort of.

-

Vernon doesn’t consider himself anxious. He’s never really dealt with anxiety, and there are only a few things that can make him nervous in the world. The few times he remembers being nervous were when he was in a bidding war for a limited edition Millenium Falcon model, in line at a meet-and-greet for his favorite band when he was sixteen, and when he lost his virginity to Carley Waters in his sophomore year of college. 

He’d won the bidding war and managed to not sound like an idiot meeting his idols, but he definitely came immediately after putting his dick inside Carley. Two out of three were pretty good odds, all things considered. 

Vernon is more nervous than all three of those events combined as he checks himself in the mirror for the millionth time. Usually, he doesn’t really think twice about what he wears to the bar on the weekend. He has fifteen of the same shirt in the same colors, and his jeans all look the same, even though he thinks they’re different. 

Now, though, he has the added element of you. He cannot recall a single time that you’ve ever agreed to go out with your work friends - and to your surprise, not his, you do have the same work friends - but tonight is different. 

Tonight, you’re supposed to be dating. 

It’s weird. Chan and Seokmin agree it’s weird. He keeps no secrets from them and had already told them about the encounter at the bookstore. They’ve sworn themselves to secrecy, though Vernon cannot fathom how they just go with it. 

She’s really hot, Chan had said after a few sips of beer. Fuck it, right? 

She’s the third most executive person in marketing, Seokmin warned. Be careful. 

Both are true. Vernon had acknowledged Chan’s point the first time he’d seen you in Information Technology a little over two years ago. You’d been dating Minho then and entirely untouchable - still are, kind of - and Vernon had been the only person at the office early enough to help you out. He’d been new then, and often came in the earliest to get started on the overload of tasks he was always given as the junior employee. 

Even then, Vernon thought you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Sure, you had on mismatched shoes and there was a breathy chaos to you that would probably stress most people out, but he sort of liked it. Thought that it was different in a good way, and spoke to the sort of person who worked really hard and didn’t fake their way through the day. 

Vernon had realized Seokmin's point right after he’d learned Chan’s. As soon as he helped you login to your computer, he’d realized you were a Senior Manager of Marketing. Not a huge title in a company so big, but high enough that Vernon thought twice about his attraction to you. 

Now, both of their points are moot. You’re still attractive but that doesn’t really change the situation - makes it harder, even. Vernon had never really dreamed of an actual relationship with you and now that he’s found himself in a fake one, he’s not really sure what to do with the acknowledgement that he’s attracted to you. 

Worse is that he doesn’t actually know if he’s allowed to date you. Vernon is a senior coordinator in the IT department and you’re a senior director. Perhaps not in his department or directly overseeing him, but it’s a high enough position that Sekomin is right - it could mean trouble if this goes poorly. 

So why the fuck did he offer to fake date you for a month? 

As someone in Information Technology, most people think Vernon is smart. He doesn’t consider himself to be above average intelligence, and as he slides his sneakers on his feet to go pick you up for a night out, he thinks everyone is wrong about him - he’s fucking stupid.

Looking in the mirror one more time, Vernon decides it’s as good as it’s ever going to get. Jeans, a black shirt and a hat facing backward is all he really knows how to style. He shoves his keys in his pocket, a tiny vial of contact solution just in case, and grabs his phone as he heads out the door. 

Your apartment complex isn’t that far from his. He finds it with ease, surprised that you don’t live in one of those high-rise apartments that all the other executives live in. The apartment is pretty modest with only three floors and rows of respectable Toyota Camrys and Honda Civics. 

When he spots you coming down the stairs, his traitorous heart does that same little staccato it had last weekend when he saw you at the bookstore. He hadn’t expected to run into you outside of work and only panicked for a split second before he realized that you didn’t recognize him. 

And then you’d called him your boyfriend. 

Recovering from the memory of it, Vernon stares as you open the door to his car, flashing a tight smile as you slide in. He doesn’t know what he thought you might wear on the weekend, but he’s surprised to see you in jeans, a black form-fitted shirt tucked in, and a simple purse on your arm. 

“What?” You ask, a little breathless. He sees the sticky shine of lipgloss on your mouth and squeezes the wheel, fighting the urge to lean over and taste it. 

Insane, he thinks as he puts the car in gear. He’s gone insane. 

“Nothing. I guess I just thought you’d live somewhere nicer.” 

“Oh.”

Your shift in tone makes him realize how it sounded. “Sorry - not like that. I thought it would be somewhere really fancy. You’re a senior director and all that.” 

“I only got promoted a few weeks ago. And it was not a pay raise, trust me.” 

“Seriously?” You glance sidelong at him, pausing like you’ve said something you shouldn’t. His lips twitch and he says, “Not on the clock.”

That gets you to grin, leaning back into the passenger seat. “Only came with an office and title bump. I was already doing all the work of a senior director so they felt like they needed to bump my title to protect themselves, I think.”

“That’s kind of shitty.”

You hum. “Is it like that in IT?” 

“I think it’s like that anywhere.”

“Good point.” 

A comfortable silence falls over the car. It’s not at all like the awkward, stilted lunch the two of you had at the beginning of the week. He had been sweating through his shirt that time around, though you didn’t seem to notice. He’d been a little angry with you too, for getting the both of you into this mess. 

But… it had been his idea to help you save face. He didn’t have to. He didn’t owe you anything, and he believes you when you say you would come clean and admit you lied through your teeth. Maybe that’s why he offered to help anyway, your willingness to swallow the pain of embarrassment to relieve him of the facade. 

Library is a hole in the wall bar that Vernon and his friends from work like to go to on Saturday nights. It’s sort of a funny joke, a bunch of professionals from the publishing industry getting drunk and eating shitty bar food in a place named for the very buildings they dedicate their life to, in a weird, roundabout, mathematical way. 

Vernon has friends outside of work that come too, but tonight it’s just the usual crowd: Chan, Seokmin and Seokmin’s girlfriend, Mingyu and Soonyoung from creative, and some of the people from the sales team. The sales team is only there by virtue of Joshua, who is the only person from sales Vernon remotely tolerates. 

Vernon isn’t exactly sure what a sales team does at a publishing company anyway. 

When Vernon parks, he sees you take a deep breath. He averts his eyes, feeling like he’s intruding on a moment before you brace yourself and get out of the car suddenly. He makes a noise and panics to follow you. You’re already plunging ahead like you’re storming into battle, and perhaps in your mind you are.

He jogs to catch up. “Wait!” 

You stop, turning to face him with a dubious expression. “What?”

“We should walk in together.”

“Oh.” You blink. It’s a bit cute but Vernon shoves that down. “You’re right. Sorry. I sort of… set my mind to the task and forgot.”

“You can’t approach this like you approach work.”

“I can’t?”

He laughs. “No. Relationships aren’t jobs - so a fake one isn’t either. You have to try and appear like this is natural. If you come in all to-do list and checkmarking the boxes, it’s going to look weird.” 

“Oh.” 

The confidence you had a second before deflates. He feels a little guilty, reaching out to take your hand before he realizes what he’s doing. Your hands are cold in his but he doesn’t mind, wrapping his fingers in yours as you stare at him like he’s grown three heads.

Maybe he has. 

“We should walk in together. Maybe holding hands.” 

“Right.” You lick your lips and he tries to give you a smile more confident than what he’s feeling. His heart is hammering in his chest, both at the way your hand squeezes his nervously and at the preposterousness of it all. “You’re kind of good at this.” 

“I just have a different perspective.”

“The perspective of someone who knows how to date versus… whatever I am.” 

He hears the joke in your tone so he lets himself laugh a little. He starts walking, tugging you next to him. “Not exactly. I just watch a lot of movies, including romances.” 

“Really? What’s your favorite one?” 

“Uhhh.” He thinks about it as you both approach the door. He doesn’t answer for a second while he flashes the security outside his ID. “I really like The Proposal. With Sandra Bullock.” 

Instead the bar is filled with modern music at a reasonable level and small, wooden tables with chipped tops. There is nothing about the bar that actually looks like a library, save the single shelf shoved in the corner with beat up comic books and an insane amount of hentai that Soonyoung put there. 

“You mean the one where the boss fake dates her employee… and they work at a publishing company?” 

As soon as you ask the question, Vernon realizes the irony. He looks at you with a wide gaze, pausing at the entrance to look at you. Your mouth folds on itself, trying not to laugh as you too realize the irony of the movie. 

“Yeah, so that’s weird I guess,” he admits. He tugs on your hand. “Come on, we always sit in the back.”

You follow him wordlessly. The crowd isn’t big inside, but there are enough people that you have to shuffle a little closer to him. He catches the scent of your perfume - it smells like sweet tobacco and vanilla, something that is subtle with a little bit of spice. 

Turning around the corner of the bar, you see a wall entirely taken by booths with pool tables in the open space. Mingyu and Seokmin’s girlfriend are already fighting over the felted green as she points a pool cue at him, threatening. Seokmin is lounging in one of the booths, watching on with a dopey grin that makes Vernon roll his eyes.

Everyone else sits in in a variety of booths, an entire corner dedicated to the dozen or so of them who have made this their home for the last two years. Vernon keeps you close, feeling his hands go clammy when all the eyes turn to the two of you. Despite the rumor having spread far and wide, it’s clear that surprise ripples through the crowd at seeing evidence of your relationship. 

The fake one, that is. Naturally. 

Instead of going directly to the safety - or danger, in this case - of his friends, Vernon heads to the bar. He needs to take the edge off immediately, though he knows he can’t get too crazy. The drive home is short, but even if you weren’t in his car for the evening, he doesn’t like to tempt fate. 

Next to him at the bartop, you drop his hand to press your palms against the sticky wood. You make a face and he laughs before ordering a simple rum and coke. You order the same but with a lime and the bartender flashes you a charming grin.

Vernon glances at you and realizes you don’t even register the bartender. You’re chewing your lip and fidgeting, pulling at the sleeves of your shirt and shifting from foot-to-foot. A pang goes through him. 

“Relax.” You look up at him, eyes wide. “We’re going to do fine.”

“What if I fuck it up?” You ask, voice barely audible as you lean in. “They’re going to see right through me, Vernon from IT. They’re going to have one conversation with us and be like ‘no way is he dating that lunatic.’” 

“For starters, you’re not a lunatic.” You give him a look and he amends, “Not in the way that’s bad, anyway.”

“How do you know? We barely know each other.” 

You’ve got him there. The bartender comes back with your drinks and you take yours, draining half of it before remembering the lime. He watches you squeeze it into the drink while he contemplates his answer. 

“I guess I just have a feeling for these things. You don’t seem very crazy to me.”

“Thanks.” 

“And I guess I’m getting to know you, so there’s that.” 

You sigh. “Right.” 

“You’ll do fine. But maybe don’t call me Vernon from IT.”

“Right.” 

“Come on.” 

With wavering confidence, you follow Vernon over to the crowd from work. Everyone greets you warmly, though a little unsure. He notes the comments about being shocked to see you outside the four walls of your office, a joke you take in stride. 

It’s clear you don’t know how to interact with everyone at first. It’s not to say that you’re stiff or awkward, but Vernon can see the rigid set in your shoulders and the way your eyes follow the conversation but don’t actually contribute. 

You have an effect on others as well. For those who are a little more unfamiliar with you, they can’t seem to puzzle out why one of the higher ups is here guzzling down rum and cokes. And you are guzzling them down, carving a path to and from the bar at a rate that impresses Vernon. 

“How are things going?” Chan slips into the seat you just vacated to march to the bar again. “She seems surprisingly normal.”

“Why is that surprising?” 

Chan gives him a look. “She’s a suit.”

“I don’t think so,” Vernon laughs. “Trust me on that.” 

Chan hums unconvinced, watching you at the bar. “She’s nice, at least.”

“Very.” 

“Don’t fall in love with her or anything.”

“Weird thing to say, man.”

“Yeah, well. She’s attractive, nice, and no offense, a little weird. She’s exactly your type.” 

That makes him frown. “What’s weird about her? Also, would that be so bad?”

“She knew the radius of the sun and the verbatim definition of parsecs. I’m not answering that second question because I shouldn’t have to.” Chan claps him on the shoulder, looking over Vernon’s head. “She’s coming back, but seriously. Be careful.” 

Chan scoots away, flashing Vernon a look that makes the single drink Vernon has had sour in his stomach. Then you’re there, sitting down next to him, swaying a little bit. He smells sweet tobacco and vanilla, his eyelids fluttering for a second as you shift a little too close - or what would be too close, if you weren’t fake dating. 

“What’s that look on your face?” You ask, sipping your drink. He wonders if it’s appropriate to ask if you need water.

“What look on my face?” 

“You know, like-” You try to pinch your brows together and your mouth puckers downward. He feels himself smile and he shakes his head. “Sort of frowny.” 

“Nothing.” You look at him skeptically. “Hey, I have a question.” 

You pause, looking a little panicked. “Okay.”

“What’s the radius of the sun?” 

“Oh!” You visibly brighten and it’s like watching the sun spill over the lip of the horizon, all gold and liquid, warm and bright. “432,690 miles. Surface temperature is about 5,772 Kelvin.” 

Suddenly, Chan’s warning feels very, very real. Vernon tries to hide his smile, looking down at the table. Meanwhile, you start rattling off facts about the sun, not taking a single breath as you explain you memorized them from when you were working on the marketing for a line of textbooks about space early on in your career. 

Vernon lets you talk. Lets you somehow divert back to work, watching as you animatedly walk him through the process of what you do. How you think. It’s fascinating, and he’s not really sure how anyone else could find it tiresome, seeing the way you light up when you tell him about a project that Seungkwan’s team killed it on. 

Your pride is palpable, your energy shifting from unsure to confident. 

Suddenly, you pause, leveling Vernon with a hard stare. He says nothing, watching the way you drink him in, something beneath the surface of your gaze he can’t quite read. “Can I say something?” 

“On the clock?” he asks, grinning. You shake your head and he gestures for you to continue. 

“You have pretty eyes. I still like when you wear glasses, though. They suit you.” 

Yeah. Vernon thinks Chan’s warning is very real. 

-

Running in heels is hard. You don’t know how anyone manages to do it in movies. Not that you think anything that happens in movies is real, but you can’t imagine how they make it work for the scene. You nearly break your ankle three times on your sprint to IT and you’re sure you scare the daylights out of Chan when you come tearing around the corner.

You shout a greeting over your shoulder but don’t stop until you’re hissing Vernon’s name while rushing into his cube. He flinches, turning around to look at you mid-task. You’re heaving, putting a hand on your hip as you straighten, trying to suck down air. 

“Say no!”

He’s visibly confused. “To what?”

“Just say no!”

Before Vernon can ask you another thing, you hear Minho’s voice. Your heart thunders in your ribcage as you try to lean against the wall of Vernon’s cube, nearly missing it. You stumble a few steps and he catches you by the elbow, lightning quick as he helps steady you. 

When he drops his grip, the place where Vernon had held you moments before is warm. You try not to think about it, heart thundering doubletime as you watch Minho approach, a lazy swing to his step and a smirk on his face. 

“Funny I found you here!” 

“Why would that be funny? My Vernon - my boyfriend is down here.” 

From the corner of his eye, you see Vernon wince. You’re not doing a great job at keeping it casual, but you’re also still out of breath from sprinting down the stairs to beat Minho here and warn Vernon. Seungkwan had barely been able to give you the heads up that Minho was going to ask for a double date, and you simply couldn’t have that.

Even as you near the end of your second week dating - fake dating - Vernon, you’re unsure the two of you can get through a date with someone who actually knows you. Vernon might be able to give some details on the surface, but you dated Minho for a year - how could Vernon ever hope to keep up? 

Minho leans against Chan’s cube. Luckily it’s vacant of its usual occupant - Chan hates Mihno, as you’ve recently learned through a lunch with him and Vernon. 

“Glad I caught you together, then,” Minho says, though you think he’s not that glad. But what do you know? “I wanted to see if you were busy on-”

“Yes.” You flash him a too-wide grin with too many teeth. 

“I didn’t even give you the date.”

“We’re always very busy.”

“Ah.” Minho scratches the back of his neck and gives Vernon a look akin to sympathy. “Never has time, does she? Always all work, no play. I wanted to see if you guys wanted to go to dinner with Mina and I tomorrow night, but…” He shrugs. “Same old.”

You try not to let your exterior crack, but Minho’s words cut right through your outer shell to the softness of you. Without fail he manages to highlight this obsession you have with work, making it sound worse every single time. 

Behind you, Vernon shifts closer. You become acutely aware of him suddenly, warmth radiating from him as his chest presses against the back of your arm and his hand slips to the middle of your back, featherlight, like he’s afraid to touch you. He smells like ocean driftwood and salt, something that makes you think of warmer days. Fresh fruit. Cold water. 

Fighting a shiver, you freeze up, hyper aware of him. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Vernon says gently. “She doesn’t work that much. She makes plenty of time for me.”

Minho’s eye twitches, the only sign he’s annoyed. As a trained salesperson, his tells are always subtle, nearly undetectable. But you know him inside and out, can see the sliver of annoyance there.

Satisfaction rules supreme, a smile tugging at your lips until Vernon adds, “We can make time for them, right?” 

You snap your head to the side, eyes meeting his. Vernon has beautiful eyes. You’d said as much the other night when you had a little too much to drink, staring up at him without his glasses. He looks good without them, but you like the way the frames sit on his nose, the way they reflect light against the liquid brown of his iris. 

Now, those eyes are staring back at you straight on. There’s something fierce in them, and though you barely know him, you have a sneaking suspicion Vernon is annoyed. Not with you but with Minho. 

Still… 

“Are you sure?” 

Your question is gentle. For a moment, you forget Minho is there at all. You’re looking at Vernon, trying to puzzle out why he would say yes to something insane again. It was lucky enough he’d offered to participate in this little charade to save your pride, and now here he is doing it again, unprompted. 

Vernon’s mouth twitches. He nods, hand pressing into your back a little firmer before he drops it away. You turn to Minho, who watches the two of you with a peculiar expression. “Alright,” you tell him. “It’s a date.” 

“Great. I’ll send you the details.” 

When Minho leaves, you turn to Vernon, the question on the tip of your tongue. He doesn’t give you a chance, shooting you a sidelong glance as he says, “Why is he always bringing up your work schedule?” 

You wince. Vernon either doesn’t notice or is nice enough not to say anything. Instead of answering right away, you sit on top of Vernon’s desk, feet dangling a little. He makes room for you, turning his chair to face you and give you his full attention. 

He’s dressed the same as always today, but you notice his shirt is ironed and tucked in neatly. Rubbing his brow, he slides his glasses up on his head, pressing his fingers along his eye sockets like they’re strained. 

“What kind of stuff do you do?” You ask instead of answering his question. You gesture to his multiple computer screens. “Besides help me figure out my passwords.” 

“Lots of stuff. It’s mostly small things like remoting into people’s computers to help them solve their issues. I spend a majority of my day showing people how to unmute themselves on their virtual meeting software.” 

“Do you like it?”

He shrugs. “It’s got a rhythm to it that I like. I like having a to-do list every day and I can pretty much always know what to expect.” 

“That does sound nice. And you can spy on everyone’s messages right?”

He raises his brow. “On the clock?” That makes you smile and you shake your head. “I could, but I don’t. There are a ton of people who forget us and HR can see all their shit, though.” 

“Ooo like what?” 

He sucks in air through his teeth, “Man, I don’t think I can tell you.”

You can tell he’s teasing and you scoff, kicking out with your foot toward his knee. He dodges you easily with a playful grin. “Come on!” 

“I’ll tell you off the clock. Real off the clock.” 

“Fine. Speaking of - are you busy tonight?” He raises his brows in question. “We should probably meet up and try to flesh out some details of our uh… relationship. I know some things about you but not a lot. Like, when is your birthday?”

“February 18.” 

You slap your hand on top of his desk. “Vernon! That’s super soon! Are you doing anything for it?”

“Nah. I don’t ever want to make a fuss and it's close to Valentine’s Day so sometimes people are doing things retroactively.” 

You hum, displeased with the answer, but you file it away for later. “So are you free tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool, you can come over to my place. Do you like pizza? You have to like pizza, right? You’re a boy.”

“A lot of boys like pizza, yes. Specifically me.” 

“Good. Seven?” 

“Seven.” 

-

A knock at the door makes you look up from your computer. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust, the light outside the office windows long fading with the setting sun and the only other source the salt lamp behind you and the burn of the safety lights in the main cubicles.

Vernon leans against the door frame, resting his head against it as he peers at you. For a second, you forget about everything except the way he looks leaned against the frame, his glasses perfectly perched on his nose and hair soft with wear from the day. 

Then, you lurch with realization, gasping and looking at your watch. “It’s seven.”

“It’s seven,” he agrees, laughing gently. 

You bolt from the seat, groaning and grabbing things to shove in your bag. In the process, you knock over a cup and a curse flies out your lips. He pushes off the door, walking over to help you tame the chaos. 

“Easy,” he admonishes. “All good here, don’t panic.”

“I’m really sorry. I got stuck working through this media plan that someone asked for and I completely lost track of time.”

“It’s okay.” 

The panic welling up inside you calms down as you look up at him. Vernon says nothing further, picking up your cup and righting the pens that you’ve knocked over. His movements are casual, straightening the things on your desk until he’s satisfied and steps away. 

You prepare for annoyance, for the same expression you’re used to when you’re late to an event or have missed a thing, when you’ve yet again lost track of time holed up in your office and yet… Vernon just gives you an easy smile and a shrug.

No annoyance. No judgment. Just… Vernon. 

Perhaps tenfold isn’t so bad. 

“It’s not pizza, but there's a tiny little bar a few blocks down that I really like. They serve food.” 

“Yeah?”

He nods and hesitates. “It’s… themed, though.”

“That’s okay. I like a theme.”

The theme in question isn’t so much of a theme as it is an entire franchise. You stand in the doorway of Cantina Far Away, mouth parted as you drink in the sights and sounds of the Star Wars themed bar. 

A circular bar sits in the middle of the small establishment. There isn’t a ton of room to recreate the iconic corner of the world where you were first introduced to Han Solo as a kid, but there’s just enough to make the magic work. 

Kegs and other apparatuses hang from the ceiling of the stone top bar. Lights track underneath the bar top and in the ceiling, giving the dim illusion that it’s permanently dusk inside. Small, round tables fill the main space, with three booths lined against the back wall. An R2-D2 replica stands beside C3-PO in the corner, and a familiar soundtrack plays through the sound system.

“If you want to go somewhere else-”

“Do they have blue milk?” 

Vernon pauses. “What?” 

You look up at him, grinning. “Do they have the blue milk?”

“They have something on their menu like that, yeah. I don’t know what it is.”

“I always wanted to drink the blue milk as a kid.”

“Alright.” He gestures to the bar, which is mostly empty. “Let’s get you blue milk.”

Popping up on a stool, you can’t help but crane your neck upward to look at the bar from this angle. It truly looks like every part of it was taken from the movie set. You run your hand atop the bar’s surface to realize it’s actually wood that looks like stone, marveling at the smoothness. 

Behind the bar, two bartenders move in sync, dressed in Jedi robes. When they approach, you both order the blue milk - you, because you demand to know what it tastes like, Vernon, in solidarity. 

Vibrating with excitement, you turn to look at Vernon. “When I was a kid, watching Star Wars was one of the few things my mom and I got to do together.” 

“One of the few things?”

You nod, clapping your hands excitedly when the bartender brings you whatever concoction the blue milk is. It comes in a tall glass and is clear, baby blue and frothy at the top. Leaning over, you take a whiff. It smells vaguely coconutty and you narrow your eyes, leaning forward to take a tentative sip.

Coconut rum hits your tongue and you cringe. Vernon does too, making a face and sticking his tongue out as he immediately shoves the drink away from him. You laugh, not even caring that you hate it. It tastes nothing like you expected and you don’t really like coconut, but it strikes a nostalgic chord. 

“My mom was a single parent and worked really hard at a law firm,” you eventually answer, taking another sip and cringing. Vernon orders something more generic - a rum and coke for you both. “But she always made time on the weekend if I really wanted to do a Star Wars marathon and she took off work for all the prequel releases to take me.”

“That’s cute. My mom was really into it too. Want to know a secret?”

“Yes.”

“My first name is Hansol. A little inspired by Han Solo. I prefer to go by Vernon with everyone who isn’t my family, though.”

That makes you smile. “I like it, though. Your mom has good taste like mine. Think they’d be friends?”

He blushes. “Maybe.” 

You realize how forward of a question it is. You avert your gaze to your blue drink, sipping it and grimacing. Vernon chuckles and says, “You don’t have to drink it.”

“I don’t have to do a lot of things but I do anyway.” 

“Hmm. Like what?” 

“Ugh. I don’t know? Attend meetings all day?”

“I think you do have to do that.”

You scrunch your nose. “Alright, fair.” 

“Tell me about your job.” 

You glance at him, brows raised. “You want me to talk about work?”

“It’s obvious you like what you do, and by the sounds of it, working hard runs in the family. Tell me what you like about it.” 

That makes you sigh as you push the ice around in your glass. What do you like about your job? Well, you like a lot of things and you hate a lot of things. So you start listing them, telling Vernon that you like the routine and you enjoy having a rhythm to your day. You like feeling proud when you can solve a problem no one else can, or when you lead your team through chaos and they look at you like you’re a god who showed them the way.

You like that you can be an authority in the room but you don’t feel like a dictator, and that now when you talk, people listen. Your team is your favorite, loving the way you and Seungkwan work in tandem, and the way the creative department likes to pick your brain. Mingyu and Soonyoung are always asking for your feedback, even if your opinion doesn’t matter in the hierarchy of their world.

The dislikes though… well, you dislike that you never have enough time in the day. That you’re always in a meeting and feel like you leave your team drowning in work picking up the slack. Hate that you get time blindness and sit in your office for hours past dinner to get something right, to get something perfect.

Hate that because you like what you do, everyone thinks you don’t have a life or don’t want a life. And that leads you to the center of the entire issue with your relationship with Minho. 

You pull away like you’re approaching a particularly purple bruise when you near the topic of Minho. Your blue drink is gone and you order something more normal instead. The coke and rum sizzles on your tongue as Vernon looks at you expectantly. 

“I’m doing all the talking,” you mutter, a little defensive. “What’s your favorite color?” 

“Blue.”

“What kind of blue.” 

“Blue like that very nasty milk you just drank.” You stick your tongue out and Vernon smiles. His smile is like a burning star at the center of a solar system, glowing and bright and warm. It gives life. “What’s yours?”

“Deep red. Like… wine or burgundy. What’s your favorite movie?”

“Ah, not that question. I’m a bit of a cinephile.”

“Too bad. You have to pick one.” 

Vernon thinks about it. The tip of his finger traces the condensation of his glass lazily and you hyperfocus on it, watching the way he catches the bead of liquid every time. He has nice fingers, you realize. The thought makes you clench and suddenly wonder if you need to walk out of the bar down to the church to confess the sin of your mind.

Not that you’re religious, but maybe you should be, with where your mind has wandered. 

“I like The Princess Bride.”

You gasp, grabbing him by the wrist and shaking it excitedly. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die!” 

Vernon’s laughter is infectious. You both fall into a fit of giggles, quoting your favorite parts of the movie. It’s nice - this is nice. It’s unexpected and you’re a little unsure how you got here, but Vernon makes the pressure of getting to know one another in preparation to fake date in front of your ex fade away.

Until, of course, you remember that’s why you’re at the bar and the thought suddenly sobers you. 

Straightening, you ask, “Why’d you want to go on a double date, anyway? You don’t owe me that.” 

“He seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying.” 

You hum, studying him. “It’s a bit risky. I dated him for a year… if there’s anyone who knows anything about me, it’s probably him.” 

“I can always just hack into your data and learn everything about you.” You stare at him, mouth opens. His grin grows. “I’m kidding. I mean I probably could but I’m not a hacker.”

“Are you sure? You’re a bit suspicious, Vernon Chwe.” 

“Hansol.” You frown in confusion. His tone is gentle, eyes soft when he murmurs, “You can call me Hansol. You know… to make it um. Seems legit.”

“Hansol.” You try out the name, liking the way it fits on your tongue. His eyes are dark and you feel like you could fall into them - you kind of want to. “Hansol. I like it.”

Maybe you don’t need to go to that church to beg for forgiveness after all. What you think you need might be divine intervention to stop the butterflies in your stomach when you say his name, or the nervous shake in your hand when you see him smile. 

Not Vernon (from IT) but Hansol. 

-

Hansol (from IT) is late when he picks you up. For once, you’re just glad it’s not you. Your heart beats a little faster when you see him pull up in his nondescript, black RAV4. He waves through the window when he sees you, a shy smile on his face as he reaches to turn down the music. 

Inside the car smells distinctly like Hansol - driftwood, salt, a little bit of the air freshener that has long since dried but still sways under his rearview mirror. He looks good tonight, dressed in ripped jeans, a black shirt and a black leather jacket. He’s sans glasses, and though he looks good, you miss them a little. 

Hansol without the glasses is a little intimidating. Especially this version of him that grins when you settle into the seat next to him, his brows slightly raised as though to ask if you’re good. When you nod, his grin tilts upward again and he puts the car and drive, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift tapping to the beat of the music. 

It feels like you’re radiating nervous energy, but you relax as Hansol asks about your day. He’s good at that, eliminating whatever weight is sitting on your shoulders or whatever residual stress you’ve got from work. You don’t feel so… well. On the clock. 

The thought makes you squirm in your seat, pulling the edge of your dress down your thighs a little. You picked it out as a last minute choice, unsure whether you’re trying to dress to impress or dress to show you don’t care what Minho thinks of you.

Hansol notices you fidgeting. “You alright?”

“Kind of nervous.”

“Any reason in particular?”

You blow out air, your head smacking against the headrest. “On the clock?”

“Off,” he says with a grin.

“I feel like I’m going to fucking blow it.”

“How so?”

“What if he asks me to kiss you?”

The words are out before you can stop them. It isn’t until you’re met with silence that you realize what you’ve said. You’ve certainly stuck your foot in your mouth on more than one occasion. You do it often, and quite wonderfully, truthfully. It has taken years of practice to stop flubbing presentations and pitches at work, but that doesn’t mean you don’t say insane shit.

Like right now, when you tell Hansol that of all the things you’re nervous about, the very slim, tiny percent of a chance of being asked to kiss him is at the top of the list. 

And yet, because it’s Hansol, he grins and says, “Damn, Minho’s a freak like that? He likes to ask people to kiss so he can watch?”

Just like that, the tension eases. You laugh, hand flying your mouth to try and suppress it. His eyes are on the road, but they glitter when you catch a glimpse of his face in the headlines, flashing from dark to liquid gold for a split second. 

“Okay,” you admit, laughter dying down. “He’s definitely not going to ask that. It’s just one of those irrational fears, especially with him.”

“Why especially?”

“I feel like he’s always trying to prove that he was right when he broke up with me. Or I guess, in general. He loves being right and sometimes it’s like he’s trying to force a gotcha moment.” 

Hansol is silent as he turns into the parking lot. You say nothing, watching as he navigates to find a parking space. The restaurant is busy and there’s a valet, but Hansol is determined to find his own. He does - very close to the entrance - letting out a happy noise as a car backs out.

Car in park, he turns to look at you. “Can I say something? Not on the clock.”

Your heart skips a little. “Sure.”

“Minho is an asshole.” You smile, looking down at your hands folded in your lap. “And you’re going to get through dinner just fine because he’s an asshole, and you’re not.” 

“Are you sure?”

His laugh is full. “I’m actually pretty confident in this. And if he does ask us to kiss, you have my full consent to lay one on me. Come on.” 

You wish you felt as confident as Hansol seems. He slides out of the car easily, coming around to your side as you get out. He reaches out a hand almost instinctively, waiting for you to grab it. You look at him in surprise to find that he looks equally stunned at his own gesture. 

Grinning, you take his hand. It’s warm in yours and he gives you a squeeze as you drop your linked fingers between you, walking toward the establishment like a real couple.

It feels real. You’re not sure what to do with that. The sudden realization of it churns in your stomach as you approach the dark interior of the steakhouse, immediately hit with a romantic ambiance that feels far too big for this tiny thing brewing inside of you. 

Twelvefold? How many times have you suffered since that first day you ran into Hansol at the bookstore? You think it might continue through the evening, especially when he glances over at you on the way to the table to check on you, hand tightening for a split second. 

As soon as you spot Minho and Mina, you’re glad that Hansol has a steady grip on you. Mina’s glossy hair is nearly blinding under the glow of the soft lighting and her smile is brighter still. You almost want to shield your eyes as they wave you over. 

Neither of them seems to know if they should stand and greet you or what the protocol is. Good, you think, happy to see them as off kilter as you feel by this very weird and very unnecessary dinner date. 

Why had Hansol agreed to do this again? 

“She keep you late?” Minho asks Hansol, immediately reminding you why Hansol had said yes in the first place: he seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying. “You’ll get used to it!”

“Actually, it was me,” Hansol answers smoothly. He pulls out your chair for you, startling you again. You try to fein admiration - it’s not hard - and sit, looking up at him with a little bit of awe. Hansol sits, adjusting his seat so that it’s a little closer to yours. “I was working on an infrastructure request and lost track of time.”

That seems to shut Minho up for a moment. Then he laughs his businessman laugh and you wonder if it’s always sounded that way, hollow and fake and… well, annoying. “Damn, so you’re both like that?” 

“Yep.” Hansol leans back in his chair, stretching his arm so that it rests over the back of yours. He doesn’t explicitly touch you, but you feel the warmth of him radiating like a furnace, a shiver snaking through you at how close he is. “Works well for us.” 

You try not to frown. He’s not going to make it easy for your fake breakup. You’d assumed that you’d tell everyone you just didn’t have time for him, but with the way he’s talking to Minho now, you’re worried it’ll make the impending breakup a little less believable. 

“That’s good, then,” Minho says eventually. “Just don’t schedule any vacations or you’ll both miss it.”

“I never did that,” you scowl. 

Before he has time for a rebuttal, the server is there welcoming you to the restaurant. You shift in your seat, feeling irritated. Hansol senses it, the tips of his finger brushing against your bicep as if to tell you it’s okay. You relax, but only a little, still frustrated. 

Again, you can’t help but feel like your faults are being exacerbated, like Minho is drawing them up to be far grander than they really were. You had missed some dinners and cancelled on some things, but you’d never gone as far as to miss a vacation or a birthday - never the big things. Never the milestones. 

If the server can tell the energy at the table has shifted, they don’t let on. They pour glasses of wine that you let Hansol order while you’re spiraling in your head, and leave with the promise of coming back to take orders when the table is ready. 

It’s Mina who restarts the conversation, glancing at Minho who sucks down the entire glass of wine in a single go. “So,” she says. “What is it exactly that you do?”

“Careful with that question,” Minho jokes. “She’ll talk to you about work for hours.” 

“Which is what makes her good at her job.” Hansol’s voice is even. Smooth. Almost severe, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. Tension ripples from him for just a moment before he looks at you and smiles. “Her job is very cool.”

Unlike her blockhead of a boyfriend, Mina seizes the chance for normalcy and asks, “Marketing, right?” 

Mina (with the glossy hair) is really nice. You like her almost immediately and strangely enough, you’re glad she’s there. Minho is like a stormcloud at the edge of the table, a little pocket of pressure that everyone can feel but tries to ignore. 

Hansol makes your fake relationship look effortless. You have to mask your surprise when he recounts a detail about you that you didn’t expect him to know, or makes an observation that has you warming, ducking your face to hide the smile tugging your lips. 

You know little things about him too. It’s almost like you weren’t aware until you’re saying them, all the small things about him bubbling to your lips like an instinct. 

“He’s such an Aquarius!” You laugh, finish the rest of your steak. “The IT department is full of them, even and they’re all so effortlessly cool and have different interests. Hansol has the coolest case full of Star Wars collectibles and-” 

“Hansol?” 

Minho’s question catches you off guard. You blink at him a few times, confused until Hansol interjects, “That’s my legal name.”

“Damn. Should we be calling you Hansol?”

“Nope. Reserved for my mom and my girlfriend.” 

“Wow.”

Minho sits back and observes the two of you. The plates have been cleared away for the evening and the glasses of wine have dwindled. You’re a little sleepy, ready to go home, but the appraising look in Minho’s eyes as they flicker back and forth between you and Hansol has you on edge.

Hansol seems unbothered, finishing his water. His arm rests against your back properly now and you almost melt when his fingers start to trace a pattern on your arm, almost absently. You’re so acutely aware of him that you’re nearly vibrating, telling yourself over and over again that this is just him committing to the bit. This isn’t something to overthink. His touch is for show.

You don’t want it to be for show. God, you don’t want it to be, but you try not to let it unravel right now, instead finishing your water under the heavy and calculating gaze of your ex-boyfriend, who, over the course of dinner, has made you realize you are so grateful is your ex. 

“Huh.”

“What?” you ask, voice coming out a little more challenging than you intend. He has that look on his face like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s trying to position himself in a way where he’s not wrong. 

“You guys are really together.”

That makes you stiffen. Hansol’s fingers go still on your arm. “What do you mean?”

“You just didn’t really seem like you were dating at the bookstore. It didn’t even seem like you knew who Vernon was.” 

“It was still new,” You lie. “I also wasn’t expecting to run into you both. That’s all.”

“I guess. Just… find it surprising, I guess. Figured you’d never have time for someone.”

It’s Hansol who says, “She has plenty of time for me. Speaking of time, it’s time we head home. I have to finish up some stuff for work tomorrow and she just finished an insane project and deserves some sleep.”

Again, Minho seems thrown for a loop. You could get used to seeing him like a fish out of water, trying not to let an evil smirk take over your face when Hansol beats everyone to the check. 

There is an edge to Hansol’s movements. You observe him quietly, noting the way his mouth is pinched at the corners and the way his eyes darken when he looks at Minho. But when he looks at you, it’s like the world stops. Hansol’s eyes soften and his lips turn up at the corner, a gentle smile for you.

Only you. 

You’re fucked. You’re fucked fucked fucked and it’s nearly all you can think about as dinner wraps up and Minho and Mina thank Hansol for paying. You want to smack him for offering to pay for the insanely expensive bill, but he takes everything in stride.

Outside, it’s a little cold. Hansol shucks his jacket off immediately, wrapping it around your shoulders while giving Mina some sort of computer advice that goes over your head because all you can focus on is the way Hansol smoothes the jacket over your shoulder, his hand dropping to your waist to keep you close.

You’re dizzy with it. Dizzy with him. You can’t recall a single time you ever felt this affected by Minho, much less anyone else. Despite having two glasses of wine, you know it’s Hansol and not the wine that has you buzzing. Hansol who has you warm, Hansol who makes it feel like there’s static in your brain when he glances at you to make sure you’re still okay after you’ve gone silent. 

Hansol gives you a quick smile and turns to say farewell to the other couple. You’re happy to say goodbye - though perhaps you should have asked Mina her haircare routine - and you wave as Hansol leads you into the parking lot, fingers intertwined.

He turns to you, making you look up at him. “I’m going to kiss you,” he murmurs, barely giving you a warning. “Unless you say no.” 

“I - okay.” 

There is the barest of smiles on Hansol’s face before he leans in, pressing his lips against yours. It’s brief and gentle, so quick that you barely register he’s kissed you at all. He’s already pulling away when you blink, nearing his car as he does. 

“He was a dick,” Hansol explains. “And he was staring at us when we left. So. Let him question what’s real now.” 

Minho isn’t the only one questioning what’s real. You’re hung up on the kiss, despite it being nothing more than a peck. Your mouth is warm, thoughts spinning as Hansol helps you into the car. You say nothing, completely consumed by the feel of his mouth, the smell of driftwood and salt, the barest taste of wine. 

The drive home is quiet but not uncomfortable. Hansol’s hand grabs yours instinctually over the center console, fingers tied together loosely as he drives. But there’s no one to perform for her, no one to show off too. No one who needs convincing. 

It’s just you and the burning desire for him bubbling up inside of you.

You’ve lost count of how many folds you have suffered, but somehow, this one is a little less worse than the others.

-

Hansol cannot stop thinking about you. He’s pretty sure the last time he had brain rot this bad about another person, it was Larcy Dodsen in his senior year of college who had blown him to heaven and back. He’s had better (and worse) blowjobs since then, and doesn’t really think of Larcy Dodsen ever anymore.

But you. You. 

You occupy every corner of his mind. He wavers back and forth between thinking about the way you smell or the way you laugh (a little reedy, but cute) and thinking about how bad he fucked up by kissing you that night. 

Things aren’t exactly weird. The very basis of your relationship - or lack thereof - is weird. He’d agreed to be your fake boyfriend for a month, but with zero terms. No contract outline. No do’s and don’ts. No guidelines. No rules. No regulations. Just an agreement and a fucking dream. 

Now, he’s wishing he had something to go off of, because what started out as an agreement to help someone out has turned into something else entirely. 

Chan was right. Hansol is desperately trying to hide that fact from his best friend, but the way Chan side-eyes Hansol at lunch when he stares off into the distance, he thinks that the younger  man might be onto him. 

It doesn’t help that Hansol is buried in Help Desk tickets the weekend following kissing you, and you’re six feet under in a pile of projects. It isn’t until he goes a few days without talking to you multiple times that it’s occurred to him how much he texts you during the day. 

Hansol finds himself checking his phone again at lunch, swearing that he felt it vibrate. This time, Chan catches him, putting down the fork and clearing his throat to gesture at the phone. “So it happened, right?” 

“What?” Even Hansol winces at his own defensiveness. “I can’t check the time?”

“Do you check the time three times every five minutes? I know you can do math.” 

“Just checking to see how her presentation went.”

Chan laughs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Right. So it did happen.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

He doesn’t. Chan knows it. Hansol knows it. Chan gets more specific anyway. “You like her. As in, you have feelings for her after… well. This weekend will make it a month. So wouldn’t that be your deal coming to an end?”

Hansol wants to think about anything other than that. “Everything is fine.” 

Chan holds up his hand, a white flag. “You’re an adult. You can do what you want. Just make sure you know what she wants too, is all I’m saying.” 

And that’s the crux of it. Hansol isn’t sure what you want. He assumed that you just wanted to get through this month and your fake breakup, but now he’s not so sure. He thinks of the way you’d look at him during dinner last weekend, the way your expression gets dreamy with a soft smile, eyes glowing. 

Hansol doesn’t think he made it up - his creativity is good but not that good. He had been so sure that you felt something too, swears that you melted into him every time he touched you, every time he turned to check in on you.

And the kiss… it had been brief and born from wanting to rub it in Minho’s face, but Hansol had wanted to do it, too. Wanted it for himself. Wanted to allow himself a single, greedy thing. You’d been surprised but leaned into him, almost instinctual. It had been so short but it haunts his dreams, the phantom press of your mouth keeping him up late at night. 

Even now, Hansol’s fingers trace his mouth, as though he can remember the feeling of your mouth against his. So maybe Chan is right. Hansol likes you - has feelings for you. There is a lingering sense that you might too, but he’s not sure. 

He needs to be sure. 

Finding a window to make sure, is tough, though. He only hears from you once throughout the rest of the day, and it's to shoot him a quick text that the presentation was moved to Monday and that you have to work all weekend on it. 

He feels more disappointed than he lets on. He wonders if you remember his birthday is on Saturday. Not that you owe him that since you’re not actually dating, but in a perfect world Hansol thinks it might have been a good day to tell you how he feels. That he kind of wants to make this thing real. 

On the bright side, you do remember his birthday. On the shitty side, he can’t spend it with you. You’re working on your presentation for the foreseeable future, and Hansol had hesitated to make plans with his friends knowing some of them were celebrating Valentine’s Day late with their partners and because he’d hoped to maybe spend it with you.

It feels stupid, thinking about it now. Of course you weren’t going to spend it with him. He knew what this was when he offered to do it. You were a bright burning star at the top of the company, and Hansol had been someone you barely registered. 

By the afternoon, he’s still sullen. He’s thinking about just spending the evening eating pizza and playing video games online where he’ll get bullied by a bunch of high schoolers when he hears his phone ring and your name flashes across the screen.

Hansol’s heart soars. He all but throws the control across the room, diving to pick up the phone and answer, “Hi!” 

“Please don’t hate me,” you rush out, completely out of breath. “I am panicking right now. My work laptop randomly got the blue screen of death and I’m in the middle of my project and-”

“I’ll come look at it.” He cringes, realizing how down bad he is. It’s his birthday and he shouldn’t have to work, but he’d rather come solve a problem for you than have a bunch of thirteen year old’s tell him that they’re fucking his mom. “I can come over in fifteen.” 

“Oh! Uh… can you make that twenty?” 

Weird. “Sure?” 

“Great! Text me when you’re here and I’ll give you the unit number.” 

Twenty minutes ends up being perfect, because Hansol goes through the mental anguish of what to wear, which is new for him. He showers as quickly and efficiently as he can, hopping with one leg in his jeans and the other missing the hole multiple times. He nearly runs into the wall as he’s pulling on a band tee over his head while also looking for his flannel. 

Hair still damp, he pulls on a hat and twists it around backward, grabbing his glasses because he doesn’t feel like wearing contacts (and because you said you liked them) as he barrels out the house, radiating with nervous energy. 

Hansol wonders if it’s appropriate to tell you how he feels today. It will be face to face but… no. You’d sounded stressed on the phone and he knows how important this presentation is for you, despite not knowing what it’s about. 

He barely remembers the drive to your apartment, blinking and realizing he’s parked and texting you that he’s there. You give him directions to your unit and with shaky hands, Hansol turns off the car. He takes a few steadying breaths before getting out and heading to the stairs, his heart hammering with each step. 

When he finally gets to your door, he double checks that it's the right one. His hands shake when he knocks, and he has to remind himself several times that he’s just here to fix your computer. Sure, he’s thrilled that he gets to see you, but this is on the clock. Not off.

You’re breathless when you open the door. “Hi!” You say a little too loudly. He raises his brows but you open the door and step aside, ushering him in. “Come on in.”

Hansol gives you an amused grin as he walks into your apartment. He’s confused as to why it’s completely dark, a question that he’s about to ask you as you shut the door, but you flick on the lights and he’s met with the world’s loudest shout of surprise he’s ever heard.

He flinches, hand flying to his chest in terror as the lights flood on and Hansol realizes that the reason they were off is to hide the obscene amount of Star Wars decorations covering every part of your apartment. He can’t even picture what your home is supposed to look like, just that it’s covered in streamers and paper Luke Skywalkers and RD-D2s, and filled with familiar faces.

Hansol’s mouth pops open as the crowd screams at him. Chan and Seokmin are at the forefront, phones in hand capturing Hansol as he stands there, dumbfounded. Soongyoung and Mingyu are blowing through noise makers with so much force that the paper on them breaks, and Seungkwan is leading an off-key rendition of happy birthday with Hansol’s friends you’ve never even met.

Slowly, Hansol turns to look at you. You’re standing behind him, hands clasped nervously and tucked under your chin as you watch him, terrified. You’re chewing on your lips, entire frame vibrating with energy. 

He wants nothing more than to walk over to you and kiss you stupid. The flame of desire that licks through him is borderline impossible to tamp down, staring at you like the eighth world wonder as you slip over to him, scanning his face.

“Surprise?” You squeak.

“You did this for me?”

“Well, yeah.” 

You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He wants to pin you against the island counter behind you, but it’s fill with food and beverages and blue fucking milk. “Is that okay?” you ask, suddenly nervous. 

Hansol softens and starts to laugh. “Yeah,” he shakes his head. “It is more than okay.” 

Before he can say anything else, the crowd of people crashes into him. Seokmin and Chan are screaming in his ear, grabbing him and yelling for shots. Mingyu and Soonyoung are chanting his name and his best friend from college manages to squeeze in and give him a hug and a birthday greeting.

How did you even know Minghao existed? Or how to contact him? Hansol has no idea, but before he can ask you any questions about the how or the why, he’s swept into your kitchen for birthday celebrations he thought would never happen, orchestrated by the single person he wanted to see most. 

Fuck was Chan right more than ever. 

-

The thing about being a bad liar is that you found it nearly impossible to hide what you were doing from Hansol. The thing about everyone thinking you’re always busy, is that it was an easy facade to shield the sheer stress of trying to plan a surprise party for him. 

Your apartment is filled with more people than you’ve ever dared to let inside. It makes you a little nervous for all of these people to see this new part of you, but with a little bit of rum and the released pressure of Hansol looking like he’s enjoying himself, you decide it’s worth it. 

Squished in the corner of your couch, you watch as Chan leads a game of cards that he is losing very badly at. Most of these people in your apartment are casual friends, with the exception of Seungkwan who is playing DJ in the kitchen, but they’re all friends that Hansol would want at a celebration for him.

At least, that’s what Chan and Seokmin said. Recruiting them had been pretty easy, but during the process of them helping you plan this, you’re pretty sure they’ve caught on to the AT-AT Walker-sized elephant in the room: you are very much into their friend. In a very Not-On-The-Clock appropriate way. 

Now, you watch as Hansol makes his way over to you, dodging people who stop to talk to him. He seems pretty determined to reach you, clapping someone on the shoulder and moving them aside to continue his journey to you. 

Your stomach flips when he sits on the arm of your couch, perched perfectly next to you. He looks good today, dressed in jeans, a soft looking tee and a flannel. The backwards hat does wonders for you - which you will not be psychoanalyzing now - and his black frame glasses. 

“How did you do all this?” He asks, shaking his head in wonder. “I just… what?” 

“It wasn’t easy, but it worked, right?”

“Is this the presentation you’ve been working on all week?”

“Yes. Please don’t be mad at me for lying.”

He laughs. “I couldn’t be mad at you if I tried.” 

An argument breaks out over cards, Chan and Mingyu yelling at each other about someone cheating. Hansol winces at the noise and you scoot a little closer to avoid the deck of cards Mingyu throws in Chan’s direction.

“Is there anywhere quiet we can talk?” Hansol asks, though he’s laughing at them. “They’re giving me a bit of a headache.” 

You grin. “For sure.” 

Getting up, you lead Hansol down the hall to your bedroom, which is off limits to the rest of the party. The good thing about adult festivities is that no one is a weirdo about going into rooms they shouldn’t, staying exactly where it’s appropriate to be. 

Shutting the door behind you, the noise of the party dies down immediately. It’s dark in your room, save for the single lamp burning in the corner at a low setting. You realize it’s a bit messy, apologizing to Hansol as you kick clothes out of the way. You hadn’t intended on bringing him in here, and suddenly the implication of Hansol standing in your room tingles down your spine. 

“I, uh-” You stammer, looking at him. “Sorry it’s a mess. I didn’t intend on anyone seeing this.”

Halloween yowls, getting up off your bed. Hansol makes a surprised sound and you apoogize again, “It’s just Halloween. He likes to sleep in here. Out, kitty!”

You open the door and Halloween bolts out, going to find Seungkwan who will give him snacks. 

Hansol grins and wanders over to the bookshelf, looking over the titles. You take a few steps to follow him but keep your distance, suddenly very nervous. He points his finger at a title and looks at you, inviting you to step closer to read it in the dim light. 

You recognize the title - you’d bought it the day you’d crashed into him and got some of your books mixed up. 

“This one one of the books you accidentally swapped with me,” Hansol notes, running his finger along the spine. You zero in on his finger - his hands, in general. They’re pretty. You swallow hard, looking up at the ceiling instead. “Have you read it yet?” 

“Not yet. I started one of the others but I’ve been having trouble breeding - reading lately.”

Hansol presses his lips together in a flat line and you can tell he’s trying not to laugh at you. Warmth floods your face and you want to die on the spot, especially when he turns to face you head on, leaning against your bookcase. 

His eyes are dark, drinking you in. Your pulse skyrockets, thinking about that quick kiss he had given you the other night. It’s all you’ve been able to think about, too afraid to ask him if it was just for show and too busy trying to plan this party to work out what to say about it.

Now, alone in your room, the questions fizzle on your tongue at the nearness of him. 

“Thank you,” Hansol says eventually. “For planning this. I… would never have expected you to do that.”

“I wanted to celebrate you.”

He blushes, ducking his head. “It’s sweet. It did make me nervous, though.” 

“Why?”

“I thought you were avoiding me, kind of.”

You blink. “Why on earth would I be doing that?”

“Thought that maybe I took it too far with the kiss.” 

“No. You didn’t.” 

Hansol’s gaze falls on you. It’s razor sharp and there’s something there, burning just under the surface. You swear it’s something like desire, but you’re too afraid to name it. Too worried that it’s just what you want reflected in his glassy gaze, and not his. 

Then, “Did I not take it far enough?” 

The question hangs in the air. You cannot hear anything but the pounding of  your own heart. It’s just Hansol in this dark room with you, looking at you with exactly the same hunger that’s been churning in your gut. 

You don’t know when this hunger started. All you know is that the last few weeks, it’s been there. Every time you look at him you feel it ignite, the desire so raw that you don’t know what to do with it. 

Now, you know he feels it too - see it, in the way he waits for your answer. Patient. Calm. Steady.

“On the clock?” You ask, voice shaky. He shakes his head no. “You could go further.” 

That’s all Hansol needs. He’s gentle when he reaches for you, cradling your face in his hands. You barely get to suck in a trembling breath before he’s kissing you.

This kiss is entirely different from the peck he gave you in the parking lot last weekend. This kiss steals the breath from your lung, his mouth confident and sure as he slots his mouth against yours. He smells like the sea, all driftwood and salt and his lips taste like the tangy drink he’d been sipping on earlier.

Everything else fades to the background. Your hands twist in his flannel. It’s soft, but nothing compared to the softness of Hansol’s tongue as he licks at the seam of your lips. You let him in and he groans, pulling you in impossibly closer as the kiss turns more desperate.

You melt. He kisses you hungrily now, sucking your tongue into his mouth. It makes your head spin, the party long forgotten as you press further into him. The bookshelf wobbles under the weight of both of you leaning against it, making you break, both of you panting.

Hansol’s mouth shines with your spit in the low lamp light and you have the urge to lean forward and lick it. You resist, only for him to give into his urge. He leans forward, tongue pressing to the corner of your mouth gently. 

“What about now?” he mumbles, voice muffled against your mouth. “Too far?”

“No.”

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, hands dropping to your waist. You let him grip you, backing you up toward your bed. It’s a bit clumsy but you don’t care, hands looping around his neck to keep him close.

“Tell me what you want,” Hansol mumbles. Your knees hit the bed and you let yourself fall backward. He follows you, caging you in with both of his planted on either side of your head. “Tell me how far you want me to go.” 

“On the clock?”

“Fuck no. Nothing I want to do right now is on the clock.”

“Good. I want you to go as far as you want.”

He drops his mouth to your neck. A moan slips between your lips when you feel his tongue scrape across the soft skin of your throat. He sounds strained when he says, “You gotta tell me, baby. I need to know what you want.”

“You.” It’s the most honest thing you’ve said all month. “All of it. Everything. But for real.” 

Hansol nods. He presses messy, wet kisses up your neck, along your jaw, stopping at your mouth. His nose nudges yours and he smiles against your lips, giving you a chaste peck. “You’ve got me. For real.” 

Grinning, you slide your hands underneath his shirt. He moans, throaty and delicious. He twitches under your exploration but he lets you brush your palms up the warmth of his stomach, reaching around until your hands are gripping his lower back. 

His mouth attaches to yours again. The kiss is messy and addictive, Hansol filling your senses as he lowers himself so that his weight is rested on top of you. It’s comforting and wanted, your knees squeezing his hips to hold him in place. 

One of his hands leaves the mattress to drop to your hip, squeezing before he scratches his nails against your thigh. You shiver, feeling the stimulation through your jeans. His hand slips under you, gripping the curve of your ass to lift you a little, pressing you closer to him.

A moan slips through your mouth to his when he rolls your hips against him. The stimulation isn’t remotely enough but you like this version of Hansol. His touch is confident, his lips intentful as they leave a trail from your mouth to your collarbone. 

With one last squeeze to your ass, Hansol traces his fingers over the tops of your thigh to drop between your legs. He presses his fingers to the apex of your thighs, working you through your clothes. You let out a desperate sound and you feel the way he smiles against your skin. 

His touch sparks a flame. You tear at his flannel, peeling it from his shoulders. He helps you get it off of him but he’s just as eager to peel you out of your jeans and shirt. A deep curse leaves his mouth when he sees you in just a bra and underwear, your chest heaving as you pant, staring up at him, mouth swollen and tender. 

Reaching for him, you grab the hat and throw it. “Hat is very hot,” you admit. “But I wanted to do this.” 

You slide your fingers in his hair, curling them through the strands to tug him back to you. He smiles into the kiss, tangling his tongue with yours. His hand skims up your thigh, fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps as he goes until he slides his hand back between your legs.

A gasp leaves you as he presses his fingers back to your cunt, pressing the fabric into your aching clit. He whispers a string of curses when he feels how damp you are, resting his forehead against your shoulder for a moment as he teases you over your panties.

“Please,” you whisper, hips rising off the bed. “Want more.”

“Mhmm.” He lifts his head and gives you a quick kiss to the cheek. “I’ve got you.”

Hansol doesn’t make you beg. You like that about him. Your breath catches when he drops to his knees, reaching his arm up to pull the back of his shirt over his head, tossing it. The sight of him between your knees in just jeans, his hair mussed and mouth swollen is enough to make you dizzy.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching with hooded eyes as Hansol grabs you by the calves, spreading you a little more. His hands are gentle and warm, rubbing up and down while he takes his time pressing a myriad of kisses up the right side of your inner thigh. 

It feels so good. Your lashes flutter a little, breath coming in quicker. Everywhere his mouth touches tingles, a little path of buzzing electricity as he makes his way closer and closer to your heat until he switches sides.

You make a sound of protest and Hansol looks up at you through his lashes, grinning. He looks smug, leaning forward to bite your thigh playfully. It stings but it feels good, making your fingers twist in the sheets. 

“Feel good?” he whispers, pressing his tongue to soothe the sting. You nod, mouth parted, unable to speak. He smiles again, dragging his tongue down your thigh. You think you might die right there. 

Hansol makes his way back up. He drags his burning gaze up to meet yours, deliberately making eye contact as he presses the flat of his tongue against your underwear. If it wasn’t soaked before, it is thoroughly drenched now. You suck in a sharp breath, knees closing on instinct to squeeze against his shoulders.

He chuckles, dragging his tongue upward where it presses against your clit momentarily. He brings one of his hands up, pressing his middle finger right against your hole. You feel yourself clench around nothing and you know he knows, his grin wicked. 

“Don’t worry,” Hansol promises with another languid lick to the soaked fabric. “I will make up for all the times you didn’t get to come.” 

“Fuck.”

Vernon (from IT) has been replaced with Hansol (the Menace). He hooks a finger in the crotch of your underwear, pulling them to the side. He drags a knuckle against your pussy on purpose, both of you groaning in unison. 

Eagerly Hansol leans forward, giving you a teasing lick. Your fingers dig into the mattress anyway. You can do nothing but stare at him, watching the way Hansol drags his dark eyes up to watch you as he drags his tongue through your folds again. 

“Shit,” you hiss at him, a shiver wracking your body.

He seems pleased, shooting you a quick smile before he brings his mouth to you again, sucking gently. He avoids your clit at first, working you up slowly. Hansol eats you out like he has all the time in the world, like there’s no where he would rather be than tonguing your pussy. 

It drives you mad, his name slipping from your lips in little gasps. His tongue circles your clit, applying pressure indirectly, working you up and up until finally, he closes his mouth around the throbbing bundle of nerves, suckling. 

“Ohhhh,” you laugh, half delirious. “That. Whatever that is.” 

He hums, parting only to say, “You got it.” 

You see God when he fastens his mouth to you, sucking your clit gently. Dropping back against the bed, you twitch and gasp under Hansol’s ministrations. He sets a rhythm, adding his fingers to the mix as they press against your entrance. He doesn’t push in, but rather traces a pattern, making you squeeze. 

Panting, you drop a hand to his hair. He hums in delight as you tangle your fingers in the strands, bringing him closer to your cunt. You feel like you’re burning up, your sheets sticking to your skin, the room spinning as Hansol eats you out in earnest now. 

No one has ever seemed this dedicated to your pleasure. He doesn’t let up for a second, fingers and mouth working in tandem to bring you to a cliff of insanity. All you have to do is jump and dive head first into an orgasm. 

You do. Hansol works you right to the very edge and you topple over, falling into it hard. You go taught but he holds you down, fighting your spasm as you come hard. He doesn’t miss a beat, the obscene sounds of him slurping at you drowning out the pitiful, high pitched whine that leaves you. 

In a wave of exhaustion, your orgasm subsides. You flop on the bed, still shaking as he removes his mouth in favor of pressing slick, cum-stained kisses to your thighs. You lift your head and his eyes meet yours, flashing wickedly. 

He pauses, looking at your wet, messy cunt back to your face. “Want a taste?”

Hansol (the Menace) is going to kill you.

You nod and he smirks. He runs his tongue generously up your pussy, making sure to dip into your entrance just a little before he stands up and leans over you to press a filthy kiss to your mouth. You suck at his tongue greedily, tasting yourself and him, a combination you’ll never get tired of. 

One of his hands snakes up to your chest, tweaking a nipple gently, testing the waters. You nod, breaking the kiss with a gasp, “Yeah.” 

“Gonna work you open with my fingers,” he slurs. He kisses down your neck again, working his way to your chest. “That okay?”

“More than okay.” 

“God,” he whispers. “You sound so fucking good when you come. Want to hear it again.” 

There is no doubt he will. Hansol rids you of your bra before returning to suck greedily at your chest. Your nails bite into his shoulders, dragging down his sides as he presses a finger into your warmth. 

“God damn,” he laughs. He plucks at a nipple with his teeth and you curse. “You’re so fucking wet.” 

“On the clock?”

“Fuck no. My finger is in your pussy.”

“I am really turned on.”

He gives your other breast a playful bite. “Good. Now I want you to come apart on my fingers.” 

That won’t be an issue. Hansol gets you there embarrassingly fast. He finds the sensitive spot inside of you with ease and doesn’t hold back, pressing another finger in. He works you toward another orgasm like it's easy - and maybe for the both of you, it is. Maybe Hansol was meant to have you like this, gushing around his fingers and babbling nonsense as you come again, his mouth pressed against your hammering heart. 

Maybe he was meant to have you fucked out and light-headed by the time you’re helping him out of his jeans, sliding his briefs down his muscular thighs to free his cock. The tip is dark and sticky, weeping with precum when he pins you to the bed, catching you in a bruising kiss.

Gone is the patient Hansol who had started with gentle kisses to your thighs, replaced by his need to have you. To consume you. You let him, willing to let him do whatever he wants. You want his pleasure just as much as he wants yours, slipping your hand between your bodies to palm his cock, heavy and warm in your hand.

He whispers your name and it sounds like a prayer. His forehead presses against yours, letting you pump him slowly. His hips twitch as though he’s fighting to control himself, letting you have your fun before he growls and grabs your hand, lacing your fingers to pin above your head. 

Hansol scoots you up the bed, putting you where he wants you. Gone is the sweet guy from IT, replaced with whatever this is. You like this side of him equally, listening to him when he asks you to lift your hips so he can slide a pillow under your ass.

With a kiss to your brow that feels sweeter than the moment allows for, Hansol lifts your leg, prying you open for him. His cock is heavy against your cunt and he ruts a little, making you both whine in tandem. 

“You still want this, right?” He asks, voice shaking. “For real?”

“Yes.” You squeeze the hand he has laced with yours, pinned to the mattress near your head. “On the clock. Off the clock. Literally all of the hours.” 

“What if I refuse to change your computer password?”

That makes you laugh. He gives you a glowing smile, kissing the tops of your cheekbones. “Even then,” you promise. 

“Good. Try breathing for me when you come this time.” You give him a look and he smiles. “Did you think you were done? I told you I was making up for lost time.” 

He doesn’t give you a second to retort, his cock pressing in at that exact moment. “Ohhh you fucker,” you moan and he laughs, which makes things worse. You squeeze around him hard, barely breathing as Hansol slides in to the hilt, the pressure and stretch divine. “You did that on purpose.”

“I did,” he admits before trapping you into an uncoordinated kiss. 

With one hand holding yours to the bed and the other sliding under your ass to help lift you with the pillow, Hansol sets a slow pace. You continue to kiss him, just as slow as he fucks you. He is deep, cock brushing against your g-spot on every upstroke. 

Your free hand slides to his lower back, urging him to keep going. His tempo is measured, perfect, the angle of his hips just right. You start to feel insane, mumbling his name, whining between kisses, making a pathetic noise when he increases his pace. 

Hansol fucks like he knows exactly how you like it. Of course he does. Even from the moment in that bookstore, he had you figured out. No one else has been able to adjust to you like he has, no one else has been able to understand - to see you. 

“Fuck,” he hisses when you start squeezing on him for harder and longer. He’s pushing you toward that edge again, so close you’re already seeing stars. “Pussy feels so good.” 

He shuffles up the bed more, folding you a little. You make a wild sound, gasping as the angle pushes his cock in deep. “Holy shit, Hansol.” 

“That the spot?” he asks, and you nod. He starts fucking you in earnest, pace picking up. “God damn I could do this all day.” 

“Keep doing that and I’ll let you.”

He laughs and kisses you again, all tongue and teeth. You start to spasm, feeling the way your muscles clench as you near your third orgasm. This one is tight in your stomach, a pressure that is so compact you feel like you’re going to combust.

“Breathe through it,” he reminds you, out of breath as he chases your high. “You can do that, yeah?”

You nod, saving your breath for when he tells you to use it. 

A few more hard strokes and you’re doing exactly as instructed, taking in a deep breath as your orgasm hits. You see white, shaking underneath Hansol as the warmth of your high blooms in your lower stomach and expands. It’s better than the first two, stretching longer, the feeling reaching to your toes. 

You manage to breathe all the way through it, barely hanging on as he fucks you through the entire length of your high. He presses his mouth to your temple, slowing his pace to let you recover. You feel melted, like your bones and muscles have all gone on vacation, leaving Hansol to do the work for you.

“Good?” he asks, breath fanning your face.

You nod and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close. “You,” you mumble. It’s not a complete sentence, but he gets what you mean, kissing you quickly before chasing his own high, gritting his teeth. 

As spent as you are, you do your part to help him get there, squeezing with what strength you have left, whispering his name, pulling him in close with a leg around his hip. It works, sending Hansol over the edge and spilling into you within a few seconds. 

He curses into your shoulder, pace turning sloppy until he finally stops, hips pressed to yours, cock sheathed to the hilt. Both of you stay like that, trying to catch your breath in a sweaty pile of limbs.

Hansol recovers first, shifting so that he can lay next to you. He pulls out, a mess of cum and fluid going with him. You don’t care, rolling to your side to kiss him slowly. Softly. He rests an arm over your hip, keeping you connected. 

“This is a great birthday,” he jokes, voice hoarse. “I uhhh, forgot there was a party. No one will think we’re fake dating now.” 

You grin. “Whatever. We’re not on the clock.” 

He kisses you again. “Thank god. Cause I really want to do this again in fifteen minutes.”

You smile, really glad that Hansol (the Boyfriend) is on the same page as you.

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[ariestrxsh]

shy!sub!chris x babysitter!reader

˚₊ · »-♡→ content warning: smut, mommy kink, age gap (Chris is 22 & reader is 28), innocence corruption, virginity loss, size kink, oral (m & f!receiving)

˚₊ · »-♡→ summary: chris runs into his old childhood babysitter, and their innocent reunion takes a turn when the two can't deny the sexual tension between them.

If the age gap or the fact that the reader used to babysit Chris bothers you, then don't read this fic ! The ones that get it, get it, and the ones that don't, dont.

Part 1 | Part 2 (final part)

Baby Sitter (part two)

"I have your shirt, Chris. See? Can't even tell it had coffee on it," you remarked, handing over his white tee as you stood on his doorstep.

"Wow, that's amazing," Chris gasped, holding it up and searching for the remnants of the mocha he'd spilled down the front of it, but there was no evidence of it having happened at all. "Thanks!" Chris replied, tossing the shirt over his shoulder.

"Dishsoap and white vinegar," you casually mentioned. "Good to know," Chris responded, leaning up against the door frame. "Whatcha got there?" He motioned towards the brown, paper bag you had clutched in your arm.

"I got you a couple of apartment warming gifts!" You announced, pulling out a fancy bottle of avocado oil from it. He gave you an inquisitive look as you passed it off. "You cook with it," you giggled, sensing his confusion.

"Right," Chris replied, pointing the bottle at you as if you said the words that were sitting at the tip of his tongue. "Thank you!" He added. "That's not all," you relayed, grabbing another fancy bottle from your shopping bag.

"Oh, I know what to do with this one," he chuckled, taking the rosé from you. "Yeah, I got you a big bottle. So you could share it with someone if you wanted," you suggested, nibbling on your bottom lip and flickering your gaze between his eyes and his mouth. He shrugged his shoulder.

"I-I don't know who I would share it with," he admitted, holding a bottle in each hand as he read the label on the avocado oil. You jokingly looked around as if you were about to volunteer a stranger from off the street, and then finally said, "I'm free. Maybe we could split it over dinner."

"Oh. Cool. Yeah. I don't have anything to eat here, though," he continued staring at the label, still completely oblivious to the fact that you were hoping he'd invite you into his apartment.

"Don't worry, Chris. I remember my first apartment. You're probably mostly living off of ramen and takeout. I figured you might like a home-cooked meal," you replied, gesturing towards your paper bag.

"Oh, that's nice of you," he said, staring at you like a deer in the headlights. "So. Can I come in, baby?" You finally asked, cocking your head to the side and batting your lashes in his direction.

"Yes. Please. Of course," he eagerly nodded, finally stepping to the side to let you in. He silently kicked himself as he slowly realized that's what you'd been alluding to with your body language the whole time you'd been standing on his door step.

You didn't mind, though. You found his social awkwardness endearing.

You entered his apartment, placing the bag on his marble countertop. "Hey, you cleaned. It looks really nice in here," you observed, smiling in his direction as you started to take off your fur coat.

"Thanks for noticing," Chris nervously replied, his eyes dropping to the low neck line of your powder blue top and the short hem of your tight, black skirt.

"Is spaghetti still your favorite, baby?" You asked him, slinging your coat over the back of a chair and pulling out the contents of the brown paper bag.

"It is. I haven't had homemade spaghetti in such a long time," Chris responded, unable to conceal his excitement, a smile spreading across his lips.

You rummaged through his cabinets, retrieving a pot, filling it with water, and bringing it to a boil on the stove. "Would you grab us some glasses for the wine?" You requested from the blue-eyed boy.

"Will red solo cups work?" Chris asked, opening his cabinet. You laughed. "Look in the bag. I came prepared," you responded, uncorking the wine. He reached into the bag, revealing two neatly wrapped glasses.

"You thought of everything, didn't you?" He asked, placing them delicately on the counter side-by-side. "The only thing I forgot is a condom. But I don't mind if you don't mind," you leaned in, softly purring into his ear. Chris nearly fell to his knees at your words.

"I-I don't mind," he stammered, wiping his sweaty hands off on the front of his sweatpants. You smirked, pouring a big glass for each of you.

"You ever had rosé before?" You inquired, corking the bottle back up. "No, I've never had wine before," he admitted, swirling the pink liquid around in the clear glass. You held your glass up, and he followed your lead.

"To all the firsts you're going to experience tonight," you seductively said as your glass softly clinked against his. He swallowed hard, his palms beginning to sweat again. You took a swig of your wine while you held your gaze on Chris, waiting for his reaction.

He hesitantly took a drink, but he was pleasantly surprised when he did. "It's sweet," he commented, nodding his head in approval.

"You like it?" You asked. "I do, actually," he told you before taking another sip. "You shaved," you observed, running the back of your hand over his soft face.

"I did. You noticed," he quietly replied, reaching up and touching his flushed cheek as a smile spread across his lips. He loved how attentive you were, pointing out all the things that most people missed.

"You know, I've missed you these past few days. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you," you admitted, taking his glass and setting it down on the counter next to yours. You placed your hand on his chest and leaned in to kiss his neck.

He bit back a moan, gently rolling his hips forward and pressing his erection against your hip. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you either," he returned the sentiment, his shakey hand wandering to the small of your back.

You bit down and gently sucked on his soft flesh right above his collarbone as he melted into you. "You know, I brought dessert, too," you told him, your voice taking on a suggestive tone.

"What did you bring?" He eagerly asked, trying to glimpse into your bag as you kissed his neck. "It's not in there, silly boy," you teased him, lightly tapping the tip of his nose with your finger. "Where is it?" He smirked at you.

"It's right.." you started to say, gently grabbing his wrist. "Here," you cooed, putting his hand up your skirt. You rested his palm on your heat, his fingers grazing your clit as his breath caught in his throat.

"You're not wearing any panties," he observed in a low whisper as he looked into your eyes, feeling the warmth radiating off of you. "Oops. I guess I forgot them," you smugly responded, your lips curling into a devious smile.

He started slowly running his middle finger up and down your slit. "It's getting so wet," he whimpered, his breath growing shallow.

"Are you excited to eat it?" You purred, running your manicured fingernails along his jawline. He nodded and dropped to his knees in front of you, leaning in to taste you, but you stopped him.

"No, baby. Not yet. You're gonna spoil your dinner," you taunted him, running your thumb softly along his jawline. "But I wanna eat my dessert now, mommy" he pleaded with you, staring up your skirt. You shook your head.

"Just one little taste.." he whispered, rubbing your clit in small circles. "Christopher Owen," you scolded him, lightly swatting him in the face and gently tightening your grip on his jaw. "Be a good boy and listen to mommy."

His desperate, blue eyes gazed back at yours, and he slowly nodded as he stood back up. He was completely under your spell.

He wiped some sweat from his brow with the back of his trembling hand and picked up his glass of wine, lifting it to his lips and taking a sip to distract himself. He felt the buzz coming on, but he couldn't tell if it was the alcohol or if it was all the blood rushing to his dick that was leaving him feeling lightheaded.

"You wanna know the trick to keeping your noodles from sticking together?" You asked him as you turned your attention back to the now boiling pot. He could barely focus on what you were saying over how hard you made him, so he just weakly nodded in response.

"Add salt to the water right before you put the pasta in," you replied, gathering all your seasonings. You added a few shakes of salt into the rumbling, hot water, and then you emptied the box of angel hair noodles into it.

"Then we wanna keep stirring it around every couple of minutes until it's soft enough to eat," you taught him, taking your wooden spoon and agitating the pot. All he could think about was how you weren't wearing any underwear beneath your short skirt.

"Here. Take this. You keep stirring while I prepare the meat," you directed him, your fingertips lightly brushing against his as you passed off the utensil to him. He felt a current of energy passing through his body as you grazed him, and you felt it, too.

He did as you said, stirring the pasta as you splashed a bit of avocado oil into the hot pan on the front left burner and started to brown the ground beef. You shook some salt, pepper, garlic powder, onion powder, and Italian seasoning into the meat and started cooking it.

His blue eyes fell to your figure as he wet his lips. He was almost certain you were going to try to sleep with him tonight, and while he was excited to finally lose his virginity, especially to you, he was nervous to lose it, especially to you.

His heart pounded in his ears, and thoughts raced through his mind, imagining how you'd taste, what you'd sound like, what you'd feel like.

"Did you hear me?" You asked, nudging him in the arm. "Huh?" He replied, realizing your lips had been moving the whole time, but he'd been too busy having dirty thoughts about you to register what you were saying.

You peered down at the tent in his sweats and smirked back up at him. "Whatcha thinking about?" You cooed as if you hadn't just teased him relentlessly while standing in his kitchen without any panties on.

He blushed and let out a laugh. "I'm sorry. I get hard so easily," Chris nervously apologized, nibbling on his lip and trying to hide his erection. "I don't mind," you smirked at him.

The two of you finished making food, made your plates, and sat down to eat. You teased him throughout dinner, running your foot up his leg and making flirtatious comments as you made eyes at him in the glow of the candlelight.

You poured yourself a second glass of wine and then another one. Before you knew it, you and Chris had nearly finished off the bottle, and the sexual tension between the two of you was growing.

"You don't mind if I stay the night here, do you? I've had a lot of wine," you asked him, slightly slurring your words as you twirled your noodles around your fork. "No, I don't mind at all," he replied nervously, taking the last bite of his spaghetti.

"You still get nightmares?" You wondered, taking a sip of your wine. He let out a small chuckle. "What's so funny?" You asked.

"I hate to break this to you, but I never really had an issue with nightmares, not since I was really little," he nervously confessed, fidgeting with the base of his glass.

"What? What about all those bad dreams you used to have when I babysat you?" You inquired, looking puzzled. "I was faking," he said, biting back a grin.

"Christopher," you replied sharply, glaring in his direction and slugging him in the arm. There was a bit of real anger behind your tone.

You'd spent many nights worrying about Chris and his bad dreams. So much to the point that it had cut into your own sleep on many occasions and caused issues in your relationship, which didn't matter in hindsight, considering how much an asshole your boyfriend at the time was.

Chris, on the other hand, loved how genuinely you cared for him, and the way you'd always drop everything to lull him back to sleep with your warm, inviting voice and the soft caress of your hand against his cheek.

You couldn't stay mad at him, though. In a lot of ways you found it endearing how much he wanted to be around you, but you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that an eleven-year-old had come up with such an elaborate scheme.

"I know, I know. I just wanted you in my bed," he smirked. "Naughty boy," you rolled your eyes. "Maybe I'll pretend to have one tonight, so you'll have to come to bed with me and help me back to sleep," he lustfully responded. "Yeah? I bet I know how to tire you out," you flirted back.

His cock strained at the cotton fabric of his pants as you stared into his eyes, wetting your lips and parting your legs to give Chris another glimpse at what you had between them. He nibbled on his bottom lip, his sparkling eyes traveling to your glistening folds.

"Can I eat my dessert now, mommy?" He sweetly asked, but you slammed your legs shut and gave him a mischevious look.

Now what? He thought to himself, wondering what hoop you were going to make him jump through next before giving him what he wanted.

"I want mine first," you snickered, kneeling down in front of him and tugging at his sweats. He swallowed hard, looking down at you wide-eyed, but he listened, lifting his hips and allowing you to pull them down just enough for his cock to spring out of them.

You could sense how tense and nervous he was, literally sitting on the edge of his seat and his breath growing shallow and irregular.

"You're so hard," you observed, wrapping your fingers around his thickness and stroking it up and down. "All for me?" You cooed, watching a bit of precum gather at his tip.

"Yes, mommy," Chris said in a gravelly whisper. "All for you," he eagerly nodded, waiting in anticipation for what you were about to do next.

You leaned in, planting a kiss on his swollen head and slurping up the clear liquid from his slit. His cock twitched in response. You felt his whole body relax beneath you.

He slowly sunk back into his chair as he gave himself over to the wonderful feeling of your tongue fluttering around on all his sensitive nerve endings. "No one's ever done that to me before," he admitted in a timid voice as you wrapped your lips around his swollen tip and gently suckled on it.

"You like it, don't you?" You cooed before licking a long stripe from the base of his shaft all the way up his length and slipping him back into your mouth again.

"Mhmm," he whined, nodding as his hands found their way to your shoulders. He gently dug his fingernails into your back as you combined the two techniques, swirling your tongue around on his tip while you created a bit of suction.

He had always fantasized about getting head, but he didn't know it could feel this magical. He adored every subtle motion as you learned what he liked best.

His hand tenderly grazed the back of your head as he silently encouraged you to take more of him. You smirked, sliding down his length, feeling every vein with your tongue and swallowing him inch-by-inch until your nose was pressed up against his lower abdomen.

"Oh, yes. Just like that mommy," Chris pathetically whimpered as you hummed against the base of his cock. He slid down further into his chair, his eyes locked on the way your lips stretched around him.

You started bobbing your head up and down, eliciting a few soft gagging noises from you. The sound of you lightly choking on his dick drove Chris crazy.

He brushed a stray hair out of your face and placed both his hands on your ears as he tossed his head back and let out a strangled moan. He lifted his hips, driving his cock further into your throat. You could feel him quivering against your tongue as you slid back up his length, pulling your mouth off of him with a pop.

His lips curled into a smile as he peered back down at you. "Mommy. I was so close," he whimpered, his chest rising and falling with his labored breath.

"I know, pretty boy, but we gotta clean the kitchen before you can cum," you taunted him, climbing to your feet.

He licked his pouty lips as he let out a defeated sigh and pulled his sweats back on over his hard cock. He followed you to the kitchen, dragging his feet and silently throwing a fit about not being able to finish.

You put away the leftovers while Chris did the dishes, the whole time his cock aching at the absence of your mouth.

His erection was pinned between his stomach and the lip of the counter, and as he squeezed the excess water out of the sponge, he found himself rutting his hips forward and gently grinding against the marble finish.

You hoisted yourself up onto the countertop beside him and whispered in his ear, "Easy. You better not cum in your pants or mommy's gonna be really mad at you."

A pained whine drifted to your ears as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth and nodded. He went back to the dishes, trying to ignore his raging boner and trying to keep himself from rubbing up against the furniture like a dog in heat.

As he finished up drying off the last plate, you hiked up your skirt and flashed him your pussy again. His eyes widened, and his tongue darted out and slithered over his lips.

"Please, mommy. Can I have my dessert now?" He begged you, his voice saturated with lust and his eyebrows furrowed together in a look of desperation. "Yes, pretty boy. Come eat it," you nodded, spreading your labia open with two of your fingers.

He kneeled down in front of you, nervously leaning in to close the distance between his mouth and your cunt. You felt his warm breath first and the tickle of his smooth cheek grazing the inside of your thigh. He planted a delicate kiss on your pussy, causing you to grip his soft hair and gently tug on it.

He moaned against your sensitive bundle of nerves before gripping your legs and pulling you closer to him. Your mouth curled into a smile as he placed his hands on the insides of your thighs, pushing them as far apart as they could go. He gently nuzzled your clit before his pretty blue eyes flicked backed up at you, silently asking for your validation.

"Good boy. You're doing a perfect job. You're a natural," you praised him, running your fingers through his brown locks. That was all he needed to boost his confidence.

His kisses became more deliberate and more passionate as he drooled all over your cunt, periodically slurping up the mixture of his saliva and your wetness. You squirmed and squealed beneath him, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs while he kissed, licked, and sucked on your sensitive area.

"Mommy, you taste so sweet," he complimented you, coming up for air for a moment. He lapped away, his tongue swirling around on your delicate folds as you started to tremble beneath him. "Chris.." you hissed, your body tightening.

Your head fell back against the wooden cabinet behind you as your eyes rolled to the back of your head. He couldn't tell if he was wine drunk or pussy drunk, but a warm, fuzzy sensation overpowered him as he lost himself in you, forgetting the boundary between his mouth and your heat.

He almost couldn't believe that he was making you feel that good, but the way your body was reacting to him seemed genuine. A few loud moans fell from your lips as you shivered, finishing onto his velvet tongue.

"Wow," you whispered, panting as you tried to regain your composure. "Was that your first time eating pussy?" You asked him, still gently combing through his hair with your fingers. He peered up at you, timidly nodding.

"That was the best head I've ever gotten, Chris. Your tongue is every girl's dream," you giggled, reaching for the hem of Chris' shirt. He loved the way you showered him in compliments. "Please. Take this off, and put your big cock in me."

"Big?" He whispered, looking into your eyes. "What? Does that surprise you, baby? That you're big?" You asked him, helping him take off his shirt. He slowly nodded, pulling his dick back out of his sweats and peering down at it as he lined it up with your entrance.

"You gotta be gentle with me at first because of how big it is, okay?" You cooed, biting back a smirk. You knew you could handle it, but you knew your words were like music to his ears.

"Okay," he replied, gently tapping it against your clit before slipping the tip into your hole. It felt better than he ever could have imagined. He gingerly rocked his hips back and forth, allowing you to get used to his size as he firmly placed his hands on your hips.

His jaw fell slack, and a look of pleasure seeped into his expression. It took everything in him to go slow and gentle, trying so hard not to get carried away. A couple faint whines unfurled from your lips, and Chris immediately stopped, glancing up at you.

"Are you okay? Am I hurting you?" He sweetly asked, concerned that the noises you were making were out of pain. "No, baby. I'm making those sounds because it feels really good. Go deeper," you whispered, tenderly cradling his face.

"Yes, mommy," he whimpered, fucking you a little deeper and a little faster. He leaned in to kiss you, your lips locking with his as you pushed your tongue into his mouth. His shaky hand slid up the hem of your shirt, and he gently squeezed your breast, noting to himself that you also hadn't worn a bra.

The soft clicking sounds of your mouth filled the space between you. You could taste the rosé mixed with the flavor of your pussy on his tongue as you pulled him deeper into the kiss. He felt completely intoxicated - drunk off of the wine and drunk off of you.

Once he pulled back, his eyes wandered between your legs. He took in the lovely sight of your pussy expanding around his girth.

"Harder, baby. Fuck me harder," you ordered him, resting your hand on his chest and feeling his sped up heart rate. You heard his breath quicken as he picked up the pace.

He pushed up your pretty, blue top, exposing your tits. He was immediately enamored with them, gently pinching your nipples between his fingers and listening to the pretty sounds that left your mouth as he played with you.

"Suck on them, baby," you directed him, and he nodded, leaning in to take each one into his mouth as he squeezed each one in each hand.

"Such a good boy," you purred, petting the back of his head and massaging his scalp with your manicured nails. He whimpered against your breast, the vibration sending pleasure through your nipple and causing you to clench around his cock.

"Faster, Chris. Faster," you demanded, feeling yourself getting closer and closer. "Fuck," Chris muttered, stopping abruptly. You felt his cock pulsating inside of you. He was afraid if he moved at all, it would send him over the edge before he could finish you off.

"What's the matter, baby? Hmm? Why'd you stop?" You cooed, cradling his head and pushing his face into your breasts. "So close, mommy," he whimpered, holding his body still and using every last ounce of willpower to keep from drilling into you and letting his orgasm run its course.

"Fuck. I can't," he whined, pulling out of you and waiting for the feeling to subside. "It's okay, baby. Yes, you can. Take a breather," you encouraged him, placing a hand on either side of his head with his nose just inches from yours as you peered into his beautiful, blue eyes. He nodded, taking a few deep breaths.

After a few moments of fending off his climax, he slid it back in, letting it go in all the way before pulling out again. He watched in awe at the way you stretched so perfectly around him as he plunged into you with his thick cock over and over again.

"I wanna turn you around so bad," he whispered, peering into your eyes as he pulled out again. You hoisted yourself off of the counter, spinning around, and propping your leg up on the edge of the marble cuntertop.

"Give it to me, pretty boy. Fuck me as hard and as fast as you can," you instructed him. "Yes, mommy," he answered, pushing up your tight skirt and slipping his length into your cunt from the back. He loved being told what to do by you.

"Good boy," you moaned as he started pistoning his hips forward, driving his cock deep into your drooling pussy as he reached around and grabbed a handful of your breast.

You could feel his hot breath against your ear and hear his pretty moans as he fucked you with all his strength. "Oh, Chris.. so big.. gonna cum.. gonna cum all over your big cock," you babbled as you shook violently.

Your orgasm hit your system, feeling like a series of explosions going off in your body. You tightly gripped the edge of the cool, marble counter as you clenched around him again, finishing all over his rod. Your juices flowed down the sides of his dick as he railed you, extracting your climax from you.

"Good boy. You made me cum all over it," you breathlessly whimpered, trying to catch your breath. A satisfied smile started in the corner of his lip as he realized he'd made you finish. "Fill me up, Chris," you demanded, letting your head fall back against his chest as he pounded into you.

He couldn't take it anymore. The feeling of your pussy convulsing around him and your words encouraging him to shoot his load inside of you, it was all too much.

He delivered a few more powerful thrusts, jerking his hips forward and triggering his own orgasm. His strokes slowed to a stop as he filled you to the brim, pumping you full of his liquid.

Pleasure coursed through him, leaving him feeling completely drained after, but in the best way, like he'd just finished running a marathon and had won first place.

He finally pulled out of you, nearly collapsing onto the floor and having to steady himself on the counter as all the blood rushed back to the rest of his body.

You spun back around, hoisting yourself back up onto the marble counter and spreading your legs and your puffy lips open for him again.

"Look at how much you came," you smirked, putting yourself on display for him as his thick, sticky fluid leaked from your cunt. He focused his blurry vision on the way it gushed out of you every time you clenched around nothing.

"Oh my god. It looks perfect," he responded, admiring the mess he made before slumping over and nestling his nose in the crook of your neck. A wave of embarrassment overcame him, wondering if he'd done a good job or if he was too awkward or shy about it all.

"Was I o-okay?" He nervously asked, his voice becoming small and shakey. "Chris. I can't feel my legs," you chuckled back in response. "Is th-that a good thing?" He timidly asked. "It's a great thing, Chris. You give the best dick. Best I've ever had in my life."

Your praises had blood rushing back to his cock, and it sprung to life once more.

"Oh, don't tell me that. You're gonna make me wanna give it to you again," Chris whispered as you felt his erection poking you in the thigh. You chuckled, surprised by his stamina.

"Give it to me again, baby. I promise. I can take it."

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[haztory]

october 17th ♡

– ceo!kuroo tetsurou x assistant!reader; timeskip au, slow burn, mutual pining

– summary: It’s October 17th. The day of which you can never get a semblance of peace. It’s the start of volleyball season.

part one

a/n: i saw the hq movie and remembered my roots. it's kuroo time. love that man. (w.c.: 6.4k)

It’s October 17th, your desk calendar tells you. 

Marked in a quick circle in bold red pen for emphasis. Not like you could forget it, what with the building buzz that seems to escalate with every hour and the excited greetings bubbling in the office. And certainly you couldn’t forget the date with your boss reminding you of it every single chance he could get.

It’s October 17th. The day of which you can never get a semblance of peace. It’s the start of volleyball season. There’s a tally sheet in your mind that holds eight marks— one for every time he’s mentioned the damn day— and it’s not even time for your second cup of coffee. 

The most wonderful time of the year, according to Kuroo. 

There’s a pep in his step as he juggles his briefcase and files between hands and skips towards his third meeting of the day. His phone is tucked between his ear and shoulder, swarmed in the air of chaos and yet, there’s a wide smile on his face. Toothy and eager, almost maniacal. An exhilarated man, the ringmaster of madness, preparing a show for thousands with only coffee and sheer enthusiasm running through his veins. 

The tiles beneath his feet practically turn golden as he passes by. 

He stops before your desk on his way out, phone dutifully tucked yet ignored as he meets your gaze with burning excitement. The chatter on the other end of the line is audible, and he really should be listening to it, but instead his focus is maintained on you. You raise a brow in question, fingers hovering over the keyboard to your computer and e-mail to the finance department woefully on hold as your boss stares at you. 

Tufts of his hair are pulled in various ways, the standard for a busy morning, and the sleeves of his white button down are rolled up to his elbows displaying the veins that no doubt pulse excitedly; But the most revealing part of him, the most captivating part in his day of havoc, are his eyes. 

Honey auburn that burns alight in sheer joy— the kind of happiness that he wants you to revel in, hopes to convey in the intensity of his gaze. Sticky honey brown that coats the inside of your stomach and fills you with warmth. A gleam that can make flowers bloom with just his simple gaze.  

Slowly, he points his finger towards your calendar that’s displayed clearly for the regular passerby. Fingertip presses the red circle on the paper, emphasizing the words scribbled inside of it detailing the events of the day. 

1st Day of Volleyball Season!

His smile splits his face into two. You add another tally to the sheet.  

Indulging him with a grin would be encouraging juvenile behavior, so it takes everything in you to bite back the tugging of your lips and instead roll your eyes. It doesn’t deter him. He all but clicks his heels together as he prances out the door, throwing his fist holding his briefcase in the air with a silent cheer, and answering whatever question was posed to him on the other end of his line.

It’s October 17th, Kuroo’s favorite day of the year. 

Yours, too. 

Although, you would never tell him that.

-

The starting game of MSBY vs. Tachibana Red Falcons is a match predicted to be vicious and brutal. Considering Japan’s top players had more than proved themselves to be powerhouses during the Nations League Tournament over the summer, the star power and media attention given to the players has given the entrance game to the season an anticipation that could not be tamed— not that anyone in the marketing department would want it to be. 

The players this year have been nothing short of top tier athleticism— a detail that so graciously fell into the JVA’s hands and became their capitalized advertisement. 

An unmatched season! A trial of power and speed! Japan’s best players go head-to-head in the best playoffs Japan has ever seen!

Kuroo practically played the lottery every morning with luck like this. 

The Ariake Arena fills up like a lightning flood, waves of bodies decorated with black and red filling seats with heightened excitement. It vibrates throughout the stadium, transcends beyond the high beams and open space. It fills and suffocates until all that can be seen, heard, and felt is pure, unadulterated energy. It’s a straight shot of adrenaline to the heart. It’s the taste of a sweet memory. 

The sound of excitement from guests and vendors steadily rises and Kuroo buzzes in place. His shoes tap incessantly on the wooden floor, fingers flutter with anticipation as he adjusts, then readjusts, the now wrinkled tie across his neck. His cheeks ache from the endless smile that pushes on them. 

Carefully moved chess pieces, endless phone calls, and retina-burning contracts with sponsors have finally gotten him here: To the sweet smell of cool conditioned air and freshly waxed floors, to the sounds of chants and joy, to the sight of his successfully pitched logo printed beneath Miya Atsumu’s smug face on the large banner tacked on the left side of the arena. The veneration on his face is one that finds itself familiar to veterans. Standing on the shining hardwood of the court, his hands finally find rest on his hips, his gaze stilling at the sight of his months-long work. 

Pride doesn’t really do much justice to the feelings inside of him— but damn if it isn’t a close enough guess. His hard work finally actualized, but it’s only just really beginning. This is where his fun begins, the shining light, the gentle reminder of how much he loves his job.

October 17th, the best day of the year.

“We need to see the players before warm-ups begin.” Kuroo says after a moment, not even needing to spare a glance backwards to see if you’ve heard him. Such is the consequence of having a good assistant, one that, even with all the eye rolls and dragging sighs, is always a step ahead of him.

“Coach Foster said that he could spare us ten minutes before he gives his locker room speech. Coach Sato said the same.” You tell your boss, stepping beside him as his eyes follow the movements of staff members dragging carts of volleyballs to their respective places. An approving look settles on his face, a delightful perusal.

There's a tablet held in your arms as you notate on a timetable, presumably a schedule with detailed notes that Kuroo has to be on in order for the evening to go well. Probably one you've put a lot of time and effort into. Knowing you, it’s probably color coded. A schedule that he would do well by both you and the company in abiding by.

He shoves his hand between the tablet and your fixed stare, wiggling his fingers obnoxiously in front of the work that holds your dutiful attention. "Stop paying attention to that and look around you. Smell the air! What is it you smell?"

The excitement held so passionately in his eyes bore into your unimpressed ones. "Stale popcorn and lemon cleaner, Kuroo-san."

"So negative, I think the long work days are finally getting to you."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Not mine. You love me too much to quit." He grins. He gestures his hand outward, panning it across the stadium to the sight of guests filling the seats. "It's the smell of anticipation! The promise of a worthwhile game! How can you not be excited?”

A ping resounds on your tablet that draws your gaze back down to the schedule. It’s a message from the volunteer coordinator. You write a note in the margin—volunteers in break room at 8:45, give thanks and gifts at 9.

"It’s hard to be excited when you keep yapping in my ear about what day it is." You mutter distractedly.

"You're telling me," Suddenly his fingers are poking into the skin of your cheeks, lifting the skin upward in a manufactured smile, "You look frightening." 

You swat his hands away, your own palms connecting with his in a vicious slap. "If we don't get started now you're going to be late in meeting the President of the JVA at his box seats." 

Kuroo waves his hand nonchalantly. "Ah, he'll wait for me. I am the reason we’ve got a turnout like this. It's the least he could do."

You roll your eyes, formality lost as you address your boss. "It's about the principle of it, Tetsu. He'll be upset."

"Have you forgotten what day it is? How can anyone be upset on this day?"

You stare at him in violent silence clearly exposing the extent of your disdain for him at this moment. It’s a futile endeavor. Your stare only fuels the fire of his need for provocation tenfold. His smile widens, teeth bearing a shit-eating grin. With little remorse, you tell him, "You're very annoying when you're happy."

His head tilts backward in a laugh, lean and tall figure elongating with the motion as he, genuinely, finds himself amused. “And you're even meaner than usual when I am. C’mon, let’s pay the Jackals a visit.” Accompanying the turn of his body, he taps the tip of your nose with his slender finger and begins a trek towards the main entrance leading to the corridors of the arena.

“No.” Your quick retort is the popping of a balloon. He deflates, hands thrown upward in exasperation as he turns around to face you once more. You swear he stomps his feet. 

"God, what now?"

“Favoritism.”

He balks with a furrow on his brow, “Pardon?”

“Favoritism. It’s obvious to everyone in this building who you’re rooting for, so we need to minimize those details before someone catches wind and decides to tell the press that the games are rigged.”

“Now, that is an outrageous idea. No respectable reporter would use my words against me.” Kuroo smiles, annoyingly, confidently. To which your stare only digs further into him, the infamous memory of last year’s season playing quite clearly across your face in which his sarcastic comment about players salaries made headlines and resulted in a week of endless phone calls to your office.

“JVA DIRECTOR STATES DIV. ONE PLAYERS WILL NOT RECEIVE SPONSORSHIP BONUSES AFTER ASTOUNDING SEASON AS ‘WE DON’T PAY FOR MEDIOCRITY AND THESE PLAYERS SUCK, OBVIOUSLY’.”

It’s the conveyance of death in your eyes alone that really gets him going. Truly, there’s no one more impressive than you. 

“I said, respectable.” Kuroo emphasizes, hardly batting an eye as you walk past him. 

“C’mon. Coach Sato is waiting with the Falcons.”

“The favoritism allegation is ridiculous. Ask around the office, no one is able to tell that you’re my least favorite of them all.” He follows you into the hallway without prompting like the well-trained dog you’ve made him to be, “That’s how good I am.”

You turn back to look at him, “Oh, sure. So the names Bokuto and Hinata don’t mean anything to you?”

Biting back a smirk, he says, “I have no idea who you’re referring to.”

—

In the aftermath of a worthwhile game and an impressive start to the season, the stadium quickly finds itself abandoned. Scores of people taking to the street to celebrate their win or drink their sorrows away, their raucous din and lived delight exiting with them, leaving only a barren arena—save for the remaining staff who dutifully tidy the empty aisles and clean the floors. Yet, even with their humble presence, it’s quiet. Only the light echoing of shoes and brooms on the floor, the rolling of carts, the sounds of vacuums filling the space and providing life. 

And standing on the second floor of the arena, leaning his body against the railing overlooking the court, Kuroo finally gets a second to just look.

There are very few times in which Kuroo is quiet. Or rather, there are very few times where he gets the chance to be. 

It’s hard to walk the line between professional and man, not that he does a good job at it on a regular day. It's an all-consuming persona and his job demands the full devotion of mind, body, and spirit despite the relative nonurgency that comes with being a Marketing Director. And while he’s never been known for his outstanding polish as a young professional— particularly within the confines of his office— Kuroo has never not been one to commit. What is demanded of him is what he gives, and more. 

These days he’s finding it almost impossible to switch the hat of boss for the one of man. The lines between the two become even more blurred with each passing day that he spends another sleepless night in the office, attends another soul sucking meeting that could have truly just been an email, brown noses at people with titles and credentials that he cannot bear to remember for the sake of money. 

Humanity slowly depletes when met with the four walls of an office that never changes shades.  Moments like this are brief allowances. The empty stadium is conducive to the quick slip into a memory, the removal of the permanent hat for the other one. 

The game played not even an hour ago is replaced with that of what he remembers.  The once erratic beat of his heart before the blown whistle, the feel of burning muscles in his calves, and the sting of the ball on his skin; He can almost taste the salt of the disappointment of a lost match, and the sweetness of the joy the game gave him. If he tries, Kuroo can recall the last time that he was on a court just like the one before him and remember just how wonderful it once was.

The sweet memory of it all. A sliver of happiness that he keeps stowed away in the back of his mind, meant only to be pulled out in times of emergency. When life gets too loud and work becomes exactly what it is—work. It’s the needed reprieve, the gentle vice. But much like everything else these days, it lasts for only a lingering moment before it fades into the nothingness of everything else. 

There isn’t one particular thought that he can train on. He couldn’t even tell anyone what exactly it is that he thinks about, for it all blends together into the great variation of everything. A hectic whirlwind of things that fall over one another as they fight to take his attention. 

The game schedule for tomorrow, the invoices he needs to have approved, the mountain of unread emails relating to a media sponsorship that needs to be finalized by the end of the month, the leadership training that he needs to attend next week. Seeing Bokuto and Hinata before the game was a slip of the hat into the relative calm of youth that he remembers so fondly, he should probably try and hang out with them more. His social life is already pitiful. There’s also the fact that he has to go grocery shopping since he just ran out of instant noodles, unless he wants to have takeout again—but he’s already racked up quite the bill this month in takeout alone and he hasn’t been able to go to the gym enough to counteract those great decisions. He needs to return his sister’s phone call, something he keeps prolonging, not because he doesn’t care to know the details about his nephew’s birthday party next Sunday but rather because that will inevitably lead to the discussion about their father’s well-being and truthfully, that’s not a can of worms he’s willing to open just yet. And also—

“Hey.”

Kuroo’s head snaps towards the intrusion, towards the voice that cuts through the storm of flying thoughts and stills them in their rampage. 

You stand behind him, your blazer thrown over your purse and the sleeves of your dress shirt rolled up to your elbows. Your hair is no longer the neat style you had at the beginning of the event, but instead the reflection of a long work day. Your own work hat stowed somewhere deep in your purse, in favor of someone he’s rather fond of. 

“Hey.” He returns, surprised but pleased. He had figured at the end of the game you would have made haste with the exiting crowd. Your duties done for the day, the schedule you made him stick to like glue finished and completed. Any other person would have run for the doors and be home by now. 

But, here you are. Standing with a content smile on your face and a softening in your eyes as you meet his gaze. (Truthfully, he should know better. You’ve never been one to just leave without telling him, whether directly or through email, for home or for a date. Hell, you all but yell your plans in his face just to reduce the risk of confusion. But he assumes, still, that you’re smarter than him. That you know when to call it quits on a work day and head home. 

He conveniently forgets that, above all, you’re good at your job. You never listen, too stubborn and insistent on doing your duties even when he tells you to go home early; to not worry about the final details on a draft or a missed message; tells you that he can handle it. That’s never been you, because aside from being fantastic at being his assistant, you’ve been committed to your craft no matter what it is. You care too much about your job and the things it affects. 

Because that’s who you are. It’s who you’ve always been. It’s what he knows to be true and violent about you, and it's what he’s been able to see blossom since working with you. So, of course you’re here. Waiting for him, because that’s what you do. Commit to being there for him, through and through. 

Because you’re his assistant, of course. 

Just his assistant. That’s all.)

He stands straighter, manners not entirely drilled out of his subconscious, even if he was distracted. A beat passes, he looking at you and you looking at him, before he, finally, extends a hand— inviting you to join him. You do, settling next to him on the rail, and gazing over the object of his fixation. 

It’s a content silence. The inhale of the aftermath, the exhale of the preparation. One you both know the extent of, have shared too many late nights for. There’s great relief in being able to revel in the fruits of one’s labor, but there’s something all the more satisfying in knowing someone else was basking in that reward too. In not being entirely alone, despite the job often making him feel.

This is your moment just as much as it is his, something he’s never been more convinced of. 

Much of the success belonging to him would be nothing if not for your firm foundation, the depth of your support for not only him, but the game. The wondrous, joyous game. 

 It’s only a moment or two of the stillness between you two before you gently disturb it. 

“Today went well.” You tell him. 

He gives an affirmative hum, a small smile befalling on his face. Folding his arms across his chest, he tilts his head from side to side in consideration. “You don’t think the banner was too big?”

“It’s no bigger than it usually is.” You shrug and he hums again. 

Another beat, then he says, “Did you notice the photo?”

“On the banner?” You ask. 

“Yeah.”

“I did.”

“Good.” He says, resolutely, looking over the arena once more as two staff members begin folding up the commentators chairs on the sidelines of the court, “You chose it.”

“I know.” You say. He smiles again, a happy and content one; and you would tease him about it— (about the fact that he’s smiling as though this were a great victory fought between the marketing department and the photography studio, one that he emerged victorious in fighting tooth and nail for your input instead of the reality of the situation. 

It was a cloudlink sent to his email on a Tuesday afternoon, filled with prints of various D1 players that he was asked to provide input on. A task that he, then, delegated to you by calling you into his office on your lunch break and having you play eenie-meenie-miny-moe with him. With a sandwich held firmly in your hand and Kuroo pecking at his snack bag of trail mix, you point to the smug face of Miya Atsumu.

“It’s because of the smile, right?” He had asked, his eyes squinting and head tilted to the side as though that would give him better understanding of the man’s face. “He’s a great player. He just has the look of a winner.”

“I don’t know. I just think he’s hot.” You tell him simply.

Kuroo chokes on a peanut. You laugh. He sends your choice over to the graphic design team.)

—but you let him have the small win. Four years of working together has taught you which of the battles to fight, and truthfully, there aren’t that many that you don’t give to him. Admitting sucha  thing, however, would be a violation of everything you hold dear to your job so you obviously omit that. 

Kuroo speaks once more, his voice soft as he continues to regard the court. “You did a good job today.”

There’s no tease in him, no wry smile or setup for a joke that you’re clearly walking into. For all intents and purposes, Kuroo Testurou stands before you as a man with more than his guard down. He stands honestly, made soft and tender by the trials of a hard work day and the victory of his labor. 

The kind of man you know him to be, that you hold such deep admiration for. 

“Thank you, Tetsu.” For fear of disrupting the quiet that surrounds the arena or fear of shattering the genuineness of the moment, you respond in kind. Equally gentle when you tell him earnestly, honestly, “So did you, but that’s not new.”

You feel it before you can even see or hear it. The turning of the tide, the impending slant of his smile; The red alert alarm that you have built into your head for Tetsurou’s moments of snarkiness blaring loudly. 

The taunt is on its way and you begin a rebuttal before he even opens his mouth. Kuroo’s face contorts into an exaggerated look of disbelief.

“We were having—”

“I cannot believe it—” 

“—a nice moment!”

“—Is that a compliment I hear?”

Rolling your eyes, you turn your head away from him. “If you’re going to act like that—”

“No, no! Can’t take it back. You said it already.” 

“Nope. I formally recant my statement—”

“Ooh, big word—”

“—I forswear what I said—”

“—Forswear?! How do you even know what that means?”

“—You did an adequate job. Actually, you did exactly what was expected of you. Nothing more.”

“C’mon, give me some credit. You weren’t expecting me to land that invite for that GQ party next month. And how did I do that? Remind me one more time?” Kuroo leans his head towards you, tapping his ear repeatedly. 

“By doing your job.” You insist and he throws his head to the side in hurt.

“By being the best at my job.”

“They invited you because you were badgering them in the box seats. What did you bribe them with?”

He levels a steady smirk at you, “Sounds like someone doesn’t want to go.”

You gasp, eyes narrowing, “You wouldn’t.”

“Admit it, then.” He grins.

“Admit what! That I kept you on schedule for the day so that you could actually do your job and get us the invites? Then I will admit that I did my job excellently.” You poke your finger into his chest repeatedly and he laughs.

He agrees with a small nod of his head, smiling widely, knowingly. “You did.” 

“I did.” You affirm. “And with enough time to factor in potty breaks. Plural.”

Kuroo laughs again, incredulously, “Potty. Who even says that anymore?”

“Me. Your lovely, amazing assistant that you are definitely taking to the GQ party.”

Kuroo’s gaze fixes on yours, held firmly as the grin lingering so resolutely on his face reaches up to his eyes. The conversation peters out into another gentle silence, ambers meeting yours in a steady embrace, and voicing what remains to be said. Held tightly by the reciprocity of your own gaze.

It happens, then. The quiet kindling that has become so familiar between he and you. The settling of a warmth between the space that has been occurring more frequently; Found only in times like this. When laughter dissipates and ease takes over. When it becomes glaringly obvious that you enjoy your boss’s company a little more than you probably should, and that he doesn’t necessarily mind you all that much. There isn’t much to say about it even though your tongue feels heavy in your mouth and fiction dictates that this is the moment where someone should say something.

But what is there to say at this moment to the man who signs your paychecks? Who eggs you on in ways that no one would even bother to do? What could you express other than profound admiration and deep annoyances over his character? What could you tell him that he doesn’t already know? 

(Maybe the truth that is buried deep within you. One that you haven’t admitted to yourself because honestly, you aren’t even sure you believe it yourself.

There’s bound to be affections shared between two people who work in such close proximity as you two. Regard, appreciation, fondness— but not that. No, it couldn’t be that. That would be ridiculous.

Because he’s your boss, of course. 

Just your boss. That’s all.) 

“You should go home,” Tetsurou is the first to break the stare. Fortunately, too, lest you become too absorbed in your thoughts and do something stupid like risking getting lost in the eyes of amber. He turns his attention to his hands on the railing, his thumb tapping repeatedly on the metal. “Get some rest. You deserve it, keeping me in line and all.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours. 

“Are you heading home soon?” You ask.

He shrugs, before looking to the court once more. “In a minute.  I’m going to stay for a little longer. Not ready to go home yet.”

You hum, “Then I’ll stay with you.”

There’s a beat of silence, one that, when you glance towards him you expect to see filled with amusement. Maybe a tease on his tongue once more about how hard you work, about how miserable you’ll be in the morning for staying up past your bedtime. Instead, you see only the calm stillness of his face, eyes fixed resolutely on the empty court before him. 

He leans forward onto the railing, bracing his elbows against its fixture, watching the scene below him as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. Four janitors taking a break from their waxing of the floor to play a quick, and sloppy, game of volleyball. Soft laughter echoes throughout the room, broken apart by low mutterings of commentary on their plays that sends the four older men into even further laughter. 

Then, “Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I went pro.”

To learn of other people in the course of a years-long friendship is natural, rightfully expected— and while there is much of Kuroo that you do know and can recite off the top of your head, the willful admittance of intimate details, especially in quiet times like this, is always surprising. Especially when coupled with the contemplative silence that follows his words, the genuine wonder, the longing written on his face as the rose thoughts of a first love bloom in the cracks of a fallen smile. 

In the softening of his eyes and the deep sigh that he releases, you realize that there’s a Kuroo Tetsurou that you don’t know. 

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, you reach out to find him. You ask, softly. “Why did you stop playing?”

His eyes remain trained on the court, as though the answer were laid upon the hardwood floors. “It was time. I loved the game but, I don’t know. Just didn’t make sense for me to keep it going. There were other things I needed to do, and playing professionally would have taken up too much time.” 

You can almost see it, then. A younger Tetsurou, even more chaotic and rowdy than you know him to be, with hopes and dreams that exist somewhere in the great web of could have been’s, cast to the side because of the “other things”. You don’t pry, not when he’s already being so forthcoming as it is, but you make a note. Store it away in the folder lodged deep in your mind dedicated to the man.

“Would you be happier if you did?” You ask, albeit hesitantly. Not entirely sure what you would do with the answer.

He rolls his broad shoulders gently, like a tide rolling in under itself, swayed under its own pressure and maybe that should mean something. “Well, it’s not like I’m unhappy. I’ve got a good life, good job, good people. I’ve got it all.” 

He spares a quick glance to you. So quick you wouldn’t have caught it had he not already been the centerpoint of your fixed stare, but truthfully, when is he not? When is he not the center of your gaze, your life, your world? Everything in your routine seems to start and end with Kuroo Tetsurou.

“But I can’t deny how much I miss the game.”

—you don’t mind all that much. Especially not when he’s like this. Open, sensitive, and wanting to talk. When he actually takes the time to chew his thoughts out and speak them into existence rather than continue his sordid and pointed teases.

You lean forward onto the railing. “Do you think you would have made it far?” 

He adjusts his figure next to yours. His crooked elbow touches yours, but he makes no move to remove it. “Well… I hate to brag, but…” 

You scoff. “You do.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Hard to say.” He shrugs his shoulders wryly. “In another life, I’m still playing.” 

It sounds sadder than he intends it to be, but it’s the truth. And you get it; have your own could-have’s stored deep in the recesses of your mind, your own forgotten dreams about who you wanted to be that haunt and plague in the twilight of hard nights where sleep is elusive and quarter-life crises spring forth in the darkness—but it’s not all bad.

“Well, in this other life, if you’re playing and I just so happened to know you,” You tell him, “I would be your biggest fan.”

He huffs at that. Looking at you with a tilt of his head and a handsome smile on his face. “Oh yeah? And if you didn’t?”

“I’d be Miya Atsumu’s biggest fan.” You say simply.

“You already are.”

“Yeah, but I know you have jealousy issues so I just don’t say anything about it.”

Tetsurou nods his head. Amused. “Well I’m glad to know you, then.”

It happens here, again. 

The quiet kindling, the lingering warmth. With hopes and dreams laid out before you, and the brief allowance into the depths of his intimate details he holds tightly under the weight of himself, do you find the familiarity of the man again. The one you know, the one who laughed so hard at your banana costume that milk came out of his nose. The one who canceled all of his meetings for the day when you broke your pinky finger in the office and who stayed with you in the hospital until a cast was put on. 

The one who smiles at you so gently, as if you are someone important. The one you can’t help but smile right back at. Kuroo Tetsurou, your boss, a friend.

Movement in the corner of your eye draws your attention to the court. The janitors that were once playing amongst each other slowly begin to stray from the court, picking up their brooms and exiting towards the sidelines. Looking at Tetsurou, you find that he’s still looking at you.

“They’re not closing the stadium for another hour. And it looks like the janitors have had their fun.” You say, “Wanna play a quick game?”

His brows raise to his hairline, “You know how to play?”

“We had to choose a sport to play for gym class back in high school and it was either tennis or volleyball. So I guess you can say I know a thing or two.”

“Ah, a professional.”

“Mhm. I’m here to give you a run for your money.”

Tetsurou pushes himself off the railing, standing to his full height as he accepts the offer. Towering over you at his 6’5 height, he begins rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, cuffing the white material until it reaches the crook of his elbow. A quick glance to the revealed skin is only a firm reminder of what you had pointedly forgotten. Long slender fingers attached to a thick and veiny forearm, sculpted through years of volleyball practice and continued exercise.

If he wanted to, he definitely could have made it professionally. You almost choke on your spit.

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Tetsurou gives you a smile that rivals the smugness of Miya Atsumu in that stupid banner and you know for a fact that in that other life, you would’ve been Kuroo Tetsurou’s biggest fan whether you knew him or not— and not because he was a good player. 

—

“You need to lock your elbows.”

“They’re locked!”

“No they’re not. Look at this,” Tetsurou steps underneath the net, approaching you in long strides before tapping his fingers against the elbows of your interlocked hands. He watches with little impression as your arms swing easily with his force, “Noodles. How are you supposed to receive with this?”

“I’m trying but it’s not comfortable!”

“So you’d rather suck?”

“Kinky.” You say with a waggle of your brows and he rolls his eyes.

“Stop it. Here, you need to—” Without a second thought, he steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your torso and fixing your hands. wrapping your right hand over your left and running the length of his warm touch down your forearms. Innocuous and gentle, but stiffening as you breathe in the musky scent of his cologne and the faded scent of his aftershave, and feel the hard planes of his chest press against your back. 

“Straighten your elbows,” He mutters, voice heavy beside your ear.  “And keep them locked. Helps you to have a steady receive for any kind of ball. If your form is perfect then you can always pass the ball using this part, here.” His right index finger touches the surface of your forearm, running between the length of your elbow and wrist to accentuate his point. 

It isn’t a matter of fireworks when he touches you, the exploding kind that has butterflies and goosebumps erupting over the expanse of your skin. It isn’t as though your eyes have suddenly been peeled open and the realization has struck you hard across the face like every romance story that preaches about the magic of the first touch, the electricity of meeting hands across the table, the sudden realization of knowing.

No, this is entirely different. A comforting touch, not uncommon, but intimate and while it doesn’t have you reeling in revolutionary realization, nor does it have you fanning yourself from the flames of sudden desire, his touch does, eerily, have you sinking in further. There’s no fluttering and flustering with the confusion of flooding feelings, but rather, it has you looking at his hands with a slight furrow. 

Wondering, when his hands suddenly got so soft, yet so firm. Wondering, in what part of the intertwining of his life with yours did his touch suddenly not only become okay, but felt as though it belonged? 

Were this any other man, you would have a harassment claim sent to HR before he could even get near you. But it’s Tetsurou; And when his slender fingers wrap gently around your wrist, turning them upward slightly, you don’t go rigid in his embrace, but instead fall into it. Settle into his grasp, entrust yourself in his hands. 

Because how could you not?

“Like this?” You ask, quietly. No need to exert volume considering he’s right next to you. In search of approval in how you’ve adjusted your hands, you turn your head to the side to look at him, only to realize how close he is to you. Eyes able to see the steady pulse of the clench in his jaw as he focuses on your form, the sharp angle of his jaw, the closely shaven hairs of his stubble.

“Yeah, just like that. Good.” He answers, before removing his hands and bracing them against your shoulders, straightening your posture for the receives that you are no longer focused on getting.

If Kuroo Tetsurou turned his head to you, there would be nothing stopping his nose from bumping into yours. You must be silent, too caught up in the overwhelming nature of it all because he’s suddenly stiffening from his position over you. Then, at a speed you’ve never seen him move before, he’s rescinding his body entirely from you. And it should sting. The speed at which your boss acted as though you physically burned him, his body essentially repulsed from touching you. 

He’s putting great space between you two as he ducks back under the net to his side of the court, yelling over his shoulder, “T-that should fix it. Try, uh, try now. Try serving.”

“I thought I was receiving?” You ask his retreating figure and he stills, considering for a moment, before waving his hand in the air— obviously embarrassed and confused at the fact that he’s just jeopardized everything and made his assistant uncomfortable. 

“Whatever, just give it back to me.” He says, frustratedly.

And you allow yourself, just for a brief moment, to store another could-have in the sanctity of your fantasies. One where he isn’t your boss, and you aren’t his assistant, and you are able to admit to the true and honest parts of yourself—

“Nice return! See? Better already.”

—you rather liked the way he touched you.  

a/n: HEEEEELP i love him your honor. sorry for always ghosting. i wish i could say i wont, but i know i will. lol

[spaghettiposts]

An Outlaws Christmas

Cowboy!reader x Wanda Maximoff

Summery: Wanda’s father has never liked you, but that won’t stop you from delivering a special gift this season.

Warnings: Mentions of firearms, fluff, Bucky being dramatic.

Words Count: 3.5k

“Bucky I swear to God, you better keep this thing steady.” You muttered between cold breaths, raising your foot to the next step, sensing the ladder tremble beneath you. Your eyes whipped downward, glaring at the cowboy.

He huffed, gripping the ladder tighter. “You just- had to date the rich girl with a four-story mansion didntcha?” He seethed, shifting his weight to support the item. “It’s fucking freezing man.”

Indeed, it was freezing. The middle of December in Fort Worth brought snow gleaming in the streets, covering trails and displeasing the horses. Which you had to use to get here in the first place, Wanda’s house that is. More precisely her fathers house, who wasn’t so keen about you. Why were you here? Simple.

Christmas, the season of giving, in any weather condition. And in any condition you always wanted to visit Wanda, even if Bucky complained about it. Especially tonight, when it was Christmas night. Where family’s would spend their nights together, huddled by the fireplace. Something you wanted to share with Wanda someday.

Something an outlaw like you couldn’t have, but you tried anyway. You tried for her, tried to change your rugged ways. Formerly around this time of year you never would’ve imagined a reason to celebrate this holiday. There was nobody special in your life, no family, and Bucky never liked Christmas ideals.

Now there was Wanda to be that someone. Beautiful, intelligent, amazingly talented Wanda. The girl who went for someone like yourself, a lowlife criminal trying to mend their ways. She saw the good in you, that you failed to see in yourself. And bit by bit she brought it out of you. Blackmail Barnes would constantly use on you, mocking you as the ‘cowboy who got whipped’ or ‘cowboy gone soft’ and his personal favorite ‘Casanova’. Despite the smacks you gave him each time he dared to use those terms, secretly you didn’t mind, it just meant you were closer to change than before. With that in mind, you didn’t let the opportunity to make Wanda your girlfriend pass by you, despite her parents disapproval.

Maybe if you got a better job, in time that would change too.

“Just keep the ladder steady Barnes, I’ll be finished quick.” You hollered over the wind, climbing up with haste. Looking through the windows you recognized them as the third floor, for the servants Wanda had told you. Rich people had rooms for everything nowadays.

“Quick my ass..” He scoffed.

“Was that sarcasm James?”

He let out a groan, pounding his fist on the ladder. “Just get your girl already”

“Alright alright…” You chuckled under your breath, hurrying up the ladder. You didn’t want to risk his impatience, the last thing you wanted was for him to throw you off. Fortunately, with the heavy snowfall, you’d probably only break one rib.

Although Wanda wouldn’t be happy, so you wouldn’t risk it.

Finally, the ladder came to an end, perfectly syncing with Wanda’s bedroom window. You were grateful to Mr. Williamson, your local carpenter, took your request for a 40 foot ladder seriously. Raising up your fist to knock–as you had done so many times before–you found yourself plagued with…hesitancy.

Pulling the poorly wrapped package out of your interior coat pockets, you examined the item. Its contaminants inside were beautiful, even you could admit, but the outside? Poorly wrapped crumbles of brown lunch bag paper with white string holding all the mess together? Was what was on the inside enough for Wanda?

Feeling another shake on the ladder you turned your head down, meeting the eyes of Bucky. He motioned to the window with his head, shooting you a thumbs up. You mouthed a small ‘thanks’ to him, right now wasn’t the time for insecurities. You’re sure Wanda would love the gift, or at least appreciate the gesture.

Clearing your throat, you tapped on the window, announcing yourself, “Wanda! It’s me! Do you mind opening the window?” You asked, waiting for the velvet curtains to part. In all honesty, you weren’t quite sure she was there at the moment. You knew the tendency her parents had of venturing off into parties, dragging her along into them and you assumed Christmas parties were a thing.

A couple of seconds later, you heard shuffling from inside, the curtains opening and your smile widening. Wanda looked through the window, searching for you till her eyes landed on your figure covered in snow. Her eyes widened, her hand lifting up to her chin in shock, “Y/n?”

“Hi Darlin’.” You shot the bewildered woman a toothy grin, lifting your hand to wave at her. Carefully she opened the window slowly, making sure not to knock you over in the process. Her shock eventually subsided into worry, grabbing you by the wrist to pull you inside.

“What are you doing here? It’s cold out, you’ll get sick.” She fretted, patting your forearms to shake off the snow.

“I’ve got my jacket,” You shrugged, her hands staying on your chest. “and I’m here for you. I brought you something for Christmas.” You smiled, digging through your pockets, Wanda tilted her head curiously. Pulling out the paper present you presented it to her.

Her eyes looked down at the gift fondly, she could tell you had wrapped it but thankfully found it endearing. Her fingers ran delicately through the string tying it together, as she turned to look at you with soft eyes and a tender smile tugging at her lips.

“Really?” She whispered, rubbing her hands on your chest before letting them hang on your shoulders. Her smile turned into a small smirk at the way you clearly leaned into her touch. “You didn’t have to Y/n…”

Truthfully you didn’t have to, Wanda had expressed how she was fine with you not celebrating the holiday, knowing how different your childhoods had been. She didn’t expect anything from you, a problem you wanted to change. You were capable enough for her to depend on you.

You blushed, enjoying the feel of Wanda’s fingers caressing the back of your neck. “But I want to, it’s custom to give your loved ones gifts and you’re mine.” You said sheepishly.

Wanda’s face softens at your words, keeping her gaze on you, searching for something more. And you think she’s going to close the distance but instead she moves her gaze to the door, squeezing your shoulders.

“Okay, but I’m afraid this’ll have to be quick.” She sighs “My Fathers due to be back soon, and you know how he feels about our relationship.”

At the mention of her father your expression turns into a slight grimace, the man was a governor, rich beyond belief and trying to get rid of old fashion ways. Including individuals such as yourself, outlaws. He had reason to, but still the thought of him left a bitter distaste in your mouth.

“He’ll learn to love me eventually.”

Wanda lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking her head in denial. “I highly doubt it, he’s very…traditional.”

Traditional. You hated that word.

“I could be traditional.” You tried to reason, even though you were the least bit traditional. It was worth a shot.

“With that rustic drawl of yours I’m not too sure Detka.” Wanda teased, leaning up to place a kiss on the corner of your lips. You wanted to correct her but she continued, “But that’s okay, personally I find it very charming.”

And then she closed the distance between you, savoring the way you let out a small sigh. You missed this, you missed her, you especially missed her touch. The way her hands guided yours down to her waist, encouraging you.

Wanda appreciated your kindness and respect towards boundaries. Making you all the more attractive in her eyes, the way you’d ask before anything, even hand holding, your charming gentleman like behavior. God, she wanted to rip those jeans off you.

You felt Wanda try to deepen the kiss which you eagerly gave into, granting her tongue permission. Her hands slipped inside your shirt, scratching the skin softly, causing your breath to hitch. Pulling away from the kiss with a gasp, resting your forehead against yours, catching your breath.

Wanda snickers between stolen kisses. “Damn it Wands…” You mumble affectedly, “This was ‘post to be about you.”

Pulling her head slightly away she stares up at you, a mischievous grin playing at her lips. “We have a couple minutes to spare, me and you.” Her hold tightened on your neck, pulling you in for another kiss. “I’ve missed you.”

Taking everything in you, you slow down the kiss much to Wanda’s disappointment. You chuckle shyly, remembering how she told you to be quick, ironic. “I’ve missed you too but not- today” You shudder with all seriousness, removing your hands from her hips.

“Mkay, I suppose we could wait for another moment.” She says, releasing her hold on you. “Besides you know I like taking my time with you.” She winks, laughing at your reaction.

“Quit teasin’ me…” You sigh, trying to shake off the blush dusting your cheeks, something that tended to happen with Wanda. The brunette only shrugged, feigning innocence. She took a hold of your wrist pulling you towards her bed, taking a seat and then patting the space beside her. Eagerly you settle in beside her, placing the gift on her lap.

“Open it.” You smile, anticipating the reaction.

Wanda fiddles with the present, tilting her head. “What is it?”

You snort “Well you won’t know until you open it Wands.”

Pursing her lips Wanda tugs on the strings, delicately unwrapping the gift which you didn’t really get, considering it wasn’t some high class material but kept quiet. Once the paper wrapping was off it revealed a rectangular shaped black leather box, it looked rather expensive. Feeling the leather Wanda confirmed her thoughts with widened eyes. Pure rich leather.

Her fingers traced the fabric, turning to stare at you. “Y/n what is this…” She whispered, you urged her to open the lid. And when she did the gasp that left her lips was almost comical. “Oh my gosh.”

“It’s a pendant.” You pointed out, feeling a little uncomfortable under her strong gaze. Did she like it? If only mind readers existed.

“Yes I know but, how?” She questioned, picking up the necklace before frowning. It was beautiful. “Detka…I don’t need you spending this much on me. This looks far too pricy.” Came her response, you sucked your teeth already expecting that answer from her. Wanda was never one to let you spoil her, knowing how much you made, odd considering you made a good amount…with a gun.

“Saving up money isn’t that hard, you’ve just gotta kill the right men to get it.” You smile sheepishly, a poor attempt to lighten the mood.

“Y/n.” Wanda glared, disliking your joke.

“I’m joking! Honest.” You laughed, putting your hands up in surrender. “Actually this jewel wasn’t so hard to find.”

“You found it?”

“Yup, mined it straight from that rock. Me and Barnes were chasing after a guy…” You hesitated, her raised eyebrow challenging you to finish that sentence. “To talk, down in the mines, when I found it. It reminded me of you, just like your eyes. So I plucked it open and took it to a jeweler. All's fair, no shooting involved.” You swore, crossing a finger across your heart.

Wanda just shook her head, rubbing her temple with her hand. You could tell she was upset at the revelation, she never appreciated hearing stories that could’ve killed you. Another thing you were trying to change, this one was more challenging as there were many people who wanted you dead, the difficult part was getting Wanda to understand that.

Both of you were stubborn that way.

“Does that…make it worse?” You asked carefully, debating whether to put a hand on her back, eventually deciding against and placing it back on your side. You didn’t want to overwhelm her. “I could get you one from the store if you’d like. I saw some real pretty ones there too.”

“That makes it all the more special to me, you mined it straight from the rock and fixed it up but you know how I feel about your ‘talks’.” She ended with a slightly twinge of annoyance. “I just worry about you and your job.”

You fiddled with the sheets underneath your fingertips, unsure what to say about that besides an apology. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to worry you.”

Worrying was something no one had ever cared to do for you in your lifetime, not until Wanda. The feeling was strange…and something to get used to. You tried to be more understanding towards Wanda’s feelings, having picked up a book or two on how to maintain a healthy relationship, and Wanda was gladly by your side throughout the process.

“Its fine really, so long as you come back to me alive.” She empathized the last word, giving you a stern look. You nodded your head, agreeing with her. Lifting up her chin, carrying a satisfied look by your response, she trusted you. “If not I’ll come back and kill you myself.”

“Honey, me and you both know that you don’t know your way around a revolver.” You teased, leaning in forward to grasp her hand and place a small peck on the back of it.

“Just like you don’t know your way around the kitchen?” She retorted smugly, causing your eyebrows to furrow.

“I know my way…my meals are cooked with the intent of survival.”

“Clearly taste isn’t a part of your ideologies of ‘survival’.” She sneered, you tried to hide your smile but ultimately failed, laughing along with her.

The atmosphere had shifted, no longer holding that same tension as it did before. Worries and insecurities had left you, laughing along with the girl you had grown to love. You loved moments like these, carefree ones. Ones where you didn’t have to worry about wild snakes or bandits trying something. Ones where you could be happy with the person you loved most.

Admiring your girlfriend you couldn’t help yourself but to lean forward and cup her chin, connecting your lips together. It was a quick kiss, one you pulled away from as quick as it started, not permitting Wanda the chance to kiss back.

Instead she stared at you in shock, cheeks red. You had initiated something. Feeling flustered from the attention you looked down at your lap in embarrassment, which was quickly overtaken by Wanda who threw herself on you in glee, pampering kisses all over your face.

“I love you.” She whispered, kissing your cheeks. “Even if you’re a reckless idiot who climbs up four story mansions, and is a part time bounty hunter.” A kiss to your nose “But you’re my idiot.” A kiss to your forehead “Forever.” And finally your lips.

“Forever?”

“Mhm, mind putting this on me?” She requested, grabbing the necklace chain. You nodded happily, watching her shift in your lap to get a better view. Gently you pushed her hair aside, bringing the jewelry round her neck. It took a couple of frustrating attempts to get inside the clasp but eventually you managed, closing it.

Wanda thanked you with another kiss before moving herself off your lap and standing to get a view of the necklace in the mirror. Pushing yourself off the bed, you followed your girlfriend into her closet, admiring how divine the jewel looked on her.

“You look gorgeous.” You sighed, hearts racing at just the sight of her.

Wanda smiled, toying with the jewel. “It’s very pretty, I love it, thank you.” She reassured, placing a hand on your shoulder and giving you a loving kiss on the cheek. You smile back at her, taking the initiative to bring your lips together this time, sharing a loving kiss. That’s all it was, love.

Wanda smiled happily into the kiss, proud of you for taking initiative again, slotting her arms back on your neck. Tilting her head to deepen the kiss she pulled away, “But you know what would’ve been nicer?”

“What?”

“A ring.”

“A ring?”

“If this was your way of claiming your mark on me, it was a nice attempt but usually people settle for rings.” She replied, playing with the baby hairs on the back of your neck. “Which I’m still waiting for, maybe that way you’ll have a reason to put that gun down for once. A family to come back to.”

A family.

Oh gosh.

Hoping it wasn’t embarrassingly obvious how much you enjoyed that idea, you barely managed to squeak out a small, “But you like the necklace right…?”

“Of course, it’ll be hard to take it off of me now.” Wanda retorted playfully “Unless you’re willing to try?”

“I um.” You swallowed dryly, definitely now you knew your face was looking as ripe as a tomato.

At your expression Wanda let out a hearty laugh, furthering your embarrassment. She slapped an arm at your chest playfully, “I’m just teasing Detka, breathe. Although I’m serious about that, I’ll wear it forever.”

“I’m glad you like it. Like really glad, I wasn’t too sure and Bucky wasn’t much help.” You said, recalling the way Bucky had fallen asleep midway through your shopping session in search of something for the girl.

“I can see that he's never been the romantic type, unless you count that disastrous encounter with Natasha as romance then, maybe.” Both of you cringed at the memory.

Sputters of a car garnered your attention distracting you from the girl in your arms. The noise sounded suspiciously like her fathers new automobile, quickly you removed your hands from Wanda’s body. Wanda too, let you go at impressive speeds, rushing to take a look outside the window. Peering outside she was met with the sight of her father, who was kicking the tire of his car, muttering curses under his breath.

Oh shit her father.

Oh shit Bucky.

“Bucky.” You gasped, collecting your things. “Shit shit shit, Buckys still outside.”

“My fathers here.” Wanda said through gritted teeth, your eyes widened, rushing to get out of there. Before you could get too far Wanda stopped you with a tug at your forearm, smacking a box at your chest.

“What’s this?” You questioned, eyebrows furrowed, pushing the box back to get a better look at it. Quickly Wanda tugged your chin to meet her, placing one last peck on your lips before pulling the window open.

“Christmas gift.” She explained, “I don’t like what you do, and this isn’t me encouraging it, but you’re my girlfriend and I love you. So that’s that, now go before I change my mind.”

You nodded your head dumbly, unsure what she meant by all that, but climbed out anyway, waving her goodbye with the box secured in your hands.

Once you reached the bottom it was only then that you realized what she meant by those words, a new rifle stood in your hands. One of the best models out there. Grinning widely you took no time in ripping it out of the box, oh how you loved this girl.

—

“Fouty fucking minutes.” Bucky snarled, still shaking the snow off his body. There wasn’t a single part of him that wasn’t white from head to toe. “Forty! You left me in the cold for Forty minutes!!” He shook his leather hat violently, slapping it around.

You sighed, taking the hat off your head and dusting yourself as well. In contrast you weren’t so full of snow, which just upset the man more. “I’m sorry Buck, I didn’t mean to take so long, but it was amazing.” The last part came out in awe.

Bucky placed his hat back on firmly, throwing a glare at you. He knew that voice, that puppy love coded tone of yours that only ever arose to haunt him when you were on the verge of an hour talk about Wanda. He debated shooting you right now before you started again.

“Forty minutes…I could’ve gotten frostbite you know, then who’s gonna cover you? Wanda? Like hell.” He muttered, narrowing his eyes at you when you pulled out your new rifle. One of the newest models too, he had to admit he was quite envious.

“She’s so amazing…”

“Are you even listening to me?!” He said exasperated, throwing his hands in the air.

“She gave me a gun…” You sighed dreamily, hugging the firearm to your chest. “Not just any gun Bucky, but a Winchester Model. The expensive good kind too.” You exclaimed, shaking him by the shoulders. His face scrunched up, smacking you away.

Bucky huffed from beside you, continuing to walk since you were too lovesick to lead. The building wasn’t too far from here. “She got me a good revolver too, you ain’t special.”

“Yeah but…mines better.”

“That doesn’t even- whatever you still took too damn long in there.”

“I haven’t seen her in weeks!” You whined, trying to defend yourself.

Bucky let out a grunt, rolling his eyes. “Yeah and you won’t see her in weeks, with all that back pain you’re gonna get.”

“What?”

“I call dibs on the good mattress, you fucked with me too much this time.” He shrugged, opening the door to your shared building.

“That’s not-”

“And by the way, I can still see her lipstick all over you.” He motioned to your face, before pointing down your neck. “You might wanna cover up those hickeys too, Bottom.”

“James!”

[minleeeknow]

‘stray cat’

‘pairing’ -이민호 (lee minho/lee know) x fem!reader

‘genre’ - fluff, college au

‘tw’ - kissing, flirting, teasing, lost cat, angst if you look closely

‘word count’ - 1.4 k

‘to get tagged’ - pls reply to the taglist post, this post, or just ask me

‘lee’s notes’ - lowercase intended, not proofread

pls note, reblog, anything

~

minho hears a scratching sound come from his window. he looks up to see the shadow of a cat perched on his windowsill. 

a faint meow comes from the cat and it scratches its claws against the glass again. minho opens his window and a slender siamese leaps into his bedroom. the feline weaves itself between his legs, purring softly.

“hi, kitty,” minho coos. he has a soft spot for cats and he reaches down to stroke the cat’s soft fur. the cat stretches across his legs, its purrs getting louder.

minho notices the mark of a collar among the fluffy ruff of fur. “did you run away, kitty?” minho asks, crouching down. his long fingers scratch the feline’s dark brown ears.

another familiar mew announces the presence of one of minho’s cats, soonie. soonie and the new cat sniff each other before leaping into minho’s lap. he laughs as he runs his hands through their soft fur.

the next morning, minho wakes up with a light weight on his chest and sees a curious face of a siamese cat staring at him.

“hi kitty,” minho says, booping the cat’s nose with his index. eager for the same attention, soonie, doongie, and dori leap onto minho’s body and shove their faces into his.

on the other side of his bedroom wall, you curl up on your bed, lonely as hell. your cat had disappeared yesterday, leaving only her collar. the thought of your trigonometry test and dance assessment forces you to get out of bed.

dark rainclouds gather in the sky, signaling the arrival of rain soon.

as you lock your apartment door, you see your neighbor say goodbye to his cats. a deep longing wrenches through your heart as you listen to him.

“bye soonie! bye doongie! bye dori! bye kitty!” he says with his beautiful, smooth, melodious voice. 

four cats? you think, confused. i thought he only had three, since like, yesterday. i think i’m losing it.

you don’t realize you’re staring until he says, “hi.”

“hi,” you squeak shyly, self-consciously fixing your hair. as he looks at you, you realize how pretty he is. he looks at you with gorgeous big boba-colored eyes thoughtfully.

“do i know you?” he asks. then he snaps his fingers before you can process. “you’re yn, right? from my dance class, trig, chem… and linguistics?”

“yeah,” you utter, staring at him hypnotically.

“i’m minho,” he introduces himself, smiling. you almost faint at his cute little bunny smile.

“yn,” you reply, finally mustering enough energy to make your brain cells function half of what they’re capable of.

“well, i’ll see you around?” minho asks. “maybe let’s exchange numbers later, huh?” before you can reply, he leaves with your heart, his bag slung across one shoulder, throwing a finger heart back at you and a small, shy smile.

you smile back, half in shock, half in ecstasy, your loneliness forgotten.

the solemn day drags on until lunch break, when you decide to escape to your favorite cafe. you haul your bag onto your table and take out your folder, a handful of sharpies, and your phone.

“alright, chai, i’m getting you home,” you breathe out as you open your folder. taking out your first missing cat poster, you take a black sharpie and uncap it.

your hand flies across the paper as you write in neat script “missing cat. female brown siamese with blue eyes. comes to the name chai. please call xxx yyy once seen.”

“hey, mind if i sit?”

you look up from your work. “oh. yeah, sure, sorry about my mess,” you murmur apologetically. minho shrugs, flashing another cute smile. he toys with a black bracelet, matching the white one on his wrist.

“why aren’t you with your friends?” he asks hesitantly. you stiffen immediately, your grip on your pen tightening. minho notices, of course he notices, he can notice anything.

“oh. i’m sorry–” he stammers, his cheeks reddening. you don’t say anything, you’re too focused on trying not to break down and on your handwriting. his pretty eyes land on your cat’s picture and he freezes.

minho stares at the image of your cat, his heart racing. his hands shake as he thinks back about the stray cat he cared for yesterday. the kitty he found looked exactly like your chai.

“um, i–i have to go,” minho stammers, standing up. his bunny smile is gone, instead he’s biting his lip. you stand up as well, trying to grab his hand before he leaves.

“min–” minho slips out of your grasp and disappears, his eyes covered by his bangs.

minho avoids you the rest of the day. dance practice was especially hard not to interact with him. you were paired up with him, like fate.

you can still remember the way his hands held you up when he accidentally crashed into you, the way he licked his lips nervously as he stared into your eyes.

“sorry,” you mumble under your breath to him as you accidentally elbowed him. minho tries not to smile at your obvious flusteredness as he breathes down your neck. you shiver involuntarily and he smirks, suddenly summoning some energy and forgetting the game of avoidance.

“you’re a good dancer,” he murmurs in your ear at the end of practice as he flies past you and disappears through the door. once minho leaves, the guilt of taking your cat gnaws at his heart again.

as soon as he steps outside, the drizzling of rain starts. minho stares up at the flecks of water painting across the sky and smiles slightly.

he twists the key to his door quickly and opens it. his three cats attack him and minho leans down to scratch each of their ears. he realizes his kitty, your chai, isn’t there. instead he sees chai’s silhouette on the window. chai taps the glass and minho opens it, confused. 

the rain patters loudly against the rooftops of the ground floor and before minho can blink, chai is gone.

“no!”

as you walk back to your apartment, the rain attacks you viciously. you have your hood on but you can feel the wetness seap into the fabric. realizing the hood is useless, you take it off, letting the raindrops fall on your head.

suddenly you see a siamese cat a few meters in front of you on the sidewalk, looking straight at you. you blink a few times, thinking it’s an illusion of the rain and your mind.

“chai?” the cat meows and turns around and runs away from you. you take a fraction of a second to react and you’re running after her.

“you freaking cat–” you mutter as you run along the side of the buildings to avoid the random people walking.

chai leads you to what used to be your favorite park until–until you discovered your ex was cheating on you here.

you see chai walk up to a shape that looks vaguely familiar holding an umbrella. you get closer when you recognize them.

“minho?”

“yn?”

minho looks up at you, memorizing your body. your cheeks are flushed from running and your hair is damp from the rain.

you open your mouth but no sound comes out. minho laughs and takes your hand, pulling you under the umbrella and closer. your back is against his chest and he rests his chin on the top of your head.

“so, here’s the short version,” minho begins quietly, suddenly shy. “i may have accidentally taken in your cat not knowing she was yours and here we go, i was scared you’d think i had stolen her but then she escaped and–”

you unravel his arms from your waist and press your index to his lips, stopping his frantic flow of words.

“hey. it’s fine,” you say, smiling. “i guess she wanted us to–” your voice becomes a squeak. “be together?” you feel your cheeks turn red and you bring a hand up to cover your embarrassed face.

instead, minho catches it and pulls you swiftly into a kiss. the feeling of his soft lips against yours makes your heart race in your chest, threatening to burst out. minho cups your chin and the kiss becomes harder.

your mingled breaths warm the atmosphere around you until you both break the kiss. minho looks down shyly, a small smile on his lips.

“and all this time, i thought she was just a stray cat.”

~

‘taglist’

@goldenjupiterz networks ! @k-labels

[maskedbutsilly]

I have an entire multiverse hell hound bs au going on and in one of the current timelines it’s with slime as president after murdering quackity blah blah blah BUT slime kied Wilbur aswell and one of my favorite parts ABOUTZ THE AU ITSELF ( even though nobody asked or more or less prolly wants to read or hear ) is that ghost(bur) and alexia ( <- ghost Quackity but nonbinary femme basically to set the difference between his alive self and dead self ) leave little bouquets of what their main biomes they reside of have for eachother. so for example because ghost can’t stay in the tundra for long and that’s what alexia is banished to they’ll leave coded bouquets, a bundle of lilac, lavender, periwinkle, daisy, and some allium wrapped in brown paper and tied with a white satin ribbon stained with blue dye ( as is the paper but in hand prints ) and place it right where his flower field biome meets the tundra, always attaching messy little " enjoy these my sweet blackberry!! remember to dress warm!! " type messages, only for alexia to leave small bouquets filled with winter berry branches, winter blueberry branches, pine branches and cool spruce sticks they found wrapped in a cleaned and dried arctic fox Hyde, tied with a burlap ribbon they cut into shape herself and sending a " I love the flowers, blueberry, please enjoy the berries I found!! tell the animals there hello for me!! " against that same tree. they having nothing but a platonic relationship but more close friendship since alexia lost most of her memory from the relation to her death, whereas that remembers everything. and ghost not having the heart to tell alexia that he remembers meanwhile alexia can’t bring herself to tell him she remembers less than she lets on, the few times they’ve met alexia melts in any warm temperatures, meanwhile ghost freezes after only a short time in the tundra. her ‘ living ‘ through some of the worst blizzards known to man meanwhile ghost deals with the burning of constant summer thunderstorms, always so close yet so far away. alexias icy hands melting against ghost and burning them, meanwhile ghosts warmth caused her to melt, essentially a candle and a flame in opposite temperatures. sighing. the blogs based off of them don’t do them justice… also im so sorry for writing so much…

this went from so cute to tragic at the end…. i love when people make universes so diverged from the canon itself, i love seeing it and i wish i was that creative ;—; anyway ghost and alexia trading bouquets is so damn adorable i had to draw them <3

ALSO ALSO i LOVE WHEN PPL SEND ME LITERAL PARAGRAPHS IN MY INBOX,,,,FLOOD IT I MEAN JT I WILL READ THEM ALLKKKLLL

THANK U FOR SHARING UR LOVELY AU !!!!!!

[feyburner]

May I ask what your favorite biscuit recipe is? (I tend to go for Nancy Silverton's, but it's so much work and so much butter that sometimes I long for something else.)

I use my own recipe! Here it is.

BUTTERMILK BISCUITS

MAKES: 8-10 biscuits

INGREDIENTS

2 ½ cups (300g) AP flour

2 Tbsp (yes, Tbsp!) baking powder

1 Tbsp white or brown sugar or honey

1 tsp kosher salt

¾ cup (170g) butter (ideally salted), cold, sliced thin

1 cup (227g) cold buttermilk (1 Tbsp white vinegar + fill to 1 cup line with milk, let curdle 10 min)

optional: 1 Tbsp melted butter + 1 Tbsp honey, to brush over tops before baking

optional: honey butter (4 Tbsp softened butter + 2-4 Tbsp honey to taste; creamed), to serve

DIRECTIONS

1. Preheat oven to 450°. Grease a cast iron skillet, or line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

2. In a large bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt.

3. Work fat into flour: Add the sliced butter. Toss to coat each piece in flour. Use your knuckles and fingers to smash, rub, and smear butter into flour mix until it resembles coarse, moist, crumbly sand, with granola-like crumbles of butter. Some larger flakes are fine. Work quickly: Keep butter cold.

4. Add buttermilk in 3 parts, mixing with a spatula in between, just until large clumps form. You might not need all the buttermilk! Dough will be shaggy and moist but not unworkably sticky. (If too sticky, sprinkle liberally with flour during next step; brush off excess as you go.)

5. Form layers: Turn dough onto a clean, floured surface. With floured hands and a bench scraper, shape into a mass. Do not knead or overwork. Pat or roll out into a slab roughly 1” thick. Fold it in half, then pat back out. Repeat 3-5x to form layers.

6. Cut biscuits: Pat into a 1” thick slab. Use a biscuit cutter to cut 8-10 biscuit rounds, OR shape dough into a 1” thick rectangle (about 6x12”; the goal is 8 x 3x3” square biscuits). Using a large, sharp knife, slice ¼” off the outer edges to expose layers. Slide the edge strips under the dough so they don’t show. Cut the rectangle into 8-10 biscuits of desired size.

7. Arrange biscuits in cast iron skillet or on baking sheet with the sides very lightly touching. Brush tops with honey butter if desired (you can also brush it on after baking).

8. Bake 16-20 minutes until tall and golden brown.

NOTES

- Cast iron vs. baking sheet: Either works. Baking in a cast iron = crispy bottom crust.

- Cutting: The edges must be sliced to expose the layers so they can properly rise—use a biscuit or cookie cutter, not a drinking glass, or just cut square biscuits. If using a biscuit cutter: Do not twist while pressing down—it will smear layers together and inhibit rise.

- Arranging: Biscuits love to lean on each other. Make sure their sides are very lightly touching (not too close; they will expand as they rise) so they can cling to each other and climb higher during the bake.

- Keep dairy cold. If butter starts looking greasy, chill dough in fridge or freezer 15 minutes.

[onlygenxhere]

A conversation between me, @innytoes, @missjoolee, @floating-in-the-blue, and @jatp-spinsb about that grindr post that went around a while ago about needing a screwdriver and not a hookup has led to a Juke version of that prompt. (I didn't think there was one) I'm not sure what to call it.

It was a lazy Saturday morning and Julie was cooking herself some bacon and eggs scrolling through the dating app Flynn had talked her into installing last night after her third glass of wine.

When the talk had turned to how long it had been since she’d been laid her best friend had insisted this new app was the way to break her dry spell. It was marketed as a dating app but was more popular for being the hetero version of grinder. On the plus side the men couldn’t message the women till they messaged them first. It was sexist as hell but when it came to a possible hookup Julie appreciated it.

She sighed as she swiped left on a guy that listed sky diving as one of his favorite hobbies. “Hell to the no.” She muttered under her breath.

She’d actually forgotten all about the app until her do not disturb turned off at nine and her phone started pinging that there were a few matches within the default radius of two miles.

She paused on a pretty cute guy that seemed to be a little too fond of his admittedly nice arms when the smell of her bacon burning finally pulled her attention back to her breakfast that was about to be ruined.

“Shit!” She dropped her phone on the table and only halfway noticed Dahlia, her cat, jumping up as she moved to save her bacon from ruin.

“Dahlia down!” She scolded over her shoulder as she turned the stove off and pulled the bacon out, laying it on a paper towel.

The cat ignored her of course, continuing to sniff at her phone, as she went about making herself a sandwich with her eggs and bacon.

She took a bite and moaned happily as she sat back down, pushing Dahlia’s nose away from her still open screen and froze.

Apparently the cat had sent the guy with the arms a message and he had replied.

Several times….

Me Ooo kiiiop

Luke Oh thank god Hi Hey I’m not actually looking for a date or hook up right this moment Not that your picture isn’t gorgeous But my bathroom sink is currently overflowing and what I really need is a flat head screwdriver I’m not sure if I have enough towels to keep my apartment from flooding. Hello?

Well shit. If his apartment was anything like hers there wasn’t a universal cut off so he’d have to wait for maintenance to get there and, again, if it was like hers, he could be anywhere from a few minutes to a few days showing up.

She checked his location and saw he was literally on the next block over and sighed. Guess she was going to get her good deed out of the way for the day.

Me Be there in five

She wolfed down her sandwich as she pulled out her little tool kit her tia had gifted her when she moved in, grabbed an armful of towels and her keys and was out the door in record time jogging down the block in her bare feet.

She was headed up the steps of Mr. arms, sorry, Luke’s building when her phone pinged twice.

Luke You’re a life saver Apartment 3C

“Of course you live on the third floor.” She grumbled as she started to climb. Realizing halfway up she didn’t have a bra on. At least her tank wasn’t white.

She banged at 3C’s door with her elbow three times as she tried to catch her breath before it was jerked open and she nearly fell in.

Her first thought was maybe he had a right to be proud of those arms because his profile picture hadn’t done them justice.

He also hadn’t been soaking wet in that picture.

Floppy brown hair curling around his forehead and dripping down his face, pajama pants hanging low on narrow hips and a sleeveless t-shirt plastered to an equally impressive torso.

“Oh thank god!” He grabbed the towels and the toolbox out of her hands and rushed down the hall. “Come on in!”

She took a steadying breath as she stepped inside the apartment. It looked much like her own with only a small sofa, books and a decent sized tv in the small living room. But where she had her piano by her balcony door, he had an amp and guitar.

Julie shook her head and moved down the hall to the bathroom curious how bad the situation was.

She tried not to laugh as she peaked around the corner. There were wet towels everywhere and a literal spray of water coming out from under one of the faucets. Luke was on the floor with her screwdriver turning something she couldn’t see.

Whatever he was doing seemed to be working because the deluge of water started to slow and then stop.

He sat up with a sigh, pushing his wet hair off his face and smiled at her. “All better.”

She felt a throb between her legs and her nipples tighten. Fuck, that smile should come with a warning label.

“Glad I could help.” She smiled back at him as she casually crossed her arms over her chest.

He stood up, that smile never wavering and placed her screwdriver back in the little tool kit. He clicked it closed and passed it to her. “Can I buy you breakfast or something?” He seemed to finally be looking at her, probably noticing her lack of shoes, her flannel shorts and her tank top that she definitely had a bra on under. “Or can I make you breakfast?”

She shrugged. “Do you have a dryer?”

“What?” He laughed.

She waved at the mountain of wet towels all over the floor.

“Ah, no.” He sighed. “I’ll have to take them to the laundromat later.”

She bit her lip. This was probably a bad idea, or a really really good one. “I have a dryer.”

“Yeah?” He took a step toward her, his eyes twinkling in interest. “I already owe you for the screwdriver and now you’re offering the use of your dryer too. I’m gonna have to take you to dinner or something.”

She could swear his eyes dropped to her lips as she licked them. “Or something.”

He took another step toward her, forcing her to tilt her head up to meet his eyes.

She let her arms drop to her sides as he slid a hand around her waist ever so slowly, giving her all the time in the world to back up or say something.

Talking was not on her mind right now. All she could think about was that wet torso pressing against her thin tank top as he pulled her tight against his chest, and how she owed Dahlia a saucer of milk for her accidental text.

“Hi.” He breathed across her lips. “I’m Luke.”

“Julie.” She whispered as he closed the distance between them.

[mrghostrat]

almost forgot to fill out this fun ask game, tagged by @chernozemm!

1. Are you named after anyone? if by 'named after' you mean i stole his identity by using his nickname as a teen and now i show up in google searches more than him, sure 🫢 also my mum gave me the middle name she was supposed to have before her dad fucked up the papers and gave her a different one.

2. When was the last time you cried? rewatched the good place a few months ago and fuckin wailed over that finale, again

3. Do you have kids? no ty

4. What sports do you play/ have you played? i am allergic to most forms of movement (but i do love swimming)

5. Do you use sarcasm? only when it's meant to be silly/funny to burn my friends. then yes too often

6. What is the first thing you notice about people? probably how often they talk, if they wait to let other people speak.

7. What's your eye color? blessed with a very pretty brown that goes all soft and light in the sun ✨

8. Scary movies or happy endings? SCARY SCARY SCARY 🔪 i like a satisfying end, even if it doesn't work out "happily"

9. Any talents? i have perfect pitch! altho my singing voice has lost about 80% of its range from HRT

10. Where were you born? a pretty beach town in NSW

11. What are your hobbies? i chronically pick up and immediately drop new hobbies, so i'm in between interests right now (wish i was joking) but i've got gel nail extensions, embroidery, reading, clay sculpture, and working out on the back burner.

12. Do you have any pets? oliver my chihuahua, and bailey my mini lop rabbit :) we also live with @thewolveswolf's cat mikasa. lots of white fur in this household.

13. How tall are you? 5'5"

14. Favorite subject in school? art 😩🤌 hyper fixation gonna fixate.

15. Dream job? i LOVE my current art work, but i still kind of wish i could experience being a full time author. imagine that, pulling in a living just from writing about my guys all day. i'm so looking forward to teaching as well, i think uni level lecturing would be my dream teaching environ.

[corgate-epistolary]

May 5th, 624

(Transcript under the cut) (Read on Ao3 HERE)

[Delivered to Corgate May 6th, 624 – Received by Elowen Vance on May 14th, 624)

[Front of Envelope: Letter was mailed in a brown craft paper envelope tied with natural twine, addressed to:

Elowen Vance Corgate Post Office May 5th, 624

With the return address of:

Eris Mirrows 87 Lancedragon Strt. Avalon

In the top right, there is a sticker depicting an black engraving-style ice cream bowl on a white background, below which are the words “FOR YOUR HEART”.

Back of Envelope: The letter was sealed in mottled red & white sealing wax, with a wax seal depicting a crescent moon surrounded by orbital shapes & stars. Letter was tied with craft twine, with a small treble clef & key tied to the cord. In the bottom left there is a sticker depicting a black engraving-style steaming cup on a white background, below which is the word “BONJOUR”.

Interior pages: Written on mottled medium brown paper. It is lightly, almost invisibly, lined with slightly darker brown lines. In the top center, approximately 1 inch from the top, the words “THANKS FOR LIVING YEARS” can be seen on the paper. The writing is tidy, slightly rounded print in black ink.]

Eris Mirrows, A.Mg. 87 Lancedragon Strt. Avalon

May 5th, 624

Dear Ms. Vance, It is with great pleasure and a hint of surprise that I receive your letter. I did not expect the Corgate post system to be so quick to get your words to me. The simple fact that they have railroad tracks still amaze [sic] me. I do not know how Mg. Hawkins convinced you to move with him to this backwater part of the country without so much as a raise. What you would do for him, I wonder… Or rather, what he would do without you. I am pleased to read that Mg. Hawkins is in his element in the countryside and having a great time. Meanwhile, I have rarely heard Mg. Equlee complain so much as in the past few days. Something about how they will succomb [sic] to boredom without the most entertaining clown in town. I am divided between patting him on the back for the loss of his favorite pastime of picking a fight with your mage, or believing his condescending tone and idly nodding along. I have no doubt that they will

[End of Page 1] [Eris Mirrow’s address & the date appears on all pages, and have been eliminated for clarity]

find a way to piss each other off despite the distance, but I would never dare ruin the sulking of Mg. Equlee; which is the reason I have passed your most sincere apologies with as much dramatics as I could muster. You would, without a doubt, have been a better performer of this trick than I was. I do not know which shocked Mg. Equlee the most; to hear an apology from my mouth or that Mg. Hawkins did not leave a message for them through your letter. Either way, they resumed their theatrics a little less loudly so I suppose it must have worked. For what it is worth, I do share your reservation on this assignment. The Council does not make a habit of sending their greater mages away from Avalon without a reason. I remember on Kathrina Devolee, a good five years back or so, who’s [sic] name had been sullied by dirty rumors of unconventional use of magic, to which the Council had answered with a swift assignment to the North. I do not believe anyone has heard much from her since. (Writing these words, I realize it was indeed you who told me this tale. It goes to show, once again, that you are the ever flowing source of gossip in this part of town. I will do my best to fill the role in your absence, but do not keep your hopes up.)

[End of Page 2]

I have been around Vimes Place to get your satchel back. It was, as you have so helpfully provided, propped on the front table. You will forgive my curiosity as I could not help but wonder exactly what novels you would put alongside such ever-so-important notes. I am unsurprised to find there your classic Aliyah Prestance. I do not remember a time of our lives where you did not carry at least one of [scratch out - “your”] her works. I might’ve shipped a few recommendations of my own in your satchel, so do not be offput [sic] if it seems heavier than you remember it to be. Mg. Equlee was glad to put some complex lock on the whole package, no doubt just a tad more complex than necessary, just to be annoying. I hope you will be able to retrieve the contents fast enough. I will, of course, keep a watchfull [sic] eye on your plants. My green thumb might not be as good as yours but how hard could it be, right? Your plants are safe with me. I hope the countryside treats you well and

[End of Page 3]

that you will keep describing its people and sights in your letter. The world always seems brighter through your eyes, though I ever so wonder where that enthusiasm keeps coming from. I am hopeful that the Coucil [sic] will call you back soon enough. In the meantime, have my good wishes and thoughts.Awaiting your reply, Eris.

[To the right of the signature is a sticker depicting a tiger, a small girl, and a rabbit. The small girl is pulling clothes out of a suitcase the rabbit is sitting on. The art is done in an engraving style, with black lines on a white background.]

[idesofrevolution]

Hi. Love your work. It’s my Birthday today. Any chance of a story turning me into a younger, cigar smoking jock from my 40 year old white collar suburban everyday 9-5.

love your work even if not :)

You open the door, startled by such a forceful knock at this time of the day. Looking around, you see nobody anywhere nearby, if anything, an unnerving quiet had fallen over your neighborhood as if you were the only one around for a mile. Just as you were preparing to shut the door and return to whatever you were doing, you feel the tip of your toe hit something as you retreat back into your home. Looking down, a small package in nondescript brown packaging sat ominously at your feet.

No label, no return address, nothing. It was your birthday, so you thought to yourself that perhaps one of your neighbors was being kind and wanted to do something nice for a change. You pick up the box and gently shake it. Something loose inside of it rattles about, clearly not heavy, nor breakable. You take the box inside, sitting down onto the couch and begin to tear the brown paper from it. Atop the taped cardboard box, a small note was attached.

"Happy Birthday. Hopefully this brings you memories of a simpler time. Enjoy." The letter was unsigned, written in inhuman, clear lettering. Intrigued, you open the box. Inside, rolling around was a single cigar. You pick it up, feeling the smooth cylinder glide between your fingers. Smiling, you light it up, ready to unwind for just a moment. It is your birthday after all.

Taking one deep drag, you lean back into the sofa, exhaling a huge cloud of thick tobacco smoke. The cigar tastes funky, salty almost. The unexpected flavor takes you aback for a moment, though even stopping for one moment made you crave one more drag. Bringing it to your lips, you take another inhale, feeling your chest rise and fall as the cloud escapes your lips. The cigar feels at home between your lips as they plump up and stubble begins to crawl down from your sharpening jaw to your chest.

You rub your itching pecs as they begin to grow, your shoulders widen and square out with thick deltoids and traps. You take another drag. The sensation of smoke flows deep into you, coursing through your veins, filling your expanding biceps and rock hard forearms. Between your callousing fingers, worn from hard labor and barbell scratches, you roll your cigar and savor the newfound vitality which overwhelms your thickening muscles.

You slide your pants off as your quads inflate, setting off a stirring in your groin. Your balls grow heavy and pendulous, filled with thick, juicy, potent seed. Pre begins to leak out of the lengthening shaft, your new funky musk wafting from your damp pits and sweaty balls drives you wild as you begin to paw at your rock hard bulge. Slipping your increasingly moist boxers off, your 11" cock slams against your cum gutters throbbing with each burst of muscle growth in your calves. Taking it in your hand, you beat your musty donkey dick as you feel your toes strain against the confines of your socks, sweat pouring into the cotton fibers before the loud tearing sounds of the fabric giving way notate their inevitable demise.

You stroke faster and harder, your balls swinging and jumping with every tug of the meaty member. Your slick cockhead slipping in and out of the sticky foreskin inches you closer and closer until you can't contain yourself any longer. With one final slamming down of your fist onto your groin, ropes of sticky, thick cum shoot out of your cock like a geyser. Every shot your face grows younger, fuller, sharper. Your brows fall downward into a permanently furrowed look as your hair curls wildly, becoming a sweaty mop atop your chiseled skull.

Breathing out, you exhale the last remnants of yourself. Sitting there, covered in your own splooge, you chuckle to yourself as you rub the baby batter into your skin. You crack your toe knuckles and jump up, slipping on your favorite pair of Wrangler jeans and your ripe Timberland boots. Being sure not to forget your gifted cigar, you sauntered out the door, looking to find a good time to make your perfect birthday complete.

[lord-of-the-weird]

hiiii what’s your favorite recipe(s) you’ve made?? i’m always looking for stuff

boy do i have some!

first is my absolute favorite dessert pumpkin cream pie! this recipe makes two but can be halved or one can be frozen as long as you don’t put the whipped cream on the top! also i put more powdered sugar and whip cream than the recipe says

these are so so good does not make a 100 tho i think i usually get 35-40?

these is a pretty good brownie recipe if you like them gooey! honestly i would probably put the whole egg and sometimes an instant coffee pack!

baklava!!! soooo good and pretty easy to make! it makes a lot but it can be cut in half! i use pecans but whatever works for you! (i think traditionally it’s pistachios but don’t quote me on that) 

honestly one of my favorites growing up can be halved and the pecans are not necessary 

full disclaimer never actually made these but they’re fantastic! 

i don’t have a card for this one because i usually do it from memory (aka Measure with my heart) but here’s my take on a texans take of a german recipe

pecan hedgehogs

half a box of almond paste (about 4oz.)

half a cup of sugar

half a cup of almond flour 

an egg yolk

an amount of extract (almond or vanilla)

after that’s all combined shape them into kind of horizontal teardrop shapes brush with the egg white then press almond slivers for the quills

or the boring but faster way roll into balls brush on the egg white and lightly press on almond slivers 

they only puff up a little bit so they don’t need much room bake them at 325° on parchment paper until lightly golden brown (i think 15ish minutes) let cool on the paper or they won’t come up makes like 30 or 40 i think? could be 18 honestly i haven’t make them in a while

green drink™ my favorite holiday beverage growing up! you would think between me, my siblings and my cousins (all 9 of us) we would’ve came up with a better name but alas kids are stupid at least we were

just mix ginger ale and sherbet and let it melt a bit any flavor works but limes what we used

homemade frosties

blend half chocolate milk and half regular with a scoop of sweetened condensed milk add a scoop of kool whip blend again and freeze for 2-3 hours of til half frozen!

it’s occurred to me you may have wanted you may have wanted something other than desserts 

homemade ravioli is so much better than store bought and honestly really easy to make (i have a pasta machine but you can make them without!)

first mix together 2/3 a cup of flour and an egg with olive oil into it forms a ball then lightly knead in the bowl a couple times. wrap up and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes

filling:

1/4 ish cup of ricotta cheese 

an amount of finely chopped garlic (measure with your heart)

1/4 ish cup of mozzarella (i usually use fresh but the shredded kind works too) 

an egg yolk

salt, pepper and italian seasoning 

if using a pasta machine use the smallest setting if doing it by hand until you can see daylight through the dough (and consult google) 

rub the egg white around the filling before folding dough over its self and pressing edges together

freeze on a baking sheet before bagging it!

my favorite sauce to eat with them!

brown a tbsp of butter with a halved clove of garlic, add heavy whipping cream, salt and pepper!

[jimmythejiver]

@softness-and-shattering

Okay so... I used to be a crayon collector as one of the few expenses I had as a kid besides ponybeads for crafting that wasn't taking paper and tape to make paper dolls and boxes and scraps to make dioramas. That was when I lived with my parents and was struggling middle class. At some point my older brother went to college and I inherited his prismacolor collection from highschool. In highschool I'd supplement this collection with stolen stubs from art class that was thrown in a general tub for class projects. Most of the colors were reds, black, white, peach and brown tones, but I got a lilac and an imperial violet that you could never find in stores without buying a complete set again. I cherished those and still have them, here they are with a parma violet from bro's old set I widdled down over time in twenty years:

Every so often I'd be lucky to replace a pencil here and there, but the prices would jump up. Recessions and living check to rent moving out of parents meant no major set replacements for years. I made do, used my pencils in a way where I'd have to cycle through other colors to not rely on favorite tones too much. I'd wonder why none ever showed up at thrift stores like cheap color pencils and crayons tend to. I even stopped drawing for years because of the pressure of surviving tbh. I focused on learning to write and set down my visual ability because I just don't have a grasp at anatomy and the three dimension anyway and landscapes do use up a lot of color.

Eventually my brother was burned out, he was harrassed by our boss who tried to pit us against each other and legal stuff I don't want to get into here. We ended up back home at my parents to fight this asshole and retreat because our rent landlord also became unbearable, which is another story for another time. Back home my disability income didn't go up much and it went into paying expenses and no rainy day saving or escape money was possible and I ended up Pop's unpaid laborer when it came to home improvement crap. Brother tried to make other jobs work after losing his ten year stable job to work with asshole who preyed upon us, but couldn't keep them for various reasons on top of managing a toxic family life. He published a book (it started as a way to encourage me to go write when I was sitting at home wasting away between soul sucking house repairs) and did some editor freelancing afterwards. Needless to say one by one members of my family die, my mom in 2016, my oldest brother (who I haven't gotten into because he's why I left my family in the first place as soon as I could at 18) in 2020, my father (Pop) in 2023 and that is just immediate family, though my extended relatives aren't going to step in unless I denounce and detransition either. My future is uncertain.

My grandma can't take me in long without violating her rent conditions and she hides our cat among her own and hopes the other tenants make no fuss, my surviving brother is now in an estate dispute with my sister (another reason I needed to leave my family) who had brought a bunch of friends (more like people she thinks she can ingratiate to do things for her but are looking to rip her off), into father's house where they robbed whatever they could carry and stowaway and proceeded to trash the house... We never evict sister, but brother has to play bad guy to get her to get them out. There's a longer story in getting it put up for sale while we fix father's money pit he left us. The sale pays off what Pop owed on the remortgage and getting money pit some actual work put into it, but it's gutted with no floors, heating or and drywall everywhere and winter is fats approaching...

Meanwhile our surviving stuff was either incorporated into grandma's apartment or sitting unsecure on moneypit property. My prisma's and clay were at grandma's where I could occasionally have downtime to draw landscapes or character design for a book I'm too stressed to write on a laptop I can't access often. It is at this point my long distance boyfriend and cowriter on a long-winded fanfiction series and I couldn't maintain constant contact and we've not really been able to fix that since unfortunately. I have this phone prepaid a year in advanced to go crazy watching the news or some bullshit discourse on tumblr. I can see I'm going crazy, even my friend halfway around the world politely calls me out. My situation makes me wallow further in everyone else's I can't change, like a distraction because if I dare admit I'm living in chaos then I'd have to answer for myself and now I can't answer for myself why I can't help anyone else and the vicious circle.

One of the bleak things of existing without a consistent roof over your head is constantly 'shopping' to be somewhere because loitering is discouraged. Who can shop when you have no where to put your stuff? I'm often at the craft stores (Michael's and Joanne's but never Hobby Lobby fuck them), usually as an excuse to pick up yarn for my grandma, maybe I can replace a pencil here and there now that some money is coming in that isn't going towards the pit, my collection is over twenty years old and widdled down. I notice they never restock lilac and lavender, it is driving me crazy. All the sudden they stock amethyst and orchid, wtf? I go online to find out they discontinued them in 2022 because whatever they used to make the pigment they no longer have access too. I do however go down a rabbit hole of prismacolor's history, from being manufactured in the United States, to Berol in United Kingdom to Canada when I was growing up (where my old Sanford set comes from) to now being manufactured in Mexico under Newell. I find that there are plenty of discontinued colors through the years since it debuted in the 30s, but nobody has a definitive list or dates, just missing numbers, as each color has one. Also the quality has gotten more breakable over time which I can attest to. Also people at thrift stores purportedly throw them out unlike crayons which explains why I never see them in my hunts. Thanks... I'd have loved the stubs y'all. I use those!

Which brings me to last spring, we had gotten the final floors installed. Family friend who was helping with the moneypit comes back from vacation, undermines our plans to move grandma's furniture in. Grandma already put in her notice to move in with us. Friend's wife starts a huge fight. It comes out that this whole collaborative project was some game of chicken where they hoped we'd sink so much money in we'd panic and sell the house to them. They ghost. House isn't done, but is livable.

Meanwhile I've been on the search for lilac pencils (had to let lavender go because I at least have an intact one from before discontinuation) on ebay and etsy to no avail, overcharged or old pictures on new listing, color not guaranteed. I try alternative markets like mercari and other places, one of them is a website for dollmaking, where you can buy supplies and parts to make dolls. They have a lilac listing, we e-mail them, they can send it. We try another place, they get back to us in a rant about the discontinuation and being a small business being fucked over, etc. We get another e-mail back from a kid's art supply store, but we don't get back to them soon enough unfortunately because an overstock website claims to have 26 lilac pencils! We shoot our shot.

This all happens as we wait and wait to move ours and grandma's stuff into new place. I'm now the owner of 27 lilac prisma pencils:

Postscript:

In my research on Mexican manufacturing of prismacolor I find out that not only do they make the Premier that I buy and the Scholar (think similar to Crayola branded color pencils in terms of quality, I have some random ones), but they have a midgrade set they don't import us called Juniors for kids who want nicer but affordable pencils and they have a color called Lavanda and I found import listing on Amazon, but I don't buy them. Months later I am at an Ollie's over a county away and find these:

[oldiesstationlover11607]

Cookies - Tyler Joseph x Reader

Relationship: Tyler Joseph x Reader

Warnings: Fluff

Word Count: 1065

Summary: Reader teaches Tyler how to bake her signature cookies

Tyler Joseph loved eating cookies. And I loved making them. I’d made my brown butter chocolate cookies for him and Josh every week since we met. Except this time was different, because this was the first time Tyler and I were living together in our own house. And this time I was teaching Tyler how to make them himself. 

“Shouldn’t we be using a recipe?” He asked, grabbing out the ingredients as I called them out. I’d made these cookies more than 10 times, I knew the recipe by memory. 

“I’ve got it Ty, it should be fine,” I said, grabbing out measuring cups, bowls, and a pot to brown the butter. I measured out the butter before placing it on the stovetop to brown. 

“And what’s this supposed to do?” Tyler asked, standing behind me and looking over my shoulder. I could feel his breath on my neck and I smiled to myself, happy he was actually interested. 

“Browning butter makes it have this nutty flavor that makes the cookies taste so good. It’s hard to not burn it though so that’s why I’m doing it for you.” I continued to stir the butter until it foamed up, started to smell nutty, and was a golden brown color. Tyler’s eyes widened as I moved the hot pot off the stove to let the butter cool. “Can you measure out the sugars please? I wrote down the measurements for you,” I asked. He nodded and started pouring white and brown sugar into the bowl. 

“Hey Siri, play y/n’s (insert favorite non tøp band)‘s playlist,” he called out to our smart speaker. I grabbed out the eggs and cracked them into a bowl along with some vanilla extract which Tyler called ‘spicy’ when he dipped a pinky into the bottle. Once the butter had cooled enough I poured it into the sugar bowl and had Tyler stir it. I danced and sang along to the music playing in the background, waiting for him to finish mixing. I added in the eggs and vanilla, he continued mixing. I added the flour, salt, and baking powder. It always got harder to mix once the flour was added and I struggled to watch Tyler be so slow at something I’d done for weeks. 

“God could you stir any slower?” I laughed, snatching the bowl from him and folding the flour in. 

“Well, is there anything else I can do?” He laughed, leaning against the counter. 

“Uh yeah actually. Can you preheat the oven and line the baking trays?” I nodded towards our oven as I grabbed the block of baking chocolate and started to cut it into little chunks. Tyler looked entirely clueless but he was trying and it was cute. He ran a hand through his hair and squinted at the oven dial. “Shit!” I swore, feeling the blade of the knife nick me like a paper cut. 

“I swear y/n if you just cut off your finger with that knife,” Tyler turned around and grabbed my hand to inspect it. He squinted extra hard at the cut till he saw a couple drops of blood and ran to grab the first aid kit. 

“I’m fine, Ty. It happens all the time in the kitchen,” I say, slapping on a bandage and reaching for the knife again. 

“Ah ah, I’m not letting you hold a knife ever again babe. It’s not happening,” he stole it from my grip and started chopping the chocolate exactly how I had been. We finished mixing everything in and put the cookies into the oven. 

“Did you wash those?” I asked, pointing to the pile of dishes we’d been using. 

“Of course I did,” he smiled, pulling me into his chest. “Now we just wait for y/n’s amazing cookies to be done and we can send half off to Josh.” We sat on the floor in front of the oven, me in between Tyler’s legs and his arms wrapped around my waist. I could feel the rising and falling of his chest with every breath. 

“How’s the songwriting stuff coming along?” I asked. He’d been spending a lot of time in the home studio lately. Normally I wouldn’t ask, knowing that his process was very personal and that he’d mention it when he was ready but it felt right to ask. 

“Not too bad. I think you’ll like the new album if that’s what you’re wondering,” he responded. I’d missed spending time with him like this. The last time we properly got to spend time together was when we were on tour and the boys had a lot of spare time waiting around. I was grateful he’d taken the time off, the warmth of his presence filling my heart. 

“I love you,” I rested my head on his chest as he caressed and curled my hair in between his fingers. 

“You’re my everything y/n. I love everything about you,” he pressed his lips softly to my neck, a fluttery feeling running across my skin. “I don’t know where I’d be without your cookies,” he stopped, desperately trying to hold in his laugh and knowing full well that I was about to destroy him. 

“Oh fuck off,” I grinned, jumping up to check the oven, each cookie a perfect flat golden brown treasure. “They’re done if you want to call Josh and Debby to come over,” I placed them on the cooling rack and wrapped one in a napkin for Tyler to eat fresh out of the oven. He responded with a keen hum before taking a bite. 

“Ugh this is why I love you. Because you make the BEST cookies I’ve ever eaten in my entire life,” he groaned with satisfaction.

“Well now you can make them for yourself,” I felt my lips tug up in a smirk, knowing there was no way he’d ever make them for himself. He would just complain they didn’t taste as good if he made them.

“Or… you can just keep making them every week instead of paying rent.”

“I already don’t pay rent, we own the house,” I said, watching him take another bite. 

“Well if you don’t make these then I’ll start charging you, good enough?” He clearly hadn’t thought through the rent joke before attempting to crack it. 

I nodded, chuckling under my breath, “yeah good enough Mr Joseph.”

//

Please submit any requests y'all have! I love to write so let me know if you've got any!

[soobjvn]

TULIPS 🌷⁎︎° ✳︎ CHAPTER 19 : “ the c word ,,

↳︎ cw: written + smau; lightly proofread

[ prev. ✧︎ toc. ✧︎ next. ]

“YOU LOOK NICE,” winter commented from behind their market booth, looking up from the keychains she’d just arranged to y/n’s outfit. she wore a summer dress scattered with a strawberry pattern, a matching white purse in one hand and her phone in the other. “i wonder what the occasion is…”

“ok shut up.” she retorted while winter snickered. “how can i help?”

“admit you like yeonjun.”

“i meant with the booth,” winter smiled as she took note of the blush that painted y/n’s cheeks at the yeonjun remark.

“i know, y/n. and, nothing! yunjin went to go get the rest of the bags from the dorm; the two of us will be fine.”

“alright, but if you need help, just call me, ok?”

“y/n, we’re selling crochet not building a bomb. but sweet of you to abandon your man for us!”

“he’s not-“

“ah, ah, ah,” winter held her hand up, stopping y/n from continuing. “if i say it, it’ll happen.”

“yeah, okay.”

“can you just admit there’s a little something there?” y/n crossed her arms.

“maybe a teeny, tiny bit. like a smidge.” y/n pinched her fingers. smidge my ass, winter thought.

“finally!” as if summoned by the confession, yunjin appeared behind the booth with a box of their handmade purses and totes. “i think the earth just shook; mercury went into retrograde.”

“you guys are awful,” y/n laughed. she looked at her phone for the time. 1:27 it read; the market didn’t officially start until 2, meaning she’d have a bit until yeonjun came. she didn’t expect him to show up right when it opened, but they hadn’t specified a time either. she felt a bit disappointed to have to wait for his arrival.

“liar, you love us,” winter responded.

“whatever. i’m gonna go look around. i’ll see you guys later?”

“she’s growing up so fast,” yunjin and winter wiped fake tears while linking arms, causing a snort from y/n as she walked away to explore the market.

Y/N WAS LOOKING at a jewelry booth when her phone buzzed in her hand.

jun!: hey y/n, i’m here :)

y/n caught herself smile at the text. dammit.

y/n: hey! i’ll come meet you. what booth are you by?

jun!: ok! i think it’s some sort of paper mache tent…? 💀

y/n: yeah that one ALWAYS sucks.

jun!: seriously who is buying these??? idk if this one’s a dinosaur or a fallopian tube but it has no right to be 45 bucks.

y/n: PLS 😭

y/n: i see the tent! i’ll be there in a sec

jun!: y/n hurry this booth scares me

she walked over to the booth yeonjun had (concerningly) described, and couldn’t hide the grin that spread across her face when she saw him. he was dressed in a light blue button down with the sleeves slightly rolled and navy pants, and his black hair rustled in the summer breeze. his dark brown eyes wandered the surplus of students, seemingly looking for one in particular. he had a neutral expression, almost disappointed, she noticed.

truthfully, yeonjun had arrived before texting y/n; 12 minutes prior, to be exact. he presumed the market would have flowers he could buy y/n, feeling a surge of confidence to hint at his feelings. kai agreed the notion was sweet, especially since he’d planned to buy her favorite flowers: tulips. yet, he scanned what felt like 20 booths of flowers, none having the desired type. he sent kai a disappointed message. it was then he then finally texted y/n.

but, he replaced the frown by reciprocating y/n’s smile when his eyes finally met hers, and he walked over to wrap her in a friendly hug. y/n didn’t recall feeling bubbly when she initiated a hug the first time they’d went out, or anytime they’d seen each other in between, for that matter.

yeonjun, on the other hand, was used to the turning of his stomach in her presence, which had only happened 10 times more often and intensely since their conversation at the karaoke booth. he, too, took the time to study her stature, which he’d officially deemed as perfect. he watched as her eyes lit up under the sunlight as she released from the hug.

yeonjun ran a hand through his hair. “where to first?”

“I WARNED YOU about my skills, y/n.”

“you threatened me with your ‘nobel peace prize in ring tossing’, so excuse me if i wasn’t all that intimated,” they both laughed as they walked nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. the two had been exploring the market for nearly an hour and a half now, and were departing the fair game booth. y/n had, sadly, been defeated in practically every game. yeonjun made it up to her, though, by giving her the plush he had got from winning basketball. “what should we name him?”

yeonjun smiled at the ‘we.’ “yeonjun junior.”

“absolutely not,” she laughed when he dramatically frowned. “oh, jun, that’s our booth over there!” she grabbed his hand, skipping over to yunjin and winter. the two girls smirked at the sight of them. they giggled seeing yeonjun’s ears red with adoration and a giddy smile plastered on y/n.

“finally,” yunjin said. y/n rolled her eyes. “we thought you’d forgotten about us.”

“i still can’t believe you left us for your boyf-” yunjin nudged her, holding in a laugh. y/n glared at winter. yeonjun’s grin widened.

“so i’m your boyfriend now?” he turned to look at y/n, who would typically remain composed in most situations. when the situation involved yeonjun, however, that quality did not apply.

“no! i didn’t say that! well, not that it’d be a bad thing,” yunjin couldn’t keep her laugh in any longer. “but not that i’m asking for that, either! i’m very happy being single!” the embarrassment finally set when yeonjun, too, giggled. winter didn’t dare laugh, thinking about the scolding she’d later receive.

“you’re cute, y/n.”

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A/N 🌷 hey… how’s everyone doing 🚶‍♀️… i know its been forever since i’ve updated; i was traveling, and i’m starting up school again so my stress was just 📈📈📈. but we’re all good now!! i’ll continue to post whenever i can, which will most likely be weekends 🫶. thank u for the patience and support thus far!

[mediocre-shark-tales]

Fated by the Stars (6)

Straykids ot8 x Reader

Warnings - Mentions of Abuse, Mentions of Wounds/Injuries Traumatic Past, Violence, and Mentions of Non-consensual Molesting

Summary - After a couple weeks with the boys returning to their jobs, today was the first day where no one could stay home. Of course you know you can handle yourself, but that doesn't stop the pack from worrying about you. But you have the perfect idea on how you will spend the day.

Masterlist

It took me ages to finally get the boys out the door and to their respective jobs. They were all worried about how I would be by myself. I had to remind them that I had been doing better recently. I no longer had the recurring nightmares, no more panic attacks. I was doing so much better than they thought.

I needed them to trust me because I had wanted to surprise them when they come home and I needed the whole day to work on the surprise. Over the last couple weeks, I was slowly gathering ingredients and craft items.

Now that they were gone, I had as much time as I could. First I would start with finishing their new set of bracelets I would make them. Ever since the first time I had made them bracelets, I haven't seen them without the bracelet. Because of this I want to make different sets so they don't have to feel like they need to wear the same one everyday.

This time all the bracelets had my name on it, surrounded by beads that relate to an animal they act like. Like Minho had a bracelet with white bunny head beads that were between other kinds of white beads to make it cuter. Hyunjin had a tiger themed bracelet, Jeongin got a fox theme, Changbin got a bear theme, and Seungmin got a dog theme. Chan got a Lion theme, Felix got a panda theme, and Jisung got a Squirrel themed one.

Once they were all done, I put them onto paper that I had colored with the same color their original bracelets were. I brought them back out into the living room that was attached to the kitchen. Almost like one big room if this wall didn't cut in between the two. I placed the gifts down on the table, under each one was a cute picture I had painted of each of them. The pictures included the specific mate and me cuddling, or hugging, or even a kiss on the cheek.

I also placed a few candles and some rose petals on the table as well. Now that I had finished setting that up, I had to start the baking half!

I gathered all the necessary ingredients like flour, sugar, eggs, vanilla, and of course, fresh, ripe strawberries. My favorite fruit. while the oven preheated, I began whisking the eggs and sugar together until they formed a fluffy and pale mixture. This step was crucial to achieving the airy texture of the cake. At least that was what the recipe told me. I wish I could have practiced baking this but its pretty hard to hide anything from the boys when one or another is here.

Next, I began to sift the flour and baking powder into the egg mixture, gently folding them together to create a smooth batter. I couldn't help but smile as the kitchen filled with the comforting scent of the vanilla. This must be what the boys smell when they are around me, at least they tell me I smell of vanilla. The batter, now a soft pink color was ready for the oven.

I poured the batter into round cake pans, ensuring an even distribution. Then I put the pans into the preheated oven, then sat back and watched eagerly as the cakes rose and turned a beautiful golden brown tone.

While the cakes baked, I turned my attention to making the frosting. I carefully washed and sliced the strawberries, creating a mound of ruby-red sweetness. These would be the filling for the cake, adding a burst of freshness to each bite.

As the timer chimed, signaling the cakes were done, I carefully removed them from the oven. Unfortunately as I sat them down, the side of the pan caught my wrist and burned it pretty badly. I howled in pain but still carefully sat the pan down. The kitchen was now filled with the irresistible scent of freshly baked sponge. I let the cakes cool, patiently waiting for them to reach the perfect temperature.

While I waited, I tried to wash my burn. Looking into the mini emergency kit, I found some burn cream and wrapping. Easily applying it to my wound before wrapping it up. The wrapping didn't look the best but it did the job for now.

Once cooled, I began to assemble the cake. Spreading a layer of whipped cream on top of one spongey cake and arranged a generous amount of sliced strawberries. Placing the second sponge cake on top of the last. Marveling at my creation, it was a masterpiece of light and airy layers, adorned with the vibrant red strawberries.

Looking at the time, I saw that I had about 10 minutes until the boys would all be home. I quickly blocked the entrance to the living room and kitchen area. I fixed myself up, wiping off some of the flour on my skin and clothes. Minutes passed quickly and I could hear the boys driving up to the house together. The sound of them exiting the car and running up to the house made me smile. They still were worried about how I was after their stressful days at work. I stared down the front door from the entrance I was blocking.

The door burst open with Chan leading the boys inside, when they noticed me they quickly ran over. "How are you babygirl?" They gave me a hug together but when one of them knocked my wrist, they earned a gasp in return.

Suddenly they all pulled back to look down at me worriedly, chan being the one to notice my wrist. He lightly grabbed my arm to check over my wound. "What happened sweetheart?" I smiled and pulled my arm back. "Don't worry about it, just follow me please."

The boys stared back confused as I walked into the kitchen area. Still they followed without questioning. But soon their faces were filled with astonishment. I smiled proudly as they saw the candles lit, surrounded by rose petals. In the middle of table sat the pretty strawberry cake I had made, in front of it was the line of gifts for everyone.

"I made you guys a cake, but I didn't know what fruits you like so I decided to do my favorite fruit. So Its strawberry. I also thought you guys needed some new bracelets so you don't have to always wear the same one." They all came closer, Minho placing his hand on my cheek. "Sweetheart, never let yourself think we won't love what you give us for eternity. I'm happy to wear this bracelet every second of everyday. Now I will just have to wear this new bracelet with my older one as well." I smiled. "Okay alpha, the color of the paper matches your last bracelet! Come get them!" I watched das Minho picked his up first, seeing the painting of us under it he smiled. "This is so cute baby." When he opened the package to find the new bracelet, he smile wider and put it on the same wrist where his other one sat.

Slowly each pack mate had their new bracelet on and went to hide their painting away in their rooms. Chan was the first to return. "So did you burn your wrist making this cake?" He asked while feeding me a bite. I nodded. "Next time, can you let one of us help you? I know you want your personal freedom, and I'm glad to give you that. But maybe let us teach you how to safely bake, then I won't need to worry about your safety as much." I nodded.

"Okay I would love to bake with any of my pack mates!" Soon everyone else had come back downstairs where a slice of cake waited for them. Chan was still feeding me my slice and eating his own slice in between my bites. I watched everyone begin to eat their slices. I gave most of my attention to Felix, he was the owner of a quite profound bakery after all. I watched as his face slowly turned up into a huge smile. Seeing this I felt a sigh of relief escape me, but seconds later I was in his arms as he swung me around. "We have a little prodigy baker right here!" He placed a big kiss on my cheek while I giggled in his arms.

"So it was as good as I hoped!" Felix nodded and sat me back down in chan's lap. "It was near perfect babygirl, I'll have to teach you some more delicious recipes." "Okay!"

Soon we all returned to eating our slices of cake again, until that happy silence was broken by Minho. "So, sweetheart." I looked towards him wondering what he would say next. "In about a weeks time, we are having a big party to celebrate all of our companies coming together as a joint brand. We would love to have you join us as our mate and our pretty omega. That way the whole world will know you are ours." Just the thought of them claiming me in any way big or small made me blush. "awe you made our 'mega shy" I hid my face in chan's chest, trying to hide my now growing blush. I felt chan begin to rub my back soothingly. "Does our little 'mega love to think about being claimed by her pack?" I slowly nodded but kept my face in his chest. After I responded to his question, I heard growls and purrs around the room. However there was no anger or upset in the growls, it was like the growls were more out of lust.

This made me whine against chan, my system easily switching to a lusty mindset. My omega wanting nothing more than to do what my pack wanted, to make them pleased with me. My body began to easy up, all stiffness dripping from me. I could feel myself falling into the lusty mindset of my omega. I dragged my hands up and down Chans chest, trying to earn more praise for my omega. He slowly grabbed my hands with one of his as he used the other to lift my face slowly. "Not yet my pretty little omega, we will get to that another day, we have it perfectly planned out for you."

Thanks to his light use of the alpha tone, I was able to bring my conscious back up to the front. Pushing aside the omega mindset that so desperately wanted her pack to claim her. I nodded as an answer to chan.

For the rest of the day, we spent it cuddling and watching movies. If only I knew the future, if only I could see what was coming. How unfortunate it is that good and happy can only ;last so long before fate hits you with some sort of pain or sadness. But this is life, I just hope we can survive the evil coming for me.

Masterlist