#it's taste man! it's a matter of taste! there's no objective graph for this shit

[novelconcepts]

It really frees up so much mental real estate when you start thinking of sex as just: a thing people sometimes do. Some people are super into it! Some aren't! It's for fun! It's for intimacy! It's the deepest connection some people will ever feel and totally meaningless to others! It's hot! It's boring! It helps some people sleep! It exists as an exciting construct solely in fantasy for others! What it isn't is some complicated moral ground that needs to be fought against at every turn. It's just A Thing. Which means people who have a lot of it, or none of it, or whatever in between are all worth the same. Which means stories that have a lot of it, or none of it, or whatever in between are worth the same, too. Smut isn't less valuable than "clean" stories. People who have a high "body count" aren't less valuable than those who have never had sex at all. It's just A Thing. Making peace with sex as just A Thing that is natural to consentingly have or not have, want or not want, really is a great adjustment to your brainspace.

[welllpthisishappening]

First-Line Defensive Pairing

Of all the things they’d done in the last few months, spending the afternoon at the Museum of Ice Cream was one of the more ridiculous. Mostly because of the wooden spoons they gave out on the tour. Partially because it seemed Will Scarlet could not stop casting furtive glances at Belle French. Or the heels that always matched her dresses. Maybe because she kept answering his hypothetical questions. And maybe even because he was willing to drift far closer to genuine these days. At least when it came to his feelings for her.

————

Word Count: 3.7K AN: Take two! Ok, so apparently yesterday when I posted this Tumblr thought it’d be a really cool idea to just...reformat the entire story. With whole graphs in totally wrong spots. Anyway, here it is again. Just as ridiculous as yesterday. With just as many Will and Belle emotions. Because that’s a thing I’m doing now, apparently. Writing Blue Line-era Will and Belle. If you’d like more of these flirt-prone idiots, here is their first date and Belle getting annoyed that Will fought someone on the ice. Technically, this was part of the kiss prompts and was “height difference kisses.” I hope the five of you who are interested in this enjoy it. That includes @shireness-says​ and @eleveneitherway​ who are mostly to blame for this.

————

“I’m going to ask you a hypothetical question.”

Belle lifted her eyebrows. Let some of that light creep back in her gaze, a flash of amusement that regularly made Will’s stomach leap dangerously close to the base of his ribs. That’s why he did it. Maybe not the rib thing, partially because he wasn’t even sure that was the correct technical term. The rest of it, though. The eye thing. Sure. Definitely. One-hundred percent. Why he’d also made sure the little wooden spoon they’d been given at the start of this tour was still in the corner of his mouth; to guarantee absolute absurdity, and he figured that started when they decided to spend their afternoon at the Museum of Ice Cream, but he was willing to take it all a step further. 

In the absurdity factor, at least. 

Other things were—

Well, it wasn’t as if they explicitly decided to keep the relationship a secret. Not on purpose. Not really. Or come to any sort of legitimate agreement regarding the use of the word relationship. It never seemed...important, honestly. And that was a potentially problematic and lackadaisical approach to someone who made Will smile with an almost alarming consistency in the last few months, but she’d also sort of snuck up on him, and Ariel was going to be so annoying. 

About the whole goddamn thing. 

She’d never shut up about it, he knew. 

So he didn’t push. Belle didn’t, either. An unspoken agreement, that’s what it was. He had other things to do, anyway. Like get ready for a playoff run and ignore the lingering ache in his calves after the echo of Arthur’s whistle stopped ringing in his ears, and, ok, his apartment was starting to feel a little bit larger than it had in a long time, maybe since Killian had moved out, but that was fine. Cup runs did not come because someone was in a relationship. Will had seen that first hand. With Cap, of all people. 

Watched the way his whole life had fallen apart around his ankles, little shards of hope and possibility that, Will knew, still threatened the structural integrity of Kilian’s internal organs and all four ventricles of his heart, and he did not understand enough basic biology to be making those sorts of sweeping observations, but Robin had lost someone too and that had been horrible and tragic and—

If Will simply did not want to jinx things, then that was neither here nor there.

Relationship’y speaking. 

It was good. They were good. He hated the wooden spoon they gave them to taste test half a dozen ice cream flavors. 

He was legitimately worried about getting splinters in his tongue. 

No excuses could possibly reason away that problem pre-game. 

Belle’s eyebrows were still in the same spot. “You going to follow up on that, or…” “Would you burn a Gutenberg Bible? To stave off the apocalypse and or potential frostbite?” “Those two things go together, do they?” He shrugged. “In this instance, yeah, because—” “—Well, it wouldn’t matter,” Belle said, eyes flitting towards the overly enthusiastic tour guide and the seemingly never-ending history of ice cream, “because I wouldn’t allow myself to be in that position. And I don’t live anywhere near the Public Library. What would I be doing there when the freeze-wave came?” His stomach. Did that thing. Jumped and twisted, got a ten from the Russian judge on its floor routine. He was cautiously optimistic he’d be able to pull off a flawless beam performance too. It was an exceedingly convoluted metaphor. Wrong Olympics, too. 

“Does salt air give you mind-reading powers?” “You’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are,” Belle grinned. Moving her hand faster than he was entirely prepared for ensured that he nearly dropped his small plastic cup of churro churro ice cream. He made noise. Without trying. A hiss and a grunt in the back of his throat that then led to a sound escaping between Belle’s half-hearted scowl, and that sound was closer to a giggle than either of them would ever admit and just enough to mess with his mental faculties a little and the tour guide stopped talking. To stare straight at them. 

Color lifted on Belle’s cheeks, ice cream-covered spoon held awkwardly between them. 

“As you were, ma’am,” Will said, all false bravado, and that was something of a trend. In several different capacities. It was far too depressing a thought to have while eating cinnamon-flavored ice cream. 

Belle elbowed him. 

And the tour guide got back to her to spiel. Without a reprimand. 

“Say freeze-wave again without laughing.”

Her eyelashes were more of a problem, honestly. Than the eyebrows. Or the specific jut of her chin Will had rather quickly learned meant she was ready to challenge him on some ridiculous topic, fully prepared to argue a position she might not have otherwise agreed with. Only because it wasn’t what he was arguing, and it was easy to understand why she won that Model UN award. 

Plus, her eyelashes were just stupid long, and he thought she was really pretty. 

Like in a fundamental sort of way. 

“Freeze-wave,” Belle enunciated, pausing between syllables for maximum effect, “are you asking me Day After Tomorrow questions because of the ice cream, because I’m a librarian or because you’re the strangest man alive?” She finally ate the rest of the ice cream. It was starting to melt, that was why. This was very melt-prone ice cream. “Oh, shit,” she mumbled, “this is really good. Better than mine.” Something popped in his shoulder when he reached towards her plastic cup. He wouldn’t tell Ariel about that, either. 

“Which kind is—” Fighting off the objections of a small librarian who resolutely refused to wear anything except heels, no matter what the weather was like, was not usually as difficult as it was in that moment. Will assumed it had something to do with sugar. Or the force of his smile. Robbing the rest of him of energy and the ability to fend off either one of Belle’s fists. “Why are you like this?” “You didn’t want to try peanut and pretzel. With peanut butter swirl.” “Swallowed the flyer for this place while I wasn’t looking, huh?” Sticking her tongue out was distracting. Almost enough that he didn’t notice the absolutely atrocious attempt at impersonating his voice. “Oh, no, no, babe, I don’t want that; you can get peanut butter anywhere. That’s not special.” “Well, it’s not.” “I’m a big fancy hockey player, and I know everything there is to know about ice cream flavors and the potential life-changing palette moment that comes from the sublime combination of salty and sweet.” “Oh, now you’re just taunting me.” Her eyes narrowed, that time. His smile was going to permanently stretch out his cheeks. “You have a disgusting mind.” “You can’t get churro ice cream everywhere, babe.” “I’m going back to get honey later.” Will hummed. Stuck his lower lip out. Noticed that flash return. And hoarded it. Like a relationship—

Ah, fuck. 

“Would you burn the Gutenberg Bible?” Her laugh was quickly becoming his favorite sound. Which wasn’t bad, per se. Was just kind of passably concerning. God damn. It was the heels. All of them kept matching the dresses she wore. She kept wearing dresses. 

Of course, that was going to mess with Will’s head. 

Belle shook her head. “No.” “Historical significance?” “Well, once again, I would not be in that position, would have listened to science and fled to warmer climates, so as not to make myself prey for escaped...what were they? Tigers?” “I honestly can’t remember,” Will admitted. 

“This was your hypothetical!”

Heads snapped their direction. Frustration creased the tour guide’s forehead, and they’d paid extra to learn about the history of ice cream. Will had already known about the origins of the ice cream cone, though. So, the whole thing felt almost like a raw deal, and he was far more interested in preserving the color in Belle’s cheeks. He saluted. Who he was saluting was anyone’s guess, but it very likely was the otherwise unengaged teenage kid trudging behind his family who absolutely recognized Will. 

“That’s going to end up on sixteen different social media sites,” Belle warned, not quite able to get her voice to an appropriate whispering level. 

“So long as he got my good side, you won’t hear me complaining.” “Do you have a good side?”

“Sweetheart, the self-confidence. God.” She squeezed her eyes shut. While practically beaming at him, and Will had to bend his knees to reach, something else creaking in the process, but that was fine, and good, and pretty goddamn fantastic because her lips tasted a bit like chocolate. 

“‘S’not your best work,” Belle mumbled, almost entirely into his mouth. 

“Brain freeze.” “I would burn no books. That’s my final hypothetical answer.” Her eyelashes must have existed purely to torment him. Leaning back made it clear when they fluttered back open, and he swore there were flecks of gold in her eyes. Maybe he was melting, too. With the ice cream. That was almost poetic. “None at all? What if you were going to die?” “Maudlin.” “I don’t know what that means.” “Liar,” she challenged, another smile tugging at her mouth, and Will was clearly staring at her mouth. Stained slightly with chocolate, as it was. “I stand by it, though. The book stuff, not the commentary on your burgeoning intelligence.” “You want to find a corner to go and make out in?” Different laugh. The kind that came with her head thrown back, hair tickling Will’s forearm because at some point his arm had found its way around her, and touching Belle was becoming something almost close to second nature. “I could keep complimenting you if you want,” Belle said, “or I could give you my reason for not burning books.” “You’re a giant nerd, that’s why.” She clicked her tongue. “Very, very cute nerd, though.” “Betcha say that to all the girls.”

His stomach stilled. Dropped a few inches, for good measure. Below where it was supposed to be, and inching dangerously close to his feet, and what Will could not imagine was a very sanitary floor. The Museum of Ice Cream had a giant sprinkle pit. Nothing about that seemed very sanitary. 

“I think stories have a purpose,” Belle said, still not quite whispering but definitely getting there, and he knew. Knew she knew. What he was thinking and feeling and unspoken understanding was quickly becoming the name of this particular game. With them. 

Where it wasn’t a game at all. 

Damn. 

Ariel was going to be so annoying. 

“No matter what they are. Shitty as they can be, all those ups and downs, and ridiculous, often unnecessary melodrama. It’s going to matter to somebody. Someone, somewhere, will be living their life and read those words or see those letters, and they’ll think, wow, whoever wrote this, gets me, and it will change everything for them. They’ll go back to it. Find solace and safety in it. Themselves, maybe. They’ll believe everything will be ok. Even if they only think that while they’re reading.” “Don’t forget audiobooks,” Will muttered, voice strangled and tinged with emotion. In the ice cream museum. Figured, honestly. 

Belle pinched the side of his wrist. 

“Ow. Avoid the bruise further up, please.” “Did you get hit?” Nodding took more energy than it should have, too. She hadn’t been to a game. He hadn’t asked her. What an idiot. “Not bad though, that’s just—” “—Par for the course.” “Mixing idioms, mon trésor.” “Oh, I got that one, actually.” “Slow pitch softball, that’s why,” Will reasoned, some of the tension he wasn’t especially pleased by loosening. 

“I think we’re on a roll now.” He hummed. Nodded, again. Curled his fingers into the back of Belle’s dress. Blue, that afternoon. With matching heels. “It all matters,” she added, soft and earnest, and his eyes snapped. To her and with her and that second one didn’t make sense, not really, but he was and wanted to be and that absolutely terrified him. 

Of it all falling apart again. Of it not being enough. 

He wasn’t enough. 

A story no one was ever all that interested in finishing. 

“You think?” Belle nodded. “Why’d you start playing hockey?” “Quite a transition.” “Tit for tat, or—no, no, c’mon don’t look at me like that.” Red stained her cheeks, now. Making it difficult to concentrate on anything else, although the desire to kiss her again was a fairly strong second, and that kid was taking more pictures. “That’s not fair.” “You’ve brought this on yourself, babe,” Will argued, and he hoped Lucas didn’t yell. At him. He’d never really listened to the social media rules. “It’s a very long, occasionally depressing story about a kid and his single mom, the second of whom often worked her ass off and her fingers to the bone, and all those other delightfully visual clichés. But then! Who would guess, she got a job picking up extra shifts cleaning at the rink in town. Home to the world’s shittiest ice and loudest Zamboni, it instantly drew the attention of our kid-like hero. 

“He was...infatuated, let’s say. With the sounds, especially. Nothing sounds like that first scrape of skates on fresh ice. Full of possibility, you know?” Belle didn’t answer. Will kept talking. “Best noise in the world. And then he learned there were other noises. Pucks hitting the back of nets. Sticks clanging together. Grunts and groans and the game itself, how loud it was. Helped silence some of his thoughts, none of which were ever very good. Lots of worries, some about his very dead sister, then a few more about that mother and her predilection toward clichés.”

“Good word,” Belle murmured. He kissed the top of her hair. The kid was openly staring at them, now. 

“Anyway, the crux of the story is that the guy who owned the rink agreed to let the kid play on the rink. Knew the mother, understood her situation, and hockey is expensive. Like, well, we spout all that bullshit about hockey is for everyone, and I’ve got to stand up there and smile and nod and agree, and it’s fucked up because it’s not really true. Hockey’s for rich kids and families with regularly functioning alternators in their car.” 

He shook his head. Had to. To chase away the memories and the cobwebs, and Cap knew this, too. Understood it, even. Remembered a life before the Vanklads, and not every kid got the Vankalds, and sometimes Will let himself wonder what would have happened if he’d found the Vanklads. Or their upstate New York equivalent. 

Gotten better shin pads, probably. 

“Hockey’s an exclusive sorta club,” Will continued, “gotta know someone who’s related to someone else, and they know someone who played, and it’s six degrees of increasingly desperate separation. By some lucky twist of fate, though, Jimmy Newell knew some bastard who knew somebody else, who saw me play, and you don’t say no to USA Developmental. Spent two years in Minnesota, way before Cap did, so he doesn’t get to claim that state as his own.” Belle’s lips twitched. “Good to know, for argument’s sake.” His stomach was becoming a problem. 

Heart, too. 

Sputtering and slamming, uneven beats that were going to leave another bruise. Will licked his lips. 

“I went to Developmental, declared for the draft, got picked by New York, went to college, stayed in college, and the rest is history. As they say.” “They do say that, yeah.” “What’s the next question, then?” “How do you know there’s another question?” “Shot in the dark,” Will shrugged, but that was a lie, and it was getting increasingly easier to read that pinch between her eyebrows. “So, hit me.” “Literally?” “Please do not literally hit me. Locksley’s been feeling the forecheck the last couple’a practices.” “I know what that means!” Someone shushed them. Will couldn’t imagine the color will ever leave Belle’s cheeks. 

He kissed the bridge of her nose. 

“Who’d you get to teach you French?” “Who said I didn’t just learn French on my own?” “Babe,” she chided, and, well, that was the tipping point. As they say. To his heart and his stomach and—

“You wanna come to a game this series?” Belle blinked. Once, twice. Leaned back. Tilted her head. Likely waited for the camera crew that was inevitably lurking in the corner he was cautiously optimistic they’d make out in eventually. Didn’t happen, though. There was no camera crew. 

Just Will Scarlet, professional hockey player, and part-time sap. Standing in one of the more nonsensical museums they’d been to in the last two months. Although they did go to the transit museum on three separate occasions, and he could honestly say he didn’t expect that. 

So, maybe this was all just—

Par for the course. 

He’d have to make some sort of deal with Eric. To make sure Ariel didn’t proclaim her relationship-plotting victories from a variety of rooftops. Someone in front office had to know someone else with Empire State Building connections. 

Zelena probably did. 

Ariel would use that. 

“Where would I sit?”

He pulled her. Up. With an almost violent amount of force, threatening the safety of both of Belle’s shoulders in the process. But she’d asked the one question he hadn’t totally considered in his half-plotted plan, and getting his mouth back on hers was an acceptable diversion. Plus, she looped her arms around his neck pretty quickly. 

Which had to count for something, he figured. 

One hand cupped the back of his head, pulling him closer. Like he had any intention of being anywhere else, swiping his tongue against Belle’s lip and swallowing her sigh. They were still in public, technically. Her feet trailed the multi-color carpet beneath them, Will’s arms tightening and his palm flat against her back and her spine, and if she kept rocking up like that, he was going to do something drastic. 

Something in the same realm as melting, probably. 

Strands of hair tickled his skin, making him tilt his head and alter the angle, and that was entirely appropriate, but getting kicked out of the Museum of Ice Cream would probably make an absolutely fantastic story. Once they told people they were—

Doing whatever it was they were doing. 

They’d get there eventually. 

“Cap’s sister-in-law is coming,” Will said, not entirely able to catch his breath, “wants to see Kris and—” “—Should I know who that is?” “Works in equipment, and that’s not really the point.” “What is?” “That Little Vankald isn’t super interested in listening to Cap be full older brother on her and, far as I know, is fully capable of getting tickets wherever she wants. Can sweet talk the gold out of anyone’s pockets, and—” “—Wait, wait, are you equating hockey tickets to gold?” “When I’m playing, ma choupette.” “Is that cabbage?” He hummed. Nearly tripped over his own feet trying to hold onto Belle and the mostly melted cup of ice cream and paying for more churro ice cream made perfect sense. At the moment. “One of the kids at school was French Canadian,” Will explained, “used to swear all the time on the ice, and then he’d use stuff like that.” “You’re sharing endearments with a trash talker.” “More or less, yeah. Used to infuriate other guys.” “Who wants to be called a cabbage?” “I think you’re super cute.” Belle scowled. Didn’t argue, though. And Will refused to linger on the beat of his pulse. “I’d really like it if you were there,” he added, “Little Vanklad’ll be cool about it. She owes me. I fed her for a very long time.” “Did you just?” “I make incredible garlic bread; ask anyone.” “Wow,” Belle drawled, “just like people on the street, or…also, do you call her Little Vanklad all the time?” “To her face and behind her back with startling regularity. Not everyone gets my French endearments, babe. Consider yourself lucky.” 

She scrunched her nose. 

Stayed silent. All Will could hear was the soft explanations of the tour guide, and the questions from tourists who probably also thought going to the Museum of Sex made them edgy. After they bought a STRAND tote bag. God, maybe he was a dick. A judgmental dick, who still had too many thoughts and used an occasionally violent game to silence them by making sure he was the one dictating the noises and the trash talk and—

“Hey, uh, Will...Mr., uh—Mr. Scarlet? Do you think we could get a picture?”

Belle’s lips disappeared. Behind her teeth, and that didn’t do anything to temper the sound of what might have actually been joy. At the prospect of the staring teenager and his photo request. 

In the goddamn Museum of Ice Cream. 

Giving a jerky nod, Will quickly scanned the kid for any team-branded, but it didn’t look like he was wearing merch and that was a rather small miracle. Far as those things went. 

Still, he had been in the middle of a pretty intense internal dialogue and potential freakout, and there was going to be ice cream on his hand if he didn’t throw this cup away. 

Belle took the phone. 

The kid’s phone. 

“Smile,” she instructed, and Will tried. Really. He hoped he didn’t end up looking like a murderer on Twitter or Instagram or whatever kids used, and he had no idea when he got that old. When things started to freak him out, and he let the nerves claw back in, and the worry take root and—

“Hey,” he said before the kid could walk back to his parents and their matching STRAND tote bags. “You think you could take a picture of us, real quick?”

No one had ever moved faster. 

In, like, the history of photography. 

Circling an arm around Belle’s waist, Will’s smile came a bit easier and that was good because he was totally unprepared for what happened after that. Another instruction and flick of someone’s thumb, but then Belle was on her toes, even with the heels, and her lips were pressed against his cheek and it was like some sort of really exceptional sugar high. 

Without the threat of inevitable crash. 

Will didn’t think so, at least. He was also pretty positive it wasn’t tigers in The Day After Tomorrow. Wolves, maybe. 

“Tell Little Vankald to save me a seat.” “I mean, I don’t think you should call her that.”

Her teeth grazed his jaw. Both of them were laughing in the picture, the kid’s eyes going impossibly wide as Will thanked him. “How hard you think it is to set up an Instagram account?”

[bubmyg]

not a date - jjk

pairing: jeongguk x reader

genre: enemies to lovers, college!au, fluff, very sparing illusions to smut, like jeongguk takes his shirt off for a few paragraphs

word count: 3,184

summary: he’s the infuriating kid in your literature class that has an answer to every single question and every time he raises his hand you kind of want to punch him because of that time you were in a group project together and he deleted and rewrote your entire portion at three in the morning or your voice is so infuriating please shut up and kiss me.

a/n: part 5 of to lovers :’-) the rest of the series is linked in my masterlist!!

In the scheme of wanting to take someone’s very specific and very annoying bright green pen from them and make them swallow it to prevent the incessant clicking that plagued your right ear the entirety of the power hour class, you wish you knew less about the owner of said pen.

You knew Jeon Jeongguk from freshman year composition, when he was one of eight people who’d filed into the tiny computer lab huddled in a giant black hoodie while you were still trying to gauge whether the sweat coating the back of your spine was visible through your shirt. The graduate student handling the class had split you into two groups immediately, prompting a question for you to discuss. That was the first time he’d taken something you’d said and added thirty unnecessary words to it without guilt and with a bunny smile you didn’t want to admit was attractive.

A liberal arts degree comes with the same general people in virtually all your classes. The girl who offered you a pencil the first time scantron attendance was taken. The boy who’d taken your seat the fourth week of class when you were both ten minutes early. And unfortunately for you, Jeongguk.

You knew he lived off campus in an apartment with his bio chemistry, doctor seeking roommate Namjoon after Yoongi had informed you the spindly man was terrible at pickup basketball and you’d scolded your friend for hanging out with someone who shared the same cereal bowls with the biggest prick in the literature department. You knew he wasn’t in a fraternity but his friend Jimin was and he spent the majority of his time holed up in the third floor of the house with a game controller in hand when he wasn’t correcting people or reminding homework due dates in group chats created for your various classes. You knew he could sing because Yoongi had dragged you to karaoke night on his off day at the cafe he worked at in which Jeongguk just so happened to be at and his friend, Taehyung and his charcoal stained fingers, had shoved him to the front and Yoongi had to pinch your hip to prevent you from burning a hole through Jeongguk’s melodious lips with your glare.

You knew he turned twenty-one in September when he showed up to your group presentation the next day, hungover, after deleting and changing your entire thesis to fit his.

Somehow his green pen still managed to be annoying even when he was half asleep and wearing his hood completely cinched under his chin. You resisted the urge to scold him when he took a seat (because there was no doubt he’d have done the same to you) but you nearly severed the tip of your tongue when an, endearing, rasp addressed you first.

“I’m sorry,” Jeongguk offered, gesturing vaguely at himself with a sliver of his teeth appearing, “Twenty-first was last night.”

You offered a tight lipped smile in return, “Happy belated birthday.”

It didn’t matter that he could barely keep his eyes open or the weight in his head above his spine because he knew the topic by heart, no need to glance backward at the slides or the bullet points or the visual aids like graphs and pictures and charts. He hadn’t even blinked in cutting you off when the slide color changed hue, showing where your ideas were supposed to be but were just instead a modified version of what you’d spent hours doing over the weekend.

They were your words but they weren’t and Jeongguk had the nerve to wink at you and say, “As my lovely partner starts to point out here, the chapter touches on—”

Your GPA mattered more than your pride when the professor kept you after class to commend your presentation, even though you hadn’t spoken a word outside of your name, and you took the A+ with a sour taste and a pointed vendetta to ignore Jeongguk.

The words groups for next project were enough to make your insides churn with distaste but the addition of the word reminder at the beginning was almost worse than the prospect of leaving your grade to someone else. Not only did your class stretch through two semesters with the same professor and the same general concept, but that particular class kept the same groups the entire year.

The reminder was seeing your name printed in bold, block letters directly above Jeon Jeongguk.

“Hey, partner,” He greeted when you dropped your backpack in front of your desk. He’d dropped his hood and traded black for one of color, a faded blue. You focused on counting the stripes on his joggers rather than meeting the sparkle in his stupidly pretty eyes.

You were silent in pulling out your laptop, notebook, non obnoxious pens. He continued to stare at the side of your face, desk creaking as he shifted more toward you, fingers gripping the edge of his desk in your peripheral.

“Don’t speak to me until you want to pick a time to meet.”

Jeongguk had the nerve to giggle this time, “We don’t even know what the topic is yet. Unless you want to come over, I won’t object.”

You knew where his apartment was, too, that Namjoon kept the place neatly decorated while Jeongguk’s door didn’t open entirely from the pile of laundry hidden between it and his desk, that he was a track star in high school from the medals dangling off a hook behind his bed frame, that he did, in fact, own more than five black hoodies and one grey one from the pile of pastels folded within his open closet door, that the green pens were stolen from Namjoon, ones that occupied a mug on their kitchen counter and came from the hospital that the med student had done residency at over the summer.

You hated that you knew all of that, too.

“Okay. When we learn the topic, don’t contact me until you want me to come to the cesspit that is your place of living.”

It was silent for a handful of your heartbeats roaring in your ears and then his voice was a half octave softer in your ear.

“Why do you keep responding to me if you don’t want me to speak to you?”

You were right, Jeongguk’s eyes were sparkling and they seemed to double over in all the reflections of a planetarium when he completed his goal of getting you to turn towards him. You tried averting your gaze to his smile but found a stray butterfly escaped from it’s locked prison in your stomach at the sight of the tiny freckle in the center of his bottom lip so you chose the tattered cover of his notebook in the end.

A notebook that he was flicking at the pages in, ring clad and vein ridden fingers and all.

“Fuck you,” You mumbled and you meant it in every connotation possible.

Jeongguk ignored you through the lecture notes, too busy interjecting his opinion at any point possible and you hated that you couldn’t find it within yourself to disagree with everything that left his lips. He ignored you when the project requirements appeared in place of the lecture slides, still scrawling looping notes on the margins of his notebook while the professor explained each bullet point in excruciating detail.

Upon further inspection did you notice the loops in his shorthand were drawings and you, again, hated that you agreed with his lack of attention paid to something that would be posted online later for your viewing anyway.

“Spend a few minutes speaking with your partner and then you’re free to go.”

Your bubble remained silent while the rest of the class erupted in a soft murmur, creaking desks and zipping backpacks and soft laughter all while the set of your shoulders remained rigid. They slumped only when Jeongguk’s tender murmur was back in your ear (and you’d admit, anything was better than his clicking pen).

“May I speak to you yet?”

The smack of your laptop on the metal spiral threaded through your notebook was embarrassingly loud. You corrected it while he snorted, nearly headbutting him where he was leaning towards your desk as you fished for your backpack.

“Are you wanting to set a time to meet?”

“Yeah. That’s...what we’re supposed to be doing.”

You tossed your hair back as you straightened, making direct eye contact with him, “Then yes. You may speak to me.”

Jeongguk was grinning again and you swallowed to keep the escaped butterfly in your throat at bay. You’d deal with her later.

“I’m free Thursday night, if you’d like to come over. Namjoon should be out of the apartment from five onward. He has a date with one of his extremely smart friends. Or I can come to yours, if you’d rather not fester in my filth like you insisted last time. Your dorm does have a pretty nice study room—”

“Thursday as in…” You blinked, “Valentine’s Day Thursday?”

You wanted to force feed him the feces to comply with the shit eating grin that encompassed his features. “My bad, I wasn’t aware you could display affection,” He rested his chin on his palm, “I assumed you’d spend the night throwing darts at heart shaped candies stuck to your ceiling if I didn’t make plans for you.”

“They’d be tiny pictures of your face. Why would I waste candy?” His grin only grew at your snarky indifference, “But no, I just assumed you had…”

“I don’t have a Tinder. I’ve never had one.”

“I wasn’t...going to ask that. I wouldn’t care even if you did.”

“Oh,” Jeongguk shrugged, “Well, I don’t. And I don’t have any plans Thursday. So if you’d like to work on our project before the weekend, I’m free and can stock up on discount candy from the drug store down the street. We can order one of those shitty heart shaped pizzas too, if you like.”

You scoffed, standing with your backpack in tow, “We’re just working on our project, not having a date underneath the radioactive glow from your hamper.”

He turned away and you shoved aside the seeming disappointment that saturated his monotone response, “Alright. I’ll see you, Thursday, then.”

You hated that you knew the best parking spaces around Jeongguk’s apartment complex and you hated that you’d visited the building more times than you could count on both your hands and feet in order to gather than information. Your backpack felt fifteen pounds heavier on your shoulders as you trekked through the maze of broken sidewalks and your knuckles felt numb for reasons other than the biting temperature when you lifted them to knock on his door.

You couldn’t imagine the scrutiny you’d face if you ever admitted coming over, no matter the obnoxious amount of times, to Jeongguk’s apartment made you nervous. A nagging voice on your shoulder told you it was because of the piano in the far corner of their living room that you knew he could play because he had for you before, or because his room smelled like him, vanilla and cinnamon and fresh flowers and laundry detergent, or because he always ordered and bought you food and insisted you couldn’t pay him back all while teasing you for mooching off of him, notes, food, and grades.

The grade comment settled like a forming cavity on your molars and you generally ended up leaving after he mentioned it. But it never stopped you from coming back.

The weight was heavier because of your textbook but also because of the tape that continued to replay in your conscious, the one of you watching with a bated breath as Jeongguk seemed to slouch at your denial of a date with him, of all things. You knew he wasn’t stupid, he was anything but, yet the devil on your opposite shoulder suggested that he just lacked any sort of critical thinking or social skills.

Or, the latter voice in your ear suggested, maybe you just didn’t want to admit you were slightly disappointed at the facade you tried to put on declining a date-like interaction with him too.

The smile plastered to his entire being when he tore open his apartment door fizzled your worries away and traded them for the grumble in your stomach when he thrust a white box in your direction.

“I went ahead and ordered the pizza for this not date,” Jeongguk’s fingers brushed your own when you took the box from him, “I got cheesy bread too. I didn’t know if you liked the breadsticks from Domino’s so…”

His words muffled like you were underwater, realization drowning you the second he teased you about the forbidden meeting between two individuals. A date. He didn’t want the date either. He hadn’t been disappointed.

He was playing some game that you didn’t want to be apart of but could master the same as he could, if not better.

“Can I eat in Namjoon’s room, seeing as this is a non date?” You mirrored his beaming smile, “The less I have to speak to you, the better.”

“No,” He answered your rhetorical question bluntly. You wanted to speak to him even if it was sarcastic insults about the single wrinkle in his duvet. “We have work to do—” You had to catch the door when he stalked into the depths of the apartment, voice echoing away, “—come inside. And take your shoes off!”

If you didn’t want the pizza promised with the cheesy bread, you would have bolted back to your car. “Anything else, your highness?”

“Yeah, bring the cheesy bread will you? And grab some plates from the kitchen.”

If you didn’t want the cheesy bread so bad, you would have turned and pelted the box into the disgusting snow drift plowed at the end of the sidewalk.

Jeongguk was three insults into teasing you for dropping tomato sauce on his partially clean duvet and a streaking blue highlighter into his notes when you decided you really wanted to kiss the garlic speck off the corner of his mouth.

No longer were you toning out his explanations because you had a predetermined bias to disagree with them but because you couldn’t shake the urge to grab his chin and determine how pepperoni tasted on someone else’s lips. If Namjoon were to arrive back anytime soon, the non date faux you each kept digging into each other’s conscience’s like daggered knives would crumble in an instant.

He’d switched the lighting in his room to a deep set purple, a setting you thankfully weren’t aware of and didn’t have to hate with your entire being when the first thought that entered your mind was that’s cool. There was a heart shaped pizza open between the two of you, enough pieces still prevalent to give off the illusion but the grease stains on the cardboard telling the full story. You were on his bed, crossed knees brushing his thigh where he’d scooted closer to show you something and hadn’t bothered to move back.

And you were unabashedly staring at him like he was better than any loaf of cheesy bread you could consume in one sitting.

“Hey,” Jeongguk’s voice was quiet in contrast to the snap of his fingers underneath your nose, “Did you hear me?”

You thought you were going to puke the crusts he’d given you all over his lap, “Y-yeah, I agree we could—”

“Wait, you agree with me? Either we’ve entered an alternate universe or you weren’t listening—”

There was probably pizza grease on his rug now from where your paper plate fluttered sadly from his bed, only to be melded into the floor by the smack of your textbook landing on top of it with the force in which you propelled yourself at Jeongguk’s figure. Surprise was barely an emotion with the speed that you pressed your mouth to his, messily squashing the tip of your nose against his cheek and nearly biting a chunk out of his bottom lip.

Your skin flamed momentarily in embarrassment and morphed into want when he kissed you back. His notebook followed the fate of the other obstacles when he moved onto his knees, the cool engravings on his rings pressing into your jaw when he cupped it to angle your lips, latter hand falling next to your thigh to loom over you.

His teeth snagged on your bottom lip as he settled his forehead against yours, still firmly holding onto your chin.

“I thought you’d never cave.”

You ground your teeth together with the same force as pale knuckles snagging on the collar of Jeongguk’s t-shirt to drag his mouth back to yours. He came with a chuckle against your lips, crawling closer to lodge a thigh between your legs while dragging his tongue across your molars. He craned over you, trailing opened mouthed kisses across your jaw while you hissed, “Like it better when you’re not speaking.”

He hummed into your skin, nudging your hair aside to nick his teeth into your neck, “Keep telling yourself that, baby.”

The noise that lulled lazily off your tongue was somewhere between a guttural groan and a mewled whine, scratching blunt fingernails across his shoulders, “You’re the smartest person I know and it’s fucking infuriating.”

“Mmm, talk dirty to me.”

“I’ll leave right this second—”

His hands gripped your hips and you were on your back, his dark fringe tickling at your forehead as he hovered over you. Brown irises grew black, dilated and twinkling under the ambient purple blanketing his room, “Want to know a secret?”

“No,” You pulled on the hem of his shirt, “Want this off.”

“Okay—” He tugged the white off his torso in one swift movement, leaning back over you with palms on either side of your head, “—now do you want to hear a secret?”

“If it’s the amount of months it’s been since you washed your sheets, I don’t want to hear it.”

Jeongguk’s mouth quieted you and he grumpily mumbled into the part of your lips, “I think I like it better when you’re not speaking either. I was going to feed your ego but…”

“Tell me the secret, Jeongguk.”

His lips traveled to your ear, “Always have thought you were incredibly fucking intelligent. Annoyingly so. Thought I needed to prove myself to you—” His teeth teased your earlobe, “—it was stupid and I’m an asshole.”

“Yeah, you are, but at least you’re self aware,” He kissed your cheek and your nose on the way back to meet your gaze and you grinned, “Thanks for that one A, though.”

You knew Jeon Jeongguk had glow in the dark, stick-on stars plastered all over his ceiling, ones that glowed an unnatural green in purple lighting and you hated that it was your new favorite view, just like you hated how good his lips felt on your skin and how comfortable his chest was to sleep on and how often he was right about nineteenth century literature.