#most slide away from memory; put into the endless crush of people hes been with but those who he remembers

[thisisntreaver]

Thinking about Reaver, her, and how she effects his relationships.

Like Reaver can and does bed anyone willing, he barely remembers them, he has no qualms about hurting people and fidelity isn't part of his skill set.

But I feel like he would likely have some sort of faithfulness to her. She clearly haunts him, he hasn't forgiven himself for what her death, he misses her but refuses to admit it because that part of him is meant to be dead.

Which leads me too my point, I think very rarely, he finds partners that remind him of her. Be it in looks or mannerisms, he finds them and he clings. He'll never be as loyal to them as with her because for as much as they're like her they're so different. Too different for him to be entirely loyal too, too alike for him to discard as easily as he'd like.

He may not even realize it, a subconscious part of him that looks for her, is desperate to find her desite her being long dead and grabs onto it as firecly as it can. He can never actually have her again but he'll take the scraps, he'll pretend shes who he's laying with, who he holds. But its not, it won't be and its his own fault.

[trentaafcsblog]

Midnight Memories

Mason Mount

This isn’t like him at all. Trapped in a crowd of drunk and disorderly people who are staggering around to the beat of the music, sloshing their drinks all over one another when the pink and purple strobe lights descend upon their bodies and start flashing in a series of random patterns, enhancing their alcohol-induced illusions and perceptions of the world as they flail their limbs around and claim they’re flying or walking on clouds - a stage that Mason isn’t willing to reach tonight, or any night, for that matter. 

A sea of girls in overly tight dresses and heels that barely support them crowding around him and slurring things in his ear. Running their fingers up his bare arms and begging for another drink as he awkwardly shakes his head and tries to break away from them, only for another person to grip onto him from the other side and smear their cheap sticky lipgloss all over his neck in an attempt to add ‘I kissed a footballer’ to their CV. “Just kiss meee” they whine, pouting in his face and trying to pull him closer before giving up and making a move on the next available man, one who’s willing to explore their mouths and buy them endless rounds of multicoloured shots for the rest of the night without gently shoving them away or not-so-subtly avoiding their alcohol-coated lips.

This isn’t your type of place either, although you’re five cocktails deep into the stack of pornstars that your friends insisted on ordering. A stain down the front of your white bodycon dress thanks to an escapee half a passion fruit that decided to leave your triangular glass in order to explore the vomit-tainted floor. Your lips all patchy now that your lipgloss has migrated to decorate the rim of your empty glasses with sparkly nude smudges, although you’re slightly relieved because it means that your hair won’t get coated in it anymore, and it minimises the evidence if you end up kissing someone too, not that you came here to do that, or risk putting yourself in the same category as the girls that are now trying to climb into the VIP section with a bunch of semi-famous people, all because they want a drunk kissing video to plaster across their social media, hoping that it takes them to the front of the papers in the morning for being such-and-such’s ‘mystery girl’.

You’re looking up at the VIP area cordoned off by security guards in black puffer jackets and walkie talkies in their hands, feeling an overwhelming sense of empathy for all of the people that have to tolerate that kind of behaviour. Your eyes start scanning across the section of the club that is far too expensive for just a few hours’ stay, wondering if you can recognise any famous faces, but it’s just the ‘I lasted one day in the Villa and still managed to secure a Pretty Little Thing brand deal’ Love Islanders and the friend of the friend of the friend of a semi-professional footballer that made one twelve minute appearance for Arsenal back in 2010 and thinks he’s God’s gift. All of them either eating each other’s faces or taking boomerangs of them cheers-ing their margaritas before having to retake the same video five times because they’ve lost several lime slices in the process and it’s ruining the aesthetic. Your focus sharpening on someone with their back to you and at least ten girls around them, taking it in turns to have a drunken selfie or begging him to buy them a bottle of champagne with one of those fancy sparkler things on the top that gets brought out by women wearing elaborate carnival-inspired feather headbands and very revealing dresses. And you can’t help but feel sorry for him because you can tell just from the back of his head that he’s incredibly uncomfortable, even more so when he gets offered a blowjob from a girl who’s now threatening to get her boobs out in exchange for a whole bottle of Don Julio, in a bucket of ice, just how she likes it.

He’s turning around to face the rest of the club just as you go to look away at the menu that’s being wafted under your nose by one of your friends, and you can’t help but do a double take at his familiarity. Squinting your eyes so that you can get a better look at his features. ‘Nice drink’ you think when your eyes catch the glass of Diet Coke in his hand, quite obviously not accompanied by a swig of vodka going by his incredibly tense frame and stiff dance moves. Well, it’s not really dancing, it’s more of a ‘I’ll just copy what my friends are doing so I don’t look awkward’ move, aka a two-step shuffle from one side to the other. You can’t help but giggle as you watch him from across the room, your friends completely giving up on trying to entice you with a selection of expensive cocktails as they leave you to stare at some random man on the other side of the club, their need for a second stack of bright coloured drinks clearly overriding the want to look out for their friend.

You’re watching him for a bit longer. Becoming completely fixated on this familiar stranger who you can’t help but sit and giggle at. Part of you wanting to cringe with him at how hellish this night has become, but at the same time, it’s kind of funny watching someone who should be so used to having a large following blush and laugh awkwardly if anyone happens to recognise him. Okay, maybe it’s slightly uncomfortable to sit and watch a swarm of girls attack him with their overdrawn lips whilst he does everything in his will to not shove them into next week, especially when his friends start laughing and taking little videos of the awkward encounters, clearly ready to embarrass him at a later date. But regardless, it’s nice to know that fame hasn’t gone completely to his head, unlike an ex-reality TV star who’s screaming ‘do you know who I am?’ at one of the bouncers who won’t let her hang out with her ‘friends’ in the VIP section.

But you’re quickly forced out of your trance when you feel somebody shoving something into your hand. Looking down at your palm and clocking the ten pound note before your eyes are lifting to the hand that it’s been given from. “Go and get us those cocktails” your friend slurs before slumping back in her seat and falling to one side slightly, her pink lipstick slathered all over her chin from where she’d tried to apply it without a mirror when a man wearing an extremely tight fitting top happened to settle down in the booth next to you, obviously hoping that he’d look her way. “Hurry up, I’m thirstyyy” your other friend whines, making you sigh and mutter something under your breath in reference to them being lazy and ruining your evening, as you slide out of the row of pink arched seats and stand up. Having to grip onto the back of the chairs when your legs go all warm and fuzzy from the one too many cocktails you’d already consumed, pulling your dress down to a more appropriate length before heading off in the direction of the bar. Trying to catch a glimpse of Mason as you swerve in and out of the sea of dancing bodies, but you just end up feeling as though you’re going to fall to the floor when the strobe lights start spinning on the ceiling before dispersing their blue and green beams around the room at the most ridiculous speed. Everybody around you swaying from side to side and elbowing you in the ribs as you try your best to dodge them, kicking yourself for wearing the most stupid pair of heels as your toes crush into each other more and more with each step, cursing when you skid in a puddle of what looks like - or at least you hope is - vodka, and you have to grab onto a stranger’s arm to steady yourself, much to their dismay until they catch a glimpse of your apologetic face and suddenly want to make out with you.

You’re breathing a sigh of relief when you finally make it to the bar, setting your bag down on the counter and ordering what you think your friends want, although you probably should have double-checked with them first considering you were too busy having a nosy at someone across the club to pay any sort of interest to their alcohol preferences. “What?” you’re shouting at the barman when he tells you the total of the drinks, hoping that you’ve misheard him but ten pounds clearly isn’t going to cover the cost of sixteen cosmopolitans with added shots of vodka. Panicking when he repeats the price and turns his back to get started on making them, your hands now frantically searching your bag in the hope that you manage to find the extra money before he starts yelling at you for ordering things without being able to pay. “Fuck” you’re hissing as you turn the contents of your bag out onto the countertop, checking the inside of your phone case and a pressed powder incase they happen to house the remaining money. Your heartbeat pounding louder in your ears the closer it gets to having to admit that you’ve actually only got a quarter of what you need. 

“I’ll get it” someone’s saying, clearly sensing the tension between you and the barman as you shrug your shoulders in response to him sticking his hand out for the money. “I’m not a charity” you snap back, your slightly tipsy state giving you a rush of confidence as you continue to search your bag in the hope that the money has magically appeared just so that you can laugh it off and shut everyone up. “I know, but it’s on me” they’re saying again, leaning forward and tapping their card on the machine before you can even consider fighting back a second time. “Thank-” you’re starting before realising who it is that’s just saved you from an incredibly awkward situation. Surely not. Surely Mason Mount hasn’t just bought you, of all people, a load of cocktails for your mates.

“It’s okay” he laughs nervously, making your heart melt because clearly he’s just as awkward around you as he is everybody else in this club. “Prices have gone up, haven’t they?” he smiles as he takes a step closer to you, propping himself up on the countertop with his elbows before asking the barman for a lemonade, with ice, just so it isn’t too fizzy. “Yeah, I don’t normally come out so I underestimated it a bit” you laugh shyly before looking off in the other direction, simultaneously cursing and thanking your friends for leading you to believe that you could get sixteen cocktails for a tenner, because without their stupidity, you wouldn’t be talking to the boy that you’ve been watching all night. “Prefer to stay at home then?” he asks as you turn back and nod your head. “Me too” he’s saying, “I’m normally in bed by now” he giggles as his gaze rises to the clock above the bar, the time reading 00.04am. The slight dark glow under his eyes letting you know that he’s normally tucked up by 9pm in his pyjamas. “What are you doing here then?” you ask. Stupid question really. He’s here for the same reason that you, and probably half of the people here, are - he’s been dragged along and forced to pretend that he’s a right party animal whilst he sips his non-alcoholic drinks and fights off every woman in sight. “My mates made me tag along, I’m kind of glad they did now though” he’s telling you, the second part of his sentence almost becoming inaudible as his voice quietens just as the volume of the music rises with the chorus of ‘My Yé Is Different’, ironic since you’ve just spotted the twenty grand watch decorating his wrist whilst you’re stood there in a passion fruit stained dress. But you’re still managing to hear it, and you can’t work out whether that’s in reference to you, or the fact that he’s been able to drink fizzy drinks when he’d normally only have water. Except you’re not stupid. 

“Bet you say that to everyone” you tease, gaining his attention again as he laughs nervously and shakes his head. “Only the special ones” he replies, which is true, but now you can’t help but wonder if his drinks have been accompanied by a few shots of something or another because those words and the sincerity of his tone aren’t a reflection of the awkward man you spotted ten minutes ago, let alone the fact that he clearly considers you to be one of these ‘special ones.’ “Yeah, yeah” you’re saying back, flicking your hair over your shoulder before taking a sip of one of the cocktails that are sat before you, still waiting to be taken back to your friends. “Got quite a few drinks for somebody that doesn’t go out much, no wonder you needed me to pay” he winks as you roll your eyes and blush at the thought of somebody having to give you a helping hand with the price. “This is my last one, I’m off in a minute cose I can’t keep up with everyone else” you’re shouting over the music, watching him throw his head back and laugh because he thought he was the only one in that position. “I’ll join you” he’s replying, thanking the barman for his drink before taking a sip through the straw. “Not the sort of thing you say to a girl after only knowing her two minutes, Mason” you’re teasing, studying his face as his eyes blow wide slightly and he shakes his head, quickly swallowing his lemonade before stuttering on his words. Unsure whether he’s panicking about you jokingly misinterpreting his comment, or if he’s uncomfortable over the fact that yet another girl knows his name, but either way, he’s laughing awkwardly when you tell him that you’re only messing. 

“I wouldn’t mind though” you say smugly, causing another nervous giggle to escape his lips. Your alcohol-induced confidence only adding to the butterflies that are already batting their wings against his rib cage, something about your slight feistiness and sarcastic sense of humour attracting him to you, even more so when he takes in how beautiful you still look despite being on the verge of your alcohol limit.

“Where are you going afterwards?” he’s asking once the lights have swivelled around in the opposite direction and the blush on his cheeks isn’t so evident. “I’ll just go to the chippy down the road and then get a taxi home” you’re telling him, looking down into the fluorescent pink concoction in your glass and feeling your stomach churn at how rough it’s going to make you feel in the morning. “Mind if I join you?” he’s asking as you look across at him in disbelief, watching as he downs the last few sips of his drink and stands the glass back on the countertop. Is this a dream or something? “Sorry, that was a bit forward...again” he panics, feeling a surge of anxiety run through his body incase he’s greeted with newspaper headlines in the morning about him unintentionally trying to latch onto girls that aren’t interested in him, even if half of the club know his name. 

“No, it’s fine, of course you can” you laugh, your cocktail glass almost slipping out of your grip thanks to the layer of sweat that is now developing across your palm. “I’ll just take these over to the girls and then I’ll be ready” you smile, looping the strap of your bag over your shoulder and grabbing as many glasses as you can, which really isn’t a wise move since you’ve partially lost all sense of coordination thanks to Mason’s ability to wipe any drop of confidence out of your body and replace it with nervous butterflies. 

“I’m off” you’re announcing once you’ve made your third trip back to the booth your friends are sitting in, their drunken reactions to your words making you giggle as you reach over them to grab your jacket. “Where are you goinggg?” one of them whines, gripping onto your leg and pouting before another one is drawn to the verge of tears at your confession. “I’m just tired” you nod, blowing them all a kiss and ensuring that they text you when you’re home as you turn around and head off towards the exit, not wanting to keep Mase waiting any longer. Praying that he’s stood just around the corner outside as he’d promised as you stagger across the dance floor and dodge a sea of flailing limbs and slurred shouts of ‘can I get your number?’. A sigh of relief forcing itself out of your nostrils when the ‘exit’ sign hanging above one of the fire doors becomes within touching distance and the bouncer in charge anticipates your departure, pushing down the grey bar across the middle of the door and letting it swing open, enabling you to step out into the night.

“There you are” you smile as you approach the back of his figure, his head kept down and a cap adding a nice accessory to his outfit, although it’s definitely worn as some form of disguise. “Hi” he’s smiling nervously when he realises that it’s you, a swarm of butterflies invading his tummy again when you link your arm through his and gently rest your head on the top of his shoulder - a move that you’re aware might push you into the same category as the other girls that have been after him all night, but your crippled feet and wobbly legs are grateful for the extra stability, even if your motivation to make that move takes you both by surprise. 

“Let me get this” you’re saying once you’ve made your way into the kebab shop, your arm dropping away from his as you gesture towards the table up against the front window. “You sure?” he’s asking, dipping his hand into his back pocket ready to pull his wallet out just incase, but you’re nodding and confirming that you’re more than capable of paying four-pound-fifty for a kebab and a couple of drinks - just as well really after the events earlier this evening. Giving him a small smile as he turns and heads off towards the table in the corner, his celebrity instincts kicking when he takes the seat right in front of the glass, conveniently covered by a sticker of the menu, and some extra protection offered from the back of his body. 

You’re setting the gold foam kebab box down on your table for two, along with two plastic forks, a bottle of water and a Fruit Shoot because you noticed him eyeing them up in the fridge when you came in. And it turned out to be one of the hardest decisions of your life trying to work out what flavour he wanted. Maybe it was the alcohol that was messing with your brain, making you think that he was more of an citrus guy than a berry one. Or maybe it was the fact that you were buying a child’s drink for a fully grown adult, a famous one too, who probably hasn’t had one for ten years, which only added to the pressure. Or maybe it was because you liked him and you didn’t want to ruin your chances by getting him the wrong flavour. But after flicking your gaze between the stack of bright coloured bottles and his body cowering away in the corner, you settled for the blackcurrant one, just because he looks like the type of person to play it safe - well, he is the type of person to play it safe, going by his Diet Coke and lemonade choices tonight. 

“This for me?” he’s asking as he picks the purple bottle up, smiling when you nod to confirm his answer. “How did you know this was my favourite flavour?” he’s questioning, a smug look appearing on your face as you shrug your shoulders and reply with ‘only the ‘special ones’ know that kind of information’. A giggle escaping his mouth at your words before he’s pulling the plastic lid off the drink and taking a sip, humming at the familiarity despite not having one since his seventh birthday party. “Still as good as they used to be” he’s saying, something about the additional happiness that’s now surging through his body after a drop of blackcurrant juice making your tummy fill with butterflies because he really is just the cutest, biggest child.

You’re both sitting in a comfortable silence as you pick at your shared kebab, trying to eat from separate ends so that you don’t cross any boundaries or run the risk trying to stab your forks into the same piece of chicken. But the fuzzy filter that the alcohol has brought to your eyes and the slight delay that it’s caused between your thoughts and your actions means that you find yourself diving into the last piece of pitta bread just at the same time that Mason does. And from his side it’s a poor judgement call. The sugar from his Fruit Shoot clearly giving him an extra boost of energy and causing his arm to extend outwards towards the polystyrene box, clouding his mum’s reminder that ‘you need be a gentleman and let girls eat whatever’s left, even if you want it’. And truth be told, he doesn’t really want it, which is why the pang of anxiety as soon as his plastic fork clashes with yours is stronger than ever. His cheeks turning a violent shade of crimson as he quickly pulls his fork back, leaving just four little holes from where the prongs had been as you panic and do the same.

“Sorry, no you have it” he says quietly, nudging the box towards you in the hope that you get the hint. “No, you eat it” you smile, pushing it back towards him. The two of you just repeating the same movement as the box moves two centimetres one way, and then two centimetres back the other. “Mason, just eat it!” you whine as he sits opposite you and shakes his head. “I said you could have it” he smiles nervously, subtly wiping the sweat off his palms and onto the material of his jeans when he realises that you’re staring straight into his eyes. “Why are you getting all nervous for? Just eat ittt” you groan, a giggle escaping his lips because there’s no way you’re backing down on this one. “Fine” he huffs, stabbing his fork back into the little holes that it made earlier before slowly moving it towards his mouth. Your eyebrows raising more and more as you watch it edge closer to his lips. And then he’s doing the unthinkable and quickly changing the direction of his fork so that it starts heading towards your mouth instead. Involuntarily parting your lips whilst you wait for what’s just happened to register, and the next thing you know, you’re swallowing the piece of pitta bread. 

“What a fuss about nothing” he hums as you roll your eyes at him. “You’re quite romantic, aren’t you?” you tease as his eyebrows furrow in the middle, waiting for you to clarify your comment. “Is that all of the alcohol that’s made you so desperate to share the last piece of food with me?” you question, another layer of blush painting itself across the tops of his cheeks. “Oh, sorry, you didn’t have anything to drink, did you? Lightweight” you smirk, making him roll his eyes this time. “I’m just being a gent, plus you’ve been drinking so you need something to sober you up, maybe it’ll stop you being so rude next time I offer to buy you a drink” he says smugly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in the chair. A wave of composure washing over him now that he’s left you slightly speechless and he’s matched your sense of humour. “Next time? You’ll be lucky” you sass as he scoffs at you. “You’re the one that needs to buy me a drink to apologise for snapping at me, so there will be a next time to call it quits, thank you” he smiles, his sudden burst of confidence talking to you allowing his real personality to shine through, and you can’t help but start to get lost in it. “Was I really that rude?” you ask, secretly dying as you think back to your ‘I’m not a charity’ comment at the bar. “No, I’m just messing” he laughs, eliciting the same response from you as you erase that memory out of your brain. “You’re just confident, I like it” he’s saying, the last part of his comment getting lost when a group of people come staggering through the door, drowning out his words for the second time tonight, but you’re ninety-nine percent certain you managed to catch it. And now you’re the nervous one.

You’re quickly moving the conversation on to something else when you feel your chest starting to heat up with anxious prickles. Mason going all funny inside because it’s clear that he has the same effect on you as you do him, but he’s trying to push that to the back of his mind as he listens to you rambling on about your favourite breed of dogs, and how you had a fish finger sandwich for tea before you came out tonight, and how you actually know quite a lot about football but you’re reluctant to bring it up because you don’t want to embarrass him, although your drunken state causes you to let a few football facts slip out, all of them relating to Mase but you’re too caught up in your fuzzy alcoholic state to even recognise. But he does, obviously. Finding it sweet how you know exactly how many appearances he’s made for Chelsea, and what minute he came on in his debut against Manchester United, and what colour boots he wore against last season’s match against Newcastle. Just sitting back and letting you talk in between the occasional swig of water, hardly being able to get a word in edgeways because the alcohol is well and truly running through your veins now, making you come out with all kinds of mismatched comments and slurs. But he doesn’t mind, which takes him by surprise a bit, especially as he’s secretly scared of drunk people and he can count the amount of times he’s felt a bit tipsy on one hand, but there’s something different about you. Maybe it’s your sense of humour and how you’ve got him in stitches, or how your drunken state leads you to be more concerned about the welfare of a stray cat outside than it does anything else on the planet, or maybe it’s how deep beneath that strong outer shell you’re protecting yourself with that he knows you’ve got a heart of gold, an inside of ‘pure mush’ as his mum would say. 

“What time is it?” you slur after knocking back your last swig of water. “Nearly one o’clock” Mason’s replying, glancing at his overly-expensive watch as you sit there and wonder how he actually knows what hour of the day it is when all of the numbers have been replaced by diamonds. “Better head off” you mumble, staring blankly into the empty kebab box and trying to process what move you need to make next in order to get yourself back home in one piece. “I’ll order you a cab if you want, or I’ll walk you back, I don’t know how far away you live” he’s saying, forcing you out of your trace as you look up at his tired, bloodshot eyes. Knowing full well that as soon as you’re gone he’ll be running home to bed with a glass of water to tone down the bubbles in his tummy from his fizzy drinks, paranoid incase they give him a fizzy version of a hangover. “I live about half an hour away and I can tell you’re ready for bed so I’ll go with the cab” you smile, making him giggle nervously at the fact that his tiredness has been uncovered, although it’s not difficult to pick up on the fact that the only other time he stays up this late is on New Years Eve, and even then he normally sets an alarm for 11.57pm so that he can wake up from his nap in time.

You’re letting him help you put all of your belongings back into your handbag after you insisted on showing him your favourite lipgloss midway through your earlier conversation. Linking your arm through his and stepping out into the coldness of the night, a breeze nipping across your legs and causing you to let out a little squeal as you start pulling your dress down to try and hide your goosebumps. “Here” Mason’s saying, taking his jacket off and draping it over your shoulders. “Mase” you’re replying. Mase - he likes that, and he likes how naturally it’s left your mouth too. Trying to give it back to him but he’s adamant that you keep it. “Gives me another reason to see you in order to get it back” he winks, making you roll your eyes as you stand snuggled into his side on the edge of the pavement. 

“Did you want my number?” he’s asking, already taking his phone out of his pocket and holding it out in your direction before you even have chance to respond. “You’ve not really given me an option have you?” you laugh, making him giggle as he shuffles awkwardly from side to side, waiting for your digits to appear on the screen. “Only because I need to give your jacket back, there’s no other reason for this” you tell him, smiling as he nods his head but you both know that’s a little white lie. “There you go” you’re saying, passing his phone back to him as his eyes study the new contact in his hand. A new number written beneath Y/N. 

‘Shit’ he’s thinking. He didn’t even ask for your name before this. Awkward. 

“Pretty name” he smiles, trying to play it off cool, but you’re not drunk enough to not notice his mistake. “So pretty that you didn’t even know that’s what I was called until now” you reply, making him giggle and let out an awkward ‘oops’. “I’ll let you off this once” you’re saying as you look up at him stood beneath the lamppost that’s towering above the two of you. A golden glow adding a filter to his face and making him look even more gorgeous than he did when he was sipping his lemonade in the club and shoving lettuce and chicken into his mouth. And you’re desperate to just kiss him, especially since he’s got a bit of dried Fruit Shoot in the corner of his mouth and you know his lips will taste all sweet like they do in the movies. But considering he’s only just learnt your name you don’t think it’s the right time, and there’s also a bunch of Tottenham fans making their way up the street, not wanting to have to make him endure any teasing, especially when he’s already stayed up late in a part of town he wouldn’t usually be seen dead in to spend time with you. 

“Thanks for tonight” you whisper as you briefly rest your head on his shoulder, pulling it away when the taxi he’s ordered for you appears at the side of the curb. “My pleasure, thank you” he’s saying back, removing his protective hand from the small of your back and stepping forward to open the back door of the car for you. “Told you that you were a gent” you tease as he mumbles ‘shut up’ and pretends to shove you into the back seat with a giggle. “See you soon for that jacket, yeah?” he winks as you reply with ‘yeah yeah, whatever’, making him let out a little chuckle as he closes the door on you. Giving you an awkward little wave as you head off down the street, standing and waiting for your car to turn the corner before heading home himself. Leaving just a message of ‘thank you again, can’t wait to get my jacket back cose it’s freezing without it ;) x’ that’s just appeared on your screen connecting the two of you. And even if you have been slightly tipsy tonight and now can’t remember half of the things you spoke about, there genuinely doesn’t seem like a better person to sit in a kebab shop with in the early hours of the morning after stumbling across him by pure chance a club that neither of you particularly wanted to spend the night at. Thanking your lucky stars for allowing your paths to cross because you already know this is the start of something special. Very special.

[writella]

Touch

Pairing: Luke Patterson x reader

Summary: Luke’s spirit is brought down by the pain he has caused his parents as well as the hardships that come from adoring you, a lifer. He craves your touch but his ghostly form keeps him from getting the thing he most desires to recieve.

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: First fic! Sorry that it's kind of long. I don’t know if this would be considered “angsty” but it is kind of sad in the beginning but trust me it becomes really sweet at the end!

Julie and the Phantoms was such a good show. I loved how the writers and Charlie showed that despite how positive Luke was, he was harboring a lot of pain inside when it came to how he left him mom that he didn’t show anyone. This piece touches on that point a little bit more. If you would like to leave a review, that would be super appreciated. I’m sure there are a bunch of grammar errors anyway.

-

Luke came to you after he left Julie at his parents house. He told you about the song to his mom, about how his parents still celebrated his birthday after all these years. He told you about the grief he felt and how he felt like he had no one. You told him that he had you, and Julie, and the guys most importantly, that you were sure they missed their family members too. He admitted to you though, that both Alex and Reggie avoided talking about their family, it was one of the only things that they weren’t being honest about with each other. He said he couldn’t be the one to bring it up.

“I’m the strong one!” He explained. “If I don’t push them forward, they’ll fall apart. I have to be happy, I have to be okay so they-“

“It’s okay not to be okay all the time, Luke,” You interrupt him, then you send him a sympathetic smile as you come to a realization: “I didn’t know you put all this pressure on yourself... I’m sorry. Come here,” without thinking you motion him forward, arms reaching to grasp his back, only catching handfuls of air.

Luke gives you an exasperated laugh, in the heat of it all, he almost forgot for a second himself.

“Well, this is a strange little relationship we have, isn’t it?” Tears swipe down his cheek.

“Luke...” you didn’t know how to respond, you cursed yourself for making the situation worse.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Or whenever. Alright?” His words were short as he forced a smile and disappeared from your sight.

You woke up from your haze and caught your eyes staring out the window, looking at the boy you were just thinking about. He sat on an old brown chair right next to the garage door. Julie took some down that hung from the garage ceiling a few nights ago for him. She said she got tired of seeing Luke crouching down on the concrete like a sad lost puppy.

“Why don’t you just stop avoiding him and finally go down there?” Julie sighs. “Maybe you’ll have better luck than me.”

“Than all of us.” Alex chimed in.

You were hesitant but as Julie pushed you to the door it seemed as if you had no choice.

“You’re our only hope.” Reggie said with a sad smile, echoing a quote from his favorite franchise.

As you walked toward Luke, his gaze on the night sky never faltered.

“You don’t have to say anything... Just want to be with you. Alright?” You said softly as you sat down on the chair next to him. You decided you were only going to keep him company, not dwell on what happened. You remembered what he said about always having to be the strong one, you guessed that’s what you were trying to do now.

He only slightly nodded, not wanting to look you in the eye. He was surprised you’d finally come. Everyone, Reggie, Alex, and Julie had come to sit with him from time to time, getting nothing out of him. He sort of wished you finally would show up but now that you’re here, he couldn’t say anything despite how much he wanted to. He tried to urge the words to his tongue but his apprehension kept them stuck inside his brain. He bounced his knee, his frustration as well as your closeness was getting to him.

He knew he shouldn’t have been ignoring you, you must’ve felt as bad as he did but he needed some time to think. Maybe just a day, he reasoned, just to go through the motions by himself and then wake up going back to his easy going self again the next morning. This is what he told himself, yes, but then a day became another, and then another.

It surprised him, how out of it he was. Usually, it was so easy for him to find the courage to remain optimistic but right now he just felt like a disappointment. He was usually able to thrive upon this fact, a 90s misfit, nowhere to go but up. He loved the idea that one day his band’s talent would shine so brightly everyone would have no choice but to see their beauty. And it didn’t come from anger, Luke was never a resentful person, it came from a place of purity. He wanted his music to make people feel connected; understood, just like it had for him. Or like it has for him up until now. He hadn't been able to play in days.

The bittersweet melody of Unsaid Emily became the mantra that invaded his brain this past week. Every time the song came to an end, his mind replayed the lyrics again, and again; an endless loop. And with that came the images of his parents, blowing out a birthday candle with misty tears in their eyes, thinking of their boy they believed they lost forever. And then there was you, of course. The prettiest girl he’d ever seen, who laughed at his confusing metaphors, and built him up when he was feeling down which was something he usually had to do for others. Ever since he met you, you were there for him in a way no one else had been. The thought almost relieved his pain. Could this truly be love? He had dated around before but never had he been in a real relationship. After finding the guys, the band was all he thought about, the only connection he felt he needed. Plus, he just had to prove to his mom that he could make it, and that took all of his attention. Another mistake, he thought.

Once again he revisits the memory of your arms going through him. Not only could he never apologize to his parents but he couldn’t even love one of the only people on Earth who could actually see him the way he wanted to. Never had he felt so completely helpless. He wanted you to know that he didn’t want to give up. He needed you to know that you were enough, but he was fearful to try anything despite how desperately he wanted touch. He even counted the ways he could do it in his head: perhaps he’d lightly stroke your knee, softly rub his thumb on your intertwined hands, maybe brush your hair behind your ear with his fingers lingering till he felt the last strand of hair slip away. Or maybe, just maybe, he’d even give you the softest kiss. One so pure and light, because while he was a ghost, he thought of you as an angel and he believed an angel deserved a touch just as delicate, but he couldn’t. He was dead.

It had been an hour of you two sitting in silence. You stared at him and sighed. You thought he was beautiful. You could go on endlessly about the physicality of that beauty but what really tugged on your heart was what was inside. His mind, his body, his soul, that was bound in optimism. You’d never seen anything like it. Right from when Julie met him, she told you, he put the realization of being dead, of being a ghost, behind him just to help her become a part of the music program again, giving her the words of encouragement, it’s a closed door, but you’ve gotta bust it open!

You felt terrible that you were a part of the reason why his spirit was currently crushed. You desperately wanted touch. You wanted him to know you were there for him but you knew words weren’t enough.

Screw it, you thought. You were going to try again and even if it didn’t work you were ready to tell him that you didn’t care, that seeing was all you needed to be with him. You wanted him to know that you weren’t giving up. You needed him to know that he was enough, fear wasn’t going to stop you.

You reached for his knee. Trying to touch the tips of his hand that laid there with yours, ready for the sensation of air to swoosh between your fingertips but then, just then, you... felt. First it was the tips of nails, then fingers, and as he turned his hand, eyes bulging wide, you felt his palm. You held it there for a second, soon sliding your palms together, you intertwined your fingers with his. You were actually holding hands.

Luke’s mouth went agape and you met his eyes, sharing the same look of disbelief. Seeing a tear roll down the right side of his face you realized your emotions mirrored his as one dripped down on the left side of yours. He wiped it away with his thumb, gripping your face a little more roughly than he intended to, the excitement apparent in his shaky hands.

He soon loosened his grip, now caressing your cheek, creating friction as he rubbed back and forth, replacing the chill of the night air on your skin with warmth. His fingers, then moved to your chin, then he poked your nose, brushed his fingertips against your eyelashes, till he finally rolled them against your lips, slowly. He couldn’t believe he felt you. The feeling was something even a dream couldn’t conjure up, something that even he couldn’t describe in a lovely song lyric; this was perfection; this was, indeed, love.

This revelation brought with it courage and with that he finally willed himself up off that chair and yanked your arm that was connected to your still intertwined hands with it and at once you became one with a hug. One so fierce and tight you couldn’t breath, his arms crushing your shoulders, his hands caressing your head, his fingers falling on the strands of your hair.

With one arm still around you, he moved one of his hands against your cheek once more, connecting his forehead to yours. You both relished in the closeness, breathing each other in.

“If I ever cross over, I bet this is what heaven feels like,” he said in a soft whisper, finally breaking the silence, but only adding to the moment’s loveliness. “I think you’re connected to my soul.”

-

-

-

Thank you for reading!

[realcube]

ONCE YOU’RE GONE

rq ♥ hello!! can i please request miya twins, sakusa, suna, akaashi x fem!reader an angst one. like they got into a heated argument each other. reader just had enough, maybe take a stroll and got into a deadly accident that cost her life/ memory loss or something. and the hq char regrets it

tw ♥ angst, hurt/comfort, breakups, disappearances, very vague implications of kidnapping, memory loss & injury 

a/n ♥ sorry i couldn’t think of anything for suna </3 

ATSUMU MIYA

♡ he’s never really been an overly religious guy

♡ yet everyday, he finds himself praying that you’ll come back 

♡ and before now, he considered himself a rather patient person, but every second you were gone was filled with anguish

♡ mostly because he knew it was all his fault

♡ nobody blamed it on him though, which only made him feel more guilty

♡ it was late, so he decided to walk you home from his house. hardly with your safety in mind though, just because he wanted to spend more time with you

♡ that was his first mistake

♡ his second was getting so defensive over his volleyball team

♡ he was talking about their recent loss to karasuno high, and how they were all devastated since they had been training for ages

♡ yet instead of comforting him, you simply replied, “maybe you should do things besides volleyball, if you’re getting so worked up about it.”

♡ but all he heard was you being condescending (though that genuinely wasn’t your intention) and telling him to give up something he is passionate about because of one little defeat

♡ you tried to explain that you honestly meant no harm by your statement but atsumu argued that the damage had already been done, hence your apology meant nothing to him

♡ realising that atsumu was just being pissy and taking his frustration at the game out on you, you distanced yourself; walking a few paces in front of him and plugging in your earbuds to tune him out

♡ after marching behind you for a few more yards, atsumu eventually decided that he was finished 

♡ in one swift motion, he turned on his heels and stomped back his house, leaving you to walk the rest of the distance yourself; that was his third mistake

♡ however, after walking for about half a mile, he got a newsfeed notification on his phone titled, ‘four people reported missing in hyōgo prefecture, in the last week.’

♡ it only took one headline for all atsumu’s previous emotions to be swept away and replaced with one that left him motionless; guilt

♡ he continued walking back to his home, reasoning that you clearing didn’t want him near you — anyone could tell by the way you walked in front of him and ignored him— so he must’ve made the right choice to leave you, since it’s what you wanted, after all

♡ and it’s not like y’all broke up or anything, he still loves you and hopes you are safe and to prove that, he apologised and texted you first 

♡ ‘hey, i’m so sorry i was i bit of a jerk earlier.’

♡ followed by ‘text me once you’re home.’  

♡ no response, simply read at 21:45 

♡ that was a week ago, yet he still wholehearted believed that you were going to come back

♡ though, deep down he knew he was just feeding himself the same line over and over again, just so that he wouldn’t feel guilty, and so that the sight of a volleyball stopped making him feel so sick and distressed

OSAMU MIYA

♡ he’s never felt such a sea of emotions at once before

♡ on one hand, he was just happy to see you alive and well; isn’t that all a lover should want?

♡ however, he didn’t have the honour of calling himself your lover anymore

♡ you didn’t remember anything from before the crash, which initially brought him a small tinge of relief, since you wouldn’t blame him for what happened

♡ however, you didn’t remember him at all

♡ so when he knelt by your bed and started apologising profusely, all you did which raise a brow and turn to the nurse, quietly — yet not discreetly — asking who the guy by your bed was

♡ he felt his hear tear apart at such a simple inquiry 

♡ however, instead of explaining himself, he got up and left, “nobody.”

♡ wanting to get it all off of his chest, he told atsumu about what happened, as if he didn’t know that his brother had the biggest crush on you during your whole relationship with osamu 

♡ and of course, upon hearing the news, atsumu ‘snuck out’ later to go visit you in hospital and presumably try to win your heart 

♡ though, there was nothing ‘sneaky’ about the way he loudly fumbled around with the car keys, or the way he tended to slam the door behind him — atsumu knew exactly what his brother was trying to do and although it pained him to even think of losing you, he let his brother pursue you anyway 

♡ he tried to protect you once and it resulted in you losing your memory, so god knows what would happen if he tried again

♡ plus, you were no longer his to protect, or at least that is what he tried to convince himself

♡ after months of daily visits from atsumu —and none from osamu — you were somewhat starting to gain your memory back 

♡ atsumu just seemed so.. familiar, and that was the single best feeling when you are so isolated 

♡ though, there was something off about him that you couldn’t exactly put your finger on, but he reassured you that it was because ‘seeing you hurt changed him as a man’ so of course he’s different from the way you ‘remember’ him

♡ years passed, and you continued dating atsumu in blissful ignorance of the events that happened before the accident

♡ you feel deeper in love with the atsumu you thought you knew and were forced away from osamu (who chose to remain single, he claimed it was to focus on his studies but he truly couldn’t find a second soulmate)

♡ it was only at your own wedding day were you finally able to see osamu once more, though you didn’t really interact with him much..

♡ until he objected during your vows, then, it was pretty hard to ignore him, especially since he appeared sober yet was claiming that you are his one true love, and he regrets ever leaving you 

♡ needless to say, the rest of the wedding definitely did not go as planned

KIYOOMI SAKUSA 

♡ he loved you; and he wished he had showed it more, now that it’s too late

♡ “sakusa,” you cooed, resting your head on his shoulder and offering him a plate of apple slices you cut yourself, while browsing the shows on TV, “what shall we watch tonight?” you inquired, but mostly to yourself since dating sakusa nowadays was similar to dating a literal rock 

♡ no response, as per usual

♡ well, on the bright-side, that just meant you’d get to watch whatever you wanted, unless sakusa spoke up, which he most likely would not 

♡ scanning through all your options, you decided to select some teen romance, coming-of-age movie that you knew sakusa would most definitely not enjoy, hence forcing him to say thing 

♡ however, instead of him reacting in accordance to your plan, he simply got up and left without another word

♡ something about the sight of him with his back turned to you, headed out of your house and back home with even a goodbye cleared your fogged mind and left one fact undoubtedly clear; you didn’t want to be with him anymore 

♡ and although you didn’t want to make assumptions, you surmised that he felt the same way; it was almost a certainty considering how distant he acted 

♡ so of course you cut it off that same night; yet when you proposed the idea of breaking up, sakusa became surprisingly defensive

♡ it was as if all of a sudden he realised how shitty he had been acting this whole time, and how his actions had effected you 

♡ you both yelled over the phone for hours, though it was hardly an ‘argument’, more like sakusa apologising profusely and making — what you believed to be — false promises, while you explained that you had just had enough 

♡ it ended with him almost screaming ‘i love you’, but you hung up on him too soon 

♡ he would never admit it, but he cried himself to sleep that night

♡ there was a part of him saying that he was just being overdramatic and you were nothing more than another lover that will enter and exit his life with the wind, but four years later, he still found himself getting butterflies upon catching a glimpse of you in the stands at one of games 

♡ despite the fact you were cheering for opposite team 

KEIJI AKAASHI 

♡ you two were the perfect couple

♡ study dates, sliding notes to each other during class, midnight strolls, endless support, dancing in the rain; it was like you were both living in your very own slice-of-life romance movie

♡ however, as they say, all good things must come to an end

♡ but for akaashi, that ending came too quickly

♡ “you can do it, i know you can!” that must’ve been the tenth time you’ve said that today, it was like your own inspirational mantra, yet akaashi didn’t seem to be endeared by it 

♡ “no, (y/n).” he repeated with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he began to guide you to the door, “it’s a silly dream. i probably shouldn’t have even mentioned it.”

♡ “it’s not silly!” you argued, throwing on your jacket as he made it increasingly clear that he didn’t want to continue this conversation, “it’s your dream! you can’t just keep complaining about school if you aren’t even going to try to pursue your passion.” 

♡ akaashi silently shook his head, “go.” it was harsh, but he could only deal with speaking about his work life for so long

♡ “you go.” you snapped, though knowing it wasn’t exactly the comeback of the century, but it summarised your feelings well enough, “i’ve honestly had enough of you. i hope--” 

♡ you cut yourself off at that; storming off before saying something you might regret 

♡ though furious, you really didn’t want things to end with him, you just hoped that maybe one day you’ll be able to have a civil conversation with him about what he wants to do in life 

♡ because he hides it well, but the more you got to know him, the more you noticed that he truly wasn’t happy in his studies, and you just wished he would do something about it or at the very least, let you help 

♡ and he knew this too; he knew it all too well yet still couldn’t bring himself to better his life, even once you were gone

♡ you were critically injured after the accident, and during your time in the hospital, you let akaashi see you once

♡ one visit was his chance to redeem himself, to apologise and help you both align your futures together 

♡ but all he could do was sit with you in radio silence

♡ thirty minutes passed and his mind was running on overdrive, yet he couldn’t think of anything to utter after ‘hello.’

♡ so he left 

♡ no apology, no redemption, to attempt, nothing.

♡ all he could say was that he left with a heavy heart, a heart filled with hope that one day he could return to you despite all the wrong he has done; though that seemed more unrealistic than his dream of playing profession volleyball

♡ he had truly lost his soulmate 

[honsoolie]

don’t rush | 04

pairing: Yoongi/reader

genre: slight enemies to lovers, college au, fluff, smut, classical pianist!yoongi, violinist!reader, they’re both actually really into each other but won’t admit it

warnings: excessive amounts of pining, explicit smut, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), dirty talk, semi-public sex, mutual masturbation 

words: 10.3k

rating: +18

summary: You know, when Min Yoongi’s face isn’t screwed into an accusatory scowl, he looks exactly like the kind of guy you’d have no trouble falling in love with. Or, the conservatory au where Yoongi helps you get over your stage fright. In more ways than one.

a/n: thank you for waiting... if you've stuck around this long :") i've tried so hard for the past couple months to condense this story into the original length (3 chapters) but i've gotten attached and i'm afraid that this will turn into a longfic at the rate i'm going. so after this chapter, i'll be sure to post lots of drabbles of the scenes i couldn't fit in!! thank you so much for the wild ride, and without further ado, i present to you don't rush 04. 

start from the beginning?

You can’t bring yourself to fault Yoongi for what happened that morning. You also can’t bring yourself to say that it was your fault either–or even that there may be a single person to blame. 

24 hours of radio silence. No good morning text, no morning after–or really, afternoon after–text. Nothing. 

The thing about silence–absolute silence, with the exception the low hum of the air-con, or the distant sounds of a city, or footsteps from the room above you–is how slowly it passes. Maybe that’s why you’re a music student, spending all your time filling the silence with your own music. 

Silence is such an empty space–and can breed such bored thoughts. And where else for your mind to wander but Yoongi? 

It’s not that you were waiting for a text from him, it’s just that… you were half-expecting a text from him. Like he owed it to you. Even if none of this had ever happened, he would have texted you good morning by now. 

At least in your head, it seems fair that the onus is on Yoongi to text first. After all, he was the one who dragged you tightly by the wrist back to his apartment. He pushed you down on his couch, and in a very roundabout way, made you late for class. 

It’s not that you let this whole affair happen to you, but he started it. So it’s his job to text first. That’s the excuse you use, for not being brave enough to do it instead. 

It honestly feels a little pathetic that most of your thoughts outside of music and school are occupied by Min Yoongi. Even now, weeks after you’ve started talking to him, even mere thoughts of him elicit physical reactions from you. 

Your heart rate picking up, skin flushing where your neck meets your collarbone… maybe you’re allergic to Min Yoongi.  

It’s hard for your mind not to run wild with conclusions and assumptions after what happened between the two of you, even if a day hasn’t elapsed yet.  

Why hadn’t he texted? Does he do this often? Did he hate it? Did he ghost me, and now I’m never going to hear from him again? Should I text him first? Why is this so hard? 

Why do I care so much? 

The worst part is, you can’t turn it off. The thoughts follow you throughout the day, a weight sitting on your shoulders as you flit from class to class, building to building, rehearsal to rehearsal. Once the sun dips below the horizon, you’ve almost completed the process of resigning yourself to never knowing the answers to any of your questions. 

You make a note to yourself that you might start grieving the loss of any sort of closure–other than what Yoongi had given you the day before. All evenings this semester have been relegated to the confines of the practice room, so that’s where you head next after chamber music rehearsals end. Finally, the Bach partita has a purpose in your life other than plaguing your waking dreams–something to focus on other than Yoongi. But for God’s sake, it sounds pathetic when it’s put like that. 

Your. Life. Doesn’t. Revolve. Around. Min. Yoongi. You tell yourself, punctuating each word as you march down the stairwell in the music building. You clutch your violin case to your body, seeking warmth in the cold plastic. 

The universe likes to play tricks on people, and its language is irony. Yoongi taught you that lesson, the hard way. 

So it almost makes sense that the next time you encounter Yoongi is when you collide head-on with Yoongi’s smooth chest as you speed-walk through the doorway once you’re at the foot of the stairs. Just as you dreaded (and knew was going to happen anyway), your cheeks light up, some light from deep within you turning on. You kick yourself for the fact that your entire body perks up in his existence, erasing the cold and the tiredness from the night before. 

“Oh–I didn’t expect to see you here.” At the very least, Yoongi doesn’t look like he hates you. Or is disgusted by you. If anything, he looks a bit coy. If you could let yourself believe it, there might even be the warmth of fondness in his eyes, and even more incredulously, maybe the hard edge of guilt. 

“Didn’t expect? Yoongi, I’m here more than my own room.” You laugh despite the thoughts that have been trailing you all day, sounding something like cherry blossoms floating on the new breeze that spring has brought. You feel like you’ve forgiven him for something that he didn’t do, even if he hasn’t said anything yet. 

Just seeing him makes you feel better, the devil in the back of your head whispers. 

“Right, right.” His answering laughter is familiar. Even now, ever after everything, he still has the audacity to smooth his hands over your shoulders, make sure you’re intact and okay. “Violin okay? You okay?” 

You try not to let his scant touches send a shiver down your spine, just so you don’t give him that satisfaction, but you fail all the same. You manage a nod, but can barely bring yourself to look in his eyes. But is it for fear of seeing that warm tenderness again, or something else? 

“So…” With no prompting from you, Yoongi slides a fingertip underneath your chin. It feels simultaneously casual and momentous, and you’re not sure which one you prefer. 

Is this really happening right now? 

He looks deep into your eyes, taking inventory of something that you’re too self-conscious to think about right now. 

Of course, you’re self-conscious. You bump into your hookup a day after the fact, now that it’s nighttime in the practice rooms on the second floor of the music building. Both of you should be somewhere else, anywhere else, preferably drunk. How could it not be awkward, and how could you not feel self-conscious? 

His eyes flick lower, to your lips, and you avert your gaze. Yoongi’s hand returns to his side, and he coughs. 

“Sooo…” You say, digging your foot through the carpet, the warmth of his hands lingering on your skin. You play with the buckles on your violin case, just to give your hands something to do. You hope he says something first, because you’re sure as hell not going to do it. 

“Got something to say?” There’s a hint of a laugh in his words. He coughs again. 

“I thought you were going to say something,” You say, still not looking at him. It’s all you can do to not shrink away. In the dim lighting of the mouth of the hallway, there’s no way he can see your blush, but you turn away all the same. 

He’s smiling like he knows something you don’t, or maybe like he’s purged the last thirty-six hours from his memory. “Let’s not be strangers, come on. Are you busy?” 

“Not… particularly.” You commit to the words before you can finish the thought. 

“Can you do me a favor?” Right. So he wants something from you. Of course, of course he wants something from you. 

“What kind of favor?” 

“I was going to print something downstairs, but now that you’re here, can you listen to my piece? I need a second opinion.” He sighs, as if remembering something sweet. “It’s time I made it even, right? I’ve kept you waiting for long enough.” He smiles, just barely, and yet it feels like a gift. 

So that’s it. It’s confirmed. This is officially Not a Thing, you consign yourself to the fact. It’d be a lie to say that you aren’t a little bit relieved. At least you have an answer. 

There’s no need for a great step forward that’s necessary. No more awkward conversations like these, no admitting of feelings, let alone reciprocation of feelings. 

Nothing has to change between the two of you. Isn’t that what you wanted? 

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” You say, like it shouldn’t have been a question in the first place. You hate that even despite his silence on the matter, you’re running back to his side. You hate that you’re happy that he still wants anything to do with you. You ignore the empty kind of ache in your chest, too hollow and too full at the same time. 

You follow him down the narrow hallway, past the couch where it all began, and into the practice room. Of course, Yoongi’s already booked the only one isn’t a dingy cesspool. 

He pats the space next to him on the piano bench, beckoning you closer. 

“Sit down, don’t stand the whole time.” 

“Don’t you need the space?” 

“No, no, it’s okay. Come here.” If it’s even possible, your face burns even hotter when you sit down next to him, shoulders brushing just so. It’s harder to forget about the fact that you are hopelessly crushing on Min Yoongi when you’re literally touching him again. 

It reminds you of all his touches from before, because it was good. The sex was good. If it had been awkward and fumbling, if Min Yoongi hadn’t been able to push you over the edge with only his mouth and that look in his eye, you would be a lot more inclined to leave those memories in the past. 

You don’t need to relive the memory over and over, an endless reel. And yet, glimpses, flashes, disjointed stills of that morning still follow you everywhere. But you look at him now, silently flipping through the marked pages on his score, and now you see more than just a good lay. Looking at him now, in his natural state, you’ve fallen down the rabbit hole, you’re whipped, there’s no chance for you.  

“I don’t have it memorized yet, please don’t judge me.” You try not to think about the way he had pulled you closer by your hips. You try not to think about what you might have thought was lovesickness in his eyes. You try not to think of the timbre of his voice, when he told you to come for him. You try not to think about that. 

“Really, a pianist who can’t memorize his pieces? Sacreligious.” The delivery of your jibe falls flat. You steady the ricketing breath in your lungs. You’re nervous, and tired. Accepting that your Min Yoongi has absolutely no interest in you other than when he needs you for something isn’t easy, you know. 

“Oh come oooon y/n, this is something I’m learning this semester.” He pouts, just like he had before the both of you had fallen into this nebulous mess of feelings. Or maybe, it’s all one-sided and you’re the only one feeling like things have gotten messy. 

You poke him in the side, which you regret immediately after doing so. “I’m just joking. Show me your piece. Are you warmed up?” Yoongi turns pink, again. 

You remember the pink dusting his cheeks when he was–right, you’re supposed to be forgetting that ever happened. 

He runs his tongue along his lower lip, everything moving in slow motion. Your head is swimming. 

Well, maybe things aren’t moving in slow motion, and it’s the proximity to Min Yoongi that’s making time distort. “Yes, yes, yes, I’m fine. Are you ready to listen?” 

“Yeah. Go ahead.” 

Yoongi hovers his hands over the keys. He does that pianist thing you’ve always loved, where he pauses before the keys, preparing to play. 

He leans in slowly, sinking his hands down, pulling out a sound so sweet and, so, so solemn. This is a different Yoongi than the one thirty seconds ago. 

You realize somewhat belatedly that the fluorescent lights, the same ones that erase any sort of proper time telling in windowless rooms like these, still make Yoongi look good. The light bounces off of him just right, his cheekbones casting a gentle shadow on the sloped panes of his face. Like the rest of him, there’s no harsh angles, just soft gentle slopes that feel like home. Like comfort. Your gut twists in yearning. The hollow of his cheekbone is the perfect place to kiss, you ponder. 

Things should be easier now. All of it was a mistake. It’s in the past. It seems that Yoongi doesn’t seem to care at all. It should be forgotten about. Things, in theory, should be easier now. You should be able to carry on as you’ve always been able to. The path of least resistance, right?

He pauses, and begins what must be the main theme, cascading sixteenth-notes that sound about as tumultuous and troubled as you feel. 

He looks like he’s about to cry. Sure, you’ve seen sleepy Yoongi, cranky Yoongi, even a little bit of earnest, pleading Yoongi. But whoever is in front of you is entirely different. He’s approaching the main theme again, hands jumping over the keys as if they were hot irons. You can see all the versions of him laid out before you. Younger Yoongi, hands too small to reach the tenths written in his score. Hungover Yoongi that shuffles into class a couple minutes late, remnants of a late night out drinking written all over his face. The Yoongi that holds your hands between his and tells you that everything is going to be okay. 

When he reaches the final cadence, he doesn’t look at you immediately, still trained on the keys. His hands are still placed in the final chord, lifting them off slowly so the sound doesn’t quite fade away yet. The both of you stay like that, in the aftermath of what he just played. You hear the click as he takes his foot off the pedal. The tension that he was churning out doesn’t fade away when the sound stops. If anything, it gets worse. Blood rushes to your cheeks, the room warmer than it was before. 

“So… that’s what I’ve been working on so far. I, uh, hope you liked it.” It’s shocking how that compelling spirit from just minutes ago dissipates into thin air. He looks vulnerable, naked despite the fact that he’s fully clothed. 

“You’ve been holding out on me, Min Yoongi.” You laugh in disbelief, blinking away tears. God, you are so fucked. Sure, you’ve heard him play before, practicing with him. But you’re not practicing with him now, you’re watching. You’ve become the audience, and the dynamic has changed once again. 

There’s been many a night where you googled his previous performances and competitions on Youtube, but this doesn’t compare. Not in the slightest. So this is what all your teachers were talking about when they were lecturing you about the importance of stage presence. 

“Uh, wow. Wow.” You’re still tearing up, no matter how much you try to will it away. 

You’re not even really sure why you’re tearing up or why you can’t stop. It’s usually difficult for music to elicit such a visceral reaction from you. Goosebumps, sure. That very specific thrill down your spine when you hear music that isn’t so much as something that you hear, but feel in your blood, thumping, alive, real. 

But tears, no. That doesn’t happen.

It feels like your body is reacting to something that isn’t tangible, that you can’t see with your eyes or hear with your ears. Like there’s something else in the room that you can’t quite register. Like you’re crying despite yourself. 

You desperately want to kiss him. You want to pull him close and breathe in his familar scent and feel him pull you closer. It feels like the only appropriate thing to do, rather than just say “wow” over and over, in that stupid longing voice because you don’t what else to say. This is too overwhelming. More overwhelming than what it feels like when he finally puts his hands on you. 

It’s the only thing you want to do. You can’t imagine the night ending in any other way. It seems like it was prewritten in the stars, like the universe came together to stitch this scene together. Like it was fate for you to find him here, long after the sun disappeared over the horizon, practicing just like you were.

But you can’t, so you hug him. Like an absolute idiot. 

You regret it as soon as your arms circle around his shoulders. Yoongi stiffens, as if startled, as if he wasn’t expecting the hug either. Then his hand come to awkwardly pat the space between your shoulder blades, as if this couldn’t get any worse. This feels like a consolation prize. 

He can’t see your face nestled against his shoulder, but you cringe. 

You feel the vibration of his laughter against you, his shoulders shaking, “You liked it that much?” You can feel the way his voice resonates in his chest, and like everything else about this ordeal, it’s overwhelming. 

“Yeah,” You pull back away from him, relieved that the moment is over, “Yeah, I liked it. Winter Wind, right?” 

“Yeah, fitting for this fucking weather.” 

You laugh. “Look, thanks. But I gotta go, it’s getting late and I have a paper due tonight. Thank you, again. It’s really good.” You pick up your case, “You have good start, but keep practicing. Can’t stop until you have it memorized, ha.” You try to force a laugh. 

You hope you don’t look like you’re fleeing the scene. (Except you are. You leave the building without even practicing. But you don’t tell him that.) 

As you stream down the steps leading to the music building, the cool night air blotting away the swelling tears in your eyes, there’s something else that takes up residence in your heart: jealousy, and initiative. 

You envy the lucky bitch that ends up with Min Yoongi. And if Yoongi won’t talk about it, then you will. You won’t let him drag you around on a whim without a real answer. You can’t bring yourself to wait any longer. 

~

Min Yoongi doesn’t like you back. 

At least, that’s what he tries to tell himself before he goes to sleep, as if lying to himself might make sleep come more easily. 

The truth is, you are Min Yoongi’s favorite bedtime story. Like many other nights before, Yoongi falls asleep thinking of you, hashing and rehashing all the little details and inside jokes and past conversations. It’s a small comfort during this semester, thoughts of you keeping him warm. 

Tonight, Yoongi is replaying the conversation from earlier, the way he saw you nervously rubbed at the tough calluses on your left hand while he was playing for you, out of the corner of his eye. It made Yoongi want to make you smile, laugh at his bad jokes, and maybe, if you’d let him, gasp against his lips. It’s been less than a day since he saw you and yet he misses your laugh. 

That morning after class, you had sat up, blinking away the sun filtering through his shades, or maybe trying to clear the post-orgasm fog. Post- orgasms fog. Then you mumbled something about being late for class, a thin layer of sweat shining down to your chest. 

You had thanked him, then laughed at the misstep. God, you were so dorky that you thanked him. How was he ever supposed to resist you? 

How had the two of you come so far? 

 And the guiltiest indulgences Yoongi would allow himself in the middle of the night were the things he hadn’t experienced with you. Like a kiss. He hasn’t gotten a chance to do that, not yet. Maybe not ever. Would it be chaste? Slow and romantic? Or would it be impassioned and angry? 

Yoongi is particularly fond of the image of taking you to the jazz cafe a little ways away from campus. Would you wear a dress, once the weather warms up a little bit? What kind of coffee would you order? Do you even like jazz? What would it feel like to feel your hand slotted against his? 

He definitely wasn’t been thinking about pushing you up against the mirror in the practice room and seeing if the soundproof padding was actually properly installed. Or about that morning after classes, and those little mewling noises you made to urge him on. You were so desperate. It was cute, to say the least. 

But Yoongi wasn’t trying to think about that right now. He was thinking more about your unwavering diligence. Or the merriment in your eyes despite the tired shadows that hung beneath them. Or the way you didn’t back down from the way that he was obviously flirting with him, fighting fire with fire.

How much longer can the both of you live in denial, waiting for the other to make a tentative step forward? 

The more he thinks about it–about you–the less he can comfortably stay in his little bubble of denial. Denial can only get him so far. He tells himself that whatever relationship between the two of you is inevitable, and someone is going to do something eventually, and that’s why he’s not making a move just yet. 

Much of your relationship (or lack thereof) has been stepwise progression, slow steps. Graduating slowly from classmate to study partners to friends and closer, still. And now Yoongi had made this great leap and it felt like the both of you were lost amid the signals and the truths neither of you knew how to broach. 

And no matter how brave he is on stage, it’s nothing compared to being up close and personal with you. Cheesily enough, it’s easy enough to show a crowd what he’s been working on for months, but with you, he has to improvise. 

Truth be told, Yoongi knew he was being idealistic. The space that you two existed in had become precious to him, and he didn’t want to do anything to upset the balance, until now. There’s no easy way to make this all go away. Both of you were in too deep now. 

He saw the way you sighed into his touch, the way your eyes would go unfocused when he said something that was even remotely flirtatious, then then snap back to reality, as if you were reminding yourself of something. He knew you wouldn’t do anything any time soon. The past evening had shown him that. 

  And how was he supposed to admit his feelings for you… when he could hardly admit them to himself, in the privacy of his own room? 

And now, how could Yoongi make sense of anything? Every quiet moment carried the ghost of your voice. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was the way you had squeezed your eyes shut when he brought you to rapture. Even when you’re not with him, you’re filling up his senses. His thoughts. 

Am I in love with my friend? Are we friends because we’re in love? Am I feeling like this because of the way she says my name? Am I feeling like this because of the way she touches me? 

So those are all the reasons. To not talk to you. To talk to you. God, how the fuck was Yoongi supposed to know? 

~

You (5:03pm): hey, I think we should talk soon 

 The minutes tick by. Does the time always pass this slowly, you think to yourself. Your hand hovers over your phone keyboard. 

Fuck… what have I done. 

 You (5:15pm): that sounds sooo scary lol no pressure okay? 

 You grow desperate in the wake of his silence. Have you ruined it all?  

 Yoongi (5:30pm) yeah 

Yoongi (5:31pm): sorry I was practicing 

Yoongi (5:31pm): wasn’t looking at my phone  

Yoongi (5:31pm): let’s talk then 

Yoongi (5:32pm): where are you? 

 You find yourself at his apartment once again, the closed door spelling out all the possibilities in front of you. At least give him the benefit of the doubt, something reasons inside of you, but something darker says, think of what he’s put you through.  

Think of what you’ve put yourself through, you finally think. You’ve stood outside long enough. You’ve overwrought this, alone, long enough. 

Each knock that you rap against the door sounds like another nail in the coffin, but you still cling onto the last dregs of hope left in you. 

The door opens immediately, a rush of warm air enveloping you from outside. “Hey,” Yoongi says, shyly, almost demure in his lounge clothes and undone hair. 

You want to take him apart. 

“Hey,” You mirror, and try to pretend like Min Yoongi hasn’t stolen the breath out of you for what seems like the thousandth time. You hate that he has this effect on you. With nothing but a simple greeting, it seems like you’ve forgiven him for all your grief already. You try to push that feeling further down, trying to stay objective. 

Yoongi leads you to his couch. “Here… sit down. It’s cold outside, I made tea,” He says, padding into the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything else, but it looks like he knows exactly what you want to talk about. There’s something in the little tick in his jaw that tells you he’s just as sure as you are, but you’re tired of guessing. Your eyes are blurring from looking in between the lines for so long. 

There’s a big difference between overt facts and implied certainties. Fact: You and Yoongi are friends who study together, and now, ex-hookups. Implied: There’s something more there, something between friend and one-time hookup. 

“Um, what did you want to talk about?” Yoongi says, setting down a steaming mug in front of you. You don’t reach for it. 

“I–” You steel yourself for the words to tumble out of your mouth, but you lose your nerve. You had prepared a whole monologue on the walk to his apartment, but it doesn’t seem right now. You sigh, loosening the tension in your shoulders. “I wanted to talk about… about the last time I was at your apartment.” You hope it’s enough for him to get your point, and you hope that he’ll be honest and direct. He owes at least that much to you. 

“What about last time? Like specifically, what about last time?” Yoongi says, not flippantly. Please, you silently plead, please… just say something good.  

“Yoongi,” You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what’s to come, “What happens now? What does it mean? Please, just be honest.” When you hear your voice leave your body, you can hear how pained you sound. It wasn’t something you intended. You match his gaze and his eyes are like mirrors. “Yoongi… whatever you say, I won’t be angry. I just–I just want to know how you feel.” Your voice trembles. You hope you don’t sound as pathetic and humiliated as you feel, the scorned hookup. 

Worse yet, the scorned hookup who didn’t get the hint the first time. 

“No, no. You deserve the truth.” He sets his mug on the table, and you bristle at the fact that he doesn’t use a coaster. “I’ll, um, tell you my side of the story. Just to be clear I’m not like, mad at you, or anything like that. I’m also not the type to fuck and go… even though it looks like that. And I’m not like, going to ghost you or anything. Unless you want me to do that. In that case,” Yoongi runs a hand through his hair, lingering on the nape of his neck, “I’ll do that.”  

“Can you do something for me, y/n? Can you just–” Yoongi holds his hands out in front of him, and he clasps his hands between yours. He always knows exactly how to comfort you, even now. 

He sighs. “I wasn’t… expecting everything to happen like this. y/n, I… Just let me think about what to say for a second. But I promise, you’ll get the explanation you’re owed.” Another deep breath in. Another deep breath out. 

You sit like that for what seems like a long, stretched out moment, your hands clasped in Yoongi’s, his brow furrowed. 

“Why didn’t you say something yesterday?” You burst out. 

Yoongi clears his throat. “Okay, look. I have… a lot of… okay, I just, I wasn’t sure how to go about this whole thing. And that morning in class, I rushed everything and after that I wasn’t sure how to approach you. Then when I saw you in the music building afterward, I just wanted to talk to you… to make sure you were okay. I saw you and I blanked. I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t know what to do without making it weird. That’s a shitty reason, but I blanked and didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry.” 

“So,” You blink, frustrated, confused, flushed hot with embarrassment and maybe a little bit of arousal, “Okay,” You say. At least you’re getting somewhere. “So… why did it happen? Why… why did we…” 

Your eyes sting, and you breathe deeply, as if you might run out of words. “Was it all in my head?” 

Yoongi’s clammy hands tighten around yours, as if he’s afraid you’ll leave. 

“No,” Yoongi exhales, “No, it wasn’t.” 

Your body is running hot and cold. It feels like something in the air has been punctured, all the tension, all the doubts, rushing away. Something new rushes in. 

“I spent all this time guessing and wondering and hoping. I ran myself ragged with all my thinking. It’s not your fault, mostly, but I’m so tired. Of guessing.” 

He smiles. Well, smirks, in that Yoongi fashion that makes it feel like the top of your head is spinning. “Stop thinking so much then.” 

“It was–” Yoongi’s voice breaks, rips in half. “It was a mistake,” Yoongi lies. You know he’s lying. You can tell from the way his eyes are looking everywhere on your face but your eyes. You can tell from the way that he wrings his hands, like he’s reading a pre-written apology from behind the camera. “I’m so, so confused about everything. This isn’t going the way I thought it would–not that–it’s just my words aren’t coming out like I thought they would. I’m sorry. I don’t mean it like a bad thing.” 

Yoongi sighs, “I thought this would be easier.” And when you look at him again, you can see the pink on his cheeks. And how dilated his pupils are, and the decreasing proximity between his lips and your lips, because again Yoongi is still death-gripping your hands in his. If you could let yourself entertain the idea, he might be pulling you closer.  

“You’re going to need to be more specific,” You say. You lean away from him, hoping that the energy in the room will simmer down if you’re not centimeters away from falling into his arms. You need to hear him talk more, say everything, explain himself. You can’t leave this room without knowing more, you won’t be satisfied with anything but the truth and the full truth. You really don’t have the energy to wait more. 

“Well, even before everything–” And this is where Yoongi waves his hands in the air, gesticulating wildly. He doesn’t elaborate, although you suppose “before the almost-handjob in class and the whole mouth-fucking each other on your couch” is a bit of a mouthful. 

“Even before everything– I knew you liked me. Like, you can’t even be surprised that I knew. Because you were really obvious. Like so obvious. But yeah. I knew, and I thought it was cute, and it was super flattering.” 

You open your mouth for a response, but you concede that he’s right. You flush ever hotter. 

Yoongi’s voice drops a little lower, like he’s telling you a secret, “And it was so fun to mess with you. Like, I could make this cute fucking girl blush and giggle and squirm and it was all because of me, how can I not be flattered? How can I not want to spend more time with you, push all your buttons? I figured you’d eventually do something about it. But you never did, no matter how much I pushed it with you. I wanted you to make the first move. But we started getting closer, and I thought maybe you were never going to do anything about it. Like we agreed to be friends, but on the inside we both liked each other? I didn’t want that to happen, but I was too scared to just go and ask you out. So I was getting frustrated. So that morning, I was just messing around with you again. I wanted to annoy you during class, I wasn’t expecting anything to come out of it. But you–I guess you were frustrated too, because you called me on my bluff. And then, you know, one thing leads to another and we’re somehow at my apartment, which I barely remember how we got there in one piece before–” Yoongi stops, breathless and something tender sparkling in his eyes. His hands aren’t gripping you like you might run away, just resting on the tops of your knees. Reminding you that he’s there. 

“And now, in the present, I’m just confused? Did I like you before or after we…” He trails off, bashful still, even now. “Or do I feel like this now because we were together? And does that even matter now, because I like you regardless?”

All the blood has rushed away from your chest. It feels like someone has knocked all the air from you but also as if a winch has tightened ever-so around your heart. 

“Let’s take it slow, if that’s something you want. Nobody…” You grapple for something to say, after that hell of a fucking lovesick speech, “Nobody said that you needed all the answers now. Don’t rush.” You take his hands back into yours. 

The weight of it all hits you slowly, in successive waves. You don’t have to filter anything out, never have to make yourself feel appropriate for him. When you practice with him, study with him, eat with him… all the quiet spaces and body-wracking laughter just feel like a perfect fit. Nothing out of place. There’s never a conversation topic or something to stray away from, other than circumventing the feelings you have for him. Even then, it’s not like Yoongi pretends like the attraction isn’t there. He doesn’t skirt around it, avoid it like taboo conversation. It really only serves to amplify your conversations, a red thread pulled taut underneath everything else. 

And now, you can give into that? You can show him how you really feel, and there’s just one less thing to hide? 

“You know, you’re not blameless. I was super stressed out at the time, and with the Bach Festival and midterms and everything I guess… you gave me the opportunity to lessen that a little, so. I know, I know. It’s a shitty excuse. But I wanted things with you and with the way that things converged, it seemed like–” 

“Serendipity?”  

“A bit like that, yes.” You tighten your hands around his, and he pulls you a little closer. You’re leaning over his lap now. 

You can’t choose whether to look into his eyes or at his lips. It looks like Yoongi has the same problem. He pulls you imperceptibly closer. 

“Can I kiss you? If that’s not rushing, of course.” 

“Yeah. Yes, please.” You soften yourself into his lap, Yoongi pulling you closer by the shoulders, sliding down to rest on your arms. You relish in the sensation, knowing it’s something that you can enjoy with a reassured heart now. 

He plants a closed kiss against your lips, and somehow that makes your heart flutter more than anything else he’s ever done before. The pads of his fingertips are soft and gentle against your arms, pulling you closer by the bicep. 

“I like you… I like you a lot…” Yoongi whispers against your lips, laughing at the confession. So sweet, so soft. 

“I like you too…” You whisper, kissing back. Slow, chaste, if a bit restrained. The realization hits you again, slowly, like an ocean wave washing over wet sand. 

Yoongi likes you back. Yoongi wants you back. You laugh at how absurd it sounds, even in your own head, nipping at his lip. “Say it again, Yoongi.” 

“I like you…” Yoongi sounds coy. 

You smile against him, “Say it again,” You gasp, pushing him back on the couch, gentle but firm, “I like you too, in case you didn’t know.” You can’t help but laugh. Not at the absurdity at the situation, but just out of happy shock. 

“y/n, I like you…” Yoongi chuckles, deep in his chest, looking up at you. His hair falls out of his eyes. 

“Do you know how happy it makes me, to hear you say that?” 

You’re honestly surprised that you don’t have whiplash. Whiplash from the weeks of tension and denial, feeling like you would never get this relief, but now you have a whole new set of problems. Dating Min Yoongi. 

~

This whole “taking it slow” thing is fucking bullshit. The past couple weeks have been one long sustained effort, some kind of marathon in testing the waters, drawing back and then pushing forward. 

Maybe you spoke too soon. You have to admit that the slow build, chaste romantic courtship is nice . 

The study dates are more than nice. The coffee shop dates feel almost luxurious, expensive in time in the same way that the actual coffee is cheap. 

Actually, all of this is a lot nicer than having to guess his every intention, the message between the lines. But you already know what it’s like to have Min Yoongi. 

In fact, things have been largely the same for the past couple weeks, except now you can feel the weight of his flirtatious jokes. You can now confidently say that Yoongi says what he means. The more time you spend with Yoongi, the more liberated you feel in letting yourself delight in the feeling of being allowed to show your feelings for him, and having them be duly reciprocated. 

After the confessional evening the both of you had, Yoongi had agreed to take it slow. In your lovesick state, you probably would have said yes to anything that Min Yoongi put on the table. Which is probably why you agreed to the whole courtship thing. 

“y/n… think about it like this! If we take our time then when the time finally comes… to… uh, you know, then it’ll be so much more gratifying. And I want to be with you more, like this,” Yoongi says, as you lean against his chest, feeling it rise and fall with his words. 

“Delayed gratification, have you ever heard of that?” Yoongi had said, smiling wider than you’d ever seen. 

“Although from my experience with you, I think you like instant gratification more,” He said, a touch darker. Your memory blurs now, because that was about the time he started tickling you relentlessly. And then kissing you relentlessly.  

And at the time, you had agreed. The delayed gratification would make everything better, make the world a little more rose-colored than before. 

You don’t want to push his boundaries, he doesn’t want to push yours, but now it’s begun nearly feels both of you are so afraid of each other that you haven’t touched each other in what seems like fucking forever–and it’s reached a boiling point, from what you can gather this evening. 

The newfound tension between the two of you is new, maybe a day or two at most, but annoying nonetheless. 

 “Y/n, how many times have I told you? Stop rushing. Do you need me to count your part out? One, two, three, four.” He punctuates every count with a clap in your face, and a sneer to boot. 

Yoongi has been especially volatile this evening. His normal jokes and jabs at you fall just short of endearing. Your initial approach at remedying the situation by focusing on the music at hand has only seemed to make things worse, and you’ve given in to your slowly-growing temper. 

“I am fucking counting, and I’m not the one playing fucking half notes, okay? How about you just focus on making the harmony, I don’t know, harmonious ?” You lower your violin, face screwing up in anger, only you don’t know how much of it is joking anymore. 

You don’t know how much longer you can take this kind of tension in the air. It feels angry and red and biting, but you can’t help it. The stale air-conditioned air in the practice room only seems to make your face warmer and warmer as time passes. 

All this tension, and no release. That’s what music is all about. The build-up of musical intensity, the expectation and anticipation for resolution. It’s like you’ve been stuck on the same chord of a cadence, waiting for a release that feels like it isn’t coming anytime soon. 

You take a deep breath, the frustration tightening in your chest. “From measure eighty-four, and take the fucking repeat this time. Let’s just move onto the next section after this, we’ll just come back to it later.” 

You fight the urge to huff and sigh, knowing it would only earn you a comment from Yoongi about being, as he had put it, ‘wound up.’ Yeah, no shit, you’re wound up. Wound up is putting it lightly. Just last week Yoongi had made a mess of you at his apartment, teasing you apart and then stopping just short of an orgasm. And he said the same thing last week too: delayed gratification. 

You try again, cueing him in with a sharp breath and the uptake of your bow. 

And again, and again, and again. 

“This isn’t working.” You set your violin on the soft lining of your case and rub your temples, resting your upper body on the body of the piano. You swipe the back of your hand across your face, breathing in the clean smell of the hand soap from Yoongi’s apartment bathroom, from when you were there a couple hours ago. Warm. Brown sugar. It feels like his embrace–if only you’d ever feel it again. 

God, why did you let him push all your buttons? All evening–ever since the two of you left his apartment to come to the practice rooms–he’s been acting like this. You know it has something to do with you, another game. But you don’t have the energy to divine his ulterior motive, whatever it is. You shut your eyes to provide some reprieve from the strain of staring at the same phrase that you have been stuck on for what has felt like an eternity.

“Yeah, this isn’t fucking working,” He says. It reminds you of the way he talked to you when you found him practicing in the early morning that one Tuesday. You only open your eyes when you hear him get up from his bench. 

Min Yoongi is standing too close to you. His eyes are on your lips and not your eyes. Even in the dim light of the practice room, you can see how dilated his pupils are. 

You meet his eyes. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, more breathless than he’d like to admit, “You’re provoking me. Why?” 

“Who said I was trying to do that? I think you,” You point a finger at his chest, looking into his eyes, “Are provoking me.” You try to sound as petulant as possible, and it works. 

Yoongi’s lips meet yours before you can even take your hands off of him. 

In the best sense of the word, you are cornered. Backed up against the piano, enclosed by his arms. He slips his hands up underneath the cotton of your sweatshirt, pulling you flush against him. His cool fingertips grazing the small of your back have you gasping against his soft lips. 

“Tell me, why are you provoking me?” 

“I, well-” You don’t continue with an excuse, because you’re finally getting what you want. What you both want. 

He presses on. “Gonna answer my question, or are you just gonna keep being a little brat?”  He wedges his thigh between your legs, closer to where you need him most. You stifle a moan, it’s too soon to be making those kinds of sounds, but you grind down on him anyway. “What?” He laughs, the sound sitting deep in his chest. “Aren’t you going to say something?” 

You try to focus on the possessiveness in the way that he holds you by the waist, so you’re not thinking about how weak your knees are. 

He sighs, as if in disappointment. Only you’re not sure who it’s directed towards. 

“If I touch you right now, will you be wet?” He laughs. “I don’t even have to guess.” The ghost of his breath fans against your upper lip. “Is this what you want? Do you, do you, want to keep going?” Yoongi stops his ministrations. When you meet his eyes, both of you breathless, you can see the inquiring concern in his eyes again. 

“Yes, yes, don’t stop,” you say, trying, and failing, not to sound frantic, “Only if you’ll see it through to the end this time,” You bite. 

He laughs, devoid of mirth. “You say that like it’s not hard for me, either.” His hands trail down your torso to rest at the waist of your jeans. You don’t want to pseudo-argue with him anymore, so you just whine a little from the back of your throat, hoping he’ll get the point. 

You don’t want him to think that this isn’t what you want, because truth be told, it is exactly what you want. Your hands come to meet his when you reach to undo the button. 

“You know exactly what to do.” He laughs, lighter this time. He’s laughing like he’s not mad at you. He helps undo your jeans, pushing them and your panties just past your thighs. You gasp when he starts rubbing gentle circles on your clit. His fingers slip against your wet, slippery pussy. 

Yoongi is everywhere. He’s crowding your space against the wall, hand down your pants, the other holding your neck in place. It’s getting overwhelming with his beautiful hand rubbing little circles on your clit. So simple, and yet it feels like you’re breaking apart underneath him. It’s getting harder and harder to bite back the moans, stay in control. 

“You know, these rooms are soundproof. Let me hear you,” He murmurs, pulling you closer. “Stop hiding from me.” 

Yoongi shifts his attention from your wet cunt to the collar of your shirt. “What’s this? Getting busy without me?” Yoongi brushes his free hand over the circular dark mark coloring the crook of your jaw. You’re starting to get impatient with all this teasing, how much more can you take? 

“Haven’t you ever heard of a violin hickey?” You spit, grinding down on his hand, but it’s not enough. God, it really has been too long since he last touched you. He never stops the gentle advance he makes on your clit, never faster, never slower. Just barely enough. “We were just practicing, it gets darker when I play.” You try to explain yourself, as if that might make him show mercy later on. 

“You’re not in any position to talk back right now, don’t forget that.” He leaves open-mouthed kisses down your neck, sucking gently. “I’ll just help you add to your little collection.” Your eyes roll back, unable to help yourself. It’s been so long since anyone has touched you. It’s been so long since anyone has held you so closely. 

Your desperation is beginning to show. With every movement of his hands, Yoongi starts to lessen his touch, your hips dogging his hand. You come to the realization that you’re not above begging to get what you want. He doesn’t even have to ask. 

He continues his gentle assault on your clit. “Do you know what these mirrors are for? They’re for checking your posture as you practice, but I guess this is just a different kind of practice.” He turns you around, your hips digging into the wood panelling of the piano. You’re confronted by your own fucked-out reflection, flushed and panting. You’re still mostly clothed, and yet you look debaucherous, like some ancient painting of a study into the nuances of female pleasure. “Look at you. All messy. And for what? I’ve barely touched you.” 

The frustration is too much, reaching a boiling point. “Please, I swear to God.” You bury your hands in your head, wiping away frustrated tears. Your legs are trembling now, now that Yoongi is only using one of his arms to brace you against him. 

“Please, what?” He digs his nails into the soft skin of your hip, and you can’t help but like it. He lowers his head so it’s level with your ear, sultry, low. “Use your words.” 

“Can’t you just, just-” Again, you buck your hips against his hand, as if that might make him get the point, only for him to nip at your inner thigh with his hand. 

“Don’t rush me, babe.” Babe. Min Yoongi is calling you babe. Is the universe playing some trick on you? 

He takes advantage of your position and leverages his knee on the inside of yours, spreading your legs further. “That’s it, just take it. Take it.” Finally, he takes pity on you and slips a finger inside. He earns an answering gasp. You can tell he means business, because he doesn’t take it slow, he doesn’t let you adjust, going directly at that spot inside of you that makes you keen for him. 

You struggle to stay upright, eyes rolling back. Your fingers scrabble along the dark wood of the piano, struggling to find purchase. 

“Fuck, Yoongi…” 

“So needy, look at you, so fucking needy...” He drives his point home further by adding a second finger. 

“I’m sooooo sorry… how can I ever make it up to you…?” Even despite the mind-bending pleasure and the prospect of Min Yoongi blowing your back out this evening, you roll your eyes. 

“What if someone hears?” Your point is lost when Yoongi changes the angle of his hand, and you break off into a ragged whimper. It’s loud enough to make you embarrassed to have made that sound in the presence of another person.  

“Oh, so you care about that now?” “What about that one time in class,” Yoongi all but pants in your ear, digging his nails into your thigh, “That you were being a desperate little cocktease?” 

You don’t answer, shame stoking the embers in your belly, driving lower and lower. You hate, and love, that he can make you feel like this with only some stern wording and a firm hand. Because it feels that good. Because you like him that much. 

“What then, hmm?” Yoongi doesn’t wait for a response however, before he’s yanking your jeans and panties further down your thighs. “Do me a favor. Touch yourself for me. Show me.” 

“Why?” 

“Wanna see you all messy for me,” Yoongi says, voice silky soft, liquid sex. He guides your hand down to your pussy, and god, you realize just how embarrassingly wet you are for such little foreplay. “Please?” He presses his chest flush to your back, leaning his forehead into the crook of your neck. 

You oblige him. You’re wet to the point where it’s difficult to find purchase against your clit. “Okay… but you have to forgive me.” 

“Forgive you for what?” 

“For being needy…” You say, sweetly. 

“Sure. I’ll forgive anything you do if you do this every time.” He says it like it’s a matter of fact. 

You giggle, like a lovesick idiot. At the very least, you’re glad that Yoongi can make you laugh even when you’re half-play-fighting, half-on-the-verge-of-having-sex-in-your-favorite-practice room. 

The vibrations of your laughter traveling through your body have you moving in new, novel ways against your own hand, and you break off into a moan. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Yoongi murmurs, voice barely above a scratchy whisper. He sounds genuine, and the tenderness of the moment isn’t lost to you, even despite your pleasure. At least now that you’re touching yourself, you don’t have to suffer the patient wrath of Yoongi and can touch yourself the way that you see fit. 

You feel his free hand nudge against the back of your thigh and when you look, he’s dragging the heel of his hand across his pants. 

Fuck. Fuck, you are so wrecked for Min Yoongi. 

“No, you too,” you say, “Show me too.” 

Yoongi moves away from you, pushing his waistband past his hips. He’s gripping his cock in one hand. He’s reaching for your waist again, his hand traveling up to grasp your throat. He jerks your head back. “Look, look at yourself.” 

The combined sensation of his hand on your neck and own hand on your pussy is too much. Your eyes water. “Yoongi,” You gasp, “I’m going to come.” 

“No, not yet. Not yet.” He wrenches your hand away, and the sudden lack of touch is almost cruel. 

You buck against him, his back to you. “Please, please let me come, I can’t–you can’t do this again, fuck,” Your desperation comes out in whines, all shame lost. 

“Be patient, come here.” He turns you around again, your back against the wood of the piano. And you’re looking into his eyes, dark and filled with something like lust. Min Yoongi wants you. You reach up to brush his hair out of his eyes. 

Yoongi’s on your clit again, drawing light circles, testing the wetness before slipping a finger inside again. “I wanna hear you,” He says, adding another finger, more tenacity behind his strokes. He rocks his thumb against your clit. “I wasn’t asking.” 

Up until now you’ve been biting your lip, muffling your cries as best as you can. You look up at him again, drawing up your courage. You feel exposed–how can you not, half-naked in the practice room, when you’re not completely confident that the soundproof padding on the walls can contain the sounds of your rapture. 

“You-you fuck me so good Yoongi–” And you keen, just because he asked you to. 

He stops in his fucking tracks. Again. 

“Well. You fuck me so well. You can’t describe a verb with an adjective. God, I really shouldn’t let you come…” 

“Oh my God, are you really going to do this right now.” You bear down on his hand with your hips again, seeking more friction. “Please… please, I can’t wait anymore.” You can hardly finish your sentence, as Yoongi fucks into you with a particularly hard thrust. You’re finding it difficult to keep your eyes open, instead opting to rest your head on his shoulder. 

God, he smells so good. Like fresh laundry and the melting snow outside, warm and human and reassuring. 

You can feel his smile ghosting over your neck as he leans down to suck another mark into your collarbone. “Yes, yes, I am.” 

“I’m–I’m getting close again,” You say, fisting your hands in his shirt, “Just, ah–” It takes you by surprise, crashing over you. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to stay upright, pulling Yoongi against you. You can feel his satisfied smile, as he pants against the curve of your neck, hot and heady and everything you need. 

“Good?” He asks, after your breathing has calmed, even though you know that he knows that he’s done more than a good job. 

“Okay, okay, enough bragging,” You half-laugh, half-scoff, pulling your pants up past your hips again. 

“I wasn’t bragging,” He whines. It’s endearing, and you pepper his face with kisses before you get to business again. 

You sink to your knees before him, and his expression immediately softens. You try to bridge the gap between the two of you, placing the palm of your hand on his thigh. Asking for permission. 

“Are you sure?” He says, but the expression in his eyes saying something to the effect of “I really hope you’re sure.”  

“Yes, I’m sure,” You say, smiling as you tease the head of his cock with your parted lips. You replace his hand with yours. It’s barely any contact, really, but Yoongi closes his eyes in pleasure nonetheless, head tilted back. Normally, in any other situation like this, you’d be at least a little bit nervous. Or shy, hoping that Yoongi keeps his eyes closed so he’s not looking at you. But the absolute deprivation you’ve felt for the past couple weeks is enough for you to not care. 

You sink lower, in the wake of remembering how pent up and frustrated you’ve felt for the past couple weeks. You even, at least try to, bat your eyelashes at him. But like you guessed (or had hoped), his eyes are squeezed shut. You try not to delight in the sudden change of power too much, but it’s impossible not to. 

He tightens his grip on the back of your neck, groaning. “You’re so good to me.” You take him further in your mouth, eager to please. Eager to hear him make more of those sounds. Eager to take this further. 

You try your best to make it slick, flattening your tongue against him. You’re a little out of practice, after months of being alone, but Yoongi doesn’t seem to notice. And if he does, he’s still enjoying himself. Thoroughly. 

“Fuck, fuck,” He gasps, in hushed whispers. 

“What a mouth on you…” Yoongi moves stray hairs out of your face, surprisingly tender given the lewdness of the situation. The sounds of your mouth fill the practice room, although hopefully not loud enough to expose your vulnerable position. You truly hope that the soundproof padding lining the walls works as advertised. 

“Ah–ah wait, I’m getting close, wait–ah, y/n, fuck,” He rasps. You don’t let up quite yet, letting him sit in that in-between space between ‘on the edge’ and ‘letting go’. His free hand makes a weak fist against his leg. 

Someone knocks on the door. Your first thought is that it may be security wrapping up rounds for the night. 

Your eyes widen in shock as you stand upright and zip up your jeans. The surge from adrenaline at the prospect of getting caught in the act makes your head pulse and spin. Your heart seems to have fallen from the left side of your chest all the way into the pit of your stomach. 

It’s hard to remember how aroused you were, not thirty seconds ago. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” For someone who was quite literally about to be balls-deep inside you, Yoongi tucks his dick back inside his pants with a surprising amount of tact and speed. 

Yoongi is fixing his hair in the practice mirror as you cross the room at the piano bench, pulling out your phone to make it look like the two of you were just dawdling or taking a practice break. 

Maybe twenty seconds have elapsed since the first knock at the door, which you reason might be a reasonable time for someone to stop practicing, and walk to the door to answer it. You hope it might seem reasonable. 

You can feel the pulse in your neck moving as Yoongi opens the door. You train your eyes on your phone screen, as if that might make you more nonchalant.  

“Hey, Yoongi-hyung.” The voice at the door is youthful, and energetic. You can even hear the smile in his voice. “I didn’t know you were here this late. I was looking for you!” You finally muster up the courage to stop staring at your phone, your eyes venturing to the other side of the room. 

It’s… Jungkook?  

Jungkook, as in, the only bassoonist in the department, Jungkook? 

Jungkook must have had the same idea as you, because he looks over at you at the same time you do. 

His smile falters, albeit briefly. Whatever replaces it is something akin to a smirk. A knowing smirk. An accusatory smirk. A proud smirk. 

“Hyung, who’s that?”

[ktheist]

nice guys finish last | m

synopsis. you thought you were over yoongi’s dick move of ending your engagement through his parents - not even a text when he disappeared out of your life. that’s why you agreed to the newly arranged marriage with his brother, namjoon, but on the brink of your wedding day, it becomes apparent that you haven’t really let go of the past as you tear up in front of your soon-to-be husband at the back room of the church.

◟alternatively, “we entered into this marriage for a mutual reason. not dreading to come home is more than i can ask for. so it’s okay if you want to see yoongi just... keep out of the spotlight like many in our shoes who found love outside of it have.”

pairings. husband!ceo!namjoon x doctor!reader x ex-fiance!producer!yoongi

genre. arraged marriage au. angst. fluff. smut.

word. 16.2k

content: age gap factor (namjoon is 5 years older than oc and yoongi is 7 years older than oc). pining. teasing. hoseok cockblocking.

warning(s): heavy adult content. mentions of cheating. hospital scenes.

verse. knj. ksj. myg. kth. pjm. jjk. jhs. story time.

x

“i don’t want to marry you at all. the person i love is someone else.” there are tears brimming in your eyes but if there’s anything the years of etiquette class namjoon’s parents forced on him taught him - he’d say he turned out okay - it’s to not mention to the crying lady that she’s crying. but he can’t help stare a little longer. admire a little too much.

the rays flooding through the window paired with the prettiest ivory dress he’s seen you in gives you an iridescent halo. you look like an angel descended from the top most heavens.

but not for him.

“i know,” he lets out a drawn out sigh, hand on his neck. he’s always been the awkward one between the two. if it was him - if it was his brother, he would say it without any ounce of self-reproach. but then again what does namjoon have to be sorry for? for being born? for being the second choice son to step into his brother’s shoes when the aforementioned man threatened to disown the family name if their parents refused to let him marry a girl of his choice who, according to the workers’ gossip, ‘he suddenly woke up one day and decided he was in love with’? 

“it’s yoongi, isn’t it? you love yoongi.”

your eyes are prettier when you’re looking directly at him. the tears give them a kind of glow that makes him want to gather you into his arms and keep you there. the flushed cheeks affirms - despite saying it with full confidence, it was just - his hunch.

oh.

the ceremony proceeds rather smoothly. you’re still sniffling when your father passes your hand to him at the end of the aisle. the older man himself looks distraught. either he knows you’re against this marriage and hates himself for failing to put his daughter’s happiness before the guaranteed wealth that comes from marrying you off to the kim family or you’d gotten into a fight with him in a last ditch attempt to convince him to call off the marriage.

either way, you’re here now. the pastor’s words are muddled in your ears but it’s enough to take note of the end tone and the steely silence that ensues which could only mean it’s your turn to say those words.

“i do.” they’re the easiest to get over with.

after endless fights with your parents, going on two hunger strikes and running away to paris for a year - you know you’re in the endgame. and you’ve painstakingly and sorely lost.

he lifts the veil off your face, taking his time with setting it over your head. it’s no secret that kim namjoon is handsome. the kind of thick, textured-fabric-suit-wearing and sleek-back hair kind of handsome. yoongi was more of the hoodie-and-jeans and messy-in-need-of-a-trim hair kind of handsome. but he isn’t yoongi.

you screw your eyes shut, refusing to let the memories of your own wedding vows embed in your head. those beautiful pink full lips are as soft as they look. but they’re not kissing you on your pressed-into-a-straight-line lips. betrayed by your curiosity, your eyes flutter open only to gaze upon the smooth cream skin that wraps around his neck and just the gentle protrusion of his adam’s apple as he pulls way.

your newly-wed husband has just kissed you on the forehead.

x

adjusting to married life is as easy as slipping on your favorite shoes. it’s perfect. almost unsettling even. the beach house off the coast of the private island namjoon’s family owns is breathtaking. the sound of waves crashing against the shores is your constant companion as you work on your research. it’s a project you had to put aside when you graduated. the first year at the hospital is the busiest, or so your senior colleagues say. 

namjoon strides into the kitchen sometime past noon, all fresh and showered with a fitting long sleeved shirt and trousers. it’s the most dressed down you’ve ever seen and yet for some people you know, it’s the fanciest they can get. sometimes you wonder if the standards have hit the ground or if namjoon’s so well-adapted into the routine of dressing up presentable enough to go to his office on an off day in case something calls for it.

“good morning.” you greet first, traces of the embarrassing tear-jerking wedding ceremony still lingers in the back of your mind - you’d tried to explain yourself on the way here in the boat but namjoon had easily blew your worries away with a light chuckle and a “i’d do the same too if i loved someone and had to marry another person.”

it’s not unusual for you to already be perched on the elegant gold sofa adjacent to the sliding doors that has the best view of the sea. the master bedroom is the other part of the beach house with spectacular view - you’d been entranced when you stepped into the room on your first day. but namjoon suggested you stay in the guest room, knowing there’s no way you would share a bed with him -

“or you can take this room and i take the guest room,” he added a moment later, probably because he saw you staring out the balcony, bewitched by the sea. that had broke you from your trance and you’d shook your head so much in protest, you were surprised it didn’t fall right off your neck. “n-no! i mean - i’ll take the guestroom.”

his parents had been nice enough to lend their private beach house for you honeymoon. you weren’t going to step over their son and conquer the master bedroom - even if technically, you’re now part of the family.

“morning.” he fixes you with that half-smile. the kind of smile you give to someone you’re in an complacent relationship with but nothing more.

at least you’ve got that going for you. and that’s a rarity coming from the gossips you’ve heard here and there about marriages found on the ground of convenience.

his eyes swipe over the ipad in your shorts-donned lap from his spot, leaned against the counter in the kitchen, pitch black mug of coffee with wafts of smoke coming out of it, “how’s your research going?”

“well,” you set the ipad down on the glass surface of the coffee table, it’s bare of anything besides your phone that’s been lighting up from the notifications. one from your mother, another from the group of friends you found in college, and the rest is from your strictly-women group from the hospital, “the world wide web is resourceful and all but it can’t beat the information in actual books - papers, you know?”

“ah, the traditional way of researching.” he chuckles, dimples digging into his cheek, enhancing his handsome features. you never knew he had dimples. not that you knew much about him - you’d only properly talked on the day of your wedding, in the back room and the first thing you said was -

you suppress the memories further down your thoughts. it works for the most part, but you can’t help the flush that spreads across your face. so the laugh you let out is a little strained and if he notices, he doesn’t show - like he pretends not to notice a plenty many things.

but alas, he knew your secret crush - was it still just a crush you had for yoongi? you’re not sure.

“what can i say? i’m raised traditional.”

x

that was two weeks ago. now, you’re back to working your ass off at the hospital, being grilled to the bones by your supervisor, getting reprimanded over being one minute late and then being told to run to the cafe five minutes from the hospital to buy your supervisors their favorite strawberry smoothie topped with sprinkles.

“kim seokjin, that dickwad.” jennie huffs, her cat-like eyes making it appear as though she’s plotting the man’s death. “he’s working you to the bones as soon as you get back.”

“he probably thinks i’m not that serious about my residency since my family has enough fortune to sustain me for my whole lifetime,” you can only laugh at that, her anger has sucked all the tiredness and annoyance you have for your supervisor right out of you. it feels refreshing, “all the more reason to prove him wrong.”

“enough about that asshole,” jisoo waves a dismissive hand off and you know what’s coming is far more terrifying: she blinks, eyes filled with stars and cherry red lips curling into the kind of smile that can only mean one thing, “how was it? the second son of kimcorp. were there rose petals on bed? candles lit around the house? a romantic, sizzling-”

“sorry, jisoo, i gotta go get ready for the dinner. i’ll buy you lunch tomorrow, okay?” you clasp your hands together apologetically when your phone buzzes with the reminder you set a week prior: 8am annual kimcorp dinner.

you breathe a sigh of relief as you shake off your white coat, draping it over your recliner before escaping to the washroom with a bag of makeup and the dust-proof cover bag of the outfit you’re wearing for tonight. by the time you’re touching up on your nude lipstick, your phone buzzes again but this time, the screen lights up with namjoon’s name on it.

“hey,” his voice is deeper through the phone - it’s the first time he calls you. there was never any reason for you to call each other but you suppose, he’s calling to make sure you’re not forgetting the dinner -

“i’m in front of the hospital.”

or maybe not.

“wh-what do you mean?” your cheeks heat up from the thought of namjoon waiting for you in his audi. the image, too domestic for your liking.

“well, you can’t drive so i thought i’d pick you up.” he says it like its the simplest equation to understand.

“namjoon,” the name feels foreign on your tongue regardless of how many times you taste it when you need to tell him something - to set the line straight, “i didn’t know you were gonna pick me up so i already told kyungsoo to pick me up. he’s probably already here. sorry i didn’t tell you sooner.”

“i know,” he says simply.

“e-excuse me?” while you’re beyond confused.

“i told your parents i’d pick you up so kyungsoo’s driving them to the dinner.”

“oh.”

wait. what?! 

x

namjoon is confident in his driving skills - as he is with everything he does. he’s almost perfect. the line of his shoulders seem at ease as he stirs the wheel with one hand and the other rests on the gear, inches away from your scarlet clad thighs.

“why isn’t hoseok driving you?” the aforementioned man sticks to him like glue. everywhere namjoon goes, he goes. it’s a given since he’s the head secretary but anyone who’s seen them interact could tell there’s more than boss-employee relationship between them. they seem like close friends which is unlikely be given namjoon’s too-serious nature and hoseok’s joke-cracking every five minutes - but not impossible.

his face remains the same as he keeps his eyes on the road, humming briefly, “he had a thing.”

“can secretaries have a thing and leave their boss to drive for himself like that?” that doesn’t sound right. you may not be actively involved in fecam industries’ affairs but mr. jung, your dad’s secretary, spends more time with your dad than the two men do with their wives - that’s how demanding the business world is. but could hoseok get a free pass because of his and namjoon’s friendship?

namjoon chuckles, dimples and all and you can’t help but blush at the side profile. if anything, he has a sharp jawline and beautiful neck-

you push the thought as soon as it comes. neck? who finds necks beautiful?

“he had a date but it’s not until a couple hours,” the tone he uses is light and playful but underlined with a sort of bashfulness that you don’t know kim namjoon was capable of, “i told him to go home because i wanted to pick you up myself.”

your cheeks heat up all over again as you stare at him a little too long. so much so, the hand that’s been comfortably perched on the gear goes to the back of his neck in an unsure manner.

“i just needed to talk to you about something.” he explains, just as awkward as he was in the back room at the church.

“okay.” eyes turned to the road too, you can see namjoon breathing a sigh of relief from your periphery. that couldn’t have been because of you could it? was he nervous because you were watching him? “what did you want to talk about?”

he clears his throat, that natural ease in his tone returning, “if it gets uncomfortable - if anyone asks, we met because you were yoongi’s fiancee and we couldn’t help but fall in love. but you wanted to intern at a hospital in paris so that’s why we’ve only gotten married now.”

you take awhile to digest the information until something in your stomach doesn’t sit right with you, “you want me to... lie?”

his bottom lip gets trapped between his teeth just for the briefest moment as he thinks about it. he probably didn’t expect you to disagree but he admits his mistake faster than half the people you know your whole life would, “i’m sorry, i didn’t think it would weight on your conscience. i was thought it’d be hard on you if some ass- someone’s going to start a rumor about you but i didn’t ask how you’d feel about it.”

“i see.” you simply nod. it’s true that you’re the pass-up fiancee who got between two people who fell in love in college but the other is the son of a renown family and engaged while the other is an arts major from a normal working family. unable to let bygones be bygones, you decide to marry the younger brother to your fiance - or so the story goes. “but they already know i was yoongi’s fiancee and i ended up marrying you. i don’t need - no, i don’t want to explain myself to anyone.”

despite that big talk, your can feel the prickle of tears in your eyes. namjoon steals a glance at you and he never mentions the glassiness of your gaze - if anything, he smiles. it’s different than the usual smiles. this one, though wordless, says he’s following your flow. do what you like and if and when things get though, you can count on me.

x

dinner has yet started when you arrived. guests are still arriving and waiters and waitresses are carrying trays of champagne glasses around. in a distance, your friends wave at you to come over. you smile, hand falling away from namjoon’s since you needed to at least do that in front of the paparazzo that were waiting outside. eager, hungry for gossip about the wedding that shook south korea’s business world.

“girl, you are glowing.”  yerin literally screams. it’s a secret to no one that she’s hinting on your recent marriage and private island getaway. but nothing happened.

“how are you girls? it’s been so long.” you side hug eunha, letting her arms wrap around your waist as you stand huddled together.

you haven’t seen them since you got back from paris. the wedding was attended by thousands of people - all of whom, your and namjoon’s family’s associates. but you had your hands full shaking hands and smiling next to your husband because these people matter to namjoon. or at least he has an interest over them. business deals. merges. trades. kimcorps carries out every kinds of business they can get their hands on. namjoon passingly mentioned about the work-in-progress for a private hospital.

you dread the likelihood of having to leave the hospital you’re working in right now for family-run one but you know it’s quite impossible to not get involved when you, yourself is a doctor.

“we weren’t the ones who went under the radar and came back and got married to the second son of kimcorp.” yuju huffs sulkily, cheeks pinked from the champagne she’s had but she isn’t that far gone when she clamps her mouth shut a second later, eyebrows furrowing in guilt.

sowon nudges her side anyway, mouthing her something as your gaze falls on the light caught in your black gucci heels.

“i-i’m sorry, ___ that didn’t come out right.” comes a heartbeat later, she sounds just as sorry as her words as you offer her a small smile. 

“it’s okay, it’s the truth anyway.”

“stop that,” eunha suddenly gripes, her gaze boring into you and rips apart the barrier you’ve tried so hard to maintain, “we’ve been friends since elementary school, we know how whipped you are for that asshole so-” she sniffles while you’re left wondering if it’s her who had an ex-fiance break if off and had his parents relay the news on a bi-weekly dinner. 

“she’s trying to say you can cry or get mad or curse that dipshit around us. don’t hold back.” sowon finishes, lips twitching as she enjoys watching the vulnerable state of the otherwise fiercest one among you.

something in your chest feels light. like a weight being lifted off your shoulders as you study the girl’s face one by one. sowon’s and yerin’s smirk, yuju’s nodding and eunha’s teary eyes. 

“yoongi, he’s-” you take a deep breath and it feels almost dramatic as the second stretches on while you build up the hurt, the anxiousness, the disbelief that the man put you through, “-a fucking idiot.”

“you bet he is,” yerin’s basically screams, swiping a glass for you and holding hers up, “that fucking idiot.”

you tighten your side hug on eunha in an ‘i’m okay’ gesture as you clink your glasses together.

it’s a few moments later that murmurs start to spread around. the tension that comes with the latest arrived guest thick enough to command every attention in the room.

“she’s ballsy. coming here.” sowon offhandedly comments, eyes trained on the girl who has her hand on yoongi’s arm like an iron clamp. “right into the lion’s den.”

she may not have her parents’ money to groom her into the women you and the girls are. but maybe that’s why she has her own air. her poised steps, coupled with a cocktail creme laced dress and relaxed smile easily gives her an innocent cloak. someone friendly and good-tempered and can adjust well to her suddenly-plunged-into-money circumstance when she married yoongi. that must have been why you never heard any bad rumors about her even though there’s almost always at least one gossip enthusiast in these socials.

“ugh, i hate her!” yuju hisses, eyes more focused as she places her glass onto one of the waiter’s trays.

“i-i think i’m going to get myself some snacks.” with that, you slip past the guests until you’re at the end of the room, standing in front of the everything-you-can-eat table lined up with pastries only from the best bakes.

that moment, when you looked from her to yoongi, your eyes met. his hair is a little longer than you remember it, flowing in light blue tresses until just a few centimeters above his eyebrows. the first two buttons of his shirt is undone. her doesn’t wear a necktie - he despises how suffocating they feel. but he’s managed to keep on his blazer - he used to say they were hot and took them off and left them in the back seat of the car when you arrived at an event. he used to attend these events with you. just the two of you. for four years. you thought you’d keep doing so for longer after you got married.

“you know, they’re not plastic and made for display.” a voice breaks you from your train of thoughts.

“p-pardon?” you blink once. confused.

“the pastries,” namjoon lulls his head to the side where towers of tarts, macaroons, pavlova and sliced cakes stand tall and proud, “they’re edible.”

it takes a moment for you to register that he was joking - kim namjoon? cracking jokes?

his smile tilts higher when you chuckle. it’s brief but the look of relief oh his face lingers. he must have seen you escape from your group of friends. and this is his own way of checking up on you.

“thank you, namjoon.” you murmur low enough for only you and him to hear, lips tugging in the corners. “but i’m fine - i just - seeing him for the first time like this - it’s just unexpected. even though this is an annual dinner held by his family and he has every right to be here.”

“that’s her? the ex-fiancee?” a guest asks in a hushed tone somewhere a few feet away. but she’s not very discreet as she thinks she is.

“yeah, she couldn’t get the older brother so she went for the younger one.”

apparently, her company needs to attend classes on how-to-whisper-101 too.

“how mortifying. and the brother just goes with it?”

“he must have felt compelled to save her face. you know how nice and well-mannered he is-”

the low noise namjoon makes under his breath catches your attention. the muscles on his face is strained and twisted. it barely shows. just a crease between his eyebrows and the lack of smile. he hardly ever smiles from the tabloids and interviews you’ve seen of him so people might not notice the displeasure. but after a whole month of knowing namjoon, if there’s anything you can say for certain about the man, it’s the stockpile of smiles he has to offer.

“namjoon, it’s okay. i don’t care.” you smile, it’s forced and you know he notices it right off the bat but sighs anyway, shoulder line falling just slightly as he runs a hand over his sleek styled hair.

his lips move and you hear the words he uttered but somehow your mind couldn’t comprehend the information without going blank. “s-sorry?”

“it agitates me that they’re freely spewing bullshit like this,” he huffs, cheeks tinted pink at having to repeat his words. “it’s taking everything in me not to go over there and tell them their husbands have at least one business deal with kimcorp. and i can end it and it’d plunge their family into bankruptcy.”

“wh-why would you do such a thing?” the question comes out almost dumbly but if it did, he doesn’t say. he just... keeps looking at you.

you’re barely able hold yourself from squirming under his scrutiny, the smile now awkward in all places.

“if you don’t mind, can i kiss you?” his eyes widen just the slightest bit as he corrects himself, “on the forehead i mean.”

he clears his throat, eyes straying away from you as if he couldn’t bear to look at your face after that mistake. “just so i can prove to them i wasn’t forced to marry you.”

the light pinkish blush spreads to the tip of his ears and neck as he shifts his weight from one foot to another. you’re not sure why, but the sight in front of you is endearing and you find yourself saying-

“okay, kiss me.”

you didn’t specify where. and maybe, as the heat flares across your own cheeks when his arm band around your waist and a warm hand presses up against you cheekbone - maybe you want him to kiss you somewhere else.

the chatter stops and so does time. but it’s only for as long as namjoon’s full lips are on your forehead, kissing you for the second time. then, time resumes and murmurs begin to spread louder than when yoongi made his arrival. when the gravelly voice speaks from somewhere behind namjoon, you know why.

“get a room, will you?” yoongi’s tone is light - you’d taken a whole year getting used to it to know he’s being playful and not condescending.

“yoongi.” namjoon greets, unlike the elder man, his sounds better natured but there’s a sort of underlying detachment. his arm is still on your lower back almost as if he needs to feel that you’re here or he’d be completely detached. “i didn’t think you’d show up. you hate these events.”

the aforementioned man draws out a long sigh as though he’s been found out over a poorly told lie. “i don’t but naeun wanted to go - you know how things are with mom and dad. she thinks it’s gonna make them open up.”

it’s no secret your father and mother-in-law doesn’t talk about yoongi’s marriage - they never do around you but you thought they were being considerate. but what yoongi’s saying right now could mean his relationship with his parents are far more strained than you thought it’d be. especially since they had let him marry the girl of his dreams who’s clearly below their standards.

she - naeun - is standing somewhere near the exit, conversing with the notorious older generation that yerin duped ‘the wickeds’. for their ways of gaining wealth, for their poor treatment towards their employees, for socially shunning a young man - new money, for addressing one of them casually. she is ballsy.

“it’s been awhile,” yoongi’s directly addressing you now. the tug on his lips as playful as an old friend’s greeting. you don’t know how he can look at you like nothing happened. “you’re finally a resident now, huh?”

“yeah, finally.” you smile, the kind of smile that celebrates her triumph. the celebration part is true but the smile is every bit unnatural. but it seems to fool yoongi as he nods, proud.

somewhere in your chest, the strings on your heart clenches at the unchanging personality of this man. no wonder you like him.

before the conversation can tread further down memory lane, there’s an announcement to have the guests move to another room where dinner is being served.

“we’ll get going first then.” namjoon announces, guiding you by the waist as yoongi nods, waiting for naeun to come to his side before going in himself.

x

 dinner went smoother than expected. yoongi and naeun showed up uninvited and were placed in the back seats where the people socially displaced guests are. you felt bad when you saw naeun’s distorted expression as waiters bring in chairs to the table for the both of them. but there’s nothing you could have done.

“you have an 8am shift tomorrow, right?” namjoon asks as you slip your heels off, wincing at when one of them brushes against the blisters. they’re gonna be a bitch to deal with tomorrow.

stretching your arms out as you walk up the stairs, you hum in confirmation. “mhm, and you have dinner with ms. yoo, right?”

it’s ironic how you know each other’s schedule despite not being anything more than two people sharing one house and happens to be married. guess you’ll chalk it up with the fact that you both respect each other enough to be aware of each other’s whereabouts - not the creepy kind of way but the share-me-your-live-location-so-i-know-you’re-safe kind of way.

namjoon was quiet until you take a left to where the guest bedroom-turned-permanent-bedroom is, “it got rescheduled.”

your hand hovers over the door handle as you crane your neck to look at the man on the top of the stairs. his bow tie is loosened, the button to his color undone and his blazer is draped over one arm - a telltale sign of a final end to the night. “i was hoping we could have dinner to together. after work.”

yes but you don’t usually go straight home after work. you usually spend time at the library either at your previous college or at the hospital. you’ve decided to continue your research no matter how taxing it may be since you came back from the honeymoon. namjoon knows and the fact he asks you to dinner anyway - it’s unlike him.

he’s the kind of person that would ask if you had free time and match his schedule to yours. not ask for your time.

“yeah, sure.” you say and you think you see his shoulder line sagging as if he’s just let out a long-held breath, “pick me up at 8?”

“yeah.” he nods, dimples showing as his lips curl at your answer, “at 8.”

only when the door closes behind you, do you let yourself slide down to the ground. heels lying next to your thighs and dress in need of being sent for washing. your cheeks are and neck and ears are hot. dinner? just you and namjoon? like... a date?

x

jisoo isn’t around when lunch rolls by.

“a patient got rolled into er this morning - couldn’t contact any of his family members. suho decided to go ahead with surgery but he reacted badly to the anesthesia so she had to make up for her suho’s mistake and monitor his patient.” jennie’s face scrunches at the other woman’s supervisor pushing the task on her. shoving a forkful of the cheese cake, she sighs as the medical professional side take over, “thank god the surgery went smoothly though despite all that.”

you hum in contemplation, comparing the well-established crazy bitch seokjin who pushes those under his supervision to their limits and suho’s less-than-extreme approach. you used to envy jisoo and jennie for getting suho as their supervisor but at the end of the day, with every push from seokjin, you get out of it stronger and wiser. “i hope she doesn’t forget to have her meals.”

the day ends faster than usual. of course with rounds and surgeries you have to assist with, you’ve always find yourself barely realizing the setting sun - the sign of that your shift has ended.

but you could have sworn it was 5pm when you last checked the time. an car crash patient had arrived at the er and you forgot you’d left your phone on your desk, running out to assist the critical patient. it’s only when you’ve plopped into your recliner, head thrown back in fatigue, do you notice the vibration of your phone.

namjoon’s name flashes across your screen. your eyes almost bulges out of their sockets as you swipe to the right.

the deep voice from the other end is as calm as ever, “hey, ___-”

“namjoon!” you almost scream with guilt, phone pressed between your cheek and your shoulder as you shrug the coat off one shoulder before using the free now free hand to hold the phone and shrug off the other shoulder, “where are you?”

“i’m at the parking lot. i couldn’t wait at the lobby because i was obstructing the other cars - i called you a few times.” he sounds almost concerned and your heart clenches tightly in you chest at the thought of him waiting for you for over an hour.

you burst onto the parking lot - searching for the sleek black audi until a red bugatti rolls over. you’re about to take a step back seeing as you’re almost standing in the middle of the road - when the driver on the other side of the car steps out. his usually gelled hair is mussed from the amount of times he ran his hand over it, cuffs rolled to just below his elbow, revealing the dark veins that run just below the skin on his arm. 

namjoon fixes you with that eased smile, going around the gently purring vehicle and opening the door to the passenger seat for you. the arm which hand he uses to hold the door open pulls on the thin fabric of his button down in all the right places. so this is a the normal end-of-the-day look.

you always get back a bit later than him and by the time he looks up from his work that’s laid out over the coffee table, he would usually already have bathed and changed into one of those long-sleeved shirts.

x

the restaurant he initially booked for dinner had cancelled. naturally. so you end up in a barbecue place five minutes away from the hospital. this is where you and your colleagues go when to celebrate a birthday, promotion or finally-having-a-boyfriend/girlfriend.

the slices of meat sizzles on the grill, its marinated aroma wafting in the air. but your stomach churns with a different kind of sensation - guilt. “i-i’m sorry. because of me you had to wait an hour and got cancelled by the restaurant.”

then, he chuckles. it’s the same kind of good natured chuckle that reverberates every time you say something amusing - but you can’t see how any of this is.

his says your name. the syllabus rolls out of his tongue in waves but you chalk up the blush spreading on your face with the heat of the grill so close to you. he leans back against the backrest, sleeves filled out to the brim as he crosses his arms over his chest. “you were the one saving a life. all i did was wait.”

“y-yeah but still.” no emergency is foreseeable, otherwise you could have saved more lives than you do now. and it’s still not enough. “i forgot about you.”

namjoon nods, taking your words into consideration - as if he never thought about it that way. as if he truly doesn’t mind wasting his time over some woman he has to tolerate because he’s married to her. “cook me dinner then.”

“wh-what?”

“i don’t want you to beat yourself up and i know whatever i say is going to come off as me being nice.” the corners in his lips tugs upwards, “so make it to me by cooking dinner.”

once your brain is done registering what he said, you clutch your hands in your lap as though you’re clinging onto this one time chance to make up for your fault, “yes! i-i mean yeah, sounds fair.”

the smooth sound of his chuckle isn’t lost to the sizzle of the meat. to him, it must be a small matter but to you, it’s a matter of pride.

“this saturday then?” you offer, a bit too eager.

almost as if remembering something, he releases a long drawn out sigh, “business trip to tokyo.”

“next weekend?”

“mom’s home sweeter home fundraiser for the orphans on saturday. sunday?”

“night shift. how bout breakfast?”

“golf with seollyu’s director.”

a heavy pause lapses in the room. after a moment, namjoon reaches for the chopsticks, flipping the slices of meat over.

your shoulders sag, lips pursed in a pout. this isn’t an unusual occurrence in your years of being the daughter of your family. your father is devoutly involved in the family business and your mother is busy with her charity work. you’ve celebrated birthdays with the staff more than you do with them.

the glint of the chopstick that’s placing a piece of meat on your plate catches your eyes. you study the long nimble fingers to the vein that runs from the back of its hand and disappear somewhere below his arm before you gulp, meeting his eyes - did he notice you checking out his arm?

“we’ll figure something out.” if he did, he doesn’t say as he fixes you with an assuring smile, “but right now you need to get some food in you. eat up dr. ___. you did great today at work.”

this time, you really can’t blame the grill for the blush.

x

“you could’ve told mom you couldn’t do brunch.” namjoon tells you in the elevator to the 15th floor of your in-laws’ house. it’s been three days since that night. he’s left for work but prior to this morning, he’d already made it clear that it was no problem at all picking you up from home.

he’s probably saying this because of the lack of makeup you’d put on. some pats of compact powder and bright red lipstick can’t hide the bags underneath those tired eyes. you’d spend extra hours reading about the defective genes and the fix to remodel them so every child born from parents from a history of relatives with inheritable diseases could live a life without the risk of said disease.

“i’m fine.” you wave a dismissive hand before stretching in the compact space in a last ditch attempt to wake yourself up and hopefully look fresher by the time you reach the floor. “’sides, i’ve been so focused on work, it’s nice to see mom and dad every once in awhile.”

you’ve gotten used to referring to mr. and mrs. kim as if they’re your own parents - in a way, they are. you’ve known them for as long as you can remember.

“you have to be at the hospital by noon, right?”

you hum in confirmation. though you insisted on grabbing a cab to the hospital since it’s on the opposite side of the office, namjoon had insisted better. “mhm, oh we’re here.”

a ding! echoes throughout the elevator when it stops, doors opening to a hallway with black and yellow walls and ceiling, paired with honey marble flooring. it takes a few seconds before the black door at the end of the hallway to swing open but instead of the warm smile of the elderly lady, a bring and vibrant naeun beams at the both of you.

“you’re here. come in.” she steps aside, the hem of her sundress fluttering as she moves.

your body tenses at the proximity of the woman who you thought you could avoid until a much later time. and from the barely noticeable lifted brows that namjoon does, you know he wasn’t expecting his sister-in-law too. if she’s here, so is yoongi.

“we picked these up on the way.” you hand her the paris baguette paper bag. you’d ordered a mix of fruit tarts, cinnamon rolls and macaroon. all of which you remember mrs. kim mentioning to be her favorites. 

“oh! you shouldn’t have but thank you.” up close, naeun is much more prettier with a natural pinkish tint across her cheeks that makes her seem dreamy and glossed cheery lips that complements the gentle air she carries around. she passes the bag to one of the staff that’ll probably unbox them and plate them.

you offer her a smile - though a bit strained. and she must have noticed when she sighs softly, eyes darting to her fuchsia flats before looking back up at you with a furrowed brows. but even when she’s frowning, she’s pretty.

“i’ve been wanting to meet you and properly apologize for not being able to attend the wedding - i had an exhibition that day in prague and yoongi wouldn’t let me go by myself even though i thought at least one of us should go to his brother’s wedding.” she chuckles at the last part as if replaying the heartwarming scene of her protective husband choosing his wife over his family. you can feel every fiber of your body coiling and writhing - it takes everything for you not to leave through the door. would yoongi have done the same for you?

“this must be awkward for you, isn’t it?” her lips tug into a half-smile - a telltale that she’s equally uncomfortable to talk about this topic. “with you and yoongi being engaged before but now i’m the one married to him. but i hope we can put everything past us and be a family.”

but something in the way she talks - it’s as if she sympathizes. as if she’s saying it’s okay, you shouldn’t feel ashamed. but what are you supposed to be shameful of? of being engaged to yoongi before? of marrying his brother when said engagement fell through? perhaps you should have gave mrs. kim a hard ‘no’ when she pleaded with teary eyes for you and your parents’ forgiveness when she and mr. kim had to break the news over dinner two years ago. so you wouldn’t have to develop a hard skin and pretend you didn’t care about the ruthless rumors that have spread far and wide after your marriage to namjoon. 

“oh? yeah, it was a long time ago.” you offhandedly say - it’s that moment, when her eyes twitches just the slightest bit that you realize it wasn’t all just in your head. she did mean to make you feel embarrassed when she started mentioning the engagement.

you join namjoon and mrs. kim at the garden while naeun follows suit a second later, taking the middle among the three seats. the elder woman’s eyes light up at the sight of you, her heels clacking against the wooden flooring as she crosses the distance and engulfs you in a hug. you hug back, smiling at the woman’s motherly warmth.

“___, my favorite daughter, what happened to you?” she cups your cheeks, brows furrowing as she seem to examine your complexion.

you should’ve used concealer. 

“the hospital is working you to the bone isn’t it? why, it’s been awhile since i had lunch with chairman lee, maybe i should give his wife a call.”

that’s how it works when you have connections. if someone’s daughter or son fails to get into college or a job through regular exams or interviews, a dinner or lunch with the director of the institution will get the child admitted overnight. that’s probably why seokjin was harder on you than usual when you got back from your honeymoon - he must think you’re not serious about being a doctor. it’s not a secret he came from old money but he’d cut off all ties with his family when he started working. he has more ethics than half of the people you know.

“___ doesn’t like it when you do these things, mom.” yoongi grumbles - always the painfully honest one. the chair screeches as he pulls it and plops between naeun and namjoon while their father occupies the seat next to mrs. kim. it looks like they just came from mr. kim’s home office. and judging from the stiffness of their posture, the talk must have been a serious one.

namjoon’s shoulder line tightens just the slightest bit - you almost thought it was just a figment of your imagination but when you steal a glance at his face, you know he’s not too keen in having yoongi sit next to him. so you weren’t imagining it when he seemed like he was escaping yoongi by not waiting for naeun to come and walk with you to into the dining hall.

you’re not lost to yoongi’s familiar tone when he spoke on your behalf. but you’re not happy either. forcing a laugh, you push a strand to the back of your ear for the sake of doing something, “i-it’s not the hospital. i’ve been staying up late to work a bit on my research.”

a worker comes with the baked goods you brought. they’re plated on perfectly polished ceramic - you can easily see your forced smile in its reflection when the woman sets them down the table in front of you. 

“research?” yoongi lifts one eyebrow at you. too casually. and it takes you back to those times when you used to visit him at his college’s library and you’d bring your homework with you whilst you slip in a few ‘what i did’s as he typed away on his mac but still managed to keep up with you and asked questions here and there. a sign that he’d been present and listening.

“___’s been working on researching how segregate defective genes during the fetal stage so the fetus won’t take on their parents’ inherent diseases when they’re born.” namjoon explains the simplified version almost as though it’s part of his day-to-day line of work. he grins at you, the corners of his lips tugging with pride - a gratification of being able to show you off.

“that’s good. you’re making a difference in this world.” mr. kim is the first to break the silence. and in the years you’ve known him, it means the highest level of flattery you’ll ever get from the man.

your cheeks are flushed red and you know well enough it’s not because of mr. kim’s compliment than it is his son’s. “it’s still just a research draft but th-thank you. mister-” the elder man raises his brow and you quickly correct yourself, “i mean, dad.” 

he nods at the word, the slightest hint of smile disappearing under the cup of tea he brings to his mouth.

“but still, don’t push yourself too hard. working as a doctor takes up a lot of time already.” naeun fixes you with a worried gaze but something about her tone makes your stomach churn - it’s as if she’s playing down the time and effort you’d invested in your research and reminding you to focus on your paying job. even if you did downplay yourself when you were responding to mr. kim. before you can sort out the wave of emotions clashing inside you, namjoon seems to beat you to it.

“not everyone can do what ___’s doing. it’s okay if she wants to do more,” a hand slips under yours in your lap, reverting your gaze from the beautiful woman to the apparent difference in the size of yours and namjoon before you turn your cheek to him. it was a mistake because now you’re holding your breath as you come face to face. his body is leaned into you as he speaks, “i’ll just take care of ___ better.”

he turns to naeun, lips twitching upwards in a brief smile as if to enforce it more and putting a finality to the topic. but you’re left staring at namjoon’s sharp jawline until mrs. kim makes a squealing sound as she clamps her mouth shut in an attempt to tease you.

“gosh, is my baby all grown up now? he’s saying he’ll take care of his wife!”

the chuckle you let out is nowhere near natural or entertained. not when your insides are burning and you think your heart is going into overdrive from how fast it’s beating. and it doesn’t help that namjoon’s too casually playing along “of course, i only have one wife.”

x

“namjoon,” you take a second to gather yourself, hands fiddling in your lap as the car rolls to a stop in front of the lobby. the man fixes you with an inquisitive gaze. of course, who wouldn’t be wondering what’s up if their name was spoken with so much weight in them like you did with namjoon’s? “what was that? the wife thing?”

he stares into the street as he sifts through his memory before he fixes you with a gaze clouded with guilt, “i’m sorry. i got carried away - it won’t happen again.”

and that’s the thing. namjoon is too fast in admitting his fault. but you didn’t bring it up because you wanted an apology-

“no, i don’t mind.” you shake your head almost too eagerly before back tracking and clearing your throat, “i mean, it’s true. we’re married - i am your wife.”

the corners of his lips upturns at your last words and he doesn’t bother to hide it as he waits for you to finish - but how can you when he’s looking at you so tenderly like that?

“it’s just - too soon?” you curse yourself for sounding so meek but any louder, your heart might just jump out of your throat.

namjoon nods, that contemplative look settling on his face and takes away that smile only to return it with a dimpled grin. one hand slides in between yours and guiding the back of your hand to his lips.

“we’ll take it slow then.”

you can only nod, afraid that if you tried to speak, you would forget how to. the light rap on your side of the window catches both your attention. it’s the parking management. stealing a glance at the cars that are beginning to queue up behind you, you hurriedly gather your bag and hop out of the car.

cheeks flushed, you barely register waving back at namjoon when he leans over the passenger seat just to shoot you that dimpled smile and a ‘see you at home’.

you turn on your heels. the sharp click bounces against the white walls. a small smile spreads across your lips as you think about namjoon’s words.

yeah, the penthouse does feel like home.

x

this isn’t slow at all. you’re barely progressing.

it feels like everyday is passing by too fast what with the abundance of functions you’ve told namjoon you wanted to go with when you’re not working, to cramming some time for research and trying to find the time to at least make breakfast when you’re not on morning shift. though on some mornings, he’d beat you to breakfast and you’d wake up to the delectable smell of omelette or bacon.

“you must be thrilled about the new hospital, mrs. kim,” mrs. hwan is generally an agreeable woman along with her husband, the president of a small startup firm. they’re the first couple to approach you and namjoon since you arrived at the party. but that’s just it - the smiling, the talking, the eagerness doesn’t show in their eyes. it’s all about building connections while maintaining a good enough acquaintanceship. “are you going to be managing it directly since you’re a doctor yourself?”

“naturally,” the tug on your lips and the smoothness of your response is almost effortless. you’re no stranger to this scene - except back then, you would be standing next to yoongi. though your hand wouldn’t be tucked in his arm like yours is with namjoon. “though i still have a lot to learn, i hope the next two years will help me prepare to for eden.”

two years is the estimated time that eden hospital will be able to run. you’d finish your residency by then. all that’s left is to take the next step. just like your parents had planned for you as they’d planned many things. you never had the power to object.

mrs. hwan goes on to sprinkling empty praises while her husband laughs in deflated humor. they say the way to a successful business deal is through the wife.

once namjoon gets swamped by more people, you gently pull your hand away from his arm. you don’t miss the pleading look he fixes you when he notices your intention but you can only return a ‘you can do it!’ smile and slip away from the limelight.

the balcony area is dark, illuminated only by the fading light the pours over the floor past the door frame. you don’t expect the air to be this chilly at the beginning of summer but then again, namjoon did suggest bringing a coat - you were just too stubborn to because it would ruin the off shoulder look of your dress.

a sneeze escapes you a moment later as you hug yourself in an attempt to retain your body heat. but the warmth that engulfs you seems impossible to have come from just your puny palms - heck, your fingers were starting to feel prickly cold. there’s a sort of weight on your shoulders that wasn’t there before-

“idiot, you’re gonna catch a cold.” yoongi tuts from next to you - he has his hands in his pockets, all donned in crisp white shirt and checkered grey trousers and vest. all that’s missing is a matching blazer - the one that he placed around you just now.

somewhere in the recesses of your memories, you remember him taking off the muffler he had on and wrapping it around your neck when you showed up for your ‘christmas date’ with a pink nose and pinker ears - you could barely feel them. yoongi was that kind of person - the kind that acted like everything is a whole load of inconvenience and yet went to greater length to inconvenient himself for you.

“thanks. i thought i was going to freeze to death if i have to hide out here for another hour.” you tug the thick material of the blazer closer - the warmth of his heat feels just right.

“then you shouldn’t have come in the first place.” he must have noticed the higher-than-an-octave tone he uses before ruffling his hair - it’s the first you’ve ever seen him so unsure. is it really because of you?

“it’s fine. besides, what kind of wife would i be if i let namjoon get eaten by the pack of wolves by himself?” you chuckle at the fact that you’d done just that when you escaped the growing crowd of businessmen.

but when you notice the lack of humor on yoongi’s face, your own dies down. he’s staring at you with an indecipherable look. it’s not the bored expression he usually sports - not also the anger from the outburst just now. before you can say anything, namjoon’s lean silhouette appears in the doorway. you can’t see his face but his tone is strained. “we’re leaving, if you’re both done catching up.”

“so soon?” you know for a fact it probably hasn’t even been fifteen minutes - and you’re supposed to linger for at least two hours before leaving. that’d be enough time for namjoon to scout any potential business associate - the worthy ones at least.

“hey little bro.” yoongi waves, the disinterested look now returning but the way he phrases his next words oozes with revulsion. it’s no surprise. while yoongi hates these events - he’s probably here because of naeun, you heard the director of seoul’s annual art exhibition is here - namjoon strives off it. garnering attention and making the best of it by bringing in stockholders. “had enough of ass licking?”

you never understand the tangibility of the tension that feels the air when these two brothers are in the same room together - they’re barely able to remain civil in the presence of mr. and mrs. kim. anywhere without their parents’ watchful eyes, a fight would always be at risk of breaking out. whenever you were around, you’d be the one to interfere, whether it’s to tug on yoongi’s sleeve and tell him you’re hungry, or step in front of him just so he’d remember you’re here or right now-

“thank you, yoongi.” folding the blazer in half, you hand it back to the man - only that he’s not taking it back. momentarily, you wonder if you’d stained it with your lipstick or foundation but the lapels never touched anywhere above your neck. but deep in the crook of your conscience, you know it’s when his mind retracts back to you, to the present.

the sigh that escapes yoongi is a telltale of fatigue - you wonder if this is the first time of the day he came out of his studio. taking the blazer from your outstretched hand, he slings it over his shoulder, “don’t get too caught up with these functions. focus on your goal.”

your goal meaning what comes next in your career: the fellowship. you thought that information was lost on him, buried among the many things you told him just because you were comfortable telling him everything. 

and as you watch him walk back into the lion’s den, you wonder, how didn’t you realize he was in love with someone else during the visits you paid while he was doing his masters and phd?

x

namjoon doesn’t say anything about yoongi in the car. but both his hands are on the wheel. knuckles a little paler from holding onto the wheel.

“you don’t have to be part of eden’s board of directors.” he huffs, as though annoyed but from the way he continues, you know he’s not annoyed at you. he’s annoyed at himself. “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to - i don’t want to force anything on you.”

and you know - you know more than anyone how conscious namjoon is of things. from the change in your mood to the people that tries to get close to him because of his status - that’s also why he didn’t kiss you on your lips that day. but a kiss was the prerequisite of a vow so he kissed you on the forehead. the area where his lips landed burns your skin as your cheeks flush from the memory.

“i know.” you hesitate for a heartbeat but reach out to cover one of his hands on the wheel still. to let him know that you’re not just saying that to ease the guilt.

when you pull away from the thought of how risky and distracting what you did was, the hand that you were lightly caressing pulls at yours, intertwining your fingers as he keeps them on his thigh. your entire body burns from the contact yet you’re sitting frozen in your spot. it’s the gentle squeeze on your hand that brings you out of your shell-shock state. a smile tugs on your lips subconsciously as you squeeze back.

x

the following week, you almost got into a fight with namjoon when he caught you dressing up prettily. he told you it was okay not to attend these functions anymore - the ones your tight schedule barely allow you to. fight was an overstatement. your feelings were hurt when he’d kissed your temple and said, “it’s okay, you don’t have to push yourself.”

well, you were but he wasn’t seeing the bigger picture. “can’t you see? i wanna spend more time with you and the only way i can is if we attend these functions together.”

in hindsight, you probably shouldn’t have thrown your strapless black diamond purse at him out of frustration.

but the following functions, you did spend more time together. he’d declined the usual advancement of business people the way only kim namjoon could pull off - with a dimpled smile and a hand around your waist as if to indicate that they were interrupting - and they were. they’d come up to the both of you while you were telling namjoon about a new skillet spaghetti recipe you’d wanted to try making for the long overdue dinner you owe him. and you’d expected someone to approach namjoon and take his attention away but you didn’t think he’d decline them.

“hm? i don’t think we have tomatoes or beef. should we go grocery shopping?” he suggests calmly as though he didn’t just turn down the chairman of tvn broadcast. the man had to do a double take in case he had mistaken namjoon’s smooth rejection.

you place a hand on his chest, restraining the urge to pull your hand away as if you’ve touched fire. you knew he goes to the gym for an hour after work and his shirts always seem a size too small around his arms but you didn’t expect anything beyond that underneath that shirt of his. you clear your throat when you realize his neck is craned so he could look at you - give you all the attention in the world, “you know, we can discuss dinner some other time - when you’re free.”

but neither of you are free. you barely see each other at home because of your unpredictable schedule and his that’s set in stone.

“then what would you rather us talk about right now?” a corner of his lips tugs upwards. if you first met him, you wouldn’t easily dismiss the smile as nothing more than because of his amiable nature. but you’ve been married for almost five months now and you clearly pick up on the playfulness that lights up his eyes.

“the desserts.” you announce too quickly in an attempt to avert his attention from what he’s thinking - one thing you’ve realized is that namjoon is painfully aware of your blushing fits and your avoidance to look him in the eyes. “they’re nice, aren’t they?”

all of a sudden, he’s scooping a forkful of the chocolate souffle he’d picked up from the desserts section while you’d opted for the luscious almond torte. a small smirk tugs on his lips as he holds the fork to your mouth the way he does during breakfast. he knows you have no objections of being fed like a child but he also knows where you stand with public display of affection.

“say ‘aaaaa’ and i’ll give you a treat, doctor ___.” and he loves to tease you. he’s taken to calling you that because of that one incident where he’d seen you discuss about a patient with one of the nurses while you were on your way to meet him. in his own words, he’d ‘never seen you this scary before.’

in your defense, it was five minutes till lunch break so it was still working hours and you were acting the way you usually did at work - but you’d understand. the person you are with friends and the person you are at work are two separate entities. suppose you’ve mastered separating personal business and work. namjoon seems to take pleasure in making that steadfast side of you squirm and blush like a tomato.

your fingerpads gently grazes the back of his hand as you hold the fork in place before taking it in your mouth. your eyes flit over namjoon’s for the briefest moment before taking a step back, licking the residue of souffle off your lips.

“they really are nice.” you murmur as you throw your gaze at the stage where a man sits at the piano before flickering back to namjoon.

you wonder why he’s so quiet all of a sudden -

the man in question still has the empty fork in the air, eyes wide and staring at you, you would’ve thought he’d seen a ghost. until you notice the dust of pink across his cheek and spread to the tip of his ears.

oh?

x

mrs. kim’s fundraiser is held at the school where the children attended. about four canopies were set up on the field. one for the children’s activities - you remember reading something about coloring, origami-making and storybook reading.  the volunteers - possibly college students hoping to earn the graces of kimcorp’s president’s wife for an internship - already have the children huddled up in groups of three or four.

one canopy is specifically set up for a table of wide range of food - if there’s anything you like about these functions, it’s the abundance of food they never fail to prepare. as if spending a lot of money on a fundraising event is something to flex about.

the other two canopies are for the people of interest - acquaintances of mrs. kim and those who come with an ulterior motive be it to get sponsors for their own project, a business deal or simply to regain a higher social hierarchy by falling into your mother-in-law’s graces.

you press a light kiss on namjoon’s cheek before he’s whisked away by the second category. business men who jump at the sight of your ceo husband who got a fair warning from mrs. kim to “play nice. what’s gotten into you all of a sudden? these days i keep hearing things about you turning chairmen down! your father didn’t work this hard just to raise a stuck up son that could ruin his business in a matter of days.”

once you’ve had a slice of red velvet and tiny macaroons, you decide to hide yourself from the few people who try to do the same to you when namjoon is too preoccupied by the ones who claimed his attention first. just like preys on the top of the pyramid sinking its claws, the lower level preys couldn’t come close.

but one manages to follow you into one of the classrooms.

“nothing’s changed has it?’ yoongi stands in the doorway, tuxedo and brown loafers and all. hands tucked into both his pockets, he strides across the room and stops in front of the window that overlooks the light pink canopies and the people underneath them. “same old assholes using a charitable cause to proliferate their influence.”

the muscles on your face pulls your lips into a disapproving frown, “that’s how our parents manage to give us an education. a good life.” you don’t agree to the way they go about it but you give credit where it’s due.

yoongi scoffs, his shoulders jolting slightly. you can’t see his face as he stands with his back on you but you know he’s smirking that condescending smirk. the first time you saw it was when you were in your senior year of high school and yoongi was doing his masters in business and accounting. he’d looked down on the man who approached the two of you like he was scum just because everyone knew his company was wallowing in debt and he’s desperate enough to ask the lion who hates the jungle for help.

“always finding a middle ground. if you like what they do so much, why did you become a doctor? why didn’t you follow their footsteps, huh?”

you can’t help but let out a tired sigh. you’ve been here before. you’ve seen this. yoongi hates the world he’s born in and you understand why but you can never feel what he feels. “why are you here, yoongi? shouldn’t you be with naeun?” there’s a pause. a heartbeat before you decide to let yourself free. say what you want to say. “before the wolves get to her.”

“she’s fine.” it's almost offensive how haughty he sounds. he must either be aware of nauen’s innocence that makes the wolves eliminate the possibility of her being a threat or he just doesn’t care. the latter presumption makes your stomach churn.

did he also not care about you when you were together? when you went to these events as a couple?

“we should head back. it would be bad if anyone saw us alone like this even though we’re just talking.” and that’s that. you turn on your heels, making way to the door but before you can even take another step forward, lithe fingers wrap around your wrist.

“what?” it comes out harsher than you intend it. funny how you put on a face of a woman made out of steel when your knees can barely hold your weight the moment you feel his warm hand on your skin.

“i knew - i knew but i didn’t want to tie you down.” with his head lowered and his long hair, you can’t see his eyes for an idea of what he’s saying. 

“yoongi, what-”

“i knew how you felt.” at that moment, his grip on you loosens. it’s almost as though it’s an overdue confession and the weight on his shoulders has finally lifted, “you only knew me - you turned down every boy that tried to ask you out in high school and college. you -you were only looking at me and i didn’t want that on my shoulders - i didn’t want you to turn down every opportunity to life - to dating, to heart break to - to sex with someone - several someone’s just because we were engaged.”

his fingers traces down your index finger before falling away. but you won’t tell him - you can never do it to namjoon - that it took all of you not to twine your fingers with his just because it felt like he was letting go.

your breath hitches in your throat when you turn your cheek towards him. the sight before you is something you’d never thought you’d see in your entire life. yoongi’s pink dusts his otherwise snowflake skin. the bored expression he usually wears is gone - almost as if he’s never worn it his entire life as something akin to desperation pools in those dark eyes. his soft pink lips are agape as though he wants to say something. and you wait, wait, wait but he never does.

so you turn your back on him, heels clicking against the ground as you slip past the door without a word. only when you’re at the end of the hallway, do you turn the corner, back pressed against the wall because your buckling legs might not be able to handle your weight.

those unsaid words - you can hear them clearly: i fucking regret letting you go.

x

the following week, you spend by drowning yourself in work and later working on your research until the library closes. by the time you’re pressing the 20th floor to the penthouse you both shared, you know for certain namjoon’s gone to bed. he values his sleep time. says it’s essential to keep himself in a good mood so others who work with him would be at ease. sometimes you want to tell him it’s okay not to think about others for once but the words lay buried the depth of your heart because you’re exactly like him. suppressing your feelings, smiling and saying you’re okay even though you’re not. the only difference is there’s a side of you that wants to lash out, do something worse to those who hurt you while namjoon does it from the good of his heart.

“it’s hard, being nice.” he says in between the clink of the stirring of the spoon in his coffee mug.

you look up from the peanut butter you’re spreading over your toast. “hm?”

he shakes his head, as if to say it’s nothing, i’m just thinking out loud. but the words he says next is enough to make your heart drop right to the ground. “yoongi told me.”

“wh-what?” it’s denial in your tone - the combination of those three words are simple enough to take you back to the school nine days ago. in side that little classroom.

“yesterday. he came over to the office.” he shrugs as if it’s no big deal but the tensed line of his shoulders is apparent no matter how casually he brings the mug to his smiling lips - that too. his lips are smiling but his eyes are not.

you don’t know when or how you started noticing the little things. sensing namjoon’s moods - his reactions and his retractions. you never realized you were so in tune with the things he does. all you realize is you’re already able to read him like a book - thick, best-leather book that was safeguarded by a lock.

“namjoon,” the clink of the butter knife being set on your plate resonates like a pin drop in a vacuum room, “nothing happened. i promise.”

“i know - i know you’d never do anything like that so that’s why i’m telling you it’s okay.” something in the way he looks at you make you bite your tongue - as if he’s asking you to listen even though you’re bursting at the seams. you’d do anything to prove that nothing happened even though you knew he knew. “we entered into this marriage for a mutual reason. not dreading to come home is more than i can ask for. so it’s okay if you want to see yoongi just... keep out of the spotlight like many in our shoes who found love outside of it have.”

he chuckles but it’s strained and tense, dumping the coffee into the sink because he couldn’t bear to stay in the kitchen any longer. you slip out of the high stool, feet padding around the counter and before you know it, your arms around his body. you feel him freeze under your touch and this is wrong - wrong on so many levels because he would have asked if he could touch you and you’re not reflecting the same amount of respect he had for you.

but for some reason, you can’t let go - you’re afraid if you let him walk out of the door, you’d never be able to grasp even a shadow of his existence.

“i don’t want to.” the words are muffled from your cheek pressing against his back.

a pause lapses between you when you don’t say anything else. no explanation. no reason. because you don’t know it yourself. you don’t know why your heart clenches in your chest at the sight of namjoon’s dismal smile. you don’t know why you acted on your instincts and hugged the man.

you don’t know.

“okay.” he sighs softly as a warm palm rests above your fisted hand. you wish you can see him - wish you can see what kind of expression he’s making because it’s killing you to not know what he’s thinking. “you don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

that’s when the sniffle escapes you. internally, you curse yourself for being so emotion-driven. it’s not a good trait for a doctor to have.

namjoon calls your name. the syllabus rolling off his tongue makes your stomach churn with butterflies. “are you crying?”

you don’t expect him to say that. don’t expect the teasing undertone either. naturally, your respond comes a heartbeat later, “n-no.”

the body under your touch shifts. all of a sudden, you’re eye-to-eye with him. there’s a sparkle in them that almost makes you forget how to breathe. his dimples dig into his cheek as his lips curl into a smile whilst his large hands frames you face.

“wh-what?” you feel your brows furrowing, lips pursed.

“you’re too cute.” his thumb grazes your burning cheekbone feather light, “i want to kiss you.”

“then do it.” you don’t know the reason behind that angry, pressed tone but namjoon doesn’t seem to mind - or he knows something you don’t.

you don’t have the time to ponder on that when a pair of lush lips meshes with yours. the scent of the coffee he had engulfs your senses as one hand finds its way to the back of his neck and the other rests on his accelerating heartbeat. time seems to stop when namjoon’s kissing you. somewhere in the back of your mind, you distinctly remember something perpetually important but you couldn’t be bothered as his hands fall away from your face and finds the dip of your lower back and pull you closer until your bodies are pressed together.

somewhere in a distant, you hear the beep of the front door. hoseok’s voice booming across the hallway that leads to the living room and the kitchen where you’re at now.

“namjoon? you here? did you oversleep? man, i never thought i’d see the day our ceo is late to work.” hoseok’s footsteps stops at the end of the hallway, “oh great, you’re all dressed.”

he blinks, surprised at the sight of his boss who’s leaning against the edge of the sink - hands pressed on either side of the edge, doing absolutely nothing while you dip a butter knife into a jar of peanut butter and jelly but equally as out-of-it as his boss appear to be.

“y-yeah, let me grab my blazer.” namjoon pushes himself off, going around the counter and heading towards the stairs where his bedroom is until -

“it’s here.” hoseok points out.

“what?”

“your blazer. it’s this one, right?” the secretary loyally scoops up the thick maroon blazer off the couch and hands it to his boss who’s just barely recovered from what seems to be a trance. 

he’d went down and tossed the blazer on the couch before making his coffee - before the kiss.

namjoon clears his throat, refusing to look at the man’s scrutinizing eyes as he thanks him and slips the blazer on. but he loses those eyes when he peeks over the man’s shoulder, mini-waving at you, “hey, morning, doc.”

you return the greeting, refraining a blush as you feel the ghost of namjoon’s lips when you fix his secretary a smile, “hey, hoseok. care to join us for breakfast?”

the man shrugs, eyes flitting over his boss who now seems ready to go, “thanks doc but i had some cereal and cold milk.”

he bids his farewell and escapes out of where he came from, letting the two of do what newly weds do before the other goes to work. it’s in that moment that he realizes with a chill running down his spine as he sat in the driver seat - that namjoon isn’t a bachelor anymore and he couldn’t come and go as he pleases and that he might have interrupted something. come to think of it, both you and namjoon’s cheeks were flushed...

“h-hey boss,” hoseok steals a glance of the man at the backseat through the rear view mirror. he almost chokes on his next words when the man’s eyes meet him but he persists like a man on a mission to not get fired , “y-you know, i’ve been with kimcorp. f-for a long time. i-it’s like my family a-and i’ll work harder from now on.”

confusion flashes across namjoon’s features for the briefest moment. he doesn’t know what makes hoseok say something so out of his character and shakily at that but it’s not the first time that his employee’s said something like this to him - of course, minus the stutter and all.

“that’s good to know, hoseok.” he says simply.

x

it’s been a week since you told namjoon you didn’t - wouldn’t see anyone. yoongi or not. when you told him you were going to meet yoongi at a cafe near his studio to give the man an answer - a hard no, there’s still some needling doubt in namjoon’s gaze as he reverts his eyes away from you. as though he was afraid that the illusion would fade away and he’d end up catching the smolder of passion he’d always seen you look at the man with.

he’s not lost to your feelings - in hindsight, it was pathetically obvious how smitten you were for the elder man. even your and his parents could see. and they’d foreseen many things but not having to plead and then beg and then finally, force you into a marriage you didn’t want with the brother of the man you loved.

your only regret was leaving without kissing namjoon goodbye - but it also felt like anything you said, any sort of assurance you offered would just be an act. until you tell his brother to stop.

“come to think of it,” you set the warm cup of latte down. it would have tasted better if the circumstances were different, “we never properly ended things. the only way i knew the engagement was over was through mom and dad.” his parents you meant.

he tilts his head to the side as a response - an indication that he’s listening. he’s dressed in plain white shirt and the darkest jeans. the bags under his eyes is an indication that he hasn’t slept in days - either it’s because of working late nights trying to make music or because of what he’d said to you.

you know he’d do this - detach himself from reality when things gets tough or when he’s stuck in a situation he doesn’t have control over. but you still had hope. still held onto the past seven years you’d spent together for him to regard you with enough respect to offer closure.

“do you love naeun that much?” and yet you still ask.

you meet his hollow gaze, not knowing the intensity yours hold until your fingerpads wrapped around aches and he lets out a heavy breath.

“she was different.” he says simply - almost tiredly, “she caught my eyes. we started talking and we found out we had some things in common. i thought she’s what i needed to get over you.”

“don’t.” the churning starts from your stomach and spreads across your body like a poisonous fog. “don’t use me as an excuse for leaving. you loved me as much as i loved you and you got scared.”

a lump forms in your throat as the memories, the inside jokes that built up over time, the comfortable silents spent - everything comes crashing in like tidal wave. you knew he loved you deep down. that was why the news of him getting married took a toll on you - so much so, you decided to leave everything behind and fly to paris.

“you could’ve pushed me away if you truly had no feelings for me but you kept me around and let me think we were going to have a happy future together.” his image is distorted from the prickles of tears in your eyes but you blink them away, “but you didn’t really know you were in love with me back then, huh? that’s why you got scared shitless and decided to leave.” you’re not sure if you’re choking on your words or if you’re actually scoffing. maybe both.

in that moment, you watch as yoongi’s expression switches from that signature boredom to realization and finally unbridled sorrow. he must feel suffocated - like he’s drowning in emotions the way you did in that suite you spent for two weeks in paris before you decided to buy an apartment and stay for good. and you would have if your parents didn’t call you back - recounted all their sacrifices for you to make you guilty enough to agree to the marriage with his younger brother. he’ll spend the same amount of time sleeping and waking up in his room and realizing he can’t turn back time.

“i fucked up big time, didn’t i?” he laughs dryly as he presses his palm to his face, hunched over the minute round table.

the latte is still half-full when you swipe your phone off the table and stand up. he doesn’t spare you a glance - he probably couldn’t bring himself to face you now.

‘you’re a fucking coward min yoongi.’ is what you want to say but for some reason, you leave the words to die on the tip of your tongue. you won’t - can’t wish him a happy life and propose to put everything past you. it’s not that simple and you’re not that forgiving. but namjoon’s easy smile flashes at the back of your head at this moment of all time and makes your heart clench painfully in your chest. their relationship is already strained and if you insist on prolonging this, it’s only going to end up hurting namjoon one way or another and the cycle will just keep going on with naeun getting hurt if she found out.

“you did.” your hand is trembling around the strap of your bag, “but it’s all in the past and i don’t blame you. things wouldn’t turn out the way they do otherwise. so just... live for the present, yoongi.”

his shoulders rise and fall a little faster than normal but there’s nothing you can do - and it’s better if you leave him to collect his thoughts. the censor at the door beeps as you pass through. it takes a moment for you to feel the morning air brush your cheeks and sunlight to seep into you. your chest still feels tight but in due time, you know it’ll lighten.

x

“hey, boss. you have a special guest.” hoseok peeks into namjoon’s office like the slyboots he is. the wiggle of the man’s brows before he disappears gives namjoon all the more reason to prepare for the worse.

“send them in.” he sighs, not bothering to hide his feelings in front of hoseok. they’ve been working side by side for a long time and friends for longer he knows his friend is aware of the contrasting definition of ‘special’ but this once, as he sees you walk through the door - he admits that him and hoseok may finally be of the same mind.

namjoon shoots up from his seat, clearing his throat and buttoning his blazer together the way he’s so used to doing it when he receives an unannounced visit from his father. “what brings you here?”

instead of shooting him one of your brilliant smiles, you drop your bag on the crisp white leather couch and run right into him. arms wrapped around his torso, he can smell your favorite floral shampoo from your hair but he can’t bring himself to hug you back. his heart is palpitating inside his chest and he can only pray for some miracle that you can’t hear it. which is most unlikely what with your head coming up just a few centimeters above his shoulder line and your ears being the same height as the beating organ in his chest.

if you notice, you're not saying anything about it.

“i met yoongi just now.”

namjoon doesn’t say a word for the longest time - it’s so namjoon of him not to. but it’s also not where you stand now. that day, when you partially admitted to liking namjoon and you’re pretty sure he felt the same - you’d seen a side of namjoon you never thought you’d saw. vulnerable. fearful. all because he thought he was going to lose you - and it felt like he’s always been prepared for it. it was just a matter of time.

the muscles in your arms contracts at the thought of namjoon being so ready to let you go - is it like that too, right now? is he expecting you to go back on your words and tell him you’re going to have an affair with his brother? you don’t know and that’s driving you insane. 

and just when the muscles in your arm contract, just when you’re about to pull away, namjoon’s arms band around your body and a kiss lands on top of your head.

“did you tell him what you wanted to tell him all this time?” his voice is velvet and smooth and you can hear that easy smile as he speaks.

you nod against his chest. “it’s over. i told him to get lost.”

the chest vibrates against your cheek as rings of chuckles tumble out of namjoon’s mouth. it makes your body light up with a sort of fire. and for once, you welcome the heat spreading across your cheeks like an old friend.

he knows the last part is a bluff - it’s comforting that he knows without having you say it.

does he also know...

“after that i came here because i wanted to see you.” you crane your neck to look up at him.

true enough there’s that smile and gets wider when he meets your gaze. a hand comes to rest on your neck while his thumb grazes your chin as he presses his lips to yours. you think your heart might explode at any moment now as you kiss him back, your hand snaking to his shoulder but he stops your right hand, holding it on his chest. his heart beats the same rhythm as yours. his shoulder line heaving the same way yours do when the back of your thighs hit the couch and you finally break apart. but before you have the chance to gather your thoughts, his lips are on you again. the hand on your lower back pulling you closer until your thighs press on either side of his legs.

“let’s go home now.” he murmurs between breaths, “i might really go crazy if i touch another part of your body that’s covered in clothing.”

it’s in that moment that the door swings open.

x

hoseok bursts through the door with the photostatted files in his hand. there’s a skip in his step.

“hey boss! here’s the files you asked for.”

he looks between you - well your back - and namjoon. the ceo is fixing his tie with a hard expression while you’re standing facing the ceiling-to-floor window that overlooks the streets and several stores in the area.

d-did he just walk into you two fighting?

“thanks, hoseok.” namjoon swipes the files from his hand, walking back to his seat around the desk and dropping the files with a sharp pap!

“n-no problem boss.” he takes one frightened step backwards before turning around but before he manages to escape the lion’s den, you stop him.

“hoseok wait.” it comes out a bit rushed. granted, you’re not in any position to waste time. you dropped by even though you know you can’t afford being late to work but somehow you ended up at namjoon’s office anyway. the secretary seems to physically turn into a rock before shakily turn his cheek to you with a smile.

“uh, yeah doc?”

“namjoon, do you mind me borrowing hoseok for a bit?” the heat comes on full force as you turn to namjoon. he’s burning a hole through the files he’s flipping through but you don’t miss the pinked tips of his ears and the way his adam’s apple bobs at the sound of his name on your tongue, “my shift is starting at noon so i need to be there by,” you check the watch on your wrist, “now.”

the way namjoon doesn’t even look up from flipping the papers is how hoseok know for sure you’re fighting. “sure thing. oh and hoseok, no detours. come straight back once you drop ___ off.”

but to you, it’s because he’s flustered beyond imagination - you know, like you know how he’ll condemn himself for not being able to control himself like that. your whole body heats up as you slip into the back seat when the image of namjoon’s hooded eyes, reddened cheeks and half agape lips flash at the back of his mind. a part of you - the reasonable one - chides yourself for even thinking about ditching work and actually going home with him but another part wishes to indulge in the endless possibilities of what will happen if you did.

x

“____,” your name tumbles out of namjoon’s mouth in a breathy huff. naturally so. he hasn’t even caught his breath from when he finds you crawling over him like a woman in on a mission. now, the same exact woman his cuffing his wrists and holding them over his head with one hand while the other is undoing the buttons of his shirt while she kisses him in all the right places.

“wh-where did you even get cuffs?” his headboard is one of those pristine white cushioned ones meaning there isn’t any rails for you to hook him on and keep him in place. but you don’t need that because namjoon can barely move - all that time he spends at the gym has gone down the drain as invisible threads tie him down.

“oh these?” you let one corner of your lips tug deviously. it’s been six months since you got married and you and namjoon has never gone past the occasional cuddles and light kisses. the morning after that day when you dropped by his office after meeting yoongi, namjoon had declared his intentions to ‘do it right’ - like dates and getting to know each other better before anything else. 

it was sweet of him. until you realized you barely had time for dates - only late night conversations that ended up with you on top of him but before things could progress, he’d do everything he could to avoid bedroom affairs. but over time, it gets a bit discouraging. so this is the last straw - there’s no wine or champagne for him to use as an excuse to carry you to your room. you’re both sober, and if he doesn’t want you -

“never mind where i got these.” the low sound emitting from his throat makes your heart skip a beat as your lips brush against the shell of his ear, “don’t you want me, namjoon?”

trailing hisses down his smooth jawline, you let your lips hover over his - it only lasts for a heartbeat before he closes the distance and starts kisses you like a famine beast.

“i want you,” he confesses when you pull away just to reinforce your control. he may be the one lying down with his hands bound but it almost felt like you’re the hopeless one here - almost. the  a feral glint in his eyes sends hot waves down your core - you have to tell yourself to breathe. “of course i fucking want you ___.”

you hum in contemplation - taking just enough time to sit straighter and let your fingers undo the rest of the buttons and stopping just above his belt. the few times you laid together and he lets you lie on top of him - you knew he was brains and brawn. but you didn’t expect a perfectly sculpted body of adonis himself to be lying beneath you. the ridges of his abs heaves helplessly as he drawn in deep breaths. 

somewhere on the edge of the bed where you’d tossed it, your phone vibrates - someone’s calling but that can wait.

you lean down, soft tresses brushing his skin as you kiss that spot that illicit a delicious sound from him the first time you discovered it. somewhere in the junction between his shoulder and neck.

“fuck.” his voice is raw and desperate and carnal as his body yearns for you. his legs bent at the knees, feet ground into the bed as he grinds his hip into you - the signs of his arousal painfully obvious.

you can’t help but giggle at the way he so vehemently yearn for you. somewhere on the bed, your phone starts vibrating again.

“y-your phone.” he manages to stammer out. it’s the third time it’s vibrating.

“don’t worry about it. the only people who would call me at this time is jisoo’s drunken butt dial or the hospital-” you sit back up, heat still pooling in your stomach when your hips grind against namjoon’s arousal in the process but the urgency in the way you swipe your phone off the sheets has stolen your attention.

clear as day, it is one of the two possibilities you’ve mentioned and it isn’t your quirky colleague.

x

when you first started working, you were of the ripe age and eager to help those in need. you loved your job despite the long arduous hours, missed meals and ungodly hour roll calls because at the end of the day, it was what you wanted to do - it was the one thing you wouldn’t let your parents take away from you. you fought blood sweat and tears to get where you are now.

and doctors don’t usually start a family until they’ve at least finished their residency - but you had to get married early to keep your end of the bargain. of course, you didn’t expect to commit to said marriage. you didn’t also expect to fall for namjoon either. and you certainly didn’t expect for him to still be here in the waiting area when you walked out of the emergency operating room, head lulling to the side as sleep begins to take him, arms crossed over his chest. he didn’t even get the chance to change when you hurriedly uncoffed him, informing him about an emergency at the er. he’d offered to drive you since you couldn’t drive and waiting for an uber driver to accept your request this late at night would take more time. you’d rushed out of the car with a ‘thanks, namjoon. i owe you one!’ thinking he’d go home and get some rest - there’s no telling how long these surgeries take after all.

when he leans too far to the side, his eyes flutter open softly before noticing the turquoise-clad body in his periphery.

“___, you’re done? did the surgery go alright?” he’s always had a way of saying your name. it makes your heart warm and your chest full as he stands up to close the distance between you - to cup one side of your cheek with his hand. though your delayed response may have been the reason for that.

“the surgery was a success.” you finally say, your smaller hand covering his, lips curving softly. guilt creeps up the creeks of your chest but gratitude washes it away. it wouldn’t have been very namjoon of him if he didn’t consider everything: how you’d go home once you’re done. if there’s even any uber working this late of an hour. your heart is swelling - you don’t think you can ever love him more than you do now but namjoon being namjoon, he’ll make you fall in love with him more and more until your heart is filled to the brim, “thank you, namjoon.”

and he gets it. just like that. the words that you’re saying without putting them into words because there are many ways to say it and a plethora of intrepreting it but namjoon gets it because his heart beats the same rhythm as you: i love you.

a dimpled smile curls over his lips as he places a kiss over your forehead, “should we go home?” he leans down to whisper into your ears, his tone changing dangerously, “and pick up where we left off, yeah doc?”

[brownandblackpearls]

🍞 ℋunger (Asra x EDReader, ED.MC)

Memories of your disorder slowly return and take over once again. You fight it but one bad day reveals everything that you wanted to hide the most.

─── Asra x black female reader

─── imagery + fiction

─── no smut

─── TW: Eating disorders and explicit ED behaviors, hurt/comfort, past abandonment, body dysmorphia, body image, confrontation, if you know you have triggers with ED, skip this one.

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

Some days are harder than others. You try your best.

But often, the best just isn’t enough to keep the spiraling at bay.

Asra knows your fondness for baked goods and chocolate well. Since you raved about that pumpkin bread a few months ago, he’s insisted on bringing you loaves every few weeks.

But as more your memories return to you, not all of them are pleasant. You begin to recall everything, including the unhealthy habits you used to have, and how people reacted to them before.

You remember what it was like when you were younger and larger than you are right now, you remember how you were treated by others who had so much to say about your body and how it fit into their thoughts, into this life. You remember things said in passing by family, friends, people who were supposed to care about you and love you.

Now? No matter how much you’ve tried to throw away those instances, those memories, the reawakened disorder clutches to the trauma like a lifeline, desperate to live through you. Desperate to starve and purge, and lessen and lessen you until there’s no more fear of fat.

But that’s just the thing. The fear is endless.

And worse, it’s a lie.

You know you’re not fat...And you know being fat means nothing on your inherent worth, your value, your beauty, your being. But it feels too difficult to put this beast down on your own.

As strong as you are, as strong as you’ve become, you wonder if some demons are stronger.

So you hide it.

You don’t want Asra to know what you’re thinking when he unwraps another chocolate truffle for you, you don’t want him to hear you try and fail to eliminate what you’ve eaten late in the night, you don’t want him to understand the things you tell yourself in the dark of your mind on your lowest days. You don’t want him to know that it took wiping your memory entirely for you to rid yourself of a condition that’s plagued you since before you knew him, that you’ve hidden since before you knew him.

Some days, you can eat.

Some days, you can’t.

Asra finally realizes on one of the days you weren’t careful enough.

He had brought more of that damned pumpkin bread and you’d already been silently agonizing over your physique that entire morning. Dress after dress, outfit after outfit, none of them seem to fit quite right enough to quell your inner critic.

“I’ve brought you some more from the market.” Asra is happy, holding his prize out to you.

You plaster a strained smile onto your face, thanking him, but you realize too late that it doesn’t shine through your eyes.

He sees.

“Are you...feeling alright?” He asks. “Is it the bread...? Do you not like it anymore?”

You grit your teeth behind your lips in anxiety, shaking your head a little too quickly.

“No! No, I love it. I’m just feeling a little...ill, that’s all!”

Asra frowns and lays the back of his hand to your head, brushing it down your temple and trailing his fingers down your tumbles of hair.

“You don’t feel warm…maybe it’s a chest cold? I’ll make you some tea, alright?”

You nod, feeling awful for lying to him.

Ashamed and embarrassed of yourself, you try to save the mood by plucking up the bread from his hands.

“I’ll save and eat this for later, when I’m feeling better!”

The statement does little to quell Asra’s concern over your ‘chest cold’, but he spares you a brief, appreciative smile before rushing to make the tea.

You climb the steps of the shop and head to your room to hide the bread away.

It’s almost tucked into your drawer when you smell the scent of it.

‘Not now...’

Your stomach gurgles, sick of fasting and excited to consume more carbs, more sugar, some kind of quick energy supply. All those days you hid not eating while Asra was away are beginning to catch up with you.

You grit your teeth and begin to count backwards, planning on drinking plenty of water to help kill the craving. But before you know it, the bread’s out of the drawer, in your hands, and being stuffed fervently into your mouth.

Without even really being present for the act, you ravenously chew the bread down. For a moment, the endorphins of finally getting fed surge through you and lift your spirits.

Halfway through the loaf, you feel the crash.

Hands full of bread, face covered in crumbs, your eyes well up and you begin to wail silently. Your body bends over under the weight of the grief, unchewed pastry falling out of your mouth and hitting the floor. You clutch your hands into tight fists of aggravation at yourself, crushing the pumpkin bread and trembling under the intense amount of anguish you feel right this second.

‘How could I have eaten that? Why did I eat that? What have I done?’

‘Now I’ll gain. I’ll be big again. No one will want me because I can’t control myself. They’ll make sure to let me know it, too.’

‘He won’t want me. Just like the rest of them. He’ll see how I really am.’

You cry and cry, unaware of Faust sliding out from under your bed. She tilts her head at you, swaying closer.

‘…!’

She cries your name.

Your mind is filled with fast thoughts that you can’t stop, and you don’t catch how Faust tries to reach you.

‘Sad? Hurt?’

When you don’t answer, Faust quickly slithers out the room, unseen.

Before long, fast footsteps ring out from the hall and you hear your door open.

‘Oh no...’

Asra calls your name and you hide further into yourself, clutching the floor.

He hates you, there is no doubt now, he is seeing the ugliness of your secret, the self-loathing, the ridiculousness of falling apart over blasted pumpkin bread, the lack of self-control, the fear, the shame, the shame, the shame—

Asra calls your name again, pulling you by the shoulders into him.

You try to keep your sobs in, your body wracking with the intensity of them. Your trembling grows to the point where it frightens even you.

As soft as water, Asra soothes a hand down your face, your neck, and calls to you as one would to an injured, trapped fawn.

“It’s alright. Let it out. Don’t hold on to all of that, let it out. I’ve got you, I’m here now.”

The sobs come then, long and loud and persistent. Years and years of pent up secrecy, of pain, of long body checks in mirrors and pools, of hidden and regurgitated food, of meanly whispered words and condemnations….all of it spills out of you.

When the waves of grief finally cease, Asra just holds you.

‘He is still here?’ you think. ‘Why?’

You wait for abandonment. You know how that feels. That is familiar. Judgement is familiar. Pain is familiar. And you just know it is coming.

Yet, nothing happens. Asra continues to hold you. No one says a word.

Long heavy silence rings in the air before he finally speaks.

“Faust said…that you…after you ate the bread…”

You nod stiffly into his chest, sniffling.

“I don’t eat.” You say plainly. “I never eat. At least, I try. But then I do and I ruin myself.”

Asra cradles your face, peering at you.

“Ruin yourself? From one piece of pumpkin bread?”

You tear up again, certain that you look and sound a complete mess.

“You don’t understand,” you insist, “it’s because of me…! Anyone else could have it…but not me, because if I have it…I’ll g-g-g-g-” you can’t even get the words out. “I just can’t.”

“Is this just about the bread? Or other foods...?”

Your face wilts and you look down in shame.

He knows, then.

“How long have you felt like this...?”

You trace the floor, shaking your head.

“...Years. I’m so sorry.”

“What...? Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve helped you. You know I would’ve—”

Your face twists and you close your eyes, tears spilling out.

“—It’s…it’s stupid…! It doesn’t even matter, I’ve been told so in the past…I’ve told others before, and nothing was done or I was criticized, or they left and I…I just was afraid that…you’d see how silly I was...how damaged I am….that you might leave…”

Asra pulls you so close to him that you can hear his heart thrum like a locomotive in his chest. He is worried sick over you, you suddenly realize.

“Look at me,” he demands, his voice so serious that you can recall nothing like it from all the years of knowing him.

You obey, eyes wide and watery.

“I will never leave you,” Asra promises so solemnly, that he sounds as if he is swearing an oath on his very soul. “I love you, do you understand that? You could change in a thousand ways and I’d still love you. You could fall for another and I’d still love you, and watch over you until we were all dust in the wind. You are the most important thing in my life and it’s my job to protect you, to uplift you. I don’t ever want you to think I would leave you. Especially not over something like this.”

“I-I’m sorry!” You plead for forgiveness for doubting his love. You know that he is loyal to you, you do. It’s just...the disorder makes it so difficult to think sometimes, to remember the truth. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have doubted you…I just…! I don’t know. I didn’t want to upset you...?”

“I am upset that I couldn’t have helped you with this sooner, that I didn’t realize. I should have realized...” Asra admits, frowning to himself. “But I can help you now. You’ve told me, and it’s alright now. We’ll face this together.”

You cling to Asra’s shirt like a lifeline, just breathing.

You know you have a long, difficult road to walk. You know it’s not as easy as finally getting the help and support you need, that there’s not a snap of fingers or a spell even that can speed this process for you. It can’t do the work for you.

You will have to learn how to eat without shame again. How to stop internalizing the pain and abandonment from the past. How to realize that pumpkin bread is just pumpkin bread, and that this was never about the food to begin with.

You will have to learn to look in a mirror and smile genuinely, even on the bad days. You will have to learn to eat food without calorie-counting, without crying.

You know there will be nights where you will fail, days where you stumble, and moments where you wish for nothing more but to be ill once again.

Asra can be there to hold your hand, to keep you steady, but he can’t do the work that you will have to do.

But you also know...

...you are worth it. A good life is worth it. A life with someone who cares for you, who loves you, is worth it. And deep down, you know that you care and love yourself, in a way, through all the pain.

You want to overcome. To heal.

Asra’s voice breaks you out of your trance.

“You’re not alone anymore. I’ll...I’ll write to Julian! And we’ll all come up with a plan, together. Okay? We can start today. Okay..?”

You keep your eyes locked on him, holding. Just holding.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

AN: Do not under any circumstances copy, repost, or edit any of my work including this one. If you see someone do so, please let me know.

If any of you are interested in a short follow-up with Dr. Julian assisting you in overcoming ED, let me know.

☾ check my blog for more imagines.

[bisexual-inuyasha]

While You Were Sleeping

While You Were Sleeping

When I’m around slow dancing in the dark,

Don’t follow me, you’ll end up in my arms,

You have made up your mind,

I don’t need no more signs.

-- SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK by Joji

Ed knew a secret.

And it would be a cold day in hell before he ever told anyone. And he knew a lot about hell. It was hot there.

Although, he was starting to reconsider. Maybe hell was here, in this cool fall forest, surrounded by the creek bed and small wildflowers of the countryside.

Maybe hell was the conversation he had with Li--Greed a couple of days into their little camping adventure.

--

“Hey, kid. Come here, I gotta discuss something with you.” Greed sat in a tree, which Ed wouldn’t be climbing any time soon with his wounds.

Ed continued adjusting the fire, trying to ignore the burning need he had to sleep. Sleeping led to nightmares, and nightmares led to waking in the darkness, and darkness led to flashbacks, and flashbacks led to endless pacing anxiety and he just couldn’t do it. Greed hopped down into the fire, and Ed didn’t hold back on cussing him.

“Hey, calm down. It’s not like I hurt him, or anything.”

“I almost had the fire perfect.” Ed tossed his charred stick to the side. “Now it’ll take forever to fix.”

“Look, I’m not joking. I need to talk to you.” Greed grabbed his arm. The grip was too strong, too unaware to be Ling. The dissonance made Ed bristle. “It’s about Ling.”

Ed didn’t like the way his heart stopped, his breath stilling in his lungs. “What about Ling? He’s not gone, is he?”

“I said I wanted to talk in private.”

“No, you didn’t.” Ed allowed himself to be dragged.

“It was implied.”

“Since when do you imply?” Ed just wanted to rest. Well, there were a lot of things he wanted. But Greed dragging him away wasn’t one of them.

“You wouldn’t be complaining if it were him, would you Ed?” Greed chuckled.

“Of course not. Ling is my friend,” Ed responded coolly. “So why don’t you let him out for a while?”

“He’s not a dog. I don’t have to let him out to mess in the yard.” Greed stopped, checking the area around him quickly. Heinkel and Darius didn’t trust Greed much. They’d notice Ed had gone missing pretty quickly. “But, we’ve discovered something.”

Ed pulled his arm away. “Look Greed. If you want me to give a shit, you’re going to have to let Ling tell me.”

“I don’t think so.” Greed ran his clawed hands through Ling’s hair. An odd, nervous habit for someone with more confidence than sense.

“Try me.” Ed was bluffing of course. One day, Ling would return to his body for good. When he did, he’d need a body to return to.

“Ling has to sleep.” Greed’s voice was flat. He wasn’t playing games. This wasn’t some coy trick or prank.

But, Fuhrer Bradley...

“I know you don’t have to sleep, Greed. You forget, I’ve dealt with homunculus before.” Ed relaxed. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull--”

Hands--not clawed, but calloused--gripped his shoulders. “No, I really do--”

Ling stumbled. And this was Ling. His face had softened, his shoulders less tense and his expression less hungry. Ed would recognize him anywhere. Especially in his own face. He spent most of his day searching for that face.

“Ling!”

“I have to sleep.” Ling sagged against his arms. “My body is human, and my soul is still attached. If I stay up too much longer, I’ll…”

Ling didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t have to. “What do you need me to do?”

But there was no answer. Ling was already asleep.

--

And thus, Ed was thrown into hell. Now that he really thought about it, this was certainly hell.

Hell was watching Greed prance around all day, boasting of his grand plans, and then coming here at night, in this soft place, to watch Ling sleep. For Ling to be within arm's reach and still unreachable.

Ed still hadn’t figured out why he had to be here. Greed wouldn’t explain. Claimed Ling wouldn’t explain. “The prince probably doesn’t trust anybody. He has a lot of memories of people trying to kill him. It’s pretty fucked up in here, kid.” and then Greed tapped Ling’s head and turned away.

So Ed spent his watch here, far enough from camp Heinkel and Darius couldn't smell anything unusual but close enough they wouldn’t suspect Greed of running off. Though what Heinkel suspected was far worse than abandonment, Ed thought.

Worse so, because when Ed first started doing this, he was clear across the fucking creek. And then he’d figured he’d best sit at least near Ling, and now he’s here. And here, specifically, is actually hell. This specific position in this specific scenario.

Ling laid with his back against Ed’s leg. Not his metal one either. And the man was not a sound sleeper. Nor a still one.

Worse, he wasn’t snoring.

Ling was whimpering.

And it was going to fucking break Edward Elric’s ears to hear it. And then Ed was going to break someone’s face. Probably Greed’s. Which would be hard, without breaking Ling’s.

His fingers buzzed with the need to reach out. Maybe if he just rubbed Ling’s shoulder.

The problem was Ed didn’t want to rub Ling’s shoulder to help him sleep. He wanted to wake the man up. He wanted to demand an answer for why he thought it was ok to leave like this. He wanted to vent about how Al was missing. He wanted to smooth away the desperate worry he saw on Ling’s face every night before he passed out.

But no, stroking Ling’s shoulder to help him sleep better was not what Ed wanted to do. Maybe that was Ed’s own selfishness. A selfishness that only ever seemed to apply to the Xingese prince. Ed always did have big aspirations.

Ling shifted in his sleep, his ultimate shield creeping up his arms and neck. This happened occasionally. Whatever Ling was dreaming of would become too much, and the ultimate shield would activate. He didn’t know if it was Greed reacting to Ling’s emotional state or if Ling had some measure of control over Greed’s power while he was free.

Ed gave a big, put upon sigh and reached out. His hand brushed against Ling’s shirt. “Hey now, calm down. You’re supposed to be resting.”

Ling, being still asleep, did not respond. The ultimate shield creeped further.

Ed sighed again, though less dramatically. “You know, I hate this.”

Ed reached out again, but this time he bypassed the shoulder. His mother used to do something for him when he was younger. Something that would ease his fears of his father, of the uncertainty of her illness. He plucked the white ribbon from Ling’s hair until the ponytail was let loose. Black hair rippled into the grass, spilling between the blades like a black river.

“I’ve wondered about this.” And then Ed just started talking, pulling his fingers through Ling’s hair. He told Ling about Al missing, and the growing restlessness that people were going to get hurt in a plot that seemed bigger than anything Ed had ever dealt with. And all the while, he ran his fingers through Ling’s hair, tracing small circles on his scalp, being gentle so as not to create tangles. The hair was as soft, as smooth and cool as Ed had imagined.

It was embarrassing how much he’d imagined it in the time since he first ran into Ling.

For the first time since Ed started keeping watch, Ling didn’t toss and turn any more. His arms and neck were free.

And now, Ed thought maybe he knew why he was sitting here.

At some point in the night, Ed must have fallen asleep, because he woke up with Greed laughing in his ear. Luckily, he was still sitting up, so he hadn’t done anything weird, like cuddling Ling or something.

“Ling slept well last night.” Greed laughed again. “He had such sweet little dreams.”

Ed shoved at Greed’s face. “And those dreams are none of my business. You talk too much, Greed.”

And still, Ed grew restless. He caught himself staring at the sky, watching the clouds drift by and wondering how long until the night fell. Every minute felt like hours, until the sun set. The sky was still striped with pink when Ed started packing up his stuff for the night.

“Everything ok, Ed?” Heinkel huffed. “You look like you’re waiting on something.”

“I’m just tired.” Ed made a show of a big yawn.

“Well, with the way you and that Prince of yours keep wandering off, it’s no wonder you’re not getting any sleep.” Darius said it smoothly, not even looking at Ed. But the way Heinkel grinned, Ed knew it was a purposeful dig.

“It’s Greed in that body, not Ling. Or haven’t you heard.” No one pointed out he hadn’t denied the ‘your’ part of the assertion. It didn’t matter. They were only teasing him.

And then the night was upon him. Heinkel and Darius set up to doze.

Ed headed to their usual spot. There was even a dip in the ground from where Ling crushed the grass.

And Ling was standing by the creek bed, bending the stems of flowers.

“You’re already out.” Ed was surprised. Usually Greed laid down and Ling switched over, already struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Sleep has been helping.” Ling plucked one of the ruined flowers and tossed it in the water. “I’m feeling less thin.”

“Glad I could help.” Ed looked down at his hand, and remembered the slide of silky black hair between his fingers. “Does that mean you won’t need to sleep for a while?”

Ling turned to look at him, a grin on his face. “Oh, let’s not get too hasty now, Ed. I can’t let myself get worn out again, can I? Can’t rule over Xing if I’m just one of thousands of souls in the Greed soup.”

Ed shuddered. “Never refer to it like that again.”

Ling laughed and it was such a different laugh from the one Greed tossed around that it caught Ed’s breath. “I’m still tired, but I’ve missed talking to… well, talking to anyone, really.”

Ed chuckled, but it was weak. “Gee, I’ve missed you, too.”

Ling’s smile faded. “Don’t misunderstand me. It couldn’t have been anyone but you. Thank you, Ed.”

The mood was too serious, and Ed had a feeling it was his fault somehow. “So, how long are you awake today?”

“Not much longer.” Ling hesitated, pulling the white ribbon from his hair. “In case you want to touch it again. You can, you know. I didn’t mind.”

Well, of course he knew about that. He probably had to put his hair back up in the morning. Ed wanted to die. His face felt like it would burn off. Or maybe melt. Whatever happened to a blush so deep it threatened to become permanent.

“I can, if you’d like. My mother used to do it for me when I had bad dreams.” Ed sat down beside the spot Ling slept in. This was where he’d gotten used to spending his nights.

“And what did baby Ed have to be afraid of?” Ling lay down, careful not to outright touch Ed, but facing him now. They were close. Ling already sounded tired.

“My father coming back. My father never coming back. My mother’s illness getting so bad she couldn’t be a mom any more.” Ed leaned back, staring up at the sky. A few stars began to twinkle out.

“My mom died when I was young too, you know.” Ling yawned. His hand slid across the grass, reaching up to rest on Ed’s thigh. “She told me I was the emperor’s son and three days later, a boy twice my age killed her in her sleep. She was in my room, sleeping for the night.”

Ed didn’t know what to say. His mother’s death had been traumatic. She’d died sick, and alone, leaving her sons with no one. But she hadn’t been murdered by someone trying to kill him.

“It’s ok. No one knows what to say. I’m sure you’re used to that, too.” Ling squeezed.

“She loved you.”

“Yes, and then she died.” Ling’s hand went limp on his leg.

Tonight when Ed told stories, they were of happier times. He told the sleeping Ling about his mother’s rice and eggs, and the way she’d make the sausages look like little creatures until the time Al cried because he didn’t want to kill the octopus sausage. He told him about the fight he and Al had over Winry, and how he’d been relieved Al won because Al always seemed so enamored with her.

Ling’s face remained impassive. And honestly, Ed didn’t know how this worked. Maybe Greed still heard everything he said. Maybe Ling heard it too. But oh well. Equivalent exchange meant Ed had to replace Ling’s bad memories with good ones. He only had his own to offer. And tonight, the ultimate shield didn’t return.

In the morning, Greed didn’t wake him up with taunting. The homunculus was gone, already rousing the chimeras. He’d left his jacket behind, draped over Ed.

“Hey kid.” Greed’s clawed hand grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t get too attached. Most souls don’t last too long.”

“Then let him go. He’s supposed to be your friend, right?”

Greed didn’t answer. The frown on Ling’s face was unpleasant. Unnatural on a face that smiled so much.

The day dragged on. Now that he had the possibility of talking with Ling again--someone who knew him, truly--he was practically bouncing with energy. Without any way to express it, it just came across as irritability.

Heinkel and Darius were both done with his impatience by the time the night fell. This night, they’d found an abandoned cabin to stay in. Ed felt abandoned was a strong word for “not currently occupied” but Greed had just shouted “abandoned!” again and broke the door down.

Which meant they didn’t have a door, but Ed was able to fix that.

It was harder now to find a way to be discreet about Ling taking time in the night to rest from being in the homunculus. There was only one room, and Heinkel and Darius both insisted on sleeping in the living room. “Just in case,” they’d said. Ed knew it was really that they were too big for the bed.

“Well, I guess it’s good I’m Greed, because I have no problem taking the only bed.” Greed laughed.

“I thought you didn’t need a bed.” Heinkel didn’t look up from his book.

“Not everyone uses beds for sleeping, buddy.”

Heinkel still didn’t look up, but now he was reading the book with wide eyes and a tight grip.

“I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re saying, but you better fucking unsay it,” Ed hissed, and Greed only shrugged, laughed, and headed into the room. Ed shouted after him, “You better unsay it you dirty fucking homunculus!”

But the room was silent. Heinkel raised an eyebrow. “Don’t worry Ed, we know you two haven’t actually… you know.”

“Yeah. I mean, we are chimera. We’d know.” Darius was scrounging around in the pantry, dragging out every can of food he could find. “He’s just fucking around.”

Ed wanted to die. Again.

“I’m still going to go kick his ass.” Ed stomped back to the room and slammed the door shut. He may have overdone it. A few dirt clods fell from the ceiling. Maybe he really should just kick Greed’s ass.

He turned to do exactly that and found Ling, sitting on the bed with his legs criss crossed, grinning. “I told him that would rile you up. You’ve been worried about it since you started disappearing into the woods with me every night.”

“I mean, Greed doesn’t help.”

“You think he’s bad out there, imagine living with him up here.” Ling tapped his forehead.

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s not so bad. Most of the time he’s pretty good company. Like a little brother or something.” Ling smiled again but it was strained.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Aren’t you tired?” Ling gestured to the bed. “I could take a turn. Let you sleep for a while first.”

“You’re sleeping so you don’t disappear into a sea of souls.”

“And you’re resting to preserve Al’s body and so you don’t, you know, die.”

“People don’t die from not sleeping, Ling.” Which wasn’t true, he knew. And Ling knew. But he’d been chosen for this job, not the other way around. “Go to sleep. I’ll keep you safe out here.”

The words had slipped out, without Ed really thinking about them. He paled, and hoped Ling didn’t really catch it. The room had a single chair. Ed flopped down in it and crossed his arms, looking sideways at Ling.

The grin on Ling’s face let him know he’d been heard. “Oh, Ed. I didn’t know you cared so much.”

“Sure. That’s why you asked me to do this.” Ed looked at his lap, considering how he’d possibly make it out of this room.

“I asked you to do this because I trust you.” Ling leaned forward, stretching his arm across the bed. He stretched out his hand in offering. “Because I knew you’d understand.”

Ed accepted Ling’s hand. He sat on the bed, and Ling arranged himself around Ed’s lap. It was the closest they’d slept. Ling’s face buried in Ed’s thigh, his arms wrapped strongly around Ed’s calf. Before Ed could ask if this was really how he wanted to sleep, Ling was out.

Ed wanted to tell Ling stories, but the truth was, he was tired. It was all he could do just to keep his eyes open while he pulled his fingers through Ling’s hair. And then, at some point, he just wasn’t awake any more.

Heinkel and Darius were not quiet with their laughter in the morning.

[shinidamachu]

The One With The Fantasy Type Thing

Summary: InuYasha reveals one of his sex fantasies to Kagome. What, oh what will happen next? Post-canon.

Word Count: 2.513  Genre: smut  Fandom: InuYasha  Pairing: Inukag  Format: oneshot  AO3 Link: 🌹  Fanfic.Net Link: 🌹

With a final moan, the priestess collapsed on her husband’s naked torso.

As she rolled over to lay on the futon beside him — their shivering bodies still struggling to recover from the high — only one thought lingered through the bay of bliss that was her mind.

He was getting too good at this for his own good.

InuYasha pulled her closer to his unsteady chest, right arm embracing her while the left pillowed his head.

The sheer reality of these moments, when she felt like flying — as frequently as they happened in their newly-married life — never ceased to leave her wonderstruck. Although they hadn’t been strangers to this kind of intimacy for a while now, she knew there were still a long way to go.

Fortunately, overcoming the hanyou’s intimacy issues little by little had proven to be quite an enjoyable path — one Kagome was more than content to cross.

For his turn, InuYasha had improved considerably. He had dedicated his nights to memorize her body — every ticklish spot found by his lips, every curve his fingers brushed or sensitive place his tongue discovered — and if the claws slowly caressing up and down her back was any indication, her husband was an eager, fast learner.

Nevertheless, Kagome could tell he was still restraining himself, which she was determined to end.

The only problem was how.

She had came up with some ideas, but the very thought of actually vocalizing them to InuYasha caused a turmoil of butterflies in her stomach.

Realizing if she didn’t ask now, she may never do it, Kagome looked up at him. If it wasn’t for his light touch — still doing unspeakable things to her skin — and the silly smile on his lips, she might have thought he was sleeping.

“InuYasha?” He opened an eye, ears twitching curiously. There was no turning back now.

“Yeah?” His timbre was charged with a hoarseness that always put the wildest thoughts on her mind. Bravely refusing to be distracted from her goal, the priestess cleared her throat.

“Do you have any fun…” She paused, her gaze falling to his chest, where she started drawing invisible patterns with her fingers. “You know…” Kagome shut her eyes close, heat burning her cheeks. “Fantasy type things?” The hand petting her back stopped.

“Fantasy type… Whatcha mean?” Her eyes met his, two questioning pools of gold.

Gathering all the boldness she still had left, Kagome inhaled heavily.

“W-well, some people find... appealing… To have their partners doing something unusual or wearing a certain kind of cloth, you know... in a sexual way.” She fought the urgency to sink her face on his neck as realization hit him. “I was wondering… do you have any?”

“Keh!” InuYasha turned his face away, but Kagome didn’t miss the hint of red that surfaced. Her eyes widened.

“You do, don’t you?” She asked, unable to hide her excitement. “What is it?”

“Just drop it already and go to sleep.”

“You know what?” The priestess threw him a wicked smile and moved up so her lips could whisper to the fluffy pair of appendages on the top of his head. “If you tell me, I might do it.”

InuYasha gulped.

“You can’t.”

“Of course I do.”

“No, you can’t.” He hesitated. The crepitating fire on the pit the only sound that could be heard before a heavy breath fill the air. “It’s… that strange kimono you used to wear… with the green skirt and all that.”

Kagome blinked. Maybe her judgement was biased by the endless, slightly boring school years, but she could not think of anything less sexy. Nonetheless, for a reason she couldn’t fully understand, the miko was delighted by his confession.

“My school uniform? Really?”

“It’s just… so you.” He explained with a simple shrug, his gaze lost in a time long past, contemplating scenes she could not see. “And back then we weren’t… I couldn’t…” Knowing exactly what he meant, Kagome repressed a few giggle as InuYasha awkwardly fought with the words. He smiled back. “Let’s just say I was trying really hard to keep my hands off you and those stupid clothes didn’t make it any easier.” She chuckled. “But now that I can touch you...” Her husband leisurely ran his hand through her waist line. “I just thought it would be nice to rip them off myself.”

“I suppose that’s fair.”

“Yeah, well, they’re gone now so there’s no point on goin’ on about it. Get some rest.”

Kagome wouldn’t argue with that. She got what she wanted, after all.

With a pleased smile, she nodded and doze off in the warmth of his arms.

It was like traveling back in time.

Old memories insisted on flashing through her mind as she stood in a improvised version of her school uniform, but nostalgia would just have to wait.

She had bigger plans that night.

“Oi, Kagome, ‘s everything alright? You’ve been there for a while.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I’ll be right with you!” She shouted, making the last adjustments on the outfit and gripping to her recent found boldness before it could wear thin.

“What’s with all the secrecy lately? I know you’re…” InuYasha froze as she walked into the room and Kagome felt her body burn under his wide gaze, hungrily wandering through every inch of her. “Up to something.”

The miko smiled widely to her captivated husband.

This was gonna be fun.

“The fabrics are a bit different but I think I got the colors right. It was the best I could come up with, given the circumstances.” Kagome spinned around in deliberate slowness, intending to give him an eye full of her past weeks work. “So… what do you think?”

“I-I… You look…”

She crossed the remaining distance to the futon, where InuYasha sat still — legs crossed, hands tossed inside his sleeves — and joined him.

“I hope you’re getting somewhere good with these sentences.”

Rather than answering with words, InuYasha forcefully pulled her to his lap, lips crushing on hers with such passion it almost knocked her over. Smiling at his enthusiasm, Kagome kissed him back just as devoting, already working on stripping his suikan off.

InuYasha used the arm wrapped around her waist to press her tightly against him while his hand grabbed a fistul of her hair, the contact of his claws with her scalp rising goosebumps all over her skin. Between heated kisses and heavy breaths, his kosode was the next thing to go.

Kagome let her hands wander through every piece of his toned form, only stopping on his chest to roughly lie him flat on his back.

A low growl vibrated through his throat, eyes fixated on her every move. Something about it spoke straight to the crescent source of heat on her wet flesh.

Unable to help herself, Kagome joined their lips again — in a more teasing pace this time — curious to see how long it would take before he lost control. His mouth was known territory, one her tongue explored with the same fervor of the first time, making sparks blast whenever it met his.

InuYasha stayed hostage to her kiss, muscles involuntarily stiffening under her touch and hands greedly caressing all the way from her tigh to her ass in response. Feeling encouraged, Kagome grinded against his aggravating erection, earning a moan from the hanyou.

Out of habit, she broke the kiss and reached for the hem of her shirt, only for InuYasha to grip her wrist before she could go any further.

“Watcha doing?” A fang popped out of his smirk, then he whispered. “Leave ‘em on.”

Never, during the entirety of their marriage, had InuYasha declined an opportunity to stare at her breasts. Kagome laughed softly. He must be really into this.

As if to confirm her thoughts, her husband flipped them over, their positions inverting. Adjusting his body on the top of hers, InuYasha slided a hand up her inner tigh, looking at her in confusion when no obstacle separated him from his goal.

“I remember way more fabric than this.”

“Call it an improvement.”

An approving groan was the only reply as he lifted her left leg to leave a trail of kisses up its length, his eyes never leaving hers. Kagome relished on the unbelievable sensations his assaults evoked from hers when a droll thought occurred to her.

“W-wait a minute, you weren’t s-supposed to know thaaaahhh-”

She never got the chance to finish.

InuYasha dove inside her skirt, devouring her whole. His appetite only seemed to increase as she panted uncontrollably. It was too bad her view was blocked by the green fabric. Kagome liked to see his silver locks cascading around his shoulders, sticking in sweat while he licked her there.

Very often, when pleasure was too great to handle, she used to tangle her fingers on his hair to keep herself from floating away, or even rub his ears in retaliation. Since these options were now impractical, she settled for gripping the sheets, so hard she almost nailed her palm through its thin texture.

He spread her legs even wider, attacking her with renewed voracity, reaching places he couldn’t before. Kagome moaned shamelessly. Her whole world came down to his tongue. Searching. Sucking. Starting up a wildfire deep into her folds.

On its own accord, her hips started rocking against his mouth, desperate for more. InuYasha anchored her down, much rougher than the usual. She paid no mind, as long as he didn’t dare to stop.

And he didn’t.

Not until she arched her back and screamed his name, her vision going blank for a second. Then there were just pleasure. Intense, breathtaking pleasure — her trembling body finally relaxing the accumulated tension.

Once he emerged, InuYasha cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand, still looking at her like she was prey he had just cornered.

“Always wanted to do that.” His smile contained a boyish pride and the unspoken promise that the best was yet to come.

“We’ve done that before.” She teased, still a little dizzy from the most powerful orgasm she had ever experienced while he got rid of his hakama. The sight alone was more than enough to inflate her libido once again.

“Not while you were dressed on these.” InuYasha raised her skirt even more, fitting himself between her legs. Kagome kept them open, willing to let him do to her whatever he damn pleased. Leaning down to her ear, he whispered soft and clear, causing shivers to overtake her. “Imma fuck you the way I wanted back then.” Eyes shut and lips parted, a whimper forced its way out. “And I wanted so bad, Kagome.”

“Show me how much.” Kagome could feel every hardened inch of him, teasing her just where she so desperately needed him to be. It was driving her crazy. Before she could do anything about it, his lips caught hers with the same urgency.

There was no tenderness, no patience in the kiss. Solely irrepressible desire, her own taste in her mouth and a delicious friction whenever he moved.

Kagome kept her hands busy with his hair and biceps, enjoying all the little sounds he emitted. His hand traveled under her shirt, grazing lightly all the way up to her left breast. A few strong squeezes later, her nipples could cut glass — the feathery, circular motion of his claws on the delicate area made sure of that.

Never had he handled her that carefree.

As much as she enjoyed just how gentle her husband could be, nothing could match this new found savage side. His warmth was addictive, his weight comfortable. Nothing held him except her embrace, encouraging him to be unapologetically himself.

Breaking the kiss too soon, he left her heaving. The way his jaw clenched told her he was done fooling around. Anticipation engulfed her every thought, but before she could lose her mind, InuYasha gave her what she craved.

He slammed into her with an animalistic grunt. A gasp was the only reaction she had time to articulate. Kagome had no chance to adjust to the intrusion as InuYasha continued to pound inside her frantically.

“Kagome…”

His lips fell to her collarbone, kissing wherever her shirt left exposed then moving to her neck, sucking it slow while fucking her hard. There was no doubt she would wake up covered in bruises the next morning.

And it was so worth it.

The more she scratched his back and wailed broken syllables, the faster he thrusted, attaining a rhythm regular humans could only dream of. It was useless trying to meet his movements, but she tried anyway, her insides easing him in, still slick from their previous activities.

“That’s watcha get for showin’ off these damn legs of yours all the time…” His words carried a dangerous tone that made her bite her lips. Anything she managed to say would come out in a scream. “Wrapping ‘em around my waist… Had n-no idea what it did to me.”

He pulled out. Kagome was ready to complain when he threw said legs over each shoulder, grabbing her ass and lifting her for leverage, resuming his ramming from a new, deeper angle. Gravity made its job, pushing her skirt further down, while her breasts bounced with the force he was putting.

Not only could she see stars, but reach out and touch them. Her walls clenched around him and her moans grew louder. InuYasha never diminished his pace. Instead, he searched for her clit, caressing with the pad of his finger until she couldn’t take it anymore.

He followed her shortly after, a powerful roar marking the arrival of his climax.

InuYasha released his grip on her body, letting her fall gently on the futon — a quivering, sweaty mess. It felt like she had turned into jelly from the waist down.

Not at all a bad sensation.

“That was...” She said to his shaking form when the ability to talk finally returned.

“I know.” InuYasha smiled, not trying for a second to hide his cockness while laying beside her, his eyes already closing. Kagome smiled as well.

“You didn’t ruin the clothes.” The fact that the soaked outfit had survived was truly a miracle. The one bra she brought the day she returned to this era never stood a chance.

“I was going to… But I figured if I didn’t you could…” His voice lowered a bit in hesitation. “Wear them again.”

“Absolutely!”

His face lighted up and he looked at her, lazily holding his chin on his hand.

“So… what is yours?”

“Mine what?”

“Fantasy thing.”

“Oh!” Kagome laughed nervously. “I don’t wanna say.”

“What? Why the hell not? I told you mine!”

“Yeah, I’m sure you regret it now. Poor thing.” Her thumb caressed his cheek and she captured his lips in a chaste kiss.

“You know...” He started when she nestled in his arms, too tired to undress. “If you tell me, maybe I’ll do it.”

A/N: if the title didn’t give me away already: YES, I stole this from Friends.

Oh, and for the record: InuYasha is not gross, ok? The whole school uniform kink it’s because he associates the clothes with Kagome, not school girls in general. I feel the need to make that VERY clear.

Also, I was going to proofread this but... out of nowhere... I just didn’t, sorry.

Most importantly: this one is for @keichanz. ALL HAIL THE SMUT QUEEN!

YOU CAN READ PART II HERE!

[delennsatai]

DMC Gen Week: day 2

Paradise Regained

Summary: 15-year-old Vergil finally finds out who he really is--and that he has a twin brother out there somewhere. Features a flashback to his childhood with Dante.

Part of @dmcgenweek Day 2 Prompt: Hug/Competition

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20025409

Autumn leaves skittered past his feet like tumbleweeds and the jacket of his school uniform didn’t do much to keep out the chill of October’s relentless wind. The cold couldn’t stop him, though, not today. He’d been distracted all day, barely able to focus on classes over the anticipation buzzing in his mind. He felt wired, wide awake but far away. The nagging feeling that he’d forgotten the most important thing he’d ever known had plagued him for eight years, ever since he woke up to parents who solemnly told him he’d been in an accident and suffered near-total amnesia. “Vergil? You don’t remember us, do you? It’s all right. We’re just grateful you survived.” He knew there was more to it, though he couldn’t have articulated what made him so certain. He just…knew.

Fortunately, his parents rarely cared what he did after school as long as he got his homework done and remembered to eat something. So today was the day he’d learn the truth. An invisible string—maybe it was destiny, he thought—yanked him through the gate and down the street with an alacrity that was a far cry from his usual measured pace. Someone called his name as he passed, but he pretended not to hear them. The bullies left him alone now, after he’d finally lost his temper and nearly crushed their leader’s windpipe against a locker (no one believed the story afterward—"you mean creepy Vergil, the one who carries his laptop everywhere to avoid talking to people? you’re kidding, right?”) but that didn’t really fill him with confidence in his classmates’ goodwill. Someone always wanted what he had, wanted to show him they were better, wanted to put him in his place.

Maybe after today he’d know what his place was supposed to be.

It had taken over a year of dogged (mostly illegal) research, false leads, and sketchy late-night meetings that took him through all the bad parts of town, but he’d finally tracked down an address. He wasn’t even sure exactly what it meant. He just knew that once he dug deeply enough, there was no record of a boy named Vergil—or any child at all—being born to Mr. and Mrs. Sheffield, and the only clue he could find to his real heritage was an abandoned, condemned building on the outskirts of Limbo City.

Rounding a corner, he saw it: a long driveway leading through a tall, wrought-iron gate. Atop the gate, the word “PARADISE” beckoned. He scoffed, a brief chuckle of disbelief, but he couldn’t completely disdain it. It was too familiar, somehow.

He all but ran the last few yards before grasping the padlock holding the gate closed and yanking hard, smiling in satisfaction as it came apart in his hand. No one had ever been able to explain to him why he was so much stronger and faster than other boys his age, and after a few…incidents, he stopped demonstrating it in front of people. He hoped his parents would just forget, or assume it had gone away somehow. They never mentioned it again, anyway, and he gladly kept that particular silence.

He pushed the gate open and surveyed the estate with questing eyes. It was larger than where he lived now and surely used to be almost palatial in its grandeur. Now, it looked like a tornado had ripped through it while a fire raged across the ruined gardens and grounds. What the hell happened here?

The front door wasn’t locked. He opened it into a long corridor, letting the crisp wind in to blow dust up in little clouds at his feet. He paused when he reached the grand hall, with its sweeping double staircase and massive crystal chandelier. Well, he thought, if this really is where I used to live, my real family is absolutely loaded.

But where were they? What happened to them?

He pulled the little blue amulet that hung around his neck out from under his shirt and ran his fingers over it thoughtfully. His parents(?) claimed it had been a birthday gift from them years ago, but that never felt right. Looking at it made him feel alone. Lonely, even. But he wore it all the time, hoping it would one day remind him of whatever he’d forgotten that was so crucial.

The longer he walked through the mansion’s halls, hushed as death, the more he remembered it, like a hazy dream. He knew that through this door he’d find the kitchen, and he knew before he saw it that it would be almost drab by comparison to the rest of this place. Servants did the cooking. He almost thought he could hear their muted chatter for a moment, see their looks of faux disapproval as the two boys swiped cookies and ran off, giggling. “My cookie’s bigger!” “No it isn’t, mine is!” “Well, mine has more chocolate chips!”

Wait…two boys?

He had to see more. Some of the stairs were broken, but he made his way up to the second floor and followed his instincts to a tall, elegant room lined with bookshelves. The décor throughout the mansion was odd in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Macabre, maybe. It felt right, though, and this room gave him a gut-hollowing feeling of awe that threatened to drown him in its wave of nostalgia. A portrait hung in the center of one wall. The man in the painting looked like some kind of knight, with sword and shield; but his face was obscured, obliterated in an obviously deliberate attack on its canvas. Vergil felt like the knight was staring down at him from an impossibly huge height, one he could never hope to reach. The nameplate underneath said “Sparda.”

He felt a warmth pulsing at his chest. …the amulet? He lifted it, and sure enough, it was warm to the touch—and glowing with a faint blue light. This is it. Something’s about to happen. I’ve never been more ready.

***

“Giving up, Vergil?”

“N…no!” It wasn’t fair, he thought, forcing himself to keep going even though his arm ached, and Dante was clearly winning. Dante always won. Dante was stronger and he could practice for longer without getting tired. They were twins, they were supposed to be the same! He’d have to keep practicing until he was just as strong and tough.

“Okay, but I’m not going easy on you!” Dante laughed and Vergil was forced to back away from his brother’s endless advance. They crisscrossed the room, still clashing madly with their wooden swords. Vergil didn’t want to lose again. He wanted to prove to Father he was as good with swords as Dante was. Maybe he’d give the twins real swords, then.

“Ha!” Dante brought his weapon down with both hands. Vergil tried to parry it, but his strength gave out and Dante’s sword thumped him hard in the chest. He fell, eyes widening as the impact with the floor knocked the wind out of him.

“I win again!” Dante shouted, but he paused when he saw Vergil gasping for breath instead of getting up. “Hey, are you okay?”

Vergil felt warm tears start to well up in his eyes. He desperately tried to blink them back. He couldn’t cry in front of Dante! His brother reached down to help him up, but once on his feet he wobbled, hunched over trying to get his lungs working right again.

“Whoa…” Dante stared with a stupid, owlish look on his face. Vergil might have laughed if he could breathe without wheezing. But after a moment, the dark-haired boy dropped his wooden sword and came over to put an arm around his twin’s shoulders, helping him onto the bed and sitting with him. Vergil couldn’t help it, then; a rogue tear escaped, sliding down his face like a traitor.

“Don’t worry, Vergil, you’re gonna be fine,” Dante said, wrapping his arms around his brother the way their mother always did when they were hurt or upset, patting him awkwardly on the back before letting go. As Vergil’s breathing evened out, he added, “I guess I’m so good at swords it took your breath away!”

Vergil almost choked again as he suddenly burst into giggles, hastily wiping his face. “Nuh uh,” he said, “next time I’ll win.”

“Bet you a cookie you’re wrong.”

“You don’t even have a cookie.” Vergil slid down from the bed. “Race you to the kitchen!” He took off before Dante even had a chance to say anything, leaving his brother to shout “Hey!” and scramble to catch up.

***

Vergil gasped, feeling a strange pressure at his back as the memory faded, along with a clear but fleeting impression of a place with a green sky and a red tree, an impossibly warped cityscape. He struggled to quickly drop his backpack, and as it fell, a flash of white-blue light surrounded him. It was gone in a blink, but in its place, he found he was holding a long, slim katana sheathed in a plain black scabbard.

Dante…I have a twin brother. I remember him. And this…

With an air of reverence, he held the sheath in his left hand and slowly pulled the blade out with his right. It gleamed in the fading autumn light. He thought he could hear a voice whisper its name: “Yamato.” And, “This sword is yours, Vergil. It’s a part of you now.”

He slashed experimentally, feeling more than hearing a sonorous hum as the blade seemed to cut right through the air itself, sharper than the sharpest razor. He glanced around the room at bookshelf upon bookshelf of old-fashioned volumes with crumbling leather spines. The rest of the answers were here, he was sure of it. He’d have to explore the house, try to remember more…but first, he wanted to know about Sparda. My father, he mentally corrected himself. His real father. And a brother he’d lost, and a mother he couldn’t quite recall. His eyes roamed the shelves eagerly as he began his self-education in demonology and the legend of the nephilim.

Hours later, when the sun had set and he was reduced to reading by the light of his cell phone, his stomach reminded him with a surly grumble that he hadn’t eaten dinner and his parents…no, the Sheffields…were probably wondering where he was. He’d have to come back tomorrow. He carefully stashed the sword—Yamato—and a few books in his backpack, feeling like the whole world had opened up to him all at once in a rush of fresh air and possibilities.

Later, he’d remember the coppery stench of blood and the sound of Sparda calling his sons’ names in a desperate hiss; the hellish snarling of demons sniffing for Vergil up and down the house as he cowered in a closet holding his breath. He’d return to the lost city in his soul’s dreams and slay monsters until he felt power bubbling up from within him like a geyser. He’d teach himself how to find and open rifts into Limbo, and explore the demonic realm with a curiosity bordering on obsession. He’d endure nightmares he couldn’t explain to his foster family even when he woke up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, and eventually, he’d leave that house without a word and never go back.

But for now, all he could think about was returning to Paradise, and about how one day, he’d bring his twin brother there, too.

[kirastrations]

Loved the Way You Hated (me)

"I'm perfect for a killing game, I don't have any faith in humanity!"

Hair the colour of buttermilk swirls framed a face devoid of pigment, lavender eyes clouded over with a mist of hollow nothingness, with a smile that screamed "I want to win."

Tsumugi Shirogane had been instantly sold.

~Tsumugi reflects on her actions, and finds herself pondering over what could have been.

My piece for the @danganevents Valentines event, for @mastermind-madd ^^ Doubling it as a piece for @femslashfeb.

Read on ao3

Read on fanfic.net

The moment Tsumugi is alone with her thoughts, it hits her like a ton of bricks.

Or a box of shot-put balls, to be more precise.

She trudges through the dimly lit academy, drinking in her surroundings through eyes the colour of gravel and monotony, an arrow of doubt pierces her (one of those arrows from Maki's soon-to-be-revealed lab, for sure). Doubt at her existence. Doubt at the journey she'd made to get this far. Had it been worth it in the end?

Conflicting emotions blanket her core, not unlike a corrupted, malicious and double-dealing piece of fabric. Each thread is twisted and tangled, with no plans on loosening any time soon. Buttons of hope sew their way into the ground beneath her feet, and no matter how large and terrifying the darkness seems to be, they don't fall out. They endure each movement, each twist in the road, and it's beyond the cosplayer how it all works. Another voice tells her that hope is just a petty illusion, one that is unreachable and only attainable through fictional mediums. Hope fools the mind and defies all logic, logic which is hurled at one like a bullet from a gun.

Such is doubt.

What even is hope?

Tsumugi... doesn't think she really knows anymore.

Had she ever known to begin with?

Either way, she had been hoping to learn. Hoping that she'd be the one to show her, a final lesson to twist the final nail in a coffin that awaits the seamstress a mere five trials away.

Back to the present, Tsumugi finds herself walking, walking, walking. Where to? She doesn't know, but that's a lie.

Her head snaps up as a second figure comes into view. And the mask drizzles back down her face like a sickly sweet honey.

It's Shuichi Saihara, because of course it is.

As they cross paths, he doesn't bother meeting her eyes, choosing to remain hidden beneath the shadow of his hat. He doesn't even see her. A chill runs down her spine, and a fleeting he hates me so much dances across her mind.

He's so pathetic, says Tsumugi to Tsumugi.

Tsumugi purses her lips. She wants to agree, but knows she can't. She can't now.

She reaches her destination, plainly patterned shoes squeaking to a halt outside the not-so-plainly decorated door. Kaede's lab had been the easiest one to design, after all - there had been an 'Ultimate Composer' the season prior, so all it had really needed was a little bit of dusting down.

Sighing, Tsumugi slips into the leather stool, sliding up the piano's hood. She had no intention of playing it, of course - she'd damage her nails - and her characterisation, she supposes.

A hand ghosts the untouched Monokuma-coloured keys. Freshly-painted teal nails glint back at her, almost mockingly, as if to say you did this.

Kaede... such potentional for a protagonist. Closing her eyes, Tsumugi remembers the grovelling she'd had to do to get her the part. The strings she'd had to pull. The paycheck she'd willingly given up. The lows she had stooped to in the initial writing process. They'd eventually managed to persuade her to "Go back to basics, give the viewers a nostalgic kick up the rump!" And she had begrudgingly complied.

Danganronpa wouldn't be Danganronpa without that one shy-boy who could grow— Not too bad, she could fit that in alright. There'd always be that one student who can barely remember their own name— No biggie, Rantaro would be the best decision for that plotline. Oh, and of course, who in their right mind would be against a spicy romance plot— Astronaut and Assassin, perhaps? Typical normie suggestion, but it's not like she could say no at this stage. Fanservice is a must— Fine, fine, Iruma and Ouma could slot in there nicely. Case Three's gotta be a double whammy with a crazy twist, just like the old days— Eh, wouldn't be too hard, she supposes.

Oh, how naive she had been!

Tsumugi Shirogane had signed her livelihood, her dignity, her life off, for a single chance to see a girl take centre stage for once...

... Only to have her fucking die before the second arc had even started.

Tsumugi's eyes flutter shut. Oh, how fun she'd have been so fun to work with. To get to know. To see the absolute utter despair in her eyes when Tsumugi would finally finally tear off her bespectacled mask, and stab her puppet where it'd hurt most. The heart. Kaede would feel the knife before she'd lay her eyes on it. She'd be forced to look into the eyes of it's wielder, just two stands down from her. And Tsumugi would finally see it. Those eyes that had once been filled with determination and purpose, would be brimming with bitterness and absolute hate.

But even so, Kaede would have changed it all. She'd have changed the course of Danganronpa history. She'd have found some roundabout way of beating the tradition. She'd have rewritten the fiction that she'd confidently stated as loving so much all those months back.

A tiniest fragment within Tsumugi's jaded heart had believed, no, hoped that Kaede Akamatsu would have reignited the firey passion Tsumugi had had for Danganronpa all those years ago when she'd first joined the Team.

“I'm perfect for a killing game, I don't have any faith in humanity!"

Hair the colour of buttermilk swirls framed a face devoid of pigment, lavender eyes clouded over with a mist of hollow nothingness, with a smile that screamed "I want to win."

Tsumugi Shirogane had been instantly sold.

The audition tape plays in the cosplayer's mind on a loop, like a broken CD from the dead pianist's lab. Her stomach bubbles and pops with a feeling she can't quite place a finger on.

Despair, perhaps?

Ah yes, it was probably despair. Tsumugi has a sudden urge to race to the bathroom to relieve herself of the feeling. To dance into her special little room, throw on that blonde wig, and cackle and cry till her emotions run dry.

She'd succeeded, she'd failed, she'd succeeded, she'd failed. She'd finally, finally succeeded in channelling her inner-Junko, something she'd longed to achieve ever since she'd been a little girl, the moment her once-innocent eyes had been tainted with the fashionista's reveal and ultimate demise. But she'd also failed, she supposes.

All of her hard work, all of her endless efforts, all of her hopes to change Danganronpa into something other than what it's been for the past few decades. All of it currently lay crushed beneath a huge grand piano, painted red with blood, and stained pink with deceit.

It's so despairingly delightful.

Tsumugi bites back a shuddering sigh as the memories come flooding back. She chuckles, quietly reminding herself that someone else already has that character this time around.

Actually, speaking of...

Korekiyo. He'd been onto her both before and during the trial. Tsumugi's fists ball into her skirts. He (and Angie, much to her surprise) had been the only two to get remotely close to the 'true truth'.

She refuses be outed by mere side characters, of all people. They'd both have to go, and soon. Tsumugi makes a mental note to make the artist more appealing to 'Miss Shinguuji's' tastes further down the line.

Yeah, yeah, that should work.

Tsumugi absolutely adores the characters that are a threat, she always had done. It was only natural for her to want a whole cast full of them! It's why competent characters such as Korekiyo and Kirumi exist. It's why unpredictable characters such as Kokichi and Angie exist. It's why threats to her very existence, such as Rantaro and Kaede existed.

She loves them.

She loves their hatred.

Another sigh spills from the cosplayer's lips. The classroom is as dead as the night outside, as dead as it's owner, and the man she didn't kill.

And then, it's all empty again.

Tsumugi's empty.

She's empty.

The emptiness... is always there, but Tsumugi is a professional, she's great at hiding it, masking it with normal human emotions. No one is going to ask her why she's smiling. And in a Killing Game, no one will ask her why she's crying either. The emptiness hides everywhere, this emptiness, it floats around in hive-minded swarms, it hides between the cracks in walls. There isn't any getting away from it. The nightmares of her classmates seem to help fill it, the contents of which is mostly irrelevant. The feeling gets lighter with each corpse added to the growing pile of her former peers. Yes... that's it... Something has to go to shit, something has to be imperfect for her world to keep on spinning.

Something tragic. Imperfect. Exciting. Despair-inducing. Unplain. Or else there's no meaning to the killing game. No meaning to life. No meaning to her.

And so, in the midst of the emptiness, Tsumugi Shirogane grieves. There are no waterworks, no theatrics, no speeches of hope and friendship to pick her up off her feet.

Just an the familiar pit of emptiness Tsumugi thought would be quenched with a new kind of killing game.

No such luck.

Tsumugi grieves the loss of her precious new killing game, and with it, the loss of Kaede Akamatsu, the Ultimate Pianist.

She grieves the loss of the most treasured puppet in her collection.

In the world of Danganronpa, trusts are broken, and lies are told. For the puppets to believe in what they seek, they must know what it means to be what they don't want to be.

Being sad will make them realize how valuable being happy is.

Being weak makes them know what it means to be strong.

Being helpless is what makes them determined to be helpful. Mistakes happen tragedies occur, and then the process starts all over again.

But, by looking at the brighter sides of things, they might just be able to briefly smile one last time in life, and in the something just beyond that.

Tsumugi reapplies her makeup, sliding her glasses back up the bridge of her nose.

And she gets back to work, slipping into the classroom adjacent. Those Kubs Pads won't make themselves, after all.

The other puppets are eagerly waiting her arrival, whether they know it or not.

Whether she likes it or not.

[alittledizzy]

where the trees we planted grow rating: t word count: 2.3k Summary: Dan and Phil take a trip to Japan after the tour is over.  Notes: Written for my thirty minute fics for charity fundraiser to benefit PhandomGives. Special dedication: an early birthday present for Kamillester with lots of love, from D

[read on ao3]

Years ago, so many years ago that Dan was still a teenager and Phil still felt crushed under the weight of an uncertain future and his own inability to commit himself to doing what normal people are supposed to do when they finish uni, they spent the better part of a lazy spring day reading each other articles on Japan out loud and planning a holiday that seemed like a distant dream.

Phil remembers being stretched out on his bed with Dan, the both of them wearing only pants. He recalls how they’d pass the laptop back and forth when the bottom got too hot against their thighs, or when one of them had another flight of fancy they wanted to chase through a search engine. He remembers the lazy breaks for making out and how he’d watched videos on hot springs that showed fully naked people while Dan went to make them something for tea, and how he’d shown the videos to Dan when Dan got back, and how their food had grown cold while they worked each other up with a fantasy of hot rolling water and so much skin and endless possibility.

He stretches his legs out in front of him as far as they’ll go, listening to his knees pop. There’s a phantom ache to it that didn’t used to be there, from shoving his body into a too-small seat for hours and hours and hours.

“Hey,” Dan says, shifting beside him. There’s a divider between Dan’s seat and Phil’s, but only a half-partition. Phil wishes they could have gotten one of the ones that went all the way down, but he figures it’s probably best for sanitary conditions that most planes don’t allow for full body contact between two people on long haul flights. He doesn’t think he fancies imagining that someone fucked right where he sits.

He’ll have to tell that to Dan later, he thinks. For now he just looks over and meets Dan’s smile. “Hey.”

*

They leave their shoes in the lobby of the ryokan and trail being a polite woman who speaks fantastic English and doesn’t seem to judge Phil any of his stupid British questions.

Phil forgets it all almost immediately, and hopes that Dan remembers enough that they won’t embarrass themselves.

They drift apart once she’s gone, poking into different rooms. Phil’s had a lifetime of hotels in the past year, but everything about this feels less like a mandatory stopover and more like an experience.

“It’s got a control panel just like the last one,” Phil shouts out.

“Television in the mirror, though?” Dan shouts back. Phil taps his finger at the mirror. His reflection taps him back, but nothing else happens. “No,” he calls back.

He’s not that disappointed. The last one was impractical. You couldn’t even see it from the toilet.

“The view makes up for it,” Dan says. “Come look.”

 Dan’s already slid the glass door open and he’s standing on their small deck. There’s nothing but greenery all around, a fantastic garden laid out all around them.

Hakone is beautiful. They’d passed it up last time, too eager to plunge into the city and spend time with their friends, but this… this trip is just for them.

Phil looks down. “More sandals?”

Indoor slippers. Outdoor sandals.

“Yeah,” Dan says. His feet are slightly too long for the plastic ones he’s just put on. “There are wooden ones by the private bath, too.”

“Are they going to know if we don’t wear them all?” Phil asks.

Dan rolls his eyes. “Yes, Phil. I’m sure there’s a surcharge on the bill for going barefoot.”

“You don’t know,” Phil says. “There could be hidden cameras in the trees.”

He pauses and tries to imagine what they’d see if there were: him and Dan, standing with an arm’s width of space between them, staring out into the world.

*

Jetlag, the crispness of the air, the heat of the water, the sound of the birds around them.

Dan drifts off after just a few minutes, head tipped back against the ledge of the pool in an angle that looks uncomfortable. It makes his neck look very long. Everything about him looks long, the span of his arms from the tips of his fingers on one hand to the tips of his fingers on the other, where he’s got them draped along the side of the pool.

Phil stares his fill, because he’s allowed. He looks at Dan’s collarbones and the soft dark hair under his arms and the bruise on his bicep from trying to lift their bag over his head earlier, down and down to Dan’s nipples that are peaked hard in the air and his belly button with the water lapping just over it.

It’s been ten years and he’s not tired of that face. He’s not tired of that body. It doesn’t even occur to him that he might be until he hears someone express their awe.

Relationships last in Phil’s life. His mum and dad. His grandparents, all of them. What you forge together early in your life is built to endure.

They’re built to endure, Phil thinks.

He doesn’t need anyone else’s opinion to know it’s true.

*

Dinner is laid out on a table low to the ground.

Their chairs have no legs and Dan’s knees poke up knobby where he sits cross-legged. They’re too tall for the robes by a bit, but Phil’s at peace with knowing their attendant might get a cheeky flash of thigh or two.

“I never want to leave,” Dan says, tongue swiping out to catch a stray drop of miso soup.

“We could just stay,” Phil says. “That’d solve the problem.”

“Problem?” Dan asks. “Is it a problem now?”

“No,” Phil says. “Well, sort of. It’s a - thing. A thing we don’t know the answer to.”

Dan looks vaguely unhappy with that response, but he doesn’t argue. “Tomorrow, yeah? After we’ve slept?”

Phil’s not going to push it. Not when his belly is full and his heart is full and his body is so tired and he’s thinking of how soft the bed just one room away is. “Tomorrow,” he agrees.

*

But tomorrow brings sleep for half the day, and then a breakfast that’s much tastier than the descriptions might have looked on a menu, and then another long session in the private onsen.

“Seriously,” Dan says. He stretches out his legs so his toes poke up out of the water. “I could live here.”

“Bit pricey to live,” Phil says. “You might have to give up a jumper or two.”

Dan rolls his eyes. “You can’t just let me dream.”

Their knees knock together. The pool is small for two grown men, but proximity doesn’t particularly bother them.

Or does it?

It doesn’t right now, because nobody’s watching. There are no cameras in the trees. It’s just the two of them.

That’s what this entire trip is about - nobody watching. The videos are scheduled, the tweets are scheduled, the audience knows to level their expectations.

There’s nothing on their plates except each other and this conversation that they aren’t having yet.

*

On the third day they stand in a long line in the rain to get black sulfur eggs.

“Seven years,” Dan says.

“I’m going to have ten,” Phil says. “And I’ll live to be two hundred.”

“Seven times ten is seventy years,” Dan says. “Do you really think you’ll live to be one hundred and thirty without any help?”

“Yes,” Phil says immediately. “And you have to eat ten, too.”

“So you want me to be actually sick. That’s the memory you want me to take away from Mt. Fuji this time. How I was sick off black eggs.”

“No, I just want you to live as long as me,” Phil says.

They’re standing close together, crowded in by the throng of people all waiting for their eggs.

It’s so easy to slide his fingers into Dan’s.

Dan goes tense, but he looks at Phil with something sweet and surprised. “Really?”

Phil shrugs. No one is looking, he thinks.

But even if they are…

He’ll just call it a test run.

“Really,” Phil says.

He lets go as soon as they’re to the ordering window.

They each get one egg and stand by a long wooden table to eat them.

“Seven more years, yeah?” Dan holds his up,

Phil clinks the shell against his own. “Seven years.”

*

There’s a bottle of sake waiting to be cracked into.

“We could have sex?” Dan asks, but there’s a reason they haven’t yet. They’re both too distracted, too in their own heads.

But they only have two days left in Hakone. Then Tokyo, for friends and… maybe a celebration.

Maybe.

“Or we could talk,” Phil says.

Sex will come later. Once they’ve made up their minds.

“Fine, fine.” Dan sighs. He stands up, robe falling loosely on his body. Phil takes a moment to look. He’s gorgeous, really. He’s so gorgeous. “Bring the alcohol, though.”

*

“It won’t change anything,” is Dan’s opening bid.

“What do you mean?” Phil asks.

“We already get all the benefits, right? We live together. We’ve got shared investments. We’ve got a joint bank account. We’re committed.” Dan stares up. The stars are out now. “Why is a ceremony the end goal? Shouldn’t the life be the end goal? We’re going to have that no matter what.”

The pool around them is lit by flickering lanterns.

“It wouldn’t be the ‘end goal’ even if we did get married,” Phil argues. “The ceremony doesn’t mean anything. It’s just an acknowledgement of something we already know.”

“So you do want to?” Dan asks.

“I didn’t say that,” Phil says.

“Okay. Your turn, then,” Dan says.

“I think it would have benefits. We want-” Phil pauses. This is one of those things they know, but don’t say often. “We want kids, one day. It’ll be a easier to get them if we’re married.”

“Not really,” Dan says. “They can’t like, legally deny us. Married or not.”

“No, but. Explaining it people, you know.” Phil finds it hard to explain what he means, but they’ve had this conversation before. The weird tangled cloud of traditional morality Phil can’t quite untangle himself from feels oppressive sometimes and comforting others.

Dan just shrugs. “But does that mean we need to do anything now?” Dan asks. “I’m not ready for kids. I’ve barely scratched the surface figuring my own shit out.”

“I don’t want kids yet either,” Phil says.

“So does that put kids as a pro or a con on the list?” Dan might not agree with Phil but he does at least accept that some things come before others to Phil.

“I don’t know,” Phil admits. “But it feels like something that should factor in.”

“What about the other ‘kids?” Dan asks, doing air quotes. “The ones that we have raised from their youth to their now jaded twenties?”

“Those aren’t our kids. Not with the things they talk about us doing.” Phil shudders. “We could just not tell them?”

“You know how well that works,” Dan says. “People always find out. It would solve a different problem, though. No need to fuck with coming out if we just flash some matching rings.”

“If we were even going to come out,” Phil says.

Dan makes a face at him. It’s another point of contention, another source of indecision. They’re both prone to change their minds each time the wind blows in a different direction.

“My mum wants us to,” Phil says.

“My parents clearly didn’t think it was necessary to rush into,” Dan says, a slight grimace on his face.

“That’s a bad thing?” Phil asks.

Dan shrugs. “I don’t know. But maybe I would want us to be married before we have kids.”

“Fair enough,” Phil says. “We might get tax breaks.”

“We don’t need tax breaks,” Dan says. “But we’ll finally have an answer when people ask if we’re brothers...”

“Yes, and we’re also married?” Phil predicts.

“Exactly,” Dan says.

“No.”

“You’re no fun.”

“But you know what is fun? We’d get to plan a wedding,” Phil says. “And a reception menu! That’s like, second best to interior design. I watched a program last month where they served sliders made with donuts, and the cake was a big donut.”

“That sounds disgusting, and you watch far too much home and design related television,” Dan says. “But I could get a really swish suit out of it.”

“Designers might even put up for it,” Phil says. “Just no Yeezy down the aisle, please.”

“Only in the honeymoon suite?” Dan grins.

“My future self just lost his boner,” Phil says.

“My future self will help him get it back,” Dan promises.

Phil goes quiet for a long time, and looks at Dan. They’re at the same standstill they always come to. Their eyes lock and the moment goes on and on. Finally, Phil says: “It would be nice to be your husband.”

Dan lets out a noisy breath and smiles. His eyes look a little watery. He cries so easily. Phil loves that about him. “It would be really fucking nice.”

 *

They spend all of day four in bed and in the onsen, building up a sweat between the sheets and washing it off in the warmth of the water. (Figuratively, of course, because they're polite onsen visitors who wash off properly first in the tiny little wooden stalls that barely fit their bodies.)

It shouldn’t make a difference, Phil thinks. They weren’t lacking anything without it. Their commitment was still a commitment. The part that counts has always been there.

“You should tell people I proposed at Mt. Fuji,” Phil says.

Dan punches him in the arm. “I will fucking not. You don’t get proposal credit.”

“Oh, oh, wait, even better - we could tell them we did that thing where we both took rings and surprised each other!” Phil says, excited.

“I hate you,” Dan says. “Don’t know why I’m even marrying you.”

Phil grins so hard that his face hurts.

He thinks of himself, twenty three and barely able to grasp the concept of a life like this. He thinks of Dan, nineteen and convinced he’ll never have the things he wants. He thinks of all those hours they spent dreaming of a moment like this… and how much better the reality is.

[ghostbustermelanieking]

I know your captivity fix is meant to be a oneshot but oh my god please write a sequel

since a sequel was widely requested, i had to do it. they deserve some kind of a happy ending. (i accidentally posted this on the wrong anonymous message, so here it is again)

---

They took Scully away and brought her back shortly after, and put her, briefly, in Mulder's cell before separating them again. They take Mulder away and They don't bring him back. She should see it coming, but she doesn't.

There are smudgey handprints on the glass wall from all the times they'd pressed their palms together like they were reenacting a scene from Tarzan , and Scully wants to cry when she sees it. She's cried too often since they've been brought here, and she hates it, but it's too hard not to. When she sees the empty shell of Mulder's room and realizes They've taken him away from her, when she can still feel his hands along her back, his mouth under hers. She wants to scream, to curse, but she forces herself not to. She cries, briefly, into the palms of her hands, and that's all she allows herself. She wants to hurt their invisible captors, to scream at Them, to force them to bring Mulder back or to let them go, but she forces herself to wait. Splashes the grimy water from the sink on her face and composes herself.

She wants to get out of here, but the problem is that she has no idea how. The glass is unbreakable, there are no doors in her morbid little cell, and there are no captors to negotiate with. Or if there are, she has no idea who or what They are. She doesn't know where she goes when They take her; They always remove those memories, the same blank space she remembers from her own abduction. They've taken so much from her, and now They've taken Mulder. She wants to kill Them, wherever They are.

She hasn't done it since they've arrived, but she thinks it's worth a try as much as anything else. She paces every inch of the room, crawls over the floor, slides under the bed and reaches behind the toilet and sink, looking for anything she can use. She could take apart the toilet, of course, but who knows if they're watching her. And it's not like she can use it on people she can't see.

She finds nothing. She feels the disappointment in the pit of her chest: crushing. She doesn't know what the hell to do, but she has to do something , because it's Mulder, they took Mulder, and God knows what They're doing to him. She curls up in a ball in her usual spot, weak and exhausted from the effort, presses her face against her knees. She can feel the coldness of the glass through her ratty shirt. She'd thought waking up on the opposite sides of the glass again after being able to touch—even though she was sure she hadn't let go of him all night—was the worst. But this… this is the worst. Because he's gone and it's been hours and They haven't brought him back. And she is alone.

Scully rests her cheek against the glass, against a smudged, fading handprint. She tries to tell herself that it hasn't even been a day yet, that They might bring him back while she's asleep and it'll all be okay. They'll still be trapped here, but it'll be okay if they bring him back.

---

Days pass. Days pass, and They do not bring Mulder back.

Scully is almost sick, wondering what They've done to him, wondering if he's dead and she couldn't save him and she'll never see him again. She wants to scream, she wants to vomit, she's ready to beg. She presses herself against the edge of her cell and tries to see out, find anything that will help her. She sees nothing: an endless hallway with blank, gray walls. She takes apart the toilet to fashion something of a weapon that she can hide under her shirt, but she thinks that there is no chance that They haven't seen her doing this, that They aren't watching her through some kind of camera, and besides, she isn't sure when she'd ever get to use it. Even if they take her again, there's no guarantee that she will be able to fight back; she doesn't know what they do to her. She tries to break the wall with a pipe from the toilet, but it remains frustratingly shatterproof. She breaks down, screams out of pure frustration and fury because she knows that no one can hear her. Even Mulder never could because of that goddamn glass wall. She collapses to the ground because she's too weak, she needs medical attention and so does Mulder. She wipes cold tears from her cheeks, sitting with her back against the wall.

She gives up. Stares into the corner of the ceiling where she's almost positive that they have cameras and says, “What the hell do you want from us?” She says, “Where is he? What have you done to him?” She says, “I'll do whatever the hell it takes to get us out of here, just tell me what I have to do.” She says, “Just let me see him, please. I just have to know he's okay.” She says, “I will tear you bastards apart if you hurt him, I swear to God.” She's begging, but she doesn't break; she stares steelily into the potential camera with the strength she still has buried in her core. She barely knows what she is saying, but she knows she has to say it.

She misses Mulder. She'd give anything for him to be here, even on the other side of that goddamn wall where she can't hear or touch him. She'd wish to be able to touch him, but that seems like too much; she'd take the overly sweet gesture of his palm pressed against the glass. (Mulder was the first one to do that, and it was so eagerly sweet that she almost cried.)

She makes threats and bargains and pleas to the potential camera until she's too tired to do anything anymore. She slides down on her side, her cheek pressed to the shitty mattress. She watches Mulder's empty room, waiting for him to come back.

---

Weeks pass, she thinks. It has to be weeks, she is counting. They don't bring Mulder back.

Scully keeps her makeshift weapon, cold and grimy, tucked under her shirt and into the waistband of her pants, but she never gets a chance to get it. The food is awful but she eats it all, drinks the nasty sink water out of her cupped hands, because she needs every ounce of her strength. She washes as best she can out of the sink, she repeatedly braids her hair back because it's entirely too long to work with now and she can't stand it, she tries to exercise but stops herself before she pushes herself too far. She suddenly has a blank space in the day that she used to fill with trying to talk to Mulder, and she's trying to be productive. To be ready.

Mulder's room remains startinglingly empty. His bed, his bathroom, his empty floors and walls. The handprints are nearly gone, and it feels harshly appropriate. It gets to the point where Scully can barely look at it; she feels so alone, she can barely breathe.

She wonders who They were trying to torture when they took Mulder. She thinks that, no matter what their intentions, it has certainly worked. She wants to scream again, scream until her throat goes raw and noiseless.

She lies on the bed, facing the wall because there's no reason to do otherwise. She misses her home, her family, her freedom. She misses her partner. She rests her head against the unclear wall, still cold and unyielding against her forehead.

“I'll still do anything,” she says softly. “Just let me see him. I'll do whatever you want if I know he's okay.”

She doesn't know if They can hear her, if They are even listening. If They are, They say nothing. She wraps her arms and the thin blanket around her and curls up on the thin mattress, shuts her eyes.

---

It all happens in a blur, only chunks of the ordeal clear. Maybe their memory-wipers fucked up; she doesn't know.

She's being pulled or pushed down the hall by invisible hands, invisible captors. She's calling his name, nearly screaming it. She's shouting, “What the fuck have you done to him?” Hunger and weariness and desperation has made her near insane; she's clawing at hands that aren't there, demanding that They let go of her. She says she wants to see Mulder, where's Mulder, They're fucking bastards and They better not have hurt him. And then she hears her voice, muffled and uncertain, calling her name.

That's all she remembers. That's all she knows. But in the senseless haze that follows, in the murky darkness that she can't quite explain, she knows that she reminds herself of this, over and over again: He's alive.

---

She wakes up in a strange place, a strange room with a rickety cot and a gray dirty floor. The last thing she remembers is lying in bed, lights coming up and blinding her before it all went black. She panics initially, flipping over on her side, ready to fight. But the first thing she sees is Mulder, eyes full of fear, both hands pressed to what looks like glass. He's saying her name, it looks like, but she can't hear a thing. “Mulder?” she says, pushing herself up off  the ground and sitting back on her haunches, confused and frightened at the fact that he is here with her. He is mouthing something else now; it takes her a moment to understand it, but it's clearer now: Are you okay?

They've been here for a few weeks and it's only getting harder. They have no idea how to get out, they have no idea how long they'll be here, and it's impossible to make any plan of escape when they can't hear each other. Scully's sitting up against the wall, her head in her hands, worn out and defeated, when she sees the shape out of the corner of her eye. It's Mulder's hand, pressed against the glass. He offers her a small, sad, self-deprecating smile. She smiles back, sadly, lifts her palm to match his.

They're sitting against the wall together, trying to talk through it. They're misunderstanding most of the words they say. Scully doesn't care. She's watching him talk, and she can almost, almost hear the sound of his voice.

They're standing with their foreheads together, their hands together, and she's telling him she loves him. It feels awkward to say it over and over again like this, her bare sentiment echoing through the room, and she's about to stop when he says it back. She almost cries at the raw emotion.

She wakes up on the floor of Mulder's cell to the sound of him saying her name. They move towards each other in a jerky, heartbeat of a motion, Mulder's arms wrapping convulsively around her, trying to lift her off the ground, and they tumble down together, but she doesn't care. She's already kissing him like the world is ending.

It's the night before They take Mulder away, and they've already been separated for three days. They're sitting against the wall again, and Scully feels like everything has been drained out of her. Exhausted, defeated. But Mulder is still looking at her like she is everything in the world. I'm going to get you out of here, he says.

Scully drifts, dreaming.

---

There is another blur of lights. Scully has no idea how long it's been. She drifts, she falls, she fades in and out of consciousness. She stops for a moment to ask herself where the hell she is.

She wakes up in her own bed. In her own home. She is still dirty and gritty and her hair is too long, so she can tell it wasn't a dream, but still. She is in her bed. It's such a shock that Scully almost feels like it is a dream, sprawled out spread-eagle on the bed with the covers thrown to the end of the mattress.

And then she realizes that it isn't a dream. She's reallyhere , she can tell because her apartment looks different, half of the room is boxed up in cardboard boxes. The air feels fresher, she can hear the noises of the street instead of the empty silence of her cell.

Scully sucks in a shocked breath, and sits straight up. She should call an ambulance, call her mother, call the police, but her first thought is Mulder. Did they return Mulder, is he okay, where is he.

She stumbles to her feet, not bothering to stop and change, shower, think. She searches her nearly empty apartment and finds nothing, no sign of him. Barely thinking, she calls a taxi with trembling fingers, with money she found in her bedside table crumpled in her fist, and waits for it out front, shivering in the bitter wind. Tears welling in her eyes. If They didn't return Mulder, she doesn't know what the hell she's going to do. She has to find him, she has to, but she wouldn't even know where to start.

The taxi driver shoots her a concerned look, but he says nothing. She climbs into the back, thankful for the heat he has blowing. When they were taken, it was summer. The taxi driver asks her where to, and she jumps at the sound of another human’s voice, the same way she had on the phone earlier. After months with hearing nothing but her own voice (and, briefly, Mulder's). She rattles off Mulder's address in a hollow voice.

The drive there is entirely too long. Scully is exhausted, but she has to see, has to know for sure… She starts to reach for her phone to try Mulder's phone, before she remembers that she doesn't have it, she doesn't have anything. She wipes her eyes with the tips of her fingers and offers up a brief prayer that Mulder will be there.

The taxi drops her out front, the driver nodding to her. She shoves hair behind her ear and nods back, her heart thudding quickly in her chest. She rides the elevator to the fourth floor, slumping against the wall, her fingers tucked into her armpits. She's so cold. It's such a relief, being able to walk more than a few feet at a time, and she almost cries with the weight of it.

She realizes only when she is in front of Mulder's door that she doesn't have her keys. But she finds the door unlocked, swinging open at her touch. She steps in cautiously, the floorboard squeaking under her foot. The place is even worse than her place, as empty as Mulder's abandoned cell, and she wants to cry all over again. What if he really isn't here?

And then she comes into the living room and finds Mulder unconscious on the couch. Sees him for the first time in weeks. Her breath catches in her throat; she falls to her knees beside the couch. Reaches out to touch his hair, his cheek with the back of her hand, her bruised knuckles against his skin. “Mulder,” she whispers.

His eyelids flutter, his mouth twitches. “Scully?” he mumbles muffedly.

Her eyes well up again; she presses her lips to his overgrown hair, her knuckles stroking the side of his face.

His eyes flutter open slowly, filling with relief; he lifts a hand to cup the side of her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. “Scully,” he murmurs. “Are you okay?”

She nods, rubbing her nose against his forehead.

He twists gingerly, sitting up a little and wrapping his arm tight around her shoulders. She tucks her head into his neck, tears streaming down her face. “God, I'd thought I lost you,” he says. “I didn't think we'd ever get out…” His voice breaks a little, her hand flat against her back.

She twines her arms around him, moves with him when he tugs her onto the narrow couch, wraps her legs around him in an attempt to both conserve space. “I thought I'd lost you ,” she chokes out. “I had no idea what they'd done to you, Mulder, I thought you were…" She tips her head back and kisses him; his mouth falling open, he rocks her back and forth gently, his hands hard and clinging against her. He ducks his head and presses kisses to her neck, her jaw. “I'm so glad you're okay,” she whispers fiercely. “Mulder, Jesus, Mulder… I thought…”

“We’re here,” Mulder says, kissing the top of his nose. “We're okay.” He sniffles loudly, wipes his face with the back of his hand. She fumbles to cup the side of her face with her hands and kisses him again, hard. “You're… you're okay, aren't you?” he whispers as she pulls away, tucking hair behind her ear. “You're not hurt? I swear to God, if they hurt you…”

Scully laughs wetly, her fingers framing his face. “I'm okay, Mulder,” she says, resting her forehead against his.

His eyes are shut, his cheeks wet. He brushes his thumb over her lips, reaches over and takes her hand, presses their palms together. There is no glass, just the two of them, skin and warmth. “God, Scully,” he says, his breath hot against her face. She brushes her nose briefly against his, his free hand large on her waist and her hand curled around his shoulders. He tilts his head and kisses her again, sleepily. “You have no idea,” he whispers, “how much I've missed the sound of your voice.”

[spidermando]

“Best Friends” Pt. 4

Pairing: Peter Parker X Reader

Word Count: 1700+

Warnings: Just some stuff from the movie. 

A/N: HELLO! So, I think this is going to have way more than 4 parts, so if you’d liked to be tagged then please let me know!

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Even when I was younger, bus trips were one of my favourite things. They were always a time to talk, joke around and play games with each other. Would the driver of that small car be sweet or sour? Would the truck passenger wave back at us? Not to mention it meant you were going somewhere. School was out for that day and you were going to a place you’d never been before, where all your friends would be next to you. Most of the time it was fun, a day to remember. And because of that I loved bus rides and all the memories that came attached to them.

Despite this, I wasn’t having the best time right now.

“Y/N!” My head snapped to Liz, who stood at the front of the bus holding question cards. “You haven’t answered a question this whole trip. C’mon, you got this!”

Not trusting my words, I nodded my head.

Peter had showed up this morning and re-joined the team. Everyone, apart from Flash, welcomed him with open arms, including me. Although our walk yesterday ended badly, I thought we were once again best friends and that made me overjoyed. After everyone else had gotten on the bus, I ran over to give him a hug. Just as my arms were about to wrap around him, his own came up and blocked me.

“Don’t touch me.”

Not saying anything else, he walked straight into the bus. Leaving me to walk in alone, both confused and embarrassed. My head hung low, as tears pricked at my eyes. If anyone had seen it, they didn’t say anything.

Now Peter sat in front of me, a bell in his hand as he jumped to answer the questions. Why was he so mad at me? I hadn’t done anything wrong. Was he really angry at me for having a crush on Spider Man? I mean fuck sake, it’s not like anything is going to come from it. If that’s what the problem is then he’s just being a brat.

Instead of glaring holes in the back of Peters head, like I had for the whole trip, I turned my eyes to the window. DC is fast approaching, meaning it would only be another half hour till we were out of this stupid bus and into the hotel. All I wanted to do was crawl up into a ball and sleep. Plus, it was already the afternoon, as the trip was roughly five hours long.

Maybe MJ could go protest without me.

 “Are you okay, Y/N?” Liz sat down next to me, both of our feet dangling in the water. “You didn’t seem very happy today.”

The day had gone as expected. When the bus ride was over we made our way to the hotel, where we checked in. I had made serval attempts to talk to Peter, but he just left in a cloud of his dust as he hurried off in the other direction. Now I sat at the pool, my legs dangling in the water. Almost the whole team was here, playing games and splashing water, but I’d never felt more alone. Why was he so mad at me? Why was he ignoring me? Maybe he realised how much of a bitch I really am, and how I’m not worth it anymore. The negative thoughts were like a storm in my head, shocking me with sadness and evaporating my self-confidence. If my best friend couldn’t stand me who else would?

Sighing, I started at my hands.  “Yeah, I’m fine. There’s just somethings going on between Peter and I.”

“I’m sure everything will be worked out; you guys are best friends.” She smiled, before dipping back into the pool. “I’m always here to talk.”

Smiling at her offer, I nodded and looked up through the glass roof. ‘Best friends’. The stars shined so brightly, as the moon glowed. It was so beautiful, so peaceful. A flash of red and blue light appeared, causing me to squint my eyes.

No way, NO WAY. Spider Man stood at the window, looking around as his suit dulled to its normal complexion. It almost looked like he was talking to someone, pointing down at his arm as he continued to look around.  After a few seconds, he placed both of his hands on his hips and nodded.

“Y/N, what are you looking at?”

Turning my gaze from the masked hero to Liz, my mouth fell open. “T-There- s-spider-” Looking back up, the figure was gone.

 After my wild and confusing encounter, I went back to MJ and I’s hotel room and slept. The next morning everyone, apart from Peter, met in the hallway and went to the Academic Decathlon. Thanks to our fast thinking, and MJs final answer, we won. As a celebration, we went to the Washington Monument, where MJ read her book and the rest of us got in an elevator to go to the top. We were almost there when a bright blue light penetrated the room and made an outline in the ceiling. Panic and fear overtook me, as I couldn’t help but scream out: “SPIDER-MAN!”

 “Oh, I’m going to die.” Jumping, I flew over the helicopter. Using my webs, I swung off the railing and through the glass window. Sliding over the floor for a few seconds, the elevator roof broke off, causing it to fall.

My webs used the detached roof to fall down and catch the lift. The weight slid me across the room some more, as a I spread my legs and stopped both myself and the metal box from falling.

“I did it!” Just as the words escaped my mouth, the doors came off.  Falling into the shaft, my body slammed against the walls as I tried to regain my bearings.

The lift got caught on something, as my body came down and smashed onto the floor of the lift. My weight caused the wheels to snap off, as the elevator started to fall once again. Thinking fast, I shot my webs straight up and onto the broken roof. My body flew up, as I steadied myself on the edge of the elevator. “Hey, how you doing?” I coughed a little, “don’t worry. I got you.”

Just like the screaming, the lift stopped and stood still. Using this as a chance to catch my breath, I glanced around the room. Y/N stood in the corner, both her hands clinging to the rails as her wide eyes stared straight at me. Guilt flood through my body, as I thought of the last thing I said to her. Don’t touch me.

The only reason I was even cold to her was my own mixed feelings. Her having a crush on Spider Man was the same as having a crush on me. We’d been friends for years, and originally the thought grossed me out. But after sleeping on it, the feelings turned mutual. I mean, how couldn’t I like her? She was beautiful, caring, funny, smart, cunning and literally everything you’d want in a girl. How had I only just noticed, and why? I knew everything about her, and she knew almost everything about me.

But she had a crush on Spider Man, not Peter Parker. If I took off the mask she’d just be left disappointed. She didn’t like me, not really. She saw me as a brother and best friend, nothing more. This caused me to get frustrated. Why couldn’t she just like me? What was it about Spider Man that she liked? And why couldn’t I have it?

I was so confused about the whole situation, that when I was trapped in the damage control deep storage unit I talked to Karen about it.

“Should I tell Y/N I’m Spider Man?” The question left my mouth as I laid on the storage box.

“Who is Y/N?” Karen responded, her voice soft.

“Who’s Y/N?” A chuckle left my mouth. “She’s the best, she’s awesome. She’s just a girl that goes to my school, and I- Uh yeah. We’ve been best friends for years and I just really want to tell her, but it’s kind of weird. You know? Hey, I’m Spider-Man.”

“What’s weird about that?”

“What if she’s expecting someone like Tony Stark? Imagine how disappointed she’d be when she sees me.” A frown seeped onto my face.

“Well, if I were her, I wouldn’t be disappointed at all.”

“Yes!” Ned cheered, causing the elevator to jiggle slightly.

“Aye, big guy. Quit moving around!” Using the web, I pulled the elevator up.

“I’m sorry sir, so sorry.”

It took a while, but I eventually got the elevator up enough that Mr. Harrington, Ned and Liz could jump out. Y/N was the last one in there, “Y/N.”

Just as she moved towards the door, the part my feet were pushing on broke off the roof. The elevator started falling once again.

“Y/N!” Her name escaped my lips, as I put my hand out for her to grab. Her own hand came up, but it was to late.

Using my webs, I took hold of her hand. The elevator dropped away from her, as she dangled in the air.

“You’re okay, you’re okay.” Pulling on my web, I brought her up to me. When she was close enough I gripped her hand, “you’re okay.”

Bringing her up to the ledge, a group of people helped her to safety. She turned and looked at me. We stayed like that for a moment, before I let go of her hand and just hung there, staring at her.

Even after staring death in the eyes, she was beautiful.

“This is your chance, Peter. Kiss her.” Karen voice was soft in my ear.

Maybe I should kiss her. Right here, right now. It would probably be my only chance to do so. After all, I didn’t want her to get into danger again. And it’s not like Spider Man could just appear on her fire escape and make out with her.

“Kiss her.”

I hung a little while longer, still staring at her in all her beauty. Oh, how badly I wanted to kiss those lips. To feel them against mine, as her hand cupped my cheek. I wonder what she would taste like, maybe strawberries? What type f kisser would she be? Rough? Soft? The questions were endless, just like the colours in her eyes. If I moved just a bit closer I coud remove the bottom of my mask. However, before I could make a move my web snapped, leaving me to fall down the shaft.

“Are you really friends with Peter Parker?”

Part 5

Tag List:

@hoponthefandomtrain @sassykitten13 @jvghead-jones-iii @gabrielad16@lyssamorgan @arachnidscosmopoliton  @geeksareunique @petah-parkah-and-potahtas @xxangel-babexx @ccaammbbaallzzeerr @gaiasambuci@scorpiostunner1027 @fortheloveoflamp @timelord-lost-in-the-impala@fandomscombine @sammy-holland @musicnowandforever661@tmrhollandkay @fuckitilldecidelater@4ydan @purple-storm@emmatrashforfandoms @huggingholland @ownri @will-write-for-love @amillionfandoms-onlyoneme@pasteltreefuccer @bit-bot0711  @superwholocked221 @rose-coloured-me @trashy-jalen @rockagurl @spidergirl2017 @lookclosernow @smolbean-hoo-har-har @rmillerartemis @stilesxlydiaxshipper  @obscureowl @huggingholland

[goddamnitdazai]

Survival is a Process {1}

Characters: Oda Sakunosuke/Mafia!Dazai Osamu (platonic), Port Mafia, Armed Detective Agency, Ango. Rating: Teen and Up Genre: Angst, canon-divergence  Pairing: (platonic) Odazai Warnings/Tags: Mentions of suicide, suicide attempts, alcoholism, depictions of violence, canon violence, language.  (AO3 link)

Hospital 01               There are little pieces of him everywhere. Carmine splatters clinging to Dazai’s pants and shirt sleeves. The tips of his hair are dip-dyed scarlet, crusted to the back of his neck. His coat, beige and smelling like gunpowder and smoke, sits draped over Dazai’s knees. Two holes frayed at the edges where the sash ties to his waist like two blossoming flowers. Dazai’s hands feel warm from the scrubbing and his bandages are still wet from the sink over flowing.                 It’s been eight hours now, nine if you count the screaming on the phone and the car ride and the twenty-two minutes Dazai spent with his gun down a doctor’s throat. The blinds are drawn shut but sunlight finds its way through and scatters over the off-white tiles. It’s too bright for him, Dazai thinks, but Dazai can’t move. There’s safety in this miniscule space by the bed. He’s been here since the start and nothing terrible had happened. The thought pushes a sarcastic snort through his chapped lips.               Except everything was terrible.

               Seconds drag by. The edges of his teeth grind on his bottom lip until it begins to bleed. Hours become unrelenting demons taunting him with deafening silence. Pale fingertips scrape the tattered fabric burnt onyx by two bullets; Dazai can hear metal tearing through the air as his thumb slides over a single burnt thread. Automated machines click in patterns; Dazai has them memorized. Dripping IV fluids become environmental reminders that Odasaku is still breathing. Plastic tubes stretch from his dry, spit caked mouth down to a mess of wires and lines hardwired into boxed machinery. Up and down and up and down the life line of luminescent green bounces to the drumbeat of a broken heart (still alive). Dazai loses control of his breathing and gags on oxygen. Trembling lips fight to inhale; the memory of smoke and charred flesh returns like a reel of an old horror film stuck on a loop.                  Dazai’s fingers curl to his palm at the sound of his cell phone ringing for the tenth time in half an hour. The garbage can rattles against the floor as the phone drops, he should have crushed the thing. Yet the consistent ringing battering against his over-sensitive ears poses as a miniscule distraction. Moments slip away too quickly; within a minute the quiet beeping of medical devices consumes the air. Dazai fidgets and switches his left leg with his right. The ball of his foot bounces over the tile. Exhaustion tugs at him to close his eyes just for a minute.                   But what if he dies while I’m sleeping?                   He can’t hold on to air. Fervency causes his fingers to shake as he pulls the black tie from his neck. Dazai counts the tiles on the floor, but his heart refuses to fall back to a natural rhythm. He can feel the overstrained muscle pounding in his ears. Bloodshot eyes flit from corner to corner; Dazai tries to laugh at himself—his throat is too dry. Anxiety crawls on him, leeches. He can feel them holding on to his skin, scurrying beneath his bandages, making his heart beat louder. It’s a war drum pounding in his head. The taste of blood fills his mouth, his bottom lip is throbbing. The muscles in his legs squeeze as he eyes the corner of the bathroom.                   If he moves the world will end.                   Bile rumbles in his stomach. It’s been twelve hours; he can’t feel his entire body. The edges of the world start to shimmer. He counts the spots of colors rapidly changing in front of him. Part of him, a quiet part that used to rule the forefront of his mind, tells him to breathe—there’s no oxygen going to your brain, you’re going to pass out. Dazai tries to pull the voice forward. Reality has become unrecognizable. He reaches for Odasaku’s hand as his head falls to the fluffy white blanket covering his friend’s lower half. Odasaku’s fingers twitch under the touch.                  Dazai counts to five, exhale.                  The mattress groans but Dazai can no longer hold himself upright. There is a weight resting on Dazai’s chest trying to drag him down like quicksand. Immovable, untouchable, unrelenting. A hand reaches to touch the back of his neck. Instinct screams at him to move, but there is no strength left in his legs. Half-heartedly he reaches for the gun at his side. The nurse backs away at the sight of metal. Dazai smirks a bit as his hand falls to his side, empty.                  “You should rest s-“                 “I don’t want to hear your voice unless you have information on why he hasn’t woken up yet.” Dazai says coldly.                                                              ______________________                   He counts the tiles again, but by twos this time. Then four, and then he counts backwards from the bathroom towards the front of the room. The door shuts quietly; nothing has changed. He shifts his knees up to his chest as he counts. He’s far too tall to fit comfortably like this, but he can’t stand the way the cold hospital floor feels under his feet. Brilliant orange fills the window as violet trickles down from the highest part of the sky.                  Odasaku once mentioned he loved this time of day, the combination of remaining daylight and growing twilight. Brilliant swirls of dark blue contrasting through puffy cotton-candy clouds—Dazai couldn’t understand his fascination with it. Odasaku was never one to prattle on about the vitality of a sunset (he mentioned it once but Dazai changed the subject), yet his nature to stare in awe at the swirling hues did not leave him. Silently as they walked Odasaku would glance up every few minutes at the sky until the moon hung lover over the city. Dazai always thought it was the alcohol that fueled Odasaku’s child-like lust for a painted sky of oranges and blues.                   But now he wondered if his friend just enjoyed something brilliantly simple, and Dazai was not a good enough friend to listen.                   Dazai was the mouth piece, that fact he knew, but it never occurred to him the bulk of conversations revolved around Dazai’s subject of choice. Relentlessly picking on Chuuya, over-dramatizing situations where he nearly died (he waited and waited but it never happened), the affections of a woman he met at a bar the previous night. There was an endless list of things forever growing in the back of Dazai’s mind, but he couldn’t pinpoint when that list first formulated. He could recall the first time he bothered Chuuya about his hat when they were younger, and it made the boy turn red instantly. Chuuya punched him hard in the stomach (Kouyou made him apologize right after).                   It had been the first time Chuuya talked to him on his own volition. He was shy, quiet, and always hiding behind Kouyou especially when Mori was around. At times Chuuya would wander through the hallways but never spark conversation, and he called Dazai weird one time under his breath. He liked the way Chuuya’s face strained when he was angry; he could understand it. And so he kept going and going and going. So much that now Dazai could map out the way Chuuya’s eyes narrow when he’s really angry, or how one brow twitches when he’s trying not to let Dazai get under his skin.                                       At least it was something—he was a person to Chuuya; even if Chuuya hated the person he was. Forced partners, but it was okay sometimes.                     Mori never showed the slightest bit of emotion on his features regardless of what happened; except once. The knife in his hand glimmered beneath the moonlight, and his eyes had grown just as wide as the source of the light. Dazai watched his face contort to a man who had finally found the grasp of power he’d been searching for. His motive, his movements, they were calculated down to the finest detail. Mori knew Dazai would never speak of this, yet he found it necessary to mention it aloud. His voice was cold iron against Dazai’s skin. It had been the first and last time Mori made his skin crawl.                    There was nothing left after that—Mori and himself weren’t people, to each other, to most. Prodigy and master, as expected from Dazai (the demon). That was okay, he supposed.                     Odasaku—he was simple; but Dazai still found him puzzling. The sheer blasé words that came from his mouth sounded incredibly strange given his background. A man in the Port Mafia, a killer who chose to stop, to adopt orphans, to be good. But, he still rested on the side of darkness. He drank with the prodigy of Yokohama’s criminal elite, but spilled no blood. An oddity of the Port Mafia, like Dazai, perhaps this is what fused them. But, Dazai could never understand the motives behind pure selflessness. What it felt like to breathe life for someone else, for anything else, was not something Dazai bothered to miss. For as long as he could remember he never had a thing in the world to hold close to his heart. What would he even want?                     Humans were endlessly selfish, and that he understood. The logistics of self-elevating, self-serving. Of winning. Dazai always won—he was good at it. Perhaps Odasaku’s simplicity allowed him to choose the manner in which he lived, or maybe he was too good at hiding from people who would have taken him in. Would Mori have brought him to the Port Mafia if he’d found Odasaku at that age?  Dazai shivers at the thought of a young Odasaku covered in blood with empty eyes staring back at him. Would he have seen past Dazai’s demonic reputation? Doubtful. Their encounter was chance, or fate, because fate was always an incredibly cruel beast.                    Weakness is not a familiarity. The waning strength in his shoulders and ache in his back do nothing but irritate him even more. As the clock ticks forward Dazai’s mind continues to dwindle down to a blank canvas. The simplest of movements take extreme amount of energy to even put forth minimal effort. Heavy ink-colored bags hang below his eyes. It’s close to ten pm. He fights the urge to glance towards the garbage where he’d thrown his phone earlier. Surprisingly it had remained eerily silent, and none of Mori’s subordinates had stopped to talk to Dazai or tell him to leave.                      Nobody had come by at all.                      It was better this way. Just the two of them suspended in time; waiting and waiting and waiting. Dazai’s arms cross over each other as he leans his cheek onto his left wrist, elbows expanded over Odasaku’s stomach. For a man who’d been sleeping for over a day, Odasaku looks overly exhausted. Even from a distance Dazai can see the drooping beneath his eyes like someone had come and tugged the skin hard enough to permanently alter its elasticity, leaving behind saggy darkened bags. Instead of his usual soft expression there is a hardened furl of his bottom lip that drags wrinkles across his chin. The look he wore, a man with anger and with guilt, when he left Dazai in the parking lot of the restaurant remains etched in his features even as he sleeps.                        Fragile moonlight streaks over Dazai’s back illuminating the gentle rise and fall of Odasaku’s chest. The warmth from his skin begins to lull Dazai into a half-sleep, but something inside him snaps. A siren, a rush of fear sweeping him up like a tidal wave pulling him to the blackest part of the ocean. Air is sucked from his lungs leaving him gasping with trembling shoulders and enclosed hands. Nails dig crescent moons into his palm; get a fucking grip. Dazai counts the ticking of the clock by twos until his vision levels out and the fog clogging his mind dissipates. He matches every miniscule inhale with Odasaku’s until their heartbeats syncopate.                        Memories fade in and out like ghosts. Dazai’s state wavers on the line of conscious dreaming and exhaustion. He can hear the music playing softly through the worn speakers. Low hanging lights casting a halcyon glow over the amber liquid swirling in his glass. Ango’s blood-red tomato juice filling the cup; Odasaku’s genuine interest in Dazai’s experience with a machinegun mounted truck. The picture they took resides in his pocket still; he can hear it crinkle as he slumps further on to Odasaku’s stomach. Haunting him. Fueling him to burn the entire city to the ground.                          The scent of death mixes with whisky. Ango’s office felt musty and dark. Rows and rows of books neatly organized on shelves with far too much dust collecting on the edges. Odasaku let Dazai prattle on about Ango’s odd habits without rolling his eyes or telling him to quit. Ango’s nose scrunched up the closer Dazai got to his desk. Immediately Ango furled back into his chair shouting that he smelled terrible and how could he go to a bar with all this work? But what if he smelled like us? Odasaku played Dazai’s game happily (even if it was childish).  Their tab was enormous and the night was warm. Summer had sprawled over the city and Dazai had thrown his jacket in Odasaku’s fridge before passing out on the couch.                            “Because he is my friend.”                            Mori’s eyes narrow but every other detail remains upright. He can see through Dazai’s bandages and skin and façade of childlike antics as the cogs in his mind start churning. Problem solving was something Mori enjoyed unfolding. Like a paper crane deconstructed back to its original form. Dazai worked backwards from the simple words Mori spoke to the events from days and days before.                            Sunlight burns red over Yokohama. Dazai’s men drive too slowly for his liking. His heart pounds as his shoes smack against blood soaked tile. The scent of metal and burning flesh overtakes the natural musk of the forest. Heat scorches up his back and constricts his throat; a ball of smoke lodges itself in his lungs. Door after door there are bodies littered on the floor wailing in pain, calling out to him, to Gide, to death. Shards of glass decorate the floor in shimmering glitter as the moonlight gleams in from the cracked skylight.                             “He is my friend.”                              Dazai jolts upright. Panicked hands crawl to Odasaku’s stomach and his chest, eyes strained and blurry from fighting against relenting darkness. His lips tremble, the name falling from them as though the mere utterance of it would send the entire world crashing down on him. The resonating beep from the monitor does little to satiate Dazai’s blossoming anxiousness. He only recoils his hands after counting Odasaku’s heartbeat twelve times. Two am and there is no more light peeking through the blinds. Shadows overlap as Dazai’s eyes adjust to the darkness. He buries his head on Odasaku’s stomach once more. Cheek turned slightly to feel muscle twitches and radiating thumps of his heart pumping blood through his organs. His eyes retrace Odasaku’s wearied expression.                             A good man forgives, and Odasaku was a good man. Better than Dazai could ever hope to be. There would be no situation in the entire world where Odasaku would not have stopped Dazai from chasing revenge. He would have stalled him, stopped him, helped him. Dazai was not a man of righteousness or selfless acts of kindness. He was not the type to see pain and reach out to help. Instead he allowed his friends to blindly go and rely on their own skill, much like Dazai relied on his own skill to keep him alive (ironic).                           Dazai was not a good friend to Odasaku. He was not a good man; he was not a good person (or a person at all). Bred into darkness with sadism threaded in his blood. Their friendship was neither fate nor chance it was a fluke in every way possible. Blossoming only to wither and die on the vine. Had he chosen to follow instead of retreat they could have ended their lives together, but even the thought of lying with Odasaku in death’s grip did not sit well in his stomach. Self-sacrifice was not in Dazai’s nature either. Born to play puppet master in a devil’s playground. What else could he possibly offer Odasaku?                             He was never bothered by it all. By the radiating sadistic nature in which Dazai performed. The Spartan-like training Dazai heaved at his subordinates and their casual disposal when their talents never came to fruition. Friendship was unethical, but the truest form of care. Or, what Dazai presumed was the care from one human to another. A gentle breeze following a storm; a radiant glow of new life forming after a fire destroys an entire acre of land. Perhaps this mixture of the two of them sought to balance out the roles of their paths; but all that seemed entirely too simple of an explanation. No, Dazai thinks, there is nothing deeper than the random encounter of two men finding themselves in the same place at the same time.                           Then why did it feel like a hundred knives were plummeting into Dazai’s chest at the thought of never meeting Odasaku? The image of him writing Dazai off as an annoying, pessimistic devil built for nothing but destruction? King of death, ruler of Yokohama’s underworld. He did not rightfully merit Odasaku’s unfathomable devotion. Wandering aimlessly to the void of nothing, searching for any retched sliver of something to grasp, only for it to be pulled from him the moment he discovers its worth. This was the end he’d always seen, always experience. He deserved it; but Odasaku did not deserve this ending.                           Pained sobs clog up his chest. Teeth burrow to the bottom of his lip and tear open old scars from hours before. A mess of exhaustion and turmoil Dazai flattens his face against the blanket and bites at his lip. His toes curl inside his shoes as every muscle contracts. Exhaustion tapers off to vehemence. Teeth grind hard enough to crack. The barrel of his gun is beginning to look extremely appetizing.                         Odasaku begins to cough. The tube down his throat chokes him; Dazai freezes. A world stuck in slow motion abruptly speeds up. Dazai feels dizzy as he stumbles from the chair to press the button to call a nurse. They swarm him. Without realizing Dazai walks backwards towards the window, the chair he’d been residing in for a day left on its side near the doorway. Saliva drips from the clear tube as it’s pulled from Odasaku’s throat. Silence is broken by questions and strained coughs. Nurses move like ethereal beings leaving trails of their existence like blurred starlight.                          Dazai sinks to his knees. The door shuts behind the last nurse as she reminds Odasaku to rest. Bandages cover his upper half and wrap lazily down his right arm. A new scar buried under stitches sits on his left cheek. Odasaku’s eyes are hauntingly empty. For once Dazai is hyperaware of the sound of his own breathing. Like a child discovering movement Odasaku experimentally wiggles his fingers. His eyes roam over his legs; Dazai swallows a lump in his throat and averts his eyes to the clock hanging on the wall. Four am.                          Odasaku peers at Dazai as if he’s trying to reconstruct him from the ground up. Piece by piece memories reconnect like building blocks. Dazai watches the way his eyes grow from grey, hollowed ashes to burning whips of emotion. Odasaku’s back straightens. Dazai can’t figure out how to move back to his feet. Hidden instinct forces Dazai to reach his hand forward though the distance between them leaves nothing but space for his fingers to touch. Shadows blindly run over Odasaku’s face leaving slivers of fading moonlight striped down his torso from the blinds. His eyes bore into Dazai’s but he’s looking passed him, at something, at nothing. His voice is heavy and raw, it scrapes over Dazai’s ears.                       “You should have let me die.”                      

[7r0773r]

The Summer Book by Tove Jansson, translated by Thomas Teal

THE ROBE

Sophia’s father had a special bathrobe that he loved. It reached all the way to his feet and was made of very thick, stiff flannel that salt water, soil, and time had rendered even stiffer. The robe was probably German, originally, and had once been green. On its front, it still bore the remains of an intricate system of laces, along with a couple of large dark amber buttons. Thrown wide open, the robe was as broad as a tent. 

In the beginning, when Papa was a young man, he used to sit out on the point in his bathrobe whenever it stormed and watch the waves. Later, it was nice to put on when he wanted to work or get warm, or simply hide. 

The robe had survived various threats to its existence. There was the time some well-meaning relatives came out and, as a surprise, gave the island a good cleaning. They threw out a lot of things the family wanted, but, worst of all, they carried the bathrobe down to the water and let it float away. They claimed later that it smelled. Of course it smelled—that was part of its charm. Smell is important. It reminds a person of all the things he’s been through; it is a sheath of memories and security. The robe smelled of good things too—of smoke and the sea—but maybe they never noticed that. In any case, the robe came back. The wind blew, shifted, and reversed, the waves beat against the island, and one fine day they brought it home. After that, it smelled of seaweed, and Papa wore virtually nothing else that whole summer. Then there was the spring when they discovered a family of mice had been living in the robe. The collar was edged with a soft, downy material that the mice had nibbled off and used for bedclothes, along with some finely chewed handkerchiefs. And then one time Papa slept too close to the fire and the robe was scorched. 

When Papa got a little older, he put the bathrobe up in the attic. He would go up there to think sometimes, and the others always took it for granted that he did his thinking in the robe. It lay under one of the little attic windows, long and dark and mysterious. 

Sophia went through a rebellious phase one cold, rainy summer when being unhappy outdoors was a lot of trouble. So she would go up in the attic to be alone. She would sit in a cardboard box and stare at the robe, and she would say dreadful, crushing things, and it was hard for the robe to talk back. 

In between times, she played cards with her grandmother. They both cheated shamelessly, and their card-playing afternoons always ended in a quarrel. This had never happened before. Grandmother tried to recall her own rebellious periods in order to try and understand, but all she could remember was an unusually well-behaved little girl. Wise as she was, she realized that people can postpone their rebellious phases until they’re eighty-five years old, and she decided to keep an eye on herself. It rained constantly, and Papa worked from morning to night with his back to the room. They never knew if he was listening to them or not. 

“Jesus,” Sophia said. “There you sit with the King and you don’t say anything!” 

“Don’t take the name of the Lord in vain,” Grandmother said. 

“I didn't say ‘God,’ I said ‘Jesus.’”

“He’s just as important as God is.” 

“He isn't either!” 

“Of course he is!” 

Sophia threw her cards on the floor and yelled, “I don't care about His old family! I hate families!” She clambered up the attic stairs and slammed the trapdoor behind her. 

The attic was so low that there was only room to crawl. And if you didn’t crawl carefully, you would hit your head on the rafters. It was also very crowded—just one narrow path through all the things being kept and saved and forgotten, all the things that had always been there and that not even the well-meaning relatives had found. The path led from the south window to the north window, and the roof between the rafters was painted blue. Sophia had no flashlight, and it was dark. The path was an endless, empty street in the moonlight between shaggy houses. At the end of the street was the window with its moon-white sky, and beneath the window lay the robe, a pile of stiff folds, coal-black in its own shadow. Sophia had slammed the trapdoor with such a bang that she couldn't retreat. And so she crept over and sat down in her cardboard box. The bathrobe lay with one sleeve thrown forward across its gaping neck. She stared at it, and as she stared the sleeve rose just a trifle, and a tiny movement crept in under the robe and down toward the foot end. The folds altered imperceptibly, and the robe was still again. But she had seen it. There, inside the robe, there was something alive—or else the whole robe was alive. Sophia resorted to the simplest means of flight available in cases of great dis-tress: she fell asleep. She was still asleep when they put her to bed, but in the morning she knew that there was danger in the robe. No one else must know. She kept the amazing truth to herself, and for several days she was almost elated. The rain had stopped. She drew pictures with shaggy shadows and made the moon very tiny, forgotten in a huge dark sky. She showed these pictures to no one. The danger dwelt in a fold deep down inside. It moved about at times and then crept back. When frightened, it showed its teeth, and it was far more dangerous than death. 

Every day when the sun went down, Sophia would climb up the ladder, poke her nose through the trapdoor, and peer into the attic. She could see one little corner of the bathrobe if she craned her neck. “What are you doing?” Grandmother asked. 

“None of your business, nosey!” Sophia whined in her most irritating voice. 

“Close the trapdoor. There's a draft,” Grandmother said. “Go do something outside.” She turned toward the wall and went on with her book. They had both become impossible and couldn’t get along at all. They quarreled the wrong way. The days were cloudy, with rising winds, and Papa just sat at his desk and worked. 

Sophia thought about the bathrobe more and more. The thing living in it was as quick as lightning but could lie in wait for days without moving. It could make itself thin and slide through a crack in the door, and then roll itself up again and crawl under the bed like a shadow. It didn’t eat and never slept and hated everyone, most of all its own family. Sophia didn't eat either, that is, nothing but sandwiches. 

It may not really have been her fault, but one day they ran out of bread and butter, and Papa took the boat in to the store to get supplies. He put the water jug in the boat, and the cans for kerosene and gasoline, and he took the shopping list from the wall and left. There was a southwest wind when he set out, and in a couple of hours it had risen so that the waves were riding right across the point. Grandmother tried to get the weather report on the radio, but she couldn’t find the right button. She couldn’t keep from going back to the north window every few minutes to look for him, and she didn’t understand a word she read.

Sophia went down to the shore, and came back and sat down at the table. “And all you can do is just read,” she said. She raised her voice and screamed, “You just read and read and read!” Then she threw herself down on the table and wept. 

Grandmother sat up and said, “He’ll make it all right.” She was feeling a little ill and felt for the Lupatro behind he curtain. Sophia went on crying, but she kept an eye on Grandmother under her arm. “I don't feel good either,” she screamed, and jumped up and vomited on the rug. Then she was quiet and pale and sat down on the bed. 

“Lie down,” Grandmother said, and she lay down. They both lay down and listened to the wind outside as it attacked in short, violent bursts. 

“Once you get to the village,” Grandmother said, “it always takes a long time at the store. There’s always a line, and no one’s in a hurry. And then the boy has to go down to the dock and fill you up with gasoline and kerosene. And you have to go pick up the mail, and sort through it to find what’s for you. And if there’s a money order you have to go in and get it stamped, and that means a cup of coffee. And then he has to pay the bills. It can take a long time.” 

“Go on,” Sophia said. 

“Well, then he has to take everything down to the boat,” Grandmother said. “He has to pack it all in and cover it so it won’t get wet. And on the way down he remembers to pick some flowers, and give some bread to the horse. And the bread's way down at the bottom of a bag somewhere ...”

“I shouldn’t have eaten so many sandwiches!” Sophia wailed and started to cry again. “I'm cold!” 

Grandmother tried to cover her with a blanket, but the child kicked it off and flailed her legs and screamed that she hated all of them. 

‘Quiet!’ Grandmother yelled. ‘Quiet down! Or I'll throw up on you.’ Sophia stopped screaming immediately. There was a moment’s silence, and then she said, “I want the bathrobe.” 

“But it’s up in the attic,” Grandmother said. 

“I want it,” her grandchild said. 

And so Grandmother climbed the attic ladder. It went fine. She crawled over to the window for the robe and dragged it back to the trapdoor. Then she dropped it down into the room and sat and rested for a while, dangling her feet over the edge. She hadn’t been up there for a very long time, and she read the labels on the boxes. String. Tackle. Bottles. All kinds of things. Rags and old trousers. She had printed the labels herself. They had painted the ceiling blue, but they hadn't put enough glue in the paint; it was flaking. 

“What are you doing?” Sophia yelled. “Don't you feel good?” 

“Yes,” Grandmother answered through the trap. “I feel better.” She lowered one leg very cautiously and found the step. Then she turned slowly over on her stomach and brought down the other leg. 

“Take it easy!” Sophia called from down below. She saw Grandmother’s stiff old legs move from one step to the next and finally reach the floor. Grandmother picked up the robe and came over to the bed. 

“You have to shake it first,” Sophia said. “And make it come out.”

Grandmother didn’t understand, but she shook the robe. It came slinking out one sleeve and disappeared under the door. The robe smelled the same as before. It was very heavy, and became a warm, dark cave. Sophia fell asleep right away, and Grandmother sat down in the north window to wait. It was blowing hard, and the sun was setting. She was far-sighted and saw the boat half an hour before it reached the island—a moustache of white foam that would appear at irregular intervals and sometimes vanish entirely. 

When the boat reached the shelter of the island, she lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. A few minutes later, Sophia's father came into the room. He was wet through. He put down the bags and lit his pipe. Then he took the lamp and went out to fill it with kerosene. (pp. 100-08)