#my favourite pink pen is running out its so over for me

[mgmk-daily]

come on come on i'll be YOUR android girl

Current Song: F.T.W.W.W

Word: 44/314

Day: 46/??

Location: an old notepad i found that has some really interesting this written in it that id forgotten about

[bradshawssugarbaby]

Picture Perfect - Smallville!Clark Kent x Reader

A/N: Inspired by the song Picture Perfect by Angela Via. pairing: Smallville!Clark Kent x f! reader warnings/content: fluff, mutual pining, one singular swear word. word count: 2.2k

I should be yours, baby, you should be mine. Meant to be, can’t you see? We’re picture perfect”

Clark watched as you chewed on the end of your pen absent-mindedly as you glanced over the notes in your binder, written in your vibrantly feminine script, large and looping letters forming your thoughts on the page, written in your favourite pink gel pen, as you always did. He couldn’t help but smirk at how even your notes looked like they were transcribed by Barbie herself, but as silly as the thought of media law scrawled out in pink glittering ink in your flourished handwriting was, he loved that about you. He loved that your bubblingly bright personality had its way of working itself into every aspect of your life, including your studying methods. 

His piercing Kryptonian blue eyes continued to stare over at you, fixated on the way your hand gracefully glided across the page as you wrote, your fingers curled just so around your pen. He was fascinated by the way you could make even the most simple of tasks, like holding a pen, appear elegant. He knew he had it bad for you, he had for as long as he could remember, since you met. His friends would often tease him about diving in head first when he fell in love, and he tried to work on it in an effort to protect himself from getting hurt, but with you, he knew it was useless. He may not have had many weaknesses, but you were one of the few things that could stop him dead in his tracks. 

“Clark? You ok?” 

You had looked up from your notes to see Clark seemingly staring off into space at you, unable to break his focus from his thoughts. He chuckled nervously before pointing at his open text book on the table and nodding his head. 

“Yeah, I’m fine!” He said, trying to sound confident and hide his embarrassment as she caught him staring.

You tossed your textbook closed and shoved it across the table in front of you with a tired laugh. Straightening your ponytail, you let out an exasperated sigh before rubbing your hand inbetween your thumb and index finger.

“I’m starving, and my hand is cramped up, ready to go grab something to eat? I think if I have to read anymore of this I might implode,” you laughed, shaking your head as you stood up from your seat.

“Yeah, yeah I could go for something to eat. Pizza?” Clark laughed softly, raising an eyebrow as he followed behind you. 

He tried to keep his gaze upwards, focusing on anything but your backside as you walked in front of him out of the library. He had to congratulate himself on his willpower - resisting the urge for his eyes to drift downwards, tracing the shape of your curves as you walked. He caught up beside you, chuckling as he pretended to jog up beside you. If anything, it was harder work to pretend he couldn’t keep up with your strides than it was to actually jog, he could run from Kansas to California in a matter of seconds. In fact, he’d often thought about doing just that. He’d worked so hard to keep his secret from everyone, including you, as much as he hated hiding things from you. He loved you, and he trusted you, but he was terrified of how you’d respond. Would you be afraid of him? Would you stop speaking to him? Would you think he was crazy and tell everyone he’d gone insane? The more he’d thought about telling you, the more he realized he’d rather continue the facade he’d created than have any chance of losing you. Having you in his life and not knowing the truth about him was better than telling you and not having you there at all. 

“Clark, are you sure you’re ok? You keep spacing out on me.” 

Your laughter rang out through Clark’s ears - he could easily list it in his top favorite sounds, second only to the way his name sound when it fell from your lips, making it sound like an answered prayer every time you said it. Clark had it bad for you, and he knew that if he continued to hold it in, it’d end up forcing you away, but he’d been through this before with friends, and it rarely ended in his favor. The last thing he wanted was to push you away, either due to him revealing his true feelings, revealing his secret or by continuing to ignore how he felt for you. His own happiness aside, he knew ignoring his long-standing feelings towards you was the easiest solution. He ran a hand through his thick dark hair for a moment and chuckled awkwardly, his piercingly bright blue eyes glancing over at you as he spoke.

“I’m fine, I promise. Just thinking,” He said, trying his best to be reassuring but he couldn’t help but think he was failing miserably at it. 

“Oh, that’s what that smell is?” You teased, giving Clark a playful shove of the shoulder as you spoke. 

Clark rolled his eyes and gave you one of his infamous smirks, the kind that had most girls you knew weak in the knees. Clark had often been told he had a nice smile, but he was also oblivious when women found him attractive. Half of the time he had no idea when someone was flirting with him, and the other half of the time, he didn’t know how to respond to or reciprocate the flirting. The best he could do was flash a sweet, charming smile someone’s way and be his usual kind-hearted self, which was how he liked it best. He hated the idea of having to work for someone’s attention. With you, however, he found himself wanting to try. He wanted to flirt with you, he just had no idea where to begin.

He held the door to the pizza place on campus open for you, giving you another one of his warm, heart-melting smiles as he gestured for you to enter first with the motion of one of his long, muscular arms, the sleeve of his navy blue sweater shifting up on his wrist slightly as he moved, the arms just a little short for his frame. At six-foot-four and the majority of his height in his legs, Clark’s clothes were often just that half inch too short, often masked by pushing his sleeves up or by the shoes he wore. 

Little did Clark know, while he was busy admiring your every feature, you were doing the same to him - the way his blue eyes would light up and shine when he smiled was enough to make you swoon. The way he always acted like a total gentleman around you, holding doors, pulling out your chair, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, it was enough to make your heart flutter and race each time. The way he’d talk about his mom’s homemade pies back on his family farm in Smallville, the way he’d sing her praises and humbly brag about how her baking was famous across their little town. He’d always jokingly offer to bring you a slice the next time he went home to visit her, teasing you that despite the fact it wouldn’t be at its freshest, it’d still be the best slice of pie you’d ever eaten. You loved all these things about him, as well as the way he cared for everyone - he was always doing whatever he could to be a good person, which was a rarity a lot of the time on campus at Metropolis University, but you treasured his difference from the other men on campus. 

To anyone else who saw the two of you sitting together in the pizza parlour that day, they would have sworn you were on a date - the longing, loving stares at each other, exchanged stolen glances and sweet smiles, blushing red cheeks and nervous laughter - all the signs of a budding romance sparking between two young lovers. To the two of you though, it was one-sided, guarded feelings - scared to make the first move, scared to let feelings become known, anxious about how the other might respond, worried about whether or not your feelings might be showing through too much to the other party. You and Clark occasionally got comments about how sweet of a couple the two of you made from passersby, usually elderly women who’d say it as they passed through, commenting how it reminded them of how they were years ago when they first met their husbands, giving you a wink about how Clark was a keeper, or telling Clark to continue being the gentleman he is. The comments were always met with blushing cheeks from both of you, an awkward chuckle and thank you from Clark and a polite smile from you, but unbeknownst to the both of you, you and Clark both secretly felt your hearts flutter in agreeance to the compliment, hoping the other would agree too. 

Clark finished his pizza, pushing his plate away from his body on the table slightly, letting out a satisfied sigh as he reached for his glass of soda, bringing it up to his lips to take a sip. He peered over the glass at you, stealing a glance as you blushed to yourself, biting your bottom lip for a second, appearing deep in thought as you sat across from him. Clark wrestled with whether or not he should finally bite the bullet and tell you how he felt. After a few moments of his own deep concentration, he decided tonight was as good a night as ever to finally talk to you about his feelings and find out where he stood with you. He set his glass down, clearly appearing uncomfortable as he shifted in his seat. You tried not to notice his discomfort as you finished eating, and the two of you left to head back to the dorm building in silence. When you reached the front steps of the building, having had enough of the piercing silence and avoiding eye contact that had taken place the whole walk home. 

“Listen, I need to talk to you,” Clark said as he shifted the weight of his backpack on his shoulder awkwardly, looking around at the sky, trying to focus his eyesight on anything but your face as he spoke in an effort to avoid the awkwardness that he felt would inevitably come with what he was about to confess to you. 

“About what?” You raised an eyebrow as you took in a sharp inhale of air, holding your breath as you hoped he wouldn’t be saying how he met someone or how he thought the two of you could use some space.

“I think you and I should…discuss our relationship, going forward,” Clark shook his head as he chuckled awkwardly and held his hands up for a moment in surrender, “That sounded better in my head, let me try again?”

“I really like you,” Clark finally sighed with a nod of his head, “I’m not good at this, I know I never say the right things, and I know everyone tells me I’m blind to stuff like this, but I really like you. All of you. Everything there is to love about you.”

Clark looked at your bewildered expression, unsure of what to say, but fearing in that moment that he’d just fucked up the only thing he knew he wanted to cling to in life, the one thing that helped him retain some sense of normalcy, some sense of humanity in life while he was living away from Smallville. After a moment of awkward silence had passed, a strained, awkward sounding laugh fell from his lips, almost out of desperation to fill the void that was lingering between you both now.

“I like you too. All of you. And, I know you’re…different, Clark, I don’t know what it is, or how to explain it, but I know you’re not like most people. And I don’t care. I like you anyways,” You finally said, nodding your head in confirmation of your words as you spoke.

Clark breathed out a heavy sigh and laughed, shaking his head, his thick, dark hair tousling slightly as he did so. His deep blue eyes looked at you again, sparkling and glistening as they always did when he smiled. He put a hand on your cheek gently, leaning in to give you a tender kiss. He’d kissed you on the cheek before in a friendly, affectionate kind of way, but this, this was different. This was a soft, tender kiss, full of passion and love for you, as if you were the only woman in the world. In a way, in Clark’s mind, you were, at least in this moment.  “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to hear you say that, you know,” Clark murmured as he pulled away from your lips, smiling softly as he rested his forehead on yours, “As for the different thing…we’ll get to that.”

[sm0k1ng-k1lls]

right. my first writing here. please dont shit on me its my first time posting my writing here. and this is the first draft soo

TW:$h, gender dysphoria, queerphobia, religious trauma, implied smoking

artist

four.

my mum lathers lotion over my body after a bath, saying what a ‘pretty girl’ i was with ‘smooth supple skin’. the cold and slimy lotion stays on my skin, prickly and wet, and i swear to never apply lotion, ever.

eight.

we sit in class, you and i, hands touching each others’, my short hair sticks out like hay bales and your long hair runs down your shoulders, velvety and soft. our fingers touch our arms as we take gel pens and glitter pens and decorate the canvases with splashes of colour.

thirteen.

red is my favourite colour. it dances around, elegant like a ballerina and tears prick at its eyes as Swan Lake nears a melancholy minor. the pain is nearly invisible with the spectacle, the appetizer to a four course meal. it burns like a fire on a cold winter night, its warmth enveloping me in a hug.

sixteen.

red does not go well with skin. it leaves traces on my beautiful unmarked canvas, the ladder like rungs leading to a void of emotionless emotions, black and white and grey but with darker greys and lighter greys. i have to draw curtains over my once-pretty canvas. maybe its time to clean up, put away my paint and brushes, return the key of the studio to the landlord and resign from tenancy. deep down i know despite this i might reopen the art studio.

eighteen.

i sit in the shower with my canvas torn and broken, my skin raw and tender. i scrub and scrub and scrub and scrub. i still can feel lotion on my skin. i have to wash it away. i have to wash it away tears prick at the corner of my eyes, i move a hand to wipe them away.

nineteen.

i sit on the surgical chair, arm held out as the artist inks my skin with intricate patterns and designs, they say beauty is pain but it isn't because how can i say that when i’ve been ugly my whole life? my arms are covered in inked skin, each centimeter of skin covered in tattoo ink, the inks covering up the shame i have carried. i am running out of space but my body isn't a canvas to drive a knife into so i succumb.

sixteen.

your pen draws designs on my hand during art class, us sharing earphones as sad screaming songs drown out sad screaming us and we are tired because our whole lives we have been screaming and yelling and calling out but all you do is stick your fucking fingers in your ears and play pretend. we are tired. our throats are raw and tender and itch like hell and our voices are raspy, we cannot scream so we take pens and write and draw and mark our skin with our cries. that night, the picture of a guitar plugged into an amplifier stays on my hand while i shower, sticking out my hand to prevent water washing it off.

thirteen.

it is suffocating me, my skin. it wraps around me and squeezes me tight, squeezes any ounce of air i have left in my black lungs. in, two, three, four, out, two, three, four, in, two, three, four, out, two, three, four. i shake and shake and shake. i cannot breathe and i cannot see. the tight fabric crushes me in a hug. i try to draw in a breathe, wheezing. the rough fabric scratches my skin, makes it red and sore. it is not my skin and i cannot breathe.

twenty-three

the hospital air is sterile and stale. the fluorescent bright white light stabs my eyes and the monotone sound of beeping fills the air. i grin tiredly. finally, at last. under the hospital gown are bandages and under the bandages are two scars, jagged and unsymmetrical, right on my chest. i am me, my skin is a canvas and i ink it in whatever i want. my canvas is mended, the hole in the middle tenderly patched up.

sixteen

we take our glitter pens, red, purple, pink, orange, blue, grey. the teacher drones on and on about ‘discipline’ and ‘tidiness’ and ‘morale’. i only know black and white. but artists mix colours, don't they? greys and whites and blacks, all different tints and shades and colours. right equals wrong and wrong is right but in the name of Pastor i am wrong, a sinner and that i’ll rot in the depths of hell, orangey red tongues tasting my tainted soul, savouring the wrongness in me and the devil placing his burning hand on my cheek and tells me ‘you’re safe with me now’

thirteen

i hide in changing rooms and don't change outside. for all the beauty in thorns and roses people were shell-shocked when i said i like the red of blood when i pricked my finger on brambly bushes. i quite liked the deep scarlet that was smeared across my thumbs. if i looked in a pail of blood i’d lose myself in the depths of shades. scarlet dries a burgundy brown on warm skin-canvases.

four

mummy said that she liked the tattoo of the butterfly on my hand that sammy gave me. i was so happy. sammy’s my best friend. i want to marry her when i grow up, it would be me and her and we’d play with barbies all day and draw on each others' hands and give each other fake tattoos. mummy said to never get real tattoos, it would be painful and it would roowin my skin. what does roowin mean? im gonna draw on sammy’s arm tomorrow.

[percywinchester27]

The new Mrs. Winchester (6)

Word count: 3.6K

Pairing: Sam X Reader AU

Chapter warnings: None for this chapter, really. Kinda fluffy?

Series Summary: After spending over two years in captivity, and enduring assault, torture, and degradation of every kind, Y/N is finally sold off to the highest bidder. But when the deal is masked as a hushed marriage to a wealthy and powerful man, Y/N knows it means a few more nights of brutal torment ending in certain death. After all, why else would a man like him, want someone like her, except to fulfill desires so depraved that they would require owning a person. However, the Winchester mansion has mysteries of its own, woven in lies, betrayal, and death. Smack in the middle of it, she finds both hope and a home, in the person she least expected to find it with. But when it comes down to it, will she be able to save the thing that matters the most?

A/N: Do let me know what you think of the chapter. Feedback keeps me going!

Beta: My darling, @deanssweetheart23 love ya!

The new Mrs. Winchester masterlist

“That looks so good!”

You jumped in surprise, hitting your head on the stone pillar behind you. “Jesus, Jack!”

He chuckled, dropping down on the parapet next to you. “Don’t say the lord’s name in vain.”

What else was the lord going to do to you that he already hadn’t let happen?

“Religious?” You raised an eyebrow.

He whistled slowly. “No one who’s lived in this house can believe in God. I was only teasing.” He focused on the papers in front of you. “What is that?”

You brightened. “It’s a column capital. See those elaborate designs of leaves and petals? They’re unique to that period of Roman and Greek architecture. This one specifically is a Corinthian column.”

The library still remained your favourite place in the whole wide house. Not only did it provide you with a continuous supply of the best poetry there was to read, but the room itself was so richly made, that each part appeared to be a piece of art waiting to be put onto the paper. More than that, this room, in particular, felt more alive than the rest of the house, lived in. Things happened here– the papers you left the day before were usually piled neatly on the top the following day. In fact, more papers appeared in the desk drawer as the week passed. Your first time there you had found a rouge pen in the drawer, but in the half-month since, a set of charcoal pencils had appeared next to the papers, complete with a putty eraser. A few days later the colours appeared. You had your suspicions, given Jack’s blatant interest in your drawings, but hadn’t brought it up since he wanted to keep quiet about it.

“This is stunning,” Jack marvelled. “Your drawing looks real.”

Grinning up at him, you put the book down. “Where have you been these past few days?” You had missed him.

He huffed out a long-suffering sigh, “Exams. Sam wanted me around so you won’t feel threatened by all the guns and security, but he wouldn’t ever ask me to ignore the piling college work. Final year.”

“I hear you.” And you did feel sympathy for his cause. “Tell you what I don’t miss about college? The exams.”

“It’s like the whole world spins differently if you know there’s an exam coming,” he piled on. “The coffee tastes all wrong, the birds cease to sing and the air itself saturates.”

“Oh my God, yes! And sleep starts to feel like a guilty pleasure.”

Jack clapped his hands. “See, you get it! I tried to explain that to Abby, but she doesn’t understand–” His cheeks turned pink. You wanted to smile widely at him.

Clearing his throat, he hurriedly pointed at your drawing sheet. “If you draw like that… why were you worried about exams?”

“It’s different with art school,” you explained, running your fingers over the drawing. “Even more so for architecture. Design and creativity is very subjective. There’s no correct answer and most exams didn’t exactly have a question paper. Your design itself became the question and the answer. Basically, you take your work to a panel of jurors and they decided if your design’s worth keeping. That’s a design jury for you.”

“Scary,” shuddered Jack, toying with the edge of the paper. “But I bet you aced them all.”

Smirking, you put the paper aside. “Most of the time.”

“You shouldn’t just abandon these papers,” he muttered disapprovingly. “People out there might sell their souls for a talent like yours. I would know. Even my stick figures look like trees.”

You snickered. “I don’t know what else to do with them.” Your room had several shelves but they didn’t feel yours.

“Don’t you guys carry a cardboard jacket of some kind to stash your drawings? I’ve seen it at the university.”

“It’s called a portfolio,” you told him. “And I don’t have one here. Maybe I’ll just put them under the table here for a bit.”

Satisfied by your display of respect towards the drawing, Jack stretched his arms wide and got to his feet. “If you feel like disappearing in the evenings any of these days, drop by for a coffee. I’m sure I make for better company than the deserted hallways of this house.”

So, Abby had been venting her frustration about your disappearances to Jack. It went both ways.

You couldn't stop yourself then. “Hey, Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for the art supplies.” It was the nicest thing anyone had done for you in a while.

He frowned. “Art supplies?”

“Yeah. The ones you keep leaving the library desk for me?”

The lines of confusion on his face deepened. “I didn’t put them there. I was going to ask you where you keep getting them.”

Jack moved on from the topic easily, distracted by the possibility of a wish-granting library and you let him speculate it to the point of hilarity. You found Abby in a mood when you reached your room, complaining about how no one in the house took their responsibilities seriously. You knew most of her ranting was aimed towards you. Still mad at you for worrying her last night, she spoke sharply, but you felt overwhelmed by the emotion behind it. Only someone who cared would worry about you at all.

“You should wear this one for the dinner tonight, Miss,” she said, flinging a dress on the bed. Flowy green silk, right to the floor. “It’s not chilly so you’ll be just fine without a shawl.”

“Abby!” You stopped her tirade. “Thank you for picking out the perfect dress.”

She thawed almost immediately. “You make them all look perfect, Miss. Now, stop making those eyes at me and get on with it. Mr. Winchester doesn’t seem to be a patient man.”

The mention of his name made you stop. You had been actively trying not to think of him, because if you did, then you’d have to also evaluate what you felt for him. Abby’s estimation seemed accurate from her standpoint, but your experience of him, the actual him, contrasted vastly from anything she’d ever said.

“Now don’t just stand there ogling at the mirror,” Abby fussed, thrusting the dress in your hand. “Put it on. The clock’s already pointing at 8.”

Fifteen minutes later, you walked into an already full dining room, bustling with conversation– mostly just men in suits talking to one another. Sam sat with his back straight, deep in conversation with a man you had never seen before. Unfortunately, this time the only empty chair was the one next to Sam. Trying not to draw too much attention, you quietly took the seat.

Next to you, Sam politely excused himself from the conversation to acknowledge you with a deliberate nod and then went back to the man in the expensive suit. You tried to keep up with their talk, but it all felt so dry that you found yourself slipping away from the now, going back to the poetry you had been reading in the afternoon- The Ballad of Semmerwater by Sir William Watson. Such a sad tale of an entire kingdom sinking to the depths of water because of the ungratefulness of its people. But did the kingdom not have one good soul? Not even an innocent child that deserved to live?

Next to you, Sam’s hand resting on the table moved, a finger lightly tapping the table, followed by pats till the pattern emerged.

T-O-O  B-O-R-I-N-G

Pressing your lips so as to not smile, you inched your hand forward, mirroring his pose and actions.

Y-O-U  C-A-N-T  S-T-O-P  T-H-I-S?

A small sigh escaped his lips, the man before babbling on, completely clueless. Sam’s fingers moved again.

N-O-T  R-E-A-L-L-Y

The conversation droned on and on and though Sam’s face looked bland, you could see the way his jaw twitched. Jesus, he was miserable.

Y-O-U  W-A-N-T  T-O  G-E-T  O-U-T?

He didn’t waste a moment before tapping, P-L-E-A-S-E

You gave it a couple of minutes, then bent over the table, clutching your forehead.

“Are you feeling alright, my dear?” The old man seated beside you asked.

“It’s my head,” you groaned, making your voice dull. 

The chair next to you creaked and Sam was up in a second. You slumped further into your hands. “I’m feeling faint.”

“I hope you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” said Sam, sounding believably worried. “I should help my wife upstairs. Please stay and enjoy the desserts.”

He placed his hands on either side of your shoulders and for a minute you forgot everything except the places on your skin where his fingers pressed.

“C’mon,” he whispered in your ear, leading you out. And then you breathed in his heady cologne, the sort that made you want to turn around in his arms and pull him closer. Good thing that you reached the hallway before your common sense completely abandoned you.

Sam let go of you instantly.

“That,” he said grinning from ear to ear, “was awesome.”

You stood there, watching him look years younger just because of one smile. His eyes, full of warmth, regarded you with the kind of appreciation you hadn’t experienced in a while. No, he wasn’t scanning your body up and down. He appraised you with an acknowledgement of your intellect. 

“Let’s move before one of them finds us lurking here and pulls me back inside.” He ushered you up the staircase and out of the dining room’s view.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” you murmured, following him. “But isn’t this your house? And wasn’t that your dinner? Why do you have to run away from it?”

He didn't break stride as he answered. “It’s a formality I can’t get myself out of– the monthly dinners for the board of directors.”

“It’s a shame then that you managed to look so convincingly interested.”

“Maybe it is,” he replied. The two of you had made it to the landing of the third floor.

“I’ll ask Martha to send something up to your room for dinner,” he said. “If that’s okay with you?”

You nodded, then asked impulsively. “What will you do with the evening off?”

He appeared surprised at your question, but answered anyway, “Probably read.”

“What’re you reading?”

“Just started The Fountainhead. By Ayn Rand.”

“You’re kidding!”

He blinked, if possible, more surprised than before and you realised you had said the words out loud. “I most certainly am not.”

The Fountainhead was pretty much a rite of passage in architecture school. One would be very severely judged if they hadn’t read that book.

“Tell me what you think of it when you’re done,” you said, instead of explaining your reaction.

He dipped his head once in acknowledgement, a lock of hair casually escaping the part as he did so. “I will.”

You had almost reached the first door– his bedroom– when Sam stopped, hesitating. “I have something for you.”

“Me?” You squeaked, several scenarios, possible and impossible, running through your head. 

He gave a small smile at your worried expression. “It’s just a little thing,” he said, hand on the doorknob. “Would you like to come in?” 

Though he was giving you the option to decline, you knew very well you didn’t have one. Objects don’t have opinions.

You nodded slowly and Sam opened the door of his room. The darkness within was soon illuminated when he turned on the lights and motioned for you to follow him in. When you did, your jaw nearly hit the floor. 

The suite’s layout was pretty much an exact mirror image of yours. A seating room leading to a proper bedroom vestibule, divided by a wide arched door. Except, due to the positioning, this one didn’t have a balcony like yours, just a window in its stead. However, apart from the floor plan, nothing else was similar in any estimation of the word. You didn’t know what exactly you had expected of Sam’s room from the nightly noises but it wasn’t this… the walls were pretty much bare. The seating area held only two wooden chairs and an elongated, old couch with a small reading table. No paintings adorned the walls, no pretty wallpaper or heavy drapes. In fact, the sitting room didn’t have curtains at all. The bedroom vestibule mostly lay hidden from view, but from what you could see through the door, it barely held much beyond a bed. Fourposter, but with none of the extravagance of yours. A simple mattress, a thin bed frame hung with netted fabric. The table next to it, however, was loaded with books, overflowing to the point where columns of books stood stacked on the floor next to it. From here, you couldn’t see the names on the spines. The vestibule windows must have curtains. How else would he sleep in the morning? 

But Sam woke up early, you knew that now. 

Even the floor was thinly carpeted in a generic brown matt carpet, nowhere as luxuriant as the lush faux fur in your room. 

“Please have a seat,” he said politely before disappearing into the bedroom. You noticed he hadn’t shut the main door behind him, leaving it ajar, just enough for you to see the corridor outside.

Sam returned with a rectangular folder in his hand, and when he offered it to you, a gasp left your lips. You took it from him reverently, fingers trailing over the finely stitched mountboard, clad in a soft velvet cloth with satin strings going up on either side to tie it up. The design on top grabbed your attention– two entwined peacocks embroidered in gold and inlaid with beads. Tugging the strings, you opened the folder, revealing a bunch of your sketches neatly placed inside.

“You have a real talent,” he said in that deep, deep voice. “It deserves to be preserved. I figured you would like a portfolio.”

Blinking your eyes rapidly, you managed to croak. “It was you, wasn’t it? … you put the pencils and colours in the library desk.”

He shrugged, “As I said, you have a talent. It warrants more than old sheets of paper and a broken pen.”

Slowly, you sat down on one of the wooden chairs, unsure of your legs. “Why?” you hissed, unable to keep the anger at bay. “Why am I here? Why did you… did you…” The sentence hung in the air, incomplete but perfectly clear.

You watched him slowly sink into the chair opposite yours, silent… until you met his gaze with your bitter one. Sam’s eyes were clear and he hadn’t yet evaded your question, but looking into them made your heart speed up again, it messed with your head, made it hard to hold on to your anger.

“I want you to understand this,” he said, finally, “And I want you to understand this for good. You’re safe here. Your privacy will never be invaded in this house and your comfort will never be compromised.” The way his gaze roved over your face, hinted that he was recording your every change in expression. 

“Then why?”

“I won’t lie to you, because you deserve better than that, but I can’t tell you the truth either. Not right now anyway. Just know that there’s something you can help me with. Think of this as an arrangement in a way that traditional contracts work.”

“Traditional contracts are between a person offering services and another receiving them.”

Sam flinched at the sharpness of your words; you continued, uncaring. “I’m not offering you the services I’m supposed to be specialised in. What’re you getting out of this?”

He shook his head as if dispelling a notion. “Forgive me,” he said. “Not a contract. Not services. I worded it all wrong. Think of this as a favour then. A huge favour you’d be doing me. It’s not coming yet, and we’ll get to it when we get to it, but I swear, I would never do anything to hurt you.” He swallowed, looking down. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

And you believed him without a hint of a doubt, you believed his every word.

“And when this is all over,” he said, “You’re free to go your separate way… legally. Alimony and all.”

Unable to believe your ears, you mumbled. “But you paid–”

“No. That doesn’t count.” His voice was cold steel, dangerous for the first time since you’d heard it, full of seething hatred. Though relieved that steel wasn’t aimed at you, a shiver still ran up your spine. “You’re doing me a favour and I’d like to be able to repay you for that.”

“I don’t even know what I’ll be doing,” you said. “What if I mess it up? What if I can’t do it?”

“Then that’s that. We tried and it didn’t work out. Doesn’t change anything. You still get your freedom and you still get the alimony.”

You wanted to cry. You wanted to break down because this was exactly what you had dreamed of in the cold cell, some Prince Charming would ride in, save you from the pain and the blood, and whisk you away to his castle. Of course, you knew even then that it was all just a fever dream. That Prince Charming didn’t exist. Even if someone looked like that, they didn’t actually own a castle. Even if they did, they wouldn’t actually care for someone like you. 

Prince Charming got Cinderella. Yes, she wasn’t rich, Yes, she cleaned chamber pots, but she didn’t sleep with men for a living. You didn’t even make a living out of that.

And most of all, Cinderella didn���t have two little kids being held at gunpoint in a boarding school somewhere.

But what pained you the most was how sincerely Sam cared. In his own silent way, he had cared more about you than anyone had in years. He hadn’t flung his favours in your face. No, quietly, he’d managed to give you the best room in the house, furnished it better than any other, even his own. He’d actually seen your hidden wishes, heard your unspoken words and tried to make it better for you in his own sweet way. 

For all his kindness, you couldn’t even tell him how delusional he was in thinking you could ever be free. The prickling returned in the corner of your eyes. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to throw yourself into his arms and sob your heart out, ask him to fuck all that money, and just save your brother and sister. Do something, do anything. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t break down and you sure as hell couldn’t tell him about the kids.

“Hey?” He said softly, urging you to look up at him. “And don’t think you’re not doing anything for me. I wouldn’t have survived half those dinners if it weren’t for you.”

“I didn’t do anything,” you mumbled, rolling your eyes, hoping he wouldn’t see the moisture there.

“You did more than enough,” he said gently. 

Sam walked you out of the front door as if the connecting door didn’t exist. But then again, he’d been so cautious with your privacy, maybe you should allow him the same and not step into his bedroom.

It was barely ten steps between the doors but you found yourself dragging your feet, already missing his company. 

And when you turned to say goodbye, the torn look on his face had you frowning.

“Y/N,” he whispered, “as long as we’re both here, we could at least be friends, right?”

The corridor started caving in around you a little, your throat hurting painfully.

“Or not,” he added lightly as an afterthought when the silence stretched.

“You- you called me–”

“I’m sorry,” he apologised. “I shouldn’t have assumed that it’s okay to call you by your name. I won’t–”

“No!” You shouted, startling him. “Say it again.”

He frowned. “Say what?”

“My name. Say my name again.”

“Y/N,” he said simply.

He must think you were crazy, but you still wanted him to say it again and again and again, not remembering the last someone had called you that; the last time it was Y/N instead of bitch, or whore or Mrs. Winchester and Miss. You thought you would forget the sound of your name. And when he said it, it sounded more than just a name… it resurrected a part of your identity.

Sam must’ve understood. He placed his hand very lightly on your shoulder, where he had placed it earlier while ushering you out of the dining room. But this time he did so slowly, giving you every opportunity to back off if you wanted to. You didn’t.

Funny how your heart knew even before his fingers brushed your skin. “Good night, Y/N. Knock if you need anything.”

You nodded. “Good night, Sam.”

He smiled when you said his name. Friends called each other by their names, right?

Turning the knob, you slipped in and closed the door with a last smile aimed at him. You waited right there, listening to his receding footsteps, then the sound of his door against the frame. When all was quiet, you slid down to the soft carpet, hand placed over your chest, trying to tame the frantic beating.

You understood the response of your heart better now. With it, you also understood the anger you had been harbouring towards Sam and the reason why. The memory of his brief touch had your stomach feeling funny and that itself was so new, you clutched your middle to make it stop. And it scared you… it scared you so much. Because if Sam had been the monster you first thought him to be, you might have still survived the abuse and torture, but this feeling? Liking him might just destroy you for real. 

*****************************

A/N 2: Not gonna lie, the writer’s block is hitting hard lately, and some love would be appreciated.

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[engie-ivy]

(Wolfstar Crush Confession with just Fluff and Humour, starring Matchmaker Remus Lupin and his client Sirius Black)

"Let me make one thing very clear," Madame Puddifoot snaps. "You better start arranging dates for Sirius Black, so he can find his perfect match, or otherwise, there may not be a future for you at this agency."

Remus works as a matchmaker at Madame Puddifoot’s Dating Agency, and if he wants to keep his job, he has to find a match for 'most eligible bachelor' Sirius Black. While there are plenty of very willing candidates, for some reason, Remus is reluctant to let any of them go on a date with Sirius Black.

A Worthy Match

“Okay, listen to this,” Lily says. “Dorcas Meadows, with Marlene?”

Remus taps his pen on his paper in thought. “Alright. That could work. That could really work. They could be good together, and it could be really good, but it could also be a complete disaster. They are both very strong-willed. Dorcas can be snarky, and Marlene can be a lot. They can either end up loving each other, or killing each other.”

“True,” Lily says, leaning back on her desk chair. “But think about it like this: do you see either of them with someone who’s not strong-willed? They need someone who doesn’t go along with everything they say.”

“Good point,” Remus says. “I’d say make it happen!”

Lily grins and starts typing on her computer.

Remus scrolls through his email. “Oh lord,” he groans. “We received another application from Gilderoy Lockhart.”

Lily raises her eyebrows. “Really? After the background check we did?”

Remus scans the email. “He says the plagiarism case is just a ‘minor inconvenience that he’s sure will be resolved soon’.”

Lily snorts. “Good god, does he believe those stories himself?”

Remus shakes his head. “Can you imagine if we had taken him up into our database and set one of our clients up on a date with him?”

Lily shudders. “That would’ve cost us a client in the least.”

The database is filled with singles of all ages, genders and preferences, but all have gone through an extensive selection process. When a client enlists at their agency, they first check whether they have the proper financial means to cover their services and the right intentions when it comes to finding someone, and when a client is accepted, they are set up with members from the database who could be potential matches.

Remus lets his fingers glide over the keyboard. “Let me see, how do you say ‘fuck off’ in a professional way?” He starts typing. “ ‘Dear Mr. Lockhart. As per my last email…’ ”

Lily chuckles, but she immediately shuts up when they hear the tell-tale sound of high heels ticking on the hardwood floor.

In all her promotional material and public appearances, Madame Puddifoot looks like your favourite aunt, with her bright pink suits, neatly curled blond hair and wide, red lipstick smiles. But working for her has taught Remus that beyond the scenes, she’s actually a hands-on, ruthless business woman, who’s willing to go to any length for her company. It’s what it takes to run the most prestigious dating agency in the city and the surrounding area, known for its high-quality database, long-term successes and discretion. Madame Puddifoot’s Dating Agency is a household name, that caters to a large variety of prominent clients; celebrities, athletes, socialites, business men, politicians, you name it.

Madame Puddifoot demands full effort from all her employees. With her, there are three clear signs you’re in trouble. One, she says the dreaded words ‘my office’, two, she calls you by your last name, and three, worst of all, she calls you ‘sweetie’.

Remus almost lets out a relieved breath when Madame Puddifoot has passed his desk, but then she says, without even a glance in his direction, “Lupin, my office, sweetie.”

Remus groans, and the whole office throws him pitying looks. Lily bravely manages to give him an encouraging smile as Remus gets up and follows Madame Puddifoot into her office.

Well, he knew this was coming.

“I assume you know the reason you’re here.”

“Yes, madam.”

“And that is...?”

Remus sighs. “Sirius Black.”

Everyone in the area and beyond knows the name Sirius Black. He’s sort of a socialite. He’s the eldest son of the illustrious and powerful Black family, and heir to the Black family fortune. But he’s not just some party-boy rich heir. He studied Medicine, and volunteered with Doctors Without Borders for a few years. Now, he’s running a department in the city’s largest hospital, and often campaigns against the poor coverage of medical costs for vulnerable people.

Now, combine all that with the fact that Sirius Black is drop-dead gorgeous. Like, magazine cover gorgeous. Literally. Tabloids are fascinated with the famous heir and handsome doctor, and their covers often feature stories about him. If you’re launching a product, you’ll want Sirius Black to endorse it. If you’re hosting an event, you’ll want Sirius Black on the guest list. Of course, after being the city’s most eligible bachelor for years, the fact that Sirius Black has gone to a dating agency to find love caused quite a stir. Finding Sirius Black his perfect match will undoubtedly generate an immense amount of publicity for Madame Puddifoot’s Dating Agency.

“I do not have to tell you how much it will benefit our business if we can add the name Sirius Black to our list if satisfied customers,” Madame Puddifoot says.

Remus nods.

“Well then,” Madame Puddifoot folds her hands together. “Let me try a different approach then. Let me tell you what it would mean for our business if we fail in making a success story out of Sirius Black. Sirius Black is young, handsome and rich. If we can’t find him someone, then what hope is there for the rest? Why would anyone still come to us to find their match if we can’t even find a match for someone like Sirius Black? We might as well go out of business! Do you understand, Lupin?”

“Yes, Madam. I do.”

“Then explain to me, if you understand all that, why are you doing such a poor job?”

“I’m trying-” Remus protest.

“No, sweetie, you are not!” Madame Puddifoot interrupts. “At least I hope you’re not, because if this is you trying, it’s even worse then I thought.” She shakes her head. “And it started off so promising, when you had your exploratory business dinners.” When a client is accepted, the agent the client is assigned to usually arranges one or more business lunches or dinners with the client, to get a better read on them, get a clear idea of what they are looking for, what their likes and dislikes are, and in what points they might be willing to compromise, which is all incorporated into the client file. “Sirius Black was actually very enthusiastic about you.”

“He was?” Remus asks, feeling a rush of excitement, but Madame Puddifoot ignores him.

“I don’t understand how he hasn’t started complaining yet. Your performance has been absolutely unacceptable.” She picks up a report from her desk. “He has been our client for months now, and so far, you have set him up on... two dates.”

She looks up at Remus from over the report. Remus stays silent, so she continues. “One dinner, which they both reported to be quite pleasant, but then, immediately afterwards, you put his date in a cab home.” She puts down the report and gives Remus a pointed look. “Dare I ask why you were even there?”

“To chaperone!” Remus quickly says. “Like you said, Sirius Black isn’t just any client. I needed to make sure our member was on his best behaviour.”

Madame Puddifoot just looks at him.

“I sat at a different table,” Remus mumbles.

Madame Puddifoot pinches the bridge of her nose. “And sending his date home on his own immediately after?”

“He didn’t make any move to pay for his dinner when the check came!” Remus says indignantly. “Nothing! Not even a half-hearted attempt at suggesting to split the bill! We can’t have Sirius Black thinking our member are gold-diggers or something.”

Madame Puddifoot sighs and flips through the report. “And the other date, seeing the City Orchestra playing in the Royal Theatre. And you were sitting behind them.” She looks up at Remus again. “To chaperone.” She says sceptically.

“To chaperone,” Remus confirms.

“And then,” Madame Puddifoot scans the report. “In the break, you sent his date home and took his place.”

“He placed his hand on Sirius Black’s thigh!” Remus protests. “Not even halfway through the first date! It was highly inappropriate! I had to intervene. We can’t have Sirius Black thinking we’re that kind of agency, can we?”

“And that’s all you’ve done so far,” Madame Puddifoot continues undeterred. “Two dates, nothing more.”

“Well, if anything, those dates proved that I had to be even more selective!” Remus retorts. “I don’t want to send him on just any date, I want to wait until I’m sure I’ve found him the perfect date!”

“Only Sirius can decide whom he finds perfect for him, and you should’ve been presenting him with options.”

“If I could find options that are good enough...”

“Lupin,” Madame Puddifoot says firmly. “Each young man in our database has been hand-picked by me, and each of them is highly educated, accomplished, and well-spoken. And you honestly claim that after months, you weren’t able to find more than two options?”

“It’s not about quantity, it’s about quality.”

“And you haven’t been delivering either!” Madame Puddifoot slams her papers down on her desk, and then takes a deep breath to compose herself. “Truthfully, I wanted to pass your client on to a different agent, but Sirius Black insisted he’d like to keep working with you, God knows why.”

“He did?” Remus asks, unable to stop his lips curling into a dopey smile.

“Wipe that smile off of your face, sweetie,” Madame Puddifoot snaps. “If I could’ve given your client to someone else, at least you would’ve kept your job, but as it is, let me make one thing very clear. You better start arranging dates for Sirius Black, so he can find his perfect match, or otherwise, there may not be a future for you at this agency.”

“Lily, will you take care of my plant when I’m gone?”

“No,” Lily says, from where she’s sitting perched on the corner of Remus’ desk. “First of all, that has got to be the ugliest plant I have ever seen.”

“Oi, she can hear you!” Remus hisses.

“Secondly,” Lily continues undeterred. “You are not going to lose your job! Madame Puddifoot is right. Sirius Black is handsome, rich, and successful, how hard can it be to find him a match?” She picks up the folder with their database from Remus’ desk and starts flipping the pages. “Oh, what about Fabian Prewett?” She exclaims. “They will look good together!”

Remus purses his lips. “Didn’t he just get divorced? We don’t want Sirius Black to be used as some kind of rebound.”

“He married way too young, and he got divorced three years ago.”

“Sounds pretty fresh to me,” Remus says.

“Okay,” Lily starts flipping the pages again. “Caradoc Dearborn then? He’s a great guy!”

“Caradoc Dearborn doesn’t like dogs,” Remus says pointedly.

“So?”

“Sirius Black loves dogs!”

Lily takes Sirius�� file from Remus’ desk and scans the document. “He hasn’t listed a hard demand about liking dogs anywhere!”

“No,” Remus admits. “But someone who doesn’t like dogs is obviously a psychopath, Lily. I can’t send Sirius Black on a date with a psychopath, now can I?”

“Remus, you’ve known Caradoc for years. You know he’s not a psychopath!”

“Do I, Lily? Do I really?”

Lily narrows her eyes at him. “Alright, let’s see... Benjy Fenwick! Everyone always loves Benjy! He’s such a sweetheart.”

“Yes, he’s sweet...” Remus says.

“But?” Lily asks, with barely suppressed annoyance.

“But he’s too sweet! I mean, Sirius Black is a bit of a rebel. He’s the kind of guy who likes to live his life with a little risk, and thinks rules are meant to be broken. Benjy is the kind of guy who gets a panic attack when he’s a day late returning a library book.”

“Evan Rosier then? No one can accuse him of being too sweet.”

“No, he’s too posh.”

“Sirius Black is posh!”

“No, he’s not!”

“Remus, he’s a Black. That family is the textbook-definition of posh.”

“I know he seems posh, but once you get to know him, you’ll see that he’s really not. He’s actually very down-to-earth, open and approachable.”

“If you say so,” Lily says, rolling her eyes. “Well, there’s Edgar Bones?”

“He’s alright.”

“So... you’ll let him go on a date with Sirius Black?”

Remus shrugs. “If you think just ‘alright’ is good enough for someone like Sirius Black.”

They continue like that for a while. “He’s too pretentious.” “He talks too much.” “He doesn’t talk enough.” “He’s not socially aware at all.”

“What about Victor?” Lily asks.

“He won’t get Sirius’ humour,” Remus replies directly.

“Now you’re just making shite up!” Lily throws the folder back on Remus’ desk. “There isn’t even a Victor in our database!”

Remus crosses his arms over his chest. “But if there was, I’m sure he wouldn’t get Sirius’ humour!”

Lily jabs her finger against Remus’ chest. “You’re just being purposely difficult!”

“I’m just making sure we uphold to a certain standard in quality! I’m just doing my job, and I don’t know why everyone is on my case about it!”

Lily opens her mouth to protest, but then the door to the office opens and Lily groans. “Oh, for the love of God, what is he doing here?”

James Potter has just walked in. He’s a professional athlete. Neither Remus nor Lily knows the first thing about sports, but apparently, he’s the next big thing in football or something. At first, Lily was very excited to have him as her client, but at this point, that excitement has turned into frustration.

“It’s the same thing every time,” Lily has often complained. “I set him up on this lovely date with this lovely girl and they have a lovely time- afterwards, they all gush about what a perfect gentleman he is, so he’s not just in it for an easy shag- but he says the same thing after each date: ‘There wasn’t a spark’. I swear, Remus, the guy just doesn’t know what he wants!”

Truth is, James Potter knows exactly what he wants: a fiery red-head who scolds him when he forgets to hold the door open for his date and rolls her eyes at him when he talks about sports too much.

James grins broadly when he approaches them. “Hi Lily, Remus. That’s an... interesting plant you got there. How are you?”

“Busy,” Lily says curtly, as if she isn’t currently sitting on top of Remus’ desk, clearly not working. “And I do not believe we have an appointment today.”

“We don’t,” James says. “But you’ve arranged this lunch date with Emily this Saturday-”

“Emmeline.”

“Right. This lunch with Emmeline this Saturday. Now, I found this Italian sandwich shop, but I’m not sure if it’s suitable for a date. I was thinking that maybe we can check it out together, so you can see if it’s something Emmeline would like?”

“I don’t think you can go wrong with an Italian sandwich shop,” Lily replies, idly inspecting her nails.

“It might be good to get a woman’s input,” James urges.

“What a woman considers a good lunch place isn’t that different from what a man considers a good lunch place, Potter.”

“Still,” James says. “Best to be sure. My treat, of course!”

Lily looks over at Remus, who shrugs. “Free lunch?”

Lily lets out an exasperated sigh, as she jumps off of the desk. “Fine!” She grabs her purse and marches towards the door. “But I’m putting these hours on your bill!”

James, smiling like the cat that got the cream, gives Remus an awkward wave before quickly following Lily outside.

Remus shakes his head. James is a good guy, bless him. And actually, it’s not a bad idea, checking out a location beforehand with your client. You know, to see if it has the right feel and atmosphere before you send them on a date there. He knows this really cute restaurant down at fifth street, maybe he should ask Sirius if he’d like-

“Lupin!”

Remus is pulled out of his thoughts by Madame Puddifoot slamming down a form on his desk.

“After you left, I realised that I just couldn’t leave the future of my agency in your incapable hands, so I decided to take it upon myself to organize a Mix and Match Event for Sirius Black! I have already made a list of all members I want to be invited and booked a venue. Now, after the event, Sirius Black will fill out the names of the young men he’d like to see again, and then all you need to do, is set up follow-up dates with the persons whose name Sirius Black has written down. I trust even you can do that much?”

Remus nods dumbly, and Madame Puddifoot gives a satisfied smile before stalking away, leaving Remus to stare at the list like it has personally offended him.

The venue Madame Puddifoot has booked is the lobby of a fancy hotel. The standing tables are covered in crisp white tablecloths with intricate flower arrangements in the middle, waiters are walking around with trays filled with high glasses containing expensive wine or small hors-d’oeuvres, and soft, classical music is playing. The place is fancy, polished and clean.

Exactly the kind of place Sirius hates.

Sirius would’ve preferred a casual pub, Remus thinks as he looks around with frown. Somewhere with pints of beer, fried onion rings, band music playing in the background.

But despite not liking it, Sirius Black fits in perfectly. In his fitted trousers, suit jacket, and long hair tied into a neat, high ponytail, he looks devastatingly handsome. Even the waiters, however professional they may be, are giving him looks. He’s charming, and seems comfortable and at ease, making easy conversation.

Nearby, Sirius is currently talking to Fabian Prewett, both of them smiling and chatting animatedly. Remus scoffs. So Lily thought they’d look good together? Well, he really can’t see it.

“Really?” Fabian smiles up at Sirius. “You drive a motorcycle?”

“I do,” Sirius replies.

“Because a leather jacket looks so good on you?” Fabian asks with a wink, and Remus has to quickly put his glass down, as it makes a dangerous cracking sound as he subconsciously tightened his grip around it.

“Oh, definitely,” Sirius laughs. “But that’s not the only reason. It just gives you this great sense of freedom.”

“I’d love to know how that feels.”

“Do you know how to drive?”

“No,” Fabian replies. “But I’d let you give me a ride any day.”

And that’s just it! If that’s not inappropriate then Remus doesn’t know what is! Surely he must intervene now.

“Fabian,” Remus says coldly, walking up to them. “Could you give me a moment with Sirius please?”

Fabian looks from Remus to Sirius, and back to Remus, an amused expression appearing on his face. “Sure, Remus. Whatever you want,” he says with a smirk as he walks away.

Remus stares after him. Now what was that all about? Then he notices Sirius gazing at him, and all thoughts of Fabian immediately disappear from his mind.

“I, ehm, I just wanted to check how you’re doing?” Remus says. “How are you enjoying getting to know the other men?”

“You know,” Sirius replies with a teasing smile. “It would be easier to get to know them if you would let anyone talk to me for longer than five minutes.”

Remus’ cheeks flush. “Well, that’s... just my job. I need to make sure you don’t get overwhelmed, you know. These events can be a lot.”

Sirius nods. “It is quite overwhelming to think that these amazing men would all be interested in me. Well, my looks and money, at least,” he adds with a shrug.

“I promise you that each member of Madame Puddifoot’s would never-” Remus begins to protest, but Sirius cuts him off.

“It’s okay! Don’t worry, it’s fine. I mean, I went to a dating agency to be set up on dates with men whom I don’t know, and who don’t know anything else about me, so it’s kind of what I signed up for.”

“They might not know much more about you now,” Remus admits. “But once they’ll get to know you, they’ll have so much more and so much better reasons to like you! You’re so funny, incredibly smart, kind...” He trails off as Sirius looks at him with an unreadable expression on his face, and for a moment, they just look at each other.

Then Sirius shakes himself out of it and a clears his throat. “So, how does this thing work? Do I get to hand out roses at the end?”

Remus chuckles. “Nothing that fancy, I’m afraid. You just write down the name of each person you’d like to go on an actual date with on this form and hand it back to me, and I’ll arrange the follow up dates for you.”

“I can do that,” Sirius says with a bright smile as he takes the form from Remus.

I can’t, Remus thinks, reading the piece of paper for what is probably the hundredth time. Well, he can, but he shouldn’t. Should he? It’s probably not just frowned upon, but actually forbidden. Yes, Remus is pretty sure there was something about this sort of thing in the contract he signed when he started working for Madame Puddifoot’s.

But then again, it is his job. The client writes down the names, Remus sets up the dates, plain and simple as that. Madame Puddifoot’s words echo in his head

“All you need to do, is set up follow-up dates with the persons whose name Sirius Black has written down. I trust even you can do that much?”

He can do that much. Madame Puddifoot has been very clear in what she wants him to do, so the least Remus can do, is simply do it. He doesn’t have a choice, really. He has to do his job, after all.

Remus grins broadly as he unlocks his computer and starts typing in the name of his favourite restaurant in the search bar. He glances one more time at piece of paper, the form Sirius Black has filled out, where only one name is written down in his elegant handwriting: Remus Lupin

“Wow!” Sirius exclaims as he steps onto the rooftop terrace and takes in the table setting, the candles, and Remus in his favourite jumper.

“Hi,” Remus says.

“Hi,” Sirius replies.

“I, ehm,” Remus is nervously wringing his hands. “I hope I didn’t misinterpret?”

Sirius barks a laugh. “Remus, I was asked to write down the names of whom I’d like to date, and I only wrote down your name. There’s hardly any room for interpretation.” Then a slightly uncertain look appears on his face. “Though, I know I am your client, and I don’t want you to feel obligated to do anything. I can imagine it’s not-done in your profession, and you don’t want to jeopardize your job. But the truth is, I really like you, and I think you may like me too. The only reason I came to a dating agency is because I was hoping to find someone who can make me feel the way you make me feel, so I thought I at least owed it to myself to try.”

“I took this job because I believed in love,” Remus says slowly. “And I thought that if I could help at least one person find it, it’ll be worth it. So, it would be rather counterproductive to give up on a chance at love in order to keep my job.”

“Love?” Sirius asks, his face lighting up.

“Chance at love,” Remus corrects with a smile. Then he holds out his hand. “If that’s a chance you’re willing to take?”

Sirius doesn’t hesitate for a second as he takes Remus’ hand. “In a heartbeat.”

One year later

“I’m just worried she’s making a mistake,” Lily says, leaning back against the soft cushions of the large suede corner sofa. “And God knows what she sees in him! Vernon Dursley has got to be the most boring person you’re ever going to meet.”

“You’ve always had a different taste than your sister,” Remus says, while taking a chocolate truffle made of rich, Belgian chocolate from the crystal bowl on the table. “In the end, she’s a grown woman and it’s her decision.”

“And it’s such a terrible cliché,” Lily sighs, hugging one of the silk cushions to her chest. “The secretary hooking up with her boss. What will her co-workers say? The whole thing is inappropriate and unprofessional!”

“Lily,” Remus says. “Neither one of us is in any position to judge someone for inappropriate and unprofessional work relations. After all, we both took a job at an exclusive dating agency, snatched up the hottest, richest guys for ourselves, and bailed.”

Lily stares at him in horror. “Oh God, we really are that kind of people, aren’t we?”

Remus nods. “We are.”

Lily looks over at the kitchen, where Sirius is leaning on the kitchen island, looking like a model in an add with his dark hair gracefully falling over his eyes and wearing a white button-down with the top buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, animatedly talking to James, who looks dashingly handsome in his soft cashmere sweater, and has just taken four crystal wine glasses out of the cupboard and is now opening a bottle of wine that most likely costs more than what Remus and Lily used to pay for rent summed up.

“Oh well,” Lily sighs. “It was worth it.”

“So worth it,” Remus agrees, putting another chocolate truffle in his mouth.

[wincore]

atlas | kim dongyoung

pairing: doyoung x reader

words: 15.4k

summary: kim doyoung has a lot of titles. student body president, music club president, favourite student of every professor who’s blessed enough to have him. in other words, he’s not your type and never will be. at least he’s a good kisser.

or, you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders and you do not know how to hold things as delicate as glass.

genre: college au, fwb au, hurt/comfort, angst, some fluff 

warnings: very suggestive content, making out, language, smoking, alcohol, mentions of sex under influence, me being pretentious,,

prompt: anonymous said: slippery + doyoung + "you can rely on me, you know." from the first dialogue link! LOVE YOU ❤️

song rec(s): playlist here !

a/n: yes it’s me experimenting out of my comfort zone again. yes you are required by law to listen to keshi while reading this hahahaha anyway writing this was painful. <3 (aka today i tried writing very complex human emotions and failed again. classic.)

In the beginning, there was no beginning. Ergo, this isn’t really a thing.

You shouldn’t be thinking of summer in Introduction to Latin. You are a good (perhaps great, if your ego allows) student after all. Here you are, though, listening to the ticking of the clock and wondering if you sigh loud enough, you won’t have to construct another sentence with the word for ‘death’. You pause to tell yourself that you shouldn’t be thinking of summer out of class either. Unremarkable; that's what it was and you don’t like unremarkable things.

When two people end up alone together, there’s not much to make of. 

“You know,” he had said, locking eyes. “We should get out of here.”

“And then what?”

“Fuck.”

So here’s the thing: this isn’t and won’t be a thing.

Doyoung has never been subtle when drunk, you found out, and he’s not as gentle as he looks. You flip the page of your notebook absentmindedly. You don’t like where your thoughts are going; the clinking of ice against glass rings in your ears again. It’s been far too long (one whole month) and you’re craving a bit of fun. You may forget yourself but you’re reaching your fingertips a little too far to call him again. More excuses pop up. See, in your world of perfection, there’s a hierarchy of things; men rank rather low. 

(Fun doesn’t.)

Here’s another thing: you forget yourself quite often. You know very well that you’re the one who continued this not-thing and now you’re daydreaming of Kim Doyoung in class hours. 

And under grey bed sheets with a tired smile, Doyoung is hard to forget. 

It was a party, it always is. That time, however, was the first party of the year Doyoung and you happened to be attending at the same time. You can’t remember who hosted it—the frat probably—but it was at a bar called the ‘The Meeting Place’ which had too many people you didn’t care about. Doyoung was there, in his laid-back glory, and you were drawn in far too easily. Being single did not help your case—and the alcohol certainly didn’t. You’re not sure if it was the gentle touches against your wrist or quick words that left his mouth or the attractive all-black get-up. All you know is that it was your mouth against his by the end of the night in a small booth, hot and impatient. Once, twice, thrice and you didn’t even need parties anymore. 

It’s not like you weren’t aware of what you were doing; it’s just that you were quick to give in—like you didn’t want to resist in the first place. And now, summer smells like Doyoung’s perfume. 

The first night had given Mr. Student Body President a near-stroke. You weren’t the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men at parties either so the morning had been full of awkward explanations to each other till you’d kissed him to shut him up (much like in a disgusting romantic comedy, minus the feelings) and somehow, it worked. He didn’t refuse and if you recall, he’d eventually pulled you closer by the waist.

You huff, twirling your pen. He’d never admit it.

You didn’t kiss so sloppily after that, unless it was to make out against a wall or while fumbling with the keys to your apartment. The lack of alcohol can bring wonders. You were a little surprised that he’d agreed—he is the Doyoung you’ve known since freshman year after all; blunt, rude, cares more for his grades than he’d ever for you. How laughable. He’s almost the same as you.

Here’s one last thing: Kim Doyoung is not and cannot be your type. 

You had the same part-time job in your second semester at a local fast food joint, and to summarize, your interactions were less than friendly. You can’t possibly count the number of times he yelled at you for trivial mistakes, and the number of times you sent angry, clipped sentences his way. So, yes, neither of you have told anyone—just acting friendly got you enough eyebrow raises.  If there’s anything worse than contradicting yourself almost directly, it’s having to explain that to your friends. So, you kept it a secret and so did he, for his own reasons.

You massage your forehead. If you think any more of this during class hours, you’re going to have to classify this as a terrible, terrible problem; like you don’t have enough already. You tune in to the lecture again, hoping it drowns out the rest of your thoughts. 

You tap your pen against the desk till you’re asked to stop by the professor. There goes your last resort. It isn’t the first time, but you breathe a sigh of relief at the hands of the clock. Casual means casual—you know it better than anyone. Maybe it would be easier if you could be more open about it. But you can’t. Your own problems aside, Doyoung would kill you if his reputation went down, even a nick. Men like that are so difficult, you curse to yourself. 

You run into Ten in the hallways, brightening at his absurdly wide grin. In fact, you haven’t seen him remotely upset since freshman year, when he couldn’t join the dance club, not because he failed the audition but because he mixed up the dates and missed it entirely. (It’s okay; he got in the next year.)

“Guess what!” he yells before you’re even in conversation range.

“What?” you yell back.

“No, guess,” he says, when you’re close enough.

You roll your eyes. “You scored a date?”

Ten deadpans. “No. I don’t even want one.”

“Loser.”

“No, you.”

“How clever.”

Ten flicks your forehead with no provocation whatsoever, making you yelp in pain. After a minute of cursing on your part, he squishes your cheeks to bring you back to reality—like he wasn’t the cause. You bite your lip to keep yourself from scowling. His hair is still light brown from the bleach, and you fix his bangs out of habit; your dumb friends are all you have at the end of the day. You sigh. They all lean on you unwittingly.

“Anyway, the news? I’m not guessing anything else,” you warn, taking a sip of your coffee.

“Well,” he draws out the syllable. “I heard- know you’re into the smart type. You know, student council kinda guys? So…”

You choke, the coffee leaving your mouth just as quick as it entered.

“Who told you that?” The laugh that leaves your mouth is forced and certainly fake but it’s the best you can do.

Ten rolls her eyes, still smiling. “I was thinking if you would be interested in a certain Park Hyungmin.”

Oh. Student body vice-president. He’s most definitely your type, with a gifted body and equally strong academic prowess—not to mention perfectly maintained tan skin and the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen in your life. 

“Oh, yeah, he’s hot,” you nod in agreement. “What do you want me to do with him?”

“He likes you. Like, totally has the hots for you. And I owe him so please help me out here.”

You furrow your brows, heaving a deep sigh.

“You...want me to go on a date with him?” you ask. 

You can oblige. Park Hyungmin is the hottest dude on campus (probably). It’s a win-win situation—in fact, it’s even better. A certain bitter taste finds itself in your mouth. It must be the coffee. You swallow it. 

“Yeah.”

And the deal’s done.

It was casual commitment, like most things you do for fun. You don’t think much of it, and the thought takes its final bow when you run into Doyoung himself.

Well, sort of.

You turn heel when he appears in your line of sight, pretending to fix your hair against a damn wall. You aren’t quite ready to face him yet, considering the coffee hasn’t kicked in—it’s not healthy how much you depend on it. Dependence is different, however, from consciously drowning yourself in it. 

See, Doyoung is anything but tolerable without a few shots of vodka. Or after sex. Or when he’s mumbling in his sleep. And you can’t erase any of those scenes. This is you trying to save yourself (and Doyoung) from embarrassment and a whole lot of explanation.

His coat looks expensive and you’d rather he had it on instead of on his arm. The tucked-in sweater and pants combo accentuates the line of his waist and the colour—you wonder where he found a teal so fitting—looks serene in the crowd. He’s wearing his glasses though, looking a little less put together than usual. Still, no one seems to notice and he continues to explain something to his group of friends.

God forbid you find Doyoung attractive during daytime.

His lips are chapped but pink as ever, the hair messed up by either the wind or his friends—you should stop staring by now. You give in. You’ll text him to book a hotel room tonight.

Sometimes you wonder how he has that large a friend circle, and always, the question answers itself. Eloquence, wit and regrettably, good looks—what does he lack? Maybe if he lost the habit to nag people around fifty-six times a day, he’d be the perfect man.  

An arm slings over your shoulder, punting the soul right out of your body.

“Fuck, Johnny, don’t do that,” you hiss, placing your hand over your chest involuntarily. 

The head of the photography club apparently spends his time terrorizing everyone he remotely knows. You make a foul expression but iIt’s not like he ever minds your scowling. He says he’s had enough practice from teasing Doyoung (and you’ll admit, it’s the only time you feel sorry for him). You were certain Doyoung would have filed him for harassment sometime in sophomore year. 

“What are you even looking at?” Johnny asks, raising an eyebrow at the plain offwhite expanse of the wall in front of you.

You feel hot at the neck. “I was fixing my hair.”

“In front of a wall?”

You click your tongue. “Do you not have class?”

“Oh, don’t be so quick to send me off.” He places a hand over his chest in mock hurt, fingers stretched delicately. 

To your dismay, the rest of his friends gather around giving you happy greetings—greetings only carefree college boys are capable of delivering. To your further dismay, Kim Doyoung arches an eyebrow at you, the same way he does on nights you’re doing things less than appropriate to think of in broad daylight.

“Hey, Doyoung, don’t you have anything to say? Or were you too drunk to remember?”

You bite down on your lip a little too hard. Doyoung, on the other hand, looks like he’s just seen God, stammering out a “what?” nevertheless.

“Weren’t you supposed to buy (name) a drink for driving you home that night?”

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat.

Oh, he’s bought you a drink enough times. Summer has waned but whatever thread you tied around your wrists hasn’t. Right now, your guess is that Doyoung has been ensnared in the common ritual for college boys to walk around campus and declare their friend is single just to embarrass him (or by some miracle, score him a date).

Everything, apart from the way you look at Doyoung, feels like a charade. You shake your head with a quick laugh, smacking Johnny in the arm and pay your condolences to Doyoung—keep it light. You’re good at it, or pretending you’re good at it, at the very least.

Doyoung’s gaze on you lingers for a moment and then you breathe. You’re going to be late for class—you offer the classic excuse and you’re out of there. In a way, it’s exciting. You’ve always wanted to have a secret relationship, even if this isn’t a real one. 

Doyoung is like the summer breeze, and you’d like for him to stay that way.

The next time you grace each other’s presence is when Doyoung’s tongue is in your mouth and his hands are running up under your shirt. 

He’s quite a pretty sight—messy hair, red lips and rosy cheeks. He moans into the kiss as he has quite a few times now and there’s the lovers’ high running through either of your minds. When he presses his lips to your neck, a soft restrained sound escapes you, not quite prepared for the sting of electricity through your skin. He moves to your collarbone and shoulders and then even lower, hands gripping your waist tight. The walls do not have ears here; these hotels are cheap but they’re built for privacy and maybe you’ll let yourself believe for once that you can belong to someone.

“Why did you text me in the middle of the goddamn night?” he mutters against the base of your neck.

“You want reasons now?” you whisper, hands running through his hair.

Doyoung has pretty fingers, pressing at the right places and prettier eyes that look at you with something akin to, dare you say it, love. He kisses you like he hasn’t had enough; and it makes you feel important.

He’s even better when he’s annoyed.

You wake up at around five in the morning. Propping yourself up on one arm, you take a moment to look at your partner. It’s easy to make out the line of his nose against the pillow, and if you focus, you can see his lashes against his cheek and his dark mop of hair clinging to his forehead. However gentle the moonlight is, it is kindest on a lover. 

Funny.

Too tired to sneak out, you go back to sleep.

“All I’m saying is that you have too much coffee,” Doyoung complains, slipping on his loose black sweatshirt. “It can’t be good for your health.”

You shake your head, scrolling through your phone as you lay on your belly. You’ve seen this view enough times—his back to you and sitting at the opposite edge of the bed, his incessant complaints and opinions about something that happened recently, running his hand through his hair when he sighs. You press on the calendar app and type in a note labeled ‘x’. Keeping tabs isn’t a bad thing; especially if you like order. Spending too many nights with someone is going to land you in trouble. That said, if you could trap love in a bottle, you would.

“You taste like coffee,” Doyoung adds with reddening ears.

Sometimes, it’s easy to ignore what he says if you listen to the sound of his voice instead. You sit up, scooting closer as Doyoung shoots you an alarmed look. He’s so cute like this; something about all the painted fences he puts up around him makes you want to lean in closer.

“So,” you poke his side. “How many relationships have you been in? Proper ones.”

“Three,” he answers, to your surprise.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “That’s more than I’ve been in!”

Doyoung furrows his. “How many have you been in?”

“One.”

He seems equally surprised but doesn’t probe further. After all, the price sticker that spells ‘youth’ clings to his forehead just as it clings to yours. 

“How many people have you fucked?” you ask suddenly, enjoying the visible flush across his neck.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he notes, flicking your forehead.

“Ow!” You place your palm against your forehead. “Okay, I get it, you have nothing to brag about.”

He shakes his head, an exasperated sigh leaving him. “I just don’t think you have to know. I like privacy.”

“Wait.” You gasp. “Don’t tell me- That night- don’t tell me you were a virgin—”

Doyoung squishes your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, a laugh erupting from your mouth. 

“Who’s a virgin?”

Nothing about this, you find yourself realizing, is complicated. It’s easy, gentle, natural, like a breath of fresh air—everything but complicated. Even under dim lights and within the depths of night, Doyoung is warm and uncomplicated. His chest, his hands, his lips—they are warm, as are his words. 

But Doyoung is a fucking fairytale.  

Even after these few months, all you know about him, in the definitive format, is that he plays the keys for more hours than he sleeps. What he does for fun, what his classes are, how he became student body president—you could play guessing games all night.

“Do your friends know where you spend your nights?” you ask, leaning back against the pillows.

“They know what I’m doing, not who I’m with,” he responds, running his fingers through his hair.

You purse your lips. It’s nothing hurtful but you don’t like the hush-hush in his tone.

“Why not?”

“Because this is a secret,” he responds as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Do you want them to know?”

He’s right.

“Ah, whatever,” you mutter, a stream of curses following when your elbow collides hard with the edge of the bedside table. 

“Your mouth is filthy.” He looks away to his phone. “I don’t swear as much.”

“Well, of course it is. I had your—”

Doyoung presses his palm against your lips with a tired sigh. “Please. Don’t speak. For the sake of my sanity.”

You smile under his hand and he returns it; and the November morning warms up.

“Where were you last night?”

You were expecting the question. Areum is the worst possible candidate for a roommate if you want some privacy. You don’t think she ever sleeps; sometimes, you wonder if she even showers because all she does is stare at her laptop screen and adjust her designs. Her lips are always chapped and her hair is always in a simple low ponytail but somehow still messy. You’ve never met someone so exhausted yet so full of life at the same time.

“Who were you with last night?” Eunji yells from the bathroom, before the two of them laugh.

You knew you shouldn’t have stayed the morning. You have the nosiest roommates anyone could (not) ask for. But they’re still your friends, you tell yourself begrudgingly. You would tell them about Doyoung if it weren’t for Eunji’s big mouth and Areum’s lack of common sense. And if it weren’t for the inherent comfort of privacy.

(Some part of you wants to keep him to yourself. You don’t care about student council president Doyoung or his friend group’s everything-regulator Doyoung or always-has-his-shit-together Doyoung. The one in your bed is the most loving.)

Areum adjusts her glasses, narrowing her eyes at you. “So? Any answer?”

You break out of your daydream at her voice, feeling a flush creep up your neck.

“I don’t have to explain anything,” you retort, snatching the coffee she brewed from the tabletop. “It was a Friday night and the two of you like Netflix more than me.”

“That’s mine,” Areum mumbles out a weak complaint.

“But don’t go out alone,” Eunji whines. “It can’t be safe.”

You laugh. “You know me. I don’t do anything too dangerous. Besides, you guys have that tracker app.”

They shrug, offering you a thin smile. A part of you is happy that they trust you but another part wonders what it would be like to be worried over. Maybe getting nagged isn’t so bad. 

You take a sip of Areum’s coffee and almost spit it out right back. 

“Did you add salt?” you ask, wiping at your mouth and hoping the taste disappears.

“Uh.” A reply so intelligent, you wonder if she ever pays attention to anything she's doing. 

You take a moment (a few), sigh (several times) and make your way to the shelves. Grumbling, you make her a proper cup of coffee before you leave.

Classes don’t wait for you (even if you think they should) and the world doesn’t wait for you (again, you think it should wait for people) so you’ve made it a point to understand the whole deal about rules. If everyone followed the rules, it would be quite a pretty scene; messing up is only valid if it’s done prettily. You laugh at the thought. That’s near impossible. The bus ride to the campus consists of music and thoughts of bleak tomorrows—an average commute for college kids, you think. You sure hope you aren’t alone in this.

Doyoung smiles at you in the hallway today, and despite your best efforts, it makes your day smell a little fresher.

Your day: classes, coffee break, classes, complaining with Ten, assignments, ‘me’ time. For someone who pretends to be laid back, you use your planner as though for survival. There’s no sticky notes or colourful sketches (except on occasion); just good old fashioned to-do lists and a calendar marked with time you’ve spent on productivity. Every day is a list to be completed. If people call routine a man-made cage, instinct is the biological cage. You’d rather be in control of the cage you’re in. You’d rather be in control of yourself. It’s scary otherwise.

So you know how to get the job done—it’s ingrained into you the same way you would place your hands over your ears at loud sounds, or the way you would run to your bed in the dark after switching off the lights.

It never occurs to you that the reason your world is so perfect is a sad one.

Sometime next month, it’s going to snow. Not yet though, and it’s still too cold.

The inside of the cafe helps the slightest, the heaters situated far back from where you sit. Christmas decorations are up already and the combination of red and green meshes delightfully into the form of an aching headache. The wood paneling on the walls are worn at the corners, the garlands hardly covering them, and the barista behind the counter seems as gloomy as the decorations are bright. You wouldn’t be noticing all of this if you weren’t stuck in one position.

You lean your cheek further into your palm and sigh, only this time Ten asks you to, quote, ‘shut the fuck up’.

He pulls up his sleeve and reaches for another pencil. His cryptic process continues, as it has been for the past half an hour and you feel yourself getting impatient, trying to not bounce your leg and get another bout of quibbling from your half-mad artist friend. You don’t usually run low on patience; but Ten has a special pass to test drive it.

“How much lon—”

“Shh!” He hushes you quickly. You can’t remember why you agreed to being his portrait study subject but you sure as hell regret it.

Around fifteen minutes later, you take a (permitted) breath. You have neither the energy nor the neck strength to glare at Ten but you make sure to show your displeasure by snatching the cookies from the table with a particularly sour look. He gets up and pushes you to the side of the small worn-out couch offered by the equally small booth.

“God, that chair was uncomfortable. My butt is frozen solid,” he lets you know, and you roll your eyes.

“You know, if we weren’t friends in high school, I would never be friends with you,” you state.

Ten tilts his head to the side, a mocking pout over his lips. “I would die without you, (name). Really.”

You smack his arm and he yelps, smacking your arm right back. The sound attracts some attention and giggles, and you make a gagging gesture to let them know you are in way or form in a relationship. The low-volume music changes to something with a more distinguishable beat, the sound of doors opening and closing almost every two minutes accompanying. Arriving on time is an accomplishment, especially arriving before rush hour on Fridays at the only decent cafe on campus, but both of your classes end early and there is no way you aren’t taking advantage of that. Leaving, however, is mostly done when you’re being glared at by the waiters and waitresses.

“Doyoung asked about you,” Ten says, all of a sudden. “Kim Doyoung.”

You try to not show concern, but raise an eyebrow. “What? So? He’s not my type or anything.”

You bite your tongue. That was too quick a response, too obvious. Your cheeks grow hot. Ten doesn't say anything, however, and for a moment, you think you’re in safe waters. 

“Are you guys… into each other or not?”

You cough, trying to show your surprise at something so outrageous. “Why would you think that? Does he look like someone who dates around?”

“Actually, he’s been on quite a few dates.”

“No way.”

You know that. He’s told you about it before, in vague references, but you know about them nonetheless.

“Isn’t one student council guy enough?” you mumble. “Why are we talking about Doyoung?”

He shrugs, a familiar feline smile on his face. “Just asking. He talks about you sometimes. Actually, we forced it out of him but whatever.”

You shake your head. “You’re all terrible.”

“You seem to like him though.”

“Who said that?”

Ten sighs, ignoring your question. “If you guys are dating—”

“We’re not.”

“—or fucking—”

“Ten.”

“—you should learn a thing or two about him. The guy’s not as annoying as he looks. Or stuck-up. He’s really nice but don’t tell him I said that.”

“I know that,” you snap, feeling warm at the neck all of a sudden. “I know him.”

“Oh, you do? Tell me what his hobbies are then. Or his major. Or the clubs he’s in, apart from the student council.”

“He- He likes to sing and he’s- he’s—god, what is this? An interrogation? I’m not going to meet his mom for dinner.”

Ten gives you an ‘I knew it’ look before leaning his elbow onto the table. “You’re sleeping with a guy you don’t know anything about. Serial killers would love you.”

You massage your forehead. “Look, I know he’s a good guy, okay? And he’s sweet- and- and—wait a minute. Oh my god, you tricked me.”

Ten lets out a snort. “Hey. Okay, look, the other guys might be dumb as shit but I have, you know, a working set of eyes. I can tell. It’s not that hard.”

You grumble but the cat’s out of the bag anyway. You should’ve known Ten would figure it out—he’s a nosy little shit, and he’s been that way since high school.

“Whatever. As long as Doyoung doesn’t start panicking about his tarnished reputation or whatever.”

“Oh, I think he’s desperate to let everyone know.”

“To you, Ten, everything seems obvious. It’s annoying.” You mess up his hair.

“No, I mean, I thought you were dating.”

“Well, we’re not.”

Ten shrugs. 

“And I don’t like him,” you add. “I like the- the thing that’s going on because there’s no feelings attached.”

He looks somewhat pained, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, but doesn’t respond to your explanation. “Can I ask for a favour?”

“No.”

Ten sighs. “Come on. You didn’t even hear me out.”

“You’re going to say something stupid. Or insulting.”

“It’s neither, promise.”

You run your hand through your hair, breathing shallow. “Fine. I don’t have to agree though.”

Ten purses his lips. “It’d be better if you did.”

You hum in response, biting into the cookie and trying to ignore the glare from the nearby waitress. It’s about time you left anyway.

“Get to know him, dude. Don’t break his heart.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. There’s a party tonight. Hosted by yours truly. Finally moved out of that stinky dorm room. Bring over some friends but not more than three. And lend me some money for a juicebox.”

“That’s a lot,” you mutter. “You ask for a lot of favours.”

“Oh, speaking of which, Hyungmin—”

“He already asked me out on a date. Am I supposed to say no? You never mentioned he has such an attractive voice.”

“Oh, I’m not telling you to not go on that date. You have to, actually. I’m going to be in a lot of trouble otherwise.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Shut up. I’m not done speaking.”

You roll your eyes.

“But if you didn’t, I could draw some conclusions.”

“What am I, your chemistry experiment now?”

“Well, you and Doyoung seem to be—”

“Don’t complete that sentence.”

“I was going to say something funny.” 

Ten flashes you a blinding smile and you sigh. By now, you’re about to get kicked out of here so you stand up discreetly while he packs up his stuff. You hug your jacket close to you as soon as you leave, shivering at the evening breeze. The sky is inky, but with a faint sort of ink—deep blue and light, all at once. From the crowd, you can tell classes just got over for quite a few people, eclectic chatter filling up the street.

“Fine. I’ll bring Eunji,” you tell Ten after some contemplation. “And whoever else responds to my text first. Areum never leaves the room. You know that.”

“Thanks, (name)!” he messes up your hair. “I would give you a kiss but someone will end up punching my pretty face.”

You furrow your brows. “Well, you’re not my type anyway.”

“I’m too good for you,” he responds in a sing-song manner, waving at you before running off and disappearing into the university crowd.

There’s always a sort of buzz in the air you can’t quite describe at college parties.

Even if this is a relatively small one, you feel an oncoming headache the moment you enter Ten’s new apartment, which you’re sure had a ‘no parties’ rule in the rental contract. You spot Kun, Ten’s roommate from the dorms and he flashes you a quick smile in greeting before he’s swept up by a doting crowd. Apparently, a cute guy in animal sciences is rare and it makes him rather popular.

Eunji disappears from your side the moment she spots Johnny, and the number of eye rolls you’ve given her haven’t warned her off him yet. You suppose it takes heartbreak to change a person. Sighing, you make your way to the kitchen only to be greeted with the strange sight of Yuta trying to balance Jaehyun on his back so they can imitate some anime formation and back out immediately. Living room, it is, despite its populous space. (You don’t really want to think of bedrooms right now.)

The apartment is quite big for what Ten told you the rent was. The hallway to the two bedrooms is narrow but you suppose something has to be sacrificed for space. You furrow your eyebrows at the two bedroom doors. Ten never said he was getting a roommate. You shrug it off, sitting down on the rather stiff couch. The lack of furniture, apart from the couch and a coffee table, makes the place look even larger and people sparse. You like the beige walls; Ten’s always loved warmer colours but something makes you think he’s going to be ruining them in a few days with garish green paint before he comes crying about that to you.

“Hey.”

You look up to the familiar voice, heart rising to your throat.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Doyoung remarks before sitting down beside you and offering you a cup of god-knows-what.

“I don’t take drinks from strange men,” you say, biting down your smile and crossing your arms.

“If you didn’t take drinks from strange men, we wouldn’t be fu—”

“Doyoung!” you hiss before looking at him with careful suspicion. “Are you drunk?”

“No. A little bit. Not enough.”

You sigh. “How will you get home now?”

“I live here, idiot.”

“You’re- You’re Ten’s roommate?” you sputter.

“Yeah. New one,” he responds. “He used to live across our room in the dorms, I can’t believe I actually agreed to this.”

“I can’t believe it either. I’ve seen cats and dogs friendlier with each other than the two of you.”

Doyoung laughs. “He’s surprisingly one of the better people to room with. I’d rather eat my own blanket than room with Yuta again.”

You laugh at his irked expression, eyebrows furrowed so cutely. The line of his brow bone to nose to lips, it seems a little too perfect to belong to someone. He relaxes his shoulders a little, leaning back on the couch as he looks somewhat lost in thought. (“You think too much,” you’d told him once. “And you think too little.”) If only that were true, you smile to yourself.

“Are you sure you can hold parties here?” you as when the music suddenly rises in volume.

“Well, it said student-friendly,” Doyoung responds, looking visibly disturbed. “Not sure if I want to test the limits of that so early.”

There’s a pause, filled in with loud pop music. You don’t think Ten, your dear introvert, would have agreed to such a party but there’s a chance Johnny or Jaehyun had something to do with this. You don’t know who to suspect when it comes to their group of friends.

“I still can’t believe you’re rooming with Ten.” You look at Doyoung.

“Well, that makes, what, eleven of us, I guess?”

You laugh, feeling conscious all of sudden. Maybe you should listen to Ten’s advice.

“Doyoung,” you call, looking at the cup in your hands a little too passionately. “What’s your major?”

He looks at you with eyes widened ever so slightly, and a pause over his lips.

“Linguistics,” he answers.

“Oh. You said something about it once,” you mumble, recalling something vague about an assignment of his. “You know mine?”

“Yeah,” he answers, eyes cast on his watch.

“Well, that makes me feel a little guilty,” you mumble as softly as you can.

“You should be,” he says. “You never listen to anything I say.”

You scoff. “You just complain most of the time.”

“Really now?”

“Yes,” you snap, looking away.

You look back again when you hear the sound of Doyoung’s laugh, a distinct brightness in it. Sometimes, you wonder if you really are as awful as you’ve made yourself be.

“You’re cute,” he says. “No wonder everyone is so in love with you.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.

“Everyone?” you laugh. You don’t care about everyone. It’s burdensome.

“Everyone. They hate you too, by the way.” He smiles to himself. “Heard you’re going on a date with that dimwit. Hyungmin.”

You feel a sudden discomfort in your being. Taking a sip of the drink, you try to shake it off as best as you can. 

“Yeah, I- I don’t think I’ll go,” you say, waving it off. 

Why are you lying? You left it hanging on a maybe. Part of you wants to tell Doyoung; he is your friend after all and you tell friends stuff like this. The other part tells you this is cheating; lying and pretending everything is okay—it feels like cheating. 

“Oh.” He looks lost before he focuses on you. “Why not?”

“Why do you care?” you ask, trying desperately to calm the uprising in your chest.

He stays quiet for a few seconds and then shrugs, looking away from you. It makes you feel a little guilty to dismiss the situation so quickly, another item to add to your troubles. You sigh.

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay. You’re right.” You can see his Adam's apple bob up and down.

“I’m not,” you say. “I’m wrong. I really didn’t mean it.”

He looks at you all at once, his gaze so gentle that it makes you think he wants to kiss you, or do something equally affectionate. Instead he sighs, downing whatever’s left of his drink before a wash of sudden looseness does away with the tension in his body.

“You have any more questions for me?” he asks, smiling. “What's it like to be student body president—or, or what instruments can I play? My favourite animal? Colour?”

You smile back. “What is your favourite animal?”

“I don’t have one. Don’t like them. Unless it’s a soft toy.”

“No way. You’re lying.”

“Now, I answer your questions and you call me a liar? Makes me a little hesitant to answer the next.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, next then. Why didn’t you join the frat? All your friends are in it.”

“Hurts my ego.”

You laugh. He’s still probably an honorary member. There is no way he’s apart from friends for too long with all those feelings of fraternity he has, no matter what he says. It’s the same as you. Affection leads nowhere though; just to short-lived moments of comfort.

You realize, through the course of the night, that you never asked. How he got into the student council, what his classes are, what he does for fun—you never asked. It’s almost like you didn’t want to know. 

How sad, you muse to yourself, to be this way. To be so wrapped up in your own problems that you fail to see people around you. Pity, however, isn’t something to feel at a party. You talk with Doyoung for the rest of the night till the sound of his voice makes you feel certain ghosts of butterflies, and till you have to take Eunji home before she does something she regrets. This is what it really means to have the price tag of ‘youth’ strung across you perhaps—when you feel old and immature all at once, and in between, when you feel nothing at all.

Doyoung is too old to mistake love. Or too young. 

Labels don’t define anything, especially when it comes to relationships—so even if he calls it love, whispers it to himself at midnight when he’s sitting alone on his bed while his friends are passed out drunk on the floor, it is empty. And then there’s you. The heat of your skin, the curse of your smile and that cheeky laugh you do to get on his nerves. He wants all of it and he’s not ashamed—but he’d be a liar to say he can shout it to the whole world. He’s not that kind of man, and what is his can remain his without the rest of the world prying its damn fingers in. The first night, no, the second—third? He can’t remember which night it was but something pent up in him exploded and he didn’t try to control it for once.

“Ow,” he mutters.

His throat burns from the whiskey. He hates drinking alone but you’re either asleep or with friends and he can’t think of anyone else but you. He tugs at the turtleneck collar, getting uncomfortable by the minute, and then proceeds to take off his coat.

For a moment, he considers getting back to the living room. There were more than enough people with lingering touches against his shoulder and longing gazes—they’re not you. He leans back onto his bed. Another hour and everyone will be gone; why did he even let them hold a party in the first place? Parties just remind him of you—he takes a whiff and smells summer and lemon vodka all of a sudden. A deep sigh leaves his lips.

You might not seem to find yourself especially sad, but Doyoung finds something oddly touching about you. Maybe it’s the way you say his name, he muses, like you’re desperately trying to fill the gaps. But it can’t be him in particular, of course—it’s a lover, any lover.

He hates long nights, just as he hates winter but lately, they haven’t been feeling too cold. Isn’t it ridiculous the way he’s running after you? Doyoung was never meant for this. It’s fucking pathetic and it makes him want to tear all his hair out but there he is, still and quiet in the same place. A certain agony makes its way through him. His hands are freezing and yet his insides are burning—nothing makes sense and right now, he doesn’t want it to. He presses his cold hands to the warmth of his cheeks and a laugh erupts from his mouth.

He must be going crazy to laugh like this in an empty room. The car lights from the window travel slowly from wall to ceiling, the only thing moving in the stagnant of his room.

Inevitably, he thinks of the end. It should come quick; in fact, he’s never been one to do this. He’s always been someone to get attached to people. He doesn’t know how the end will come because this shouldn’t have begun in the first place.

Doyoung’s out of breath.

“Crazy bastard,” he mumbles to himself, followed by a groan when he lifts his head up. As if on cue, the door opens and shuts with a bang. Ten walks in looking drowsy, running his hand through his hair with a disgruntled face.

“I hate to say this,” he slurs. “But you’re right. We can’t have extra furniture and parties. Gotta choose one.”

Ten lays down flat on the bed. “I vote out that ugly ass clock you bought. Why do we need it? We have phones and laptops.”

“It was a gift,” Doyoung mutters.

“Oh. Uh. Actually, someone already, uh—”

“Leave it. We’ll talk about that in the morning.” 

Doyoung massages his forehead, groaning at the pain when Ten suddenly decides he’s all up for cuddling. 

“Ew,” he says, scooting away from Ten. “Get away from me.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ten whines, trying very hard to pull Doyoung into a hug. Of course, his attempts are blocked by Doyoung’s palm against his forehead.

After a few more seconds of trying, Ten huffs and turns away, crossing his arms. “I don’t like you anyway.”

“I know,” Doyoung mutters.

Ten erupts into laughter, sounding more like a psychopath than a close friend of his.

“You do that every time you like someone?” he asks in between fits.

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “I just said—okay, yeah. Whatever.”

There’s a much needed silence and Doyoung wonders if he can just fall asleep without kicking Ten out.

“You should tell (name),” Ten says all of a sudden, Doyoung’s heart stopping at your name.

“What?” he whispers.

Ten looks at him as though he’s talking to a particularly stupid child. It makes Doyoung scowl but there’s too much alcohol in his system to know if he really means it.

“You don’t- you’re- everyone in this goddamn building knows,” Ten explains, exasperated. “Jaehyun knows, and he’s the densest kid I’ve ever met. God, if you like (name), go for it.”

Doyoung blushes so deep, he considers pressing his palms to his cheeks again. He thinks for the next few moments. Ah well, if they had to find out, he’s glad he didn’t have to declare it himself.

“Whatever, just ask (name) out. It can’t be that complicated.”

Except it is. You don’t have to spell it out for him—he knows the way you feel. The two of you only ever wanted one thing out of this. But if there’s something Doyoung isn’t good at, it’s keeping his mouth shut. He wonders how many times he let it slip, wonders if you even care enough to notice. God, it’s starting to sound pitiful for him.

“Ten. How much did you drink?” Doyoung asks, raising his head.

“Nothing. None. I’m not drunk.” Ten shrugs. “Just sleepy.”

A ‘wow’ is all Doyoung can respond with. He still isn’t quite finished figuring out what sort of horrific planet Ten stumbled from. A notification ding distracts him from kicking Ten off his bed and he has half a mind to toss it onto the bedside table but it’s still half. He softens almost immediately.

It’s a text from you: a ‘u’ followed by a smiley face and then a meme he can’t quite read through hazy eyes. He finds himself smiling anyway and sends a barrage of emojis, whatever he finds because he likes the way you get annoyed at them. Sighing, he decides that’s enough. He’s not in the right state of mind for conversation.

Doyoung shuts his phone off, attempts to push Ten off the bed one last time before closing his eyes and dozing off.

Not every day is meant to be fun—you know that in your twenties—but it’s still somewhat disappointing to have bad days. Like youth is meant to give you some sort of happiness daily. That’s what they make it sound like.

You groan, rubbing at your back. Sitting at your study desk for so long does not have good long term effects. At least, your temporary, meaningless assignments are done. You scowl at the text on your laptop screen; the more you look at it, the more you hate it and so, you shut it off. It’s not like your pissy professor is going to be impressed by anything you do. However, you like the orderly certainty of schoolwork.

Break time consists of guilt and sugary snacks. You’re done with most everything and you suppose leaving the final review of things to a later date can’t hurt. In fact, it sounds rather appeasing. A few more moments pass in making a decision.

You get dressed. The apartment feels eerie all alone, and you’re sure as hell not going to spend the rest of your evening here. You shiver, quickly striding out the front door and locking it before taking out your phone.

People misunderstand winter. Winter is only the end of things; and sometimes, the beginning. It isn’t cruel or crushing, it’s just taking its course. However, you have a tendency to blame seasons for all that happen in it. For instance, you shouldn’t be missing summer when you really miss the first night with Doyoung. 

He picks up after calling thrice. You wonder what he’s even up to, if Saturday evenings are also booked full for such a guy.

“Why do you take so long to pick up?” you complain. “Do you not get days off?”

“I’m busy,” he hisses. 

Something’s wrong.

You pause, unsure what to do. It’s not his voice but the one in the background that catches your attention. 

Inviting him somewhere. 

Rather sensually.

Your ears feel hot and you drop the call. Of course. Of fucking course. You’re the idiot thinking it was a thing. This whole thing is casual—feeling sorry wasn’t in the contract. Fucking around was.

It’s not like you’ll be heartbroken by something like this. Of course not. Of course. Doyoung and you never had a beginning so there isn’t an end, really. It’s fine. It’s fine. You take a deep breath and browse through your phone. With the onset of Christmas holidays, you have around three options left. Ten (yikes), Jaehyun (no way) or the latest addition, Hyungmin.

Well, you’re dressed. You have to go somewhere. And your statement about Hyungmin being the hottest guy on campus still stands.

You send two texts to the boy before deciding that’s apparently enough time waiting. He picks up after a few rings, voice groggy from what you assume to be a late afternoon nap.

“You up for a drink?” You cut to the point.

“Uh? Oh, uh, now? I am, of course- I just need—”

“Twenty minutes. I’ll text you the address.”

Nothing cheers you up like your favourite bar. Or friends. Or people who respond to calls.

Hongdae is as busy as ever. You knew the bar would be packed but not this packed. Still, you managed to grab a seat at the bar table. With the oncoming night, the smell is just going to get worse—so there’s nothing wrong with treating yourself to some lemon vodka (and its refreshing scent).

Hyungmin arrives exactly four minutes early, and the mussed up hair makes you think he must have been in a hurry. For what, you can’t be sure. 

You can still see the inklings of Hongdae nightlights on his hair right before he enters, and in the fallacy of that moment, you think it’s going to be Doyoung. You sigh. This isn’t the time for that.

“Sorry,” you say, gesturing to the bar table. “All the tables were booked.”

“No, no,” he responds quickly. “I actually prefer it here.”

He’s tall, not that it’s the first time you’re noticing, but even when he’s sitting, he’s at least two heads taller than you are. His shoulders are accentuated by the mocha coat, no doubt part of the latest trend this winter. As a fashion student, he hits the mark and more. 

For a moment, you feel bad for knowing his major. Ten let it slip about him and yet still, you feel guilty for remembering it. You’re not supposed to go into unnecessary detail about people that don’t matter. Does he matter? 

“Surprised you could make it,” you joke half-heartedly. “Aren’t you lot always busy with something?”

He laughs. “The student council? Oh, we’re busy alright.”

Busy. Right.

“What about you? Aren’t you part of like three different clubs?”

“So what kind of busy?” you ask, ignoring his question. You’re part of two, now that you left the music club last semester. It’s not like small talk matters though.

“Uh,” he hesitates. “You know- attend meetings and events, coordinate committee work, supervise stuff, etcetera etcetera. So busy, yeah.”

“Busy on Saturdays too?” you ask, before thanking the bartender for the drinks.

“Yeah, I guess. Doyoung has it worse than me honestly. Even now, he has to take care of stuff because of me. Hah…”

You gulp down your drink making Hyungmin raise an eyebrow in concern. “Stuff? Because of you?”

“Yeah.” Hyungmin scratches the back of his head. “He’s with the girls.”

“Girls?” you ask, playing with the glass. You’re starting to feel annoyed, red lining your vision.

“Yeah.” He makes no notion of clarifying his statement.  

“Must be quite the president,” you say, resting your cheek against your palm.

“Oh, he’s a nightmare.” Hyungmin laughs. “He has to control everything.”

You try to mask your scoff. You know what he can be like when you’re working beside him. 

“Oh, and the guy has no sense of humour,” Hyungmin laughs, the sound easy on the ears.

You blink.

“I think he’s funny,” you say quickly. You swear you have no idea why you sound so defensive.

He hums in response and you consider biting your tongue, telling him you’re only here for one thing and forgetting the uncomfortable churning of feelings inside your chest.

“Forget I- I’m a little confused today.” 

Is that an acceptable explanation? You can’t think straight enough to decide. The silence on Hyungmin’s part, however, worries you. The crowd around you fills in for the next few moments as your companion seems to debate something with himself.

“Look, I know you and Doyoung are… I don’t know, something.”

You huff in irked amusement. “God, does everyone seem to know?”

“Not until late actually.” Hyungmin takes a gulp. “He’s been acting weird. Doyoung.” 

You look away, breathing shallow. You don’t like it, the way things seem to be getting out of hand. All this time, the world seemed to be in the palm of your hand and now, it’s spilling everywhere; the sand in the hourglass is already up to your knees and you don’t know what happens when it fills.

“Do you actually like him?” he asks, leaning back just a little. You know where this is going. “Are you guys dating?”

“No,” you respond, checking your watch.

“Oh.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation in him but you’ve seen that look before. You know that look.

“Then we can- uh- we can—”

“Fuck?” you ask.

He gulps. “I mean, you can say no any time—”

You pull him by the collar and kiss him, hard enough to melt away your hovering thoughts. He kisses like you expect him to, not how you want him to. You know this sort, and somehow, that makes you feel comfortable. Knowing what you’re getting into is easing but it doesn’t lessen the weight of it.

It’s sickening. The way you’re pretending it’s Doyoung.

Hyungmin pulls apart, panting heavily. “Oh, okay.”

“Tell me you drove here.” 

He holds up his car keys in response.

You’re not the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men, but it’s better than falling in love with them.

So you follow a lover to a hotel room and try to feel something. Some time, when he’s kissing you against the hotel room walls, he pulls apart and asks, “You’re thinking of someone else, aren’t you?”

You know the answer; it just won’t leave your lips.

“It’s okay,” he says with a weak smile, “Let’s just have fun.”

And every time his mouth was on yours, every time you saw stars, you felt the ghost of Doyoung and his haunting touches. It was strange and unfair and unlike you—or at least, unlike the you that you built over the past few years. You feel as though you’ve misplaced something—like something was supposed to be there when you reached out but instead, it was empty space.

The night ends as it should and you leave right before dawn with an apology text you couldn’t put half your heart into.

Most winter nights, you wake up with pain so profound, it’s seeping into your bones.

It never made sense. You never tried to make sense of it. So you let the aches push you down by the shoulders, lodge itself into your neck and back; and you tell yourself, it must be what you deserve. It’s cold and you’re walking barefoot on frozen ground.

You gasp. The weight of who you are and who you have to be—it has its knee on the back of your neck, shoving you into the damp earth. There’s no particular reason to it; it makes it seem as though it’s insignificant. Unimportant. Irrelevant. But that’s the problem—the weight of the world on your shoulders makes no sense. Whose world are you even carrying? Whose approval are you trying to win? You scramble to get up, messing up your bedsheets in the process, and pull your blanket around you. Your own warmth surrounds you and it makes no difference. You frown.

You remember your phone call with your mom, and your lips tremble. You shouldn’t have told her about how crappy your finals went but it slipped. You tried to explain that you did work for them, that you gave it your best but sometimes things don’t work out. She didn’t have to say it out loud for you to hear her thoughts. 

You’re disappointing. 

You wipe at your eyes, feeling annoyed at the emotion. If you could let the ground swallow you whole, you would. In a heartbeat. You don’t even know what you’re doing most of the days despite that pretty planner of yours.

You get out of bed, pull on your cardigan beside the bed and grab your lighter and pack. The tiny balcony makes for a great smoking spot and while you would scold any of your friends for committing to this, you do it yourself. Hypocrite.

For all you try to shove into yourself—hobbies, student clubs, actual clubbing, friends—the more you feel less than enough, as if everything just vanishes into thin air inside you. As if you aren’t enough and never will be. You play by the rules and you lose, you break the rules and you lose. 

Maybe it’s because you let yourself be filled by the intricacies of other people that they like you. And thus, you cannot stop for fear of loneliness.

Just as you’re feeling crushed again, you picture Doyoung against your back, placing his nose in the crook of your neck—something he has never done—and you wonder why it helps. 

Sucking in air too fast, you cough. You shouldn’t have let it go on for so long.

It was fun—harmless fun. You shouldn’t even be thinking of taking a step in some other direction. You’re friends, barely, but you like where you are. If Doyoung was that important, you wouldn’t be going about this all backwards. You sigh, though it comes out jagged. The room is quiet and that’s the way it should be at four a.m, of course, but you crave music all of a sudden. Doyoung and you are just a temporary fix; and you let that thought relax you.

When you think of his chin on your shoulder, however, it feels feather light.

“Why are we doing this?” you ask. 

The atmosphere is warm and toasty, just like you expect it to be in a bakery with light pink doors and a collection of plastic potted plants on display. The decorations aren’t an eyesore here and somehow, it makes you feel better. It’s a little far but you decide it’s worth it.

Doyoung shrugs, sipping his hot chocolate. “It’s Christmas, and we’re both here.”

Your eyes follow the hanging lights over the counter, wrapped in pine tree stickers and eventually to the neat display of a ‘Season’s Greetings’ menu, the contents of which are currently at your table. A Christmas song by some singer who’s been popular lately plays, tunes light and dancing. You hate the end of the year solely because of the extra pressure January brings. Nothing you can’t handle, of course. Nothing you can’t handle.

You sigh. It’s been a little difficult lately.

“Doyoung, really, why are we doing this?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“Are you- uh- are you not enjoying this? I could—”

“No! No, it’s not that. I feel better, actually.” You bite your tongue almost immediately after. It’s not like he’s supposed to know the sort of hell week you’re having. A poorly received term paper, finals that weren’t up to your expectations, crippling loneliness without friends and, oh, the self-doubt—you are at the lowest you can be in college. The only sweetener right now is in the hot chocolate and the way Doyoung’s looking at you. 

You feel something close to guilt.

“Good.” He smiles. “You seemed… You seemed a little down.”

The sliver of warmth between your ribs makes you think this is unreal. It feels uneasy to be so affected by someone but you let it slide, turning back to your hot chocolate.

“Why didn’t you go home this time?” you ask, sipping your drink.

“Oh, I didn't really want to face my parents,” he says before leaning. “Didn’t do too well this semester. And my brother’s going to be there with all his achievements.”

You chuckle in disbelief. “You don’t like your brother?”

“I love him to bits. Just can’t stand my mom’s nagging when he’s around.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” You cross your arms, smiling triumphantly. You feel like children squabbling but it’s so lighthearted, you want to laugh.

Doyoung raises a pointed finger, about to retort but nothing comes out. He puts his hand down.

“I guess you’re right.”

You shake your head. “I’m sure she’s proud of you too.”

“I know that,” he says, laughing. “Of course she is. I don’t keep myself busy for nothing.”

You gulp, a sudden sourness rising at the base of your tongue. 

“Busy, huh? Didn’t know spending saturday evenings with girls also counted as busy,” you mutter against the cup, half-hoping he doesn’t hear you.

“What?” There’s a perplexed look across his face.

You wave your hand in dismissal. “Oh don’t mind me.”

“Are you talking about me giving a tour to the fresher girls?” Doyoung leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Hyungmin does that usually but Mr Man was sore from soccer practice and Friday fucking.” 

You blink. “Fresher… girls?”

“What, did you think I was at a brothel?” Doyoung laughs in amusement.

You feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “No! No, of course not.”

You wave your hands about for a few more seconds, trying to come up with an explanation. This makes things rather embarrassing.

“Sorry,” you say finally. “I jumped to conclusions.”

Doyoung laughs, rather deep and heartily, and you wonder if your apology really did sound as stupid to him as it did to you. 

“You do that a lot,” he notes.

“Thanks,” you quip, cutting the pastry with your fork a little too forcefully. His laugh follows. (You hate it so much. It sounds like pure adoration.)

The next few moments consist of scrolling through your phones (because Doyoung says his ‘mouth hurts from talking to you’) and you would’ve been in a better state of mind if everyone wasn’t posting pre-Christmas photos with their families. 

“You know they’re opening that park. What’s it called- Winter Wonderland or something. You said you wanted to visit.”

You look up at Doyoung amused.

“Let’s be honest. You want to be in bed, Doyoung,” you say. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I care,” he answers, looking at you with his doe eyes. “About you. You sulk when you’re upset.”

“I don’t sulk,” you reply but your smile is obvious when you exit the cafe. 

It’s like a date. The more you think of it that way, the more it makes you smile.

The evening is perfect—orange and pink and loving and happy. Doyoung trails behind you as you tread over the sidewalk with cheeky remarks about his speed.

“I’m in the track club, you know?” he huffs, finally tired of your jabs.

“As what, the start point?”

A fake, sarcastic laugh leaves him. “I wouldn’t get to see you if I walked ahead.”

You feel warmth creep up your face. You mumble, “that’s cheesy.” It’s too weak though, and it goes unheard. 

For the first time, you notice his eyes are a little like yours in what they reflect. You love them. 

So this is where the crowd went. The amusement park, or whatever you call it, is buzzing with a faint sort of excitement, mostly in the children that didn’t get to go on a vacation elsewhere. It’s quite the wonderland though so you can’t see them complaining.

“Do you think they’ll kick us out if we make out on the Ferris wheel?” you ask, smiling at Doyoung.

“I’m not making out with you on the Ferris wheel,” he replies, making a face.

You do end up making out on the Ferris wheel, and you get butterflies from it. It’s like a teenage dream but Doyoung looks even better. You pass on the cotton candy because frankly, you’ve had enough of sweet things. You sit at the frozen wooden seat, hoping it warms up while Doyoung brings the two of you some fries.

Your phone buzzes with a notification. Your eyes light up at the mail from your professor. You had turned in the term paper three days ago, weeks ahead of schedule and were particularly proud of the way it turned out. 

You look at the email and zero in on the word ‘redo’.

Your shoulders sag immediately. You spent four weeks on that—and it’s not good enough? You search frantically for how it could have gone wrong and come up with none. That’s not supposed to happen. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. The week’s exhaustion swallows you up again.

When Doyoung returns, he looks at you concerned before quickly setting the fries on the table.

“(name). Is something wrong?”

“Huh?” Your voice sounds so weak and squeaky, you feel embarrassed. It’s embarrassing that after all these years, you still don’t know how to handle failure. 

Because it’s not supposed to happen. You tell yourself that over and over and it makes things worse.

You feel dirty, underneath all that dust and crumbled rock dangling in your hair. Whatever rests on your shoulders is cracking and collapsing, and you’re pushing in the wrong direction to make sure it all stays up. 

He reaches out his hand but you avoid it.

“No,” you mutter, weakly shaking your head.

You rub at your nose and eyes, hoping you can hide behind your forearms. Doyoung shouldn’t be seeing you like this, he doesn’t deserve to see you like this. You turn away from him, your palm gently pushing against the soft material of his shirt. 

Doyoung doesn’t move. Instead, he gently tugs on your wrist so you have no choice but to face him with your red-rimmed eyes. You’re not sure if it’s embarrassment or pity, but the concern in his eyes makes you cry harder. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he whispers. “You don’t have to find a place to cry.”

For the first time in adulthood, you learn what it’s like to lean your forehead against someone’s chest this way. Doyoung wraps his arms around you and the sound of his breathing soothes your near-erratic heart. 

“I worked really hard on it, you know?” you mumble against his chest. “My term paper.”

“I know,” he whispers.

Doyoung strokes your head delicately, fingers running through your hair with airy touches. Eventually, you let go of a final sigh and look up to his lips.

He seems surprised at the kiss but it’s all you can think of now. It’s gentler than usual and Doyoung moves cautiously though he seems to like it all the same. His arms feel comfortable around you. When he pulls apart, he looks at you yet still with careful concern.

“We can- we should stop if you want,” he says, and he means it. 

You shake your head. Night is creeping in overhead, deep and quiet and slow.

“I like you, Doyoung,” you say finally. “I really, really like you.”

Doyoung’s eyes widen, as though a rabbit wary of the traps it might set foot on but he eases into your touch almost immediately.

“I like… I like you too.” His lips waver but he looks away and takes a deep breath. “I like you so much.”

You smile and think that maybe everything is set right now, with his chin against your shoulder and your arms around him. 

Doyoung discards the jacket once you’re in your apartment, kissing you fuller now. Every other thought leaves you; you beg him to make you forget the rest of the world. The walls are comforting now that he’s here, and it’s warmer, hotter.

“Can we- Can we go a little slower?” you mumble, his arms still gentle when they wrap around your waist. He parts his lips from your neck to look at you momentarily before nodding.

You suddenly understand why he always makes you feel so good. There’s a certain fondness to his touch and warmth to his kisses. There’s no one quite like him, really.

“I love digging graves, especially if it’s my own,” you mutter against the pillow.

Doyoung laughs. “What did you do this time?”

“This time? Excuse me? Do you think I’m some sort of trouble child?”

“Hm. Let’s see. Yes.”

You pause. Why do you hesitate to tell him you slept with Hyungmin? It’s not like you were cheating—you weren’t dating Doyoung. Besides, that night with Hyungmin didn’t mean anything. A horrid feeling snakes around your throat, heavy and piercing. You resort to changing the topic.

“I’m… I took another course beyond my understanding.”

“That’s it?” he asks.

You nod.

No, no, no; it’s all backwards now and you don’t know how to reverse it.

Doyoung takes your hand in his, delicately and yet firm. His chest is against your back, bare and warm. When he presses his lips against your knuckles, the warmth that flushes through you makes you want to believe in something else entirely. You feel weak. 

A part of you argues that you feel honest—in a moment of clarity you don’t think you deserve. Neither vodka nor whiskey can make you this clear in the head; you struggle to breathe straight. How awful it is to feel warmth and not believe in it at the same time.  

“You can rely on me, you know?” he whispers.

The knot in your chest makes you want to cry.

You feel lonely and the opposite of it all at once. Doyoung is too much for you—too kind, too pretty and too true. He makes you realize too many things at once.

There are a few things in the world that can stifle loneliness. Like the notes Doyoung plays on the piano, like the songs he hums in the morning till you place open-mouthed kisses against his neck.

You realize, all of a sudden, that Doyoung really is your dearest friend.

And yet, you don’t think you deserve it. You’ve never loved, you believe, but you have. You don’t remember it well enough. The lovers’ touches you kept searching for led to this. Hypocrite. You wanted a lover’s touch and you rejected the love that came with it. What a complicated bundle of emotions. You weren’t always this way.

You loved your first cat when you were six, all the way till it died a warm death in your bed. You loved your mother even when she yelled at you for skipping your chores. You loved your middle school friends when you talked about comics and movies you saw for the first time. 

It’s hard to love the same way now.

You suppose sympathy needs a little backstory. Nothing is unconditional. 

It had all started when your heart had broken into two clean pieces. You put a bandaid on it and called it a day. No one taught you to ask for help.

Your friends know someone broke your heart; you tell them everything. Friends, friends—you wanted them so bad and yet, you keep them as far from you as you can. You pretend to be paper-thin and so shallow, sometimes you wonder if that’s all there is to you. But for all they know, they know next to nothing. It wasn’t just the aftermath of reckless puppy love. 

The first time your heart broke, it was watching your mother cry in the living room for a reason you didn’t understand. You wondered who committed the crime, who should be charged—and you found no one. A loveless marriage is cruel, yes, but you cannot point fingers. It isn’t just cruel; it’s infuriating.

The second time, the two pieces of your heart broke into a few more. It was a boy with an inviting smile and flags whose colour you couldn’t quite discern. They must have been red, but everything else was too—hearts, cheeks, lips, and the threads around your wrists. And eventually, he guided you to the conclusion that you are undeserving, unworthy, unloved. 

You were strong, however. It was easy to collapse on the bed and feel the weight of the world settling in, but you stood up again on shaking knees and you told yourself to have fun; you can have fun without feelings. You know better than to attach meaning to fun—you might hate insignificant things but it’s only fun if it’s pointless. You’re not letting go of this place you’ve worked so hard to arrive at, with all the shattered pieces in your hands.

It’s better to offer nothing at all than offer broken pieces.

“Can we stay like this?” Doyoung’s arms tighten around your waist, his breath shallow against your shoulder. “Just for a little bit.”

His voice is beautiful as always, but for a moment, it strikes you as sad.

Everything’s twisting up into knots and you are frantically running your fingers over them to straighten it all out. You know what it’s like to let things rot; and you are tired of it. Why can’t everything disappear for one moment? Why can’t you just let it be the two of you?

You sigh in response, nodding. 

“I might not know what’s happening in there,” he starts, drawing circles on your chest with his finger, touch comfortably light. “But…”

I’m here and I get it.

Is that what he wants to say? You don’t think you’ll get to know. You’re not exactly voicing yourself either. 

Stay the night. You want to say it but your lips are frozen.

Instead, you rub your thumb over the back of his hand, fitting into each other as perfect as a lie. You would tell him, you try to convince yourself, if you could say it with enough conviction. There’s no point to saying things that are half-meant, that are true but only just enough. You’re a coward.

And now, this has gotten complicated.

An end.

Tapping his pen against the desk, Doyoung grows increasingly annoyed. The council's next  meeting agenda isn’t going to finish writing itself but he can’t bring himself to either. Besides, Ten’s pacing outside his room is starting to get on his nerves.

“Ten!” he yells. “Can you quit it? You’re making too much noise.”

His disapproval is met with silence. For a moment, he spaces out and reflexively thinks of you, only to feel a confusing sort of emotion. It’s normal, he tells himself, and that it’ll sort itself out.

Doyoung feels like a glass box more often than not. If he breaks, who picks up the pieces? Who gets cuts all over their fingers?

‘Whoever breaks him’ should be the answer. But that’s wishful thinking. It’s not that simple. 

He’s so see-through that it’s painful. He used to tell Taeyong he’s wrong but he’s never been able to prove it. He is easy. It’s embarrassing.

But then again, part of him likes it when it comes to you. He likes it when you kiss him after a particularly heated disagreement, he likes when you get on his nerves just so he’d fuck you and most of all, he loves the push and pull. Fun is just that. He doesn’t know what he’d do if that heart of his he placed so gingerly into your palms falls and shatters.

The line between hate and love is thin; and he’s enjoying walking it too much.

He has nothing to offer but himself. He laughs at the thought and shakes his head. It’s somewhat dirty, and not just in the sexual sense.

“Ten!” he yells again. “Stop pacing!”

Getting up from his seat, he strides over to his door, swings it open and finds Ten scratching his head and glancing at his phone in repeated action. 

“Ten?”

He’s so in a trance that he hasn’t noticed Doyoung. He is the lovable sort of idiot if he ever chooses to be so. Most of the time though, he’s just a smartass.

“Oh, oh no, I’m a bad friend,” Ten mutters to himself, his pacing growing more restless. He scratches the back of his head, eyebrows furrowed and too inside his head to notice Doyoung. He wants to ask but something tells him he shouldn’t. 

Turns out, his apprehension isn’t strong enough these days. 

“Whose date did you crash?” Doyoung asks, more than annoyed already.

When Ten looks at him, Doyoung feels rather shriveled and freezes on the spot. Call it instinct but Doyoung respects fear and pain. Ten has a mixture of the two, amplified when he looks at Doyoung.

“Doyoung. Hey,” he says, trying to tone down the distress in his voice.

Doyoung still hasn’t recovered from the initial surprise of Ten looking that way.

“Did you fuck up? Did someone fuck up? Why do you look like that?”

Ten sits down on the small couch. “Long story… I guess. Too many details, you- you know? Just—”

“What the fuck happened?”

Ten still can’t look him in the eye. “The group chat’s a little…”

“Ten,” Doyoung snaps. “Cut the crap.”

“No, that’s- that’s what I’m- You’re going to be upset.”

Doyoung straightens, furrowing his brows. “I think I can fucking handle it.”

“You know that date I set up for (name) and Hyungmin?”

“You set that up?”

“(name) slept with Hyungmin.” 

Doyoung quietens. The silence seems to make Ten uncomfortable as he shifts in his seat, getting up when Doyoung speaks.

“So?”

Ten blinks. “You’re not upset?”

“Just what kind of loser do you think I am?” Doyoung mutters.

Glass shatters just that easily. Maybe he wanted you to shatter him. Maybe he was already cracking at the edges.

“Doyoung, you don’t have to—”

“Stop,” he exclaims a little louder than he intended. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m a grown man, I can handle shit like this.”

It still hurts though. You lied to him and he let you in. You lied to him. Doyoung sighs, returning to his room with a realization he should have had long ago. His night ends with more deleted drafts than he’s supposed to have and eventually, with increased discomfort, he delegates the job to Park Hyungmin himself with the excuse of sickness.

Doyoung does feel sick. He felt this way once, in highschool, but it had turned to red, hot anger ready to lash at anyone and everyone, spilling from his lips as easy as it was to breathe. And Doyoung can never feel that way towards you. He was different back then too, of course, but you—you’re unlike anyone he’s ever met. He loves the comfort of you, and something like that is hard to come by. 

He feels like laughing again but instead he finds tears on his cheeks. Silly boy, he can hear his mother tell him. You don’t give your heart to heartbreakers. 

So Doyoung falls asleep to the sound of upbeat music in his earphones, music he hates even just to pass the night. Morning will come and he will have to become stronger. Comfort is fleeting, after all.

With everything said and done, you know very well that if you were to tell someone you love them—genuinely, truly, from the heart—it would be Doyoung. It’s not a sudden realization, like the sky falling apart or a tidal wave crashing against the shore and sweeping away the city. It is like the gentle lapping of water, though, or the way the clouds change shape—natural and anything but alarming. You want to stare at it forever, and you want to believe that’s how it will be forever. 

“You told everyone we had sex?” Your voice is boiled to a shout. 

Hyungmin looks torn, lips moving but no explanation making its way out. “I- I told my friends, not everyone.”

“And you forgot that your friends talk? Everybody talks, Hyungmin, what were you thinking?”

He sighs before taking a step towards you. “Why are you so angry about it? As far as I remember, you had no trouble talking about whose pants you got into.”

You scoff. “With friends, not the whole campus.”

“That’s exactly what I did!” 

You cross your arms, feeling so upset you might cry and unsure as to why. You’re usually good at dealing with stuff like this, keeping things in the right place.

“It’s because of Doyoung, isn’t it?” 

You snap your head to Hyungmin. There’s a serene sort of look to him despite his unkempt appearance, and a look of understanding.

“I’m sorry. Really. But if you were so into him, you shouldn’t have called me that evening. It might not matter to me but…”

You broke his heart. All that devotion he had towards you led to this. 

“You’re right.” You choke on your words, leaning against the wall. “Fuck… Fucking…”

You turn around, making your way out of the hallway and hope the tears on your cheeks dry faster if you run.

You can’t remember the last time you ran. Your world didn’t need running from, it was right in the palm of your hands. Now that you look back, the world was always on your shoulders and heavy as it can be. Maybe you liked it—the weight. You could’ve shrugged it off any time; you didn’t need all those caging schedules or careful, elegant steps.

No. Atlas couldn’t shrug because his punishment was his existence. To have weight is to have meaning; and that is how you intended to live out your life.

Doyoung makes you see it differently. To love so fully even if it seems cautious—you, who has never loved at all, couldn’t comprehend it. And because he makes you see it differently, the box is now open and all hell is loose. 

For once, you don’t want to live in the world you crafted. You want more love, more hurt and you want to open the doors. You don’t mind hell if it’s for him.

You ring the bell to Doyoung and Ten’s apartment and pray the news hasn’t reached him yet. He said he was busy this weekend; maybe he was detached enough from his phone for once. You just want to be the person to tell him. It’s not a perfect apology otherwise.

Doyoung opens the door with pursed lips and cold eyes. There’s a sense of ease over his shoulders and arms but he won’t look at you and panic rises to your throat.

“We’re not fucking tonight, (name),” he says.

“That’s not- That’s not why I’m here.” Your voice is so meek, you wonder what happened.

Doyoung steps back, crossing his arms. He’s still looking at his feet and you feel the urge to reach for his face.

“I wanted to tell you- I… I just—”

“That you’re fucking other people?”

“God, Doyoung, stop with the fucking. I don’t care about that right now.”

“Really?” His voice is so sharp, it digs into your skin. “You were just in it for that. That’s the fun part in your stupid life, isn’t it?”

You feel a sharp pain in your nose and forehead. “You’re- Now that’s- Doyoung. I’m sorry. That’s what I wanted to say.”

“After—” His voice chokes up. “After everything is done? Stop with the excuses and face it for fuck’s sake. You aren’t made to fall in love. That’s why you dance around it all the time.”

Although he says that, he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds defeated.

“It’s not like you aren’t cautious,” you retort, throat feeling heavy. “You said it yourself- you don’t want to care too much.”

“I was wrong,” he says, voice hoarse. “I care about everything more than I’d like to admit. I care about you more than I’d like to admit.”

“The Hyungmin thing didn’t mean anything, okay? You were busy and—”

“So why did you lie?” He strains to not raise his voice. “Of course I knew our little thing didn’t mean shit to you. Why did you pretend it did? Last week, you said- you said—”

“Doyoung, last week- last week I- I wasn’t pretending, I swear.”

“You could’ve just saved yourself the trouble and the dignity.” A short, humorless laugh leaves him.

You feel your lips tremble, the explanation not quite made its way out yet. He looks so innocent like this, rabbit-like eyes watery and full of pain, pure the way they have always been. This is your mistake, isn’t it?

“Doyoung, please,” you manage to say. “That was wrong. I couldn’t clear up my head. Please don’t—”

“No. I was an idiot. Or you see me as one.” He frowns deeper, lips trembling. “I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have. We shouldn’t have been at the same fucking party and I shouldn’t have drank so much. You’re- I’m not that kind of person.”

You bite down your lip. “What kind?”

Doyoung laughs, the sound raspy and empty. “The kind to not fall in love with you.”

It damn near breaks your heart to look at him. You have to say something, it shouldn’t end like this. You’re desperate and all you think is that you don’t want it to end at all.

“Please, I thought of you as a friend, that’s why—”

“And this is what you call being a friend?” he cuts you off.

You feel the sting in your eyes and nose, making you turn sharply to the side. You wish he’d just make you cry. It makes you feel the rancid guilt all the more.

“Make Hyungmin your friend for all I care. Let’s stop this.”

You stare at your feet, unable to respond. 

“You can have every boy in the world, (name). Don’t come to me.”

“Can you just stop talking about everyone else?” you yell, desperate. “Do I talk about your exes? Seungjae or- or what’s-her-name—” 

“That’s different!” He looks distraught, breathing heavily and with a painful red flush over his nose and cheeks. He runs his hand through his hair, tousling it further. “You lied to me, (name). You lied.”

Your cheeks are wet and the look that flashes over Doyoung makes you think he wants to step right out to you. He stays frozen in place, however, looking away to the side.

“Did you notice?” he asks softly. “Even once? How much I cared?”

You can’t answer, letting the tears drip down your face. It’s getting colder and colder. 

Doyoung bites down his lip before parting them. “All we did was have sex anyway. So please just- just leave.”

You take a long few moments but nod, hugging your coat closer and stepping out of his apartment. You think you hear Ten’s footsteps but it’s followed by the bang of a door—this is how it ends then.

The line between hate and love is thin; and you are deserving of neither.

You perfect your next semester’s academics, and the next. It still feels empty. You go out to drink with friends and return to a messy bed you sleep in alone. You smile as always and you laugh as always. No one asks you how you are as always. You never needed anyone to ask you how you are.

Ten tries but you push him away. You don’t need to drag in other people into a mess you made. He feels sorry for the whole thing but you tell him it was you that spilled the paint, Ten just handed a dash of it to you.

You were right. You don’t deserve Doyoung. At least, you made it so that you don’t deserve him. 

‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all’—it still hurts.

Every day is part of a list again. You doodled in some of the pages, when you thought you were starting to fall in love. There’s only a skeleton of it left now. Soon, you’ll let it crumble to dust too. 

You tear apart the planner sometime after graduation and cry and curse at yourself for doing that. No one’s good at parting with things they care about. You’re no exception.

It’s December again. 

This place is a little strange to visit right after graduating, especially with the memories flashing you by. Johnny said he booked one of the private booths (“A senior’s treat!”) but you feel your steps growing hesitant when you reach the neon signs by the stairs. It spells ‘The Meeting Place’ and smells of cigarettes just like it did the first time.

You stop midway up the stairs. For a moment, you think of Doyoung sitting there and wonder if you’ll ever be able to talk to him again. If you had the chance now, would you take it?

Of course, you wouldn’t. There’s too much to be set right and you can’t do it.

There’s supposed to be the six of you. Johnny mentioned Ten and you know Eunji’s invited too. You saw Jaehyun on the way here, still a student. You sigh. It must be him, the one they failed to mention to you. Kim Doyoung. There’s no one quite like him.

You spot him first. Looking a little forlorn as he gazes absentmindedly to the side, he faces away from you and you get the inevitable urge to run away. It’s a funny feeling. 

Your stomach is churning. You don’t want him to see you. Ten babbles on about something to Johnny, smiling like he found candy while clearing his drawers. Eunji looks tired, leaning against Johnny’s shoulder and you wonder if she already drank more than enough shots.

“(name).”

You jump at Jaehyun’s voice from behind you. 

“Hey,” you respond, giving him a wide smile.

He hesitates. “Are you okay? Not that you don’t look okay- you look really good actually. I mean, are you and… you know okay?”

“I don’t think so, Jaehyun,” you say and make your way to the booth.

It’s a little cramped for the six of you and Doyoung gets up before you can even greet him. It’s not like you deserve it anyway but it tugs at the wound.

“I’m going to go take a drag,” he mutters.

“You don’t smoke,” you say, looking up.

He stares at you momentarily and you look away. You think Ten and Johnny glance at you with pity but you don’t really care. 

 “Can I come with you?” you ask, barely a whisper.

“Sure,” he says, to your surprise.

The smoking area is so small, you’re surprised it’s even there. A glass structure overlooking the neighbourhood, there’s barely any light within. The only thing nice is how warm it’s in there. 

Doyoung lights his cigarette and then offers to light yours. It’s quiet, the music from inside numbed to the cold doors. You really can’t take it. You stub the barely consumed cigarette and throw it into the bin.

You’d rather just stay quietly in his presence.

“You’re not smoking,” he notes.

“It’s a bad habit.” You look out through the glass.

Doyoung chuckles. “You were a collection of bad habits.”

“And good ones too,” you quip. “I was a perfect student. I was perfect in most everything actually.”

Doyoung’s smile widens. “You were. You certainly were.”

A few more moments pass in silence, your eyes traveling over the outside scenery which seems to be growing duller by the second. City lights have never felt fainter.

“It was an accident, right?” You say suddenly. “The whole thing? Us?”

Doyoung hums. “Yeah. I fell in love by accident.”

You smile weakly. “Right. I never got to apologize.”

“I loved you on purpose.”

You look up at him. There’s not a lot of people who say what they mean. He looks the same as he used to under your grey blankets, with a warm blush over his cheeks and kind, wide eyes. 

“You’re so damn pretty,” he murmurs, “even now.”

You scan his face for signs of lying.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” you ask finally. 

Doyoung blinks before easing into laughter. “You- You’re- You’re the same as ever.”

You let yourself crack a smile.

“Doyoung I- I really am sorry,” you say quietly. “And I did- do care for you.”

Doyoung stubs out his cigarette and discards it before looking you in the eye. You notice he’s wearing his favourite black turtleneck in the proximity, the grey plaid coat covering most of it. You really liked that look on him.

“I’m sorry,” you say once again. “I want you to know that. I didn’t want to hurt you and I promise I won’t ever do it again.”

You mean it. You’re never going to hold glass again. He doesn’t deserve it.

“That’s a problem,” he responds, breath mingling with yours. “I want you… I want you to hurt me. If you really do love me, I’ll take it.”

“Doyoung,” you whisper, turning away despite your whole body screaming at you to give in. “I meant it. I can’t hurt you.”

Doyoung cups your cheek with one hand, glancing at your lips for a moment.

“You’re warm,” he says.

He’s warmer.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

You want to kiss him too.

“We went about this all wrong, didn’t we?” he asks.

“We did,” you answer, voice barely above a whisper. “I did.”

Doyoung pulls back. “Then let’s start again. I’m Kim Doyoung, I majored in linguistics. I was student council president and I made a mistake.”

You smile. “We don’t have to do that.”

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “After all the trouble I went through to make a good introduction?”

The two of you laugh, and it gets warmer. 

“I’m (name),” you say. “I was a top student and I made a bigger mistake, Kim Doyoung.”

“Oh? I wonder what it was.”

“Kind of a long story.”

“I’ve got all the time for you.”

You smile and start. He responds with gentle kisses. You’re piecing your world back together again; but this time it’s feather-light and fits right in the palm of your hand. 

[duskholland]

Cuddle Buddies | Peter Parker

summary ↠ you’re touch-starved, Peter’s your best friend, and there’s a whole lot of unresolved romantic tension between you; friends to lovers.

word count ↠ 3.4k

warnings ↠ uh oh.... there’s only one bed..? additionally maybe two swear words? also copious amounts of fluff lmao

a/n ↠ so apparently I really wanna cuddle Peter Parker. wbk. this is very cute and made me so soft when I wrote it. I hope you enjoy it! please let me know if you have any thoughts :D

“God damn, MJ, I think I’m actually going to die if I don’t get a hug soon.”

You’re rambling, your voice full of heavy frustration. Your hair is unkempt and messy from all the times you’ve run your fingers through it, and you stare at Michelle with a wild look in your eyes that makes her press a hand to her hips and laugh lightly.

“Has anyone told you that you’re really good at being dramatic, Y/N?” She replies casually, causing you to mock an outraged gasp. You sit down at the lunch table together, setting down your trays in front of you.

You manage a glare at your friend. “You’re so mean to me,” you whine. “You don’t understand how desperate I am.”

MJ narrows her eyes. “I don’t think it’s possible to die from lack of human contact,” she chimes.

“Who’s dying?”

You startle as a third, familiar voice joins the conversation, and crane your neck to see Peter slipping into the open seat beside you. He gives you an easy smile that stretches all the way to his soft, lovely brown eyes, and you feel your heart ache.

“No one’s dying,” Michelle replies. When Peter shoots her an inquisitive look, she adds, “Y/N thinks she’s going to perish if she doesn’t find someone to hug.”

You scowl at MJ, biting the inside of your cheek as you try not to let the embarrassment show on your face. It’s one thing to have this conversation with MJ - your close friend and number one confidant - but Peter? It’s an entirely different story. He may be your best friend, but your feelings are far more than simply platonic when it comes to him.

“Oh…” Peter looks at you curiously, his eager eyes darting over your face. He leans his elbows on the table and rests his chin in his hands, looking utterly adorable with his face pulled into a cute smile. His grin widens as you meet his gaze, and he nods knowingly. “Hugs are nice.”

You nod in appreciative agreement. “Exactly!”

MJ just rolls her eyes. “You guys are so weird.”

Ned joins the table and begins talking to MJ about a chemistry project, and Peter turns to you properly.

“Hey, so, are we still on for that study session later?” He asks you, his teeth briefly gliding across his lower lip. You try not to focus too much on the curve of his mouth, but it’s very difficult.

“Um, yeah,” you squeak, feeling your cheeks heat up a little as you remember the arrangement you’d made with Peter earlier in the week. “Mine or yours?”

“Yours?” Peter suggests.

“Okay. My parents are still away on business, so it’ll just be us. Is that okay?”

Your friend nods his head, his fluffy brown curls shifting around his face. “Sounds great.” Peter gives you a nervous smile, and it sets your heart racing. “I can’t wait.”

-----

Peter turns up a little after 7pm, a box of pizza in his hands. You spend a while chatting and watching Star Wars, and then eventually pull yourselves around to studying. You opt for your bedroom, with its very comfortable fluffy carpet, and you spread out all of your notebooks and pens around you before lying on your stomach and lazily flicking through your notes. But you can’t quite focus because something is amiss.

Peter is acting very oddly tonight. And he’s normally a little hyperactive, but it’s as if he’s on another level entirely. He keeps glancing up to you, then looking away the moment you bring your eyes up to meet his, and he hasn’t stopped drumming his fingers over the front of his maths textbook all night. You’re already nervous enough being around him, alone and within such close proximity to him, and his antics aren’t helping you at all.

You might have a teeny tiny crush on Peter Parker. Possibly. But you’d never tell him that.

“Pete,” you say, reaching breaking point when you catch him staring at your face for the fifth time in one minute. You sit up and turn to look at him, meeting his guilty, rose-tinted face. “What’s going on? You seem so unsettled. Are you okay?”

Peter opens and closes his mouth a few times, his eyes meeting yours nervously. His voice is more a squeak than anything else as he says, suddenly, “Do you want to cuddle me?”

You blink, totally blindsided by the change in topic.

“Uh, cuddle you?”

“Um, I mean, sorry, that’s such a weird thing to just come out and say, I- I just remembered earlier, with MJ, what she was saying, and I was wondering if you’d want to hug me, if you- if you want a hug so badly.” Peter breaks off, a disgruntled groan coming up his throat as he buries his flushed face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Y/N, shit, that was such a weird thing to ask. Can we just pretend I never said anything?”

You chuckle, your lips pulling into a wide smile. “You would let me hug you?” You ask gently. Peter parts his fingers and looks at you through the gaps, nodding slightly. “I’d like that, Peter.”

He looks so shocked by your statement that it brings another quiet laugh from your mouth. “O-Okay.” Peter clumsily opens his arms. “Um, here?”

It’s painfully awkward at first. He’s sitting at the foot of your bed, his back resting up against the mattress, so you have to do a weird sort of crawl over to him, feeling his wide, anxious eyes pressing onto your figure the whole way. It doesn’t help that you’re practically shaking from nerves now.

You’ve known Peter since the start of high school, but you’ve not really hugged him before. The most you’ve shared is a brief celebratory high-five after acing a biology presentation together, and even that contact had lingered in your mind for days after. The concept of crawling up to and hugging your crush makes your palms sweaty and your mind a numb anxious mess, but you do it, because it’s Peter, and the opportunity to cuddle up next to him is so enticing you think you’d do anything just to feel his arms around your body.

The angle is difficult, but Peter spreads his legs out across the carpet and pats his thighs, and you realise he wants you to straddle his lap, so you clamber into his hold gently. He’s sturdy beneath you, with a pair of dark denim jeans stretched over his firm thighs, and he’s quick to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you in. You let your hands find his sides, and then you settle into a very close, very intimate hug with your best friend.

It’s lovely.

He smells of soft bubbles and peppermint, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck, partly because it’s comfortable, but mostly because you don’t want him to see the massive, embarrassing grin fixed to your mouth. Your heartbeat’s going crazy - you can feel it pressing against your ribs almost painfully, and it only doubles in speed as Peter’s hands move slowly across your back, rubbing large, soothing circles over your hoodie. You savour the moment, your eyes closed as you enjoy just being held by your best friend.

“Is this okay?” Peter asks, after a few moments.

You hum against his neck, squeezing his torso softly. He’s wearing one of Midtown’s navy hoodies, and it feels particularly soft against your forehead. “Thanks, Pete,” you mumble, enjoying the moment entirely too much. “You’re really good at hugs, you know that?”

“You’re also a very nice hugger,” Peter replies. You swallow deeply as you feel him tighten his grip on your sides and pull you even closer.

“Sometimes it’s just nice to be held,” you find yourself saying. You’re starting to feel really comfortable now, and find yourself relaxing and shifting further into him.

“Definitely.” His voice is still ringing at a higher pitch than you’re used to, but you put it down to the late evening hour. “Um, Y/N?”

“Hm?”

“If you, uh, ever need another hug, you can always text me.”

You’re so glad you have your face buried in Peter’s warm neck because the grin latched to your lips is so large you think you’d die from embarrassment if your friend could see how giddy his words make you feel.

“Okay,” you say. “Thanks, Pete.” You pause for a moment, and take stock of the way he seems to be clinging to you just as tightly as you are to him. “You can always text me too, if you ever want a hug. Or anything, really.” You manage to collapse your smile so it’s more of a weak grin, and you pull back to look at Peter. His hands fall down to loosely grasp at your hips, and you find him looking at you with warm, attentive eyes and a wide smile hanging from his pink lips.

He looks so cute, and relaxed, and perfect, and you really can’t believe your luck that you’re sitting holed up in his arms just now.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he mumbles shyly, eyes flittering across every part of your face. “You’re a great friend.”

You deserve an Oscar for maintaining the smile on your face, despite the way his words stab painfully at your heart.

“You too, Pete,” you mutter. “The best friend ever.”

The air between you holds just a little too much tension, so you shift and push your face back into his shoulder, hugging him again. Peter’s arms tighten around your waist, and you sigh softly, revelling in rare the feeling of him so close to you, even if it isn’t under the circumstances you crave. You’d take anything Peter could offer you, even if it makes your heart ache.

------

It easily becomes a habit.

Soon enough, it’s been three months, and you’re spending almost every evening with Peter. The more you meet up, the more natural folding into his arms becomes, and soon you find that your favourite parts of the day are the moments you share curled up together.

Sharing affection with Peter is easy, but it comes at a cost - it ties your heart up in knots to spend so much time pressed up against his chest, acting so intimately with him, but then to pull back and go back about your day like nothing really happened. Every second you spend hugging him hurts you because your heart yearns so deeply to have more, but you just can’t bring yourself to tell him how you feel. You value your friendship with Peter too much to risk ruining it all because of a stupid crush, and you’re not ready to stop your evening shenanigans, so you decide to just put up with it and suffer in silence.

A few months into your arrangement, you find yourself at Peter’s when the power across the city goes out in the middle of a thunderstorm.

“Holy shit,” you mutter, shivering as you glance outside and see a flash of sharp lightning cut across the city. The rain pelts down against the pavements so loudly that you can hear it through the gap in the window. You turn and look at Peter, wide-eyed. “Bet you’re glad the Stark internship let you leave earlier than usual today. I’m not looking forward to walking back in that later.”

“Y/N, you can’t go home in the middle of a thunderstorm, especially if the power is out,” Peter tells you firmly, his arms crossing over his chest. He looks so cute with his eyebrows scrunched into a caring scowl that you can’t stop yourself from smiling. “Stay here tonight. May’s out of town, but I can sleep on the sofa. I don’t want you to go across the city by yourself at the moment.”

You bite your lower lip, eyeing the slants of rain that pour over Queens. “It does look pretty horrible out there,” you admit. Your expression shifts into guilt as you eye Peter closely. “You can’t sleep on the sofa, though. I will.”

“No, I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“Peter, it’s your apartment, I’m not about to kick you out of your own bed.”

“Then join me.”

“In your bed? With you?”

“Yes.” Peter’s face is a bright red as he flusters, “Um, only if you’re comfortable with that though, Y/N. You don’t have to. I just thought that- because, y’know, we’re kinda… close now, you might want to. But you don’t-”

“I want to,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can think them through properly. You’re rendered utterly incapable of sensible thought, because Peter’s looking at you so intently that it whips the breath straight out of your lungs. “Really, Pete, that would be nice, if you’re sure you don’t mind..?”

“No! I want to,” he replies. Peter runs his delicate fingers through his brown waves, pushing his strands away from his face easily. His smile is gentle, and it grows as you return it shyly. “I’ll go get you some clothes.”

You make light conversation as you both get ready for bed together. Peter even finds you a spare toothbrush in the cabinet beneath the sink, and you pull faces at him in the mirror as you brush your teeth together side by side. It feels so domestic, but also incredibly comfortable and normal, and you decide that you feel more at home by Peter’s side than you do anywhere else in the world. You realise that maybe you’d just been deluding yourself each time you’d dismissed your feelings for him as simply a crush. Maybe, your feelings run a lot deeper for your friend - far deeper than you’d ever intended for them to grow. Because you realise, as Peter laughs loudly when you pull a face at him in the mirror, that your feelings for the boy have taken firm root in your heart, and you’re absolutely fucking in love with him.

“So, um, I normally sleep on the left side, but I can swap if you want that side,” Peter tells you. The power has finally come back on and the weather has cleared up, but neither of you comment on it as he closes his bedroom door behind you and gestures at his nice, gingham-patterned bedspread.

“I can go on the right side,” you offer.

Peter turns off the light and you both shuffle to your respective sides of his bed. You’ve been in his room a thousand times before, but you’ve never ventured beneath his lovely soft covers, and you find yourself sighing slightly as you shuffle beneath the duvet. His pillows are light and feathery, and your head sinks into them easily.

He seems intent to stay as far away from you as possible, and he clings to the far edge of the mattress. It brings a frown to your mouth, but you let him be; if that’s where he has to be in order to feel comfortable, then you’ll let him stay there. Just because you feel something else fluttering about in your heart for him, does not mean he feels the same way - even if you were sure he’d been hugging you a little closer, recently, and staring at your lips more than he used to. But maybe that was all in your head.

“Do you need anything?” Peter asks slowly. You stare up at his ceiling, your eyes taking in the dark curves of his smooth roof.

“No,” you reply. “Your bed is very comfortable.”

You hear the sheets ruffle as Peter slowly turns over. You fold over onto your side and find yourself facing him, his bright eyes twinkling slightly beneath the light that streams in from the city outside. He looks very cute, with the duvet bunched up beneath his chin and his fluffy hair all messy and waved out across his forehead, and it makes you happy to see him so relaxed and free. Sometimes it feels as though Peter carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and you’d give anything to see him gentle and carefree like this. It makes you feel a surge of pride to know you can give him just a little bit of peace.

“Yeah, I dunno where May got the mattress but it’s amazing.” Peter breaks off, shifting around a little, and you freeze up when you feel his hand brush against yours beneath the covers. “Oh, uh, sorry,” he mutters, immediately jerking his hand back. You can just about make out the dark flush of his cheeks.

“‘S okay,” you murmur, biting your lower lip. A beat passes, and then you add, “We hug all the time, Peter. You can touch me, y’know.”

He takes it as an invitation, and he tenderly reaches out. His warm hand finds the curve of your waist, and you stay remarkably still as he slowly shuffles a little closer.

“Is this okay?” Peter whispers into the air.

“Yeah.”

Finally you unstick, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. You shift towards him, as if magnetised, and your hand goes up to rest on his side, too. His t-shirt feels soft beneath your hold, and you find your mind reeling as you take in his warmth, his scent, his touch.

Peter’s face is very near you now. Your legs are tangled together. Your head shifts onto his pillow, and suddenly he’s holding you flush against him, your noses almost touching.

“Y/N,” he says slowly. His eyes are wide and nervous, and they keep dipping down to settle on the curve of your lips.

“Pete,” you respond, your voice fragile. You can hardly keep still, for how nervous you’re feeling now. He’s pulled you right against him, and for the first time, you question whether your feelings are actually one sided. His warm fingers burn against your side, tracing delicate circles over the material of your borrowed shirt. “You’re really close.”

“Do you want me to move?” You’ve never heard him like this before: all warm, and gentle, and inviting. It ignites a whirlwind of butterflies inside your chest, and you really can’t stop yourself from saying, quietly,

“I want you to kiss me.”

Peter’s lips are on yours before you know it. Soft, at first, and a little bit bumpy and awkward. But he loosens up as you reach up and wrap your fingers around his hair, and you kiss him back with all that you have. Peter pulls you closer as you kiss him deeply, savouring the feeling of his warm, pillowy lips and enjoying the way your heart blooms in your chest as your best friend kisses you back. He releases a small noise of enjoyment into your mouth as you nibble over his bottom lip, and then he’s pushing his tongue into your mouth, and you’re making out, your figures lazily intertwined.

It feels so right to be kissing Peter that you briefly wonder why you’ve never tried this out before.

“I, um, I really like you, Y/N,” Peter whispers against you, when you finally pull back. Your lips tingle as you giggle into the air, your fingertips trailing through the soft strands of his chestnut hair. “In fact, I… I’ve been in love with you for months.”

Your mouth runs dry, and all you can really do to stop the tears of relief from slipping out of your eyes is lean in and kiss him again, hard. You kiss him like you’ve been dreaming about for months: slowly, passionately and lovingly - growing in tempo as you fervently try to convey everything you’ve kept hidden away inside your heart.

When you break away, you keep your lips nuzzled against his and breathe out a deep, “I love you too, Peter.”

You giggle together, and you feel so overcome with adoration for the boy that you simply have to kiss him again.

“D’you want to go on a date with me?” Peter asks gently, between gaps in your soft kisses. You finally move away from his lips and settle nearer, your forehead finding his chest as his arms encircle your waist and he holds you close in a warm, consuming cuddle.

“I would love to go on a date with you, Peter,” you mumble against his front. You smile softly as you feel his lips trail across your forehead, and your heart stirs happily in your chest.

“Okay,” he says, sounding immediately relieved. “I’m excited.”

You hum sleepily into his chest, your fingers curling around his strong back. “Me too,” you mumble.

“Night night, Y/N,” he says, his voice already being carried away as you drift further into dreamland. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Pete,” you reply. You know nothing else will compare to the feeling of being holed up in your best friends arms, with his lips scattering a dusting of kisses across your forehead, and you try to cling desperately to every single moment and sensation. “Sweet dreams.”

Peter leaves a final kiss on your forehead, and then you drift off to sleep with him, your figures entangled, and, for the first time, your hearts beating together as one.

------------

any feedback?

masterlist

[tteokdoroki]

hello! if you’re still doing these could i please request 7 with Bakugou?

if you’re not taking them pls delete !! 💕

katsuki bakugou x gn!reader.

tteokdoroki teaparty event masterpost!!

♡ prompt #7  —  reader has a secret admirer, character of choice doesn’t know how to confess.

♡ genre: everyone, fluff + slight angst.

♡ word count: 1.8K

♡ warnings: cursiing!

♡ author’s notes: thank you for requestiing my lovely !!

yet again, warmth spreads underneath your skin and across your chest at the sight of the chocolates displayed cutely across your desk. for the last week or so, you’d received a flurry of gifts from an unknown admirer— each attached to a sweet note, written with such deep feelings that every time you read one your heart thumped loudly in your chest.  

“let me guess, another one?” mina swoons from your right, joining you in the empty classroom for the day ahead. pink hair tickles at the junction between your head and your shoulder as she reaches for the box of sweets in your grip— you don’t bother putting up a fight, knowing she’d take it from you anyway. “that’s like the third time this week, yn.”

bowing your head shyly, you run your fingers over the small note that lays unfolded on your desk. ‘for you, i’d do anything.’ it reads and you wonder for the umpteenth time; you out of all of classmates is capable of writing such a thing. “i know, i really wish i knew who’s sending them— no ones ever quite done something like this for me before.” you voice is quiet and hopeful, a contrast to the bustling energetic babbles that come from your third year classmates as they filter in for the day ahead. you scan them all to look for a possible source, knowing that your heart could belong to anyone of them.

“it’s gotta be deku!” kaminari cuts through your train of thought like a knife through butter— throwing his arm around your shoulders as he plucks the box of chocolates from mina’s grip, much to her annoyance. “he’s like the sweetest dude in the class, there’s no way it could be anyone else. we’re not capable of cute shit like that.” you roll your eyes and allow your friend to tear open the box for a morning treat but let your gaze slip over to where izuku chats animatedly with ochako. not him.

jirou is next to speak, ripping the box from the blonde to take it to her desk beside yours. kaminari whines as the girl divides up the sweet snacks for, taking one for both herself and mina. chaos is ensuing and yet again, your friends are the centre of it. “nah, my bet’s on sato...how else would yn be getting so many sweet treats every day?”

the group falls silent, mulling over the choice as you finally take a seat and swipe one of the chocolates for yourself. popping it into your mouth, you huff in frustration.

“doesn’t make sense, everything gifted to me so far has been insanely exclusive or expensive...some are even my favourites from abroad and— i don’t speak to sato enough for him to know them...“ you admit, pawing your cheeks with embarrassment.

“maybe it’s kirishima then! you guys are always together and he kinda seems like the romantic type..?” your pink haired friend suggests and the more you think about it, the more it makes sense. it was true, you were both always together— even if it was in the presence of others like bakugou and kaminari— and had more than enough in common, from music tastes to gaming. you could see the hardening hero as someone you’d go for as well, eijirou was an obvious choice. “what do you think, bakugou?”

you peek up from the note ( neatly folded ) and box of chocolates ( now returned ) that sit on your desk, catching the arrival of your final three friends. bakugou, sero and kirishima himself. you feel body flush with warmth as you catch the latter’s ruby eyed gaze and give him a small wave accompanied by a smile; that kirishima quickly returns.  

the blonde however, tsks at mina’s question before making his way to his seat. you considered yourself and katsuki to be good friends; it was usually quiet whenever you too were around one another which was a nice change of pace from his usual rowdy personality— but the majority of your time with each other was spent with him teasing you for your quirk.

“‘m callin’ bullshit. whoever this is should hurry up and face how they feel. the candy shit is stupid.” bakugou growls out, throwing his backpack onto the desk; ready to begin class. in all three years of knowing him, he’d never showed any signs of romantic interest towards anyone in your class, especially you. meaning that your admirer, definitely bakugou.

you turn away from him and your group of friends to face the board, ignoring how they scold him for his harsh words. “right, stupid...” you sigh quietly, just as aizawa enters the room.

ever since your brief conversation with the explosive boy himself, bakugou had been increasingly rude to you throughout the day and it was starting to get on your last nerves. at first, it had been subtle— bumping you in the corridors between classes, pretending he didn’t have an extra pen for you when you knew that he carried spares for your friends who often forgot and then he’d straight up ignored your invitation to study during lunch like you usually did.

you figured that the blonde was having a bad day, bakugou was never usually this harsh to you and you could talk it out with him later. this behaviour was something you hadn’t seen from your friend since first year, and you almost believed that something else had been bothering him— until he almost blew you high into the sky during hero training that afternoon. of course you called him out on it, yelling at him in front of the entire class as your frustrations finally bubbled over but bakugou remained straight faced— leading to your current predicament.

aizawa thought it was best for the two of you to work things out over cleaning duties after school— something you thought you’d been well past seeing as you were third years now. mature, grown up third years who knew how to talk about their problems. apparently, katsuki bakugou was not one of them. even while you rearranged chairs and swept under desks, he still managed to crawl under your skin with petty remarks and hums of disapproval.

it’s only when you realised that katsuki had been actively trying to avoid your gaze or rather, your entire presence— that you snapped, dropping the broom you held in your hands and letting it clatter to the floor beside him, ultimately grabbing his attention.

“are you fucking insane—?”

“what the hell is your problem, bakugou?” you slice right through his words, a quiet rage flooding your bloodstream as you glare down at him. the boy himself looks dumbfounded, having never heard you talk to him in such away, before and stops shelving the books he had been holding. “did i do something to you?”

“like I’d let you do anythin’ to piss me off.”

god, he infuriates you. you step closer to the blonde, who stands at least half a head taller than you and shove at his chest as best you can— needing an outlet for your frustrations. “then why have you been acting like an asshole all day? first you blow me off and then you quite literally blow me up, and now? you’re avoiding me?” your fists curl in his untucked shirt, tugging at it as all of your emotions spill out into the space between you. “i don’t know what i did, but it doesn’t mean you get to treat your friend like shit, katsuki. you’ve been so mean to me today!”

bakugou looks away, avoiding your eyes that cloud with a sadness he can’t bare to face. you tell yourself not to cry, hating the way your bottom lip wobbles at his change in attitude. “’m mean to everyone, there’s nothin’ special about you.” he excuses himself, trying to step away from you.

“but not to me, you know that,” your voice shakes, everything you’d held back finally slipping through opened cracks. why was he treating you this way? what had you done to deserve this? you glance up, trying to find his vermillion eyes and the answers that may lie behind them. “you’ve been acting so...so off, since this morning, when mina asked about my admirer. you called it stupid. is it so hard to believe that someone, that kirishima might even like me?” the grip you had on bakugou’s shirt loosens but you remain leaning against him, neither of you daring to breathe. “why should i even care what you think? you’ve never been one for romance...u-unless you count the manga that you read but i don’t know how that would...”

and then your babbling stops, realisation washing over you in heavy waves. bakugou appears visibly tense before you, fist clenching and unclenching by his aides as you process your own train of thought. he hadn’t been mean to you for the sake of it, he had been because he didn’t know how else to express his feelings of jealously. it wasn’t kirishima that had been sending you notes, no— it had been bakugou all along. “how that would relate to me...” you think out loud, feeling him flinch beneath your grip. “k-katsuki...do you have a crush on me?”

“...don’t...” the blonde warns, heat rushing to his cheeks at your very accusation. a smile comes rushing to your cheeks, the familiar warmth finding its way back into your chest. “don’t look at me like that, fucker. i-i’m not good at this emotion shit, you know that and this was easier than talking— yn, stop fucking lookin’ at me like that.”

the almost whine that slips from between katsuki’s lips makes your tummy fill with affectionate butterflies, causing you to finally let go of his poor shirt and throw your arms around him in a tight hug. bakugou hesitates for a moment, trying to decode the situation and decide for himself if this was real— but you decide to do the talking and tell him foot yourself. “can’t help it, not when i feel the same way about you, katsuki.” you knew that no matter who was behind your little gifts and love notes, your heart would belong to your admirer and your admirer alone. with a rush of adrenaline after feeling katsuki return your embrace, you lean up to press a soft lingering kiss to his chapped lips.

he tastes like honey and smoke, feels warm like a soft summer breeze but as your lips love together and speak a thousand unspoken confessions, the pair of you realise that you never want the moment to end. “i meant what i said in that last note,” bakugou hums softly, pressing his forehead to yours and holding you close as if you’re going to disappear or suddenly realise your feelings for him aren’t true. “i’d do anything for you...”

“anything?” for the second time that day, you swoon at the blonde’s words and peck his nose gently.

he nods once, lost in thought before speaking again. “except for buy you those fucking chocolates again. they’re fucking expensive, cost a shitload.”

you snort at that, leaning up to lock lips him again— who needed chocolate when you could kiss katsuki bakugou instead.

[bakugohoex]

CONGRATS ON 1K!!! For the event, could you do Bakugo with Fluff #4??? It just seems so much like him

“because i’m fucking in love with you”

pairing: katsuki bakugo x female reader

cw: language, fluff, kissing

word count: 2500+

a/n: i have to write a levi oneshot now, bruh i might just go sleep, who knows what i’m going to do

summary: in which bakugo watches you get too close with another man and can’t help but let his anger take over seeing you with anybody other him

1k event masterlist

↞ back to my hero academia masterlist

Bakugo had many reasons to get angry on a warm summer day at the office. Being a pro hero had its ups and downs, the down being what was occurring today. Paperwork, he hated it with a passion, he loved the idea of fighting and defeating villains but the idea of writing it all up made his skin itch in disgust. Of course he had his sidekicks to help him, but they would never know the true extent of having to re-read over fights that occurred and signing it all off.

Bakugo still had other reasons that annoyed him, the weather had become broiling, his sidekicks were pissing him off and then there was you. You with your hero costume that looked tighter every time he saw it, you with the way you’d walk into a room and have everybody on your feet. You who had whipped him like a servant boy, he hated having to work alongside you. You had your own agency a couple blocks away from him, but ever since you both found out you took the same route. You’d come and annoyingly meet him throughout the day.

He hated it, and as he signed off on another report, his V neck not helping him at all, he heard the sounds of chatting from outside his office, that's when he saw it through the glass. The way you flaunted past the desks with your skimpy hero costume which he understood was for the best possible use of your quirk. But even then, it always cupped your body in just the right places. 

You seemed to have been waving at one of the new sidekicks Bakugo had recruited. He hated it, pen almost breaking from his anger, he watched as you didn't bother to knock only cascade inside with the looks of others following your pristine body. “What?”

“How rude, Bakugo! Is that any way to greet your favourite pro hero.” You mocked falling onto the chair with a hefty sign, he watched at how you were clearly out of breath with the way your chest heaved harshly. 

“Shut it, extra. What do you want?” He repeated.

You began playing with the stuff on his desk, he’d noticed how you always needed something in your hands and since he had always left a small jelly like plushie just for these moments. You happily put it in your hand pulling and stretching at it before looking up at him, “are you not coming for the patrol?”

“I got paperwork.” He signed as you saw the almost boxful of papers. 

“No fair, I'll just go on my own then.” You were about to stand up when he stopped you. 

“Get one of your sidekicks to go, idiot, help me with this.” He gestured to the paperwork that he knew wasn't the full extent as you both had decided to split it.

You gave another huff at him, “just because I’m organised doesn't mean i want to spend my Monday morning doing dreary paperwork.”

“I know you split it 70:30 so fucking help me.” He growled loudly making a shiver run down your spine. 

“So needy, Bakugo, let me just call them.” You gesture to your phone as you walked outside his office. You leant against the glass door, Bakugo’s eyes fixed to the way your ass and thighs had been pushed against the wall. He licked his lips as he stared longley at your body before hearing your sign. 

That's when he saw his new sidekick come up to you, of course he knew that the sidekick was only a couple years younger than the two of you. But he had a crush, the way his eyes lingered across your body, the way he passed you the coffee which you hadn’t even asked for. The way you laughed at his shitty joke, were you really flirting back with a man like that, Bakugo scowled before directing his eyes back to the paperwork. 

“I’ll make sure to come for you when I need some coffee.” You laughed at the boy as you opened the glass door. 

Bakugo heard the boy give a chuckle touching your arm as he let you go through the door. “Here do you want some?” You gestured to the coffee you had, noticing the empty coffee mug on the side of his desk. 

“No.” Bakugo muttered but nevertheless took the coffee and drank a large gulp of it. “Why don’t you get your little coffee boy to bring more?”

He was pissed not only had you let his stupid sidekick touch you, but you’d made him feel special as if he had your attention. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” You chucked the cup in the bin, going over to the box where you grabbed some files out. 

Bakugo didn’t make a remark instead letting you read over what had occurred and sign it off. “Bakugo.” You whispered halfway through your first file and already bored. “Bakugo.”

“What?” He questioned after he had seen you become more concentrated in the pen you held than the paperwork itself.

You stared at him with a bright smile, “we should get some lunch.”

“Y/n, it’s only half 10, it's a bit early for lunch.” He scowled, chucking the finished file into the complete pile.

“But I’m hungry.” You whined leaning against the cold desktop, it was white and probably made from marble, but it was the best bet of comfort you’d get from Bakugo’s office. 

“Go get some food then.” He muttered as you stood up all giddy. “Get me something as well.”

“Now who’s the hungry one.” You mocked as you happily skipped out of his office, he couldn't help but roll his eyes and give a slight smile to you. But that’s when he saw his stupid sidekick come up to you. His face faulted, his smile turning downwards as he watched you both converse and leave to the elevator.

“You really don’t have to come.” You spoke stepping into the elevator, you hated how vulnerable you felt with Bakugo, how easily he could stare at you and make you go weak at the knees. He was perfect, an amazing pro hero who was ahead of you in the charts by the couple of numbers. You were almost grateful that your paths had crossed and that you spent patrols together, but his sidekicks were a whole other thing. 

You knew the coffee boy had a crush; the whole department knew that. But how could you let a sweet boy down after all he did was such good things, how could you tell him you’d rather have his asshole of a boss than a sweetheart like him. “No, it’s fine, I was going that way anyway.”

“Oh why?” You questioned through the long elevator ride down.

“I had to buy some stuff for my sister's birthday and I'm on my break.” You nodded happily, not asking anymore through the uncomfortable silence as soon as the door dinged open, you both walked out, he had walked you to the bakery as you were craving a sandwich, he waited as you picked one you liked and one that Bakugo definitely likes. He didn't say a word until you spoke. 

“What are you thinking of getting your sister?” You asked walking with him into the store selling gifts. 

“What do you like, I mean girls like?” A heavy blush formed on his face as you began looking through the gifts. 

“I’d probably go for that drinks set, it’s cute if she of course drinks that is.”

He quickly spoke to ease your gaze, “she does.” He instantly grabs it going to pay, you didn't question his rash decision and you both walked back to the building. 

“I’m sure she’ll love it.” You smile out as you both step through the office again, Bakugo in an instant saw the two of you, bags in hand. 

“I hope so, thank you Y/n.” He smiles putting his hand on your shoulder, he goes in for a hug which you happily give, he was clearly nervous for his sister's birthday. Bakugo watched intensively, surprised at the hug as he stormed out of the doors of his office on a mission to grab you and take you with him. 

“Y/n.” He bellowed out. 

You both retreated from the hug, staring at the angry blond, “Bakugo, i bought sandwiches.” You happily smile out, rummaging through the bag to show him it, “and cupcakes.”

His face fell, a smile erupting that he didn't know he was even capable of, you looked so happy showing him the cupcakes with the pink frosting on them. “Come on.” He whispered watching you come beside him, his arm on your back guiding you inside. 

Bakugo guided you inside, watching you happily pull out the food, he saw how you moved the chair for visitors beside him making him move up. You were closer than he had expected, leaning across to grab the cupcakes and stuff one in your face. “You looked angry before?”

“I wasn't.” He muttered while taking a bite of the sandwich. 

“Don’t lie to me, what’s up?” You began to play with his other hand, he hadn't expected it but the way your hands had just met his own, the way you skimmed his veins and the rings that embodied his fingers. It felt like heaven, but your eyes gave a sense of doubt and resistance. 

“I...I just don’t like you spending time with that guy.” He spoke staring at you, your eyesight was on his hand still, the way you continued to play with his fingers before moving to the back of his hand. 

You took a sharp breath before speaking to yourself, “is it because of his crush on me?”

“You know about that?” 

“Of course I know Bakugo, I think everybody knows about it.” You whispered out softly.

“Is he your type?” Bakugo had gone against his words of jealousy, maybe if you admitted you liked coffee boy then he could move on more easily. 

You finally looked up at the blond, his piercing red eyes giving a look of caution, “he should be.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Bakugo moved his hand away from you, your unclear answer had made him a lot more pissed at the idea of you stringing both the men along. 

“I...I just mean that he’s nice y’know and he should be my type, but he’s not.” Bakugo’s anger seemed to calm down as he gave you a softer look. 

“Who is then?” Bakugo went to grab the cupcake you had bought for him ,taking a soft bite as the sweet frosting enchanted his mouth.

“You have frosting on your lips.” Bakugo went to lick it as you avoided his question entirely. 

“Y/n, who’s your type?” Bakugo repeated staring at you, in an instant you stood up not wanting to confess anything else. 

“I’m going to go see how my guys are doing.” You left him with no other word, he couldn't even stop you at how you almost ran away from the situation. Even if he had found out you didn't like the coffee boy you were now avoiding him which felt a lot worse.

Bakugo tried calling you but it went to miss call, he ended up finishing the rest of the paperwork and by the end of the day he knew you’d probably be hung up in your office, pushing yourself to do something other than talk to him. He began walking the short distance in the humid air, the sun was just about to set as he arrived at your agency. He always liked the vibe you had going on, even your sidekicks were okay, a lot better than his own. He was able to get inside with ease, walking the steps towards your office, he could see your shadow through the frosted glass. 

You seemed to be pacing on the phone to someone, but he couldn’t tell who until he was just in ear shot. “I can’t tell him that, he’s going to think these months have just been me being selfish.”

Bakugo couldn’t hear the other line but it raised more questions in the boys mind instead. He was careful about being unseen until he heard you continue. “He’s a fucking idiot, how could someone like him ever love me, I’m nothing special.”

He heard another long sign from you at the response from the other side before hearing you say your farewells and begin to pace about the room. Bakugo softly knocked against the door, hearing a come in as he walked inside, your office being as pristine as ever. You were no longer wearing your hero costume, assuming you had been on a patrol yourself at the tiredness that set in your eyes.

He saw you as a normal civilian at this moment, so sweet and innocent but you gave a glare. “How long were you listening in for?”

“I...I wasn't.” He stuttered out. 

“Bullshit, why the fuck were you listening into my private conversation?” You scowled again leaning against your desk.

Bakugo knew he was caught but in his idiocrasy decided to make the situation worse, “who’s the guy you’re talking about?”

“Why do you care?” You spoke stubbornly.

“Y/n, who’s the guy?” He repeated himself.

You faced the blond scowl on your face at his relentless pushing of an answer. “It’s nobody okay, I don’t even understand why you care so much?”

Bakugo’s anger rose at you hiding even more from him, how could he work alongside you if you were just going to keep him in the dark about some stupid guy that probably meant fuck all in the big picture. He knew this wasn't the true reason behind his anger though, he was jealous, some man you loved didn't love you back, and he was here with all his love to give.

“Because I’m fucking in love with you.” Bakugo shouted, the words spewing out without even realising. Bakugo’s eyes widened and so did your own, he looked at how your eyes had almost softened at the confession.

“You...You love me?” You questioned standing up to come closer to him. 

“I’m not repeatin…”

You quickly interrupt him, your bodies almost touching as your hand moves to his face making him stare right back at you. “I love you too.” You softly whispered before closing the gap between the two of you. His hand moved to your face guiding the kiss as he had to bend down to even meet you.

It was filled with passion and drive from the countless nights you both spent together in each other's office, the morning patrols together and even the galas you attended together as friends. Everything you both had wanted from each other had come down from a singular kiss in a small office in the middle of Japan.

A small moan escaped your lips, his tongue gliding in with such ease as he toyed with your own, almost sucking the spit and saliva that was across your own tongue. He let go taking a harsh breath and he brought your face closer to his, foreheads touching as he gave the softest look he possibly could. You stayed in his arms, just staring at each other with such love and passion, both knowing nothing could break you both now.

i’d really appreciate if you guys could leave a like, reblog or comment, thanks x

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[onceuponabarnes]

I Miss You, James

summary \\ professor!bucky and student!reader have an interesting night

word count \\ 2.6k

warnings \\ smut, 18+ only minors dni

You pulled your pen between your teeth, eyes bright as you focused on the beautiful sight in front of you, ready to time your actions just right. Bucky was perched on his desk, eyes trained to his phone screen as he waited for the majority of his class to file in and find a seat. Just as he looked up, ready to tuck his phone away into his desk drawer, you hit send.

I can’t wait to see you tonight. I miss you, James

“He’s going to kill you,” Wanda teased from beside you, watching as the man at the front of the class flushed beet red before glaring at you. “It’s kinda hot”, she whispered.

You slapped her playfully on the bicep. “Eyes off,” you instructed through a muffled laugh.

As you were chuckling with Wanda, Bucky made the short trip from the front of the classroom to where you were sitting. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asked lowly so as not to draw any attention to the two of you.

You looked up through your lashes, as innocent as you could manage. “No, Professor Barnes. Is everything okay?” you pouted slightly.

Bucky cursed under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear it right beside him. You watched as he stalked back to the front of the class, quickly bringing everyone to attention. He still wore a gentle pink blush, one that you would forever take pride in causing. Teasing Bucky may well be one of your favourite ways to pass time in class.

It didn’t take long to work out that Bucky was doing everything possible to make the next 2 hours of your life as frustrating as possible. He knew you well enough to know what would make you tick, what would rile you up to the point of outburst or get you so hot under the collar that you couldn’t sit still. And he was pulling out every trick in his book.

His shirt sleeves were quickly unbuttoned and rolled up, exposing the mass of strong forearms. He subtly popped the top button of his shirt, knowing that no one but you would even take a hint of notice. He’d ignore your raised hand time after time, until he didn’t.

“Good girl,” he commented before swiftly moving on to the next question.

He’d perch himself on the side of his desk, legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded over his chest. It made his biceps bulge, straining the already taut material of his white dress shirt. Every little move or ministration he made was made with you in mind. Made to tease you, to frustrate you, to turn you on.

“Someone’s in for an exciting night,” Wanda hummed quietly as she packed away her things at the end of class. You didn’t give her a response, only an exasperated glare that she saw straight through. She only gave you a loud, mischievous cackle before looping her arm through yours and dragging you towards the door.

“Miss Maximoff,” Bucky said. “I’m afraid I need a moment of her time,” eyes darting to you.

“Oh, of course!” Wanda chirped happily. “See you tomorrow, Professor Barnes,” she smiled, before turning and leaving the room as quickly as she could.

You stayed rooted to your spot as Bucky walked over to the door and flicked the lock, turning the blinds closed. He came back over slowly, slotting himself back onto the side of his desk, right in front of you. “C’mere,” he whispered, holding a hand out to you.

You took it without hesitation, stepping forward into the gap between his and leaning into the arm that came around your waist and up your back. “I’ve missed you,” Bucky hummed into your neck, words reverberating across your skin.

“I’ve missed you more,” you argued into his hair, eyes slipping shut at the familiar scent of his shampoo. He held you close to his body for a short while because as much as you both lived for the teasing and the way it escalated into pure ecstasy between you, Bucky was still your happy place.

He was where you went on a cold night when the masses of blankets just weren’t keeping the chill off of your bones. Where you went when a nightmare struck and you needed to feel safe and loved and protected. He was the first person to know anything, whether it be something ecstatic or heartbreaking or down right menial. Bucky was your happy and your sad, your beginning and your end.

“You were quite the tease today,” he whispered into your skin.

“Says you,” you retorted, pulling back slightly.

“Well, you started it,” he countered, just as childish as ever underneath his stern-history-professor exterior that he wore so well.

“What are you going to do about it… Sir?” you asked, voice so close to his ear that he could feel your breath rolling off of his skin.

Bucky dropped your hand, taking his now free hand and tracing over the back of your thigh gently. Hard enough that it didn’t tickle, soft enough to leave goosebumps in its wake. His fingers trailed between your legs, to the apex of your thighs before dropping back down and circling around.

“I don’t know,” he hummed. “What do you suggest, doll?,” he asked huskily. The nickname and his tone of voice sent sparks careening to your core, begging you to seek out his touch wherever you could get it.

You leaned into him a little more, hand anchoring onto his shoulder for support as your head dropped down with a silent moan. “That’s up to you, sir,” you told him politely.

“Hm, I suppose it is, isn’t it?” he said cockily. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see, Princess.”

“Someone’s quite needy, aren’t they?” James teased as you arched up off of his bed, begging for his touch. “You look so beautiful like this,” he mused, “all laid out for me.”

“Please, Bucky,” you whimpered, skin burning where his fingers and lips trailed. “Please,” you begged.

“Well, since you asked so nicely…” he trailed off, a smirk growing on his face.

One hand slipped between your legs, fingers grazing along goosepimpled skin. “So wet for me and I’ve barely even touched you yet,” he mused. “Good girl,” he whispered.

A single finger slipped through your folds, running upwards to collect the wetness gathering there. You couldn't help the moan that slipped out from between your lips when Bucky brought the finger to his mouth, closing his eyes as he savoured the taste of you.

His fingers quickly returned to their previous spot, teasing the skin for a short moment before slipping two fingers straight inside. You keened, arching impossibly high at the sudden intrusion before falling flat again. “Please,” you whispered, knowing Bucky knew exactly what you were begging for. “I need you,” you clarified for him.

“Just give me one, sweet girl,” he bargained. “You know how much I love to watch you fall apart on my fingers,” Bucky teased.

He pumped his fingers quickly, the force of it jolting through your whole body. His thumb soon joined, finding your clit in a fraction of a second and setting a gruelling pace against the bundle of nerves. It wasn’t long before a soft mantra of moans and pleas were leaving your mouth, begging Bucky not to stop.

“There’s my good girl, show me how loud you can be,” he instructed from above you. “Let me hear you,” he said before dipping his head down to take a nipple into his mouth. That was all it took, the extra little bit of stimulation sent to careening over the edge, crashing through your first orgasm and leaving you breathless on the other side.

“Okay, doll?” Bucky asked as the haze clouding your vision seemed to shift. You responded only with a dozy smile and a nod. Bucky immediately started manhandling you back into a better position on the bed, ready to slot himself over you and pull more sinful noises from your mouth.

“Wait,” you whispered, clambering up and slipping off the bed. You knelt down on the hardwood floor, mouth open. “Please.”

You heard James swear before hastily pulling his cock out of his boxer briefs. As soon as it was presented in front of you, you couldn't resist. You were well used to the once daunting length of what James brought to the table, so well versed in taking him into your mouth that you hit the base on your second bob down.

“So good, Princess,” he praised, the words shooting straight to your core. “My best girl,” he moaned, slipping a hand through your hair and gripping tight. His words and his grip caused another fresh wave of heat to surge down your body and settle in the wetness between your legs.

You pulled all the way back, only the head left in your mouth as you rolled your tongue over it, ducking into the slit and pulling whatever noises you could from James. He practically choked when you took him straight into your throat again, hips stuttering against your face forcing him ever deeper into your mouth.

“Up, baby,” he gasped. “Wanna see you”.

Bucky’s hands around your hips guided you over his lap where he was still sitting on the edge of the bed. He lifted you slightly and lowered you down slowly onto his cock. Bucky let out a sharp hiss as you sunk down, drowned out by the moan that you gasped out into his shoulder.

“Let me hear you, doll,” he whispered into your ear before taking your chin in his hand and holding you still for a kiss. Whilst you were still wrapped up in his kiss and the way his tongue danced around yours, Bucky thrusted up slightly.

And then again.

Bucky was thrusting into you as he pulled your hips down to meet him. The sound of skin slapping filled his bedroom, only spoken over by the moans that weren’t swallowed by kisses. Your hands were gripping onto his shoulders so tight that you were sure you’d leave bruises.

“Please, James,” you begged, anchoring a hand in his hair and letting your forehead rest on his shoulder. “Need more,” you gasped into his skin.

Not a moment later, Bucky had flipped your positions and was hovering over you. “What do you want, baby?” he asked, voice thick with lust.

“You,” you whined, voice high in your throat. Without warning, Bucky slammed back into you, knocking you an inch up the bed with the force of his thrust. The sound you let out was borderline pornogrpahic, high pitched and needy and begging Bucky without even using your words.

Your fingers raked down his back, settling over the base of his spine. Your legs were hooked up around his hips, your face tucked into his neck. “So close, please,” you babbled into his ear, words almost incoherent.

“I’ve got you, Princess”, he promised. One hand came between you, thumb finding your clit again in next to no time. “Let go”, Bucky whispered into your neck before nipping the skin between his teeth. It only took a few messy circles around the swollen bundle of nerves before you were flying over the edge once again, dazed and dizzy as a second orgasm washed over you.

Bucky came with a grunt and a moan as you tightened around him, milking him with each extra thrust. He rolled off of you, laying down next to you with a heavy sigh. When you looked at him, he was already staring back at you, a cheeky grin reaching his eyes.

“What?” you asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Think you can give me one more?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

Bucky didn’t even wait for an answer before he was dragging you into the position he wanted you in; head cushioned on the plush pillows at the top of the bed, legs bent and spread wide for him. “So beautiful,” he whispered into the skin of your calf.

“No teasing,” you whispered, already exhausted. “Please,” you begged. Your core was already pooling, something about Bucky not being afraid to throw you around into the position he wanted you to be in was always a turn on. Plus the way he looked up at you through his dark lashes from the bottom of the bed, like he was ready for you to be his last meal… How could you not.

He licked up your leg, peppering soft kisses amongst your inner thigh. The closer he got, the more his teeth got involved. By the time he reached where you wanted him most, he was sucking marks into your skin that you knew would last a few days.

“Please,” you whispered, fingers reaching to run through Bucky’s hair. “Won’t last long,” you warned him.

“I know, baby,” he assured you, voice soft and sweet and caring. Gone was teasing Bucky who wanted to rile you up and make you beg for him. “All about you,” he promised.

The first few tongue strokes completely missed your clit, leaving you arching into his face for more, for anything. From then, it was an all out assault. He left nothing behind, every single thing Bucky knew about pleasuring you was put into your final orgasm. And he knew a lot.

His hands came up over your hips, pressing you down so you couldn’t arch up, but it put the most beautiful pressure on you from the outsides. Bucky was everywhere. His fingers had snuck up and into you, curling and pressing as he beckoned your orgasm forwards. He was there like it was the last thing he would ever do, like it was the sole reason he was put on this earth.

Your thighs squeezed around his head and you could feel the cocky smirk against your folds. Your fingers raked against his scalp, pulling his hair for all it was worth as you felt the knots build and tighten and twist and turn. “God, Buck, please,” you whined. “Please,” you chanted over and over. “So close”, you keened.

Your thighs tightened as Bucky sped up. He could practically taste how close you were. One more tight suck to the abused nerves between your legs and you were gone. Your hips arched up off the bed as he released them, moans tumbling from your mouth as Bucky licked and sucked you through your most powerful orgasm of the night.

“How was that, Princess?” Bucky asked, propping his head lazily on your thigh.

The sight before you was obscene. Your juices painted his beard and the lower half of his face, your thighs were red raw with beard burn. “Perfect,” you sighed, breathless.

You went to sleep that night safe in James’ arms, body spent and completely wrecked.

“You look happy,” Wanda teased as you walked into class the next morning. “Nice scarf,” she smirked, fingers quick to shift the fabric and expose the blossoming marks that James had left the night before. “Jesus, is our history professor a vampire?” she hissed, poking at the skin.

“Leave it,” you muttered, urging her forward to her seat.

You sat there, pen between your teeth as you looked at Bucky through hooded eyes. He looked straight back at you, phone long forgotten in his hands until it vibrated with a new message. His eyes met yours once again, winking, before rounding his desk to put his phone into the draw, reading the message once more before sliding it shut.

I can still feel you. I miss you, James.

[army-author]

ludus | pjm

ludus  noun. playful love, characterised by flirting; the first stages of intimate love

❝ you’ve been best friends with jimin since you were five. it was inevitable that you would fall in love eventually... ❞

➝ pairing: jimin x reader

➝ prompt: types of love

➝ genre: fluff, childhood friends au

➝ word count: 1.1k

➝ warnings: one brief mention of bullying; oodles of fluff

It started when you were five years old.

Since then, it was always you and Jimin, together. In a way, perhaps you should have seen it coming. Spending so much of your life together, with so many shared memories, it was only natural for attachment to grow into attraction into love.

In your first year together you shared laughter over snacks, chasing each other through sunshine filled summer days. Your earliest memories together are scrounging up enough money for ice lollies from the ice-cream truck, begging your parents, rattling piggy banks, getting all the coins you could, just to hand them over the counter in exchange for sweet, sweet brain freeze.

In your second year together you commiserated the boredoms of school, stuck in class, your desk next to his. While your teacher rattled off times tables, you swapped scented felt tip pens with him, getting high on the artificial scent of fake fruits. Your favourite was strawberry red. His favourite was lemon yellow.

In your third year together you invited Jimin over to your house most weekends - to play video games or to show him your new toys. You would stay up past your bedtime, revelling in each other's company, hyper on sugar. On those nights, your parents would find you both fast asleep on the sofa, game controllers in your hands, worn out from your adventures together, traveling the galaxy in your over-active imaginations.

In your fourth year together you spent your time running around in the fields behind your house, nose itchy with pollen. The air was heavy, heady, intoxicating in its golden nostalgia. You played an assortment of games: tag, hide and seek, soccer. Anything to spend time together.

In your fifth year together, as you grew older, you slowly became more aware of how girls in school treated Jimin. There were batted eyelids, blushes, and giggles. For some odd reason this treatment angered you. Why were those girls treating your best friend in this way? You were the one who had stayed by his side for five years. So why were they trying to come between the two of you? You couldn’t understand, but you wanted them to stop stealing away Jimin’s attention.

In your sixth year together you moved on to secondary school, with all the new stresses it brought along. At least you had Jimin by your side, a familiar friend, while the word changed around you. The adults expected you to act in a more grown-up manner, yet still treated you like children. With growing up came the attention of other boys. It was whispered that so-and-so had a crush on you. You didn't care. You had Jimin as your best friend, so why would you need a boyfriend?

In your seventh year together you were bullied by the girls in your class. They laughed at your hair, your clothes, your stationary. It was okay, because Jimin stayed by your side, reminding you that it didn't matter what they said. You didn't need their approval. It later turned out that those girls liked Jimin, and were jealous of your close friendship. They poked and prodded to try and get you to back down. Of course, when Jimin confronted the girls, they eased off, embarrassed. Jimin would always be there for you. The thought set off a warm glow in your chest.

In your eighth year together you realised that you wanted more from your relationship with Jimin, but you weren't sure what. Maybe this is what it meant to want a boyfriend? Having been friends with Jimin for so long, how were you meant to develop the relationship further? You tried to flirt, awkwardly, stumbling through juvenile love. Jimin didn't seem to notice, oblivious to your attempts to show him you wanted love in return. Looking back on it, your "flirting" attempts weren't as obvious as you thought, consisting of shy glances, giggles, light touches on his shoulder or hand. Those were all things you normally did anyway. So perhaps it wasn't that Jimin was oblivious. Maybe you were just bad at flirting.

In your ninth year together you were also oblivious. Maybe Jimin was bad at flirting as well. Maybe you should have picked up on the signs. When you got close to Jimin, his cheeks would light up in shades of pink. When you glanced over to him, his eyes were always on you, a smile on his face. When you told him a joke, he always laughed for you. The signals were there, you just never tuned in to them.

This brings you to now - your tenth year together. This is the part that you should have seen coming, all the imperfect flirting coming perfectly to a head when you and Jimin stand before each other, cheeks hot with shared blushes.

"So," Jimin says.

"So."

"There's something I want to tell you," he continues, "It's something I should have told you a while ago, but I've never been able to. Too shy... Or too scared... I don't know. But I'm telling you now. Okay... Here goes. I'm telling you..." He sucks in a deep breath, pausing.

"I'm still waiting," you say, when, after a considerable amount of minutes have passed, he still hasn't said the thing he is supposedly meant to say.

"Right, yeah, this is scarier than when I practiced it in my head," he laughs.

"You can tell me anything, Jimin. You know that right?”

"I know. It's one of the things I love about you. Because that's what I wanted to tell you. That I love you." He heaves out a breath, like he's been holding it for years.

You smile at him, and say, "I love you too," and suddenly it feels that everything is right with the world. The years shared together, so precious in your memory, are wonderful because they lead you right to this moment - this second - where the rest of your life begins, figuring out love together. Something new starts with your joint confession. You don't know the details, but you're excited to discover them.

You link your hand through Jimin's, pulling him closer. His warmth is special in a whole new way; it reminds you once more that he loves you back. Each moment will be a reminder of that, of romance, new and naive. It's a love that will change over time, mature, shift, develop. You're excited to experience the changes with Jimin by your side.

- THE END -

[the-witches-you-couldnt-burn]

Should have known better

Prompt: when ur reading fanfic and one character was cooking and the other comes up to them and they start making out and everyones like starting to take their shirts off and the author STILL hasnt mentioned anyone turning off the stove

My first attempt at Dickinette. I hope I did it justice!

Here’s my favourite ratatouille recipe! It’s amazing!

Ao3

—————————

Warnings: mild sexual content & mentions of gun violence, gangs, bullet wounds, fire hazards and unplanned pregnancy

The keys jangled as he took them out of his pocket, the lock clicked open and the old apartment door creaked. He took two steps into the hall, dropping his bag with a thud and closed the door behind him. Running a hand through his long, sweat slicked hair he sighed. Today had been a long day.

A deep inhale inflated his chest, but the black police vest he wore restricted it’s full extension. The smell of a wonderful home cooked meal made his stomach growl. Ratatouille, his favourite.

His heavy boot laden feet created echoing footsteps as he walked into the grey tiled kitchen. His wife stood at the stove humming, the google pad’s screen was lit with the ingredients list. She scooped and flipped the squared vegetable mix before putting the lid upon it for the meal to soften. She turned to her sketchpad, inspired by something unknown. Drawing captured her full attention, her brain’s need to replicate the idea on paper outweighed her focus on her surroundings.

He should have known better. He grew up with vigilantes and superheroes. He should have know never to sneak up on someone, especially if they knew how to fight; although this rule doesn’t count for villains (they know what they did).

For Marinette, it had been a long day of ripped seems and designer’s block.. It was nearing on eight when she finally started dinner. Looking at the clock she sighed, ‘Dick’s working late again.’ She hoped he wasn’t caught up in the shooting across town. Two gangs had a disagreement over territory and many civilians got caught up in it. She wanted to help but she had been banned from heroine duties for the time being. Her last ladybug adventure resulted in a bullet to her leg, which was still healing.

Dick took her to the hospital stating she had gotten caught in the crossfire (which now reminds her they need to restock the medical supplies), and they discovered that she was four weeks pregnant.

In present time she was still well within her first trimester, just starting her second month; and she was feeling it too. Vomiting each morning wasn’t fun, more so when it started happening more frequently throughout the day. Their midwife reassured the young couple that it was completely normal, but if it keeps up to come back as it may become hyperemesis gravidarum which will harm the baby.

Baby.

She was still trying to wrap her head around it. She had turned twenty-four last July and Dick was only older by a year. They weren’t planning on this and they had taken all of the precautions to prevent it. Yeah sure, they were married but it hadn’t even been two years! Her worry for the future faded as she reminisced on her husband’s reaction to the discovery. He was shocked for a few seconds before jumping up and down like a toddler who got a toy, beaming with joy. Tears of happiness pricked his eyes, threatening to spill on a moments notice.

Another symptom that weighted upon her was fatigue. She was no longer a teen who could challenge the world with a pen and a cup of coffee. She was a tired, pregnant adult who had to give away her coffee maker due to the temptation being too strong. No more late night or all-nighters designing clothes and completing commissions. She had to lessen her commissions due to the stressful nature of them but working from home, in her own studio helped. It had been a month since she found out and now she just wanted to hibernate due to lack of energy.

Putting down the spatula, she scooped up the pen, suddenly inspired by the mix of colours; an autumn playsuit came to mind. Biting her lip as she drew, neglecting her surroundings, the blare of the news channel becoming white noise.

She should have known better. She was a superhero, albeit she was benched at the moment, but still! The first rule of ‘herodom’ was to always do the right thing, but the second rule was to always be aware of your surroundings.

Arms wrapped around her waist, a small gasps left her mouth and her elbow drove straight back into her captor’s chest. A masculine groan came from behind her, but she paid it no mind as she tried to get out of the man’s strong grip.

“Mari, Mari! Calm down it’s me” Her husband said breathlessly. Her jab winded him, although it was softened by his police uniform, Marinette’s miraculous strength was powerful to say the least. He just wish he didn’t have to be on the receiving end of it.

“Ma moitié! Why would you do that!?” Her anguished cry caused him to hide his chuckle in her neck. Her heartbeat made its presence known within her chest and her breathing was still shallow. Turning within his embrace, she faced him with a pout on her face, “You jerk, you scared me!” She whimpered, her pregnancy hormones had blurred the line between her emotions causing her mood to flip like a switch.

Dick looked down at her with a guilt riddled face. “Shoot Mari, I’m sorr-“

Before he could finish apologising Marinette tugged him down and connected her lips to his. She leaned back into the countertop, cupping his cheek and jaw with both hands. Dick eagerly followed her lead.

He picked her up, his hands moulding the flesh of her thighs. He had done this before, but took extra precautions this time due to her still healing leg injury. He moved her away from the countertop and sat her upon the plush couch. He hovered above her, lips only splitting for a millisecond for air before closing the gap once more.

Marinette pushed on his shoulder and swiftly flipped him so that she was on top. The quick motion caused his head to slam back into the wall, the noise halted their make-out session. Her eyes widened, the cloud of lust had evaporated and rained down on her parade. She apologised multiple times to him, eyes watering in the process.

Dick just laughed before pulling her back in for another kiss. In contrast to the sloppy wet kisses before, the gentleness off Mari’s lips now made him feel like he was made of glass. She filled it with her remorse over hurting him. But as the kiss continued it shifted back to the momentum and passion they had before.

Her hands trailed up his chest, she shivered into the kiss; he had just taken off her shirt, leaving her in her bra. His thumb brushed under the mound of her breast, he felt her furious heartbeat through he skin.

Her focus lowered to his bare neck. Placing kiss upon kiss there and biting occasionally, leaving a trail of pink marks for his colleagues to see during his neck shift. A hand ran down her back as it arced, pushing her bosom into his chest.

They broke apart, foreheads pressed together, bodies flushed against each other’s. She peppered his face with kisses, “I love you”s were stated after each. He returned this action with the same fervour.

Something was wrong though. It was a sudden onset plaguing thought that something wasn't right. They had tried to ignore it but it had become like a tugging string tied around their hearts, signalling an oncoming danger. Wordlessly the two scanned the apartment, neither wanting to part from their entanglement.

Confused the two looked back at the other. Neither finding what set off the warning sensation. As their eyes connected, realisation washed over them like a bucket of ice water. They inhaled the burnt air and scrambled apart; both exclaiming “Fuck!”

Running into the kitchen, the tiles were cold against her bare feet. Dark unventilated smoke hung in the air. Upon entry to the room it was a wall of heat, it was a wonder the smoke alarms hadn’t gone off yet. Dick grabbed a nearby tea towel and swatted at the smoke, he shuffled towards the burners, mouth and nose hidden within his elbow.

Marinette opened all nearby windows, she hoped that the neighbours on the floors above didn’t question the smoke. The couple worked together to set up a system of fans to push out the smoke from the kitchen.

“If Alfred were here he would kill us.” Dick solemnly nodded in reply, ‘we should have known better’. He scraped the burnt black char into the bin, while Mari held the pan. Once the pan cooled down enough it went into the bin too, there was no saving it.

Dick tied up the yellow bin bag and placed the spatula into the sink. “Soooo... want chinese? If you’re up for it, it’ll be my treat.”

Her stomach growled as her eyes flicked to the clock, it was almost nine and she hadn’t eaten since breakfast at seven. She nodded, “sounds good let’s go!”

She walked towards the door, hand on the handle when she realised that he hadn’t followed her. Turning back around she saw him staring at her, cheeks flushed, unmoved from his position next to the bin.

“Um babe?”

“What’s wrong Ma moitié? I thought you wanted Chinese.” Her head tilted, confused at his actions.

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking away. “Babe you’ve forgotten your shirt.”

“Shit” left her lips as she bolted back to the couch, vaulting over a counter much to Dick’s disapproval. She heard him scolding her from the other room, but was too hungry to care.

Walking back to him, now appropriately dressed, she grabbed his hand, pulling him out the door. He just sighed, following his crazy wife, throwing the bag into the complex’s dumpster on the way to the car.

No one was getting in between her and her noodles.

[harrysweasleys]

are you ticklish? // c.d

summary: can i request cedric diggory baking with the reader? i just need a lil fluff in my life 🥺 i LOVE U AND UR WRITING SO MUCH I HOPE U KNOW THAT! THANKS!

warnings: there’s no plot. its just fluff, my friends.

word count: 1.6k

a/n: sorry this is so late! i have been having writer’s block for like two weeks now so production has been slow here lol. thank you all for being patient! (also i’m sorry this doesn’t involve baking per say, but i hope you enjoy anyways!)

——————

The smell of warm, gooey cookies filled your shared home with Cedric as you sat yourself in front of the oven, impatiently staring into the little window and counting down the fifteen minutes until they would be ready. It was hard to stay away from them, you thought. The smell was just teasing you — taunting you, as if saying ‘the cookies are in progress, but you can’t touch them just yet.’

Cedric, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of his tea, fought the urge to chuckle as he watched you, seated comfortably on the floor with a blanket wrapped around you and a silly grin on your face.

Oh, how he adored you. Every little thing about you. From you desire to crack jokes only to see people laugh, to the way small things — like baking — would render you utterly happy. He had fallen for you all those years ago at Hogwarts, and never regretted a moment of it. You captured his attention as much now as you did all those years ago.

He watched, content as ever, while you eyed the timer above the stove.

“Come sit with me,” you reached out to him, giving him a soft smile that he knew he couldn’t say no to even if he wanted to.

He placed his mug down on the counter and leaned down, sitting on the cold floor and scooting as close to you as he could. His heart did a little flip as you lifted your arm and wrapped your blanket around him — he could smell you and feel the heat radiating off of your body. He really did love it.

“It smells nice in here,” you said, leaning your head against his shoulder.

He nodded softly before leaning his head against yours, lifting his hand and placing it atop your knee, “It does. Bet they’ll taste better than they smell.”

“Well, of course they will,” you scoffed, poking him in the side and causing him to jump slightly at the ticklish sensation, “Cookies always taste better than they smell. Besides, smelling them doesn’t put them in my belly.”

Cedric couldn’t fight the laughter that bubbled within him, the vibrations from his body causing you to let out your own laughter. He found your laughter infectious — unique in its own adorable way — so your laughter only egged him on to laugh harder.

The two of you were just sitting on the floor, wrapped in a blanket and staring at an oven, giggling away while the clock on the wall flashed 2:34am.

“Reckon we’ll have any left tomorrow?” Cedric found himself asking after a few moments of silence, the comfortable air in the room not previously needing to be broken by conversation.

“Nope,” you replied rather quickly, lifting your head off of his shoulder and giving him a toothy grin, “I’ll eat them all while we go watch telly in bed.”

Cedric had recently introduced you to a Muggle service called Netflix — which you had to admit, you really liked. It was hard to go to sleep without watching a few episodes. The two of you had recently started a new series and were up late binging it — only, you had had no snacks. 

That’s how the two of you ended up in the kitchen at this hour of the morning, the smell of chocolate cookies wafting through the quiet apartment and the low rumble of your stomach signalling your impatience.

Beep!

Cedric stumbled over as you jumped up, picking your wand up off of the counter and opening the oven. He was eye-level with the blast of heat that emerged, causing him to grimace and stand up hastily, waving his hands in front of his face.

“Oh, the smell of joy,” you grinned, eyeing the cookies as you lifted your wand, lifting the tray out of the oven and placing it atop the stove. The smell was now ten times stronger that they were out of the oven, and even Cedric couldn’t fight the hungry grumble in his belly.

He came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder, “They don’t smell as good as you, though.”

He grinned to himself as a blush rose on your cheeks, the corners of your lips curving up. You always became rather flustered at his compliments — one of the many reasons he loved showering you with them any chance he could get. The way that your cheeks and ears turned pink as the shy smile grew on your face — it was one of Cedric’s favourite things.

“Oh, such a smooth talker, Ced,” you giggled, turning around and wrapping your arms around his neck, his still wrapped comfortably around your waist. You could feel the heat coming off of him, surrounding your flushed body comfortably and making the dingy tile floor feel less freezing against your bare feet.

“You know it,” he smirked, leaning forwards and pressing a light kiss against your nose, “Theres no one else I’d want to make cookies with at 2am.”

You nodded your head, “Same here.” And it was true — there was no one else you’d want to do this with. Cedric was it for you, no one else would ever come close. 

He leaned down and pressed his lips against yours. They were familiar and warm, but they didn’t fail to make sparks fly in your belly no matter how many times you kissed. The feeling of kissing him was intoxicating — intoxicating enough you nearly forgot about the baked goods sitting on a tray behind you.

Cedric, however, couldn’t care less about the cookies at this point. He was utterly lost in your touch, in your kiss, in your smell. He didn’t want to stop and there was nothing in the world that could change his mind.

“They’re gonna get cold,” you pulled away from him slightly, mumbling against his lips.

“I’m afraid I don’t care,” he replied, wanting to pull you closer and continue kissing you until the sun came up and brightened the dim kitchen. 

You giggled, lowering your hands down from his neck to his waist, poking him in the sides and causing him to jump back. He screeched slightly at the ticklish sensation, pulling his lips away from yours and glaring you down.

“Well,” he brushed his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes, “That’s not fair.”

You raised and eyebrow, winking at him, before turning around to face the cookies, “They’re gonna get cold!”

Without waiting for him to retaliate, you picked up a cookie off of the tray, the softness and heat of it causing it to crumble slightly in your hand before you shoved the whole thing in your mouth.

You had been utterly wrong about them getting cold, however, because the second the cookie hit your tongue, it felt like it was on fire. The chocolate was scalding and your tongue felt fuzzy immediately. You let out a small cough and opened your mouth.

“I’m going to guess by your expression that they’re not cold?” Cedric smirked, placing his hands on his hips.

You gave him a glare, eating the cookie with your mouth open to cool it down, “I have made a terrible mistake.”

He nodded slowly, pursing his lips, “Karma for the tickling.”

You continued awkwardly chewing your cookie, glaring him down with narrowed eyes. His smirk never faltered, however, and the second that you swallowed your burning cookie, he lunged forwards with his arms out and his hands went straight to your sides.

You let out a loud yelp at the feeling, the ground beneath your feet disappearing as he lifted you up, wrapped you in his arms, and tickled you like there was no tomorrow. His laughter was bouncing off of the small kitchen walls as you began kicking and pushing him, hoping to get some sort of relief from the ticklish torture.

“Ced! Stop!” you gasped for breath through your laughter and shouting, hoping your neighbours down below wouldn’t hate you too much for causing such a ruckus at this early hour. Your laughter echoed through the small apartment as you struggled to breathe properly.

“Stop!”

“Fine, fine,” Cedric sighed dramatically, placing you down on the ground and standing above you. You finally touched the floor with your feet and let out a sigh of relief, the ghosting feeling of his hands on your waist making a shiver run down your spine. Cedric had always loved tickling you every chance he could get — but you, on the other hand, enjoyed it a little less.

You looked up at him, his eyes bright and his smile practically radiant. You couldn’t even bring yourself to pretend to be mad at him with that look on his face. He looked like a giddy child — a giddy child that had just received the exact gift he wanted on Christmas morning. And for some cruel reason, tickling you had been the gift he had longed for.

“Tickling should be a form of torture, you know,” you pulled down the hem of your shirt from where it had ridden up moments before, “I’d spill all of my deepest darkest secrets.”

His eyebrow cocked up and a glint of playfulness was evident in his eyes, “Oh, deepest darkest secrets, you say?”

Immediately regretting how close you were standing to him, you dodged his hands and took off towards the living room, Cedric’s loud footsteps letting you know he was chasing after you.

He was a rather quick runner, this you knew, but luckily he was in a playful mood and therefore was letting you outrun him as you darted down the hallway to your shared bedroom, continuously avoiding his grabby hands and the mischief in his eyes.

Unfortunately for you, the cookies had now long been forgotten.

——

taglist

@grierpilots​

@hxfflxpxffs​

@mikumana​

@msmimimerton​

@pit-and-the-pen​

@diary-of-an-onliner​

@theweirdsideofstuff​

@thoseofgreatambition​

@theweasleysredhair​

@haphazardhufflepuff​

(message me to be added!)

[taones]

𝐂𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 // 𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝𝐚

Pairing: takeda x gender neutral!reader (afab)

Notes: I simp for this man so hard and hes like legit on 3 days of kinktober sjdjjdjd day 2 of kinktober I had so much fun writing this even if its pretty short!

Warnings: Dom!Reader, sub!takeda, some biting, reader calls him slutty like once, minor dumbification, lowkey subspace, hair pulling, reader calls him kitten cause I think its CUTE, praise kink

The soft silk of the sheets cooled the scorching skin on your back slightly. Takeda was sitting at the desk at the end of your shared bedroom, head buried in a pile or poorly written essays. Furrowed brows and repetitive sighs alerted you to just how frustrated your partner was getting. After the 7th sigh in a row you grunted and pulled yourself off the bed, slinking towards his hunched over figure. Your hands moved towards his tense shoulders and began to massage the knots away, making him groan in relief. 

“You know it’s the holidays right?” you questioned, pressing a kiss against his hair “you have a week off come lay with me”

Sighing once again, he turned his eyes towards you and you could see the bags underneath them, giving you a matching frown. It was obvious he hadn’t been sleeping well and you were beginning to worry about him. Not to mention the fact that you barely spent any time together, didn’t cuddle, didn’t go out, didn’t fuck. It was taking its toll on both of you. What you did know is that your partner always slept better after a good fuck.

“I’m just stressed y/n” he muttered, pulling you to sit on his lap.

Despite him doing the action, a soft red blush swam onto his cheeks causing you to giggle. No matter how long you dated, he would always be easily flustered by you and you loved it. Swinging your hips round to straddle the blushing man, you moved a hand up to cup his face. The soft rotation of your hips against his made his blush grow more and he tilted his head back slightly. 

“Ittetsu you’re working yourself to the bone” you hummed “I can make you feel better’

Whimpering, he rolled his hips up into yours. The damp patch growing on your underwear made you groan and you decided to stop fucing around with him...for now. Standing from the quivering man's lap, you peered at him and smirked. The blue fabric of his work trousers did nothing to hide the obvious bulge he was sporting. 

“C’mon Ittetsu,” you cooed, “can you take your strip for me baby?”

The desperation in the man made you giggle slightly. It was nice knowing you had that effect on him so easily. Once he was standing in just his work shirt and boxers, you slid over to him. Kisses with Takeda were usually soft and sweet, with just a hint of lingering nerves. This time tough, it was desperate and messy, to the point that his arousal was seeping through the kiss. As you began to move your lips down his jaw, your fingers reached up and began to unbutton his shirt. This left his chest and collar bones wide open for marks that his colleagues wouldn’t see. Not that Ittetsu minded people seeing, he liked people to know he was yours and liked the reminder himself. Of course, that is something he would never admit. A moan was ripped out of him when you sunk your teeth into the junction of his neck and shoulder, it caused his hips to buck in desperation. 

“Okay baby, sit back at your desk” 

The confusion and pleading eyes that fell over his face almost made you give in but you wanted to mess with him a little longer. A tutting sound escaped your mouth and you grabbed the hair at the nape of his neck, dragging him to your eye level. The melodic whines of the man filled the room and you shivered.

“I won’t say it twice Ittetsu” you growled, “bed, now.”

The tangle of long limbs as he scrambled to the chair made you hum in content. So well behaved. I guess that’s what you get when you teach all day, you learn to appreciate obedience, even if it’s you being told what to do. And boy was Takeda good at being obedient.

“Good boy” you purred.

The praise and hand running through his hair made him gasp and lock eyes with you. You could see the desperation beginning to seep into the pretty hazel of his eyes. It was a favourite expression of yours on him, only second to the glazed over, tongue out look he wore when you properly ruined him.

He had been a good boy. You decided to give him a treat and began to strip out of your nightwear. The way his thighs pressed together sent a rush of confidence through you and you decided to toy with your nipple just to hear the way his breath hitched at the sight. Eventually he let out a high pitched whine and you took mercy.

“Please y/n” he whispered, trying his best not to grind down on the rough fabric beneath him

You giggled and pulled your underwear off. The slick must have been obvious on your thighs because your partner's eyes started to get that glazed over look and became hooded. Slinging over once again, you straddled him like last time and hovered above his lap. Your hand slid down to pull his aching dick out of his boxers, precum sticky on your fingertips.

“Awe look how hard you are for be baby” you teased, leaning down to bite his ear “you must be aching”

A low moan bubbled in his throat but you swallowed it with a kiss, choosing that moment to sink onto him. The moans you both released were simultaneous and you couldn’t help but forget your task and grind onto him a little. It was nice to finally feel full after so long of his work taking up his time. Thin hands moved from gripping to cushion to hold onto your waist but you landed a harsh smack to his thigh, getting a squeak in response.

“No touching kitten” you growled, “pick up the pen and carry on marking”

Despite his situation, he was ever obedient and picked up his pen to continue marking the tests. You adjusted so that you were leaning your back on his chest and could see the work. This way you could punish him when he had a lapse in concentration or reward him when he finished a paper. 

Takeda was trying so hard not to thrust into the wet heat surrounding his dick and it was obvious. His face was the same shade as the pen he was marking with and you giggled when you shifted slightly and he jolted. By the third essay he had begun missing mistakes and you used the opportunity to entertain you. 

“You missed a spelling mistake tetsu” you cooed, “hmm a little touch to your cock and you lose all concentration, how slutty”

The raven haired man trembled beneath you but he knew better than to respond. He was lucky you had let him stay inside you instead of locking his dick away in a cage or using a cockring. The moment he found the mistake he missed, you rolled your hips down on his in reward. Well, you called it a reward but it was more like a punishment for the hypersensitive man beneath you. Heavy pants felt warm against the skin of your neck and you clenched around him. The mewl he let out caused you to chuckle darkly. Turning to grip his chin, you pulled it up to give him a kiss. 

“Such pretty noises baby” you breathed, “one more essay and i’ll let you finish like the desperate little kitten you are”

Eagerness spread over his face, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Despite your efforts to distract him, he missed only one mistake. This time you leaned back, turned and bit the lobe of his ear. His head lolled back and you giggled at the hitch in his breath despite him still scribbling on the page in blood red ink. The last word he circled brought relief for both on you. Hazel eyes connected with yours and you had the perfect example of the most captivating face he could pull in your opinion.

His eyes were glazed over, reflecting the fuzzy feeling in his mind, bitten lips were coated in spit and his cheeks were flushing a shade of hot pink. Grinding on him, you turned and pulled him up by his hair to meet you in a kiss. It was messy and desperate, the pleasure had messed with his mind and he was now soft and pliant underneath you. He could barely control his tongue, instead letting you take charge of the kiss and press it against yours in a desperate kiss.

“C’mon kitten, you were amazing, so pretty for me” you rasp against his mouth, already riding him slightly, “let’s go to the bed so I can reward you like you deserve hmm?”

Sub takeda lives in my mind rent free I can’t help it

[redgillan]

Under Pastel Skies - 7

Sugar daddy!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Modern!AU Bucky doesn’t need anyone, especially not a sugar baby. He isn’t that desperate… but she smiles so sweetly and she’s endearingly awkward, and he’s so lonely. She’s an artist, a painter, the type of person who always puts others before herself. Throwing caution to the wind Bucky offers her a place to live, a place where she can finally paint whatever her heart desires. He doesn’t need much in return; a friend, a muse.

Word Count: 6,480

Warnings: none

A/N: This is long overdue, sorry - hopefully it’s worth it. It’s also incredibly long... idek anymore. I want to thank you all for your patience and support. It means a lot to me.

Wannabe sugar daddies, don’t interact with this post.

You grumbled into your pillow when you heard your phone buzz on the bedside table. Cracking one eye open, you lifted your phone and squinted to read the neon numbers showing on the screen.

7:12 a.m.

You had an email notification, nothing important, but it somehow managed to come through the ‘Do Not Disturb’ feature. You knew you wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep so you got up and padded barefoot into the kitchen.  

A smile curled up your lips when you saw the leftovers from your made-up holiday. There were a few cookies and muffins in a plate, a large bowl of cereals, and two dirty milkshake glasses on the counter.

It had been a fun and relaxing couple of days. You ate, talked, played board games, and watched movies in your fanciest loungewear attire. Bucky sought your touch more than usual and it left you a little confused. Every time he touched you, the line between feelings of friendship and feelings of love became blurred.

Bucky was an early riser, always up before you, dressed in his usual khakis and long sleeved Henley shirts with his hair slightly tousled. He looked effortlessly sexy and always had a warm smile for you even though you looked like a hot mess in your mismatched pyjamas, staggering into the kitchen, blindly following the smell of food cooking on the stove.

Today, the kitchen was silent. Bucky was probably still asleep, so you decided to cook breakfast. Maybe, if you were lucky, you’d catch him in his night clothes.

Wasting no time, you made a beeline for the coffee machine. You filled the water tank and measured fresh grounds into the filter, but your task was interrupted when you heard groans coming from somewhere nearby. You soon figured out that the sounds were coming from the living room.

Curious, you silently made your way toward the sound. The shades were up, and you could see the midnight blue sky fading into pastel hues of yellow and pink with the approaching dawn. Under any other circumstances, you would have been completely enraptured by its beauty, but something else caught your attention.

Bucky was standing upside down with his head on a yoga mat. His eyes were closed and his features were set in an expression of serious concentration. You half hid behind the wall and observed him.

You were impressed, his headstand was perfectly vertical and he was doing it without hand support, meaning that he was supporting his entire weight on his neck. He slowly lowered one toe back down, then the other, before he rested his forearm on the mat and lifted his butt toward the ceiling, his body forming a perfect inverted V.

“You’re up already,” he asked, sitting back on his haunches. “I can hear you breathing behind that wall.”

Busted...

You peeked out into the living room and cringed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you but that was sooo impressive.” You walked into the room and perched yourself on the arm of the sofa, facing Bucky who was kneeling at your feet. “How do you do that?”

He chuckled, his cheeks red from exertion and bashfulness. “Practice. Yoga’s good for building strength.”

He looked up at you with a boyish smile, his hair damp with perspiration. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, rolling too close to his eyes and making him squint.

His pants left little to the imagination, the fabric stretched across his powerful thighs, and his sleeveless shirt clung to his drenched chest, outlining his muscles. Your eyes darted to his left shoulder where his stump was visible.

Despite living with him for over two months, you had never seen him in one of those sleeveless shirts before, though you couldn’t blame him since it was the middle of winter and you hadn’t been wearing any either. It was warm inside the apartment but not enough to walk around bare-armed.

“It’s easier to do yoga when the sleeve isn’t slapping me in the face every five seconds,” Bucky said, looking at his stump. “But I can cover it up if you prefer.”

“No! Of course not,” you rushed to say. “I’m sorry. That was really rude.”

“You were just looking, it’s only natural,” he said. “People are curious. Staring... well, staring is different.” His frown smoothed away and he turned to you with a smile. “Are you hungry?”

You smiled down at him. “Starving.”

“I’m gonna hop in the shower real quick, then I’ll start breakfast.”

“Actually, I was about to start cooking before I got distracted.” Bucky looked away, a slight blush covering his cheeks. “But I think we have plenty of food left over from last night.”

“We’re not eating cookies for breakfast,” he said. “We’ll save them for later. Right now we need something healthy.” He grinned as he pushed himself to his feet and ran upstairs. “I’ll be right back.”

You shook your head at his antics and returned to the kitchen to finish making coffee. After all he’d done for you, it was the least you could do. You knew Bucky liked cooking –and he was damn good at it- but sometimes you wondered if this was a fair arrangement.

He had given you a place to stay, money, food to eat, your own artist’s studio, and you had given him... nothing. Admittedly, you knew that your presence calmed him, comforted him. You gave him the emotional support he desperately needed and it was important, but he could also have adopted a pet.

Too tired for coffee or tea, you poured yourself a glass of orange juice, hoping it would wake you up. It worked but your self-deprecating thoughts were still playing havoc in your mind.

You were fixing Bucky’s coffee when he came back downstairs after his shower, and you were pleasantly surprised to find him wearing a clean sleeveless shirt. You met his eyes and found that he was watching you intently. You offered him a smile and leaned back against the kitchen counter.

“Looking good, James.”

He looked down at his feet with a bashful smile as he crossed the room slowly. You observed him in silence while he prepared breakfast for the two of you. It was a simple breakfast bowl with yogurt, granola, fresh fruits and honey but he somehow made it look like a gourmet dish.

“There you go, angel,” he said, setting your bowl in front of you. “What are you going to do today?”

You took a slice of kiwi and dipped in yogurt. “I think I’m going to paint. You?”

Bucky licked his spoon and you stared at it longingly before you quickly averted your eyes. No, you couldn’t be jealous of a goddamn spoon. Catch yourself on.

“I have an idea for a new book,” he said, running his tongue along his teeth to clean them before he spoke again. “I had a meeting with my agent last week. It went well, my old publisher really wants to work with me again. I’m signing my contract this afternoon.”

“Bucky!” you squealed after swallowing your mouthful of yogurt a little too fast. “That’s amazing!”

“Thank you,” he said, staring into nothing with wide eyes. “I’m nervous, scared and excited at the same time. It’s strange, y’know, all these feelings mixed together. It’s a bit overwhelming and I haven’t even started yet.”

“Don’t think too much,” you said. “You’ve done this before, you can do it again.”

“Yeah,” he replied, smiling.

You scraped your spoon around the bowl and licked it clean. “What’s it about? Is it a novel? Can I be in it?”

Bucky chuckled to himself and you figured that every single writer had friends who begged them to appear in their books. You couldn’t help it, the idea of living forever as ink on a page was too tempting.

“It’s not a novel,” he said. “It’s the third instalment of my series. The style is a little hard to explain but this is what I like to say: self-help book meets Bridget Jones’ Diary.”

“I tried to look you up but I couldn’t find anything written by a James Barnes or a Bucky Barnes.” You playfully narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you a fraud? Or are you using a pen name?”

He pretended to think about it. “I’m a fraud.”

“I knew it,” you mock-sighed.

Bucky took your bowl and placed it in the sink along with his. When he started cleaning them, you joined him and took a dish towel.

“I’ll tell you soon,” he spoke after a moment.

“It’s okay, take your time.”

You knew he wasn’t going to tell you what his pen name was, not now at least. His books were a reflection of his struggles, his success, and his fears, and you could understand why he preferred to keep you in the dark for now.

The people who read his books didn’t know him, they were just anonymous faces in a crowd but you were real. You were his friend, his new friend, and your opinion mattered.

“It’s been a couple of years since I’ve published my last book. My agent said that people haven’t forgotten about me but I still have to,” he made air quotes with his fingers, “’show my face’, just to remind everyone that I’m still writing.” He sighed.

“There’s a charity event next month at the museum of Natural History,” he continued. “It’s a huge event, a lot of important people will be there, including some of the most famous gallerists and curators in the country. You’re allowed to say no but,” he paused and turned to look at you, “do you want to come with me?”

You pressed your lips together while you mulled this over. There was no doubt in your mind that it was a great opportunity, one that you would have never had without Bucky, and you knew you had to say yes. But this was your least favourite part of being an artist.

You didn’t know how to sell yourself and you always felt like an arrogant asshat when you spoke about your paintings, even though you had every right to be proud of your work.

You had managed to persuade yourself that this new life would last forever. Eat, laugh, paint, repeat forever. But it wasn’t real. You had to put yourself out there, even if it made you uncomfortable because painting was only half your job.

Something else bothered you. You didn’t want to be the poor, struggling artist who took advantage of a charity event to make herself known. It seemed wrong and hypocritical.

You voiced your concerns to Bucky who looked at you with a pained expression.

“Yes, it’s a fundraiser but I can assure you that everyone at the party will be talking business and exchanging business cards,” he said. “And they’ll compensate with a huge donation to clear their guilty conscience. Is it false philanthropy? Absolutely, and I’m ashamed to say I’m one of them. You’re not taking advantage of a good cause, we are.”

“You’re nothing like them,” you said. “You’re kind and selfless, you’re a good person.”

“I’m not sure that’s true, angel,” he said with a tight smile.

When you opened your mouth to protest, he leaned forward and cupped the back of your head as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, ending the conversation. He had never done that before and you froze, feeling equal parts confused, incredulous and appreciated.

He pulled back and wiped down the sink with the sponge, acting like kissing you so sweetly was something completely normal, like he was unbothered. Meanwhile you just stood there wondering if you would ever be able to breathe normally again.

You pressed your lips together hard and tried to gather your thoughts but your mind was reeling. You were about to leave the room when your eyes landed on a pile of mail on the kitchen counter.

The first letter was a cheesy view of the Tower Bridge, the words ‘Greetings from London’ written in bold cursive letters across the postcard.

You only knew one person who still sent postcards.

Wanda.

“What’s this?” you asked, nodding toward the stack of mail.

Confused, Bucky looked to you then followed your line of sight and saw the mail. “Oh, Natasha dropped these off last night. She wanted to see you but you were already asleep.”

You nodded distractedly while you picked up the postcard. The sight of it filled you with anxiety. Your sister didn’t’ send these postcards often, but every time you received one it reminded you that things were different now. Gone was the happy and supportive family you used to cherish.  

Your breath caught in your throat as you read Wanda’s hastily written words.

I’m coming home.

She was coming home. A wave of nausea ran through you and your breathing came shallow and fast.

“Wow, wow, wow.” You felt Bucky’s hand at our waist, steering you toward a chair, and you realized your legs were giving way under you. “Deep breaths, angel. Look at me. There you go!”

“Sorry,” you said. “See what happens when you don’t let me eat cookies for breakfast?”

Bucky smiled at your poor attempt at humour. “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”

You debated telling him but you weren’t sure how to voice your concerns so you handed him the postcard instead. You had told Bucky about Wanda. She had disappeared after Pietro’s death, sending postcards from time to time as proof that she was still alive and well.

“Your sister is coming home.”

“Yeah,” you sighed. “I haven’t seen her for six years. She doesn’t know our mom has Alzheimer, she doesn’t know I sold our old childhood home. She keeps sending those postcards there. I gave the new owners Natasha’s address in case they still receive our mail. They’re very nice.” You let out a humourless laugh. “I had absolutely no idea what I was doing when I sold our house, and they could have taken advantage of me but they didn’t. I guess it’s not every day you buy a family house from a 24 year old girl. It probably screams tragic backstory, uh?”

“You did this on your own?”

“Yup.”

Bucky put his hand on your knee and gave you a comforting squeeze. “I’m sorry you had to go through this.”

You looked down at his thumb rubbing soothing circles just above your knee. “Yeah, it wasn’t easy.” You paused, then raised your head to look at him. “Living with you makes my life so much easier. I live in my own little bubble where I don’t have to be an adult. I feel like I can finally breathe. And I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for me and all you continue to do.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he replied, shaking his head. “We help each other. We’re good together.”

“Yes, of course,” you said with a smile. “But we both know it’ll have to end one day. It has to, one way or another. I want to be more independent, start my career and support my family. I don’t want to rely on others anymore. I want to rely on myself.”

“But there’s no rush, angel.”

“I know, but nothing’s gonna change if I stay in my little bubble. I have to do things that make me uncomfortable.”

“What are you trying to say exactly?”

“I’ll come with you to the fundraiser.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up in surprise but a smile broke across his face. “That’s great! But what about your sister?”

You shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do. She’ll probably go to our old house, realize it’s not ours anymore. If she’s lucky they’ll give her Natasha’s address. I’m sure she’ll have lots of questions but she can’t show up six years later and act like our bond is still intact. I’m not at her beck and call. I’m only responsible for myself and, Bucky, I’m so tired of trying to please everyone. I deserve to live my best life, goddammit.”

“I am so happy to hear you say that,” Bucky said, his smile blinding. “Celebratory cookie?”

“Yes! Two cookies, please,” you replied, out of breath. “I’m slightly freaking out.”

You spent the next couple of weeks planning for the event; painting, taking pictures of your work, posting them on Instagram, searching for gallerists and curators you wanted to work with and cross-checking the attendees.

Despite everything, you couldn’t help but wonder if Wanda was already in New York and if she was looking for you.

“Check this out!” you exclaimed, shoving a business card in Natasha’s face before you pushed past her to get into her apartment. “It’s official, I’m an artist.”

She laughed as she closed the door, her eyes on the card. “Hi, it’s nice to see you, too,” she deadpanned.

“Sorry, hi.”

“Well, looks like you’re all set. When’s the party?”

“Next week,” you replied, taking a seat on you former bed, her sofa. “I’m a little nervous, but also excited. I don’t know, it’s a strange feeling.”

Natasha pinned your business card onto the fridge using a magnet before she opened the refrigerator door and retrieved a bottle of orange juice. She took two glasses from the cupboard and joined you on the sofa.

“But, yeah, I’m ready. I have over two hundred business cards, I know who I want to work with, and I even bought an external battery pack just in case.”

“And what are you going to wear?” Natasha asked before taking a sip of orange juice. You looked at her with wide eyes, panic written all over your face. “You forgot to buy a dress,” she concluded out loud. “Why am I not surprised?”

“With everything going on, I completely forgot I had to... wear clothes.”

“I’m sure James wouldn’t mind seeing you in your birthday suit.” She laughed when you practically shoved her off the sofa. “Come on, I’ll help you look semi-decent.”

You groaned. “I don’t want to go shopping right now. Plus, I blew all my money on business cards.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s freezing outside, I’m not leaving my apartment,” she replied, reaching for her laptop. “You’re going to rent it.”

“Ew,” you made a face.

You remembered the formal wear store where you had rented your prom dress. The place smelled like moth balls and sweat, and the dress had given you a rash. Not a great memory.

“Trust me, I know this is your first but I’m a seasoned veteran. I’ve been to dozens of fundraisers, and I had to wear dozens of designer dresses. Do you even know how much a Saint Laurent evening gown cost? You can’t wear the same dress twice. That’s a big no-no. And it’s not just the dress. You need a clutch, a pair of shoes, jewelry, a coat. You have to rent them.”

“You’re giving me a headache.”

She opened up her web browser and typed in the website address for the dress rental. As she entered your size and budget, it was obvious that she knew her way around the website and you had to admit that it was a lot easier than traditional shopping.

You looked at the collection of dresses, not entirely convinced, when you found it. You instantly knew it was the right one.

You stared longingly at the beautiful wine-red dress, made entirely of velvet. The bodice was cut on the bias, the fabric draping itself elegantly to contour the shape of the model’s upper body. The skirt was long and flowing, and the waist was cinched in with a thin black belt.

You clicked on the second picture and Natasha let out a strangled gasp. The open back was draped at the waist and weighted with a crystal on a golden chain.

The dress gave off 1930s vibes, it was elegant and refined but the back was daring and sexy. It was exactly what you needed. You paired it with a black wool cape, and Natasha offered to let you borrow a pair of shoes, jewellery and a bag.

The dress and coat arrived the next day. The woman who delivered them was kind and polite, she stayed in the kitchen while you tried on the dress. Once you gave the all-clear, she handed you your receipt.

The dress was yours for an entire week.

On the day of the gala, you were a nervous, sweaty mess. Natasha’s clutch was on your nightstand, filled to the brim with business cards. Your hair and makeup were already done. You sat on your bed in your underwear, staring at the dress hanging in your closet.

“I can do this,” you whispered to yourself.

You were adjusting the fabric around your cleavage, making sure everything flowed nicely, when you heard Bucky shouting from the kitchen.

“The car will be there in fifteen minutes.”

You took a deep breath and smoothed your hands down the sides of your dress, the tickling caress of the velvet calming you almost instantly. You reached for the handle, your heart hammering in your chest, and opened the door.

Bucky was standing at the kitchen island, looking down at his phone. He looked up when he heard the sound of your door opening.

“Hey, are you-” The rest of his sentence died on his lips as he froze. He stood there, staring at you, his eyes roaming your body in a manner that could only be called amazement. “You look-” He shook his head as if he couldn’t find the right word.

You looked down at yourself, grinning. After weeks of seeing you in your big woolly jumpers, pyjamas and painting overalls, you could understand why this was a shock. It was one to you as well.

“You look beautiful,” he said, his voice sounding strangled.

“Thank you.” He stood a little straighter when he noticed you were checking him out. He wore a dark blue suit with black lapels, a white shirt and a black velvet bow tie. You matched. “You look like a real heartthrob in that suit.”

He laughed and looked away, embarrassed. It was your favourite look on him; when he couldn’t maintain eye contact and his cheeks were slightly red and his nose crunched up a little.

“You’re wearing your prosthetic,” you said, noticing the stiff arm and fake hand.

“Yeah,” he replied, looking at his left arm. “This thing itches like hell, but I don’t blend well in a crowd when I’m not wearing my prosthetic. These people know me, they’ll be looking for me. Let’s not make it too easy for them.”

He finished his sentence with a wink and your entire body threatened to spontaneously combust. Do people still wink? Apparently. You walked over to him and briefly stroked his arm before you walked past him to the bathroom.

It gave him a great view of your bare back and the little crystal nestled just above the small of your back. You didn’t see his reaction but you heard his sharp intake of breath.

You left the bathroom door open while you rummaged through your makeup bag, relief flowing through you when your fingers brushed against your favourite lipstick.

You straightened up and looked at yourself in the mirror. Bucky was leaning against the bathroom door frame, observing you. You uncapped the lipstick and brought it to your lips, locking eyes with him in the mirror.

“Don’t worry, I’m almost ready.”

“I’m not worried,” Bucky replied with a mischievous smile. “Please, carry on.”

You rolled your eyes at his sudden smug expression, trying to look unbothered, but you could feel his eyes on you and you willed your hands to stop shaking. Today was not the day to look like Miranda Sings.

“What’s it called?” Bucky asked from the threshold, spellbound.

“No idea, the label has faded,” you said, rubbing your lips together to smudge your lipstick. “It has probably expired by now, my mom gave it to me when I was a kid.” You blotted your lips and tossed the balled tissue into the wastebasket. “She called it ‘Carter Red’.”

You dabbed the lipstick on your lips. “When we were kids, we used to watch her apply her lipstick. We thought she was the most sophisticated woman in the world. When she was done, she’d turn to us and ask ‘Who wants red lips?’ Then we’d leave the house in our matching red lips.”

Bucky entered the bathroom and took a seat on the edge of the tub. “Did your brothers wear red lipstick too?” he asked with a grin.

You laughed. “Pietro did. Scott was more into nail polish.”  

“Do you think I can pull it off?”

You turned to him with a wicked grin and waved your lipstick in his direction. He stood when you took a step closer to him. He seemed to enjoy the playful glint dancing in your eyes. You beckoned him closer like some kind of old witch.

“I’m sure you’d look real cute with lipstick all over your face,” you said, taunting him with your tube of lipstick.

Something in his expression changed, darkened, making you feel hot and cold at the same time. His eyes travelled down your face to your lips, then back up to your eyes. “Yeah, I’d really like that,” he spoke so softly you almost missed it.

It was your turn to freeze. You parted your lips to speak but nothing came out, you just blinked hard and stared at him incredulously, waiting for him to explain what that meant. But he never did, and you took a step back.

Did he just...? Did he just try to kiss you? No! No, that’s silly. Why would he want to kiss you? He was just being playful and you simply projected your own desires onto him.

He took a step back too and gave an imperceptible nod. “The car should be here any minute,” he said, smiling. It was a tight smile and you didn’t like it at all. “I’ll let you get ready.”

After he closed the door behind him, you dumped your lipstick back into your makeup bag and took a long look at yourself in the mirror. You looked deflated, miserable. You sighed... the night was off to a great start.

Bucky waited for you while you finished getting ready. You picked up your clutch, slid your feet into a pair of high-heel shoes, and struggled with your cape until Bucky came to your rescue. To your surprise, his smile was genuine again, and it made your heart soar. Maybe you had just misread the situation and he wasn’t upset, offended –or whatever that tight smile was.

The heels were higher than you were used to, but Bucky gave you an arm to hang onto. The sky was already dark when you arrived at the Museum of Natural History. You walked up the stairs and left your coats in the coat-check room before you took a look around the room.

Hundreds of people were milling around the hall, a glass in their hand as they weaved between the jaw-dropping dinosaur skeletons that were on display. You kept your arm linked through Bucky’s and tried not to stare at anyone.  

“Be careful,” Bucky whispered in your ear, making you perk up. “Someone once told me that the exhibits come to life after the sun sets.”

“Remind me to stay away from the Biodiversity Hall,” you chuckled. Then you spotted one of the curators you wanted to work with, you let go of Bucky’s arm and squared your shoulders. “Showtime. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, angel.”

“God, I’m sweating. Is it noticeable?”

Bucky smiled at you. “No, you look perfect.”

You gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks. I hope I won’t make a fool of myself. I hate small talk.”

As soon as you were gone, someone took your place by Bucky’s side. You grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and made your way over to the curator. You didn’t drink alcohol but the glass made you look like you were part of their little group.

It went horribly wrong; you stuttered when you said your name and everything went downhill after that. While you were talking, he subtly looked around to see if he could find a more interesting person to talk to, which made you stutter even more. Then as you opened your clutch and fished out a card, several others fell at your feet in slow motion.

Between the dress, the glass and the shoes, it was practically impossible to bend over. The curator left and you stood there alone.

“Let me help you,” one of the waiters said. He gathered up your business cards and handed them to you.

You sheepishly took the cards and shoved them back in your purse. “Thanks. Can you take this? I’m not going to drink it.”

“Would you like something else to drink?” he asked as he took your glass of champagne.

“No, thank you. I... I think I’m going to go find my friend.”

You smiled politely at the young man but he had a strange look on his face. He looked like he wanted to say something but hesitated.

“I saw you with Mr. Thomas,” he finally said. “I’m not supposed to talk to the guests but can you tell him I love his work.”

“I’m sorry I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Grant Thomas,” the waiter pressed on. “The writer. I saw you two together.” Then he leaned forward and whispered, “He only has one arm.”

Oh...

Grant Thomas was Bucky’s pen name.  

Your face broke out into a huge smile and you started giggling to yourself. The waiter recoiled a bit, confused and a little freaked out. You scanned the room for Bucky.

“Of course, I’ll tell him,” you told the waiter. “He’ll be very pleased to hear it.”

You went in search of Bucky, wobbling around in your high heels, a permanent smile on your face. After walking around for a few minutes, you felt more stable and in control, even going so far as to power walk from room to room.

You found him in the Hall of Ocean Life, entertaining a small group of people. You walked over to him, your heels clicking like typewriter keys. You heard bits and pieces of their conversation as you approached.

“Oh, it’s absolutely lovely,” a woman cooed, a hand over her heart. “Who was your inspiration for your new book, Grant?”

Bucky’s eyes widened slightly when he saw you. You gave him a small wave and he held out his hand in your direction. He introduced you to the group, and while it was strange to hear him say your name, you kept a straight face.

“I’ve looked everywhere for you, Grant,” you told him, emphasizing his pen name. “I should have known I'd find you in good company.”

“Oh, she’s the painter,” the woman said. “Darling, I hope you don’t mind me saying this but-” she extended her arms in your direction “wow!”

The woman next to her looked half amused, half exasperated. “It means you look beautiful in that dress.”

“Oh, she knows what it means, Sylvia.” The ‘oh’ woman swatted Bucky’s fake arm. “Grant, isn’t she gorgeous?”

Bucky looked at you with a fond smile. “Yes, she is.”

“Oh, my heart is about to explode,” the ‘oh’ woman squealed before enthusiastically waving to someone behind Bucky. “Sylvia, darling, take her contact details. We need new blood at the gallery. Please, excuse me, I haven’t seen Michael in ages,” she said, stretching out the last word.

She was gone before you could comprehend what was happening. Her laughter echoed through the room. Oh, I hadn’t seen the back of that dress! Sweet baby Jesus!

You found her whimsical and quite intense but if you had to work for her, you’d probably end up looking like her assistant, Sylvia, who seemed at her wits’ end.

She sighed and opened her leather-bound notebook. There were several business cards attached to the pages with paperclips. You handed her one of your business cards as her boss shouted, Oh, Michael, isn’t this party deliiightful? It was Sylvia’s cue to leave.

“Thank you. We’ll take a look at your work and get back to you as soon as we can. Enjoy your night.”

Sylvia rushed to her boss who was looking around like a lost puppy. When she saw her assistant, a look of relief crossed her face. It was a little over the top but it made you smile.

“So, Grant Thomas,” you said, planting yourself directly in front of Bucky now that you were alone. “Cute name.”

“Agh, I wanted to tell you before the party but...” He shrugged. “How did you figure it out?”

“One of the waiters saw us together. He’s your biggest fan. Said you were talented, humble and devilishly handsome in that suit.”

“The waiter said that?” Bucky asked with a frown as he led you toward an empty corridor.

“I think he has a crush on you.”

“I seem to have that effect on people,” he said, linking his arm through yours.

“So humble.” You entered the Hall of Biodiversity together. “What’s the meaning behind your pen name?”

There was a small pause before he answered. “Grant is Steve’s middle name, Thomas is Sam’s. I wanted to honor them. Steve literally saved my life, and Sam... well, he stood by my side even when we barely knew each other.”

“I’m sure they were touched.”

“Meh,” Bucky said with a grimace. “Steve said it sounded like a fake name, and Sam tried to make me use ‘Thomas Grant’ instead. I think deep down they like it.” He turned his head to look at you. “How did it go with the curator?”

You cringed. “Just to give you an idea, imagine an amateur magician performing at their first show. I was sweating, I stuttered, and I dropped my cards. It was awful.”

He laughed softly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m not upset. At least he’ll remember me, right?”

You spent the next couple of hours mingling with a bunch of rich people; most of them were incredibly weird, the others were strangely relatable. You were a lot more cool and collected with Bucky by your side. He always had really nice things to say about you or your paintings, and his words rang true, giving you yet another reason to fall for him.

When you reached the planetarium, Bucky took your hand in his, his eyes sparkling with childlike wonder.

You practically had the place to yourselves, everyone else was either in the Grand Gallery or in the Roosevelt Memorial. Since no one was around, you decided to take your shoes off and walk around barefoot.

You lost track of time, listening to Bucky’s stories about the universe as he guided you along the spiralling walkway.  

“We’re just tiny little specks living on a bigger speck, floating around,” he said, gazing up at a model of Jupiter hanging from the ceiling. “Our time here is so limited, our bodies are so fragile.”

“Umm,” you hummed. “At least we’re not at the bottom of the food chain.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, that would be a bummer.”

“Do you know who’s at the bottom of the food chain?” you asked. “French fries. I’m starving.”

His laughter rang out, loud and clear, in the silence of the planetarium. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

You headed for the coat-check room, where Bucky left one of his ridiculously generous tips, and stepped outside, shivering from the cold winter night. You looked up at the stars glistening in the dark sky while you walked the short distance to the fast food restaurant.

You ate your fries in silence as you glanced around the restaurant. It was bright and gave off a friendly vibe. There were several other patrons even though it was almost two in the morning, though you and Bucky were the only ones wearing designer clothes.

Your high heels and clutch rested on the booth next to your hip, and Bucky’s bow tie was tied around your wrist. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a tanned, muscular chest and a smattering of dark hair.

Bucky had removed his prosthetic after you’d found a booth. His fake arm rested on the table, scaring the hell out of the waitress when she came to take your order. Bucky apologized profusely, probably mentally adding another twenty to her tip.

You dozed off in the cab, utterly exhausted, your cheek resting against his shoulder. His arm was draped over your shoulders, his thumb sweeping up and down your collarbone. When you remembered that you still had to remove your makeup before going to bed, you let out a whine and nestled closer to him. He rested his head on top of yours, and you closed your eyes, enjoying his closeness.

A few days later, you told Natasha about the party, and she reminded you to be careful, to protect your heart. She wished someone had given her this advice when she’d met Sam.

It had never occurred to you that Natasha might have feelings for Sam, not because he was an awful person. No, it was quite the opposite. He was handsome and funny, always looking for some kind of trouble. She’d mentioned multiple times that he was really good in bed, which honestly didn’t surprise you.

You knew she liked him, but you didn’t know she liked him.

On your way home, you mulled over the things she had told you. About a block away from your apartment, you took your keys out of your pocket and stared at the little angel keychain, wondering if your feelings for Bucky were real. The line between friends and lovers was definitely blurred but you couldn’t cross it. There was too much at stake, you couldn’t risk ruining your friendship.

As you turned the corner into your street, you spotted someone standing outside the building’s front door. You slowed down, dawdled, so you could observe them.

You couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, though you suspected a man. They were carrying a traveller’s backpack on their shoulders, blocking your view. Whoever it was, they had a fantastic ass.

They pushed the intercom button, waited a few seconds and pushed it again. When the doors remained closed, they turned around to leave and you came face-to-face with a man with long dirty blond hair, a bushy ginger beard and striking baby blue eyes. You immediately recognized him from the photos you’d seen on Bucky’s laptop.

“Oh my God, Steve!” you exclaimed, startling him.

Part 8

[moralesispunk]

Confessions

Marcus Moreno x Female Reader

Summary - You and Marcus finally confront your feelings for one another

You and Marcus had worked together for a while now. At first, it was a strictly work relationship where all your discussions were about Heroics meetings and training sessions. It started to move into a friendship when you found yourself wanting to see him more. You would go out of your way to bring contracts to him that had to be signed rather than have your assistant do it. The both of you would spend five or ten minutes talking about what you had been up to that weekend or the new Netflix show you were both watching.

Marcus had noticed the change too. He found himself no longer taking his lunch alone in his office but hoping that when he went to the break room instead you would be there too. Now you would spend lunch together almost every day.

You tried to keep your feelings to strictly friendly in nature, telling yourself you just cared how his date at the weekend went because you wanted him to be happy and not because you were jealous.

“So, are you going on a second date then?” you asked, playing about with the lunch that sat in front of you. Marcus’s mum had made some soup the night before and he brought in an extra portion for you to try, telling you he thought you would like it.

“Yeah, she asked if I wanted to go for dinner tomorrow,” he replied with a sigh.

“Don’t sound to excited,” you teased with a laugh.

“No, no, I am… I think,” he said, “when I first started dating again I just thought I had been out of the game for too long but now, I’m not so sure.”

You didn’t enjoy giving him dating advice but you didn’t like seeing him anything other than happy even more so. You took in a deep breath before replying.

“Going on a second date can’t hurt,” you said with a smile, “if you don’t want to then you can cancel but if you’re not sure, what harm will it do? Plus, excuse to go out and have some nice food.”

Marcus smiled and nodded before finishing the rest of his lunch. He was so comfortable talking to you he wanted to spend all day doing it. Talking about everything and anything. He can’t lie to himself and pretend that he didn’t think about asking you out on a date. In fact, he thought about it every day. But you had never shown an interest in him like that. You were friends with him now and he treasured that friendship. He didn’t want to ruin it by crossing a line that you didn’t show any signs of wanting him to cross.

After lunch you both went back to your own offices and worked the afternoon away. A contract came down on your desk that Marcus had to sign and so once you finished what you were doing you took it over to him.

You knocked on the door and as he held his phone up to his ear gave you a smile and waved you in.

“No, it’s okay! Have a safe flight,” Marcus said before hanging up the phone and sighing.

“Everything okay?” you asked as you placed the contract down on his desk with a pen.

“That was Missy’s babysitter. She’s had to leave town for the weekend so can’t come over tomorrow. Maybe its a sign,” he said as he signed.

“I can come over if you want?” you offered.

You had met Missy plenty of times before and had stayed with her for a few hours while Marcus had a last minute meeting to go to.

“Are you sure? You don’t have any plans,” he asked.

“None. My weekends aren’t as in demand for dates as yours Mr Moreno,” you said teasingly.

He smiled at you but it wasn’t quite reaching his eyes before nodding.

“Thank you,” he said, “I’ll give you a text tomorrow?”

“Sounds good, see you then,” you said before leaving his office.

———-

The next day Marcus sent you a text letting him know his date was at 6 and you could come over any time before 5:30. You began to worry you had made the wrong choice offering to watch Missy as he went on a date. It was one thing listening to him talk about his dating life and maybe offering a little advice but now you were helping him. You shook your head trying to rid the jealous feeling but you couldn’t help it. You wished more than anything that you were the one going on the date with him tonight.

You arrived at his house around quarter past 5 and took a minute to calm your breathing before going up to the door. You knocked and tried to put on a smile before Marcus answered the door.

He looked as handsome as ever. Smart trousers and a nice shirt that wasn’t buttoned all the way up. His hair wasn’t as smart as it was for work but still styled and he was without his glasses.

“Hi,” he said with a smile, opening the door wider to let you in.

“Hi back,” you said.

“Missy has had dinner. She is just in watching TV,” he said, tilting his head towards the family room, “I shouldn’t be out too late.”

“It’s fine, I don’t have anywhere to be,” you said, putting your hands in your pockets as you suddenly felt uncomfortable, “you look good, by the way. Lucky lady.”

You began to regret your comment before his cheeks flushed in response. He gave a shy smile before nodding towards you.

“You look good too,” he said quietly.

There was now a silence over you as you both stood awkwardly in the hall before Missy walked out.

“Hi,” she said with a big smile, coming over to give you a hug, “I found a film for us to watch already.”

You laughed and softly squeezed a hug back before looking back to Marcus. He was watching you both, a small but real smile on his face as he took in the sight before him.

He looked at the clock and reaching for his jacket told you that he better get going. He leaned down to give Missy a hug, lifting her slightly from the ground, and before thinking about it stood up and give the side of your cheek a kiss. His cheeks flushed with pink again before walking out of the door.

Missy already had your hand in hers and was dragging you towards the kitchen to get some snacks for the “girls movie night” as she was calling it, which made you smile. You noticed that Marcus had left some snacks on the kitchen counter and it contained your favourite sweets and crisps that you had mentioned to him once before. You smiled as you grabbed them and a few bowls to pour some out before moving to the couch.

Missy had the movie already set up and ready to go, so once you were both comfortable under the blanket she pressed play. She spoke during the film, telling you what else that actor had been in and commenting on what was going on, but you weren’t really paying much attention to the film in front of you.

You were thinking about Marcus on his date. He looked amazing, he always does, and he is so perfect in every way that theres no way his date wouldn’t be falling for him like you so obviously had.

By the time the movie finished it was still early enough and so you and Missy decided to watch the sequel as well.

———-

Marcus couldn’t concentrate on his date. She was lovely but he couldn’t help but think about the woman who was back at home. He kept wondering what you were doing and what you were thinking about. There had been something between you both before he left this evening, surely he wasn’t the only one who felt that?

———

Before the end of the second film, Missy was already starting to fall asleep, so you stopped it to walk her half-asleep self upstairs. You made sure she had brushed her teeth and was ready for bed before getting her to climb into bed. You went back downstairs and cleared up the small mess of bowls and glasses before finding something on TV to watch for the rest of the night. You found yourself thinking of Marcus again. Would he give his date a kiss at the end of the night? You couldn’t help the wave of jealousy that was washing over you now. The only thing that put a stop to these thoughts was the sleep that eventually took over your body as you fell into a sleep curled up on the couch.

Marcus arrived home not that much later. He drove his date home and found himself getting more excited to get home and see you than he had on his drive to the date tonight. When he pulled up outside her house she seemed like she was going to lean in for a kiss before Marcus stopped her. He told her that he had a good time but didn’t think this was going anywhere. She took it well, her ego not seeming to be too damaged by the rejected kiss, and once she was safely inside Marcus found himself happily singing along to the radio.

The house was quiet when he entered and as he followed the light of the TV from the living room he found you curled up into the corner of the couch, a blanket draped over you, and your eyebrows furrowed. He felt a warmth run through his chest and he knew that his heart wasn’t his own any more. It belonged to you. As he carefully sat down next to you he wondered what you were dreaming about. He almost didn’t want to wake you but after a moment reached out to gently shake your arm while saying your name.

“Hey, its just me,” he said quietly as you began to wake up.

“Marcus?” you said still half asleep as you sat up, “how was the date?”

He sighed leaning back into the couch, “I told her that I thought it best not to go on a third date.”

“So not the best then,” you laughed slightly.

“I just, I think I’m just going for the wrong ones,” he said quietly. He had thought the whole way home about whether to tell you that he was feeling more for you than just a friendship and while he decided he would, now he was faced with you he didn’t know if he could say the words.

“Well, you’ll know when its the right one,” you said, moving closer to give his arm a squeeze, “anyone would be lucky to have you Marcus. You’re so smart, and kind, and not to mention handsome…”

As you trailed off your eyes moved from his to his lips. You didn’t know if not being fully awake yet made you more confident but you found yourself leaning in slightly. Just as you were about to stop, Marcus started to lean in too.

You don’t know who made the first move but it didn’t matter. Your lips met in a soft kiss, with your hand still on his arm and his hand now resting on your thigh. You pulled away and your foreheads rested against one another’s.

“Wow,” Marcus said with a smile.

“Yeah,” you giggled back.

You both sat up straighter, looking at one another in the eye and not sure who should speak first. Marcus moved to take your hands in his.

“I have to admit, I’ve thought about what it would be like to do that for a while now,” he said, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand.

“I have too,” you said, giving his hands a squeeze of reassurance, “how did it match up?”

“Better than I could have imagined,” he sighed contently, while looking down at your lips, “can I kiss you again?”

“Please,” you said quietly with a smile and you both moved in for a kiss slightly more desperate than the first. It was still gentle as his hands let yours go to cup your face and you rested yours on his arms, but there was more to it now.

When you eventually broke away neither of you could stop the smiles that were on your faces.

“So… do you maybe want to go on a date sometime?” Marcus said with a laugh.

“I would love that, Marcus,” you said laughing back.

“Next weekend?"

“Its a date.”

You stood and started to fold the blanket that had been draped over your lap and reached for your jacket. Marcus walked you out to the door, asking you to let him know when you got home, and as you stood outside you both waited for a moment.

“Can I give you a call tomorrow,” he asked shy now.

“You can indeed,” you said with a smile.

Marcus’s hand found yours and he pulled you in gently, placing another soft kiss to yours lips.

“Just needed one more.”

You smiled and said goodbye before walking to your car. Marcus waited at the door, watching as you got in and started the engine, the both of you giving a wave before you drove off, and he waited until you were just out of sight before walking back inside.

He found himself smiling more than usual as he got ready for bed that night, still thinking about how your lips felt against his and how next weekend he finally would get to take you out on a date he had been dreaming of for a while now.