#my little senior coworker is coming in soon hopefully

[no-mercy-bby]

Sitting in your car on lunch break>>>

[jeonjeonggukenergy]

May 31

summary ~ on the last day of your senior year living together, you're still fighting your feelings for your roommate jungkook. before you can fully move out and move on, he makes a pretty significant scheduling error. #and there was only one bed

genre ~ fluff, smut / roommate!au, college!au, bit of crack/fake texts

wordcount ~ 5k

warnings ~ smut (18+), blowjob (oral: m receiving), nipple play, marking, penetrative sex, cumplay (sort of oral: f receiving), jungkook just goes hard as expected BUT IT'S SOFT? this is just super cheesy and cute with some hopefully hot smut

a/n ~ surprise oneshot! and they were roommates? and there was only one bed? this is all my fave tropes wrapped into one, i had a ton of fun writing it and i hope yall enjoy :')

~ read on ao3 ~

You walked up to your apartment door just as a boy from the class below you walked out—with a wave, a "see ya, Jungkook!" and what appeared to be the last piece of your roommate's bedframe.

"You...sold...your bed?"

"Well, sort of. I borrowed it from that guy for the year while he was studying abroad. So now I'm giving it back to him. Since I'm staying in the city for my new job, though, I wish I could have just kept it. Now I have to actually buy one," Jungkook lamented.

"I mean, okay, but why didn't you just wait to give it back tomorrow when we move out?"

"What do you mean? Today's move-out day. I was just waiting for my brother to get off work to help get all my stuff out of here. I was kind of wondering why you hadn't packed up more, but you've always waited til the last minute to pack for things." Jungkook grinned, recalling your friend group’s spring break trip.

Momentarily distracted by his dig, you defended yourself quickly before returning to the subject. "Hey! At least I always get it done in the end. Better than packing too soon and accidentally giving away your bed a day early. Your new lease doesn't let you move in til the first day of June, right? It's May 31st."

Jungkook's pretty doe eyes went comically wide. "31st? There is no May 31st. It's June 1st. Because yesterday was May 30th. Right?"

"Oh my gosh. You're joking. You have to be joking," you tried not to laugh as you pulled up your Google calendar. "Here, look," you turned the phone around to him. "May 31st."

"Shit," he breathed, pushing the soft shock of hair back from his frozen face. "What did I do?"

You took your phone back, already distracted by your texts as you reassured him. "Don't worry, it’s funny but it's no big deal, I'm just messing with you. You can sleep on the couch for tonight, you'll be fine."

Jungkook grabbed your wrist, making you look up from your screen in surprise. In sitcom-esque slow motion, he swiveled his head sideways and you followed his gaze to the living room, realizing—

"The couch was his too. I gave it back."

"Oh my gosh," you muttered, shaking your head down with a smile. Feeling a little braver on your last full day as roommates, you finally gave Jungkook the warning that had almost slipped out plenty of times over the year. "Jungkookie...you're really lucky you're so cute. Otherwise you wouldn't get away with nearly as much as you do in life.”

"I..." Jungkook dropped your hand, grinning at the usual nickname but unsure how to take the half-compliment. "I'm so sorry. I can't believe I forgot about a whole day, I usually double-check my calendar. I can just take the floor for tonight, I guess? I'll go unpack my blanket again. Sorry, I don't want to be an inconvenience."

"No, no," you cut him off—against your better judgment, but determined to ignore your superficial attraction to him to be a good friend and roommate. "Don't be ridiculous, just sleep in my bed. I mean, if that's okay with you of course. It'll definitely be more comfortable than the floor." He nodded rapidly, eyes still wide but mouth perfectly flatlined like an emoji. "Okay then. No worries. Let's eat, I got us takeout for our last night but it's getting cold."

At the mention of food, Jungkook made a beeline for the plastic bags hanging on your arm, and soon you were back to normal—well, sort of. Eating slightly reheated noodles on the living room floor instead of the couch, you giggled over one last Friday night K-drama episode together and reminisced over all the best memories from your year as roommates. You missed the coziness of your couch more than you thought you might, or maybe you just missed the snuggles you'd shared in its corner on countless nights like this one.

Jungkook had always been cutely touchy with his close friends, but it had taken a while for you two to get comfortable. You had to admit you'd gotten spooked when you first met him, disappearing behind your door after a quick "hi, nice to meet you!" and furiously texting your friend and former roommate Jin in distress. He hadn't warned you the new guy he'd found for your apartment was, in your own words, "stupid hot." Jin had laughed you off, saying it hadn't even occurred to him because he just saw his former soccer teammate "JK" as a kid. To be fair, it probably truly had slipped Jin's notice—he barely believed anyone who told him how objectively attractive he was. But Jin was a good enough friend to both you and Jungkook that he took charge of dissolving the initial tension, immediately bringing y'all over for a "double housewarming" dinner party at the cute new place he now shared with his fiancée. (Thank goodness he'd finally listened when you'd told him she found him attractive. Even if it cost you a roommate of two years, you'd happily take credit for that relationship.) That first invitation had felt suspiciously like a double date, but Jin's cooking and hosting skills broke the ice nicely enough. After that, it only took a few more dinners and video game nights to initiate you into their casual rhythm of hair ruffles and backhugs.

Currently, Jungkook had his arm around you to offer a neck rub while you rested your head on his shoulder, hoping he couldn't feel your pulse beneath his fingers. "Ah, you're going so hard," you half-protested.

"I always go this hard! You never complain," he shot back with a teasing grin.

"Nah, come on, you're gonna leave a mark or something. At least check," you lifted your head, sweeping your hair aside. "Is it all red like Jin always gets?" you joked.

Facing away, you had no way of seeing it, but Jungkook's face had gone red too. "Uh...no, it's fine, it's fine." He glanced back to the TV and turned it off, noticing the episode had ended. "Sorry though, I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm gonna go shower and get ready for bed."

"Hey, no, it's okay!" You tugged on his shirt as he got up, wanting to reverse whatever you’d done to make him seem so uneasy. "I'm not actually hurt or mad at you or anything, I was just messing with you. Again." You smiled lightheartedly, and his face broke into a soft nose-scrunch at the reassurance.

"Okay, good. I was gonna shower anyway though—so uh, see you in bed I guess?"

"Yeah same, see you in bed," you laughed, trying to maintain the ease in your facial expression until the moment he left the room, upon which your internal monologue immediately turned into "aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."

You couldn't help thinking about Jungkook in the shower. And not even in the usual way that you couldn't help thinking about Jungkook, in the shower. As much as you hated to admit it, Jin was probably right about your feelings for your sweet, dorky roommate going beyond just physical attraction, or friendship. Jungkook was kind, respectful, smart, athletic, artistic, funny, really hot, and you already got along well enough to live together: he really was the ultimate boyfriend material. You were both pleasantly moderate introverts. He shared your same favorite dramas and brand of instant ramen. Even your parents loved him—wait, did they want you to date him too? A strict follower of every social rule that dictated not dating roommates, coworkers, best friends' exes, exes' best friends, etc., you had simply never allowed yourself to consider the possibility until now. You played back your conversations with Jin over the year and considered the sheer amount of the funny stories you told him, or situations where you asked for his advice, or surprises he'd helped you plan, or simply glowing, grinning descriptions of something new you'd noticed, that all ended up being about Jungkook. He'd never even had to bring him up. Damn Jin for being such a good listener.

~

Almost an hour later, when you were already in bed, Jungkook politely knocked on your door. He always took long showers, and tonight you couldn't decide whether you were thankful for the extra time to prepare yourself or even more stressed from the extra time to overthink.

"Come in," you called quietly. Jungkook shuffled into your room, toe-socked feet making their way to the side of the bed you'd rolled over to clear for him. Cautious, he climbed in, and you stayed safely facing away from each other for a while, winding down for the night on your phones like you both normally did in your separate rooms. So spaced out that you couldn't even detect Jungkook's additional body heat, you felt the chill of the air conditioning instead and kept adjusting the blankets to try and achieve maximum insulation.

Jungkook eventually spoke his first words since he'd entered. "Am I hogging the covers? I'm sorry."

"Oh no, you're totally fine, if anything I'm taking up more than you. I'm just always cold, so I usually sleep in, like, a three-layered burrito. But it's fine! Really, no worries."

To your surprise, Jungkook rolled over, propping his head up on an elbow to look at you. "Well...I...we could..." he started, swallowing when you turned to face him. "I mean, you could wear socks! Like I do!" He pulled a foot out from under the sheets and presented it to your face, cackling.

"I think the fuck not," you snorted, shoving the foot away and falling slightly on top of him as you both lost your balance in giggles. "You couldn't catch me dead in your weird-ass socks."

"That's the secret, though!" he insisted. "That's how I stay warm."

"You are warm," you realized. One of your hands had ended up on his chest, the other arm tucked in the side of his torso, and both were burning up. You supposed you'd settled into similar positions on the couch before but you'd never noticed just how much of a human furnace he was. Maybe it was because he hadn't been wearing his toe socks.

Neither of you said anything for a second. You could feel his heart beating at a slightly elevated but respectable rate, and while you wanted to pull away, if only to spare your own nerves, you also...didn't. You were too scared to stay like this, but too scared to move too. Jungkook seemed similarly stuck, blinking down at your hand on his chest, but eventually he unfroze to reach over it and drag you fully onto him by your shoulder. You simply let him handle you, not making any additional moves but silently enjoying the heat he seemed happy to provide. His hand spread over your back to press your torso to his, radiating heat through your thin t-shirt, and you suddenly grew self-conscious that you were braless. But of course you were, who wears a bra to bed? You were fine. This was fine.

"Are you okay? Is this warmer?" Jungkook asked, as gentle as his touch.

"Yeah! Yeah, this is fine," you responded, the answer muffled by your mouth's placement all too near to his neck. You could sense the heat coming off his skin from there too, but it contrasted with the mild coolness of his still-damp hair. It smelled faintly of floral shampoo, and the scent suddenly amplified all your nerves as the implications of how close he was hit you from head to toe. Even the soft fuzz of his socks brushed your bare legs, now intertwined with his. You weren't exactly small, but the warm solidity of Jungkook’s body under you made you feel fully enveloped by him. Though he'd shared a fair amount of skin with you through the course of your friendship, the intimacy of sharing your bed took every touch to another level, and being pressed so flush against him felt unbearable. You couldn't possibly process a whole year of pure pent-up physical attraction right now, much less any other feelings that may or may not have grown with it, especially when you knew he had no reason to feel anything back. And you were roommates. You just needed to sleep it off and then you could both move, and move on, in peace. Hopefully the odds of ever being stuck in a bed with Jungkook again would go way down after tonight.

Not bothering to get up and turn off the weak string of lights above your headboard, you just slowed your breathing and attempted to drift off to sleep. Pretending the deeper breaths weren't so you could get a better whiff of his soft, flowery hair, you laid still for several minutes, successfully ignoring your body's instinctual response.

Eventually, though, it became impossible to ignore his.

~

Jungkook wasn't that hard, okay. He wasn't a teenager; he thought he could control himself around you enough by now that he could just enjoy this last night without giving anything away. He almost felt bad when you invited him into your bed, sensing your reluctance and knowing it was his own fault that you'd had to offer in the first place. But he knew you wouldn't have asked if you weren't truly okay with it, and that confidence gave him the tiniest swell of hope that maybe you were a little bit more than okay. While Jin refused to give away any real insight into what you thought of him, he'd been teasing Jungkook for six months about his crush on you, eventually convincing him to try making your friendship into more once you both graduated and moved on to different roommates. He had just been planning to bring it up in a much better way than the semi that you could definitely feel against your thigh. You had both been silent about it for over five minutes, though, long enough that he could cross his fingers that you were already asleep. He probably didn't have to worry about a thing.

~

"Jungkook?"

You had finally worked up the courage to stop pretending you’d fallen asleep. You felt him freeze up under you—the defined abs that covered his tiny waist tightening, solid chest muscles contracting, and his thighs tensing to trap yours between them, all at once. You froze too, attempting to speak again but no sound coming out.

"_____, guess what!" he blurted to cut you off. Which was good, because you had absolutely zero plans for what to say after that.

"What?"

"It's after midnight," he said, jolting up to point to the digital clock on your side table. "It really is the first day of June now. So, according to the lease, we're officially no longer roommates. Crazy!"

"I mean...yeah," you affirmed, confused. "But also, we're literally sharing a bed right now. In the same room. So until that changes, I would probably still call us roommates." A little too amused by your own clapback, you raised your head to peek into his wide eyes and smiled, a big one that scrunched up your whole face.

And his dick twitched. Yeah, there was no way you could not notice that.

Before you could even finish your gasp, Jungkook spoke again. "I like you. I'm sorry. I like you. I didn't want to say anything while we were roommates because I didn't want to make you uncomfortable, and I definitely didn't mean for this to happen, I'm sorry. You can totally not like me back and it's fine. I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to tell you like this, I just...I like you. A lot."

Shocked into silence for a second, but galvanized by his unnecessary apology, you responded without thinking for once. "Don't say sorry. You don't need to apologize, it's okay. Oh my gosh, I had no idea. I really had no idea. I, uh, I think I like you too? Shit, okay, I thought you were really hot from, like, the day you moved in, and eventually it became more than that but I didn't want to make anything weird because, yeah, we’re roommates, so I pretty much tried to ignore it all year. But then Jin made me realize that you're basically all I think about—or talk to him about, shit, I must have been so annoying—"

"Jin? JIN?" Jungkook grabbed his phone from the side table and wasted no time in blasting off the last meme in his camera roll. You propped yourself up in his arms, both giggling at Jin's quick shot back.

Looking at him now, a big cheesy smile on his face even as he stirred under you, still a little hard, you nodded as if fully understanding for the first time. "Yeah. I like you too."

As he set down his phone and brought his hand around your back again, his smile faded into a smirk. "Wow."

"Yeah...wow," you echoed, nervous and awkward again. You felt your face grow warmer as he looked slowly to your lips, then back up to meet your eyes.

"Can I kiss you?"

Blinking, you shifted your weight back down onto him, bringing your face close enough to hear his intake of breath as your hips brushed his dick. "Can you do more than that?"

"Fuck," he whispered. "Yes."

Jungkook snaked one arm down to your ass and one arm up your back to the nape of your neck, holding you close as he kissed you for the first time, fiercely. He didn't waste another minute hesitating now that he knew you had both wanted this for a year. Passionate but not aggressive, he teased the seam of your mouth with the tip of his tongue and you instantly opened for him, gliding your tongue over his smooth bottom lip as his flicked up to the sensitive roof of your mouth. Squeezing your ass to guide your hips down in small circles against him, he tensed his other hand slightly into your hair and you moaned at the competing sensations. Jungkook broke away to absorb every beautiful noise you made as he discovered you, heavy eyes finding yours before he rolled over to pin you to the bed and bury his face in your neck. He smiled into your skin when you moaned again from the satisfying pressure of his full body over you, and carefully rolled his hips into yours as he covered your jawline in tender kisses. One of your hands carved through his thick hair. As you dug the fingertips of your other hand into his prominent back muscles, you suddenly realized you were both still fully clothed and you really, really did not want him to be. Tugging his t-shirt over his head and throwing it aside, you paused before letting him do the same.

"Wait. Take off your socks. I can't believe I didn't make you do that before any of this. I really just almost had sex with someone wearing toe socks. Kill me," you whined over-dramatically.

"Come on, that would have been hilarious. What a first-time story!" Jungkook said earnestly. "Sure you don't want me to leave them on?"

"Please take them off. Please," you only half-jokingly begged.

"You wanna take 'em off for me?" he teased, wiggling a foot in front of you.

"Fine, whatever it takes!" You flung his sock across the room, reaching for his other foot below the covers to get rid of the other one.

He fell on top of you, giggling again, but as soon as you shut him up with your lips he snapped out of it, eagerly deepening the kiss while his warm hands traveled up under your shirt. Smoothing over the curves of your torso and reaching up to firmly grasp your breasts, he moaned into you and you whined back as his thumbs brushed your hardening nipples. He was incredibly physically precise, each movement graceful yet sharp and intentional. You felt deeply lucky to experience this dimension of him, the most perfect and natural expression of his contradictory nature. Equally loving, giving, overachieving, and sensual—with a side of weird socks and Gen Z meme literacy—that was your Jungkook.

"I can't believe this is happening," Jungkook murmured as he pulled your shirt over your head. "I can't believe I get to see you like this. You're so—ohhh." He trailed off, taking in the fully naked glory of your top half for the first time. His head immediately ducked to your chest, sucking dark bruises into the low-lit hollow of your breasts. You squirmed under his hold on the dip of your waist, whimpering, but the grip of your hands in his shiny black locks let him know you didn't really want him to stop. Grinding against his now rock-hard dick, you eventually couldn't take the friction anymore and reached down to try and pull off both of your pajama pants at the same time. Jungkook just laughed.

He paused to help you out, rolling off of you to take care of his own sweatpants, and you kicked off your pajama pants and underwear as Jungkook slowly let his erection spring free above his waistband. You'd never thought a dick could be pretty before, but it honestly made sense that his would be as perfect as the rest of his body. "Fuck," you swore softly, mouth watering. Jungkook raised an eyebrow at you, and you scrambled to lick the tip as if on instinct, eliciting a much more emphatic "Fuuuuuck!" from him. He spread his legs to let you crawl between them, holding tenuous eye contact as you smirked at his sensitivity. Teasing a single finger up his shaft, you followed its path with your tongue and he let out a deliciously high, shaky moan.

"Please," Jungkook choked out when you approached him, lips pursed. He praised you breathlessly as you tightened a hand around his length and began to sink down. "You feel so good already. Fuck." Closing your eyes, you hollowed your cheeks to accommodate his generous size and dipped your head, sucking him in as far as you could go. He was so responsive, you learned what he liked quickly, and savored each whimper as you stroked his balls gently or swirled your tongue over his slit. You licked all the way from his head to the base and he cried out. Bringing a hand to the back of your head, he didn't quite hold you down, leaving enough slack for you to move if you wanted to, but you submitted to his touch and stayed a second with nearly his whole length in your mouth. And then you swallowed.

"Stop! Stop, please, or I'll cum." He pulled you off by your hair, bringing your forehead to his as you realigned your bodies. "You're so good for me," he professed warmly. "I wanna be good for you."

"Then fuck me," you surprised him by answering bluntly. "Please, I want you so bad."

Jungkook groaned, arching his hips up against you and coating his dick in your wetness. Bringing himself back under control, he pinned you under his thighs and reached down to open you up with a finger. You felt so much more relaxed with him than you had with any previous boyfriend or hookup, and he slid into your entrance fairly easily. You moaned right away when he brushed his thumb over your clit, and he responded with a muttered "Fuck it, you’re so wet already," pulling his finger out and stroking it up your folds as he lined up.

"You're on the pill, right? For your periods," he confirmed.

"Yeah, of course. You really think I'd let you hit it raw otherwise?" you shot back teasingly, trying to hide how touched you were that he remembered from a few months ago, when he'd driven you to pick up your prescription since your car was in the shop. That was your Jungkook.

"No," he said sheepishly. "You're smart."

You smiled up at him fondly, ruffling his hair. "You're smart too. And sweet. And hot. And your dick is enormous. It's kind of unfair."

"Unfair!" he protested. "How can I be unfair when you're perfect?"

"Perfect? Shut up," you dismissed him. "Now I know you're lying. You cheeseball."

"I'm not lying! You're perfect for me."

"Oh, so you're just a hopeless romantic. Where did that come from? What am I getting into?" you fussed playfully.

"Okay, we can make fun of each other later, like always, but right now can I just get into you?" Jungkook pleaded, directing you back to the task at hand.

"Oh my gosh. I can't believe this, you're worse than Jin. That was actually pretty impressive—" Surprised, you half-laughed, half-admired his wordplay, but were silenced by both his lips and his first few inches gliding into you.

Not yet breaking your kiss, just absorbing your moans into his mouth as he stretched you out, Jungkook eased himself all the way in. He drank in every detail of your body's response to keep careful track of your comfort. You tilted your ass up against him, absorbing the fullness of his big dick immersed in your walls, and he froze. "Pretty impressive?" he whispered.

"Jungkook," you breathed back in pure pleasure, too overwhelmed to sass back.

"Can I move?" he asked sweetly.

"Fuck. Yes."

Jungkook's brows narrowed as his eyes turned darker, and he snapped his hips up into yours once, twice, before setting a fierce pace that had you crying out with each stroke. He hadn't lost touch on your clit the whole time, and he began to circle his fingers to pleasure you there too, building up an almost unbearable tension throughout your whole body.

"Fuck...fuck! Jungkook!" you chanted. His eyes overcame their fluttering to meet yours. Jungkook stilled, then ground down on you in one big, slow, circle, drinking in your blissed-out expression.

"Harder?" he whispered. Jungkook loved a challenge.

"Sure, harder. Why the fuck not," you keened, high-pitched and desperate. He could split you in half at this point, leave you unable to walk for days, and you'd love it.

Jungkook made a small, delighted noise at your eagerness, kissing you quickly before flipping you over and positioning you on all fours, sheathing himself in you again. He ran his hands along your torso to clutch your breasts from underneath, holding himself up against you with solely the strength of his thighs and his core. Pulsing his hips into you carefully, slowly, to let you get used to the deeper angle, his fingertips skimmed your nipples tantalizingly, warming you further. He dropped one hand to prop himself up and slowly traveled the other down to your center. The lustful, elated exhale you let out when he rubbed your clit made him snap his hips forward, tilting you into the bed before you could engage your thighs to push back against his. Your continuous moans encouraged him that you were enjoying this just as much as him, loving how he remained fully attentive to your pleasure while pounding into you to pursue his own high. He fucked you like a high-intensity workout, pushing his unreasonably built body to its limits of speed and strength. You couldn't help wishing you'd taken him up on more of his offers to hit the gym together, but he seemed to get off on your breathlessness, wanting to give you his all and push you past your limits too. His fingers working as quickly as his hips, heat swelled up inside you, and when you felt sure that the tension in your core was about to break, you turned your head to cry out to him.

"Jungkookie, Jungkook—nhngh, I'm gonna cum."

"Ahhhh," he moaned. "Me too, _____. You feel so amazing, ahh—you're so perfect for me." The praise warmed your heart and your core, and soon you came around him with a long, drawn-out whine. He fucked you deep through each spasm, sending you into hot, heady overstimulation as he shuddered and emptied himself into you. When you finally collapsed under him, legs sore and shaking, he pulled out of you gently and lowered his lips to your lower lips with great care. Jungkook meticulously kissed from your swollen clit to your entrance, soft as a whisper, and you breathed out in overwhelmed bliss as his tongue emerged to tenderly nudge every drop of his cum into your opening. The gesture of aftercare, just as soothing as it was inexplicably hot, bloomed an affection within you that almost made your heart hurt. You rolled over, stretching your legs out, and he looked up at you from between them. His hair was a beautifully sweaty mess, and he smiled in sweet satisfaction with your wetness adorning his chin. That was your Jungkook.

"Don't go anywhere," he said softly, kneading your thighs with his hands.

"Well, I have to do the whole pee-after-sex thing. But after that, where would I go? There's only one bed in this apartment now," you couldn't help teasing.

"Hey! If I hadn't given away my bed, none of this would have happened," he complained cutely, pulling himself up to big-spoon you. “Just stay with me.”

"I will. I know," you murmured back. "And I'm so happy you did." You shifted back, closer against him, and he buried his face in your neck.

"You know, I was gonna miss being roommates so much," he said thoughtfully. "But I'm so okay with not being your roommate now if I get to be your...your..." He grinned into your shoulder, suddenly too shy to say it.

You turned to face him, holding his pink cheeks in both of your hands and kissing his nose. Knowing this would be just the first intimate moment of many made you both flush with an easy, sweet joy.

"My Jungkook. You're my Jungkook."

[insufferablelust]

THE ARTIST AND HIS MUSE.

hello everyone! this is my first ever ever spencer reid x reader fanfiction, its a multichapter fanfic so hopefully you guys will stick around for more chapters. also a disclaimer, that english is not my first language so the grammars are all over the place and i’m terribly sorry for it but i promise i’ll keep learning. and i alternate between using you, her, and (y/n) so hopefully you guys won’t mind that but i am open to suggestion so please do message me! thank you enjoy!

WARNINGS : Dark themed, upcoming Dom!Spencer, Sub!Reader, No smut yet (soon), Detailed Mentions of murder and corpse?, upcoming dark kinks (but not all the time, so expect some vanilla stuff too), SSA!Reader, !more upcoming warnings soon!

———🍃———

Coming back from a case has never felt so good to (y/n), although she’s only been apart of the team for couple of months, the cases are all tiresome and most definitely gruesome. Yet, her thoughts keeps on circling back to the conversation she had with one of her coworkers that certainly ignite something inside her tummy, the thought alone has her biting her lips raw and tender all the way home from the BAU.

—————Beginning of the Case—————

“lastly (Y/n), you and Reid visit the M.E, find out the the true cause of death, and investigate the mark left by the unsub. JJ and i will talk to the family.” Hotch explained as he flip through the case files, earning a nod from (Y/n), the newest addition to the team. She turned her head to give Spencer a shy smile, which he immediately smile and nod that caused blissful warmth across her cheeks as she sees him staring at her, (y/n) looked away and shake her head before going back to studying (pretending) the case file.

Four women were found dead in their houses, with definite signs of sexual assault, and undetermined cause of death. They were found naked with only a small satin silk sheet covering their thighs, which bears a deep mark, signature of the unsub. Their body posed with them lying on their side supported by the headboard, and their heads on top of their arms, whilst the other hand laid on top of their thighs delicately, and their legs crooked slightly.

That’s the only information that the team knows as you walk to the M.E office with Reid. You followed his steps as he led the way, lightly chatted with the examiner. “So have you found the official cause of death yet?” He asked as his eyes delicately scan over the mark that the unsub left on the victim’s right thigh, tilting his head trying to figure out the meaning behind it. “the official cod is asphyxiation, and the marks were done antemortem.. but we found something odd in their system, chemicals commonly used to make oil paints.”

“Picasso,”

“what?” Reid turned his head to you, as your fingers ghosted over the mark and dried blood on the skin “Picasso, that’s what he carved here, picasso’s signature— or trying to be one. look, he used a fairly sharp knife that’s why the cut is deep but this.. it looks messy- almost like he has no self control or he’s just not good at carving and possibly.... even painting” (Y/n)’s eyes found itself lost, trying to find a deeper meaning to the marks— her body jolted as he heard Spencer’s reply,

“So you’re saying that, he’s trying to be like picasso?” he says, tugging his bottom lip, glancing at his partner. “Yeah, he’s probably a failed artist.. trying to gain recognitions and has been rejected so many times, look at the way they were posed.. he was going to paint them before he killed them” Her eyes lit up as she stared at his, biting the inside of her cheeks. “That makes sense actually, according to Garcia, all of these women were working or have worked as models for art student, or just artists in general. i’ll tell hotch,” he smiles, as he took off his glove and dug his pants to grab his phone and call hotch.

(Y/n) found herself completely mesmerized by the deep purple marks the unsub left as well as some ligature marks that were probably caused by the use of restraints, her skin littered with goosebumps and she visibly shivers. Her thoughts keeps on wondering until she hears Spencer cleared his throat which makes her blush furiously and timidly walking out of the building to the car. As she’s about to open the car door, she felt a tug on her wrist.

“hey, are you okay?” Spencer asked, as he kept a strong grip on her wrist, head tilting like a cute yet intimidating puppy trying to figure her out “yeah, um i’m totally fine spence, do i not look like i’m fine?” (Y/n) tried to dodge the question as she let her eyes flutter shut briefly at the feeling of his body heat, so close against her.

He’s your coworker, five years your senior, and you just saw a poor woman’s dead body. Woke up sick psycho.

“Look at me.” His voice sent venom like electricity to her veins as she quickly and shamelessly obeyed, lips parted, breathing shallow “Are you scared or aroused?” He simply asked, his grip tightening around your wrist, one eyebrow lifted as if he’s demanding you to answer then and there. “p-pardon, what are you talking about?” you shuddered, letting out a high pitched voice that makes you want to punch yourself.

Your thoughts are spiraling as you open your eyes back, staring at the grip— specifically his hand and fingers before gulping “you’re flushed (y/n), your eyes are glassy, your voice is twenty different pitch almost like a shivering little kitten, when i touched you— your heartbeat accelerate, you bit your lips way too often that i can almost feel how tender they are and i can see your body shivered then, even right now. according to what i’ve read about body language, women who displays the body language that you’re displaying right now is either scared or aroused. So, let me ask you again.. are you scared or aroused?”

Your knees buckled as you try to make sense of what he’s saying, your eyes are burning holes to the ground as he move his grip so from your wrist to your chin and forcing you to look up to his magnificent eyes, piercing with strangely content and warmth but there’s this subtlety of lust that could be seen from his dilated pupils. as you were parting your lips to answer, his phone rang and he curses lowly under his breath before turning around to pick up the call,

“yes, hotch?”

You definitely have to thank Aaron for this. You thought.

TBC!

[lyssismagical]

coffee, rainbow pins, and middle school gossip

Parkner Week Day Seven: “13-year-olds are the meanest people in the world” / middle school / jealousy

 Being a teacher hadn’t really been Peter’s plan for his career until he got to his senior year and he got his school-mandatory volunteer hours at the elementary public school and he loved how teaching made him feel.

He’s always loved kids. When he was twelve, he started babysitting for the other tenants in the building for much cheaper than any other babysitter, but enough to get the good pizza every couple weeks.

Later, he spent his summers as a Camp Counselor to make some money and to have something to do all summer, out of May’s hair and giving May a chance to save up money without having his mouth to feed.

He didn’t really think much about it until MJ asked him to start reading to children at the library with her. Apparently, she thinks she doesn’t have a soothing enough voice to read for hours on end, but he reads a lot out loud at school and during Academic Decathlon, and she says his voice is nice and he likes kids enough to hang out with them all day.

And now, as a twenty-four-year-old graduate, he’s got a job as a middle school substitute teacher. He wants to one day be a permanent teacher for a younger grade, but he’s happy being a teacher.

Until he finds out how cruel middle schoolers are.

He gets it, the Science teacher at the school is pretty good looking.

Mister Keener is a young, single guy who’s genuinely smart and passionate. He’s a few years older than Peter, and he’s objectively handsome, but Peter isn’t interested. (He’s totally interested, he can barely keep his eyes off the science teacher whenever he sees him in the Teacher’s Lounge, but that’s not anybody’s business.)

His students seem to have one goal in life. To get Peter and Mister Keener together.

“Have your kids been saying anything?” Peter asks. He watches Harley as he laughs, brewing a pot of coffee. “I was subbing for the phys-ed class and they wouldn’t stop.”

“Yeah, I hear about Mister Parker more than anything these days.”

Harley grabs two mugs from the cupboard above the coffee machine and pours them both a coffee, adding the number of creams and sugar to Peter’s that he likes which makes Peter feel incredibly warm and giddy, and then he sits down across from Peter, passing him his coffee.

“I know! Angela, you know her, I think she’s in your science class period two, she literally talked you up to me for the entire hour yesterday. I tried to tell her that it wasn’t appropriate to talk about it with me, but she wouldn’t listen.”

The science teacher laughs again, bright and warm. “Yeah, she went on and on about you. Apparently, you’re really smart when it comes to English.”

“That’s thanks to my friend, MJ, she was really good at English and reading, and she kinda got me into a lot of it. We still have biweekly book clubs.”

“I’m not super into reading, but my little sister is. I-”

The door to the Teacher’s Lounge is pushed open, with a few knocks. It’s not a teacher who stands there though.

“Harry!” Peter exclaims, shooting out of his chair. He races over to throw himself into Harry’s awaiting arms with a squeal. “I thought you weren’t coming to visit for another couple weeks!”

“I’ve got a long weekend off and figured I couldn’t wait to come see you,” Harry explains quickly, arms tight around Peter’s waist.

There’s an awkward cough from behind them that has Peter spinning around, pulling Harry with him back to his table.

“Harry, this is Harley Keener, the science teacher here. Harley, this is an old friend of mine, Harry Osborn. He’s getting his masters abroad so he can’t visit very often.”

The teacher stretches out a hand to shake Harry’s, offering a polite smile with a murmured nice to meet you before he’s draining the rest of his coffee and standing.

“I should be getting back to class early to set up for the lab. I’ll see you later,” Harley says, offering one last smile before he’s out of the teacher’s lounge.

As soon as he’s gone, Harry leans in closer. “Is he the guy you’ve been crushing on these past couple months?”

“He’s the guy who our students have been harassing me about for the last couple months,” Peter corrects before he admits, “Yeah, I’ve totally been crushing on him. He’s so nice and smart and hot. Can you blame me?”

“You should go for it.”

Peter rolls his eyes, sitting down at the table and gesturing for Harry to sit down with him. “I don’t even know if he’s into guys, or if he has a rule against dating coworkers, or if he’s taken.”

“One, I can’t believe you didn’t notice the rainbow pin on his bag. Two, this isn’t going to be your job much longer. You’re going to get that teaching position at the elementary school. And three, he wouldn’t be staring at you like that if he was taken.”

“Have you met me, Osborn? I don’t have the guts to ask him out.”

Harry rolls his eyes right back. “Have it your way and lose your chances with the greatest looking guy in all of Manhattan, second only to you.”

“Shut up,” Peter says with no heat to his words. “We’ll see.”

* Harley’s acting weird the next couple days.

He doesn’t say as much, and he’s downright pouty for most of their lunches together, frowning down at his food whenever Peter rambles about anything.

Harry starts picking him up from the school, so they no longer have that half hour window to chat while Peter waits for the bus. And Peter catches Harley practically glaring when Peter slides into Harry’s convertible.

After a week of these strange interactions, Peter finally caves and pulls one of his students aside after class.

“I know I really shouldn’t be asking you, but has Mister Keener said anything about me lately.”

Katie grins mischievously, beckoning a few of her friends over. “Why? You want him to be talking about you?”

Liam and Emily giggle, leaning into each other behind Katie.

“No!” Peter gasps, shaking his head quickly. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“He was acting pretty weird last week,” Aryssa pipes up shyly from where she’s still sitting at her desk. “Quiet, graded our test pretty harshly. He gave a couple people detentions when they wouldn’t stop talking about you.”

“Really? And he didn’t say why he was acting weird?”

Liam rolls his eyes. “No, why would he tell his students why he was acting weird? Most of the time, teachers don’t talk this candidly with their students.”

“Well, I’m not going to be teaching here much longer hopefully. And I’m a substitute.” It doesn’t entirely justify it, but the students seem more excited than annoyed by him talking about his private life. It’s what they’ve been asking him to do for months anyway.

The bell rings, making Peter jump. “Okay, dismissed, get to class. Don’t tell him I asked you about him.”

Katie and Emily snicker, looping their arms together before racing out the door.

Peter knows he won’t be able to trust them.

It still surprises him when Harley stops him in the hallway after the school’s cleared out at the end of the day.

“So, I heard some interesting gossip,” Harley starts.

“Did you?”

Harley laughs, bag swaying at his side. Peter takes note of the rainbow pin. “Katie, Liam, and Emily told me you were asking about me. Asked them if I’d been talking about you.”

“Thirteen-year-olds are the meanest people in the world, I swear… It’s just- you’ve been acting weird lately. Like I did something wrong. I was concerned.”

Harley sighs and he sinks to the floor, leaning against the lockers. Peter hesitates before sliding to the ground beside him, shoulders knocking.

“Can I be honest?” Harley asks, frowning down at his hands. “I really like you, but I get it, you’re taken, I’m not going to be upset about that, I just got a little bit jealous of him.”

“Of who? I’m not-” Peter blows out a breath. “Harry.”

Harley’s eyes go wide, sad. “I’m not mad at you and I really do want to stay friends, and I wouldn’t mind getting to know him better too-”

“I’m not with Harry!” His voice comes out shaky and too loud. “I mean, we did date once, like forever ago, back in high school, but we decided we were better off as friends, and that’s all we are now. I liked you, but I didn’t think you were into me, especially after last week.”

Harley lets out a laugh verging on hysterical. “I’m so sorry. I saw you with Harry, and I just jumped to conclusions. But if you haven’t been totally turned away by my jealousy, I’d love to take you out for coffee?”

“I’d love that, yeah. Harry’s picking me up if you wanna take up the offer of getting to know my best friend a little better? We could get coffee the three of us while he’s still in town, and then we could get dinner, just the two of us, on the weekend?”

“Sounds like a fantastic plan.”

Taglist:@littlemissagrafina  @spidey-reids-2003 @romeoandjulietyouwish @c-artara @shadedrose01 @likeaphoenix13 @pj-hermes-tonystark-obsessed  @you-get-killed-walk-it-off @kitkatwinchester  @emo-girl10 @justme--emily  @hold-our-destiny @imalivebecauseirondad @spiderman-peterman @dykeragee @maryserrao @heeeyitskay @parknerandirondad {Let me know if you wanna be added or removed}

[random-mha-thoughts]

Day After (Todoroki x Reader)

Pairing: Todoroki x Reader

Genre: Crack/fluff

Summary: Office parties are mostly a bad idea.  You never know if you might say something to someone who really matters to you.

Warnings: A little more cursing than usual

Word count: 2,031

Tags:  @yuki-osaki​ @liviitehe​ @iamsoftsodonttoucheume-blog​ @bunnythepipsqueak​

For @lovingshoto​‘s 200 follower special!

a/n: This took longer than I thought it would, only because I always fall asleep when I start writing I’m a tired college student

There’s a male Ashido character here based on designer_eyebags on Tik Tok because it’s fabulous and absolute needed for a crack fic like this.  Some other characters may/may not be OOC, depending on your own imagination of things.

I’m off from uni this week and next week because someone probably has Covid-19 at my school and I was gonna be on spring break next week anyway, so after I catch up with all my assignments and stuff, I’ll hopefully be writing more!

Enjoy and follow @lovingshoto​ please and thank you!

Also, spot the TikTok meme

"Unngghh."

My forehead presses against the cool desk, my stomach rumbling uncomfortably and my temples pounding to the beat of an EDM track.

"You look completely hammered, what the hell happened last night?"

I don't bother lifting my head at Jirou's voice.  "Many mistakes were made," I groan.  "I feel like death."

"It was smart of YaoMomo and I to skip then."  The light ruffle of papers trickles next to my ear.   "You still need to get these reports done by the end of the day.  Sorry, buddy."

God. Damnit.  I lift my heavy head up, regretting all of my life choices until this moment.  The office party last night is a giant blob of flashing lights, alcohol, and questionable decisions.  I never even knew that half the people here would get as smashed or turnt as they did last night.

Me included.

I don't know who was in charge of alcohol, but whatever was in those cups was colored and made all of us act just a little crazier than our mundane lives usually allow.  When Mirio said company parties are crazy, I now see he really meant it.  This morning when I woke up, my throat was drier than the desert in summer and my head felt like someone let a jackhammer loose inside.  I don't even remember how the hell I managed to get home.

Slowly, painfully, I trudge through my work.  Even on three tablets of ibuprofen, my headache barely gets better, and staring at a screen all day doesn't help.  I don't even have time to take my break because I barely made a dent in my work.  Not that I would want to.  This morning, I couldn't keep my breakfast down, so I'm scared to eat.

Around lunchtime, a thermos bowl is placed gently on the space next to my computer.  My eyes meet with my stone-faced coworker settling into the chair, sitting up proper as he is with his hands laced in his lap.

"Oh no."  My heart drops into my stomach as I whine out.  "Did I say something yesterday?  I remember most of what happened last night, but other things are a blur.  Please don't be mad at me."

"If I were mad, I wouldn't be here right now."  He pushes the dish over along with utensils wrapped in a napkin.  "Eat.  It's hangover soup, it should help your stomach."

Reluctantly, I open the dish, the savory-bitter smell wafting out as soon as I lift the lid, immediately causing my stomach to growl.  I'm still wary about his serious expression as I eat.  Todoroki is normally an emotionless person, but he has a different energy today.  I'm waiting for the shoe to drop.

As soon as I'm halfway through the bowl, Todoroki calmly asks, "Did you forget your brain last night?"

I groan.  There it is.  "I thought you weren't angry?"

"I'm not angry, I genuinely want to know what state of empty mind were you in to do all the things you did last night?"  Though his face is devoid of emotion, he's obviously being condescending.

I put the spoon down in the bowl.  "In my defense, I don't know what alcohol that was, it made me crazier than usual."

"Why did you drink at all?  You know people do weird things when they're drunk."

"Because that's what people do at company parties, Todoroki."  I lean my arm on the desk and rub my temples.  "I don't know who was in charge of the alcohol last night-"

"Did you summon me?"  A short pink head of hair with small horns peeking out appears behind the wall of my desk.  "I was the one in charge of drinks last night," he rounds the separator and sits gracefully on the desk, legs crossed, happily drinking pink tea from his clear glass mug.  "Did you enjoy my alcohol selection?"

My eye twitches.  This is the person I need to strangle and throw into a ditch.  But I can't, he's too fabulous and he's one of the best people we have actually.  "Because of you, I went a little too crazy last night," I grit out through my teeth.

"Oh, sweetie," he places a hand on my shoulder endearingly, "Alcohol only brings out the secret inner person you actually want to be."

"Yeah, and that's someone who needs to learn to take their alcohol like me," Bakugou walks past casually, drinking his (probably) third cup of coffee since morning.

"Oh please Bakugou, we all know you and Kirishima left early to fuck, you couldn't keep your hands off each other after one drink," Ashido stirs his tea just as casually.

Bakugou freezes up as the blushing pink man sips his tea like's he's talking about the weather.

"Oops, was that a secret?" the sassy pink man feints shame.

Bakugou, completely red at the ears, just stalks off grumbling to himself in embarrassment.

Ashido sighs, a smile playing on his lips.  "Not everyone can handle Grand Marnier, you know.  Aoyama actually put me onto it.  It's not for the faint of heart, but it definitely makes things more interesting.  Did you see Tokoyami?  Even-  Oh!  Here's the king of darkness himself!"

The man with raven-black hair that's usually spiked back has lazily gathered some of the hairs to pull it away from it face.  He probably felt so terrible this morning that he didn't bother gelling it up like he usually does.  Actually, Tokoyami looks just as hellish as I feel.  His sharp, bird-like eyes are dulled by dark circles as he trudges down the aisle.

Ashido throws an arm around his shoulders as he walks by, startling him enough to pull the earbuds out of his ears that are blasting hard rock.  "This guy right here was having the time of his life last night!  Just one drink and he loosened up, hands around everyone's shoulder telling them how much he appreciates them and mushy shit like that."

Tokoyami's pale face slowly reddens and his eyes widen, suddenly awake but having no energy to fight anything Ashido says.

"He even fit a lap shade on his head and started dancing around, I even have pictures to prove it!" Ashido continues gushing, pulling out his phone excitedly.

"Please don't bring it up," Tokoyami grits out, trying to be menacing, but his tomato-red faces contrasting his all black work outfit doesn't help his case.

"Don't be a spoiled-sport, it's so cute seeing you not dark and dreary for once!" the bright pink man gushes.

"I'm leaving."

Oh shit, if Tokoyami did that after one drink, I don't even wanna know what else I could've done.  I've already come to terms with my mistakes, but if there's more, I don't know what I would do.

Ashido sighs and puts his phone away.  "I guess he never wants to see himself happy.  Oh well, at least I have more blackmail material."  He winks at us and rises will a flourish, making his grand exit.  "I'll see you two around!"

There are some days when I really think Ashido might know more things than we think he does.  And that's a scary thought, because he could very easily have some dirt on everyone, including the boss and the more senior workers.

Todoroki taps his thumbs together in his clasped hands.  "That was...interesting.  But speaking of blackmail, I would also like to show you a picture that really upset me from last night”  He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling.

I cringe.  There's only one massively stupid thing I did that would upset Todoroki enough to really reprimand me Mom-style.  So I blurt out my rationale in hopes of him being less harsh on me.  “Okay, but in my defense, Kaminari bet me three dollars that I couldn't drink all that shampoo.  What was I supposed to do, say no?"

“No that’s not-"  His heterochromatic hair bounces as his head snaps up at me.  "You drank shampoo!? How did- When did you do that, I was supposed to be watching you the entire night!”

Shit, that wasn't it.  "Well, obviously you didn’t do a good job since I drank a whole cup of shampoo and you didn’t stop me," I try to brush it off defensively.

Todoroki's mortified face is as pale as the right side of his hair, covering his mouth with his clenched fist.  "How are you standing right now?"  He looks like he's about to have a heart attack.

"Considering how I threw up as soon as I got home - which I'll be honest, I don't even know how that happened - and I couldn't even eat this morning, I'd say my body did a pretty good job of rejecting it."

My office mate has no idea how he's supposed to react to any of that.  His phone is frozen in his hand as he glares at me like I have three heads.  "Well.  What I was going to show you doesn't compare to that."  He puts his phone away and tries to regain his composure.

I mentally sigh in relief.  At least drinking shampoo was the stupidest thing I did all night.

"If you really would like to know," his face softens, "I was the one who took you home last night, since you were thoroughly intoxicated."

"Oh."  Now I feel guilty.  Not only was I probably being a troublesome brat for him to take care of, I didn't even remember his kindness.  And he even made me soup for my troubles.  "I'm so sorry, and you did all this for me, thank you, Todoroki."

"It's fine.  It's due to the alcohol that you can't recall, I understand.  Though," Todoroki's cheeks flush slightly, "There is something I'm confused about."

Oh fuck, I did the thing didn't I?

"At first, I thought it was also an effect of the alcohol, considering you licked Asui's face while you were dancing with her, and you were generally more touchy with everyone the whole night."  He has trouble looking me in the eyes now.  "But, you were saying things to me that I don't think you would tell anyone else."

My entire mind goes into overdrive, scrambling to piece together the narrative lost in my memory.  There's one major concern I have.  "Was I vulgar?"

"No, it was nothing like that," he shakes his head, allowing me to relax.  "But, it was...charming, I'd say."

I bury my face in my hands.  "Just tell me what I said already."  I'm ready to regret everything.

"You...said you wanted me to stay with you, because you wanted me to be the first thing you see in the morning."  He has trouble getting the words out, but his voice was still delicate and endearing.  "You said seeing me every day at work is something you look forward to.  You told me how handsome I look, especially on the few occasions when I wear glasses."  His blush intensifies as I slowly feel closer and closer to dying.  "There were many other compliments.  And then...you...kissed me."

FUCK, I DID THE THING.

"Or, at least you tried.  If that was something you really wanted, I couldn't let you do it while you were intoxicated and couldn't remember it later."

An ashamed apology bubbles in my throat, but my extreme embarrassment doesn't let it come out.  How pathetic I am admitting my feelings to the person I like while I was guzzled with alcohol and shampoo.

"Not to say I didn't want to kiss you."

I snap my head up, fully taking in his tomato-red appearance as he averts he bores affectionate eyes into mine.  Oh.

"I don't know if you're up for it, but would you like to have dinner with me tonight?" Todoroki officially requests.

My heart melts at his innocent confession and relief.  "S-Sure," I squeak.

Todoroki gives me a small smile and pats my head.  "Finish that soup and hurry to finish your work for the day," he chides before getting up and heading back to his own desk.

My chest remains clenched and my cheeks hurt from smiling continuously.  The only thing I regret now is not seeing buttoned-up, proper Todoroki drunk.

[pickalilywrites]

I wanted to request a (short) fic, I hope you like the idea and feel like writing it. I was thinking of Petra and Auruo going to relation therapy, because they always bicker like an old married couple. Not because their relationship has grown toxic or anything bad happened, but just to make it stronger, and they finally realize all the good of their relationship. So, happiness! Or... give it a twist if you want to. Hope you like the idea enough to write it.

hi hi! sorry this was supposed to be written quickly, but time has gotten the best of me ^^" i hope you still enjoy~ and thank you for requesting auruo, i know i don't write them often !

----------------

Love Like Crazy

Petruo. Modern AU.

4326 words.

Read on Ao3!

Someone sets a bouquet down on Rolf’s desk and the overworked employee looks up at the culprit warily.

“Did you ask me to cover for you so you could buy a bouquet?” Rolf asks with a frown. The flowers are dripping on his desk, the growing puddle underneath the bouquet threatening to get his papers wet, but he’s too tired to even ask his friend to remove them. “And you didn’t even bother to buy me one flower in thanks?”

“Sorry,” Erich says sheepishly. The selfish bastard had asked Rolf to cover his work while he dipped from the office before work hours ended, practically running out of the office before Rolf could give him a proper answer. Now he’s returned, five minutes before everyone leaves for work, with this bouquet and still no explanation.

“So if those aren’t for me, who are they for?” Rolf asks as he types away at a document. Hopefully, he can finish this report before he leaves. He hates staying past 5 or leaving a task midway. “You don’t have a girlfriend as far as I know and you …” He pauses, his fingers idle on the keyboard. As he realizes who the flowers must be for, his eyes widen and he turns towards his friend in alarm. “Don’t tell me they’re for -”

“They are,” Erich confirms without an ounce of shame. He picks up his bouquet and smiles down at the assortment of flowers. His fingers rub the petal of a blush-colored rose. “Of course, they’re for Petra. Who else would they be for?”

“She’s married,” Rolf says. His expression is one of disbelief as if he can’t quite believe how stupid his friend is. “She’s been married for years. High school sweethearts, she and her husband. She wears her ring all the time. How can you think this is a good idea?”

Erich’s lower lip sticks out in a childish pout. Rather than come to his senses, he becomes defensive, turning away from Rolf slightly as if to protect himself from his friend’s logic. “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?” Erich scoffs with an upturned nose. “She and her husband fight all the time. Don’t you hear her complain about him with her friends in the break room?”

“Yes, but they’re still married,” Rolf stresses. He shakes his head. There’s no way he’s going to be able to finish his work, not now when he has to deal with Erich’s hopelessly romantic shenanigans. “You can’t just start an affair. Don’t you feel guilty at all?”

“Their marriage has been over a long time ago,” Erich sniffs disdainfully. He doesn’t look the least bit guilty. In fact, he looks quite proud of himself, although Rolf has no idea why he would be. “They see a marriage counselor, did you know that? I overheard her talking about it once with Rico during their lunch break. If her marriage weren’t on the rocks, do you think she’d be seeing a counselor?”

Rolf can’t help but roll his eyes, but Erich doesn’t seem to notice. “You really should stop eavesdropping on her conversations. You’ll be crossing a line if you haven’t already,” Rolf mutters. Erich either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care, so Rolf tries again. “If they’re seeing a counselor, then maybe it means they’re trying to work it out together. If it’s not the case that they’re trying to manage their relationship together, then what makes you think she’s open to starting a new relationship? And with you of all people?”

Somehow, it’s that very last question that Erich takes offense at.

“What do you mean ‘me of all people’?” Erich repeats incredulously. He straightens his back and puffs his chest out, a poor attempt to make himself seem more impressive than he actually is. “I’d be a huge improvement over her sad excuse of a husband. I’m charming, handsome, thoughtful …” His voice trails off as he tries to think of more adjectives to describe himself. When he doesn’t manage to find any, he waves the bouquet in Rolf’s face as if this material display of affection is enough to prove his point.

Rolf flinches when a spray of water hits his face. “Okay, okay,” Rolf splutters, wiping his face with his hand. “Say you’re every woman’s dream man … that still doesn’t mean Petra would be open to a relationship with you. Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, give her room to move on from her current relationship before you pursue her? I mean, isn’t that the courteous thing to do?”

Erich clucks his tongue, chuckling as he shakes his head as if he can’t quite believe how naive Rolf is. “She’s been stuck in that relationship for years. Since high school! If she can’t see how much of a trap it is, then I just have to show her the way.” Erich smooths his hair back with one hand and smirks. “I’ll just sweep her off her feet by being myself.”

As if that’s ever going to work, Rolf wants to say, but he knows Erich is past the point of convincing now. His friend can be as annoyingly stubborn as he is annoyingly stupid. Sometimes, Rolf has learned, it’s just best to let Erich suffer the consequences of his own bad decisions.

“I’m not going to stop you,” Rolf says, “but I hope you know this is a terrible decision.”

“This is going to be the best decision of my life,” Erich says confidently with his head held high. It’s like he’s forgotten every other dumb idea he’s had in his life. Joining a pyramid scheme that he insisted wasn’t a pyramid scheme, drinking a whole bottle of vodka to impress a girl, and running a mile in the rain to prove to everyone how tough he was are just a few examples of Erich’s stupidity. It’s usually harmless and Erich normally doesn’t hurt anyone except for himself. While Petra might not necessarily be harmed by Erich’s annoying advances, she’ll still be at the very least inconvenienced by them, Rolf thinks with a grimace. Honestly, he feels sorry for her.

Erich, of course, just strolls on ahead with his bouquet in hand, his head held high. He hardly pays attention to the slightly annoyed but mostly tired glances from his colleagues as he marches past their cubicles. He’s too focused on his task to even notice when Rico mumbles, “What’s that airhead up to now?” under her breath.

He reaches the front doors and pushes them open, a wide smile on his face as he does so. He breathes in the fresh evening air and it smells like a new beginning. Just up ahead he can see the target of his affections: Petra Ral, his senior coworker. She had just gotten off work and is standing near the front of the office building. She doesn’t see him. Petra’s too busy staring at her phone to pay him any attention. That doesn’t bother Erich one bit though. In fact, he’d rather it be this way. Now he really has the element of surprise on his side, and what woman doesn’t like surprises?

Erich can see how it’ll play out: he’ll tap her on the shoulder and Petra will whirl around, her petal-pink lips in a perfect o-shape because she hadn’t expected to see him. She’ll ask him why he’s there and he’ll say he’d like to walk her home. He’s a gentleman after all. Flattered by his kind gesture, she’ll graciously accept and he’ll present her with the bouquet. He’ll mention how he had just seen them at a nearby flower shop and gotten them because they reminded him of her. A beautiful blush will bloom across her cheeks and she’ll trip over her words as she accepts them. As they walk home together, arms hooked, he’ll suggest they go on a bit of a detour — just a bite of dinner together to thank her for being such a wonderful person to work with — and Petra will giggle and tell him that’s a great idea. Erich will whisk her off to a wonderful restaurant, one he had already made reservations for, and they’ll dine over the most tender cuts of steak and the finest wine. As the night grows dark, he’ll suggest that she come to his place for the night, and she’ll gasp. Curiously, she’ll ask him if he knows she’s married and he’ll give a grave nod and confirm that, yes, he is indeed aware. Erich will then tell her that he’s also aware that her husband doesn’t treat her right, that he’ll never treat her right, and that she should leave her pathetic husband for someone who can give her what she deserves. Overwhelmed by Erich’s sweet words, she’ll allow him to lead her to his apartment where they’ll make sweet love until they collapse in sweet slumber and wake in each other’s arms.

Really, Erich thinks smugly. His plan is almost a little too perfect.

He puts on his most charming smile and reaches out to tap Petra on the shoulder. At his touch, the ginger turns around, but her mouth isn’t shaped in that perfect o-shaped that Erich had imagined. For some reason, her lips are turned downwards in a frown and her brows are knitted together.

“Erich?” Petra says. “What are you doing here? Do you need something?”

Quickly, Erich shakes his head. “No, I just go off work,” he says and clears his throat awkwardly. While he’s disappointed Petra isn’t immediately delighted to see him, he refuses to be deterred. She’s probably just confused as to why he’s here, but he’ll soon clear things up. “I came here for you, actually.”

Still no delighted smile. The frown on Petra’s face just grows deeper and it’s clear that she’s more confused than ever. “But if you came here for me and you don’t need something …” Her voice trails off. “Why are you here then?”

“Because I …” Erich tries to find the words, but they escape him. What an idiot he is, forgetting everything even though he had it all planned in his head. He just needs to tell her everything one at a time and Petra will slowly fall in love with her just as she’s meant to. Later, they’ll laugh about how sweet and awkward he was about asking her out. He just needs to get the words out first.

Erich stands up straighter and clears his throat once more. “I came to give these to you,” he says and thrusts the bouquet towards Petra, who makes no move to reach for it. “I … saw these at the store and thought of you.”

“You really shouldn’t have.” Petra still makes no move to grab the bouquet from him.

Erich smiles wider and moves the bouquet even closer to Petra. “No, just … I’d really like for you to have it. Just think of it as … a token of my appreciation for everything you’ve done in the office,” he says. He bites his lips and offers the bouquet once more, holding his breath until Petra finally accepts it.

“Thanks …” Petra looks down at the bouquet and picks at a flower. The frown is still on her face, but at least she had taken the flowers.

Perhaps Erich hadn’t said everything he had wanted to say — he wasn’t able to even make one comment comparing Petra’s beauty to the flowers — but he knows he should still push onward. It’s clear that Petra doesn’t understand the true message behind the flowers, and Erich just needs to convey his intentions towards her properly.

“If you don’t mind,” he says, trying his best not to let his voice waver, “I’d like to walk you home.”

Petra tilts her head ever so slightly and gives Erich a curious look. Her lips are parted the tiniest bit. Finally, she speaks. “No, thank you,” she says easily.

Erich blinks. He’s not certain he’s heard right. “N-no?” he repeats. “Did you … really just say no thank you?”

Petra’s lip twinges in annoyance. She holds the bouquet rather loosely now, allowing it to dangle from her hand as her arm drops to her side. “I did. I won't question your intentions, but I don't feel comfortable with you walking me home." She pauses and then continues. “My husband is walking me home tonight. He walks me home every night after work.”

It’s not something that Petra has to say out loud. Everyone knows that Petra’s husband always walks her home. The two are always seen walking towards the subway arm-in-arm. Sometimes they bicker, sometimes they don’t. Erich had always scoffed when he saw Petra’s husband: some sandy-haired man with an old-fashioned hairstyle and wearing the plainest clothes. Petra deserves someone young, someone slick, someone handsome, someone a lot like Erich. She should be jumping at the opportunity of being walked home by him.

“You … don’t want me to walk you home?” Erich repeats in disbelief. “But I … I bought you flowers and I …” He doesn’t finish his sentence, his thoughts too scrambled for him to properly articulate his confusion. He runs a frantic hand through his hair, mussing up his perfectly styled locks.

Petra looks disgusted. “I’m married,” she says to Erich. She looks around as if she can’t quite believe what’s happening and then looks back at her coworker, waving her hand in his face. On her ring finger sits her wedding ring, a glittering band of gold encrusted in sparkling diamonds with the biggest one shining in the center. “I’ve been married for years, Erich. I have a husband who is picking me up from work — a husband that picks me up from work every evening — so why would I want to walk home with you, a coworker that I only talk to during work hours?”

Her question stings and Erich flinches as if she had slapped him. “Because you’re not … you’re not happy in your marriage,” he manages to say, although his words tremble. He had thought that this is what Petra would want, so why is she yelling at him? Doesn’t she want someone who can treat her nicely? Why is she clinging to her husband when she complains about him all the time?

Petra scoffs and looks to the sky before returning her gaze towards Erich. Her shoulders slump, tired, and she has one hand on her hip. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about now,” she hisses, and Erich nearly jumps back in surprise. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Petra curse before. He’s not sure he could have imagined it before now. Petra’s pointing the bouquet at him now, using the bundle of flowers to prod at Erich’s chest. “My marriage, no matter how happy or sad or whatever you think it is, is none of your fucking business, Erich.”

Erich clenches his fist. At first, he was shocked. This isn’t at all how it was supposed to go, but now Petra is cursing at him and acting like he’s poking his nose in things it shouldn’t be. Now, he’s just insulted.

“You complain about your husband all the time! You talk to Rico about what a slob he is! You two go to therapy!” he spits. “There’s no way you could be happy with someone you complain about that much. You’d be better off with someone better than that loser, someone like me!”

Petra’s jaw drops and Erich thinks he’s finally gotten to her, but then she starts to laugh. “Someone ‘better’?” she repeats, scoffing. She looks Erich up and down and gives him a nod. “And you think you’re better? Better how? What do you have to offer me?”

“I’m a gentleman! I can walk you home, too! And I bought you flowers and everything!” Erich says, gesturing towards the bouquet Petra still holds in her hands.

“This? You want me to be impressed by this?” Petra asks, waving the bouquet in his face. She frowns at the bouquet. “You think this will impress me? It’s pathetic, how you think you could win me over with a five-dollar bouquet you found in a bucket at a grocery store.”

Her words send a blush to Erich’s cheeks. He had, in fact, bought the bouquet for a measly five dollars, although he had snagged it from a flower shop that was about to discard them at the end of the day. He hadn’t thought it was that obvious that they weren’t top quality, but they were still nice except for that wilting daisy he forgot to pick out before giving them to Petra. Still, he doesn’t think this is a good reason for Petra to refuse him.

“Don’t you see that I’m giving you a chance?” Erich asks. He has to stop himself from stamping his feet like a child about to throw a tantrum. “I can make you happy in a way that your husband can’t.”

Petra shakes her head. “This fucking kid,” she mutters under her breath. “Look, I’m married. Happily married, even if it doesn’t seem that way to you, so let’s just drop this and forget this ever happened -”

“But he’s such a dick!” Erich bursts. He knows passersby are staring at the couple curiously, but he’s past the point of caring. If people want to see a spectacle, then he’ll make one. Maybe someone will butt in and help convince Petra what a mistake she’s making. “If you’re so unhappy that you’re seeing a counselor for your problems … Petra, you’d have to be crazy to want to stay with him.”

The expression on Petra’s face sends chills up Erich’s eyes. Her usually warm amber eyes are ice cold now and her lips are pressed in a thin line. She looks absolutely murderous. “If loving him makes me crazy, then call me a fucking psychopath. I don’t give a shit, but don’t you ever speak poorly of my husband. You don’t deserve to,” Petra spits.

Erich is almost certain everything that’s happening is a prank. He’s never seen Petra be so vile. Surely, he’s just having a bad dream or someone’s pulling a terrible joke on him. He looks around for cameras or a group of snickering people hiding behind a nearby bench, but there’s no one to be found. Petra really is just an ungrateful bitch that wants to be trapped in her unfulfilling relationship. He opens his mouth to tell her so, but Petra raises his hand and whacks him in the face with the bouquet before he can react.

She hits him repeatedly, whacking him on the back with his pathetic bouquet. It only hurts his pride, but Erich still cries out as she hits him with the bouquet. He tries to cover his head with his arms, although there isn’t really a reason to. Maybe it’s because he’s trying to preserve his dignity, although he admittedly would have saved more of it had he not thrown this spectacle of a confession in the first place.

Petra doesn’t stop even when Erich begs her to. The bouquet must look abysmal now. When Erich opens his eyes, he sees stray flower petals and leaves on the ground. He doesn’t know if he apologizes or just calls her crazy, but Petra doesn’t relent until someone from afar calls her name.

“Petra!” When Petra and Erich turn around, they see Petra’s husband jogging towards them. The man’s sandy curls are all in disarray and his coat isn’t on properly, one of the shoulders hanging off his arm strangely like he had rushed putting it on. In one hand, he waves a paper bag. “I’m here!”

Petra’s head turns so fast Erich is surprised her neck hasn’t snapped. “Ah, you’re late,” she says, turning to leave Erich without giving her coworker a second glance. “Can’t you text me when you’re late? You always forget.”

“It’s not that late. It’s just …” Petra’s husband reaches into his coat pocket and glances at his phone, grimacing when he sees the time flashing across the screen. He slides his phone back into his pocket and tries to maintain his neutral expression. “In my defense, I didn’t mean to be late.”

“Aways with that excuse. It wouldn’t kill you to check the time every once in a while, would it?” Petra says with a frown, swatting her husband lightly on the shoulder. “And texting me would take only half a second.”

“Well, I definitely would have if I remembered,” Petra’s husband says. The man takes a moment to glance at Erich but, finding his wife paying no attention to her coworker, turns away and wraps an arm around his wife’s shoulder. “Don’t be mad. I got you taiyaki since I saw it on the way.”

“Did you?” Petra says. Her back is turned towards Erich, but he can still see how eagerly she reaches for the paper bag in her husband’s hand. She takes the fish-shaped pastry with more excitement than she had Erich’s bouquet. Petra plucks a taiyaki from the bag and offers the first bite to her husband and her eyes widen when the soft shell breaks under his teeth and reveals a creamy custard filling inside. “Ooh, my favorite.” It’s shocking how giddy she is, as if she hadn’t exploded at Erich just moments before.

Petra’s husband glances back at Erich again and leans down to whisper something in Petra’s ear. His lips ghost against the shell of her ear, his breath probably hot against her skin. Whatever the man asks, it makes Petra look back at Erich with a dismissive glance before whispering something back to her husband.

She turns back and gives Erich a wave, bidding him a brief goodbye and to have a good evening. Her tone is cool, practically indifferent, and it gives Erich whiplash when he sees her turn to her husband with a wide smile and offer him more of her pastry.

He’s so furious that he’s practically shaking where he stands, but then he starts laughing, softly at first and then more hysterically. People turn their heads to stare, but Erich hardly notices. He’s tugging at his hair, hardly believing what had just happened. He had just offered Petra a way out of her unsatisfying relationship and presented her with a more enticing one with him, and she had refused. She had been happy about it. Clearly, the woman isn’t in her right mind. She has to be absolutely crazy, Erich thinks, to walk away from such an opportunity. Erich had dodged a bullet.

“She’s absolutely crazy. Probably a fucking psychopath if she’s happy with a loser like him,” Erich mumbles to himself before picking up the bouquet, or what’s left of it anyway, off the ground. It’s really just a handful of broken stems and forlorn flowers now. As he walks home, he continues to mumble under his breath, hysteric bursts of laughter breaking his speech every now and again. “What a crazy fucking bitch!”

➽───────────────❥

“You should have come earlier,” Petra sighs. She sits with her legs across Auruo’s lap. Her husband massages her calves as she feeds him ice cream. “I was having the worst time. If you had been five minutes earlier, it never would have happened. Or maybe I could have escaped earlier.”

Auruo raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying it’s my fault your day ended badly?” he asks.

“No, of course not,” Petra replies. She pauses for a moment and then says, “Well, maybe a little.” She laughs when she sees her husband pout and feeds him another spoonful of ice cream.

Auruo waits for it to melt before he swallows it, but it’s still cold as it slides down his throat. “Do you want me to talk to him?” A sharp pain pricks at the front of his head and he winces from the brain freeze as Petra giggles. His voice a little weaker, Auruo asks, “Are you going to report him to HR?”

Petra looks towards the ceiling with a pensive expression. She scoops another large spoonful of ice cream and offers it to Auruo. “Probably not. I might if he tries it again, but I think he’s seriously just stupid,” she says. After Auruo gets a spoonful of ice cream, Petra eats a spoonful herself. She savors the mix of vanilla and chocolate that melts on her tongue. “Why? Are you worried?”

“Only if you are,” Auruo says, giving her calf a good squeeze. “Are you going to mention it in therapy?”

“Mention Erich?” Petra asks with a furrow of her brow.

“Mention your husband’s inability to provide you with a happy marriage and ward off suitors,” Auruo replies a little bitterly. It makes Petra snort.

“I’ll mention how insecure you feel as my husband, sure,” Petra replies, “but I won’t mention Erich if that’s what you’re asking. We’re paying our therapist money to talk about us and you’re the only person I really care to complain about.”

Auruo raises an eyebrow. “Even if I’m the source of most of your problems?” He accepts another spoonful of ice cream that Petra offers him.

She smiles. “I’m the reason for most of your problems, too,” she points out. She puts the carton of ice cream on the table and stretches out on the couch. Petra rests with her legs still on Auruo’s lap. Her arm rests over her stomach and her head lays on the armrest. Her eyes are closed and there’s a content smile on her face. “But if it’s a problem with you, then it’s a problem worth solving.”

Her husband can’t help the smile that begins to spread across his lips.

“So I don’t really mind if people think I’m crazy for staying with you even if we do have our problems,” Petra yawns without bothering to cover her mouth. “And anyway, baby, you know I love you like crazy.”

Auruo grins. “I love you, too,” he says and leans down for a kiss that Petra easily gives.

[wonjaekook]

Red Ocean, Black Sky

A/N: Is that enough warnings to turn people away who don’t want to read something like this? Hopefully (lol). I haven’t posted a fic for almost two months now, so hopefully this will make up for the drought. I guess you could call this a labor of love because I reaaaally didn’t intend to make it this long. If you have any feedback or feel like I should add a warning or anything like that, my ask box is open! Anyways, enough of that - enjoy :)

21 Tropes: 9. Organized Crime/Gang/Mafia-esque AU + azure w/Yuta

Description: One incident changes your life, pulling you onto a path of blood and death that you don’t understand. You’re afraid of what Yuta has brought you into and, maybe, with time, you’ll stop being afraid for long enough to ask the right questions.

Word Count: 18k Genre: angst, thriller (is that what you call it? adventure?) smut (barely, check the warnings), fluff (kind of? if you really squint?)

Warnings: violence (gets pretty graphic), blood, death/murder, lots of cursing, alcohol, somewhat sexual/suggestive language, relatively undetailed smut that you can skip (it’s obvious enough when it’s about to come up and starts with the line “The danger of him...” and the clean paragraphs start again with “You wait for the regret...” if you don’t want to read it; it’s only about two paragraphs long)

“Did you hear about what happened to that lady?”

“The one who sings at Kim’s Bar? Yeah, it’s awful.”

You try to make a point of not really listening to your coworkers’ gossipings. What they talk about is never good news. The first girl, Haneul, loves to run her mouth nearly as much as the second girl, Jooyeon, does. You’d think they would have learned better by now, with what all of you do, but they still speak much too freely for your taste.

“Heard they weren’t even after her. Was her brother they were after, but she was just in the way,” Haneul continues.

“Do you know whose side they were on?”

Sometimes it’s hard to block out the chitter and chatter.

“My ma said they went after ‘em because they were affiliated with the Neos.”

“Shit, best not be-”

“Shh!” Jinah, one of your more senior coworkers hisses at the other girls to be quiet when the front door swings open with an inappropriately cheerful chime, revealing three men. You keep your eyes down, not daring to look at their faces. From what you can see of their feet, the one in the middle steps forward and appears to represent the group. You can hear the fake smile in Jinah’s voice as she greets him. “Hello, sir. How can we help you?”

“I’m here to make use of your services. My shoulders have been hurting like hell.” You nearly let yourself relax when you hear what he’s here for, but immediately tense up again when he continues. “Keep this on the downlow.”

Jinah freezes before regaining her composure. “Sir, we don’t offer… those kinds of services until later in the evening. If you wish to partake, we-”

“I’m not here for that. Are you listening to what I’m saying? I’m here for exactly what I asked for.” The impatience in his voice has you clasping your hands together tightly to stop them from shaking. You think you would be used to these kinds of men by now, but you aren’t. Each new person that steps through the front door is a new danger. You can only hope-

“Ah, I understand. I’m sorry about the misunderstanding, sir; we’ll get you taken care of right away.” She pauses, turning to you. “Y/N, prepare a room for this gentleman.”

You can only hope you don’t get chosen. But, here you are. Somewhat stiffly, you turn around, stepping out of the reception area and towards an unoccupied room.

“Y/N is one of our best masseuses, sir. She’ll have that pain gone in no time at all. While we’re waiting, we can discuss payment...” You hear Jinah explain to him as you walk away, her voice drafting away as you close the door behind you. You almost wish you’d looked at his face to get a judge on his character, but you also know that you’ve met plenty of deceptive faces before. It’s better that you don’t see him. People can ask less questions that way.

Once you do all of your preparatory work, setting out oils and water, anything else you might need, you steel your nerves, twist the handle of the door open, and step out of the room. You stand in the entryway between the reception area and the back hallway, head bowed. “Everything is ready, sir. Please follow me.”

All you see are the tips of his surprisingly well taken care of shoes, a polished black, before you turn around, hearing his footsteps behind you as you take him to the room. Once the door to the room closes, he makes quick work of taking his upper layers off, handing you his jacket and button down shirt when you stretch out your hands for them. You’re about to instruct him to lie down, but he beats you to it. “I’d prefer to stay sitting upright. I’m sure you understand?”

The words are a threat but not quite a threat, so you simply respond with a quiet, “Yes, sir,” and fix the arrangement of the table. After he sits, his back to you, you finally look up farther than his feet. On his back, his skin illuminated by some of the dim light in the room, is a great work of art.

You pretty quickly recognize the work tattooed across his shoulders as a rendition of The Great Wave Off Kanagawa. Except, where there should have been azure tattooed into his back, there’s only red. An entire ocean, dyed red. You’re too afraid to ask what it means. You’re paid to keep your mouth shut, so you do.

But, you’ve heard about him. Of course, he doesn’t tell you who he is, but you know he’s a big name. Still, you try your best to keep steady enough, beginning your work on his shoulders and back. His skin is smooth and muscled under your touch and his sleek, collar-length black hair is tied up, away from his shoulders. Looking at him from behind, in the flickering ambient light of the room, you try to remind yourself that he’s just a man. A dangerous man, but a man nonetheless. He has skin and bone and muscle just like you. Skin and bone and muscle that have probably taken lives far more significant than your own.

“Your hands are shaking,” the man says, not even glancing over at you.

“My apologies,” you say quietly.

“Are you afraid?”

You don’t stop working, your hands moving over his shoulders, though the air between you seems to still for a moment. You try to stop your voice and hands from shaking, pressing a little harder on his muscles as a result. “No.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

You don’t respond. You don’t rush your work, either. You give him exactly what he paid for and, after he’s pulled his shirt and jacket back on, you finally have the courage to look at his face.

You nearly let the shock appear on your face when you find that he’s actually quite handsome. He tips you well, giving you a dangerous, knowing smile, and you think that’s the end of it. Of course, it isn’t.

The gun to your head and the knife pressed to your side seem a bit like overkill to you, but if you die like this, then you suppose it would be fun to have it be an interesting death.

“Tell us what you know.”

“I don’t know anything.” It’s the truth - you really don’t have any idea what this man is talking about, and the weapons pressed against you aren’t bringing any particular memories to mind. Your mind, overloaded with fear, is nearly blank.

“Lying whore, you think I won’t cut the truth out of you?” The man’s breath reeks of cigarettes and general garbage and you nearly gag as he spits his words into your face.

“I’m telling the truth.” You answer through gritted teeth.

“Bitch! Tell me what you know about the Neos now or I’ll start cutting! One,” he pressed the blade deeper, “two,” you can feel the metal begin to dig into your skin, “three-”

He doesn’t get to finish the threat. Gunshots ring through the alleyway as the man threatening you and his backup all go down quickly and easily. You feel the bullet wizz past your head, barely brushing your hair as it nails him in the head. Thankfully, a dead man’s reflexes aren’t good and the gun and blade in his hands fall to the ground with clinks. You know the other men drop with him, but you can barely focus with the adrenaline and pure fear pumping through your veins.

You soon join them, falling to your knees as your shaky legs give out under you. Your breathing is uneven and quick and you don’t look up until a shadow falls over you.

It’s the man from before. The one with the wave tattoo.

He tugs down the black mask covering his mouth. You see his lips move. You don’t comprehend what he tells you but, against everything reasonable, you take his hand when he offers it to you. A familiar face in all of the bodies piled around you. Your body almost moves on its own and you let the man wrap an arm around you, a warm, almost smoky scent surrounding you from his jacket and muting the sharp metallic tang in the air. The other men who came with him are inspecting the bodies, but you don’t want to look at the reality of what just happened. You almost died. That could be you on the ground, your blood soaking into the cracked pavement of the alley. Your heartbeat nearly drowns out what the men are saying, but you catch snippets.

“Blue Veins. Haven’t fucked with them in a while.”

You dully register hearing one of the other men who had come with him curse. “Fuck. This one is a Rusher.”

“Blues and Rushers working together? Not in-”

“We need to get out of here,” you feel the chest of the man holding you rumble as he speaks, the same serious tone that you heard when he had been in your massage parlor, “and figure out what to do with her.” His eyes dart down to you and then towards the other end of the alley. “Shit.” Flashes of light appear at the entrance, the one you had been forced down and the opposite of the way they had come from.

The others seem to see the same thing. “Let’s get out of here.” From what you can see of his face not covered in a mask, he has a scar cutting through one eyebrow and his hair is a deep red. He’s the one who talked about the ‘Rushers’ a moment before.

“Can you run?” Though he directs the question towards you, he doesn’t give you much time to answer, only waiting for a stiff nod before he’s tugging you along behind him. Your legs try to keep up, but the only thing that lets you keep pace with him is his hand in yours. Somehow, the grip is comforting when you had been so afraid of him not even six hours before. Before you know it, you’re shoved into a sleek black car, breathing heavily in the backseat, wedged between the long-haired man and the third who had run with you, a thin brown-haired guy.

“Step on it, John,” the red haired man growls from the passenger seat, glancing out the window. One gunshot, then two sound as the man who had been waiting in the driver seat presses hard on the gas. You don’t hear bullets hit the car, but you instinctually duck against the long-haired man, who puts a comforting hand on you. Though the driver, John, is still going at a fast pace, a sort of silence falls over the car.

“Fuck.” The other man next to you curses loudly, tearing off his mask and revealing an angry expression that doesn’t match his youthful face. “Blues and Rushers? Couldn’t get any better, could it?”

“We’ll discuss it when we get back. Give me a minute to think.” The red-haired man also takes off his mask, sighing. In any other situation, from what you can see of his side profile, you would’ve considered him to be extraordinarily handsome.

The long-haired man turns to you, trying to give you a somewhat reassuring look. “Y/N, right?” You nod. “My name is Yuta. Are you okay? Not hurt?” You shake your head. “That’s good. I know it’s a lot. How do you feel?”

“I want to go home.”

He stays silent for a moment, the sympathy fading from his eyes into a more serious look, before answering. “We can’t let you do that. It’s not safe.”

Tears start to well up in your eyes, the entire experience beginning to hit and overwhelm you as your adrenaline rush dies down. “What’s happening? I swear I’ve never seen any of those men before in my life, and I...”

He doesn’t reach out to try and comfort you this time, his eyes cold. “We’re called the Neos.” Your breath stops in your chest. You had been right when you thought he was a big name. This is Nakamoto Yuta. Nakamoto Yuta who walks away from fights without a scratch on him, who stepped into the city of Seoul one day and instantly made a name for himself - a very blood name. Your eyes shift around the car, trying to place every person as he continues. “When you come face to face with a Neo, it’s a death sentence one way or another.”

“Not a reputation we’re terribly happy about, but it exists.” The man in the passenger seat, with the red hair and scar, speaks and you put the pieces together to identify him as Lee Taeyong, their leader. There’s a rumor that the closest anyone ever got to him put that scar through his eyebrow and put them in the grave. Never in your life did you think you would ever come face to face with the leader of the Neos, but life has been full of surprises as of late.

“Since you met Yuta earlier, you’re as good as dead without us, now,” the brown-haired one says, looking out the window and not at you. If you were to take a guess based on his looks and how fast he worked to take down the men in the alley, you would place him as Mark Lee - young ace of the Neos.

The driver, from what you can see, has a dark and handsome look to him. “Sorry, babe. You’re stuck for now. Might as well enjoy the ride.” The flirting and subtle hint of an American accent - Johnny Seo. Playboy and drag racer before he somehow got involved with the Neos. From what you’ve heard of girls in town complaining, he doesn’t mess around anymore. Too risky.

You’re almost proud you can identify all of them - maybe listening to your coworkers gossip at work had its benefits. “My coworkers? Are they going to be okay?”

“They’re going to be fine. They’re not after them,” Taeyong says.

“Though, one of them is a rat,” Mark mutters under his breath.

“Shut it.” Taeyong and Mark make intense eye contact for a moment before Mark tears his eyes away, looking back out the window. You decide that it’s best if you don’t ask anymore questions.

Before long, the car slows to a stop in an area you don’t recognize and you’re ushered out of the car. You follow Yuta and Mark trails you. Like they’re expecting you to run away. Like you’re some sort of prisoner. The first floor has an open layout and you spot some tables, chairs, and boxes scattered about. One of the handful of men standing around makes eye contact with you, but Mark nudges you, pushing you to keep walking. You break eye contact and lower your head.

Taeyong diverges and gives orders to the few that are loitering. “Meeting, now. Get everyone over here.”

“I can handle her on my own, Mark. Join them,” Yuta says over his shoulder, eyeing you. Mark seems to hesitate for a moment before breaking away. Turning back around, Yuta keeps walking, leading you up to the third floor of the building. He takes you into a long hallway with many doors - mostly shut - before opening one and gesturing for you to enter. “Stay here. You’ll be safe.”

“I-” You try to say something after you step in, but he simply shuts the door. There’s a single click after he shuts it. A lock. He locked you in. A prisoner.

You look around the room. He’s right - you’re safe from the other gangs here. But you’re in danger in a whole different way. It would be stupid to try and escape now, but you can’t help and look at the window. It’s boarded shut. You observe the rest of the room. An old bed, a dresser, a nightstand, and a mirror hanging on the wall. If worse came to worst, you could smash the mirror and use a shard as a weapon. You don’t want to trust the Neos. You can’t trust the Neos. Though they haven’t hurt you yet, they even saved your life, you know their reputation. You know they very well could hurt you. And you don’t want to take any risks getting comfortable.

You groan when you remember that your phone, wallet, and everything else you were carrying had been knocked out of your hands back in that alley. If you had just remembered, then maybe you’d be able to call for help now. Then again, you don’t think the Neos would be stupid enough to let you keep your phone. With a sigh, you walk to the dresser and start opening drawers. When you find them empty, you slam the last drawer shut and move to the nightstand. There, shoved in the back of the single drawer, is a pen. It’s a cheap plastic pen and definitely won’t do much damage if you have to use it as a weapon, but it’ll have to do. You slide it into your sleeve.

After thoroughly searching the room, you settle onto the bed, sitting and staring at the cracked cement floor. With the sparse furnishing and the locked door, the room feels like a cell. You wait and wait, mulling over your circumstance, until, finally, you hear the latch on the door click again and it opens. Yuta stands in the doorframe. “Come with me. We need to talk.”

“Will you let me leave yet?” You don’t hold back the snapiness in our tone - whatever your fate is to these gang members, it’s already been decided. You stand, no longer quite so afraid.

“I already told you it’s not safe.” His eyes follow you calmly as you walk towards him.

“You claim to be protecting me when you’re treating me like a prisoner.”

He scoffs in response. “You’re not a hostage and you’re not a prisoner.”

“Then why did you lock the door?”

“Why were you digging through the drawers? Looking for a weapon?” With a quick step, he moves forward and grabs your wrist, twisting it. A sharp pain runs through your arm and the pen in your sleeve slides out and clatters to the floor. “It’s going to take a lot more than just a pen.” He drops your wrist. “Come on.”

Obediently, you follow him. He takes you back to the first floor where quite a few more men are gathered than before. Looking at them, some are far too young to be called men: they’re much closer to boys. You can’t help but wonder what happened to get them involved in a group like the Neos. All of their eyes on you are sharp, cautious. Like Mark, all of the younger boys look like they’ve seen too much and the light of youth doesn’t shine as brightly in their eyes as it should. Almost like a scene out of a movie, they’re gathered around a table, Taeyong bent over a map that’s spread over its surface. He looks up when Yuta guides you over. “Any trouble?”

Yuta’s eyes flicker over to you before they move back to his leader. “None.”

Taeyong nods. “Alright. Y/N,” he says, looking at you, “you probably never thought you would hear this, but welcome to the base of the Neos.”

“Sorry we didn’t give you the warmest greeting. Strangers and all that.” The man you had first made eye contact with when you entered the building speaks up from next to Taeyong. He has a barely noticeable accent and seems to command nearly as much power as Taeyong - maybe one of the Chinese members of the Neos?

All you can manage is a nod in response. Taeyong continues. “Do you have any family in the city? Someone that can be used against you?”

“...no. I’m not from the city.”

“Easy enough to tell with that accent,” one of the younger looking members says from the side.

“Funny coming from you,” you snap back, almost instantly regretting it. To your surprise, you’re met with some snickers from the group.

“Hey, you think-” “Donghyuck, knock it off.” A sharp order from Taeyong cuts him off, but he continues to glare at you. Taeyong remains focused on you. “No one? No boyfriend, close friends, anything?”

“No,” you answer quietly.

“Best goddamn news I’ve heard all day. That means no one else is at risk. But,” he says, pausing, “we still can’t let you go back to your normal life.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“If we were going to do that, don’t you think we would’ve done it already?” Another guy you don’t recognize. He has a low, even voice and his brown hair suits his well-defined face well. “We’re not here to kill innocents.”

“We’ll help you get out. We just need time,” Taeyong says. “In the meantime, you’ll just have to lie low with us here. Got it?”

“I…” What they’re saying is being processed slowly by your brain. They aren’t going to kill you? They’re going to let you go? “What do you mean get me out?”

“Do you really think it’s safe for you in Seoul anymore? You have a target on your back now. With enough time, we’ll get you away from the city. You’ll have to start over somewhere new, but it’s better than being dead.” Taeyong is firm, but you have more questions.

“Why are you helping me?”

Taeyong’s eyes shift over quickly to meet Yuta’s, just for a moment, before he looks back at you. “Like Jaehyun said, we don’t kill innocent people. We’re here to get rid of the festering that’s happening in the city, not add to it.”

Silence spreads between you. From next to you, Yuta finally speaks. “I know it seems bad, but you’re not a prisoner. We’re doing everything we can, so just work with us.”

“I… okay. Thank you.” The room seems to relax as you say that, many of the boys looking noticeably relieved.

“One wrong step, one thing to show us you’re not innocent, and you’re still dead, though.” Donghyuck, the boy from before, says quickly, all signs of joking gone from his voice and expression.

No one corrects him.

Trying to break the tension, Taeyong gives you a tight smile. “I completely forgot to introduce myself. I’m Taeyong, but I’m sure you figured that out by now.” After you nod, he looks back at Yuta. “Yuta, show her around. She might as well be comfortable while she’s here. Everyone else, you’re dismissed. We’ve said all that we need to tonight.”

You quickly realize, as you’re being led around and shown different areas of the building, that Yuta is essentially your caretaker and there’s no real chance of you escaping. Not that you would want to escape, by the logic they provided. Soon enough, you also realize how tired you are. You left work maybe three hours ago by this point and the exhaustion is catching up to you. Yuta seems to notice as well, but you miss the somewhat fond smile he gives you. “We can continue this tomorrow. Let’s go back to your room.” With a nod, you follow him back up the stairs. As you walk through the long hallway filled with doors again, Yuta explains that they’re all the different members’ rooms. “I’d recommend not trespassing. For multiple reasons, one of which is that some of them couldn’t keep a clean room if their lives depended on it.” You give him a weary smile, appreciating the little attempt at making you more comfortable with him. You don’t know if you’ll ever be able to trust him, but you’re too tired to be afraid at the moment. He leads you back to the room you were in before. “If you need me, I’m in the room right across from you.” He turns around, but looks back at you over his shoulder. “And, Y/N. Don’t be afraid.”

You enter your room and shut the door behind you, hearing his door close a moment later. Making your way to the bed, you sit on the edge, scrubbing at your face with your hands. You’re confused and upset and tired but, somehow, you’re no longer afraid. Though every single person in this building is capable of killing you, you want to believe that they won’t. Perhaps that’s part of the illusion. Perhaps they really are trying to help… somehow. Perhaps-

You’re torn out of your thoughts by a knock on the door. “Come in,” you say quietly.

The door opens and Taeyong is there, a large stack of clothes in his hands. “These are for you.” He crosses the room in a sparse few strides and hands them to you. You accept them graciously, giving a quick bow in thanks.

“Taeyong, thank you… where did you get these? Whose clothes….?”

He gives you a slightly pained smile. “They used to be my sister’s, back when she was here. I’m glad to see them finally get some use again.” He’s out of the room as quickly as he had entered, the door shutting behind him. You know it’s best not to press anyways. It’s strange to see such pain on a gang leader’s face, but you have the impression the Neos are different. While any other gang would have left you to die on the street, they saved you and are offering to help you. You don’t know what to think anymore. With weary bones, you change into some of the clothes that Taeyong brought and tuck yourself in, sleeping quickly and dreamlessly.

You’re awoken by a quiet knock on your door. For a moment, you panic at your surroundings, the cement walls and cold air unfamiliar to you, but you remember pretty quickly where you are and what happened to you. There’s no clock in your room, so you don’t know how long you’ve been asleep for, but sunlight streams through the gaps in the boards over your window, so you assume it’s been awhile. Rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and attempting to smooth back your hair, you call out to the person knocking. “Come in!”

The door opens and a shy face appears, a tall, lanky boy entering your room. His bangs sweep right above his eyes, showing that he’s in need of a fresh haircut, and he seems nervous. You vaguely recognize him from the gathering the night before, one of the boys who has probably seen far too much for how young he is. In the small amount of fresh morning light coming through the boards over your window, he seems much more youthful, thankfully. “This is for you. Yuta-hyung told me to grab some for you, so...”

In his hands is a metal bowl and chopsticks, a lid keeping in the heat of the food and making for easier transportation. He also carries a red apple. You get up, walking over to him to take the food. “What’s your name?”

He shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “Jisung.”

“Well, thank you, Jisung. I’m Y/N.” The tips of his ears turn slightly pink when you smile and thank him and he gives you a quick bow before scurrying off.

The metal bowl contains some rice topped with bits of fish and vegetables that lets off some steam when you remove the lid. Your heart warms a bit at the sight of some normality - a taste of home - and you dig in, not having realized just how hungry you are. After last night, it seemed your body forgot about some of its needs like eating and sleeping until they suddenly struck. With some food and rest in your system, you finally have the mental capacity to consider your situation.

You’re in the Neo’s headquarters, eating their food and sleeping in one of their rooms. They could have left you to die on those streets, hell, you don’t even know how they found you, but you’re alive and they brought you back here and are offering to help you out if you just give them a bit of time. You’re not sure how much you should trust them, but with the way things are going, it seems like you don’t really have a choice. You don’t doubt that they’re right that the other gangs are after you now that you’ve been with them for as long as you have. 

With that conclusion, you get up, grab a change of clothes, and try to find your way back to the bathroom that Yuta had pointed you to the night before. After a successful shower, you set your mind on your next goal: washing the dishes that Jisung had brought to you. It’s the least you could do to acquire some normalcy and make less work for them. Sneaking down the stairs, you think you’re safe from running into any of the members, but when you turn the corner, you nearly lose your balance when a man nearly walks into you. He tries to steady you by grabbing your arm and you quickly regain your balance. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you!”

“I didn’t see you either, no worries.” When you look at him again, you realize he’s one of the ones who had spoken last night, the one you had first made eye contact with and had the slightest accent. He appears far less serious now than he did the night before, which seems to be a running theme, though he still has a strong presence. He gives you a tight-lipped smile. “I never got a chance to introduce myself last night. I’m Qian Kun.”

Notorious boss of the Wei Shens. You’d heard about him, only because a girl you had as a client once complained about how he wouldn’t help her group with something. There were rumors they had joined with the Neos, more of your coworkers’ gossipings, but you didn’t think that had actually happened. It’s safe to say that whisper is confirmed now.

“I’m Y/N,” you say before realizing that he probably very well knows who you are. “It’s… nice to meet you.”

He nods his head in acknowledgement before eyeing the dishes in your hands. “Do you know where you’re going with those?”

“I…”

“Kitchen is the other way.” He jerks his head to the opposite side of the stairs you had turned off of and gives you another small smile. “At least you’re making somewhat of an effort to keep clean. It’s appreciated.”

After making that comment, he continues past you, going up the stairs. You’re slightly bewildered by the interaction, but go in the direction he had indicated, finding yourself in the kitchen. You clean up after yourself and put things into the proper cabinets, which takes a lot of opening things and guessing, before you start to head back to your room. On the way, you spy a small bookshelf and grab the first book with an interesting title that you can see. You might as well amuse yourself doing something. Who knew that gangsters read?

You don’t know how long you spend reading before you look up when your door opens, no knock this time. Yuta leans in the doorframe, his arms crossed. His hair is tied up away from his face and the tank top he’s wearing makes you wonder how he’s not cold in the uninsulated cement building. “You don’t have to stay in here all day, you know.”

You shrug. “Nothing else I can do, really.”

Though he had been the first one you met, you’re wary of him. After all, he had threatened you in almost the exact spot you’re sitting in now. Despite that, something about him draws you to him. Maybe it’s the fact that he saved you. Maybe it’s because you saw his tattoo and helped him relieve the pain in his shoulders. Maybe you’re just fooled too easily by a handsome face. Either way, your mixed feelings about him confuse you.

He steps into the room and walks towards you, plucking the book out of your hand. When he sees the title, he smiles. “This is a good one. One of the first books I read after I got to Korea.” After he says that, he pauses, trying to gauge your reaction. You don’t know what he’s looking for, so you just look at him weirdly in response.

“So, this is yours, then?”

He clearly doesn’t find what he’s looking for, so he tears his eyes away from yours. He sits down next to you anyways “Yeah. Mark gave it to me. I read it more times than he ever did, though. He’s more into music.”

“Who isn’t into music? You don’t listen to any?” You tilt your head, giving him a questioning look.

He scoffs in a way you interpret to be joking. “Of course I listen to music. That kid is crazy about it, though. I think he wanted to be a singer or a rapper or something before he got tangled up in all of this.” Yuta pauses, thinking for a moment before he continues. “He has this old guitar in his room that he plays all the time. I’m surprised you didn’t hear him playing it last night, he does that when he gets stressed. I think it was one of the only things he brought with him here.”

“I guess I was too fast asleep to hear it,” you say quietly, thinking about Mark’s story. You can’t help but wonder how he got here. How Jisung got here. How Kun got here. How any of them got here. “Yuta, why are you here? How did you get involved with the Neos?”

He chuckles, but it’s not a happy chuckle, nothing like the way he had scoffed a minute before. It’s a sad sound, something that makes you want to know more about him. “That’s a story for another time. I’m far too sober to talk about that right now.”

“Will you tell me about the others, then?”

He tilts his head and smiles a little. “I suppose I could. Not too much, though.”

Through Yuta’s stories, you learn a little bit about each of the Neos. With each story, you think you’re learning a little bit about him, too. Finally, after he tells you about Jisung, the youngest of the Neos and the one whom you had met earlier, he stops, turning the question towards you. “I’ve told you about all of us. Tell me about you, Miss Masseuse.” He leans forward, resting an elbow on his leg, supporting his chin. With his position, part of his tattoo peaks out from behind his shirt, showing you a flash of red. You try not to stare at it.

“I’ve only been doing that for two years. I’ve been ‘Miss Pre-Med’ for longer.” He seems slightly surprised at your words, eyes widening slightly, looking for a story. For some reason, you feel comfortable talking to him about three years ago - a time you would sometimes rather forget. “In my third year of undergrad, I had a professor who hated my guts. Maybe because I actually read the textbook and corrected him when he was wrong. Maybe he hated how well I did on his tests. Don’t know, but, one day, he snapped and reported me for cheating, saying he saw me looking at another student’s test. He’d been at the university long enough that there was barely an investigation before it went on my record. That one offense was enough to get my scholarships taken away, so I had to drop out.”

His eyes darken with anger. For a moment, it seems as if he isn’t really speaking to anyone but himself. “Corrupt university. One part of what’s wrong with this city.” The darkness fades slightly and he refocuses on you. “And you stayed here and started working in the seediest part of the city? Didn’t move back with your parents?”

You smile bitterly. “My parents basically disowned me when I said I was going to university in the city. They wanted me to stay back in our town and help them run our store. I have enough siblings that it shouldn’t matter, but they refused to let me leave. But I wanted to be a doctor, so, when the time came, I left. There’s no going back to that.”

You aren’t looking at Yuta anymore, just staring down at the forgotten book lying on the floor. You realize for the first time that on the cover of the book is a beautiful depiction of azure blue waves. Your attention shifts back to Yuta when he begins to speak lowly. “We could get rid of that professor for you, you know. One name and he’s dead.”

You swallow hard. You know he’s serious. They could get it done in one night, it’s not like he’s hard to find. The darkest parts of you want to agree, to give Yuta his name and let him take care of the rest, but you know you shouldn’t. It would go against everything you strived to achieve by wanting to become a doctor. “You don’t need to do that. Revenge won’t fix anything now.”

“It’s not just about revenge,” he growls, more than serious now. He’s almost scary. “It’s about all of the other people he could fuck over with that kind of power. Do you think you’ll be the only one?”

You meet him with equal seriousness. “Yuta, I’m not going to tell you to kill someone.”

“Sometimes it’s the only way.”

“There’s always another way.” The dark look in his eyes shows you something. Something about the reason that he’s here, with the Neos. The difference between you and him and the rest of them. A part of life that you’re not sure you want to see. A desperation that, despite everything, you’ve never reached.

He looks like he’s about to say something back to you when there’s a knock on your doorframe. When he had entered, Yuta had left the door open, and a thin man with jet black hair stands there. “Yuta, it’s time to go. We’re ‘meeting’ with the Rushers.”

“Coming, Doyoung.” He stands, casting one look back at you before he follows Doyoung out. You know enough to figure that more blood will be spilled before the night is over. When you glance at the window, no daylight shines in the cracks between the boards. You spent nearly all of your time awake with Yuta. Just when you had thought you were getting to know him, you find that he’s more of a mystery than ever before. You think that, even after all he told you about them, the others are just as much of an enigma to you as he is. You don’t understand and you’re not sure if you want to.

He and the others that he had gone with aren’t back by the time you decide to go to sleep. You don’t know how much time has passed when you’re awoken by shouting outside of your door. You quickly get up, throwing on some more appropriate clothes and pushing your hair out of your face before you open the door, seeing Yuta’s door thrown open across from you. Leading into the room are small pools of blood. Inside of his room, several of the members are inside, including Doyoung, Mark, Kun, and Taeyong. When you step closer, in the dim light, you see someone’s figure on the bed, blood staining the sheets of his bed. It doesn’t take long for you to realize that it’s Yuta and he’s bleeding from a gushing wound just below his left shoulder. Even over the cloth Mark presses over the wound, blood quickly soaks it and drips onto his arm and chest.

“Put pressure on it, dammit!” Taeyong barks and Yuta groans when Mark puts more of his weight on his wound.

“What happened?” You say, trying to shoulder past Doyoung to get closer and see.

“Shot by the damn Rushers. Dumb bastard made it worse by running after another one,” Kun says, tearing the wrapping off of a roll of bandages.

“Stop talking and help him!” Mark says, glaring at both you and Kun. You put a hand over the bandages Kun is about to start using, stopping him.

“Wait, let me help,” you say firmly, trying to step forward farther.

“Fuck off,” Mark growls, pressing down on the wound harder. More blood spills from the wound, dripping down Yuta’s skin and into the bedsheets.

“I was pre-med for three years and shadowed in hospitals! If you don’t listen to me and let me help him, you’re letting him die!”

“Mark, let her in,” Taeyong commands, making his decision instantly. Mark hesitates for a moment before quickly getting up, letting you in closer to look at Yuta. You see him watch you through hazy eyes, likely not comprehending who you are or what’s happening. You peel back the blood-soaked cloth Mark had been using to staunch the wound and see the ugly place where the bullet had entered and where the skin and tissue had been damaged further by him overexerting. Running through everything you had learned in your time at university and in your shadowing, you assess him the best you can before turning to the boys, rattling off a list of things you need to help him. They quickly turn and run to get the items and you shout after them. “And grab some rubbing alcohol and clean those off if you care about his wound not getting infected!”

The experience of removing the bullet and stitching his wound closed is a blur. The sharp metallic smell and slick warmth of blood fills your every sense and you can barely keep your hands steady enough to sew his wound shut. He eventually passes out from the pain at some point. Though he lost a decent amount of blood, you’re praying it’s not so much that he needs a blood transfer. If they could have brought him to a hospital, you assume they would have.

When you’re finished doing all that you can for him, you get the boys to help you change out the bloody sheets. You nearly collapse into the chair Kun drags over for you, exhaustion filling every bone in your body. Looking one more time at Yuta, you sigh. He’ll live. Hopefully. You want him to live, desperately.

“Thank you, Y/N,” Taeyong says softly, resting a hand on your shoulder. You bob your head up and down in response before reaching up to wipe the sweat off of your forehead. You had never had a direct hand in a procedure like that before, but you think your experience paid off.

The boys take care of the cleanup before leaving you there to sit in the chair by the bed and stare at Yuta. He looks ragged, but slightly better than he did when he was first brought in. His breathing is more even and, though he’s a bit pale, his face is relaxed. You’re startled when someone taps on your shoulder.

When you turn to face them, you see that it’s Mark. He holds a water bottle in his hand, which he offers you. “Sorry,” he mumbles, head hanging low and avoiding your eyes, “for earlier.”

“It’s okay. I know you care a lot about him.” You accept the peace offering from him, taking the bottle.

“Yeah, it’s just… I can’t lose him. He’s one of the first guys who welcomed me when I got here and-” Mark starts to ramble a bit, staring at Yuta’s sleeping figure, but he stops himself. “I’m going to bed. Tell me if anything happens?”

You nod and he leaves, leaving you alone with Yuta once again. At some point, you doze off, slumping over onto the edge of his bed. Soft mumbling wakes you up. From what you can tell by the lack of light coming through Yuta’s window, which is also boarded up, it’s still night. Trying to blink the haze out of your eyes, you sit up, looking at him. He shifts slightly in the bed, his lips moving almost soundlessly. Confused, you lean closer to try to hear him. From what you can decipher, his mumbling is entirely in Japanese, so you don’t understand any of it. The distress in his voice is clear, even at the low volume and with the language barrier, and his face scrunches in what almost seems like pain. You don’t know what else you can do, so you gently take his hand, whispering back.

“It’s okay, Yuta. It’s okay.” Your thumb strokes over the back of his hand and you feel the veins and small scars scattered on his skin. You don’t know what he’s been through, why he came here, but you have to believe that he doesn’t deserve to be going down the path he’s found himself walking on.

When you try to let go of his hand, he grips yours. You watch his eyes open, half-lidded, his gaze unsteady on you. His lips barely move, his words mumbled, but you hear him clearly.

“We’ve met before.”

Of all the things you were expecting to hear from him, that was not one of them. You have to believe he’s delirious, so you just give him a confused smile. “Of course we have, you came to Park’s Massage and-”

“On the train.” His lips barely seem to move, but you hear him loud and clear. The last time you had been on a proper train was five years ago when you first arrived in Seoul. He couldn’t-

It’s a blurry memory, a distant set of circumstances that you had nearly forgotten. It didn’t seem important at the time, but you remember now. Back then, all those years ago, you stepped off of the train into Seoul and the paperwork you needed to turn in to your university flew out of your hands as the train departed. One of the documents, one that could have prevented you from even attending if you didn’t turn it in, had almost flown away, but a man who had stepped off of the train behind you a moment before grabbed it. A man much like Yuta. His hair had been shorter then, his body less worn, a little more innocence in his eyes perhaps. He didn’t say anything to you, just smiled when you thanked him profusely, before he walked off, going who knows where. You think you know where that is now.

“Yuta, I…” You don’t know what to say. By grabbing that paper, he had kept you steady on your course to university, from university to the massage parlor, and from the massage parlor to here. You’ve met him again. He single handedly changed your life two times now.

His eyes droop closed and his grip on your hand loosens. You stay there for a couple minutes longer, feeling the weight of his hand in yours, staring at his face in the dim light of the room. Quietly, you slip your hand away and stand up, hesitantly returning to your own room.

It’s a few hours later when you go to his room to change his bandages and it’s about half a day later when he finally wakes up. He lets you worry over him, making him drink water and eat some light food. What he had told you weighs on you slightly, but you try to push those thoughts away and focus on helping him recover. When you peel back his bandages again, he hisses in pain. “Fuck, that hurts.”

“It would hurt less if you weren’t such an idiot last night,” you say back, changing his dressings. He chuckles slightly at that.

“So, when am I going to be back in action, Doc?”

“When your wound is healed enough and when I say so. You really messed yourself up, Yuta.” You glance up at him before looking back at your work. “Maybe three weeks.”

His eyes widen. “No way I’m staying out for three weeks. I’m staying here one week, max.”

“Not if you want to tear open your wound and make the damage permanent, you won’t.” The wound is still ugly, but it looks significantly better than it did when it was gushing blood and he had a bullet lodged in his flesh. It might actually be a bit less than three weeks, but you’re not taking any chances right now.

You feel his eyes watching your every move and you try to not let it bother you. His voice is soft when he speaks again. “You were really meant to do this kind of thing, weren’t you?”

The edges of your lips raise in a sort of half-smile. “I’d like to believe that. The universe seems to be against it sometimes, though.”

“Maybe you coming here was some sort of sign.” This time, you really look up, meeting his gaze. You think that he’s telling you to stay. You don’t know how to feel about it, but you can’t deny that part of your heart wants to stay. You have so many differences with them, almost irresolvable differences, and you know they won’t change just because of you either, but they saved your life. You feel like you owe them at least something.

Silence falls heavily between the two of you again as you finish up your work. When you’re done, you wipe your hands off and put them in your lap. “Yuta,” you say quietly, “do you remember what you told me last night? About the train?”

He appears confused before realization dawns in his eyes a moment later. “Ah. I wasn’t going to tell you about that yet.” His eyes meet yours and then flicker away. Your eyebrows furrow and you lean closer to him in response.

“Why not? Don’t you think it’s incredible that-”

“That we met again? I guess so. But it makes it seem like we were targeting you this whole time. That’s not the way the Neos work. You…” he trails off, sighing softly. “...you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time this time around.”

There’s regret in his voice, so you reach out for his hand. “I’m glad I met you then. Did you know you saved me that day? I couldn’t have gone to university if you hadn’t grabbed that paper for me. I think that it’s just the way the universe works that we’ve met again so that I can help you. Repaying you, in a way, I suppose.”

He stares at your hand in his and smiles ever so slightly. “That’s a very optimistic view.”

“I suppose it is. But, being in the medical field, I guess I have to keep some of that optimism. It’s what makes it worth it.” You squeeze his hand once before standing up. “I’m going to go tell Mark you’re awake. He nearly murdered me last night because I wanted to help.”

“He’s a pretty sensitive kid, he just doesn’t show it a lot. I owe him a lot.”

“He feels the same way. He opened up a little after you were fixed up last night.” You don’t say it, but you feel like there’s a lot more to the Neos than they’re usually letting on. “I’ll check up on you later.”

Mark is gone from your eyesight and rushing out the door as soon as you tell him Yuta is awake. Through the day, you’re certain that nearly every member of the group goes in and out of his room. Yuta isn’t happy being stuck in his bed, but is wise enough to listen to your advice and stay and rest. You’re changing his wound dressings again at night when he groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “This is going to be the longest three weeks of my life.”

“I’m also stuck here with you, you know.”

“I guess you’ll have to be my entertainment, then.” His tone completely changes and he catches your chin with his hand, tilting your head up. The smolder he meets you with sends a pleasant, anticipatory shiver down your spine. This is certainly not a side of his personality that you’ve seen before. Where did this come from?

“I hardly know you,” you breathe out, “and you’re injured.”

“Most of me is perfectly fine.” His hand shifts from your chin, slipping back to stroke over your hair, but you catch the way he cringes slightly when his wound is disturbed by the motion. A short laugh escapes you at his attempt to be sexy while in pain.

“You’re an idiot, Nakamoto. Maybe another time.” You stand up, stepping backwards towards the door of the room. “Get some rest.”

With not much to do except spend time together, you get to know Yuta well over the next few weeks. You find out especially well that he’s a horrible flirt. Not horrible in the sense that he’s bad at it, he’s actually quite good, but he spends almost as much of his breath flirting with you as he does being serious. In the spaces of time where you get to know each other, he doesn’t tell you much about his past, still insisting that he’s far too sober to speak about it. The two of you keep well enough away from the topics of life and death and morality, but it can’t help but be brought up sometimes. You don’t know how high his body count is, but you’re starting to get an idea.

In the time you’re not with Yuta, you get to know some of the other members more through wandering around the building and tending to minor wounds. Some are friendlier than others, but they’re not nearly as serious around you as they were at first after a little while. You’d like to believe they warmed up to you a bit. You also find that the building has roof access. The door is usually locked and barred shut, but you go outside just to get some fresh air because you can’t leave otherwise and the windows are all boarded up. The Seoul sky is almost perpetually cloudy and dark, so different from where you grew up. Even with that twinge of homesickness, somewhere along those days, you stop waiting to leave and just focus on your time there. Before you know it, the end of three weeks approaches. The final night, you peek into Yuta’s room.

“What are you doing?” He muses, quirking an eyebrow at you. He leans against one of the concrete walls, a book in hand. He had taken to reading more while being confined to the building, you noticed. Ducking into his room, you hold your gift for him behind your back before pulling it out and revealing what it is. His eyebrows raise in surprise. “Sake? I thought you said no drinking while I’m recovering?”

“Well,” you say, “I deem you recovered.” Putting aside the small bottle of alcohol and cups, you carefully unwrap his wound. You had taken out the stitches a few days previous and you’re happy to see that the wound is healing well. Well enough for you to declare him no longer out-of- commission. “Now, let’s go. You’re having your first celebratory drink with me.”

“Where are we going?” You grab a blanket off of his bed before turning back around to face him.

“You’ll see. Come on!”

You take him to the rooftop with you. This time, he’s the one taking your hand.

It’s dark outside, long past sunset. It’s better that way - probably safer, in the case that one of the enemy gangs is trying to spy on you. You should find it strange how your mind has shifted into thinking about those sorts of things now, but you suppose this is part of your life now. No matter how you cut it, the Neos changed you. As you’re laying out the blanket, Yuta questions you, swirling the alcohol in the bottle idly. “Where did you even get this? Did you raid Taeil’s liquor cabinet?”

“I got Chenle to run out and grab it for me. That kid knows way too much about alcohol for someone his age.” After you take the bottle of sake from him and put it down, you pat the space next to you on the blanket. He joins you, settling near you. Cracking open the bottle with a little too much flare, you pour sake into the little cup he holds in his hand first, then your own. “Cheers,” you say, lifting up your cup, “to your recovery.”

You down the cups at the same time, you wincing slightly at the sharp taste of the alcohol. He chuckles at your reaction. “Not used to sake?”

“I’m more of a soju person myself.” That one has him cracking a wider smile.

“We’d better have another, then. To get you accustomed to the taste.” He pours for you this time, tilting his chin towards you in acknowledgement. “This time, cheers to the best doctor in all of the Neos.”

This drink burns a little less than the one before. Slowly, you process what he had just said to you. “The best doctor in all of the Neos, huh? Am I a member now?”

The smile fades slightly on his lips, but the ghost of one remains. “Taeyong and I have been meaning to extend the invitation to you for a while now. We’ve got most of the arrangements for you to leave done, but you’d make a valuable member of our team if you wanted to stay.” He pauses, swallowing heavily. “I know we promised you we would get you out of here. But you can always stay. If you want to.”

He reaches a hand out, his fingertips barely grazing your cheek. A part of you wants him to touch you more, like he means it, like he desperately wants you to stay. Another part of you thinks about your life before all of this. Before you got roped up into all the business with the Neos, before you had to drop out of university, maybe even before you left your family in the country. A life with a little more peace. A life with a lot less Yuta. With his presence recently, you’re not sure you want to remember what a life without him feels like. Despite all the bitterness and blood he’s brought, you’ve connected with him in a way that you never have with anyone else. In a way that feels like the universe planned it, like you were somehow meant to be here all along. He’s so different from you. But, maybe, with a little more time, you can come to terms with that.

“Yuta,” you say, voice so quiet, like you’re afraid to answer. Because you’re afraid to answer. “Give me just a little time. To think about what all this means.”

“You’ll always have a place here, you know. With us.” With me. He doesn’t say that part, but you know with the way that he pushes your hair away from your face ever so gently that that’s what he means. You blink and he’s pulling away, reaching for the bottle of sake again. “Let’s have another drink.”

“To what this time?”

“Do you really have to have a reason to drink?” He smirks, a typical look for him, and pours for you.

“Let’s toast to the future, then,” you say. As you tilt back the alcohol into your mouth and swallow the burning liquid, you throw a wish into the night sky, asking for the right answer to your question. You try your best to see the stars, to find even a single one, but the city is unforgiving and all you can see is the moon, even with the relatively clear sky tonight. After you’re done with your drink, you set aside the cup, leaning back into your hands. “I’m not from the city,” you say, staring up at the inky gray-black sky, “I miss the stars.”

He laughs, a cold sound coming from what you want to believe is a warm heart. “I’m from Osaka. I’ve never really been able to see them.”

“Finally drunk enough to talk about the past?” You glance over at him, tilting your head to the side and smiling. When you tilt your head, the world sways slightly and you can feel warmth on your cheeks and a buzz in your fingers. You’re starting to feel the alcohol well enough now.

“Not quite,” he says, “but maybe if a pretty lady pours me another drink, I will be.”

“I wonder where you’ll find one of those,” you say, giggling. “Maybe if we put Jungwoo in a dress and wig, you could pretend?”

“Or I could ask the one right next to me.” Your giggling grows a little louder and a little more boisterously and you reach forward, picking up the bottle.

“What a charmer. I wonder where you got that from. Johnny influence you?”

“Oh, please. I’m far better at it than he ever was.” The two of you drain your cups quickly, placing them back down.

“Jaemin, then?”

“You’re comparing me to one of the kids? You offend me.”

“Lucas?”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t talk about other men.” Your breath catches in your throat and your giggling stops at the smoldering look in his eyes. The mood suddenly shifts inexplicably into something more somber. He looks away and says a name that you can barely hear. “Hansol. It was Hansol.”

“Who was he?” You’re almost afraid to ask. You’ve never seen that look in Yuta’s eyes before. It’s pain and loneliness and an unbearable sadness that makes your heart ache in response. Despite the way your heart feels so heavy in your chest, you can’t stop staring at him.

“He brought me here. To the Neos. Away from Osaka, where I was rotting away in a gang that was all bloodshed and no purpose. There was a terf war in east Seoul one day that ended with him getting shot three times. It was a lot worse than mine and we didn’t have someone like you then. He died before we even got back to base.” Yuta’s eyes are trained on the sky, looking at nothing in particular yet seeming to see something that you don’t. “We didn’t have as much of a mission then as we do now. Part of it is because of him. Everyone here has more of their own reasons, too. Mark had a dad. Taeyong had a sister. I had Hansol.” He looks back at you. “Is that the story you wanted to hear?”

“I’m sorry…” It’s all you can say. All you can manage when you feel like crying for him.

“It’s okay. That was four years ago, anyways.” Four years. Four years ago, you were a sophomore in undergrad, not a care in the world besides your organic chemistry and biology classes and all sorts of dumb things that seem so small in comparison to what he was going through. On the train that day, five years ago, you had parted ways to go down completely different paths that are now converging again. You blink back the tears and stare back out at the sky. A cool breeze blows on the roof, but it feels good against your warm skin.

“We should go out and look one day, you and I. See the stars.” When you say that, he first responds with a bitter laugh.

“I’m busy.”

“Busy forever?”

“Yeah,” he says before looking over, “but maybe I could make some time for you. No promises.”

“I’ll drink to that.” You pour two more cups, finding that that’s the end of the bottle. It was a small bottle in the first place, but you’re almost disappointed that the two of you went through it so quickly. It was an excuse for him to stay with you for a little longer after you declared him healthy again. An excuse for just a little more time. With Yuta’s offer from earlier, you could get even more time. The thought brings a tugging feeling to your heartstrings. Could you really give up the chance at a new life for the sake of this man?

“A shame,” Yuta says, watching the last few drops fall from the container, “that was some good stuff, too. Looks like we’ll have to savor this last one.”

You raise your cup to him and he raises his to you in return before you both down the last of the sake. The cup leaves your lips and you smile. “Perhaps I’m becoming a sake person after all.”

“Is that so? We’ll have to drink together more often, then.”

“Only if you promise you won’t get hurt anymore.” The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them and, even in your tipsy-edging-on-drunk state, you know how foolish what you said is.

He smiles, a sort of sad smile that you wish he didn’t have to give you. “I’ll try my best. You know I can’t make that promise.” He lowers his voice, eyes flickering down to the empty cup in his hand. “There aren’t many promises I can make you that I’m sure I can keep.”

You set your empty cup aside, along with the bottle, and shift closer to him. You lay your hand over his, your fingers falling in the gaps between his. Even with the alcohol, his fingertips still feel slightly cool. “You don’t have to. Being here with you now is enough.”

Quickly, he flips his hand around, catching your hand in his. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a light kiss to them. Your heart nearly stops beating for the second time that night. The unspoken words between you are longing to escape, but neither of you can or want to speak. You feel like his heart is finally opening completely to you. You just have one more question first.

Regrettably, you break the moment, reaching over with your free hand to take the sake cup that he’s still holding on to. “Can I ask you something?” You speak as you set aside the cup behind you. He lets go of your hand and your arm instantly feels heavier. You have to stop yourself from pouting at the loss of contact. He tears his eyes away from yours, opting to gaze out at the rising moon instead. Your eyes never leave him.

“Anything you want.”

“That day, you could have just killed me. Or let me die. Anything like that. Why…?” The night air is still between you.

“Maybe I wanted my own personal masseuse.” He looks over at you again when you sigh softly. He looks breathtakingly handsome in the city lights and moonlight bathing him. The ratty wool blanket under both of you protects you from the cold that threatens to seep into your bones from the cement beneath while the blanket of moonlight from above guards you from a different type of cold that you can’t describe. He reaches over, taking your hand gently in his again. “Your hands,” he says, so quietly, as if you’ll break if he’s too loud, “they’re too gentle for someone like me.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” You implore him to answer your questions with your eyes, maintaining eye contact with him and giving him a pleading look.

“We’re not what you think of when the word gang comes to mind. You know that already. No matter what, every innocent person is worth saving. We’re trying to save this city, not cause more meaningless bloodshed. Before we even really knew you, you were worth saving.” He blinks slowly. “Now, I’m especially glad we did.”

“Yuta,” you whisper, trying to read everything that his eyes are showing you and also say exactly what you’re feeling yourself. “I don’t think it was the wrong place at the wrong time. I think everything turned out the way it was supposed to.”

He still has your hand in his and his grip tightens. His free hand travels to your cheek, his thumb ghosting over your bottom lip. Your breath hitches as he does so and the corners of his lips curl up at your reaction. He leans closer. His breath, slightly sharp with the smell of sake, washes over your lips. “Are you afraid?”

“No.”

The danger of him, of doing this, hums through your body as he kisses you. Your blood is hot with the alcohol and the feeling of him against you. He drags you closer so that you’re straddling his lap and you moan into the kiss. His skin feels even hotter than yours when his hands shift to slip under your shirt, having lost all of the previous coldness, stroking your sides. His lips separate from yours ever so slightly, his words barely even breathed against your lips. “Tell me to stop if you don’t want this.”

“Please don’t stop.”

The blanket, bottle, and cups are forgotten as the two of you stumble back down the stairs inside, barely remembering to lock the door behind you, Yuta’s bedroom close but not close enough. His hands shake with urgency as he practically tears your shirt and pants off. He strips off his shirt and his tattoo, an ocean red with blood, is visible to you once again. You don’t have much time to dwell on it before his pants are also off and he’s pinning you to his bed, his lips trailing down your entire body. You welcome him between your legs, letting him taste you and kiss you and do whatever he wants with your body. When he’s above you again, finally pressing into you, filling you in ways you never would have imagined, your eyes lower to his chest with all of his lean muscle and scars and the almost-healed bullet wound below his left shoulder, but you don’t have much time to think about that. You let him pound into you, let him press a hand to your mouth to muffle your drawn-out moans at his ministrations, at one of his hands dipping lower to bring you closer to the edge, let him kiss you when he isn’t using his hand to muffle your sounds. You yourself let go around him, let him release into the condom he had somehow managed to remember, let him pull you close once it’s all finished.

You wait for the regret to set in, but you don’t find any. Even now, you don’t regret Yuta. His arms feel good around you and his sweaty chest feels good pressed against your back. His lips feel good pressing against your neck, whispering sweet things to you that you’re too tired to really comprehend and commit to memory. You know he waits for you to fall asleep and, despite your best efforts to stay awake, you doze off, feeling warm both inside and out.

You wake up because it’s cold. You immediately realize that Yuta is no longer next to you, so you sit up in his bed. You’re about to say his name when quiet voices outside his door draw your attention. A little bit of orange light leaks through the boards over the windows, showing you that it’s only a little bit past dawn. Peeling away the covers except a blanket that you wrap around your body, you step as quietly as you can towards the door, leaning in to listen. You quickly recognize Taeyong’s voice along with Yuta’s.

“She said she needs time to think about it. I think there’s a good chance she might stay.” Ah. The offer that he had presented to you. You can’t help but smile. He sounds almost hopeful.

“Even if she wants out, I want to use her to talk to the RVs.” Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. Another gang?

“We aren’t going to use her. I don’t want her involved with them. They’re too dangerous.”

“And the Rushers and Blue Veins aren’t? You weren’t so against using her to get the rat out of Park’s. What’s changed now?” Taeyong is short with the way he speaks, but what he says makes you freeze. They used you? Suddenly, it’s painful to swallow and you feel like you’re about to collapse. Everything… everything you’ve built here is fake. You’ve been lied to. They didn’t take you here to protect you. They took you here because they were responsible for the danger in the first place.

Deep pain starts to mix with anger as you listen to Yuta’s response. “I met her back then, you know that. Now, she’s saved my life. She’s more than bait now and she’s more to me.”

“I know you just got your dick wet, but think clearly. She’s the closest woman we have right now and the RVs don’t trust men. We need her to do this.” Silence falls between the two men for a moment before Yuta responds.

“I’ll ask her. Hopefully, she’ll be rational and say no.” He pauses before continuing. “And, don’t talk about her like that.”

When he opens the door and sees you a few feet away from the door, a wide-eyed look on your face with a blanket wrapped around you, he freezes. A moment later, he steps inside, closing the door behind him. “Y/N… how much did you hear?”

“Too much,” you say, your lips feeling numb as you speak, “but also just enough.”

“Y/N…” His expression shifts and he reaches forward to touch your shoulder, saying your name more softly than you’ve ever heard something leave his lips before. A few hours ago, him saying your name like that would’ve made your heart beat faster and a smile grace your lips, but now you just want to punch him. How dare he? You jerk away from his touch and stand up, your blood now boiling in your veins.

“You bastard,” you hiss, “you used me. You used me and then you let me fuck you.” You keep your voice low and your fists clenched despite the urge to scream, to hit him, to make him feel the way you do right now.

His eyebrows furrow. “Y/N… you don’t understand. The whole city-”

“No, Yuta, you don’t understand. I’ve been trying to get my life back on track for two years now and you used me, knowing my life would be fucked up forever after that.” You suddenly feel ridiculous, standing there arguing with the man who had ruined your life even more, the man you had just slept with, with only a blanket draped around your body. You turn, locating your underwear on the floor by the bed. As you slip into it, a headache, a mix of your rage and a coming hangover, starts to pound at your temples.

“We would never do anything with the purpose of hurting you, you know that.” Your bra is next, near where your underwear was.

You scoff, tugging on your own shirt from where it was abandoned in your haste a few hours ago. “Oh, because knowing I would get hurt as a consequence anyways is just so much better, isn’t it?”

“Y/N. Don’t talk like that.” He steps into your path after you pull your pants on and fix them around your hips.

Your gaze, once so timid, is now an intense glare. “Don’t try to intimidate me. I’m not afraid of you anymore, Nakamoto.” You clench your teeth, not breaking eye contact with him. “Am I only now a person worth more than just bait to lure out another gang? Do people not have value before they become useful to you?”

“Of course not. Y/N, you know we’re fighting for everyone. You know how I feel about you. You know I-”

He stops speaking when your hand raises in an attempt to slap him. With lightning fast reflexes, he grabs your arm, twisting it and raising his opposite hand. You try not to flinch, maintaining eye contact with him. “Go on. Hit me back. You couldn’t hurt me any more than you already have.”

At that, he drops your arm and lets you shove past him to exit the room. Suddenly, the building is suffocating and you have to get out. You’ve been here for a month and haven’t left, not once complaining, believing they were protecting you. A part of you logically knows that the other gangs are after you and that, in some ways, they are protecting you, but you’re so angry and hurt that you no longer care. Past all the rooms, down the stairs, to the front, where Jeno is sitting on watch. At first, he just looks at you blearily, but immediately scrambles up and towards you when your hand moves to unlock the door, stopping you.

“Wait, wait, what are you doing? You can’t go out there!” Ordinarily, you wouldn’t yell at the poor kid, as he’s one of the nicest, most innocent members, but right now he’s standing in your way.

“I’m sick of being your prisoner while you say you’re protecting me! Taeyong promised me I could leave, so I’m doing that. I’m so fucking sick of this.”

Speak of the devil and so he shall appear. The stairs creak behind you and you turn to see Taeyong. “Y/N. Go back to your room.”

“You’re not my leader. I don’t have to listen to you.”

“I don’t want to threaten you, Y/N, but I am the one with the gun.” His hand not-so-subtlely shifts to his belt, where his handgun is. Your hand lowers from the locks. “We’ll talk in your room. Come on.”

Obediently, you follow him, your head pounding with each step back into what you feel has become your prison. Once you’re both inside, he turns around. “I understand your frustration. However, we need you one more time. Most of the arrangements have been made. Help us with the RVs and we’ll let you go.”

You scoff. “I don’t get a choice this time?”

“You still want to stay with us?” You don’t respond, so he takes that as confirmation. “We’re going to see them tomorrow. After that, we’ll send you off to Japan with a new identity and a new life. I suggest you take care of all of your business before then.” His eyes flicker to the doorway and you don’t have to turn around to know who’s there.

Not even sparing him a glance, you turn around and walk back out the door, this time in the opposite direction you had come from. You go to the roof, where the door had been locked clumsily last night in your haste to get in each other’s pants. To your relief, he doesn’t follow you. The early morning light is painting the sky in colors that you don’t see too often anymore, soft pinks and yellows that are far too bright and pretty for how mournful and gray you feel. After you shut the door behind you, you see the blanket you had left out, along with the empty sake bottle and cups. In a spike of anger, you walk forward, grab the bottle, and throw it as hard as you can against the concrete of the wall by the door. The bottle shatters, scattering pieces of glass on that part of the roof. A shard flies towards you and you raise your arm, letting it slice into your forearm instead of your face. You just take the pain, listening to the small pieces of glass fall to the ground. You look at the place the glass had sliced into your skin and wince, touching the blood beginning to leak from the wound.

Tears prick your eyes at the pain and, before you know it, you’re sobbing, curling in on yourself, crying into your hands. The anger melts into hurt again. It feels like your heart has been torn from your chest. Without even trying, Yuta had taken everything that you had been willing to give him and you don’t know if you’ll ever get it back. You have to move forward, go to Japan, and start a new life with the pain of the Neos always resting in your heart. There’s only one way forward now. You cry until your headache becomes too painful to handle and there are no more tears left for you to shed.

Inside, you take care of your bleeding arm and drink some water before you sleep. A knock on your door awakens you a few hours later. Taeyong steps inside, a folded pile of clothes in his hands. “Something practical but fashionable to wear tomorrow. The RVs won’t accept anything less.”

He leaves just as quickly as he had come in. While that interaction is quick, the rest of the day is not. The few times you leave your room to eat and use their bathroom, it’s like the first day you were here. You avoid looking at the members and you don’t talk to them. Finally, it’s some time in the evening when there’s another knock on your door. You had been unsuccessfully trying to read for who knows how long, so when the door opens and Yuta is there, it really is like the first day again. He eyes the book open in front of you before looking up, catching your eyes. When you would usually smile at him, you meet him with a blank look this time, waiting for him to say something.

“Y/N,” he starts, voice soft, like it had been earlier. Your heart aches this time. He stays in the doorway. “I never meant for you to get hurt. I’m sorry. You still saved my life. For that, I’ll always owe you.” He pauses, the silence falling heavily between you. “I have feelings for you. I’m not going to lie to you. But I know that won’t keep you here if you don’t want to be here.”

As he starts to turn back around, you call out to him. “Yuta.” He stops, looking back at you, waiting for you to speak. “Why is your tattoo red and not blue?”

He swallows hard. “To remind me that it might take a sea of blood to change the world.”

You nod slowly. “I think… I understand now. We’ll never be the same, you and I. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand you, no matter how hard I try. We might have too many differences to ever reconcile them.”

“I’m sorry. For bringing you into this.” All you do is shake your head. He leaves.

It’s hard to sleep that night.

The meeting with who they call the “RVs” is in the evening the next day. The outfit Taeyong brought you is a pair of black jeans and a flowy black shirt, banded around the waist and with loose sleeves, black ankle boots with a slight heel, and a gray-washed jean jacket. You almost hate to admit it, but it’s the slickest outfit you’ve worn in a while, especially since coming here. With your hair falling loosely, you feel ready for whatever this meeting is.

A quiet knock on your door has you turning around. You open it to see Jisung. He’s the quietest out of the members, so you’re surprised to see him. “Here,” he says, offering you a sheathed knife, complete with some leather straps. You take it from him, your eyes wide. He doesn’t meet your eyes. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but if something goes wrong, it’s good to have a weapon. You can hide it under your shirt. Chenle and I got it for you. Don’t tell the hyungs, they’ll get mad.”

Tears nearly prick at your eyes. “Thank you, Jisung. I won’t tell them. In all luck, I won’t even have to use it.” He bows quickly before hurrying away. With the door shut again, you raise up your shirt, finding that the outline of the sheath isn’t even visible beneath the material once you’ve secured it against your side.

Doyoung collects you from your room a few minutes later and you follow him, Taeyong, and Yuta to a car waiting just outside the front entrance. The last few golden orange rays of the sunset graze the sky. “Do you know how to get to the Bakery?” Taeyong asks Doyoung after he gets into the driver seat.

“I would certainly hope so. I’ve been there enough.”

Yuta leans closer to you and you instinctively lean away. He frowns and you reposition yourself, trying to not be deliberately avoidant. “The Bakery is where the Red Velvets are located. It’s not an actual bakery, just some warehouse they took over.” So, it’s the Red Velvets. You probably should have realized that’s what “RVs” meant, but you were a bit mentally occupied with other things. They’re a notorious female gang, small in members, but particularly dangerous. “They don’t really trust men,” Yuta adds, “that’s why we need you.”

“What do you even want me to do?”

Taeyong speaks up this time. “We’re trying to get them to ally with us. They’re not heartless - they killed their old boss and took off because he was doing despicable things to women. Part of the reason for their distrust. We just need to get them on our side. To cooperate with us. Just do your best to get their confidence in us.”

“Hopefully, Irene isn’t too difficult today. She’s the hardest to convince out of any of them,” Doyoung says. As you talk with them on the way over, things almost feel normal, like the last few days, but your heart feels too heavy for it to feel exactly right. You know Yuta glances over at you periodically and you can’t help looking back at him sometimes.

You don’t know what you were expecting to see when you first meet the Red Velvets, but the image in your mind probably wasn’t this. A stunningly beautiful woman greets you at the door, smiling at only you amongst your group and introducing herself as Yeri. She leads you all down a long, dark hall, into a room. There’s a large circular table with nine chairs, arranged almost like a makeshift conference room. Three of the chairs are occupied by more women, equally as beautiful as Yeri. She sits down next to them. The four of you take your seats across from them. You eye the empty chair curiously and, as you’re doing so, you hear the clicking of heels from behind you. Another woman enters, taking the final seat. All of them are dressed as Taeyong had told you to dress - fashionable, but practical. “I suppose we can begin, then?” One of them says, smiling sweetly. “What is it that the Neos want from us?”

Taeyong glances at the rest of us before looking back at them. “We want to propose an alliance.”

“Oh?” Yeri questions. “And why would we be interested in that?”

“Our organizations aren’t so different. We’re both after something bigger, better than just bullying innocent people into submission. It’s about time that we become allies,” Doyoung says, his voice even and calm.

“Not a bad point,” a third woman says, “what do you have to say, Wendy?”

“Why should we even trust you? What have you done that’s so good and righteous?”

“We don’t abandon people. We save them. Y/N is living proof of that.” Yuta jerks his head towards you after he says his part and you give a shallow nod of acknowledgment.

“Let her speak for herself, then.” The final woman, the one who had walked in last, gets up, walking around the table to your side. She stops in front of you, reaching out a hand and tilting your chin up  with one finger. “Y/N, was it? Tell us why we should trust these men.”

Her gaze is seductive, ruby lips parted, sending an unexpected shiver down your spine. Her eyes make you want to tell the truth, unfiltered. You blink to clear your head, deciding that you’ll speak from your heart, consequences be damned. “They’re not lying. They could have left me on that street, could have let the Rushers or Blue Veins kill me. But, they saved me and took responsibility, even though they had gotten me into that mess in the first place. I…” You break eye contact with her, your eyes almost unconsciously shifting over to Yuta. You look back at her. “For the last while, they’ve treated me almost like a member of their own group. And, despite everything, I don’t regret meeting them. They’ve done some terrible things, but I understand why. I want the bloodshed to stop as much as any of you do. They’ve shed blood on their own, changed lives, but I trust them.”

A quiet hum leaves her. Her thumb brushes over your bottom lip once before she takes her hand away, stepping back to her side of the table. The first woman watches her sit down again, a look of mixed amusement and weariness in her eyes. “Are you done playing your games, Irene?”

“Games? I just got a very honest confession out of our most honored guest, Seulgi.” Her painted red lips curve up into a smile. “I trust her and her story.”

“Joy? Wendy? Yeri?” None of the others speak as Irene calls upon them, only nodding. Irene, who you now figure is the leader, gives your side a wry smile. “I suppose we’re in agreement, then. We’ll ally with you, Neos. Should you need us or should we need you, we are in this together, now.” She stands and the others follow. The Neos do the same, so you do, as well. She extends a hand across the table. Taeyong meets her halfway, shaking firmly.

Yeri leads all of you out again, Irene joining her to walk besides you. Though the meeting hadn’t been long, the tension was enough to make your legs feel like jelly. As you’re about to exit the building, Irene stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder, leaning in to whisper in your ear at a low enough volume that none of the boys can hear. “If you ever need a different home, our doors are always open to you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” You smile and whisper back, following the Neos out. Yuta’s eyes follow you the entire way, eyes narrowed as Irene whispers to you. As you leave, he reaches out, grabbing your hand. Your eyes widen, but you don’t shake him off. “What are you doing?”

“Showing them that you’re not on the market.” His grip on your hand is nearly crushing, but you accept it for the moment. The way his fingers interlace with yours feels so natural, so nice, that you almost forget the whole incident from the previous day. After you get back into the car, he lets go of your hand, but the feeling remains.

“Fuck,” you hiss, realizing that Yuta’s grip on your hand had caused the cut from the sake bottle to start weeping blood again. Yuta reaches forward when he sees red begin to soak the bandage peeking out from under your sleeve.

“What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” you say through gritted teeth, pulling your arm closer to your body. He frowns, but doesn’t comment on it again. It’s a quiet few minutes between all of you after that, so Yuta takes the opportunity to turn to you. “The offer is still open. You can stay.”

“Yuta, I-” You don’t have time to respond to him before gunshots start firing off around the car. From the noise the car makes and the way Doyoung loses control, one of the tires has been popped. Before you can really think, there’s an explosion from the opposite side of the car and it’s flipping. You think you hear Yuta yell your name, but your ears are ringing from the explosion and you have no room to think as the car makes contact with the ground. The windows shatter, spraying glass all over all of you. The car tumbles once, twice more before coming to rest upside down. Your head is spinning and red and black spots cover your vision. It smells like blood and burning and you think something in the engine on fire. Everywhere hurts. Somehow, you manage to get your seatbelt off and away from your body. Every move you make feels like your skin is being sliced open and you want to throw up. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know you’re getting shards of glass stuck in your skin as you try to crawl out the shattered window, but that’s the least of your concerns. Breathing is a conscious effort and you feel like you could pass out, just go to sleep at any time. Your skin feels hot and sticky with blood. The sheath of Jisung’s knife presses into your side. Finally, with one last pull, your leg is free from the car seat you had hardly realized it was stuck under, and you finish crawling out from the car. After you’re out, you turn to look at the wreckage, seeing the slumped bodies of Taeyong, Doyoung, and Yuta. Yuta. He’s the closest to you, so you reach out for him.

“Yuta…” you can barely choke out his name, your breaths coming shallowly. A line of blood traces down his face and his eyes are closed. Before you can try to get closer and see if he’s still breathing or if any of the parts of the car are impaled in his body, someone drags you backwards. With the little strength you have left, you try to fight back, pulling in the opposite direction. “No… Yuta!”

“Shut up. You think he could survive a crash like that?”

“I survived it! Get the hell off of me!” You try to scramble forward again, but the man holding you back tugs harder. You turn just enough to see the tattoo on his arm. Bright blue veins tattooed artificially into his arm. You want to scream, but you don’t know who would hear you. People you had started to consider your friends are in that car, bleeding to death, soon to burn alive, and you have to save them. “Let me go. Let me go!”

As you scream, the Blue Vein drags you back by your arm, his fingers digging into your bottle cut. That last bit of pain is enough to push you over the edge and the black spots finally overtake your vision.

The sound of crying is what brings you to consciousness. That, and the mind-numbing pain that fills your body. A whimper of pain leaves you as soon as you try to find your voice. “Shh, it’s alright.”

An unfamiliar voice has you peeling open your eyelids, seeing an unfamiliar woman in front of you, using dull tweezers to pull the shards of glass out of your skin. A bowl full of the sharp pieces of the car windows is next to you and a gruff, heavily tattooed man stands behind her. “That’s enough.”

The kind-looking woman moves away quickly and fearfully and the man moves forward. “So, you’re the Neos’ new fleshlight, huh?”

You shakily open your mouth and he smirks, expecting some pitiful comment to escape you. Instead, you grit your teeth and hiss out your next words. “Fuck you.”

By his expression, you can tell he isn’t pleased. However, his face quickly morphs from showing irritation and anger to showing smug pleasure. The smile he’s giving you leaves an unsettling feeling in your gut. “You’re lucky you’re still alive. Or, not so lucky, once we pick out every piece of info about the Neos from you that we can. It will be fun for us, but so much for you. I can promise you that.” He turns to the woman who had stepped back. “Take care of those wounds. I’ll be back later.”

As soon as he leaves and you hear a door open, shut, and lock, you try to get up, but the sharp pain throughout your body brings you to a halt quickly. The woman rushes forward, trying to get you to lie back down. “Please stop, you’ll hurt yourself more.”

You try to analyze her, but your brain feels slow and fuzzy with pain. She has dirt on her face and her hair and simple clothes are dirty, like she hasn’t bathed or changed in a while. All you can tell from her exposed arms is that she doesn’t have the markings of a Blue Vein member. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Sooyoung. But, please, listen to me.” The logical side of your mind wins out against the desperate side and you lie back down, wincing. You recognize that you’re in some sort of bed and the room is dimly lit. From your position, you look out at the rest of the room and see several other people, all huddled near each other, tired, fearful looks on their faces. With a little more observance, they all have cuts, bruises, and dirt covering their skin, similar to Sooyoung.

“Where am I? Who are all you people?”

“You were taken by the Blue Veins. From what they were saying, it sounds like you were in some sort of crash.” The memory of what happened right before you blacked out comes to you and you suddenly feel even sicker. You want to cry, but you don’t have any strength left for that. In all likelihood, Yuta, Doyoung, and Taeyong are dead. You have to pray they’re alive, but with the way the crash was looking, you don’t place any faith in that. You look back at Sooyoung’s face as she speaks again. “We were all taken by them.” Her voice lowers, mostly out of fear. “Girls have come and gone. We think they sell them. Some people are here because they know a member of a different gang. It’s… it’s all just waiting. Waiting for when you’ll be next.”

Suddenly, even in your weak state, you feel like you understand. Why the Neos believe what they do. Why they’re fighting. Why they’re willing to make sacrifices. Who they’re fighting for.

“I…” You say slowly, each word feeling like a promise, “I’ll help you.”

Her eyes widen. “What? There is no way to help. We’ve tried, I promise you we’ve tried, but-”

“The Neos. If they figure out where I am, they’ll come for me,” you take a deep breath, wincing when it hurts to breathe in, “even if they don’t, I’ll find a way.” You become aware of the feeling of Jisung’s knife still pressing into your side. You choose to put your trust in this woman you just met, so you slowly move your body, choking back noises at the pain, reach under your shirt, untie the leather strapping the knife to your side, and pull it out. “Take this,” you say, trying to offer it to her. She doesn’t move, her eyes large with fear. “Hide it for now. I’ll think of something.”

With a little more urging, she takes it. She stows it away between the mattress and the bedsprings of the old, creaky bed you’re lying on before facing you again. “Please, try to recover. They won’t give you long, maybe a few days at best. I don’t know if your friends are coming, but… this is the best chance we’ve got.”

With your promises, you find that the rest of your strength is sapped for the moment and you slip away into sleep.

You don’t know how many days pass. You suspect the Blue Veins are only allowing you to recover now so that it hurts more when they try to get information out of you. With a painfully small amount of food and water being given to you, your body still aches and you want desperately to leave. But, you use the time to think. Wait for the right opportunity. You speak quietly with the others in the room when the gang members aren’t around. Too many of them are innocent men, women, children, weak people. People who have no place being thrown into the violence they have. Every so often, a new person is taken, sometimes crying and screaming, sometimes silent, ready for whatever is to come. Two or three new people arrive, just as afraid as the rest. Some are taken out and come back with gashes and burns and wounds uglier than anything you’d seen while you were shadowing at the hospital. With each person that comes and goes, your resolve strengthens. Slowly, you think of something. You don’t have a very solid plan, but you wait for the right moment anyways. If you have to kill to set yourself and these people free, you will.

One day, you’re woken from your sleep by shouting coming from behind the locked door. Some sort of disturbance. This - this is the opportunity you’ve been waiting for. Moving as quickly as you can manage and trying to signal the others that it’s time, they all get up, ready to help you. You don’t know how you did it, but you motivated some of them to try to help you.  The knife is in your hand. You’re behind the door. Once again, you’re waiting, but only for a little bit longer.

Locks are clicking up and you hear more shouting, but you try to focus. The people in the rest of the room shift nervously and you try to still your shaking hand. It’s now or never. You can’t depend on the Neos to save you, so you have to try for yourself. The shouting becomes more coherent as the door finally flies open, nearly hitting you. Side-stepping it slightly, the man who had entered the room practically growls. A gun is in his hand. Some of the others who aren’t frozen in fear begin to cry out loudly from the other side of the room, the first part of your plan. His attention is drawn to them, his next words a bark of anger. “Where the hell is that Neo bitch?”

Now. You lunge forward, but don’t notice the other shadow emerging from behind him in the doorway. The knife is about to plunge into his neck, but a strong hand stops you. A familiar voice. “There’s no need for that.”

The Blue Vein turns, locking eyes with the man who had stopped you. A moment later, a gunshot deafens you and the Blue Vein is crumpling to the ground, howling in pain. Some of the other captives scream, real fear this time. A bullet wound clean through both his hand and thigh. He drops his own gun and clutches at his wounds.

You can’t believe your eyes. Yuta stands in front of you, a pistol in his hand, pointed at the man on the ground. He’s alive. He’s alive. You want to cry and hug him and thank him all at the same time. You settle for just saying his name. “Yuta…”

He smiles and tilts his head towards you, wincing at what you believe is a head wound, indicated by the bandage wrapped around his forehead. “You should get them out of here. None of you want to see this.”

You swallow hard. “Thank you.”

When you turn towards the door to peer out, you’re face to face with Ten, Kun, and Yangyang, more of the Neos. Managing a quick smile, you usher the people out of the room, moving around the figure of the Blue Vein on the floor in pain and Yuta standing over him, steady hand pointing his gun at the other man’s forehead. Once everyone is out, you stay turned around, watching as the others guide them out. With all your sensibilities, you try not to think about the life leaving the man on the ground as you hear another gunshot from behind you. If you’ve learned one thing while trapped here, it’s that people can be vile. Vile enough that you could possibly forgive Yuta for pulling that trigger.

You feel a hand on your shoulder a few moments later and you’re being spun around, familiar arms embracing you. You breathe him in, a scent so freeing and warm compared to what you’ve been experiencing for the last few days. A sob finally escapes you and his shirt becomes wet with your tears. “I thought you were dead,” you cry, your sounds muffled by his chest, “I really thought you were dead.”

“If I was that easy to kill, I would’ve been dead years ago,” he murmurs, stroking your hair softly. “It did take a hell of a lot of convincing to get Kun to let me come with this time, though. I got lucky compared to Doyoung and Taeyong.”

You pull away slightly, looking up at him through tear-filled eyes. “Are they…?”

“They’re alive, just in bad shape. We could really use you back with us.” He moves to cup your cheek with his hand, frowning at the small cuts and dirt on your face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m alive. You’re alive. I’m okay.” You sniffle, reaching up to try to wipe away your tears. “Yuta, those people… they’ve been here for so long. I’m so glad you came to get us.”

“I’m sorry it took so long.” Despite the dirt on your face and the tears smudging it, he leans down, pressing his lips to yours firmly. He pulls away when more gunshots sound from the opposite direction the others had gone. He takes your hand, pulling you along. “We should go.” You watch the place your hands are connected, feeling like you know him more than ever.

“Why did you stop me?” You ask, trying to keep pace with him. “I could have killed him. I was ready to do it.”

“I know that’s not something you want. You’re different from us. You’re not ready to kill. You don’t want to kill.” His tone shifts into something more mournful. “I’m sorry. For everything. You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”

“I’m glad I’m here.”

He stops moving, turning to you slowly, eyebrows furrowed and a confused look on his face. “What?”

“I’m glad I’m here. Yuta, I…” you stop, trying to think carefully about what you’re about to say. “I understand now. Those people will be able to live again because you guys are here. Because you came for me, for us. I might not be able to go back to school again, to ever become a full-fledged doctor, but,” you pause, looking him right in the eyes, “I understand now. And I want to help. It wasn’t the wrong place at the wrong time. I want to stay with the Neos. I want to stay with you.”

“This,” he breathes out, “this isn’t something you can take back. You know that, right?”

“I know. I still want to stay.” You nod firmly, looking him in the eyes. To save people like Sooyoung, to use the skills you’ve acquired, to do something to fight the darkness in the city. You’ll do it for that. You’ll do it for all of them, for Mark’s dad, for Taeyong’s mom, for Hansol, whom you’d never met. You’d do it for Yuta, who is now close to your heart.

With that unbreakable promise that you swear to fulfill, you squeeze his hand tight. He gives you a small smile, full of hope at the future he knows you’re gaining and with a slight tinge of sadness at the future he knows you’re losing, and pulls you forward with him.

[my-arlington-academia]

Tadaxel fic for Tadashi’s birthday! 👔🤝😳

And I OOP- I did it. Sorry. No actually I’m not, it was a nice change of pace to write this. I think I might do more CharacterXCharacter fics from now on! I was getting a ’lil bit tired of always doing Main10XScholar fics. Don’t get me wrong though, I love Scholar! I just needed to change it up a bit. (And like promised Olivier is in it too whoops.) This fic is almost 3k words long! ...God, what am I doing with my life? Anyways, have a nice read! 💗💖

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Autumn was starting. The days were getting slightly shorter as time went on and the weather colder and colder. Knowing his friends, Tadashi had warned them about one thing.

”Don’t plan a birthday party for me. I don’t have enough time to celebrate it this year.”

Homework and ”student-body-president-duties” were kicking in so the *one* area from which Tadashi decided to take time away from was his birthday. Everyone found that line of reasoning ridiculous. He always had time for others and for work but never for himself. It was almost as if he loved suffering. The worst part of it was that his birthday conveniently fell on a Saturday this year. It was the perfect moment to celebrate it, Ellie especially was jealous of how lucky Tadashi got and yet he still decided to ”CaNcEL” his birthday. Ellie didn’t have that luxury, her birthday was always during the exam period of the year: in June.

Alistair tried his best to dissuade him and get him away from his desk, the place where he spent most of his day. His BIRTHday. Tadashi didn’t budge. Only when the sunset was setting did he finally decide to step back. Time went so quickly and all he did was working on assignments. He had one last thing left for the day: go shopping. Something that he had ever rarely done thus far. It was about time to learn how to, until now Tadashi was always sent ”shopping” with a butler to ”help him” choose. In reality, all Tadashi did was try on the clothes they ordered him to wear. In the end, all he had for his casual wear was white shirts, ties, dark colored pants and mostly brown shoes. Even if he won’t celebrate his birthday with his friends, he still wants to go out and buy something for himself. More precisely: a set of clothes that wasn’t dictated by his father.

Since a while back, Tadashi always felt like there was a disparity between his taste and those of his classmates. His casual clothes didn’t even look all that ”casual.” When he would go out with his friends, he looked like a coworker taking a break with his colleagues. But last week, reality had slapped Tadashi in the face: he can dress how he wants to. Or more accurately, Olivier had slapped him in the face with this revelation. He was having a conversation with him about the fashion department for some reason, then, Olivier took off his cat mask and looked at Tadashi straight in the eyes. He said:

”Tadashi. You’re free now. You can dress however you want to so please do it. I’m begging you.”

Tadashi was confused. This was coming from a guy who wore a black suit all the time instead of the school uniform. Actually, Tadashi was pretty sure that this was the very first time he saw Olivier’s face. He looked ugly but in a really cute way, he was like slightly above average with a sprinkle of misplaced handsomeness here and there. It was as if God didn’t really know what to do with him and used the ”random traits” button. Anyway, Tadashi wondered how he was a senior and yet Olivier, who was supposed to be one year above him, was still coming to school. So instead of answering what he was asked, Tadashi used his remaining braincells to try and get a response to his urgent question.

”How come you’re still here? Did you get held back a year or...?”

Olivier covered his face with the mask again and closed Tadashi’s mouth with the palm of his hand.

”Sssshhhh. Listen. I’ll only tell you this because I blindly believe that you won’t ditch on me but... I’m actually not a student here. I’ve never been. In reality, I’m a programmer in my twenties. My hobby is to pretend to be a teenager in Arlington, Lady A owes a big debt to my family so she can’t do anything about my presence here. All you have to do is to not tell anyone, okay? If the students find out, I’ll be kicked out for sure. But as far as they know I’m just a weird student who’s been held back in my senior year for 2 years in a row. There will come a day when I won’t be able to fool them anymore but for now, please just play along.”

”Okay.”

After that day, Tadashi pondered a lot about what Olivier had told him...

...

......

.........

”You can dress however you want.”

Yes. That was the one truly important thing he had taken away from this conversation. Thank you Olivier for your wisdom. Tadashi had made up his mind: the day of his birthday he’ll go shopping alone. And that’s what he did.

The curfew was in about 2 hours, in normal circumstances, the custodians didn’t have the right to let the students go out so late... however, if Tadashi had learned *one* thing from his family, it was the use of Privileges™. So using his ”I’m the student body president” card, he managed to step out from the school grounds and promised to come back as soon as he could.

He decided to go check out the most basic stores first just for curiosity’s sake, such as: H&N, Sike, Levy’s, Kalvin Clein, Badidas, etc. Until last year, all he would get was tailored suits and other ”professional” bullshit a teenager shouldn’t have to wear. Now he was finally free to go wherever he wanted, and it’s in the middle of those shops that he came across the one person in front of which he didn’t want to look stupid. A black hoodie on and his hair in a ponytail, he was looking straight at Tadashi.

”...What are you doing here?”

Tadashi instinctively switched to his "fake offended" look.

”Um. Shopping? Like you are?”

Axel glanced at the salmon pink shorts Tadashi was holding, not at all convinced by his try-hard witty remark.

”Oh? So uh, were you aware that it’s fall already or are you buying your summer clothes in advance? ’Cause those pink shorts ain’t gonna cut it to keep you warm buddy.”

Tadashi looked down at this random piece of clothing he was holding and hurriedly put it back while averting Axel’s gaze. He had already made a fool of himself from the very start of their encounter. Seeing that he was clearly embarrassed from the mocking comment, Axel dropped the act.

”No but seriously, why are you shopping alone at this hour? It’s your birthday, go have fun with your friends.”

Thinking about it now, from an outsider’s perspective his actions must look pretty dumb. Begging your friends to not celebrate your birthday, working all day then going shopping alone in the evening for some reason? Every single one of his decisions made sense in his mind but not in the eyes of others. In the end, he had worked himself to exhaustion all day, then he went shopping alone at the brink of the night. Understandably, his actions didn’t seem to make any sense.

”I... I wanted to buy some clothes by myself without the help of anyone else.”

Axel’s confused face turned to bewilderment the moment Tadashi uttered those words.

”*What?* Dude, you sound like you’re twelve. Come on, it’s not like it’s your first time choosing your clothes for your... self... Oh boy. Don’t tell me...”

At Axel’s realization, Tadashi looked down in shame hoping that this moment would come to pass as quickly as possible. That’s right, just make fun of me and get over with it. But instead of mockery or a mean joke, Tadashi felt a strong grip on his shoulders.

”Tadashit, listen. Even *I* can’t make fun of this. We have to fix this problem as soon as possible and we’ll definitely celebrate your birthday tomorrow, okay?”

Tadashi’s mind immediately rushed to all of the tasks he had to fulfill tomorrow.

”But-"

”Shush. No buts. I’m gonna help you buy two or three outfits, we’ll start from there. But eventually, you’ll have to replace all of your horrible wardrobe, okay?”

When Axel finally let go of his shoulders, he then grabbed Tadashi’s wrist and started dragging him out of the shop they were in. Tadashi was mildly fighting back, one part of him not wanting to get help from Axel of all people, another part of him curious of what kind of advice Axel could give him.

”H-hey! Where are you taking me?”

”To Never 21, hopefully they’ll have something that suits you Tadashit. Even if you’re planning on changing up your wardrobe, we’ll start with some really basic clothes though. For example, I feel like something simple and dignified would fit you, you get me?”

”Uh... what?”

Simple and dignified? What does that even mean?

Upon entering the shop, Axel finally let go of his wrist and started looking around in search of something ”simple and dignified.” Tadashi hesitantly followed him, not knowing what to do. He felt like a kid again, the kid who would stand next to the butlers and wait for their decision. That is until Axel picked up a light blue shirt and showed it to him.

”So what do you think of that one? It has a cute little logo on the chest pocket or... whatever those are called.”

”...You’re asking for my opinion?”

Tadashi’s face subtly lightened up as he remembered that this situation was not at all the same as before. He was shopping with a friend, not a butler who gets commands from his father.

”Duh. You’re the one who’s gonna wear this, not me. Frankly, I think that it’s still too tame but you don’t want to stray too far away from what you usually wear, right?”

”Hm. Actually. Can you dress me up in different styles? I want to see what fits me and what doesn’t. You seem much more well-versed in fashion than me, I think that I’ll really need your help.... Please?”

Thrown off by Tadashi’s honesty, Axel couldn’t even take a jab at him. In fact, being able to communicate with him without bickering was quite refreshing. Actually, it was about time for them to stop quarreling for every single thing.

"...Alright. Let’s do that. But just so you know, we’ll probably be late for the curfew. Oh. And you owe me.”

Like promised, Axel dressed Tadashi up in a lot of different outfits. Surprisingly, a lot of things fit him. Even the most unlikely styles, like the ”hippie style” weirdly enough. Or rather, ”bohemian” as Neha calls it.

”Huh. I was planning on making fun of you but you know what? You look good.”

Tadashi felt confused because of the unexpected, but genuine compliment he got. So all he could do was smile awkwardly while looking down at the floor again.

”You think? But I’m not a big fan of this... ”style” to be honest. I’d rather take the one I tried a bit earlier, the one with the pink-ish shirt.”

”Fair enough. Let’s buy that one then.”

Axel couldn’t help but notice that Tadashi may or may not secretly really like the color pink. Maybe it was a subconscious choice, but he would always pay attention to pink, yellow, and green colored clothes. Maybe because he never got a chance to wear bright colors before? He would always be in black and deep blues so he most likely yearned for more lively colors. Thinking about it now, it was obvious that his clothes were always dictated by his father’s tastes. Despite the fact that they used to fight a lot, especially last year, Axel felt a big amount of empathy towards Tadashi and quite a bit of respect for being able to stand up to his father after all of those years of getting manipulated.

At the counter, Axel impulsively decided to take out his credit card.

”I’ll pay for that.”

Tadashi looked up from his own wallet, surprised.

”Wait, really??”

”Mh-hm. It’s your birthday today and I didn’t really prepare anything so...”

The cashier folded the clothes, pu them in a bag and handed them to Axel. Axel in turn, handed the bag to Tadashi.

"There you go... Happy birthday, Tadashi.”

Even if he would never admit it, the sincerity in in Axel’s voice made Tadashi feel soft for half a second. His voice didn’t sound annoying when he wasn’t joking around and making stupid comments. Actually, this may have been the first time Tadashi realized that Axel had a pretty voice.

”Uhhh... Th-Thank uh. Thank you.”

What’s going on? Axel’s voice is pretty? No no no. It sounds annoying and condescending, not pretty. Absolutely not!

While Tadashi was having a crisis and fighting back against himself, Axel was already plannig on moving to the next shop. Like earlier, he tried to grab Tadashi’s wrist and drag him to their next destination. However, his aim was bit off as he did not look down before seizing his target. Tadashi was thrown off once again.

”Uh. Axel...? That’s my hand.”

Axel’s gaze finally went down to where he was grabbing. Seeing that it wasn't Tadashi’s sleeve but his hand, he immediately let go.

”Ah. Damn, sorry dude uhh... I didn’t mean to hold your um...”

The poor boys looked down in shame at their mistake, or rather ”aCcidEnTaL hAnD hoLdiNg.” Axel started feeling the same kind of emotional distress Tadashi was fighting against earlier. What’s happening? Why is it so awkward? If something like this happened at school, they would already be in the middle of cursing at eachother.

”Um. Anyway! Just follow me, okay? I shouldn’t even need to drag you in the first place. Let’s go.”

They tried to ignore that incident as best as they could and moved on to the next shop. In the end, they bought more than 3 outfits. Even Axel picked up some things for himself with Tadashi’s help. Everything was going well until they looked at their phones, remembering the thing they had forgotten.

”Ugh. Shit. Dashi, it’s already 5 minutes past our curfew. But you’ll cover for me, right?”

”Dude, of cour- Wait. Did you just call me Dashi?”

Axel’s mind had clocked out entirely. He looked at his right, desperately trying to look unconcerned.

”Uh. No?”

”... Yes.”

”...”

Axel couldn’t ignore Tadashi’s pressuring gaze. His grey eyes were really convincing when needed.

”Okay fine. But it was only because Raquel often calls you that.”

Satisfied of his win, Tadashi started walking on ahead towards the nearest restaurant with a little smirk on his face.

”Uh-huh. Sure, Axel.”

”Hey! Don’t give me that all-knowing look! Or else I’ll go back to calling you Tadashit.”

”Oh please, you’ll do that tomorrow whether I want it or not.”

Tadashi passed the door and sat down next to a window, followed closely by Axel.

”Dude, didn’t you hear what I just said? It’s past our curfew, we’re already late and instead of hurrying back you sit down in a restaurant?”

Waiting for an answer, Axel stood there dumbfounded as Tadashi gently shot a smile at him and placed his wallet on the table, already waiting for the the waiter.

”Sit down, I’m treating you for your help today... Thank you, Axel. Really.”

Axel’s annoyance was short lived. He really couldn’t do anything in front of this guy’s demanding look. Is that how he always gets everyone’s favors? By looking people in the eye and smiling? As much as he hated it, Axel was starting to understand how Tadashi was so convincing: it was his stupid, dumb, frustrating... pretty grey eyes. Screw him and his ”I know what I want and I’ll get it” look. Screw the curfew, the custodians, all the people who always got fooled by this gaze. But most of all, screw himself for getting tricked too. Goddammit.

Axel sat down with a slight blush on his face that he was trying to hide under his hand as he placed his mouth on his palm.

”You’re welcome. But fuck you.”

----------------------------------

Annnnnd done! I think this one was pretty fun! Not only to write but to read too. Please tell me what you think! I miss the funny comments you guys always left tbh 😂 My favorite part was the aCcidEnTaL hAnD hoLdiNg. Thank you for reading 💗💖

[athingthatwantsvirginia]

Catherine, Heathcliff, and Shangri-la

PART TEN OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: mentions of death, smoking, plentiful pop culture references

Word Count: 4.9K

Summary: Though she plans to spend her birthday alone, Ella ends up passing time on the late August evening with Jess, eating old pie and playing cards.

She looked like a dream in her sundress. Late August light bathed the crowds at the summer festival, and Ella practically glimmered when Jess spotted her from across the square. It made him feel like an idiot thinking the way he was, but she had an effect on him which he’d previously only read about in books. He wasn’t sure exactly when the tipping point had been, when he’d truly fallen in love with her, passed the point of no return. But he had. And he was. He loved a girl who didn’t believe in love, who wasn’t into dating, who didn’t feel the same. It had never been so complicated before, and he’d never been so completely screwed. There were moments, times when his heart nearly burst from the hope. When she laughed at one of his wiseass remarks, or ran her fingertips over the notes he’d left in the margins of her poetry books, or let her eyes linger on him for just a second too long. But each time, she would brush it off, act like nothing had happened. And he’d be forced to wonder if he’d imagined the electricity passing between them.

Slowly, over the course of the summer, he was beginning to come to terms with it. Maybe they could just be friends, coworkers. Maybe all he needed was to make out with Shane until his lips were swollen and his mind was blank and his memory would be wiped clean of all the times Ella had made him feel deeper than he ever had before. Besides, he had never fallen in love before, had never uttered the three fateful words in all his seventeen years. A small part of him believed he could snap out of it easily.

He took his eyes back from her form, concentrating on the girl in front of him. The girl who wanted him and nothing more. Who meant nothing but ease and pleasure. Sliding his hands down in her back pockets, Jess closed his eyes and placed kisses down Shane’s neck, the bark of the tree they leaned on rough against his back.

.   .   .

“She’s back with a vengeance!” Ella exclaimed, wrapping her arms around Rory in a gleeful embrace.

They stood together near a flower stand, the fragrant display adding sweetness to the air. Despite the barber shop quartet droning on in the background, Ella felt her spirits lift at the sight of Rory Gilmore, her confidant missing in action over the summer at an internship in Washington. In the back of her mind, Ella couldn’t help reminding herself that soon, she would have to deal with the constant separation. Rory would be off at Harvard, Lane would be touring with her band (hopefully), and Ella would be stuck. As she always had been. She’d have to fill Rory in on how the college applications were going later.

Rory laughed happily, pulling away from Ella and holding her at an arm’s length. “Yes, and with all the hot DC gossip.”

“I’m intrigued,” Ella said, raising an eyebrow.

From behind them, Lorelai beamed, her own face painted with joy, her daughter back in town. Ella loved that about summer. It had a special kind of magic no other season could manage, positivity radiating from everyone, dampened only by the occasional rainy day.

“Alright, let’s go find Lane, and we are in for a movie night of epic proportions!” Lorelai announced, strolling around the square with the two teens in tow.

Before they departed completely, however, Rory followed Ella’s distracted gaze to the old oak where Jess stood, eating his girlfriend’s face.

“Oh, God!” Rory exclaimed, scrunching up her face in disgust.

Ella blushed, Rory having noticed her staring. She hadn’t meant to. But seeing the two of them together, considering the many fights with Shane the summer had brought, gave her a feeling of irritated uneasiness. Like a car crash she couldn’t look away from. Morbid interest feeding morbid interest in a vicious, voyeuristic cycle.

Tilting her head to the scene in question, Lorelai scoffed. “Guess he’s got his ‘What I Did This Summer’ essay all planned out.”

“I know,” Ella groaned. “America’s youth really does have such admirable modesty.”

Snorting a laugh, Rory shot a knowing look at her mother. “Have they been at that a lot?”

Ella nodded, speeding up in her stride a little to get out of view of the display. “Yep. It’s now part of the Early Bird Special at the diner. Dinner and a show.”

Lorelai faked a gag. “I told you. The kid gives off major Sid Vicious vibes.”

“Looks like he’s found his Nancy,” Rory added.

“And he’s been so weird at work lately. He barely talks to me, just sits on his little stool. Reading, brooding, scaring off small children. Maybe I pissed him off. I don’t know,” Ella said. She fiddled with the chain of her necklace.

“Um….Ella?” Rory began, bringing a hand to the blonde girl’s shoulder. “Do you not realize you’re the Catherine to his Heathcliff?”

Ella scoffed, laughing breathily. “What?”

“He’s totally into you!” Lorelai exclaimed.

Raising a brow, Ella rolled her eyes and kept walking. She crossed her arms over her chest defiantly. “Very funny.”

“Every time he looks at you…” Lorelai said, feigning a swoony look. “It’s sickening.”

“Yeah, right. I bet it’s Rory he’s into,” Ella argued, shrugging them off once more.

“Oh really?” Rory asked skeptically. “Then why does he make those notes in your margins? In the poetry books he said he hated when he first got here?”

“It’s mutually assured destruction,” Ella explained. “If he stops taking a chance on poetry, I’ll stop taking a chance on the beats. The arguments would ensue, the diner would descend into chaos. In an effort to avoid certain death during our shifts together, we compromise.”

“Ah, the key to a strong relationship’s foundation,” Lorelai retorted.

Snorting a laugh, Ella shook her head. Without the flowers and the serenity of solitude, the less desirable aspects of the festival began to wear on Ella’s psyche. The barber shop quartet spun around and around in her head, making her dizzy, and the sun beat down on them. Stray strands of hair, fallen from her bun, began to stick to her damp forehead.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to Ella. “Rory, my dear?”

“Yes?” Rory answered with suspicion.

“You know how you always give me presents on my birthday even though I tell you not to?” Ella asked.

“I’m aware of the annual birthday commiseration,” Rory said, nodding.

“Well, I’d like to request, as a birthday present for your favorite waitress, a moratorium on the Jess talk until I am seventeen years and one day old,” Ella suggested, fluttering her eyelashes jokingly.

Sighing, Rory linked her arm with Ella’s. “Alright, but only because you asked so very nicely.”

“Good to have you back, Thelma,” Ella smiled fondly, pulling her friend a little closer.

“Same to you, Louise.”

Lorelai chuckled and shook her head, watching as the girls ascended the steps to Lane’s door.

.   .   .

Mercifully, Ella had made it through the day with minimal birthday wishes and no attempts at gift-giving. Lorelai and Rory had teased her about a surprise party, but she knew they wouldn’t truly dare. Instead of going home, where she knew she’d have to brave Fiona’s pathetic attempts at celebration, she wandered around town aimlessly. It made her feel guilty to snap at the woman so much, but she just couldn’t help herself. Watching Fiona, only twelve years her senior, traipsing around in her house, humming the Dixie Chicks songs she knew her mother would’ve hated. Before she could apply any rational thought to the decision, she found her way to the bridge. The greenish-black water sparkled in glowing moonlight. Crickets sung and cicadas buzzed, a low summer tune. She hung her booted feet over the edge, the black cotton of her dress pooling around her knees. Rifling through her shoulder bag to the side, she found a copy of The Grapes of Wrath. A perfect book to sustain her gloomy mood. She laid back against the wooden planks of the pier, holding the novel above her face, blocking out the view of the clear night. The humidity had dissipated, and a cool breeze blew past her.

A few peaceful moments had passed before she heard footfalls thumping heavily, vibrating beneath her back. She sighed as the noise got closer, letting the book fall to her chest and rolling her eyes.

“Stealing my spot, huh?” Jess spoke up as he approached, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“Sorry, didn’t realize you’d bought the property.”

“Touché.”

Though Ella still hadn’t looked over at him, she heard him sit down next to her. She could smell the subtle mixture of hair gel and pine.

“By all means, sit down,” she snapped, sitting up again, placing her scrap of construction paper back in the book to save her place. She stuffed it back in her bag to the left. Fiddling with the end of the loose braid which hung over her shoulder, she sighed again.

Jess scoffed. “Jeez, Daria. Don’t pull your punches.”

“Bite me, Jess,” she replied flatly, staring out across the water. In the light, she knew she would’ve been able to watch schools of tiny grey fish whizzing by. As a child, she’d imagined small mermaids living in a crystalline village beneath the surface of the dull silt and sand.

“Feelin’ pithy tonight?” he drawled, an eyebrow raised.

“You could say that.”

He only nodded, leaning back on his palms. Silence stood between the two of them, heavy in the nighttime air. Ella almost put her nails to her mouth, then thought better of it. When Jess still didn’t speak, she huffed out a big breath and finally tossed him a glance.

“Don’t you have someone to verbally abuse at the diner or a girlfriend’s face to suck or something?” she asked.

Jess shot her a look. Before he could even respond, Ella spoke again.

“As long as you’re here, could you loan me a cigarette?” she asked, a shameful blush coloring her cheeks. As much as the request embarrassed her, she couldn’t stand the way her skin was crawling.

“What?” Jess blurted out, eyes wide. “What happened to the periodic surgeon general’s warnings?”

She sighed, dropping her gaze to her lap and clearing her throat. “I’ve gotta keep you on your toes, don’t I?”

Though slightly flabbergasted, Jess’s eyes shone fondly, remembering the carriage ride they’d taken at the Bracebridge dinner so many months ago. After a moment, he produced a crumpled packet and a lighter from his pocket and handed them to her.

“Thank you,” she muttered, placing a cigarette between her lips. It surprised her that he actually obliged, considering how stand-offish he’d been at work lately. The lighter struck on the first try, the small orange flame flickering warmly in the darkness. And Jess could tell immediately it was far from the first time she’d smoked. She handed the supplies back to him.

He took a cigarette of his own and lit it up.

“Don’t tell Luke,” she said, voice slightly husky as she exhaled the first puff of smoke. Her words came out in dim blue clouds.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he replied, tapping ash into the lake and watching it burn out. “Your secret is safe, Stevens.”

“Thanks. I’ll consider it a birthday present,” she grumbled, feeling the familiar burn of smoke in her chest. She knew she would regret the decision in the morning.

“It’s your birthday?”

“Yep.”

“Happy birthday,” he said reflexively, eyebrows raised.

Scoffing bitterly, Ella flicked ash off her cigarette with her thumb. “Thanks, Mariano.”

“Is that why you’re gonna bite my head off at the next wrong move?”

She laughed humorlessly. “Yeah, birthdays aren’t my thing.”

“Huh. And I guess that’s why no one said anything at work?”

Ella nodded. “Yeah, after a few crying customers last year, Luke ordered the diner a birthday-free zone.”

“Wise of him.”

“It was.”

Regarding her in the moonlight, Jess sighed. “Any particular reason for the birthday allergy?”

Swallowing harshly, Ella brought her free hand to her necklace and a smirk formed on her face. “It’s just...my mom was a big birthday person. Without her here, it just all feels a little artificial. It’s weird. The anniversary of the day she died never hits me as hard as Mother’s Day, or today.”

He nodded, solemn as she continued.

“I try to spend as little time at home as I can. And Rory and Lorelai always try to get me to do something,” she said, pausing to inhale deeply and blow out a stream of smoke. “But I am nothing if not pertinacious.”

“Nice. Ten-cent word.”

“Thanks. Used it in the crossword this morning. I’d say it’s at least twenty cents,” she said, scoffing in mock offense.

Jess chuckled. “Alright, I’ll cave for the birthday girl.”

“How kind of you.”

Crushing the smoldering butt of her cigarette on the weathered bridge wood, Ella exhaled out her nose and crossed one leg over the other.  She smoothed her hands over her dress. Somewhere, a loon cried. Jess sat quietly beside her, the last of his cigarette glowing as he inhaled. When he put it out, he stood up and made to leave. Ella didn’t say a word, didn’t even look at him. After a second of thought, he held a hesitant hand out to her.

“Let’s go back to the diner,” he proposed with finality. “We can eat the leftover pie. There will be no birthday talk whatsoever. I promise.”

Looking at his hand, Ella thought of the book in her bag. The hours she could spend alone with nothing but Steinbeck to entertain her. But then, she felt a sudden rush of courage at the thought of Luke’s. Free of people, with pastries under the glass domes on the counters and stale pies in the back fridge. And Jess. She heaved a sigh, then slung her bag over her shoulder and grabbed his hand.

.   .   .

“No way,” Jess said, shaking his head doubtfully as he took another bite of the pie.

Ella smiled, nodding. “I swear. I was named the worst dancer out of all the little girls ever taught at Miss Patty’s by the Gazette. I was responsible for the domino incident of 1992 which caused two sprained ankles and one broken arm. Suffice it to say, the arm was mine.”

“Jesus,” Jess laughed, his eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, I’m Patrick Swayze’s worst nightmare.”

Jess rolled his eyes and threw his head back with a dramatic groan. “I’ll never understand your fixation with those cheesy eighties movies.”

“You bite your tongue, heathen,” she said lightly, digging another bite from the cold apple pie in the tin between them.

“Well, at least we can agree on Steinbeck,” he shrugged through a laugh.

She nodded and sighed tiredly, brought a hand to her necklace.

The diner shone brightly against the otherwise dark landscape of Main Street. Ella could hear Luke snoring from all the way upstairs, but it was almost comforting if not amusing. With the leftover pie between them, she and Jess sat alone amongst chairs stacked on tables and cutlery put away. It smelled vaguely of disinfectant, but the pine was still there, making her heart feel just a touch less broken. Maybe being alone wasn’t the best way to pass one of the hardest days of her year.

“I’m surprised she still even lets you step foot in the studio, leaving that much carnage in your wake,” Jess said, smirking at the way the tension slowly released from her shoulders.

Snorting a laugh, Ella took another bite of the pie. She could tell it was made from her recipe, heavy on the cinnamon. “Well, the years have improved my coordination a little bit.”

“But have they?” he teased.

“Shut up,” she retorted, good nature in her voice.

A comfortable pause filled the air. Jess’s eyes caught her thin fingers still rolling the silver chain of her necklace. She blew up a long breath and straightened up, putting her fork back down in the tin, the half-pie almost all the way gone.

Nodding, Jess swallowed dryly and bit at his lip. “Why do you wear that necklace every day?”

Eyes widening, Ella couldn’t help but feel taken aback by the question. She let out a self-conscious scoff and her hand immediately dropped away from her collar. The small silver charm, a key, glinted in the yellow diner light.

“My grandmother gave it to me,” she explained, her tone even though she avoided his eyes. “It’s the key to the jewelry box she had when she was little. The box got lost, but the key stayed. She was a singer. Friends with Miss Patty. Pretty fucking cool.”

Jess smiled a tiny smile. “Sounds like it.”

“Yeah,” she replied, the word a sigh. Then, after a beat, she regained her direct nature and looked him in the eye. “Okay, since we’re asking questions tonight: why the hell are there bongos on the shelf above your desk?”

Jess laughed, but his cheeks reddened a touch. “Those were there when I moved in. Scout’s Honor.”

She rolled her eyes. “You are the last person in the world they would ever let into the Scouts.”

“Wow, that one hurt.”

Ella smiled. “Then what’s Luke doing with those bongos?”

“Preparing for a Matthew McConaughey,” Jess shot back knowingly.

“Ugh, that image is gonna be burned in my mind forever,” she groaned, nose scrunching up in disgust.

“You’re welcome.”

“Fuck you,” she said, grinning.

“Right back at ya.”

Suddenly, a loud snore came from the floor above them.

“Speaking of,” Ella grumbled, only in mock irritation.

“Like you don’t snore.”

“Only when I’m drunk,” she said, then looked up at him, accusatory. “But you. Oh my god, it was all night long. Really, the two of you put together could probably break some sonic records.”

Instead of retorting, Jess retrieved his weathered deck of cards from one of his jean pockets. He raised his eyebrows as a challenge and began shuffling. “Just for that last comment, you’re about to be massacred at Rummy.”

.   .   .

A knot of anxiety sat in her stomach, but work was helping her keep it at bay. It was the last Saturday of summer, Monday the start of senior year. But the waves of butterflies fluttering around in her chest weren’t ones of nervousness, more only of dread. The constant drudgery of school work, the monotony of the day. She liked summer for more reasons than the mood and the weather. Free time to read, to draw, to paint. And she much preferred painting the full greenery over the desolate landscapes of a Connecticut winter. The fact she hadn’t seen Jess since the night before, when she left the diner satisfied with herself for winning three hands in a row, was doing nothing to calm her either. After cleaning up from the breakfast rush, Ella was mindlessly reorganizing the mugs on the cubby shelf to the left of the counter by color and size.

“Alright, this is ridiculous,” Luke admonished, walking up behind her.

She scoffed. “It’s not my fault these mugs haven’t been reorganized since Reagan was president.”

“Because they were the last ones you hadn’t got your hands on. You’re starting to sound like Taylor.”

Instantly, she turned and narrowed her eyes at him. “The next time you say that to me I’m turning in my apron and never looking back!”

Luke scoffed in disbelief at her dramatics. “Just take your break, Ella.”

“You think I’m bluffing,” she warned, untying her apron and leaving it on the hook near the kitchen window, “but I’m dead serious.”

“I’m quaking in my boots,” Luke replied flatly, gathering some receipts from the side of the cash register.

“I bet,” she shot back, rounding the corner and going to dig through her bag, hanging by the front door. “Is Jess here? I’ve got a book for him.”

“Upstairs,” Luke said shortly.

Retracting her hand from the shoulder bag, with a worn collection of Dorothy Parker, she rolled her eyes. She tucked her hair behind her ears and prepared to disappear behind the checkered curtain on the way to the stairs.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a master conversationalist?” she asked.

“Shaddup,” he groaned, waving an annoyed hand at her in the direction of the apartment.

Ella snickered, then bounded up the stairs, the soles of her old converse a little slippery on the creaking wood. She heard the TV droning on from inside, daytime Saturday shows. Only a couple short knocks sounded on the door before she let herself in, as she had so many times before when fetching random items during her shifts.

“Hey, Jess-” she began, turning to the left, Jess’s room.

Cut off by a sudden flash of noise, she watched Jess stuff a blue mesh vest quickly into the top drawer of his dresser. Eyes wide with surprise, he faced her with a scowl, brows scrunched up.

“Ever hear of knocking, Daria?” he snapped.

Processing the scene before her, Ella blinked a couple times and bit the inside of her cheek. “Sorry. Guess I was too quiet.”

“Apparently.” He crossed his arms over his Punk Planet t-shirt and looked at her expectantly. “You need something?”

Ella cleared her throat, looking down at the book in her hands. “Yeah, I had that Dorothy Parker I was telling you about last night and…” she paused, glancing at his dresser. “I’m sorry, Jess, but I simply can’t ignore this. Was that a Walmart vest?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

He straightened up, defensively. “No.”

“Really?”

“You heard me,” he shot back.

Pursing her lips, she nodded, unconvinced. She stepped a little closer to him, one hand on the hip of her skirt. “So, what was it?”

“A shirt.”

“A shirt with a Walmart logo on it?” she asked, her voice gaining a teasing lilt.

Jess scoffed. “I think you need glasses.”

A momentary staring contest ensued, and she watched him squirm under her hazel gaze. “Do you work at Walmart, Jess?”

Sighing through his nose, Jess glared at her. Then, he ran a hand through his hair and side-stepped Ella, making his way to the kitchen. “Fine. Yes. You happy?”

Instantly, a smile spread wide on her face. “Oh, so very happy.”

“Glad to hear it,” he growled, avoiding eye contact as he popped open a can of soda. He sat down at the kitchen table, facing the I Dream of Jeannie rerun.

Biting back her giggles, Ella came over to take the rickety kitchen chair next to him. Clearing her throat, she put the book in her hand on the table between then. She smoothed her slightly wrinkled Patti Smith t-shirt and tried to appear nonchalant, a smirk ever-present on her lips. Jess sipped his soda, eyes dark and moody, embarrassment underneath a thin layer of irritation. Nearly five minutes passed on the oven clock in the small kitchen, both of them watching Barbara Eden’s foibles in silence. Ella bit a little at her nails, but only to mask her amused expression.

“So...all this time...Shangri-la was Walmart?” she asked.

Jess sighed, rolling his eyes. “Eleanor-”

“You work at Walmart,” she repeated, chuckling a little.

“Whatever. You smoke,” he countered.

“Like, twice a year,” she said defensively. “When did you even start that job?”

Bowing his head slightly, Jess finally dropped the act a bit. “June. When you were in New Britain.”

She sighed, nodding, then brought a hand to his arm. “I’m really proud of you. I mean, you can’t waste all your people skills at the diner.”

Jess shook her off and rolled his eyes again. “Shut up. I move stock around on a fork-lift in the back.”

“Okay, tough guy.”

“And don’t tell Luke,” he said, finally looking her in the eye.

She shrugged. “Fine, I won’t. Cross my heart.”

“Thank you,” he snapped.

“You’re very welcome,” she replied, still grinning. “Seriously, though, it’s not that lame. Trust me. I think it’s cool. You have your own thing going, y’know?”

Jess scoffed in doubt but said nothing more.

Clearing her throat, Ella shifted her eyes down to her lap for a second, the tone of her voice changing. “But enough about your double-life, Mr. Bond. I just wanted to bring you that book. And also thank you for last night.”

Jess raised a brow, eyes on the TV screen. “For what?”

“I don’t know. If you hadn’t come along, my plan was to read Steinbeck at the lake, then sneak home and listen to Nirvana through my headphones,” she explained. “But instead I got to eat old pie and kick your ass at cards.”

“Such a sore winner,” he muttered, cracking a little smirk.

She laughed quietly, her fingers finding their way to her necklace. “And sorry if I was...I don’t usually talk about my mom. Not exactly a crowd-pleasing topic. Just on Mother’s Day and my birthday, I...You didn’t have to listen.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t do things I don’t wanna do,” he said, casting her a momentary glance, a small, lopsided smile on his face. It was more genuine than she was prepared for, and she had to look away as her cheeks heated up.

Rising from the table, she made to leave, hoping not to overstay her welcome. “Anyway, thanks. It was the best birthday I’ve had in awhile.”

Running a hand over his mouth, Jess blew out a breath and faced her fully again. “Anytime, Stevens.”

He looked as though he were about to say something more, but she could practically see him swallow it down. Instead, he got up from his seat and switched off the TV. Going over to his side of the apartment, she watched him grab a CD from the top of a small stack on his dresser. She couldn’t quite read the cover, but could see it was filled with shades of black and red.

“How long do you have left on your break?”

Ella looked down at her watch then back up at him. “Still have about twenty minutes.”

He nodded, gesturing to the CD. “I get fifteen percent off at the store, so I picked this up the other day. Just came out. It made me think of you. I thought you might wanna listen?”

“Oh,” she said dumbly, surprised. She nodded. “Yeah, yeah, sure. As long as it’s not jazz.”

“It’s not,” Jess assured her, chuckling.

As he opened his closet and brought out the small stereo, she took a few steps closer, arms crossed. She couldn’t help the fluttering in her chest or the way her cheeks flushed with heat. In all the time she’d known Jess, she couldn’t remember ever feeling quite so anxious around him. Quite so antsy. She almost couldn’t explain the feeling, but it wasn’t one she minded.

“I would’ve shown you last night if I knew it was your birthday,” he mentioned as he pressed play.

As the music started, he suddenly didn’t know what to do with himself. Sit on the bed? On his desk chair? Instead, he leaned on the desktop itself, hands stuffed in his pockets. He regretted the decision already, showing her the music. He’d meant to do it at some point, during one of their friendly book exchanges. But then the air between them had become charged again, and she was about to walk away from the moment. He wanted it to last just a little longer, time with the one person in Stars Hollow he actually enjoyed being with. Even if she didn’t feel quite the same as him, even if she never would.

Ella felt the slight vibrations of the music in the soles of her soles as she stepped closer to the stereo, picking up the CD case from his dresser. She turned it over in her hands. Turn on the Bright Lights by Interpol. It surprised her she hadn’t heard of them before; Lane usually kept her in the know about such things. They must have been very young, very new. But she liked it, the echoing guitars and the drums. Judging from the back cover, the song to which they now listened was simply called “Untitled.”

“They’re good,” she said, putting the case back down. “Different. I like it.”

Jess shrugged. “Figured you would. What with all that sad shit you listen to. The other songs are a little more lively. They’re no Fleetwood Mac, but…”

Walking closer still, she stopped when she was only a couple feet in front of him. Her heart beat with the music, and she swallowed dryly. Something was clicking in her head.

“Jess?”

He looked up, and his brown eyes locked with hers. “Yeah?”

Before she could rethink it, before she could talk herself out of it, before she could silence her heart with her head, she brought a hand to the back of his neck and kissed him. His shock was sudden but brief. Almost immediately, he wound his arms around her waist. And he was kissing back, sweetly, gently at first, then deeper. She was flush against him, smiling into it. The music beat quietly around them, and his grip was warm, and his lips felt exactly right. Ella wanted it to never end, for the moment to last forever, alive, and never cross over and turn to mere memory.

[laruna]

— interloper.

characters. lim yuri, min yoongi, kim namjoon.

word count. 21.1k

genre. angst, fluff, friendship, romance, slow burn

warnings. underage drinking, hospitals, car accidents, mentions of family issues

summary. when yoongi feels like an interloper, yuri reminds him that he belongs.

November 7, 2011. Big Hit Entertainment Building, Seoul.

While Namjoon signed his contract until earlier that year, he still had to wait until the dorms were built to move in. Yuri gave Hitman Bang an earful when she found out he had signed him as a trainee when the company didn’t even have fucking dorms yet, but Namjoon fully assured her that it was okay and quelled her rage long enough to stop her from biting the poor old man’s head off.

But it all worked out eventually. Namjoon moved in when the dorms were built back in August, and without the awkwardness that parental presence at his house entailed, Yuri invited herself over as often as possible, practically making the dorms her second home. 

It’s almost a kind of domestic bliss, the way her and Namjoon lived before, cooking for each other and cleaning up the shitty company building until they get so tired they fall asleep on the floor. Sometimes, if she’s really lucky, he’ll offer to let her share his bed. You know, since all the empty beds are going to be occupied by other trainees eventually, and it’d be rude to give someone a used bed, right? Of course.

It’s a Monday when they go to the dorm and actually find the bed across from Namjoon’s occupied.

“...hi.”

The new trainee’s name is Min Yoongi. He’s only a year Namjoon’s senior, but despite the closeness in age, he doesn’t seem willing to bond with them at all. If anything, he barely talks to either of them. According to Hitman Bang, Yoongi is from Daegu, and the only speaks so little because he’s still trying to get used to Seoul’s dialect and is embarrassed that his satoori keeps slipping out.

Yoongi only talks when necessary, like a coworker. They spend the first week or so not talking about anything but work—music, in their case—but even that they can’t be friendly about. Despite their similar interest in hip-hop, Yoongi and Namjoon have very different approaches to rap music. To music in general, really.

Yuri can’t help but feel as if Yoongi has kind of an edge over them. On top of being a year older, he’s also both a producer and a rapper. Yuri is only the former and Namjoon is only the latter, so it’s like he’s got the force of them both combined. She can’t help but feel a little bit small, next to him. 

When they argue about something in the studio, he tends to use this as leverage, telling them to just listen to him because he knows better about this kind of thing. That escalates into arguing, which usually consists of Namjoon and Yoongi yelling at each other while Yuri desperately tries to mediate the situation. The current tally she’s been keeping in her journal shows that Namjoon having won two arguments, Yoongi having won six, and Yuri having successfully distracted them from finishing eleven. She likes to believe that means she’s winning.

Hitman Bang begs to disagree.

He finds out about it one day when he comes to visit her when she’s alone in the studio. The old man never knocks before entering, Yuri notes the invasion of privacy with annoyance. Even so, he kicks it up a notch by glancing over at the journal she’s left open on the corner of her desk. He laughs when he sees the page headed argument wins, pointing to the to the tallies by her name.

“I’m not surprised you’re in the lead,” he laughs. “You’re a menace.” She cringes when she remembers his first impression of her. She wasn’t exactly… tactful about it, but it got the point across well enough. Now that he’s her boss, though, she worries it’ll give him more reason to check up on her, and she would rather selfishly indulge in having some alone time with Namjoon.

“I’m not!” she defends herself, flustered. “I just know better than to waste my time arguing with boys. My points are for when I stop them from arguing, okay? Not having to hear them try to bite each other’s heads off is a win for me.”

“Hm.” He purses his lips at that, regarding her with a look she can’t quite read. She hates how unreadable he is. Her instincts have rarely failed her, but the old man is one of the few people whose energy has yet to come to her.

“Don’t be afraid of fighting,” he tells her after a bout of silence. “They should be able to fight if they’re angry. You should let them fight, let them yell if they’re angry. Even fist fights are fine. It’s okay to fight. Fearing fights only makes conflicts grow bigger.” Yuri shifts uneasily in her seat.

“I don’t like fighting. I don’t like yelling. I don’t like fists,” she says. “I get enough of that at home.” She doesn’t mean for it to slip out, doesn’t even realize that it does until the old man makes that face.

“Oh, Yuri.” He says it more sincerely than she’s ever heard from anyone at the dad age.

“Oh my God, no,” her voice cracks as she speaks. “We’re not doing that. We’re not having, like, a moment. I’m not emotionally prepared for that. I’ll cry and I’ll hate you.” He just nods at that, before awkwardly clapping a hand down onto her shoulder.

“Just remember that you can’t solve everything between them,” he says. “Let them resolve some of that on their own. You won’t be around to resolve things forever.” It feels like a jinx, the way he says it, but she still nods along.

“Okay,” she says. Sounds like simple enough advice to follow.

“And try to befriend Yoongi, okay?” he adds. She wrinkles her nose. That one seems a little harder.

“Okay,” she says anyways. She’ll definitely try.

Namjoon wrinkles his nose when Yuri proposes inviting Yoongi to the Lim household.

“He doesn’t really know anyone else,” Namjoon rationalizes. “Wouldn’t it be a bit awkward for him?”

“That’s the point, dummy,” she says, “I think it’d help him learn to get along with everyone, is all. Including us, hopefully. I don’t know.” Namjoon sighs, if only because she’s been getting harder and harder to say no to these days. He’s not sure why.

“Alright,” he agrees.

Unexpectedly, it’s significantly harder to get Yoongi to agree.

“I barely know you guys,” he deadpans, and Yuri winces. The I told you so look that Namjoon shoots her doesn’t help, and only reminds her of how much she’s always struggled with making friends. 

Hoping to spare her pride, she persists. This is the only opportunity she has to have everybody over in a while—she doesn’t know the next time her father’s going to be working overtime and they’ll have the house to themselves. Knowing him, the old man would probably bite her and Kyunghee’s head off if he came home from work and saw everybody over on a daily basis.

“You can,” she offers softly. “Get to know us, I mean. Please?” 

Yoongi only raises a brow, seemingly unconvinced.

“We have alcohol?” she offers, but the inflection makes it sound more like a question. Namjoon smacks her arm at that, only for her to shoot him a look that says, What? It’s true! Awkwardly, she adds, “Also, um, free food.”

And that’s enough to convince him, apparently.

Yoongi looks starstruck when he first enters the Lim household, suddenly feeling very small. Or at the very least, smaller than usual. He was easily the shortest of the company’s trainees, second-shortest of everybody in the building, towering over only the perpetually tiny Lim Yuri. He almost has a heart attack when said tiny girl takes his shoes from him to put in the garage. It’s her big-ass house, after all. Shit, just being here makes him feel like he should be the one serving her.

Yuri and Kyunghee explain that their father is out working overtime and... doesn’t really say anything about their mom, but the others know better than to bring something like that up unprompted, so they don’t.

The alcohol is present as promised, provided by none other than resident adult, Ikje. Was it illegal? Yes. Was that going to stop any of them? In the words of Donghyuk, ‘hell nah!’

What terrible, terrible influences, Yuri thinks.

She’s never had alcohol before, nor does she plan to have it anytime soon. Not for any legal or moral reasons, mind you—with the amount of alcohol so freely available in her household, she could probably sneak as much as she wanted whenever she wanted. Personally, she just thinks it smells weird and makes her dad act like a crazy person.

She’s only fifteen, but they make it seem fun. They take the thin metal tail of the soju bottle’s metal cap and tighten it into a straight, brittle line. Everyone takes turns flicking it until Kyunghee’s fingers finally break it off. He makes a face when Ikje fills the shot glass in front of him with soju as punishment.  

Yuri doesn’t miss the way he side-eyes Donghyuk before downing it, like he’s trying to make sure that he’s watching. Like he’s looking for approval. She wonders if that’s how she looks at Namjoon. She wonders if that’s how Namjoon looks at her. He’s on her brain too often, these days. Namjoon, Namjoon, Namjoon. 

They’ve gotten even closer since they made up, and she’s learned a lot more about him since then. He’s still the stickler that refuses to drink in public where he could get in trouble, but he still still laughs and encourages the others’ antics in private, maybe even allowing himself a shot or two. He is also more than the sexless smart dude that she stereotyped him as when they first met, as she has come to learn through his awful, nasty jokes. 

She really was right when she said that he had a whole solar system in his head. Whenever he seems like he could fit into some mold, he immediately proves her wrong. Kim Namjoon is everything.

In contrast, Min Yoongi isn’t much to her at the moment.

When she turns over to look at him, she immediately feels bad for not really paying attention to him the whole night, especially when she was the one to have invited him. The only reason she’s even paying him any mind right now is because he’s just situated himself next to her at the table, as a now drunken Ikje has thoughtlessly occupied his previously-claimed spot. 

Yuri isn’t sure if it’s because he’s not comfortable enough to drink around them yet, but she finds the way he innocently refuses to drink is a little endearing in the same way she found endearing when Namjoon refused to do so back in Hongdae. Instead, Yoongi opts to eat his entire body weight in meat, and is on what she believes is his third plate of fried chicken wings. Respect.

It’s a nice environment, and Yuri really is still adjusting to the fact that this is actually her life. She has a solid friend group that eats and drinks and laughs and plays stupid games together in her house. It’s relaxing. It’s safe. It feels like home. They feel like home.

It’s when they hear her dad’s car pull into the driveway a couple hours earlier than anticipated that makes Yuri remember, oh yeah, home kind of sucks.

In the next few minutes, their living room descends into absolute chaos. Kyunghee moves to swipe all the food and shot glasses off the table and into the sink, Yuri helps load them all into the dishwasher, Ikje is scooping all the soju bottles up into his arms, and everyone else is drunkenly scrambling out the back door. Once they’re all collected, Ikje climbs out the back window, for whatever reason. She blames it on his batshit drunkenness.

Everything is in the clear by the time their dad steps in. The entire scene is inconspicuous enough, Kyunghee passing Yuri plates from the sink to load into the dishwasher like they just ate a nice dinner. They even go so far as to force awkward smiles for their father, but he simply nods at them in acknowledgement before rubbing at his temples and makes his way upstairs, clearly still stressed from work. Kyunghee breathes a sigh of relief when he hears his father’s bedroom door click shut.

“We’re good,” he says, clasping a comforting hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Go lock the back. I’ll finish up the dishes.” Yuri nods, before making her merry way off to follow her brother’s orders. She nearly jumps out of her skin when she’s about to lock the back door and sees a male figure standing ominously in the shadows instead.

She turns on the back light, and lo and behold, there stands Min Yoongi, eating a fucking chicken wing on her back porch. And he has the audacity to look surprised, like she’s the one who shouldn’t be there on her own porch. Heaving a sigh, she steps outside, closing the door behind her as quietly as possible.

“What are you doing here?!” she whisper-yells. “Why didn’t you go with the others?!” It comes off as more aggressive than she intended, but the last thing she wants is for him to get caught and in trouble when she’s the one that invited him over in the first place.

“Namjoon went to sleep over at Donghyuk’s place,” he explains awkwardly. “Ikje went to sleep over at Hunchul’s place and, uh. I wasn’t invited to either. Ikje dropped me off here from the dorms, so… I don’t really know how to get back to the dorms from here.” 

Yuri heaves a sigh. She’s going to have to give everyone a stern talk about the importance of camaraderie and the no-man-left-behind policy. After shooting a quick text to her brother, she uses the house key hanging off of her lanyard to lock the back door.

“I know Seoul like the back of my hand,” she says. “C’mon. I’ll walk you back.” 

“I don’t know how I feel about you walking back home alone so late at night,” he says. “It doesn’t sound very safe for you.” His genuine worry makes her heart warm. Those unexpected moments of sweetness he has always throw her off. Not in a bad way, though. It’s nice.

Unfortunately, the rest of the walk is significantly less nice. They spend the first ten minutes arguing over whether or not it really is safe for her to be walking back home alone so late. He feels bad that she’s out because of him, but she insists that it’s fine as she’s done so many times before. 

“Taking the subway home and walking home are two very different things,” he admonishes her. She resists the urge to roll her eyes at his patronizing tone.

“Relaaaax. I’ve got pepper spray,” she justifies herself. “Also, I hold my keys between my fingers.” She even holds up her hands for emphasis.

“I’m sure you could give a good stabbing if you wanted to,” he snarks. He doubts the tiny girl before him is capable of causing any physical damage, even with a deadly weapon in hand.

“Are you making fun of me?” she whines, and he snorts, because it really should be obvious. “I’m just trying to make sure you get home safely, and this is the thanks I get?”

Yoongi stops in his tracks to think about it for a moment, cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he does so. She obviously means well, as annoying as she may be. She’s also his junior, and when he thinks about it, he’s just being mean to her for no good reason.

“Fine. I’m sorry for being an ass,” he relents with flushed cheeks, more for his conscience than anything else. “It’s just that—I just like being alone with my thoughts when I walk, that’s all. You’re not annoying.” 

Or at least, not that annoying, he doesn’t say.

“I know I can be annoying,” she says so matter-of-factly that it makes him feel even worse. “And my brother can be the same way. He likes just thinking, too, so I can just be quiet if that’s what you want. I just want you to get home alive, that’s all.” His eyes soften.

“I’ll be fine,” he assures her. “I can defend myself if I really need to. I was on my school basketball team, you know. Boxing, too.”

“With these noodles?” she says bluntly, reaching over and taking hold of his arm. “And how did you get into the basketball team? Aren’t basketball players supposed to be tall?”

“You don’t have any right to talk about height,” he says, staring down all 150 centimeters of her frame as he snatches his arm back from her. “And my arms are not noodles just because I’m not built like The Hulk.”

“We can’t all be Kim Namjoons, I guess. He’s got biceps for days.” Yoongi gives her an amused look at that, and she flushes uncharacteristically. “Sorry. That was weird. Just don’t—nevermind. I’ll stop talking now.”

“No, by all means, keep going,” he teases. “As long as you don’t mind me telling him about it later.” She gasps at that, smacking him in the arm.

“Oh, so now you want me to talk!” she huffs, smacking his arm. “You will be telling him no such thing, Min Yoongi! You don’t even talk to him about that kinda stuff, anyway!” He laughs as he jumps ahead to get away from her playful smacking, smiling so wide that Yuri can see his gums showing. They’re cute. She decides that she likes them.

“You really like him, don’t you? Namjoon?” he chuckles, far too blunt for her liking. It’s a special kind of adorable the way that she so visibly shrinks at his words, he thinks.

“We’re not dating, I, um—” she sputters. “Is it obvious? That I like him, I mean.”

“Relax,” he says. “It’s not. Really, I don’t think he knows. I don’t think anyone knows except Kyunghee, and I only know because of him.”

“My brother knows?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck that guy.”

Yoongi laughs at her sudden vulgarity. She really got really blunt and fiery when she wasn’t thinking, even with her seniors like him. It makes things feel a little bit more comfortable.

“Relax,” he repeats. “I think he just knows you? Because he’s your brother, I mean. He was like, ‘I just have to tell someone and nobody talks to you so it’s okay.’ So I doubt he’s told anyone else.”

Yuri nods, inclined to agree. She’d never tell Namjoon about Kyunghee’s crush on Donghyuk, and she has enough trust in her brother to know that trust goes both ways. Still, she feels bad that the exclusion Yoongi goes through on the daily is so obvious, even to her socially-awkward brother. But she has her own relationships to worry about.

“Just don’t, like. I don’t know. Interfere in whatever is happening, okay?” she huffs. “You’re the only one who knows, as far as I know. I just… don’t try to plant any thoughts in his head, okay? I want whatever happens to happen naturally. Because he likes me for me, or something.”

“Spoken like a true romantic,” he says sarcastically.

“Oh, stop it,” she whines. Yoongi laughs.

“I won’t,” he assures her.

He doesn’t know when they started walking again, but it feels just a bit less awkward and stilted now. Yuri’s just a couple steps ahead of him, guiding the way. Wrinkling his brows, he stops dead in his tracks.

“This isn’t the right way,” he says. “You take a left here.”

“No?” she says. “The subway pickup is right here.”

“I’m not taking the subway, I’m walking, remember?” he says.

“What?!” she says. She didn’t mind the fifteen minute walk to the subway, but this was too much. “The whole way? The whole walk back to the dorms is like, an hour, Yoongi! Jesus, if I knew we were gonna be walking the whole way, I wouldn’t have come.”

“Well, you don’t have to walk me home if you didn’t want to,” he says. “You’re the one who offered.”

“I didn’t think you were a crazy person!” she huffs. “Why don’t you just take the subway?”

“I spent all my money on chipping in for dinner, how the hell am I gonna afford a subway ticket?” he snorts. “Look, I can walk however long it takes, but I can’t spawn food out of thin air like you guys can.” He tries to say it as casually as he can possibly manage, but the venom still leaks through. Her face visibly drops when he says it.

“Oh,” she says, her voice tiny. “I didn’t… sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Stop that. You’re being weird,” Yoongi says. 

He hates this part. He hates the pity looks he gets from rich people like the Lims who have year-long subway passes their father bought—who, by the way, probably gets to sit pretty in a big office telling other people what to do while overworked laborers like his parents carry the South Korean economy on their backs.

But he digresses. He doubts she’s the kind of person who’d want to listen to his long-winded spiels on the economy or the government or the Gwangju democratization movement, anyway. Really, he doubts she’s type to need or think about funds at all.

Much to his surprise, she does.

“Okay, but like—just to make sure—money for that kinda stuff isn’t an issue for you guys, right?” she asks. “Like, Hitman Bang is feeding you guys?” There’s a level of threat to her voice that reminds him of the story Bang PD told him when he first joined the company, of her marching into his office to make demands for her friend’s safety. Loathe as he is to admit it, the image of it is equal parts genuine and endearing of her.

And maybe that’s why he feels the urge to spill his guts to her so suddenly, then. Maybe it’s also the warm, almost disarming energy in the way she talks to him now that they’re finally speaking one-on-one, despite his previous assumptions. Maybe it’s how innocent her eyes look when they shine under the Seoul streetlights.

“You know, I… I used to make beats out of a studio in Daegu,” he confesses. “Most of the time, I’d get scammed out of them, though. The guys who went in and out of the building would rip my shit off or use them but never pay me back, so like… I didn’t make much. But I stayed there because I still wanted to make music and using the studio was cheaper than buying equipment on my own.”

“Oh,” is all she says, pressing her lips together in a thin line. It’s definitely not the kind of thing Yuri and her brother ever had to worry about, seeing as they were so well-off. Hell, they were giving away the shit that Yoongi was slaving his life away over for free.

“So I couldn’t really pay for food or transport that easy, you know?” he continues, against his better judgement. It’s the first time he’s ever talked to anyone about this, and fuck, it feels so good. He can’t stop himself. “In front of the studio, there was this Chinese restaurant that sold jajangmyeon for 2000 won, and down the street, there was this place that sold janchi guksu for 1000 won, and like… I don’t know. It sounds stupid, but I had to worry about that shit everyday. If I ate the janchi guksu, I’d be able to get the bus and if I ate the jajangmyeon, I’d have to walk 2 hours to get home. So. I don’t know. I’m just stuck thinking like that, I guess. I know it’s not like… a thing anymore, but I feel using public transport still makes me feel guilty.”

“Mm.”

“Sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”

“It doesn’t,” she reassures him. “I’ve just, um, never had to think about stuff like that. I’m sorry you had to, though. It sounds shitty.”

“Not your fault. Don’t apologize for something like that.”

“Okay,” she says, smiling up at him. “Thank you for telling me, Yoongi.”

“Uh. Yeah. No prob,” he says, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. His flush only darkens when she shoves a couple of won in his hand, and he realizes she’s been slowly guiding him in the direction of the subway station this whole time. “Wait, h-hey—”

“No, no, I don’t need it,” she says when he shoves the money back into her hands.

“But—”

“It’s fine,” she assures him, soft smile still gracing her features. “I’d rather not walk all the way back to the dorms. Just take it, you’ll be doing me a favor. You don’t have to pay me back or anything, either. It’s not that much, anyway.”

Yoongi frowns. As much as he wants to argue with her, he’s tired enough as it is, and he has no doubt she’d stay up all night just to stay here and debate this with him. 

“Okay,” he relents. She grins in what he believes to be triumph before gently taking hold of his hand in one of hers and placing the money back into his grasp with the other. She waits outside for the subway take off, like she’s afraid he won’t do as she says unless she sees it happen. When the train lurches to a start, he watches her figure retreat through the glass windows. 

There’s a stark contrast to her soft hands and the fussy way she thrust her money at him, he thinks. 

Lim Yuri is a strange, strange girl.

Namjoon jumps in his seat, startled when Yuri suddenly marches in, plops in to the studio chair next to him, and looks up at him with crossed arms and a very non-threatening scowl on her face.

“I have a bone to pick,” she says, and his brain immediately kicks it into panic mode as he rakes through his mind for anything that he could have possibly done to upset her within the past week.

Namjoon likes to consider himself a considerate person who wouldn’t want to upset anyone, but for some reason this feels different from pure consideration. At the beginning, Yuri was just Kyunghee’s kid sister who happened to help make good music. These days, though, she feels more like a peer than a junior, more like a friend than a dongsaeng. 

For whatever reason he can’t quite pinpoint, her opinion of him has become quite important to him as of late. The idea that he’s done something she disapproves of makes his hands sweat. Even so, he manages to keep his composure, nodding as calmly as he can manage.

“What’s up?” he asks, cringing at the way his voice cracks. The way she sighs as she scoots her chair closer to his amps his anxiety up to eleven.

“You guys need to be nicer to Yoongi,” she says sternly, “You all really excluded him last week. He said you guys all went to each other’s houses after bouncing out last week and he just had nowhere to go. Why didn’t you guys plan for that or something?” Namjoon droops inward, like a kicked dog.

“Sorry,” he says, face hot with embarrassment despite immediately trying to justify himself. “It’s just—it was just kind of weird because nobody is really close to him or anything. The only person he really talks to is Ikje, and they’re not really even friends. We didn’t know how to broach the subject with him, or if he already had plans or anything, you know?”

“You could’ve asked,” she huffs, “I mean, I walked him to the subway station so he could ride back to the dorms, so everything turned out okay in the end. But—”

“By yourself?” Namjoon cuts her off. “That’s dangerous. Did you walk back by yourself, too? That late at night? Something could’ve happened. Why didn’t you ask Kyunghee to do it?” Yuri shakes her head fondly at his worrywart antics, and he sighs in relief when she smiles. It’s a warm reminder that she’s really not that mad at him.

“You sound like my dad,” she giggles, gently shoving at his arm. “Stop that. I’m trying to be mad at you.” He can’t resist cracking a smile back at her.

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound apologetic.

“Anyway,” she continues, her tone considerably lighter, “Yoongi and I talked a bit when we were walking to the station, and like… I don’t know. It just made me realize how excluded he really was from everyone else. So can you just talk to him more, or something? And please try to get the other guys to talk to him more, too?”

“Yeah, of course. But for future reference, you could’ve called for a group discussion for this,” he chides, playfully adding, “I thought you were just mad at me for something. I really thought I did something wrong and didn’t know about it. You gave me a heart attack for no reason.”

“Sorry.” She laughs shyly now that it’s her turn to apologize. “It’s just—you’re the only one who really listens to me, you know? I feel like the rest of the guys kinda just see me as a little kid. I mean, I get it, because Kyunghee is my brother and Donghyuk is his best friend and Ikje is old, but like. I don’t know. I don’t feel like they respect me like you do, sometimes.”

Everything she says comes out in that nervous, rambly tone that she uses when she wants to keep things light, no matter how serious it actually is to her. Namjoon frowns.

“Sorry,” he says again. She shrugs.

“Not your fault,” she says, “I think things are gonna get better with Yoongi around, anyway.” Namjoon raises a curious brow at that.

“Oh?” is all he says. Yuri nods, like that’s an answer.

“He’s cool,” she says. “He was a little rude at first, but he got really shy and apologized when I pointed it out. Can you believe it? A man! Apologizing! Men never apologize, Namjoon!”

“I resent that statement.”

“Shut up, man,” she teases. They both chuckle at that. “Anyway. I think that you should try to talk to him, if anyone. I can’t tell you everything he said ‘cause that’s his business, but I will say that you’re both really passionate about music, so I think you’d get along really well.” Namjoon wrinkles his nose at her idealism, not quite sure about that one. 

He supposes she’s sort of right, seeing as music is probably the only thing he and Yoongi can agree on. Even saying that is a stretch, because their very different methods of music-making lent cause to many studio debates. It’d probably be more accurate to say that music was the one field in which they respected each other enough to discuss things amicably. If the conversation wasn’t about music, they spent more time throwing passive-aggressive one-liners at one another than talking about anything else.

“I don’t know about that,” is all he decides to say.

“It can’t be that hard,” she says, pouting. “Yoongi is a nice person. And even if there are things you don’t agree on, you can’t deny that he works really hard. So at least try? For me?”

“That walk to the subway really changed you, huh?” he jokes. He’s expecting her to laugh or roll her eyes or smack him or something, but she nods sheepishly instead.

“He gives me good vibes,” she says like it’s an explanation.

“There you go with your vibes again,” he says. It comes out a bit more passive-aggressive than he’d have liked. 

The atmosphere is a bit too fragile for him to start another debate, but it bothered him that she could dislike people like Hunchul because of the bad vibes she got from him, yet expect everyone to drop everything and befriend Yoongi because he gave her good vibes. She says that it’s just her intuition, but he thinks it’s just an excuse. Even without him saying all this, though, she rolls her eyes when she picks up on his implications.

“Yoongi really is a good guy, okay? I can feel it,” she tries convincing him. “I actually saw him smile, Namjoon. And he never smiles! And it was all cute and gummy! I know he comes off as kinda cold, but he just seems soft underneath it all. I just think he’s a person who’s been through a lot.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a crush on him,” he teases. For whatever, the prospect of that makes him more uneasy than it should.

“I’m being serious!” she whines, smacking his arm. “I’m not asking you to stop fighting or arguing with him or whatever if that’s what you want. Just… try to make up after you fight.”

“It’s just weird,” Namjoon admits sheepishly. “It’s not like I want to fight, so I don’t. Especially if it’s over something stupid. I just try to ignore the little things. But then all those little things pile up into one big pile of resentment until I get mad at him for something stupid and he thinks I’m crazy and I’m still mad at him and it’s weird.”

It sounds stupid when he says it out loud, but the way that Yuri purses her lips and nods in understanding as he speaks makes him feel a little less crazy about it all. She’s always been someone that people just feel comfortable around, and Namjoon himself is no exception.

“It’s not weird,” she reassures him. “Fighting isn’t bad, I don’t think. I don’t love it, obviously, but Hitman Bang said the other week that being afraid of fights is only gonna let stuff like that and make the conflict big and worse. All I’m asking is that you at least talk to Yoongi.”

She looks up at him with those doe eyes when she says it, big and hopeful and pleading, and he can’t possibly bring himself to say no.

“Alright.”

Ever since his talk with Yuri last week, Yoongi has been finding instant ramyeon cups in his desk.

At first, he thinks it’s a one-off thing, maybe Yuri’s apology for saying something she thought was insensitive because he made her feel bad and she needs to soothe her conscience. But once he’s run out, they quickly get restocked when he’s not looking, and he has to admit that it warms his heart. He didn’t expect his words to affect her nearly as much as they currently seem to. 

He appreciates that she doesn’t give him the noodles directly or even say anything about it. It lessens the guilt he already feels from receiving free food from his junior. Yuri doesn’t ask for any thanks or even any acknowledgement, not breaching the topic beyond asking if he’s eaten yet.

Lim Yuri, he’s come to find, is not as bad as he thought. A little naive, to be sure, but nothing like the selfish, spoiled little girl he’d conjured up in his head when he first met her. He feels bad for the image he’d once conjured up of her in his head, the little brat surrounded by shiny, foreign production equipment who was no doubt born with a silver spoon in her mouth.

Lim Yuri is kind and generous and even thoughtful when she wants to be. She feels too hard, so sentimental that she cries when a beat she’d been working on for the past six hours fails to save before her computer shuts off. He tells her she can just remake it, but she sniffles and shakes her head, saying that it just won’t be the same as the last one.

“That beat was, like, my baby, Yoongi,” she explained to him that day. “I can’t just replace it, you know?” He doesn’t quite get what she’s getting at, but nods anyways. Over time, he comes to find those weird antics of hers he once found annoying to be kind of… cute? Even if he doesn’t get them. Even now, as she whines cutely, all he can offer is a couple of comforting pats atop her head. He wishes he had more to give.

Maybe that’s the worst part of being the poor kid, he decides. Everyone is impossibly kind here, and he’s probably making an ass of himself by meeting that kindness with a cold distrust. So he brushes off their niceties knowing that he has nothing to give back in return, and thus is seen in a doubly awful light. He tries to comfort himself with the knowledge that at the very least, that prickly demeanor means that nobody is expecting anything of him.

After all, Yoongi doesn’t do well with expectations. He’s not the son his parents expected him to be, who’d get good grades and go to university in pursuit of a business degree or something before slaving away at a desk from nine-to-five everyday for the rest of his life, nor does he want to be. 

But he has to be something.

Hence why he’s in need of a job. Not one of the office jobs that his parents suggested, mind you, but a simple part-time job to hold him over on top of being a trainee so that he doesn’t feel like a useless moocher. Thankfully, he’s already got it in the bag. As expected, they can’t just hire anyone, so they’ve just got one little test for him before they can officially put him on the employee roster.

What he doesn’t expect is to run into Lim Yuri, numerous plastic bags in hand.

“Yoongi!” she shouts when they make eye contact, running up to him excitedly. He’s never seen anybody that excited to see him, even back home in Daegu. It makes his heart feel a little funny.

“Hey,” he says, “I didn’t expect to run into you. What are you doing? Are you alone?” As annoyed as she wants to be, she can’t help but be endeared by the concern she shows her, the same kind that he showed her back when she walked him to the subway.

“Well… yes. But it’s fine. I’m not a kid, you know? Don’t worry about me so much! Really, you just sound like a grandpa when you talk like that,” she teases, “I bet one of these days I’ll come into your studio and you’ll be sprawled over the floor because your back gave out or something.”

“Hey, Hitman Bang says I’m an old soul,” he jokes, a wry grin on his face. She rolls her eyes.

“That’s just a polite way of saying he’s surprised that you’re this young and already depressed,” she snorts, but he can tell that there’s no malice to it. Still, it’s so unexpected of her that he has to do a double-take before bursting out laughing. 

He doesn’t even notice the pedestrian light flash on until she links her pinky with his and walks him across the street. Surprising even himself, he can’t bring himself to really mind that much. In due time, he’s found himself growing adjusted to her touchiness. It’s kind of nice, when he thinks about it. It makes him feel a little less like an interloper. Makes him feel like he belongs where he is.

“It’s fine!” she assures him. He doesn’t look very convinced. “We’re in broad daylight, Yoongi. I just finished grocery shopping.” She lifts her bag-lined arms up for emphasis. “It was my turn this week. Kyunghee and I take turns with groceries since our mom isn’t around.”

“Makes sense,” Yoongi says. Now that she mentions it, they’d only ever mentioned having to avoid their father whenever everyone came over to the Lim household. He’d always just assumed their mom was out or at work or upstairs—never that she wasn’t around at all. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious about it, but it seems too heavy of a topic to pry about right now, especially when he already has somewhere to be.

“What about you?” she asks. “Where’d you come from? Or are you headed somewhere?”

“Work,” he explains. “Sort of. It’s just a part-time job. I haven’t technically started yet, but I’m going to. It’s a delivery thing, so I’m just going to test the delivery bike so that they can see that I actually know how to drive and won’t ride around like a crazy person.”

“Like a motorcycle?” she asks enthusiastically. “A real one? You know how to ride a motorcycle?”

“Yeah,” he says as nonchalantly as he can manage, secretly revelling in how much it impresses her. It’s cute of her, he thinks, the way she’s so wowed by the little things. It’s like every conversation with her is an ego boost.

“Can I come watch?” she asks hopefully, eyes glittering with excitement.

And how could he possibly say no to that?

It’s a little silly, how bouncing-off-the-walls excited she is when they get there. Even the old couple who own the restaurant he’s supposed to be delivering for are enamored with her, wrapped up in conversation about meat buns or something. She really is genuinely sweet with them, so much so that they barely take notice when Yoongi mounts the bike they’ve prepared for him to test-ride.

It’s an older Yamaha model, the ‘YD250’ on the scratched up by what he assumes can only be years of wear and tear. He thinks nothing of it as he revs the bike up to life, but before he can take off and begin driving, he’s cut off by Yuri’s voice.

“Hey, hey, hey!” she calls out. “You should be wearing a helmet!”

“It’s in the box,” the old man explains. 

“I’ve ridden without one before,” Yoongi mutters, resisting to roll his eyes at their safety concerns. And Yuri calls him the old person. Even so, he opens the delivery bike box mounted on the back of and reaches in to grab hold of the big black helmet so that he can put it on. “Happy?”

“Very,” Yuri says, sounding far too pleased for his liking. The old woman chuckles at their banter.

Yoongi takes off in a flash after that, quickly riding around the busiest blocks and most bustling streets a couple times, the image of Yuri’s enthusiastic eyes as he rode away on the motorcycle burned into his mind. It’s nice to be admired so deeply. It’s the only reason he’s still on board with the whole idol thing, after all. He doesn’t want to rely on his parents and their money for everything, though, so right now he just needs this job to help support his training. 

He’s officially got the job, they inform him when he gets back. They also tell him that Yuri has been vouching for him in the mere minutes that he was gone. She ducks her head to hide her blush at that, and he finds her shyness in the moment impossibly cute. It only intensifies when she pipes up.

“Can I join you? On the back, I mean?” she asks bashfully. “I’ve, um, never ridden one before. I just think it’d be neat. You can just take me home, if you want. It’s not super far from here, I think.” In any other circumstance, he’d say yes in a heartbeat, but she’s asking him this question in front of his employers. Thankfully, the two nod when he looks to them for permission.

He can’t but feel kind of mortified by the way the old couple coos at him when he takes off his helmet off and places it atop her head, taking extra care to fasten the buckle tight. 

“Cute,” she says. “But what about you?” It’s the little things like these that remind her how thoughtful and softhearted he is, even if he doesn’t really care to show it.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve ridden without one before,” he echoes his earlier sentiment. She doesn’t look convinced, but the old man speaks up before she can get a word in.

“Get your girlfriend home safe, alright?” he says, clapping his hand down onto Yoongi’s shoulder a little too forcefully. Both him and Yuri send each other an embarrassed glance at his assumption, but neither can find it in them to correct the old man.

“Yes, sir,” is all Yoongi says.

The ride back home is a lot less nerve-wracking than he had expected. Yuri’s soft from head to toe, he notes, like a little human pillow. Against his expectations, the feeling of her form pressed against his back throughout their ride in the city feels more comforting than restricting. So much so that he actually feels a little bit disappointed when they get to her house and she has to let go.

He helps her unload her groceries from the delivery bike box, watching as she takes every bag but one. He reaches in to grab it until he sees what’s inside—ramyeon. The exact kind that spawns in his desk every week. At that moment, he realizes that she left that specific bag inside on purpose.

“This is for me,” he says. It's a statement, not a question.

“Mmhm,” she replies. “It’s my favorite brand. It’s got that little egg brick in there, you know the one? These things are mostly carbs, so I think it’s a good source of protein. Good for building muscles.” He frowns, baffled as to how she can be so nonchalant about all this.

“You don’t have to keep doing this, you know,” he says. “I have a job now, so I can buy my own food if I’m ever craving anything beyond those cardboard chicken breasts Hitman Bang gives us.” Yuri giggles at that. “I’m serious. I’ve already gotta pay you back for the last couple of weeks. I’m not sure if my salary is gonna be able to keep up.”

“Hey,” she says gently, staring him down a bit more earnestly now. “You don’t have to pay me back for anything, okay? The ones I get for you are only, like, 1200 won per little cup.”

“Isn’t 1200 won kind of a lot?”

“It’s not,” she assures him. “It’s not that big of a deal. It’s fine. It’s really fine. It doesn’t hurt me at all. If it did, I wouldn’t keep doing it.” Yoongi pulls a face, not entirely convinced.

“You may not feel bad, but like—I feel bad.”

“Well you shouldn’t.”

“But I do,” he says. Yuri sighs.

“Yoongi—”

“It’s not just the ramyeon, you know?” he says, staring mindlessly at some spot on the ground. Anywhere but her face. It’s a daunting task when he speaks so earnestly. “It’s just—you do so much for everyone all the time. And I’m just—I don’t even talk to anybody.”

“Hey.” Yuri speaks softly, taking one of his hands between both of hers in what he thinks is an attempt to comfort him. Her hands are just as soft as they were that night by the subway, he muses. “You can’t blame all that on yourself, you know? I know the other guys aren’t the best at being friendly and inclusive and all that, but that’s not your fault. It’s more of a time thing.”

“A time thing?” he asks.

“We’ve all known each other for, like, two or three years before you came here,” she explains. “ So I think they’re just trying to get used to you? But they don’t dislike you! If anything, I’m sure they’ll like you soon. I mean, I already like you, so it shouldn’t be too hard for them to follow suit.”

“Okay,” he says, thinking nothing of the flush that spreads up to the tips of his ears.

Namjoon supposes that now is as good a time as any when Yoongi steps into his studio.

He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous. After all, Yuri points out, Yoongi is the one alone in Seoul with nobody to talk to. When she puts it like that, it makes them all sound like assholes. Maybe they are. But it’s fine, because Namjoon is finally going to be nice and converse with him about something not music-related. The bar is on the floor. All he needs to do is open his mouth and say something.

“We need to talk,” Namjoon says. He immediately knows he’s said the wrong thing when Yoongi’s eyes widen like saucers, anxiously backing up until his back hits the door like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be. “Oh God, no, not like that. You’re okay. You’re not in trouble.”

“Oh. Alright,” Yoongi says, visibly relaxing.

“I just, um. I wanted to talk,” he repeats. “I feel like I’ve been… mean? But I’m not trying to be. It’s just that I’m supposed to be the leader, but you’re the hyung. “And you also produce a lot of our songs—which I’m really, really grateful for, of course. I just don’t know how to talk about things as a leader without seeming disrespectful. I try to keep my mouth shut about it, but I guess that’s how things like that build up, you know?”

“My mom gave birth to me,” Yoongi says, seemingly out of the blue, and Namjoon laughs. It’s that loud, booming laugh of his that always fills up the whole room.

“What—?!” he laughs incredulously.

“Let me finish,” Yoongi says, hopelessly fighting to the smile off of his face. “My mom gave birth to me. My mom is older to me, obviously, and she’s done a lot for me, too. And of course I’m grateful for that, but that doesn’t mean I won’t fight her on some things. Doesn’t mean I have to agree with everything she says, because I haven’t. Neither have you—if we did, neither of us would be here right now. We’d be like, I don’t know, doing cram school or preparing for university shit or something like that. I think I’d resent her if that’s what I was doing right now just because I wanted to please her. That’s why it’s okay to fight. If we don’t, then all that resentment just grows.” Namjoon smiles fondly at him.

“You really are an old man,” he chuckles, prompting Yoongi to raise a brow at him. “Hitman Bang said the same thing, you know? About fighting being good, since conflicts just get bigger if you don’t fight.”

“Well… he’s right.”

“Wiser words were never spoken,” Namjoon replies.

“So no more not-fighting?” Yoongi asks. It’s so ridiculous, the way he has to phrase it—but Namjoon nods, so he supposes that it gets the point across well enough. “We’ll try to resolve problems instead of avoiding them completely.”

“No more not-fighting,” he agrees. “Resolving things. Not avoiding them.” He holds out a pinky.

It’s a ridiculously silly sight, Yoongi thinks, the way Namjoon’s large hand offers out a pinky for what he thinks must be a pinky promise. Seeing someone as big as Namjoon do something so childish is unfairly endearing. He must’ve picked up from Yuri, he muses. Yoongi can’t help but laugh.

“Did you just giggle?”

“Huh?”

“That was kind of cute, hyung.” Yoongi flushes a dusky pink.

“…shut up.”

Yuri doesn’t come in late on Sundays anymore, Yoongi muses.

She always used to come in late on Sundays, which was a stark contrast to her appearances right after school on weekdays and her early morning entrances on Saturdays. He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice before, but he supposes it’s a good thing that he does now. It means that at the very least, they’re taking note of each other’s presence. 

Yoongi does think it’s weird, but for as curious as he is, he is not nosy enough to ask about it. Normally, it wouldn’t even cross his mind to do so, but with the talk he had with Hitman Bang last week about getting along better with everyone, he’s having second thoughts.

Yuri may not be a fellow trainee, but she’s still a member of their team. He only just started talking easily to Namjoon, so Yuri is easily the most comfortable person to talk to. After a rather heated internal battle, he gives in and brings it up to her.

“I’m glad you come in on Sundays, now,” he says, as nonchalantly as he can manage. “What cleared your schedule up?”

“Oh!” she says, pleasantly surprised that Yoongi is taking the first step in making conversation. “My mama worked as a vocal teacher before she divorced my dad and moved away, so my little brother Daniel and I would go over there to help her, especially with translating stuff since her Korean wasn’t very good. I used to go over to help the other lady who works there on Sundays since she’s nice and I liked singing!  But Daniel handles all that now, so I’m free to work here with you guys.”

That’s certainly a can of worms. He’s learned more about her and her home life from this single conversation than he did from the night he was over at her house, but he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable by pressing further about the deep shit, so he keeps his digging as shallow as he can.

“You sing?” he says, and she flushes.

“Yes,” she admits. “But like. Not in front of other people. That’s scary.”

“Like stage fright?”

“Sort of,” she says. “It’s different. More like, scary in the sense that you have to share your art that you’ve poured all your heart and soul into for so long. Because then when people reject it or don’t like it, you feel like they don’t like you. On top of that, people also care about visuals and dancing and aegyo, and like… how am I supposed to fulfill all those categories?”

“I get that,” he says. He always knew that music would be a big part of his life, but he never imagined he’d be performing for other people. The thought of scrutiny had always made his stomach churn, but that’s basically all that idol life was. He’s not sure how he’ll handle it. “You don’t think you’ll ever be singing on a stage one day?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. Maybe one day,” she says. “Maybe if I was more… you know.” She grimaces as she makes a vague gesture with her hand.

“Mm-hm.” Really, he doesn’t know, but it seems like a touchy subject. 

He deems it better not to pry.

Big Hit and Source Music are due to debut a girl group soon, Hitman Bang says.

Unlike the boys, they’ve even got a name—GLAM. Yoongi, however, has yet to know the group’s trainees beyond seeing them in passing. After all, Source is the one handling all the management and promotion and all that fancy stuff. 

(Hitman Bang says he’d never be able to manage a girl group because he doesn’t understand women. It takes all of Yoongi’s willpower to stifle a laugh when Yuri says she’s not surprised.)

Meanwhile, all Big Hit has to do is help make their music. 

Yoongi feels a bit of pressure when faced with the prospect of making music for somebody else. Music has always been a very personal process for him. The thought of someone else interpreting his work was both exciting and overwhelming. While the prospect of someone interpreting his work or liking his work enough to perform it piqued his interest, the idea of someone either fucking up something he made or pitching his work to someone who’d only reject it was anxiety-inducing.

To his relief, that is not what he is currently doing.

At the moment, he’s currently mixing a demo for one of GLAM’s future songs, touching up the vocals so that they stand out above the instrumental’s bouncy synths. It has a nice vibe to it, he muses. It’s in English, but he understands enough of it to make out that it’s about getting ‘too close’ to somebody who’s supposed to be a friend. Hitman Bang must’ve purchased it from some overseas songwriter. He’s not sure why. It seems like it’d be an expensive process, and even after buying it they’ll have to translate it back into Korean. What was the point of all that hassle?

At least it sounds nice, Yoongi supposes. It’s a cute, pop-based little R&B track with airy vocals. The high notes are clear and smooth, with a distinct little squeak at the end of the high notes. It’s almost familiar, he muses, but he’s listened to a lot of music in his lifetime, so—wait a minute.

Yuri. That’s Yuri’s voice.

He recognizes those little squeaks anywhere, reminiscent of the whiny tones she makes whenever she’s being stubborn about something. It’s harder to pick up on when she speaks in English, which he supposes he should’ve assumed she’d know how to speak. He recalls Namjoon offhandedly mentioning that she was his English tutor a couple of times, as well as Yuri mentioning translating for her mom. Still, he’s never actually heard it come out of her mouth. It’s kind of jarring.

Against his better judgement, he asks her about it.

“Oh! Um, yeah, that’s me,” she admits, laughing sheepishly. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“It’s good,” he assures her. “Your voice is pretty. The lyrics you wrote are catchy. I bet you could be an idol, if you wanted to.”

“Uh-uh. I don’t think so,” she says just a bit too forcefully, “I’m perfectly content just producing for you guys. Seriously.”

“That’s selfless of you,” he says. She shakes her head.

“It’s actually a little selfish, when I think about it,” she laughs nervously. “To be honest, I think a big part of my support comes from living vicariously through you guys. Saying it out loud makes it sound kind of awful, but you guys are doing things I could only ever dream of doing. I’m just here to make sure you guys are as successful as possible at all the things you’re doing, you know? Even though I’m not actually, like, putting in all the work and being on stage and all that.”

“You could, if you really wanted to,” he says encouragingly. She shakes her head.

“I mean, I don’t think I look very idol-like,” Yoongi muses. 

“You do!” she argues. Poking at his pale cheek to emphasize her next point, she says, “White as sugar, just like old man Bang said. You’ve got that glass skin, you know?” 

“That’s because I don’t go outside,” he says, self-deprecating as ever as he swats her hand away.

“Oppa,” she whines in a way he thinks is unfairly cute of her. “Just accept the compliment, okay?” He rolls his eyes, but relents to her wishes anyway.

“Thank you,” he says.

“You’re very welcome,” she says, sounding far too pleased with herself. “Don’t be like that, okay?”

“Like what?” he says, wrinkling his nose.

“Well… you know. Mean to yourself about how you look,” she explains. “Namjoon is the same, which is sad. And also just not great for an idol, you know? You have to be at least a little confident in your looks, or you’re gonna be miserable every time the stylists dress you. It takes them longer than you’d think. Or so I’ve heard.”

“There’s not much to be proud of,” he deflects, not missing the way that Yuri rolls her eyes like that. 

When she raises her hand, he thinks she’s gonna flick his forehead or prod at his face again or something, but instead she places a finger on the tip of his nose. He furrows his brows together.

“What—”

“Your nose is cute,” she says matter-of-factly. He can’t help the strangled noise of surprise that escapes him at that, face growing hot as he flusters. “And your pale skin makes it easier to see when you blush, too. That’s a strong charm point as well, I think. You’ve got lots of charms.” He turns away, shaking his head in disbelief. 

Still, it’s nice to know that somebody thinks so.

Yoongi presses the end call button on his phone just a little too forcefully.

Another phone call, another argument with his parents. It was instances like these that made him not want to call them at all. He’s always in this limbo of guilt, grateful that they paid for his trainee contract while also being angry at the way they constantly voice their disapproval. He slams his phone down onto his desk in frustration. 

Apparently, it was louder than he thought. His studio door opens up a sliver, just enough for Yuri to peek her head in.

“Hey,” she calls softly. “Everything alright in there?” Yoongi pulls a face that makes it obvious that no, he is not alright. “Can I come in, then?” 

Upon his nod of approval, she files into the room, gently closing the door shut behind her. She walks over and settles into the seat across from his, sliding it over next to his so she can lay her head on his shoulder. Her touch is comforting, he thinks.

“Talk to me,” she says. “What’s wrong?”

“Sometimes, I think I should just… I don’t know. Anything to stop shit like that from happening,” he sighs. “My parents nagging me, I guess. Just go back home. Go to college. Get a nine-to-five. Have a nice family, or something.” And Yuri frowns, because she gets it.

It’s something she’s spent many days and nights comforting Namjoon over when he’s just had another argument with his parents over the same exact thing. She wishes she could relate or understand, or anything to comfort him—but she can’t. 

She’s glad the two can talk to each other about it now, but she can’t help but feel a little jealous that she can’t be a part of the conversation and can help them. She almost scoffs at herself for envying them being able to bond over their unsupportive parents. How fucked up was that?

Heaving a sigh, she hops up and takes a seat on the edge of his desk, careful to mind his production equipment. She swings her feet up into his lap, in that very casually touchy Yuri-esque way of hers. Impulsively, he brings a hand up to gently tap at her shin. She tries not to giggle at the ticklish sensation.

“Yoongi,” she starts, as seriously as she can manage. “Not to be, like. A downer or anything. But when your parents are gone, where would that put you? Stuck in a job you hate for no reason?”

“Six feet under,” he snorts, and she gasps.

“Not funny!” she whines, kicking at his hand. Her assault on his poor palm only gets worse when he bursts out laughing. “So not funny!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, but he’s still laughing.

“I really am trying to be supportive,” she huffs, a bit less childishly, now. “But I can’t like. Get it, get it, you know? The only reason I have any idea what to say here is ‘cause I’ve had this talk before. You know, if you two tried talking to each other more about personal stuff, I think you’d see that you and Namjoon are more alike than you might think. I’m not going to spill his business, but. I’ll just say that I think if anyone were to get it, it’d be him. It took some coaxing from my dad, but both my parents are okay with me pursuing music, now. As long as I took the producer route and not the idol route, at least. But still. It’s a good start. I’m lucky. I’ve got it better than a lot of people do, I think.”

“Would you?”

“Hm?”

“Take the idol route,” he clarifies, looking down at her shoes. “If you were given the choice.”

Sometimes, Yoongi feels like he’s never been given a choice. It feels like he’s been given every setback in the world. He’s never had the support or the funds or the hunger for fame that so often accompanied those pursuing music. He can barely remember why or when or what began his relationship with music, but he so vividly remembers feeling it, feeling like music chose him rather than the other way around. He can’t help but wonder what someone who seems to have been given almost all the choice in the world has to say about the only restrictions she’s been given.

Not much, it seems.

“Oh, um, nah. I don’t think so,” she laughs nervously. “I’m just—I’m not really pretty enough?”

“You are pretty,” he says, too quickly and too naturally to be insincere. He doesn’t miss the way that she ducks her head to hide the flush flooding into her cheeks.

This must be the vague ‘you know’ thing she was always talking about, Yoongi muses. He really should’ve picked up on it from the moment she said she didn’t look very idol-like. He’s never been the type to kiss up, so he hopes she knows that he means it. 

“You’re so—stop that,” she whines, embarrassed. She half-heartedly attempts to kick at his hand again, but makes no move to try again when she misses. “You’re too much.”

“I’m serious,” he says.

“I know,” she squeaks, hands flying up to cover her flushed cheeks up in embarrassment. “That’s the embarrassing part. Get some taste or something.”

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Yuri,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You always tell Namjoon and I not to be insecure about appearances, but you act the same when it comes to yours.”

“That’s different,” she whines, “You and Namjoon are gonna be in front of the cameras. I’m gonna be behind them. I don’t need to muster up any kind of confidence for that. Which is good. Because I don’t have it.”

“Looks don’t matter to me,” he says flatly. “But confidence does. I’m not gonna hold your hand and tell you that you’re pretty all day, even if I think it’s true, ‘cause you’re not gonna believe it no matter how many times I say it.”

“Ouch.”

“Let me finish,” he continues, “Even if it isn’t your looks, you deserve to at least be confident in something. Your music, your grades, your music, whatever. You’re generous and thoughtful. Don’t let society make you miserable just because all they care about is appearances.”

Yuri doesn’t say anything, her face still buried in her hands. More than a little bit concerned at this point, Yoongi flicks her forehead through her bangs. 

“Hey, you good in there?” he asks. She doesn’t reply. Just sniffles. Oh, fuck. “Uh, sorry, I—” Yuri shakes her head, finally lowering her hands.

“Don’t be,” she laughs nervously, still teary-eyed. “That was one of the nicest things a boy ever said to me. You should be, like, a motivational speaker or something.” He snorts.

“I can’t give advice to like. People I don’t care about,” he says, grinning awkwardly, “I’d just tell them to get their shit together and I’d get fired.” Yuri can’t fight the smile off of her cheeks at that.

She’s sure she’d know that he cares through his Yoongi-isms alone, but it’s nice to hear it from the man himself. He wouldn’t be giving this advice if he didn’t care. 

Min Yoongi cares about her, and it makes her heart feel warm.

Lim Yuri has become an unexpected addition to Yoongi’s delivery sprees.

Yuri’s arms, small and gentle, have become a comforting presence as they wrap around his waist. The old couple doesn’t seem to mind the extra person joining him on his trips, content with her politeness and the fact that she isn’t demanding any money despite providing help. They coo about the highs and lows of young love whenever Yuri arrives to join him on his trips, and Yoongi can’t find the energy within himself to correct them.

Things go on like this for a long time, hours, days, weeks, of this halcyon. Her arms keep him warm in the winter and her cold hands keep him refreshed in the late months of spring. The old husband hands them a bag of leftover food for them to eat together, an wistful smile on his face. 

They eat in the midst of impromptu therapy sessions, which usually consist of Yuri comforting Yoongi as he complains about his problems. It’s okay, though, because she likes to give advice and she likes how deep his voice is when he talks and she doesn’t have many problems of her own to complain about, anyway. When she does talk, it’s always lighthearted, talking about a song she wrote or something dumb Kyunghee and Daniel did or how cute Namjoon’s dimples were on that particular day. 

One day, curiosity kills the cat, and Yoongi asks a question that’s been killing him from the start.

“Why do you like Namjoon so much, anyway?” It’s something Yoongi asks out of the blue, so much so that he doesn’t even realize he’s asking it until it slips out. He’s not sure what he’s expecting until she answers, and when he does, he realizes that his expectation was literally anything but what she says next.

“No reason,” she says, and he’s so thrown for a loop by the words that leave her that he practically stumbles over his feet when he hears them.

“Wait, seriously?” he says. “I’ve read your lyrics, you know. You’re good with words.”

“I am?” she says, sounding far too surprised for his liking.

“Yeah. Which is why I thought you’d have a way better answer than that,” he says. “I expected you to talk about…” He pauses as he sifts through his brain for all the things that he personally finds attractive about Namjoon. “…I don’t know, his dimples or his height or his good grades or something.” All things that he lacks, Yoongi muses with insecurity.

“Oh my God. Those are all, like, great and all, but they’re not like… why I like him,” Yuri giggles. “He’s just—I don’t know. There’s a lot of things about him that make me like him, but I can’t, like, come up with an itemized list. It’s not like one day he reached a quota in traits I liked and suddenly I liked him. I just realized I did. I just… felt it. It felt right. He felt right.”

“Oh.” Yoongi feels a pang of jealousy at that, like an itch he can’t scratch. Maybe it’s because a tender part of him can only dream of being loved so dearly.

He silently wonders what it would be like to be loved by a person like Lim Yuri.

Namjoon has been feeling himself growing fonder and fonder of Yoongi in these past months.

Finally learning to talk to him without being all weird has helped with that. Without the formalities, they’re both able to speak a lot more freely. In the time that they’ve done so, the two have been able to talk about and bond over their rocky family situations and their choice to pursue music.

What’s fueled his fondness more than anything, though, is Yoongi’s little habits—the way he runs a hand through his jet black hair as he shyly recommends jazz and art study because they seem like the type of thing you’d like, Namjoonie, the way he always wears those grey jacket and sweats because they’re warm and winter is starting to trickle in, the way he smiles with his gums just like Yuri said he would.

Those two have gotten impossibly close lately, Namjoon notes. Now, he doesn’t think he’s the most perceptive person in the world, but it’s hard to miss the tenderness in their actions. Every time he steals a glance in their direction, they’re exchanging knowing glances or whispering softly to each other or linking pinkies in the way that Yuri loves to do so much.

It’s only natural to conclude that Min Yoongi and Lim Yuri are involved.

He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much. It has no reason to, right? But it does. He combs through his mind for any possible reason that it should. Maybe it’s because Yoongi, who’s agreed to be more honest with him, hasn’t told him about it. Maybe it’s because Yuri, ever perceptive, has been one of his closest friends for years and yet seems to have no intentions in telling him about it despite how painfully obvious their interactions make things.

The familiar sting of loneliness rises sharply in his chest when he sees them interact, like they’re in their own little world, with seemingly no room for him. He feels like he’s spying on their relationship when he shouldn’t be. He feels like a voyeur. He feels like an interloper.

Maybe this is how Yoongi felt when he first came to Big Hit, he muses. If this is how he feels just watching him and Yuri, he can’t imagine having to watch everyone who’s known each other for years talk and laugh together from the outside. The more he thinks about it, the more he feels selfish and ridiculous for being so bothered by it. After all, who was he to meddle in their affairs?

Maybe it’s high time he finds one of his own.

Yuri’s sheets are soft, Yoongi thinks.

They’re at her house today, Yuri not feeling very keen on having this conversation in the Big Hit building for fear that Namjoon might walk in on them while they’re talking about him. Right now, she’s half-heartedly producing something on her bedroom computer and venting to Yoongi as he lies on her bed.

She rants about how Namjoon has been talking a lot about girls lately, clearly bothered. She especially seems bothered by the fact that Namjoon won’t let her be as touchy with him as she used to be. Normally, Yoongi wouldn’t give a damn about other people’s affairs, but things are different, this time. While he’s not personally bothered by it, he doesn’t like the fact that it bothers her so much, for whatever reason he can’t quite pinpoint. 

Dear Lord, she even goes into detail, describing each and every pretty girl in a way that is far less flowery than he believes Namjoon would speak about a girl.

“And then there’s Jieun, who they all say is a good kisser. What does that even mean? Like, what the hell makes someone a good kisser? You just jam your lips together, right?”

“You’ve never been kissed,” he says, more a statement than a question.

“Yes?”

“Kinda late, don’t you think?” he says. Yuri gasps as she smacks at his arm, clearly mortified.

“No it’s not! Shut up!” she says indignantly. He’s trying to take her seriously, but her squeaky little whines make that hard.

“Sorry—” he tries apologizing through his laughter.

“You don’t sound sorry at all!” she whines. “It’s not funny, okay? It’s fine! I’m still young!”

“You’re sixteen already!”

“I’m only sixteen!” she huffs, crossing her arms and turning away from him. “I-I have time, okay? We can’t all be heartbreakers, Min Yoongi.”

“Heartbreaker?” he repeats. “I haven’t had a girlfriend since middle school.”

“I never said you were one,” she defends herself.

“You implied it.”

“I—whatever!” she huffs. “I’m saving my first kiss for someone special. And it’s gonna be somewhere magical, like under the cherry blossoms at the Goyang Flower Festival or on a picnic blanket under the stars on New Year’s or something.”

Oh my God. He’s trying so hard to stop his laughter. 

“Did you swallow a fucking romance novel?” he laughs. “My first kiss took place in the hallway after gym class, so like. Don’t be surprised if it sucks and you mess up and slobber all over them or something like that.”

When he turns to look at Yuri, she looks incredibly nervous. She’s come to a still in her spinny chair, nervously pulling her hair over her face as she ponders his words with utmost seriousness.

“Do you think that?” she asks, voice small.

“What?” he asks. Wordlessly, she sighs, wheeling her chair backwards over to where he’s lying on her bed. She cranes her neck back onto her bed, coming face-to-face with him.

“Do you think I’ll mess up my first kiss?” she says softly. Not that she needs to speak anything but—she’s so close he can feel her breath against his nose. He pulls away, face aflush.

“You’ll be fine,” he mutters, voice cracking. 

Yuri gives a huff, seemingly dissatisfied with his answer. She hops down from her chair—there’s an inherent cuteness in the fact that her feet don’t touch the ground when she sits on it, Yoongi muses—and up onto the bed, right next to him. He rolls his eyes when she settles onto her knees and urges him to sit up, too. He obliges, in spite of his annoyance.

“What was your first kiss like? Aside from the whole being in the hallway thing?” she whispers, like they’re telling secrets. There’s nobody else in the house but Daniel (who’s probably got his headphones cranked up to a hundred percent), so Yoongi can’t help but find her antics endearing.

“My first kiss was just a kiss. Nothing bad. Nothing mind-blowing,” he says with a shrug.

Even that’s a bit of a stretch. They were both gross and sweaty and their teeth clacked together. But he already feels kinda bad for making her doubt herself so much, and he doesn’t want to aggravate her worries.

“So how did… did you just…” she gestures awkwardly with her friends as she trails off, unable to articulate whatever she wants to say. He gets it, though. He always does.

“You just go for it,” he says, “It’s the kinda thing you just feel your way through. Just don’t think too hard about it. You’re good at doing things without thinking, so it should go well for you.”

“Gee, thanks,” she says, rolling her eyes at the back-handed compliment. “It’s just—I don’t wanna mess up in the future if I ever… you know.”

“Just say kiss,” he teases. “It’s not as sacred as you’re making it out to be. It’s just lips-on-lips. If humans never decided it was a thing to kiss people you liked, it wouldn’t be important at all. It’d just be an exchange of germs.”

“It’s important to me!” she bristles, so aggressively that it throws him for a loop. She takes note of her overreaction, coughing awkwardly before returning to her normal volume. She repeats, “I-It’s important to me. I just want it to be nice. I don’t wanna be disappointed. And I don’t wanna be someone else’s disappointment. That’s why I’m asking you this.”

“What are you asking?” he says, raising a brow.

“Augh!” She buries her face into her hands, miserably failing an attempt to hide her flushed cheeks. Peeking through her fingertips, she gently continues, “Just… hypothetically… purely for practice reasons… it wouldn’t count as my first kiss if you could, um. Help me. Try. Practice. I don’t know.”

The room goes impossibly quiet. She can’t say a word after that, the pair just staring at each other in awkward silence, him impossibly floored at the suggestion. Their faces go blank as Yuri processes what the hell she just did and Yoongi processes what the hell just happened.

When it all finally clicks, Min Yoongi has the audacity to fucking smirk, gums showing and all.

“Practice,” he repeats, no lilt to it, no bite. His attempts to remain straight-faced are to no avail, because her pouting up at him is all it takes for him to burst out laughing.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” she yells, pushing him back down onto the bed. “Just forget it! Forget I said anything!” She hooks a leg over his waist, pinning him down before grabbing a pillow and smacking him as hard as she can with it. The pain does little to quell his laughter.

“Get off!” he laughs in-between smacks. “You’re too much!”

“Are you calling me heavy?!” she asks, more fake-offended than anything.

“What—no! What the fuck made you think that?!” he tries to sound indignant, but he’s still laughing, and before he knows it, she’s laughing too. When the laughter subsides and the room goes quiet, they both realize what kind of situation they’re in. Yuri’s still got him pinned down, having just talked about first kisses. Kisses in general. Having just proposed that they kiss. The air goes tense.

“So,” Yoongi says, cutting through the silence.

“So.”

“I didn’t. Uh. I didn’t say no.” He has the decency to look embarrassed, now, cheeks flushed and eyes blown wide. “Unless you don’t want to.”

The two stare at each other for a moment after that, like they’re waiting for the other to back down. A Clint Eastwood-style duel of the eyes, so to speak.

“I won’t start something I can’t finish,” she says decidedly.

She leans in as promised,

presses her nose against his—

“I’m sorry!”

—and promptly places both hands over his mouth.

The motion isn’t harsh enough to hurt too bad—only a light sting—but it is very sudden. Yoongi blinks up at her a couple of times in surprise just to reassure himself that whatever that was actually just happened.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “For um—yeah. I’m sorry. I don’t think I can do this? Because, um, you know. If someone asks me when my first kiss was, I’ll have to say, ‘Oh, it was on my bed at like, 11PM when I was in high school. A-And that already makes me sound terrible! And then when they ask with who, I’ll have to say, ‘Oh, just with my friend that I work with so I could practice kissing for the future since I was in love with our friend!’ And that’ll be my stupid goddamn answer! And that’s… that’s, um… that’s kind of not very romantic…”

Her voice tapers off towards the end, quieting in what Yoongi thinks is embarrassment as she takes his hands off of his mouth. It really does sound kind of ridiculous when she says it out loud. Maybe Yoongi was onto something when he laughed at her for sounding like she ‘swallowed a romance novel.’ To her relief, his next response is anything but patronizing.

“Hey,” he says, “Relax. Don’t apologize for changing your mind, that’s just—that’s just weird. Don’t force yourself to do shit you don’t want to. That’s weird.”

She’s so close. They’re still nose-to-nose, breath tickling each other’s lips every time the other speaks. He awkwardly pats the back of her thigh a couple of times, which she reads as a signal to roll off of him. She obliges. Even though she knows he doesn’t mean much by that little touch, the intimacy of it still makes her blush. Thankfully, he can’t see it with the both of them laying back down onto the bed and staring awkwardly at the ceiling above them. Yoongi pretends to find interest in the faded glow-in-the-dark stars on her bedroom ceiling.

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” he repeats.

“Sorry,” she says again.

“It’s fine,” he reassures her, because as mortifying as the situation is for them both, it really is fine.

She blindly reaches her hand out to find his, feeling around until their fingers meet. When he fondly links his pinky in hers, the way she always does with him, she decides that a kiss isn’t the kind of thing she should be rushing into, anyways.

Yoongi just assumes it isn’t weird.

After all, Yuri settles against him so naturally, her face buried into his neck and her studio chair sidled next to his as he sits at his desk and works on mixing what he hopes will end up being a song on their first album, whenever that comes out. Were it not for the way that her breath hit the sensitive skin of his neck, he would barely even register that she was there.

Well. Maybe not barely.

She’s so warm, the way she presses against him. She’s always warm, except in her hands, but it’s fine because his hands are always colder. Her cold fingers thread through his hair, and it reminds him of how accustomed he’s become to her touchiness. It’s just a habit of hers, he’s since learned. She has a lot of little habits he once found weird, but now only sees those habits as things that make her Yuri. 

Yuri who hides behind her hair when she’s shy or nervous. Yuri who only wears half her jacket and leaves the other half hanging off for no reason. Yuri who wordlessly leaves ramen cups on his desk. Yuri who has to link her pinky with someone else’s when she’s nervous. Yuri who awkwardly bends her hands to link both of hers together when she doesn’t want to be a bother.

But it’s come to the point where she’s never a bother anymore. If she were, he wouldn’t have situated himself in her life as the outlier, the one person who coaxes her to talk about all of her problems because she’s the one resolving everyone else’s. Yuri taking always feels like giving, because he takes in her little habits and private thoughts that she shares with him and nobody else. It makes him feel more important than it makes him feel annoyed.

She has a special bond with everyone at Big Hit, and even with the Source Music and JYP trainees they practice with—she wouldn’t be going out of her way to force them all to resolve their conflicts, otherwise, even if they see her as nosy and meddling because of it.

In everyone being special, he supposes, he has gone full circle in no longer being special. Maybe he is, but he’s not as important to her as say, Kyunghee, her own damn brother, or Namjoon, who she stares at like he holds all the world’s answers. With that, Yoongi takes his place in her heart at a solid bronze (at the very most), which stings a little more than he’d like to admit. 

He hasn’t had much opportunity to grow as close to anyone at Big Hit—hell, anyone in Seoul—yet. Maybe that’s why he’s grown so attached to her like this. As sad as it is, she is quite literally the one person in the whole city that he’s close to. Listening to all her problems like this makes him feel like he’s just as important to her, so he can feel a little bit less pathetic about holding her so close to his heart. Even if the problems that she tells him reveal anything but.

“I’m so stupid,” she whines against his neck. Her warm breath gives him goosebumps.

“Jeez, you’re not. How many times do we have to go over this?” He’s been comforting her over this for the past half-hour now.

Namjoon has a girlfriend now. A tall girl from his advanced algebra class with great math skills and pale skin and sharp eyes—everything that Yuri does not have. He knows she’s insecure about it from the way she wrinkles her nose when she sees her reflection in the mirrors of the practice rooms. It makes him want to throttle Namjoon, despite him probably not having a clue.

“Sorry,” she says, her voice small, “For dumping all this on you, you know? I don’t wanna be that friend who only ever talks to you when I have problems. I kinda feel like I’m using you.”

“Hey, hey. It’s fine. Relax,” he says, feeling her nod softly into his neck as he continues, “It doesn’t bother me.” In fact, he prefers it, is what he doesn’t tell her. Humiliating as it is, he revels in feeling like he’s giving something, when he always feels like he’s taking from her. Like everyone is taking from her.

He knows what it’s like to be a producer, always behind the scenes of it all. She says she’s perfectly content with it, but he once said the same thing back in Daegu. But even when he chose to do things and make things for other people like this, there was always that underlying feeling of feeling like something has been taken from you. Sometimes it was just wanting the same amount of recognition as the people singing the songs you made.

Being young in society meant a desire for acceptance, and what bigger acceptance was there than fame? He recognizes the stars in her eyes whenever they practice with the other trainees in JYP’s big, shiny entertainment building because his own eyes held them once, too.

He’s still a trainee, so maybe they still do.

But for now, he’s letting himself dream small, living in the studio whenever he doesn’t have to practice those stupid dances Hitman Bang has them do. For now, music comes first, especially with his current job as one of the company’s main producers.

Producing is a lot harder with one hand, he muses, noting that she has at some point monopolized his left one when he wasn’t paying attention. He interlocks their fingers in spite of it all. With his ability to perform keyboard shortcuts impaired, he delegates the task of manually clicking things to his free hand. It’s annoying, but the feeling of her hand fit so snugly in his makes the inconvenience feel worth it. They sit like that for a while, quiet as one of her hands threads through his hair and the other softly strokes at his hand with her thumb.

“I like your hands,” she says. “They’re nice to hold.” Yoongi swallows. She’s so close to him that he’s scared she’ll hear how fast his heart is beating. To his relief, she says nothing of it.

“They’re just hands,” he says as nonchalantly as he can manage. “Cold hands.”

“Usually when you hold someone’s hand they get all hot and sweaty and clammy and gross, which is why I do the pinky-linking thing,” she muses, “Yours don’t do that, so they’re nice to hold. And they’re honestly not even that cold.”

“They are,” he argues.

“I don’t think your hands are ever that cold,” she says, her voice a teasing lilt. “I think you just keep saying that so you have an excuse to have your hands held. I bet you secretly love skinship.” He rolls his eyes, tightening an arm around her tiny frame.

“Watch it. Your life is in my hands,” he says, as flatly as he can manage for maximum ominosity.

With a squeak, she flies off of him like he’s on fire. He can’t help but smile, wide and gummy, at her Yuri-esque antics. Even when she turns away, shaking her head fondly, he can feel his heart swell in his chest as he looks at her. It reminds him why she’s the first one at Big Hit he was able to really talk to. Everything feels easy and comfortable with her, the way he felt back in Daegu.

His reverie is interrupted by Namjoon’s voice booming from the studio next to his.

“Yuri!” he calls. “Can you look at this for me?”

Hearing this, she does a little happy dance with her feet. It’s a habit he usually finds endearing, but right now it just makes his stomach twist. She waves him off, dropping everything—she even forgets her water bottle on his desk—to run off and attend to whatever Namjoon needs her for.

“I’ll be back,” she says in a sing-song voice as she’s out the door. 

He knows she will. She always comes back to him whenever Namjoon isn’t available.

Yoongi runs a frustrated hand through his hair, not sure why it bothers him so much. The fact that he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much bothers him more than anything else.

Yuri is awake at the Big Hit dorms at two in the morning.

This is nothing out of the ordinary, though. Whenever their dad was out of the country on a business trip, she always took the opportunity to stay out past curfew as a chance to spend her nights at the Big Hit studio while Kyunghee played video games with Donghyuk in the dorms. She always had to hide in the studio until early dawn so as to not get caught by Hitman Bang, who made it clear that he detested the idea of someone so young being out late just to work for him.

Today is different, though. Today, she’s in the dorms, taking a well-deserved break from work as she lays on her stomach next to Yoongi and watches a movie with him. She brought the DVD over from her house, thinking nothing of the way her father’s old American movies lined the TV stand until the day Yoongi bashfully mentioned wanting to watch it.

So here they are, watching a Korean-subbed version of Scarface on the tiny screen of his laptop. Yuri can’t enjoy the movie very much, finding it a bit too bleak and violent for her liking. And it just never gets better. It’s just hit after hit, one bad thing happening after another. She’s sure that if she squinted hard enough, she would be able to appreciate the cinematography and whatever deeper meaning the film holds, but that sounds like too much brainpower to be using at two in the morning.

Yoongi seems to find it interesting, though. He’s enraptured by every word that leaves the main character’s mouth, so much so that Yuri would be surprised if he forgot she was there. It really seems like he’s in his own little world. Instead, she finds her entertainment in his little gasps of delight, the innocent widening of his eyes, the way his grins of anticipation look as they’re illuminated by the dim light of his laptop screen.

It’s unfair, she thinks, how pretty Yoongi is. Perfect skin and catlike eyes and gummy smiles and he’s not even trying—hell, he doesn’t even have a skincare routine! God really does pick favorites. Yuri absentmindedly brushes a strand of hair out of his eyes, one he’s probably too entranced by the movie to notice. She hums softly at the way he leans into her touch without thinking.

She wonders if anyone is ever going to look at her this way.

There’s no time for her musings to continue when she hears what sounds like someone throwing their guts up in the bathroom. It stops for a moment before continuing, and Jesus, that sounds pretty brutal. She nudges Yoongi with her arm.

“Sounds like someone’s dying in there,” she says. He furrows his brows together in concern.

“Huh?”

“Someone’s not having a good time in the bathroom,” she says. “Did Namjoon undercook the chicken breasts again or what?” As if on cue, the poor guy is retching again, and Yoongi shakes his head.

“Jihoon,” he says, pausing the movie before he stands up and dusts himself off. “He hasn’t been feeling well for a while, now.” Yuri gets up and follows Yoongi when he makes his way towards said bathroom, cringing at the distinct sound of dry heaving as they draw closer. Yoongi knocks on the door before entering, his frown deep-set when he sees Jihoon hunched over the toilet.

“Hey,” Yuri says softly, stepping forward and placing a comforting hand on the small of his back. “Are you okay, buddy?” Yuri and Jihoon aren’t exactly the closest—of all the Big Hit trainees, Namjoon and Yoongi nabbed that spot—but he’s still nice to talk to, always offering to walk her home when it got too late like a good oppa. Seeing him like this breaks her heart.

“‘M fine,” he rasps, despite the pain in his voice telling them all that he is anything but. “Probably just food poisoning. No big deal.”

“Food poisoning for three days?” Yoongi says, obviously in disbelief. “It could be a stomach bug. Or God forbid, appendicitis. You really need to get yourself checked out.”

“It’s fine, hyung. I—” he begins, but the need to heave again cuts him off. Yuri rubs comforting circles into his back some more, unsure of what else to do. She sends a questioning glance Yoongi’s way, who looks just as concerned as she does.

“We’re taking you to the hospital,” he says. Jihoon groans, but doesn’t have the energy to resist.

The drive to the hospital is tense, Yuri filing in the back before Jihoon so he can lay his head against her shoulder and she can make sure he doesn’t throw up anymore. Meanwhile, Yoongi pushing is the edge of the speed limit, eyes darting back and forth between the road and the rear view mirror to make sure that they’re holding up okay in the back. Yuri sends him a reluctant thumbs up.

Yoongi insists that they take Jihoon to the emergency room, where they take Jihoon to the back. As soon as he’s out of eyeshot, Yuri watches with wide eyes as Yoongi takes out his wallet and puts down a hefty payment for the walk-in fee.

“I can pay for it,” she says, shaking her head as she fishes for her wallet in her own jacket pocket. Yoongi smiles, a bittersweet thing, at the unspoken words—she knows how much he’s struggled with money in the past. Even so, he shakes his head, reaching out to tenderly fit his hand into hers.

“There are worse things to spend my money on,” he says. “You can’t really put a price on anyone.”

Something in the way that she sees Yoongi snaps, then, but she has no clue as to what it is. She’s not sure if it’s the lack of sleep or the lateness of the night that makes her think this, but something about him reminds her of the moon, at that moment.

They stay like that the rest of the night, side-by-side in the seats of the hospital waiting room. Yoongi’s lashes flutter dreamily at the way a sleep-deprived Yuri noses against him, softly muttering sweet things against the sensitive skin of his neck and meaning every word.

“Your heart is warm, Min Yoongi.”

Yoongi can’t help but notice the way that Yuri’s wrap around him a little bit tighter during their deliveries, these days. More than that, he can’t help but notice how much he likes it.

He’s slowly accepting the fact that this might be a thing that he will have to address in both himself and with the rest of the Big Hit team later. Yuri being her normal touchy self was one thing, but him finding himself enjoying her touch rather than just allowing it was… new. It’s scary and exciting all at once, but mostly the former. For now, while it isn’t a problem, he chooses to ignore it.

He still puts the helmet on her head himself, pulling the buckles tight and making sure it’s fully secure before anything else. He takes extra care with it these days, tender in the way he always does it for her like it’s the first time. He feels like a little kid all over again, the way he cares like this.

It’s easy for him to psyche himself out of things, convincing himself that she’s just being all touchy because that’s how she is, but then she does little things that make him think it isn’t all in his head. Just last month, she gifted him with a black Yamaha helmet, covered with stickers of Kumamon and logos of brands he likes and Scarface, even though he remembers her having a pointed disinterest in the film while they watched it on his bedroom floor.

He never anticipated that he’d actually need it one day.

He doesn’t know how it happens, who went too fast or too slow or turned when they weren’t supposed to. All he remembers is tightening his arms around Yuri as they tumbled off the bike and onto the ground, hoping that she’d be okay. 

She always kicked in his protective instinct, being so small and so delicate. The thought of her getting hurt because she wanted to help him out makes him feel impossibly guilty.

Yoongi’s fading in and out of consciousness, vaguely registering Yuri’s voice sobbing into her phone on what seems to be a 1339 call.

“He’s—he’s unconscious,” he hears her sniffle, “Oh my God, he—um, no, no, he has a helmet on. His head is under the car. His body’s sticking out from under it. I just—I don’t wanna move him, ‘cause, oh my God, what if I hurt him? Oh God, what do I do? I don’t know what to—no, ma’am, the street is—um...”

When he wakes up, he’s lying in a hospital bed, groggy and miserable and aching to the joints. He’s in the emergency room, he realizes, the same one he drove Jihoon to only weeks ago. His heart sinks when the doctor informs him that he’s got an incredibly bad shoulder injury—no more boxing, no more basketball, he tells him. It was nearly dislocated, he says, so don’t move too much. Don’t put too much pressure on it. Just relax for a month or so.

This sends him into a full-blown panic. He doesn’t have a month. He’s never been much of a dancer—of everyone, she should probably be practicing the most. This sets him back far behind the others. How is he gonna catch up? How is he gonna make up for that?

As soon as the doctor leaves, the weight of the whole world hits him all at once. He can even feel himself hyperventilating, but is halted by the shock of a gentle hand reaching out to grasp his. When he turns, he sees Yuri sitting on the hospital chair next to him. Lord, he was so out of it he didn’t even realize she was there. She’s got bandages on her legs, but other than that, no major injuries. He breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey,” he says, slowly blinking up at her.

“Why did you do that?” she says, voice cracking.

“Huh?”

“You, um, kind of,” she begins, “…broke my fall? You held me. I don’t know. I crushed your shoulder. That’s why it’s all fucked up. Why would you do that?”

“I—I don’t know,” he admits. “I wasn’t thinking. I just felt like it was the thing to do at that moment.” She whines pitifully at his answer, squeezing his hand as tight as she can.

“I just feel like I owe you one,” she says. “Something. Anything. I don’t know.”

The tender part of him tells him to assure her that she has no need to do any such thing. After all, nothing was more important than other people—especially Lim Yuri—but the scared part of him takes over.

“Make me a promise,” he says softly. She leans in to hear him better, nodding as she does so.

“Anything,” she says.

“Promise me you won’t tell the others about this injury. Please.” Yuri furrows her brows and widens her eyes upon hearing this, obviously not expecting that answer. She practically rips her hand from his at that, pulling back from him as if appalled.

“What?!” she says. “Yoongi, no! They have to know about this!”

“They’ll worry. They’ll bench me. They’ll pull me out,” he says. “I promise you, it’s better if they don’t know.”

“What, so they can make you dance and exercise and all that shit with your injured shoulder? If it was sprained, that’d be one thing, but this is a serious problem! You’re only gonna hurt yourself further by not telling them.”

“I don’t care. It’s fine.” Yuri shakes her head.

“I just don’t get it,” she says, sniffling. “How you can care so little about yourself when I—when everyone—cares about you so much.”

“I’ll be fine,” he assures her. “It’ll heal. Everything will, alright? I just need you not to tell anyone about it.”

“Of course,” she says, as flatly as she can manage. “I owe you one, after all.” Yoongi knows her well enough to sense the bite in her tone. He rolls his eyes.

“C’mon,” he clicks his tongue. “Don’t be like that.”

“Don’t be like that, then,” she says, pressing her back to the opposite wall of his little hospital room. “It’s just—it’s just so stupid, Yoongi.” She slides down against the wall and onto the floor, looking impossibly small and hopeless in a way that only makes him feel guiltier. “You don’t have to pay anyone back for any of the nice things we do. You think we do all that just to kiss ass, or what?”

“What—no! Of course not.”

“Then why am I keeping this a secret, huh? Tell me that,” she says. 

Yoongi pauses for a moment, deep in thought. Every single thought falls upon him, all at once. He thinks of the evaluations next weekend and he thinks about his family back home. He thinks about the money they spent on his trainee contract and he thinks about the amount they’ll have to pay off, regardless of whether or not he debuts. His heart beats wildly in his chest. His head pounds away.  His lips press together into a thin line.

“There’s so much at stake,” is all he can offer as an explanation. What else can he say?

“All the more reason to trust us, then, isn’t it?” she says desperately. “Come on. No way anyone would let the company drop you. I’d fight for you, you know that! We’d fight for you. No one else can rap and produce like you. Don’t you remember what Namjoon said? You can debut before him, or he can debut before you, but it’s important that everyone supports each other, always. He’d be here for you, if he knew. He wants to be there for you. We all want to be there for you. You’re so loved. You just have to trust us. You just have to let us in.”

“Sorry I don’t remember every little thing Namjoon says,” he scoffs. “I’m not you.”

“Are you really talking about that right now?!” she bristles. “This is serious, Yoongi!”

“I’m being serious,” he says firmly. “You’re the one bringing up Namjoon while I’m lying in a hospital bed. He’s the leader. He’s the one I’m worried most about. The whole group is built around him. I don’t know if I can trust him not to tell any of the staff about this. If he does—, if anyone does—they have a reason to drop me as a trainee. I can’t let that happen, Yuri.”

He doesn’t know why he’s saying these things. He’s talking out of his ass right now. After all, he trusts Namjoon. He likes Namjoon. But the pain in his shoulder and the claustrophobia of the tight little hospital room makes him feel anxious, restless, paranoid. He wants to get up and move and run or do something. But he can’t, so all he can do is project every negative feeling bogging down on him onto other people.

“If you can’t trust Namjoon,” she says softly. “Can’t you at least trust me?”

A beat of silence is her only answer, Yoongi’s lips pressed together into a thin line as he looks away.

“I can’t believe you,” she says, voice cracking. When he hears her begin to sniffle and sob, he has to force himself not to look back at her, guilt and shame bubbling up in his stomach.

He doesn’t even get to see her as she storms out, slamming the door shut behind her.

Yoongi feels incredibly alone.

He really shouldn’t, though—after all, his family comes all the way down from Daegu just to visit him while he’s in the hospital. They bring him all sorts of different foods, agreeing with his complaints that hospital food really, really sucks. After repeated assurances that he’ll heal just fine, they ask him about trainee life, about his food, about his friends. On the third day, they ask why nobody else has visited him. He lies and says that they’re all too busy training, when in reality they don’t even know that he’s here. 

The insecure, self-loathing part of himself wonders if they’re even worried.

Rationally, he knows they are, because he misses them, too. They’ve been in such close proximity that it’d be impossible for them not to grow as close as they have in these past months. He chuckles softly whenever he thinks about the way they were so rarely separated, bonding and laughing over situations where Hoseok was using the shower while Donghyuk used the toilet and Namjoon brushed his teeth, all at the same time.

It only makes Yoongi feel worse about the last conversation he had with Yuri, making an ass out of himself over Namjoon of all people. Namjoon who he’s lived with the longest. Namjoon who he gives his shirts to when they come in two sizes too big. Namjoon who he holds so dearly. 

He wishes he didn’t have to be apart from everyone for so long to realize what an ass he was being.

It hits him the worst on the sixth day his family visits him and they bring him a cup of a very familiar brand of ₩1200 ramyeon. He saves the little egg brick for last. It tastes bitter in his mouth. 

As he reluctantly finishes his water, listening to his brother, Geumjae, and his parents chatter about their dog and their work and the weather in Daegu. Usually, catching up with them felt like a much-needed break, but right now he just feels restless. 

He’s been lying in this hospital bed for too long. Listening to nothing but their idle chat for too long. He’s been drifting in and out of sleep so much that he probably wouldn’t even know how many days he’d been in the hospital if his phone didn’t tell him. The repetition of it all ends one day when the nurse informs him that somebody’s coming up to visit, even though his family is already there in the room with him.

After a set of gentle knocks, Lim Yuri appears from behind the hospital door like an angel.

She introduces herself to his family a bit too formally, bowing more than she needs to, like she’s trying to impress them. It’s cute of her. What’s even cuter is the way she blushes and flusters in surprise when they ask if she’s a Big Hit trainee and she waves her arms around as she explains that she’s a producer. She looks nothing like an idol, she says. Geumjae jokes that Yoongi doesn’t look anything like one either. He glares at his brother from the hospital bed.

Yuri looks shy as she tells them something too softly for him to hear, but they nod in understanding and send Yoongi a knowing look as they file out of the door with promises to visit tomorrow. His cheeks flush in embarrassment as he realizes he’s going to have a lot to clarify for them then.

His flush deepens when she sets the plastic bag in her hands on his side table, clambering up the bedside to take a seat beside him. He moves to make space for her, revelling in the way the warm skin of her thigh presses against his arm. 

“Did you eat?” she says softly. “I brought you food.”

“Yeah, I ate,” he says. “Thanks, though.”

A beat of silence. She reaches down to grasp his hand, which fits so perfectly into hers. When he squeezes it, she squeezes back. Everything feels like it’s falling back into place where it belongs.

“I didn’t tell anyone, like you said. I told them all that you went back to see your family in Daegu. Said it was a family emergency that you didn’t really wanna talk about,” she says softly. “Told Hitman Bang, too. I think you should be okay if you want to stay here for the next week or so.” He shakes his head.

“It’s okay. I’ll be discharged soon,” he assures her. “Next two days, maybe. It won’t be completely healed, but I’ll just tell them that I fell down the stairs back home or something. I don’t know. Gonna try to play it off as nothing major.” 

She hums in reply, squeezing his hand again. He can tell she still disapproves of his secrets, but is willing to keep them if that’s what makes him comfortable. She slides down so she’s laying next to him, legs slotted nicely next to his. He feels a wave of comfort wash over him as she gets touchy with him, like nothing has changed.

Seeing as Yoongi has never been the touchy-feely type, one would think that this would annoy him. To his own surprise, it doesn’t. If anything, he finds himself reveling in her affections. It’s weird even to him, the way he likes her touch so much.

Wordlessly, she starts playing with his hair. She’s always liked his hair, she’s said before, all sleek and smooth—she doesn’t like her own hair and the way they curl at the ends. And he’d frown every time she talked about herself like that because he thinks she’s one of the cutest people he knows.

Not that he could ever tell her that without shrivelling up and dying of embarrassment.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts by her wandering fingers, which have moved on from playing with his hair to prod at his ears. The sensitivity makes him cringe, but it isn’t an entirely unpleasant thing. He gasps sharply when her fingernails nip at the shell of his ear in a way that feels like the sensitive skin is being bitten. Mortifying as it is to admit, the goosebumps that rise on his skin stem from a sensation more pleasurable than it is uncomfortable. It feels good. Suddenly, the touches that he once found curious and innocent—childish, even—make his face go hot.

“You have something you’re not saying,” she chides. “You can tell me, you know, if it’ll make you feel better.” He turns in closer to her, close enough that her breath tickles him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For saying stupid shit that I didn’t mean. I was jealous and stupid and angry.”

“Apology accepted,” she says immediately, trailing her finger back down from his ear to prod at his bready cheeks. “I’d forgive you even if you didn’t apologize, you know. I missed you too much.”

“I missed you, too.” 

She freezes, then. They both do. Yoongi doesn’t even realize what he says until it’s slipped out—it’s probably the most intimate thing he’s said out loud. The closest thing he’s ever said to I love you.

“Can I kiss you?” she asks suddenly. “I just—I know it’s not super romantic to ask, but I don’t just wanna do it without your permission, so—” Yoongi’s face burns a dark crimson as he cuts her off.

“Yeah,” he chokes out. “Go ahead. Please.” He can’t trust his voice to say much else. His hands are shaking.

When she presses her lips against his, everything feels different. 

It’s like every shitty romance movie he’s ever watched has come to life in his bones. Every cheesy metaphor—the sparks flying, the angels singing, the flowers blooming. It’s the way he finally understands why wars have been waged and empires have fallen for a single heart. It’s the way Yuri smells like cherry blossoms and whatever else is in her girly lotions. It’s the way he’s never felt like this before.

It’s different from his first kiss. It feels exactly like Yuri said it should feel. Maybe because it’s her. 

And Min Yoongi finally understands why Lim Yuri put so much importance into a single kiss.

Yoongi doesn’t know how long he’s been avoiding her.

It’s not like he immediately iced her out after the kiss. It was a gradual thing, each interaction slowly becoming more and more unbearable. The first time he can recall feeling things start to fall apart was when he made some rude joke that he can’t even remember now. All he can remember is the way she laughed afterwards, so naturally and so easily that he couldn’t help but to think about how everything with her was just easy. Easy to tease, easy to joke with, easy to share secrets with.

That’s how things should be, right?

And then it spirals. Makes him think about his girlfriend from middle school, a smart girl with pretty hair that sat in front of him in class, who began going out with him when he shyly asked her out via letter. He could talk to her normally before, could ask her for pencils and for homework help, but once they began dating he couldn’t even do that much.

It’s weird, the way he acted so differently once romantic expectations were set up. There’d always been this tense aura of awkwardness around them, and he could vaguely tell that it annoyed her, but he was too chicken to do anything about it. He never thought it could happen with Yuri, who he always felt so comfortable, but here he was now.

He feels pathetic, agonizing over this when she’s probably thinking about Namjoon. Even if she does like him back, there’s a clawning fear in his gut that tells him that he’s never going to compare. He wonders how long she’d do that, seesaw herself over to him whenever Namjoon was unavailable. Moreover, he wonders how long he’d let her.

Everytime her little hands found themselves laced in his, the rate at which his thoughts dissipated and his heart melted became laughable. If she asked, he’d probably let her do whatever she wanted with him forever.

The tiny, selfish little devil on his shoulder whispers to Yoongi that he would possibly-maybe-kind-of be more compatible with her than Namjoon. Even without thinking too hard about it, he knows it’s a terrible thought just from the way it makes his stomach churn with guilt.

Namjoon and Yuri have known each other for several years longer than he’s known either of them. He’s nothing more than an interloper in this relationship, and it’s conceited of him to even think he has any kind of chance when he probably isn’t even in the running. The possibility of being in the running scares him more than it excites him, at this point.

So he ices her out.

With how frigid he’s gotten, it should come as no surprise that she wants to hang out more with the trainees at JYP and Source. These days, she’s been over in their dorms more often than she’s been in theirs. He only ever sees her in the studio. Even then, he only speaks to her indifferently, replying to her when it has to do with music and brushing off her attempts at small talk. It reminds him of his interactions with Namjoon back when they first met, tense and awkward and professional.

And speak of the devil.

“Hey,” he hears Namjoon say, his voice deep and distant at his studio door. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” he says thoughtlessly, not even bothering to look up from the song he’s producing on his computer. That changes when Namjoon seats himself on the seat next to his and he can practically feel the air go tense, forcing him to turn and give Namjoon his full attention. The way that his leader, who was a year younger than he was, could command so much authority with his presence alone was both admirable and terrifying.

“You’ve been avoiding Yuri,” Namjoon says. He immediately knows there’s no beating around the bush with this one. Regardless, he pushes his luck.

“I haven’t,” he lies through his teeth. Yoongi has never liked lying about matters of the heart. If it were anybody but Namjoon, he wouldn’t have, but he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place. Namjoon sighs, obviously in disbelief of the lie. Yoongi doesn’t blame him.

“Look,” he says. “I’m not asking you to tell me what’s wrong, or what happened between you two or whatever. If it was between two members of this group, then I would have to. It’s my job as leader to be responsible for you guys. But whatever is going on between you and Yuri? That’s your business. It’s not my job to keep up with our producers, no matter how much I might want to.”

“But you do want to,” Yoongi clarifies.

“Of course,” he says. “I mean, she’s not just a producer to me. She’s my friend. And so are you. So I’m asking you this as a friend, and not a leader.” Yoongi raises a brow.

“What are you asking?” he says.

“I don’t know. Just don’t be mad at each other anymore. Please.” Namjoon sounds impossibly desperate, hopeless in a way that feels incredibly out of character for him. “I don’t like seeing you guys mad at each other. Remember what Hitman Bang said? It’s okay if you wanna fight or yell or whatever. Just sort it out. I don’t know what she did, or what happened between you, but everyone seems pretty miserable without her around, including you. So please make up soon. Please don’t be mad at her anymore.”

“I’m not mad at her,” he says, and it’s the truth. If anything, he’s mad at himself—but not at her. Never at her. “It’s just… weird. I don’t know. But I’m not mad at her.”

“You think she knows that?” he says, and Yoongi’s heart immediately sinks.

“Probably not,” he admits, suddenly feeling a large wave of guilt wash over him. Now that he thinks about it, she’s probably been blaming herself this whole time. Yoongi’s face burns hot with shame.

“Then you should let her know.”

“Hey, can we talk?”

Yuri practically jumps in her seat, eyes widening like saucers as she whips around upon hearing the voice of Yoongi of all people at the studio door. She hesitates for a moment, but it’s not long before she gets up to let him in. Over the months, he’d gotten harder and harder for her to refuse.

“Okay,” she says as she unlocks the door, letting him into the studio. They’re face to face now, so much so that his incredible closeness reminds her just how much he towers over her. He always said that he was short, but he’s pretty tall to her. It only makes her all the more nervous.

She hasn’t had the opportunity to talk to Yoongi alone like this about something non-music related in months. She can’t beat around the bush with this one—she doesn’t know the next chance she’s going to get to say what she wants, so she has no choice but to say it outright.

“Let’s not fight anymore,” she says, gently dropping her head against his chest. It comes out soft and sad and a thousand times more pathetic-sounding than she’d originally intended. “I won’t kiss you anymore. We can pretend it never happened. Just talk to me again. I miss you.” The way her voice cracks breaks his heart into little pieces.

“We’re not—we’re not fighting, Yuri,” he assures her, stern and gentle all at once. Hesitantly, he brings an arm up around her to rub gentle circles into the small of her back. “We’re… disagreeing.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you,” he says. “And even if I was, it wouldn’t be because you kissed me. Why would I be avoiding you because of that? I said that you could, didn’t I?”

“But you are mad,” she says.

“At me,” he clarifies. “Not at you.”

“Why?” she asks. “Yoongi, tell me.” He flushes, feeling incredibly trapped by the way her doe eyes look up at him. Refusing her wishes feels impossible, these days, so he supposes that honesty is the best policy in this case.

“Because I wanted you to kiss me again,” he admits, cheeks burning hot with shame. “Even though everything was fine as it already was.” Yuri blinks slowly at him upon his admission.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I think I get it,” she says, and despite being forgiven, he can’t help but frown at how understanding she’s being—it’s more than he deserves at this point, if he’s being honest.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s scary.” Words are hard right now.

“I think it’s why I could never say anything,” she continues. “It’s so easy to love someone without them knowing, because you get to live off these happy little fantasies of being together and everything being perfect in your head. I think that’s why being loved back is scary. Because then anything is a possibility. It’s kind of like—it’s kind of like finishing a really good webtoon.” He chuckles softly at the comparison, fondly bumping his nose against hers. “It is! Because then you have nothing left and you’re hit with that post-webtoon depression, because the fun and the fantasies and the excitement are over and then you’re left to deal with the real world. And sometimes the real world means that everything changes, or that even if the person you want loves you back right now, they might change their mind later on. And that’s scary.”

“I still want to be able to talk to you like we used to,” he says. “But I also still want to kiss you. I don’t know. It’s weird.”

“Kiss me, then,” she says. “We don’t—we don’t have to think about it or talk about it or decide anything. Just kiss me. Please.”

And so he does.

It makes him shiver, the way she seems to shrink when her back presses against the wall, the way she feels so small when he cages her between his arms, the way her tiny hands find purchase against his chest before travelling up to wind behind his neck.

Yoongi can’t find it in himself to be afraid at that moment. He’d kiss Lim Yuri forever, if she let him.

[bandrlodge]

Just My Type

Bucky x Plus Size Original Female Character: Briar Hawthorne

Chapter Summary: Briar experiences 6° of separation

Chapter warnings: general buffoonery, recreational drug usage (marijuana)

Chapter One: Design Client Anonymous

Briar smirked, pulling her coffee cup from the cabinet. Another night, another Natasha one nighter. Of course, she'd hurried them out as she heard her roommate stirring. She pulled Nat's comically small mug from the cabinet as well and prepped both of their drinks. One sugar for Nat. Five sugars and a heavy splash of Coldstone's Sweet Cream Creamer, for her cup. Briar heard the patter of her footsteps down the steps as she was topping off her mug.

"Morning, Nat." She smiled, sliding the mug over. She grumbled, ruffling a hand through her thick, red hair. Briar settled back against the counter, adjusting the neck of her oversized Manson shirt before grabbing the coffee.

"So...how was last night?" Briar asked. She sipped the coffee, relishing the warm hug now rushing through her bones. Natasha chuckled and downed her mug full in one gulp.

"Let's leave it with, slimy yet...satisfying." Briar gagged.

"Fuck you, you nasty bitch."

Natasha laughed, "I've offered, several times."

Briar shook her head, "I don't fuck where I sleep."

"That doesn't make a whole lot of sense." They heard a voice call. Briar's head snapped over to our balcony door, which was now closing on a very disheveled Clint Barton. His hoodie hung off his frame, obviously torn in a fight. Clint, was a character; the only one of Natasha's group that was ever allowed to meet her. She loved him and couldn't count the number of times he'd shown up, carrying pizza and begging to rewatch Avatar. One time, he'd even brought a dog, Lucky. From that moment on, he'd had a permanent invitation and open door to their place. Other than him, no one had ever been allowed inside the apartment and in the four years she had known Natasha, she'd never met a single friend other than Clint.

For good reason though; living with a semi retired Avenger was dangerous. She never wanted to try and draw more attention to our friendship and home by bringing home extras. Well, high profile extras, according to her.

"No one asked you, bird brain." Brisr smiled. Clint perched himself beside me on the counter, snatching the half full coffee pot from its machine and taking a swig straight from it.

She rolled her eyes and simply took another drink of her own, having learned long ago any war involving coffee was a war that would never be won with Clint.

"Oh yeah, Nat, uhm...Boss wants to talk to you. Says you should probably call him, like...an hour ago."

"So, we arent gonna address the bloodied knuckles and tattered clothes?" Briar cocked an eyebrow and glanced between the two. Nat shook her head, "Probably not. I'm gonna go make this call." A moment later she was gone, leaving poor Briar at the mercy of the blonde coffee fiend.

Clint finished off the remainder of the coffee sitting in the pot and scooted closer to me, bumping his shoulder against my own.

"So, how's work going?" He wiggled his eyebrows, flashing his side cocked smile. laughed, raking a hand through my hair. Her finger snagged into a blue tendril and pulling at it absently while she answered,

"Honestly? It's fine. That's it. I expected a bit more from a high profile firm. I took two cases from the lead designer and one from a coworker at their behest, but, there isn't too much to go around." Briar had switched from a solo home design firm almost eight months before. While being her own boss was pretty much heaven, she needed health insurance and there was no way she could afford those payments on my own. So, she took the newest Senior Designer spot at Legendary Interiors and the rest was history. Even with the small work load currently, Briar was pretty lucky with them. The base pay was substantial and there was always a fifteen percent commission for Senior levels. She had her health insurance and not once had she been asked to remove her piercings, change her hair color, or cover her tattoos.

"But, I'm lucky. So, I don't wanna complain too much. Plus...you should see the room I'm working on now. The case came nameless to me, but, the space is amazing. From what I can tell, I actually have the space to do all of the projects I've come up with. The proposal is being sent in on Monday afternoon. Hopefully..." Briar took a large breath, "its accepted." Clint nudged her,

"You're fantastic, Briar. It will be" He hopped off the counter, putting the now empty pot back into it's holder and held out his hand.

"Show it to me, Smurfette."

Briar laughed at him and abandoned her coffee cup to drag Clint down the hall to the design room. She flipped the light switch and pulled him over to the light table. Rough sketches of a modern penthouse with multiple greenery patches throughout the floorplan lay upon the table, littered with various colored ink marks. Clint sat on the stool and studied them for a few moments, chiding the blue haired woman for biting on her nails whilst he was doing so.

"This is great, B. The greenery you've used is so...oddly placed but, it works."

She squealed, "That's what I was going for. The client is a war veteran with severe PTSD. I wanted him to have the modern space he requested, but...he originally just asked for a little spot in the house to retreat to. But, I put a bunch of spaces around the house. Triggers arent confined to one space. So, why should his self care depend on getting to one specific area?"

Clint nodded along with her rambling, something obviously ticking away in that big brain of his.

She smacked his shoulder softly to get his attention, "Whatcha thinking, bird brain?"

He turned to look at his friend, a shit eating smirk plastered on his face.

"I know whose space you're designing."

________<_________<________<________<_____

Bucky had sent the proposal for a new design over to Legendary six weeks ago. By now, he had hoped to see at least a rough sketch. Except for a few short email exchanges between himself and the Vice President of Design, he had no information on who had taken his project nor, what they were doing with it.

He pulled out his phone and shot a text to Tony,

'You said that design place was the best, right?'

Not a moment later: 'Yes, tin man. Who got your project? Katherine? Jonas?'

'I don't know, Tony. I haven't heard from anyone other than Camille. She didn't give my name to the designer like I asked, which I appreciate, but I don't know whose working on it.'

Bucky managed to fix himself a hot cup of lavender tea before Tony responded with a name and a phone number.

'Her name is Briar Hawthorne. She's been with them eight months and is their newest Senior Designer. Camille gave it to her specially. That's her cell phone number. I had to schmooze for that. Use it wisely, old man.'

Bucky laughed, Tony schmoozing on his behalf was still jarring. But, thankfully, the past decided to stay in the past after the Thanos affair. There was too much to rebuild and too much to cherish now, there wasn't time for wallowing in past mistakes. He sat on his bed, pulling a sleeping Alpine tightly to his side and shot a message over to Briar.

Hopefully, he could get some information on his damn apartment design.

______<________<________<_______<______<__

Briar sat on the balcony, weary eyed, and staring at the text message on her phone. She took another inhale of her joint and leaned her head back against the egg shaped hanging chair she was in. An exhale later she was typing her fifth attempt at a response to him.

She took another drag of the joint and recalled finding out the identity of her client.

Clint had laughed for a good five minutes. Chuckling at the absolute fucking serendipity he was watching unfold. Natasha had come in as he was dying down and as soon as he told her - in a hushed whisper between two very best friends - she had also spent a full five dying from laughter.

Turns out, the client was none other than Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. A.k.a. the Winter Soldier. Natasha had complemented the decision on the multiple greenery spaces for relaxtion and meditation, saying that the Sergeant would like that idea. Clint had teased Natasha about how she couldn't hog their Smurfette anymore, knowing that the team would likely attach themselves to Briar quickly.

She reread the text for the hundredth time.

'Hi, Ms. Hawthrone.

My name is James Barnes, and I am the client whose penthouse you are designing currently. I know originally I asked to remain anonymous but, I wanted to check the progress on the design. I've not recieved any sort of update.

Thank you, again. '

He seemed so formal. Briar was stuck on how to respond, wondering if she should mention Natasha or if she should just be professional.

'Mr. Barnes,

Thank you for reaching out. I apologize that you have not been provided with regular updates but, I can tell you that the draft proposal and cost summary will be available to you on your account dashboard on Monday. I submitted my idea to Camille yesterday afternoon. Please don't hesitate to reach out with any other questions or concerns.

- Briar Hawthorne'

Professional, succinct.

Boring.

She hit send and stuffed the phone down beside her thigh in hopes that the cushion on the chair would muffle the vibrations so she could ignore it should he respond. Briar finished out her joint and pulled another from her cigarette case and lit it up.

She felt the dooming buzz of an incoming message on her thigh and groaned.

It was James.

'Could we maybe meet tomorrow and go over the plans together? I would feel better going over the plans with the actual designer. Not her boss.

And call me Bucky. All my friends do.'

So, they were friends now? She chuckled and settled back into the chair again.

Meeting a client off the clock could go wrong, there was no telling if she'd face repercussions on Monday.

But, the opportunity to present her project on her terms in her words...

'Yeah, sure. I can do a full layout set up on my design wall here at the house. Just text Natasha for the address. She doesn't let me give it out. She's a weird roommate.

And call me, Briar.'

There. She threw it in.

The frustrated groan yell from inside the house a moment later meant that Bucky was quicker on the draw than she would have thought.

_______<_________<___________<_________<__

JMT tag: @sea040561 @heli0s-writes @suz-123

Thank you to you, reading this. Yeah, you. You're awesome.

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

My Little Secret part 1

Summary: You’re a young adult attending grad school. It seems like any other normal night at your job, until someone in particular catches your eye.

Warnings: Use of alcohol and a little bit of violence, blood mention.

---

When you worked as a bartender at the local club, you certainly interact with clients from all walks of life.

You heard people’s life stories, complaints, rants and raves. You’ve been told secrets that wouldn’t be uttered from sober lips. Plots and plans spurred by an inebriated mind that never amounted to much past the initial conversation. Anyone from fresh twenty-one year olds to thirty-something’s past their prime, middle-aged people to treat their secret lovers, to senior citizens who were looking for a decent buzz to forget their fresh diagnosis.

You’ve lost track to how many people who’ve told you that you were a great listener, and all you would do is smile as you poured them a drink, pulling in the tips from their slippery fingers as the night wore on. It wasn’t the most glamorous of jobs, yet it allowed you enough to work your way through university.

Tonight was busy, as per usual on a Friday night. The club opened its doors about an hour ago, and both you and your coworkers were pacing back and forth, handing drinks and taking money. The crowd didn’t bother you, and the busier it was, the more time passed quickly. You recognized most of the faces, the usual partygoers from your school. They always flocked here knowing it was the only cool thing to do in your little town. Sure, the bigger city was under two hours away, yet somehow the charm of this place always pulled people back.

For a moment, the drinking orders had slowed down as everyone made their way to the dance floor, awkwardly moving along with the fast paced hip-hop that blared on the speakers overhead. You leaned against the shelf, taking a deep breath before pouring yourself a glass of water.

Before you took a sip, a new face appeared amongst the crowd, making his way to the bar. Even in the dim light, the pale luster that encompassed his features caught your eye. He locked his eyes to yours, and you immediately stood up straight.

“What would you like?” You asked.

“Whiskey on the rocks,” his voice gruff and toned with a deep southern accent. It wasn’t unusual as you lived in the south, though this little college town had quite a few students from other states, as you were as well. “Please.”

You nodded, moving to grab a bottle of whiskey and a glass with ice. Quickly making the drink, you handed him the glass as he placed money in your palm, telling you to keep the change. Giving him a thankful smile, your attention was quickly grabbed by other customers.

As more time passed, and people kept moving to and from the bar, you noticed the patron from earlier hadn’t moved from his spot. He seemed to be lounging in the bar stool, arms propped against the bar itself as he watched the crowd.

His face caused you to glance twice. You hadn’t paid attention before, though he had sharp, handsome features set against a pale pallor. Judging by the faint wrinkles, he couldn’t be older than his thirties. He wore a black leather jacket, though the fabric did nothing to hide the outlined muscles. His sandy blonde hair was short and slicked back neatly. His eyes had almost a predatory glare to them, which surprised you.

One of your coworkers calling your name snapped you back to reality. Taking a final glance at him, your gazes locked again, a stare so sharp that made you flinch. Looking away quickly, allowing yourself to be absorbed into making more drinks.

The night went by quickly, with you stealing glances to this peculiar man who somehow remained still as a statue. He’d move every once in a while to bring the glass up, though never to sip. He always seemed to be captivated by the crowd, those intense eyes of his focused without a moment of falter.

It seemed creepy, and you had to wonder if he was trying to scope out anyone for…other reasons. You made a mental note to let the bouncers know if he started to flirt with anyone. Hopefully it wasn’t the case.

You pushed the thought out of the way for now, focusing on other aspects of your job. Maybe he’ll move soon, and you wouldn’t have to keep sneaking looks.

Before you knew it, you were clocking out for your break. The strange man had since moved, disappearing into the crowd like a ghost. You still hoped he wasn’t after anyone tonight. Feet aching and hands sticky, you stepped out from behind the bar. From your view, the line for the bathroom wasn’t incredibly long. You made your way to the wall to avoid the crowd, easily dodging the mass of sweaty bodies.

Entering the end of the line, you leaned against the cool wall and let yourself space out. While bartending could be fun, on nights like these it was certainly exhausting. Drink after drink to demanding customers over and over with no time to let your mind settle. At least there were only a few more hours in the night, and you’d already accumulated a decent amount of tips.

“It ain’t polite to stare, ya know.” Said a familiar voice next to you.

The surprise nearly made you jump out of your skin. You turned to see that man again, leaning against the wall with his arms folded as if he were standing there the whole time. “Jesus!” you huffed, slapping your hand on your chest.

“Nah, not even close.” he chuckled without humor.

“Where did you even come from? You weren’t there a second ago!” you nearly exclaimed, off-put by his sneaky entry.

He smirked at you, a smile so bright despite the low lights. “You weren’t payin’ attention. I was just wonderin’ why you kept lookin’ at me all night.”

As the initial shock wore off, you ducked your head slightly in embarrassment. You thought you were being discreet about it. “How’d you know?” you asked quietly.

“Y’ain’t make it hard to tell,” he responded. “I know you were tryin’ not to make it obvious.”

The heat licked at your cheeks as your shame grew. “I…” you breathed in momentarily. “Sorry…”

“What’s so interestin’ about me anyway?” he asked, ignoring your apology. “Ain’t nothin’ but a simple man just tryin’ to enjoy his time out.”

The shame had dulled, a spike of suspicion beginning to rise. “Well,” you started with a cool voice. “I’ve never seen you before, most people here are regulars. And you never even actually touched your drink. You also just sat and stared at everyone dancing for a long time.”

“Didn’t realize it’s a crime not bein’ a regular,” he chuckled. “Or to just sit and watch people.”

“It’s creepy,” you said bluntly. “No one else does that. And frankly, who orders a drink and not drink it? Seems like a waste of money, and alcohol.”

“Can’t drink no more,” he answered simply. “Ain’t in a long time. I just miss the smell.”

“So, you’re a recovering alcoholic of something?”

“Or somethin’,” he mumbled, straightening himself off the wall. “Look, I won’t be creepy no more. Sorry for makin’ you think I am.”

“Well, good,” you said, unsure if you truly believed that statement. “Or else I’ll tell the bouncers to keep an eye on you.”

He snorted, shaking his head slightly. “Wouldn’t want that now.”

He left you a moment later, disappearing within the masses. You only shook your head and focused back on the bathroom line. What an odd man.

—-

By the time 2 am rolled around, the building was significantly less crowded, steadily emptying in the last hour. It was closing time, and the bouncers were slowly ushering the rest out. Your eyes scanned the remaining customers every once in a while in search of that man, though your efforts proved fruitless as he was nowhere to be seen. If he left, you hoped he kept to his word and wouldn’t try anything strange.

With the dance floor now empty and the only souls were you and another coworker, you finished up your final duties of the night. Your legs ached from standing for so long, your back tight from constantly having to bend over to grab bottom shelf drinks and other supplies. After a long day of classes and working this busy night, you were ready to collapse in your bed.

Bidding a goodbye to the other, you collected your stuff and headed out the back door. The parking lot was empty aside from your car and another. The sky was completely black, clouds completely covering the moon and stars. The humidity outside was stifling, a significant difference than what it was inside.

Aside from the crickets chirping, it was quiet. Not surprising for a small university town practically in the middle of nowhere. While you missed the atmosphere of your urban roots, you found some charm in this little one-horse town. The history of it is what attracted you in the first place.

Lost in your thoughts as you crossed the asphalt to your car, you were suddenly brought out of it when the sound of slamming metal caught your attention. You jumped and turned, expecting to see a raccoon rooting through the trash in the small alleyway next to the club.

Except it wasn’t some woodland creature looking for leftovers. The alleyway was casted in shadow, only partly illuminated by the light that hung over the back door. You squinted seeing some movement in the shadows. You heard…something…slam against the brick wall, the scuffle of shoes…

Your heart began to race, your fingers clumsily fumbling for your phone. It sounded like some asshole was taking advantage of a poor soul, and you briefly wondered if you initial suspicion of the man from earlier had turned out to be truthful after all.

You gripped your self-defense keychain in your hand, your phone up with the flashlight on in your other. You carefully approached the alleyway. The closer you got, the darkness seemed to loom out with a sinister aura. The source of the metal crash from earlier lay at your feet, a trash can that looked heavily dented.

An oddly muffled gurgle caught your attention. Your heartbeat echoed in your ears as you attempted to keep your breathing steady. Shining your light forward, catching the sight of two people in the beam.

It almost appeared as if they were kissing. One guy was pressed up against the wall, his head tilted back. Eyes wide and mouth hung open. The other guy, much taller…his head was turned away from you, his mouth pressed to the other’s neck.

Fucking drunks.

“Hey!” you called out to them. “You need to get outta here, save it for home!”

The taller man seemed to freeze, and his head turned slowly to you. Immediately recognizing him as the man from earlier, your eyes widened. He caught your gaze, that same predatory glare hot on you with even more intensity than before. It wasn’t until a second later when you noticed a dark liquid dripping from his lips, as well as it streaked against the other guy’s neck.

Blood.

You immediately spun around and sprinted back towards the parking lot. Feet hitting the ground hard, all you could think of was getting out of there.

Within a fraction of a second, a figure appeared directly in your path with such speed it was if they teleported. You tried to skirt around them, only to feel hands grip your shoulders, yanking you and spinning you around, feeling your body slam against the wall. The dizzying propulsion had knocked the wind out of you, gasping as your vision spun slightly.

A body was heavy on yours, an arm around your torso, keeping you pinned between them and the wall. You met the gaze of bright, burning eyes. The blood still stained his lips.

“I wish you ain’t have to see that.” He murmured to you, a growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

You still tried to wiggle out of his grasp, though his body proved too strong. He was a good head taller than you and seemingly made of all muscle. “Let me go,” you pleaded, your voice wavering. “Please. I-I won’t tell anyone what I saw!”

“Wish I could.” He responded, the coppery smell of blood wafting from his breath. You caught the gleam of sharp, elongated teeth. He covered your mouth with his hand, ice cold against your flushed face.

Your body shook from head to toe, pure terror pumping through your veins. You hoped your coworker would step out to see this, to call for help or somehow scare him away. Your eyes swiveled, trying to find any means of escape.

“Look at me.” He commanded.

You ignored him, not wanting to look into those inhuman eyes again. It may very well be the last thing you see.

“Look at me!” he repeated, the roar in his voice made you flinch. Reluctantly, you slowly looked at his face again. The anger still lingered, though softened slightly. “You’re a nice girl. Young and full o’ promise. I can’t let you go, but I can’t keep you either.”

The only sound you could make was a muffled cry. Would this be the last night of your life, or would he try to attempt something else? You wished someone, anyone, would turn the corner and see.

He continued to stare directly at you. His blue eyes were hypnotic in a way, steady and clear of any emotion at the moment. You began to relax despite the circumstances, a calmness washing over your body…

[measuringlife]

Measuring Me: Buuuut After This Week Things Will Slow Down a Bit

Week of August 4: My Birthday!  And Bad News

Lots of celebrations including friend visiting from all over the place. I get a call while at the African American History Museum while touring with dear friends and their baby who are in from Boston that my Mom is in the hospital with a broken hip. Kept birthday festivities scheduled as planned, including Jazz in the Garden with a wonderful crowd of friends who made me feel so supported and loved.

Week of August 11: Long Island NY - Round 1

I flew up to NY on Sunday night towards the tail end of my Boston's friends trip. It was grueling deciding if I should rush up there or not, but looking back I made the right decision. I couldn't handle all the business I needed to handle until Monday anyway. It was a flurry of hospitals, rehabs, doctors, etc. There was also going into my Mom's house after having not been inside for close to 2 years. My sister and I who had a falling out in the spring, made amends and were off to the races. Banks, respite housing, lawyers, notaries, a lot was handled in a short bit of time. Let's not forget I flew back to DC on Wednesday with a new addition, my mom's 4-year-old Chorkie (Chihuahua/Yorkie), Louie is ours indefinitely. 

Week of August 18: Fall Welcome Events, and Senior Living Tours

When I wasn't running 3 large orientations, onboarding a new grad student, supporting other major Welcome/Back to school events I was researching and email independent senior living communities near-ish me. Mom was surprisingly agreeable to not go back to the house she's lived in for 40 years and move down to be near me. However, finding the right spot was a multistep task. I wound up visiting 3 places this week and 2 more places the next. I also squeezed in a Hanson concert, and ACA meeting, a 90-minute massage as well as a mani/pedi this week. I've learned I need to take care of me before I can take care of anyone else!

Week of August 25: Grad classes, Vet visits, Musicals, Wedding calls, More Senior Living Tours, and back up to NY

This week was the first work of classes where I work, which was also the first week of classes for me as a brand new grad student! I had 2 classes, one Wed and one Thurs from 5:30pm-8pm. I actually had to race out of my first class which thankfully let out a little early to uber to the Kennedy Center to see am 8pm performance of Dear Evan Hansen - it was amazing! I also visited the last 2 senior living options for mom that week and had 2 Lisbon-based wedding planner calls. One planner was great, but her price tag was steep. One planner was rude and made me feel dumb. I had a wedding planning meltdown, but had a good chat with my dear friend SC who helped me re-group. I've been building (and will continue to build) a nice pot of wedding/honeymoon money. However, when I think about all the side hustles and sacrifices I've made for a lot of this money I don't want to blow it on "a party" that usually has more bells and whistles than we are interested in. So I'm hoping to plan a celebration vacation with loved ones and I'm working with a travel agent friend of mine. I spent Labor Day weekend back in NY, this time I drove - I left as the sun rose on Saturday morning and had a full weekend of bank nonsense, errands, got Mom settled in her "respite" stay at an assisted living community, went over senior living options with Mom, and going through my childhood bedroom - including my sister and I wearing our prom dresses. We took Freddie off all his meds because he health has not been improving and it seems the meds were only making him feel sicker - the change has actually seemed to help outwardly, but still super stressful. Also, poor Louie got neutered this week and was in a cone of shame for 2 weeks!

Week of September 1: NY, Grad School, Hiking, and Pump Official

I was in NY until Tuesday and then drove back down, I had another week of two grad classes, but after sitting through my second nutrition class I was sure that it was too much science and more work than I could handle. I ended up dropping that class before the add/drop period ended and felt relieved. I did another visit to Mom's top two senior living choices to view the exact rooms that were open. I also made time for fitness. I got a permanent gig teaching Body Pump on Fridays at 6pm, I had been long term subbing the class since April, but the instructor decided to give it up and I got to take it over! The half-semester Urban Hiking class I teach started this week, which has once again proven to be a delightful highlight in my life! I also squeezed in another concert too!

Week of September 8: Fitness, Mercedes Bastards, Injury, and Friend Dates

I kicked off the week with an all-day AFAA (Athletics and Fitness Association of American) continuing ed workshop that I had already postponed once due to my crazy schedule. It was really great though, I'm glad I went. I signed papers on a place for Mom which didn't come without its own Mom drama - but at least it was relatively mild. I squeezed in a couple of friends dates: manicures with AL, walk with LH, and a dinner date LB. I was still chugging through my one grad class, but having some concerns about if this program was the right direction for me, it's much more Public Health-oriented than the Fitness and Wellness aspect of health I'm truly interested in. I had a bunch of petsitting clients and have had them during all the previous crazy weeks. I already separately about the ordeal with my Mom's leased car, but Mercedes are crooks! I had toyed with officially taking over the lease, but there is like a $1500 transfer fee that "they can't waive." There's no way they are getting a penny more than we have to pay. I made a bunch of calls to NY based insurance folks I know as well as talked to my mom's insurance agency and my insurance agency to make sure when I start driving her car everything is squared away. Also, this week my colleague aka one other coworker because I manage an office of two had a personal injury that had her out of the office for about a week. As I well know, life happens, but it started to feel like when it rains it pours....

Week of Sept 15: Drag Brunch, Euro Trips, a Resignation, and Back to NY for an Explosive Visit

I kicked off this week with a highly anticipated Sunday Funday with some fabulous work friends. I got all dolled up and headed to a drag brunch in DC which led to gay bar-hopping on a beautiful afternoon. Despite making my way home at 6pm, I still felt like trash most of Monday, but thankfully I was off. I did have my first celebration vacation in Portugal call with my friend DR who is a travel agent. It was a really exciting call and the fact that I know DR already makes things a lot easier. We have a plan for me to make the most of my scouting trip in November which is a relief. I was having a particularly busy week and was just pushing through until we get Mom moved, when my coworker (aka person 2 of our 2 person department) drop a bomb on me, she got a new job and is resigning effective 10/10 which is 3 weeks notice. I can say I'm surprised she's a great employee, had a tough job, and has been with me for almost 2.5 years. I was more shocked by her not giving me any sort of heads up. I went to a tailspin back in Jan 2017 when the other half of my office left and I was alone. Thankfully I am not 5 months into my job like I was then, this time of year is honestly "the best" time to be short-staffed and I am looking to do a re-org that hopefully would make things even better in the future. However, it means a lot more work on me all the way around. I head back to NY via train this time! I actually had my Urban Hiking class start and end at Union Station which made for a great hike and for me to easily make a 4:15pm train. Saturday night was just pizza and wine with my sister. Sunday we headed to Long Island to see my Mom. We needed a durable power of attorney signed - the one we did when my Mom was first in the hospital didn't cover as much as we need and my sister and I need the power to act on my Mother's behalf independently since I'll be handling VA business and my sister is handling NY business. My sister has a friend who is a notary and the friend was also going to on LI visiting family and agreed to come to Mom's assisted living place to have us all sign paperwork. Well, my Mom out of the blue demanded cigarettes and wine before agreeing to sign the papers. This was extremely hurtful. Most of you know my Mother is an alcoholic. Did she fall down down the stairs and break her hip because she was drunk, it's possible. Has her drinking made my life a nightmare especially the last few years? Yes. Having her hospitalized and in the care of others meant she wasn't drinking, she was actually taking her meds, and she had company and therefore didn't need to call me all the G-D time. Well, apparently my Mom's sister bought her cigarettes the week the before (WHY?!?!). My Mom was having bullshit anxiety over an eye doctor appointment because for the 15th time she's convinced she's going blind (she's not, she's fine). She NEEDED the wine and cigarettes and threw a tantrum right in the lobby, right in front of my sister's notary friend (who at least knows some of my Mom's craziness), it was horrifying and embarrassing. My sister started crying and here I am trying to keep it together. I tried to explain to Mom that her drinking was hurtful to us, especially since we've both dropped everything to tend to her situation. I explained that it feels like she is choosing wine over us and she didn't deny it. I needed these papers signed so I conceded and said after we did house stuff that day I'd take her to buy cigarettes, but I don't want to be anywhere near her when or soon after she's been drinking. After some more bank business and errands, I dropped her at a liquor store (walker and all) to get herself her precious wine. I told her I needed to cool off and needed a break from her for a few days, I would call her when I was ready. 

Week of September 22: Grad School Drop Out, Wedding Planning, & Car Sales

As I drove back to DC on Monday knowing that I didn't get a chance to do my reading for grad school or work on a paper, I felt stressed (plus the stress of driving my Mom's brand new Mercedes 300 miles to DC as essentially it's maiden voyage). I have so much stress on between Mom stuff, being an office of one, wedding stuff and just general life I was at my max. The class was something I could do something about. I emailed the professor asking for an extension (I automatically have more compassion for my students now), but also let him know I was investigated dropping the class. Since add/drop and the refund period was over I was worried that since this class was being paid for my employer's tuition benefit that there might be some major financial implication. I reached out to the department chair and the HR benefits lady. The way the benefits work and the fact I hadn't used them before means I'm not on the hook for the $5000+ tuition or any of the taxes related. There is only a $27 gap that I will pay taxes on, OKAY. So I dropped the class and ultimately withdrew from the grad certificate program. I feel major relief, not only over this semester, but over the next 2 years that I had penciled in grad school for. I quickly realized that the AFAA professional development workshop is more in line with what I want than anything overly academic - I mean I already have a masters. I think eventually may get an AFAA nutrition certificate which is far less intensive and way more applicable than the route I was going to take. Now with my Wednesdays free again, I was able to make my triumphant return to my Adult Children of Alcoholics (ACA) meeting and I was so happy to be there with my people. I also tried to carve out more time this week for wedding stuff. Talked through my new vacation celebration idea with some friends who will be on the invite list, talked more with my travel agent D, and with my friend DM who is traveling with me for the scouting trip. I'm feeling more focused and ready to make decisions. I also sold my 2007 Camry to a coworker who happened to be in the market for a reliable used car, just as I was learning that I would be driving my mom's car and therefore wanted to sell mine. We hit a couple of snags, like the fact that my car's aftermarket tints that came on the car when I bought them were too dark to pass MD inspection. Or that I needed to sign the back of the title over to my friend, the buyer. She learned AFTER spending 3 hours at the DMV, oops! I cleaned the car out and removed my stickers from the window and bumper - that 26.2 sticker did not want to budge!

What will the next 2 weeks hold is yet to be fully seen, but here's the summary I'm expecting

Week of September 29: Senior living lease signing, 1000 last-minute Mom things, ACA, Running a 2,000 person Family/Alumni Weekend, Teaching my last Urban Hiking class of the semester and driving to NY with my fiance T and Freddie (we don't Louie thinking he is going back). 

Week of October 6: Pack up the stuff that's going to VA with my Mom in a U-Haul van T is driving, I'm driving my Mom down (AKA the woman who hasn't left NY state in at least 10 years), move her into her new place, have two last days in the office having transition meeting with my colleague before she leaves on 10/10, I also have birthday celebration plans for T and my friend SL whose birthdays are this week. Also, it's my Mom's birthday so I imagine we'll be taking her out. 

[quicksilversquared]

How to Fake a Marriage: Chapter 43

links in the reblog

"I've got another in-person interview scheduled over the break!"

Marinette grinned as she stepped into her apartment and was greeted with an armful of excited boyfriend. Adrien's excitement was the best way to perk her up after a long day. "No way! Which one is it with?"

Adrien was practically bouncing in place as he stepped back to let her in through the door properly. "It's the one I really, really wanted, with the most opportunities to stay on afterwards and advance in the company. I'll get to tour the premises and talk to some of the current interns afterwards. And I scheduled it for after the first one, so..." Adrien let out a little breath, quick and excited. "Hopefully I can work off all of my nerves by that interview. I've let Nathalie know, and she's already had to reschedule a photoshoot."

"Was she upset?"

Adrien shrugged. "Exasperated, maybe, since it's only a week and a half notice. But I warned her that something like this might happen. I warned both her and my father and my father insisted on scheduling the photoshoot for then anyway. They can't be unhappy with me when it's their own fault." His grin returned full force. "Oh, I'm so excited!"

"I'm so proud of you!" Marinette told him with a grin. The phone and Skype interviews that Adrien had done earlier in the semester had made him simultaneously hopeful and really, really worried that he would mess them all up and not get to continue on in the hiring process. His exam and presentations had meant that he couldn't go back to Paris for interviews just any time, and even if he could go over the weekend then the hiring personnel weren't available. It was great that the companies were interested in him, and that they could work with his schedule.

She did wish that she could get as far Adrien had with her own job search, but Marinette wasn't going to let herself be jealous. Adrien had worked hard on his applications and deserved the interviews. Besides, he couldn't do his work independently, like she could with her commissions, and the main reason why Marinette hadn't gotten any interviews was because she hadn't applied to any jobs.

She hadn't applied to any jobs because there hadn't been any job postings for openings that she would be interested in. Everything that she had spotted- well, everything that she had spotted at the design houses that she was actually interested in- was for interns or sewing room, and she was past the intern stage (particularly the underpaid, not-actually-designing intern stage) and overqualified for the sewing room.

There had also been an opening for a junior designer position at Gabriel that Marinette had passed over, but she hadn't mentioned that to Adrien and wasn't going to tell anyone else about it, either. She didn't want there to be any way for Mr. Agreste to try to control her and Adrien, and taking a job at his company would hand that control to him on a silver platter. Plus, Adrien liked visiting her at work, and if she worked at Gabriel then he would run the risk of running into his father when he didn't want to.

And if that wasn't enough to cement Marinette's decision to ignore the posting, the Gabriel aesthetic didn't leave a whole lot of room for creativity and fun flair, and Marinette would miss doing that too much, even if she did enjoy doing formalwear. That would be the main reason she would give if Adrien found out about the opening and asked why she hadn't applied. She didn't want him thinking that she had given up an opportunity to get a job just because of him, because he would just feel guilty about it.

"We should do something to celebrate," Marinette announced, forcibly pulling herself away from thoughts of her own job search. "So what do you want to do? Eat out? Make a special dinner? Bake cookies?"

Adrien practically squirmed in place, looking abashed. "Oh, I don't know. Don't you think we're jumping the gun a little bit with celebrating already? I just have an interview, not a job offer."

"Two interviews, you mean." Maybe Adrien wasn't nearly as excited about the first of his interviews as he was about the second, but it was still progress in the right direction. "And we'll celebrate again later on when you get something, but we can be excited about this, too."

Adrien grinned. "Yeah! I wouldn't mind a night out, and getting interviews is the perfect excuse. We can go to that one place- you know, with the lasagna and ribs and everything? Over on Gloucester?"

"Sweet!" Marinette liked that place. "Just let me change out of my work clothes and find some more comfortable shoes, and we'll get going."

It didn't take long to change at all, and then Adrien and Marinette were heading out of their apartment and down to catch the bus. It started to drizzle as they waited, but Adrien was prepared with an umbrella. He popped it open, and Marinette didn't hesitate to sidle up to his side to share the protection from the chilly rain.

"I'm looking forward to having less of this weather once we're back in Paris," Adrien said with a laugh. "I hate rain so much. It's so damp, and it feels so much colder than it actually is."

"It'll be nice," Marinette agreed. Then she laughed. "But who wants to bet that it'll rain for a week after we get back? That would be awful."

"Ooh, don't say that, you'll jinx it!"

One short bus ride and an equally short wait in the restaurant later, and the two of them were being ushered to their seats at a small table close to the restaurant's front window. Marinette slid into her seat, glancing around at the other patrons. There were a lot of families sitting around the cheery tables, chatting and laughing. It was a very friendly atmosphere, and one that yelled fun friendly outing instead of date.

That didn't mean that it wasn't a date, but hopefully it would keep people from pestering them.

Once they were settled with a glass of lemonade each and a menu, it didn't take long for them to pick up their conversation where it had picked off earlier. Adrien told Marinette about the differences between the two labs that he had applied to and why he favored one over the other.

"It's a higher pay rate at the other place, too," Adrien finished, picking up his lemonade for a sip. "Not by a huge amount, but enough to make a difference."

"And I bet that as you advance in the lab, that difference might just get bigger," Marinette pointed out. "It would be interesting to see what that would be, but it might be awkward to ask."

"I'm gonna pick Ben's brain to see what kinds of questions I should be asking," Adrien told her. "And maybe he can ask some of his senior coworkers. They would probably have some really great tips."

Marinette nodded.

"But enough about my jobs- did anything new come up for you today?" Adrien asked, glancing over at her. "Or nothing again?

Marinette winced. She hadn't actually checked for- well, almost a week, actually. It didn't make sense to check every day, but she didn't want to sit back and miss anything, either. "I haven't checked. I should, but..."

"It's only additional stress, and it's not like new stuff comes up every day anyway," Adrien filled in. "At least not new stuff on your level. I'm sure something will come up soon, though. I know my father has at least a couple openings every year."

Marinette tried not to wince. After all, Adrien was right that there was an opening at Gabriel. His mentioning it didn't necessarily mean that he was encouraging her to apply, though.

"Though maybe that's because people tend to quit a lot," Adrien continued, oblivious to her cringing. "It's not exactly the most pleasant work environment ever, especially if my father visits. And you've talked about this before, haven't you? That my father's company isn't exactly somewhere where you would want to work?"

"Right," Marinette agreed, thankful that Adrien remembered hearing her mention that. "The work environment and then the aesthetic is kind of limited. It's very formal."

"And you like doing stuff that's a little more wild," Adrien filled in. "A little more creative, a little more fun. It makes sense to wait." He picked up his menu, but his eyes didn't leave Marinette's face. "What will you do while you wait for a better fit to come up?"

"I thought that I would be able to make it by on commissions, but that's really slowed down," Marinette said, but she couldn't help the note of worry that had slipped into her voice. While it was great that she didn't have to fret over an overwhelming wait list, she didn't want to get home to Paris and end up twiddling her thumbs and helping out at the bakery instead of designing and earning money. It would feel like a discouraging step back after three years as a design intern. "It's a good number of commissions for just doing on top of a full-time job, but it's not anywhere near enough to be a full-time job by itself."

"What if you advertised that you were taking commissions?" Adrien asked, setting his unread menu back down. "If you set up a website or something. Maybe you could sell your own designs on there, too. At least, like, screen-printed shirts or some simpler designs."

"It's definitely something to think about," Marinette said slowly. She was already warming to the idea. She could expand her customer base, and maybe do a wider range of designs. "I know Alya was suggesting it when I first started doing commissions, but I was getting so much attention already that I thought there wouldn't be a point. But I could do that, and then have pictures of all of the commissions that I've done."

If the musicians would be willing to let her use recognizable pictures of them, that would be even more amazing. Celebs had a lot of influence, and would make her designs more desirable.

"There's just one problem right now with the commissions website idea," Adrien said before Marinette could get too far into planning anything. "You would probably need Alya's help, and Alya is kind of busy with the wedding stuff."

There was a pause.

"Well, I won't need the site up and running until after I get back to Paris," Marinette said slowly, thinking things through as she spoke. "And I could make some of my own designs to have for sale as well, if I have time when I don't have any commissions to work on. So I can maybe start collecting the photos now and sorting them into different categories so that they're all ready for when Alya does have the time to help me with the site. And it's always possible that something will come up before then."

"But it's good to have a backup plan," Adrien agreed. Marinette nodded, just as their waiter appeared at her elbow.

"Are you ready to order?"

Adrien and Marinette exchanged a guilty look. They hadn't even started looking at the menu. Their waiter seemed to realize that.

"I can return in another couple minutes to check in on you again."

"That would be great, thanks," Adrien told him, but he was already heading off. Marinette quickly turned back to her menu and started scanning over the choices. There were a lot of tasty-looking dishes, and Marinette wasn't sure what she wanted to try. She peered over the table at Adrien. "What are you looking at? I can't decide."

"Do you want to go for two dishes we both want and share?"

Marinette just grinned. Sometimes Adrien seemed to read her mind. "Do you even need to ask?"

  With a plan in place, Marinette dove into her work, sketching out ideas for her website. There would be a past work section, of course, and that would be divided into categories. She had album cover art, screen printing, street clothes, fancy dress, and a whole variety of stage outfits. Her pricing page would ideally have examples of different price points, so that people would know off the bat what to expect and wouldn't waste her time with emailing when they weren't willing to pay. And of course it would be important for it to be easy for people to find the Contact Me page (Marinette had learned from experience with professor pages how frustrating it was to have to search for ages to find an email address).

"You should be able to update that page with if you're accepting commissions at the moment," Tikki pointed out as she watched Marinette sketch out her ideas at the table after dinner one night. "And if there's a long wait list. Or just any updates, really, to let people know if you have a lot going on at any given moment."

"That's a good idea," Marinette said, writing it down. "And I'll have to make it obvious, so maybe something that would show up on all of the pages of the site. I'll have to ask Alya for ideas- after the wedding, of course."

Adrien laughed from his spot across the table. "Yeah, don't distract Alya right now. I was texting Nino earlier, and those two are pretty much caught between frantically getting everything set up and trying to ignore it all for a bit. They would totally jump on a website designing thing."

Marinette grinned. Their friends were ridiculous. "The sooner they get the last details ironed out, the sooner they can just sit back. But I can understand the temptation to procrastinate."

A comfortable silence fell over then as Adrien returned to his studying and Marinette sketched out what she wanted her page to look like, adding and taking away details as she played with different looks. It didn't take long for her to get distracted, though, her pencil falling back to the table as the got lost in her own thoughts.

Nino and Alya would be married in less than a month now. Even though the news had long since sunk in, Marinette couldn't help but see it as something big. Something life-altering and a big step and- oh, she didn't even know. Maybe it was because of the other things that tended to come after marriage, like kids.

Maybe it was because she and Adrien hadn't been in Paris throughout the engagement and wouldn't really be there for the transition and really, doing things like dress shopping over video chat and being a sounding board for Alya's planning over the phone really wasn't the same as being there for it in person.

"I'm seeing some pretty deep thought going on over there." Adrien's voice brought Marinette out of her thoughts with a start and she looked up. He was giving her a concerned look. "Everything okay?"

"I guess I'm just now realizing that we're missing out on the whole transition thing with Nino and Alya," Marinette told him.

Adrien frowned. "You think things would really change that much?"

"It's not as big of a transition as you're making it out to be," Tikki told the two of them, making Adrien's expression relax. "Or that the media sometimes makes it out to be. They're still your friends, and they're still together, just like before! It's just that now there's legal ties holding them together. That's all it is. Think about it this way- if Nino had asked Alya later on, do you think their relationship now would be any different? Or if they had decided to wait on marriage for next year, would they be different? Marriage is a way to celebrate love with family and friends. It's a big celebration and everything, but at the end of the day, a relationship is only as strong as the people involved make it."

"Why are you wondering what being married would be like?" Plagg drawled loudly. "You've been acting like an old married couple for years. All the talky ceremony would do would make it official and put some bling on your fingers. And cost you a lot of money."

Marinette and Adrien both turned pink. How had the conversation turned from Nino and Alya's marriage to their relationship?

"He's right, you know. Things don't just magically change once you get married, like I was just saying," Tikki chimed in, hopping on the betrayal train and turning the conversation on its head to focus on Marinette and Adrien. "Maybe it used to be more different, back when people didn't live together before they married, but you've been living together and working around each other for a year now. More, really, even if you did have Marinette's apartment as back-up for the first bit."

Adrien chanced a glance at Marinette. She didn't look overly bothered by the marriage talk, mostly just taken off guard and flustered, and something in his heart skipped. Would she be open to getting married? They had only been dating for less than two years- well, officially dating, at least- whereas all of their friends that were getting married now- Ivan and Mylène and Alya and Nino- had been dating for years, ever since collège. Sure, he knew a couple models that were getting married now that had only been dating for what seemed like a short time- only a year or so, some even less- but considering that some of them were among the models that had congratulated him for getting "married" after "only knowing Marinette for a day", he wasn't certain that they were the most sensible people in the world.

But they had known each other for years before dating, and had liked each other in one way or another for just as long. With that in mind, did it really matter that they hadn't been dating for years and years? They knew that they would get along well together, no matter what.

"I guess I just wish that I could be there in person to help Alya out more," Marinette was saying, and Adrien pulled himself out of his thoughts to tune back in to the conversation. "And all of the prep that goes into a wedding just makes it feel really big, I think."

"And it is a big commitment, but so is any serious relationship," Tikki told her. "But it is a party, and big parties take a lot of planning! Just think of it like that."

"Back in the day, marriages were just little things," Plagg told them around a yawn. "Everyone dressed up in their Sunday best, went to church, and did their little signature thing on the paper. The whole thing's just been so blown up."

The conversation moved on then as Tikki got distracted by some element of Marinette's website sketch, but Adrien took a minute to get back to his studies.

If he asked...what would Marinette say?

  Adrien's pre-break exams and presentations went by in a flash, and then he was nervously reviewing the list of questions and things to think about and look for that Ben and his advisor had given him on the train back to Paris. Marinette would be following in a few days, after both of his interviews had already passed.

Adrien couldn't help but think about how much nicer it would be to have his interviews and then go back home to a supportive Marinette instead of his indifferent father and an only mildly curious Nathalie. His father only wanted him to succeed in getting a job because it would be unfitting of an Agreste to be unemployed, and Nathalie wanted to know the outcome either way for photoshoot scheduling purposes. Marinette wanted him to do well and get the job offers because she knew that that was what he wanted.

He was lucky to have her. Adrien knew that there were some people out there that didn't even know him and still would prefer that he stay in modeling until he aged out of it. Some even wanted him to move into acting as well, since then his face would be in even more places.

The Gorilla picked him up at the station, and whisked Adrien off towards the Agreste mansion after piling all of the bags that Adrien had hauled along in back. Adrien had stuffed two suitcases, a backpack, and a bag with things to be brought back to Paris, so much that he had been struggling to keep it in line while he got off of the train and left the station. All of his luggage was stuffed to bursting, and Marinette's would be the same when she returned.

Moving from one country to another really sucked sometimes.

It was the same familiar routine as always when Adrien got back to the mansion. Nathalie met him at the door with a schedule (she had included his interviews and plenty of time to get to them, Adrien noted) and told him that his father was in his office before bidding him good-night and leaving. Adrien glanced towards the bright office and decided to put his luggage away first before talking to his father. After all, if the conversation went south, it would be easier to leave quickly without having extra baggage to drag along behind him.

...oh, he already missed being able to go into his and Marinette's apartment and having to worry about uncomfortable conversations.

The next couple of days in Paris went much the same as always. Adrien got up, did photoshoots and commercials- and boy was he ever looking forward to never having to do them again- and snagged bites to eat when he had time. He met up with Alya and Nino a couple times when he had a few minutes free that lined up with their free time, and then he went home to sleep in his large, empty room. His bed was cold with only his father's standard-issue, boring sheets and comforter rather than the lovely quilt that Marinette had made for him a couple Christmases ago, and especially without Marinette curled up next to him, but Adrien dealt with it, counting down the days until Marinette would arrive.

And then the first of his interviews came up. Adrien fidgeted through a morning of fittings, then had an hour free before he had to be at the lab. The Gorilla drove him to the lab and dropped him off early, and then Adrien paced. He had gotten a good-luck text from Marinette earlier, and he glanced at it again, hoping that it might help calm his nerves.

Adrien had not been expecting to see another text from Marinette.

Marinette: You'll do great! Swing by the bakery after you're done- Maman and Papa have a treat for you! I love you.

Adrien grinned. A Dupain-Cheng treat? He already couldn't wait.

  The Gorilla dropped Adrien off at the Dupain-Cheng bakery after his interview, and Adrien waved cheerily to him as he hopped to the sidewalk. He had done well on his interview, he thought, and it had helped to know that there would be someone waiting eagerly to know how he had done right there for him in Paris.

And he also was very much looking forward to his treat. Anything that the Dupain-Chengs made was bound to be good, and a treat suggested that it was probably more sugary and delicious than anything that he had been allowed to eat since returning to Paris.

"Adrien!" Mrs. Cheng exclaimed as Adrien stepped inside of the bakery, the tinkle of the small bell above the door announcing his entrance. "It's so good to see you. Come over here and tell me about how your interview went and everything that you've been up to since we saw you last. Marinette tells us some things, of course, but I want to hear it all from you."

Adrien grinned as he was pulled behind the counter and given a hug. Mrs. Cheng was shorter than Marinette- Mari had passed her up in lycée- but her hugs were just as fierce. "Hi, Mrs. Cheng. How are you?"

"Good, good. But I want to hear about you." Mrs. Cheng ducked down behind the counter and came up with a generous slice of opera cake on a plate. She handed the plate and a fork to Adrien. "Marinette said that you had one interview today and another tomorrow! How exciting!"

Adrien grinned as he accepted the cake. It looked amazing, and was more than Adrien had expecting. "Yeah, it is! I'm hoping that one of them works out. They're both great labs."

"Did it go well?"

"I think so. One of my friends from London suggested what kinds of questions I might want to ask and I had answers for all of their questions for me, so that was good. I didn't feel that there were any awkward pauses or anything, so...?" He shrugged. "It felt good. Now I just have to wait and see, I guess."

"Well, I'll keep my fingers crossed for you for sure." Sabine quickly rang up a customer and then stuck her head through the bakery's back door. "TOM! Adrien is here! Come say hi to him!"

"Adrien!" It didn't take any time at all for Marinette's father to appear fresh from the bakery, a fine coat of flour covering the front of his shirt and his apron. Mr. Dupain beamed at Adrien when he spotted him. "How's my son-in-law doing?"

Adrien promptly choked on his opera cake.

"Tom," Mrs. Cheng scolded as she lightly thumped Adrien's back. He gave one last cough and wiped his mouth, setting his cake down for a moment to catch his breath. "No teasing. We were just looking through some old pictures last night, dear," Sabine explained to Adrien. "And we came across the ones from that wedding photoshoot. You'll have to forgive Tom; he's been waiting to spring that on you all day."

Adrien managed a weak smile before Mr. Dupain was scooping him up in a hug. "It's good to see you! You look far too skinny. Have you been eating properly?"

"I've been eating fine," Adrien assured Mr. Dupain, his voice coming out a bit choked. "Marinette and I cook dinner together all the time. I've just started going to the gym at school more and running a few laps when I have time between classes."

"Ah, I used to do that in school," Mr. Dupain told Adrien, letting him free of the hug. "I kind of had to, with all of the food that we made and then ended up eating. It's a nice break from studying for sure."

Adrien grinned, picking his half-eaten cake back up. "Yeah! And I find that I can focus better, too, when I'm not all full of energy and jittery. And I really need that focus, now that we've really gotten into some more advanced topics."

After a few more minutes of chatting, Mr. Dupain had to return to his work in the back of the bakery, but Adrien stayed up front with Mrs. Cheng. He finished his cake (so good) and then helped clean up the area behind the counter, telling her about his classes and some of the outings that he and Marinette had gone out on between customers. She nodded and asked questions, and Adrien couldn't stop grinning.

It was really no surprise that Marinette had turned out wonderful, considering how great her parents were. Adrien couldn't wait to have them as actual in-laws.

And to make it even better? It felt as though the Dupain-Chengs felt the same way towards him.

  Adrien's second interview went as well as the first one- better, even- and then he was back at the Dupain-Cheng's bakery, having a celebratory slice of Mrs. Cheng's fantastic quiche and a couple petite fours. He couldn't spend the whole afternoon there, though, because he had promised Nino and Alya that he would come visit them for dinner.

"Thanks so much, Mrs. Cheng," Adrien told her as he finished cleaning his things up and got ready to head out the door. "It was really great to be able to come back here and talk about my interviews. I know that otherwise, I would have spent the time after my interviews worrying over every answer I gave."

Mrs. Cheng just gave him a friendly squeeze. "We were happy to have you, dear. Tom and I love hearing about what you've been up to. Come again any time, if you want a snack or someone to talk to or anything. Our doors are always open to you."

Adrien could only beam and nod.

One short bus ride later, Adrien was hopping off of the bus and starting the short walk over to Alya and Nino's apartment, a bag of bakery treats in his hand. He had tried to pay for them, of course- Mrs. Cheng and Mr. Dupain were running a business, after all- but they wouldn't hear of it.

(Adrien wasn't surprised, not really. He was Marinette's friend, after all, and so were Alya and Nino, and the Dupain-Chengs had never been shy about plying them with food whenever they visited before.)

"So your interviews went well?" Nino asked as soon as he answered the door. "Marinette said that she was sending you to her parents so that they could be excited with you."

Adrien grinned. "Yeah! They're great, really. I'm glad to have them. And I got to distract myself a bit after the interview, which was good. I wasn't expecting that."

"Well, now you gotta tell us about the interviews, because we're dying to hear about it, and then we can get you all caught up on what's going on in Paris."

"Great!"

Falling into conversation with Nino and Alya again as they sat down was the most natural thing in the world. It didn't take long for Adrien to tell them about his interviews, or about what had been going on in his classes. His friends laughed when he got too excited about one particular concept that he had learned about and flew straight into the slightly too in-depth explanation of it for several minutes before noticing their puzzled looks.

"Normally I'm really good at remembering not to do that!" Adrien protested over the sound of their laughter. "I've been working on figuring out how to explain concepts to people at a level they understand for ages, because it helps me understand things better. I've been explaining stuff in my classes to Marinette, like, every night, but sometimes I just...forget, I guess? I got excited."

"Does Marinette understand what you're talking about, or is she just really good at smiling and nodding, Mr. Science Geek?" Alya teased. "I know he was good at school, but you've gotten to some really advanced stuff."

"She asks good questions about stuff!" Adrien protested. "Like, it always sounds like she understands it. But maybe it helps that she's been hearing about it pretty much every night, so it's not so much of an infodump."

Alya was still grinning. "Right, Marinette is so getting a pop quiz when she gets back to Paris. I gotta see this to believe it."

"Oh, don't quiz her! That's so mean!"

Dinner flew by in a flurry of food and conversation, and the conversation moved on to what Nino and Alya had been up to. There were plenty of projects- Nino had been contacted by Max to help write and mix some music for a new video game, Alya had done another installment of her superhero articles and had organized a large chunk of her research, they both had done a lot of wedding planning and had cleaned their apartment, moving a large chunk of stuff into storage to make it a little less crowded until they could find a larger place to move to.

Adrien glanced around the apartment. He hadn't noticed it straight away- probably because his mind had been on other things- but sure enough, the apartment was much less cluttered and cramped than usual. There was more space to move around, and there was less stuff balanced on top of the shelves. There were things laying around the room, of course- Alya's desk was still pretty covered in stuff, and there were a few notebooks and loose sheets of computer paper laying around- but it was more normal clutter rather than clutter from things that didn't really have a designated spot.

Another hour passed, and Adrien was starting to drag a little. He had gotten up earlier than usual and had been busy all day, and the stress from the interview had exhausted him. As Nino and Alya got distracted by some detail about their wedding, Adrien found himself checking out a little. Alya's engagement ring glinted in the light as he gestured, catching his eye. Adrien found himself staring at it as she gestured.

It was a gorgeous ring, there was no doubt about it. It suited Alya perfectly, and Adrien knew that Marinette agreed. But the diamond and the prongs holding it were both on the large side and would easily snag on fabric, which meant that Marinette wouldn't want something similar from him. She would want something sleeker, with fewer parts that could get in the way.

Not that he was actively shopping for a ring or anything, but-

"Earth to Adrien, are you still there?"

Adrien startled, blinking at his friends. Both Nino and Alya looked simultaneously amused and concerned.

"Dude, you just zoned out on us," Nino said with a laugh. "Not sure where you went there. Have you been getting enough sleep?"

"He doesn't have any bags under his eyes," Alya pointed out, as though Adrien wasn't there.

"Unless he's covered them up." Nino leaned forward into Adrien's space, squinting at his face. "He knows how to use concealer to hide all flaws."

"True that." Alya gave Adrien another considering look. "So what was it this time? Another sunrise commercial?"

"An early shoot. It wouldn't have been so bad if I weren't still on London time." Adrien yawned, unable to hold it back anymore. "Nathalie gave me tomorrow morning off, though, so I get to sleep in. Well, if Father doesn't insist that I get up early just for appearances."

"Your father's an ass, have I told you that recently?"

Adrien snorted. "You tell me every chance you get."

"Well, It's true and I shouldn't be afraid to say it." Nino glanced over at Adrien as he yawned again. "Maybe we should catch up some more some other day. You're going to end up hitting a wall before the end of the break, and that would suck for you."

"Yeah, that sounds like a plan." Adrien reached for his phone, texting the Gorilla. The response was almost immediate. "It was great seeing you guys again. I'll text you my schedule, and maybe all four of us can get together some evening."

"We can go out and forget about school and wedding planning and moving for an evening," Nino agreed, grinning. "Just relax and hang out, just like old times. The old arcade is open, if you're interested."

"That sounds like a plan!"

[robinrunsfiction]

Valentine’s Challenge 2019 Day 1

Pairing: Ryan Seaman x Reader Rating: General Requested By: @scrolling-my-life-away Author’s Note: ❤ Hello everyone! So as I’ve posted about before, I’ve challenged myself to write a short fic for each of the first 14 days of February. Also I had received a note from @scrolling-my-life-away requesting more Ryan in general, and I fully agree there is not nearly enough of that adorable blue haired drummer, so I hope you enjoy this and I already have another in the works based on the request you sent ❤ This is the first fic is actually I wrote for this challenge and it ended up a little short. It is inspired by the prompt reblogged from @fanficy-prompts: "seated together at a family-style restaurant and everyone thinks they’re a couple already AU"

It had already been a long day when you finally got up from your desk and went to lunch. You had forgotten that it was Valentine's Day since you had been single for a while and had been much too busy lately to look for a date. You became painfully aware of the holiday though as your coworkers started receiving boxes of chocolates and bouquets of flowers throughout the morning. It made the office smell quite nice, but it made you feel particularly blue that nothing would be coming for you.

To try to cheer yourself up, you took yourself to lunch at your favorite diner down the street, but when you arrived, you realized that you weren't the only person who had the same idea.

"How many, sweetie?" The hostess asked when you walked in. The diner was a frequent stop for you, and you always came alone, but the hostess always asked how many people you’d be dining with. You hadn’t decided if it was insulting, or if she was just optimistic that one day you would have a friend with you.

"One," you replied gloomily. She looked around the busy dining area.

"Looks like we only have one spot open at the counter, is that ok?"

"That's fine," you replied, before making your way to the open spot between two older gentlemen, one you recognized as a man named Bill, who you had spoken to a few times before. He smiled at you pitifully as you sat down, and the one on your left downed his coffee and left.

"Geez, I'm chasing all the men away," you muttered under your breath. Bill chuckled quietly and went back to reading his newspaper. 

You opened your menu and decided straight away you were going to treat yourself. When the waitress came over you ordered a double stack of chocolate chip pancakes with extra whip cream and a coffee. Feeling bored and more than a little awkward, you pulled out your phone and started scrolling. 

"Excuse me, is this spot open?" You heard a voice ask.

You turned and saw a man with bright blue hair standing behind you. "Nope, totally available," you replied with a smile as he sat down. You put your phone away, suddenly hopefully about your lunch break.

"Place sure is packed," he remarked as he glanced through the menu.

"Yea, I've never seen it like this," you replied.

"My name's Ryan, by the way,” he said with a smile that reached all the way to his eyes, as he glanced up from his menu.

"(YN).” Just then the waitress returned with your coffee before turning her attention to Ryan and taking his order.

"I thought you were chasing the men away today," Bill said quietly.

"Oh, can it Bill," you replied with a harsh whisper, rolling your eyes

."So do you come here often?" Ryan asked after placing his order.

"Once in a while, usually when I'm having a tough day at work I come down for a long lunch. You?"

"I've been here a few times after a show, but this is definitely a different crowd than I’m used," he replied surveying the dinner that was filled with a lot of senior citizens enjoying the Valentine's Day special discount meal.

"I suppose this is a different sort of blue hair than you're used to," you said with a laugh, hoping the joke would land.

Ryan let out a loud laugh as he put one hand over his mouth and the other on yours. "That is true," he replied. You let you a sigh and grinned at his response.

The conversation flowed easily between you and Ryan as you talked about his band, music, and the best types of breakfast foods until your orders came out. You suddenly felt a little self-conscious of your massive order of pancakes and the mountain of whipped cream on top. 

"You weren't kidding about pancakes being your favorite!"

"I never kid about pancakes," you laughed.

As you both dug into your meals, an older lady came up behind you.

"Excuse me, I just wanted to say you two are the cutest couple in this whole diner. I can tell you're very good together, you light each other up," she said warmly.

"Oh, umm," you stammered, blushing feverishly.

"Actually we only just met," Ryan said, much more coherently than you could have in the moment. "But maybe you'd like to go out sometime?" Ryan asked you.

“Yea, I’d love to!” You replied with a grin before stuffing a fork full of pancakes in your mouth to keep yourself from squealing with delight.

Both you and Ryan finished your meals and paid before making your way outside into the cool February air.

“I’ll call you tonight then, maybe we can go on that date this weekend?” he asked tentatively.

“Can't wait,” you replied. Just then he reached out and took your hand, giving it a squeeze as he placed a kiss on your cheek, which lit up with a blush as soon as he did.

“Happy Valentine's Day, (YN).”

He was right, now it was a Happy Valentine's Day.

Masterlist

[ashwritesandstuff]

Different Person

Request: No but they’re open :) 

Notes: Inspired by the quote, “Endlessly Troubled By The Minor Inconvenience of Loving You” which I just kinda found so pretty but I’m not sure who wrote it. This is kinda farfetched, just work with me ya feel...

Wordcount: 2561

The repetitive ticking of the clock was the only sound echoing throughout the lonely convenience store. Not even the usual humming of the A.C. was there to keep you company, as the first real winter day kept you from having to turn on the obnoxious fans that usually gave you a bad attitude and an even worse headache. You sighed, flipping open the book you had brought with you and wished for the tenth time that day that you hadn’t called your coworker to let them know there was no use they come considering the store hadn’t seen much company besides your shadow all day. It seems the cold weather wasn’t alone, bringing ice and snow with it as well and guaranteed an empty store. Frank might be ten years your senior, but he had good stories and even better company. Plus, now that you sat behind the register for the first time on your own, you weren’t so sure the baseball bat leaning against the stool you occupied would be much of a weapon in your hands. You’ve never been the one who’d had to deal with the money after all.

The store doubled as a gas station, one with only four pumps and had a mini area in the back that served fresh coffee and baked goods. Typically, you were usually back there, wiping up muffins and the occasional breakfast sandwich for the odd trucker with tired eyes that you couldn’t risk them leaving knowing they’d likely be on the road all day with the chips from the aisles next to you as their only food. Call it southern hospitality, call it basic humanity, you couldn’t let someone get back on the road knowing that they weren’t at their best.

So, when a tall man with tired eyes and shoulders that you could tell carried the world, your eyes stopped skimming the words on the pages of your worn-out book and instantly favored peeking over the top of the paperback as you observed the handsome stranger.

He walked with purpose as if nothing else mattered more than the package of Honeybuns in the third aisle. You absentmindedly flipped a page in your book as you continued to stare at the man and the way his stiff steps landed him in front of the sweets, the way he held himself as if he needed to fold into his own statute to not take up the space he deserved, the way his large hands seemed as if they were separate beings of their own intermingling among themselves. He was going to get arthritis in the future, you decided, as you watched him go through the motions of cracking his fingers.

The door opened once more, allowing the cold air in and causing you to shiver, as another man walked into the store accompanied by a woman. Suddenly,  your empty store didn’t seem so sad anymore and the tall man didn’t seem so sad either.

You knew it was fake though.

You saw the mask slip over his face and his body tense, even more, holding his breath in as if to be at ease would mean to be wrong. His eyes finally looked up from the ground to look at his friends, and though they tried their best to seem light, the gorgeous hazel color was agonizingly stormed with pain. You knew that, like the building you stood in, the minute the man was alone again he would transform and you would once again find something lonely and harshly silent.

“We have to wait for the engine to cool down a bit before I can put any antifreeze in it,” A deep voice called out interrupting you from your blatant staring, “That is…if they sell any for me to put in the car here.”

“The second aisle,” You answered, “Right next to the Hot Cheetos.”

At the sound of your voice, all three bodies spun in your direction – guns were drawn.

Fucking Texas.

“There’s literally only thirteen dollars in here, but you can take the antifreeze.” You quickly yelped, jerking your hands up so they could see even more clearly that you weren’t a threat. Your fast movements caused the baseball bat that leaned against your stool to fall and roll out from behind the front counter.

“I uh, have a baseball game after this?” You managed out, biting your lip and praying your attackers had some sort of thief intuition to show them how little damage you actually could do. Or that they at least had some humor, just because they were robbing you at gunpoint didn’t mean you couldn’t laugh about it together did it?

The bat continued to roll on the uneven floor, stopping only as it hit the shoe of the dark-haired girl in front of you. The tension increased, you gulped and suddenly their weapons lowered and put away as fast as they had been drawn.

“Oh my god, we are so sorry.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“You were so quiet when we came in, we hadn’t noticed you at all. You caught us off guard.”

You slowly put your trembling hands back down.

“I uh, hope your game goes well.”

And with that, it felt like a weapon was trained on you all over again. While the other man and the dark-haired girl were quick to apologize and seemed to struggle to pull something out of their pockets, hopefully not another firearm, the tall man from before bent down to retrieve the baseball bat and set it on the counter. And while his words were joking, the tone of his voice soft, the way your body reacted to him had nothing funny about it. Goosebumps appeared, and you could feel yourself more at loss of what to say as he made eye contact with you than before, when three guns were aimed in your direction.

“My name is Dr. Spencer Reid,” His now empty hands reached into his pocket and produced a badge that he pushed in your direction, “I’m with the FBI, our car began to overheat and we pulled in to give it some time to cool off.”

Tearing your eyes away from Spencer, you looked the identification over quickly before looking up and seeing two other identical badges being held up by his companions. Satisfied finally that those thirteen dollars plus antifreeze wouldn’t be coming out of your paycheck, you let yourself collapse back on to your stool as your wobbly legs gave out. You weren’t quite sure if that was a side effect of the past five minutes or a side effect of Dr. Spence Reid.

“I couldn’t see you over the register, I thought the owner was in the back.,” Spencer continued before looking at the others behind him.

“Honestly, I’ve had to piss for the last two hours and I think it’s throwing me off my game. I didn’t notice you behind that big ole counter sweetheart.” The man grinned at you, “I’m Agent Derek and I hope this doesn’t get me banned from your restroom.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw Spencer stiffen slightly as you blushed at the agent’s charm before reaching down grabbing the restroom key from behind the counter and throwing it over to him, “Here ya go sugar, next time though and you’re using a bucket.”

Derek chuckled before heading down the only hallway in the store that led to the clearly marked restrooms.

“I’m Agent Emily Prentiss, I’d like to apologize once more for our actions. We’ve been on the road all day, I guess we were on high alert.” The brunette grimaced and looked at you with sincere regret. You could tell this incident was definitely not a common occurrence, and you found yourself wanting nothing more than to make sure these agents didn’t leave your store in the same shape they came in.

“No harm no foul” You shrugged it off and gave her a smile, “It’s Texas, after all, I’m used to the guns blazing”

Still stiff, you know saw Spencer catch his breath as you turned your smile towards him. You tried to tell the thumping in your chest that it wasn’t your crooked grin or chapped lips that caused that reaction from him, but it didn’t seem to stop the racing of your heart. His sad hazel eyes seemed to gleam slightly and you felt your body shiver at the delusion that you put that there. You knew Agent Prentiss was observing your interaction with precision she lacked earlier but you couldn’t seem to stop looking at the man in front of you. His hair earlier had seemed lackluster, and though it still seemed dull, you could tell know how deliciously messy it must lay when it’s full of life. It seemed as though that sentiment rang true for all of him though, from afar and even now up close, you could tell he was a shell of a great man. A great man that you could see in the small gleam in his eyes and the slight twitch of the corner of his lips.

It was the flushing of the embarrassingly loud toilet that finally tore you from your equally embarrassing gawking.

“Would you guys like coffee?” You managed to muster out, as you suddenly found your tattered book on the counter incredibly interesting.

“Is that a copy of Alice In Wonderland?”

“Yes please!”

You blinked at the two agents that spoke overlapping each other, before realizing that Spencer’s question had been asked in a voice so low Agent Prentiss hadn’t heard it. You bit your lip slightly and slid the book over to Spencer, smiling as your fingers made contact with his and grinning even wider as you noticed how nice a simple brush had felt.

“Coming right up.” You whispered, looking at Spencer once more, and moving away from the counter. On shaky legs, you walked your way to the back and gestured for your newfound company to follow you.

Soon, all three of them were complimenting not only your coffee brewing skills but also the muffins and egg sandwiches you had produced after learning that they’d be continuing on the road for quite some time once their car was patched up. And while all three of them sipped on their drinks and ate their food as you began to tidy up, Spencer was the only one flipping through a book at warped speed.

“How’d you manage to bring a book but not your phone kid?” Agent Morgan teased as Spencer closed the cover after only minutes of reading.

“Actually, it’s not his.” Agent Prentiss smiled, cocking her head slightly towards you as she looked at Agent Morgan in a way you’re sure only they could understand.

Ignoring the two agents, Spencer walked over to you, hands nervously twisting around the book in his clutches.

“You’ll get arthritis.” You said jokingly, trying your best to calm your breathing and trying even harder when that didn’t work.

“Alice was my favorite book as a child,” Spencer said, setting the book down next to him, “Thank you for letting me read it again.”

“You looked like you needed an escape. Maybe some cake to make you big and realize how small problems can be sometimes.” You said, your mind flashing back to his sad stance and the way he seemed to crumble into himself.

Spencer kept his eyes trained on the floor and behind him, you could see both Agent Morgan and Prentiss slipping back to the front of the store and out the door.

“Sometimes, I feel as though I’m a victim of my own emotions.” You began as soon as you were once again alone, “As if feeling as intensely as I do does nothing but burn my match out.”

Spencer looked up, locking eyes with you and unknowingly urging you on, “Whatever weighs you down, whatever shackles you carry, don’t let it drown you. I can tell you’re crumbling, please don’t crumble apart.”

As the last words left your lips the air felt heavy and though you weren’t regretting anything of what you said, maybe you should’ve waited until you’d known each other longer than an hour. A part of you though, knew that what you said was something he needed to here now.

Rolling his lips between his teeth, Spencer looked around, as if making sure nobody else was in the room. He seemed to make eye contact with one of the agents outside and before you knew it, his gaze was back on you.

Suddenly, looking at Spencer, you could’ve sworn it was like looking at the moon after staring at the sun all day. Like you could finally rest from an intensity that beating down on you and now, as a reward you got to look at the moon and the other galaxies and universes you hoped brought you two closer together than your unfortunate one here has. And at that moment, you knew you’d forever be endlessly inconvenienced now by the pull you have towards Dr. Spencer Reid.

Without warning, Spencer picked up your book once more in one hand and with the other, managed to slide his wallet out of his pocket. You watched intently as he bookmarked a page with dollar bills before handing it to you as if it were precious cargo.

You didn’t break eye contact when you reached for your book, but your body lets out an involuntary gasp when one of Spencer’s hands grasped yours before you could pull away. He hesitated for a moment, before letting go and shoving his hand back into the pocket his wallet was in and producing something else. Still wonderstruck from his touch, you shivered feeling his fingers intertwine with yours as he shoved something small into your hands. You clutched the object tightly, refusing to tear your eyes off Spence simply to see whatever he gave you.

And maybe it was the intensity of your stare, the fact that you looked at him in a way that conveyed how much you wanted a beginning, middle and end with him or maybe it was the coffee he drank earlier but Spencer Reid reached out once more for a final touch.

“Thank you,” He whispered, brushing against your hands once more, “For reminding me that sometimes the potion makes you smaller and your problems bigger”

Then, as if with the same difficulty it took to let him, Spencer Reid turned around and walked out the doors that only moments ago led him to you. Headlights blinded you as you saw the car turn on after they all gathered into the car, a bottle of antifreeze left in the parking lot as they drove off.

Opening the book, you realized that’s what the money was for, the antifreeze. Still, you couldn’t shake off the feeling that Spencer bookmarked that specific page for a reason and flipped to the page.

“’It’s no use going back to yesterday because I was a different person then.’”

Setting the book down, you unclenched your hands from the small vial you had gripped on to for dear life, reading the label with a heavy heart.

Dilaudid.