#nah but the excerpt i’m supposed to play is half the piece

[kat4884]

seating auditions got me tweaking

[dewitty1]

Hermione Granger's Hogwarts Crammer for Delinquents on the Run

waspabi @waspabi

Chapters: 8/8 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley Characters: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Ginny Weasley, Neville Longbottom Additional Tags: Pining, Humor, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship

Summary:

'You're a wizard, Harry' is easier to hear from a half-giant when you're eleven, rather than from some kids on a tube platform when you're seventeen and late for work.

Excerpt:

“You all right?”

“Brilliant,” Harry spat. His eyes burned and he turned away. He didn’t want Malfoy to see him crying.

“We can get rid of them,” Malfoy said quietly. “We can — not to sound murderous about it. I mean to say, we can just… Apparate away. Leave them here. We don’t have to get caught up in what they’re caught up in.”

“You think Hermione would go for that?”

“Probably not,” Draco admitted. “She likes the idea of a more organised resistance. Better resources. More money for those little pieces of Muggle parchment she likes with the sticky backs. But we can — we can strike out on our own, if we have to.”

“We wouldn’t last a week without her, remember?” Harry’s voice sounded hoarse. He wished his eyes would stop fucking leaking for five minutes. “We barely lasted a day at Jane and Cynthia’s.”

“I don’t know, Potter. We could figure something out. Sod this whole revolution business; it’s rubbish anyway. Crap food and no wages. Let’s leave this shit island to its self-destruction. We could go to Australia and live with Hermione’s parents and pretend to be Muggles. At this point I’d probably get an O on the Muggle Studies N.E.W.T, honestly, it’d be easy.”

Harry shut his eyes and had a brief, delirious fantasy of him and Malfoy on some Australian beach. Draco would be grousing about the heat, a thick line of sunblock on his nose. His bare shoulders would be red and peeling a little. Maybe he’d put on a really naff t-shirt with a stretched out collar to keep from getting more burnt. Harry would have a surfboard, and he’d somehow have got really good at surfing. They’d have boring jobs at a shop and no one would be trying to kill them.

“Funny,” Harry said, and his wet laugh was not very convincing.

“No?” Draco shuffled a bit closer. “Worth a shot, I suppose.”

“Sorry about your dad.” Harry scuffed his shoe on the ground, digging a little trench in the dirt. “Seemed like… I mean, I know he’s a right bastard, but I think he does love you.”

“He does. Fat lot of good that does me, obviously.” Draco edged yet closer. “It’s all right. I mean, it’s not all right, but it’s…” He shrugged expressively. “I think we’re handling your situation first.”

“I don’t have a fucking situation.” Harry looked at his feet. “Piss off.”

“In the immortal words of Harry Potter, ‘nah’.” Draco was very close to him now. He reached out and touched Harry’s hand — Harry flinched and stepped back.

“What are we even doing?” Harry demanded, wiping his eyes.

“Saving the country, and possibly the world?” Draco shrugged. “We may be doing a middling job of it at the minute, but it’s the thought that counts.”

“No, I meant…” Harry turned away. He didn’t want to look at Draco. “I meant, what are we doing.”

“Oh,” Draco said. Harry could practically hear him go rigid and pointy. “Oh, that.”

“Yes, that.” Harry turned back around so he could glower at him. “What — what are you playing at? You buy me a coat, you fix my shitty trainers, you hold my hand…” Harry’s eyes stung. His heart hurt so badly. “What are you fucking me about for?”

“I’m not fucking you about.” Draco looked pained. He brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I’m not playing at anything. Or I don’t mean to be. I… Don’t make me say it.”

“Make you say what?”

“I… you know. You.” Draco looked down at his hands, which he had twisted together so tightly his fingers were white. “I feel… I have felt… For fuck’s sake, Harry! It’s so cringe. Don’t make me say it.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “You mean… You fancy me?”

“Fancy,” Draco echoed, looking up at the patches of sky through the trees. “Yes. Obviously, are you completely dim?” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Fancy. Merlin and Morgana both, Potter.”

“Oh.” Harry ground the toe of his repaired trainer into the dirt. “I’ve never had someone fancy me before.”

“That is patently impossible, Potter,” Draco informed him. “You’re unbelievably unobservant, that must be the problem. Really, it’s like you’ve got tunnel-vision. You can only pay attention to a vary small radius of information at a time.”

“No one who knew me,” Harry amended. “No one who really knew me.”

“Oh,” Draco said. He took a deep breath like he was bracing himself for something. “Merlin’s sake, Potter. Can you stop doing things to me, for once?”

Harry frowned. “I’m just stood here.”

Draco covered his face with both hands. “This is so horrible. I hate this so much. Could you come here, please?”

Harry took a few steps forward. This was so confusing. Everything was weird, and confusing, and he was a wizard, and those men knew his parents, and they wanted him to be part of some weird underground resistance group that was somehow different to Harry’s weird underground resistance group, and here he was about to, he was pretty sure, have his first boyfriend. He was about seventy-five percent certain. He didn’t want to be cocky. He wasn’t all that certain how these things worked for normal people, let alone for teenaged renegade wizards.

“Come here properly, arsehole.”

“I don’t know what I’m meant to…”

“For fuck’s sake, Potter. Have you never learnt elementary social cues? Here.” Draco dropped his hands from his face and put his arms around Harry. He clutched Harry’s new coat with both hands. Draco’s face pressed against Harry’s neck, long eyelashes brushing his skin.

Harry couldn’t move. Draco’s coat smelled of smoke. His breath was warm and his nose was cold. Harry’s chest went tight and painfully full, like a wardrobe packed so tight that it would shortly avalanche all over the unfortunate person who would next open the door.

“Hug me back, you dickhead,” Draco mumbled into Harry’s neck.

Harry did. He put his arms around Draco’s waist and leaned into the curve of his chest. His eyes went hot and wet again, which was embarrassing. He ducked his head to hide them on the shoulder of Draco’s fancy coat. His nose leaked too, so he wiped it on the wool. It even felt expensive on his nose, which was impressive really.

“I’m getting bogeys on your coat,” Harry told him.

“You’re such an absolute knob,” Draco said, but he didn’t let go. He touched Harry’s head with one hand, spreading his fingers beneath the tangle of hair to slip over his skull. His fingers moved slowly, carefully. “I have no idea why I like you.”

“You like me. You said it out loud.”

“You must be hearing things, Potter.” Draco’s grip tightened around his waist. His other hand slid to the back of Harry’s neck and stayed there, warm at his nape. “I’m concerned about your delusions and flights of fancy.”

“My flights of fancy,” Harry said. “You lot met me on a train platform to tell me I was a wizard.”

“You are a wizard.”

“It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Can I…” Draco pulled back, eyes flickering to Harry’s mouth.

Harry didn’t let him finish. He leaned forward and kissed him. Draco made a soft sound, or Harry did, or both of them. Harry had kissed two people in his life and neither of them had felt like this, like if Draco took his hands from Harry’s face he would crumple to the ground. Harry wanted to get closer, closer, but it wasn’t possible. Pansy’s robes were infuriatingly unassailable — Harry groaned in frustration and Draco laughed into his mouth, warm and wet. The delirious dizzy nearness of Draco, their mouths together and the heat fogging Harry’s glasses… Harry felt lit up. He felt like a lumos in the dark.

“Fuck,” Draco said, his forehead pressed against Harry’s. “We really ought to get back.”

“Probably,” Harry said, and kissed him again.

“You’re right,” Draco said, his mouth moving against Harry’s. “Fuck it.”

“They can fuck right off.” Harry laughed and kissed Draco’s cold cheek, the corner of his chapped mouth. In a few minutes, they would go back and find the others. Harry would face Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, and they’d figure out what to do about Pius Thicknesse, and they could change out of their ridiculous robes. Just not yet. Not quite yet.

(⁎⁍̴̛͂▿⁍̴̛͂⁎)*✲ﾟ*｡⋆♡ོ

[ubemango]

this tiny space (m)

note: There’s 9 days till Christmas but Fuck it!!!!!! It’s come early because I said so 😎 Welcome back tts universe, and welcome to ubemango teehee 💖💖💖💖

PAIRING. yoongi/reader GENRE. romance, parents!au RATED. M WORD COUNT. 3.2k WARNINGS. toys, shower sex, creampie, oral (f receiving) EXCERPT. Yoongi was always attractive—your sexy piece of ass, as you like to remind him often—and seeing the tight skin of his back when he undresses further makes the insides of your stomach churn in want: the kind that made you want to fall to your knees, grovel. You love having a kid, but it’s been too long.

The duckies are your daughter’s favourite toys to play with, right after Bboong the whale and the lonesome poop squeaky toy drifting aimlessly near the edge of the tub.

“Soonbok, what did I tell you about splashing?”

She slumps into herself, calming the wriggling of her arms. Her little bread rolls softening into the big-girl-arms you don’t want her to grow into just yet.  “It makes mommy wet and it’s not niiiiice.”

“That’s right, baby.”

She distracts herself with the bubbles when Yoongi’s voice floats in from your bedroom. “Babe?”

“Mm?”

“Mom’s asking what time we’re dropping by.”

“Uh—” you wash Soonbok’s hair diligently as she hums a song to herself— “like an hour, I guess?”

“Okay—”

“MOMMY!” Eyes as wide as the moon, Soonbok screams in a sudden act of proclamation, tiny arms stretched above her head. She looks absolutely distraught. “Santa! Cookies? Cookies! We—We didn’t make cookies! Mommy mommy—”

“I know, Soonbok, you’re baking them with grandma tonight. Remember? Daddy reminded you today.”

“Cookies, mommy. We didn’t make the cookies!”

You reach for the basket sitting next to the tub, smiling silently at her worry. Yoongi likes to deny any accusation of her inheriting his dramatic nature but you know she didn’t get it from you. “You’re making them later, baby. Now, put your toys in here so we can clean up, okay?”

She does so without a word, grabbing the floating toys and placing them inside the plastic container. Thanking her softly, you give her a final rinse before draining the tub and toweling her off. She hates this part the most—it gets too cold too fast, and she’d gained the habit of running off naked into Yoongi’s arms when she was 2-years-old, prompting an especially exhausting goose chase around the room to get her into her clothes—so you dry her off as fast as you can, Soonbok’s tiny body shivering already, chanting: “Go, go, go!”

It’s not long before she’s in her pyjamas and bounding off to her daddy as you dry off the floor. It’s not nearly as wet as you’d anticipated, pride blooming in your chest as you think wistfully about how much older your daughter is getting: she didn’t even need to “clean up, clean up” the puddles on the tiles.

“Yoongi, can you help her pack?”

With that you hear a grunt and two heavy feet planting themselves onto the carpet. “Come, Soonbok, time to pack so you can visit Mama!”

A series of whooping and squealing follows the two down the hall. Soon enough Soonbok is packed and ready to go, her winter boots squelching on the thin layer of snow as she runs, her Pororo backpack bouncing along with her. Yoongi locks the door behind you, and stops you before you can head to the driveway.

“I have a surprise later.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “I’m scared.”

“Have faith, little one.” He smiles wide, clapping you on the back, the beep of the car following. “I promise it’s good.”

Yoongi’s mom’s house is decked out in glowing Christmas lights; metres of every colour imaginable strung all over the window sills, garage door, and even the 13 foot pine tree sitting out front. Soonbok had always admired the effort her grandparents put into decorating, and questioned constantly if you would do the same for your house. You’ve forgone any sort of warehouse shopping for lights because Yoongi is cautious about the electricity bill, however, and Soonbok had claimed offense right away. She spit in your face the next second: “That’s shitty.” 

(Yoongi broke his back laughing, and you had to claim the bad cop title that night when you scolded her. She’s a lot nicer now.)

Mama opens the door just as Yoongi places Soonbok down after lifting her up to press the doorbell. “My pretty granddaughter! You’re here!” She bends down and places a million and one kisses on your baby’s face while she squirms helplessly.

“Merry Christmas Mama!” Soonbok literally screams after breaking free from the barrage of obligatory Mama Kisses.

“Merry Christmas to you too, our pretty Soonbok.” She holds her  hand, bringing her inside with a quick tut of stomp your boots so the floor isn’t icky. Soonbok happily makes garbled noises—she does this when she does something intensely—as she focuses all her strength into the soles of her feet as she removes the snow from her boots on the doormat.

“Oof! Oof! Gone! Gone! Gone!”

Yoongi looks at you with a disturbed face. “She’s so violent,” he whispers.

“It’s cute!”

“She’s like a mini bulldozer.”

“Yoongi.”

He pinches your wrist, then brings your hand to his mouth, kissing it.

“We’ll be back in two days, ‘kay baby?” You lean down once she’s finished stomping, pressing a kiss to Soonbok’s sweaty hair, pushing it away from her eyes. “You be good for Mama.”

“M’kay,” Soonbok says. “Will I—Will I miss you?”

You can feel Yoongi shake in laughter. “I don’t know, baby. But daddy and mommy will miss you so much.”

Yoongi is next. He steps forward, bending his knees slightly, putting his hand up in invitation. Soonbok doesn’t hesitate to highfive him. “You love daddy?”

“Yeah.”

“You gonna miss daddy?”

“Yeah!”

“You gonna kiss daddy bye bye?”

Soonbok leans into the cheek Yoongi presents to her. Places the tiniest peck with as much pout as she can muster. Mama gives you both a hug and a kiss, and ends pleasantries with quick motions of her hands to shoo you two away.

“Have fun! We won’t call you for help,” she says as she sees Yoongi about to interject. “Go. We love you.”

“Thank you Mama,” you say, and off you and your husband go, waving at your daughter who can barely reach her head over the window frame to see you leave as you settle in the car. You’re on the road with the radio low when Yoongi speaks.

“What time is the party?”

You check the clock on the radio: 7:02 PM. “Two hours, ish. Why?”

He hums. “Just wondering.”

Coming home with no screaming three-year-old is off-putting, to say the least. The lights turn on to a dull hum, fills the empty space as you remove your coat. Yoongi tosses his keys somewhere behind you, and promptly sidles up to your back. He leads with a kiss on the back of your neck.

“Feels weird,” you say.

“Hm?”

“Without her here.”

Yoongi squeezes you with his closed embrace. “I miss her already.”

You turn around and kiss him like no one’s watching; a reality just out of reach on any other day but very, very tangible now as you feel Yoongi press his lips insistently on yours. Hot intimacy long overdue and shortly lived when you breathe, “It’s—I’m just—like—waiting for her to pull on my pants or something.” You know it’s the most unsexy thing to say, but Yoongi’s tongue prods into your mouth anyway.

“Stop—talking about our daughter.”

“Sorry.”

He shrugs, then takes your hand. “Wanna shower?”

“Please.”

The mirror is already beginning to fog up when you come in with towels, placing them on the sink as you admire your very much shirtless husband. Yoongi was always attractive—your sexy piece of ass, as you like to remind him often—and seeing the tight skin of his back when he undresses further makes the insides of your stomach churn in want: the kind that made you want to fall to your knees, grovel. You love having a kid, but it’s been too long. (Soonbok had been battling a nasty flu over the past two weeks, allowing you and Yoongi virtually no time together.)

“You’re so hot,” you say.

Yoongi snorts. “Get naked.”

You do, quickly. The battering of the water soaks just right along your skin, Yoongi’s warmth following. Being in this tiny space with him fills you with a stupid amount of giddiness. Meeting under what feels like secret circumstances, a tryst you’re not supposed to indulge. He mouths a sigh along your shoulders. “Missed you like hell.”

“I know, baby. Pass the soap?” It’s the apricot wash he hands you. “Tired?”

“Nah.”

You scrub; Yoongi massages the suds in his hair. Stealing kisses to your neck when you don’t expect it. The water is scalding, but his touch scorches you. “Oh—what was surprise you were talking about earlier?”

“Mm. Finish up and I’ll tell you.”

It’s like fuel, his promise. He laughs at your rush to rinse off, bottles nearly bowled off in your haste.  You know he won’t blame you for being too eager, though. The liberation that comes with being a parent with no immediate responsibilities makes you feel unbelievably sexy.

You spin to meet your front to his; chests hot, noses bumping. Arms melting into the soft of his shoulders when you reach around him. “Tell me!”

He molds his mouth onto yours in answer, hands searching for your ass before squeezing. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, fathead.”

“Sit down here and let me service you, wife.” An easy command you raise your eyebrows to. The shower bench is distractingly cool against your ass. Yoong’s immediate drop to his knees brings your attention back. He lets you slide till you’re comfortable, grabbing the slick of your calf to rest beside his ear. “So I have, what—a little less than an hour and a half to make you cum?”

“Yessir.”

His fingers are pruned cold when they spread your pussy. “You’re delectable, I hope you know.”

There’s a tease of his nail on your clit, then the hard suck that follows. You shiver right into his touch. “Hhhh—God.”

The water from the showerhead rains steady on his back. A lustful dimension of steam and fogged-up glass. His tongue slides a dangerous path along your slit, taking the buck of your hips with the same enthusiasm.

His strokes batter your clit straight on, all his frustrations from not getting to pay attention to you the way he wants all honed in on the slick of his saliva. Claiming all your heat with his mouth, an intensity you try not to shy away from so you close your eyes instead.

“Yoongi—oh—!” He’s suckling like he’s starved. A nice reminder that your pussy is still his preferred meals for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Your thigh twitches with every pulse of his puckered lips, tips of your fingers sliding helplessly along the shower tile, no traction for your desperation.

“Oh,” you whine. Blearily seeing Yoongi with his own eyes shut tight, mouth sealed on your sopping sex, your nipples taut. His hair sticks to his forehead. “Shit—”

He groans into you. Switching gears and pressing his head deeper in between your thighs if only to assure that he gets every single drop of desire you have to offer. His head bobs with every sharp indulgence, tongue twisting fast into the wetness you offer, noises from your throat spilling faster than you can keep them down.

“I’m—close...”

He’s got either thigh on his shoulder in an instant. The unholy mixture of your arousal and his spit slides right down your ass, filth of it all squeezing your thighs to his ears. “Oh my god.“ The squelch is lewd, a sound only half registering through the buzz in your ears from how loud you’re getting. “Fuck, Yoongi, I’m—!”

It’s the last barrier holding the dam together bursting. Your orgasm rips right through you, the speed so alarming it’s all you can do not to buck his head off completely. The tightness at your cunt unfurling right into Yoongi’s waiting mouth, your hips grinding into his heat. Your eyes roll back with the collapse of your mind into ecstasy.

He doesn’t stop. Not until you’re panting through pleas, thighs trembling into a close. He fends it off with insistent hands.

“Yoongi, oh my God—please—no more—!”

The pop is loud when he loosens his suckling. “All I’d do, you know. This cunt?” He taps your pelvis affectionately, watching your come-down with a hunger he doesn’t try to hide. “The best.”

“Mhm,” you pant. “I’ll—I’ll let her know you think so kindly of her.”

“I’ll send a gift basket too. Cranberries, pineapples?”

Your legs are dead weights when you drop them down. “That’s good—I’m sure she’d like that.”

“Good.” He accepts the kiss you give him. Slow in your exchange, sticky with the taste of your tang. 

The glide of his fingers along your chest is tentative. He’s careful with the squeeze of your tit, but you press forward with silent encouragement. It’d taken a while for you to warm up to Yoongi touching you like this, with the confidence to accept his attention. The part of motherhood that mangled all the youthful parts away from you consumed most of your sex life after having Soonbok, sucked especially out of what was once your pert chest, the smooth skin of your stomach. Yoongi was patient, though. You didn’t fuck with the lights on for a solid two months, and that was only until your daughter had learned to sleep through the night. “I still haven’t—I still have something for you, baby.”

You lick into his mouth. “I have the feeling we won’t be on time for the party.”

“Seokjin will understand the needs of a man who was desperate to ravish his wife after a two week dry spell—“

“Relax, wise guy,” you retort. “Show me what you have. I missed you too.”

Yoongi opens the door, reaching over to rummage for something in one of the baskets on the floor. He presents to you a—

“Vibrator? Yoongi that’s gonna get wet—“

It’s an annoyed look he sends you. “Made sure to get a waterproof vibe, genius. Now get up against the wall, my knees hurt and I’m—so fucking hard.”

“Should I face you?”

He shakes his head. “I—Will you let me fuck you here?” You realize belatedly that the water is, in fact, still running.

“I don’t think I’ll cum though.”

Tutting, Yoongi waves the vibe around. “I’ll make you feel good. Now spare some ass, please. Lube?”

“No, it’s—it’s fine.” The tile is a comforting cool on your forehead, stifling that warmth when the head of his dick presses against your core. Yoongi rubbing along your slick, closing your eyes at the near-foreign feeling of hitting it from the back because that’s just too loud in the cloak of a late night. He bottoms out with an ease that makes your fists curl tight.

“Oh—shit.”

“Feel good?”

“Yeah—oh. Please.”

Suddenly all you know is the pounding of the shower water, the pounding in all the right places. It’s dizzying, trapped in the fever of his drive. He buries his head in your neck, your name strangled in his throat. Then he puts the vibe against your clit.

The sensation is new, a shaking of your nerves that has you reeling. “Oh fuck.”

Yoongi rams his hips with vigour unmatched, breath stunted. “Shit you feel so—fuck how close—can you cum?”

“N-No,” you say. Or: whimper, because regardless, you feel light. The quiver of the wet silicone slips in his hold, too busy keeping the pace you’re both losing yourselves to.

He shuts the vibe. “Hold this, please.”

The faucets squeak shut. Yoongi slips out, a slow preamble to his haste when he nearly tears off the shower curtains, reaching for the towels you’d laid out. Drying you off isn’t as graceful as you’d like but neither of you are pressed for a complete towel-off at this point—he completely ignores your hair to dry off with the other just as quick.

It’s almost funny, him dragging you by the wrist from the warmth and straight into the cold air that hits too fast, but not as fast as Yoongi finding the mattress and pushing you down face first. He slaps your ass for good measure. “Sorry, I—holy fuck. Please let me make you cum.”

“In. In in in—”

He’s quick to fill you up. Yoongi pistons his dick like he’s never known a slower alternative. Testing your ability to keep up but your hips are locked with his grip.

Something’s missing. And you feel it—limp in your hand, the vibe shut off. It’s on with a shaky press of your thumb. You’re quick to introduce the revving where you pulse. You know Yoongi feels it when he swears. Landing a quick slap to your ass in retaliation but you love when he makes you take it. ”Shit, keep going.”

The skin on your ass stings. Moans in tandem with each smack of his palm. The toy digs deep in your clit, breath hitching because you feel it. You’re drowning in it. “Oh god Yoongi—just like that—”

You hear him talk but it sounds like cymbals clashing, nothing coherent registering in your head. Just noise in the roughness of your love, the roar in your ears overwhelming any sense of using your tongue to speak so you mewl instead.

His hips are damp against your ass. The sound is nasty in all the right ways. It’s got your gut twisted in the absolute need to just—you just—

“Yoongi I’m—”

Both hands hold your hips up higher. You cum like this, crying into the sheets, suns and stars rearranging in the dark of your closed eyes when you succumb to the explosive relief. Dropping the vibe onto the sheets because you’ve lost all sense of a good grip, clutching the bed like it’s your lifeline. You bury Yoongi’s name in the sheets.

“I’m cumming—I’m cumming-—” he declares. He stutters in rhythm, pumping cum deep where you drip. Groaning low, fingers tight on your skin. “Oh my god.”

You reach down with shaky hands, shutting the toy off. “I’m dead. I can’t—feel my legs.”

Yoongi makes a choked noise. “You know when you cum I see the seventh heaven?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s it like?”

He pulls out, lets you collapse onto your back. “What, feeling you cum? It’s—euphoric.”

“Ooh, big words.”

“Only the best for—” he taps your pelvis once more— “the best pussy.”

“Come here, stupid.” Yoongi crawls over you, uncaring of the mess left all over your cunt. “Kiss me.”

He does. It’s languid, sweaty—the softness that comes post-intense sex. You feel a surge of adoration run through you when your legs tangle. “I love you,” you say.

He sinks his lips into yours again. “Same to you, momma. Now go pee, I’ll change the sheets.”

You feel a tug on your chest. “So sexy.”

“And I’ll dry your hair.” You feign a shudder. Yoongi smacks your ass in faux-haste. “Go. We’re late as it is.”

“That is not my fault!”

He tuts. “Go and pee so we can call Soonbok before she sleeps.”

By the time you’re prim enough to go on video chat, Soonbok has just brushed her teeth. “Hi baby. Are you ready to sleep?”

Soonbok is very focused on her dolls. “Yeah, mommy. I’m tired.” She says this like an overworked maid. A thirty-year-old tinge of exhaustion probably from changing and feeding her dollies, and you stifle a laugh. “Mama, I’m sleepy.”

“Sleep well, Soonbok,” Yoongi pipes up from behind you, just about to put on his jacket. “Be a good girl, okay?”

“M’kay daddy. You be good too, ‘kay?”

“Will do, baby.”

You say bye after Soonbok hands the phone back to Mama, exchanging good nights as Yoongi helps you slip your coat on. Seokjin won’t be too mad at your tardiness, you hope. Seeing the tired smile of your baby is all worth it. And Yoongi smiles, knowing you.

“I miss her,” he says. Pushing down the instinctual need to check the baby monitor, you press forward out the door.

“Me too.”

[cj-rogers]

locked,

[The cafe remained, in part, very desolate that time of night. The quiet overhanging lights created a gentle, and warm atmosphere, and though Charlie Jo was never one for simply allowing time to pass, there she was, in the corner of the coffee shop. A book was placed in her hand and a set of invisible ear buds set in her ears as she read to herself blocking out any surrounding white noise.

And it was odd, having all the time in the world to herself, but great at the same time, and she thanked the brain in her head for calming the storm of the many thoughts that had intruded upon her mind, because, yes, the thoughts were rampant and she feared, were slowly taking over.

So without a trace of Liz--by god, she was the world's worst waitress-- Charlie Jo sunk in her corner booth, with her book eye level, and her mind stuck on nothing but the words on the pages;

"I had stopped to look at the house as I passed; and its seared red brick walls, blocked windows, and strong green ivy clasping even the stacks of chimneys with its twigs and tendons, as if with sinewy old arms, had made up a rich attractive mystery, of which I was the hero. Estella was the inspiration of it, and the heart of it, of course---"

And though she thought she was alone, she couldn't help but feel a slight change in the air.  A slight icy coldness brought a chill in the air, which pricked at a couple of strands of hair on her arm, and made them stand up. And in thinking it was nothing she continued on to read:

"But, though she had taken such strong possession of me, though my fancy and my hope were so set upon her, though her influence on my boyish life and character had been all-powerful, I did not, even that romantic morning, invest her with any attributes save those she possessed. I mention this in this place, of a fixed purpose, because it is the clue by which I am to be followed into my poor labyrinth.  According to my experience, the conventional notion of a lover cannot be always true--"

And there it went again, but it was real this time, as the boy passed her. And as he slid into the seat in front of her, she could feel her purse involuntarily quicken. Something was not right. And did she ask to be so rudely interrupted?

So without showing any fear-- because she was certain that was the vibe that her brain was telling her to feel-- she pulled her face away from her book, and met a pair of pale green eyes.]

You're barking up the wrong tree, pal. And I'm  busy so either leave or give me your best case.

[And the boy, all but smirked, as his hand reached across the table to pull her cup of coffee to his lips. ]

I don't have a case, but I'm about 92% certain I have the right girl.

And I'm about 99% certain you're fucking wrong.

Fine, would you please be so kind as to point me to the other Roger's girl in this coffee shop.

[And to that Charlie clicked her teeth and set her book down because there seemed to be no one else in the coffee shop. soooo.]

Listen, man, if you're here about some book my Dad wrote or some life lecture he gave at some fucking college a couple of years ago...

I'm not here about your father. [There's a shake of his head.] I never had the privelege of meeting him.

Well, you still can if you're that fucking fond of the guy.

[A head shake.] We have a complicated relationship.

Here, here. [And she slides that coffee mug back over to herself, and cheer's bud. A toast and she takes a sip.]

[And what's that? A scowl?] Don't be so silly. Your relationship with your father is next to perfect. He loves you. You know he loves you. You could tell him anything in the world and he wouldn't judge you. Yet you don't. The fact that you push him aside sometimes probably puts a damper on his efforts, but you don't ignore each other, and you communicate which is good. Something not a lot of people have. Don't take it for granted. [And the sternness in his voice raised some rage inside Charlie Jo, but she understood the advice, and well, accepted it.]  But I'm not here to talk to you about Little Steve. Or to tell you to stop lying to your poor parents.

Do... I even know you well enough for you to make any sort of impact?

I'm just here to get inside that head of yours. And no, we've never officially met either. And before you go asking my name, let me tell you that I don't really use it anymore. [And so he's digressed, and his eyes have landed on the book next to Charlie Jo's hand. And he's reached across the table once more to place a hand on the paperback only to slide it towards him.] Great Expectations. [And he's rereading Charlie's dog eared page before thumbing through a couple of chapters.] Your namesake, huh? [And a chuckle.] You have to have a special set of parents to name their daughter after Charles Dickens.

Nah, they're just nerds. But you do know my Dad?

[There's a shake of his head as he's run out of pages to skip.  He doesn't like answering questions he's already answered, so a verbal response escapes him. Finally reaching the end of the book, out falls a spare leaf of notebook paper. And Charlie Jo shouldn't have been surprised, because maybe, just maybe she had been holding on to that certain piece of paper for awhile. And though she had always seemed to have been able to keep in in the perfect hiding spot, you know, away from her girlfriend Tiffany, and nOT on her person---now the tiny rectangle was placed perfectly in front of the boy in front of her.

And though Charles Dickens had previously only sparked a little interest in the guy, the attention was now fully on the item in front of him. Setting the book aside, the boy's hand was faster than Charlie Jo, as he resumed to pick it up.

The page looked worn as if it'd been folded back and forth from reading. It was half laminated-- with scotch tape. A crinkled up mess, it was, really.

And as the boy began unfolding he was sure to be extra careful as Charlie Jo was eyeing him a little too intensely. He began to read as Charlie Jo diverted her attention everywhere else.]

I recognize this handwriting.

How?

It's familiar to you. It's not your handwriting but I'm assuming a girlfriend, someone special. And judging by the creases in the page, the page is either old or has been read over a million times.

[And so Charlie's mind's way past explaining herself. She hadn't looked at the boy to offer any kind of non-verbal cues that he was right.  

Instead, she kept her mind-- or tried to keep what was left of it on Tiffany.

Because even if she had found an escape in the green eyed monster, she realized that there was always a sense of walking on eggshells with her. And that, a part of Charlie Jo wasn't entirely free to be herself. Free to feel whatever she felt.

And even if she was extremely and justifiably pissed off at Merry until the end of her time, she'd still managed to keep a piece of Blue Eyes with her at all times-- her shredded up notebook wriTINgs. Or rather writing as after a certain family/children gathering she forced herself to trash just about every trace of Merry. Every trace except one excerpt she really couldn't let go of.

And though time was showing that he would not be repairing any semblance of the remaining relationship they once had. Charlie Jo, was still stupid enough to hope otherwise. That's what carrying that taped up page meant.  

She couldn't un-hear Merry's words of complete rejection, or the anger in her voice or the looming threat of another MiguEl instance. Even if she had no right or say so in what Merry did, the thought still rattled her. Because, surprise, she still cared. And if she had needed any proof it was that feeling she felt that quickened her heartbeat from just being in the same room as her. And the boiling feeling of her blood as they argued in front of everyone.

And so her mind had been playing this trick on her. Ever since then. And honestly it had been playing that same trick ever since she'd gotten her hands on the pages-- Ever since Ronnie did what he did--And even more so after Tiffany found them.

Because she had plans of which she had never followed through with.

And as if to brutally remind herself of that decision she was supposed to make.  Her mind kept traveling back to plenty of nights ago--that a bittersweet memory. She could still feel the muscle memory in her heart as her heart beat mimicked the rhythm it pulsed when she had laid there with Merry in her own bed.  And it had to have been her fucking bed--just to serve her a screwed up reminder of what could have been, and what she still, despite everything wanted.

Because when they'd promised to never hurt each other again... she had fucking believed it.

And yet, time proved otherwise.

But she still believed it, despite how Merry's actions were disproving herself. And she still had it stuck in her mind that she forgave her for everything. And she would if it meant Merry would forgive her back. But that would be a long shot.

And the written cues on paper served as a validation in her mind that they were just making it harder on each other.

So she's trying to pull away from her thoughts, and the boy is staring at her face. She's transparent again? Fuck.]

What were you thinking about?

Nothing.

Let's not pretend you don't have emotions, Charlie Jo. That's what's got me in this mess to begin with

What mess??? [So with a snap of her head, she's finally giving that boy a glare, and she looks like she's going to come right across that table and strike him in his stupid head.]

[And he's raising his eyebrow.] Your mess.

[And to make his point as quick as possible, he's sliding the piece of paper in trade for her Charles Dickens book, and he's opening it back to the page she had dog-eared. With a lick of his finger, he spots the page, and begins to read.]

"The unqualified truth is, that when I loved Estella with the love of a man, I loved her simply because I found her irresistible. Once for all; I knew to my sorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be. Once for all; I loved her none the less because I knew it, and it had no more influence in restraining me, than if I had devoutly believed her to be human perfection."

[She has her eyes shut now, and he's closed the book with a sigh.]

Fuck that. [There's a shake of her head, as she can hear a small trace of a chuckle from him, but the moment she'd opened her eyes, the last image she saw was a flash of a smirk, and a set of green eyes.]