#quietly hiding the fact i’ve been on ao3 for ten years and have a lot of fanfic on there that i’ve written myself

[probably-enjolras]

i accidentally mentioned AO3 to my dad because i was rambling about les mis and he works in AI and data analysis so he decided to test one of his tools to understand how AO3 works and im just watching him look beyond confused and im like pls don’t ask me my account OR my search history just trust me on this one

also he knows i adore hozier and i told him titles often are named after song lyrics even if they aren’t entirely connected to the fic and i said hozier lyrics are really common and he said “maybe it’s the other way around” and the idea of hozier getting his lyrics from AO3 titles is my version of the darkest pit of hell. unreal unearth may have been inspired by the layers of hell but nothing compares to this idea jesus fucking christ

[thebiscuiteternal]

“Paper Scraps”

Post-Canon, Angst, Hurt/Comfort...ish?, Reconciliation, Discussion of Suicidal Ideation, Ghosts, Implied Sangyu, Mo Xuanyu Gets To Be Mourned, Wei Wuxian and Nie Huaisang Are Going Through It

Series Link on Ao3

__________

"To what do I owe the surprise visit?'' Nie Huaisang asks, and his voice is so devoid of emotion that Wei Wuxian has to bite back a shudder, suddenly very much aware that he is treading in completely new and potentially dangerous territory.

Nie-xiong is as dead as his beloved elder brother, and the Headshaker was nothing more than a mask. All that's left now is Nie-zongzhu, whom he knows nothing about and threatened the last time they actually spoke to each other in person.

Still, he sucks up his nerve and plasters on one of his usual careless smiles. "We need to talk, you and I. Just you and I."

"Wei Ying-"

He holds up a hand to cut off Lan Zhan's protest. "How about it?"

"And what, exactly, do you think there is for us to discuss, Wei-xiansheng? Have I not been behaving well enough for your liking?"

Ouch.

"Okay, I deserved that," Wei Wuxian says as he waves off his defensive husband and friend a second time, suddenly wishing he'd just snuck out and come alone.

Then again, that probably wouldn't have gone well either, judging by the wary looks he keeps getting from the handful of Nie disciples who linger defensively near their sect leader.

Okay... okay. No more trying to joke around. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, then straightens his back. "I'm here about Mo Xuanyu."

Nie Huaisang’s face betrays nothing, but the fan in his hand snaps shut with enough force that it's audible throughout the room. “Everyone, please escort our other two guests to the main gardens so that we may speak privately.”

“Zongzhu-” one massive bear of a man starts to protest.

At the same time Lan Zhan moves in front of Wei Wuxian to growl “We are not going anywhere,” and the tension in the room ratchets sharply to hair-on-end levels as the situation threatens to turn into a standoff.

Wei Wuxian pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off a building headache, then reaches out in an attempt to tug his husband back. “Lan Zhan. I’m the one who requested a one-on-one meeting, remember? Literally just now?”

“He cannot be truste-”

“Wei-gongzi, he might-”

“Enough,” Nie Huaisang snaps, the unexpected whip-crack of his voice making them all, a few disciples included, jump. “Let me remind all three of you that you came here and none of you are required to stay. In fact, today would be much improved if you didn’t.”

“Lan Zhan.” Wei Wuxian hisses.

Lan Zhan doesn’t budge, hand still tight on the hilt of Bichen. “If you harm Wei Ying-”

“Yes, yes, you and the Ghost General will cut me open and hang me with my own entrails just to start with,” Nie Huaisang replies irritably, giving a dismissive wave of the closed fan. “I’m well aware.”

Judging by the startled and utterly appalled looks that cross Lan Zhan and Wen Ning’s faces, that had decidedly not been on the list of options of what they might potentially do. But the descriptive suggestion does work to knock them off guard, and Wei Wuxian bites his tongue hard to keep his expression neutral as the two of them are herded out without any more fuss after Nie Huaisang makes a short gesture to his disciples. “You did that on purpose.”

Nie Huaisang turns without responding to the jibe at all and walks off towards another door.

Ouch again.

He trots after the other man and falls into step beside him as they enter a hallway that’s clearly not for public use. Part of him wants to ask where they’re going, if just to break the uncomfortable silence, but he keeps his mouth shut.

They finally stop at a door that, when Nie Huaisang slides it open, leads to a tiny garden so deep in the sect's keep that the back wall of it is cut into the mountain itself.

And in that little carved out cave, shielded from wind and rain and snow, sits a funeral tablet on a table shrine.

Wei Wuxian involuntarily sucks a sharp breath through his teeth at the sight of it, his hand coming up to clutch at his chest. Guilt wells up hot and stinging and bitter in his stomach, then higher into his throat. Dizzy, he sways on his feet and is only vaguely aware of the hands that catch him.

Once his resurrection had been revealed, everyone simply accepted him as “Wei Wuxian”, not “Wei-Wuxian-In-Mo-Xuanyu’s-Body”, seemingly having just... forgotten that the face he has now once belonged to someone else. He had grown so settled into this body that until the dreams had begun, he had barely given Mo Xuanyu a second thought.

But right at this moment, staring at the name carved into that tablet, held up by the one person left who had remembered- had loved the original owner of this body enough to memorialize him, he has never felt more like an invader in it.

His vision, gone fuzzy from the sickening torrent of emotion, slowly begins to come back into focus and, for just a moment, he is staring through Mo Xuanyu’s eyes into the worried expression of Nie-xiong before the lingering memory clears to the more neutral face of Nie-zongzhu.

He is on the ground, his head in the man’s lap, and the sudden urge to cry hits him hard. “Do you hate me?” he asks without meaning to, voice coming out plaintive and half-strangled by his effort to hold back the tears.

“You were the one who decided there was nothing left between us worth salvaging.”

“I did. And it was stupid. But that’s not what I mean, and you know it. Do you hate me for having this face?”

There is a pause, then a quiet sigh. “No, I don’t.”

“Why?”

“If it wasn’t you, it would be someone else. Or something else. Yu-er was…”

Nie Huaisang turns his head away, expression softening into a complicated mix sadness and pain, and Wei Wuxian finds himself thinking that while ‘his’ Nie-xiong might be dead, Mo Xuanyu’s Nie-xiong might still exist somewhere deep under the protective layers of Nie-zongzhu.

He swallows hard, then makes himself sit up and looks again at the tablet and its small offerings.

“Determined,” he says quietly, finishing the sentence. A tiny wet laugh bubbles out of his throat. “I thought… I really did believe that you had forced him into it,” he continues, and in the edge of his vision, he sees Nie Huaisang flinch at the accusation. “But no. No. He... really was determined to see it out to the end.”

“How do you-”

“Ah.” He scratches his cheek, then scoots to face the other man. “That’s actually the reason I needed to talk to you. I’ve been seeing- fuck, dreaming his memories, I guess… though they were more like nightmares, considering what was in them-”

“Wait,” Nie Huaisang says, holding up a hand. “When did this start?”

“Mmh. Just a little over ten months ago, I think? Or maybe closer to eleven. The first one was of your visit right after his mother died.”

Nie Huaisang goes slightly pale at that, though whether it’s from the admission of the length of time or the contents of the memory, Wei Wuxian can’t tell.

He gets an answer when Nie Huaisang gets up and rushes to the table, returning with something carefully cradled in his hands.

It’s a spirit pouch.

His hands are shaking as he holds them out to accept the tiny burden, and he’s vaguely aware that he’s gaping like a fish. “Huaisang…” he chokes out when he finally manages to find his voice again, but that’s as far as he gets.

“I… have studied a lot of ways of finding and contacting the dead,” Nie Huaisang says, and Wei Wuxian nods along numbly because that makes a ridiculous amount of sense, given the circumstances. “I know what the ritual notes said, but seeing that there was still something left of Da-ge after everything that had been done to him…”

He reaches out and touches the pouch and Wei Wuxian finds himself thinking of a gentle hand ruffling his (but not his) hair.

“I’m just sorry it took me two years to get up the nerve to go looking.”

But you went, Wei Wuxian thinks. You went.

He’d never even considered it. It had never crossed his mind at all.

“Eleven months ago, right?” he asks, voice still a little squeaky.

“Mm-hmm. I should have written to you about this long before now, but it seemed like every time I’d prepared myself to send the letter, something would happen that would remind me that… well.”

That we’re not friends anymore.

That you want nothing to do with me.

Wei Wuxian closes his eyes and rests his hands in his lap, still holding the pouch as if it’s made of porcelain instead of cloth. “I probably wouldn’t have read it,” he confesses quietly. “Or I would have, but I wouldn’t have believed you. I would have thought it was a ruse, a setup-” A tiny, wounded laugh escapes his mouth and he tilts his head back to stare up at the sky. “Maybe that’s why I started having the dreams. His way of telling me I’m an idiot.”

“A little drastic on his part if it was.”

“Can’t say it wasn’t necessary.” The pouch gives a jangling, discordant little hum when he pets it, the fracturing of the soul within vastly different from what he’d felt from Xiao Xingchen. The pieces feel smaller and fewer, yet heavier. “Oh,” he murmurs when he realizes why.

“Oh?”

“The array was designed to consume the resentment of the caster based on negative memories of the person or persons they wanted to curse. That’s why the memories of you and the flashes of his mother were so vivid when the rest of them weren’t. That’s why you were able to find these pieces. He really did see you two as the only bright spots in his life, so those memories were spared.”

Nie Huaisang makes a choked noise in the back of his throat, and when Wei Wuxian turns his head, the other man is looking away in a clear attempt to hide his expression. “He was wrong.”

“A year ago, I would have agreed,” Wei Wuxian mumbles. “After everything he showed me, though… I don’t think he was. I get it.”

He takes a deep breath. He has never talked about this, not with Lan Zhan, not with Wen Ning, and certainly not with Jiang Cheng, even if they are taking tentative baby steps towards being less awkward around each other. He’s not sure he should be talking about it with Nie Huaisang either, but-

“I know what it’s like, just wanting everything to end. Deciding the whole world can go to hell. Maybe I didn’t intend for the backlash from breaking the seal to kill me, but I sure didn’t fucking care what it would do to me one way or another. Nothing and nobody could have saved me by that point. You couldn’t have saved him even if you’d dragged him home with you like Lan Zhan wanted to do to me.”

“Wei Wuxian-”

He ignores the little flutter in his chest that they’ve at least moved back to an address that feels less precarious than the icy ‘Wei-xiansheng’. “Let me finish, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So... So... Ah, fuck,” he mutters, gently shifting the pouch so he can scratch the back of his neck, trying to catch the lost trail of thought. “You know… I never questioned the clothing I woke up in when I was resurrected. As brutal and nasty as the Mo family were and as disgusting as that little shack was, it should have come off as weird that I was wearing such nice robes.”

There is a quiet sniffle, and Wei Wuxian pretends not to see Nie Huaisang wipe wet eyes with the edge of a sleeve as he continues talking. “He appreciated those. Appreciated that you tried to take care of him.”

He raises the pouch to eye level, and it gives another little crackly hum. “And clearly he still appreciates your efforts, considering his method of dragging me here to make me apologize for thinking the worst of your relationship. So, I’m sorry for that.”

Nie Huaisang gives a watery little chuckle and swipes at his eyes again. “Accepted. Is he… Is he alright? I only know how to contact souls, I don’t know anything about tending to them.”

“Honestly… I’m not sure what can be done,” Wei Wuxian admits as he begins another examination. “There’s really so little of him left, I don’t know what will happen if a purification ritual is attempted. He seems to be more stable as he is than Xiao Xingchen was, but there’s no guarantee he’ll stay like that. Still, I owe it to him to find some way to help him out, so I’ll do what I can.”

“If it would be easier for you to take him back to the Cloud Recesses for study, then… then you should,” Nie Huaisang says, and Wei Wuxian is a little bit impressed that he was able to make the offer despite how much it must have hurt.

“I think he’d be much happier staying here,” he says, then tentatively adds, “But that would mean visits, plural, and while I’m definitely going to have a very long talk with them about all this, I doubt I’ll be able to come without either Lan Zhan or Wen Ning… probably both at first.”

Nie Huaisang rubs his temples with his fingertips, his expression cycling through a complicated series of emotions too quickly for Wei Wuxian to follow, then he sighs. “We’ll figure something out,” he says as he reaches out and takes back the pouch.

Wei Wuxian can’t help smiling at the tender way he cradles it against his chest as he gets up to approach the funeral tablet and put it back in place. “Yeah. We’ll figure something out.”

[stutterfly]

Failure to Communicate

This was a joint collab fic that @gukslut​ and I worked on, commissioned by @cypherft-v as part of our fundraising for Black Lives Matter. Thank you for contributing! Banner & moodboard by me :)

{Pairing} Park Jimin/ Reader

{Genre} Enemies to Lovers/ College AU/ comedy/ smut

{Rating} Mature - Explicit 

{Word Count} 21K

{Warnings} oral, kissing, fingering, protected sex, biting, marking, other filthy shit

{Summary} You've always had a crush on Park Jimin, but the truth is that you're just one of many. He just so happens to be the TA for one of your classes, and you're determined to make your feelings known. Whether or not he takes you seriously remains to be seen.

{Prompt} Could either of you write an enemies to lover story about jimin and y/n set in college where he was her TA and got her kicked out of her major bc he didnt give her the grade she needed and was generally unhelpful? Posted on tumblr on August 17, 2020 by stutterfly and cross-posted to Ao3. I do not allow reposting, translations, or edits, to any platform, including YouTube.

Ten more minutes. You can barely see the clock from your seat against the wall. The lecture hall isn't crowded by any means; to the contrary, this Tuesday/Thursday psych class is usually pretty empty. You could have just as easily sat in the middle, but it doesn't afford you the same view. Well, it does. But not the one you prefer. It's just that positioned front and center, your staring would look more obvious. At least that's what you're telling yourself. If you stare from the corner it's less conspicuous, which is important because you do a lot of staring in this class. Park Jimin is the TA.

The man in question sits off to the side at a table of his own, typing away on his laptop. This reminds you that you haven’t been doing much other than quietly ogling from a distance. The only notes you're taking are lackluster doodles of his appearance and the occasional squiggle of your pen at the quiet sighs he lets out when he stretches his back after sitting hunched over his laptop for too long.

Jimin is absolutely breathtaking — even in an ugly plaid three-piece suit and perfectly round spectacles that would look horrid on any normal person. You're definitely not the only one who has noticed. His beautiful features and fantastic bone structure forge a man who is borderline ethereal. With soft eyes, big pouty lips, a flawless complexion, and a flirtatious demeanor he has enraptured many over the years. He's popular... like, really popular.

You begrudgingly count yourself among those love-smitten numbers. You know it’s hopeless and illogical. He could have any person he so desired at any point in time. Why would he ever choose someone like you? If you’d been paying any sort of attention to the subject matter of this class you might know that things like feelings and life’s rhetorical questions often don’t make sense.

But you’re shit at psychology. You’re more of a blunt poet at heart, and that heart is often hidden behind twisted brambles of anxiety and sharp thorns of insecurity.

You are but a speck of dirt upon his round glasses. It’s been a hopeless, silent crush for some time, but now that he’s assisting the professor in this core requirement for your academic studies, he has to acknowledge your presence. You’re a speck he has to look at before swiping you out of sight with a wave of his hand.

He's the object of just about everyone's affections, and rightfully so. He's not just gorgeous, he's charismatic, charming, and such a smooth talker. The word on campus says those pretty lips of his can do a lot of other really wonderful things too. You've been watching him chew on them for the past five minutes straight, wondering how many times his deliciously pink tongue can sweep over them before he makes them chapped.

Maybe they're chapped already. Maybe you should offer him your chapstick? Or maybe you should never talk to him at all, because you don't stand a chance. Park Jimin would chew you up and leave you bleeding out with a broken heart, and you know it. That doesn't stop you from imagining all the ways he could take you in his mouth first. You could watch those pretty lips all day long, but you’ll settle for an hour on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Looking up as if he's been paying attention all along, Jimin attempts to figure out where the professor is in the lesson. It’s obvious that he wasn't listening at all and was instead answering messages. It would be nice if he could say they were messages for class, but that's not true and Jimin is a lot of things, but he isn't a liar. He's been talking to Chungha, his current flavor of the week.

He turns toward the students as the professor dismisses the class and there you are, eager and awestruck. It takes every ounce of self control Jimin has not to roll his eyes. Another fan, he presumes. You can't handle him, but he can tell by the embarrassed way you tear your eyes from him to look anywhere else that it hasn't stopped you from thinking about it.

Trying to seem nonchalant now is a lost cause. Jimin has no shame and although you busied yourself by packing up your neglected textbooks and darting your gaze to various points in the room for a straight minute, Jimin is still staring at you when you look back at him. He smirks when your eyes meet. It's not a flirty kind of smirk, you sadly note. It's condescending in your eyes, which further solidifies your theory: Jimin is too much for you no matter how badly you want a taste of him.

"Did you take notes?" he asks, nodding toward your backpack where you've just tucked your computer and sketched up notebook.

"I- uhh..." You panic.

"You know that was all about the exam next week. You're gonna need those notes if you want to have any hope of passing it," he tells you, shoving his own computer into his bag.

"I was just.. um, I was--" you attempt to explain.

"Busy staring at me?" He smiles and you know he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s teasing oh gyou.

You balk at the blatant accusation and force a half-laugh, half-scoff from your throat. “No.”

"Yes," he corrects with a light and mellifluous laugh. "Is there pen on my face or were you hoping you could be?"

"What?" you choke, eyes watering at the idea.

Jimin shakes his head, laughing softly to himself as he remembers his surroundings. With a small clear of his throat and the subtle adjusting of his tie, he provides a suggestion for you. “Get them from Taehyung.”

"Get what?" you ask, drawing a blank on what this conversation was even about. It's the first time you've ever actually talked to him outside of your dreams and it’s proving to be a lot harder than you thought it would be.

"The notes, Y/N. Get the notes from Taehyung, you know, the ones that you didn't take today because you were daydreaming about my mouth," he tells you, heading for the door.

Taehyung, who is the only other person left in the room wiggles his fingers at you in a wave. When you turn back, Jimin is gone.

"Need the notes?" Taehyung asks, voice free of judgement.

"Please," you sigh, relieved that he'd waited.

He spins his laptop toward you, where an email is already open with the notes attachment added. "Drop your address in there," he says standing up.

"Thank you so much," you say, frantically typing your student email into the space.

"Hey, y/n?" Taehyung asks, the bristles of curiosity or concern painting his tone with a soft comfort.

"Yeah?"

"Jimin is a fool," he tells you.

"What?"

"If you were looking at me like that, I'd at least ask for your number." Tae offers a combination of large hopeful eyes and a giant goofy grin as he holds his phone out for you.

Giggling, you take it from his hand and add your number to his contacts list. He purses his lips to hide his excitement as he takes his phone back. He slides it into his pocket before hastily packing the rest of his things into his leather messenger bag.

"Thanks, Taehyung," you say, waving on your way out the door.

"Wait!" he shouts after you, half of the contents of his bag threatening to spill onto the floor as he scrambles away from the table. He adjusts his belongings and clears his throat, instantly adopting a smooth persona. "Where are you going? I'll walk you."

"My car?"

"Wanna come eat with me?" he wonders. He's confident, but it's not the same kind of arrogant confidence that Jimin oozes. He's softer. He feels more real, more attainable. He obviously knows he's a catch and he’s definitely expressed the same about you. What could be the harm in letting an attractive man stroke your ego a little bit? If you’re being honest with yourself, you can use the boost after such a pathetic display towards your crush.

"Oh, uh... yeah. I guess so," you agree, letting him lead the way out the door.

"Cool." Tae takes his glasses off and hooks them in his shirt. Pulling a snapback from his bag, he pushes his hair back and puts it on before he swings his messenger bag over his shoulder. Damn. Why did that raise his hotness like ten whole levels?

"You like hamburgers?"

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Taehyung slips into the seat next to you on Thursday, brushing against you very deliberately as he passes.

"Hello, sugar," he says, licking his lips as he spares a fleeting glance down at your chest.

"Hey, Tae," you greet him while your eyes are still locked on Jimin.

"Still on Jimin, huh?" he asks. He doesn't sound particularly disappointed, or surprised for that matter. He's just stating a fact. You're relieved he's not offended. Letting him eat you out in his backseat after dinner was probably not your best decision, although it seems like it meant about as much to him as it did to you.

"I don't know," you say with a shrug.

"It's okay. I can't blame you. I could put in a good word for you if you want. We're close," he informs you, sitting back and spreading his legs wide under the desk.

Sighing, you rest your cheek in your palm. "I've got a plan," you confess.

"Oh yeah?" he chuckles. He playfully knocks his knee against yours as if to signal for you to spill. "Do tell."

"I think I need a little extra help with this material," you tell Taehyung.

"Good luck, Y/n. I hope he can squeeze you into his busy schedule, but hey, if he can't, I'm totally down to squeeze into yours anytime."

Looking at Tae out of the corner of your eye, you smile at the grin he wears and start to laugh at the way he wiggles his eyebrows at you.

"I'll keep that in mind," you joke.

"Please do."

The minutes drag on as you wait for this class to end. Doing your best to seem a little less obsessive this time, you make a point to take notes and look at the teacher more than the TA. Jimin still catches you staring at least three times. It's embarrassing, but not enough to stop you from approaching him as the room empties out.

"Hi, y/n," Jimin sings, giving you a knowing smile.

"Hi." You tuck your hair behind your ear, and smile back.

"Do you need something?" he wonders, purposefully combing his fingers through his silver hair.

Damn, do you ever.

"I was wondering if you had time to help me. I'm struggling with this material and I could really use some one-on-one guidance." Leaning over his desk you make sure he has a good view right down your shirt, not that his eyes wander from yours. While he shows restraint in his gaze you swear he briefly drags his bottom lip through his teeth before he catches himself.

"One-on-one, huh?" He sticks his tongue in his cheek, looking amused. "I bet Taehyung would give you some one-on-one guidance."

You're sure that's true, but it's not Taehyung you're after. Taehyung isn’t the TA. Taehyung isn’t getting paid to help teach a course. Of course you want to say that and in your head you rehearse the words but you can’t seem to find a way to phrase them eloquently enough. Why do you always get stupid brain around him? Your plan is quickly falling apart.

Jimin waits for your response with his eyebrows raised. You know he's two seconds away from leaving you gaping at him and walking out the door, so you do something incredibly rash and stupid.

"I like you," you blurt out.

Jimin smiles. He knows that, obviously. He also knows damn well that you're perfectly capable of looking back at your notes by yourself. You're definitely smart and dedicated enough to study on your own. He can't help teasing you anyway.

"Everyone likes me," he casually informs you as he plants his palms on the desk and leans on them.

He peeks over the edge of his glasses as he looks up at you, like some kind of otherworldly sexy librarian. If deities ever needed a librarian, Jimin wouldn’t even need a resume. His charm and seduction are so strong that you almost miss his rejection. Almost. You're stunned into silence when it hits you. Just as you're about to tuck and run, he smiles again.

"But,” he pauses to click his tongue thoughtfully, “I think I have some time on Saturday. I'll give you my number.” He rips a corner of paper out of his notebook. "Is it okay if I come to your place? Do you have a dorm or…”

"Oh. My apartment’s fine!" you flounder, trying to remember how to speak coherent sentences. Jimin. In your room. How many dreams have you had about this moment? "I mean, yeah, sure. You'll come to mine, yeah."

Jimin giggles and it sounds like pealing bells. You're lost in the beautiful sound of it until you realize that he's laughing at you. "You okay with that? We could meet somewhere else instead."

"I wouldn't mind you in my room," you sigh. Open mouth; insert foot.

He raises an eyebrow, giving you a chance to backtrack, but you're both well aware you meant every word of that.

"Okay, y/n. See you Saturday then. Call me."

"I’ll call you," you repeat, resisting the urge to slap your palm over your face. You sound like an idiot. Stupid brain strikes again.

Jimin barely notices, all too used to girls falling over themselves to get his attention. You’re no different to him, just another pretty face in a sea of women entranced by the way he walks, talks, and breathes. It’s not his fault he’s so damn pretty. He does note that you’re brave, however. Not many people come on to him so brazenly, and that’s something worth rewarding. Besides, he feels a sort of obligation to help you out. He is getting paid to help out the professor, after all.

He winks at you as he leaves, taking your breath and your sanity with him. You have Park Jimin’s phone number. Park Jimin is going to be in your apartment in two days. Maybe you didn’t bomb that as hard as you thought.

A slow clap beckons you to look back for the source and you find Taehyung looking back at you with his boxy grin. When he’s sure he’s got your attention he raises his two thumbs up in approval.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Jimin is not surprised when Chungha disappears into the clusterfuck of bodies as soon as they step into the party. They may have come here together, but their fling is on its last leg and they both know it. She wants him off her couch, doesn't appreciate the feeling of tied-down-ness that comes with your friend with benefits staying over all the time. She's ready to move on, that means he has to as well.

Jimin isn't even sure whose house this is, but he’s happy to tag along for free booze and maybe a new face to go home with. Luckily, his friends are never far, and he finds them easily. Getting absolutely hammered in the backyard makes them hard to miss. Jungkook is the only one looking particularly bored as a very drunk Taehyung hangs all over him talking about the sweetest thing he ever tasted.

"Why so glum?" Jimin asks, nudging Jungkook's shoulder with his own.

"I'm the designated driver tonight," Jungkook sighs, pushing Taehyung off of him.

Taehyung slumps to the ground, immediately entranced by the stars above him. Jungkook kicks at him gently.

"Where's your girlfriend? I haven't seen you without your tongue down her throat all week," Jungkook wonders, looking behind Jimin for the woman in question.

"Girlfriend," Jimin repeats with a snort. "Hilarious. That's not a thing. She's probably looking for her next kill."

Jungkook regards Jimin thoughtfully, his eyebrows scrunching toward each other. "If you take over DD you can have the futon."

Jungkook loves his futon. It's one of his most prized possessions. He keeps it very clean and being allowed to get anywhere near it is a privilege. Jimin is pretty sure he goes over it with a lint roller as part of his nighttime routine. It's also incredibly comfortable.

Jimin releases a breath in a tortured groan as he thinks over his options. He could get black out drunk and wake up god knows where with a terrible hangover, or he could hang out and watch his friends get black out drunk and then wake up on a futon that feels more like a cloud than a mattress, a little slice of heaven in Jungkook and Taehyung's little apartment.

"Okay," Jimin relents. "Give me the keys. I’ll stick to water for the rest of the night."

"Ah, I love you man," Jungkook praises, tossing his keys in Jimin's general direction before grabbing the newly opened can of beer out of Taehyung's hand below him. Taehyung, still staring up at the sky with a glazed smile, doesn't react. It takes Jungkook all of five seconds to pour the contents of the can straight down his throat. He follows this by smashing the can in a bicep curl with a giggle and a bashful smile.

"Do it again," an unfamiliar girly voice pleads from across the table. She tosses him another can and he repeats the action, turning away when he's finished so that he doesn't have to see her reaction. Jimin knows what's going to happen once his friend gets a few more beers in him. Jungkook is going to go apeshit. There will be no trace of this shy hunk of muscle who blushes and coils away from pretty girls. He'll be chest thumping shirtless and picking up everyone who gets close enough to touch. Half of them will probably end up thrown in the pool, if history is anything to go by, and he'll most likely have the hottest girl at the party slobbering all over him in the backseat when Jimin drives him home tonight.

Jimin's suspicions prove true an hour later when Jungkook throws Tae in the pool. Jimin runs to the edge of it in a panic. Tae was very drunk so he needs to make sure he's not just sinking like a stone. That was his first mistake, although he'd make it again to keep Taehyung safe. His second mistake was wearing these ridiculously tight ass jeans.

Any other pair and he might have been able to pry his cell phone from his pocket the second he felt JK's hands on his back. Had he worn any other pair of pants he might have been able to throw it to safety in the grass before he hit the surface of the pool. As it stands, his skin tight jeans are soaked through, Tae is slightly more sober than he was when Jimin arrived and is swimming just fine, and Jimin's phone is totally destroyed.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

You should be sleeping. It's three in the morning. You should definitely not be awake right now. Lifting your phone up for the three hundredth time tonight, you're not surprised to have no new notifications. That text you sent to Jimin hours ago has gone unanswered.

You typed and erased it at least ten times, agonized over what to say, and how to say it. By the time you pressed send, the message was nothing like how it began and you noticed a second too late that you didn't even tell him who you were. Adding a second text saying 'it's y/n btw' seemed so desperate. You've been waiting for him to ask who you are for so long that you've convinced yourself he already knows and he's avoiding you on purpose. Who else would have said "i'm excited to see you tomorrow" in a text about meeting up to study? He knows it's you. He has to. The alternative possibility that he plans to see other people tomorrow too is too bothersome to accept. You really need to let this go and try to sleep.

Keys in the door stop you from dragging yourself off the couch. Your roommate will see you and accuse you of trying to run away from him to avoid something. He’s right, of course. You’ve attempted to flee from your problems in the past, against his advice. Now you know better than to try. It's much better to face things with Yoongi head on. At the very least, maybe he's got something helpful to say.

"Why're you up? You look sad." His words slur just the tiniest bit and he leans against the wall for stability as he takes off his shoes just inside the door. You see right through his attempts at nonchalance. He's tipsy.

"A boy I like isn't texting me back," you admit with a scowl. "You didn't drive, did you?"

"No, friend dropped me off. Is it Taehyung?" Yoongi asks, not pausing for an answer. "I wouldn't worry too much. He talked about you a lot tonight. He was really drunk though. You should go to bed. He'll probably text you in the morning."

You don't bother to correct Yoongi. Admitting you're harboring a huge fucking crush on the campus it-boy is the most foolish thing you could possibly do. It's embarrassing and naive and Yoongi would pity you for falling for someone so far out of your league. Maybe you should just date Taehyung and forget about Jimin. He sure seems to have forgotten about you.

When the morning comes and your only notifications are an email from Target and a text from your mom, you muster up every bit of courage you could possibly find in your body and call him. You’d rather know if he’s deliberately ignoring you now than agonize over other possibilities all day.

It doesn't even ring. His phone goes straight to voicemail. You try again, and a third time. Voicemail, voicemail. Could it be you rushed putting his number in and did it incorrectly? You dig through your backpack for the slip of paper he gave you to double check, and sure enough, it’s his number. He's ignoring you. He turned off his phone to solidify that fact in your brain.

Last night, laying awake waiting for his name to light up your phone, you felt pretty damn bad. In the daylight, with rest and a clear head, you're absolutely crushed. He was supposed to come over. You had plans. It was stupid of you to think you could earn space in his mind or time in his schedule. He played you, and it hurts.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Studying on your own proves more difficult than you imagined. With only Tae's notes to go by, you feel like you're quizzing yourself on things you already know. Turning to the textbook doesn't give you the specialized knowledge you need for the exam. You could never hope to memorize enough of it that you'd retain something pertinent.

On top of that, your heart hurts. You were so close to spending time together you could practically smell the subtle scent of his cologne. He pulled the rug right out from under you so fast, your ass is sore from falling on it so hard.

Sunday and Monday pass miserably in their slowness as you continue to nurse your tender rejected heart. You spend two days mulling over how you're going to face Jimin on Tuesday, let alone how you’re going to pass this exam when you're so disgustingly focused on figuring out why he stood you up and ignored you all weekend.

Tuesday comes too soon and you find yourself lingering outside the lecture hall for way longer than any sane person should.

That's what bothers you the most about this whole thing with Jimin. He's stolen your sense. How on earth did you let a stupid crush, on a boy you hardly know, get between you and your grades? You tell yourself no more as you suck in a deep breath and steel yourself to march right through the door. You're not going to let Park Jimin and his cruelty stand between you and your credits.

With your resolve solid and your head held high, you push yourself forward. You don't even spare a glance in his general direction as you pass, although it would be a lie to say you didn't clock him in your peripheral. Tae sits down next to you a moment later and you thank your lucky stars you have a friend here to make you look busy.

"Ready to make this exam your bitch?" he asks, making finger guns at you and clicking his tongue.

"That remains to be seen," you say, turning toward him in your seat so that Jimin is behind you. "I couldn't get anything done this weekend," you confess. "I thought I was more prepared than I am so it really just depends on what's on the exam."

"Aw fuck, you could have called me," he says, passing you his note cards. "We could have studied together."

"Oh, Tae," you sigh, pushing his hand back and refusing his offer of notes. "You should use this time for yourself. It wouldn't be fair of me to take it from you."

"We've got ten minutes." He points to the clock at the front of the lecture hall. "Quiz me. It will help us both."

Ten minutes fly by as you do your absolute best to retain any of the information in Taehyung's carefully written cards. You take one last glance at it before someone slips it from your hand and replaces it with a test. You know it's Jimin.

Only when you look up and level him with a glare does it seem to register on his face that you're angry. Realization dawns on him as you snatch the test and lean over it on your desk.

"Y/n, I'm so sorry," he quietly whispers, but he's moving on already. The exam is about to begin. He doesn't have time to explain himself right now. He knows what it looks like. He led you on and stood you up without so much as a text message. He should have asked Tae to tell you what happened, but the truth is that he forgot about you entirely and he knows that is the cruelest thing he could possibly confess.

Nearly an hour later you set your pencil down and run your fingers through your hair. Did any of those answers make sense? Your only possible saving grace is bullshitting your way through the open responses. Maybe you’ll earn some partial credit at the very least.

You swallow the petty words threatening to spill from your tongue as you gather your things and approach Jimin’s desk with your test in hand. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice the anxious glances he threw your way. You swore every time you looked up he was looking at you, so you’d squint like you were checking the time, like you had somewhere more important to be than taking an exam for a core requirement course.

As you slap the packet of your evident failure down on his desk, you don your best apathetic expression. You look down at him and allow a sliver of eye contact, just enough to send the message that you don’t care anymore. You try to look bored. He doesn’t deserve to see how he’s hurt you or angered you. He’s nothing to you. You’re nothing to him, but you’re not beneath him. He’s beneath you. You don’t just look at him; you look through him.

He blinks a few times and a chill runs down his spine. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words won’t form.

“Don’t bother. I don’t care,” you whisper with a roll of your eyes.

You make sure to straighten your shoulders and keep your chin up as you turn on your heel and leave. You bombed that exam and you know it, thanks to your stupid feelings, but at the very least you achieved the victory of shaking Park Jimin to his core. So why do you feel like you’re about to sob in the bathroom down the hall?

Oh. Because you are. You spend at least five minutes composing yourself and washing your face before your phone buzzes with a much needed distraction.

[NEW MESSAGE] Tae: hungry?

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Jimin’s leg bounces uncontrollably under his desk while he waits for the remaining students to finish their exams so he can go after you. He wracks his brain for ways to clear the nervous tension dwelling within but it’s no use. Confrontation makes him so uncomfortable. Still, he can’t have you thinking he’s a total douche. He should text you. Fuck, he should call you. And he would, if he had a working phone. The second the last student drops their exam on his desk he’s going to find you and apologize.

He knows his reputation precedes him. He knows exactly what this looks like. You probably think he blew you off to get some or just led you on entirely, but he really did mean to meet up with you. He needs to clear the air. Maybe he’s a little loose with his morals at times, but he’s never an asshole on purpose. He prides himself on being a beacon of positivity and an example on how to make people feel good even if it’s only to make them feel good. He barely knows you, but it bothers him to think that you’re out there thinking he’s a heartless jerk and that he hurt your feelings on purpose.

It’s a big campus and Jimin spends the better half of an hour searching it before he finds you in the cafeteria with Taehyung. You look awfully close, and he almost feels bad interrupting you, but he owes you an explanation. It’s a mystery to him why on earth you would seek out his company when Taehyung seems all too willing to be what you need.

Taehyung notices him before you do. He shakes his head at Jimin disapprovingly. “Cold, man. So cold.”

Jimin nods, hanging his head. He’s well aware. You haven’t turned around yet and don’t intend to. If Jimin can ignore you then you can ignore him too. Besides, if you turn to face him, he might notice your watery, puffy eyes. How incredibly foolish that would be to admit that you’ve been crying about being stood up by someone you’ve barely even spoken to.

“Y/n?” Jimin’s soft voice calls to you, melodic and soothing as ever. “Can I have a minute?”

Taehyung looks between the two of you while he moves a french fry into his mouth at a snail’s pace and slowly chews as if this is free entertainment.

“No,” you answer.

“I’m sorry about Saturday,” he tells you, progressing despite your refusal to listen. He plants his hands on the table beside you and leans in to try to steal a glance at your profile, but you turn your head away.

“Jungkook pushed me in the pool right after this asshole,” he says, pointing at Taehyung. “My phone was in my pocket. It’s ruined.”

“Hey,” Taehyung interrupts, his mouth open in protest and full of half-chewed fries. “Don’t pin this on me. You could have asked any one of us to let her know what happened. You never even mentioned it. Why don’t you just admit that you forgot?” Taehyung suggests, jamming another french fry into his little paper cup of ketchup before cramming it into his mouth.

Jimin fumes for a moment, glaring at Tae before he pulls out the chair next to you and spins it around. He straddles it and rests his chin on the backrest. “Y/n, I’m sorry. I forgot. I swear I never would have done something like that to you on purpose. My phone getting ruined messed up a lot of things, but if you give me another chance, I’d love to prove that I’m not the horrible person you think I am.”

Silence. You glance over at Taehyung, willing him to speak up and either back Jimin up or get you out of this. You’re ready to forgive Jimin already and leave with him right now and it’s not lost on you how bad that looks. It’s so easy for Jimin to have you wrapped around his fingers. You wish he was ugly. You wish you never signed up for this stupid class. You wish you could feel for Tae the way you feel for Jimin so that you could just leave with him instead. You’re about ready to anyway when he finally opens his mouth again.

“I think you should take her out to eat. Eating out is the perfect way to apologize, don’t you think?” Tae’s grin is so wide it makes his eyes crinkle.

You huff out a humorless laugh. If that’s what you wanted you’d stick with the original plan and be in the backseat of Taehyung’s car again in the next twenty minutes. Against your better judgement, you turn to look at Jimin, puffy eyes and runny nose no longer hidden. He’s a little taken back by your expression. He smiles at you softly and reaches out to brush his knuckles against your cheek. You practically melt into his touch.

“Mmm, I would like something sweet.” Jimin licks his lips. “How about ice cream?”

“When?” you ask, embarrassed by the way your voice cracks and by how easily you’re giving in.

“Now?”

“Well, look at the time,” Tae says, standing with his tray and messenger bag. “I’ve got to go wash my hair but you two have fun on your date. Use protection!” he calls behind him on his way toward the exit.

You’d be irritated by his blunt suggestion if his statement didn’t swirl a storm of butterflies deep in your gut. You’re so distracted by them that you don’t realize that you’re still gaping at Jimin in disbelief.

“So?” Jimin wonders, holding out his hand.

“I don’t forgive you,” you insist while taking it into yours. Although it’s probably a lie, he doesn’t call you on it. He simply smiles and gives your hand a tiny comforting squeeze.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

“My car is on the other side of campus,” you tell him once you’ve stepped outside. “Where are you parked?”

“Oh, um,” he stalls. “I thought it might be nice to walk, give us more time to talk. Is that okay?”

“Isn’t it kind of far?” you ask, assuming he's taking you to that chain ice cream shoppe a few miles off campus.

"No, this place is close. It's a secret. Not many people know about it," he says with a wink.

"You say that to everyone don't you?" You narrow your eyes at him, moving out of reach when he tries to put his arm around you.

"No," he laughs. "I've been here with other people, though. I was here with Jin last week." He smiles, leading the way toward a small alley between buildings.

You follow him easily, questioning again why you have so little self preservation when it comes to him. At the other end of the alley you can see what looks like a park. Green trees line the sidewalk up ahead, creating a canopy against the brilliant sun. The walk to this mysterious ice cream place is shaded and chilly. Jimin slips his jacket off and slings it over your shoulders when he notices you rubbing at your arms.

"Almost there," he promises. In the distance, framed by two towering oaks, is a tiny little ice cream place. It looks like a mirage, something out of a board game or a fairy tale. The closer you get, the more real it becomes. The siding is faded, the roof looks like it's in dire need of repairs, and the hand-painted sign reading The Cheery Cherry has seen better days. It's clean though, sparkling in all the places that matter.

There is a stout old man behind the window with a shining silver ice cream scoop ready and waiting in his hand. Jimin greets him by name and asks for a simple vanilla cone. You're tempted to judge him, he doesn't strike you as the vanilla type, but there must be a reason. Maybe this is the best vanilla ice cream on earth. You order the same just in case, taking your first taste as Jimin pulls a few bills from his wallet and hands them over with a shaky hand.

To your dismay the ice cream is not extraordinary; it's just plain vanilla. You could probably get the same exact type from any grocery store. You should have gone with something else. You should have at least gotten the cheery cherry cone. That might have been a flavor worth tasting. Why was he so bent on coming here for such a bland ice cream?

You suppose you should be thankful for the gesture but you still feel uneasy, like he’s playing you somehow. It almost feels like he’s doing it out of obligation rather than desire. Is he doing the bare minimum because he doesn’t feel like you’re worth more than this? Your company must be the equivalent to a plain vanilla cone. Mediocre. Unremarkable. Ordinary.

Forgettable.

Jimin turns back to you with his ice cream in one hand and change filling the other. "Is it good?"

"It's vanilla." You shrug.

"Do you want something different?" he asks, counting the money in his hand.

"No, I like vanilla."

"Figures," he teases.

"What's that supposed to mean?" you snap back at him.

"Nothing, sweetheart. I just think you're soft, sweet. Vanilla suits you."

"I am not vanilla. I do all kinds of freaky shit," you argue, realizing too late that you've over shared in your annoyance.

Jimin looks you over with a smirk, bringing his ice cream to his lips and dragging his tongue around the edge of the cone where it's dripping. "Noted," he says.

"I didn't mean-- I wasn't -- UGH," you huff, embarrassed that he's still making a fool of you from the doghouse. You need to change the subject fast. "What'syourmajor?" You rush the question past your lips and he laughs at your flustered state, waiting for you to slow down and ask him in words he can understand.

"Your major?" you repeat, slower this time.

"Oh, uh. Urban studies."

"Interesting."

"You don't know what that means, huh?" He nudges you with his elbow, falling in stride beside you. Unfortunately, you had just brought your ice cream up to your mouth and his nudging caused you to smear it across your cheek.

You look at him angrily. First he stood you up, forgot about you, then he had the nerve to show up to class today looking like a fucking angel, takes you for ice cream to make it up to you, and now he's teasing you and making you look every bit the fool you feel like you are. Tears well in your eyes when he laughs at the mess he caused.

"I'm sorry," he says through his giggling. He reaches out to gently wipe your cheek with his thumb which he promptly pops in his mouth and sucks clean after. "What's wrong?"

You swipe at your eyes, ridding them of the tears that were about to spill out as your shame bubbles over. "You make me feel stupid," you confess. "You're wasting my time."

Shoving his jacket back at him, you take off in the direction you came, throwing your stupid vanilla cone in the closest trash can and kicking yourself for not leaving with Taehyung instead. Jimin winces at the action, looking like you’ve discarded a precious keepsake rather than a plain, boring vanilla cone.

"Y/n, wait!" he calls, catching up to you with ease. He takes you by the wrist and spins you back to face him. "I don't think you're stupid at all. I’m sorry I’m so bad at this.” He sighs, softening his hold on you. “I didn’t know what to think about you when you approached me at first, you know? Girls throw themselves at me all the time.”

You grimace at his words and roll your eyes, snatching your wrist back with a scowl. Of course he thinks you were throwing yourself at him, but you’re sure that you weren’t. You were just being direct about your feelings. Do you really come across as such a desperate person? Maybe you should ask Yoongi for his opinion later.

“But I definitely didn’t mean to stand you up and I don’t mean to make you feel stupid at all. I think you're pretty smart, you’re cute and you’re actually bolder than I initially thought. I'd love to get to know you better. I know I'm not doing so great so far, but I can be better. Please, sit with me?" he asks, walking to a nearby park bench.

Reluctantly, you follow, although you make a point to drag your feet the whole way there. When you sit down beside him, he loops an arm around your waist and draws you closer, offering his ice cream up to you once your legs brush against his. You reach for it but he pulls it away.

"Hey," he jokes. "Just lick it. I didn't make you throw yours away."

You shake your head and lean forward to drag your tongue over what's left of his vanilla cone.

"Forgive me?" he asks. His toothy smile catches the sunlight and it genuinely hurts your eyes to keep looking.

"Okay. One more chance," you agree. "So, urban studies?"

He relaxes back against the bench, taking another lick before he offers the cone to you again. "Yeah, it's like community development and stuff. What about you, princess? What are you studying?"

You flush at the nickname, heat rising in your face and other places you'd rather not acknowledge. You're oblivious to the fact that you're having a similar effect on Jimin. The way you're licking his ice cream is making his pants feel a little tight.

"Teaching," you tell him, picking at the peeling paint on the bench.

"Little kids?"

"Yeah." You take another lick of his ice cream while he holds it, looking up halfway through.

Jimin's expression is unreadable, stunned almost. He shifts a little, crosses his legs, clears his throat.

"Kids are fun. I have a younger brother," he tells you.

"A lot younger?"

"No," he laughs. "But he's a total baby so it's basically the same.”

“Oh, does he get that from you?” you tease with a giggle.

His mouth drops open in surprise. “Hey,” he pouts. “That’s not nice.”

“I never said I was nice,” you tell him, taking another slow lick of his ice cream.

“Clearly,” he scoffs with a roll of his eyes. He drags his lip through his teeth to try to hide the smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

You manage to cram so much conversation into the next twenty minutes on this park bench, learning more about the mysterious campus celebrity than you ever thought you’d know. You hope his interest wasn't feigned, because it felt so fucking good to have his attention, to have him really listen to you and ask you about your life and your family and your hopes for the future. If you're not mistaken, you might think this was real progress.

Jimin watches you walk back toward campus with a soft smile and an unfamiliar feeling brewing inside him. You've surprised him. You're not the naive infatuated little girl he took you for. If he had a phone he'd be texting you already. He'd call you tonight, and maybe tomorrow. It's alarming to him how badly he wants another ten minutes with you. He hates that you declined his offer to walk you to your next class, but damn does he ever appreciate the view.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Thursday comes quickly. After your initial ice cream date, Jimin has found himself curiously seeking your attention rather than the other way around. With his phone out of commission he was hanging around the cafeteria all day yesterday in hopes of catching you. While it’s clear you don’t trust him and you haven’t forgiven him, you seem to have softened up a bit. You spent your meals together and allowed him to walk you to your classes, all while exchanging playful jabs at each other. You might forgive him for bailing if yesterday stood alone. Today is a whole different story.

Now Jimin is staring down a stack of graded exams the professor has dropped on the table at the front of the room. Students haven’t begun to trickle in yet so when the professor takes the opportunity to excuse himself, Jimin wastes no time in flipping through the pile to get a sense of the overall success of the class. When he gets to a test marked in thick red marker with an ‘F’ his stomach drops. He knows it’s yours before he even reads the name. He was hoping maybe you’d been lying about not paying attention.

He shuffles the exam back into place and straightens the pile just as the earliest student walks in. Jimin offers her a wan smile and a tiny bow of his head as a greeting. Although his stomach is still sinking and churning, he’s already thinking about ways he might be able to make it up to you.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Jimin finds you in the cafeteria with Taehyung again, where he has you distracted from your misery by folding and unfolding a cootie catcher in front of your face like you're in third grade and not your third year of college.

"Pick a color now, y/n," Tae urges, opening and closing the folded paper four times after you've indicated the triangle marked 'pink.' "Hmm," he ponders. "It says you need to relax."

"What is this, a fortune cookie? I thought these things were like truth or dare, or like... who I was gonna marry," you complain, flicking the craft from his hands.

Jimin picks the paper up off the floor and hands it back to Taehyung. "Do me," he says.

After a moment of pointing and folding, Tae announces, "It says you need to apologize. Again."

Jimin looks at you while Tae packs up his stuff. After dropping a kiss on the top of your head he leaves for his next class. The action makes Jimin furrow his brows and frown. A feeling too uncomfortably close to jealousy blooms in his chest. Why did that bother him so much? He's not ready to acknowledge the answer to that. Instead, he contradicts it by reminding himself that Tae is one of his closest friends and it's cool that the two of you are getting close too.

"Princess?" Jimin's song-like voice drifts to your ears once Tae has disappeared. You've pressed your face into your folded arms on the table and it's taking everything you have not to start crying about your failed exam again. "I'm so sorry," he whispers, laying his hand against the small of your back and beginning to rub soft circles there. "I'm sorry I didn't help you."

"I wish you were ugly," you mumble into your arms.

"What?" he laughs, leaning his face down next to yours.

You lift your head to meet his eyes. "If you were ugly this never would have happened," you insist, sitting up and shaking his hand off your back with a twist of your spine. "Just be ugly! FUCK."

Jimin smiles before screwing his face up into the most unrecognizable grimace he can manage. He holds it until you start to smile then switches to another terrible expression, with his chin tucked into his neck so that it morphs into several chins and crosses his eyes for extra emphasis on its ridiculousness. When you start to laugh he sticks out his tongue to make it worse.

Once you’re clutching your stomach and doubled over with pealing laughter, he gives you the beautiful smile you're so used to again. "Let's do something fun together," he offers. "And then after that, we'll get studying and make this right. Please let me make it up to you."

"Okay," you agree, leaning into his open arms. It only took a couple days of spending time together to remove the awkwardness you felt when he touched you. He's even held your hand a few times while you walked together after your other classes. Now, his embrace feels welcome and comforting. You still can’t tell if he’s just trying to be nice or if he actually likes doing it but you don’t mind at all.

"There's a party on Saturday, will you come with me?"

"Where?" you ask, as if you have any hope of refusing him at all. You'd go anywhere with him and you know it but you want to try to play it cool. Your tone seems more tepid than you anticipate but he doesn’t seem to call you out on it.

"Jin's," he tells you, reaching for your hand and lacing your fingers together.

He rubs his thumb against the back of your hand while he waits for you to pretend to decide. You relish in the motion. The tingle of butterflies erupt in your belly again like a cannon aimed at your heart, ready to sink it in an instant. Instead of falling, your heart seems to fly up to your brain and a light giggle escapes your lips.

"Okay. I'll come," you say in a euphoric brain fog, looking down at your joined hands. It's scary how good it feels to have his attention like this, but you hope it doesn’t stop.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

"Why are you home?" Yoongi asks, finding you on the couch when he emerges from his bedroom. His late afternoon nap went longer than expected, leaving you believing he was out for the night. You settled in with Netflix and snacks of your own. He flops down next to you, causing you to swing your feet off the couch before they get squashed beneath his butt. He yawns and lets his head dip forward as he pulls out his phone and begins flipping through it.

"It's Friday night,” he reminds you, his tone scratchy. It makes you giggle.

"I didn't wanna go out alone and I thought you were gone. You're gonna be up all night now, you know."

"I would have stayed asleep but I've got a friend in need," he mumbles, rubbing the remainder of sleep from his eyes.

"Aww, you're so good to me." You beam, snuggling up to him and wrapping him up in a tight hug.

"Not you," he huffs with a disgusted grimace. “Ugh, that’s enough touching.”

You immediately pull back and scoff. “Wow. You’re lucky I know you know you love me.”

He rolls his eyes. "That’s debatable.”

“Yeah, okay,” you mock him in a tone of disbelief. You pop a chip into your mouth. “So why are you really up— if not to support your wonderful, beautiful, perfectly sculpted local couch potato?”

He smiles and steals the next chip from your hand before you can shove it into your mouth. “If you're good with it, my friend is gonna crash on our couch for a few days. His parents cut him off and he’s got nowhere to go. He’s almost got enough saved up to get his own place, but he could use some help in the meantime. Figured we’re doing alright and we have a couch. You cool with that?"

"Sure," you agree, trusting Yoongi's judgment. He's not gonna let some crazy person stay on your couch. "When?"

"I was just waiting for your approval but I hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to you before I passed out. I'll go pick him up now, if that's good with you," he says slipping his feet into a pair of sandals and looking for his keys.

"What, he doesn't have a car?"

"Sold it to pay for his books this semester. He's got nothing. He's keeping all his clothes in another friend's closet. It's kinda sad."

"That's rough," you agree, blowing out a heavy exhale and turning your attention back to the TV.

"I'll be back in a few. Maybe take it to your room so he can have the couch?" Yoongi suggests.

"Sure, sure," you say, already sucked back into your show and forgetting entirely about Yoongi and his friend for now.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

When Yoongi returns an hour later, you haven't moved. In fact, you’ve crashed… hard. Yoongi and his mystery guest enter to a chorus of your snores and the Friends theme song.

“Hey, get up,” Yoongi urges, nudging your shoulder lightly.

When you peel your eyes open to look at him, you’re utterly mystified to see the object of your affections a few feet behind him, standing awkwardly in your kitchen with a duffle slung over his shoulder.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you blink a few times to clear your vision. You want to be sure it's him before you open your mouth. He's there, in black sweats with a grey hoodie pulled up over his white baseball cap. “Jimin?”

“Oh good you know him," Yoongi says with relief coating his tone. "I’m gonna get him some blankets. Think you can take your Netflix marathon to your room?”

"Yeah, I can do that," you mumble, gathering up your mess and disappearing into your room without another word.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Alone in your room, you conjure up a hundred reasons in your anxious mind that could explain why Jimin thought he had to keep this huge secret from you. He’s got nothing? Maybe he was afraid you'd tell people. Suddenly, it makes so much sense why he's always walking everywhere.

You think back to Tuesday at the Cheery Cherry. His usually steady hands were so shaky handing over those bills he pulled from his wallet. You think of how tightly he clutched his change and even counted it out afterward. If you hadn’t been so preoccupied with your own thoughts of inadequacy, you might have been able to put it together on your own. Your stomach drops when you recall the insulting way you threw your vanilla cone in the trash. The scene replays over and over again until you’re crying into your pillow.

Guilt keeps you awake until well past midnight as you turn these unsavory ideas over and over in your head, looking at them from every possible angle and over analyzing every detail of the time you've spent together thus far. Your eyes are now wide and dry, fixed on a black spot on your ceiling that you're hoping is just a speck and not a spider. The quilt in your hands is frayed, giving your nervous hands something to pick at while you let the silence drive you mad.

The soft knock on your door at half past one is a relief. Yoongi does his best cooking at odd hours, usually bringing you a plate if you're awake. It's a surprise to find Jimin outside your door instead. He awkwardly shifts from foot to foot until he finds your eyes in the dim glow of your table lamp.

"Did I wake you?" he whispers, head leaning against your door frame.

You shake your head, looking down at your skimpy sleep shorts and the university hoodie you pulled on to open the door. “I was up.”

“Can we talk?”

“Of course,” you answer, stepping aside so he can come in. Your eyes scan the room nervously, checking for underwear on the floor and counting the half empty glasses of water on your nightstand. If you knew Jimin was going to be in your bedroom tonight, you would have cleaned up. At least you didn’t leave your vibrator out in the open. You don’t think you’d recover from the embarrassment of that.

Jimin follows you to your bed, perching on the edge once you’ve settled back against your pillows.

“I feel like I owe you an explanation.”

“You don’t,” you respond immediately. “I’m happy you’re here.”

“Then why did you run away?” he asks, pulling at his hoodie strings.

“I wanted to give you space. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. You didn’t tell me what you were going through and I didn’t want to…” you trail off, unsure how to articulate just why you ran away.

“You didn’t want to embarrass me? Hurt my pride?” he asks, sarcasm evident.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “You don’t owe me an explanation. We aren’t that close.”

“That’s the problem,” he whispers. “I want to explain. I want to be that close to you.” He leans towards you, resting on his hands. He looks confident despite his current situation and it worries you a little. How can he be so sure of himself when he’s crashing on your couch and apologizing to you again for the fourth time in less than a week?

The Jimin you’ve gotten to know recently seems to disappear, leaving on the smooth talking playboy in his wake. He seems too calculated to be genuine. The words he whispers don’t seem like words meant for you. He is him, after all, and money or not he’s still the greatest catch on campus. And you, much to your dismay, are still just you. Unassuming, uninteresting, unexciting you. You’re the plain vanilla cone he’d never ask for if he had the means to get the banana split.

“Why?” you skeptically ask, pulling your knees up to your chest.

Jimin bites his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth while he thinks. “You’re special,” he says. “You’re cute and funny and I like spending time with you. You make me feel like I can be myself with you.”

“But you don’t trust me?” you ask, obviously referring to the elephant in the room. He didn’t tell you he was essentially homeless. How much of himself can he truly be if he was keeping that from you?

“I didn’t want to scare you away, and most girls I… see, don’t get close enough to find out,” he confesses. “I can’t afford to take anyone out right now. I haven’t been able to for a while. But I’m so close to getting enough for an apartment. That’s why I took the TA job; at the end of the semester I should be ready.”

“Jimin,” you start, unsure what to say. You’re still thinking about that goddamned three dollar ice cream cone you threw away.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he tells you, standing up. “I just wanted to be real with you, and thank you for agreeing to let me have the couch for a few days. I’ll let you sleep.”

“Wait!”

As you scramble over yourself to reach out, you find yourself on your knees awkwardly clutching your hand towards your chest. You’re still worried about seeming desperate but you can’t let that stop you now. Jimin turns toward you, but you’re unsure of what you wanted to say. You only know that you want to be closer to him too, that you’re not ready for him to go, that if he leaves now you’ll lie awake for the rest of the night reliving this short conversation.

“Stay,” you plead, nervously twirling the string of your hoodie around your fingers as you sit back against the pillows. “Talk to me?”

“Aren’t you tired?” he wonders.

You hold out your hand and he crosses the room to take it, standing next to your bed. You pat the space next to you and tug him toward it. “Wide awake.”

Your yawn says otherwise.

Jimin smiles, climbing over you to lay by your side on top of your blankets. He looks at you expectantly once he’s settled but it’s too much pressure for you to lead the conversation. You only know that you want to keep hearing his soothing voice. You have no idea what you wanted to say.

“You look cute,” he says, breaking the silence and touching your nose with the tip of his finger. “Sleepy and soft.”

“You look sexy,” you complain, waving his hand away. “I kinda wanna punch you for it.”

He throws his head back in laughter. “So feisty.”

“I can be boring instead,” you jokingly offer, rolling on your side to face him.

He does his best to keep his eyes trained on your face, despite the fact that all he wants to do is let them wander down. “I just want you to be you.”

That sounds fake. Again, you battle against the idea that this is all a farce, some sneaky way to get into your pants once and leave you wanting for the rest of your life. He hasn’t bared himself to you enough for you to trust him, so you pry.

“Why’d your parents cut you off, Jimin?” you ask.

He looks at you for a second, stunned at your boldness. That’s definitely not where he thought this conversation was going. He takes a moment to prepare his response and sighs.

“They have this restaurant. It’s a small place right off the coast: Jeongsik. My great grandparents started it from nothing and now my parents manage it. They want me to take over since I’m the eldest, but I want to move to the city and have my own life. I don’t want to work in their restaurant forever and my brother loves it and is perfectly capable. They love me. I know they’re just trying to teach me a lesson,” he tells you. He sounds unsure of that last bit. It probably has a lot to do with the fact that he’s got nowhere to live and he’s penny pinching for meals and they’re shunning him.

“And what is that lesson, Jimin?” you ask, trying to dig deeper before he slips back into playboy mode.

“That being a part of Jeongsik is my only option if I want to be successful. That I can’t make it without them.”

“Can you?” The question is quiet and unassuming. You only want to know how bad it really is.

He takes a deep breath and taps his fingers anxiously against the fabric of the pillow. “I can. It won’t be the same, it won’t be easy, but I can.”

After giving Jimin a moment to say more, which he doesn’t take, you push him further. With your heart on the line and this miracle of an opportunity with him in your room, you're determined to learn as much as you can. You need to get under his skin. You need to know him, so you can know if you should run.

"What's your plan then?" you question, shifting closer so you're face to face against the pillows.

Jimin smirks at your line of questioning. It seems to break him from his thoughts. “Well,” he begins. “The Village has some one bedrooms opening up at the end of the semester, and by then I’ll be ready to make a deposit and lease one. After that I’ve got one semester left until I graduate. Then I’ll move to the city and live my life how I want.”

“Won’t you miss your family?”

“They still talk to me. They’re just not paying for school. Or my car. Or my food.” His heavy sigh at the end contradicts the lightness with which he revealed all of this to you.

“I’m sorry, Jimin.” You reach for his hand, familiarity in the way it fits with yours.

“It’s okay. I have good friends, and I have…” he trails off, catching himself and looking away with an awkward huff of a laugh.

“What?” you wonder, heart fluttering at the possibility that he was about to say ‘you.’ “What else do you have?”

Jimin looks up at you, rising up on his elbow. His eyes search your face for any hint of rejection. When he finds only hope, his hand moves to cup your cheek. It’s warm, adorned with rings that contrast the temperature of his skin.

“You,” he breathes, moving closer. You watch his gaze dart down to your lips before your own eyelids flutter closed. “I was going to say you,” he confesses before he closes the space between you and lays a soft kiss against your waiting lips.

He pulls away way too fast, leaving you to panic in the aftermath. You thought you had feelings for him before, but now that he’s let you in, now that he has shown you his heart, there is nothing more to deny. You’ve fallen, hard. The realization makes you feel trapped, like a frantic dying bird in a cage. But your captor is kind and beautiful and the flavor he left on your lips is the most divine thing you’ve ever tasted.

“Then say it,” you prompt him, urging him to accept the affection you’ve been so desperate to give him.

He kisses you again in lieu of words, longer, deeper, until his tongue is dragging over yours. You fist the material of his hoodie in your hands, pulling him towards you while you turn on your back. He’s hesitant to get on top of you, afraid he might be taking it too far, but you’re insistent. You pull and he caves willingly, slotting a leg between yours and letting his hand drift from your cheek to the back of your neck.

“I like you,” he pants when he breaks away. It feels like your heart flies up out of your chest and does a lap around the room, flapping its hummingbird wings like the wild thing it is before it crashes back into its place.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” you plead. “You don’t have to pretend just because you’re here now. I’m a big girl. We can just have tonight.”

You say the words but you know if he leaves tomorrow, you’ll cry all day and probably the day after that too. The truth is, you can talk all you want about how you can do this no strings attached, but you know you can’t. Your strings are so attached to him at this point you might as well be metaphorical shibari.

“I mean it,” he whispers, full, wet lips brushing the side of your neck.

You freeze. You were expecting him to drop the charade and just fuck you or something, but in this moment he exudes tenderness and consideration.

“And because I like you, I think I should go back to the couch before we do something we aren’t ready to do.”

“Stay,” you plead. “We don’t have to do anything, just lay with me.”

He slowly nods and reaches over you to turn off the lamp, planting a soft kiss on your cheek as he settles back into place. You wiggle your form down into the covers and he smoothes the hair from your face before tracing his fingers down your arm. You lean in close enough to smell the subtle clean scent of his cologne. Is it cologne? You doubt it knowing what you know now, unless he’s borrowing it from someone else. You still find yourself enjoying it nonetheless. It’s comforting. Sleep begins to claim you just as he slips his fingers into yours and gives you a tiny squeeze.

“Goodnight y/n.”

You think you respond but you’re in that purgatory state between sleeping and being awake, so you can’t be sure. At least you’re eighty percent sure you gave him a squeeze in return.

That’s how Yoongi finds you in the morning: you tucked neatly into your comforter and Jimin laying on top of it beside you, your hands clasped together in the middle.

“UM!” Yoongi shouts from the doorway, loud enough to wake you both.

Startled, you sit up in bed and look around for the source of the shout. “Fuck! Yoon. You didn’t need to scream.”

“I hope you’re not expecting me to keep this from Taehyung,” Yoongi chides, looking from you to Jimin and back. “That would be quite the moral conundrum.”

“For fuck’s sake. It was never Tae. I am not seeing Tae. We are JUST FRIENDS!” You yell the last two words and chuck your pillow at him for emphasis.

“Okay cool, then Jimin can explain to him whatever this is to him. Jimin, he wants you to call him. My phone’s on the table. I’m taking a shower.”

Yoongi disappears from the doorway and an uncomfortable silence settles over the room. In the light of day, you feel nervous and uncertain. Jimin does nothing to ease your anxiety. He just lays there quietly, unsure what to say.

“Do you want breakfast?” You try to smile and sound as chipper as possible.

He sits up finally and turns his back to you. “I should go see Taehyung.”

He moves toward the door and you feel your chest tighten. “Jimin?”

He turns to you from the hallway, and taking in your confused expression, offers you a smile. “We’re good, princess. I’ll be back tonight, then me and you: party time.” He winks before moving out of sight.

Alone once again, you start to question things. Everything. Are you imagining things or did Jimin seem cold when he left? He kissed you last night, didn’t he? Was everything you talked about too much? Does he regret kissing you? Does he regret staying the night with you without getting anything out of it? You can feel your thoughts spiraling out of control, but you can’t stop yourself from putting up the walls you so desperately wanted to keep down forever last night. It obviously didn’t mean anything to him, despite his claim that he likes you. He probably just meant that he’d like to fool around with you. Like he does with everyone else. You can’t let one night beside him make you think you’re special to him, no matter how badly you want to be.

Knowing you won’t make it through the day without driving yourself completely mad with questions and doubts, you dig your old phone and charger out of a drawer and go after Jimin. He’s leaning over the kitchen counter staring down at Yoongi’s phone when you steal his attention.

“Please take this,” you plead, thrusting the phone and charger towards him.

He looks from the device to you and blinks a few times in surprise. “What?”

“It’s a little old, but if your sim card didn’t get damaged I’m sure it will work in this. I kept putting off bringing it to be recycled.” You laugh nervously as you try to place it in his hand. “But now I’m glad I didn’t. Take it.”

“I can’t accept this, princess. It’s too much,” Jimin says, staring down at the object in your hands.

“Take it for me. If I have to go another day without being able to send you memes I’ll die.”

“Memes?” he repeats, sounding baffled.

“Memes, nudes, the weather forecast. Who cares? I wanna text you. Please take it.”

He licks his lips and smirks at your joke. Was it a joke? It’s hard to tell. He accepts it anyway. “Thank you. I’ll call you later?”

“You’d better,” you tease, offering the grandest smile you can manage before retreating with a slow saunter back to your room.

There’s that view again. He could watch your ass sway in those teeny shorts all day. It takes every last ounce of self control he possesses to pick up Yoongi’s phone and dial Tae rather than sprint back into your room and pin you to the bed. It doesn’t stop him from daydreaming about it though, even as his friend answers.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

“What are we doing?” Jimin stands in the sprawling living room of Taehyung and Jungkook’s shared apartment. Both are from wealthy families that are all too ready to give their sons everything that matches the silver spoons in their mouths. They’ve been blessed with a bachelor pad that looks more like a college movie set than anything normal one would find around campus.

“Pick up a controller,” Tae tells Jimin, completely absorbed in the race on their oversized flat screen TV.

Jungkook hasn’t even acknowledged Jimin’s presence yet. Focused doesn’t even begin to describe the way his eyes bore into the television. He doesn’t break from his trance until he wins. Only then does he sit back with a smug grin, dropping the controller in his lap and just barely resisting the urge to gloat.

Taehyung drops his controller too, turning to give Jungkook a congratulatory fist bump. “Take his place,” he says to Jimin.

Jungkook has already vacated his place on the hallowed futon and moved to the row of cup noodles sitting on the counter. The first cup is half empty before Jimin even sits down.

“I suck at these games, Tae,” Jimin grumbles.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to be good. It’s a ploy to get you relaxed enough to talk about y/n.” Taehyung smiles, knowing Jimin can’t refuse now that he’s cornered.

“What about her?” He feigns nonchalance, as if he didn’t just spend last night catching feelings along with your lips between his own.

Taehyung scoffs, half bewildered, half disgusted. “Come on, Jimin. She’s amazing. You like her.”

“I barely know her,” Jimin replies. It’s a lie he can taste like copper on his tongue. He knows your favorite food, where you grew up, what you study, and he’s already programmed your birthday into his borrowed phone so he won’t forget.

Taehyung clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. “Okay then. If you don’t give a fuck, I’m gonna shoot my shot. She’s funny, and nice, and her pussy is so bomb it makes me wanna get married, so if you’re not gonna do something about that then I will.”

Jungkook cackles from the kitchen. “Did you fuck Jimin’s girl?”

“She’s not my girl,” Jimin grumbles, staring daggers at Jungkook, just as Taehyung says that he did not.

Jungkook takes his armload of cup noodles into his bedroom.

“I know you like her,” Tae prods. “She’s not some materialistic bitch who’s gonna leave you if you can’t afford lavish dates every other day. She’s a good, genuine person. She just wants your time and your attention. Maybe your heart. She doesn’t care about the other stuff.”

“Yeah? So I can bring her back to this futon after I buy her dinner from the dollar menu?” Jimin’s nose starts to tingle, months worth of frustrations finally reaching a breaking point. “I can’t get in a relationship right now and you know she’s not a fuckbuddy kind of girl.

“Right, because I didn’t eat her out in my car for fun last week.” He’d date you in a heartbeat if you wanted him. But he knows it’s Jimin you want and he’s more than happy to push the two of you together to see you both happy. He values friendship above all things.

“If that’s all you want from her, fine. But I think you and I both know it’s not and she’s too good for you to string along. If you’re just gonna break her heart, do it now before she falls any harder for you.”

“Why, so you can swoop in and be the good guy again? So you can get her off in your backseat?” The words are venom dripping from his mouth.

“Bro.”

Jimin softens. Tae is his dearest friend. He knows he only has his best interests at heart.

“I’m sorry.” He pauses and sighs. “We talked about Jeongsik last night. She knows my parents cut me off.”

Taehyung grimaces. “How’d that go?”

“Now she knows I’m not good enough but it didn’t seem to deter her at all.”

“‘Cause you are good enough and now she can see your true worth as a person, which is a thousand times better than the fake worth of money.”

Jimin seems to consider this for a moment but then expresses the concern gnawing at his insides. “What if she really is just another person who wants to idolize me? I’m really into her, but I need it to be more than that.”

“Jimin—”

“What if she’s after the meaningless title of being Park Jimin’s girl... like every other girl that has pursued me lately?” The words make him cringe. He’s humble and kind, not one to throw bouquets at himself, but those thoughts are intrusive and hard to ignore.

“Tch. Do you know her at all? Do you really think that matters to her?”

“No,” Jimin sighs. “But what if?”

“She admires you. You like her. Stop making it so complicated and let go of those ifs. You’ll never know if you don’t try and I want to see you try because you deserve to be happy,” Tae insists, starting a new game. “Now pick up that controller. I wanna kick your ass.”

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

You’ve spent the better part of your Saturday afternoon picking out your outfit for tonight. Yoongi only teased you twice before helping you select something a little bit more slutty than you’d normally pull out for a date. You’re going to a party after all, not some Sunday brunch with your friends.

When it’s almost time for you to meet up with Jimin you find yourself growing increasingly nervous. You run your hand over your thigh and down your calf, testing for any stubble you might have missed in your meticulous hour-long shaving session. On your way back up you tug on your skirt, eyeing it as though your gaze can simply increase its length. When was the last time you wore this dress?

You adjust and fuss over the way your tits fit inside the garment and puff air out of your cheeks. Yoongi squints at you from across the room. Your door is wide open after all.

“Stop worrying so much.” He sighs and clicks his tongue, crossing the room until he can see you in perfect clarity. “You look great.”

“I feel stupid. I should change. Jimin’s gonna think I’m weird if I wear this.” You try to turn and run back to your closet.

Yoongi plants his hands on your shoulders and spins you back to face the full-length mirror hanging over your door. “Look at yourself. Jimin’s gonna think you’re the hottest one at the party. Look at that makeup game.” He gestures to your face. “Wooo! So strong! Wow!”

Your lips twitch into a smile. Yoongi can be so sweet when he’s not busy pretending like he isn’t the softest man on earth.

“What if he doesn’t actually want me?” you ask, strings of doubt still plucking at your insecurity.

“He does,” he says with all the comfort you need in this moment. “I can tell with these kinds of things, you know.”

“That your like, weird sage sense you’re always telling me about? Reading the horoscopes doesn’t make you a fortune teller.”

He laughs. “Don’t be jealous of my power. Have I been wrong before?”

He hasn’t been, at least not with the advice he’s given you.

You exhale a huge breath and cock your head to inspect your appearance one more time. “What if you’re wrong?”

He hums a soft sound before planting a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Then he’s an idiot.”

A knock saves him from the overbearing hug you’re about to give him. He practically sprints towards the door. “That must be him! Pull your skirt up a little, would you? You’re not a nun and it’s gonna ride up anyway.” He pauses with his hand on the deadbolt and drops his tone to a rather loud, strained whisper. “Wait. What underwear are you wearing?”

Your eyes widen and your brows furrow as you angrily march over to your strappy heels and begin to put them on. “Why does it matter?” you whisper back.

“Are they the beige ones?”

“No!” Your hushed tone threatens to break into a shriek. “You know those are my period panties.”

“Please tell me they’re not the green ones.”

“Yoongi!” You get frustrated and lift your skirt just enough to show off a bit of the black lace adorning your buttcheeks as you lift your foot onto the nearby stool to finish setting the strap in place. “Satisfied?”

He breathes a sigh of relief and nods. “Good. Those are good.”

He opens the door faster than you can register the action. Jimin catches the flash of lace and more skin than he’s meant to see as you swing your leg down off the stool and adjust your dress. Heat flushes your face as you meet Jimin’s gaze. His eyes are wide and he licks his lips before nervously clearing his throat. He nonchalantly drops his hands and holds them together in front of his pelvis.

“You-You look good,” he stammers, completely stunned by your appearance.

“Thanks,” you reply with a shy smile. Park Jimin gets flustered? Who’d have thought?

He thought you were beautiful before but he’s never seen you like this. You’re completely decked out and drop dead gorgeous. He’s almost worried he’ll feel inadequate standing next to you tonight but it doesn’t stop him from wanting you by his side, hanging on his arm. He wants everyone to know that he’s there with you.

The pair of you stand there looking at one another and Yoongi slowly turns from Jimin to you, then back to Jimin.

“Have everything?” Yoongi prods, trying to get you to move so he can get on with his evening of relaxation and lazing about.

That seems to break you from your stupor and you nod and walk forward to hook your arm around Jimin’s. Before you get too far Yoongi calls to you and tests your reflexes by tossing your keys. You’ll need those if Yoongi is dead to the world asleep by the time you get home, which is quite possible. You’re not the most dextrous person but Jimin catches them and smiles at you. When you try to take them from his fingertip he moves his hand away and you swipe at the air. He offers to keep them in his pocket and you gratefully oblige. You pull your phone from its confines against your breast and check on the status of your uber with one hand while slipping your other into Jimin’s.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Jin’s party is already in full swing by the time you arrive. It looks like something out of a movie. There are glowsticks, red solo cups, a buffet table of snacks, and loud music by the large inground pool. People inside and outside of this big ass frat house are grinding up on each other, dancing, and spilling their drinks on one another. It’s a little overwhelming honestly. You’ve never been much of a party person and this is a monster-sized one.

Jimin takes your hand in his and gives you a reassuring smile. “You want a drink, princess?”

“Yeah.” You grin and breathe a sigh of relief, feeling your insides melt at the sound of his voice. You know whatever happens tonight you’ll be okay with him by your side.

Jimin keeps you close all night, drinking and dancing and stealing the occasional quick kiss. It's pretty clear to everyone who's paying attention that there's something going on between you. You came with Jimin, you're there with Jimin, you're leaving with Jimin. Either Jungkook wasn't paying attention, or he just plain doesn't care. The moment Jimin leaves you alone to run to the bathroom, Jungkook steps up behind you in the chair you’re sitting on.

"Hey, y/n!" He smiles, all teeth and sleepy eyes. You can smell the whiskey on his breath when you turn to face him. "You look so pretty tonight."

"Thanks, Kook." You know he's one of Jimin and Tae’s closest friends. If you just hang with him until Jimin gets back, you'll be able to avoid the advances of all the weird guys here you aren't familiar with. "I like your boots," you tell him, looking down.

He follows your gaze to his feet. "Me too, I hope no one barfs on them tonight," he laughs, lifting his face back up to yours. The words are slightly slurred but you’re still able to decipher them.

His eyes definitely linger on your cleavage on their way back up. By the looks of it, he's on the short list of people who might end up barfing on those shoes. He holds his liquor well, but if you had to guess you'd say he's had more than he should have at this point in the night.

"So, I was talking to Taehyung recently," he starts with a mischievous glint in his eyes. The rest of his sentence seems to get lost in translation on the way to his mouth.

"And?" You smile at him and realize he’s probably too drunk to have anything of worth to say but you wait anyway.

"He told me something." Jungkook smiles so big his nose crinkles and he giggles like it’s the biggest secret in the universe.

You puzzle for a moment over what could have him so giddy before remembering that Taehyung is intimately familiar with your o-face. You'd gotten so close with him over the last two weeks that the details of your first time hanging out had completely slipped your mind. Jungkook is definitely about to say something crass.

"What did he tell you?" you ask, fearing you already know the answer.

Jungkook leans in closer so he can whisper in your ear. An amused giggle spills from his lips like he can’t contain the punchline to a joke only he knows. Somehow he gets his tone under control and finally speaks. "He told me your pussy tastes like heaven and what a coincidence," he pauses, "I haven't had dessert."

Jimin finds his way back to you just as you've moved to elbow Jungkook off your chair. Unfortunately, the alcohol in your system has your brain a little fuzzy and you misjudge the distance and location. You end up elbowing Jungkook right in the dick. Hard.

A circle clears around you as Jungkook doubles over in pain. Jimin steps up next to you, looking down at his friend and trying to piece together what might have led to you inflicting bodily harm.

Jungkook goes from bending over, to squatting, to laying on his side on the floor. He rolls onto his back still clutching the jewels despite the audience of people who have stopped to observe.

“I’m gonna throw up,” he squeaks out.

“Watch the boots,” you remind him as Jimin leans down to help him up and leads him towards something he can barf in. Through the crowd of people, you can see him just barely make it to a trash can in the kitchen. Gross.

Jimin gives Jungkook a pat on the back as he retches and reaches over him to grab a handful of jello shots off the counter. He returns with the rainbow of little cups clutched in each hand. The crowd seems to go back to their business of dancing and talking amongst one another, the random altercation just a fleeting moment in the night.

"What'd he do?" Jimin asks, holding his hand out to you so that you can make your selection.

"He came on to me." You shrug, picking a blue cup and popping the lid off.

"That's it? You elbowed him in the balls for hitting on you?" Jimin raises his eyebrows in shock and laughs.

"Well, it was kind of an accident. But," you pause to bring the plastic shot glass up to your lips, "he insinuated that he wanted to go down on me." You dip your tongue into the Jello and swirl it around the perimeter of its plastic casing.

Jimin watches you gather all the Jello up onto your tongue with rapt attention. He's growing so hard watching your tongue work like that. It’s driving him insane. He wants to feel it on him instead. He’s also now acutely aware of how badly he wants to swirl his tongue around your cunt, just like that.

"That makes two of us," he confesses with an enamored sigh. His hands are still full of Jello shots but that doesn’t stop him from holding your face between them.

He fiercely smashes his mouth to yours and you cave to the welcome intrusion of his tongue. It presses against yours, curling around it as he sucks the blue raspberry flavor from your mouth. You drop the empty cup to the floor and reach for his belt instead, pulling him against you until you can feel him pressed up against your stomach, hard and needy. He grinds his pelvis against you to be sure you can feel him.

“You feel that baby?” he asks, his tone low and sultry.

You grind back with a muffled hum. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re practically dry-humping each other next to the crowd of other sweaty, writhing couples. While Jimin likes how this feels, he’d like to regain the use of his hands. Jello shots be damned.

He pulls away for a second and looks around, depositing all but one of the unopened cups into the hands of the next person that walks by before he squeezes the chosen red one out on his tongue. He leans back in and presses his mouth to yours again. You can still taste artificial strawberry on his tongue. You're not even sure he swallowed before you started trying to lick his tonsils but you don't care. You want him now. You need him.

His thoughts are much the same as his free hand wanders down your back, dipping lower for just a second to feel the curve of your ass and squeeze. When you gasp he takes a step back and looks at you through hazy lust-drunk eyes. His lips are red from the gelatinous treat. You’d love to try and suck the color right out of them.

"Princess," he pants, his hands grabbing at your hips.

"Jimin," you breathe back, pulling him closer again. "Come home with me." It's not really an invitation. He'd be coming back with you anyway since he's currently living on your couch, but this has a different meaning and you both know it. It’s a plea for him to take you to bed.

You make out on the front lawn while you wait for the uber. You make out in the back of the uber on your way home. You make out on the way up the stairs and you leave a heart shaped love bite on his neck while he uses your keys to open the door. You make out pressed against the kitchen counter, and in the hallway.

Yoongi watches the pair of you act like he’s invisible as you stumble your way around the apartment. He has a spoonful of Fruit Loops half-lifted to his gaping mouth and finally takes his bite when you’ve made it to your room. Thank god you closed the door.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Jimin isn't as shy this time about laying his weight over you once you’ve dropped down onto your bed. You’re warm and he seeks the heat of your body as your hands explore the taught muscles of his chest. They dance around his belt, slipping up over the curve of his perfectly round ass so you can squeeze and pull him against you, inviting him to grind his solid cock into you. Your movements get slower and more focused when you unbutton his shirt. He tugs it off his shoulders and throws it to the floor before helping you pull that tiny excuse of a dress over your head.

You're thanking your lucky stars you had the foresight to put on a matching set, despite how foolishly hopeful it felt at the time. The way Jimin is drinking you in wrapped in nothing but a little bit of black lace is making your head spin, or maybe that's the alcohol.

He sits back on his heels beside you, trailing his fingertips from your throat to the valley between your breasts. He skims over your belly button then side sweeps over your hip and down your thigh, leaving goosebumps in the wake of his touch.

"Wanna take those heels off, princess?" he asks, scooting toward them on his knees.

"I can do it," you insist, planning on making a show of dropping what's left of your modesty. You aren't counting on the way the room turns when you stand up too fast. Luckily, Jimin's reflexes are quick and his hands on your hips steady you before you can actually fall. Standing up is also doing something terrible to your stomach. It rolls and clenches and your anxiety skyrockets.

Parties aren't really your thing, and while Jimin might be drunk he is damn good at controlling it. On the contrary, it's becoming increasingly apparent that you are completely hammered.

"You okay?" Jimin asks, concern dripping from his tone. He stands up and turns you both so you can sit on the edge of your bed.

"I think... I'm drunk," you confess, unable to explain why you suddenly feel like crying.

"I think you're right, baby," he agrees, squatting down to unbuckle the ankle straps on your heels. "Let's get you some water."

Your stomach flips again and time slows as you feel the contents of the evening rise in the back of your throat. Panicking, you look to Jimin with wide eyes and a hand flying up to your mouth. He spins around looking for anything to catch what's surely coming and upends your little trash can. Candy wrappers and old class notes fall to the floor. He thrusts the can under your face just as a rainbow of Jello shots and reappears.

"I'm so sorry," you cry between heaves, tears streaking your make-up down your face.

"Shhh," Jimin soothes, gathering your hair away from your face. When he's sure you've finished, he disappears from the bedroom with the offending trash can and you're left with your horrible, alcohol twisted thoughts.

He's going to think you're pathetic and disgusting. Why on earth did you think you could drink that much?

Jimin returns with a glass of water before you can get much further into your self-deprecation.

"You're never gonna fuck me now," you blabber, your filter lost. Your thoughts are a jumble of sadness and muddled lust.

Jimin laughs. "Well, I'm definitely not gonna fuck you like this. I didn't realize you were this drunk," he softly says. It's a caring statement, not even a little bit condescending.

You should be grateful that he wants you sober for sex, but it only makes you cry harder because you really just want him so badly and you're absolutely certain you've ruined your chances beyond repair. So, you do the only thing that makes sense right now and cry harder.

Jimin wraps his arms around you and leans close to your ear. "I want to, you know. I want to lay you down and touch you all over." He presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck. "I want to taste you, feel you. I want to be inside you so badly, but not like this."

"Please," you whine.

"Sober up first, okay?" he coaxes. "Can I help you get some pajamas? Brush your teeth?"

"Okay," you sniffle.

Jimin smooths his hand up your back, tracing the black lace band of your bra with the tip of his finger. “Do you want to take this off?”

You nod, reaching behind you to unfasten the clasp while Jimin reaches down to the floor for the button down shirt he discarded. He averts his eyes while you shed your bra, then holds his shirt open for you. You slip into it but don’t bother to button it up before walking to your door. He helps you get to the bathroom but you insist on doing it yourself so you can clean up and assess just how fucked up you really look right now.

When you close the door behind you, he makes sure to quietly apologize to Yoongi, who is still scrubbing the trash bin Jimin brought out earlier. Yoongi reaches into the cabinet for the bottle of Advil and gestures to a glass of water already on the counter.

Jimin waits for you to open the door and when you finally do he's relieved that you haven't fallen asleep. You've washed the makeup from your tear-streaked face and brushed your teeth. You've even pulled your hair back so it's no longer in the way. You look at him through a hazy apologetic lens as he offers you Advil and water. The last thing you want to do is ingest anything but if it will help you in the morning, you'll try it for his sake.

The journey from the bathroom back into your room is a blur. All you can think about is crawling back into bed and sleeping this awful feeling away. You struggle with the covers for a moment until Jimin helps you slide underneath them.

"I'm sorry. Don't hate me," you plead in a weak voice.

"Why are you sorry? I don't hate you," he assures you, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He's shirtless. He could have been naked pounding your pussy stupid if you didn't overdo it on the drinks. You hate yourself a little bit for botching this chance, but if he could just put his arms around you again maybe you’d feel okay, like you didn’t blow it.

"Will you hold me?" you ask.

“Of course,” he replies softly.

The light in the room disappears and the mattress sinks behind you. His arms wrap themselves around your waist and his fingers twine with yours.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers when you squeeze his hand.

The heat of his breath brushes against your neck but you don’t close your eyes. You’re too dizzy. Instead you focus on the soothing rhythm of his breathing until the weight of your eyelids wins out against the nausea and sleep finally claims you.

『•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••』

Your ringtone wakes you late, when the sun in your room is far too bright to be any time before ten. The sound is grating and irritating and you pull your pillow over your head to block it out. Jimin reaches for the phone, you can feel his weight shift and the heat of his skin when he hovers over you.

"Hello?" His voice is gruff and coarse with sleep.

Peeking out from beneath the pillow, you look over to him. His eyes are still closed and your phone is laying on his bare chest, speaker on and screen lit up.

"Gimme your bae," Jungkook's voice calls through the phone.

"She's sleeping," Jimin tells him. Looking in your direction, he meets your eyes and smiles.

You vaguely remember him making you drink more water last night, giving you Advil, and tucking you in. It's a very pleasant surprise to find that you aren’t horribly hungover.

"Wake her up," Jungkook whines. "Bro. She hit me so hard."

Jimin laughs. "You deserved it."

"I know," Jungkook agrees. "That's why I'm calling. Can I talk to her please?"

"You're on speaker."

"Hi, y/n. I got your number from Tae."

"Hi Kook," you croak.

"I'm sorry I was a douche last night. I get stupid when I drink whiskey."

"I accept your apology. Don’t do it again. How's your dick?" you ask, scooting closer to Jimin and laying your cheek on his chest. He wraps his arm around you and kisses the top of your head. The gesture makes you feel warm all over. He likes you.

"It hurts but I'll live. Sorry. For real. Do you guys wanna go eat later?" he asks you both.

Jimin answers this time. "Maybe. We have stuff to do first. I'll text you." He hangs up before Jungkook can say more.

“What stuff are we doing, hmm?” you question with a giggle, trying to play coy.

“Depends how you’re feeling, princess,” Jimin replies, leaning over you again to deposit your phone on your nightstand. He lingers above you, prompting the cautious exploration of your fingers on his chest.

Suddenly, you are acutely aware of the awful taste in your mouth. In fact, you feel gross all over. Not exactly the way you want to experience sex with Jimin for the first time.

“I’m sorry about last night,” you tell him, wiggling out from under his body. “You must think I am the worst, most unattractive human.”

“No,” Jimin says with a giggle. “I think you’re sexy and sweet. I really like you y/n.”

“Nobody likes me.” You scoff at him in disbelief.

“It’s rude to call people nobodies, don’t you think? Especially when they’ve just confessed their feelings,” Jimin teases, sitting up beside you.

“Well, let me at least brush my teeth,” you tell him, holding his shirt closed around you while you rise from the bed. You step around the clean trash can that’s been placed at the side of your bed thanks to Yoongi, noting that there is also a neat row of condoms on your nightstand and a note that reads ‘be done by 5 i wanna watch Dragonball Z after work.’

You laugh and quickly take care of your morning bathroom routine in record time so you can make use of Yoongi’s gift.

When you come back to your room, Jimin is watching you. His lips are drawn down in a pout, his eyes are half closed, and his chest, still bare, rises and falls heavily with each breath he takes as he rakes his eyes over your bare legs and up. His shirt hangs open on your body, leaving a strip of skin visible from your throat to your panties. He licks his lips when your fingers drag a slow line up that strip.

Parting the soft fabric further, you let it fall from your shoulders and pool around your feet. Jimin sits up for a better view and you wait for embarrassment to strike. It never happens. Instead, his gaze emboldens you. He looks wrecked already and he hasn't even touched you yet.

“So beautiful,” he whispers.

His assurance pulls you forward, one foot in front of the other until you’re close enough to touch and his hands are on your hips as you climb over him. He leans back under you as you push forward, connecting your lips with a force that borders on overeager. You can feel him smile against your lips and self-consciously, you will yourself to calm down. You have all day, there’s no need to rush.

When your kisses become soft and patient Jimin decides to take the initiative. He has to have you. He wants to be inside you. He sits up and sinks his hands into the flesh of your ass and begins to pull you down so he can grind up against your clothed cunt. When you moan his eyes roll back for a second and he buries his face into your neck to muffle the sound of his own. His tongue works in circles against you, giving you a taste of what’s to come before sucking a spot that has you burying your hand in his hair and grinding yourself down on him with need. He licks a hot stripe to your ear so he can whisper in it. In an instant he’s flipping you around on your back and grinding his pelvis against yours, allowing the dark desire to consume him.

“You like that, princess? You like feeling my cock on that sweet pussy of yours?”

“Yeah,” you whine, circling your legs around his hips. You can’t manage much more than that breathy reply, he is intoxicating and already you are drunk on his fumes.

“I hear it’s the sweetest. Made me so fucking jealous to hear Tae talk about you like that. You’ll let me have a taste, won’t you? Let me show you how good I can make you feel?”

“God did Tae just go around telling everyone?” you pause when the friction rubs against your clit just right. “Oh fuck,” you moan, imaging the pillowy soft press of his lips on your more intimate areas.

He chuckles in response. “No,” he assures you. “Just Jungkook and me. Don’t worry,” he says, persuading you with a careful roll of his hips that has his shaft parting your folds despite the layers of clothing between you. “He won’t talk about it anymore, and you’ll forget all about it by the time we’re done here. I’m gonna eat your sweet little cunt until mine are the only lips you remember.”

“Please,” you whimper, drawing him into a needy kiss.

His fingers dip into the band of your panties and he teases and tugs at them until you’re squirming and begging him to take them off. His lips trail wet kisses down to your breasts and he pauses to take your nipple into his mouth as he carefully works your last remaining piece of clothing down your legs.

Nudging your legs apart again, he settles between them, ghosting the pads of his fingers up the inside of your thigh as he drags your nipple gently with his teeth. He switches to repeat the action on the other side and cautiously slips a finger between your folds, parting them and testing your wetness. Much to his delight, he already finds you soaked.

“Jimin,” you breathe out. “Please.”

“Be patient for me, princess. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” He sits back on his knees between your thighs and uses his thumbs to smear your arousal over your lips. He groans something deep and tortured when he spreads them open.

“Y/n, holy fuck,” he whispers. “You’re perfect. So perfect.”

Heat rises to your cheeks at his praise. It feels like some kind of worship the way he looks down at your cunt, watching his fingers disappear inside you. His satisfied hum is like a hymn to the divine way your hot, slick walls squeeze him, a prayer to the mere idea of having that wet heat wrapped around his needy cock.

“Tae didn’t tell me you were so tight,” Jimin admits, looking up at you under his eyelashes.

“He only used his mouth,” you tell him, throwing your arm over your eyes. “I’ll never forget his lips if you keep talking about him.”

That seems to spark a fire in Jimin. His eyes grow dark and wild. He wants to ruin you. He presses his lips to the inside of your thigh and begins sucking marks into the soft flesh while his fingers continue to pump inside of you. He slowly works his way down, making sure the red spots he leaves behind are sufficient enough to last for days. He makes sure you’ll have the reminder of his face between your legs every time you look down.

“Jimin don’t tease,” you beg, bucking your hips up to seek the warmth of his breath.

“I’m not teasing,” he chides. “I am savoring.” He curls his fingers and presses his thumb to your clit, making your legs jolt. “Trust the process.”

“Jimin--,” you start again, but you’re cut off by the first touch of his lips. It’s barely there, just the ghost of a kiss on your mound. It’s immediately followed by the flat of his tongue, pressing down as he moves it lower, slipping his fingers out as he descends. His tongue parts your folds instead, circling your dripping hole and then dipping inside it.

“Mmmmm,” he hums. “Fuck, you’re sweet.” He spreads you with his thumbs again and goes back for more, lapping at your wet cunt, swirling around your clit, sucking your folds into his lips. But it’s not just the action, it’s the drive behind it. He’s insatiable, moaning at the taste, bucking his hips into the mattress when you whine for him.

Your fingers tangle through his silver hair, twisting and pulling as he devotes himself to your undoing. He moves with you when you grind up against his jaw, stealing a glance up at your face. Jimin feels his cock twitch at the sight of you; breasts heaving, mouth hanging open, eyes squeezed shut. He’s leaking so much precum he can feel it soaking through his boxer-briefs. He’s almost afraid he’s going to lose it and cum in his pants.

“You gonna cum for me, princess?” he asks, lifting his face to push his fingers back inside. He pumps them hard, curling and searching for that elusive spot while he presses soft kisses to your clit. He alternates between flicking his tongue and rubbing against it with his lips, pausing every few seconds to whisper encouragements with warm breath puffed over your swollen bud.

“Come on, baby. Do it for me. Cum for me, princess. Let me taste it.”

“Please Jimin. Pleeeeease. I need you to suck it. Suck it harder,” you beg. “Right there. There! Don’t stop! Please! I’m so close.”

Jimin keeps steady for you despite your trembling thighs. He pounds your g-spot while he sucks as hard as you can take. Your mind goes totally blank, consumed by an orgasm so powerful you can see fireworks bursting behind your eyelids. Heat spreads from your core down your legs, up your spine.

“I’m cu— cumming— Jimiiiiin!” you cry, legs trapping his head like a vice. Your fingers leave his hair in favor of squeezing at your breasts as you ride out your orgasm. You buck your hips when he doesn’t let up after you’ve come down from your high.

“Take your pants off,” you pant, shoving at his head.

He finally pops off with a grin, his chin and lips covered in your slick.

“What if I’m not finished down here?” he teases, dipping his head back down to lick a stripe up your slit. Your whole body jumps when he touches your clit with the tip of his tongue. “Oh?” he feigns shock. “Sensitive?” he smugly asks, going back for one more taste.

“I wanna suck your cock,” you tell him, lazily pulling your legs up and turning your body away from him. You keep your eyes on him as you turn just enough to hang your head off the edge of the bed.

“Are you for real right now?” he asks, standing slowly. The tent in his pants is obscene.

“Please, Jimin. Just a little bit?”

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he sighs, tugging the zipper down on his jeans and letting them and his underwear fall to his ankles. He kicks them off and steps in front of you, smiling down at your upside down face, a little dumbfounded to have you wanting and willing to have him like this.

Your mouth waters at the sight of the swollen mauve tip standing at attention. He’s rock hard and so thick you’re not sure you can take him in your mouth, or your cunt for that matter. You’re glad he warmed you up with his fingers because you’re already clenching tight at the thought of that thick cock splitting you in two.

He reaches for the row of condoms as you take him in your hand and give him a few pumps. Just as he rips off one of the packets, you guide him towards the entrance of your mouth. You swirl your tongue against the tip and he drops everything, focusing on the way you tease him instead.

He inhales sharply. “Fuck. Who’s the tease now?”

You run your tongue along his shaft and smile when you get to the tip, giving it a quick kiss. “I’m savoring. What happened to trusting the process?”

He drags his lip through his teeth and clenches his jaw as you put his patience to the test but lucky for him you’re kind. He doesn’t have to wait long. You close your lips around him a moment later, reaching around his hips to guide him deeper, controlling the depth of his thrusts until he learns your limits and leans over you. With his hands on your breasts he rolls his hips. He can feel the tip of his cock bumping the back of your throat. He moans when you gag around him.

“That’s it, princess. Suck it. Just like that,” he praises.

Jimin is careful with his pace, and tender with his touch when he twists your nipples. He thinks he’s in control. He thinks he can take this just fine, despite the fact that your mouth feels fucking incredible. It’s when he watches you part your thighs and slip your hand between them to finger yourself while he fucks your mouth that he realizes he’s got none of the control he was so certain of. His balls tighten and he pulls out quickly and squeezes them, pinching at the tip of his cock and leaving you gasping for the breath you couldn’t catch with him in your mouth.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. I need a second,” he huffs, eyes closed, standing perfectly still. He breathes slowly and deeply. If you could peek into his brain you’re sure you’d see any number of boring things trying to distract him from the image of you fucking yourself with your fingers while you sucked his cock. It’s futile. He’s certain he’ll see it in his dreams.

“Did I do something wrong?” you wonder, shuffling around so that you’re laying back on your pillows.

Jimin ignores your question. He knows you’re well aware he almost came in your mouth. “I need to be inside you like, now,” he says, picking up the condom again.

You watch him tear it open and roll it on with his one knee pressed into the mattress and his other foot on the floor.

"Come on then," you coax, opening your legs for him to crawl between.

He pushes two fingers inside you on his way up, dragging them out slowly and smearing your wetness around your pussy before he lines his cock up and sinks in to the hilt in one smooth press.

You gasp as he fills you, feeling the stretch of his girth, and he hushes your whimpering and brushes his nose against yours. "I'm sorry baby," he soothes. "I'll go slow." He seals the promise with a kiss before hiking your legs up high around his waist and wrapping his arms around you.

He lies still like this, waiting for the green light while he kisses you breathless. He moves to your neck when you break away to inhale, sucking more little bruises in the skin there. "Tell me when."

"Move," you moan. "Move. Fuck me."

Jimin pulls out slowly, leaving just the tip inside. He pushes back in just as slow, repeating the action several times until it looks like you're about to cry.

You need it so badly. It feels cruel to have him rocking so gently inside you when all you want is to be ruined by him. "Harder," you plead.

"Are you sure?"

"Don't make me beg," you whine.

"What if I want you to beg?" he jokes, dropping his hips against you. It's almost hard enough to satisfy you.

"Then I'll beg."

Jimin groans, dropping his head to your shoulder as he sets a brutal pace. He pounds into you, forcing the air from your lungs with his powerful thrusts, rolling his hips like his life depends on it. "You're so fucking good for me, princess. So tight. Feels so fucking good."

"Go faster," you tell him, grabbing a handful of his ass.

Shifting higher on his knees, he picks up the pace. Sweat beads on his forehead and over his lip. It beads in the dip of his cupid's bow and you lick it away before raking his bottom lip through your teeth.

“You feel my fat cock baby?" he asks. You moan in response pulling your legs higher so he can fuck you even deeper. "You like the way I fill you, don't you? Want me to fuck you full of my cum? Take it," he grunts. "You take it so fucking well. You gonna cum for me again, baby?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, rocking your hips to meet his thrusts.

Jimin pulls out when you start to clench, not quite edging you but stealing the pleasure you were high on nonetheless. You whine at the loss of him, walls fluttering wildly around nothing.

"Can we try something?" he asks, lifting your legs and putting them to the side.

"What did you have in mind?" you wonder. You reach for his cock but he's already moving, nudging at your hips until you turn.

"Up on your knees for me, princess," he instructs. He kneels behind you once you're in position and smooths his hand up your spine, guiding you gently down onto your elbows. “Is this okay?”

“It’s good,” you assure him, wiggling your hips a little to get him moving again.

He teases your slit with the tip of his cock, dragging it through your folds and rubbing it against your clit. Finally, he pushes back inside you, coaxing a fresh wave of arousal with the stretch of his girth. It’s deeper like this and impossibly you feel even more full than you did before.

“Oh, Jimin,” you sigh, dropping your face into your folded arms. “Jimin.”

“Good?” He folds himself over you, pressing his chest to your back and sliding his hands from your hips to your breasts.

You thrust yourself back into him as you answer. “Perfect. You?”

It takes him by surprise but he follows your lead. He drives himself into your cunt while massaging your breasts and kissing your back. “Fuck, y/n…” he moans, letting his teeth drag over your shoulder before he bites down.

You hiss at the sting and he soothes it with his tongue and puckered lips.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous taking my cock like this. Feel how deep I am. You’re squeezing me so tight, baby.”

“Jimin? Jimin, I need—,” you gasp out between thrusts.

“What, princess? What do you need?” he questions, releasing a breast to play with your clit instead. “Want me to pull your hair? Want me to fill you with my cum?”

“I wanna ride you.”

“Oh, fuck.” Jimin pulls back immediately.

He lays down beside you and grabs at your waist, guiding you over his cock and holding on tight as you drop your weight and take him completely. Swiveling your hips, you set a pace slow and steady. Jimin’s thumbs rubs soft circles into your skin as you move.

“Go faster,” he urges, unable to keep his hips from rising to meet yours.

You shake your head ‘no’ and continue with your slow rolling pace.

“Please, y/n. Ride it like you wanna cum with me.”

Smirking devilishly, you slow down even more and lean over him with your hands on either side of his head.

He looks down, watching your breasts sway and the way his cock disappears over and over.

“Fuck, y/n. PLEASE,” he whines, roughly grabbing your hips and pounding up into you.

Your startled laugh quickly turns into desperate cries of his name. His cock hits your g-spot directly. It feels so good you don’t even think you need him to touch your clit to make you cum. But he does. He pinches your bud between his fingers while he slams into you, growling and moaning and begging you to cum with him.

“I’m close,” he grunts, licking his fingers and rubbing furiously at your clit.

“Me too,” you whine. “I’m gonna—”

You don’t have time to finish the thought as he takes you over the edge with him. He slams his head back against the pillows as he pumps his hips and cums to the wild pulsing of your orgasm. Your cunt milks every last drop from him and you cry his name, clutching his wrists and letting your head fall back so you can wail your pleasure at the ceiling.

Jimin gasps, picking up his head to look down at how your pussy spreads open around him. Your slick cum coats the condom and his mouth waters, remembering the sweet tang of your taste. You’ve barely stopped grinding on him when he sits up to push you down on your back.

Pulling out, he kneels beside the bed and pulls you to the edge by your legs so he can gently lick you clean. He exhales a hot and heavy breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before standing up to peel the loaded condom off his softening cock.

“That was… wow,” you pant, staring up at the ceiling for a moment as you try to regain your breath.

He’s already back at your side, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you towards his chest.

“Yeah,” he agrees while softly combing his fingers through your hair. He’s tired.

You smile against his sweaty chest and plant a soft salty kiss against him. Through the corner of your eye you see the row of untouched condoms on your nightstand. “We’ve got a lot left. Wanna go again?”

He hums a deep throaty sound and laughs when your hand falls to his limp cock. “I want to, but I need a bit to recharge. I can make you cum again while we wait. Do you want that, baby?”

“I always want that. But you don’t have to.”

The groan in his throat sounds croaky as he leans in to kiss your forehead. “I want to.”

He reaches down to wedge his fingers between your thighs and your whole body jumps at the sensitive sensation. How dare your body betray you in this moment?

“Seems like you might need time to recharge too,” he teases while nuzzling against the top of your head and squeezing you in a warm embrace against him. “I’m okay with just laying here and holding you.”

“Yeah?” You smile and cross your leg over his to get more comfortable. “Mmm. You can always help me study for the next test while you’re here.”

Laughter bubbles from his throat. “Are you trying to seduce me for answers to the exam? You know I don’t grade them, right.”

You roll your eyes and scoff, barely containing your giggles as you look up at him. “I don’t think I need to seduce anyone for answers. My head feels a little clearer now.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” he prods while playfully ghosting his fingers down your side.

“Because I know I can be distracted outside of class now instead. I mean, if you wanna keep doing this,” you explain while nervously drumming your fingertips on his chest. “I know I’m not anything special, but—”

Jimin lifts your chin and pulls you into a deep kiss. “You are,” he whispers when he pulls away.

You lick your lips and blink a few times. “I was gonna say you make me feel like I am the most special vanilla ice cream cone on the planet.”

His shy, warm smile fills your stomach with butterflies even as he makes his joke. “Want me to lick you up?”

“And so much more.”

It’s a weighted confession. You sit up to look at him so he knows this. He purses his lips and casts his away. He was avoiding this conversation.

“I don’t know how much more I can give you. I want to be what you deserve, but things are so hard right now. I don’t know that I can be someone who’s good enough for you. You deserve to be showered in gifts and taken on dates. You deserve to be given flowers every day. I don’t even have a car to take you somewhere for a vacation. I’m not sure I can be what you want.”

“Just be yourself,” you state plainly, cupping your hand around his jaw. “That’s what I want. So far I like the person I see. I like you, the real you.”

“I like you too,” he blurts, eyes snapping back to meet yours. “But I can’t afford—”

You press a finger to his lips. “I don’t need expensive dates or fancy gifts. I don’t need you to take care of me— well, last night was the exception and you didn’t need money for that. I just want you to be with me. Talk with me. Spend time with me. Maybe have lots of sex? I don’t know, we can figure out the rest later.” You laugh, embarrassed by your own boldness.

“You see everything that I am and you still want me.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re amazing. Now I know for sure you’re too good for me. But,” he pauses and slips his hands into yours, “I want to keep seeing you. I like talking to you and the more time I spend with you, the more certain I feel about the choices I’ve made. No one’s ever made me feel so free. I want to hold onto that feeling. I want to hold onto you.”

You tell yourself not to cry as you straddle his waist and hover above his lips. “I’m yours then. Are you mine?”

He catches your lips between his and buries his hands in your hair. “I’m yours.”

[robininthelabyrinth]

I am *endlessly* curious about how Wei Wuxian ended up at the Cloud Recess, and very satisfied my internal suspicion that the Lan and the Jiang were busy rebuilding their power/plotting a coup was right. Though I'm now curious about their reaction to 'Meng Yao is being kept around, and as Empress at that'.

spontaneous fic extra for Good Help - ao3 link

-

Good news! one of Nie Huaisang’s letters started, which was never good news. My brother has finally become gainfully employed! He will no longer be a burden on society, a good-for-nothing that does nothing but idle his days away, bringing shame upon our family name.

Wei Wuxian blinked down at the letter. “Jiang Cheng,” he said. “Did I manage to hit my head and wake up in a world where Nie Mingjue is not the Empress?”

“No,” Jiang Cheng said, looking bored. He was officially there on Jin sect business, though everyone politely pretended that he wasn’t very clearly there to see Wei Wuxian or, for those not in the know, sent by his husband, who had virtually no cutsleeve tendencies at all, to get him somewhere that wasn’t Lanling. It was an excuse they used rather a lot to get Jiang Cheng to where he needed to be. “He’s definitely still the Empress. Keep reading.”

Wei Wuxian kept reading.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he said a second later. “Someone mistook him for a guard? How?!”

“I mean, it’s not as ridiculous as you might think. No one’s seen him in years,” Jiang Cheng said, finally breaking his mask of boredom in favor of a grin. “He’s always behind all those veils – I’m pretty sure his fashion sense as Empress is ‘how much can I look like the curtain I’m trying to hide behind’.”

“But he’s so –” Wei Wuxian moved his hands around in an attempt to encompass very broad shoulders, a narrow waist, muscles, and also height. “Notable!”

“It’s been a while since you’ve been to court, hasn’t it? He’s always up on that platform far away from everyone else – you know how Wen Ruohan likes to look down on everyone – and everything around him has been resized for him; he looks more proportional that way. And if you didn’t know, and there’s no reason that this Meng Yao fellow would know…”

“Still!”

“No, really, it’s not that strange! You know how Wen Ruohan’s guards of the inner hall are dressed, all fancy Wen sect robes, and that’s all Nie Mingjue has other than his Empress get-up, which obviously isn’t appropriate for when he wants to go outside to train Baxia. He would’ve been wearing the right clothes and walking in the right place, and he is what you’d expect a guard to look like…if you bumped into him at random, as happened here, it’s a reasonable mistake to make.”

“He hired him as his secretary,” Wei Wuxian marveled. “Just – wow. Wow. Mingjue-xiong is going to break him in half, the first time he tries anything.”

“Maybe,” Jiang Cheng said. “Maybe not.”

-

Someone needs to go assassinate this Meng Yao person right away, Nie Huaisang’s next letter – nominally addressed to Lan Wangji this time – said. I think my brother might actually like him. A upstart Jin bastard that worked his way up through the Fire Palace – do you think all these years with Wen Ruohan has rotted da-ge’s sense of taste?

“He doesn’t actually mean that we should assassinate him,” Wei Wuxian told Lan Wangji, who nodded in agreement. “We still need the viceroy to remain in his place as the target. He’s just being dramatic.”

If Nie Huaisang actually wanted Wei Wuxian to assassinate someone, he had other ways of asking.

That was a fair portion of what Wei Wuxian did these days, actually, other than work on his ideas for demonic cultivation and warm Lan Wangji’s bed. Ironically enough, of the three, the last was his actual job: after Wen Chao had his golden core destroyed as punishment for having dared fight back when the Wen sect invaded the Lotus Pier – a temper tantrum at not being allowed to do the same to Jiang Cheng, Wei Wuxian suspected, since Wen Ruohan had even then already planned to sell the heirs of the Jiang sect to the highest bidder – Lan Wangji had, after quietly rescuing him at Jiang Cheng’s frantic instigation and with Nie Huaisang’s connivance, announced that he was keeping him as a personal pet.  

Wen Ruohan had been pressuring the Lan sect to adopt some vices, simply because he knew it would make them uncomfortable – Lan Qiren had been a particular target – and he’d been satisfied by the notion of one of Lan Qiren’s precious nephews, the Jades of Lan, deciding to keep a whore, even if he’d insisted on having Wei Wuxian inspected to make sure he’d been thoroughly used.

(Proving it had not been a hardship, not when Wei Wuxian had a lover as thorough and tireless as Lan Wangji. Joke’s on you, Wen Ruohan!)

Still, even as Wei Wuxian did (in his opinion) some of his best work on his back and puzzled his way through demonic cultivation as the only possible route for him now – Lan Qiren helped him with some of the musical cultivation bits, and also in arguing to the Lan sect elders that some type of cultivation was better than nothing, and anyway there was a limit to how much trouble he could cause while under close supervision – he had also started up a sideline in taking out their political enemies on account of being the one of them that people would least suspect. No one even remembered his name anymore!

“Maybe we should go to court and check him out,” Wei Wuxian added thoughtfully. “See what he’s like, make sure he’s not leading Nie Mingjue down the wrong path, that sort of thing.”

They could pass along some of Nie Huaisang’s messages, too.

There was that whole coup they were planning, even if it was far less interesting than Nie Mingjue actually making a friend for the first time in over a decade…

“Mm,” Lan Wangji agreed. “Wei Ying has good judgment.”

“I do! If he’s nice – though there’s no chance he’ll be nice, he’s from the Fire Palace – I’ll tell Nie Huaisang that I approve,” Wei Wuxian decided. “If he’s awful, I’ll send a ghost to haunt him until he can’t sleep. If he’s a little awful but seems salvageable, I’ll…I don’t know…I’ll set some dogs on him!”

Lan Wangji’s eyebrows went up.

“You’ll set some dogs on him!”

The eyebrows went down.

“Rude, Lan Zhan. Very rude.”

-

“So having now seen Meng Yao and my da-ge interact with my own two eyes, I’ve decided that they’re going to get married,” Nie Huaisang announced.

“Is that wise?” Wei Wuxian asked, even though he actually thought Meng Yao was pretty cool. He was so good at being nice to people that he disliked, so incredibly efficient, so thoughtful, and best of all only very rarely followed up on the occasional murder-eyes he liked to shoot people when he thought no one was looking; it had actually been the fact that he and Lan Wangji had both vouched for him that had convinced Nie Huaisang to change his plans to account for his brother’s preferences. “Making him the Empress? He’ll be bossing your brother around in no time.”

“He’s already bossing my brother around, and that’s the way my brother likes it,” Nie Huaisang said. “Making Meng Yao the mother of the Empire – above ten thousand, below one – is the ideal way to sate his hunger for power in a way that makes him feel confident that he won’t be so easily replaced the way a viceroy or prime minister would be, and therefore unlikely to betray us. Also, it will make Jin Guangshan have an aneurysm, and that will be hilarious.”

“I like that,” Jiang Cheng said. “Also, didn’t we agree that you were going to be the prime minister?”

“No,” Nie Huaisang said patiently. “You are going to be prime minster, and I’m going to be your empty-headed but pretty former Imperial Consort wife.”

“I’m pretty sure ‘former Imperial Consort’ isn’t usually a thing.”

“Yes, well, it’s a coup, we make the rules. It’d be such a shame not to use this nice bureaucracy that Wen Ruohan set up for us…Wei-xiong, what about you?”

“What about me? I’m very happy as Lan Zhan’s whore.”

Jiang Cheng tried to hit him, but Wei Wuxian dodged, cackling. “Maybe I’ll start spending his money on fancy clothing and living it up now that I’m his official mistress,” he said. “I have Wang Lingjiao’s example to look up to, don’t I..?”

“I would like to marry Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji opined, and Wei Wuxian suddenly felt all gooey inside.

“I meant what will we do with him in the government,” Nie Huaisang said, long-suffering. “You’re all useless – though not as useless as me, of course.”

Jiang Cheng pressed a kiss to his cheek. “No one’s as useless as you, my little good-for-nothing.”

“And don’t any of you forget it!” Nie Huasiang exclaimed, then elbowed Jiang Cheng in the ribs. “Don’t touch me, you married man. Get a proper divorce before you try making your way into my bed; what sort of girl do you think I am?”

“You can’t be serious!” Jiang Cheng spluttered. “Jin Zixuan is drawing up the papers right now –”

“I feel like I deserve a proper wedding, don’t you?” Nie Huaisang asked Wei Wuxian, who started laughing. “I didn’t get a proper one the last time around –”

“We’ve been sleeping together for years!”

“We were having a thrilling affair under the nose of an evil tyrannical dictator. Who’s to say that the spark’s still there?”

“Oh you want spark,” Jiang Cheng said. “I’ll give you spark –”

[lesdemonium]

romtober day 6: adopted by love interest’s family

Rating: T Ship: Geraskier Word Count: 1675 Summary: Jaskier wasn't quite expecting to have such a warm welcome at his first visit to Kaer Morhen, but he certainly isn't complaining. Especially not when he accidentally overhears conversations he wasn't meant to hear.

read on ao3

“I do not kiss and tell,” Jaskier insisted haughtily, though he winked at Eskel and Lambert as he did so.

Lambert snorted into his drink--something far stronger than Jaskier would find at any old tavern in the Continent. Jaskier had taken one sip, gagged, and made some crack about it curling his chesthair that had Eskel and Lambert howling as they offered him something more suitable. More suitable, apparently, meant probably the strongest wine Jaskier had ever taken. It was meant to be sipped, absolutely, but at least Jaskier could stomach this one. He had never considered himself to have a weak constitution, but Witchers just so loved proving him wrong.

“That’s a lie and we all know it, bard,” Lambert accused, a finger pointed at Jaskier as he narrowed his eyes. Jaskier smiled pleasantly back. “If you had actually managed to kiss that princess, you would be bragging about it until your dying breath. I bet she rejected you.”

Jaskier feigned affront. “Rejected? Me? I’m offended you would even suggest such a thing. But I will forgive you, simply because you do not know of what you speak; you have not seen me in action.”

Now was Eskel’s turn to snort. “We haven’t seen you in action,” he repeated, an eyebrow raised pointedly and a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Have you seen him in action, Geralt?” Lambert asked, with all the faux innocence a shithead like him could muster. “Is it truly a sight to behold? Knicker dropping, would you say?”

Jaskier’s face flushed and he resolutely did not turn his attention toward Geralt, lest Geralt read a bit too much on his face. Geralt, however, didn’t seem to notice the teasing, which was less surprising and more disappointing than Jaskier would have thought. Instead, he hummed and tapped the table as if he was actually considering his answer. Bastard.

“It’s a sight, I’ll say that much,” he answered, ever the diplomat.

“Inspirational, truly. I think your roles should be switched. Geralt should sing of Jaskier’s triumphs,” Eskel said, rolling his eyes.

Jaskier waved a hand. “Save us all that misfortune, Eskel. Geralt would have to say a nice thing or two about me on occasion. I don’t think his poor, delicate heart could take it.” Jaskier grinned at Geralt and nudged him with his shoulder, only to receive an eyeroll and a push back--Geralt likely thought it was just a nudge, but it sent Jaskier tumbling over on the long bench. “See? Brute.”

When Jaskier had first come to Kaer Morhen, he had expected a far cooler reception than the one he received. He had been traveling with Geralt for years, and though he knew Geralt was fond of Jaskier, in his own ways, Jaskier could never quite call him warm. It was a safe assumption that a winter in Kaer Morhen would be much the same, but from three new witchers. 

Vesemir did have a bit more of his progeny’s cool and collected demeanor, but he had clapped Jaskier on the back in a way Jaskier could almost call fatherly on multiple different occasions. When he had met Lambert and Eskel, Lambert had loudly started singing Toss A Coin at them and Eskel had pulled Jaskier in for the most thorough hug of his life. 

Since that welcome reception, they had been outrageously chatty compared to their brother in arms, and nearly every night was spent talking well into the evening. Jaskier had no monster stories to regale them with, but the others did not make him feel as if he was the odd man out. Instead, they looked forward to his stories of skirt chasing and court drama just as much as he looked forward to their tales of heroics against monstrous monsters.

Monstrous monsters. Maybe he’d had a bit too much of the wine.

“It seems my meager human constitution pales in comparison to what your sturdier frames can put away. I fear I must retire before I say something to embarrass myself,” Jaskier said, pushing himself back from the table and standing.

“That’s the longest way to say ‘I’m pissed, gonna go sleep it off,’ I’ve ever heard,” Lambert snorted. “Do you ever say things straight?”

“No,” Geralt answered. “He once ranted through an entire meal, but the only thing he managed to say was that I was a troll.”

“And you are, darling. And a miserable hag to boot.” Jaskier waved a hand dismissively. “A true wordsmith such as I knows how to weave even the most simple of statements into works of art. Try not to miss me and my eloquence too much, and pray that you do not drink yourselves into an early grave. Is it still an early grave if you’re well over a hundred?”

The witcher’s laughed and bid him goodnight, and Jaskier made his way out of the hall.

The problem with the witcher’s keep was that it was not the most intuitive place to navigate. Jaskier prided himself on his sense of direction, having been in many a castle before, and all castles started to look alike with their long, windy hallways and doors upon doors, many of which led to nowhere. The keep was much the same, and the combination of its inherent confusion, the darkness, and Jaskier’s slight inebriation had Jaskier lost. Quite quickly.

It took him about ten minutes and four different doors he was certain had contained stairs earlier that day to finally admit defeat and shuffle back to the dining hall. He didn’t mean to overhear, he really didn’t. Jaskier wasn’t even trying to be sneaky--why bother, when you’re in a keep full of men pumped with so many mutagens they could tell the color of a rabbit from the way it shuffled its feet? Only, apparently the ale had dampened their attention enough that Jaskier’s quiet steps had gone unheard, and he was able to approach the door to the dining hall without so much as a stutter in their conversation.

“--like him, Geralt,” Eskel said.

“Aye. If you manage to fuck things up in the next year and don’t bring him back, I’m not sure if we can let you pass through the gate,” Lamber agreed, though his voice was unusually pleasant. Like he was teasing Geralt.

“So glad to know my own brothers have turned on me so quickly,” Geralt scoffed.

“Well, we’d probably let you in, but only because if your froze your balls off we’d be hearing about it for the next century or so. Seriously, though. He’s nice to have around. You have certainly been less moody this winter,” Eskel said.

“Yeah, you were a right prick last year. And the year before that.” Lambert paused, as if he was considering something. “You have been a right prick this year, too, now that I think of it. Maybe the bard just distracts from your overall unpleasantness.”

There was a quick scuffle and a grunt from Lambert, followed by a long laugh from all of them, though Lambert’s took a moment to move from begrudging to warm. Sometimes, Jaskier wondered if they truly were brothers since infancy; they certainly acted like it. Though, he supposed experiences like they’d had bound people together far more securely than mere blood.

“I’ll ask him, but there’s no guarantees. He makes his own decisions. Goes where he wants. I have no claim to him,” Geralt said, and Jaskier was sure he was not drunk enough to be imagining the sadness etched in his voice.

“Well that’s bull--” Lambert started, only to be drowned out by Eskel.

“Geralt, are you kidding?” Eskel asked, incredulous. “That bard would go wherever you went, if only you’d ask. Even over a fucking cliff.”

“Seriously. He makes eyes at you so frequently, I don’t think he’s even aware he’s doing it at this point.”

Lambert laughed, as if it was a joke, but Jaskier’s face grew hot with embarrassment. Ah. So they had noticed. Jaskier was half afraid they would, and now he had mounting concern over the fact that they were telling Geralt. Jaskier was quite certain this winter was about to get a hell of a lot longer, lonelier, and colder. Either Geralt would realize Jaskier’s affections were just as his brothers said and be disgusted, or he would just let them stay there, as if nothing had happened. Jaskier wasn’t sure which option was worse.

“I’m going to bed,” Geralt said, his voice gruff, and Jaskier heard the scraping of his chair against the wood. 

Jaskier stumbled back a few steps, silently cursed himself, then tried to tiptoe away without attracting too much attention. This was not something he wanted to explain. Except, he still didn’t know how to get back to his own room. Fuck.

“If you’re smart, you’ll go to your bard’s bed!” Lambert called as the door opened. Fuck.

Jaskier scrambled behind a nearby door, trying to hide as quietly as he possibly could. It was a fool’s errand, he knew. After all, even drunk, Geralt would be able to notice him, surely. But he had gotten lucky once tonight when it was him against witchery senses; Jaskier could only hope he’d be lucky again. Otherwise he would have a fair bit of explaining to do.

Geralt walked by the door, and Jaskier only narrowly avoiding expelling a breath of relief. Until he heard Geralt stop, then push the door closed.

“Next time, you should make sure you close the door after you hide behind it,” Geralt said, a smile in his voice, then continued on his merry way, as if he hadn’t left Jaskier frozen to the spot in shame.

It took a long time for Jaskier to build up the courage to leave whatever room he had been hiding in. By the time he did so, Geralt was gone. Apparently, that was that. Apparently, Geralt was content to allow Jaskier to at least sort of live this down.

Maybe this winter wouldn’t turn out to be horrible after all.

[mimiplaysgames]

Terraqua Week Day 1 (Weak Spot)

Summary: We all have to make peace with the past. (In which Terra returns in Xemnas’s body and I scream SIZE DIFFERENCE.) || Word Count: 8,319

Read on AO3

A/N: AAAAAHHHH I’m so excited that we’re doing a whole other @terraquaweek !! I have to apologize ahead of time, my fics this year are super long and super packed, but I’m pretty proud of this collection and I can’t wait for y’all to read! I can’t wait to hear what you think! <3

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Time Takes You For Granted

Terra looks so different. 

No matter—Aqua has to fight. She can’t hold back when he summons red sabers of light from his palms, can’t falter when he hammers them against the staff of her Keyblade, can’t blink when canyon dust is kicked into her eyes, can’t be fooled by his face because this man is not Terra and couldn’t ever pretend to be.

He opens his arms to conjure a fatal blow—but he underestimates her speed. She’s grown up fighting large men. He is no big deal. 

The man with Terra’s face withers when she strikes his midsection. One arm grips his stomach to hold himself together and he brings his other hand up. Dark tendrils evaporate from the leather of his gloves. 

“As you wish,” he says to her, richly voiced, smooth as a river stone. “Friend.” He staggers to his knees, groaning as he flickers away.

“Terra!” Ven calls, too fast for Aqua to hold back. The man still wears that same black cloak that marks him as a member of the Organization.

The man shivers when Ven shakes him awake, a quiet “Aqua? Ven?” escaping his lips. He huffs out a hoarse chuckle that clutches out of pain, with a voice that sounds like a morning at the summit of a mountain. “Ven, you’re so short.” 

There he is.

“Terra.” Aqua rushes over. “Can you hear me? How do you feel?” she asks, checking for signs of physical injury, a refusal to use a limb, the inability to breathe. 

His breath stutters. “Aqua?” There he is.

“I’m here.”

He pants, opening his eyes—now blue again, his hair dark again, there he is. He jerks forward as if desperate to find her, but it’s like he can’t see her. In a drunk and feverish whimper, barely with the strength to sit himself up, he stumbles back. “Aqua. Aqua, I have to tell you something.”

“Don’t worry about that,” she says, checking his temperature with the back of her hand, “just rest.”

“No, I have to say it,” he mumbles. “I have to. I didn’t last time, I didn’t and look what happened—”

“Okay,” she whispers. “Go ahead.” 

He pauses, moaning, “I’m sorry. I love you.”

“What?”

Ven bursts into a fit of hysteria. “Perfect timing, Terra. Ten out of ten.”

But Terra seems unaware, straddling between the drift to sleep and the fight to stay awake. He nods as if to confirm, mumbling to himself like a baby.

Aqua stares at him, her heart itching to hear it again in case she misunderstood. She has daydreamed of this moment—not like this, anything sweeter than this but genuine all the same—and yet it comes to her like a splash of ice on the face. Terra is older. He has more pronounced cheekbones with less elasticity in the skin, folds of dimples and knowledge when his lips twitch, a thicker jawline, a stronger nose. A glimpse of the future, his long brown hair stretching past the shoulders, oily and excessively gelled up for ridiculous bangs. Aqua brushes his cheek with her fingers.

She should have said something years ago, too. 

“What’s going on?” a voice calls out. Riku’s. He skids to a stop when he sees them. “Is that Xemnas?”

The man Aqua fought never introduced himself, but he sure liked to talk a lot. Whoever he was, he’s not relevant anymore. “He’s delirious. We need help picking him up.”

“Wait a minute,” Riku says, approaching them with a smidge too much caution for Aqua to appreciate. “I’ve been fighting Terra all these years?” 

“Xehanort,” Aqua says quietly, wrapping Terra’s arm over her shoulders. She shuffles her knees. He’s too heavy. “You’ve been fighting Xehanort.”

Riku nods. It’s his way of apologizing. “Well. That sucks.” He offers to take the other arm. “Xemnas was the leader of the first Organization. A self-inflated piece of work… I didn’t know who he really was. I didn’t recognize him.” He pulls a smile to his face and nudges Ven with his elbow. “Sora and I made sure to give him a hard time.”

Aqua wants him to stop talking. 

Footsteps approach them, crunchy with the sound of sand and dirt, and Aqua braces herself for what’s to come. Riku whips around to prepare an explanation, but it’s none other than Kairi. 

She sees them with wide and round eyes. Brings her hand to her mouth. “Riku?” Kairi says specifically, asking him questions with her eyes in a private language Aqua can’t understand. 

He shrugs. “What do you want me to say?”

Kairi sits on her knees, her skirt too short to cover them from the dirt. “This poor boy. It’s not fair.”

Aqua purses her lips. Ven stares past everyone else. 

“We’re all getting punished,” Kairi continues like the sting of knowing that after all is said and done, Sora is gone somewhere and here are Aqua and Ven picking up their own brittle, little pieces. “Look at him.” 

Riku sighs. “I have space in my Gummi ship for him. But we need to be quick about it.”

Kairi gasps, wide-eyed. “That’s right.”

Aqua doesn’t want to ask why. Ven does it for her. “What’s up?”

“We can’t let the others see him,” Riku says.

Too late. Roxas appears on the other side of the clearing, heavy in breath. He’s sweet and gentle even when it seems like his mind is a distance away. He looks exactly like Ven but nothing like Ven, a grimness to his smile and a thoughtfulness to his speech like he’s seen and knows too much. 

Roxas frowns. “What are you doing?” 

“We’re helping him,” Aqua says as a matter of fact, flexing her ankles to stand up with Riku, shouldering half the weight. Terra stumbles on his feet, mumbling something about not wanting to step on any mice. “This is Terra, by the way.”

Roxas stares. “Why?” he asks accusingly. 

Aqua stammers. How this boy who has been ripped away from his own friends could ask such a thing— 

“Come on, he’s our friend,” Ven says. 

“You call him a friend?” Roxas points at Terra. “Do you even know what he’s done?”

Xehanort. What Xehanort has done, but Aqua stops herself from snapping. She says softly, “Terra would never—” 

“What if Terra saw what happened? What if he knew? Is he the type to be okay with that?”

She glares at him. No answer comes to her, except when Xemnas called her a Friend.

Kairi steps forward, arms out like a barrier. “He needs medical attention. We don’t have to talk about this right now.”

And they won’t have the chance. Xion slowly comes up behind Roxas. They’re both dressed in the same black cloak that Terra wears like it’s a mark, a forced tattoo. She has her hands cupped into each other, bringing them to her chest like they’re a shield. 

“Roxas?” Xion asks. She looks terrified.

“Forget it,” Roxas says, turning over and tugging her by the elbow. “This is dumb. We don’t need to care or be here.” 

Aqua refuses to fight this battle, not when Terra is wheezing and flinching as if he’s being crushed under mineral and earth. 

“Kairi,” Riku says solemnly, “just guide us back to the ship.” He says to Aqua, “If it’s any consolation, I think he would’ve done something if he knew.” 

Aqua nods, choosing to create solace out of his delicate comfort, if only to find the strength to drag Terra across the desert.

It’s a laborious but peaceful walk, what with Kairi talking about healing potions (I’ve learned some during training, maybe I can make Terra one?), and Ven excited about the first meal they’ll have together as a trio again (Pancakes, Aqua. Pancakes.), until they find Lea standing in front of the Gummi ship. He has his hands in the pockets of his cloak, and Aqua wonders if he’s concealing weapons. 

Lea is a double-sided coin. One side a mask with a running end of jokes and playful jabs designed to hide the other, steely and scrutinizing. 

“I promised myself I would never see Roxas that upset again,” Lea says, as if to blame them for breaking it. “I’ve never seen Xion that upset.” That brand of Lea-lilt in his voice, the one he uses every time he spits out Got it memorized?, is gone, and Aqua admits she respects him more for it. Lea nods over to Terra. “Shouldn’t we leave the trash where it belongs?”

“You’re really going to ask that when you’ve been pining all this time for Saïx?” Riku snaps. 

Lea laughs. “You might as well shave my entire head and tell people I’m ugly.” He chills over. “I’m no saint either, but don’t compare us to”—he points at Terra, not Xehanort or Xemnas or whoever—“him. You want to know what I think of Xemnas? He doesn’t deserve an ounce of the worst. The core of rotten fruit. The smell of ass after a trip to the bathroom. The pits of the ocean where all the fish shit clump together and the bloat of dead flesh float around.”

“Don’t mind him,” Riku tells Aqua and Ven. “He likes to exaggerate.”

“I like to make a point.” Lea steadies his breath, hot petrol on the verge of exploding, letting the steam lose pressure. “I like to tell the truth when it matters.”

Aqua glares at him. She doesn’t know Lea that well, and doesn’t know what matters of truth are supposed to mean. But she holds her head high. Her truth screams from the inside of her head. 

“Terra would never,” she announces. 

Lea scoffs. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ven trips on dragging fabric. They’re taking some of the Master’s old robes to Terra, who can’t fit into any of his own clothes anymore. The castle at the Land of Departure is stiff and quiet, like a long-lost stranger. Home isn’t home but a dream, a memory, a trip through aged photos.

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Ven says in a sing-song voice.

“The Master was a large man,” Aqua insists. 

“Yeah, but Terra’s bicep is bigger than your head now.”

That’s true and… not something Aqua wants to think about—his body though, it’s impressive—not if she wants to hide the blush in her cheeks. Terra is huge now, the crown of her head reaching the base of his diaphragm. He’s so broad that if he hugs her, she’d disappear into the flesh. 

Aqua and Ven turn the corner and enter Terra’s room, who has a towel wrapped around his hips. He’s fussing with the wet roots of his hair.

“So much grease,” Terra complains, scratching his scalp with the pads of his fingers. “What the stars was this guy thinking with all this hair gel?”

Aqua stares at the wood of his dresser—not at how sculpted his muscles are (more than ever, actually). Not at the chisels and grooves on his back as he breathes and moves to grab a robe from the rumpled stack is Ven’s arms.

“That one will look nice,” Aqua says, eyeing the ivory color of the robe Terra chose.

“Might,” Ven corrects. “Might look nice.”

Terra snorts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re bigger than a rhino.”

He laughs. He sounds the same. “All the more to terrorize people with,” Terra says and it wretches at her chest. 

“Glad to know you’re still an idiot.”

Terra slips his arms through the sleeves, pulling the robe over his shoulders and across his chest. It’s not flattering. The seams are stretched, the threads exposed, and it wears on his shoulders so tightly that the muscles form hills under the fabric. 

Ven points and laughs. “I told you. No one listens to me.”

Aqua pulls the robe off Terra’s shoulders when he slouches into his chair. She tosses it with the rest of the Master’s unfittable artifacts onto Ven’s arms. “Can you take care of these? I’ll stay and help Terra.”

Ven eyes her. With a knowing grin. Like an imp that should be slapped. “Do what? Put his pants on?”

Terra gapes. “What?”

“You’re obnoxious,” Aqua says to Ven.

“You’d miss me if I wasn’t,” Ven says with his nose high to the ceiling. He leans forward, the imp smile stretching to reach ear to ear, curled upwards. “But Terra would like it, wouldn’t he?”

Terra coughs and clears his throat. “Ven, get out.” He waves his arm—and a crash explodes before Aqua can understand what happened. Everything in his room—his shoes, the coat rack, the lamp by his bed, his pillows, books from the shelf, dirty laundry that hasn’t been washed in a decade, dust collected from the same amount of time—fly at Ven. The comforter in particular is what knocks him over.

“What was that?” Ven squeals, sitting up from the rubble. “What was that?”

Terra’s lip quivers. He stares at his hands. “I don’t know.”

“It’s okay,” Aqua says, bending over to stack books in her arms. “Ven, get a broom and some rags. We’ve got some cleaning to do.” 

Ven trips before heading off, like he couldn’t wait to get out. Aqua has a feeling he’s going to bug her for details later. 

“I’m so sorry,” Terra whispers, balling his hands into fists and shoving them into his lap as a preemptive measure. 

The Organization’s cloak sits thrown on the floor, still dusty. Aqua pads the excess off. 

“Don’t worry,” she says, pulling cheer from somewhere inside to lighten the mood. “I’ll sew you a new robe.”

Terra won’t look at her. He mumbles her a word of thanks when she hands his dirty cloak over.

“Leather can’t be scrubbed like everything else,” she explains. “I’ll clean it later.”

“It’s fine,” Terra says, holding it in his giant hands. He doesn’t move to put it on, and instead stares at the large mirror hanging over his desk in front of him. Aqua stands by his side. She’s tall, but she never once considered herself as thin, her frame skeletal by comparison. 

By comparison, she hasn’t changed.

Well, she has. Her smiles are not the same. 

Terra’s hair is messy, now with much more for her to brush her fingers through. She doesn’t try. “I don’t remember any of these,” he whispers. 

The scars. Knicks in crossed-over patterns across his chest and biceps. A rippled scorch mark by his elbow like a crater, a gouge on one side by the stomach, a deep ravine on the other, near the ribs. More on his back, a textured map for nowhere to go. 

“Not a single one.” His voice cracks. 

Aqua caresses his shoulder. Those scars are not stories he needs to hear. “What do you remember?” She actually doesn’t want to know, in case Roxas was right. 

“Nothing.” 

She wants to be relieved, but she isn’t. “Nothing at all?” In twelve years?

“No.” 

Aqua wraps her arms around his shoulders from behind him, aware of how he tenses at first and relaxes after, a puzzle piece fitting in exactly the right spot. “Where were you?”

“I don’t know.” He sighs, leaning his head onto hers. “I wasn’t anywhere, I… I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s fine.” Twelve years of nothing and twelve years living with nightmares; there’s not much to talk about. She traces a divot on his shoulder. “I know this one.”

“Yours,” Terra says. When he smirks that way, he looks the same as he always had.

“I stabbed you with a wooden sword.”

“My wooden sword.” He brushes his fingers on the scar. As if he’s reminded of something, Terra frowns. “I was just a kid.” He studies his skin on the reflection, pulling on his face with his fingers, watching the way the skin ripples, the sharpness of cheekbones, the dips and dimples that didn’t used to be there. There are thick streaks of silver underneath the outer layers when he brushes his hair back. He never asked for this. “Can we get rid of every mirror in the castle?” he whispers.

Aqua lets him go. The way he asks makes her want to try memory alteration, to slowly erase what haunts him so he doesn’t have to deal with harsh reminders or sudden blows to the mind. She forces herself to smile—if she shows distress, it would only upset him more. There is nothing they can do about the past and there won’t be a mention of what it’s robbed from them.

“Maybe just the one in here. I’ll help.” 

Terra stands up and takes one of his old, simple cotton shirts that he prefers when he goes to bed while Aqua tests the bottom part of the ornate frame. It won’t budge, heavy as lifting a boulder. 

“I look ridiculous,” she hears Terra say. The shirt is as tight as second skin, what used to sit on him loosely now gripping for dear life across his upper stomach, his belly button exposed. 

Aqua purses her lips, heat to her cheeks. “Do you remember waking up?”

“Where?” He’s layering the cloak over the scandal. 

“At the Keyblade Graveyard.”

“No,” he says. She’s known him for years. She can tell he’s sincere. “Why?”

“Just wondering how far your memory goes,” she says, playing serious. She’ll have to figure out a different way to bring up that conversation. “I can’t lift this alone.”

“Not a problem.” Terra grabs his side of the mirror and lifts it off its hook like it’s a single piece of paper.  He clears his throat. “Um—wow.”

“That’s impressive,” Aqua says, and Terra blushes purple. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Aqua makes it back home in time for lunch, and finds Terra sitting on the bar that splits the kitchen from the dining room, wearing his cloak with the zipper open, no shirt and leather pants. It must be blistering hot in those considering the sunny weather. He’s complained about having to sleep naked. 

She presents him with several bags on the counter. Rolls of fresh cotton shirts and pants for lounging, nylon for sparring and wool for the winter. He splits a warm grin when he feels how soft they are. It almost brightens his deep dark circles. 

“I also found these gorgeous fabrics,” Aqua says, showing him the silk she means to make him a new robe in that same ivory color, with embroidered, rust-colored strips that she’ll use for the borders and trims. “This will look good with your armor.” 

“Let me show you what I’ve been working on.” On his lap are a set of the Master’s old hakama. Terra is attempting to tailor it…all through hand sewing, the needle swallowed by his thick fingers. The threads are bunched up and knotted over, if they don’t skip some parts. “What?” he asks. She must be making a face. “It’s ugly isn’t it.”

“Nothing that skill can’t help,” Aqua says, taking the pants from him and not apologizing for anything.

He taps the counter with his fingers. “Riku told me about Xemnas.”

Aqua stops the urge to groan, folding over the fabric carefully and pretending that name doesn’t boil her blood. “What did he say?”

“Xemnas was a telekinetic.” 

That explains some things. “Okay.”

“Apparently he could lift entire buildings.”

Aqua snorts.

Terra leans forward. “Hey, you can’t blame me for the back door.”

“But it makes sense.”

Terra has blown open said door. He has also destroyed historical statues and windows that are difficult to replace. He has even ripped a tree from its roots when he practiced his powers outside. The more he gets scared of these abilities, the more destructive he becomes. Terra’s body is not entirely sane on its own either—he’ll step on pebbles, on glass barefoot, and he can’t feel a thing. 

“Can you answer Riku for me?” He pulls the Gummiphone from his pocket, the device smaller than his palm. “The buttons are too small. I’m thinking of asking Chip and Dale to build me a custom-sized one.” 

She takes his phone, the screen smudged with his round fingertips, larger than her nails. “Are you going to stop training your new powers?”

He flinches. “They’re not mine.”

“Well...” she says gently, cradling his phone in her hands. It’s warm from his touch. 

“Not that I can control them.” He huffs, frustrated enough to crack the counter in half if he tries. 

“Why don’t you show me how far you’ve come?”

He glares at her. 

“The oranges.” She points to the kitchen on the other side of the room. Oranges, pears, and apples sit in a wooden bowl by the sink. “Pick one of them up.”

“That’s a little too much to ask for.”

“One tiny orange?” She smirks. “You can balance it on your pinky.”

He scoffs. “You talk as if you like me like this.”

Aqua clears her throat, suddenly deep in a trench that she can’t climb out of. “You can’t help what happened to you, but you can help yourself.”

Terra rolls his eyes. “Yes, ma’am. Stars, it’s like being in class again.”

“I’m pleased with that. Try sliding the bowl over.”

Terra leans his elbows onto the counter and opens his palms, his fingers curled like claws. What surprises her is how fast the bowl responds, like it’s channeling an emotional reaction, immediate and neurotic. It rattles, as if it weighs several tons under an ocean. 

Aqua looks over at his furrowed concentration, sweat glistening as though he’s wrestling instead of picking up fruit. “What’s stopping you?”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

She smiles. “There was a day when we didn’t know what our Keyblades would look like. That was exciting and terrifying at the same time, remember?”

“You sound like the Master.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

Terra grunts. “Fine, I’ll try harder.” Though he doesn’t have to prove anything to Aqua. Ever.

Terra waves his hands to the right and—disaster.

The bowl flips over and crashes into the fridge. 

Plates and mugs burst out of the cupboards, shattering when they hit the floor. Pots and pans soar, crossing the entire kitchen and slamming into the grandfather clock, destroying the glass casing and tearing apart the inside as gears sputter to the floor. 

The clockface nearly lands on Ven’s head when he enters with a glass of water in his hand. He freezes. It cracks when it hits the tile. Forks, spoons, and other utensils spin past him and stab the wall, the knives wedged into it. 

“Ven!” Aqua calls, running to him. He’s fine. If anything, he’s shivering from shock. 

“Ven,” Terra starts, scrambling up from the stool but he flicks his hands too quickly. The water from Ven’s glass splashes him on the face. “Stars, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t,” Ven says, wiping his face. “Worry about it.” He inhales. “You nearly impaled me.” 

“I’m sorry—”

“Sit,” Ven says, pointing at Terra. “On your hands.”

Terra does as he’s told, slumping his shoulders over as if to shrink. But it’s a parody, an elephant hiding behind a palm tree, a giant monster puppy rejected.

Ven looks over the destroyed grandfather clock—it was one of the Master’s newer ones, who developed a fondness for them late into his life. “This one was a stars-damned eyesore, anyway.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Aqua is dressed in her shorts and shirt, preparing for bed when she hears another crash, this time a dull crack, breaking apart right outside her bedroom. 

Terra is carrying a door handle, still attached to shards of wood. He is furiously shivering, wearing the new clothes she bought for him.

“Terra, are you okay?” she asks gently.

With effort, he calms himself, the handle shaking in both of his hands, a hole in his door the only other thing amiss. “I can fix it.” His undereye circles are getting awfully puff, his voice broken by static. 

“You should really get some sleep,” she says, stepping out. 

He sighs forcefully, as if to ask her to stop. “I can’t.”

She nods. “It’s hard for me to sleep, too.”

“I can’t help but feel like my body is going to sleepwalk without me knowing.”

“I don’t think it would.” She smirks but it doesn’t comfort him. “I take rounds around the castle sometimes. I would notice if you’re a zombie.”

His lips quiver, and he squeezes the handle as if to snap it on purpose. He doesn’t. Terra turns to her but stares hard at the floor. In a voice so quiet that he sounds like a small boy, he asks, “Can you stay with me tonight?”

Her heart jumps, trying to wretch itself out of her chest. “Terra?”

“I want to sleep. I can’t. I think it would be easier if…” He fiddles with the door handle, a shy boy unable to speak. “If you were with me.”

Aqua smiles. He’s braver than her for asking. “I’d feel safer behind a locked door. Come in.”

On her desk is her sewing machine, the pattern of his new robe designed, his measurements already taken, the fabric put together in pins and ready to be weaved with thread. 

But there is a mirror in her room, and when Terra enters, he stops in his place. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, moving to pull one of her bedsheets to cover it. 

“It’s fine,” Terra says, but she’s too fast, balancing out the coverage. He slouches on her chair and leans back with a grunt. His fair falls behind him like a cascade. It’s always been wonderfully thick and dark. Aqua indulges this time, brushing it with her fingers, tempted to braid it. He audibly relaxes, and says, “Riku told me what happened in the Graveyard.”

Aqua swallows. “What did he say?”

“How Roxas and Lea reacted.” He gets quieter the more he speaks, words slipping into weak whispers. “To me.” Tears drip out of his eyes, running to his ears and down his neck. He sniffs. “Xion is terrified of me and I don’t know how to live with myself.”

“It’s not your fault, Terra,” she says softly, lightly rubbing his scalp when she sweeps his glorious hair, brown and silver like silk on her skin. It soothes him. 

“Kairi said the same.”

“Kairi is wise.”

“She wants to find a way to get us all together.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Aqua says, and he groans. “Let me figure out how to set that up. I’ll coordinate with her.”

“I don’t think that will end well.”

“We should try. We all have things in common and have faced similar hardships. We need each other as friends.”

“But look at me.”

She does. He’s beautiful. “I’m looking.”

“What am I going to do?” Terra has always been too sensitive for his own good. Aqua thinks about who she’d possibly call to help me. “They’ll never talk to me.”

“You’re already trying your best.”

“Aqua, I’ve been a beast since I’ve been home.” He rubs his thumb and fingers together. A body that fails him. 

“Terra, please, you’re fine the way you are.”

“Two more grandfather clocks under my belt and all the vegetables in the garden in my pocket,” he reminds her.

“Let’s try one more time,” she says, taking his hand. “I think if you could outwin your powers, you’d feel better.”

“Your room is too immaculate for me to mess with.”

“Not my room. On me.”

“Why would I do that?” Terra stands up. 

“I think if there’s a parameter that you’re forced to work under, you’d improve the way you want to.” 

Terra pauses. “And put you in danger?”

“If that’s what’s going to work.”

“I care too much about you to do that.”

“I know you love me,” Aqua says, startling herself. She shouldn’t have said that, especially now that he’s staring at her wide-eyed—but they’re best friends. Of course he loves her. Of course it’s the most natural thing to say. There’s not much more to imply. “You won’t hurt me.”

“Intentionally,” his voice croaks, looking everywhere around the room except at Aqua.

“What do you want out of your training, Terra?”

“I want to feel less like a freak.”

“Here I am.” She widens her arms. “Hit me with your best shot.”

“What if I fling you out the window like a rag doll?”

“You won’t.” Now she’s nervous he will.

“Or burst your skull open?”

“Then don’t.” Aqua swallows.

Terra sighs and runs a hand through his hair, the silver glistening from the light of her ceiling lamp. 

“Be gentle,” Aqua suggests.

Terra hesitates, one step too far behind necessary confidence. She takes both of his hands in hers, and he gives her a feathered squeeze in return. 

“Promise me you won’t break,” he says.

“Promise you won’t break me.”

He blinks back tears when he holds her waist, his hands a hearth through her thin shirt. He’s about to pick her up but he lets her go instead, intentionally widening his hands as if pulling strings. As though gravity has shut off, the air around her loses all weight. Her feet lift off the carpet and she’s suspended above her dresser, her limbs moving slowly as though she’s underwater. Terra trembles from so much concentration. He’s worried, delicate with her, lifting her up like a cloud drifting over a mountain, her desk distant like it’s inside a doll house, her bed too small for a body to sleep in.

She gasps. “Wow.”

Terra wrestles with a smile but every muscle is engaged as though he’s picking up a boulder. 

“You’re doing wonderful,” she says. When he looks up at her, he cries. “Now put me down. Gently.”

It’s like she’s asking him to drop that boulder, all collateral be damned. He groans, a vein throbbing on his forehead. He’s hesitant at first but he exhausts when he finally relaxes. The threads that hold her snap. Aqua falls. Terra catches her by her bare thighs. 

“You did so well,” she whispers, holding onto his shoulders. Dust collects on the top of her door frame that she’d never notice otherwise. “You’re so tall,” she laughs.

He sighs. “I’m so tired.”

“Oh, you can put me down.”

His arms stutter when he slides her off him, and he plops onto her mattress, the adrenaline making him tremble. But he smiles. That’s the most Aqua could ask for, and yet that’s the thing, for some reason, that unplugs the dam. 

“I know what it’s like,” she starts, resting a hand on his head. “I wish it never happened. I wish I didn’t have to meet Xemnas, or that I fell into Darkness. Or that anyone hurt you. We wasted all those years.”

“Don’t say that,” he says softly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “You came back the same and you can redo all that time. Enjoy it.”

“But you?”

Terra sighs. He’s aged. He lays on her mattress, knees sliding off the edge and feet firm on the floor. “I’m okay. I’ve made my peace.”

When she settles next to him, she has to curl her legs in, fitting right into his side, her head on his shoulder. She relaxes to the way he strokes her hair. Peace shouldn’t have to be made. It shouldn’t be bargained for, it shouldn’t be difficult to win in a twisted game. But it is for most people, isn’t it? It is for anyone who’s been betrayed, who has suffered misfortune, who has been robbed or tortured, who has been fractured into pieces with no reason to justify it. 

Terra and Aqua have kissed before out of curiosity, years ago. It left her wanting more. And the wanting has led to yearning. And the yearning lingered on, Aqua choosing to wait for the right moment, for the right hour, for the right occasion, letting it all slip her by each and every time for the most mundane reasons. Terra and Aqua have napped together in the woods, in the shade of a tree after hours of sparring, shoulder to shoulder, one of them promising to wake the other before they’re late for their lessons. 

“If I ever get up in the middle of the night...” Terra starts. 

“Where is this conversation going?” 

“And I’m not actually awake—”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“—and I’m walking around like a zombie—”

“Pfft.”

“—please hit me as hard as you can.”

Aqua chuckles. This shouldn’t be a joke at all and yet what else is there left for them to do? “As you wish.”

“Promise me you’ll wake me up. No matter what.”

“Of course.” Aqua nuzzles her face into his shoulder, feeling the way his pec curves over rock-hard muscle. “Always.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They’re in the study, where some of the most outdated books in the castle find their home, for decoration more than anything.

Terra has new suspenders and hakama pants. The robe she’s designed for him, ivory with rust-colored trim, has one proper sleeve. The other is more of an open cape that curls under his armored arm, pinning at his shoulder like a shawl, made to show off the metal, burgundy and shiny. He’s elegant, tall and intimidating, respectable and warm. 

“I love it,” he says.

“You almost look like the Master,” Aqua says.

“Do you think he would have liked it?”

“I think he would have been proud.”

Ven knocks on the door frame, holding up an Okay gesture. “Nice getup.” 

Terra smirks. “It makes me look less scary.”

“Are you going to throw away the black cloak?”

Aqua flinches, pinching the robe and straightening it, though not because it needs it. 

“I’m still thinking about it,” Terra says. “It depends on how today goes.”

“Speaking of,” Ven says, and Aqua sighs. “Aqua, he’s here.”

As though all breath has been sucked out of the air, they fall quiet. The crackle of the fireplace snaps. 

“You doing okay?” she whispers to Terra.

He nods, but his skin turns green. 

“Just relax and get comfortable,” she says.

Ven follows Aqua to the entrance hall, where their guest has welcomed himself inside. Isa stands with a poise that demands to be matched with a level of professionalism. Aqua crosses her hands together and keeps them to herself.

“Thank you for coming,” she says. When she messaged him to be a mediator, she wasn’t sure what to expect. Lea and Isa may seem to be opposite but they are two peas in a pod that way. Lea is a book of riddles, one page contradicting its own backside depending on which version of him shows up that day. Isa’s book is blank.

“I appreciate your invitation,” Isa says, though an instinctual tick deep in her stomach tells her that appreciation was a difficult word for him to use. 

“Hey there.” Ven waves. 

Isa raises his eyebrows. “Hello, Ventus,” he says… and nothing else.

Ven glances at Aqua and blares a tight, awkward smile. “Okay. Well. I’ll leave you to it.”

After Ven leaves, Isa breathes, like he’s been holding it. “I suppose the rest of this visit will be similar.” The grin on his face is sudden whiplash for Aqua, his strict posture now with blurred edges. 

“In what way?” Aqua can’t quit the habit of letting go of her hands.

“Roxas usually wears a scowl. To see the same face greet me so warmly, it was quite the surprise.” 

“Ah.”

“But a welcomed one.” His intense green eyes drill a hole into her. “Believe me when I say that I’m more than happy to come here and see him for myself, though it puts me in a fickle position with my family.”

Aqua brings her hands to her heart. “I think Sora would want us all to get along.”

“If that’s the angle you want to approach this with, I’d say you have a moderate chance of convincing them.” 

She nods and leads the way. “He’s excited to meet you.”

Isa doesn’t reply. Terra is waiting on one of the lounge chairs in the study, telekinetically spinning pages on a book floating in front of him. He snatches the book as they approach him, and drops it on a nearby desk. 

Terra doesn’t say anything. Neither does Isa, who sits himself on a comfortable chair opposite and crosses his legs. Aqua, not knowing where to go or what to do with her hands, stands by Terra. She’s hoping for an amicable meeting, anticipating an interrogation.

Isa smirks and it’s not exactly inviting. “Shall we skip the pleasantries?”

Terra nods like a dog scolded. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says with a shaky voice. 

Isa hums, interlacing his fingers as he stares—rather studies Terra with scrutiny. “Do you remember me?”

Terra shakes his head, choking on a cough. “You’re asking the wrong person.” 

“Are you certain?”

“I know of you.”

“What do you know of me?”

“You’re with Lea.” Terra licks his lips and balls his hands into fists. He only gets this way when he’s being tested, when he wants to get every answer correct. “You’ve had a complicated history with Organization XIII.”

“Complicated,” Isa repeats. 

“You were a Nobody.”

Isa smirks coldly, much like how Aqua would have imagined from the stories she’s heard about Saïx. “We were brethren.”

Terra hangs his head. “I don’t know much else.”

“How is that possible?” 

“I don’t know. I resigned. It was so painful not to. I was nowhere. Nothing to have, nothing to see, nothing to hear. I waited for an opportunity for it to stop hurting—” Terra croaks. “And I woke up.”

Isa uncrosses his legs and anchors his elbows onto his knees, cupping his chin into his hands. “You’ve no memory of the command to manipulate Sora into vanquishing Heartless for us?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“To gather enough energy to summon Kingdom Hearts.”

“That doesn’t make any sense to me.”

Isa sighs, and Aqua swears it sounds like anticipation. “And the scar on my face?”

The way Isa asks demands an explanation, and Terra—sweet, sensitive Terra, whose eyes grow hollow—can’t handle the implication. 

“No. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He grits his teeth, staring at the armrest. Aqua stops herself from speaking and holds his shoulder. There isn’t anything for Terra to be sorry for. 

Isa closes his eyes, trembling. After a moment, he jams his thumbs into his eyes and stills, silence befalling all of them, settling among the gentle presence of the fire and the movement of the clouds outside. 

When Isa sits up, eyes glassy but kept together, he summons a smile. Softly, he says, “You look nothing like him.”

Terra, at a loss for words, nods meekly. “Did you keep it? The black cloak?”

“Of course not.” Isa scoffs. “We burned ours.”

Terra offers no condolences or congratulations. He smiles, exhausted. 

Isa stands up. “Please don’t tell me you enjoy white wine with red velvet confections.”

Terra recoils, popping into a laugh as though he’s cracked under the pressure. “That sounds like it tastes awful. I don’t drink. I don’t like losing control of my body.”

The sound of Terra’s laugh shocks Isa. “Sensible.” He addresses Aqua with a look. “I must go. This has been… rather cathartic, and I’d prefer to release it in private.” 

Terra bolts out of his chair, reaching out to cradle one of Isa’s hands in both of his. 

“Thank you,” Terra says, and though Aqua is behind him, she could hear the tears. “Please come back whenever you feel comfortable. I’d love to have your company.”

Isa nods, turning over his shoulder for the door.

The abrupt exit leaves Terra pleading Aqua with his eyes. “Did I say something wrong?” he whispers, slapping his forehead. “I couldn’t honor his experiences. I should have figured out a way to remember.”

“That’s not your burden to bear. It wouldn’t help you anyway,” she whispers back, gently gripping his elbow. “I’ll be back.”

Aqua trails Isa back downstairs, skipping steps. It’s as though he’s in a hurry to get back home. 

“Isa,” she calls. When he stops, she almost trips on herself. Her hands return to their crossover position. Something about Isa makes her so self-conscious, it’s indescribable how he can unravel her like this. “I wanted to thank you again for taking the time to come here.” 

His eyes are pink. “I will tell the others there is nothing to fear.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Lea is unbearably stubborn, but he is intelligent. He already knows Terra is not to be blamed. He simply hasn’t buried his demons yet and that is his responsibility.”

Aqua sighs, relieved. “I needed to hear that.”

Isa doesn’t smile. Instead, he traces a finger across the X-shaped scar over his nose. “Terra and I are forced to face our mistakes in the mirror for as long as we breathe. If we are ever to forge a new life from the ashes, we would need to throw our transgressions into a pyre.”

“I think your presence makes him feel less alone.”

“I want to apologize, Master Aqua.”

“For what?”

Isa considers his words. “Lea and I have lost so much of our youth to a worthless cause. It is not natural for us to enjoy freedom. We expect a harsher punishment to catch up to us any day now, to steal more time from us. Perhaps we deserve to live in fear of that every day. I certainly do.” He watches her. “I can see the story you’ve endured this past decade in your eyes. It’s horrific.” 

Aqua stays quiet.

“And Terra,” he continues. “He will age and die long before you and Ventus. I’m so sorry for that. The rubble we’re left with, it is such a weight for us to bear.”

She wipes a tear from her cheek, too proud to let them continue. “That’s why we need to make the best of it.”

Isa smiles; this time it’s warm. He holds her bicep. “I agree.”

“Will you and the others join us for dinner? Terra speaks for all of us, we’d love to have you around.”

“Bribe Lea with an extravagant experience and he will surely say yes. The children will follow once we assure them.”

Aqua nearly jumps to hug him but she keeps herself composed. Instead, she bows to him. His eyes pulse open.

“That was not necessary,” he says.

“You need to understand how deeply I appreciate this.”

“Lea was right. You old-fashioned wielders are certainly an odd bunch.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

On her way back to the study, Aqua breaks into a sprint, desperate to fly so she could get to him as fast as possible, see his face when she delivers the news.

Terra sulks by a window. Before he could say anything, Aqua jumps and throws her arms around his neck in a clash of grunts, her legs dangling. 

“They’re going to join us for dinner,” she says. She can’t tell if she’s the one who’s trembling or if it’s Terra. Because her arms are wrapped around his neck, she drags him down with her when he relaxes. He rests his forehead on hers as he leans over her, his hair falling around her like a curtain. 

“Stars,” he whispers. “It’s happening?”

She smiles into his cheek. “He wants to bring everyone with him.”

He squeezes her by the small of her back. “We’ll have to invite the others too. Riku and Kairi. Naminé. It will be a feast.”

At the sound of his own words, Terra straightens out, and their fleeting moment of excitement vanishes as quick as it graces them. He nervously clutches a handful of his hair. “Wait, how soon are they coming?”

“Is something wrong?”

“I want to wear it in a ponytail.” He brushes his hair up, exposing the silver near the scalp. “Do you think it’s possible to dye it?”

That’s what makes him so insecure? Aqua stands on her toes to fiddle with the hair. “Come on. It’s a little tedious, but it can be done.”

Aqua snips the necessary plants from the garden, and after grinding them, she dumps the blend into a mix of water and animal fat. Terra slips his robe off and bends over the kitchen sink, letting her sweep the dye with a paintbrush and pinch it across the strands of his long hair with gloved hands. This is the tedious part, separating his hair into thin chunks and being diligent enough to leave nothing untouched. 

“It won’t last for long, right?” he asks, shifting his weight.

“I can find a spell to seal it and make it last longer.” She nudges him to turn his neck over so she can work the other side. In this direction, he can look up at her.

“This feels like I’m cheating.” 

“I think we all cheated. We all came back by some star’s blessing.”

Terra frowns. “When Isa wanted to know if I remembered anything, I felt like I was playing a rigged game. Like I had gotten away with it so easily when he’s stuck with them on his own.”

“Bend your neck forward,” she says, and he follows so she could brush the dye into the back of the scalp. “Well, Isa doesn’t blame you and no one should. And you do get away with certain things.”

Terra flinches but she keeps her hold on him. “Like what?”

Aqua pinches more of the dye into the hair at the neck, wrapping a towel around his shoulders. He will have to pass the time needed for the color to sink in. She can’t wait until he sees it for himself in the mirror. She can’t wait until he smiles more, until he can walk with seeded confidence. 

“You can stand up,” she tells him, instructing him that it will take almost an hour for the dye to settle. She pulls out her gloves and considers an answer to his question. “You get away with what you say sometimes.”

Terra gapes. “Did I offend you?”

“No.” She smirks. This has never been the way she daydreamed it would go—she had prepared a scenario where they would talk about it under the stars in a clear night, in the spring where the flowers have blossomed. Not with yet another shirt that they’ll have to replace.“You told me you loved me that day in the Graveyard.” He doesn’t flinch. “And you don’t remember saying that either.”

The bowl of dye rattles and Aqua catches it from falling over, spilling the excess into the sink and rinsing it. “Terra?”

“Uh.” The cupboards shake as if about to spill open. Terra grabs the knife block and throws it into the fridge, just in case. “Well.” He splays his hand over the handle and burns it with a fire spell, molding the metal together so it can’t burst open. “I’ll fix that later. Um. It’s—” He tips over the fruit bowl so nothing will fly out in different directions. He can’t look her in the face, taking deep breaths. “I mean. It’s not—it’s not a lie.” 

Aqua waits a moment, afraid another word is going to make the oven explode. “I should have told you the same.” She bites her lip. 

“What are you saying?” The burner grates of the stovetop blow up and hit the cupboard over it. “All this time, I could have known?”

“Maybe you should have done something about it.” 

“I’ve been driving myself crazy wondering how you felt. Ever since we came back home.”

“And you said nothing?”

Terra stares at her. “You know what—I’m not protecting you from the oranges.”

“What are you doing?” She chuckles.

He flips the bowl back and waves his arm, five oranges punching her on the arm that she’s using to shield herself.

“Terra!”

She stumbles as the oranges bounce back from the floor and arc over to hit her again. Terra squeezes his fists and the oranges unpeel themselves, sputtering juice all over her face, a tart taste filling her mouth.

Aqua laughs and runs into the dining room, ducking behind the table.

“Get back here,” Terra calls. He rushes into the dining room, clumsy enough to be caught off guard when she charges at him. 

Aqua has to jump higher, kicking off his chest to flip over. The goal is to slam her foot across his face—the best sparring trick in her arsenal. Terra catches her by the ankle but his balance is tested when she bends her knee to throw him off. He’s stronger, a tight grip on her calf. They both fall onto his back, a tower broken in two and collapsing on itself.

Aqua rests her head between his chest, giggling so much that her chin digs into his thorax. 

Terra groans, his soaked hair leaving brown tracks over the tile. “You got some on you.” He rubs a thumb on her temple where it meets the base of her hair. “Hmm, you’d look good as a brunette.”

“In your wildest dreams.”

“If one can come true, then you never know.”

Aqua holds herself up on her elbows. Terra is so large, he’s a mattress in the middle of the dining room floor. Streaks of dye draw across his cheek. They leave what look like slashes across his neck. It’s going to take some scrubbing power to remove them. She sweeps some of the hair off, not caring about the stain it leaves on her fingers.

The next move is natural. A touch of lips to lips, careful and giddy, puckered and softer than she expects, two hands on her back and a powerful jaw under the grace of her fingertips. 

Ven opens the door and gags. “Ugh, all the stars in hell, could you do that in your room?” He turns on his heel and stomps off. “I’m too young for this.”

Aqua snorts into Terra’s mouth and he spits. “I’m sorry,” she says.

Terra licks his lips of juice. He leans up for more. “You taste tangy.”

[alecmagnuslwb]

Rent a Holidate

Read on AO3

Magnus is barely paying attention as his father blathers on about his annual Thanksgiving party. It’s the same as every year, food made by an overpaid chef, schmoosing clients and Magnus being expected to attend and behave.

They don’t even really celebrate Thanksgiving and it’s definitely not about family coming together to be thankful for the things they have and the love they share, it’s a way for his father to impress his clients with the size of his house and the happy little family picture that he, whoever his latest wife is and Magnus make. It’s a fake night, filled with fake rich people that Magnus loathes more and more every single year.

There’s a pause on his fathers end of the line and Magnus scrambles assuming he was asked some sort of question.

“Yes, of course,” he says hoping that’s the right answer. Evidently it’s neutral considering his father’s monotonous response.

“Fine then, I hope that he or she will be an acceptable date for the evening,” his father says. Oh shit, he thinks, did I just agree to bring a date to this thing?

For a moment he considers backtracking saying he won’t be bringing anyone, it’s not like he’s been on so much as a half decent date in over a year, but he knows his father, once you’ve said something you act on it, no turning back. So instead he grits his teeth and accepts he’ll be bullshitting his way through an emergency excuse to why his fake partner couldn’t attend the night of.

“He is very acceptable,” Magnus says faux cheery conjuring up a fake boyfriend in his head. Not that any partner of his could be deemed acceptable by his father, his father even finds his own career path teaching English at NYU to be an underperformance.

“It’s not Columbia,” he always says whenever Magnus talks about his work.

“Well, then I look forward to meeting him,” his father says not at all sounding like he’s looking forward to it. Which is good considering Magnus’ supposed boyfriend is a complete fabrication. “I’ll see you in a week.”

And just like that he hangs up, no goodbye, nothing.

Magnus sighs tossing his phone into the graded paper box on his desk and begins crafting a personality and profession for his fake boyfriend just in case he needs a more solid alibi.

***

Magnus laments his woes to Dot and Catarina later that night, it’s Thursday which means mimosas and movies.

“Part of me just wants to make up an excuse and be done with it, it’s not like he’ll even remember in a week’s time after the fact that I ever even had a supposed boyfriend,” Magnus says pausing to take a sip of his mimosa. “The other part of me just wants to bring the world’s worst date and embarrass him to no end.”

“You mean Camille wasn’t the world’s worst date?” Dot says curling up in the chair beside Cat with her own mimosa in hand.

“Camille was the world’s worst date, but she never was one to make a scene, she was quietly and privately terrible,” Magnus says moving quickly past the topic of his wicked ex. “I mean someone who’s not a bad person, just kind of a mess.”

“Why don’t you hire the guy Dot hired last year for her family reunion?” Cat says not even bothering to look up from her phone as she scrolls reading reviews for the movie they’re about to watch.

“Yeah he was great,” Dot says agreeing with Cat’s suggestion. “His names Alec. He can’t play straight to save his life which made it even better because my whole family was convinced I was not only dating a worthless degenerate, but a worthless degenerate gay man. Hilarious, honestly.”

She pulls up something on her phone and hands it to Magnus. It’s a Craigslist ad titled, Alone on Thanksgiving? Mad at your dad? Tired of your family’s absurd expectations?

He takes the phone reading the post entirely.

My name is Alec Lightwood, I’m a 28 year old almost felon who went to college for three weeks before dropping out. I have a Thunderbird that’s only a year younger than me painted like Eddie Van Halen’s red guitar. It’s hideous and embarrassing and I love it. I can play anywhere between the ages of 23 to 32 depending on if I shave. I’m a bartender and occasional bouncer when the need requires, I haven’t been seen not in a leather jacket with a tear in the back since high school, I’m gay and very bad at hiding it and I’ve even got an eyebrow scar that’s sure to raise a few eyebrows (get it, raise a few eyebrows).

If you’d like to have me as your strictly platonic date for a gathering of some sort, but have me pretend to be in a very serious relationship with you to torment your family, I’m game.

I can do these things at your request:

-        Openly hit on other guests while you act like you don’t notice (of any gender, I may be gay but I can embarrassingly hit on anyone even if it’s not convincing).

 -        Start instigative discussions about politics and/or religion (sports are off the table however unless your family are big into the Rangers or Islanders, then I can talk shit for days.)

 -        Propose to you in front of everyone and you tearily accept or you turn me down and I proceed to have a breakdown, but we resolve to work on our relationship much to your family’s chagrin.

 -        Pretend to be increasingly drunk as the evening goes on (sorry, I don’t actually drink anymore, but I used to. A lot. Too much in fact. I know the drill.)

 -        Start a screaming match with a family member, that could come to blows (but no one will be physically harmed, I promise) either inside or on the front lawn (if there is one) for all the neighbors to see.

I require no pay but the free food I will receive as a guest at any event!

We can meet prior to the event somewhere public and you can ask me any questions. And I mean any questions so that you feel safe.

-        Do NOT contact with unsolicited services or offers. Email me at: lightwoodarcher@gmail.com

“Um, he’s a felon?” Magnus says looking up from the phone when he’s done.

“Hey, don’t judge, you’re not exactly rap sheet free,” Dot says scolding him with a smile. Which okay, he does have a few arrests on his record, petty little things and pick-ups at a protest or two, but felonies are a bit above that. He says that aloud. “Also, as it says he’s technically an almost felon.”

“He’s not a murderer or anything, I had Raphael check out his history before I requested his services,” Dot continues on to explain, referring to their friend who’s a prosecutor. “He got picked up for aggravated assault after he caught the guy who got his sister hooked on drugs in her bed shooting her up, it was a bullshit charge from a snake of a man who deserved every hit he got. The charges were ultimately dropped and settled when the piece of shit he beat up got hit with about ten felonies himself. He’s a good guy, like a really good guy I promise.”

“Didn’t Raphael even stress that he never would have convicted Alec in a million years on the charges?” Cat says getting up from her seat and heading to the kitchen to refill her mimosa glass.

Dot nods taking a sip of her drink. “He did, he said any jury would have sided with him over the 30 year old drug pusher preying on an 18 year old girl. And even though we can’t tell him, because we don’t want him to smirk about it all the time and get a big head, we both know Raphael is the best judge of character and lawyer in America.”

It’s true, Raphael always knows what he’s talking about.

“Plus,” Dot continues on. “Alec’s very upfront about it, I didn’t even need to do the background check he told me exactly what went down when we met for coffee before the event, even brought his sister along to corroborate and make me feel comfortable.”

“Wow,” Magnus says genuinely surprised by the decency of a man on the internet.

“Also, he’s very cute,” Dot smirks over the rim of her glass waggling her eyebrows in Magnus’ direction.

Magnus rolls his eyes. “I don’t think it matters if my fake date is cute.”

“So you’re gonna do it?” Catarina says coming back in the room, a pitcher filled to the brim with mimosa mix in her hand.

Magnus bites his lip in thought as he looks down at the phone in his hand again. He does want to cause a ruckus, he’s tired of being the perfect little son when his father needs him to be. And Alec Lightwood might just be able to provide the exact ruckus he’s looking for.

“What the hell,” he mutters before tossing Dot’s phone to her. “Do I need to email him, or do you still have his number?”

Dot smiles in delight as she taps on her phone his own phone buzzing in his pocket a second later with Alec’s number.

***

Alec keeps his text exchanges simple, offering to meet Magnus the following afternoon after Magnus’ noon class for coffee. Alec lets Magnus choose everything, clearly dedicated to making the person contacting him as comfortable as possible. Luckily for Magnus Alec’s had no inquiries for this Thanksgiving, except for one that was definitely unsavory and he turned down immediately.

With such short notice Magnus thought for sure this might not work out.

He walks in scanning the shop looking for Alec and comes up empty based on Dot’s description of him. He gets in line and orders a drink finding a table off to the side where it’s not too crowded to sit and wait. He’s barely settled into his seat when the chime above the door rings and in walks a stunner with long legs and dark hair.

The man pauses scanning the room, then his eyes land on Magnus his lips tilt up just a bit and he walks over his way.

“Magnus Bane?” he says in question when he reaches the table. Magnus is speechless for a moment as the sun catches in the man’s hazel eyes and on the tiny silver hoops in his ears. He shakes himself from the trance he’s in, ignoring the way his eyes shine a little greener when he tilts his head and nods his own head in confirmation.

“Alec Lightwood?”

“That’s me,” the man says with a smile that crinkles at the edges just a bit, he reaches out a hand that Magnus takes shaking it instantly enjoying the contrast of Alec’s cold fingers to his warm ones. Magnus squeezes his hand once before letting go. “I’m just gonna go get a drink and then we can talk,” Alec says stepping back with a tentative, but dazzling smile.

Magnus watches him go enjoying the view of his long legs in motion. He spots the tear in the back of his leather jacket, just like mentioned in his ad, and smiles. Alec comes back moments later a mug of black coffee in hang.

“So you need a bad date for Thanksgiving,” he says tearing open an obscene amount of sugar packets and pouring them into his mug. “I’m guessing before we get into that though, you want to know about the almost felony?”

Magnus shakes his head and Alec looks at him quizzically for a moment, before the puzzle pieces in his mind clearly fall into place.

“Dot,” he says in understanding. “She must have told you everything.”

“She did,” Magnus confirms taking a sip of his drink. “And for the record it sounds like you were in the right.”

Alec smiles a small uncertain smile almost like he’s not sure that’s the truth, but takes the words as a compliment anyways.

“It wasn’t my finest moment, I guess I’m just overprotective when it comes to people I love,” he says running his fingers along the rim of his mug.

“Getting a drug predator away from your sister isn’t just being overprotective, it’s doing the right thing,” he says genuine. He remembers when they were in high school and Raphael had his run with a bad crowd, it never came to it, but he would have done the same thing Alec did if the situation had presented itself.

Alec just shrugs looking off to the side. Magnus sees the uncomfortable set in his shoulders and shifts the conversation.

“You come highly recommended, Dot says you put on one hell of a show at her family reunion,” he says with a bright smile.

Alec’s shoulders ease and he turns back to Magnus with a smile.

“Dot barely needed me, she put on a performance just as stunning, I’ve never seen a woman so small body tackle so many people during what’s supposed to be a friendly game of tag,” he says with a chuckle.

Magnus has heard all about Dot’s deadly game and seen the bruises she proudly displayed from her somewhat violent performance first hand.

“Believe me it’s not the first time she’s tackled down a full-grown man,” Magnus says with a laugh fondly remembering a frat party, an unsuspecting frat boy and a fateful game of beer pong from many years ago.

“Somehow that does not surprise me,” Alec says rubbing a hand across his dark beard. The conversation shifts from there, Magnus giving Alec the full rundown about his father, his current stepmother and the all too haughty evening they’ll be subjected to.

Conversation flows easy between them, Alec seeming to understand a lot of Magnus’ struggles with his family life and Magnus finds himself wondering if there’s more to why he does this bit of charity for people in need.

“So, why exactly is it you do this?” Magnus asks, clarifying quickly when Alec raises his eyebrow in question. They’ve covered the felony yes and it’s clear that Alec just simply cares, but that’s not a full reason why. “I mean I believe that you’re just a genuinely good person who wants to help people, but it’s deeper than that isn’t it?”

Alec pauses for a moment rubbing the back of his neck nervously, Magnus is about to tell him he doesn’t have to explain if it’s an uncomfortable topic just as Alec starts to talk.

“I’m gay,” he says and Magnus smirks, the obviously on the tip of his tongue. Alec picks up on it smiling back. “Obviously, but for a long time I couldn’t be, or at least not at home. My parents are kind of rich, they’d do these big to do holiday parties every year for Thanksgiving and Christmas. When my siblings and I were little they were just big boring adult parties that we’d steal food from. Then we all got old enough to date and to have plans for the future.”

Magnus hums in understanding. That’s how his father’s parties had been, one day he was a kid just stealing cookies and hating the droll grown ups and the next he was a man expected to present himself in certain ways, ways that weren’t remotely who he was.

“By the time I was 21 I was still in the closet, and already on their shit list for dropping out of college, and I never dated and my parents were just determined to find me a wife. Every year it was so and so’s daughter is lovely and has such a strong education or so and so’s daughter is coming and I can’t wait for you to meet her,” he says twisting the coffee mug between his hands. “I’m pretty sure those holiday parties are how my drinking got so bad, forced heterosexuality and an open bar do not mix well together.”

He chuckles and Magnus takes that as an invitation to do the same. Again he gets it, he’s taken his fair advantage of the open bar at his father’s parties many times.

“And then one year my dad was going on about some girl who was at Thanksgiving dinner, I don’t even remember her name, but she was standing there and the whole time he’s talking about how she’s so pretty and so ready to start a family and I should make a move before someone else did. And I was losing my mind internally and evidently I’d had just enough to drink that I just screamed at the top of my lungs that I was gay.”

He pauses taking the last sip of his coffee.

“And then I just left after my mom was trying to talk to me about causing a scene. Then Christmas rolls around and to my extreme shock I get the invite. I thought for sure I was in for the lecture I’d been avoiding for a month, but instead they just acted like Thanksgiving hadn’t even happened,” he shakes his head. “They invited some other poor girl to try and marry me off to and just went on like I hadn’t had a big, gay outburst. My outburst was a lot bigger that time, after that I didn’t get any more party invites, they just cut me out entirely.”

Magnus reaches out resting his hand on Alec’s that’s drumming on the table. “I’m so sorry, Alexander,” he says trying out the full name for the first time guessing that’s what Alec is short for. He likes the way it rolls off his tongue and judging from the way Alec doesn’t correct him he ventures he got it right.

Alec just shrugs with a sad little smile on his lips. “It’s okay,” he says. “I mean it wasn’t back then, but I’m okay now. I don’t need my parents or their money, my siblings are still in my life and I’ve got a whole life outside of that. I can have my gay outbursts in peace now.”

Magnus laughs squeezing his hand once before pulling back, he’s been resting it there much too long now.

They talk logistics after that, establishing a plan for the holiday dinner. Alec immediately offers to bring his Thunderbird to drive to Magnus’ father’s place upstate.

“I don’t have the car not to be embarrassing about it,” he says and Magnus smiles insisting he pays for the gas then.

He spends almost three hours and four coffees with Alec and eventually finds they’re not even talking about the dinner in question, but they’re just talking instead.

It’s an unexpected development.

***

Coffee with Alec goes all too well and by the end of it they have a carefully cultivated story about how they met and how long they’ve supposedly been together all set in stone. Alec ensures him he’ll be the ultimate, best bad boyfriend for the night, and frankly Magnus is having a hard time believing it.

Alec is sweet, kind without even realizing it and looks like the living embodiment of tall, dark and handsome. If Magnus is being honest he’d love to take him out sometime as a real date more than a bad boyfriend for the night.

He calls Dot after they’ve said their goodbyes, walking to his apartment not far from the coffee shop.

“So how’d it go?” Dot asks immediately upon answering the phone.

“He’s incredibly charming without trying to be and cute is a fucking understatement, Dorothea,” he says looking both ways before crossing to the other side of the street.

Dot chuckles wildly on the other side.

“I’m serious, if I was given the opportunity to craft a man based on looks alone I’m pretty sure he’d be what I’d create, he’s gorgeous,” Magnus says as he reaches his building going inside and heading for the elevator.

“I may have undersold him slightly,” Dot says sounding all too innocent.

“And was there a reason for that, my dear?” he says. He’s starting to feel like he’s being set up.

“Perhaps,” she says and he can hear the gleeful smile in her voice. “You can thank me later, for now just enjoy your bad boyfriend.”

***

Five days later on the last Thursday of the month, Magnus waits outside of his apartment for Alec and at three o’clock on the dot Alec’s truly ridiculous car pulls up. It’s even better in person than he described.

The black, red and white lines are exactly like Eddie Van Halen’s infamous guitar and the ’93 Thunderbird is just on the right side of beat up. The left taillight is busted, covered in see through tape and there’s a sizeable dent in the passenger side door.

Alec steps out of the car, a vision in his signature leather jacket, black jeans with far too many tears and dark eyeliner around his eyes. It’s not neat like Magnus’ though, it’s messy. His whole look from his disheveled, but neat hair, to his trimmed beard to his scuffed boots is just on the right side of acceptable, but screams of a wild side as well.

Magnus isn’t as black tie as he knows his father would like him to be, wearing a deep red shirt and tight pants with a line down the side, his perfectly styled hair, curly and soft with matching red streaks running through it. They make a pretty attractive pair if Magnus does say so himself.

Magnus can’t wait to see how the evening plays out.

Alec smiles at him coming over to open the passenger side door, it takes a couple tugs to get it open.

“It’s a little finicky,” he says playfully bowing and gesturing for Magnus to get inside. “Your chariot awaits.”

Magnus smiles stepping into the car. Alec shuts the door tight rounding the car and falling into his seat.

“Ready to cause a scene?” Alec says with a devilish smile that Magnus finds hard to resist.

“Absolutely,” he says with his own answering smile as Alec turns the key and peels out onto the road.

***

The ride up takes about two hours all told with holiday traffic and every minute of it is delightful. Alec tells him more about himself, outside of the surface stuff they’d covered to make sure Magnus was comfortable with this whole night.

He learns Alec loves archery, has an affinity for trash shows like the Bachelor and has a vicious little cat he adores named Church. Magnus gives his own tidbits in return about his work at the university and his love of bad horror movies, laughing when Alec suggests their fiendish cats might just get along.

Magnus laughs just as they pull up outside of his father’s home, “Chairman doesn’t exactly play well with others.”

Alec shrugs. “Neither does Church, that’s why it’d be fun,” he says with a smile pulling his eyes away from Magnus looking up at the sprawling house before them. He slows the car to a stop pulling into a spot that makes the car perfectly visible from the wall of windows that line the living room where all the guests won’t be able to miss it.

“Damn,” Alec says as he steps out of the car, Magnus joins him where he’s leaning back against the front of his Thunderbird. His car looks amazingly out of place and perfectly hilarious parked between a silver Porsche and a sleek black Lamborghini. “Your father’s in real estate you said?”

“Amongst other things,” Magnus grumbles looking at the house that was always too big, that always felt hollow and empty to Magnus when they moved here after his mother skipped town.

“It’s way too big,” Alec says with a grimace looking it over one last time before offering his arm to Magnus. Magnus takes it guiding him to the front door. “And there’s way too many fucking windows.”

Magnus chuckles as they reach the door opening it automatically and walking in. The space is gaudier than the last time he was there, the walls where once his father and stepmother number four’s portraits used to hang now feature the latest wife and sadly the one of him that his father had commissioned years ago. It’s the last time he’d agreed to sit for one of his gaudy paintings, he’s young, barely 20 wearing a stiff suit and barely any makeup, he doesn’t look like him at all.

“Well that’s a painting,” Alec says looking at it. “I like this you better,” he says eyeing Magnus up and down. Whether he meant to or not there’s a lingering in the look, Magnus likes it. “That looks like somebody trying to be something they’re not.”

And just like that with one look at a painting, Alec nails him right on the head. Like he can read Magnus easily, a thing that just about no one can do.

“Come on,” Magnus says pulling Alec along down the garish hallway that leads to the large expanse of the living room. There’s a new chandelier hanging in the hall, riddled in way too many gems. He bets it’s a feature added by the new wife.

“Maggie!” a woman’s voice yells, speak of the devil, he rolls his eyes at the nickname no matter how many times he’s told her to drop it she just won’t. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

His stepmother comes bouncing over their way, her ridiculously high heels clacking against the hardwood floor. He can hear his father sigh from the other side of the room, more concerned with his precious oak floors than anything else in the world.

Magnus braces himself as she barrels into him hugging him tight, she releases him with a smile before turning to Alec and doing the same.

Alec’s eyes go wide in surprise, no matter how much Magnus described her to him there’s no preparing for hurricane Marissa. She pulls back adjusting her very not appropriate for the setting tight pink and black strapless dress with a smile, her fake tan looks a little lighter than usual and he’s weirdly proud of her for that.

“And who is this?” she asks reaching out to adjust Magnus’ shirt collar that she crumpled when hugging him.

“This is my boyfriend, Alec,” he says gesturing his way. “Alec this is my father’s wife, Marissa.”

Marissa playfully pats Magnus’ cheek, “Stepmother.” She says it pointedly holding out a hand to quickly shake Alec’s. He will never refer to her as his stepmother out loud, much like the past four wives Magnus bets Marissa will be gone in five years’ time tops, his own mother hadn’t even stuck around that long. Also, she’s 25, five years younger than him, and there’s no way he’s referring to her as anything remotely close to a mother.

“It’s lovely to have you in our home,” Marissa says to Alec gesturing to the room at large. Magnus looks around at the room full of people, most of whom he doesn’t remotely recognize. A few seem somewhat familiar in the most unmemorable sense. He’s sure they’re constant clients and rich cohorts of his father’s that have attended before.

“That it is,” his father’s voice says coming up behind his wife. He rests one hand on her shoulder and holds out another Alec’s way. “Asmodeus Bane.”

“Alec Lightwood,” he says a perfect gentleman returning his father’s handshake. They’d agreed to keep it civil for at the least the first introduction and then let the evening escalate from there. Magnus can tell just from looking at it his father’s grip is tight, commanding and borderline threatening, but Alec doesn’t even flinch.

“Lightwood, hm?” his father says eyeing Alec up and down frowning and Magnus can tell he already disapproves of what he sees. “Any relation to the Lightwood Consulting company?”

“Yes,” Alec says and Magnus smiles when he sees his father’s lips uptick in an impressed smile that immediately falls at Alec’s next words. “But they cut me out and off years ago, I’m the black sheep of the family if you will.”

Asmodeus just hums disappointed. “Well, that’s a shame,” he says. “So, how did you meet my son?” he asks not bothering with anymore small talk now that he’s already decided Alec’s no good, just jumping right in to the things he can criticize.

“Prison,” Alec jokes and Marissa titters delightfully. She quickly stops when Asmodeus looks at her disappointedly. “Just kidding,” he says. “I did my time there years ago, no we met at a bar.”

Asmodeus bristles at the prison mention, which is technically a lie, Alec only spent a few hours in a cell back when he was arrested, but his father clearly buys it as more. Magnus can tell he’s tuning out the rest of their crafted meet cute story, all about how three months ago Alec had a few too many drinks and almost got into a fight and Magnus had been his stalwart knight in shining armor.

“Love at first sight,” Marissa sighs clearly enjoying their made up tale. “Isn’t it sweet, Asmody?” she coos tugging on his father’s arm.

“Yes, quite sweet,” Asmodeus grimaces gripping his wife’s arm and pulling her away. “We’ll talk later.” He says looking directly at Magnus, essentially and completely dismissing Alec’s presence all together before stepping away. Marissa grins wide waving at them as she goes her long pink acrylic nails clicking together as she does so. Marissa may not be the brightest or subtlest bulb, but at least unlike many of Asmodeus’ past wives she’s nice enough.

“Well damn, do I even need to do anything else? He seems disappointed enough already,” Alec says shaking his head in disbelief.

“Now, where would the fun in that be,” Magnus says with a smirk, shrugging off his jacket. Alec follows suit and Magnus admires the view of his arms in a short sleeved well-fitting white button up shirt. His love of archery has made for some nicely toned muscle.

***

They mingle for a bit after Magnus deposits their coats in one of the coat closets, Magnus putting on his best son of the year smile while Alec downs glasses of water that everyone thinks is vodka at a fairly speedy rate.

It’d been his first task when they’d rejoined the party walking over to the bar with a smile.

“I need you to fill a bottle or two of vodka with water and keep serving me all night,” he said to the bored and disgruntled looking woman behind the counter. The rest of the hired help for the night must have been sequestered away in the kitchen until dinner judging by her being the first one that Magnus had spotted.

“You planning something weird tonight?” she questioned sliding Magnus a glass of red wine.

“Not weird, just disruptive,” Alec said so kind and so believable that the girl perked up.

“Well I love to see rich people who call me barkeep unironically disrupted, so you got it,” she said with a smile discreetly pouring out a bottle and refilling it with water before handing a glass to Alec as he dumped a sizeable wad of cash into her completely empty tip jar. God, rich people were cheap.

She’s been steadily serving him since.

Now they find themselves with a man who has to be bordering on 200 years old and it seems Alec decides it’s time to truly get to work.

“All that glitters,” the old man says talking about something that they’ve clearly both been tuning out.

“Glitters?” Alec says a little too loud, just enough so that everyone in their vicinity can hear. “You mean the place on 5th? My ex used to dance there, maybe you saw him, man knew how to work a pole if you know what I mean?” he winks at the old man and Magnus just barely stifles his laughter as the old man steps back in shock. He mumbles something unintelligible looking suddenly ill and paler than he had before and slips away.

Alec tosses back his drink and hands it to a passing woman in a truly hideous pantsuit that is definitely not a server, dragging Magnus along to the table of appetizers. He tosses shrimp into his mouth not bothering with a napkin, rubbing his hands on his ripped-up jeans making direct eye contact with a young woman, no doubt another trophy wife, as he does so. She scrunches up her nose and steps away.

Evidently despite his fairly small work so far he’s made just enough of a scene to garner Asmodeus’ attention once again.

“So, Alec, I assume that colorful vehicle outside is yours?” he says walking up beside the two of them. Their bartender and conspirator comes up just then handing Alec a fresh glass.

Alec smiles at her, before turning to Asmodeus. He’s not acting drunk yet, but he’s bordering on behaving tipsy.

He slings an arm over Magnus’ shoulder and brings him in close. Magnus settles a hand at Alec’s waste enjoying the proximity.

“Yes, that is my sweet Cherry,” he says naming the car on the spot. “Won her in a poker game when I was 18, crashed her three days later and have been patching her back together ever since.”

“A poker game?” Asmodeus questions, clearly becoming more disappointed by the minute.

“Yup,” he says cheerfully popping the p in the word. “Well, I wouldn’t say won directly, more cheated a guy and then fought him for it,” he pauses gesturing to the little sliced scar that runs through his left eyebrow. “That’s how I got this.”

“You wouldn’t believe how many tire irons a high school principal is carrying around,” Alec continues with a snort tossing back half of his drink.

Magnus just nods along in agreement to Alec’s concocted tale. He actually bought the car from his sister’s ex-boyfriend when he was nineteen for 200 bucks, but this story shocks far more.

“You mean to say you fought your principal for your car?” Asmodeus says judgement so very clear in his voice.

“High school, am I right?” Alec shrugs with a chuckle smiling down into his drink. Asmodeus looks appalled.

“Oh, come on don’t look like that father,” Magnus says placing his free hand on Alec’s chest and patting there lightly. Magnus can’t help but notice how solid the chest under his hand is. “I got up to some trouble in high school myself, surely you remember.”

Asmodeus just hums, clearly finding Magnus’ occasional wild parties without permission a dull comparison to the tale Alec just told.

“Never forget the time I streaked and jumped from the guest house roof to the trampoline and right into the pool, nearly broke my arm in the process,” Magnus says with a smile. Alec leans over burying his face in Magnus’ hair, careful not to mess it up, whether it’s to play up the PDA or stifle a laugh Magnus isn’t sure.

They’d had a whole conversation about PDA, Alec promising to respect his boundaries, no kissing and never a hand wandering beneath his waist.

“How could I forget,” Asmodeus says sharply embarrassed by his son’s antics. He turns towards the large windows and looks out to where the porch patio lights illuminate Alec’s car.

“It is so sexy that you did that,” Alec says ignoring Asmodeus and turning towards Magnus. He downs the rest of his drink and meet’s Magnus’ eyes, a question and idea brewing clear in them. Magnus smirks tugging at Alec’s shirt.

“You think so?” he says teasingly.

“Mm hmm,” Alec says biting his lip and Magnus knows this is all a part of the show, but god are those lips tempting.

Magnus catches Asmodeus turning his attention back to them looking outright furious. Magnus pulls away from Alec’s eyes and smiles a bright smile like they’re doing absolutely nothing wrong.

“I’m gonna give Alec the tour,” he says leadingly pulling Alec along by both hands and rushing away from the living room and down the hall before Asmodeus can say a word. He can see Alec’s smirk as he notices the stares of the other guests in the room.

Magnus doesn’t even pay attention to where they’re going as he pulls them into a room just off the right side of the hall.

“How’d you actually get that scar?” Magnus asks once they’re inside shutting the door behind him, no doubt convincing everyone they’re about to get down and dirty.

“Took a hockey stick to the face when I was 17,” he says pulling himself to sit up on a desk. A desk that Magnus now recognizes as his fathers. They’ve pulled themselves into his father’s office and if they get caught in here he’ll never hear the end of it, he loves it.

“You played hockey?” Magnus asks lifting himself up to sit beside Alec on the desk ignoring the papers he accidentally topples to the ground.

Alec nods in the affirmative. “I did, that’s why it’s the only sport I can start heckling fights about, everything else is boring.”

Magnus snorts at that, he’s never been partial to any sport himself.

“Did you really do what you said out there?” Alec asks picking up a notepad and flipping through it mindlessly.

“I did,” Magnus smiles and Alec’s eyebrows both go up. “Don’t look so surprised, you’re not the only one capable of mischief.”

“Oh, I see that,” he says with a smile tossing the notepad back to where he found it. “That is kinda sexy you achieved a jump like that and didn’t get hurt.” He says it with his voice low and all sorts of New York around the edges. He freezes his hand stopping over the spot where he’d been about to pick up the ugly green and bronze sphere shaped paper weight beside him.

Magnus freezes too, Alec saying something like that while they’re alone makes it real, not like the fake flirty way he’d said it out in the living room.

“Sorry, that’s not, I’m sorry, I never cross that line when I do these things, we’re alone and,” Alec runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

Magnus shakes his head reaching out and tentatively laying his hand atop Alec’s where it rests on the desk between them.

“It’s okay,” he says and Alec looks at him ready to argue the point. Magnus jumps in stopping him before he can say a word and taking his own leap into making this far more real than fake. “Really, it’s okay. You, uh, you’re not so bad yourself.”

Alec huffs a laugh opening and closing his mouth a few times like he’s looking for the right words to say. The space between them feels a little charged now that they’ve floated out the simple fact there’s a real attraction here. Alec closes his mouth and bites his lip looking determined like he knows what to say finally when the door busts open.

“Oh, my apologies boys,” Marissa says standing in the doorway her hands on her hips and a pleased little smile on her lips. “But dinner is served.”

Magnus and Alec pull away from one another quickly hopping off the desk and stepping towards the door.

“You two are just too cute,” Marissa says when they reach her. She loops each of her arms through one of theirs and tugs them down the hall happily. “Don’t listen to a word your father says.”

Magnus meets Alec’s eyes over her head only to find Alec already looking at him, a soft smile on his lips.

***

Magnus takes his proverbial spot on his father’s right at the head of the table, Marissa doing the same on his left. Despite Asmodeus’ clear attempt to keep Alec as far away from him and Magnus as possible by seating him at the far end of the long table he fails. Luckily one of Marissa’s friends, just as airy and tight dressed as her is seated next to Magnus and happily swaps spots with Alec.

Alec lifts his drink to Asmodeus in a faux toast that Asmodeus doesn’t even feign interest in as he takes his seat.

Dinner is served and it’s to be expected. The sweet potatoes are divine none of that weird marshmallow bullshit in them, the mac and cheese is literally to die for and the homemade bread hits in just the right way. The turkey is terrible, but that’s not at the fault of the overpriced chef that’s just simply because it’s an indisputable fact that turkey tastes like napkins.

Alec eats so much Magnus is concerned, he can tell from the tight fit of his shirt that Alec is in impeccable shape so he doesn’t really know where he puts it all as he goes for his fourth serving of mac and cheese.

But long before his fourth serving of cheesy goodness Alec starts up at least three debates that would be deemed far too impolite for their supposed polite company. Each fresh serving he corners someone new into a debate; first it’s an old lady in a pantsuit pulled into a debate about the existence of god, then a forty something who looks like he’s never seen a rainbow without feeling threatened into a talk on the merits of teaching queer history to children and finally a woman who can’t be much older than them who looks like her name is Tinsley or Ainsleigh or something equally as nauseating into a tense bordering on yelling match about the importance of safe abortion access.

He sounds a little more drunk with every conversation and he’s damn good at faking it. He sounds just the right amount of inebriated not slurring his words too much or fumbling around with his silverware, it’s practiced, a master class in being drunk without being drunk. Most people overplay it acting far more outlandish than a drunk person sitting at a table would, but Alec has it down pact.

Magnus watches him not a care in the world, acting like he doesn’t even notice the disruption Alec is causing. The only person aside from Magnus that doesn’t look increasingly more uncomfortable by the minute is Marissa who looks like she’s having the time of her life watching these stuffy rich people squirm.

Asmodeus of course does not look delighted, he barely eats, just scowls over the rim of his wine glass and attempts to deflect any conversation Alec purposely instigates another way unsuccessfully.

The only time he seems to look like he’s not about to have a coronary is when everyone’s plates are finally collected, Alec still shoveling the last bit of mashed potatoes on his plate into his mouth as one of the waiters lifts the plate away from him, and it’s announced that dinner and coffee will be served in the living room.

Alec stands stretching his arms up over his head and Magnus admires the ripple of his muscles as he does so before standing beside him. Alec reaches over the table picking up yet another glass of water and tossing it back with a loud unnecessary thirst quenched sound before holding out his hand to Magnus. Magnus takes it instantly with a smile following along as they head for the living room once again.  

***

A waiter takes their dessert requests, a choice of six different types of pie as they file out of the large dining room.

Magnus selects the pumpkin pie, while Alec chooses the chocolate pecan.

“Pecan, gross,” Magnus says as they work their way over to one side of the room a little bit away from everyone else to have just a moment of reprieve.

“How dare you, pecan pie is delicious,” Alec says sounding outright offended.

Magnus rolls his eyes and crosses his arms making a face that screams Alec is insane to have that opinion.

“It’s all sugar, no substance,” Magnus says. He really shouldn’t be surprised Alec’s favorite pie is one as ridiculously sugar based as pecan considering the amount of sugar he witnessed him dump into his coffee a few days prior. Alec doesn’t even deign him with a response, he just gives him another affronted look like Magnus has insulted his entire being, not a pie.

Moments later a waiter hands them each their requested pies. Alec takes a bite of his pointedly making eye contact with Magnus as he does so and making a pleased obnoxious yum sound. Magnus just rolls his eyes again, amused as he takes a bite of his own pie.

“So, are you enjoying yourself so far this evening?” Magnus asks after a few minutes of companionable silence.

Alec pauses grabbing a coffee from a passing tray and taking a sip, he grimaces a bit at the black coffee before answering Magnus’ question. Out of the corner of his eye Magnus sees his father watching them, almost looking excited to see Alec drinking a coffee, probably hoping it will sober him up.

“Well, your father is kind of terrible, and all these people are exhausting,” he says gesturing with his fork to the room at large after he sits his coffee on the floor next to him. “But despite the fact she may be a little air headed Marissa is lovely and I get a kick out of making rich people as uncomfortable as possible, so it’s been a pretty good night thus far.”

He pauses taking a bite of his pie and looking at Magnus from underneath his thick dark lashes. “Plus, you know, you’re pretty good company as well,” he says tapping his fork to his lips.

Magnus slow blinks at him and smiles.

“You’re pretty good company as well, especially when you’re just being you, like right now, not the overstated bad boy, even if he is a good time,” Magnus says. He reaches out his empty fork and boops Alec on the nose with it, just because. Alec scrunches up his face adorably at the action.

“Well I like you being you too, though it’s kind of fun you’re playing into my whole act, most people just play the none the wiser partner,” Alec says before leaning down and drinking another glug of his coffee. He makes the same cute displeased face again as he swallows.

“Really? No one’s made it seem like you’ve turned them into a crazy bad boy too?” Magnus says surprised. He’s been having a pretty good time being a little more instigative around his father than he usually would be.

Alec shakes his head. “Not really, Dot tackling her family members was a bit of an outlier, and honestly they’re almost never guys.”

“So I’m your first fake boyfriend then, huh?” Magnus says oddly flattered about the possibility.

“Second actually, but still most of the time I get hired by women, there’s a comfort in knowing that your fake date won’t try to make a move,” Alec says taking the last bite of his sickeningly sweet pecan pie.

“I guess I didn’t have a problem with that prospect,” Magnus says smiling around his fork looking right into Alec’s pretty hazel eyes, all dark rimmed and intent on him.

“I guess you didn’t,” he says with a smile putting his empty plate and mug on a passing tray and leaning back comfortably.

Magnus joins him leaning over by one of the sprawling windows casually finishing off his pie looking up to see one of his father’s political friends, a 30 something councilman of some sort, staring at them nearby. Alec, the little devil, winks at him slow and seductive. The councilman bristles and his wife beside him gives Alec an evil stare.

Magnus laughs a little, thinking that’s it for that interaction when suddenly the click of heels approaches them.

“Did you just wink at my husband?” the woman all but screams at Alec causing him to jump up from his slouch against the windows. Her head shakes as she speaks, her clip-on earrings wobbling.

“I,” Alec starts, but she doesn’t let him get in a word before she’s tossing her glass of white wine right at him.

“Oh, shit,” he says surprised and laughing a bit as he scrubs at his face his already messy eyeliner getting even messier in the process.

“Listen, lady I had no intention, your husband was the one staring,” he shouts back sounding a little more drunk than he did at the dinner table, they weren’t planning on Alec picking a fight tonight, but it seems he’s rolling with the one presented to him.

“Why you little, you little-“ she basically shrieks her husband pulling at her arm trying to stop her from taking this any further. Magnus steps in in front of Alec, a stern look of shutting shit down that he learned from his father on his face.

“You will want to watch your next words very carefully, wouldn’t want your husband’s constituents hearing any bigoted language coming from his already,” Magnus pauses surveying her bejeweled dress that looks like she’s going to a bad 80’s themed prom. “Tacky wife.”

She looks angrier at that, but Magnus’ stern look seems to usher her away, allowing her husband to pull her from the room.

The room is dead silent all eyes on them.

“Alright,” Asmodeus’ voice booms, everyone turning his way. “Show’s over, nightcaps will be served by the barkeep in the library shortly why don’t you all head in there,” he says gesturing to the way of the library. He steps over to Magnus and Alec as does Marissa who instantly hands Alec a towel.

“She’s always been a stick in the mud with bad taste,” Marissa says showing her own dislike for the councilman’s wife. “You didn’t do a thing wrong.” She smiles at them both apologetically before linking her arm in Alec’s and pulling him the way of everyone else. Magnus moves to follow, but is stopped by a hand on his chest from Asmodeus.

“We need to talk,” he says leaving no room for argument. Alec looks back at him from where Marissa is still chattering happily to him, a clear question of if he needs to cause a scene to stay with Magnus in his eyes. Magnus waves him on, watching as they go.

He barely waits until Alec and Marissa are out of ear shot to start in on Magnus.

“I know he’s faking it,” Asmodeus says and that is not what Magnus was expecting. He plays dumb though raising his eyebrows in question.

“Don’t act like you don’t what I’m talking about, I’d venture to say from the looks you two share you know all about it as well. You just brought him here and put on this whole show to embarrass me,” Asmodeus continues with a disappointed sigh. “That man hasn’t had a drop of liquor tonight, every action he’s taken hasn’t been some alcohol fueled mistake it’s been purposeful. He’s probably the most sober person here tonight. As far as I’d guess aside from truly being the black sheep of his family name and that truly atrocious car nothing that’s happened here tonight has been real.”

And alright, yeah Magnus definitely wasn’t expecting this. He expected his father to rail on his choice of partner, to knock Alec’s character and behavior and maybe Magnus’ to boot as well. He didn’t expect him to know exactly what’s been going on all night.

“And before you ask how I figured it out, you really should have made sure your date kept better track of his finished glasses, after dinner he left one behind and it didn’t smell of the vodka we’ve all been convinced he’s been downing all night,” Asmodeus explains. “From there a quick search told me the name was at least true. His family really did cut him out judging from his complete disappearance from all events, not that I can blame them, anyone who behaves this atrociously without influence of alcohol just to play a game probably deserves to be cut off.”

Magnus huffs out an unamused laugh at the underlying implications of his statement.

“Is that a threat?” Magnus says steely eyed.

“It could be, if you don’t get him out of here right this instant and promise to never try anything even close to similar to this charade again,” Asmodeus says just as steely eyed and Magnus hates that he learned the look from him.

For a moment he considers just leaving, hightailing it out of there with Alec and not saying a single other word to his father, but he’s tired. He’s 30 and he’s been putting up with his father’s vague threats if he doesn’t play the good little son role since before he could talk practically and he’s just done.

“No, we won’t be leaving,” Magnus says holding his ground. “And as for this charade well I guess I can promise you nothing like this will ever happen again, because I’m done. I’m done playing some perfectly crafted son that I’m not, I’m done acting like we’re a happy little family, like you won’t get bored of poor, sweet Marissa in no time and there’ll be a new wife on your arm who you’ll pay just as little attention to.”

“You’re right, I did do this to embarrass you, to show those fucking fakes in there that you are the fakest amongst them, even more so than all of them combined. Alec may have been playing a role tonight, but he’s ten times more real than you could ever dream to be. Don’t worry about having to cut me off and making a whole big show of it, I haven’t needed you or your money in years,” Magnus says. He straightens out his shirt and stands with his head held high turning on his heel to join Alec in the library.

***

Magnus is frankly riding high on truly stepping up to his father for the first and likely last time in his life when he saunters into the library scanning around to find Alec. He spots him in the corner chatting with Marissa.

“There you are,” Alec says sounding genuinely concerned. Magnus just smiles at him hoping it looks more assuring than it feels.

Marissa reaches out patting him on the cheek lightly. “Don’t listen to whatever he said, he’s just jealous he’s not as outstanding as you,” she says with a smile.

Magnus is struck in that moment with how much his father doesn’t deserve her, she might be a lot to take sometimes, but she is a genuinely kind woman.

“Nor as outstanding as you,” Magnus says with a smile and she blushes at the compliment. He’s ready to follow that up by telling her that she should leave his father’s ass immediately before he gets the chance to toss her to the side, but someone calls out her name and she’s pulled away smiling at them as she goes.

“Ready for the grand finale?” Alec says as soon as Marissa steps away. The grand finale, right, Magnus and Alec had discussed giving one last show before they left for the night if they managed to make it all the way through dessert. And they have, everyone’s nursing nightcaps ready to exit for the evening, but clearly all lingering around to see if Alec does anything else embarrassing or outlandish before they go.

Mere moments ago Magnus was ready to just storm out of here with Alec at his side and maybe ask Alec if he fancied going on a real date for a late-night drink somewhere.

But now with his father storming into the room after him, glaring and judging, looking quite possibly the most upset he’s ever been with Magnus he can’t seem to find a reason to go just yet.

“Let’s do it,” he says and Alec smiles tossing back his water and acting as if there’s a nice vodka burn to it. He grabs a discarded fork from a table nearby and taps it on his now empty glass so hard that it chips just a bit earning everyone’s attention.

“Could I have everyone’s attention please,” he says sounding a little bit like he’s sobered up after the near fight with the councilman’s wife. Most of the room looks their way eagerly like they can’t wait to see what happens next, while a few others apprehensively turn their attention.

“I met this stunning man not all that long ago,” he says laying his hands lightly on Magnus’ shoulders. “But in that short time, I have realized that undisputedly there will never be another for me. From the moment we hooked up in the back of Cherry the night we met,” he says not elaborating at all on that sentence, earning the shocked gasps and confused looks of many. Marissa giggles, Asmodeus seethes not loving this new addition to their fake meet cute story even if he knows it’s all a ruse now. “I knew you were the one, so, Magnus Bane,” he continues on getting down on one knee he pulls the plain silver ring he’s been wearing all night on his middle finger off and presents it to Magnus. “Will you marry me?”

Magnus pretends to be shocked covering his mouth with a gasp. His eyes flit up to where his father stands, looking like he’s about to make some move to physically stop Magnus from answering Alec’s question, like he won’t survive the embarrassment of this room full of people knowing his sons engaged to a degenerate in messed up jeans even if he knows it’s not real. Magnus doesn’t give him the chance immediately looking down at Alec with glassy eyes.

“Yes, Alexander, yes,” he says no longer hiding his amused grin as Alec slips the ring on his finger and lifts up from the ground pulling Magnus into a crushing hug. The room claps tentatively, enthusiastically in Marissa’s case who it seems does not care how insane something is she just loves love. How she ever ended up married to his father, who only truly loves himself, his hardwood floors and his hair is a continual mystery.

“Wanna get the fuck out of here?” Magnus mumbles into Alec’s ear. Alec pulls back from their hug and nods enthusiastically.

“Do I have your permission to bridal carry you out of here?” Alec says lowly ensuring no one can hear him.

“Oh, hell yes,” Magnus says delightedly as Alec lifts him up and makes for the door.

“We’re gonna go celebrate in the back of Cherry again,” Alec announces proudly to the room as he goes. Magnus pats him on the shoulder guiding him to the coat closet where he quickly grabs their jackets, Alec never losing his grip on him.

Asmodeus shouts after them as they head out the door, Alec pausing at his car and planting Magnus down on the ground gently. He tugs at the door three times before it opens gesturing for Magnus to get in as he ignores his father’s bellowing shouts. Alec playfully salutes Asmodeus and slides over the hood of his car bumping into the Porsche beside him setting off it’s car alarm as he lands and slips into the driver’s seat quickly.

He starts the engine peeling out of the space just as Asmodeus reaches the front of the car. Magnus just blatantly ignores him only catching sight of Marissa standing in the door waving their way as they drive off.

***

The ride back is quiet for the first twenty minutes or so, music playing softly as Alec drives drumming his fingers along the steering wheel to the beat.

“My dad figured out you were faking it,” Magnus says with no preamble looking out the window as they go. The roads are mostly empty now people celebrating the holiday into the late hours with their families before waking up at 5 a.m. to Black Friday shop.

“Shit, there goes my Oscar,” Alec says eyes flashing to Magnus quickly with a laugh before focusing back on the road. Magnus chuckles in response.

“Well, it’s an honor just to be nominated,” Magnus smiles tilting his head towards Alec.

Alec snorts a little laugh then turns his head quickly to Magnus once again.

“Did your dad give you a lot of trouble about it?”

“He did, I don’t think I’ll be getting a Christmas invite after I railed back at him,” Magnus says. “But it’s okay. I think it was just a long time coming, bound to happen. Better to get it over with now before I wasted more years trying to seem like I’m something I’m not just to please him.”

Alec comes to a stop at a red light and turns his attention fully to Magnus.

“Are you okay? I mean shitty or not, having a parent cut ties isn’t easy, trust me I know,” he says. Magnus watches him enjoying the way the red of the stoplight cuts through his dark hair.

Magnus takes a deep breath and gives Alec a small assuring smile.

“I will be,” he says, truly meaning it. The fallout with his father is a lot, but he will be okay. He’s lived without his father being truly present in any form since the day his mother walked out on them, this new world where he’s likely all cut off isn’t anything new really. He’ll manage, hell he might even thrive without the chains of his father’s expectations weighing on him now.

The light turns green and they lapse back into comfortable silence for the rest of the ride, Magnus completely endeared as he listens to Alec mumbling the lyrics to every other song that comes on the radio under his breath.

When they pull up to the curb outside of Magnus’ house Alec steps out first ever the gentleman helping Magnus with the finicky passenger side door.

He holds out a hand helping Magnus out and smiles when he drops it shutting the door tight.

“Well, thank you for the free meal and the fun night of mischief,” Alec says leaning back against his Thunderbird. His eyeliner is a mess and there’s a faint dried spot along his white shirt stained from the wine incident, he looks beautiful under this streetlight and Magnus wants more night like this. Well maybe not exactly like this one, it’s been a bit of rollercoaster for him emotionally, but nights with Alec all the same.

“Go out with me,” he says not even framing it as a question. He knows Alec is interested too has seen it in the moments where he was just being himself and the appreciative glances he’s given Magnus all night that clearly weren’t just a part of the show he was putting on. And that doesn’t even cover their coffee the other day, the easy way they’d talked and just clicked right off the bat.

“For real, not a fake date or a bad boyfriend show, a real date,” Magnus clarifies when he notices Alec’s surprise.

“I’d like that a lot,” Alec says pushing off the car. He steps a little closer to Magnus leaving just a bit of distance for Magnus to clear if he wants. Magnus does want so he steps up not quite touching Alec, but close enough all he’d have to do is raise a hand. It feels almost like when they were in his father’s office tonight, but even better because they’re alone for real now, there’s no show and no chance of interruptions.

“I need the record to show that I literally never do this, not once, I haven’t even been interested, let alone made any sort of action to make something real out of one of these fake dates,” Alec says low and sincere keeping his eyes on Magnus’ the entire time making sure the words are clear. “You are entirely the exception.”

“Entirely exceptional, actually,” he adds on with a smile. Magnus smiles reaching out his hands to rest on Alec’s chest.

“So are you,” he says patting his hands twice where they rest. “And I believe you aren’t just doing this to pick up hot guys, no worries.” He says with a chuckle and Alec rolls his eyes.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” Alec asks.

“Nothing, no classes until next Tuesday and most of my friends are out of town for family dinners and what not. I’m as free as a bird,” he says blinking his eyes just a bit flirtatiously at Alec.

“Good, we should get dinner, no family, no bullshit, just us,” Alec says tentatively resting his hands on Magnus’ waist.

“I like the sound of that,” Magnus says lifting up to kiss Alec on the cheek softly just once before pulling back.

“I’ll text you with a time and place in the morning,” he says slowly stepping backwards holding Alec’s steady gaze as he goes. He turns just for a moment putting his key’s in the door and pushing it open before turning back. “Goodnight, Alexander.” He says and watches as Alec smiles a dazzling smile before rounding the car and opening the driver’s side door.

“Goodnight, Magnus,” he says before slipping into his car. Magnus watches with a smile as he pulls away from the curb, his bright red ridiculous Thunderbird speeding away. The smile doesn’t leave his face as he makes his way all the way up to his apartment, so much so that he’s pretty sure his cat is judging him all the way to bed.

***

One Year Later

Magnus’ phone buzzes insistently his ringtone blaring on the nightstand.

“Stop that,” he says weakly reaching out an arm to silence it, his hand falling to the nightstand and coming up empty once, twice, three times while it continues to ring. It’s far too loud and far too early on a holiday with no responsibilities for this.

A chuckle comes from above him and warmth reaches over brushing his fingers before gripping the phone and pulling back.

“Magnus Bane’s phone,” Alec answers his voice a little lower and rougher than usual from sleep. It’s a very nice sound. Magnus can’t hear who’s on the other end of the line, but when he flips over he sees Alec smile and perk up a bit leaning back against the headboard.

“Yeah it is Alec, it’s good to know you remember me, Marissa,” he says and Magnus raises an eyebrow he’s only heard from his father’s wife once since last Thanksgiving, an apologetic text on his father’s behalf. His father on the other hand hasn’t so much as sent a sternly worded email in that time.

“Yeah, he’s here, hold on sec,” Alec says, he lowers the phone offering it to Magnus who grumbles a bit lifting himself up and leaning against the headboard next to Alec.

“Hi, Marissa,” he says clearing his throat a bit.

“Magnus!” she shouts into his ear and he jumps back a bit, from the both the volume and from shock hearing that she’s finally dropped her terrible nickname for him. “I was glad to hear Alec answer the phone, I knew you two were a good match, even if it was all a show that night.”

“Ah,” Magnus says. “So father told you.”

“He did, but it doesn’t change that you two are the cutest,” she says. “Which speaking of your father,” she starts and Magnus is ready to shoot down any attempt at reuniting she’s trying to pull here. Marissa is a nice woman, but his father’s silence in the past year has spoken volumes, he’s not playing into a reconciliation he can’t even make the call for.

“I left him,” she says finishing her sentence. Magnus huffs out a little surprised laugh that Alec raises an eyebrow at, well good for her. “About a month ago and I know it’s incredibly short notice and you might have other plans, but I’m having a little Thanksgiving dinner of my own with a few friends this year and I’d love to see you. And Alec too, of course!”

Magnus smiles, they’d had a Friendsgiving slash one year anniversary celebration over the weekend with Raphael, Cat, Dot, Ragnor and Alec’s siblings, tonight’s plans were likely going to consist of Chinese takeout on the couch and making out. And while Marissa can be a lot she was always kind, and he can’t help but recall how supportive she’d been that night a year ago. He can’t find it in himself to turn down her offer because of it.

“We’d love to,” he says and Alec looks at him again in question. Magnus just waves a hand signaling he wait a moment for explanation. On the other end of the line Marissa claps excitedly.

“Yay!” she says. “I’ll text you my address, I’m in the city now so Alec might have to leave Cherry at home.”

Magnus laughs. “Oh, he might bring her anyways.”

He chats idly with Marissa for a few more minutes before disconnecting and promising they’ll be on much better behavior this year for dinner.

“Marissa left my father,” Magnus says as soon as he’s hung up and tossed his phone back on the nightstand. Alec smiles looking just as oddly proud for her as Magnus feels. “And we’re having Thanksgiving with her and some friends tonight.”

“Good for her,” he says flipping back the covers and getting out of bed. “Should I get out the eyeliner and torn up jeans for tonight just for old times’ sake, or no?”

He smirks standing gloriously naked in front of the dresser rustling through one of his drawers. His drawers. Magnus isn’t quite used to the lovely novelty of the fact that Alec lives with him now. It’s been about two months since they made it official and just seeing one of Alec’s crappy romance novels on the coffee table or his shitty leather jacket hanging in its permanent space in their closest still makes him feel all sorts of tingly.

Magnus hums in thought rising up from bed and moving to lean against the dresser beside Alec. He’d pay good money to get Alec to wear eyeliner more often frankly.

“I think you should bring both of those things out as often as you’d like,” he says reaching out a hand and cupping Alec’s cheek turning it towards him. The feel of Alec’s soft, shaven skin is something he also isn’t quite used to. For the first time in their year together he’d shaved off his beard entirely, completely out of the blue and for no other reason than he’d had a day off and was bored. He’s as handsome as ever, but Magnus had quite literally had to do a double take when he came home and saw Alec sitting on the couch.

“Do try and leave the illustrious tales of our sexual escapades at home this time though, darling,” he says with a smile. He’s mostly joking, but now that their sexual escapades are real and not fictionalized he’d like to keep them just between them.  

“Damn, well there goes all my dinner conversation topics,” Alec says with a wicked little smile.

“Menace,” Magnus says as he slides his hand down from Alec’s face to his chest with a shake of his head.

Magnus runs his fingers lightly through the hair on Alec’s chest stopping to rest on the stark black tattoo on his lower abdomen. And boy hadn’t it been a blissful discovery to see that ink when he finally got Alec’s shirt off for the first time. He trails his fingers over the shape of it lightly, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

“If you keep doing that we’ll never leave this room,” Alec says his lips tilting up in a little pleased smirk.

“Doing what?” Magnus says innocently still moving his fingers over the shape of the tattoo lightly.

“And you say I’m the menace,” Alec says leaning in to kiss him on the lips once hard and bruising. “We need to shower.” He says stepping away from Magnus. Magnus’s hand falls and he pouts laying it on a bit thick. Alec pointedly attempts to ignore it.

“Together?” Magnus says with a hopeful smile.

Alec rolls his eyes. “I feel like despite having literal hours to get ready we’ll end up late somehow if we do,” he says eyeing Magnus’ bare form appreciatively. “But there’s no way I can say no to that.”

Magnus smirks pushing himself off the dresser and right up against Alec.

“Damn straight,” he says before leaning in to lay a teasing, promising kiss on his lips.

“There is absolutely nothing straight about this,” Alec says with a toothy smile once he’s pulled back already tugging Magnus into the bathroom for their shower. Magnus laughs loud and bright as he’s dragged along.

***

Impossibly despite literal hours, Alec’s right, showering together does prolong the entire process of getting out of the apartment when showering becomes shower sex, which becomes another round on the bathroom counter which results in needing to shower again, separately this time much to both their dismays.

Eventually though, they’re dressed and ready. Magnus finishes up the last touches on his hair, adjusting the bright almost golden streak at the front of it which compliments the golden chained pattern of his shirt. He picks up the ring Alec fake proposed to him with last year and twists it onto his right-hand ringer finger with a smile. They obviously aren’t actually engaged, but increasingly lately Magnus finds himself thinking about making it real.

He gives himself one last once over in the mirror before stepping out of the bathroom to find Alec sitting cross legged on their bed and Magnus is nearly sent back in time to a year ago.

He’s wearing the jeans and boots just like he had that night, his eyeliner is in place a little less messy but still unpracticed and his hair is its usual tussled self. The shirt is almost the same, this time it’s one Magnus gave him with subtle lines of shiny black at the collar and cuffs, the little black loops in his ears are a gift from Magnus as well.

It’s a perfect combination of that first night when they were a fake couple out to cause mayhem and the couple they are now, a royal we couple that are so deep in love Magnus has to just take a few breaths in sometimes to remember this is all real.

“Ready to go?” Alec asks looking up at Magnus with a smile. Magnus nods as Alec stands throwing on his leather jacket with the hole in it he refuses to fix. Magnus follows suit grabbing his own jacket and following Alec out as he grabs his keys and wallet scratching the heads of both cats curled up on the back of the couch as he goes.

“We could take the subway you know?” Magnus says once they’re in the elevator, Alec twirling the keys to his Thunderbird around his finger.

Alec scrunches up his face adorably. “No way,” he says gesturing for Magnus to step out first when they reach the lobby. “Cherry helping us fight through Thanksgiving traffic is gonna be a lifelong tradition for us.”

Lifelong Magnus likes the sound of that, but he is dubious that Alec’s precious car will last anywhere near that long.

Alec rushes to the car parked proudly and loudly right in front of their building unlocking it and pulling four times on the passenger door before getting it open.

He smiles at Magnus gesturing with an overstated bow for him to get in and Magnus rolls his eyes but can’t seem to hide his smile and Alec knows it. He shuts the door once Magnus is in and in a move reminiscent of their escape from his father’s last year slides over the hood before slipping into his own seat and starting the car driving off to a much better Thanksgiving than the year before.

[shenglingyuan]

title: the second chance we didn't ask for (ao3) pairing: gojo satoru/geto suguru both satoru and suguru are free from the prisons that bound them, but returning to life is another matter entirely.

The Zen’in estate boasts of its wide space and multiple residences, a feature Satoru is able to take advantage of. After being released from the Prison Realm with a death sentence hanging over his head, there really isn’t anywhere he can go. Suguru’s case is worse, of course, this death sentence is his second one. He might have been able to take back control of his body, but it doesn’t erase the crimes he and that ancient sorcerer did while residing inside him.

If it was up to Satoru, he wouldn’t drag Megumi into this any further. The boy — now the undisputed leader of the prominent Zen’in Clan — insisted, owing it to the fact that Satoru kept him and his sister under his care when they had no place to go to.

“Sorry for troubling you, Clan Leader Zen’in.”

“Please, Gojo-sensei, you should be the last person calling me that. Besides, I’m an accomplice anyway.” With the passing of the years came Megumi’s mastery of the Ten Shadows Technique, granting Satoru this freedom. “The last place they’d look for is their own backyard, won’t they?”

“That’s smart. Your teacher must be really great.”

Megumi ignores his lousy attempt at a façade and jabs directly at the issue at hand, “How is he?”

For a moment, Satoru’s shoulders seem to drop, but he immediately straightens up, as if that moment of small weakness was but an illusion.

“I don’t know, but I’m working on it. No worries, he’s no threat with me around.”

“I’m not worried about him.”

Time didn’t pass for Satoru inside the Prison Realm, but the world has moved on without waiting for him. He looks at Megumi without having to lower his gaze, smiles genuinely, and reaches out to ruffle the boy’s hair, “So responsible already. Don’t worry about me, either. I can handle this.”

-

Though the Zen’in estate is big, Satoru and Suguru had to reside in one of its smaller, unused quarters, leaving them with a small space with the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, and the bedroom altogether. At least, the bathroom was a separate structure on its own, albeit it’s not big enough for comfort. Satoru thinks this is still better than none, besides, with this arrangement, he can keep an eye on Suguru all the time.

Suguru isn’t too keen on the fact that he’s being guarded, but it’s not like he can put up a fight either way. That ancient sorcerer’s plan released all the curses he had so far collected and left him with very basic ones. He did try to resist before, almost at the cost of their small quarters, but without his previous arsenal, he isn’t much of a match for Satoru.

“Keeping me here is pointless.”

It was the first conversational sentence Suguru drops several days after they have settled in the Zen’in estate, spoken over a lukewarm cup of black coffee. The television blares unintelligibly on the corner, its volume never loud enough to be heard beyond the walls of their small room.

Satoru looks up from his own cup, just having dropped the fourth cube of sugar in it.

“The world is after my head,” Suguru adds.

“They are after me, too, don’t think you’re so special.”

“You’re a vital member of the Gojo clan… No matter how the higher-ups seem to hate you, if you just bring my head to them, they’ll have to forgive your previous offenses. There’s no use in keeping me here, I’m a criminal.”

“I need no forgiveness. Not from them.”

Suguru ignores the implication. “Just kill me already.”

“Death is not the only path. You’re just being a coward, Suguru.”

“What? Do you want me to spend this second life repenting for all the lives I took? I still don’t care about them, Satoru.”

“Repentance? Both of us…we’re beyond that. You’ve killed people. I’ve brought people to their deaths. There’s already too much blood in our hands.”

“Then should we die together?” Suguru smiles — it is anything but sincere. Satoru has almost forgotten what his real smile looks like.

Satoru drops another cube of sugar. “We will, but not anytime soon.”

-

Satoru sleeps next to Suguru, not because he hopes to form some intimacy through contact, nor to make sure he will not run away in the middle of the night, but because there are times where terrors unseen haunt Suguru’s slumber, Satoru would need to hold him down lest he ends up hurting himself. He used to keep the distance as well, sleeping on the couch, but after one close call, Satoru didn’t want to take another chance.

It was also during these moments where Suguru’s walls are at their lowest, and they could have a semblance of a proper and civil conversation.

“What is it this time?” Satoru asks, almost an involuntary response at this point, his hand already smoothing Suguru’s hair, rubbing circles down his back.

“He’s trying to creep in again.” His voice is hoarse, low, almost inaudible, as if in fear that when he speaks loud enough, the nightmare will turn into reality. “He says…this brain is his…and he can return anytime he wants…”

When Suguru is like this, Satoru can hold him close without being pushed away, and so Satoru does, wrapping Suguru tightly between his arms.

“You’re stronger than him, you took over him. That bastard won’t own you again.”

“If I die, it’ll finally be over.”

“You won’t die. Not on my watch.”

-

With the small space and bare minimum mode of entertainment, Satoru resorts to watching movies with Suguru to pass the time.

Well, to call it ‘watching with’ is too much of a stretch.

“What do you want to watch today?” Satoru asks, as usual.

Suguru doesn’t respond, as usual too, remaining seated on the corner of the bed, always seemingly creating as much physical distance he could between the two of them. Whatever closeness they would have during Suguru’s nightmares dissipates as if it never existed in the first place.

Satoru eventually gives up with a sigh, picking a 2008 horror movie from the selection this time.

“I’m guessing you haven’t seen this yet.”

He loads the disc onto the player, then settles himself on the end of the small couch. It’s some sort of an unspoken invitation, one that Suguru never entertains.

The film plays, the film ends.

It’s a daily cycle.

-

Every now and then, Megumi drops by personally, providing them with their daily necessities. In this situation, his Ten Shadow Techniques are particularly useful for hiding the things he brings them, only pulling it out once he is within the four walls of the small quarters. They can’t be too careless, after all. Whenever Megumi arrives, Satoru takes it upon himself to do the cooking and even sets aside a portion for Megumi himself.

“How is it outside?”

“Curses are still running rampant,” Megumi says, his tone as if still a student reporting to his teacher. Nevertheless, his bearing has become more and more that of a clan leader, “There’s quite a lot, so it will really take some time.”

The responsible person is quietly laying down the bed — whether he is truly asleep or just pretending, Satoru just lets him be. The sizzle of the oil as he pours the ingredients onto the pan fills in the momentary silence.

“And how is being a clan leader?”

“I think I can understand why the late elder Naobito was drinking all the time.”

“Haha, now don’t go picking up his habit. You’ve got a former clan head before you here, just ask for my help if you need it.”

“I feel like Kamo-san would know more about being a clan head than you.”

“Was never one to deal with family politics anyway.”

“Don’t worry about the affairs of the Gojo family. Okkotsu-san is making sure your family won’t lose its place.”

“I knew I could always rely on the new generation.”

“But Gojo-sensei, many of us still do rely on you.”

“A habit that must be changed.” Satoru turns off the stove and transfers the food onto the prepared bowl. “It’s for this very reason the incident at Shibuya became possible.”

His eyes wander to Suguru’s figure then, and he notices how tense the other man’s shoulders are. In fact, they really haven’t talked much about that time. The ancient sorcerer knew of Satoru’s weakness; Satoru wonders if Suguru himself came to realize it.

“No, I mean...,” Megumi seems to want to say something else, but in the end, he just sighs in defeat, “Never mind.”

“Don’t be thinking too much. Here, have this,” Satoru gives him a bowl of the freshly cooked stir fry, “Added some extra ginger especially for you.”

He takes another look at Suguru —— he doesn’t seem to be planning in joining them. In the end, Satoru decides to eat dinner with Megumi. It’s only when Megumi bid his farewell and left the room did Suguru finally move, only catching a glimpse of his retreating figure.

“Your dinner’s ready,” Satoru tells him, “It’s still a bit warm.”

Suguru stays seated on the bed, his eyes still at the door. “Megumi, that kid, he looks oddly familiar.”

“Remember Zen’in Toji?” A frown forms on Suguru’s forehead, his lips pursing rather unhappily. Satoru immediately quips, “Well, Megumi’s his son. Megumi didn’t know anything about his father’s shady business, and they were left without parents, too, so I took him under my care.”

“He seems to be quite dependent on you.”

“Is he? That kid hates asking me for help.”

“When he said many of them still rely on you, he was probably referring to himself. I know that tone.”

“From where? The two kids you had with you?”

Suguru suddenly stops responding. It’s apparent that the topic of the two girls is something he didn’t want to talk about. Though Suguru never told him about what happened, Satoru has been able to connect the dots from the first report of Suguru’s crime to the time he showed up in Jujutsu Tech to declare war.

But still, he wished that Suguru can tell it to him in his own words. There’s so much that happened in the last decade, cleaving an immeasurable distance in the space between them — an emptiness about the people and things and circumstances that shaped them to be the people that they are now.

“It’s funny though,” Satoru tests the waters, trying to fill the gap starting from his own side, “Back then, we said we’d run away together with Amanai if she wanted to. We failed on that part, but—”

“We still ended up babysitting,” Suguru continues for him, the tension on his shoulders replaced by a sudden weight, “I guess Riko-chan got the best deal out of that incident.”

“The girls—”

“I’m not hungry.” Suguru cuts him off immediately, lays back on the bed, and turns around, covering himself with a blanket. He obviously didn’t want to talk about his own share of babysitting, so Satoru lets the conversation go.

For now, Satoru bottles his many questions —

Why did you run away?

Why didn’t you force me to come with you?

Why didn’t you tell me all the things that have bothered you?

Why did you suffer with your thoughts in silence?

If I tried a little harder, would you have come with me?

There are so many things to talk about, many things that can’t be talked about. Patience is one of Satoru’s virtues, and when it comes to Suguru, it becomes the greatest.

-

Many times, he catches Suguru staring at his own reflection in the mirror…no, not at his reflection, but the wound lining his forehead. Satoru isn’t as skilled as Shoko in terms of healing others — the skull is intact, the wound is gone, but the scar remains, a reminder to them both every single day.

“Does it bother you?” he asks.

It takes a while before Suguru replies. “A bit.”

“A full bangs will hide the scars.”

A small smile starts to form on the edges of Suguru’s lips, but it disappears in a flash, replaced by a melancholy look on his face, “Mimiko and Nanako would have loved to see that.”

“Are those…their names?”

“…Yes.”

The girls he saved and raised throughout these years, to whom he exchanged his status as a sorcerer to be a curse user, just so he can provide them a better life. After all that’s happened, their place is still big in his heart. Not a single ash could be recovered in the ruins left by Sukuna, and so Suguru mourns with only the memories the girls have left him, memories his body was able to keep despite death.

Later in bed, Suguru weeps quietly. Satoru holds him. In between them, there is silence.

-

Satoru loads a 2009 suspense thriller this time, one that he himself hasn’t had the chance to watch yet for some reason. With a bowl of popcorn in tow, he settles himself at the end of the couch.

The film starts.

Just as the title appears, he feels the couch shift.

Satoru holds his breath, turns to look —— Suguru sits next to him, his legs already crossed comfortably.

“Mind if I watch with you?” he asks.

Satoru smiles, offering him the bowl, “Not at all.”

The film plays. The film ends.

And by the time it does, Suguru’s head is already resting Satoru’s shoulder, and Satoru’s head on Suguru’s. The positions are so familiar even though it has been over ten years since they were last together like this. The credits roll and neither of them moves.

“It sucked.” Suguru is the first one to speak.

“Sure did,” Satoru lets out a laugh, “Want to watch another one?”

“Let me pick this time.”

“Your call.”

-

“Satoru.”

Suguru calls out his name in the dark, certain that he is still awake. Satoru turns. In the dim light, he finds Suguru staring up at the ceiling, seemingly lost in thought. His nightmares have been recurring less and less, and at times they can go a whole night with a peaceful rest.

“Can’t sleep again?”

“No, I wanted to ask you something —— Why didn’t you chase after me?”

Memories of Shinjuku are still vivid in Satoru’s mind, especially the view of Suguru’s back getting further and further away from him, his own outstretched fingers curling into a fist. Looking back at all his years, it’s the only time he has ever felt so helpless. Shibuya can’t even compare.

“You didn’t seem to be the type to be swayed if I held you back.”

“And after that? You’re a jujutsu sorcerer. You have the responsibility to clean up curse users like me. Why didn’t you chase after me?”

“I didn’t want to be the one who kills you.”

Suguru turns to face him then, his expression solemn, “Yet you did.”

Satoru can’t help but reach out, running a hand over Suguru’s left arm. If there’s one thing he’d give that ancient sorcerer credit for, he fixed up Suguru quite well. “It was beyond me already. You declared war. I was under orders.”

Suguru doesn’t shy away from the touch, but neither does he reciprocate. “And what about now?”

“You and I are both fugitives. No need to follow some stupid higher-ups.”

“Freedom?”

“As free as we can be in this small quarters, yes.”

Ironic as it is, what Satoru just said was true. Step out and their tails will be chased by jujutsu sorcerers, stay in and they can maintain this pretense of liberty. In any case, it can’t be worse than staying inside the Prison Realm or being controlled by some ancient being.

“Back in Shibuya, many people died.”

“Trying to make me feel guilty?”

“Not at all. I just wanted to ask what you think of it now.”

Satoru ponders for a while, then with a sigh he says, “Can’t be helped. It’s regrettable, but it’s not like I’m a god. That brain knew me too well —— Do you still hate them? Non-sorcerers?”

“I don’t know. It used to be my fuel, but I’ve spent it all. Now I’m just…drifting.”

“Drifting isn’t bad. We can drift together over this sea of blood beneath us.”

A small laugh escapes Suguru’s lips. “Satoru, you really are so foolish. Because of me, you got sealed. Because of me, there’s a death penalty over your head. Why do you even still stay with me?”

What value does one Geto Suguru hold that the great Gojo Satoru can turn his back on the world just to be by this person’s side? Shouldn’t have it been obvious by now? Satoru can’t put all his heart’s contents into words, and so he reaches for Suguru’s hand instead and places a soft kiss on his palm.

“I’ve let you go twice,” he whispers, his breath warming Suguru’s cold hands, “and they both turned out to be very bad decisions.” Satoru looks up, meeting Suguru’s astonished gaze in the dim light, “I’m not letting you go again.”

-

Despite the chaos unleashed in the world, humanity still observed festivities, especially something like Setsubun as it concerns the cleansing of evil spirits. It also happens to be Suguru’s birthday. Upon Satoru’s request, Megumi drops by their small quarters and brings them food apt for the occasion. Satoru takes it from him with much gratitude and prepares the table, inviting him to eat with them.

It is a bit awkward, after all, Suguru has never really interacted with this young Zen’in clan head. His uncanny resemblance with Fushiguro Toji also rails up his fight-or-flight tendency, as if his body remembers the person who quite turned his world upside down.

“What?” Megumi suddenly asks him, the boy’s own shoulders tense, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Nothing,” Suguru offers a weak smile, “I was just reminiscing — I fought your father once.”

Megumi visibly relaxes, very much unlike when he asked the same question to Satoru over a decade ago. “Apparently, I did, too.”

“Apparently?”

“I didn’t know he was my father at that time. I just came to know recently.”

“He’s crazy strong.”

“That he was.”

“Satoru looked after you?”

“He occasionally dropped by, but he’s no more a parent than my negligent father.”

“Hey—,” Satoru tries to butt in the conversation and save his reputation—

“No wonder. I thought you’re too good of a person to have been brought up by this nuisance.”

It’s useless.

“I heard that.”

“I was only speaking the truth —— Fushiguro Megumi, isn’t it? I apologize for imposing on you,” Suguru’s tone shifts, his fingers wrung together on top of his knees, “I don’t have anything to offer in return, I even had your sister caught up in all this mess. I can only thank you for letting me stay here unnoticed.”

“I’m no saint, I also have my personal biases. And I didn’t do this for you. Since Gojo-sensei asked for it, it’s nothing I can’t do. Besides, my sister’s issue has already been resolved, no need to hold onto things that are past. Just…whatever your issue is, please deal with it yourselves.”

Just in time, Satoru finishes laying down the food on the table, a small cake with a single candle lit on top taking the center spot. His eyes meet Suguru’s, his lips curving up in a soft smile. “Don’t worry, we’re already working on it.”

-

“We can be like…I don’t know…rogue jujutsu sorcerers or something. There are too many curses running about, I’m sure they won’t notice us if we do clean up some. We'll be doing them a great favor, too, you know?”

In the end, the two of them decided they can’t stay in the Zen’in estate forever. Sprawled on the bed, they’ve been discussing how to move forward with limited resources and a death penalty over their heads.

“You’re too noticeable for us to keep lowkey.”

Satoru suddenly stops, not failing to hear Suguru’s use of the word “us”. A sudden warmth blossomed in his chest, like the first ray of sunshine after a long, arduous, winter. It’s the onset of spring within his reach.

“Maybe if we eliminate all the released curses, they’d provide us both amnesties.”

“I released them, remember? The moment anyone from the jujutsu society sees me, I’m as good as dead.”

“I won’t allow that, of course.”

“No need to be so gallant. We can just run away after.”

“Where to?”

Suguru doesn’t even miss a beat when he replies, “Anywhere.”

-

“Gojo-sensei, are you sure about this?”

Under the cover of the night, three silhouettes huddle in an obscure corner of the Zen’in estate.

“We don’t want to overstay our welcome either,” Satoru smiles.

“You won’t,” Megumi assures him, “You’ve taken care of me for nine years, after all.”

“Then I’ll come back to settle the rest of your debt when things calm down, okay?” Satoru reaches out to pat Megumi’s hair one last time, “For now, we’ll have to deal with our lives on our own.”

“Please don’t die,” Megumi says with a stern look. “And please don’t get yourself sealed again.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?”

With a final farewell, Megumi retreats back into the Zen’in estate.

It’s only until his figure disappears that Satoru finally turns around and faces Suguru. He stretches out an arm, reaching for him. The weak moonlight brings an almost glittery sheen over his hair, reflecting the galaxy on his eyes. The sight is so beautiful it’s almost breathtaking — they haven’t been out for a while, and now, in just a few steps, it will be the road to freedom.

Together.

“Let’s go?”

Suguru takes his hand.

[piracytheorist]

A Kiss for Good Luck (6/15)

Summary: So this is the story of one born lucky, and one born unlucky. Fate will keep making them cross paths, but is it to bring them together, or to test them? Captain Swan AU.

A/N: This is one of my favourite chapters that I’ve written for this fic. Hence why it’s the longest so far, and the second longest overall.

Rating: T (make sure you’re okay with the warnings on AO3)

Word count for this chapter: 5.4k (48k in total) AO3

Read from the beginning: Tumblr | AO3

~

Chapter 6: Killian Jones, October 31st 2000 – October 19th 2011

The girl pulls back when someone whistles at them.

“Nice catch, Captain,” Cruella tells him.

Killian just shakes his head. She's not drunk enough yet. He turns to the girl. “Ignore her. She's just pissed that there's too many adults around.” He throws a glare at Cruella, hoping she'll get the message. Luckily, she does and walks away without any further comments.

Looking back at the zombie princess in his arms, he's only now noticing how detailed her costume is; he was too stuck looking at her eyes before.

The girl opens her mouth to say something, but her gaze suddenly focuses on something behind him and her face falls. She tells him she'll be right back, but she never comes back.

Apparently, she and her mother were renting the villa across the street, and it has caught on fire.

Cruella grabs him and takes him to the car before any fire trucks or police officers arrive and find them and their very stolen car. They leave the car where they first found it and sneak back inside Silver's house without getting detected at all.

However, it's not their sneakiness that Killian considers the first luck he's had in years. It's the sudden visit from a social worker the next morning, the very first he's seen in his whole time in Silver's house – and he would swear that even in the short periods of time he wasn't there, no social worker ever made an unexpected visit. It shows.

They're all taken away, and for the first time Killian truly feels relieved to leave that house. It's only one year until he ages out of the system, and wherever he spends that year will be better than that place.

His next foster home is in Brighton; it's the first time he's moved that far away from London, but he's too disillusioned to hope it will be any different.

Yet it feels so, from the first moment; the guy is outside, waiting for them despite the chilly weather. It's the first time Killian has felt that a foster parent has been waiting for him. There's another teenager with him, and Killian can see a girl peeking at them through a window.

When the social worker takes Killian to them, the man offers his hand.

"Welcome, lad,” he says. “My name is Nemo."

Killian swallows hard, looking at the man's hand. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea was his mama's favourite book. She'd tried reading it to him some times, but all he can remember now is the protagonist's name, Nemo, and his submarine the Nautilus.

"Of all fucking names," he whispers and walks past him into the house. He can hear the social worker blabber some excuse in his favour to Nemo, but he couldn't care less.

He goes upstairs, throws an angry glare at the girl from before who's now peeking from a door, and he gets inside the first open door he finds. Sure enough, it's a bedroom. The blue on the walls, curtains and bed sheets are a nice touch. He throws the plastic bag with his few clothes and possessions on the floor and he flops on the bed.

Oh. It's soft, and the sheets smell nice and fresh. At least his sleep will be a bit easier here.

He feels a knot in his throat when he considers that that guy, Nemo, apparently made sure to provide a warm welcome for him.

He grunts when he hears a knock on the door.

"May I come in?" Nemo says.

"Whatever," Killian says and sits up on the bed, bringing his knees closer. As Nemo comes inside, Killian kicks his shoes off. Maybe he can help keep the sheets smelling nice as long as he can.

"I see you've made yourself at home already."

Killian sighs, ready to mock him for his patronizing words, but Nemo says,

"I hope you like blue. I've got sheets and curtains in a few more colours, if you want to pick something else."

Killian looks up at him. When was the last time that someone cared what colours he liked?

"May I ask what's wrong with my name?" Nemo says, sounding a bit amused.

"Nothing."

After a short pause, Nemo asks, "You've read Jules Verne's book?"

Damn it.

Killian stays silent, dropping his eyes.

"Okay," Nemo says and takes the chair from the desk, swinging it to face the bed and sitting down. "Killian, right?"

He just scoffs.

"Come on, lad. I saw your papers. It doesn't mean I know a thing about you."

"Really? Didn't you see the time I was taken in for alcohol possession?"

"I saw it. What should that say about you?"

Nemo is talking so casually that Killian can't help looking up again. Nemo's expression is soft.

"What did you want me to figure from that information?" Nemo says.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm getting to know you. I'm trying, at least."

Killian's chest feels heavy. No other foster parent ever tried to do that with him. They just let him in, put out a plate of food for him, and shouted at him whenever he was restless. They never tried to start a conversation with him.

And Nemo's effort is overwhelming him.

"Okay," Nemo says calmly, standing up. "I'll set up the table, but you can eat whenever you feel like it. There's warm water for a shower, and, if you do want to talk at some point, I'll be here." He then leaves, closing the door behind him.

Killian brings his knees closer to his chest and starts sobbing softly. Nemo is... he's nice. And he's trying. And Killian is a fucking mess and he'll ruin it, and Nemo will send him back...

He pulls himself together, wipes his tears and opens the door quietly. He can hear three voices from downstairs; Nemo's, and he guesses, the other two belong to the boy in the porch and the girl who was watching him. He walks down the stairs, careful to not make any noise, and sits on the floor right next to the opening to the kitchen.

He doesn't remember the last time he sat with someone for dinner. At least, sitting down and chat and feeling comfortable. Both children sound very comfortable with Nemo. The girl, in fact, while she seemed shy at first glance, is the most talkative of the three.

Killian's heart drops when he realizes he probably scared her. How would she react if he joined them at the table? Can he join them?

He stands up and goes back to his room. He's gonna ruin it anyway, what's the point of building anything there?

He only comes out the next morning, assuming he'll be told to go to school.

Nemo is in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. "Oh,” he tells Killian as soon as he sees him. “Good morning. Are you hungry?"

He's starving. He just shrugs.

"The eggs will be ready soon. I didn't expect you to wake up that early. You can have anything that's on the table."

There's quite a lot on the table. Jam and bread, honey, cake, tea, a small cheese assortment, even bacon.

Killian just sits down and starts nibbling on some bread, watching Nemo. He's making scrambled eggs, and Killian's mouth waters at how good it smells. He looks down, trying to hide his teary eyes.

It's just food that smells nice. Why is he reacting like this?

"Did you sleep well?" Nemo asks.

"I guess," Killian mutters.

"If you need anything for school, notebooks, pens, let me know and I'll get you some. When you come back you can let me know if you're missing any books."

"Okay."

"Hey." He turns around, facing him. Killian doesn't dare look at his undeniably soft expression. "I mean it."

"I know."

Nemo doesn't say anything else. He finishes the eggs, then the other two kids join them and introduce themselves to him as Will and Tink. Tink seems a bit wary of Killian, but the two kids talk with Nemo as Killian sits with them, even though he's finished eating. He can't find it in him to isolate himself again. He will ruin this, but perhaps he can let himself feel some warmth before he loses all of it.

The first day of school goes surprisingly well. From the first recess even, a boy in his class approaches him.

"Hey, you live with Will, right? Will Scarlet, from eleventh grade? I'm Robin, he told me there would be a new kid at his house."

Killian feels like he's in preschool, as if students will be approaching him and asking him to be friends. But Robin and Will are fun, his professors are nice and he even finds himself paying attention to some of the classes.

He's not used to any of it. When school is over and he follows Will and Tink home, he fears he'll wake up in Silver's house and realize it was all a dream. Just next to the fence gate of Nemo's place, he finds a ten pound note on the ground and he wants to scream.

Someone is clearly toying with him.

He walks in briskly, ignoring Will telling him that there's lunch ready and he locks himself in his room.

He doesn't know what to do, what to feel; it's all too good to be true. Can he really trust it will stay that way? He's lost everyone he loved. If he tries to see Nemo as anything more, if he sees Will as a friend...

It's gone dark by the time Nemo knocks on his door.

"Killian? Will told me that you haven't eaten. Are you feeling alright?"

Good, now he's worried about him.

"You don't have to tell me anything. I just want to know if you're okay."

Killian feels his eyes fill with tears again.

"I may not look like it, but I can break this door. I don't want to invade your space, but if something happened to you-"

Killian runs to the door and opens it wide. Nemo's face falls; there's no doubt he sees Killian's reddened eyes.

"Oh, my boy," he says.

Killian bursts out in sobs and wraps his arms around Nemo. He doesn't care if it's a dream, or if he'll fuck it up eventually. He will take what he can, what he needs, for now.

Nemo is calm, he holds Killian and doesn't ask for an explanation.

"If you ever want to talk to me, I'm here. But I'm not pressuring you. Only if you want," is all he says.

"You can't," Killian says between sobs. "I'm cursed."

"There's no such thing."

"No, I am. My family... they all died. My father- left me. If you care for me you'll- you'll die too."

"I don't believe that. You shouldn't believe that either. You were just unlucky."

It's all too easy, to blame it on bad luck. To think it's just gone away and he can sit back and relax and things will be good for him now.

And he's not used to easy.

"Do you want me to bring you some food? You'll feel better."

He shakes his head, keeping Nemo close. When was the last time he was held like this? He's forgotten how good it feels. And he's not ready to let go, to hope that things will stay like this.

It takes three months. Nemo is patient, and Killian's urge to sneak out fades away. Will and Robin are good company, and he starts focusing on homework again. Tink starts trusting him, and Nemo's place slowly feels like a home. For the first time, there's a wall where he can hang his drawings on, a frame to put his family photo in and a surface to place it on. While he was staying at Silver's place, the only reason he wasn't dropping out of school was his fear of the reaction Silver would certainly have. Now he genuinely believes he can graduate – even if he'll have to repeat his last year.

Nemo believes in him too. Killian is still waiting for the other shoe to drop, but as time passes he starts thinking that maybe the proverbial neighbor is one-legged.

It's what helps Killian agree to Nemo's suggestion that he start talking to a therapist. If he's looking for a bright future, he wants to be emotionally stable enough to really live it.

One month before his finals, Killian feels more stressed than he'd anticipated. Five months ago he wouldn't have cared if he'd failed completely. Now he wants to succeed, if anything, to make Nemo proud. He didn't expect that. But he's known better than to hope that high, and on the first day he tries to study, all he thinks is how he's going to flunk and ruin the second chance he was granted.

That same evening, Nemo knocks on his door, which he's been leaving open more and more often.

“Can I talk to you for a bit?” he says.

Nemo sounds happy. Probably completely oblivious to how all his efforts with Killian were in vain. Not that it will matter much, will it? Killian is just a visitor- no, more like a parasite. At least, in a few months he'll be able to work and have his own income, so he can have a job and rent his own place as he retakes his last year.

But he's constructed an exterior neutral enough to not allow Nemo any inkling of his worries. The man's tried hard enough, there's no reason for him to carry Killian's burden too.

But Nemo also looks a bit nervous. “Look,” he says. “You may say it's a bit too fast; Will and Tink have been living here longer, not that I think of them any higher or lower than I think of you. And, maybe not the best timing, what with your finals coming up and all.”

Killian's heart sinks to his stomach; Nemo has already predicted the outcome and he's sending him away. He feels his exterior start to crumble, so he lowers his eyes. Nemo will give him the ceremonious speech, then Killian will start packing his stuff.

At least, Nemo was kind enough to buy him a decent rucksack to replace the garbage bag Killian had for keeping his stuff in, and a frame for his family photo, and Silver wouldn't be eligible for fostering yet. Few places could be worse than that one, and Killian only has a few months before aging out. He'd have to face-

“Killian, are you alright?”

He realizes tears are running down his cheeks. Oh, no.

“It's nothing.” He quickly wipes the tears away.

“Son, I'm adopting you.”

Killian freezes. He looks up to see Nemo smile.

“I don't know what you thought this would be, but I'm really doing it. I'll be adopting Will and Tink soon, but I don't want to risk it being too late for you. I already see you as family, and I want to make it official. Papers don't mean much to me, but they are a way to provide for you later on.”

Tears are flowing freely now.

“But I have to ask you, do you want me to adopt you? You can say no-”

“Yes,” Killian says in such a low voice he's not sure if Nemo heard it. He doesn't dare say it again, because he feels a shout bubbling up in his throat, and it's very likely that if he shouts that loud, he'll be shaken awake, back in Silver's cursed place.

But how lucky is he, that while still staying with Silver, he's had such a wonderful dream? What happy thoughts that he never had in that place could have created such a grand illusion of happiness?

“It's okay, my boy.” Nemo's voice is steady. He's smiling, but there's a note of sadness on his face. “I've already done most of the procedure; I just wanted to know if you wanted me before I completed it. But it's okay.”

“What is?” Killian manages to keep his voice a whisper.

“I know it's a lot to process. I also know you're happy, but it's okay if you can't show it now.”

Is that what this is? The therapist did mention something about Killian's emotional responses, and how especially his stay with Silver has... blocked them? He can't remember, it's too much right now.

“It's alright. Do you want to be alone?”

Killian's response is just a small nod.

Nemo nods back. “Don't feel pressured. I don't expect you to say anything at all. I just want you to feel at home. For real.”

As if Nemo can predict Killian's exact reaction, he walks out and closes the door just as Killian bursts into sobs. He grabs his pillow and buries his face in it, trying to muffle the sound.

Five months – and a half; that's all he had before aging out. And it's there, just a bit before that grim finishing line, that Nemo came and took him in as a son.

A son.

He has a father. He'll probably never call him that, though. Nemo deserves something more than the word Killian used for the man who left him and his brother. Nemo is more than that.

He is everything. And that's exactly what Nemo deserves. More than a... a son who can't express himself properly, even if Nemo is apparently willing to deal with that.

He looks at the book he's been trying to focus on for the past hour. There's no chance he'll manage to focus now, after such a bomb.

But, maybe, the best late reaction he can have is to put his life in order. Not just for Nemo's sake, but for his own most of all.

His finals are extremely easy; he misses a ton of information, but every single test asks the exact things he did manage to learn that past year.

Six months ago he wasn't expecting to graduate; what he expected even less was to have someone be proud of him for that.

And not just Nemo; Will and Tink too are happy for him.

To celebrate, Nemo rents a boat from a friend and they all spend two weeks in the summer sailing across the south coast.

Killian is entranced by captain John Shakespeare, Nemo's friend and the boat's owner. One day, he asks him to teach him how to steer the boat.

"I think I'm in love," he tells Nemo when Shakespeare leaves him on the helm to go adjust a sail. "Can you ask Shakespeare something?"

Nemo seems to freeze, his mouth falling open. "What do you mean?"

"The boat! I want my own boat! Or... work in one! I don't know! Anything!"

He smiles wide at him, and Nemo's confused expression turns into a mirror of Killian's. "Actually..." Nemo says, "he might have mentioned he's looking for some help."

Killian has the best summer in six years – since the summer he went in Boston, that is. Maybe it is, finally, the time to embrace it. He gets a sailing license before even starting to – officially – learn how to drive a car.

He loves his job, and Shakespeare is a great boss; after just one year of Killian working with him, he jokes that he wouldn't mind leaving Killian in his place when he retires.

Killian is happy; he has a family, a job he loves, and finally, hope. For better things to come.

Killian has been thinking of Nemo as a father, even though he never used the word to him. Just two years after being adopted by him, Killian gets a second father; Nemo marries Shakespeare, his boss, of all people. But it doesn't feel weird. They're all as happy as ever.

He takes himself out; Will moves to London to study, but Killian and Robin stay friends and when Will visits, they all go out together.

He has a few flings; they're all short-lived but ending smoothly, and he slowly gets used to attracting people's attention – of the good kind. He had more pressuring issues during his teenage years than worrying about his appearance, so he's now coming to the conclusion that he's grown into a quite handsome look.

It's a rare occasion, but still common enough for him to wonder whether there's a pattern, that his eyes stay stuck to his drink instead of looking around, as he remembers that girl dressed as a zombie princess. God, he was a goner with her. He's too old now for the butterflies and carefree crushes of adolescence, but still, through his dates and flings, he has never felt the same.

Would it have been any different, if he had gotten that girl's name?

He's twenty-four when things start to change. A woman with black curly hair and a presence that makes his knees feel weak comes on a Sunday and rents a boat for a day-long trip along the coast. His knees feel even weaker, but with a different purpose now, when he spots the wedding band on her finger.

He allows himself some fantasies; it's hard for his mind to not wander at the sight of her on the bow of the ship, her hair flowing behind her. She looks like a bird who has finally been let out of a cage, free to roam the world.

The sea has meant freedom to him for a long time now, and he can't help feeling it means the same to her.

Her name is Milah, and that night he dreams of her.

He actually has to restrain himself from looking at the few information she gave to Shakespeare before hiring the boat; he's better than this. She's married, she has her life, and he owes to respect her privacy.

He's successfully accepted that he'll never see her again, when the next Sunday she's renting his boat again. And the next. And the next.

He's now twenty-five and for the first time he decides to push his luck. He's known Milah for nearly a year, and on her part, she always initiated a discussion; the more she talked, the more he got to know about her, the more he fell in love with her. And she didn't miss one single Sunday cruise.

On their last cruise they got tipsy together and she confessed that if it were only for her deadbeat husband and not the son they have together, she'd ask Killian to take her away and never bring her back. With a quick glance, he noticed that she'd taken her wedding band off.

The very next time she buys a cruise, right before they prepare to head for the port, he kisses her. She doesn't even seem surprised; neither is he when she leads him to the cabin below deck, then starts undressing both herself and him.

Three months into their secret relationship, her husband, Gold, finds out. It's a few very difficult trials for their divorce, and Nemo and Shakespeare are disappointed in Killian.

"A married woman," Shakespeare says pointedly.

"I love her." Killian retorts. "You should know that the law means nothing."

"You want to compare?” Nemo says. It's the first time Killian has seen him upset. “Do you realize how much we had to hide? And why? I couldn't be married to the man I loved and keep you. I couldn't even tell you anything! And so we waited. It hurt, but we waited. Because otherwise, lives could be ruined."

"Nothing was ruined. Her husband was an ass to her already."

"But he'll get full custody of the child, and the child will hate you," Shakespeare says. "That's what both of us were thinking. The children. You."

He's too proud to let their words shake him; and what's done is done, anyway. Milah gets only one day a week of seeing her son, and her husband makes it clear that he doesn't want Killian anywhere near the boy.

Before the divorce, it was Sundays he had with her. Now it's Sundays he doesn't, but he's happy she gets some time with her son. And for the kid, too; he knows all too well what it feels like to have one parent leave.

He is happy, but it's costing Milah a lot.

"I wish you two could meet," she says one Sunday night as they hold each other in bed. "You're the two most important people in my life, and it really sucks to only have to be with one of you at a time."

"Maybe it will get better. Maybe Gold will change his mind." He pauses. "Or maybe he can go fuck himself and I'll be with you next Sunday anyway."

Her lips twitch. "It's not just him. Jack, he... he's..."

Killian's heart falls. "He doesn't want to see me."

She looks at him, but before she can say anything to comfort him, he says,

"It's alright. I'm not the best role model anyway."

"Don't say that. He's just too young. I wish I could make him understand that me and his father would have broken up anyway."

"Maybe it's better how it is now."

"What? Why?"

"He's got an outsider to blame. Not his own family." He squeezes her hand. "Few things are worse for the psyche than thinking a monster of a parent."

"You think he doesn't think that of me already? His cheating mother?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I hope he thinks of me as the one who seduced you away."

Milah had a relatively normal childhood, so it's not easy for her to get that sentiment. In truth, Killian wants few things more than getting to know her kid, the most important person in her life. To make the situation clear and rid him of the burden of having to spend his childhood blaming and hating someone. But it's all too complicated, and Jack is still young.

"There's no need to rush into it. There's time," he says. A smile creeps up his lips at the thought that they will stay together at least until Jack is old enough to understand.

The smile spreading on her lips tells him she thinks the same.

Milah never hides how happy she is to be with him, despite what getting with him cost her in the first place.

Nemo does a good job trying not to judge Milah, but Shakespeare isn't as willing.

"What are we comparing here? Being discriminated against for daring to love a person of the same gender with having poor communication skills and not breaking out of a bad marriage you were privileged enough to have without any bumps along the way?"

"John," Nemo says.

"I know, I know, I'm judging without knowing. You're very lucky Milah's ex was kind enough to let her spend Christmas with them. I wouldn't be shutting up if she were here either."

Lucky. Of course he is.

Shakespeare doesn't argue with Nemo suggesting he should spend New Year's Eve with his brother and his family, so Killian has the chance to bring Milah to meet Nemo.

Despite the work Killian has done on himself and his self-image, there are still times he thinks he doesn't deserve Nemo.

When the year changes, Killian feels indebted to him for sacrificing his New Year's kiss with Shakespeare so that Killian and Milah can have their first one together.

But still, lucky overall.

Nearly three years have gone by since Milah's divorce – since they found each other – and still her ex has only changed how often Milah can see her son, not the conditions under which she can.

"You know, I've been thinking," Killian says, "Gold won't like me no matter what, and I don't care. But what do you think Jack will think if I take his mother somewhere amazing, and bring him some really cool gifts back?"

"Buying my son's love? How progressive," she teases him.

"They would be some super amazing gifts if they could buy someone's love," he says in mock deep thinking. "I was only thinking about him seeing that I give a damn."

"What are you planning?"

"I've... set aside some money for a trip. A nice trip. I have some great memories from a trip to the States, but not the best after that. And I was hoping, and, my therapist told me it's not a bad idea, that a second trip there may, you know..."

"The United States?" She smiles. "Where?"

"Wherever you want. Probably not something overly expensive-"

"New York City." Her smile grows wider.

"It does happen to have cheaper plane tickets than, say, the west coast-"

"Yes," she says with a finality as if she's the one leading the trip.

Perhaps she is, Killian thinks with a smile. He would let her lead him anywhere.

Killian convinces Milah to break the rules, just once; it's not that hard when she herself wishes she can have Killian and Jack meet.

Jack is still reserved with Killian, but he's open about wanting an iPhone, a baseball with the New York Yankees logo, and a figurine of the Statue of Liberty. Killian promises him he'll do his best to find them.

"No phone, Killian. He's only eleven," Milah tells him later, when they're alone.

"I 'will' do my best. But customs is a good excuse to not buy it, and it's not like he cannot pester you about buying him one from here," he says, smiling.

The time for their trip comes, and as they settle into their tight seats right in the middle of a four-set seat, Killian recognizes a flight attendant as an old classmate, and as his luck would have it, she recognizes him as well.

After the boarding is completed but before lift-off, the flight attendant comes and carefully lets them know that there are two side-by-side seats on first class whose holders didn't get aboard, and if they get them now they can keep them for the rest of the flight.

"Wow," Milah says as she stares out her window now, holding Killian's hand tight in excitement. "My first trip abroad and immediately getting a free update. Though it's our first together," she smiles at him, "and I wouldn't mind staying cooped up in the other seats with you. But it is fucking awesome."

His idea proves to be excellent. He knows that, no matter what happens, he will never forget how happy she was to explore the city, to see the view from the Top of the Rock, to watch the sun set while sailing over the Hudson River on Clipper City... okay, not that that wasn't big for him too.

They decide to top off their trip by going out clubbing on their last night. It's a bit hectic, but the drinks are great, and the music is good, and the mood brings them into further dancing, and drinking, on Killian's part.

"Don't worry, baby," Milah says, a bit tipsy herself, "I'll take care of you even if I have to carry your sorry ass to the hotel."

He ends up so drunk he can't even stay standing up while waiting for his turn in the single bathroom. The queue disperses soon after a woman comes to sit next to him, apparently as drunk as he is. It's his turn, but he hates to leave her waiting. He gestures with his hand towards the bathroom door.

"Go ahead."

"No, it's okay," she says, her words slurred together. "I can wait."

"Go, please. I'm not one to leave a lady waiting."

"Oh, how a gentleman... what gentleman..."

He shakes his head a little. What has she had? Not much worse than what he's had, he manages to think as his brain seems to slosh inside his skull from just that last movement.

"Can I kiss you?" she says, finally.

What the hell. It's just a kiss, right? He shrugs.

He sees her come forward, then her lips touch his and start pulling them apart.

~

(A/N: Since Milah's son and the man who betrayed Emma had to be two separate people, I called Milah's son Jack; in the show, the original casting call for Neal's character called him “Jack”, so my choice is an allusion to that.

Also, I am shamelessly borrowing the idea of pairing Nemo with Captain Shakespeare from the movie Stardust, as inspired by some very creative people on tumblr, though I cannot remember which of those lovely people first created the idea. His first name here is borrowed and anglicized from the character Captain Johannes Alberic, the character from the book Stardust that Shakespeare in the film was recreated from.)

[activechataclysme]

TITLE: clean.

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug Ship: The Love Square - Little bit Adrinette, Little bit Marichat Rating: T [ AO3 ]

Summary: Marinette decides that letting go of her feelings for Adrien is what is best for her, and she is resolute on that.

PART - I

It was months and months of back and forth

You're still all over me

Like a wine-stained dress I can't wear anymore

Hung my head as I lost the war

And the sky turned black like a perfect storm

In the silence of her room, Marinette stared at the black umbrella - usually in the warm, loving corner of her closet -  on her chaise. More than anything, all she was feeling was a bone-deep exhaustion.

“Marinette?” Alya called sleepily, sitting up in her loft bed and reaching for her glasses. “What’re you doing up?”

“I need to get over him.”

“What?”

“I don’t like what it does to me,” said Marinette, voice small. “The nerves, the fear. Being so… On edge and scared.”

Alya quietly slipped off the covers and climbed down the ladder to stand next to Marinette, brows furrowed in concern as her eyes landed on the umbrella.

“Where’s this coming from, M?”

“Everything , Al!” burst out Marinette, tears stinging her eyes. “I-It’s starting to feel like that’s all I am. I don’t like how that’s become my identity .”

Alya linked her hand around Marinette’s and tugged her gently towards the chaise. Carefully setting the umbrella on the floor, she sat Marinette down on it before kneeling down in front of her.

“Girl, what happened?”

“I- I find myself making bad decisions ,” she sniffled, eyes filling up with tears.

She kept making the wrong choices. Losing Master Fu was her fault. Getting Ryuuko instead of Queen Bee even though that would’ve been a better choice and so it was her fault that Miracle Queen happened.

And she kept hurting people. Luka, Kagami, Chat Noir . They didn’t deserve that.

“I don’t like who I’ve become, Al. I- I never cared about boys this much, it’s not… I don’t… And he doesn’t even notice . He doesn’t see me, and I’m just… Done ,” she sighed. “And I know it’s not his fault, but he brings out the worst in me. No, that’s not fair. My feelings for him bring out the worst in me, and I don’t like that. I hate how it makes me feel about myself.”

“Oh, Marinette, it’s really not that bad,” cooed Alya. “You’re a girl in love and-”

“It’s not that bad, really Alya?” asked Marinette, sniffling. “The fact that people I grew up with thought I could… Be so jealous over a guy and sabotage someone? That isn’t bad? I must have done something to make them believe I am capable of that! The worst part is I did do that, didn’t I? It was easy to believe after that thing with Chloe and-”

Alya winced guiltily. “M, I didn’t-”

“I don’t mean you, I just…” Marinette softened immediately. “As I said, my feelings for him are not doing me any good at all. I am starting to think that it’s letting people think the worst of me.” She finished in a small voice. “I just don’t want to be like that. It’s not the kind of love he deserves. Nor the kind I want to give, either.”

“I just want there to be more to what I do than a boy ,” she grimaced.

Alya giggled a little. “No boys in this house.”

“Shut up, Al,” snorted Marinette. “You have a boyfriend.”

“That I do, that I do,” hummed Alya.

“I’m going to tell Nino that you forgot about him,” said Marinette solemnly.

“Oh noooo,” Alya said dramatically. “That would break the poor boy’s heart.”

“I love you, Al,” sighed Marinette, a fit of laughter later, as she rested her head against her shoulder.

“I love you too, girl,” smiled Alya. “But seriously, whatever you need, alright?”

Marinette considered for a moment. “No more schemes. No more missions or operations or anything .”

“Aw,” pouted Alya. “I loved planning those.”

“And no more trying to leave us alone.”

“Okay, I promise.”

“Actually, I’m going to need you to make sure it doesn’t happen ever .”

“ Ever ?” asked Alya incredulously. “Girl, you’re still going to be friends with him, right?”

“Well, okay maybe till I’m… You know, okay.”

“Okay, fair,” Alya conceded.

“And... “ Marinette inhaled deeply. “Don’t give me any updates on… his dating, and whatever.’

“Okay, Marinette,” sighed Alya. “Whatever you need.”

“I just need to be able to get over him.”

It felt like the end of something big, which was silly. But maybe also not, because maybe Marinette shouldn’t have let it get that big. She had responsibilities that were greater than this schoolgirl fancies; schoolgirl fancies that had not done her any good in the first place.  

Marinette thought it ironic that the sky had blackened to foreshadow a storm. She suspected it’d last a few days at least.

“Hey, Adrien.”

“Marinette! Hey!” he beamed. If it made her ache a little, she pretended it didn’t because it shouldn’t anymore. “Want me to drop you off?”

Her eyes widened just a bit, but she shook her head gently, a warm smile on her face. “It’s okay, thank you. I just… Uh…”

“Everything okay?”

His eyes were soft, green and so, so concerned for her. But over his shoulder, she saw Kagami approaching. So she looked away, inhaled deeply and plastered on a smile before looking back at him.

“Peachy. Everything’s fine, thank you very much for your concern.”

She winced internally at how her voice had risen, and thrust her hand forward.

“I keep meaning to,” she started slowly, eyes fixed on the umbrella. “But I keep forgetting to return this to you.”

“What?”

The confusion in his voice finally had her look him in the eye again. She chuckled and nodded at the umbrella. “It’s yours. You gave it to me on your first day of school, remember?”

“No, yeah, I remember,” he said, the confusion not having left him as he still kept looking at her.

Kagami was waiting behind him at a distance, and for that, Marinette was grateful. So she powered through, eyes flickering back to his.

“I’m returning it to you,” she said, shaking the umbrella lightly.

“I- I didn’t intend for you to. I don’t mind, honest.” Adrien blinked. “Besides, it looks like it’s going to rain. You’re gonna need it.”

She gave him a wistful smile. “I’m sure you don’t, but it isn’t mine to keep.” And then she pulled out a small pink umbrella with white dots on it. “And I’ve got my own this time.”

Reluctantly, he took the umbrella from her and stared at it, looking at her with worry. “Why now?”

“I thought it was about time, is all.”

Before he could say anything, she took a step down so he was towering over her on the stairs. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, Adrien. Bye!”

“Bye, Marinette.”

She walked away, thankful that she had to go in the opposite direction of where Kagami stood waiting. She did not look back, not even once, though she could feel his gaze boring into her back. She trudged on as it started to rain, and walked past the bakery.

She wandered till the Seine came into view. She stood by the embankment, slightly out of breath as she gazed out at the torrents of water lashing against the concrete bank. There was a dull ache in her chest, but she felt that just maybe she had just a little bit of her life back in her control.

Yes she’d had whimsical dreams and fantasies about life with a boy she thought she was deeply in love with, but maybe there would be more dreams in the future. And maybe they would be with someone who would see her and bring the best out of her, and made her want to be a better person for herself rather than for them.

She lifted the umbrella off her head to tilt her face up to the sky, eyes fluttered shut as she let cold as ice rain soak her to the bone. It felt a lot better than the bone-chilling exhaustion that had settled into her.

Yes it hurt a little, or maybe a lot and maybe it would keep hurting for a while but she had to believe that she would be okay, that this would be okay.

Baby steps.

PART - II

There was nothing left to do

When the butterflies turned to

Dust that covered my whole room

So I punched a hole in the roof

Let the flood carry away all my pictures of you

A few months later, Marinette carefully set the bracelet he had made her into the box she stored all her mementos - press dried roses from Chat Noir, her ticket stub from the first movie she was allowed to watch with her friends, a necklace from her grandmother that she'd ended up breaking when was ten, among the many other things. She removed the pictures of him from the walls save for photos that they were in with their friends, and absolutely cleared the corkboard by her bed of all pictures of him. The box of gifts she had made had already been handed over to her parents so they could donate it to children in need.

For Adrien's birthday this year, she would do what she did for all of her friends - a birthday card, a cake or a dozen macarons of their favourite flavour and one handmade gift that would take her no longer than two hours to make.

When Chat dropped into her room some time later, she had thrown open the skylight and was kneeling on the bed right below it, eyes closed and face tilted upwards towards the moon and stars.

He observed, and made no attempt to hide his curiosity as. "The photos are gone."

"The posters," she corrected absent-mindedly, eyes fluttering open as she remembered to roll up the stuff she'd taken down into careful rolls to be kept at the back of the closet. Felt odd to be storing them away given the intention of taking them down, but it felt wronger to throw them.

"Right, posters," he nodded. "Why?"

"I thought it was about time, is all."

"You... Thought it was about time?" repeated Chat, and she couldn't tell why his voice sounded a little strained. "Had a little change in taste of fashion, Princess?"

Marinette chuckled humourlessly. "You can say that again."

Chat hummed and watched her slip down the ladder to hand him the platter of croissants she'd taken aside for him.

"You okay, Princess?"

"Stressed," she muttered under her breath.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, as he dropped on the chaise and she trudged to drop down onto the floor between his knees.

He picked her brush off her chaise lounge and started to gentle run it through her hair.

"Everything okay, kitty? You seem quieter than usual."

"I- Well, never mind. You're already stressed as is."

She turned around to look up at him, cheek resting against his knee. "Chat Noir. You know it doesn't work like that. Talk to me!"

Chat sighed, flicking her forehead lightly so she turned back around. He started to braid her hair carefully, worrying his lower lip as he contemplated his words. "My girlfriend broke up with me."

"Oh, Chat, I'm so sorry," she gasped, starting to turn around but, he kept a firm hand on her shoulder to hold her in place. Surprised, she stopped resisting now curious and a little concerned for her partner.

"Nothing to be sorry about," he sighed. "I think it was inevitable. Once the rush of the newness of it all went away, it was all... the same, you know? Our parents are strict and there wasn't really much to do, but that never bothered her. I tried to get her to play video games with me, but... Well, she's very smart, and a very no-nonsense, practical type of a person, you know? She did not see the point of it, but I know she tried to. But I could tell she didn't enjoy it. And..." he trailed away, voice coming down to a slow mutter. "And it doesn't help that I'm a superhero. Secrets are not good for relationships apparently. That, and the other small things... And her thinking I was in love with someone else-"

"Ladybug?"

"Maybe," he murmured. "But she thinks its someone else."

"Oh."

"It just... Really did nothing to help. I don't even know if we're friends now."

"That's awful," Marinette whispered, as Chat snapped the rubberband on her finished French braid.

"Ta-da!"

Marinette giggled. "Thank you, Chat."

He lounged back as Marinette scurried away to clean her hairbrush and put it away in her vanity.

"So, have you thought about what to say to Luka?" he asked casually, one leg swung over his knee as he tried to look nonchalant, but his alery kitty ears and stiff shoulders gave him away.

She sighed and looked at him wistfully. "Yeah."

When she didn't elaborate, he quirked a brow. "And?"

"I'm going to have to turn him down," she sighed. "

"What, why? I thought you liked him!"

"I do, I think," agreed Marinette. "We've been on a couple of dates and-" She flushed. "-And kissed a little, but I just... Realised that it won't last. Whether or not we make it "official", like he wants to."

"Princess, you can't know that," said Chat, a wistful smile on his face, his eyes a little sad.

"I do know," she sighed. "I have... Too many responsibilities. I don't want to be the kind of girlfriend that flakes all the time. Luka doesn't deserve that. I just... Have too much going on."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

"It is what it is, chaton."

"Sad, is what it is," he sighed.

Marinette agreed.

PART - III

Ten months sober, I must admit

Just because you're clean, don't mean you don't miss it

Ten months older, I won't give in

Now that I'm clean, I'm never gonna risk it

It was strange really - in a relieving sort of way - how her heart did not race as fast anymore in his presence. She didn't feel like she would become one with the floor when he held her hand, which he seemed to like to do a lot now. She also knew that Alya had noticed, and was thankful that despite the gleam in her eyes and occasional pointed quirking of her brow, Alya did not really say anything. She really did love her best friend so freakin' much.

She did think there was a fragile quality to their friendship - maybe it was just her, worrying like she usually did, or maybe it was just the truth - that had formed since the ten months she'd returned the umbrella, well, technically speaking, three months since she'd returned the umbrella because it took her that long to dull the ache at the sight of him. And the fear of breaking what she'd worked so hard to build still kept her from spending too much alone time with him, because sometimes when he looked at her that warmly with the fond smile etched on his face. On the bright side, at least her heart didn't ache anymore at the thought of him kissing someone else.

She found herself, on very rare occasions, reminscing about the childish hope and lightheadedness of being so deeply in love with him. She missed feeling that light, maybe because now the weight of the world had only gotten heavier on her shoulders, and she associated the silliness of it all with a time when her biggest problem was how she was going to confess Adrien. Not dealing with the aftermath of revealed identities and being left with no allies, of being the new guardian - possibly the only teenager with access to that much power on the planet - and guarding all that power, not potentially losing all of her memories, not having to think about a timeline where her partner and her were in love strong enough to destroy the world and definitely not worrying about if this was all there was to life anymore because really, when would this end? How would this end? Will it ever?

She felt a gentle squeeze against her hand and she shook herself from the dangerous spiral that she was heading into. She found Adrien smiling at her like that again - and something warm flared in her chest, again - and she shook it off. Easier than she would have ten months ago.

"You okay there?"

"I'm good."

"Do you, er, want to, um, maybe grab some hot chocolate after school?"

His cheeks were red, or maybe she was just imagining it. His eyes were soft, or maybe she was just imagining it. He looked nervous, or maybe she was imagining it.

And it was raining.

Her eyes darted to take in the sky and lightning crackled overhead.

"Looks like the perfect weather for it," she murmured, and he beamed at her. She took a lungful of that fresh air, singing with the metallic aftertaste of lightning, thunder, earth and rain. "Let me just text Alya and Nino."

Rain came pouring down

When I was drowning, that's when I could finally breathe

And by morning

Gone was any trace of you, I think I am finally clean.

[ofstormsandwolves]

christmas secrets

Zoey x Joan

Zoey, Joan, Simon, Mo, Leif, Tobin, Ava

Christmas parties, secret relationship, emotional hurt/comfort

The SPRQ Point Christmas party raises some dilemmas for Joan and Zoey as they try to keep their relationship a secret...

Read on AO3

“I was thinking of throwing a Christmas party.”

That sentence was perhaps the last thing Zoey Clarke expected to come out of her partner’s mouth, and the surprise must have shown on her face.

“I mean, for everyone at SPRQ Point,” Joan clarified. “We’ve done well this year; we’ve got the SPRQ Watch out there, we’ve made really good progress on the Chirp, the third floor have done really well with that SPRQ your imagination scheme in schools-”

“I still can’t believe you let them go with that name,” Zoey interrupted with a smirk.

The brunette rolled her eyes. “Ugh, the board lapped it up. It’s all cutesy and adorable, according to them, and they figured it’d appeal to kids. So I let them stick with it.”

The pair of them lapsed into silence then, picking at the remains of the takeout they’d ordered.

“So, uh, a Christmas party,” Zoey said after a few moments. “Sounds fun.”

Joan gave her a look. “See, your mouth says ‘fun’, but your face says ‘not fun’. Which one am I meant to believe?”

That drew a sigh from Zoey. “It’s nothing. I’m sure the party will be great, and I think it’s a really good idea. It’s just... How exactly are we going to go to a party and spend several hours with virtually everyone who works at SPRQ Point and keep our relationship secret? I mean, I know we have to, I know we agreed not to go public, but...”

Music swelled up then, echoing around the room, and Zoey knew it wasn’t coming from the television. Then, of its own accord, her mouth began moving as lyrics tumbled out.

“When you hold me in the street,

And you kiss me on the dance floor,

I wish that it could be like that.

Why can’t it be like that?

‘Cause I’m yours.

We keep behind closed doors.

Every time I see you, I die a little more.

Stolen moments that we steal as the curtain falls.

It’ll never be enough.”

Joan was gaping a little, clearly uncomfortable, and Zoey tried to clamp her mouth shut but the words were forcing themselves out of her throat. A part of her was mortified, that she’d completely lost control of her body, and that she was forcing Joan into such an awkward situation. A bigger part of her was terrified of what would happen once she stopped singing, however. It wasn’t like they could just ignore what had just happened, no matter how much either woman wanted to. Of course Joan knew about Zoey’s powers, had known about them for months, but she’d only witnessed them on one occasion; the day Zoey had glitched and ended up singing Pressure to Danny Michael Davis. That had been awkward, this was even worse.

“It’s obvious you’re meant for me,

Every piece of you, it just fits perfectly,

Every second, every thought, I’m in so deep.

But I’ll never show it on my face.

But we know this

We got a love that is homeless.”

“Z-Zoey,” Joan managed to get out then. “Zoey, stop.”

But she couldn’t. She wanted to, but she couldn’t. She didn’t know how, she must be glitching again. And that meant having to actually have a conversation about what was happening. They’d been having such a nice night, too. Why did her powers have to go and ruin everything?

“Why can’t you hold me in the street?

Why can’t I kiss you on the dance floor?

I wish that it could be like that.

Why can’t we be like that?

‘Cause I’m yours.”

Suddenly, Joan was setting her takeout on the coffee table, leaning towards her and grasping her hands in her own. “Zoey, it’s alright.”

Zoey couldn’t stop singing if she wanted to, but the soft, concerned look in Joan’s eyes nearly made her falter anyway. Was it possible Joan wasn’t mad? Sure, she knew that this wasn’t Zoey’s fault, that she couldn’t exactly turn her powers on and off when it was convenient, but still she’d expected her partner to at least be a bit embarrassed by the whole thing.

“Why can’t I say that I’m in love?

I wanna shout it from the rooftop.

I wish that it could be like that.

Why can’t we be like that?

‘Cause I’m yours.”

Finally, thankfully, the song came to an end and Zoey bit her lip. The pair sat in silence for a good few moments before it was broken.

“So.” Joan managed a small, slightly awkward smile. “You wanna talk about that?”

 Ten minutes later, Zoey was tucked into Joan’s body, the older woman gently running her fingers through red hair.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Zoey said for the fifth time.

“I know,” Joan assured quietly. “I know you can’t help it.” She sighed. “But we do have to talk about this. I mean, why didn’t you tell me how you were feeling? I thought we were on the same page, that we both knew why we had to keep this relationship quiet?”

“I do know,” Zoey promised. “But I don’t... I don’t like it. I don’t like having to sneak around at work when I’ve met you for lunch or you’re picking me up after work to go out for dinner. I hate having to be evasive about weekend plans, and I really don’t like the idea of going to this Christmas party and not being able to dance with you.” She pulled away then, to meet the older woman’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve put you in an awkward position.”

“I think I preferred the awkward position from last Friday,” Joan countered, a small smirk on her lips as she reminded her partner of the previous weekend, where they’d not even made it out of the bedroom.

Zoey’s cheeks flushed a nice pink, but the uncertainty in her eyes didn’t fade.

Joan took her hand again, squeezing it. “Believe me, Zoey, I hate this as much as you do. If I could announce it to the world tomorrow, I would. But I’m only acting CEO. Sooner or later, Danny Michael Davis will come back and I’ll be back on the fourth floor. Do you really want the whole team knowing that we’re dating? Not to mention the HR issues it will throw up.”

It was Zoey’s turn to sigh, then. “No. No, I get it. I’m sorry, I guess I’m just feeling a little fragile, and a little sad. It would have been nice to go to the party together, you know? Have a dance, have a drink. Maybe kiss under some mistletoe.”

“Yeah,” Joan smiled a little sadly. “That would be nice.”

Zoey moved to lean back into her partner then, snuggling up close. “Sorry for saying ‘sorry’ a lot, too.”

“You just said it again.” The smirk was evident in the older woman’s voice.

The redhead thought on that a moment. “Damn.”

 As it was, Joan went ahead and organised the party, and by the time the invites had been sent out two weeks before Christmas, the fourth floor was buzzing with the news.

“Hey, Zoey, did you get the e-vite about the Christmas party?” Tobin asked as she sat down at her desk Friday morning.

“Uh, yeah,” she said, shrugging off her coat and hoping nobody would pick up on the fact she’d already known about the party long before the invitations.

“It’s gonna be dope,” Tobin grinned. “I can’t believe Joan’s renting out the entirety of the Paragon! That place is booked up weeks in advance; I couldn’t even sneak my way in. And believe me, I tried.”

Zoey managed to muster a small smile at Tobin’s enthusiasm, and quickly turned her attention to her computer. “Yeah, well. I’m sure Joan just wanted to make sure everyone has a good time.”

“Do you think Joan will be there?” Leif piped up from his own desk, a slightly hopeful tone to his voice that made Zoey frown.

Feeling a little bit of jealousy bubble up in her chest, she tried to school her expression. “Maybe, why?”

Leif’s cheeks flushed then, his gaze skittering away from Zoey. “No reason.”

Her eyes narrowed, watching the man carefully as he busied himself with work. Joan had made it clear to him that their relationship- if it could even have been called that- was over, but Zoey couldn’t help but feel a little anxious. She knew that Joan didn’t want a relationship with Leif, that had been obvious even before she’d asked Zoey out, but was it possible that Leif himself wasn’t aware? Did he think he still had a chance?

Clenching her jaw and forcing her attention back to her computer, Zoey began angrily punching out code for the Chirp.

 When the morning of the party rolled around a week and a half later, Zoey didn’t feel any better about having to hide hers and Joan’s relationship at the party, nor did she feel any better about Leif’s potential feelings for her partner.

“What do you mean we’re going together?”

Admittedly, Zoey had only been half listening to what Joan was saying, poking and prodding at her takeout and lost in her own thoughts.

“Well,” Joan scoffed, looking a little irritated, “it’s silly for us to take two cars.”

“B-But that means arriving together,” Zoey said, brow furrowing and mind racing. “And leaving together. Don’t you think that will raise questions?”

The older woman rolled her eyes. “Zoey, it’s a work party. I’m sure we won’t be the only people splitting a car ride. It’ll be fine.”

Zoey found herself nodding at that, though she wasn’t wholly convinced. It seemed a little too much like tempting fate, particularly with Leif potentially sniffing around. Maybe that was the point. Maybe Joan didn’t want to announce their relationship but figured that people working it out on their own wouldn’t be as bad? That being said, HR would still be a problem, so maybe that wasn’t it. Honestly, Zoey didn’t know what was going on.

“We don’t have to go together, you know,” Joan said then, sounding a little disappointed but trying to hide it. “I just thought it would be nice. And you could come back here afterwards, spend the night. If you wanted, of course.”

Almost as though it was planned, Hermés chose that moment to appear at Zoey’s feet, staring expectantly up at the woman as she poked at her breakfast.

“That sounds nice,” Zoey admitted slowly. “I mean, if you’re sure you don’t mind having me here two nights in a row.”

A smirk spread across Joan’s face. “Why would I mind?” she asked, surveying the younger woman over her coffee mug. “That’s two nights in a row I get you all to myself.”

“You get me all to yourself whenever you want, Joan,” Zoey pointed out then, though she couldn’t stop her lips quirking in a slight smirk of her own. Then, she sighed. “Fine. If you think it won’t raise too many questions, and we can swing it, then sure. Let’s go together.”

“You sure? I don’t want you doing anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Zoey smiled again, this time a more relaxed smile. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

 That night, the pair of them arrived at Paragon in a sleek black Mercedes that Joan had rented for the night. The driver even held the door open for the pair of them as they slid out in their dresses and heels. Zoey’s fingers itched to reach out and entwine themselves with Joan’s, so she instead busied herself with smoothing her dress out instead.

“Ready?” Joan asked, sparing her partner a glance before looking towards the club.

Zoey followed her partner’s gaze. Paragon had only been open a few months, but it was already a hot place to be in San Francisco, and she could see why. It was situated at the top of a skyscraper, boasting views out across the Golden Gate Bridge, and probably cost Joan a pretty penny to book out for SPRQ Point. Hopefully the location of the party would distract the guests from Joan’s and Zoey’s arrival.

They made their way up to the club via the elevator, an uneasy silence between the two women.

“So, uh, I guess this is it.” Zoey said after a few moments. “I mean, we’re gonna have to mingle with the other guests, maybe dance, have some food. You’ll have to circulate, of course.”

“Of course,” Joan said, sounding a little disappointed.

“How do we do this, then? Do I come find you when it’s time to leave? Or, well, I guess you should come find me. After all, you’re the boss-”

Zoey was cut off abruptly by Joan’s lips on hers. The kiss was soft but insistent, and she practically melted into the touch. But it only lasted a few seconds, before Joan pulled away.

“I, uh, needed something to sustain me,” the brunette said then, looking a little embarrassed as she instead checked her makeup in the mirrored walls of the elevator.

“Uh huh,” Zoey managed, feeling a little dazed.

The elevator doors opened then, and already Joan was hurrying out before Zoey could fully process what had happened. With a sigh, she could only watch as her girlfriend disappeared into the throng, greeting people as she went. Shoulder slumped, Zoey looked around at the impressively decorated club for a moment before making a beeline for the bar. She needed a drink.

 An hour into the party, Zoey was feeling more than a little sorry for herself. She’d spent most of the time at the bar, sipping drinks and occasionally making small-talk with people who came by. Tobin had greeted her with a grin before hurrying off to grab more food, and several people from the sixth floor had also had brief conversations with her.

Now, she was stood at the edge of the dance floor, yet another drink in hand as she watched people dance and have fun. It wasn’t fair. It was Christmas, the party was to celebrate a great year, and everyone was having a good time but her. Occasionally, she caught sight of Joan talking to one of her employees, often with a forced smile and a fake look of interest on her face. Zoey wanted nothing more than to be able to sweep in and tug Joan away from those boring conversations to go make out in a dark corner, but she knew she couldn’t. For a start, it would tip off to the entirety of SPRQ Point that she was in a relationship with the boss, and secondly Joan would be furious. But then she remembered the kiss in the elevator, and she couldn’t tell if her knees went weak from the memory or the alcohol, but all it did was make Zoey long for Joan even more.

Shaking her head to clear it, she instead made her way towards the DJ booth. She’d persuaded Joan to hire Mo for the event, even though Paragon had offered their own DJ. With Max no longer around, and things being really quite awkward between herself and Simon due to her having to turn him down once she and Joan got together, Zoey needed a friendly face at the party.

“Howdy,” Zoey greeted as she reached her friend.

Mo, for his part, fixed her with a look and a slight smirk. “And how many of those lovely martinis have you already had tonight?”

Zoey shrugged at the question. “I don’t know. Five? Six? Who’s counting? I’m not!”

At her answer, it seemed that Mo didn’t quite know whether to be amused or concerned, and he studied her for a long moment. “Now, Zo-loft, how have you been? I’ve noticed you haven’t been at your apartment as much lately. Staying with your mysterious lover?”

In her drunken state, Zoey could do nothing to stop the grin from spreading across her face. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Mo returned his attention to his records briefly to change tracks, before turning back to his friend. “Well, that would be why I asked the question. You’ve been flitting in and out, disappearing for entire nights at a time and showing back up with a ridiculous grin on your face and still you refuse to tell me who the lucky man is.”

Snorting, Zoey waved a hand dismissively. “Please,” she said, laughing slightly. “I’m over men. They’re nothing but drama. I mean, the whole thing with Simon, and Max, and the singing and the dancing and the kissing...”

Mo arched an eyebrow at that, and he surveyed her again, as though seeing her through new eyes. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I guess that serves me right for assuming.” He tilted his head to one side, considering, before staring out across the dance floor.

Zoey watched as her friend stared, silently holding her breath and hoping Mo couldn’t read her too well.

After several long moments, Mo looked back to her. “Does she make you happy?”

“Very.” Zoey waggled her eyebrows, and Mo shook his head.

“Ugh. Go away please. You are nauseatingly loved up right now. And drunk. And I don’t want you throwing up on my records.” He made a shooing motion with his hands.

Rolling her eyes, Zoey spun on her heel and headed away, taking a large gulp of martini as she did so. Just as she was lowering her glass, however, she walked straight into someone and nearly toppled to the ground. A hand shot out, grabbing her around the waist to steady her. Zoey blinked, and looked up into bright blue, concerned eyes.

 “Joan!”

The small redhead was beaming up at Joan as though she hung the stars in the night sky, and the thought made the older woman glance around in concern.

“You ok there? You ploughed straight into me.” Joan surveyed her carefully, a small frown furrowing her brow. She seemed sort of unsteady on her feet, and now she thought about it, she was pretty certain Zoey had spent a great deal of time propping up the bar. Not that she’d been keeping tabs on her partner, or anything.

“I’m great,” Zoey grinned. “Have you tried the martinis here? They’re amazing!”

“Uh, yeah, they’re something alright. I mean, they should be at $9 a go.” Joan’s frown deepened. “Zoey, are you alright?”

When Zoey only grinned back drunkenly, Joan let out a sigh. Sure, Joan herself had also had a few drinks, but something told her that the younger woman had several drinks on her, and she also knew that it took less time for her to get drunk. After all, Zoey was small and hadn’t had twenty years of being married to Charlie to harden her to the effects of liquor. While Joan was merely buzzed, Zoey was flat out drunk. And if they weren’t careful, they’d end up causing a scene.

“Ok,” she said, moving to steer her partner towards some seating, “how about we have a sit down? The last thing we want is you falling flat on your face.”

It was only halfway towards the plush seating that Joan realised she still had one arm firmly around Zoey’s waist. Swallowing thickly and hoping nobody had noticed, she quickly guided Zoey to sit herself down before crouching in front of her.

“I’m, uh, gonna go grab some water. See if we can sober you up.”

Zoey scrunched her nose up at the suggestion. “Why? It’s a party, Joan. Come on, have a drink with me!”

Part of Joan really, really wanted to give in to that. She wanted nothing more than to have a drink with her partner, and to maybe get drunk enough to make an ass of herself on the dance floor, and then make out with Zoey in the car on the way home. Everything Charlie had always hated. But the logical part of her was reminding her that nobody could know about their relationship, and with Zoey already drunk she needed to stay sober enough to deal with the situation. Forcing a tight smile onto her face, she repeated herself.

“I’m gonna grab some water.” She stood then, before pausing. “Uh. Just stay here, ok?”

Joan set off towards the bar then, giving polite smiles to various subordinates she barely recognised as she passed them. Within a minute, she was returning to Zoey’s booth with a large glass of water, hoping it would be enough. But when she returned, she saw Simon seated opposite Zoey, leaning forward with his forearms on the table.

“Well, I’m just saying,” Simon said with a laugh as Joan drew nearer, “you seem a little drunk. Maybe you should call it a night?”

“Pfft,” Zoey snorted. “I’m not drunk! Besides, I can’t leave until Joan leaves.”

Joan felt her heart stop in her chest at that, and she held her breath as she waited for a response.

“Ah,” Simon nodded knowingly, “you want to stay until the boss calls it quits. I get that. But maybe you should lay off the martinis? I think you’ve had enough.”

Squaring her shoulders, Joan crossed the rest of the floor to reach Zoey’s side. She flashed Simon a slightly cruel smile and set the glass of water on the table in front of the redhead.

“Here we are; one glass of water. We really don’t need you throwing up all over the dance floor.”

As the words left her mouth, however, Joan caught sight of Simon’s slight frown. Huh. Perhaps she’d played it a little too cool. Forcing a tight smile onto her lips, she turned her attention back to her partner and pushed the glass towards her.

“Drink.”

Thankfully, Zoey did as she was told, downing the water with almost impressive speed. Simon shifted to stand then, sparing a confused look at Joan before flashing a smile at Zoey.

“Well, uh, I’ll leave you ladies to it. Zoey, if you’re not too drunk, how about a dance later?”

Zoey went wide-eyed at that, and for the second time in as many minutes Joan’s heart was in her mouth. But thankfully, the younger woman instead just nodded slowly.

“Uh, yeah. Maybe.”

Simon left then, and Joan watched him go for a few moments before sliding into his recently vacated seat opposite Zoey. She fixed her partner with an unimpressed look. Zoey, for her part, held her ground. Perhaps she was getting better to standing up against her girlfriend. Perhaps she was just too drunk to be nervous.

“Joan, I’m fine. I’m not even that drunk.” The redhead rolled her eyes for good measure.

“Uh huh. Sure. But let’s not add to that drunkenness.” Joan sighed then. “Zoey, I’m sorry. I wish we didn’t have to hide our relationship. I wish we could be together, spend time together here instead of sneaking around.”

It was Zoey’s turn to sigh, and her gaze skittered away, her previous alcohol-fuelled joy evaporating quickly. She surveyed the dance floor for a long moment, watching colleagues dancing and laughing and drinking, before slowly looking back to Joan.

“You want to maybe make out in the bathroom a bit?”

Despite herself, a slow grin spread across Joan’s face. Before she could form a response, Zoey had taken her by the hand and was tugging her in the direction of the toilets.

 Making out in the women’s restroom of Paragon wasn’t exactly how either Joan or Zoey had thought the evening would go, but they weren’t about to complain about it. It didn’t take long for hands to roam and dresses to get bunched up as previously coiffed hair was wrapped around fingers and makeup was smudged.

Zoey was busy sucking at Joan’s pulse point when the door to the bathroom opened. The pair sprung apart as though electrocuted, and quickly busied themselves with smoothing out clothing and fiddling with hair in an attempt to look more presentable.

“- until at least the middle of next year. Oh.” Ava Price blinked, frowning a little at Joan’s and Zoey’s slightly dishevelled appearances. “Hello, Joan. Zoey.”

Ava and the two women who had come into the bathroom with her surveyed Zoey and Joan with a look of confusion, and the redhead quickly forced a nervous grin.

“Watch out for those hand dryers,” she said with an awkward laugh. “They’re really strong. Practically destroyed my hair.”

“Uh, yeah. Really strong,” Joan echoed, plastering her own fake smile on her face.

Ava looked between the pair of them for a long moment, clearly unimpressed by their excuse, before simply rolling her eyes and stepping into the nearest cubicle. The two other women ducked into cubicles too, and Joan and Zoey shared a wide-eyed, embarrassed glance, before quickly moving for the door.

“Ugh,” Joan said once they were out of the bathroom. “Well that was fun.”

“I know,” Zoey sighed. “I’m sorry. I should never have suggested-”

But Joan shook her head. “Zoey, it’s fine. I went along with it, I didn’t say no.” She surveyed her partner for a few moments. “And you’re still really drunk, aren’t you?”

The younger woman shrugged. “Well, that water did help. But... Kinda?”

Letting out a sigh, Joan took a moment to just breathe. She’d had a few drinks as well, of course, and she could only blame the alcohol in her system for hers and Zoey’s make out session. In no other circumstance would she have even considered making out at a word function, Christmas party or not. She had rules, rules that she had set herself so that her employees and colleagues could never call her unprofessional, could never insist that she was too emotional or that she was proof women shouldn’t be in the tech industry. And now they’d potentially been seen by Ava, and even if Ava had no hard proof they’d certainly been far too careless.

A hand was on her arm then, and she looked round to see Zoey watching her in concern. She forced a smile.

“We should get back to the party.”

Zoey smiled sadly. “Yeah.”

 “Zoey.”

Zoey looked up to see Leif staring at her, a tight smile on his face and a mannerism that seemed a little... Odd.

“Leif,” she greeted, frowning a little before returning her attention to the food. Maybe if she ate some more she’d sober up more.

“So, uh, I see you and Joan went to the bathroom together,” he said. “Girl talk?”

That made her frown deepen. “That’s none of your business, Leif.”

Leif shifted at that, and glanced across the room for a moment before returning his gaze to Zoey. “I know you sabotaged me and Joan. She told me that you told her about my feelings. And I saw how you left together that night at the bar. I mean, I had a pretty good view from the stage, and the pair of you seemed very... Intimate.”

Swallowing thickly, Zoey concentrated harder on the food in front of her. She and Joan hadn’t been together at that point, and honestly, it was Leif’s singing that had mostly scared them away. But she couldn’t say that, and she didn’t trust herself not to let anything slip. So instead, she fixed him with a tight smile.

“Well, this has been a great talk, Leif, but I have to go.”

If Leif had a response to that, Zoey didn’t wait around to hear it.

 Zoey sought safety hanging out with Mo at the DJ decks again.

“Please tell me you’ve been staying away from the bar,” he said in way of greeting as Zoey appeared at his side.

“I have. Joan made me drink some water,” Zoey said without thinking.

At the comment, Mo arched an eyebrow. “You know, you’ve certainly been spending a lot of time with the lovely Joan the last few months. Anything I should know about?”

Something in his tone seemed that little bit too smug, and Zoey was reminded of their earlier conversation and how he had asked if she was happy. Did he already know? Honestly, she didn’t have Mo pegged as a subtle person, but maybe...

“No.” Zoey stuffed a pig in a blanket into her mouth quickly.

“Mmm,” Mo hummed, an amused expression on his face. “You know, Zoey Clarke, you are a terrible liar. Besides, a little Christmas robin told me that you two ducked into the bathroom earlier and came out looking rather dishevelled. And the pair of you clearly have feelings for one another.” He gave her a pointed look at that.

Zoey said nothing, but flushed a dull red. She wasn’t supposed to be telling anyone. Not even her mom or David knew about her and Joan. Besides, she couldn’t tell Mo in the middle of a SPRQ Point party, not after the near run-in with Ava.

Mo turned his attention back to the music, then, and for a moment it didn’t register in Zoey’s head as a familiar strain of music started up. But it was only as everything else seemed to distort as though in slow motion that she realised what was happening.

Joan was across the dance floor, talking with someone Zoey vaguely recognised from PR. Leif, meanwhile, was several feet away, a drink in hand and a pained expression on his face.

“Oh, no,” Zoey murmured. “No, no, no...”

And suddenly, Leif was singing.

“Last Christmas, I gave you my heart,

But the very next day you gave it away.

This year, to save me from tears

I’ll give it to someone special...”

He began moving then, setting his drink down on a table before moving towards an oblivious Joan. Everything was soft and slow-motion, except for Leif who stood out in glorious technicolour.

“Once bitten and twice shy,

I keep my distance,

But you still catch my eye.

Tell me baby,

Do you recognise me?

Well, it’s been a year,

It doesn’t surprise me...”

Zoey felt like she couldn’t move. Like she was stuck to the floor. Part of her brain knew she wouldn’t be able to intervene anyway, but a bigger part of her was stuck on the fact she’d been right to be concerned about Leif. He clearly still had feelings for Joan, and after the confrontation at the buffet...

“I wrapped it up and sent it

With a note saying, ‘I love you’, I meant it.

Now, I know what a fool I’ve been,

But if you kissed me now

I know you’d fool me again.

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart,

But the very next day you gave it away.

This year, to save me from tears

I’ll give it to someone special...”

He was dancing around Joan then, and annoyance bubbled up in Zoey’s chest. Even from where she was stood she could see the look on Leif’s face. Part longing, part disappointment, part something she couldn’t put her finger on.

“A crowded room, friends with tired eyes,

I’m hiding from you, and your soul of ice.

My God, I thought you were someone to rely on.

Me? I guess I was a shoulder to cry on...

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart,

But the very next day you gave it away.

This year, to save me from tears

I’ll give it to someone special...”

The song faded out then as everything returned to normal. Joan left her conversation, Leif was back where he started sipping a drink, and Zoey was wholly confused.

“And what is going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

Mo’s voice startled Zoey from her thoughts, and she turned to look to her friend.

“Hey, uh, Mo, what does it mean if someone sings Last Christmas?”

Mo tilted his head to one side, considering that for a long moment. “Well, that depends. It’s a song about unrequited love and heartbreak, but it’s also about moving on, finding someone else. I’d say if someone’s singing that, they want to move on.”

Zoey bit her lip. “But they still have feelings for that person, right? I mean, with the whole ‘fool me again’ thing?”

“Sure, but the song is all about not wanting to make the same mistake, about moving past that and not putting yourself through that pain again. No matter what your feelings are for someone, sometimes you just have to walk away.” Mo studied her carefully then. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the lovely Joan, would it?”

“Leif just sang it to Joan.” Zoey pouted for a moment, before catching herself and trying to school her expression.

“Uh huh, and you don’t like it because you’d rather have Joan all to yourself.” That earned Mo a scowl, but he simply smirked. “Child, please. You two are so loved up a blind person could see it from the North Pole.”

“Oh.” Zoey frowned. “Are we that obvious? I mean, how long have you known?”

Mo’s amused expression quickly turned to one of reassurance then as Zoey panicked. “Zoey, calm down. I only figured it out tonight.” He thought for a moment. “Honestly, I’m kind of ashamed it took me so long. I am not on my A-game.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Anyway. You said earlier, you’re not with men anymore. And you’ve definitely been seeing someone. Plus you and Joan have grown awfully close since her divorce.” Mo shrugged. “It just makes sense.”

Shoulders slumping in relief, Zoey surveyed her partner across the dance floor. “You know, tonight’s really sucked. We had to have a whole fake story about how we were sharing a ride here because it was easier, to hide our relationship. We haven’t been able to have a single dance, we nearly got caught by Ava making out in the bathroom, I spent an hour drowning my sorrows at the bar while Joan’s had to make small talk with everyone...” She trailed off with a frustrated sigh.

Mo frowned at that. “Oh, please, Zoey, half the people here are halfway to being comatose what with all the fancy over-priced drinks they’ve been drinking. Nobody is going to care if you and Joan dance.”

“But it will raise questions-”

“No, it won’t. Now go.” He took Zoey’s half-finished plate of food from her and pointedly pushed her towards the dance floor. “Go get your woman. I have the perfect song for you.”

 Zoey appearing at Joan’s elbow in the middle of a very dull conversation with three people from- marketing? Sales? Honestly, Joan couldn’t remember.

“Zoey! Hi. Uh, can I help you?”

The younger woman had a slightly nervous smile on her face that made Joan worry just a little. “Yeah, actually, if you’re not too busy. I just figured, you know, we’ve been here a while and I couldn’t help but notice you haven’t had a single dance. I mean, I’m not the best of dancers, but...”

Joan let out an awkward laugh at that, and was somewhat surprised to see the people she’d been talking to simply flash her a grin and make their goodbyes. Taking the opportunity to seize Zoey by the arm, she led her partner away from the dance floor.

“What are you doing?” she hissed. “We agreed to keep a low profile! I mean, we already risked it in the bathroom earlier!”

“I know.” Zoey held her hands up in a placating gesture. “But Mo said that nobody will care-”

“Mo knows? Oh god!”

“-because everyone’s mostly drunk anyway, and I really wanna dance with you, Joan. It doesn’t have to be some romantic slow dance. Actually, it’s best it’s not. But just... One dance, Joan? Please?”

Joan let out a sigh then, trying to ignore Zoey’s wide, imploring eyes. But it seemed impossible, and she made a good point about people being drunk. Lots of people were dancing together. Tobin had danced with almost everybody. Would people really think anything bad if Zoey and Joan spent some time on the dance floor?

“Keep your hands to yourself,” she said, before turning and walking to the dance floor.

Zoey followed with a grin, and when they got there, Mo spotted them and gave a big grin before switching to a new track. As the music began to play, Joan didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“You’re kidding me,” she said, shaking her head as laughter threatened to bubble up.

“Hey,” Zoey grinned, “Mo’s got good taste.”

“I don’t want a lot for Christmas,

There is just one thing I need...”

As more people joined the dancing around them, Joan allowed herself to move that little bit closer to Zoey.

“You don’t have to,” Zoey murmured as Joan took her hand in her own.

Joan gave a soft smile in response. “I want to.”

She pulled her partner into a loose embrace, something that wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows if people took notice, but allowed her that little bit of closeness she’d been craving all night. Hopefully to unsuspecting eyes it would simply look like two friends enjoying themselves on the dance floor.

The pair of them danced and laughed through the first two verses and chorus, grins on their faces as they enjoyed themselves. Instead of a gentle or respectable swaying, they moved that little bit too much, that little too wildly, in a parody of a romantic slow dance complete with the occasional silly face at one another. They were spurred on by laughter and alcohol, and Joan couldn’t deny just how right it felt to dance with Zoey in that way. But she wanted more. On a whim, she tugged Zoey closer, and leaned down to quietly sing along to the song.

“I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know. Make my wish come true. All I want for Christmas is you...”

She spun Zoey then, eliciting a laugh from the younger woman as she fell into Joan’s embrace. Perhaps they’d both had a tiny bit too much to drink to contemplate any more spinning, but as Zoey instead tucked her still-giggling form into Joan’s chest, she couldn’t quite bring herself to care. After too short a time, the song came to a close.

Joan took a breath, a soft smile on her lips, and then she quietly moved to whisper in Zoey’s ear. “So. You wanna get out of here?”

Zoey’s grin was more than enough of a response.

[ominousunflower]

(toi)let me in

Written for the APS server’s first birthday! Thank y’all for creating such an amazing and fun space. 

Summary: One lesson Adrien Agreste should have learned by now: Never ask what are the odds when you have the luck of a black cat.

Rating: G Word count: 1767

Read on AO3

__________________________________________

Adrien Agreste is wide awake.

He’s been lying in Marinette’s loft bed for ten minutes now, one arm slung over Marinette and his chin tucked against her shoulder, sure that if he just waits, he’ll fall back asleep.

This isn’t the first time that he’s sneaked into her room as Chat Noir and slept beside her. In fact, ever since they found out each other’s identities two weeks ago and started dating, it’s fairly commonplace.

It is, however, the first time he’s woken up desperately having to go to the bathroom.

He doesn’t want to disturb her, and what’s more, he doesn’t really want to risk going downstairs. What if someone sees him? The chances are slim, but then, Adrien’s never had the best luck.

Adrien groans and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore the ache in his bladder. It’s no use, though: despite the grogginess in his head, he can’t fall back asleep, and there’s no way he’s going to last until morning.

With a sigh, he eases the covers back and crawls out from under them. As he does, Marinette mumbles and rolls over to face him, her fingers tugging at his shirt sleeve.

“Where’re you going?” she asks, words slurred by sleep.

“Bathroom,” Adrien whispers. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right back.”

He smooths back her bangs and kisses her forehead, then crawls to the foot of the bed and descends the ladder. Walking lightly so that the floor doesn’t creak, he crosses to the trapdoor and opens it ever-so-slightly.

Holding his breath, Adrien listens for the sound of voices or footsteps below.

Silence greets him. Satisfied, Adrien eases the door open and lowers his body through it.

He can get there and back in less than a minute. The chances that either one of Marinette’s parents will also decide to go to the bathroom in the forty-five seconds it takes Adrien to pee—well, the chances are so low, in fact, that they might as well be nonexistent.

And so, moving as silently as his superhero namesake, Adrien creeps downstairs toward the Dupain-Cheng bathroom.

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

Tom Dupain awakes with a need.

He had a feeling he shouldn’t have chugged that bottle of water before bed, but what’s done is done; now he is awake in the middle of the night and forced to deal with the consequences.

With a heavy sigh, he rolls out of bed and drags himself to the bedroom door. Sabine’s quiet snores fill the room, assuring him that at least he hasn’t woken her up.

He opens the door and steps outside, moving as quietly as his weight will allow—and that’s when he sees a figure standing outside the bathroom door, frozen with its hands raised in surrender.

The stranger is too tall to be Marinette, but too small to be an adult. Nonetheless, adrenaline courses through Tom’s veins, and he takes a threatening step forward. “Who are you?” he asks. He reaches toward the wall and taps the light switch, bathing the room in dim amber light.

The stranger doesn’t say anything, but Tom’s question is answered: because standing in front of him, hair sticking up, eyes wide, is his daughter’s classmate Adrien Agreste.

“Adrien Agreste?” Tom says.

Knowing the intruder’s identity does not make things any clearer. Why is a teen idol who lives several blocks away standing outside Tom Dupain’s bathroom at three in the morning? Is this a dream? And if so, why is Tom dreaming about his daughter’s crush breaking into their apartment in the middle of the night?

“I, um…” Adrien’s eyes flick toward the kitchen window, almost as if he’s considering that as an escape route. “Our toilet is broken.”

Tom stares at him, not sure he’s heard correctly. Maybe there’s too much wax in his ears again. “What did you say?”

“Our…toilet broke, so…I came here?”

As the parent of a fourteen year-old, Tom Dupain is well-acquainted with teenagers and their bizarre excuses. On a scale of one to ten, he ranks Adrien’s a three. While a broken toilet is not unheard of, there are too many holes in this story: how did Adrien get in, if their front door is locked and everyone is asleep? If Adrien lives in a mansion, shouldn’t his father be able to afford twenty-four-seven toilet fixing?

And the most unbelievable part of all, which is how Tom knows for a fact that Adrien is lying: there is no way the Agrestes only have one toilet in their house.

“How did your toilet break?” Tom asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Uh.” Adrien clears his throat. “Water…rabbits.”

“Water rabbits.”

“They’re not actually rabbits,” Adrien says. “They are bugs. That…eat metal. And toilets.”

Tom squints at him. Maybe this is a dream. Isn’t Adrien supposed to be at the top of his class? This excuse is so disappointing that Tom is tempted to call Adrien’s father, just to tell him that Adrien needs to work on his improvisation skills.

“Water not-rabbits ate your toilet, you say,” Tom says. “Do I look stupid to you, Adrien Agreste?”

“No!” Adrien says. “They just got in the pipes. And…” He grimaces. “Okay. I lied. I clogged the toilet.”

Ah. Tom was once a teenage boy who did not understand how to use toilet paper in moderation. He’ll give Adrien the benefit of the doubt, although two questions still remain. “And you only have one toilet in that big mansion of yours?”

“There’s something wrong with the tank in the downstairs one,” Adrien says, his voice steadier than before. “It overflows if you flush it, and we can’t get someone to look at it until tomorrow morning. There is another one in my father’s room, but I didn’t want to wake him up to tell him that I clogged the toilet. He’s gotten mad about smaller things.”

Tom’s stubborn parental streak rears its head, and he fights the urge to spontaneously adopt Adrien Agreste. He can’t do that, of course. After all, Marinette can’t date Adrien if Tom adopts him, and since Marichat doesn’t seem to be happening yet, he supposes Adrienette is the second-best option.

Of course, Tom knows Adrienette won’t last. Especially not if Adrien is the type of boy who breaks into people’s homes and attempts to surreptitiously uses their toilets.

Which brings Tom to his final question. “Why our toilet? And how did you get in?”

“Oh, um, well…” Adrien rubs the back of his neck. “I texted Marinette, and she was kind enough to let me in. And she didn’t see a need to wake you up, since she was sure you would say yes!” He smiles tightly, eyes wide. “Um. You would have said yes, right?”

“I would,” Tom says, leaning forward. Adrien cowers slightly, and it occurs to Tom that maybe his stature is a bit intimidating.

Good. Let all teenage boys (or girls) cower before him. Tom Dupain doesn’t need a shovel talk; his body will be the shovel talk.

“But where is she?” Tom asks. Adrien’s excuse is approaching an eight or nine on the scale, but some loose ends remain. “Why didn’t she wait down here with you? My daughter is responsible. She must have known this would look bad. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were…”

And then it hits Tom: it looks an awful lot like Marinette sneaked a boy into her room in the middle of the night.

OCCAM’S RAZOR, his mind booms.

Adrien flinches, and that’s all it takes for Tom’s Papa Senses to start tingling. “Adrien,” he says, his voice low. “Did my daughter—”

“No!” Adrien says. “No. Marinette would never do something like that. Neither would I! I—I’m not like that. I’ve never even seen Marinette’s room! Or, well, I have—but only once, when we practiced for that gaming tournament. Technically twice, since it was on TV that one time—”

“Where is she?” Tom repeats. He can practically feel his mustache trembling with suppressed fatherly rage.

“Oh! Right.” Adrien’s throat jumps as he swallows. “She just, uh, heard something skittering around upstairs, and thought it might be a mouse, so she went to—”

“There are mice in my bakery?” Tom bellows.

“No!” Adrien says. “Or, I mean, I don’t know. Maybe it was a squirrel!”

“That’s still a rodent!” Tom says. His concerns about Sabine’s sleep evaporate, and he turns to pound on their bedroom door. “Sabine! Wake up! There are rodents in our bakery!”

“Maybe there aren’t!” Adrien says. “It’s probably cockroaches—no, wait! Dust mites! I’m sure it’s just dust mites. I’m sure if you had enough of them they could make some noise—um, actually, could we continue this conversation after I’ve gone to the bathroom, please?”

And then a familiar figure appears at the bottom of the stairs, yawning as she tugs at one of her pigtails. “Adrien,” she says, “when are you coming back up? You’ve been gone for more…than…” She trails off, eyes widening as they focus on Tom.

Tom feels like his eyes are glowing red, and judging by the look on Adrien’s face, they very well might be. “You were upstairs, were you, Adrien? That’s strange. There’s not an entrance to our house upstairs.”

Adrien’s eyes dart to the bathroom door, then to Tom, then to Marinette—then, again, to the window for some reason. His hand creeps toward the bathroom door, fingers curled to clutch the knob.

“Don’t you dare,” Tom says.

Adrien pauses, hand lightly grasping the handle.

Tom glowers at him, a low growl building in his throat.

“Adrien,” Marinette squeaks. “Please don’t leave me to explain this by myse—”

“I’m sorry!” Adrien yelps. Fast as lightning, he wrenches the door open and ducks inside.

Tom lunges forward, hand grabbing the knob—but it’s too late. He hears the tell-tale click from the other side as Adrien locks himself in the bathroom, and the knob refuses to twist.

“You can’t hide in there forever!” Tom says.

“Tom,” Sabine’s voice says, from behind him. “What’s going on? Did I hear you say something about rodents?”

“Rodents?” Marinette echoes.

In a desperate display of strength, Tom twists harder at the knob, and harder—until it pops right off the door with a cracking noise.

“Oh my god,” Marinette says. “You sealed him in.”

“He did what?” Adrien’s voice cries.

“Enjoy our toilet, Adrien Agreste,” Tom says, with his most menacing voice. He raises the door knob like a sword. “Enjoy it, because this is the last time I let you near my toilet—or my daughter—ever again.”

[fallen-gravity]

Fightin’ Back Chapter 4

Chapter Notes: I’d like to give a shoutout to @elegiesofemptiness for throwing suggestions my way for this chapter and helping me out of a rut.

We’re really in it now, boys. Scary-oke this time around, and the next chapter following this one takes  place in my favorite episode in season two. >:)

AO3

“You have to promise me you’ll only use the journal for self-defense, and won’t go sniffing around for trouble.” 

Dipper crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay, but only if you promise that you don’t have any more bombshell secrets about this town”.

“Promise” Stan replies, placing one hand against his heart and the other crossed behind his back. Dipper squints at him for a moment, but then he sighs.

“Promise”, Dipper echoes, and his tone doesn’t sound any more genuine than his own. 

Maybe he should just hide all the black lights in the house so the kid doesn’t get any big ideas. For now, though…

“Oof, we have a lot of zombie damage to clean up.” Stan pokes at his recliner with his foot. “Where’s my handyman, anyway?” 

As if on cue, the zombified Soos wanders into the room from the kitchen, arms outstretched and eyes glossed over. 

“Holy Moses!” Stan yelps, instinctively grabbing for the nearest piece of furniture to smash it over Soos’s head, before Dipper stops him, placing a hand on his arm. 

“Wait! It says here there’s a cure for zombification. It’s gonna take a lot of formaldehyde” 

“Ooh, and cinnamon!” Mabel beams, popping her head over Dipper’s shoulder. 

“C’mon, Soos, let’s fix you up” 

Mabel picks up one of the dining chairs off the floor and prods Soos in the stomach back towards the kitchen. Dipper’s about to follow her into the kitchen, but Stan places a firm hand on his shoulders to stop him in his tracks. 

“Not so fast, little man,” he scolds. “Don’t think you’re getting off that easy. I saw that zombie pick you up”

“Are you...accusing me of being a zombie?” Dipper turns to face him, and Stan almost laughs that he looks more baffled than he does angry.  “Wouldn’t my head have exploded while we were singing together if that were true?”  He asks, and visibly cringes at the mental image. 

“Well, yeah. Maybe you weren’t infected as quickly as Soos, but zombies don’t always gotta bite you to infect you. It’s about direct contact.” Stan grins. “Matter of fact, most zombies only bite cause they’re hungry! If they’re just looking to infect, they’re more likely to leave a nasty scratch” he offers out his hand. “Lemme see” 

Dipper places his hand in Stan’s, and Stan tugs him a bit closer so he can get a better look at Dipper’s arm. His shoulder looks fine, which means it isn’t spreading as quickly as Stan expected it to. That’s a relief. He turns Dipper’s hand to inspect the other side of his wrist, and sure enough, there are three large gashes right on the spot where the zombie had grabbed him. It doesn’t look like it’s bleeding, but the skin surrounding the gashes are already turning a sickening grayish green.

Dipper’s face goes white as a ghost at the sight of it, and if Stan weren’t holding his wrist he’s almost sure the poor kid would pass out right then and there. Stan squeezes his hand, just to give the kid a grounding gesture to prevent him from passing out a second time. “Whoa, whoa. Deep breaths, kid. You said it yourself! There’s a cure for this. We just gotta follow your sister into the kitchen before she uses it all on Soos, okay?” 

Dipper sighs, and his breath is shaky. “Okay” he replies, and he takes three steps forward before he stops. Stan’s afraid he’s going to pass out again, but he turns back around and points a finger at him. 

“How did you know that?”

“Know what?” 

Dipper’s rubbing at his infected wrist, and the sound it’s making is akin to someone walking through a pile of dead leaves. “How did you know that zombies can infect someone without biting someone? All Journal 3 talked about was how to cure a bite”

...Shit. That must’ve been the first journal that talked about home remedies for monster attacks.

“W-Well I’ve lived here for over thirty years, y’see? You have to learn these things pretty quickly.” Stan straightens out his posture to better sell his lie, and gestures vaguely towards Dipper. “Look at you, kiddo. You’ve had the journal for...what, two months? And I see you going around every day like you own the place” 

Dipper blushes. “I guess that makes sense”

Stan rolls his shoulders. “Of course it makes sense. I’m older and wiser, and all that” 

Dipper chuckles quietly, mumbling something under his breath about I don’t know about wiser, but Stan’s too distracted by the fact that Dipper keeps scratching at his infection to bite back. “And speaking about older and wiser, I of all people would know that all scratching at that thing is gonna do is make it worse” 

Dipper’s hand drops to his side immediately. “Right, right” he murmurs. Stan rolls his eyes, and places a hand on Dipper’s back to gently shove him towards the kitchen.

“Hup to. The last thing we need around here is a zombie with an irrational fear of himself” Stan slaps Dipper on the back and roars in laughter, who only responds with a roll of his eyes. When they step into the kitchen, Mabel and a dezombified Soos are sitting at the table chatting casually. Soos has an ice pack on his head.

“Oh, hey dood!” Soos grins. “Hey Mr. Pines! Sorry about the whole trying to eat your brains thing. I got like, way too into the character.” 

“Uh, water under the bridge” Stan waves him off before he turns his attention to Mabel. “Listen, sweetie, you got any more of the formula?” He exchanges a quick glance with Dipper, who’s hiding his arm from his sister behind his back. “I, uh, wanna toss some of it around the yard. See if it doubles as a free fertilizer for the...dead flowers” 

Mabel gasps, her eyes going wide. “Those poor zombified flower pixies!” She yelps, and gestures to a pot bubbling with oil on the stove. “Take as much as you need. I accidentally made, like, ten batches too many anyway, so if it works you could sell bottles of it in the gift shop and tell ‘em Mabel sent ya” 

Stan laughs, and takes a moment to muss up her hair. “Ah, I knew my swindling skills would rub off on one of ya! Atta girl” he grins, and she grins back in equal measure before returning to her conversation with Soos. As soon as she has her back turned to him, Stan grabs the entire pot and walks as fast as he can towards the back porch without spilling any of the oil.

“Follow me”, he whispers to Dipper once he’s sure he’s out of Mabel’s earshot, and Dipper doesn’t hesitate to trail closely behind. He places the pot of oil on the ground beside the porch couch, and pats at the armrest. Dipper wordlessly complies and takes a seat, and Stan takes one last peek through the window to make sure Mabel hadn’t followed them out to watch him “revive the pixies” or whatever it is she’d said. Once he’s sure that she’s too engrossed in her conversation with Soos to notice they were gone, he takes a knee beside Dipper.

“Alright, lemme see it again” Stan says, and Dipper spreads his arm across the armrest. The infection seems to have spread to the base of his elbow, and the skin surrounding the initial gash in his arm has withered to a faded gray color. Stan sighs, and dips both of his hands up to his wrists into the pot of oil. 

The smell of it makes Stan sick. It’s far from his first time dealing with formaldehyde, and a tiny little demon at the back of his head is screaming at him that Dipper could’ve been coming into contact with it for much, much worse reasons if he came up from the basement to help him just ten seconds later. 

No. He squashes that thought down before it can get any worse, and begins rubbing the oil into the worst of the infection on Dipper’s wrist. It makes him flinch, and Stan’s not sure if it’s because of the smell or the burning sensation.

“Y’see, this is exactly why I tried keeping you and your sister away from the supernatural.” He flicks the excess oil off of his hands, but it’s a redundant gesture because he’s right back to sticking his hands in the pot anyway. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened to you if I hadn’t heard you in time? Or if I’d looked anywhere else in the Shack for you first? I would’ve been forced to assume the worst”

He’s trying to sound strict, but damn these kids for tearing him down so much that it hurts his chest to even think about it. “I can’t have the people I care about aimlessly running around and throwing themselves into danger”

“I’m not being aimless!” Dipper whines, but hisses in pain when Stan accidentally rubs some of the oil directly into the gashes in his wrist. 

“Mhm,” Stan hums. “And I’ve never spent a year in a Colombian prison”

“I’m not!” he squeaks. “Look, Grunkle Stan, I’m not just running around trying to hunt and capture every monster in the journal for fun, or anything! I’m so close to discovering the identity of the author that I have to follow leads when they present themselves! Nobody can really just...disappear out of thin air, right? He has to be around here somewhere”

Every nerve in Stan’s body freezes up at once. 

I’ve been telling myself that for thirty years, kid.

“Look, kid…” he pauses. What can he say? You’re never gonna find him cause I accidentally pushed him through an interdimensional portal? Oh, and by the way, he’s my twin brother and your other Grunkle and he would probably love you and your sister to bits if he were still here? “...I get it. I do. But you have to understand that I’d never forgive myself if anything horrible happened to you or your sister.” He waves a defensive hand in the air. “I don’t mean to say that you can never go anywhere, ‘cause even I know that tryin’a strap you down and make you sit still would be like caging a rabid animal.” He wipes the rest of the excess oil on his pant leg, and places a gentle hand on Dipper’s shoulder. “I just can’t have ya gettin’ hurt on my watch, ya hear?” 

Stan can’t help but drift his gaze towards his wrist,

More than you already have, anyway.

“It’s not like that. Mabel and I can take care of ourselves”

“Watch it.” Stan points an accusatory finger at him. “You’re twelve. The last thing you need is a hero complex”

“What?” Dipper shakes his head. “No, Grunkle Stan, I mean, Mabel and I’ve already fought half of the monsters in the journal and won. You don’t need to worry about anything happening to us”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “Kid, didn’t I just rescue you two from a hoard of zombies?”

“That’s just the thing! We’ve been chasing after monsters all summer, and this is the first time you’ve ever had to get involved!” Dipper’s beaming, and okay, someone better tell this kid to stop being a picture perfect replica of his brother before he finds out it’s his biggest weakness. “You saw Gideon’s giant robot the other day, didn’t you?” 

Stan blinks. “You mean that giant pile of metal scraps everyone was crowding around?”

“Yeah!” Dipper backtracks. “Okay, well, before that, it was a giant robot.”

“You’re losing me” Stan huffs. “What could Gideon’s broken robot have anything to do with why I should trust you running off on your own?

Dipper blinks, like he’s in disbelief that Stan hadn’t already connected the pieces together himself. “We’re the ones who broke it”

If Stan had a drink in his mouth, he’d be spit-taking all over the place right now. “You two? Wasn’t that thing twice the size of the shack?” 

“Oh, it was. As soon as the bus you put us on to go home pulled away from the bus stop, he tried chasing after us in it because he insisted that we still had something that he wanted”

Stan snorts. “Was he goin’ off about Mabel’s hand in marriage again?” 

Dipper laughs, but then he shakes his head. “No, he just kept rambling on about Journal 1 and how bringing the journals together could, I dunno, end the world or something? And he wanted to bring them together so he could hold the world hostage, or something.” He shrugs. “It didn’t make any sense to me. I mean, I know the author’s missing, but I just assumed he’d been kidnapped by some...thing that didn’t like being recorded. I didn’t think it was some kind of superweapon”  

Stan swears he can feel his blood turn cold. He tugs awkwardly at the collar of his shirt, and hopes Dipper assumes it’s because of the mid-summer heat.

“...But we didn’t have it!” Dipper throws his arms up in the air. “We tried telling him we had no idea what he was talking about, but he just kept getting angrier and calling liars. He had both of us in his...giant robot hands at some point, but then he decided there was nothing else he wanted from me and literally tossed me away”

Dipper’s hands are balling up into tiny, shaking fists. “He tried taking Mabel hostage. I wouldn’t have cared how much he insulted me, but...we’ve never been separated like that before”. He glances down at his shaky hands. “I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never been the braver one between us. But next thing I know, I’m flinging myself off the train tracks” 

“Train tracks?” Stan blinks. “Y’mean the ones up on the cliff?”

Dipper nods, blushing. “I just...went for it. I probably got a ton of cuts from the broken glass when I smashed through the eye of the robot,” he muses, pausing to give his own arm a look over. “But I don’t think I’ve ever felt so much adrenaline in my life”

Stan snorts. “You’re trying to tell me you punched the robot so hard that you knocked it off the cliff?”

“What? No, Gideon was inside of it. He was wearing one of those weird...motion control suit...things. The robot only lost its balance because I punched him in the face.”

Stan roars in laughter. “You punched Gideon in the face?” 

“Yep!” Dipper beams. “Quite a few times, actually. I think with everyone treating him like he’s a god he tends to forget that Mabel and I are three years older than him.” He flexes an arm to show off his nonexistent muscle. “Remember that trick you taught me about punching someone in the face with their own fist?” 

“Hah!” Stan grins. “That worked?” 

“Knocked the robot’s head clean off!” Dipper grins back. “Or, well, it probably would’ve, if that wasn’t what pushed the robot over the edge” 

Stan’s keeling over in laughter. He can’t believe how casually Dipper’s talking about this. Just a month ago, if Dipper had told him the same story detail for detail, Stan would’ve been sure that Dipper was describing a movie he’d watched the previous night. 

“Not bad, kid!” he grabs Dipper into a gentle headlock, messing up his hair. “But what about your sister, huh? Don’t think I don’t see you trying to take all the credit” 

“Oh, not at all!” He’s beaming again. “That’s the best part. Mabel’s the one who saved us from falling to our deaths. Don’t ever tell her I said this, but I think the grappling hook is the best thing she’s ever owned”

Stan nudges him with his elbow. “Yeah, last thing we need around here is both of you having giant heads”. Dipper glares at him, which only makes him laugh harder. 

Stan wipes a tear from his eye with his wrist. “Alright, kid. You convinced me. If you two can come out of fighting a giant sci-fi monster without so much as a scratch, I trust that you and your sister know what you’re doing”.

Dipper’s eyes go wide. “Really?” 

Stan nods. “Really. But you have to promise me you’ll still be careful, okay? I can go back on my word and hide that book away from you faster than you can say journal. Got it?” 

Dipper nods. “Got it.” and then, after a short pause, “I promise”. 

[iam93percentstardust]

More Important Things

I! Am Apparently writing Old Guard fic now! (don’t worry, I’ll be back to the regularly scheduled Marvel soon enough) So if you’re interested in soft Immortal Husbands who are too busy being in love to get themselves out of trouble, please go check it out on ao3 (or give it a reblog here)

~

Kidnappings, Nile comes to learn, are a simple fact of life when you’re part an immortal band of warriors dedicated to upholding all that is right and good in the world.

Wow, there’s a sentence she never thought she’d say.

It’s never again like how it was with Merrick Pharmaceuticals. No one is ever looking for them because of their immortality, especially not now with Copley covering their tracks. But when you’re part of an immortal band of warriors dedicated to upholding all that is right and good in the world, you tend to make a few enemies and, try as you might, you can’t always get everyone involved in a drug trafficking ring or a warlord’s band. Hence, the kidnapping.

She’s been kidnapped twice now: once with Andy and once on her own. When it was with Andy, they’d used gas and Nile suspects that’s the only reason they were kidnapped in the first place because she doubts Andy would have gone quietly the way Nile had when it had been just her facing off against ten armed men. Sure she could have eventually beaten them but they had been standing in a crowded marketplace—she hadn’t wanted anyone innocent to get hurt and she really hadn’t wanted any of the bystanders to notice her immortality.

This is the first time though that she’s ever been kidnapped with Joe and Nicky. It had been gas again, something potent and strong that made her wonder if they’d accidentally gotten the dosage wrong since she’s pretty sure she died at least once before waking up for good in an abandoned warehouse. She says accidentally because in another room, she can hear some of their captors talking and she’s pretty sure they’re not smart enough to have actually figured out their secret.

Nile wasn’t there when Joe and Nicky had been taken by Merrick Pharmaceuticals but she can’t help but imagine that it had probably looked something like this, with Joe hunched over Nicky, muttering at him in Italian though she has no idea what.

She likes the way Italian sounds, especially the way it just rolls off of Joe and Nicky’s tongues. She’d asked Nicky once if he would teach her, seeing as how Andy is already working on teaching her several other languages—Mandarin and Greek and Swahili among others—and Booker’s supposedly going to teach her French once his banishment is over. Nicky had just looked at her and simply told her, “No.”

It had been Joe who had told her that Italian and an ancient dialect of Arabic that no one else speaks anymore are their languages. Andy had told her later, “Don’t be offended. I don’t speak them either.” At the time, Nile, only a few weeks into her immortality, hadn’t understood but by this point, she understands it perfectly.

Joe and Nicky, Nicky and Joe, two suns that orbit each other, are terribly soft, even when they’re speaking in English. She can only imagine what it must be like when they’re speaking a language no one else understands.

Nicky coughs, says something in Arabic, and rolls over so he can sit up. Joe is right there to help him even though it’s obvious that Nicky doesn’t actually need any help. Soft, Nile thinks again. Soft with each other, with the members of their little band, with random people that they pass on the street. She doesn’t know how they’ve lived so many years and stayed soft but she suspects it’s for the same reason that all of their other traits are different than Andy and Booker—they’re Joe-and-Nicky.

“An abandoned warehouse,” Joe replies, switching to English.

“We got kidnapped by the most incompetent people imaginable,” Nile tells them.

“Did we?” Joe asks.

“You didn’t notice?” Nicky chides.

“I was a little wrapped up in you, habibi,” Joe murmurs and Nicky’s eyes go soft.

Nile makes a gagging noise. There is a time and place for their antics but this is definitely not it. They can be disgustingly romantic once they’re back at the safehouse.

Nicky glares at her but there’s no heat behind it. “One day, you will no longer be surprised by us.”

“I’m not surprised now. I’m trying to focus on how we’re going to get out of here.”

“You said they’re incompetent,” Joe says, switching into his professional mode. “How sure are you?”

“Pretty sure. I’ve been listening to them while you two napped—”

“—Ouch,” Joe mutters.

“—and I don’t think they gave us the wrong dosage on purpose.”

“So the question remains, did they figure out they killed us?” Nicky asks. He rolls his head to look at Joe. “Amore mio, I’m sorry but your dinner is going to have to wait. We need to know what they know.”

Joe swears in a language that doesn’t exist anymore, gloomily saying, “I was looking forward to that chicken. Nile, you would have loved it. He makes this lemon and white wine sauce, the recipe is from the 1500s, nearly perfected—”

“Nearly?” Nicky asks. He sounds almost offended, which is every bit as hilarious as the situation they’ve ended up in.

“Habibi, it’s so good, you know it is, but you know I’ve always thought it needed mushrooms and—

“Mushrooms would ruin it. How many times do I have to tell you—”

“—but if you just tried—”

“—I don’t have to try to know—”

“Quiet!” someone shouts from the other room.

As one, Joe and Nicky turn to glare at the door and then continue squabbling, this time in Italian. Nile can’t help but laugh. This is nothing like her kidnapping with Andy, which had felt more like an action movie (or a horror one depending on the viewpoint), or even like her own, which had mostly been a lot of waiting until the team had shown up (could she have broken herself out? Sure but that would have involved breaking her own wrist and she hadn’t wanted to do that).

As they bicker, she works on loosening the ropes around her wrists—further proof of their kidnappers incompetency because she twists her wrists the right way and the ropes just fall off—and then crawls over to Joe and Nicky to start working on theirs, who barely even bother stopping their argument to acknowledge her.

“Chi è il cuoco—thank you, Nile,” Nicky says, “in questa famiglia?”

Joe groans. “Non questo di nuovo—thank you, Nile.”

They suddenly stop as they hear footsteps coming from the other room. Nile glances at the two, they look back at her, and she’s suddenly glad that Andy insists on so much training because she knows exactly what it is they want her to do. She creeps to the door, stationing herself on one side of it, as Nicky positions himself on the other side. Joe stays in the center of the room, whistling to himself and generally looking as innocent as he can.

Again, she thanks whoever might be listening for the stupidity of their kidnappers as none of them even seem to think it’s suspicious that Joe and Nicky have stopped arguing. Instead, one of them steps right through the doorway, gun trained on Joe, wondering, “Hey, where are the other—”

He doesn’t even finish his sentence as Nicky sweeps his feet out from under him, neatly catching his gun and tossing it to Joe. The other two kidnappers shout and rush through the door, tripping over the first. Nile snatches the gun from one of them and Nicky takes the other. It’s over in moments, the kidnappers prone on the floor, no one else coming through the door, and their team with all the weapons.

Nicky trains his on the leader. “You were going to shoot Joe,” he says coldly. Nile shivers, remembering what Joe had once told her—that Nicky was the kind one. And for the most part he is: if they’re short on food, he always makes sure Nile ate first; he rescues baby birds; gives the local children in the village they’re hiding in candy. But when it comes to Joe, even when they’re immortal and it doesn’t matter if Joe gets hurt, he’s always hard. “You were going to hurt him and so you are the one who will answer my questions.”

“And if I don’t?” the kidnapper sneers.

Stupid, Nile thinks.

Nicky adjusts his aim and fires. The kidnapper screams, left hand going for his right shoulder, now a bloody mess. “Who do you work for?”

~

They’re leaving the warehouse, Joe and Nicky fussing over each other even though neither got shot, when Andy pulls up in their car, remarkable only because it’s practically falling apart. No one would look twice if they saw that on the road and that’s just how Andy likes it.

“I take it dinner is off, then?” she calls through the window.

“Sadly, yes,” Joe says mournfully, climbing into the backseat next to Nicky. “Nile, it’s such a shame. You really would have liked it.”

“Amore mio,” Nicky murmurs. “I’ll make you something else.”

“Nothing else could be as wonderful as the chicken you were going to make unless it is your smile, which warms even the coldest winter.”

Andy rolls her eyes and Nicky laughs.

“There it is. There’s that smile I love,” Joe murmurs, thumb gently touching the corner of his mouth.

“What about if I make you—” He slides into Arabic and Joe hums thoughtfully before responding in another language that Nile doesn’t know yet though she doesn’t think that it’s Italian.

“How was it?” Andy asks her as they drive off.

“Honestly?” She thinks about it for a moment and then says, “Best kidnapping yet.”

[bouwrites]

Even Heroes Have the Right to Dream: Chapter 10

You and me can make it anywhere, but for now we could stay here for a while.

First, Previous, Next. Ao3.

Story under read-more.

Jon is, quite frankly, surprised that his friends know Marinette well enough to pinpoint her as his roommate when her name starts blowing up in the late summer. David and Tamias have met her, and Mason’s seen her, but to his knowledge Jesse has never even come close to her.

It’s weird, to suddenly get messages from them all freaking out about how his roommate is Jagged Stone’s all-purpose designer, and, according to one article he reads, honorary niece. Especially since Jesse is the one who starts it.

Maybe having a flimsy pair of glasses and regular clothes as his disguise for the better part of ten years has given him less faith in people than they deserve. They can be surprisingly astute, sometimes.

He fends them off by giving them the basics. “Marinette didn’t even tell me until she had to work on those outfits in our apartment.” Jon tells them. “But yeah, she’s pretty cool, right?”

“Cool?!” Jesse exclaims. “Dude, she’s my hero right now!”

Jon has to fight off the urge to cringe at Jesse’s unfortunate choice of words. Marinette would not appreciate being called that. “Uh, don’t you think that’s a bit much?”

“No! Jagged Stone is my favorite, man! And now I know someone who’s roommates with someone who knows him! Personally! I’m like, two steps away from touching him!”

Mason clears his throat. “Maybe don’t touch him.” He says.

“You know what I mean, dude!” Jesse says, practically climbing on Mason as he throws his arm over his shoulder. Jon wonders briefly why they’re even together, until he remembers the both of them are from New York and probably see each other often during the summer. “She makes his clothes! That’s so stinking rad!”

“Definitely!” David says eagerly from another window. “I still can’t believe I know someone who actually knows the Jagged Stone! Like, dude! Why didn’t you mention that?!”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Why should I? I told you, I didn’t even know until she started her last commission for him, and until now she’s been keeping the fact that she designs for him under wraps. She asked me to keep it secret.”

“Aww.” Tamias says. “You’re cute with her.”

David immediately jumps up in his seat. “Yeah! That! You’re adorable, dude. Never change.”

Jon furrows his brow. “For… not telling you someone else’s secret?”

“Ignore them.” Mason says. “We get why you didn’t say anything, is what they mean.”

Doesn’t sound like it. Jon just shrugs and moves on. As Jesse goes on and on about Jagged Stone, Jon gets another call. He hesitates when he sees the name. “Hey, guys? I got to go. I’ll see you later.”

The boys chorus their goodbyes, and Jon hangs up on them so he can accept the incoming call. “Hey, Damian. What’s up?”

“I assume you already know,” Damian says curtly, “but I first want to confirm that you’ve seen the news about your roommate.”

“Uh, yeah, dude.”

“Good. This is your warning. That news has caught my father’s eye. As well as my brothers’. They already know, of course, of your relation to her. I don’t know what they plan or when they plan to carry it out, but you and she should both be prepared.”

Jon wants to joke, “What’re they going to do, commission her?” But then he realizes that yes, with the Wayne family, that is something warranting a warning. Especially since they know she’s his friend. “Ah,” He says instead, intelligently. “Good to know. If you get any more information, let me know and I’ll try to give Marinette a heads up.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the situation. And Jon?”

“Yeah?”

“I know she has navigated fame before but do be careful. Keep an eye on her.”

“Always, dude. She’s my friend.”

He hears the sharp, distinctive click of Damian’s tongue before the call ends. Jon can’t be sure with Damian, but he suspects that second thing is what the call was really about. Damian wouldn’t just call if he doesn’t have any solid information to share. So… he must just be concerned. About Marinette? About Jon? It’s hard to tell. The guy is so cryptic even now.

Jon just sighs and shakes his head. Yes, Marinette is a small celebrity at the moment. That’ll wear off soon enough, but in the meantime, and even in the future, she has to take care to avoid celebrity pitfalls. Things people like Damian deal with every day. People only interested in them for power or fame themselves, scrutiny from the media, Jon isn’t totally unfamiliar with it all himself. After all, Damian is one of his very oldest friends, and Superboy gets his own fame. (That’s different, of course, since he has his identity to hide behind, but the principles are the same. It’s just more pervasive when it’s your regular name that’s famous.)

But Jon isn’t worried. Apparently, Marinette’s old boyfriend was a celebrity in Paris (and, to Jon’s understanding, has both the good and bad kind of fame respectively before and after Hawk Moth was revealed), not to mention she has practice from being Ladybug. Marinette is fine.

And when he sees her in New York again, in their little apartment, and she’s positively buzzing with excitement about the future, Jon knows his instinct is right. Marinette is better than fine. She’s so much brighter than she’s ever been until now. She’s soaring like she’s Kryptonian, glowing with her own sun. Jon jokingly worries to himself that she’ll superpower him. She’s better than fine.

A week passes, school starts, and then one more week flies by before Marinette grins cheekily at him and drags him out of the apartment on their shared short day. Both of them are done with classes by noon, so it’s a rare day that they figure they might be able to switch things up and have lunch together instead of dinner. A little late lunch, given when they get themselves used to eating the rest of the week, but it’s an appealing idea. They like having that down time together, so eating together for lunch means they’ll have more opportunities for other plans later in the evening.

Not that they have to eat together every day, it’s just… after they made that promise last semester to double down on their studies, they both neglected going out for a lot of that. Even during the summer, it feels weird eating without her. It makes him miss her.

But Marinette drags him somewhere he never honestly expects to find himself. To the Fashion Institute of Technology. “Sorry about this,” Marinette says. “I was going to do this at home, but since we have so much time today, I thought you might find it interesting to come over and check out the place. Plus, the equipment here is better. I mean, I’m only fitting, but still.”

Jon just chuckles as he follows her through the building. “No, this is cool. What, uh, are we doing, exactly, though?”

Marinette snickers mischievously. “I made a bunch of mock-ups for you. I’ve never made anything for you before, and I kind of just guessed your measurements, so I want to make sure everything fits. It’s just basic stuff. A shirt, a jacket, and some pants, there’s no real design to them, because they’re just the base so that, when I do make stuff for you, I know they’ll fit.”

Jon feels her pull on his arm to get him moving. The elevator door opens, but he’s still processing what she says. “Wait, you’re planning on making me things?”

With a wink, Marinette says, “It’s a surprise! That’s why you’re going to be trying on everything. You never know what I might give you, or when.”

Jon feels his cheeks warm. “Th- That’s real nice of you, Marinette, but you, like- you have celebrity clients. You shouldn’t be wasting time making clothes for me. Plus, isn’t that expensive?”

“I have a celebrity client, remember?” Marinette says. “He pays me more than enough to afford the occasional gift for a friend. That’s supplies and time included. Don’t worry, I’d make you cookies if making you clothes actually hurt me at all.” Quieter, she adds, “No sacrificing, right?”

Jon nods. “Right.” He says quietly, still unsure. “And, uh, why are you planning on making me anything in the first place?”

“I never said it was for right now. It could be for Christmas, or your birthday, or… I don’t know. Whatever reason I might have to give you a gift. Don’t think of this as a promise, alright? Though, I absolutely am going to make you some better clothes.”

“Better?” Jon mumbles, slightly taken aback as he clutches his flannel shirt protectively.

“It’s just insurance, so that if I do, I can do it right. Okay?”

“…Okay.” Jon says. He still isn’t entirely sure what is spurring this on, but Marinette is happy and excited, so he decides not to make a big deal out of it.

“Okay! In here.” She pulls him into a large workroom and leads him to a table. “Wait here for a moment.” She rushes off and comes back with a large box that clatters when it hits the table. “Alright, here we go. First off, I’d like to actually take your measurements. You ever had that done before?”

Jon nods. “A few times.” He says. He’s never gotten fitted for a tailored suit or anything, but his costume as Superboy really needs to fit. He’s had his measurements taken a few times as he grew up and had to get new suits.

“Great. Stand right here.” Jon watches dumbly as she ducks and dances around him, measuring tape flying this way and that. One moment he has his arms out, the next he’s feeling the tape on his shoulders, the next it’s around him completely, and the next Marinette has her hand uncomfortably close to his crotch. It’s a brief, surreal moment that he thinks should really be a collection of moments, but flashes by so fast that it all blurs together and she’s writing down the last number with a satisfied smile before he even registers what’s going on.

Weirdly enough, the only coherent thought he has is, How often does she do this?

“I think I got close enough.” Marinette says, looking between the measurements and the pile of tan fabric in her box. “I added a little bit more than I guessed, just because it’s a lot easier to take out fabric than add, so these should probably be just a tad big on you.” She goes over to her box and starts digging, laying out on the table three separate items. “As I said, these are all just mock-ups for fit. There’s not much design to them, and they’re just made of muslin. When I do make things for you, I can take the measurements from the pattern for these and make something actually stylish with them. Here, try this on.”

Jon accept the shirt from her. It’s just a simple, tan, cotton shirt. If he is honest, it’s something he wouldn’t have any problem wearing on its own. He thinks it’s probably best not to say that aloud here, though.

There’s a brief moment where Jon hesitates, and looks around the room at everyone else present and working on their own things. There’s no real… privacy. Only a little screen in the corner, that several other people are already crowded behind.

“Jon?” Marinette asks softly. “Are you not comfortable changing here?” She frowns. “This is why I was going to do this at home. Would that be better?”

Jon glances over to the lady across the room who… honestly may as well be naked, and decides to suck it up. This is a fashion school, in a workroom with models who regularly walk around in a lot less. Jon can change his shirt. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s lost his clothes in public, anyway. Part of the reason he switched to a proper suit like his dad’s instead of jeans and a shirt. Hero work, when one’s outfit isn’t designed for it, tears up clothes fast.

It’s just the first time he’s doing it willingly and doesn’t have much more important things to think about. It’s fine.

And when he does take off his shirt and realizes barely anyone so much as glances at him (there are a few looks, but they’re fairly clearly more interested in Marinette and what she’s doing than him, though there is one small group of girls that giggle at him), the tension eases out of him a bit.

He slips Marinette’s shirt on quickly. It’s loose and comfortable. Jon thinks it fits just fine. I’d definitely just wear this. He has shirts in his closet he knows are bigger on him.

Regardless of his assessment, though, Marinette quickly gets to work picking at the fabric. No thread evades her scrutiny, and Jon laughs at how she pulls at the shirt every which way as she decides how she wants to approach what, if he’s reading her face correctly, must be some sort of monstrosity. Clearly, I have no fashion sense, so it’s all up to you, Marinette.

“Okay.” She says quietly, to herself. “As I thought, it’s big. I think I added too much to my estimates. Hold still for a moment.” She slips a pincushion around her wrist and gets to work molding the fabric to her will.

It’s strangely entertaining, when Jon thinks of the shirt as some despicable villain that she’s conquering. Inappropriate, given their histories, but a funny image regardless.

“How does that feel?” She asks, stepping back from him for a moment.

Jon lifts his arms and moves around a bit. It’s certainly more fitted than… well, all of his clothes. In a way, it reminds him of his super suit. Just no cape. He’s surprised at how okay with that he is. Though, the super suit is specifically made to be comfortable and to not restrict movement, so he supposes it only makes sense that well-fitting clothes serve the same purpose. “I like it.” Jon says.

“Oh, good. Jacket next, then. Here, let me help you take that off. I don’t want you messing up the pins.” As she helps gently pull the shirt over his head, she mumbles, “And normally, I’d be worried about them poking you, too, but I guess we don’t have to worry about that.”

Jon just giggles. “Nope. I’m good.”

“Alright, I’m going to baste this into place real quick so we don’t steal so many pins.” Marinette says, already threading a needle. At Jon’s hopeless look, she explains, “It’s a real quick, temporary stitch just to hold everything in place. Don’t worry about it. It’ll just be a minute or two.” Marinette quickly makes her new stitch, replacing the pins in the shirt as he puts his own shirt back on. “You can go ahead and put the jacket on while I’m doing this.”

Jon does as asked. “So, is this like an everyday thing for you?”

Marinette shrugs. “Not every day. Most of my classes aren’t much different than yours, I imagine. They’re mostly academic. But a few of them do involve this kind of thing, yeah.”

“Sounds like fun. I guess that’s what you get when you go to a specialized college.”

“What do you not do fun things at NYU?”

Jon thinks for a moment. “I mean, I’ve had fun classes. This is just really different than anything I’ve seen is all.”

Marinette giggles softly and sets the shirt down so she can focus on the jacket. “Maybe one of these days you’ll have to show me around your school. We can invite your boys, too.”

Jon groans. “Be ready to meet Jesse. He found out about the Jagged Stone thing and has been fangirling ever since.”

Marinette spares a moment to cover her face. “Oh, them, too?” She sighs. “Oh, well. I suppose it was inevitable. How does this feel?”

She steps back from her last pin to let Jon move around a bit. “Perfect.” He says honestly. “Ah, wait, maybe just a little tight around the elbow?”

Marinette clicks her tongue and makes a face that reminds Jon a little too much of Damian. Regardless, she pulls some of the pins out of the sleeve and adjusts them without comment.

“So, it is you!” A girl approaches them, grinning broadly. She’s cute, in a sort of cliché, pink, valley girl kind of way. If not for her vibrating in excitement reminding him of Jesse, he’d peg her immediately as a Regina George lookalike. Or, maybe that’s mean. Elle Woods works just as well, and fits her personality better, from what Jon can see.

She’s also one the small group of girls he caught gawking at him when he took his shirt off. Both times.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng, right? I’m Kasey, we have Intro to Knitwear together! And we had a few classes together last year, too.”

Marinette furrows her brow for a moment as the looks the girl up and down, but the light of recognition appears quickly. That makes Jon relax a little. Enough, at least, to think, Intro to Knitwear? Is that the kind of classes they take here? I’m sure it’s more difficult than it sounds, but… “Oh, yeah, I’ve seen you around!” Marinette says with a smile. “Did you need something?”

Kasey rubs her arms awkwardly, “Oh, well, I just- I saw the news over the summer. I wasn’t sure it was you you until I heard you two mention it. That’s so cool that you get to dress Jagged Stone! I just- I wanted to say congratulations!”

Marinette smiles politely. “Thank you. I was really lucky to get that opportunity.”

Kasey nods enthusiastically. “Can I ask what you’re working on now?” She looks over to Jon.

“Oh, nothing in particular.” Marinette says. “This is my friend, Jon. I’m just making sure I have his size right so I can make stuff for him later.”

“Oh, that’s clever!” Kasey exclaims. “This way, all your designs will still be a surprise when you give them to him, right?”

“That’s the idea.” Marinette smirks.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jon! How do you know Marinette?”

Jon politely shakes her hand. “I’m, uh, her roommate, actually.”

“Really? That’s cool! What’s your major?”

“Anthropology. I actually go to NYU.”

Kasey giggles. “Anthropology? You must be so smart!”

“Not as smart as Marinette.” Jon chuckle. “This girl could outwit me any day.”

Marinette glares playfully at him, but rather than commenting on his compliment, she just asks, “Is the sleeve better?”

“Oh, much.”

“Good. You can take that off, then. I’ll baste that, and you can put the pants on. Uh, er… if you’re comfortable with that?”

Jon looks nervously between Marinette, Kasey, the other two girls Kasey was with before, who are now on their way over to them, and the rest of the workroom doing their own things. With a heavy sigh, he says, “Yeah, whatever. I don’t care.”

Cheeks burning, he sheds his jeans and replaces them as quickly as possible without resorting to his powers. He’s positive he doesn’t imagine the looks from Kasey and the other two girls, though Marinette kindly doesn’t so much as glance up from her stitching on the jacket. With his shirt, he is awkward just because they’re in public. He lives with Marinette. He doesn’t care if she sees him shirtless. It’s hardly the first time. He’s seen her in nightclothes, too. More modest than him without a shirt, to be sure, but the principle of the matter is the same. That said, he does endeavor to always wear pants. This is awkward for every reason, so he’s thankful that Marinette respects that enough to not ogle him.

“Oh! Sam, Louise!” Kasey exclaims, waving at the two new girls. “Meet Marinette and Jon! Guys, these are my friends.”

Marinette nods politely again to the girls. “Good to see you, Sam. Nice to meet you, Louise. Oh, Jon, uh, apologies in advance.”

Jon chuckles. “No worries, Marinette.” He understands that she’s going to have to be a little handsy with him. When she’s working on a shirt or jacket, that’s a lot less awkward than pants, but it’s just what she has to do to make sure they fit properly. Jon knows this has to happen. It would probably be more awkward if they were alone in their apartment than in a studio surrounded by other designers and models doing similar things. So, he just sends his own greetings to the girls and lets Marinette get to work.

Sam is a striking lady, with sharp features and a general aura of power that would intimidate lesser people than Jon and Marinette. She prowls around them, and pokes at the shirt and jacket on the table. “So, what are you working on, Marinette?”

“Nothing special.” She answers. “Yet. Just sizing.”

Sam hums and her eyes travel to Jon. “You must be something special, for such an accomplished designer to be planning something like this for you.”

Jon shrugs. “Nah, not really. She’s a good friend. And she likes to give gifts to friends. Even when they insist they’re not necessary.”

Marinette rolls her eyes at him. “I told you, you don’t know that I’m doing it for nothing. That’s the point of a surprise! Maybe it’s for your birthday.”

Jon chuckles and leans a little towards Kasey. “That’s like the third time she’s mentioned my birthday, so it can’t be for my birthday.”

“Or maybe that’s what I want you to think.” Marinette says through some pins in her mouth.

“As I said.” Jon says. “She’s so much smarter than me.”

Louise, a stocky, kind-looking girl gives them all a toothy grin. “Aw, you’re so cute! Marinette’s really lucky to have a boyfriend like you!”

“Boyfriend?” Jon blinks dumbly, then shares a look with Marinette. “Aha, oh, no, we’re just friends. We’ve been rooming together for a couple years now, so we’re pretty close. Not dating, though.”

“O-oh!” Kasey says. “So, you’re single?”

“Mhmm.”

Louise grimaces and fiddles with her mousy hair. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“Nah, don’t worry.” Jon says airily. “No harm done.”

“Speaking of boyfriends,” Sam says suddenly, “I heard you’re dating Adrien Agreste.”

Marinette’s face scrunches up like she’s eaten a lemon. “I am? What about it?”

“Oh, nothing.” Sam says. “It just must have been a blessing to you to have been with such an accomplished model for so long as you were starting out.”

Marinette tenses, Jon can feel from the pull of the fabric, though she doesn’t show it outwardly beyond that. “His advice was helpful, yes, though I was never lucky enough to get his father’s critique except for one contest before we ever got together.”

“Hm. I’d consider that lucky, considering what he was up to behind the scenes.”

Marinette takes a deep breath. “Gabriel is a horrible man, but he does have an eye for fashion. Unbiased, his critique would still have been valuable.”

“I’m sure.” Sam says.

“And for your information, Adrien and I broke up almost two years ago. How does this feel, Jon?”

Jon moves a little again to get a feel for it. They’re more fitted than any pants he usually wears, tapered all the way down to the ankle. “Huh. Not a fit I’m used to, but it’s comfortable.”

“I wouldn’t expect it to be.” Marinette teases. “I’ve seen what you wear. I’m just making sure I’ve got my bases covered, this won’t necessarily be the fit of anything I do make you. Anyway, if they’re good for you, you can go ahead and change back.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jon chirps, shedding the pants as quickly as he can while not messing up the pins and slipping his jeans back on before he gets too self-conscious.

“I’m so sorry to hear about your breakup.” Sam says earnestly. “That’s such a shame.”

“It just didn’t work out.” Marinette shrugs. “It’s in the past.” She seems casual about it, almost dismissive, but Jon knows how much she loves Adrien. He puts his hand on her shoulder, just as a small gesture of support. Marinette smiles at him and quietly shrugs him off.

“Wait, you dated Adrien Agreste?” Kasey gasps. “What happened? Oh, no, was it because of everything around him after his dad was…”

“No.” Marinette says. “We just drifted apart, is all. We’re still friends.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

Sam eyes Jon up and down. “You don’t think he was jealous, do you? I mean, in another country, with you rooming with a cute guy… I wouldn’t blame him.”

“I broke up with him, actually.” Marinette says. “And no, he wasn’t jealous of Jon.” She sighs. “Look, no offense, but I really don’t want to talk about a relationship that’s been over for two years. It’s ancient history. Adrien and I are friends. That’s all there is to say.”

“I didn’t mean to offend.” Sam says sweetly. “It’s just with all this news about Jagged Stone, you’re a pretty hot topic right now.”

Marinette rolls her eyes. “Sure.”

“Hm.” Sam returns her gaze to Jon. “You’re single, though? How’s a guy like you still single?”

Jon nervously looks over to Marinette. “Uh… no reason, I guess.”

“Oh, come on. You must have people throwing themselves at you. You could pick anyone you want.”

Jon sees Marinette narrow her eyes at Sam, Kasey duck her head and turn to Louise, who pats her back consolingly, and Sam herself step in close to him. Not close enough to be weird, weird, but close enough. Jon chuckles sheepishly. “Nah, that’s not true. I’m nothing special.”

Marinette silently arches her brow at him, as if to say, “Really?”

“Honestly, I haven’t given much thought to relationships. I suppose my not looking for one is probably why I never had one.”

Sam’s eyes go wide. “Never?”

“Nope!”

“Oh, you poor thing. You’ve never had a girlfriend?”

“Nah, but I don’t really care.” Jon says honestly. “I mean, I’ve never even had a serious crush.” He pauses, then cringes. “Well, except for that one really embarrassing one on Damian.”

Marinette makes a strange, strangled sound that distracts him from how Sam and Kasey recoil. “Damian?!” Marinette exclaims. “Seriously? The Damian I’m thinking about?”

Jon can feel his cheeks burning. Should not have said that. Marinette still hasn’t met Damian, aside from the time he showed up in their apartment in hero uniform, but it isn’t that hard for her to piece together that Jon’s childhood friend Damian is the hero that Superboy was partnered up with for so long. She’s not a fan, since he’s notoriously unfriendly especially when they were younger. She trusts Jon that he’s a good guy, she says, but she also says he’s “a real piece of work” which Jon… can’t exactly disagree with. According to her, she likes him well enough, but he understands why the thought of having a crush on him is startling to her. “Hey,” He says. “I said it was embarrassing.”

“You’re gay, then?” Sam asks carefully.

“Bi, actually.” Jon says. “And in my defense, Marinette, Damian can be pretty cool.”

She snorts. “Big can be.”

“Aw, come on. Don’t be so hard on him. You haven’t even had the chance to meet him properly yet.”

“From your stories about him, do I want to?”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover. We were kids, back then. He’s better now.”

“And yet now isn’t when you have the crush on him, is it?”

Jon blushes despite himself. “…Touché, Marinette.”

She giggles. “Seriously, though, when am I going to meet him?”

Jon recalls Damian’s call just a few weeks ago and sighs. “Probably sooner than you think. I don’t even see him all that much these days, but I was on the phone with him earlier. I’ll tell you more about it later.”

Marinette nods, knowing not to push for information in public. It’s Louise that interjects with, “Wow, it’s super cool how confident you are about it! I wish I could be as casual as you.”

Jon smiles at her. “What, being bi? Honestly, I just got really lucky. I’ve got some of the best parents in the world, so I never really had to worry. Plus, it’s thankfully rare now that you find someone our age that has a problem with it. I know, um…” The memories press down on him as always. There are worse tragedies he’s seen, but that doesn’t erase the very personal nature of those. Or the pain that they cause. “I know a lot of people in bad situations. So, I’ve always been thankful for mine.”

Louise nods sympathetically. “I know what you mean. My parents ended up being okay with me, but I have friends who weren’t so lucky.”

Jon understands, and true to form for him immediately takes to Louise. She’s a mousy little girl, shy-looking and fidgety, and by the nature of queer solidarity, she’s already his new best friend. “What do you do? You a fashion designer, too?”

“Oh, no.” Louise shakes her head vehemently, as if frightened by the very idea. “I’m studying textile development and marketing.”

“Really? That’s sounds interesting.”

“It is! Though, I admit I’m more interested in making textiles than I am the marketing side of it all.”

Jon hums in agreement. “Oh, I feel you. I’m in anthropology, but I’m mostly interested in culture. I still have to take biology classes, though.”

Louise actually perks up. “That’s really cool! One of the things I really want to do is figure out more sustainable ways to make textiles. With materials and processes that don’t harm the environment so much. I’d love to take some biology classes, through that lens.”

“You know, that would be pretty cool. It’d be fun to study history and see if we could learn anything from how they used to do it. I know fabric was really expensive for a long time because it was all made by hand, but there might be some neat little tricks people used to use that could help today.”

“Yes!” Louise bounces with excitement. “We can learn so much from history! What do you think abou-”

“Hey, Louise?” Sam interrupts her, tapping on her phone. “It’s about time for class, isn’t it? We should probably get going.”

“O-oh! Right!” Louise ducks her head. “It was nice to meet you, Jon! I hope we meet again soon!”

“Yeah, you too!” Jon waves eagerly as she turns away. “Don’t let me keep you from class. Bye, Kasey, Sam.”

“Bye, bye, Jon! It was so nice to meet you! See you later, Marinette!” Kasey grins ear to ear as she waves back.

“I’ll see you later, Jon.” Sam says calmly. “Marinette.”

The three girls take off, leaving Jon alone with Marinette again. Marinette shakes her head and starts leading the way out of the building. “Sorry about that.” She says. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to join us.”

“I don’t mind.” Jon says. “They seem nice!”

Marinette chuckles. “Yeah, I guess so. You seemed to get along with them.”

“Yeah.” Jon agrees. “Sam is kind of… forward, though. She kind of grilled me on my love life, didn’t she?”

Marinette stares at him for a second, and then laughs loudly. “Oh, Jon, she was flirting with you. Kasey was, too. Didn’t you notice?”

“…No?”

She snickers. “No wonder you’ve never had a girlfriend. Though, I suppose if teenage Damian was your type, that might be an indicator, too.”

“Okay, lay off Damian at least until you meet him.” Jon rolls his eyes. “He’s a cool guy. And we were partners. I think you can relate to that.”

“My partner was a homeschooled dork who didn’t know smooth if it hit him in the face. Yours was tween wrath embodied in a traumatized emo. I think I get to tease you a little.”

Jon tries not to laugh. He really does. If he laughs, she wins, and he is trying his best to defend his best friend. But still. It’s more justified than her wording makes it sound, but it is true.

He can’t help cackling nearly all the way home.

——-=——-

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[malcyon]

That March Night

Summary: “You gonna call me that the whole time?”

Roy laughs lightly, “What? Jaybird? Don’t like it?”

Jason quickly shakes his head. “No, no, I . . . It’s fine. I like it.”

*****

Roy goes to the Wayne Manor to talk (yell) about Oliver to Dick. He doesn't expect to end up talking to Jason instead.

Read on AO3

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Roy ignores the sting of Gotham’s winter biting his nose as he walks up the front steps of the Wayne Manor, the snow crunching behind him as his cab drives away. He shivers and looks up.

Wayne Manor is nothing like home. It sits elegantly on top of a low hill, almost like a palace, unafraid of what the city only a couple of miles away could do to it. The Queen Mansion isn’t like that at all. Vast gardens and tall trees practically hide it from view, allowing a sense of secrecy. Roy used to spend hours following Oliver around in those trees, trying to line up the perfect shot with a toy bow and arrow as his mentor pretended not to notice him on the ground below and—

No, he’s not going to think about Ollie. Roy whips his gaze forward, jaw tightening.

The Manor is nothing like home, and he’s never been so thankful for that as he is now.

He climbs the steps and punches the ridiculously ornate doorbell with a freezing finger. Then he waits, breath frosting in the air, wishing he’d grabbed an actual jacket when he’d stormed out and zeta-beamed over.

How the hell could a city be so cold in fucking March?

One of the doors opens, and Alfred raises an eyebrow as Roy rushes in, leaving trails of mush behind him. “Sorry,” he manages, trying to rub some feeling back into his hands. The butler looks him over, taking in the rumpled sweatshirt, jeans, and snowy boots before shaking his head with something that isn’t quite exasperation but isn’t quite amusement either.

“Master Richard isn’t at the house at this time, Mr. Harper.”

Shit. Of course, the asshole isn’t here yet; it’s not like Dick promised he would be or anything when Roy had called only ten fucking minutes ago.

He’s about to mutter out some excuse to leave; maybe apologize for the slush on the carpet too, since Alfred lays a firm hand on his shoulder in the way that usually precedes a scolding. He tenses with the contact, but then the old man says, “However, perhaps you would like something to drink?”

Oh.

Roy doesn't know how to respond to that, can only nod as Alfred smiles at him with a fondness that he hasn’t seen from anyone in a while. The butler drops his hand and begins to lead the way to the kitchen, even though Roy’s been in the house plenty of times before to know exactly where it is. Roy follows cautiously, praying that he isn’t leaving a trail of snowy footprints in his wake.

After several seconds of silence, Alfred gives him a knowing side-eye, finally asking, “May I ask what brought you here tonight?”

Roy looks down at his muddy boots. “Just another stupid fight. Nothing new.”

Because there isn’t any point lying to Alfred; the man knows him too well by now. And it was a stupid fight: Oliver going on about recklessness when he’s hardly even there to see if Roy’s being an idiot. A fact that Roy was all too glad making known. And, like usual, it escalated, voices rising until he stomped out as Oliver yelled after him.

Calling Dick had been an impulse decision. Because usually he’d go to Donna, whine as she kissed his wounds before telling him that he was an idiot and to go fix his damn problems like an adult. Like any of their eighteen-year-old asses can be considered adults. Like any of them actually know what they're doing.

But he doesn’t want his girlfriend’s logic and sensibility. He wants to rant to somebody who can understand, and who else is better for that than Dick “Daddy Issues” Grayson. Dick, who’s been visiting the Manor daily while the Big Bad Bat is off-world on some mission.

Except Dick isn’t here.

Fantastic.

Alfred gives him a forlorn look, dragging Roy back into the present.

“Arguments can tear families apart, Mr. Harper. I’ve seen it happen here. I’d rather not see it happen to you.”

The way he says that makes something ache in Roy’s chest, so he glances away and mutters, “Do you know when Dick is gonna be back?”

The butler doesn’t seem ruffled by Roy’s callous change in topic, not that he's ruffled by much, and continues walking calmly. “He was out visiting Ms. Anders in New York, I believe.” Fuck, he’s going to be waiting forever if Dick is with Kory. “However, he said that he would be back tonight to spar with Master Jason.”

Roy nearly skips a step.

He hadn’t even thought about Jason being here. Not that it’s a bad thing it’s just . . . He hadn’t even thought about it.

They aren’t too close, had held mindless conversations whenever Dick had brought the Boy Wonder up to the Titans’ Tower, sparred together a few times. The kid’s talented definitely, but from what Roy’s seen, there’s a heaviness on Jason’s shoulders that the former Robin had never had. Something rough around the edges. Eyes little too sharp and hits that can land a little too hard. Hell, Dick had mentioned before that Jason tends to “use excessive force” on criminals and is less forgiving than any of Batman’s other partners.

But Roy likes him. Jason is smart, quick with puzzles and even quicker with words. And, despite the cocky attitude he puts on, there’s a shyness that appears whenever any of the Titans talks to him.

It’s kinda cute, really.

Alfred turns into the kitchen, and Roy lets himself stop in the doorway to soak up the warmth of the room. He closes his eyes and rests his head on the doorframe, hears Alfred shuffle through the cabinets. He takes in a shaky breath and the world fades away.

God, he’s tired.

He must have dozed off against the doorframe because it’s the sound of chopping that makes him blink back to life. Alfred is standing by the counter, a small pile of chocolate pieces collecting on his cutting board as he goes through a massive slab of the stuff. Roy starts, “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Harper. Hot chocolate is the best remedy for a cold night, and, besides, I was feeling rather chilly myself earlier.”

Roy’s throat tightens. “Thanks.”

“Of course. Please have a seat.”

He hesitates, then moves to the kitchen island and pulls out one of the stools from beneath it, sitting quietly. Alfred finishes cutting, puts the pieces into a double boiler on the stove, and cranks up the heat. Roy watches and tries not to fall asleep again as the scent of melting chocolate fills the air. Alfred hums from around the sink, and, screw it, Roy lets himself bury his head in his arms and shut his eyes.

The butler can shake him awake later.

Then he hears the sound of padded footsteps, followed by, “Hey, Alf, Bruce just called; he has some new information for you to put into—oh.” Roy turns around in his seat to see Jason, clad in flannel pajama pants and a Wonder Woman sweatshirt.

Roy’s mouth quirks with a smile.

Jason stares at him with big eyes, suddenly seeming very unsure and out of his depth. “Am I—uh, interrupting anything, or . . . ?”

Alfred shakes his head as he dries his hands with a dishtowel. “Not at all, Master Jason. What is it?”

Jason looks away from him, putting his hands in his pockets. Roy watches the kid bite his lip and shift his weight from foot to foot as if neither are comfortable to settle on. “Bruce has a couple of files on the Falcone case he wants you to sort through. But since you’re busy, I can take care of it.”

“There’s no need, I’ll do that if you finish with the hot chocolate here.” Roy isn't sure, but there’s almost a smugness to Alfred’s words.

Jason freezes, and his eyes flick to him—almost too quick for Roy to catch it—before going back to the old man. “I . . . Yeah, okay. The files are by the Computer, next to that stuff about Scarecrow’s new toxin.” Alfred dips his head and walks out, steps crisp on the hardwood, and Roy swears that he sees the tiniest curl of a smile on the butler’s lips.

Roy stares after him because he must have missed an inside joke or something—

Jason clears his throat, once again shifting on his feet as Roy’s eyes snap back to him. He tilts his head, brow furrowing. Was Jason that tall the last time Roy saw him? Jesus, the kid is already nearly Dick’s height, at this rate, he’ll probably be taller than Roy.

And bigger too. Jason is solid, certainly not as flexible or as fast as his adopted brother, but will make up for it in brute strength. It’s a little strange how similar the two look, but up close, the differences are obvious. Besides build, Jason is paler than Dick’s racially toned skin, making the blush on his cheeks stand out a hell of a lot more now that Roy’s noticing it. He frowns.

“You okay, kid? You seem a little flushed, don’t have a fever, do you?” He stands, walking over to Jason and pressing a hand to the boy’s forehead in concern, something Donna always does whenever somebody is feeling sick.

God, next he’ll be mother-henning over the kid.

But before he can move his hand away, Jason takes a quick step back, looking even pinker. “I’m fine, thanks. Just gonna grab the milk.” He darts past Roy, shoulders stiff. Roy blinks, but only shrugs and sits back down at the counter because okay then. Jason keeps his back to him as he pours the milk into the chocolate mixture, the tension in his body making Roy’s muscles ache.

The silence begins to tick by. Roy's fingers start to tap on the counter.

Should he talk? He feels like he should talk. Roy racks his brain, trying to remember anything Dick had said about the kid.

He mentioned getting books for Jason around Christmas, classic novels. Roy has never been a big fan of those, he prefers non-fiction and instruction manuals, facts. Like that stuff on engineering Ollie had given him for his birthday last year—

No, he can’t think about Oliver right now. He won’t. And he shoves those memories down, down, down, until he can pretend they never happened.

It takes a few seconds before Roy realizes that he’s been clenching his fist so hard his fingernails have left sharp, angry indents in his palm. He forces himself to lay his hands flat on the counter. Takes a breath.

Fuck, he needs a vacation from this shit.

He looks up, just as Jason turns around. The red is gone from his face, replaced with a relaxed focus as he walks from cabinet to cabinet, finding and throwing different spices into the pot. He doesn’t even need to stop and read the labels; just knows exactly what he’s doing. Roy watches, a little mesmerized by the surety of Jason’s movements. By the kid’s soft expression and the slight furrow of his brows as he concentrates.

Roy almost regrets it when he interrupts the other boy’s tranquility by asking, “Do you like to cook?”

Jason freezes, hand hovering over the hot chocolate, and, yeah, Roy should have kept his mouth closed going by the sudden nervousness on Jason’s face. Like Roy is going to make fun of him. Finally, the kid says, “Uh . . . Yeah, when I get the chance.”

Jason doesn’t continue, which should probably be Roy’s cue to just shut up, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to sit in awkward silence until Dick gets here.

“Why?” He’s honestly a bit curious. Jason doesn’t seem the type to spend time in the kitchen, and Dick sure as hell barely steps into one.

The kid stares at him cautiously, as if he’s waiting for Roy to insult him. Roy leans forward, propping his head up with a fist and putting an interested smile on his face. Jason looks away, tips of his ears pink. Slowly, he says, “We never had a lot of food when I was a kid, so . . . I don’t know, It’s nice getting to create something and then give it to other people to make them happy. Feels good.” Jason wrinkles his nose. “That sounds dumb.”

Roy chuckles and shakes his head. “It’s not dumb, it’s. . . It’s kinda cool, actually.”

Jason blinks, and then his face breaks into a smile. It’s a nice smile, one that Roy hasn’t seen before. “Plus, it’s funny to watch Dick try and help when all he can do is set water on fire.” He snickers and Jason cocks his head, brows coming together. “I have no idea when he’s gonna be back if you need to talk to him.”

Roy shrugs, suddenly not minding his friend’s absence as much. “He was with Kory last I heard,” he says, and Jason makes a face.

“You might be here for a while then.”

He snorts, and that nice smile appears on Jason’s lips again. “Yeah, they’re disgusting.”

Jason nods in agreement, then frowns. “What did you need to talk about anyway?” Roy freezes, reality dousing him like ice water. The kid stills, eyes darting down as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—“

“No, no, it’s okay. Not like it’s a big secret or anything,” Roy mutters, running a hand through his hair. Maybe he should grow it out; perhaps that would get Oliver’s attention. “Ollie and I had a fight, needed to rant about it to somebody.”

He looks up at the ceiling, feeling the familiar bitterness rise in his chest. God, maybe he should leave, go to Dinah’s place, fuck waiting for Dick—

“You can rant to me if you want.” Roy blinks, and Jason looks away, almost managing to shrug like he couldn’t care less. But there’s an honest sincerity when the kid murmurs, “I—uh—I know I’m not Dick or any of your other teammates, but I’ll listen. If you ever want to talk or anything . . .”

Roy goes still, gazing at the other boy silently.

He isn't the type to 'talk' about his feelings, and if he ever does, it's after downing copious amounts of alcohol.

The team knows that, knows not to bring up Oliver when Roy stomps into the tower eyes blazing. Knows to just let Donna speak to him before approaching. Knows, if Donna's not there, to let Dick or Wally or even Garth follow him into the gym and spar with him for hours just so he doesn't have to talk about it.

Even then, it took years for him to fully open up to the original team. And as of now, Roy would rather stew in anger than share his emotions with Kory or Raven or Vic or, God forbid, Gar. He knows it's not fair to keep himself so locked up when they've practically laid out their darkest secrets to the whole team, but he just can't do it. But now there's Jason.

Jason, who he hardly knows, with his too-big sweatshirt and clever mouth and, before he can think about it, Roy's talking.

“Well, then. Buckle up, Jaybird. You ready to talk shit about father figures?”

Jason stares at him for a second, long enough for Roy to start believing that he’ll back out, but then a smile creeps across his face. “You gonna call me that the whole time?”

Roy laughs lightly, “What? Jaybird? Don’t like it?”

Jason quickly shakes his head. “No, no, I . . . It’s fine. I like it.”

The kid takes two mugs from a cabinet and pours them both some hot chocolate. Roy watches curiously as he then grabs some whipped cream from the fridge, topping off the drinks along with a bit of cinnamon.

“So, Harper—“ Jason slides Roy a cup and rests his elbows on the kitchen island, leaning towards him. His eyes are either green or blue, Roy can’t figure out which—“let’s talk shit.”

Roy smiles and takes a sip from his mug. The chocolate and spices dance through his mouth, and he can feel himself relax for the first time in God knows how long. The glow of the kitchen seeps through his skin, and his throat tightens. This is what a home should be like.

Jason watches him, waiting patiently. Roy takes a breath and begins.

It starts with Oliver, his needling over Roy’s every mistake before taking off again for a meeting or a mission or anywhere where Roy can’t go. They don’t even talk that much anymore, not that they did before, but still. Roy must have messed up, did something wrong that made Oliver disappointed enough that he doesn’t want to be around him.

Saying that out loud stings, or maybe it burns, deep in his chest.

Because what did he do wrong? Dinah hasn’t said anything, but she’s been busy lately with the League, and he hasn’t gotten to actually see her in weeks. And Hal had popped in not too long ago, but the Green Lantern couldn't exactly hang around to go on patrol and listen to Roy's concerns. Still, Roy's sure that somebody would call him out if he had really fucked up. Not Oliver, but somebody.

Somebody has to care, right?

Jason is a good listener, doesn’t interrupt once, only watches him with eyes that get it. He lets Roy curse and ramble, and by the end, Roy’s shoulders feel lighter than air. He’s even grinning as Jason snorts at his impression of Oliver’s ‘You should so definitely be disappointed in yourself even though I did that exact same dumbass thing less than a minute ago’ speech.

He finishes with several obscene hand gestures that make Jason snicker and then slumps back into his seat, taking a deep sip from his mug. Jason hums from across the counter, rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes, and Roy frowns.

Being Oliver’s partner can suck sometimes, but at least he’s not Batman. Gotham is one fucked up piece of work, and it takes a certain kind of crazy to be able to live there and not go insane. Bruce has seen a lot of shit, everyone who picks up the mask has, but sometimes Roy can’t help but wonder what it was that made the man so hard on his sons.

The logical part of Roy’s brain reminds him that it's because he cares.

Dick would probably punch that part of him in the face.

And Bruce’s standards were high even when Dick was Robin. But Jason isn’t Dick, hell, Roy can see that, and he hardly knows the kid. And even he’s noticing how Jason is fraying at the edges; how sometimes his smiles don’t seem to reach his eyes.

Maybe Roy isn’t the only one who needs to be asked if he’s okay.

He opens his mouth to do just that, but Jason interrupts him with an easy grin and says, “So, besides yelling at Oliver, what else do you like to do?”

The question Roy’s about to ask is pushed aside, and he blinks in surprise, trying to come up with an answer. “Uh. I’ve been working on these designs for some new trick arrows, they—”

Jason glances up from where he’d been tracing mindless patterns on the counter. There’s a spark of curiosity in his teal eyes, and whatever Roy was saying turns to puffs of smoke in his brain. “You create that stuff? Like, you build weapons and shit?” He nods, a little taken aback because nobody’s really asked him about this before. Jason grins at him, wide and beaming. “That is so cool.”

Roy shrugs, attempting to ignore the heat spreading across the back of his neck. He rubs at it, trying and failing to look away from the genuine interest on Jason’s face. “Yeah, uh, I like making stuff. I’m working on this sonic arrow right now, trying to mimic Dinah’s scream. But I can’t quite get the sound waves to resonate from the shaft the right way and—“

It’s obvious that the kid doesn’t wholly understand what Roy is talking about. Still, he interrupts to ask questions and actually seems interested in what Roy’s saying. Not just nodding and zoning out like most people do, and seriously why Dick doesn’t hang out with Jason more instead of sulking around the Tower.

Sulking might be a bit too harsh, but still.

Jason has just finished muttering about Bruce’s stupid double standards on saying names in the field when Roy’s phone rings in his pocket. He pulls it out and flashes the screen to Jason, who only rolls his eyes when he sees the caller. Roy hits accept and holds the phone up to his ear.

“Okay, I know I’ve left you hanging at the Manor for over ten minutes, but—”

“Twenty-five, actually.”

“But I’m going to be there in twenty so—”

“So, you’ve actually left me here for forty-five minutes.”

There are several seconds of silence as Dick goes quiet. Jason raises his brows, and Roy shrugs in response, an amused grin spreading across his face. Dick sighs, low and nearly annoyed. “Kory and I had a fight.”

The grin slides away, and Roy straightens up. “Again? Shit, man.”

“Yeah. ” he trails off then continues, “You tell me about Oliver and I tell you about this? I know where the key to Bruce’s liquor cabinet is; we can get drunk.”

Roy hesitates. He isn’t angry anymore, just . . . Happy might not be the right word, but with the taste of chocolate on his tongue and the sight of Jason playing with the strings of his Wonder Woman sweatshirt in front of him . . . It’s the only thing that explains the weird warmth in his chest. Plus, getting wasted to deal with Oliver's shitty parenting skills won't be worth the hangover in the morning. He shrugs even though Dick can't see him.

“Actually, I’ve been talking to Jason about it.”

The other boy’s head shoots up, eyes wide, and Roy hears Dick from the other end go, “Jason?”

He smiles and flicks a piece of leftover chocolate at the kid, who scrunches up his nose in response. “Yeah, he and Alfred made some hot chocolate too, if you want. Probably the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” Jason rubs the back of his head at that, cheeks turning pink.

There’s a small laugh from over the phone. “They . . . Yeah, that sounds really nice, actually.”

“Alright, see you in twenty.”

“See you.” Roy hangs up, tucks his phone in his back pocket as Jason rubs his thumb self-consciously on the counter. Neither of them say anything for a moment, an almost comfortable silence settling between them.

Jason looks down at his socks.

“Do you think . . .” His voice grows quiet, and Roy sets his hot chocolate on the island, a bad feeling growing in his stomach at the kid’s tone. Jason doesn’t continue; only keeps staring at his feet.

Roy’s fingers begin to tap against the counter anxiously.

"Yeah, Jaybird?”

Jason looks up at the nickname, that ever-present blush appearing on his cheeks again. It takes more willpower than Roy wants to admit to focus on what the boy says next instead of staring at his eyes.

“Do you think that Bruce will . . . make me quit being Robin?”

Roy blinks.

The fuck?

“I’m sorry, what? Why the hell would he do that?” Jason winces, and Roy immediately quiets and clenches his fists instead. He tries his best to push the initial what the fuck tone out of his voice as he continues lowly, “Jay, where did that thought come from?”

Jason swallows, shoulders hunching like he wants to disappear into the floorboards. “Forget it. It’s nothing.”

“Fuck that.” Roy walks around the island and leans against the wall opposite of Jason, eyes beginning to flash. “What made you think he’d do that?” The kid doesn’t answer, and Roy’s gaze narrows. “Did Bruce say something? I swear to God, he was such an asshole with the whole falling out thing with Dick I wouldn’t be surprised if he—”

“He doesn’t trust me! The guy fell, I didn't—”

Jason stops, his outburst echoing on the kitchen walls.

Roy stills and his brow furrows in confusion. Jason is looking down again, his face is pale like he’s about to collapse. Roy takes a step forward. “Jay?”

The other boy doesn’t move; only takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I know that I fuck up sometimes, alright. I know that. I know that Bruce doesn’t trust me like he trusted Dick, and that’s okay, I get it.”  

No, it is most certainly not okay.

“And he was already always fuckin' telling me, ‘I expect more from you,' and ‘Don’t hit that hard, Robin,’ and I’m trying and he doesn’t care, because I won’t ever be good enough for him. And I know that. But I never thought—” Roy’s mouth goes very dry as he notices that Jason is actually shaking, trying to keep it together. He's about to reach out when Jason takes a quick breath and continues, “Never thought that he’d think I would—”

The kid cuts himself off again, turning away and biting his thumb. Roy moves on instinct to put a hand on his shoulder, make Jason face him. It takes everything to not punch the wall behind him when he finally fully sees Jason's expression.

He looks broken. Gaze darting over Roy's face and muscles rigid as stone, palm pressed against his mouth like he's trying to hold in the words.

Roy rests both of his hands on Jason’s shoulders and squeezes him gently. “What happened, Jay?”

Jason stares up at him, eyes desperate. “You have to believe me, Roy. You have to. I—There was this dealer the other night, okay? B and I had been tracking him for a while and, shit, we even walked in on him hurting this girl. Kept bringing him to the cops, but they didn’t do anything. Said there wasn’t enough evidence or some kind of bullshit like that.

“So I—I went to his apartment,” Jason whispers, teeth grinding together. “Was hopin’ to find something on him while Bruce was busy with the police. And I saw him, just—drinking liquor on his damn balcony like he hadn’t done anything wrong. And I was so angry, but, Roy, I wouldn’t—The guy fell, I . . .” Jason stops, breaks out of Roy’s gentle grip and presses his lips firmly together.

“Jaybird, Jason, I believe you,” Roy tells him softly. “I believe you, I swear.”

Jason shakes his head sourly. “Bruce doesn’t. He thinks I pushed—” He shuts his eyes tightly—“I wouldn’t. I told him that. I told him, but he benched me. He actually thinks that I—”

Roy is moving before he can even think about it, pulling Jason against his chest and letting the boy rest his forehead against the crook of Roy’s shoulder. Jason isn’t even crying, just shaking, still holding his hand up to his mouth as Roy murmurs into his hair, “Hey, hey. I got you, okay? I got you.”

Jason grips his sweatshirt, breathes against Roy’s neck. “I haven’t told Dick. I don’t want him to look at me like . . . Like Bruce did. Don’t want to disappoint him too.”

Something inside Roy breaks, and he pulls away, makes sure that Jason is looking him in the eyes. “Hey, you are not a disappointment.”

Jason laughs, weak and bitter, “That’s bullshit, and you know it, Harper.” His eyes suddenly spark, and Roy almost takes a step back. “Besides, what the fuck do you know? You’re a damn Titan, you’re not . . .”

A suffocating silence fills the room, heavy and rotten.

The back of Roy's throat burns when he manages, “What do I know? You’ve been listening to me for the past half hour, right?”

Jason freezes, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I—Shit, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

“Jason.” The kid looks up at him, face flushed and eyes red. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I . . .”

“Hey.” Roy places his hands back on the kid’s shoulders. “I said it’s okay, didn’t I?” Jason stares at him for a moment before hesitantly nodding.  

Roy drops his hands and hops up on to one of the bar stools, leaning over to grab his mug across the island. He takes a deep swig like he’s drinking vodka instead of hot cocoa, and runs through the words in his head.

Jason watches him incredulously. Roy sighs.

“Alright, I’m only saying this once, so pay attention.” He holds up a finger. “Bruce is an asshole. He’s an asshole who thinks he’s always right and who would probably rather dive off of the Wayne Tower instead of talk about his feelings. He’s also an asshole who loves you.” Jason snorts, and Roy shakes his head. “No, I'm serious. You’re his son; even if you think you’re just a replacement for Dick, you’re his son, Jay.”

“But Dick is—”

“You’re not Dick.”

That shuts the kid up, makes him blink up at Roy like he isn’t seeing him quite right. Roy shrugs, feeling a little self-conscious under Jason’s stare. “Well, you’re not. You’re nothing like him, and that’s completely fine. Great even.” Roy thinks of Dick’s ever-charming smile and his ability to sweep anyone off their feet in a matter of seconds. He shakes his head. “Honestly, the world only needs one Dick Grayson anyway.”

He grins, sliding off the stool to ruffle Jason’s hair. “Besides, I think you’re pretty awesome. And the rest of the team does, too. You’re smart and good in a fight. You even helped us solve that Zandia case the other day; we would have been stuck for hours if you hadn’t worked on that. Those people would be dead right now if you weren’t there, Jaybird."

He nudges Jason with his arm, eyes crinkling with a smile. “So what if you disappoint Bruce? You’ve got us now. And if the others don't want you, then, hell, I do. So there,” Roy finishes, beaming broadly while Jason stares at him, mouth parted and eyes round. That blush is back, going all the way up to the kid’s ears and making the blue-green of his irises stand out even more.

After several seconds of silence, Roy cocks his head uncertainly. “You . . . uh, good there, Jay?”

Jason starts, shaking his head like he’s clearing out cobwebs. “Um . . . Yeah, yeah, sorry. I just wasn’t expecting . . . that.”

Roy laughs, rubbing the back of his neck while shrugging awkwardly. God, he’s not good with emotions. “Hey, any of the others would have said the same.”

"No, they wouldn’t, but . . . Thank you, for that, it . . .” Jason's voice tapers off and he's still staring at Roy as if he'd just found the answer to an extremely complicated case.

Roy shrugs again. “Hey, you just listened to me rant about Oliver for the last half hour, the least I can do is—”

He isn’t expecting it.

Isn’t expecting Jason to step forward, one of his hands curling into the fabric of Roy’s sweatshirt while the other cups his cheek. Isn’t expecting him to hesitate just for a second, eyes darting from Roy’s wide stare to his lips before leaning in. Isn’t expecting Jason to press his mouth against his, kissing him in a way that’s gentle and warm and surprisingly soft.

He certainly isn’t expecting himself to kiss back.

His hands bunch into Jason’s dumb Wonder Woman shirt, drawing him closer. The other boy’s mouth parts with a gasp and a shiver and Roy can taste the cinnamon at the corners of Jason’s lips. He instinctively reaches up to grip black curls and Jason isn't that bad of a kisser, uncertain, maybe, but he's getting the hang of it; letting Roy take control and tilting his head just the right way so that Roy can—

Jason moves forwards, making Roy stumble back into the kitchen island, Jason falling against his chest. And Jason laughs into him, quiet and breathless, before crushing their mouths together. The boy rests his arms over Roy's shoulders, fingers tangling in his hair as Roy smooths his palms along Jason’s waist, feeling him shudder again under his touch.

He brushes his tongue against Jason’s mouth, and Jason opens for him immediately; the taste of hot chocolate becoming strong enough that Roy is sure he could get drunk off of it alone. Jason makes another noise, something between a sigh and a moan and—

—And he’s kissing Dick’s little brother. Dick’s fifteen-year-old brother. Dick, who is going to be here any second and will actually kill him if he sees this. Unless Bruce beats him to it. And Donna, fuck, how could he forget about Donna.

Roy isn’t sure if reality hits him or Jason first.

He lets go of the kid and stumbles a half-step away, heart stopping in horror as his actions catch up to him. As Jason jumps back into the wall behind him like Roy is on fire. As a sudden silence fills the air, settling heavily onto his shoulders until it feels like it's crushing him. They stare at each other, panting, and Roy hates the part of him that notices that Jason’s mouth is red and wet and that he’s flushed head to toe.

Jason brings his fingers to his lips, touching them like what had just happened had been in a dream, and he has to make sure it was real. “I . . . We . . . Shit, I didn’t think . . .”

His voice trails off, and Roy swallows numbly. He feels like the ground is shifting under his feet as he prepares for the most awkward talk in his life about why they can’t ever do or mention this again. “Jason—”

“Hey, Roy, you here?”

Dick’s voice explodes through the tense quiet like a bomb, and Roy whips around, brain trying to come up with anything to say. Desperately he looks behind him, to beg through eye contact to not say something that could give them away, but . . . Jason is gone.

Like he had never even been there in the first place.

Fuck.

Roy is still staring blankly when Dick enters the room, shrugging off his winter coat. “Hey, I know you said that Alfred and Jay made some hot chocolate, but I grabbed the key for Bruce’s cabinet anyway because I can’t be completely sober when I tell you what—” Dick stops, voice turning concerned when he sees the look on Roy’s face. “You okay, man?”

Roy opens his mouth. Closes it. The taste of hot chocolate and cinnamon turns to ash in his mouth. Alcohol sounds really, really good all of a sudden.

He smiles, his chest feeling like someone had scraped out an important part of him with a knife. “I’m fine, just really need to be drunk when I tell you about this bullshit Ollie said to me.”

Dick makes an understanding noise, wrapping an arm around Roy’s shoulders as he leads them out of the kitchen. Away from the gentle lights and the smell of chocolate and the way Jason’s lips had felt against his, soft and warm.

He touches his fingertips to his mouth. Dick looks at him. “Roy, really, you seem kind of out of it, are you sure—”

“I’m fine, honest.” He risks a glance back, wondering if he could maybe catch a glimpse of Jason in his Wonder Woman sweatshirt, eyes tired and broken and hopeful. “Just thinking.”

Dick laughs, “Well, don’t do too much of that tonight.”

Roy forces another grin, still feeling the ghost of Jason’s lips tracing his mouth.

“When do I ever?”