#the bar is on the floor usually for Mean Girl characters in this genre but i found her treatment to be remarkably fun and refreshing

[metanarrates]

speaking of villainess isekai have you read not sew wicked stepmother? genuinely curious about your thoughts on that one

it's one of me and my fiancees faves actually 🥰 i haven't checked in on it in a hot minute but it's pretty cute. abigails supreme autism swag is continually enjoyable as hell and it's got some takes on childhood trauma and beauty standards that i found pretty decent. as in most rofan cases I'm not Fond of the "we have to free ourselves from the detestable corset" or the jealousy plotline but I'm also glad there's canon yuri so it balances out. also shoutout to sable for being the only neglectful husband/father character I've ever seen with a backstory that legitimately does a good job explaining why he's like that + gives him room to grow without underplaying the ways his behavior hurt abigail and blanche

[vnti-vnxiety-recs]

Swallowing The Pain (M)

★  PAIRING: Simp! Jeno x Toxic Bully! Reader

☆ WORD COUNT:  6.4k

★ GENRE(S): Smut, Angst,Drama, Friends to enemies to lover??

☆ SUMMARY: After getting into the same college, you and your best friend Jeno were supposed to live the college experience together, so how did he get stuck becoming your errand boy? Your friendship is put to the test when you bully Jeno to impress your new college friends.

★ ☆ WARNINGS: Bullying, Peer pressure, Reader is really toxic in this one. Swearing. Drinking, Car sex, READER IS A HUGE BITCH, MDNI

☆★ NOTES: This is the 3rd installment of THE POISON ARCHIVES! This series is very toxic so beware. Each story is based off of lyrics from their song poison!

✮♱⋆⋆♱✮♱⋆⋆♱✮♱⋆⋆♱✮♱⋆⋆♱✮♱⋆⋆♱✮♱⋆⋆♱✮♱⋆⋆♱

♫₊˚.“Can’t keep count How many times I fall to my knees”♫₊˚.

Jeno doesn't have many friends, and he likes to keep it that way. The few that he does have, he likes to keep close. That's why, no matter how many times you stomp his heart out, he won't ever leave your side. You and Jeno had been friends since high school. Back then, his closest friends were you, Doyoung, and Johnny. Johnny and Doyoung went off to college first, leaving you and Jeno. The two of you started to hang out alone more, and that's when he fell for you.

Since then, you guys have graduated and gone off to college, luckily getting accepted to the same campus. For the first year, you two were inseparable. You had the majority of all your classes together and even joined a few clubs together. Everyone used to think you two were dating; the rumors made you blush, but by the next year, you were surrounded by new friends and potential love interests. Jeno had made a few new friends as well: Computer science major Jisung and sports journalism major Chenle. These two are the ones currently chewing him out. Jeno was currently sitting crisscrossed on his door room floor leveling up his character in Elder Scrolls when Jisung and Chenle invited themselves over like usual to raid his fridge and eat his snacks. Jeno has been called at least half the names in the book. His friends can't help but curse him for being so stupid.

Jeno, you've gotta have some self-respect, man. You can't keep letting her do this to you." Jisung groaned again for the hundredth time that night. "She is clearly playing you! Dude, go look in a mirror; you can have any other girl!"

Jisung had a point. Jeno had been approached by several girls since the start of college, but he turned them down. He doesn't have time for distractions when he's trying to keep up with you.

"You know it's a scary world when Jisung is right about something," Chenle shudders. "But I agree that whatever you had with her clearly doesn't mean anything anymore based on how she treats you." Chenle huffs, mindlessly tossing his basketball in the air and catching it.

Guys, I really didn't ask. literally, Who let you in?" Jeno is annoyed; his character's health was at half-bar, and they were wreaking havoc on his concentration.

"We made a spare key," Jisung says nonchalantly.

Dude, you weren't supposed to tell him!" Chenle sits up straight, glaring at Jisung, contemplating if he should throw the ball at his big head. "We only come in to eat; we promise we don't go snooping!" Chenle tries to save face.

Jeno signs exasperatedly. He always wondered what always happened to his leftovers, and he's relieved to know it was these two dorks stealing his food and not some hobo living in his walls. He once read a creepypasta about a similar story, spooked himself out, and slept with the lights on for a week.

Jeno knows that they are right, but he can't bear to lose you. Since the start of your second year of college, you two have started to drift apart as you became more popular. You started partying more; you said you wanted your money's worth and to get the complete college experience. Jeno, being the introvert he is, disagreed. He just wanted to lay low for 4 years, get his degree, and dip. He only applied to get his parents off his back about it. He didn't think he would actually be accepted. In the beginning, you would invite him out and try to drag him along to the parties, but he would turn you down. He would always tell you that he wanted to catch up on studies or hop on the game with the boys. At first, it didn't bother you—not until it did.

One night, you just snapped. You said he was a terrible friend and that he needed to grow up. You just couldn't wrap your head around it. You're finally free from your overbearing parents, and you can go wild. All Jeno wanted to do was stay home and read webtoons! You were upset that he wouldn't change his lifestyle. The first year, you would have agreed with Jeno, but now you're comfortable and ready to explore. He's supposed to do everything with you; you don't care if it's out of his comfort zone. Since that night, you have grown cold toward him. You two never hung out anymore; you were constantly around your new friends. You wouldn't spare him a glance. So Jeno did the only thing he could think of to keep you close. He became your pet.

He's at your beck and call like a puppy. He doesn't even know how or when it happened; he just knows that whenever you call, he's running to where you are. Anything you need, he provides happily. You tease and bully him in front of your friends, but he doesn't care. As long as you look at him again, he's satisfied. Jisung and Chenle despise you. They think you're a cold-hearted ice queen and can't even imagine how Jeno came to become friends with you in the first place.

They have hated you since the day you ordered Jeno to bring you a coke in the main campus cafeteria. As usual, he happily does your bidding, his tail practically wagging behind him as he goes. He's bringing you back a nice chilled coke in under 5 seconds. Before you even take a sip, you crack it open and dump it on his head.

"Bad puppy, don't you know I only drink diet?" You drop the can in front of his feet and plop back down in your seat. Your friends burst into laughter, and you feel satisfied. You hope that, with this, they will like you more.

Your group of friends, if you can even call them that, say you're too soft; they're always making you prove yourself to them. You liked being invited out and being among the popular crowd, so you did as they told you. Jeno is shocked, but before he can even say anything, an angry Chenle comes over to curse you out. You can't even argue back because Jeno is pulling him away all while dripping wet, leaving a sad trail behind him. Since that day, Jisung and Chenle have tried everything to help Jeno get over you.

Jeno was upset that you publicly humiliated him in front of half the student body, but he can't help replaying the sound of your laughter in his head over and over. Even when you're laughing at his misfortune, Jeno thinks your laugh is the prettiest tinkling sound he's ever heard. He'd let you pour 10 more cans of soda on his head if he got to hear it again. That's why he's right back by your side the next day, jumping through hoops for you.

Guys, look, I don't care what you think; you don't know her like I do," Jeno sighs, finally pausing his game.

"So-called free thinkers when a baddie is involved," Jisung shakes his head disapprovingly. Chenle snickers in return.

"Would you guys leave already? The snacks are gone, and I'm not refilling them for another week, so don't even bother coming over." Jeno gets up, snatches the basketball out of Chenle's hands, and kicks Jisung's foot, signaling for him to stand up. "Both of you are out now; I need to think!"

They groan in unison and make their way to the front door, leaving Jeno alone in his room. Jeno lays back into his bed and shuts his eyes.

He really does want time to think. He's not proud of his actions, either. He wants to be rid of you, but no one will ever understand how lonely it is, so have your closest friend turn their back on you. Jeno was thrown into a new environment with no one to turn to. He only had you. He blames himself; he thinks he was too caught up in his own fears, and that is why he lost you. If only he were braver, if only he took more risks, he could truly stand next to you. He doesn't want to think anymore, so he sits up and begins to busy himself. Just as he shuts off his console and gets ready for bed, his phone rings. He had a specific ringtone set just for you, so he knows when you're calling. He practically dives back into his bed, rummaging through the covers, trying to get to his phone.

Jisung was right; he was a so-called free thinker.

His hand finally grazes it, and he pushes the covers out of the way. He answers the call, barely able to speak, trying hard to catch his breath.

"He-hello?" He heaves, trying his best to sound normal.

"Why are you so out of breath? You just got done fucking?" You inquire, annoyed that he didn't answer on the first ring.

"Would that make you jealous?" Jeno says hopefully

"Don't piss me off," you scoff, rolling your eyes, though you know he can't see it.

Sorry," he immediately backtracks, "did you need me?"

Unfortunately, yes, my ride left me, and I have no way home. I need you to come get me." Just as you finish your sentence, Jeno’s phone dings. You had sent him your location: "I sent the address; please don't keep me waiting, puppy." And with that, you hang up.

Jeno doesn't waste time getting properly dressed and decides to just wear what he has been lounging around in all day. It's around 11 p.m. when he parks his car. He tries to call you, letting you know he's arrived, but you don't pick up. You never do. Jeno gets out, decides to look for you, and makes his way across the lawn and into the frat house. He feels a little underdressed now; all he's wearing are some grey sweats and a muscle tee. He didn't think he would have to get out of the car. The girls ogling his muscular arms don't make the situation any better. They could care less about what he was wearing; they want to see more of what's underneath. He's a bit embarrassed but continues his search of the house.

He spots a few of your friends and asks them if they have seen you. He can barely make out their slurred words, but he thinks they mention something about the bathroom upstairs, so he heads upstairs in search of you. He can see the bathroom straight down the hall. As he approaches, he notices the bathroom door partially cracked and pushes it open, peeking his head in. His eyes lock with yours. Your head is thrown back, and your legs are wrapped around some guy's waist as he gropes you over your clothes.

Jeno, you could try knocking," you say nonchalantly.

"The… The door was open, so I—" he stutters, eyes wide open.

"Alright, the show is over; I'll be right there." You roll your eyes, pushing the handsome stranger away from you and jumping down from the counter.

You're gonna leave me just like that?" the stranger teasingly pulling you back into him

"Sorry Yuta, let's catch up later, okay?" You give him a saucy wink and brush past him.

"You said that last time," he reminds you, pouting cutely as he watches as you pull Jeno by the collar of his shirt down the hall.

"Hold me to it, okay?" You yell over your shoulder and make your way down the stairs with Jeno in tow.

Jeno is quiet as you two venture down the stairs; he knows he shouldn't ask, but curiosity gets the best of him. "Who was that?" he whispers once you cross the lawn back to his car away from the thumping music of the party.

"That was tonight's fuck. Thanks a lot, Cockblock," you mumble, rolling your eyes as you wait by the passenger door so he can open it for you. He buckled you in before getting in on the driver's side.

"I'm sorry" He's not. "You should have told me you were going to be busy."

You don't reply, and you just look out the window. You can see his image reflecting off your window thanks to the dark skies, which turn it into something like a black mirror. You didn't get a good look at him at the party, but now he's all you can see as his arms flex as he grips the steering wheel. Your eyes trail down to the way he bites his lip in concentration, probably thinking of something to say.

You hate it here.

You had been pent up for the last few days, so when you bumped into Yuta, it was a miracle, and when he asked you to go upstairs with him for a quickie, you could almost cry tears of happiness. You did not expect Jeno to arrive so quickly; the man lived like 20 minutes away! Was he speeding? Regardless, the lust that clouds your eyes is making Jeno look a little too good. You hadn't really had a moment alone with him since last year, and you forgot how insanely hot he was.

Honestly, you had a bit of a crush in high school; that's why it hurt when he would turn down every chance to hang out. Sure, you were upset that he didn't want to spend time with you, but you just had to drag it out, didn't you? With the way you're practically throbbing over him, you regret it now more than ever. The way he leaned back into his seat, his posture relaxed, one hand on the wheel, and his legs slightly spread, had you nearly about to jump out of the car to escape the tension. You were still too stubborn to admit you were wrong and make up with him, so you sat in silence and suffered. All you can think about now is how pretty you would look perched right on top of his lap. If you weren’t horny before, you definitely are now. You're so far into your perverted thoughts that you almost miss the way the car jerks forward.

"What was that?" You're sitting up straight now, looking around in panic.

"shit… I think I popped a tire," Jeno groans in disbelief.

"Oh come on, I'm not walking in these heels, Jen!" Don't you have a spare?" you ask, failing to hold in your complaints.

"No, Jisung begged me to take it out so he could fit his stupid bike in the back when we went hiking a few weeks ago, and I never got around to putting it back in." Jeno sighs irritatedly and drops his head back against his seat.

"Nice going, asshat."

"Not helping" 

"How are we gonna get home?"

"You know I would be home if it weren't for you?"

Well, maybe if you watched the road more carefully, you wouldn't have hit anything."

"Oh fuck you!"

Jeno rarely got angry, and he especially never yelled at you. Your constant complaining and the stress of the situation were not helping his mood. Not to mention, it was almost 12 a.m. now, and he was tired and annoyed.

You wouldn't want him any other way.

"Watch your mouth puppy, or do I need to watch it for you?" You raise an eyebrow.

He unbuckled his seatbelt so he could fully turn to face you. His jaw was tight, and his eyes were hardened.

"I said, fuck yo-"

He couldn't even finish his sentence before you kissed him. One second you were sitting across from him; the next you were climbing into his lap, leaving feverish kisses down his neck.

"Fuck me? Your right, fuck me. You owe me an orgasm anyway," you say with a wicked smile.

Jeno can't help but reattach your lips to his; it's like his only line of oxygen. He never thought that the day would come when he could touch you so intimately. He lets his seat recline and pulls you down with him. Luckily, the car broke down in an area that doesn't catch much traffic, and even if someone were to pass by, Jeno’s tinted car would shield your dignity from prying eyes. He's running his hands anywhere he can reach; his touch is near desperate. Soon his hands venture up the back of your shirt and unclasp your bra. You help him remove it, and once you discard the offensive material, you lift your shirt over your head. Jeno is face-to-face with your naked chest and can't manage to tear his eyes away.

"What? Don't tell me you're a virgin, Jen." You tease him lightly, and before you can take another jab at him, he pulls you down against his mouth to suck at your nipples. In all honesty, Jeno didn't have much experience, but for you, he was willing to learn your body. He wanted to know how to touch you and get you to beg for him. Most importantly, though, he wanted to make you shut your fucking mouth.

"Get in the back," He commands.

You don't even bother trying to think of a snappy reply. You kind of liked it when he bossed you around. Usually he was the one taking orders; you never realized how sexy he could be making them. You climb into the back as Jeno exits through the driver's side door to meet you in the back. Once he joins you in the backseat, you're immediately grabbing at his clothes, needing to touch every inch of him. You help him undress, and you're finally able to get his pants past his waist. You can't help the whine that slips out. The moment you laid eyes on it, you knew it was K.O.

He had the prettiest cock you had ever seen, and you could barely contain yourself as you imagined taking him in several different positions. The stretch was gonna hurt so good. He tries to at least finger you, wanting to stretch you out a bit, but you pull his arm away. You're far too impatient, so you just tell him to grab a condom from your purse in the front seat.

"Jen, don't go easy on me; I can take it," you say with a lick of your lip as he slips on the condom. You're not able to pull your eyes away until he grabs your face and makes you look at him.

"Wasn't planning on it, princess."

That's all the warning you get before he's fucking into you. He doesn't wait for you to adjust; he gives it to you just like you asked, and you couldn't be any happier. Even though he was literally inside of you, you needed him closer. You immediately wrap your legs around his waist and pull him down into your chest. He fucks you like this for a few more moments until he takes over. You were always pushing and pulling him to get what you wanted, but not this time. He roughly pulled your legs from his hips, pinning them to your chest. He sits up and leans into you, fucking you harder with the new leverage. You can't help but whine.

"Jeno please"

"Shut up and just take what I give you." He was fed up with you. All you do is demand more and more from him. He's sick of being your compliant little puppy. He pulls out of you, and you nearly cry at the lack of contact. Before you can even fix your mouth to complain, he's flipping you on your hands and knees and shoving your face into his seats. When he enters you again, he's fucking you like a madman. The car is practically rocking, and you can't help but moan as he delivers a few spanks to your right ass cheek.

"So greedy. Always wanting more." He slowly pulls out, watching how your walls try to desperately suck him back in. Then he's thrusting in deep. "Look at how you take me."

Your back arches as you moan. There are no thoughts in your head at this point. All you can think about is his cock and how it has to be rearranging your guts at this point. You're trying to match his thrust as you slam your hips back into his, but It's almost too much. The way his cock was practically bullying your insides makes you hesitate for a second, your thighs shaking. Jeno notices the way your movements falter, and he chuckles. You cower away from the next thrust and whine.

"Nuh uh, baby, this is how you wanted it, right? Don't tell me you're all talk. You can take it." He leans over your shoulder, whispering deviously into your ear. the position, slowing his hips down just enough for you to catch your breath. "You want it, baby? Answer me," he punctuated with deep, slow strokes.

No one's home. You're definitely gone in the head by now, but when he threatens to pull out again, you open your mouth and just let whatever spill out. "Fuck, don't stop. I can take it."

"You gonna be my good girl?"

"Yes just...please!" You can feel your eyes start to water, and you can't stop the hiccups that escape with them.

Aw, my precious baby. You wanna cum?"

"Please!" You wail, "Just please don't stop Jen. I think I'll die if you do. I need you so bad." You ramble

Just like always, Jeno gives you exactly what you want. He's picking up speed and fucking you until you're creaming all over his cock, soaking his thighs in your essence. You can hardly hold yourself up as he uses you. You're just a whole to him right now, and he's stuffing you with his cum after a few more deep strokes. After a moment, he pulls out and immediately checks on you.

"I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me." His attitude flipped like a lightswitch.

One moment he's ordering you around, splitting you in half on his cock, and the next he's apologizing profoundly, almost crying at the thought that he was too rough with you. It was like one moment he was Mr. Hyde, and the next he was Dr. Jekyll.

"It's ok, Jen, that was amazing, seriously." You sit up and caress his face, trying your best to calm him down. He sighs in relief at your response. He disposes of the used condom and helps you get dressed.

Once you two get settled back in the front seats, he can't help but ask the question that's been tormenting him since the post-nut clarity hit.

"So what now?"

"What do you mean?"

"What are we?"

"Don't get the wrong idea. Jeno, that was probably the hardest I've ever come, but you're still my puppy and nothing more. You were just paying me back the orgasm you ruined," you shrug as you flip his passenger mirror down and check your hair and makeup.

He can only manage a small "oh". Of course, this meant nothing to you; it was probably just another Friday fuck to you. He calls a tow truck to break the awkward silence. It arrives in around 15 minutes, and the driver is kind enough to drop you both off at campus. Jeno walks you home like a gentleman and then heads home himself. When he finally lays in bed, all he can do is stare at the ceiling and try to swallow the pain.

✮♱⋆⋆♱✮♱⋆⋆♱✮♱⋆⋆♱✮♱⋆⋆♱✮

A week had passed since the incident, and you were right—he really was nothing but a puppy to you. Everything had gone back to the way it previously was, and the situation was never brought up again. He almost would have believed it was a dream, but his new tire was a clear reminder that it was not. You go back to your usual self, bossing him around and humiliating him. Tonight he gets a text from you around 10 telling him to get dressed because he is going to be your date to a party. It surprised Jeno, to say the least. He was usually just your personal chauffeur, dropping you off and picking you up at different parties all week. To say that he was excited to be given this little promotion was an understatement. Jisung and Chenle were back now that the snack cabinet had been filled again. Since they were back, their constant commentary on Jeno’s issue was too. They were 100% against Jeno going to this party, but he ignored them and got dressed anyway. He drowned out their complaints, ushered them out the door, and locked it behind him.

Dude, come on, something is definitely up." Jisung pulls his hair in frustration.

"I'm gonna need you to find a new girl to obsess over because I'm really getting sick of having to agree with Jisung." Look at what you're doing to me," Chenle sasses.

Guys, relax; if anything is up, I'll text you, ok?" Jeno grunts as he walks towards his car. He completely ignores their protests and drives off to meet you at the address you texted earlier.

Just before he pulls around the corner that turns off of his street, he looks in his rear view mirror and sees his house lights on again. Jisung and Chenle use their spare key to sneak back inside his house. He rolls his eyes and keeps driving. At this point, he was used to their antics. Apparently they've been doing this for months, and he never took notice, so he's not worried about them making a mess or taking anything. Well, anything that's not food

It's a small college town, so he reaches his destination in about 15 minutes. He finds himself outside of a townhome when he decides to text you. There's no loud music or drunken bodies staggering around the yard. He's starting to think he's arrived too soon when you head out to greet him. He's always been able to read you like a book, so once he notices a hint of worry hidden behind a forced smile, he begins to wonder what's going on.

"Are you good?" he asks gently when you grab his hand.

"Yea just… Yeah, come on, let's go inside; the others are waiting." you smile.

You are smiling at him. The one who hasn't smiled at anything but his misfortune for the past year His alarms were definitely going off, but he let you pull him inside anyway. Once you two make it through the door, he notices it's not really a party but a small get-together between you and your friends.

"Hey Jeno, glad you could make it," they greeted him. Why was everyone being so nice? He looks to you for some answers.

"We were just hanging out and thought it would be fun if you joined, you explain, pulling him to the living room where an array of alcohol bottles were laid out.

Yeah, we were just hanging out and drinking."

"Oh, I can't really hold my alcohol," Jeno mentions awkwardly, and he sits down next to you on the couch. Your friends all laugh like he just said the funniest joke.

"Oh don't be a party pooper. Come on, here's a shot. We’ll even give you a chaser," your friend pushes.

He hesitates for a few moments before he finally folds. Maybe if he can loosen up for a night, he’ll finally be able to get a glimpse into the life that you lived. Maybe all this time you were right—maybe college was about living life to the fullest. Jeno takes the shot and has to force himself not to make a disgusted expression at the taste. He turns to you for your approval, but you just have that worried look on your face again.

"Jen, you don't have to do this if you don't want to; you know that, right?" you whisper. 

"I'm not a baby; isn't this what you wanted?" Jeno grumbles, ignoring you and taking another shot that your friend hands him. He's only two shots in, and he's already feeling it.

"Alright guys, that's enough for him, alright?" You speak hesitantly.

"When did you get so boring? Aren't you the one who always bullies him?" Your friend spit, "Stop trying to ruin our fun."

Jenos head is already spinning, but when he's handed another shot, he downs it almost instantly.

"That's my man!" Your other friend claps Jeno on the back. Jeno can barely manage a smile; he's starting to feel nauseated, and the strong scent of alcohol isn't helping.

"Look, I don't care! He's cut off!" When your friend tries to hand him another drink, you smack it out of her hand, spilling it all over the front of her dress.

"What the fuck is your problem? This is Gucci!" your friend screeches. Everything is moving so fast; everyone is yelling, and Jeno can't make out any faces. It's like his head is underwater, and the next thing he knows, he's being pulled to his feet. He can barely make out your silhouette pulling him along out of the door. You walk him to his car and help him lay down in the back seat. He's lying on his back, one arm covering his eyes from the light that shines down on him as you search his pockets for his keys.

Sorry, Jen, I'm going to get you home, okay?" You try your best to be quick. You find his keys in his back pocket and shut the back door, turning off the annoying light in return. You climb into the driver's seat and make your way to his house. When you arrive, you help him out of the back seat and to the door. Your driving is shitty. Jeno thinks you were playing Mario Kart the way you hit every single pothole on the way home. He's trying his hardest not to throw up when you open his door, but he can't help it. He pukes by the front door. You curse and help him sit down. You don't realize someone else is in the house, so when you're walking down the hall to the bathroom to get a wet towel, you see a tall figure in the hallway, and you scream. You startled not only Jeno but also Jisung, who was coming to check what all the noise was about.

"What are you doing here?" He yells back, still a bit frightened.

"I was bringing Jeno home," you huff as you hold your chest, trying to calm down your racing heart.

"What did you do to Jeno, you hussy?" Another voice yells from behind Jisung; you can't see him, so you peek around Jisung's frame and see Chenle’s smaller one.

Ugh, you're here too?" you groan. You were already stressed, and these two goofballs were just going to make it worse.

Guys, please, my head hurts," Jeno quietly groans from his position on the couch.

Jisung and Chenle race past you from the hallway into the living room, and they see Jeno on the couch.

Jeno knew he looked a mess, they were not going to let him live this down. He would have to spend a week hearing "I told you so" from them.

"Oh my god, He's dead!" Chenle wails

"He just spoke to you, idiot." You roll your eyes.

No, he didn't liar! You killed him, and now his ghost is trying to speak to us! What is it, Jeno? Who did it?" Jisung chimed in, dramatically falling to his knees in front of Jeno.

"Whose snacks are we gonna eat?" Chenle continues; he paces the room, biting his thumb.

"SHUT UP!" Jeno yells, immediately clutching his head in anguish.

"HE'S ALIVE!" They both shouted in relief.

"Don't worry, bro, I'll get you some Tylenol," Jisung says as he heads back down the hall towards the bathroom.

Now that the chaos has ceased, Chenle turns to look at you. Look, I don't know what happened, but you need to leave," Chenle says seriously from his spot perched next to Jeno. We were his real friends; we can take it from here," he adds with a scowl.

Jisung emerges shortly after with a glass of water and some pills. He helps Jeno sit up and makes sure he takes the medicine. As you watch them care for Jeno, you realize how terrible you are. Sure, they can be annoying, but because of you, Jeno is suffering. All this time, you have been making him suffer over something so childish, and you're disgusted with yourself. You can't even recognize yourself anymore, and you're sure if Doyoung and Johnny saw who you had become, they wouldn't be able to either.

Jeno used to be your best friend, and this was what your relationship reduced to? Chenle was right; you weren't his friend. You screwed up big time. You ruined everything just for the attention of a few people who don't even care about you. You gently sit Jenos keys down on the coffee table and leave. It's a chilly night, but you need to feel the bite of the wind snipping at your skin. You bear it because you deserve it. You cry silently all the way back until you reach your dorm.

✮♱⋆⋆♱✮♱⋆⋆♱✮♱⋆⋆♱✮♱⋆⋆♱✮

It's been a few days since then, and Jeno has been ignoring you since. He had woken up the next day still feeling out of it. Jisung did his best to catch him up to speed, and he remembers what happened. A small part of him wants to thank you for protecting him, while the other, bigger part is pissed that you even brought him there in the first place. You knew your friends were up to no good, but you still let him walk into their trap.

For the past few days, whenever you tried to approach him in the halls, he would turn the other way. He sent your calls straight to voicemail and left your messages on delivered. You deserved it after all, after what you did to him. Even so, you still want to explain yourself and apologize.

So maybe you follow him around after all of his classes like a lost puppy waiting for the chance to speak with him, and maybe you even try groveling to Chenle and Jisung for help, but they refuse. It isn't until you catch him in the library late one Sunday night. You honestly didn't expect him to be here; it was already 1 a.m., and you knew he had an early class the next day. You figured he must be pulling an all-nighter again. You approach cautiously, trying to ease your way into his space.

"Jen, can we talk, please?" You barely whisper, still afraid you may scare him away.

"Im busy," he replies curtly. The desk he's sitting at is covered in papers and textbooks. You almost leave from the guilt of interrupting him and breaking his concentration, but you stay. For once, you stay.

"Why are you here anyway? Why not just study at home? It's not like you have a roommate," you inquired. Jeno used to have a roommate, but he dropped out due to stress.

"Chenle and Jisung keep inviting themselves over", Jeno huffs irritatedly. "What is this? 20 questions? I don't want to talk to you!" Jeno flips the page of his textbook angrily, almost ripping it out.

Well, then just listen! Im sorry, ok? I'm sorry about everything. I know I was a huge bitch, and I wish I could say I never meant to hurt you, but I can't because I did! I did mean to hurt you, but I'm sorry!" You ramble, "I should have never tried to pressure you into being someone you're not. I should have respected your boundaries and not insulted you when all you wanted to do was stay in your comfort zone. And now look! The moment you finally do try something new, you suffer from it." You try to fight back the tears because you really weren't here to make him feel bad.

When the first tear falls down your face, Jeno can't help but feel his heart tighten in pain.

His face morphs from one of annoyance to one of worry. When you begin to cry harder, he can't help himself and springs up from his seat, engulfing you in a hug. Before today, there was no warmth in your arms, but now he was almost overwhelmed by your heat.

"You're a terrible friend, and I hate that I'm in love with you, but no matter how many times I try to let you go, I just can't stay away from you."

You hug him tighter at his confession, not wanting to let him go. "Jeno, I'm sorry, can we please just start over? I swear, I'll be better for you. I'm gonna do my best to make up for all the stupid shit I did. You plead. 

Jeno is quiet for a few more moments, and you almost think he's going to reject your offer, but he doesn't. "We can start small." He whispers into your hair and plants a kiss on your head before pulling away.

You look up into his eyes, and you can still see a tinge of hurt, but you can also see hope. You know he's serious about wanting to give you another shot, so you make a promise to yourself to never hurt him again. You guys start slow and hang out more, and you finally make amends with Jisung and Chenle. You find out that they are actually some of the most endearing people you have ever met. They can be a bit mischievous, but they mean well. After a month, you and Jeno start dating officially.

You definitely gave a few people whiplash with how fast your relationship developed. Just a few months ago, you were walking him like a dog, keeping a tight leash on him, and now you were walking to class hand in hand, laughing at each other's jokes like it never happened. Things were finally as they should be. You missed your best friend more than anything in the world. You hope you never have to learn what it feels like to miss your boyfriend.

[bowling-with-ham]

starlight express s/i

Name: Silver “Sylvester” Sky

AKA: the Bar Car

Engine or coach: Coach

Passenger or freight: Passenger

Inspiration: a Superliner II Observation or “Sightseer” lounge car, Bombardier manufactured. These cars were two-level with a wet bar and lounge and large observational windows on the upper floor, and an electric piano and café on the lower floor. (Silver Sky is an actual name of an original California Zephyr dome-top observation car.)

Company: Amtrak

Line: Runs the California Zephyr (Chicago to San Francisco by way of Denver) and Coast Starlight (LA to Seattle) lines.

Characterization: Sylvester embodies a Midcentury or Jazz Age bartender, endlessly sanguine, mellow, entertaining, a good listener. He is a relic of a dying age of passenger train travel and he knows it. He has chosen to think of himself as the last bastion of the 20th century and party like every night is New Year’s Eve at the end of the world, since any day he might be taken out of commission because faster trains mean the train is no longer seen as an experience in and of itself and lounge cars like him are being replaced left and right. Allegorically, he’s a bartender, lounge singer, and piano player, and his signature drink is the Silver, a prohibition-era gin and vermouth cocktail. He’s usually tipsy himself and is sometimes derisively referred to as the ‘drinking car.’ Utterly neutral on racing. Most everyone comes to him to talk, so he knows a lot about everyone. Yet nobody knows almost anything about him. He’d say there’s nothing to know, besides what you see before you.

Headcanon/voiceclaim song: “Diamond Light Boogie” by the Cherry Poppin’ Daddies. “This century is ending / It's your last chance to dance to rock 'n' roll! / Diamond Light - turn on, turn on your light / Diamond Light Boogie is sparklin' bright / Shine on, shine your light / Sunglass Sam kept you up all night / Oh yeah, that's right / Bubblegum girls wear their pants too tight / Oh yeah! Let's go! / Let the 21st century roll!”

Associated genres: rock and roll, swing, 90s swing revival, jazz, lounge, space age pop, and electro swing.

Palette and design: Starlight silver and midnight blue with stars, 60s space age/jet set/atomic age elements, art deco pinstripes and wings (resembling the amtrak logo), glitter, and a jaunty cap somewhere between a fedora and a train attendant hat. On top of the usual StEx train costume, his outfit details evoke a 1920s-1940s bartender, a classic train conductor, and for some reason the god Hermes. Also disco balls. Distinctly musical energy. General vibe of a psychopomp and portent of the end times, but carefree about it. Would have silver face paint as part of the costume.

I’ll update this if I get around to drawing him! I’m just really pleased to be able to cram 1) the train lines I’m autistic about 2) the music I’m autistic about 3) the alcoholic tendencies I try not to worry about and 4) myself into one character. I love the vibes on this guy I’m not even gonna lie

[kabira]

by hook or by cross.

pairing — vernon x fem!reader

word count — 12.4k

genres — meet-ugly au inspired by #15 on this prompt list, kickboxing au (???), strangers to lovers, slowburn, fluff & angst, smut

warnings — blood and injury, some instances of swearing, explicit sexual content (feel free to skip), mentions of food, sour family relationships, also vernon is a major flirt so this is not for the faint-hearted

smut warnings — fingering, dirty talk, orgasm denial, protected sex (don’t be silly, wrap up ur willy), the works. look i’m trying ok

summary — so you punched a guy, and now he wants you to teach him how to fight, because clearly, you know how to do it better. well, fine, you say. as long as he keeps his distance. (spoiler alert: he doesn’t.)

note — happy birthday to the absolute love of my life, because it’s still the 18th here and yes this was written especially in honor of vernon day. i came up with this haphazard plot last-minute, but grew attached to these characters in record time. also this is my first time writing smut (technically second but we don’t speak of the first one) so please go easy on me! and enjoy the product of my blood, sweat and tears :D

go to main masterlist

Picture this.

It’s a chilly Sunday night, and you’re free for the first time in the entire week. But instead of being allowed to catch up on your favorite show in the warm comfort of your home, you’ve been dragged out to a hole-in-the-wall bar with drinks strong enough to knock you out with a single glass, and you’ve been forced into the role of designated driver.

The past hour has consisted of telling your friend not to drink too much, shaking your head in disapproval as said friend does indeed drink too much, and then holding her hair back as she retches into a health-hazard commode in a toilet that smells like something died in there. With the strength of that vodka mixed with god-knows-what, you wouldn’t be surprised.

You’ve finally managed to untangle yourself from the situation and have decided to head out of the bar for a much-needed breath of fresh air. You step out of the toilet, thinking that finally you’re home free—and get punched in the face.

The bar falls deathly silent.

You blink, popping your jaw to check for damages, but thankfully whoever punched you doesn’t have a very strong hook. Then you turn slowly, facing the guy who punched you—a pretty thing not much older than you, the ever-loving fear of god (and girls) in his eyes as you turn towards him. His hair is dyed blonde, which would normally be a warning sign except it looks styled, and you don’t see any threatening tattoos which could tell you if he was from a local gang. He stares back at you with puppy-dog eyes, looking much too afraid of the consequences of his actions to be from around here. Probably from the good part of town. Probably harmless.

What do you do?

Now, you have no idea what you did to warrant the punch, but you’re not unused to getting into fights, born and brought up in the meanest part of town. Learning to take a punch was the first thing you were taught once you started walking—the second thing being learning how to land one. Maybe under different circumstances, you would have calmly asked for an explanation, or walked away, depending on the size of your attacker. But right now, you’re tired of having been pushed around all day long, you do, in fact, have a mean right hook, and the night is young enough to fit in one bar fight and maybe a few pity drinks for yourself before it’s time to crash.

So, naturally, you punch back.

There’s a little moment of pity for blemishing such a beautiful face, but it isn’t given much time to bloom before your punch lands true, and the boy is surprised enough that he doesn’t have time to dodge. Your knuckles connect with his jaw with a satisfying pop, and he trips and falls over a misplaced barstool, crashing to the floor in a heap of limbs, both flesh and wood.

Usually, this would be when you’re escorted—roughly—out of the bar and told never to show your face in there again. But you know the owner of this one—a bald, bearded, and tattooed guy whose daughter you teach kickboxing on Monday-alternates—and when you catch his eye over the rows of half-empty beer bottles on the counter, he nods once. So you get your purse, your incredibly giggly friend (because nothing’s funnier than watching a guy get beat up), and leave.

Only later does it occur to you that you might not have been the intended victim of his punch.

In your hurry, you completely miss the part where your wallet slips out of your unzipped purse (from when you were rummaging around inside for wet wipes—the things you do for friendship) and falls to the floor.

And that is how it starts.

Vernon wakes up with a headache.

Granted, it’s probably because of the glass of dark-rum-ginger-beer-something he remembers downing in one go some unidentified period of time ago, but it doesn’t stop his mind from going to the knockout punch that probably finished the job of putting him out of commission. His vision swims, but it’s just the overhead neon lights that now feel almost blinding, and his jaw aches like it’s been snapped out of place.

He attempts to get up, and groans almost immediately. A face appears in his distorted vision, followed by a hand, which holds up a single middle finger. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“One,” Vernon mumbles, and Jeonghan smirks. “Fuck you. What happened?” “You mean you don’t remember?” his friend asks, grabbing his hand and pulling him into a sitting position. He looks sideways at another person Vernon hadn’t noticed before, a familiar, hulking figure. “Thanks, Bones. I don’t think he has a concussion.” “Of course I don’t have a concussion,” Vernon mutters. The owner of the bar, Bones, gives him a dry look before walking away. “It was one punch.” One very painful punch, he thinks, but doesn’t add that part at the end of his sentence. From a very pretty girl. Good going, dumbass. “How long have I been out?” “Ten minutes, give or take a few.” Jeonghan shrugs, leaning back in his seat. He watches Vernon shake himself out for a few more seconds before his smirk grows. “So.” Vernon snaps his gaze up to meet his, face puckered into a scowl. “Don’t.” The boy laughs, his head tipping backwards from the force of it. Vernon looks away, face burning in embarrassment as he waits for his friend to ride the laughter out, which takes a few moments more than he’d expected. When he’s done, Jeonghan wipes a fake tear from the corner of his eye. “Wish I’d got that on camera.” “But you didn’t, so get over it,” Vernon mutters savagely. He reaches up to touch the sore spot on the underside of his jaw, and winces. On top of that, the crest of his temple stings, so he reaches up to touch it. His fingertips come away tinged with blood. “What happened to the other guy?” “The one you never managed to hit?” “Jeonghan.” “No idea.” Jeonghan shrugs, swiping a half-empty drink from a table and taking a sip. They’re at the back of the bar, so thankfully the lights aren’t as bright as they could have been, because Vernon’s head is killing him. “He must have slipped away during your encounter with that little spitfire.” Vernon groans, dropping his head into his hands. The memory comes back slowly—his first bar fight ever, and he didn’t even get to land one hit. Shame and guilt crashes over him in waves. “Don’t tell—” he starts, hoping to keep this incident hidden from his roommate, when he spots something on the table. Something small and square and dark. “What’s that?” Jeonghan glances over, lifting a single shoulder in a careless shrug. “Lady’s wallet,” he says. “I picked it up when I saw it, but she’d already left.” The boy stretches his fingers towards the wallet, but hesitates at the last moment. Jeonghan, bless his observant soul, takes note of this and decides to help him out instead of using the opportunity for another laugh at his expense. He reaches over to pick up the wallet by a corner, and hands it to Vernon, who takes it with a look resembling awe. He weighs it in his hand before lifting it up to the light. “It’s so small.” Jeonghan rolls his eyes, though he knows Vernon can’t see him doing it. “Good observation,” he says. “It’s better if we—what are you doing?” he asks, perplexed, as Vernon opens the wallet and pulls out a little square card from inside. “Looking for an address,” Vernon replies, eyes intense as they focus on the address written in bold black letters on the card. Peggy’s Gym, it says. Huh. “To return it.” Jeonghan frowns. “By yourself? Are you insane?” He reaches over and plucks the card out of Vernon’s hand, turning it over to study it with a small crease between his eyebrows. “She beat the shit out of you once, I don’t think she’ll hesitate to do it again.” “Not if I’m only there to get her wallet back,” Vernon says, this time with a roguish smile, some of the old light coming back into his eyes as he snatches the card back and slips it back inside the wallet. “You know, good people who return things are hard to come by these days.” His friend looks unsure, studying him with a calculating look, all the mirth gone from his face. Jeonghan sits up, the glass in his hand almost tipping over as he does. “Vernon,” he says, “I’ll have you know I don’t approve of this idea at all.” “Good to know.” “And it’s already way past your roommate’s assigned curfew, so you’re not going over there right now,” Jeonghan adds. “But if you really want to do it later—well, it’s your head.” Vernon grins. “You won’t tell—”

“No.” The boy sighs. “Get up, we have to get you cleaned up before I deliver you to your roomie. God, Seungkwan’s going to kill me when he sees that cut.”

Peggy’s Gym turns out to look even shadier than Vernon had imagined it to look, situated in the deeper parts of the Cavity around a grimy little corner. It’s a three-storey building, dilapidated but looking like someone’s doing their best to keep it clean. A garish neon sign blinks at the entrance, half of the letter P and almost all of M missing from the words.

It looks like a rough neighborhood, but that’s not the reason Vernon’s heart is pounding when he takes the first step through the threshold. The interior is brightly lit, the entrance unmanned, and he proceeds with caution, the wallet clutched tightly in his hand as a kind of white flag in case he needs to use it. After the previous night’s debacle, he’s not eager to get punched again. God forbid it be in a gym.

A cacophony of sounds attracts him to a corridor, and he frowns as he makes the turn, coming out in front of a room to the left of a narrow hallway. The room is square, relatively small, with a padded floor and stark walls that look like they were once white. A group of kids stand in neat (neat for a bunch of kids, anyway) rows, each in an offensive stance—and at the head of the room stands the person he’s been looking for.

Oh. Absently, he reaches up to touch the wound on his temple, suddenly understanding the force behind the punch.

He takes a step back, deciding not to interrupt you when class is in session. Of course, that doesn’t work, as every single kid in the room turns to stare at him, obviously interested in this new potential distraction to the class. As a result, you turn, forehead already creased into a small frown. Your eyes narrow the moment they land on him.

Vernon smiles nervously, holding up a hand in an awkward half-wave.

“She’s got a boyfriend,” a little kid no more than twelve years old, whispers to his buddy in the first row. You swivel around again, fixing the kid with a look.

“Twenty pushups,” you intone pleasantly, and the kid flushes, but manages a shit-eating grin before he drops to the floor. You turn to regard Vernon for another moment, hesitation dancing in your eyes, then sigh. “Chan, you’re in charge. Watch Josh and make sure he completes his twenty. I won’t be long.”

Another kid—Chan—nods and takes up position at the front of your class. Vernon’s so absorbed in the scene that he’s taken by surprise when you grab his arm and pull him along the hallway and out of earshot. “What are you doing here?” you hiss, finally letting go, and he rubs his arm with a wince.

He gives you a dry look. “I came to return this,” he says, holding up the wallet. “Chivalry isn’t dead.”

You blink, looking taken aback. Vernon raises his eyebrows, waving the wallet in front of you, which snaps you out of your reverie and you finally take the wallet from his outstretched hand.

An uncomfortable silence settles over the two of you. Vernon drops his hand, taking a step back. “Well, uh,” he murmurs, “I’ll be going, then.” He reaches up to card a hand through his hair, accidentally grazing the cut on his temple, and winces.

Your eyes flicker up from the wallet to his face, and go from surprised to a little bit guilty as they land on the cut. You bite your lip, eyeing the cut with something like discomfort. “Did…did I do that?”

Vernon cocks an eyebrow. “No, it was the glass I took with me when I, um, when I tripped backwards and fell,” he says. “Although, indirectly…”

At that, your lips thin. You glance back over your shoulder, then at him, and sigh again, more heavily this time.

“Wait here,” you say, before stalking off in the direction of your class. Vernon obeys, standing there stumped for a few moments. A chorus of tiny prepubescent voices erupts from the room, making his eyebrows twitch upwards. A few moments later, you reappear, looking weary.

“Come with me,” you say curtly. Then you turn and march up the corridor without waiting for him.

Vernon keeps standing there for a few moments before he registers your command. He follows a little hesitantly, weaving through the crowd of kids that bursts from the door, the tallest of which doesn’t even reach halfway to his chest.

He follows you up a dimly-lit wooden stairwell that creaks with every third step, each cracking noise making him wince and glance down. By the time you reach the door, his eyes are so used to the darkness that the sudden burst of light from inside blinds him temporarily.

As you walk in, he stands at the entrance, bewildered and blinking hard, maybe a little concerned for his safety. Something about the guilt in your eyes earlier assuages some of the worry, but even he knows that the reason his heart is beating a little faster has little to do with fear.

When his eyes finally adjust to the light, he sees that the two of you are in a gym. It’s not very wide, but the ceiling is tall, the walls painted a dull, calming blue, the paint cracked at some places, hidden at others with yellowing posters advertising boxing matches. A boxing ring takes up most of the space in the center of the room, leaving a thin band of padded floor running around the ring’s perimeter. At the corner of the room, almost hidden from view by the ring, is a small door looking as if it’s been nudged into the corner by the loud posters surrounding it.

“You should’ve gotten that stitched up,” you say, and he turns towards you slowly, still a little confused. You glance up, gesturing vaguely to the cut, which subconsciously makes him touch it again. Which, of course, makes it hurt. “Did you get it cleaned afterwards?”

He stares at you, stumped. You wait for an answer, raising your eyebrows, the gesture spurring him on. “Oh,” he mutters. “I, uh, I did get it cleaned.”

“With what?”

He opens his mouth to answer, then stops, cheeks coloring. “Actually, I think I might be wrong about that part.”

You sigh for the third time in the span of a few minutes, massaging your forehead with your fingertips. “Alright,” you say ultimately, and is he imagining the sudden roughness in your voice? “I’ll…I’ll clean it up. Least I could do.” The last part is mumbled, and he would have missed it if it weren’t for the absolute stillness.

Vernon’s eyebrows arch high, and you pointedly avoid his gaze as you tell him to wait (again) and go through the small door to fetch the surgical kit. He gets a few minutes to himself in that span of time, during which he measures the conversation and the pros and cons of staying or leaving, and by the time you get back with the kit he’s practically a changed man.

As in he’s smiling a little cheekily when you curl your fingers to call him over, unable to hide his amusement over the situation and his surprise over how flustered you seem to be. The guilt over punching you has all but disappeared, since you seem to have taken it well, and the self-confidence Seungkwan often berates him for is back in (almost) full force.

You brush away the hair at his forehead and bring out a swab of cotton and a bottle of vodka. The latter makes him raise an eyebrow, and you clarify that it’s for disinfecting the wound, which he takes with a grain of salt but general faith in your abilities to clean cuts. You do seem to be pretty experienced at it. “So,” he says, wincing painfully almost immediately after as the first swab of vodka-medicine makes contact with the injury. “You teach martial arts? Explains the right hook.”

“Kickboxing,” you correct—if he isn’t imagining it—a little breathlessly. “I’m surprised you knew that was a right hook.”

He smiles a little, without the teeth. “Not my first time,” he explains, now a little more used to the stinging pain. He focuses on you instead, so close that you would have been bound to notice if it hadn’t been for your absolute concentration on your work. It’s kind of cute, really.

“Not surprised by that,” you comment dryly, and his smile widens. “But, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about the punch. I wasn’t really having the best day, and you basically handed satisfaction to me on a silver platter.”

“Uh-huh.” His eyebrows twitch as you bring out the needle, making him gulp. “Are you absolutely sure I need stitches?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no animosity behind the gesture. “Yep,” you say, bringing the threaded needle up to his face. Oh, yeah, now the thundering heartbeat is definitely due to fear.

“And are you absolutely sure you’ve done this before?” he asks, making you smirk.

“Yep,” you say, popping the p, and simultaneously the small balloon of his blown-up confidence. You reach up, pulling the lips of the gash together, and the contact burns for reasons entirely different from pain.

He screws his eyes shut as the first needle goes through, hunching his shoulders and sucking in the air through his teeth. You laugh a little at that, and he reopens his eyes, smiling, though a little crookedly (because oh god that shit hurts).

When you’re done stitching him up, you bandage the wound and take a step back to survey your work. “That hurt,” Vernon says honestly, because he’s the kind of person who speaks his mind, and your lips twitch up into a smile.

“Well, you handled it like a champ,” you say, hands resting on your hips, and—okay, he knows you’re mocking him, but his chest still warms at the not-compliment.

“I bet you say that to all the boys you patch up,” he says playfully.

You cock your head, still smiling. “Only the ones under thirteen,” you say, which makes him laugh despite the implication.

As you clean the needle and repack the kit, he lets his eyes wander the small gym. Moths hum around the bulb hanging over the boxing ring, but the ring itself seems untouched, like some sort of relic behind a glass pane. It’s just like any other ring, but something about the way it stands seems almost proud. It’s surrounded by old posters and advertisements but it stands out, like it has character, more personality than rings in the boxing matches he used to watch as a kid. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s walked up to it, running his hands over the edge of the raised platform.

“That’s not very hygienic, you know,” you comment, but make no move to pull him away from the ring. He turns at the sound of your voice, lifting his shoulders in a weak shrug.

“Do you box?” he asks, as casually as he can, but his use of the word is rusty at best and his voice is already low as it is. He can’t help but feel the need for reverent tones when he speaks about this place.

Your eyes take on a faraway look, like reliving each of your memories with this place, which makes him wonder how long you’ve been doing this. He looks around the room, and he sees years’ worth of history in this dingy little gym that smells like old paper and long-dried sweat. “My dad taught me,” you say in a murmur, then smile a little. “Guess that’s who you have to thank for that cut.”

“Well, I’m glad he taught you how to do stitches to go with that,” he says. “Evens out.”

You’re silent, looking lost in thought. Vernon’s eyes wander where they’re probably not supposed to, over the sheen of sweat on your bared neck and the soft skin peeking out from under the hem of your t-shirt where it rides up at your waist. You exhale heavily, and his eyes snap back up to yours.

“Teach me,” he says.

You turn to face him, uncomprehending. “What?”

He gestures to the ring. “Teach me how to box,” he says. “So the next time I get in a bar fight, I know how to defend myself.”

That puts a smile on your face, but your eyebrows still draw together, like you’re not sure if he’s being serious. “I don’t really have much experience teaching grown adults, you know.”

“Trial and error,” he says happily. He’s not too sure where he was intending to go with this, but now that he’s said it out loud and everything, his heart is pounding with slow-trickling anxiousness and eagerness, both in equal parts. “I know you have—all that with those kids,” he stumbles over his words, making jazz hands to convey the message instead, “but, you know. Sometimes. If you’re good with that.”

Your frown eases a little, but you still look hesitant, which is totally understandable. He doesn’t know where this came from either, but it seemed important that he said it when he did. “Well—”

“You saw how easily I got K.O.ed,” he reminds you. Then, as inspiration hits, he touches his bandaged stitches lightly, putting on the best wounded-pup face he can muster. “I kind of need the help. To preserve my manly dignity.”

You bite the inside of your lip at that, but he sees the edges of a smile threatening to break out on your face. “I can’t believe you’re pulling that card,” you say, a laugh in your words. “I did apologize.”

“And I accepted that apology,” he says, “because technically, it was my fault, but that’s the whole point! What if next time, it’s a really tall, really muscular dude instead?”

Your shoulders shake as you attempt to hold in a laugh. He guesses he must look desperate, and he kind of is, if only it’s to have a reason to see you again. “Well, in that case, training wouldn’t help much.”

“I can try.”

You study him for a second, a hint of a smile on your lips. “Yeah,” you murmur, “I guess you can.”

He raises his eyebrows. “So?”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Great!” He grins, failing spectacularly at hiding his enthusiasm. Not that he’s trying particularly hard. “So…when can we start?”

You let out a snort at that. “I’ll let you know,” you say. “But don’t expect it to be soon.”

“You got it.” Vernon reaches into his back pocket to fish out his phone, and pauses. “Wait. I never got your name.”

“I never offered it,” you reply dryly, but give it to him anyway. “And you’re…”

“Vernon.” He flashes his best smile to go with it, but you remain unfazed. Okay, well. Plenty of time to try that out later.

“Well, hello, Vernon,” you say, and something in his chest flutters at the way you enunciate his name, with care and a little bit of a drawl that ends in a smirk. “And thank you.”

He grins again, this time managing to elicit a small smile from you, too. “No problem.”

Turns out, he doesn’t have to wait that long after all.

You’re very hesitant about the entire ordeal at first, because the whole thing feels off. All your life, you’ve been taught not to trust men, regardless of how good-looking they were—in fact, the pretty ones are usually the worst. One can, considering your past experiences, understand your doubt about having a good-looking city boy waltz up and demand that you teach him kickboxing, especially when it’s a city boy you’ve punched. So instead of letting the time draw out and sinking deeper into your own qualms, you decide to get it over with as quickly as possible, so if he does turn out to have some kind of ulterior motive, you can throw him out that much quicker. Rip off the proverbial band-aid.

To your surprise, Vernon doesn’t turn out to be the kind of person who’d enjoy a fight. He turns out to be much worse.

“I told you, you don’t have to hold back with me,” you say, a note of irritation slipping into your voice despite your best attempts at keeping it at bay. “I’m not made of glass, Vernon. I won’t break if you hit me.”

“It’s not—I’m not—I didn’t say that,” Vernon mumbles, flushing slightly. His stance is good. He follows your instructions and doesn’t make much of a fuss, even when you accidentally clock him right on the spot where you bruised him earlier that week. “I’m just not used to this.”

You hold back a sigh. What makes everything even worse is that you can’t be mean to him. He’s not fragile by any means—in fact, he’s tough enough to hold his own, despite the lack of training and your last violent encounter with him. He’s just so darn nice. Not in the polite sense, but he’s well-mannered, the kind that you’re not used to after living in one of the city’s roughest neighborhoods since you were a child. It makes you want to dislike him, because it’s easy to dislike people from the city with their contempt and their preening and their words, but Vernon is an exception.

It gives you a headache.

“If you don’t take this seriously, you’ll never be able to learn,” you tell him, meaning every word. This is your way of teaching: application, not pads or punching bags. Punching bags don’t punch back. “You’re not strong enough to seriously hurt me, even if you go all-out. And I won’t go easy on you, either. What is your problem with hitting me, anyway? That’s the whole point of this class.”

“My mom raised me right,” he says with a self-deprecating smile, and your heart thumps painfully in your chest. “But I’ll try.”

He feints to the left, then strikes out at your abdomen, but it’s a weak punch. You make a frustrated noise at the back of your throat, and push forwards, directing a high kick towards his face. Vernon defends, looking surprised at the sudden ferocity in your movements, but you’re relentless. A well-aimed hook sends his other arm up, leaving his abdomen exposed. You dart in, aiming a solid, reliable mule kick at his stomach, which sends him stumbling backwards, caught off-guard with an unstable base—and you drop, sweeping his legs out from underneath him. He lands on his back with a heavy thump.

You move to stand over him with your hands on your hips, eyebrows raised, like, well?

And Vernon—curse that bastard—grins. His million-watt smile flashes, charging up your circuit, and leaving you caught off-guard instead. “Point taken,” he says, still smiling, and you shake your head, a smile of your own having subconsciously formed on your face to mirror his.

“I sure hope so,” you say, and hold out a hand. He moves to grasp it, but you shake your head no, instead wrapping your fingers around his wrist. “Mirror that. It’s called a mountaineer’s grip. Much better than that chick-flick hold.”

Vernon follows your instructions, gripping your wrist and part of your forearm, and you pull him up to his feet. “That hurt like a bitch,” he says, and you tilt your head.

“I hope it did,” you say calmly, and he bursts out laughing, which—god, it makes your heart hurt. A tingle of something unfamiliar travels down your spine as he lets go of your hand, standing before you with his chest heaving like he’s just finished running a marathon.

“Go again?” he asks.

“Your stance is all wrong,” you call out, as you and Vernon circle each other in the center of the boxing ring, waiting for the moment to strike. “Spread your feet a bit more, align them with your shoulders. That way, you won’t be pushed off-balance that easily.”

Vernon obeys, shifting the position of his feet, aligning his hips with the stance. He’s a good student, or maybe you’re just too used to looking after boisterous ten-year-olds who have too much energy for something that requires as much discipline as kickboxing.

At first, you’d decided that you wouldn’t let this happen too often—you already had too much on your plate, and even the extra cash wasn’t inviting enough for you to slave away for hours beyond your strict schedule. However, you had recognized that that plan was going to be trashed the moment you’d started. Vernon wasn’t just a good student, he was fun. Much more fun than you were used to in your packed weekly schedule, tightened to the second for maximum efficiency like a loose screw. You hadn’t realized how much you needed someone your age around the place. This was supposed to be a job, a part of work, but it was beginning to feel more like down time.

“Arms up,” you call. Vernon raises his arms, shielding his face but not his upper body, leaving the center of his chest wide open. You open your mouth, intending to correct his posture, but think better of it. Instead, you draw back, hiding a smirk.

“Wha—” Vernon starts, looking confused, but you strike out before he can complete his statement. The heel of your hand connects with the center of his chest, knocking him off-balance (shifted stance again, goddamnit). You spring back before he’s even registered the hit. “Ow!”

“Protect your chest,” you say. “That’s the fourth most important place to defend, after your—”

“Face, abdomen, legs,” he lists, then frowns, rubbing his chest where you hit him. “That was uncalled for.”

You shake your head. “I’m your kickboxing instructor, Chwe, not your nanny,” you quip. “You have to keep your guard up. What if someone attacks you at a bar again?”

Vernon narrows his eyes, then smiles. The sight makes you raise an eyebrow, and you pull in your guard a little tighter after that, wary of whatever he’s thinking. “I’m not as bad as you think, you know,” he says, relaxing his guard, which only makes you even warier. “I’m just a little off my game because it’s so goddamn hot in here,” he complains, turning around.

You watch, transfixed, as he peels off his sweat-soaked shirt—which, admittedly, had already been sticking to his body like a second skin—and tosses it to a corner. Sweat shines on his skin, reminding you of those car wash commercials with shirtless men. Pale, corded muscle runs along his neck, going taught as he rolls it. His chest is lean and chiseled, the sweat accentuating the planes and lines of it—oh, the lines, running in the middle of his chest and down to his abdomen, on the insides of his waist, disappearing into the waistband of his pants—

“You need to get an air conditioner in here, babe.”

Babe?

You tense, surprised, and he uses the split second of distraction to attack. He punches up, and you defend without thinking, leaving yourself—ugh—off-balance. “Got you,” he whispers, hooking a leg behind your ankle and pulling it out from under you.

You tumble to the ground, taking him with you, so he lands on top of you. “You fought dirty,” you accuse, and when he chuckles, you feel the vibrations of his body in yours, resonating deep within your bones. Suddenly, you’re hyperaware of his body pressed against yours, every line aligning with yours, his face incredibly close. Heat waves roll off his bare chest and soak through your clothes, making everything uncomfortably hot (you do need to get that air conditioner).

“I’m pretty sure they don’t fight fair at bars,” Vernon says lowly, and you feel in his breath the exact shape of his smirk. “Consider this a kind of practice.”

His hair, a sunny shade of blonde, has turned darker at the temples where it’s plastered to his skin with sweat. Your eyes track a bead as it runs along his jaw and travels down his neck before plateauing in the hollow of his collarbone.

“Dirty, huh?” you ask, circling your fingers around his bicep. He blinks; long, sweeping eyelashes throwing off light when he does, almost taking you with them. You lift your back a little off the ground, arching your spine, and he sucks in his breath—you feel it, the tightening of his bicep and the swelling of his chest, the sudden skip in his heartbeat strangely gratifying—and flip your positions.

Vernon doesn’t see it coming, of course, registering everything a little slower even as he lands hard on his back with you on top. You push yourself up and away from his upper body, straddling him, pinning his arms with your knees, and smirk down at him in satisfaction.

“If you’d been paying more attention, you wouldn’t have ended up in this position,” you tell him.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, looking a bit dazed as he speaks. There are the barest traces of a smile around his mouth, because of course he’d keep smiling even when you’ve got him pinned down like this. “I kind of like being in this position.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Your hands curl against his chest, and you swallow slowly, eyes flicking from his eyes to his smile and his lips, and—this is a bad idea.

“Get up,” you command, the smile slipping off your face as you roll off him and get to your feet. You don’t see his eyes dim, nor do you hear his low sigh as he pushes himself off the ground and stands. “That will be all for today.”

“What?” Vernon complains. “It hasn’t even been an hour yet.”

“I have…stuff,” you murmur, looking away. You make your way towards the ropes, pulling off the hand towel hanging from it and patting it against your sweaty neck. “Go home, Vernon.”

He leans against the nearest post, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning. He watches you try to look busy with the towel for a few more seconds, and you grow more and more awkward with each. Finally, after a few long moments, just when you’re about to throw something at him, he speaks.

“Actually, I’m going to stay out for a while,” he says. “I’m starving.”

The word triggers something in you, reminding you of the last meal you had—mac-and-cheese, four hours earlier, before all of your classes. On cue, your stomach growls.

When you turn to face him, Vernon has a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Fine,” you mutter, conceding defeat. “I know this Chinese place a few blocks away, but you’re paying.”

And when he says, “It’s the least I could do,” you hear unmistakable warmth in his words.

“So,” Vernon says around a mouthful of hunan chicken, “tell me about yourself.”

You look up from your dish and raise an eyebrow. You’ve already worked your way through a plate and are currently on your second one with no end in sight, which makes him wonder how long you’ve gone without eating. Thankfully, the place is relatively cheap and not too heavy on his wallet, so he’ll probably still have enough to catch a ride home later.

“I’m a kickboxing instructor for forty little kids and one big kid, I live in an apartment, I like egg foo young,” you say dryly.

“Yeah, but—I already know that.”

“What else is there to tell?” you ask with a shrug, and proceed to take another mouthful. Your face and hair are bathed in a soft, orangey glow because of the light from the paper lanterns, which makes your curved mouth look like a soft line, sleepy and comfortable. Vernon almost doesn’t feel like disturbing it. Almost.

“You said your dad taught you how to fight,” he starts, and, lo-and-behold, the smile slips from your face.

The change in mood is instantaneous and practically tangible, like a cloud hovering over your little booth. You drop your fork into your plate and lean back with a sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. “You had to go there,” you mutter. “And I was about to relent, too.”

“Oh, is that a forbidden topic? I didn’t mean to,” he says quickly, apologetic, swallowing the rest of his overly-masticated chicken. “We can make a list, so everyone knows what to avoid.”

The soft curve returns, but it’s dim enough that the light doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You run a hand over the opposite bicep, looking down at your half-full plate. There’s a tenseness in your posture, the way you square your shoulders and tighten your jaw that reminds him of squaring up in the ring. A little part of him, still in the gym, expects a drop kick.

“Well, he’s…not in my life anymore,” you murmur. “And good thing, too. I used to live with my sister for a while before she moved out, and now it’s just me.” You shrug a single-shouldered shrug, trying to come off as stoic, but it’s a useless enterprise. “So, yeah, I live alone, in a tiny flat above the gym.”

The last part, tacked on uncaringly at the end of your sentence, catches him by surprise. “You live above the gym?”

A grimace flickers across your face, looking like dancing lights with the orange-candy glow. “Can we pretend you didn’t hear that?”

“Nope,” he says, picking up a spoon and using the handle to point at you. “So all this time, we were right underneath your home, and you didn’t even think to invite me in?”

“Well, we’re not exactly friends,” you say, but with enough amusement behind your words that it doesn’t sound mean. “I’m your kickboxing instructor, not your—”

“Nanny, I know, you’ve used that phrase too many times for it to have any real bite,” he says, leaning against the back of his seat to mirror your posture. “You never said we couldn’t be friends.”

“You think we’re friends?” you ask, sounding half-amused, half-unsure.

Vernon raises his eyebrows. “You don’t?”

“Well, we’re…” He watches you fumble with the words for a bit, a sly smile on his face, and it takes you a beat too long to notice. You end up biting your lip, and lean forward, uncrossing your arms and plunging your joined hands between your knees. “We’re…something.”

“Something,” he tries out, and nods in approval. “I can live with that.”

You play with something underneath the table for a second, then look up, eyes sharp. “I told you something about myself, like you said,” you say. “Your turn.”

“My turn?” He cocks his head, thinking. “I’ve lived a pretty uneventful life.”

“I’m sure you can come up with something.”

“Well…” he muses, folding his arms behind his head. “I live in an apartment, too, except I have a roommate. He’s really particular about things, like time and taking showers and making beds, so I’m definitely going to get a lecture on the importance of sticking to schedule when I get back today,” he admits, scrunching up his nose at the thought. “I’m kind of beginning to regret this.”

You laugh—and, yeah, that’s kind of the whole reason he’s doing this. A smile tugs at his lips as he hears it, and you cover your mouth with the back of your hand, shaking your head. “That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

“Not nearly enough,” he replies, and your smile, a remnant from your laughter, widens into a grin that’s stained orange and red. “I might just move out after tonight. But then I’d be alone.”

“I’ll let you crash on my couch.”

“Much obliged.”

You settle into another stretch of silence, but this time, it’s comfortable. He stares at you staring at your hands, feeling full and content and not just because of the excellent hunan chicken (he’s definitely coming here again). It’s been a while since he felt this…complete.

I could get used to this.

“Make your move as soon as you can, before your chance slips away,” you say, startling him out of his thoughts. “Love does not wait.”

Vernon blinks, lowering his arms to push himself into a straight sitting position, somewhat shakily. “What?”

You hold up a slip of paper with one hand, and a fortune cookie in another.

His chest deflates, but whether it is with relief or disappointment, he isn’t sure. He waits until the shakiness passes, relaxing into the seat before speaking. “Didn’t you already eat yours?” he asks.

“I did,” you say, then smirk, popping half the broken cookie into your mouth. “This one’s yours.”

Happiness really does come from the strangest of places.

We are not making this a regular thing, you had said at the end of the day, after you’d finished the cookie and Vernon had paid the bill and the two of you had stood outside the restaurant, arms wrapped around your bodies to shield weakly from the nighttime chill. Of course, Vernon had replied with a funny little smile that had looked more like a grin, challenging beneath its superficial innocence.

So, yeah, it ends up becoming a regular thing.

Drinks are a major no-no, and you manage to hold that paper-thin rule in its place for almost two weeks before finally relenting. Even then, you warn him not to drink more than to get buzzed, and he agrees with the same disobedient smile which makes your stomach churn with thoughts you're still too afraid to bring to the forefront of your brain. At the very least, you swear to yourself that you won’t let him win this time around. And, to an extent, that oath holds true.

You just hadn't counted on Vernon turning out to be a lightweight.

"'m not drunk," he says as you drag him along the street, the nine-p.m. curfew crushed to pieces for the first time in weeks. Vernon's eyes are alert, only slipping under a veil of exhaustion when you look away, so you're almost inclined to believe him—would have been, if he hadn't been leaning on you so heavily. Every step he takes is wobbly yet deliberate, a small frown of concentration etched in the middle of his brow as he navigates the crumbling sidewalk. "I'm—not. Just tired."

"Sure," you say brightly, too tired to argue with a drunk man about the degree of his drunkenness. "Let's get you home for now, alright? I don't want you to pass out in the backseat of a potential ax murderer."

"Cab drivers are nice."

"Yeah, well," you mutter, hoisting him up as he slips a little, like a particularly big, particularly heavy bag. "Not here."

He holds it together until you finally hail a cab, intending to drop him off yourself and make sure he gets home instead of some trafficking ring. It's not unheard of. While you converse with the driver, trying to decipher Vernon's real address instead of the slurred mess he gave you back in the bar, he wanders off without you noticing. The next thing you hear is the violent clang of a body colliding with something unforgiving and metallic, followed by an instantly recognizable "Ow!"

You whip around, panic taking ahold of you and tightening all the muscles in your body, which only relax when you see Vernon standing a few feet away, clutching his forehead. "I walked into a stop sign," he says, as if that's supposed to ease your worry.

"I noticed," you say wryly, grasping his elbow in a vice-like grip and walking him to the cab, where the driver hangs out of the window and looks pointedly at his fake/real and possible stolen Rolex. "Get inside. I'm taking you home."

"Home?" Vernon echoes, folding his long limbs into a manageable size as he climbs into the back. Then, as the meaning of the word registers, very real horror seeps into his expression as quickly as dye in water. "You can't take me home like this! Seungkwan will have me drawn and quartered."

"And whose fault is that?" you bite back, making his lower lip jut out in a convincing pout. Okay, maybe he's not as drunk as you'd thought. "Don't give me that look."

"You promised you'd let me crash at your place in case I ever needed to lay low for a while," he says accusingly.

"I never promised you anything," you hiss back, if only for the sake of argument, because it's kind of an uphill road when he's using those damn puppy eyes on you.

The driver reaches around to thump the back of his seat. You swivel to face him, and he arches his bushy eyebrows. "Well, missy, where to?" he asks in an annoyed voice that’s more than a little nasally, spittle flying out from underneath his beard and narrowly missing your face. "I don't have all night."

You sigh through your teeth, and give him your address.

You take Vernon up to your apartment through the fire escape, hoping the chilly outdoor wind will keep him upright at least until you've got him inside your apartment. He collapses on your couch the moment you enter the comforting warmth of the living room, letting out a very vocal indication of his satisfaction as he drapes himself over the pillows. You roll your eyes fondly, heading for the refrigerator to look for ice for his stop-sign-induced bruise.

"Your couch is more comfortable than my bed," Vernon exclaims as you rummage through the freezer for the ice tray. "I wouldn't mind sleeping here every night."

"You're not sleeping over every night," you say, finally feeling the edge of a plastic tray inside the freezer, but when you bring it out, it's dismally empty. "Great."

"What happened?"

"I'm out of ice," you murmur, cursing yourself for forgetting to freeze some earlier. You pull out a bag of frozen peas instead, the temperature numbing your fingertips as you do, and switch hands.

"What do you need ice for?"

"Your bruise," you say, and toss the pack to him. It smacks against a hard surface a second later, followed by yet another exclamation of surprise and pain.

"Inebriated individual here!" Vernon calls as you turn, seeing him hold up the bag by a corner, rubbing a spot on his chest where you assume it had hit him a moment earlier. He gives you the stink eye when you look at him. "My depth perception is a little messed up at the moment."

You walk over to him, taking the bag from his hand and taking a seat on the table in front of him so you're at eye-level with him. "I told you not to drink too much," you say in a voice that is much too pleased by the outcome, holding the bag against the side of his face.

"I'll make sure to listen to you next time," he says, and though his words are supposed to be mocking, his voice is rough as he looks into your eyes. The sheen of ice over the packet seeps into your skin, but you forget to pay attention, lost for a moment in his gaze.

The silence that usually pervades your apartment at nighttime suddenly seems alive, like a held breath, waiting for something big. Vernon's eyes hold yours, and you can pick out the rings of brown in them, the iris shrinking back from his blown-out pupils.

Unconscious of your own actions, you part your lips, tensing as his face inches closer and his eyelashes sweep almost over his cheeks, casting spidery shadows over his skin. He exhales softly, and his breath when it fans your face is still warm, like the body heat radiating off him in waves and cocooning you in the small, packed space of the room. He lifts a hand, reaching for your face, and you lean in slowly, as if drawn in by the gravity of him, as if the walls are closing in and pushing you up against his chest, and—this is a bad idea.

You inhale sharply, and spring back. Vernon's brow twitches, and he drops his hand, looking more than a little confused. Your eyes glance away from his and focus on the packet of peas, where your palm has grown numb with the prolonged exposure to ice. "Here," you say roughly, lifting his hand and using it to replace yours over the packet before drawing away completely.

The last thing you see before you turn are Vernon's fingers as they curl around the stuff crimp of the bag, but you feel his eyes on your back for much longer. He says nothing, remaining silent and brooding, which puts you even more on edge. You don't know how to escape from this, this oppressive stillness, which makes you feel like you're stuck with no way out. Bound, almost—restricted, limited, confined—

You practically fall into a sitting position when the back of your knees hits the edge of the couch, too distracted to notice. "Guess I'm not the only one who got drunk," Vernon rasps, voice muffled by the bag of peas.

The next morning, you come to slowly.

The first thing you register is that you apparently never made it to your bed, since you're jammed uncomfortably into one corner of the couch. Your joints creak when you try to move, and your neck hurts so much it feels like someone’s stuck a blade between the discs of your spine. You twist your neck to dislodge it and roll your shoulders, but just as you're about to get up, you notice the weight in your lap.

You look down to see Vernon fast asleep on your couch, his head pillowed by your lap. The bag of peas has long fallen, a few of them rolling out onto the marble floor from where it split from the fall at some point during the night. His mouth is slightly open, expression oddly peaceful in sleep. The edges of your heart soften as you card a hand through his hair, marveling at the softness of the hair at his nape. Something sticks in your chest when he stirs at the touch.

That's when you know that something has to be done.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

You're an unstoppable force, landing punch after punch on the heavy bag that hangs in front of you. Sweat pours from every pore on your skin, soaking through your tank and making it stick to your skin, so the friction irritates the creases of your body every time you move. You land another hook on the punching bag, the boxing tape chafing at your knuckles, as worn-out as you. It's been an hour since you got up at midnight to go down to the gym, and you're nowhere close to done.

The lights are out, so they don't spill out from under the doorway and into the corridor to alert Peggy of your presence. It helps you focus, the muggy silence that you need to convert into something liberating, something freeing like you're used to, because you're not alone you're just independent and you're coping. You're handling it. You have been for the past seven years and that doesn’t need to change now.

Your phone lights up with a notification, and you drop your arms, allowing yourself a miniscule break to bend down and swipe the device off the padded floor. The sudden brightness burns your eyes, but you welcome it, hoping it keeps you awake for a while longer so when you do fall asleep you positively crash, and don't have to spend hours waking in the morning just laying on your bed, contemplating and listening to the sounds of nothingness that cages you like an animal.

VERNON: so i'm guessing 'i'll see you next week' was a lie

VERNON: i'm bored, haven't had anything to fight in ages

VERNON: the ghost act is getting old

VERNON: you okay?

The timestamp on the last one is 2:14 a.m., which tells you you've been here for way longer than you'd thought. You pinch the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment before turning off your phone and tossing it back onto the mat.

You haven't been ghosting him, not exactly. You still reply to his texts every once in three days and, okay, so maybe they're all monosyllabic but so what? You don't owe anyone an explanation, least of all him. So he hasn't seen you in two weeks. So maybe he's a little worried. But he has no right to be.

You turn back to the punching back, assuming an offensive stance, but weariness weighs down on your bones and threatens to pull you down to the floor. After sandbagging with kids all day, the exertion is sudden and exhausting, and you're not sure how long you can keep this up.

Then the silence grows more noticeable around you, circling and whispering and waiting, so you grit your teeth and raise your arms back up.

Thump.

Three days later, midnight comes at your doorstep in the form of a bleeding Vernon.

You're surprised enough as it is, but he adds on to it with a weak smile that quickly turns into a wince, and stumbles a bit before his leather-clad shoulder hits the doorframe. "Hi," he says, sucking in a ragged breath, as your eyes roam his form, from the reopened cut on his temple to the blood gathered at one corner of his mouth. "A little help?"

You open your mouth and close it in the manner of a goldfish, then shake your head as if trying to get rid of something invisible. Wordlessly, you move out of his way, letting him enter the apartment and closing the door behind him.

You lean against the door for a moment as if to catch your breath, watching him make his way to the couch like watching an alien trudge across a moonlit football field. It's surreal, and it's late, so you're not sure if this is just your subconscious taking over, making you dream with open eyes.

"I couldn't go back home because a. it's past midnight, and b. I'm bleeding, so my roommate would have chopped me up into bite-sized pieces and fed me to his aunt's dog," Vernon says, and you take the first few hesitant steps in his direction, slowly beginning to realize that you aren't dreaming and all of this is actually happening. "And you patched me up pretty well last time—for free—so I didn't really see the point in going to a doctor if I'm going to crash here anyway. Nice to see you're alive and well, actually," he adds, "I wasn't sure, seeing as you didn't deem it fit to let me know."

You brush aside the jab, not without a pang of guilt, and move to stand in front of him. He's taken a seat on your couch, pressing two fingers against corner of his mouth with a permanent grimace plastered over his expression. "What happened?" you ask in a steely tone, now that you're sure he isn't in immediate danger of, well, dying or something.

His eyes flicker up to yours for a split second before glancing away. "Got into a bar fight," he says casually, like one might say they bumped into someone on the street. "You know, I wasn't kidding when I said I was bored of not having anyone to fight."

You take a deep breath, trembling slightly from the force of emotion that swells inside you like a violent wave. "And you came...here."

"I already told you I couldn't go home," he says, raising an eyebrow. "Where else was I supposed to go?"

You kiss your teeth, unsure if you're happy or upset or downright incensed. “Somewhere,” you say, clenching your fists. “A motel. Anywhere.” You glare. "You can't just waltz in here without permission."

He gives you a look. "I didn't." His fingertips probe the cut again, and come away bloody. "Besides, you didn't have a problem with me staying over the last time."

"What if I’d had guests over?"

"Do you?"

You clench your teeth, and exhale slowly, trying to calm your thundering heartbeat. Then you turn on your heel and march to your bathroom to get the suture kit, because you can't just stand there and do nothing about the reopened cut when your fingers are shaking with the itch to touch him.

When you get back, Vernon's stopped touching his injuries, and you feel your heart twist when you notice his gaze on you, heavy and observant. He seems so damn knowing sometimes that you can't bear it. Bear to act like it doesn't bother you when he watches you, taking note of every little movement, when all you want to do is open Pandora's box and shake him until he lets the words spill out.

Vernon gets up and comes to you before you can step towards the sofa, silent and prepared. "Stay still now," you warn as you bring up the vodka-soaked cotton to clean his cut. His eyes stay on you, intense and burning, so much more upfront than what you're used to. This time, he doesn't flinch as you work, even as you stitch closed his skin and wipe the blood at the corner of his mouth with a curved knuckle. He keeps watching, and you know he always did watch, but right now it doesn't seem as furtive—his gaze is blunt like a rusted knife, waiting for you to take notice.

"What did you do?" you ask quietly as you finish up the last stitch, bandaging the wound. Vernon's passive facade cracks with a small smile, and your entire body breathes a sigh of relief, because you wouldn't know what to do if he remained impassive.

"Pissed off the wrong person," he says, sounding damn pleased with himself, and you don't even attempt to bite back the chuckle that bubbles up in your chest. "You should've seen him. It was this huge guy, and I wasn't even drunk, but I really wanted to punch someone, you know? And I know the first rule of everything is knowing when to walk away from a fight and yada-yada-yada, but I really wanted to do it. I don't think I could have fallen asleep without it."

You reach up and touch the fading bruise on his cheekbone, grazing your fingertips against the yellowed skin. "Was it a hook?"

"A cross."

You nod slowly, distractedly, and let your hand drop. His eyes track your movements as you take a step back, closing the suture kit and setting it down on the table. For a moment, you're utterly still, and then you turn—slightly, spreading your feet to align with your shoulders, cocking an arm to brush away a strand of hair from your face—and punch.

He jerks in surprise, but blocks reflexively like you’d taught him; drilled it into his body's primal instincts by making him do it over and over and over. The inside of your wrist catches his arm, and he pushes it outwards, tensing up in surprise. "What was that for?"

"You can block a cross, Vernon," you say, voice brittle, and curl your fingers into your palm. "I don't know how strong that man was, but you can block a cross, and like hell will I believe that his punch even grazed you." Your teeth come together with a click of your jaw. "You threw the fight."

His shoulders brace, then relax. "Maybe," he admits at length, and murmurs, “but it doesn't really matter."

You press your lips together, crossing your arms over your chest. "Why are you here, Vernon?"

"Because I want to be here," he says, a line appearing between his furrowed eyebrows. "You haven't answered any of my calls in the past week, and the only reply I got was a single word to my paragraph. I've been worried sick."

"I'm not asking you to be worried sick," you say through your teeth, letting your arms drop to your sides and balling your fists. "I don't see how that changes anything."

His lips thin, but he looks away, breathing heavily. "Okay," he breathes, looking like he’s trying to hold back an avalanche gathered behind his tongue, "okay." He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing up and down, and lets his shoulders fall. "But I'm staying here tonight. I meant it when I said Seungkwan was going to chop me up into pieces."

You bite your lip, managing a defeated nod. "Fine," you murmur. "Just..."

He looks back at you, eyebrows raised.

Your fingertips flutter towards his bandaged forehead, then back. "Don't sleep on your side," you say hoarsely, and his eyes soften.

Hesitating at first, you lean into him just a little, and he holds his breath, watching you with fever-pitch intensity as you draw closer. His eyes track your movements as you touch the lapel of his jacket, lightly, and waver. His skin is inches from yours, and just out of reach, and—this is a bad idea.

You flinch at the sound of your dad’s voice in your head, and turn away. Vernon’s brow furrows, his eyes flickering from your face to your fingers as they move away, and realization slowly dawns on his face.

“Oh, come on, don’t do that,” he all but groans, catching at your wrist before you can turn away. You spin around, armed with a glare, but even that falters when you see the look on his face. It’s raw—the vulnerability in his eyes, the furrowed brow, the way his lips pull up almost like a wince.

“Do what?” you ask, voice hoarse.

“The thing where you gaze deeply into my eyes like you’re totally going to kiss me, and then don’t,” he says, and there’s a fierceness behind the blunt, humorous words that makes your heart stutter in your chest. Vernon pulls at your wrist, tugging you closer to his body, and you don’t even have the heart to resist. “That.”

You let out a disbelieving huff, closing your fingers into a fist. "What else do you want me to do?" you say roughly. There's a scream in your words that you can't let out. The mirage is cracking into pieces all around you, and you'd be a fool to pretend like there was nothing wrong when it's time for all cards to be on the table. "Would you rather be with me, in a nice, domesticated life where I meet your parents and you don't get to meet mine and I look your particular roommate in the eye and tell him I live in a place like this?" you snap. "Is that how you expect this to turn out?"

"No," Vernon breathes. "Of course not. I don't—it doesn't matter, what they—"

"That's what you think," you bite. "Is this really the place you want to come back to? This dingy little apartment surrounded by brick and buildings, with no sunlight and no air so you hear dogs and car alarms all night?" You gesture to yourself. "You think someone like you could ever last with something like this?"

And his eyes, curse them, are still as soft as the mat you fell on whenever your dad knocked you down in the gym as a kid. They make all the muscles of your body stiffen, but cushion you too, taking the brunt of the fall. "If I didn't like it," Vernon says softly, "I wouldn't keep coming back to it."

He leans in, capturing your lips with his.

Tired of holding back, you lean into the kiss after a split second of surprise with every bit of fervor you have left in your bone-tired body. His hand lets go of your wrist to tangle in your hair, the other going to your waist, reeling you in and kissing you slow and hard and deep. You let go for air seconds later, breathless with surprise, and meet his eyes. They smolder like twin flames, low at first and then bright, burning away all that's left of your doubt and fear and unease.

Oh, fuck it.

You push him onto the couch, hooking a leg over his thigh to straddle him, bunching up the material of his shirt in your hands before pulling him towards you and kissing him with a force behind it. He kisses back just as fast and just as hard, gripping your waist like a vice and pulling you into his lap. “You drive me crazy,” he whispers in between kisses, and your fingers curl tighter in his shirt.

Something thick and hot coils in your gut, and you deepen the kiss, your tongue teasing along the line of his lips before slipping into his mouth. Vernon moans into the kiss, his hands slipping from your waist up your sides, cupping your breasts and pressing into them. You gasp against his mouth, which makes his eyes glint. Vengeful, you slip your hands under his t-shirt and up the firm muscle of his back, tasting the edge of his grin in the kiss.

But still, he draws back enough to get a few words in, eyes searching yours. "We're doing this?" he asks, pupils blown wide, pushing the ring of his irises into a thin circlet of honey-brown.

"You want to do this?" you ask, a little breathless, and he groans a little.

"Do I want to fuck? Hell yes," he says.

You cock an eyebrow. "On the couch?"

He shrugs. "You do something new every day."

"That's not how it goes, but..." You slant your lips against his.

His teeth graze your bottom lip, and your nails curl into his back. He slides his hands back to the hem of your t-shirt, giving it an impatient upward tug as you kiss him, making it bunch under your arms. "Patience, grasshopper," you whisper against his lips before pulling back and letting him wrench the shirt up and over your head, discarding it somewhere to the side. 

Shivers skitter down your spine as he runs the pads of his fingers along the skin under your bra, toying with the clip for a moment before wrenching it open, breaking it in the process. You narrow your eyes, and he grins apologetically, flicking his thumb over your hardened nub and instantly making you forget your annoyance. 

“Mmph,” you protest, as he plants a series of haphazard kisses along the valley of your chest. His other hand delves under the waistband of your sweats, along the band of your pantyline, and hovers there for a moment before slipping in deeper.

When his fingers graze your clit, you bite down on his lip almost hard enough to draw blood. You're aware that you're almost soaked through—he is an expert kisser—and Vernon seems to notice it too, as one side of his mouth twists into a smirk. He curls his fingers, caressing your slick heat with the pad of his index and middle finger, but only just. You break the kiss to suck in your breath, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, squeezing your eyes shut as his touch threatens to unravel you at the seams. 

He retracts his hand, the fingers sticky and coated with your juices, and laps at it like a kitten. "You're already so wet," he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. He rubs another finger against your core, and you dig your fingers into his shoulder blades, close to shuddering apart. "And I haven't even fucked you yet," he whispers in amusement, licking his lips. "D'you like it when I touch you there like that? Flick it ‘nd rub it ‘nd—"

You press your lips into his shoulder, mumbling shut up and fuck me, and he grins with a feral edge to it. Your hands slip under the shirt and skitter up his sides, pulling the t-shirt off and roaming his bare chest.

He curls his fingers inside you, deeper and deeper until the tips skim the bundle of nerves in your clit, making you moan aloud. You think of his hands—long-fingered and pretty, all up inside your heat, and whimper. Vernon tilts up your chin with his free hand, making you look into his eyes, and dips his head to kiss you while simultaneously finger-fucking you. He buries his fingers into your pussy up to the hilt, drawing them out almost completely before shoving them in again, making you cry out, throwing your head back.

"Dirty," he says, then draws his hand out, despite your vocal protests. He runs his knuckles along your clit, spreading the slick heat along the slit, making you mewl in desperation. You’re not the only one suffering—you feel his hard-on through his jeans, straining to be freed, and grind on it. Vernon tips his head back with a groan, exposing the long line of his neck, gleaming with sweat and saliva. You plant a series of little kisses along it, unable to help yourself, and his free hand grips your hip, holding you in place.

"As much as I want to see you come around my fingers," he pants, licking his lips, "I wanna—ugh—want to be inside you when you do."

You draw back from the crook of his neck, leaning your forehead against his. Your nose knocks into his, making the cartilage bend, and he smiles—softly, warmly, with so much fondness it makes your heart squeeze painfully in your chest.

"Then what are you waiting for?" you whisper, and the smile turns wolfish.

He flips you over, gently, gently pressing you against the arm of the couch. Your fingertips travel down the planes of his chest to his abdomen and then his jeans, which you undo quickly and give an almighty yank at the collective band of his jeans and underwear, making his boxers snag around one ankle. "You got protection?" you ask, and he flips his jeans over to bring out his wallet, and takes out a condom from inside, waving it in the air.

"Always prepared," he says with a silly smile, which makes you laugh.

"Didn't expect you to be a boy scout," you say.

He rolls the condom down his length, then winks at you. "I am full of surprises."

He leans over you, aligning the tip of his cock with your entrance, and then pushes inside you.

The movement is so sudden that you arch up against the couch with a gasp, the line of your body pressing against his. He kisses your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin below your ear, and bucks his hips into yours. Your hand snakes up his sides and slides into his hair, pressing his face to the crook of your neck, and you push your hips against his needily, gasping when he hits your sweet spot. “Vernon,” you whisper throatily into his ear, clutching at his shoulders, and he groans weakly against your neck.

His breath is coming in pants too, getting harsher by the second. His thrusts start becoming sloppy, and he uses his free hand to rub circles into your clit, elevating your pleasure. "Holy fuck, babe, you're so tight,” he mumbles in awe, pressing unrelenting openmouthed kisses to your jaw, where his breath tickles your nape and makes something in your abdomen tingle like ice and lightning.

He rolls his hips against yours, and you arch up to meet every single one of his thrusts until they start getting messy and untimed, harsher and more desperate. You reach your high first, a starburst of fire burning into your eyelids when you close your eyes, and he comes not much later, finishing with a cry of your name. He collapses on top of you, pressing his lips to your throat, right above your pulse.

“I know you’re, like, naked and everything right now,” he murmurs, “but, god, you look so beautiful like this.”

You laugh, dazed, and press your nose into the crown of his head. He wraps his arms around you and folds you into him. The two of you lie in that position for a few moments, chests heaving, catching your breaths as the euphoria subsides into something sober yet sweet.

“So,” he says, as you absently draw circles into the taut skin of his shoulder, his nose knocking against the side of your neck.

“So,” you say.

“We should probably talk.”

You tilt your head back, letting it hit the arm of the couch. He brushes his fingertips deliberately along the v of your abdomen, and you lift yourself up with difficulty, and nod. “Probably,” you mutter, reluctant.

“But first—” He props himself up by the elbows and looks back up at you, smiling bright as the sun.

You cock an eyebrow.

“Go again?” he asks.

[darling-i-read-it]

Wash Up

Geralt of Rivia x reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: nakedness, wounds, men at bars, cuteness

Author’s Note: I just finished this show and i just am in love with this man thats that you know what i mean. I really liked this fic too so I hope you guys do as well! 

Summary: Geralt returns from a few days away from you 

Genre: fluff

Song: rivers and roads by the head and the heart 

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director 

(not my gif)

The town scuffled around you. It seemed that the world moved around at a high pace. Your world moved so quickly. As quick as the strangers around you, spilling and knocking over drinks while laughing with friends. Jaskier sat beside you at the corner of the bar. He had out his loot, mulling over the next song that he wanted to write. 

You had a pint of ale in your hands as you watched and waited.

“Is advantageous to pretentious?” Jaskier asked. You turned to him and raised an eyebrow, shrugging.

“I think that it works. How are you going to use it?” He showed you the piece of parchment where there were scribbled lyrics and notes. You looked it over and nodded idly. “Not too pretentious.” 

“Geralt will think it’s too pretentious,” he pointed out, hesitating to put down the word amongst the others. You shook your head and turned to him, away from the town gathered around you. 

“Don’t actually listen to anything Geralt says. He, himself, is too pretentious,” you promised. Jaskier shook his head.

“Easy for you to say. I don’t think he’s spoken an ill word of you ever.” You rolled your eyes and took a small drink of your ale. 

“We’ve had our fair share of fights.” 

“And they usually end with me not getting a good nights sleep. I wish you would warn me next time so that I could get a room far away from both of you,” he muttered. You chuckled lowly.

“Sounds like you need another drink to get those creative juices flowing, huh Jaskier?” You stood up and ruffled his hair. He swatted your hand away but he was smiling. You and Jaskier had grown close. You didn’t act like you hated him like Geralt tended to do. You were a nice balance between the two of them, such happiness matched by such bitterness. You had known Geralt much longer than Jaskier but he seemed to add some laughs to the relationship. 

You walked over to the bar and put down your empty cup. 

“Two more please.” 

“On me.” You turned over to the man who had just approached. It was not Geralt which surprised you. Geralt had been away for a couple of days. You had been itching for him to return. He left you to watch Jaskier which you thought was stupid. He liked to tag along and you were useful in a fight. Geralt was picky much too often.

“Thank you but I’ve got it,” you told the stranger. He shook his head. 

“Two for a girl like yourself?” he questioned. You shook your head.

“The second one if for my friend over there,” you said, pointing over to Jaskier. He was messing with the strings and singing quietly so that only he could hear.

“What kind of woman are you to be stuck with a bard like that?” You scoffed.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business sir,” you promised. The bartender gave you the two drinks and you gave him a nod goodbye. You got barely three steps away before he grabbed your arm, spilling the drink all over you. You let out a small gasp, looking down at the dress he had ruined. You were lucky you had left your armor in the room. 

The people closest to you turned to look., Jaskier looked up and stood when he saw you were in distress. He crumpled up his paper and put it in his pocket as he walked over. 

Geralt got there first.

You raised an eyebrow and your mouth opened in surprise as you saw him. He put himself between you and the man who had troubled you with his advances. He was covered in the guts of some monster, from head to toe. Jaskier got to you and you handed him the full cup. 

“For you,” you said, smiling. 

“You didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to.” Jaskier nodded, giving you a happy grin. Geralt however, was not done with the man.

“She told you it was none of your business and then you ruin her dress. I suppose you have the money to pay for it,” he said stiffly. The man realized who Geralt was and put his hands up in surrender.

“I didn’t realize she was a witcher's property,” he said. “My apologies.”

“I’m no one’s property. Now the money for my dress,” you said, pushing past Geralt. Geralt let you move past him. You stood your guard against the man. 

“I have no money to spare for a rag you may wear once.” You nodded, slowly, stiffly. You turned to Jaskier who was slowly sipping his drink.

“I’m sorry dear,” you said softly. He handed you the drink before you had to ask. You turned back around and sprayed it in the man's face. It dripped off his beard and onto his clothes that looked nothing more than the rags he spoke of. He reached for his dagger but Geralt stepped in front of you once more. 

“Call it even,” he said. The man looked at the sword draped across his back and how he was covered in the guts of a monster that was likely much harder to kill than the stranger would ever be. The man nodded, letting out a sigh. You turned to the bar and raised a finger.

“On the house,” the bartender said, shaking a bit at the sight of Geralt. You took it with a kind smile and handed it to Jaskier. 

“Voila,” you said with a smile. “The drink has returned.” He laughed and shook his head. Geralt grabbed your arm gently and you nodded. “Keep ‘advantageous’.” Jaskier nodded as you walked out of the bar. He had always been so fond of you. A kind soul that was locked in life with a witcher. It made for good songs.

You and Geralt walked out of the bar and then wordlessly up to the place that you were staying. You were drenched in ale and he was drenched in guts but you did not speak. You reached the room and he disappeared wordlessly into the small closet. You walked into the bathroom and started to draw a hot bath. It took a few minutes but Geralt returned to you, a change of clothes for the both of you. He put them down on the counter and walked over to where you sat, beside the bath, your fingers just barely touching the water as you tested its temperature. 

At the sight of you, peaceful, Geralt eased. It had been a hard monster to kill, harder than most. He had wondered if his travel home was going to be delayed or not but he made it just as night fell. You put your head against the side of the bath and he started to undress. 

You had seen each other naked countless times before. There was no sense of awkwardness anymore to it. He gestured for you to take his hand and you did so, standing up. He turned you around gently and slid the dress off of your shoulders. It fell very carefully onto the floor. He did his best not to touch your body with his guts covered hands. You took off the rest of your undergarments and by the time you were finished with that, Geralt was in the bath. 

You sat behind him, grabbing a sponge and ringing it out. You started to wash the guts off him slowly. He eased into your touch, relaxing. 

“What happened while I was gone?” he asked gruffly. You shrugged.

“Nothing eventful. I would have liked to go with you.”

“Well then who would have washed me up.” As the grime started to ease away you noticed a new scratch on his back. You brushed your finger over it lightly. 

“I would have avoided this growing scar,” you whispered. You kissed it gently, lips lingering on his skin. He took your hand off of his shoulder where it lay. He brought it to his lips and held it there, closing his eyes as he kissed your palm. 

The door to the room opened. Geralt's eyes opened quickly and he turned to see who was disrupting his peace. 

“Y/N?!” Jaskier yelled. You chuckled lowly and sank further into the water, ringing out the sponge. 

“Busy!” you yelled back. You heard his walking stop. 

“I thought I told you to warn me!” he pouted. You placed your head against Geralt's back and smiled lightly.

“Go away Jaskier!” Geralt yelled gruffly. You hit him gently.

“We’ll be out before you go to bed!” you called. He seemed to be okay with that.

“Fine! Be quieter!” he yelled and the door shut again.

“Why make promises you can’t keep?” Geralt asked you, voice back to a softer tone. You put down the sponge and he turned his head to the side to look at you.

“I’d rather he leave us thinking we will be back soon.” 

“You’re too nice to him.”

“Kindness is free you know.” You grabbed his hand and placed your head on his shoulder. You moved down and kissed his skin. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” 

He turned his head and kissed the side of your head.

“We aren’t going to be back before Jaskier goes to sleep are we.” 

“Not a chance.”

[themanip]

yellow roses

⤳ blurb: lee felix and his seven friends are chosen to go to america and attend a private high school. with only three able to speak english fluently, they get assigned another student to help them navigate american high school. they quickly come to realize that the sweet girl who speaks korean is much more than who she shows during school hours.

⤳ pairing: lee felix + willow arroyo ⤳ genre: romance, coming of age, drama, fluff, eventual smut, very angsty ⤳ warnings: chan being super sweet, cursing, mentions of bullying, not much to worry about this chapter ⤳ word count: a little over 3.1k 

"Can you turn that music down, please?"

Ronnie tapped her shoulder softly, which surprised the young girl. Swiveling around and yanking a headphone out of her ear, she crinkled her eyebrows at the balding man. "Sorry?"

"Can you turn it down? It's so loud I can hear it," her manager stared at her with blank eyes, and she nodded gently. Pulling her left hand from the swamp of dishes and dirty water, she dried her hand on her apron, and clicking the volume button to a lower setting. "I get it, Winnie. It's not the greatest job in the world, and you wanna listen to music and your grumpy manager is being an ass," she let out a soft chuckle at his words.

"I'm sorry, Ron. I don't mean to be an ass, I'm just exhausted."

"It's alright, I get it. I worked like you did when I was your age, and I know how much it sucked. It was just better for me because I got paid double what you do," he smiled softly, clapping his hands together.

"Minimum wage is no laughing matter, Ronnie. I eat one-fifth of a lemon bar for lunch everyday," she eyed him fake angrily, and his eyes softened. "Really?"

"No, what the hell," she laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. "Usually it's a bagel or something,"

"Okay," he sighed softly, taking his cap off and running his hands through his hair. "If you wanna close up a bit earlier, I can come in at five instead of seven,"

Her hands halted as she scrubbed a plate, and she smiled gently. "No, it's okay," she finished washing the last dish, and set it on the drying rack. "You have Eliot now, and I'm sure Olivia isn't getting much sleep without you home during the night, so go home, and take care of your son,"

She melted at the thought of his newborn son, and how beautiful he is. She wasn't extremely good with children, but babies made her absolutely swoon. She also knew how hard newborns were to deal with, and having Ron not home to help probably made things hell for his wife, Olivia.

"You sure?"

One solid nod and a tired grin sent Ronnie on his way home, knowing he would recieve a full night's sleep. Despite the intense amount of work, she loved the diner. It was always warm, she always had at least one plate of food if she needed it, and Ronnie cut her a lot of slack.

She dried her hands off on her apron once more, and headed to the front of the restaurant near the island of stools. It was past midnight now, and occasionally there were some older customers who came in drunk, or just got off work. It seemed to be a quiet night, so she figured it wouldn't be too bad if she took a quick pee break.

On the other end of the diner were the restrooms, and she scrambled over there. Her footsteps and the dark shadows in the bathrooms often creeped her out, she went in, did her business, and left. Once she opened the door, she spotted two bewildered teenage boys at the front door, looking around with wide eyes.

"Hey, are you guys open? I saw it said twenty-four hours but—"

He had an Australian accent, and it made Willow purr on the inside. "Yes! Yes we are, I'm sorry," she sighed in embarassment, and rushed to the front of the diner. Her boots, which usually help her feet with the consistent standing, are now a nuisance as she stumbles across the floor.

"Oh no worries, we know it's kind of late,"

As Willow stumbled next to the boy, who she now saw another boy standing next to him with red cheeks. His accent was beautiful, she thought. He was also inhumanely good looking. The one who'd spoken to her had darker brown hair, on the wavier side. He had a larger nose, and his lips were quite full. He was beautiful.

The other one stood silent, and Willow smiled and held menus. "Booth or do you wanna sit at the island?"

"Uh, booth please," the brunette spoke up once more, and she silently led them to a booth that was clean and somewhat in the middle of the restaurant. Gentle background music filled the silence, and all that was heard was soft scuffling as the two boys followed the only girl working.

She sat them down, and the other blonde boy smiled sheepishly. "Here are your menus, can I get you something to drink first?"

"Can I get a coke, please?"

That time, it was the boy who'd she never heard speak. His voice was deeper, almost curiously soft.  The brunette spoke once more, "Do you have tea?"

"Of course, sir. Unsweetened or sweetened?"

"Oh, sweetened please," he nodded thoughtfully, smiling. "I will be right back with your drinks, take a look over the menu and you can let me know what you want at your earliest convenience," Willow smiled genuinely, and she bowed slightly. She didn't even mean to, she just felt odd alone, at midnight, with two teenage boys in her diner.

"She called you sir, Chan," the blonde boy whispered to the one opposite him, this Chan character. "She's really nice, we have to leave a good tip," Chan responded, and that's all Willow managed to hear before she started making their drinks.

The next hour or so dragged on, with Chan, Willow, and the other figure, whom she'd learn is Felix, and her coming back and forth to collect orders, serve seconds, cook said seconds, and giving refills. Each time, Chan would apologize for inconveniencing her as if it wasn't her job, and she would smile softly. She could tell that he would never be rude to fast food workers or people just intending to do their job.

Usually, there would be a chef, or at least someone who can cook, and at least one other person working. The past few weeks had been Willow mostly by herself, picking up extra shifts, and as long as it wasn't busy, she could manage cooking and waittressing. She got paid double time, and she picked up overtime on days where Ron did not want to come in early. He also didn't want to burden Helena, one of his other over-nighters, who'd just gotten back on her feet after a house fire.

She wasn't a bad cook, and she was quick on her feet. She could hold down her own, and Ronnie knew that. Hence he trusted her with his entire diner, on most nights, and to hold the fort down. She would now easily bring home paychecks over a grand, with taxes taken out every week. As her two very cute customers continued eating their seconds, she scribbled messily on her notepad on the counter.

She stood on the inside of the island counter, and was counting expenses. She had a lot of shit to worry about, bills included. Gas, electric, dog food, groceries. She could take maybe three hundred dollars off her bill fund thanks to her mother, but it still didn't help in the scheme of things.

Frustrated, she scribbled out her list. She had to worry about this later, there was no need to worry before she got her paycheck. Her eyes felt heavy, and she tried to rub the sleepiness from them. She had at least five more hours before she could even think about leaving, and she still had to clean this place from top to bottom.

"Do you think we could get the check, please?"

Chan's timid voice broke her from her daze, and her face reddened in embarassment. She had forgotten they were here. Setting her pen down hastily, she shuffled over to grab the printed out receipt, and held it tightly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to zone off like that," she set the check down, and took notice of their neatly stacked plates with silverware crossed on top. Her cleanup would be very easy, and she absolutely loved when she had customers like this. "Oh, no worries," Chan smiled and eyed the check. "Is it okay if I take these?"

Pointing towards the stack of plates, the other boy, Felix, quickly grabbed them and handed them to her. Underneath the plates, their fingers touched briefly. A sheepish smile followed from both, and she quickly scurried to put the plates in the dishwasher. All she had to do was get them checked out, clean the three plates, clean the milkshake cups, the soda cups, and sweep. Some general maintenance, and if nobody else came in, she was in for a decent night.

"Hey, you didn't charge us for the milkshakes," Chan mentioned softly, slight accusatory tone. "They're on the house," Willow smiled back from the bar island, and Chan cocked his head in confusion, "if that's okay,"

"That's really kind, thank you," once again, a gentle, dimple-filled smile from Chan, and a sheepish, red-cheeked one from Felix. She wished to hear the blonde boy speak again, his voice so rich, so deep. He seemed sweet.

Her first thought was that they were boyfriends. It angered her, but only in a way that two of the cutest guys she'd possibly ever seen were together. It was adorable, to say the least. Little did she know, they were definitely not together.

Willow came to collect the money, and Felix stared up at her. "Are you from around here?"

Her eyes widened, and her mind went blank. That was usually how someone asked if she would be missed had she been kidnapped. "That sounded really creepy, I'm sorry," he clarified, and she loosened her shoulders a bit, "We are new to town, and we don't know where Glarien Avenue is. We just moved in, and can't find our way back. The GPS says the street doesn't exist," he finished quickly, and she nodded gently, deciding on whether or not to tell him.

"Oh, uh," she bit her lip, "the street got a new sign on accident, and the GPS or whatever national database that programs the information never got updated, I guess. If you pull out of here, take a left and go forward like three-ish blocks. There's gonna be a bright yellow house, and once you see that turn right, and then take a sharp right again and if you just keep going down you should see Glarien. If you get lost, just come back,"

It took only five minutes for the two Australian boys to clear out, and for Willow to finally take a breath. As she took care of all of the dishes, she went for the check last. Their total was somewhat cheap, twenty-three dollars, for two full meals, two sodas, a sweet tea, and extra sides of fries.

As she counted out the money, she was thoroughly confused. There were two twenties, and two fives. There was fifty dollars here, and their meal was less than thirty. On the check was a small note.

Really good food, really good service. We hope you have an amazing night, and whatever is left after our tab is paid is yours. Thank you!

An exasperated sigh left her mouth, and she sat in the booth where the two boys sat. Staring at the money in front of her, her chest felt heavy. All of her emotions poured out, and the thought that a strangers kindness' brought her to tears was shameful yet elating. That would be three less hours she would have to work, three more hours of sleep, or soccer practice, or studying. More time to not stress over bills.

She sat there for a few minutes, breathing in and out, as deep as she could. Wiping her face of any tear remnants, she stood up, collecting the money in hand. As she eyed the clock, she sighed inwardly. It was only 2 AM.

A little less than five hours later, she was walking into the doors of LaPrine High School, with at least two hundred other students. For seven in the morning, teenagers were pretty damn annoying. Squeals and loud murmurs was everything that she could hear, and it made her turn her headphones up louder.

For a private school full of snobby inbreds, there were some okay kids there. Most of them were the scholarship kids, who'd had their fares paid for, like Willow. If someone found out that you were a scholar student, you'd immediately be laughed at and taunted. She managed to keep hers a secret, though. She excelled, and she made sure to throw in an occasional snicker when needed to prove she was just one among the bunch.

She wasn't popular by any means, but everyone knew her. She was a suck up, that was for sure. Every teacher liked her, her grades were impeccable, and she was an all-star soccer player. She managed to have better stats than Ian Rewns, the past all star soccer legend, and he wasn't even a midfielder.

She also was known to stay pretty quiet, and to herself socially. She had a few casual friends, some classmates she talked to, but nobody really close. She was okay with that, she was pretty busy anyways. She had school from eight in the morning to three, then soccer practice from four to six-thirty, and if there wasn't a game, she'd go home around seven, and at eleven she would go work the graveyard shift at the diner. On average, she'd get four to five hours of sleep. Friends, or a social life, just take away from that time.

As she stopped at her locker to pull out her textbooks, she felt a tap on her shoulder. "Ms. Arroyo," it was her principal, Mrs. Samson. "Can you come with me, please?"

It was only two weeks into the school year, so there wasn't much she could get in trouble for. Maybe it was to rearrange her classes? No, every class she had was only alotted for that specific hour, there was no way. Her tuition? God, she hoped not.

"How are your classes so far?" as they rounded the office hallway, Mrs. Samson was making casual conversation. The clicking of her heels intimidated Willow a bit, but she'd known her for over a year. She wasn't as scary as everyone made her out to be. "They're good, I just finally settled in,"

"I know this year seems like it may be hard, but by the looks of your GPA next year, I think you'll be satisfied with it." Praise made Willow purr like a kitten, and her entire body tingled at the realization that this probably wasn't bad.

"Me too," she replied softly, and Mrs. Samson held the door to her office open for her, and they stepped in. Her office was tidy, shades of light blue and gray, and was a little too cold for Willow's liking. "Come and take a seat, hun,"

Unsure still, she took a seat. Her back didn't touch the seat, her anxiety from not knowing why she was there overtaking her comfortability. "You're not in trouble, don't worry," the older woman smiled at her as she took her own seat opposite her desk.

"So, I know you are a busy girl," she looked at her with eyes of compassion, and a soft smile decorated her face. "I have a proposition for you," she continued.

"Do you happen to remember when you did student tours for the incoming freshman?" Her first year at LaPrine, she was allowed to do student tours as community service hours for NHS. She was actually so good at it, and the organization of it, that she got to do it again this summer, and handled it all by herself without any staff. It was pulled off effortlessly.

"Of course, this year too," Willow nodded in agreement, and she waited for the woman to continue. "Well, if you agree to help me for a while this year, I will make sure all of your community hours are taken care of, and anything else you need help with will be considered done,"

Willow wanted her to get to the point.

"What is it?"

"Remember on your National Honor Society resume, you said you're bilingual and speak more than just English? You weren't lying, right?"

Willow laughed so hard she nearly bust a lung, and quickly covered her mouth with her hand. "Mrs. Samson, my last name is Arroyo. But of course, I can speak more than just Spanish, though,"

"You listed Korean, correct?" she eyed a piece of paper, which was most likely her aforementioned resume.

"Yeah, I can speak it somewhat fluently, and I can read Hangul well, I sometimes have trouble writing it, though. I don't imagine I'll be writing Korean letters, will I?" Willow's Hangul was absolutely preposterous, any native Korean would agree.

"No, that's silly," The elder crossed her hands together, and leaned forward. "Starting tomorrow, we have eight foreign exchange students coming from Korea, and you are an exemplar student who also happens to speak said language. One is a native English speaker, and two others speak it fluently. The rest can manage only a conversation or two, so you can understand our worry. I'm sure it would be nice for them to have a friend as well,"

"For the rest of the year?"

"Yes, but I'm sure that they'll manage to speak more fluently as the year progresses," and Willow shook her head, "I'm not worried about the language, I just don't know how that would work,"

"How so?"

"Well, are they all girls? Are they boys? Is it a mix? And won't their classes be much different than mine?"

"They're all boys, ranging from sophomore to seniors, and they're super sweet. Very respectful boys, from what I hear. I promise you, I will make it worth it if you help me out, and at least be a friend and reliable student to these boys. And no, they will not all have the same classes as you, but it will probably be courses you have taken, save for the seniors."

"I will also put in a good word for you to Mr. Ramirez, and how that head position on the team should be an exemplar student and player," she mentioned the soccer coach, and Willow cringed inwardly. She hadn't spoke Korean, in full length sentences, in over a year. She could remember it, but she'd be rusty.

"Okay, but you owe me one. No, more like eight; you owe me eight, Mrs. Samson."

"Deal. Come in tomorrow early if you can, and you can give them the tour. I will be here as well, so if you want to meet me in the cafeteria, I will bring you coffee."

"I like my coffees with extra creamer and sugar."

"Done."

[random-mha-thoughts]

Sleepless (LoV x Reader)

Pairing: League of Villains x Reader, platonic relationship

Shigaraki, Toga, Twice, Kurogiri, Dabi x reader

@riarora messaged me with the request: "So I was thinking platonic LOV x child reader (You can make them 18 if you're more comfortable, but I was thinking more like 14-15)The reader (I'll refer to them as she/her, but you can make it gender neutral) has really bad insomnia so every night, she would be pacing around, doing anything and everything to make sure no dark thoughts take over. Usually, none of the LOV would bat an eye, but considering the fact that she's a child, they feel sympathy, so they indirectly try to get her to fall asleep. Like, sending her on extra missions (always with protection of course) or changing her normal tea with sleeping tea, or maybe just straight up telling her to sleep."

Genre: Comfort

Word Count: 2,291

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

a/n: Thanks for the request sweetie!  I hope you like it~

Wrote this while listening to a Shinsou playlist on Spotify and it was pretty chill to listen to, if y’all want the link you can comment or dm me and I’ll send it.  Something different, but I like how it turned out. It's twice as long as I thought it would end up being, but I think it fits.  It's a comfort story that I hope you guys will read even if you don't normally read stuff for the villains.  I really like it, I hope you guys read it if you need some comforting.  Enjoy~

Like a lot of people, I don't have the nicest thoughts.  Most nights, I'm trying everything to block them out and find the sweet release of sleep, whether it's trying to consciously think of other things to block them out, escaping out of my sheets to pace or run in place inside this small room I was given, or getting up to get a snack.  Unsurprisingly, none of it works.  The rest of the League constantly tease me about my dark circles making me look more villainous all I do is smile, because at least it means I'm part of something now.  I would ask them to get me something to busy myself, like a sketch book or a notebook to keep me busy at night, but they aren't my parents; they have no obligation to take care of me and they've already give me a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in.

Little by little, the perceived barrier between us broke down before I realized it.

It started when I took one of my late night trips to the kitchen only to see the light on already.  Toga's crooked but innocent smile beams up at me as she twirls a knife in her hand, leaning against the counter.  "You're up too, hmm~?  Wanna take a trip with me?"

We ended up shrugging on our jackets and masks, walking into the dark, brisk night to the nearest grocery store.  "You waited until 2 AM to get pomegranates?" I raised an eyebrow at her zipping straight to the produce section of the market.

"I didn't wanna go alone~" Toga casually responded in her singsongy voice.  "A little girl like me shouldn't be out alone at night.  Besides, late night shopping in a practically empty supermarket is the best time to go.  It's super creepy!"  She giggles, filling a plastic bag with three large fruits.

We returned to our hideout and she asked me to help her de-seed them.  I slide in next to her, taking the knife out of her hand.  Not like I had anything better to do.  What was I gonna do, sleep?  Sure, okay.

She sliced the fruits in half and held her hands over a large, empty container, using just her hands to push the seeds off the bitter white core, humming to herself.  "Are you sure there isn't a more...strategic way to do this?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at the mess she was making of her hands.

Toga just giggled and held my stare with her cat-like yellow eyes.  "When it gets all over your fingers, it kind of looks like blood doesn't it?" She shivered in ecstasy as she licked the scarlet juice running down her hands and the knife she cut them with.  "Mmm, so sweet."

While I continued, trying to avail to be as clean as possible, taking sips of the tea she made for us while we work.  I chanced a few tastes myself, chuckling at my own hands.  "You're right, it looks like we've commit murder."

"Right?" she chirped with the widest grin, "Isn't it fun?"

I made a better point to get more juice on my fingers before curling my fingers grossly towards her.  "I want your heart, Toga.  Give it to me!" I growled.

She giggled and held one of my wrists so she can lick some of the juice off.  "Too bad you can't have it."

After we finished gathering the seeds into the bowl, we sat on the couch, munching on them by the handful and finishing our drinks.  My eyelids kept drooping as I drank my tea.

"We should go on adventures more often," Toga purred as I near the end, taking my cup, laying me down, and covering my body with a blanket before petting my head.  Her voice singing, "Sleep well, (Y/n)" was the last thing I heard before drifting off.  It was the best night's sleep I'd gotten in a long while.

.

A few days later, Kurogiri stopped me from heading to bed while the rest went off.  "I heard you and Toga up late a few nights ago.  Why don't you help me clean up before going up?"

I agreed, mostly because I would be awake with my thoughts anyway.  He had me shining his glasses, climbing up a ladder to dust the top shelves of his bar, wiping down the counters, and organizing his liquor.

"Have some of this, child."  He set down a cup of tea and saucer on the counter while I was organizing his top shelf liquor, the clock flashing 1:57 AM.  "You've been a big help."

I climbed down carefully and stare down at the translucent, peach colored liquid carefully.

He noticed my cautiousness.  "How are you adjusting?"

I tilted the cup around, swishing the liquid around before holding it up to my lips.  "It's better than where I was before, thank you."

"I'm glad you're settling in and getting along with the rest."

"It's just Toga so far."  I sipped a good portion of the hot liquid, easing down my through smooth as the honey I can taste that he added.

"It'll take time for the others to warm up to you.  Shigaraki and Dabi especially don't take to strangers that easily, but they'll come around."  His cold, portal enclosed hand rested on my head.  "We're happy to take you in as our family, (Y/n)."

I smiled at his assurance of me, nodding in gratitude, but still hesitant about feeling that I fit in here.

We talked for a while more until I finished his tea and he sent me off to bed.  Though reluctant - I even offered to do more cleaning up to keep myself there - he insisted I leave.  I trudge to my room, the exhaustion in my bones and muscles more apparent than usual.  I know this old trick; even when I'm fatigued, my thoughts still keep me up.  But as I ease under the blanket and close my eyes, I feel myself pulled down into sleep without interference.  I started thinking there was something in the tea.

.

It took a while for Shigaraki to come around, as Kurogiri said.  He heard the rustling of me rolling around in bed on his way back from getting a glass of water from the kitchen.  "Hey, you still awake?"

I turned over and sat up.  "Am I bothering you?  I'm sorry-"

"You wanna come play games with me?"  It was an unexpected question.  He never talked much to me so I figured he wanted to keep his distance.

But I still agreed, ending up in his dark room where only the TV cast its artificial light over us.  He pulled up another pillow for me to sit with him, leaning back against the mattress and box-spring stack.  He resumed his game, some kind of RPG with amazing art and storytelling.  The main character had jet black hair and traveled with three other guys of varying talents and personalities.  They seemed to have a great relationship together as they trekked across their virtual world in a fancy car. (1000 brownie points if you know which game i'm referencing)

There was a hilarious part in the game where the crew rode on the backs of these fluffy, yellow birds that were the size of ostriches.  "What's the point of this part?" I asked curiously.

Shigaraki beamed at the screen, his chapped lips spreading in joy.  "It's just something you always have to do in these games."

My eyes remained glued to the screen.  Shigaraki wouldn't ask me if I wanted to play after one time, which I appreciated.  I'm not too good at playing games, I prefer watching other people play them from the sidelines.  I followed the complicated story line, impressed with how fleshed out the world is, the detail in the art, and the power system interface.  If I were better at gaming, I'd understand how amazing it would feel playing it; I was immersed in it even as a spectator.

The game got to a cave-crawling segment.  The eased up voice acting, ambient noise, and dimmed lighting made my eyes heavy.  I didn't want to fall asleep in Shigaraki's room, but I also knew that I wouldn't be able to sleep if I went back to mine.

"You can sleep if you want.  Get comfortable."

Though he didn't particularly use a motherly voice like Kurogiri, I understood he was trying to come off the same way.  I ended up laying on my head on my pillow, sprawling onto the floor on my stomach, the noise of the game slowly lulling me off to sleep.  In the morning, I would wake to a blanket pulled over my body.  It somehow became a weekly occurrence; we wouldn't talk to each other, but the silence was comfortable.  It was reassuring that I didn't always need that strange tea to put me to sleep.

.

Late nights with Twice are probably my favorite.  He's like a huge dad, or much older big brother.  I connected with him on a more emotional level than the rest.  If I found myself in the kitchen rummaging for snacks, he'd come up and pick out a bunch and sit us at the table with some tea.

"I have trouble sleeping too sometimes," he admitted, popping some chips in his mouth.  "I was lonely before I found these guys.  I had no one but myself, and the many versions of myself weren't the most forgiving on me either."

I stared down at my glass of warmed milk.  "So your thoughts were actually told out loud to you all the time?" I whispered softly.

"Yup."  He blinked before waving his hands in front of his face wildly.  "But that doesn't mean I had it worse than you, that's not what I'm saying at all!  Your problems are just as valid and important and-!"

"It's okay, I understand."

He offered a sympathetic lopsided smile.  "I know you've been through a lot, kid, and it probably feels like a lot and nothing at the same time.  The times when it feels like a lot will hurt, and that's okay.  You'll get through it and grow up to deal with it in your own way.  And there is a light at the end of the tunnel, believe me.  You can't see it now, but it's there.  Keep fighting through it."  He touched my hand over the glass.  "I'm here for you, we're here for you."

I felt like crying, suddenly choked up by the bitter nostalgia of missing my parents.  "You'd be a great Dad, Twice."  I tried to cover for my tears and unsteady voice by clearing my throat and rubbing my eyes.

He hummed in response.  "I've always wanted a kid.  Things never ended up that way though."

I found myself finally sobbing at his misfortune piling on top of mine.  "That's really shitty actually," I choked out.

He handed me a tissue to wipe my face with.  "Let it out, kid.  Sometimes it's good to just cry it out."

And I did, until I finally sobbed myself to sleep at the table, and Twice picked up and returned me to my bed, tucking me in like the soft dad he should've been.

.

Dabi remained the hard nose one, keeping his distance and looking down on me.  Like Shigaraki, walked by my room while I was tossing around, but he stood over my bed.  "Hey.  If you don't go to sleep, I'm putting you to work."

Put me to work he did, sending me out to fetch him snacks, cards, or cigarettes.  Once, he decided to join me and we ended up on the roof of our abandoned building after coming back from the convenience store.  The stars already dusted the sky as Dabi lit the cigarettes with his blue flames just for fun, watching them disintegrate into ash in front of his eyes.  I never knew how to get him to open up, he's too gruff for me to start a conversation with him, so I stuck to being mesmerized by his flames.

"What's on your mind that you can't sleep, kid?" he finally asked, breaking the awkward silence and cutting off his quirk to stare me hard in the eyes.

"N-Nothing."  I hated to admit it, but I'm scared of Dabi the most.  Both him and Shigaraki can end my life in a fraction of a second, but Dabi overall has the scarier aura.  "Just...thinking."

After a few more moments of braving his stare, he looked up.  "Yeah, we all do that a lot, don't we?  Us damn human can't help but think.  It'd be nice if we can pull the cord sometimes, yeah?"

"I guess," I answered carefully.

He studied me again out of the corner of his eye before flickering back up.  "Do you ever think that's why none of us survive well alone?  We need other people to distract us all the time because then we'd get stuck in our heads, and we all know how dangerous that can be if we're stuck there for too long.  It never ends well."  He adjusts himself, placing his hands behind his head to rest his neck.  "We all got demons, kid.  It's what makes us stronger, but you gotta grow from them first.  And I guess that's what the rest of us are for, so if you need us, you know what to do."

It was with Dabi that I realized he had a point.  I'm not alone anymore and none of the others seem to think of me as a stranger or a stupid little kid they have to be responsible for.  I'm a member of this group now, I should rely on them as support, just not in the traditional way.

How I ultimately ended up here doesn't help any of the awful things I tell myself or what happened to me, but being here definitely helps, especially when I'm surrounded by people who subtly share solidarity with for now.

[sirrwritesalots]

Dance With Me? ~ Spencer Reid (fluff)

Pairings: Spencer Reid x Reader [Y/n] Warnings: none, just fluff, and possibly mention of PG-13 (if it's even considered that?) Summary: The team is invited to an FBI gala-type event with food, music, and casual conversation, and everyone ultimately has a good time, especially you and Spencer, who find the chance to have a dance with one another as the air shifts between the two of you. [The imagine is set with all characters -Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss, Jennifer Jareau, Aaron Hotchner, David Rossi, Penelope Garcia- and post-Maeve] Word Count: 1871 A/N: I love to write, but for the last few years, I’ve had horrible writer’s block, and I miss writing so much. This is my first imagine/creative writing thing I’ve posted on Tumblr, so bare with me please! I recently started watching Criminal Minds again, and this just popped into my head, so I figured why not? Though, Criminal Minds is not usually my genre, I wanted to give it a try (it might be cringy in some parts, I apologize). I hope whoever reads this enjoys it :)

Seeing as everyone on the BAU team was given a three-day-weekend off to have somewhat of a break, you all agreed to attend the FBI Ball Saturday night, giving you the day to relax and get ready.

That morning after you woke up, you had some breakfast and read a book by the window, followed by lunch and a nice, relaxing bath with rose oil, bath salts, and a lit candle. Once the water had gone cold and you were done with the bath, you decided to start getting ready for the plans you had later that evening, which consisted of blow drying and styling your hair, then applying some light - yet natural - makeup. Slipping into the dark blue evening dress with the strappy, laced-up back you picked out two weeks ago, you looked yourself up and down in the full-length mirror in your room with a smile on your face. It had been a long time since you had the chance to get dressed up and have a night of fun with friends, which is exactly what you were planning on doing; having fun. 

Work had been extremely stressful lately, for everyone - more so than usual, considering your line of work; being in the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, where you work with serial killers day-in and day-out. One case in particular was rough on everyone; picked by the team’s communications liaison, JJ, you were flown out to Omaha, Nebraska to find an unsub who had a wide victimology and almost no similarities when it came down to location or anything else. You were there coming up on two whole weeks, when, after spending nearly forty-eight hours awake studying every detail, Spencer had found a similar signature connecting each murder. It wasn’t previously detected because it was so small it was easily overlooked, that is, until Derek and Rossi revisited every site and concluded that Spencer was right. At each location where a victim was found, a trinket of some sort was hidden, left behind as a sign of remorse. At first it made no sense, because each killing seemed too extreme to leave any room for remorse, not until the idea of a partner in crime was bounced around. Meaning that there were now two unsubs, one who was the alpha that controlled everything, and a second who most likely lured in the victims but only because they were told to rather than because they wanted to. Luckily, all the trinkets had traces of the unsub and their partner’s DNA left on it. That discovery soon led to tracking the unsub and chasing him down, where you and Emily went into the building first, to try and appeal to and reason with the submissive unsub, and would ultimately save the life of their latest victim. The plan went sideways when you two were met with the wrong one, and stepped into the middle of a trap... The unsub wanted a trade - the final victim for the two FBI agents - but the rest of the team, including the police force backing them up, were not about to have that. In the end, everyone was extracted and brought back to the precinct, except for the second unsub, who lost their life in the midst of the fight. 

To say the least, the team needed a break, and to have some fun.

Adding the final touch to your look -- a pair of black heels -- you grabbed your purse and jacket before locking the front door behind you and making your way to the car.

Once you were at the venue, a valet took your keys and parked your car for you. You stood on the curb, looking up at the gorgeous entrance of a high-end hotel. Before you could think about how all-out the bureau went, a familiar, deep voice spoke up on your right, “Damn Mama, I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Turning, you came face-to-face with the most iconic duo of your team, Derek Morgan with Penelope Garcia standing beside him. Your cheeks flushed as you smiled, “You don’t look too bad yourself, hot stuff. Penelope, sweetheart, you look as wonderful as ever.”

“Please, I don’t think anyone here looks as good as you.” She waved her hand, a dismissal to your comment as she noticeably gawked at you.

“Why don’t we find out. Shall we?” You raised an eyebrow at them, tilting your head in the direction of the hotel.

“We shall.” Penelope disconnected herself from her chocolate thunder, and looped her arm with yours with a giggle as the three of you entered the building and followed the signs to the ballroom.

Tables filled with assorted foods line one wall while tables are scattered throughout the front half of the room, a live band played against the back wall, and the floor of the other half of the room was left unoccupied by furniture to leave space for dancing and mingling. You mentally thanked the event coordinator, whoever they might be, for ensuring the lights were dimmer than usual, since it gave your eyes a rest from the usual harsh office lights. 

Your eyes scanned the room, searching for the rest of your team, when your gaze landed on a man wearing a slick, dark gray suit and a maroon tie with his hair flopped perfectly over his forehead yet just out of reach of his eyes. You hadn't realized you were staring until Penelope had to practically drag you to where Emily and JJ were standing while Derek split with you guys to meet up with Rossi, Hotch, and Spencer.

“So, is anyone looking particularly yummy tonight?” Penelope asked Emily and JJ, bubbly before her first drink of the night as her eyes eagerly swept across the room. Typical Garcia. Gotta love her, though.

You laughed and shook your head. “I’m going to get a drink, anyone else want a one?” The girls gave you their requests, and you were off to the bar stationed near the wonderful display of food that you were sure to raid in a matter of time - that is, if your stomach had any say about it. "One-"

A voice interrupted you and finished your order before you could get more than a single word out, "Gin martini with a lemon twist." A smirk formed on your lips as you see who was standing next to you. "Oh! And chilled, but not on the rocks," Spencer added with a wink in your direction, a goofy smile plastered on his face to match your own.

"Spence, you remembered!"

"Y/n, I have an idetic memory; of course I remembered."

You rolled your eyes in response and ordered for the girls before you forgot as the bartender handed you your drink. "So, how's your evening so far?"

"Good. Met a couple of Rossi's friends, one of which was an older woman who touched my arm a lot, though I don't know why..."

You chuckled and shook your head. "Oh, you poor innocent boy."

"Innocent?" He raised an eyebrow at you, faking offense, as he helped you carry the drinks to the table the girls were standing around. "Are you so sure about that?"

"Why shouldn't I be when you make comments like that?" you countered. "Alright," you announced, cutting the conversation short before it can lead to anywhere presumptuous in front of company, you name off the drinks as you and Spencer place them in front of their respective owners.

Spencer took his place by your side, his arm pressed against yours and his gaze fixated on you, waiting patiently for you to notice or make another comment from your earlier conversation. The girls hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary, seeing as you and Spencer had become the absolute best of friends in a short amount of time when you first joined the group, which meant the two of you were in very close proximity to one another about ninety-percent of the time. They were also too busy to notice over their ogling of the other attendees.

"You're staring," you murmured over your glass to him as you took a sip of your martini before stealing a quick glance up at him, then returning your eyes back to the crowd forming in the room. Rossi, Hotch, and Derek were still nowhere to be seen from your spot.

"Sorry," you heard him whisper, his eyes still stationed on you for a moment before he looked around as well. 

The live band began to play one of your favorite songs by Frank Sinatra, Fly Me To The Moon, and you couldn't help the smile that brightened your whole face after you took another sip of your drink.

The warmth that accompanied Spencer when he stood as close to you as he had been suddenly disappeared, making your heart unexpectedly quicken in a mix of worry and disappointment at the loss of contact. Then, when a throat cleared, and you saw him still standing next to you only a little farther away than he originally was with his hand extended and a lopsided smile on his face as hope flickered bright in his eyes. Your anxiety calmed, and was replaced with joy.

"Care to dance?"

Taking his hand, you stepped closer to him and replied, "I'd love to," as he led the two of you to the dance floor.

There, he pulled you closer to him, your bodies pressed against one another, as his hand slid behind you to rest easily on the small of your back while his other hand held one of yours, and your other hand took place on his shoulder. The two of you swayed as the music filled your ears.

You felt content in that moment. So happy with your friends, music, and food and drink. You couldn't think of a better way to spend an evening during your weekend off. Hopefully you wouldn't spoil it all by accidentally drinking too much and either a) managing to somehow embarrass yourself before the night is over or b) having to nurse a killer hangover the next morning - the last day of freedom before being called back into work the following day.

You felt Spencer's eyes on you once more. Though it wasn't creepy or unsettling; with him it never seemed to feel that way. Instead, it warmed your body, making your cheeks flush and your chest flutter.

"You're staring again." When he refused to take his eyes off you, you forced yourself to meet his gaze. "You seem to do it a lot. Why is that?"

"Possibly because you always look amazing. Except tonight; tonight you look... radiant."

"Oh, please... you're only saying that because you've never seen me all dressed up like this before." You dip your head rest on the side of his own in an attempt to hide your face, not from embarrassment, but rather to hide how red your cheeks had become in a mere matter of seconds by the few simple words he uttered.

"No, I'm not. Y/n, look at me, please." His voice was gentle yet serious as his fingers gently guided your chin up so you could properly look at him. "I mean it."

[jenomark]

SEPTEMBER

➔Pairing: Doyoung x Reader (Female) | Jaehyun x Reader (Female) ➔Other Members/ Characters: -.- ➔Genre: Plot (ft. smut, romance, angst, fluff etc.) ➔Warnings: Angst, Cursing, Arguments, Sexual imagery ➔Word count: 4,408

➔Summary: You are dating handsome and lovable Jaehyun. You stay at his apartment all of the time, along with his roommate Doyoung. Doyoung has feelings for you, which he doesn’t quite understand. What begins as an innocent crush changes the lives of all three people over the course of seven months.

P1: AUGUST

  The bathroom was one of the few places Doyoung felt like he could relax. Once the door closed, he didn’t have to answer phone calls, didn’t have to keep his head too high from his shoulders, a puppet on strings ready to do a dance for the people around him. The only thing he needed to worry about was whether he had good reading material for the toilet, or if his phone was fully charged enough to play the music that sometimes kept him going. When he was in the bathroom, Jaehyun knew to give him his space, and all felt right in his world.

  As soon as Doyoung let the door close with a soft click, his shoulders began to sink a little. He breathed a sigh of relief and hung his towel on the metal bar attached to the wall. The space on the bar was getting a little too crowded with three towels, but he ignored it. He wiggled his toes on the plush carpet placed in front of the bathtub and did a little jig all the way to the mirror above the sink, where he raised his eyebrows at his reflection.

“Handsome guy,” he said.

  Doyoung smoothed the sides of his hair and smoldered at the mirror. Any foolish feeling couldn’t reach him when he was feeling himself. He turned around to face the tiled wall before whipping back to his reflection, fingers making finger gun motions, and lips pursed. 

“Sexy.” he growled.

  Doyoung removed his shirt and checked his body for lumps and bumps. His pale skin was smooth and unmarked. He brushed his fingers against his erect nipples and moved them over the ridges of his stomach. The abs were courtesy of his new workout regimen from the summer, but the confidence was courtesy of the new girl he’d been dating since the tail end of August. He cracked his neck and looked at the body that couldn’t wait to be touched by her.

  It was easy to get lost in the daydream when he was alone. He replayed their dates from the last few weeks in his head. She seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say, her small lips always parted like she was getting ready to comment on all of his stories with praise. She was pretty, calm, and more interesting than other women he’d met on dating apps. He knew the intimacy part would follow eventually, but his impatience was running thin. There was only so many times he could imagine her here with him, bent over the tub to turn the water on, her lips begging him for the shower sex he thought would blow his mind. If Jaehyun had sex in the shower, so would he.

  Doyoung removed his bottoms until he was naked. He never thought he was really that handsome, never meant the mantras he would speak to himself when no one could hear him. They helped.  He began to feel shy standing in the fluorescent lighting, so he looked away from his reflection and focused on the music. Mellow vibes that would soothe him played around the bathroom. He closed his eyes and felt the notes breathing new life into him. He sang a little bit, his voice sounding beautiful. He never told anyone he could sing, and he never sang in front of anyone ever. Mostly because he was scared they wouldn’t take him seriously if they knew. Doyoung’s job was to be intelligent and available at the office, not to dream about standing on a stage, with passion falling from his fingertips every time he touched a keyboard. 

 Peeling back the shower curtain, he kept himself light on his toes. An impromptu naked dance party isn’t really what he needed, but his legs were itching to dance. With his luck, he would trip over the porcelain and fall into the shower curtain, breaking a bone or two in the process. Doyoung stopped the beginning shake of his knees and started the water. He felt good, almost too good. When things felt too good, it worried him. 

  Stepping in, the spray was perfect. Not too cold, not too warm. He washed his face roughly and wet his hair. He thought of something he wanted to bring up to Jaehyun. He imagined the conversation he would have in his head, reciting all the right words that would help him come across as assertive and authoritative. He wondered if everyone had imaginary conversations with themselves in the shower.

“I need to talk to you,” Doyoung said quietly, breathing life into his imaginary conversation. “It’s important. No, I’m not angry with you. I’m an adult, and adults talk about their feelings. We’re friends, Jaehyun. Aren’t we?”

  Doyoung rubbed the water from his eyes and looked for his body wash. Usually, it sat at the edge of the tub in a sleek black bottle. He looked at all corners of the shower and tried to remember if he had used it up. Doyoung pulled back the shower curtain and looked in the bathroom trash to see his body wash face down in the basket, its sides squeezed to death. He cursed your name, because you were the only person who could have used it.

 You’re being judgemental, Doyoung, he thought to himself. It could have been Jaehyun.

  Doyoung looked down at his temporary body wash options. There was nothing but floral washes in pink bottles that belonged to you. He picked one up, opening the lid to smell it. Your smell was everywhere, so Doyoung quickly shut the bottle and set it back down. He was tired of the scent, tired of the way it walked him across his apartment as if he couldn’t be left on his own. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe until the smell was all gone. 

“No,” he said. “We’re not doing this.”

  But there was no other choice. He picked up the bottle again, poured some onto his sponge and wiped himself down with it. As he worked each part of his body, he could feel himself getting aroused. Typical. He put his hand against the shower wall and placed his forehead against it. It had been a month since you gave him That Look. He had finally gotten around to forgetting it and letting you go. It was inappropriate for him to have any feelings at all about his roommate's girlfriend, and it was definitely inappropriate for him to believe you looked at him for one sweet moment, just as he had looked at you. 

 Doyoung turned away from the shower spray so that he wouldn’t have to face any of your toiletries. He stared at the wall, trying to clear his mind until it was blank. He tried not to imagine you pressed up against the wet, slippery tile, but he couldn’t help it. It was like you were right in front of him, your hair in a messy bun, the tips of the hair in front of your face wet and sticking to your cheek. 

“Do you want me?” imaginary you asked. “Do you want me against this wall? Maybe bent over the sink? Just be honest with me, Doyoung. Where do you want me most?”

  Doyoung looked down at the water hitting his feet. When he looked back up, you were patiently waiting for an answer. You were naked, but he wouldn’t look at you, out of respect.

“No,” he said. “I’d just like to wash your hair. I’d like you to hug me underneath the water, your hands around my middle, and your head against my back.”

  Doyoung turned around once again. His imagination was really making him seem crazy. He rinsed his body and let the water hit the top of his head and cascade down his face. The heat felt nice on his skin. His bones were aching from work, but they seemed to ease for a moment as he stood underneath the spray. Then, as if a sudden switch went off that controlled his life, the water started turning freezing cold.

“Ahhhh,” Doyoung screamed, moving to the far end of the shower, his own very real body pressed up against the tile. “Turn the water off! Turn it off!”

  He was reacting like a baby, he knew, but Doyoung hated the cold. He tried reaching to turn the water off but he couldn’t do it. Instead, he yanked the curtain open and stepped onto the rug, his soaking wet body dripping over everything. The song ended, the next song taking forever to start. As he pulled the towel around his waist, he could begin to feel his anger bubbling up and over. Jaehyun knew not to run the water, which means there was only one culprit: You.

  Feeling like it was too late to calm himself down, he swung the bathroom door open. The handle was slippery wet from his fingers. He ignored the soggy footprints he left on the floor as he trudged forward, his eyes darting around the room to find your eyes. It didn’t take long for him to find you, because as soon as Doyoung looked up, you were there, with your hand on the sink nozzle and your eyes glaring at him.

“How much longer are you going to be?” you asked. “I have a job interview, and I need the shower. I told you a few days ago I needed the shower at this specific time. Do you care about other people, or do you only care about yourself?”

  Doyoung stood in the middle of the floor, all words leaving him. He was so prepared in the shower, but being in front of someone always made the right words escape him. He could feel himself about to blow, and he tried to take real breaths, but the way you nonchalantly stared at him pissed him off. You were right and he was wrong. You turned the sink off and crossed your arms against your chest. He felt like he was being scolded by his teacher, and in a way he didn’t like, it was kind of turning him on.

“Where is Jaehyun?” Doyoung asked.

You shrugged. “Where are your clothes?”

 As if realizing he was naked and wet in front of you for the first time, Doyoung looked down at his body. He was holding the ends of the towel with his left fist, gripping it as if his life depended on it. 

“Don’t worry,” you said. “I’m not looking at your body, Do-ie.”

“I told you not to call me that,” Doyoung said. “I’m not a child.”

“And I told you I needed the shower today,” you said. “I thought we had an agreement.”

“This is my apartment!” Doyoung said, his voice sounding very much like a child’s. 

  He began to feel self-conscious about his body. But you didn’t look at him, you only looked at his eyes. You had uncrossed your arms and relaxed your body, so he did the same. For a moment, Doyoung thought you were going to wave the peace flag and apologize, but in real life, things could never be perfect.

“So you keep telling me,” you said. “Every day. I’m starting to think you don’t want me here.”

“All of us need to have a talk,” Doyoung said. “And soon. You’re always here. Don’t you have a home? Friends? Is that why you’re always here? No one else will have you. You’re using up my stuff. I don’t like my stuff being touched. I liked that body wash you didn’t ask before you used. I feel like you’ve overstayed your welcome here. You’re right. I don’t want you here.”

  Without waiting for a clever retort, Doyoung turned around and stalked back to the bathroom. He slammed the bathroom door behind him and leaned against it to catch his breath. When he heard the front door slam, he should have relaxed, but he couldn’t help feeling terrible about what he said. 

  Around midnight, Doyoung was startled awake. His bedroom light was on, and Jaehyun was standing in the doorway. His suit was crumpled, his eyes red-rimmed, and there was an absent look in his eyes. He’d been working hard at the office lately, but there was more to it than that. His friend was trying his hardest to be a good boyfriend, and was really showing up when you needed him. Though it made him exhausted 24/7, Doyoung could also see improvements in Jaehyun’s attitude in just a short month. He was so far removed from the man that wanted to break up with you. Doyoung knew he should be happy for Jaehyun, but there were strange feelings keeping him from being completely happy, and he was sure Jaehyun could feel them.

   Doyoung leaned up on his elbows. Before he could ask if Jaehyun was okay, Jaehyun shoved his phone in Doyoung’s face. Doyoung squinted his eyes and tried to make out the white text against the blue background. The text message was from you. Doyoung’s heart dropped into his stomach as he read it:

He said he didn’t want me there. I don’t know, Jae. Maybe I should stay away for awhile. He hates me.

“What would make her think this?” Jaehyun asked. 

  He took Doyoung’s desk chair and whirled it around. The way Jaehyun sat in it with his legs spread and his elbows on his knees made Doyoung feel like a son getting an “I’m disappointed in you” talk. That was twice in one day people made him feel inferior. 

“I didn’t mean it, “ Doyoung said, “ It was just something I say when I’m angry.”

  Jaehyun leaned back. He looked irritated, a little sad. Doyoung sat up fully and tried to gather his thoughts to form one coherent thought Jaehyun could understand. Jaehyun waited patiently, and for that, he was thankful. There were days Doyoung felt his friends gave him more than he deserved.

Doyoung continued, “We all say things we don’t mean when we’re angry. I felt really sorry about it after I said it. Can you tell her I’m sorry for me?”

“She’s afraid to come back here,” Jaehyun said. “You’re really fucking this up for me, man.”

“I’m fucking it up for you? What about me? I’m the victim.  She turned the water on when I was in the shower,” Doyoung said, his irritation rising to match Jaehyun’s. “And she walks around here like she owns this place. Look, Jaehyun, I know she’s your girl, and I try to respect that, but it’s getting to be too much. Don’t you think so?”

  Doyoung couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice, and Jaehyun noticed. For the last month, things had noticeably turned a little sour between them. Doyoung didn’t know if it was jealousy that fueled the things he would nitpick Jaehyun about, or something else. All Doyoung knew for sure was that he wasn’t the only one driving the wedge deeper. Jaehyun was guilty of a lot, too. After Jaehyun initially confided in Doyoung and got the response that he did, Jaehyun never confided in him again. He wanted his relationship with you to be private, while also bringing it into the public space he and Doyoung shared. Sometimes,  Doyoung wished he would either move out and leave him in peace, or start treating him like he did before, like a friend.

 In fact, you were really the only one Doyoung spoke to in the apartment. You would meet at the kitchen table in the mornings, sipping coffees and pretending to be more interested in what was on your phones. You would tell him about the movies that were on television, and he would say he wasn’t interested until he found himself sitting with you alone, hugging his knees to his chest and trying not to breathe too loudly.  Jaehyun was rarely home because of work, and when he was, all he did was mutter gruff hellos and goodbyes. You made excuses on Jaehyun’s behalf, but it was easy for Doyoung to figure out what was going on. 

 In short, something about their friendship changed, and it was hard not to blame you sometimes. You were the intruder. You were the replacement that Doyoung never asked for, and you were the one who fucked everything up. 

“Just apologize to her when she comes over tomorrow,” Jaehyun said, standing up. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

  Back in the day, Jaehyun would have argued until the sun rose. The new distance felt strange to Doyoung, He didn’t know which Jaehyun to mourn the most, but as he laid back down in his bed, he felt the loss of each one of them.

  When Doyoung came home from work, you were already there waiting at the kitchen table, your hands warming a cup of coffee from a cafe spot around the corner. Jaehyun had given you a spare key to the apartment, one which you had used quite liberally. Feeling too tired to argue about it, he set down his things and trudged across the table towards you.

  Doyoung noticed the way you moved the chair just an inch back as he sat down at the table. Your body language was guarded. Your eyes were looking at everything else except him. When you did finally look at him after he cleared his throat to get your attention, your eyes were stuck to Doyoung’s hand poised right in front of you. 

“Can we call a truce before Jaehyun arrives home?” Doyoung asked. “Or do we need daddy to supervise our issues for us.”

“The only one who gets to call him daddy is me,” you said. “And I’d rather not shake your hand. I don’t now where your hands have been.”

  Doyoung let his hand drop to the table before he slid it back to his body in defeat. If easy is what he wanted, he wasn’t going to get it. He leaned back in the chair and felt like getting up and going straight to bed. He didn’t need to talk anything out. He hardly needed to apologize for something he didn’t do.

“Where is Jaehyun anyway?” Doyoung asked.

“How should I know?”

“He’s your boyfriend.”

“Is he? you asked. “He’s been feeling a little bit like our boyfriend lately.”

Hearing that made Doyoung’s jaw tighten. He felt the bitter laugh leave his mouth before he could stop it. You narrowed your eyes and braced yourself for whatever words Doyoung was sure to fling your way.

“Actually,” Doyoung began. “I’ve been feeling like the boyfriend lately. You spend most of your nights with me. I keep you entertained, fed, and I give you a roof over your head. Jaehyun’s just the guy that gets all the benefits.”

  As soon as the words left his mouth, Doyoung realized how ugly they sounded. He had been so unlike himself lately that he was saying and doing things he never thought possible of him.

“I’m sorry, “Doyoung said. “I’m an idiot.”

 You didn’t speak, just looked down at your hands. Doyoung watched you cautiously, too scared to speak any further. He knew making you angry was his way of pushing you away. If he didn’t like you, he couldn’t love you. Truthfully, he was beginning to feel like the boyfriend. It hurt him to be able to sit with you and watch movies, to laugh when you said something funny, and to spend his mornings with you. Jaehyun was the one who was supposed to fill that role, not him. Doyoung had become too comfortable and too happy in his newfound place, and when things came crashing down, as they so often did, it was his way of trying to end things before they truly began. He just wanted to protect himself before it was too late.

“I didn’t use your body wash,” you said. “And I’m sorry I ran the water. Things have been hard for me lately and-.”

 Before you could go into the sob story that would make him feel awful, he tried to brush off your feelings. He stood up to avoid the conversation. It was a train wreck. All he wanted was to steer clear of the option of having to comfort you, which was something a boyfriend would do. He wasn’t your boyfriend, and never would be.

“I’m tired, “he said. “I’m going to sleep.”

You stood up. “What is your problem? Do you really hate me that much that you can’t listen to me speak? Are you jealous of me? Am I taking too much time away from your precious Jaehyun? I know you listen to us fucking. I know you probably get off on it. ”

Doyoung blushed. “No, I don’t.”

  You both stood on opposite sides of the table, staring each other down. The fight was brewing, but before it could create an imperfect storm, the apartment’s electricity shut off, leaving both of you in complete darkness. Doyoung looked out of the window and saw that, for as far as the eye could see, the city was burnt out. There was a dead silence, the only sound coming from your heavy breathing and the sound of his mind working.

“Oh,” you said. “Doyoung, I’m scared of the dark.”

 At the same time that Doyoung held out his hand to look for you in the darkness, your fingers reached out for him. Touching your hand felt foreign to him, but he took it and pulled you closer. 

“It’s okay, “ he said. “This happens a lot here. The lights will be back on sooner than you think.”

“I’m really freaking out,”  you said. “You don’t understand. I can’t be alone in the dark. I still sleep with a nightlight. ”

 You were gripping his arm so tightly it was beginning to hurt him. He was trying to break free from your death grip and grab candles, but you pulled him back and begged him not to leave you.

“ I won’t leave you, “he said. “But if I don’t grab the candles, we’re going to be stuck not being able to see. Do you want that?”

  Doyoung could feel you shaking. His eyes were beginning to make out the  outline of your body in the darkness. The whites of your eyes were darting all over the place. You stepped forward until you were so close to his body that he could just lean in and kiss you. He was dizzy with the thought.

“Can I come with you?” you asked. “Promise me you won’t leave me alone.”

“I won’t leave you alone.” Doyoung said, his first few words of raw honesty. It was a promise he wanted to keep.

  He held your hand tight and walked across the apartment with you trailing behind him. You called out that you would keep your eyes closed because your vision was playing tricks on you. He tried to reassure you that he would lead you across the floor, telling you where to step so you would avoid tripping over something. Doyoung didn’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.

“We’re almost there,” Doyoung said. “I guess Jaehyun can’t make fun of me for burning so many candles anymore.”

“He never makes fun of you.” you said.

Doyoung laughed. “I don’t believe that. Just step over the threshold...there you go.”

  You both made it into Doyoung’s room. His heart was hammering in his chest two times the normal speed. The last time you were together in his room, you were sleeping in his bed. Also, Doyoung didn’t want to admit that he was terrified of the dark, too. 

  He led you further into his room, his hand never letting yours go. He looked around for the candles and lighter, and when he found them, he lit them up. When the room was filled with a soft orange light, you still didn’t let go of his hand.

“That’s a relief.” you said.

  Then, as if you remembered, you looked down at your hand and let Doyoung’s fingers fall from yours. He could feel the awkwardness crackling in the air between you. You moved away to create space. Doyoung rolled his eyes and started moving around his room. He wanted to remember all the reasons why he was angry and continue the conversation, but all he could think about was how soft your skin was and how you had looked at him like he was your savior.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve been in here,” you said. “Not that I remember much about that night.”

  You started looking on his shelves, poking and prodding things. Doyoung spun around and was getting ready to tell you off until you held up a painting in your hands. It was a painting of a landscape, with rolling green hills and a perfect, sunny blue sky.

“This is really pretty,” you said. “Did you paint it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Nice,” you said, putting it back. “You have talent”

“Uh...not really.”

“You do,” you said, moving around the room again. “It’s not just the painting  either. Your singing voice is amazing.”

 He wasn’t good at receiving compliments. Doyoung usually blocked them out in favor of self-deprecation, and in doing so, he missed what you had said. His mind started piecing the words together until they formed a sentence.

 Your singing voice is amazing. 

“My...what...is what?” he asked.

“Singing voice,” you said. “I can hear you singing in the shower and in your room and sometimes when you’re cooking. You should sing professionally.”

“I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

“Doyoung, I always notice you,” you said. “Sometimes it’s hard not to.”

 The silence was very loud. You looked at each other in the soft light. Your bodies were shadowy figures on the walls, crawling up the sides until they joined together as one. Doyoung didn’t know what to say, so he kept quiet. And there, in the silence, you gave him That Look, and although his mind tried to convince himself it was just the absence of light distorting your face, he could also feel the static electricity between you. You both lit up the room with it.

  You stepped forward as if to make a move. At the same time, the electricity popped on and Jaehyun arrived through the front door. You stepped back and sighed heavily.  You mouthed the words Thank You before stepping out Doyoung’s room. 

[myelocin]

To Let A Good Thing Die | Sakusa Kiyoomi

Synopsis: In which you reminisce on your journey of healing, and the other, was well, Sakusa Kiyoomi.

Characters: Sakusa Kiyoomi, You, Iwaizumi Hajime

Warnings: Infidelity. Genre: Angst, Slice of Life

Word Count: 1.8k+

a/n: This was supposed to be for Tsukki, but I read it again and decided I wanted to mess with your Kiyoomi feelings so <3 Also! This was inspired by Bruno Major’s To Let A Good Thing Die, so PLEASE listen to the song!

Thank you to Angelo for pitching in your idea bc without it, the ending would have been completely different but as I wrote it like this, I wouldn’t have it any other way. <3

-

 “Congratulations.”

He was blunt and straight to the point but that still had you stop in your tracks to find space to sit down on the wooden floor. Pushing a half filled box to the side, a sigh would occasionally escape from you as you let yourself lean on the box.

“Congratulations.” You read out loud. “He’s as boring as usual.”  A small chuckle found its way out of your throat as you set your phone on top of one of the taped off boxes.

Sakusa Kiyoomi had appeared in your life in a mirage of colors. In your youth, he was yellow. A yellow sweatshirt worn by a boy who’d grumble when his cousin showed him affection but the way he blushed pink you swore to your six year old self that he was the boy you’re going to spend the rest of your life with. And so you saw him in the yellow sunflowers your mother grew in her little garden. Little Kiyoomi would routinely scowl when you plopped down next to him and tuck the flower you secretly plucked from the garden behind his ear. He’d scowl and tell you to knock it off, that the flower was dirty, but the rosy blush on his cheeks told you that he didn’t mind.

Then in high school, his presence danced in subtle shades of blues. Baby blue, like the sky he stood under during the opening ceremony where he stood across you, one arm stretched handing you your favorite bread, the writing in the package inked in a deep navy hue. By this time, your friendship had long matured from playdates and childlike antics to study sessions and the occasional heart to heart conversation. From an outsider’s perspective, it would have been a no brainer to conclude that the two of you were best friends. And at first, to you, that had been the case. Kiyoomi was the one who despite still scowling at you, would go the extra mile to take out the cheese on your burger before handing it to you, or would leave practice early to visit you if he noticed your uncharacteristic silence throughout the day. And if he couldn’t, he’d leave a parcel of your favorite snack inside your locker, the words “eat it and stop being like that” neatly written on a sticky note in deep, blue ink.  

And so on your third year, your smile would only widen as you scrolled through the same five selfies you forced Kiyoomi to take during your graduation. The sky being that same soft blue as that day during the opening ceremony, though only this time his head leaned against the top of yours (he always made it a point to emphasize his height), and a smile resting on his lips, his signature mask nowhere to be found.

After looking through the photos, you laid back in bed raising your right hand to look at the bracelet he silently clasped on your wrist. A blue butterfly charm hanging next to a yellow sunflower. He was never public or too showy about his affections, but you never bothered to care. He found ways to always get the message across.

During your final years of university, Kiyoomi became red. Red, like the color his cheeks never failed to bloom into when you kissed him in the mornings. Red, the color of the cherry tomatoes he always asked you to include to pack in his bento box that he took with him on the days he had to go to work. It had become your favorite color, because red meant it was the season where you’d see the Christmas stockings hanging over the fireplace next to the tiny Christmas tree that you and Kiyoomi had decorated together. Red, like the love that bloomed in your heart when he clasped a rose charm on the same bracelet he bought you years ago, the petals on the flower painted in deep red.

And then after that one Christmas season, you began to hate it. Red was the shade of the lipstick you saw smeared on the collar of his dress shirt. The color that made you begin to doubt yourself. The color that made you sneak to the bathroom in the middle of the night, because maybe, just maybe, you still had that red lipstick your friend had gifted you a year ago. Except every time, you didn’t. You always hated how red looked on you.

So you sat him down the next day, the same dress shirt with the same smeared red on the collar set on the table in between the two of you and asked him a silent “why?” And then Kiyoomi responded to you at first in silence, his head hung low, then eventually a silent sorry murmured from his lips.

You decided that you hated red, but you kept asking him the who, the when, and again the why. He sounded apologetic because you knew he was like that. You knew Kiyoomi was sorry for being caught as he explained it was a classmate he’s known since his first year in university, that it’s been happening for a little over two months, but paused before answering your question of why. You sat across from him and nodded once, lips clipped shut, because you do know that girl. You knew she always wore red lipstick because it looked great on her. But you never would have guessed Kiyoomi looked at her like that. And then he cleared his throat a little awkwardly before meeting your stare.

“I’m sorry. I just felt like we were missing something.”

This became the part where for a brief second, all you saw was red. You watched the man sitting across from you, bubbling with seething anger, your cheeks flushed and red, your lips bitten raw and red from containing yourself. Slapping him was definitely considered, but instead you reached for the clasp on your right wrist and took off the bracelet. Setting it next to the crumpled dress shirt, with the fucking red smear, you stood up said “Fuck you, Sakusa.”, turned to grab your phone and wallet, and left.

Red, was the color of the stoplight when you glanced at your phone for a quick second, your eyes automatically watering upon catching the ‘I love you, can we please talk?’ written on the screen. But green was the color the sign switched to as your resolve suddenly solidified. And you were sure, as you took a shaky breath and let the tears fall. You took it upon yourself to remember green. As you pressed on the gas pedal, and just fucking moved. Moved forward into a future without Kiyoomi. And you’d come to love the color green, because it reminded you in that standstill where all you saw were flashes of red from the anger and love that had been lost, that all you could really do from then on was just to go.

And so now, years later, as you looked at the half filled boxes littering the apartment you were moving out of you felt okay. Because two years ago, you had met Hajime at an intersection where the pedestrian lit up green. And because of him, you let go of the man who used to shine to you in colors. Let go of the red that had cut you open and left you to bleed out as an aftermath. Hajime looked at you with patience in his eyes that never faltered as he walked with your healing. The soft green in his eyes, mirroring the color you’ve grown to love, and teaching you to forgive.

You stood up after taping the final box close and labeling them correctly. Hajime pulled you closer to him as he pecked the middle of your forehead. “You ready? Oikawa wants us to drop by his place and get the housewarming gift he was talking about. Something about how it’s supposed to mean joy or some shit.”

“What’d he get?”

He shrugged as he picked up the box and headed towards the door. “I don’t know. You know how unpredictable he can be.”

You followed his actions and picked up another box but not before pocketing your phone, “He means well, Haji.”

And you know Oikawa means well as you sit on the passenger seat of the car while Hajime drives to the house you two were moving into. You know Oikawa meant that he wished the two of you joy as you held a small flower pot with a budding sunflower peeking out. Hajime looks over at you when the stoplight blinks red as the car rolls to a stop. He looks at you, green eyes gentle and patient and reaches over to squeeze your hand. “This time, this flower will mean our joy.” He says as the lights turn green and the car begins to gain momentum.

You look down at the flower pot, then back at Hajime, an honest smile on your lips. To you, twenty something years ago, yellow sunflowers meant afternoons in sunny playgrounds where you’d put flowers in Kiyoomi’s hair. And in that snapshot in time, it’s undeniable that it had given you joy. And so you let yourself exhale, because Oikawa means well, and Hajime is right. This is your joy. In the green eyes, patient smiles, and warm touches that was Hajime.

-

And later that night, Sakusa Kiyoomi found himself seated at a bar stool that had become familiar to him over the years. His first order of a whiskey sour sat in front of him as he stared into the open window to his right. His phone vibrated softly and the screen lit up against the dim lights of the quiet bar.

His eyes were quick to read the, ‘Thank you. Hope you’re doing well :)’ reply you texted him. The deep brown of his eyes stayed fixated on the screen, rereading the texts over and over again until the screen turned black.

He quickly downed the liquid that was left in the glass before he turned to the bartender. The man behind the bar nodded in his direction, “Another one? Same thing?”

Kiyoomi let his left hand move into the pocket of his jacket, feeling the familiar shapes of the charm bracelet you left. If he closed his eyes he would remember how they looked on your wrist. A yellow sunflower, a blue butterfly, and a red rose. It took him a little while but he finally understood why you associated memories with people into colors. He began to do it after you left. But now all he saw was the black of the phone screen that was staring back at him.

Picking up his phone, he let his eyes look over the text you sent him again, then finally sighed and set his phone back on the table facing down. Remembering his request to order, he looked up at the bartender still waiting for his reply.

“Can I get something a little stronger?”

-

 “Life isn’t like the movies, but it sure will make you cry when it dawns on you that it’s time to say goodbye.”

-Bruno Major

[atsukashii]

❝crush culture❞ // e. kirishima

SYNOPSIS: ➛ Confessing to someone you’ve liked for a long time is scary stuff, even when the person you’re confessing to has a smile like the sun and radiates good energy.

» CHARACTER PAIRING: eijiro kirishima x reader

» WORD COUNT: 3.3K

» GENRE: normal?? U.A era, oneshot

» WARNINGS: fluff to the max, Kirishima fluff right here.

« masterlist || ao3 »

To say you had a crush on your best friend Eijiro Kirishima would be the understatement of the century. Everyone knew it about it; Bakugou made it his mission to give you non-stop crap about it, only making it worse when Kirishima was so oblivious to everything you did! You’d even asked him on a date for crying out loud! Though you stuttered and stumbled a bit getting there, he thought it was the both of you just going out as friends. What did a girl have to do to get his attention? Everything apparently...

Groaning, you walk into the common room and flop face first onto the couch, earning a laugh from your friends sprawled out across the room.

“Progress?” Mina’s voice breaks the giggles and you turn your head slightly to the right, looking at her amused smile.

“I’m going to go crazy.” your complaint only makes the girls laugh more. Trying to get the guy you like to notice your feelings for him shouldn’t be this hard...right?

“Maybe you can write him an anonymous letter or something,” Ochako suggests, tapping a finger on her chin in thought.

“But if it’s anonymous it would defeat the purpose of the confession,” 

“Then she can just add her name.” Shrugs your friend Kyoka, like that whole idea was the easiest thing.  

“Ohhh maybe buy him some candy or something and write a cute little note and sign your name at the bottom. That would be sooooo cute!” Toru squeals and you can’t help but sigh.

“For Kirishima, protein bars would probably be better.” adds Tsu, resulting in the group sounding in agreement. Yeah, they weren’t wrong there, but you knew the boy had a secret stash of chocolate next to his bed when he got midnight snack cravings. It was when you’d first become close friends, Kirishima had come down stairs and found you snacking on strawberry ice cream from the freezer at a quarter past two in the morning. Turns out, he’d had the same idea. So you spent the next hour sitting on the floor of the communal kitchen, eating ice cream and getting to really know each other. And then as you walked back to your room, your heart almost bursting inside your chest, you realised what you felt for Kiri that night wasn’t just friendship. 

“-maybe we need a different opinion…” Mina says, catching your attention. The pure mischief in her eyes screams trouble and as you hear the door to the dorms open, Mina perks up in a way that makes you want to puke from nerves.

“Bakugou!” Oh please anyone but him!

“What the hell do you want, Racoon Eyes?” His voice booms through the common area. God does this boy not have a quiet setting?

“What would be the best way to get Kirishima’s attention...Asking for a friend of course!” Mina asks, winking a so not subtle wink in your direction, making you blush bright red.

“You still haven’t told him yet idiot?” Bakugou’s attention is now directed to where you are sprawled sadly on the couch. 

“No…” Your pillow-muffled response makes the girls stifle their laughter out of pity, whilst Bakugou just huffs in annoyance - as if your very presence requires too much effort for him to deal with.

“Just man up and tell him, moron,” he snaps like it’s the simplest thing ever and not utterly terrifying.

“I’m going to try option two,” He rolls his eyes and leans over the back of the couch, glaring at you.

“You’re such a coward. He’s not going to hurt your precious little feelings y/n, just do it already. I’m sick of hearing about this shit.”

“Hearing about what?” Your heart gets caught in your throat as the spiky haired redhead in question walks into the room, a towel around his shoulders and looking like he walked out of a damn dream. You couldn’t bring yourself to do anything but turn all shades of pink and gulp for air like a fish. Since when had you gone from being able to talk to your best friend about literally anything to this stuttering and jumbled up mess? You weren’t all that sure, but you were aware that you’re currently making a fool of yourself. You hadn’t realised that Bakugou had come back from the gym as well, and it made so much sense that Kirishima was with him, but god! Who the hell gave him permission to look that good? It should be illegal.  Kirishima’s red eyes meet yours from across the room, and he shoots you that signature smile that was so warm and you swore flowers actually sprouted wherever it was directed. Looking at him sometimes was like staring into the sun. 

“We’re just going around saying cute things that would get our attention,” Mina swoops in to the rescue making you instinctively rip your eyes from the red head and focus them on her.  What are you doing? You mouth tensely, your back to your crush so that he can’t see your crimson face. Mina only winks at you in response, so you look to your other friend Ochako, who is currently no better. Supplying you with a cheeky grin and wagging her eyebrows suggestively, you can’t help but want to groan in annoyance at their antics. 

“Well, I mean it is Valentines day coming up, so that makes sense.” All the girls turn to him grinning, and you instinctively fear what someone says next.

“What would someone have to do to get your attention Kiri?” Mina asks him teasingly, but also completely seriously. Oh my god… You couldn’t believe that she was actually asking him, but at the same time you are curious. You have done basically anything but yell at him in the face that you liked him and wanted to date him, so you were listening a little too closely to his response. Pink dusting his cheeks, Kirishima looks over the group and scratches the back of his head with a nervous arm.

“Well I guess it would have to depend on the person.”

“LAME! Come on Kiri, give us something more than that!” Mina whines, earning a chorus of agreements from the crowd of girls around you. It was so quick that you barely noticed it, but Kirisima glances at you before shifting on his feet nervously… He only looked at me because I'm his friend, and he finds these questions awkward. Yeah, that’s why.

“Well, I guess they’d probably just have to tell me. That's super manly.” You try not to sink in your chair as Bakugou gives you a knowing look. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know asshole, you try to scream at him through your eyes. “Anyways, i'm going to go wash up.” Kirishima leaves the room, shooting you one last smile and you instinctively let out a breath as if you'd been holding it since he came into the room. Your lungs sure felt like they had.

“Told you so, dumbass.” Bakugou calls as he walks out the room, and the temptation to throw one of the cushions at him is almost too much, but you don’t have the energy to focus on him right at that moment. Instead, you take a deep breath and turn to Mina with determination in your eyes.

“I’m going to tell him.” The noise they all release from their throats somehow didn’t shatter the glass, however it does earn an appearance from a very concerned Iida who barges into the common room in alarm. Never a boring day I guess, you think as you glance at the empty spot where Kirishima had just stood. Tomorrow, you let out a shaking breath. Tomorrow. 

❀ ❀ ❀

Today is the day. The sun is bright and high in the sky, it isn’t that cold for a February afternoon, and everything so far is going your way. It had to be today. 

You linger around the entrance to your classroom, waiting for Kirishima to make his usual appearance. You hear him laughing along with Kaminari before you can even see him. You feel his throaty, sunshine filled laugh echo through your bones and stir up the butterflies that had just begun to rest in your stomach. And when he rounds the corner and see’s you waiting there, he sends you the sweetest smile that makes your thundering heart drop through the floor. 

“Hey, y/n! Thanks for waiting.” he says happily. Kaminari’s eyes glance between the two of you quickly, before grinning far too ecstatically for your liking.

“It’s all good.”

“Where are you two off to?” Kaminari but’s in with a knowing smile. Kirishima looks at him as if only then suddenly remembering that he was there as well. 

“It's Friday afternoon and we’ve got an exam on Monday, dude. It’s crunch time.” Kirishima nods at you, bumping his fists together as if he’s readying for battle. You and Kirishima had begun to study together towards the end of your first year of school. He claimed that you were a better tutor than Bakugou, which you constantly brought up to the fiery blonde whenever he began to annoy you. You always ended up running away like your life depended on it as soon as the words left your mouth, but his pissed off look made the risk of imminent death so worth it. 

“Can I join you guys today?” You look over at your eccentric friend and can’t tell if he is being serious and wants to study, or if he just knows how important today is - because Mina can’t keep her mouth shut - and wants front seats to the show.

“Uh, I mean-” you are immediately cut off by a hand yanking Kaminari back by his collar and revealing a stoic faced Bakugou.

“Leave them alone sparky. You need to study and I’m only offering my services today, so take it or you’re on your own.” He doesn’t even give Kaminari a chance to breathe before begrudgingly pulling him down the hall away from you. 

“Well looks like it's just us y/n.” Kirishima says, taking a step down the hall. You can’t hide your smile, quickly moving to catch up to him. 

“I’m glad. You’re enough to handle, I'm not sure how I’d go adding Kaminari to the mix.” You tease your best friend. With a fake and very over-exaggerated gasp, Kirishima places a hand on his heart and stares at you in shock.

“That really hurt, y/n.” He cries out, stopping in his steps as you keep walking ahead. You try to hold in your laugh at his antics but fail miserably, letting out a loud laugh as you turn back to him.

“Your heart isn’t on your right side, Kiri,” You correct him, walking backwards for a few steps and only turning around when you see him run to catch up to you.

“I knew that. Just making sure you did.” He explains, falling into line next to you once again, making you look up at him and raise an eyebrow.

“Sure…” The two of you together walk out of the building in silence, just appreciating the peace that comes with being around each other. You and Kirishima didn’t have to even talk when you were together, just being in each other's presence is enough.

You feel your hands begin to sweat as you step outside. You were really going to do this, you were going to tell him… But what if he doesn’t feel the same? Risking a glance at him, your heart flutters and you know you have to do it. If you have to continue on like this for another day you are going to lose it. You love Kirishima’s friendship, but god you want something more. You want him to hold your hand on your daily trips to and from the dorms, you want to go and eat katsudon with him and not as friends. You want to be able to kiss him for no other reason than that you could. You are willing to risk one of the closest friendships you've ever had for it. 

“-day.” You blink and snap your head in Kirishima’s direction. He was talking and you didn’t catch a single word he said. A knowing smile cracks across Kirishima’s face as he takes in your startled expression.

“Was I that boring?” He jokes, pink beginning to dust his cheeks. Your heart lurches at the thought and you stop dead in your tracks.

“No! Not at all!” The words come out far too loudly which causes you to blush bright red and for Kirishima to frown at you. Oh god, what if he knew? You quickly try to change the topic whilst brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry, i’m just in my own world. You’re definitely not boring, Kiri.” You promise. 

“Y/n… Are you alright?” Letting out a groan, you wipe a hand down your face and sigh. Well this is it, I guess.

“Actually Kiri, there's something I need to tell you,” Suddenly you’re glad that you’re not walking, because the look on his face that you see by peeking through your fingers would have made you trip over absolutely nothing.

“What is it?” God bless him, he’s concerned. And he had every right to be, because it feels like you are about to pass out. Nervously, you begin to fidget with your hands before grasping them tightly in front of you. 

“There’s this guy,” It’s all you had to say before Kirishima’s smile slipped straight off his face. Ouch. He must see something in your face because not even a second later, his usual happy-go-lucky smile reappears. You however, can read Kirishima like a book, and when his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, you know he wasn’t feeling it. 

“So, there's a guy you like, huh?” He utters, adjusting the shoulder strap of his bag.

“Yeah, he’s super kind, brave and handsome too.” You reply, a smile climbing onto your face.

“Sounds like a real catch, y/n.” Is all he says, starting to walk away - obviously expecting you to walk with him. “You deserve it.” How cute, you thought. 

“Thanks, but really I’m the lucky one. We’ve been friends for so long too, and he treats me so well.” You boast, walking behind him, hoping for him to catch on. Kirishima stops so suddenly that you run into his back, what is he...

“I don’t…” He starts slowly, his back still turned to you. He moves as if he's about to turn around and face you, but lets out a dejected sigh instead. 

“Kiri…” he turns around at your voice, no smile or happiness found on his features. Just a look of pure devastation and concern.

“He’s a good guy?” You can’t help but want to smile at his question.

“Oh, the best.” Pursing his lips, Kirishima nods his head a few times before letting out a strangled groan that catches you off guard. 

“Is it Bakugou?” You choke on oxygen and splutter as he looks you in the eye, as if trying to tell if you are lying. 

“No. Never. Nope. Not happening,” you shudder at the image of that possibility. Like sure, you’re not blind and Bakugou is attractive, but personally, that loses its appeal as soon as he opens his mouth.

“Kaminari?” He counters, taking a step forward with his face fixed into a scowl that is so unlike him and so rare that it throws you for a loop.

“No, Kiri-”

“Sero? Midoriya? Iida? No… wait Ojiro? Shoji?” The names leave his mouth a mile a minute as you gape at him. He is now in his own little world of chaos that you’ve created, a hand over his mouth as he mumbles. “It’s Todoroki isn’t it?” Kirishima asks, whipping his head to you. Annoyance bleeds through his eyes as he says it. “It’s always Todoroki…” 

You suddenly can’t hold it in - the frustration of not being able to get a single word in, the nerves pounding through your bloodstream, and maybe just a little bit of courage has you blurting it out.

“Its you!” Crimson eyes meet your own and you suck in a nervous breath as he stills completely. “It’s you…I want to…” Your voice drifts off as a smile breaks out across his face slowly. 

“It’s me?” You don’t even have time to finish nodding before he practically leaps at you, picking you up around your middle and laughing so loudly that people walking past are staring. You can feel your heart pounding inside your head as you stare down at Kirishima... Wait, does that mean…

“Thank god,” he says as he begins to put you down, but doesn't move to let you go. “I swear if you had said someone else, I probably would have died.” You want to roll your eyes at his dramatics, but your brain can’t seem to catch up. He likes you! He likes you too! That’s what that means, idiot!

“Kiri…” you only manage to get your voice out as a whisper. 

“I really like you y/n, like stupidly so.” Now it's your turn to grin like an absolute maniac at him. Holy crap, you did not expect this. Best case scenario, of course, was this outcome, but it wasn’t your expectation. Ohmygod he likes me.

“Will you...quit smiling at me, I can’t stop messing up my sentences when you look at me like that!” Kirishima complains, but there’s no annoyance in it as he’s grinning back at you.

“Look like what?” You argue. Reaching up to touch your cheeks which are now starting to hurt, Kirishima snatches your hand in his before you have the chance. 

“So pretty. Seriously, y/n, give me a chance to breathe.” He says squinting at you playfully. “It’s like looking at the damn sun.” You’re laughing, a proper heart-filled laugh that ends with a snort loud enough for you to slap your hand over your mouth. Kirishima stares at you dazed for a moment as his free hand wraps around your waist.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks out of the blue, his cheeks tainted the same colour as his hair and you’re sure you look the same. Your brain has officially stopped working. 

“You don’t have to ask me Kiri,” you point out.

“Consent is manly.” He grins before finally closing the distance between you. It both seems to last forever, but also for not even a second. Reaching up on your toes, you wrap your arms around Kirishima’s neck and pull yourself impossibly closer to him. When your lungs begin screaming at you and you realise you’re not breathing, you pull back from the blushing boy. You can’t stop your smile this time, even if you tried. This was the best idea you’d ever had.  “Want to go out with me for dinner tomorrow night?” He asks, pulling back just enough to look down in your eyes as his breath fans your face. Not in a million years had you thought that you would actually be standing here with Kirishima like this. But whatever luck you somehow gained overnight, you were so grateful for it. Just as you are about to respond with a massive yes, the impending doom of your incoming English exam on Monday emerges back into your train of thought.

“How about we do a study date for now? I wasn’t joking about the tutoring, you know.” You point out, making Kirishima fake a pout in annoyance.

“Fine,” he gently reaches down and envelops your small hand, linking your fingers between his. “I’ll just have to settle with that for now. But once we’re done, I’m taking you for katsudon because I know it’s your favourite.” Without a second of hesitation you reach up and kiss Kirishima lightly on the cheek, making that bright blush come back all over again.

“I can’t wait.”

©️ 2021 all rights reserved to atsukashii, do not change, edit, translate, or repost any works on any platform.

​

[translations-by-aiimee]

Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 30

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 30

Is she calling me? Lin Yan nodded his head in a daze. His mind was spinning, his legs were weak like he was stepping on cotton. The light in the living room dimmed even darker. Wind blew in from the window. His hair was still slightly wet from the shower and the cold wind made his head go numb.

"Why doesn't it look like you?" Lin Yan asked.

The little girl struck a big cross across the face in the drawing with a black crayon, a thick black bar slashing across her teeth: "Why doesn't it look like me? This is how I looked when I died."

"Brother." The little girl stood up. She tilted her head and stared at Lin Yan. Her head was crookedly rested on her right shoulder, but her thumb was still in her mouth. When she took it out after a while, the top part was gone, the nail chewed halfway down her finger. The girl grinned, her mouth full of scarlet blood flowing past her lips.

"Brother, follow me, follow me." The little girl threw the crayon aside. She tugged on Lin Yan's hand and dragged him towards the bathroom: "I'll show you what I looked like when I died, it was beautiful."

Lin Yan muddled behind her. He instinctively sensed something was wrong, but he couldn't tell what it was. His head felt like a steel nail was being nailed into it, throbbing intensely.

Why was the wind so strong? Did he forget to close the windows?

"My brother bought me new clothes and then I died, hehe. Grandma is dead, Grandpa is also dead. Everyone is dead." The little girl took Lin Yan's hand and jumped forward. The braid on the back of her head was tied with a faded pink string. The bow was coming undone and the long string was stretched out and hung behind her head. "Brother, you are dying too. I'll draw a picture for you too when you die."

"Brother, hee hee, come with us." The little girl pulled the old padded jacket on her body. Her head became even more crooked as if it would accidentally fall off. "Come on, hurry. We have to catch up."

His vision was distorted. The dark corridor looked like a giant beast's gaping mouth. Lin Yan quickened his pace and suddenly kicked something with his toes. Lin Yan subconsciously climbed onto it and went up onto a platform. It was so cold, so windy. . .

Why wasn't he there yet?

"Lin Yan!" An anxious voice sounded like it came from another world, a distant echo: "Come back."

It was a familiar voice. Lin Yan twisted his stiff neck and tried to look back, but the little girl grabbed his wrist harshly and yanked him forward: "It's too late, hurry up."

Lin Yan nodded and took a staggering step forward, but his foot didn't land on anything and he lost his balance and fell. As soon as he fell forward, a huge resistance suddenly came from his torso, aggressively holding his waist. The fresh scent of shower gel jolted him back to his senses as if he had suddenly awakened from a nightmare. He looked around in confusion and saw that the old movie-like dark surroundings had returned to their usual appearance. The little girl was gone. Lin Yan looked down. The scene in front of him left him utterly speechless, only able to suck in a sharp breath.

He was standing on the windowsill in his bedroom. The window was wide open, the curtains were billowing out in the night wind, rustling and rattling. Half of his body had already stepped out. Looking down the outer wall of the apartment building, the flowerbeds and dark shadows of the trees seemed to stretch towards him on the twelfth floor. Two hazy figures in the garden were looking up and waving at him. One was the little girl in the old cotton jacket, and the one holding her hand was the second was the soul that they hadn't been able to recover today, Second Immortal Gu!

"We're dead, we're all dead, and you're going to die too." The little girl's voice echoed in his head: "Hurry up, you have to catch up to us."

"Xiao Yu, Xiao Yu!" Lin Yan yelled out in despair. He instinctively backed away and slammed into the arms of someone behind him. The hand hooked around his waist squeezed tighter, spinning him around. The deep voice repeated over and over again: "I'm here, I'm here."

That cold body had never been as warm as it was now. Shocked, Lin Yan buried his face in Xiao Yu's chest, but Xiao Yu didn't reciprocate intimately. He immediately led Lin Yan down the window sill and closed it. He stared at the flower bed on the ground and frowned.

Lin Yan looked at Xiao Yu's profile. His serious expression made him almost forget for a minute that Xiao Yu was a ghost. Lin Yan pursed his lips. He felt that he must be really disturbed to come up with the idea of letting him hold him for a while longer.

After shaking his head to drive the weird idea from his mind, he leaned on the windowsill and looked down. The green courtyard was surrounded by trees and the tiled path was empty. Second Immortal Gu and the little girl were gone.

"The little girl and the old lady were standing down there just now." Lin Yan stammered. "They waved to me. . ."

"I can't see them." Xiao Yu's expression was serious. and he raised his hand to straighten out his damp hair. Raising his hand to fix his wet hair, Lin Yan realized that he seemed to have rushed straight out of the bathtub. His clothes hanging loosely on his body, exposing his marble-like chest. Lin Yan felt himself blush and hurriedly turned his head to the side to hide it.

"They're not like me." Xiao Yu closed the curtains. "Don't go too far away from me."

Lin Yan was silent for a while then asked softly: ". . . how are they not the same?"

Xiao Yu didn't answer. He took a deep look at him and abruptly dragged Lin Yan from the bedroom back to the living room and pressed him into the sofa. Just when Lin Yan thought he was going to force himself on him again, Xiao Yu let go. He picked up the ancient books that had fallen on the ground and shoved them at him. He said seriously: "Learn these."

"Dude, are you kidding. . ." Lin Yan swept through the pages of the books, glancing at a large string of unheard-of terms. He couldn't help but let out a pathetic laugh: "Putting aside the fact that there's no way I can get through all of these, even if I look up each individual word to understand what it meant, I can't become a Daoist priest in one day."

Xiao Yu was silent for a while and said lightly: "If I leave one day, you have to know how to protect yourself."

Xiao Yu's hands pressed on his knees as he spoke, his demeanour as tame and gentle as usual, but something seemed different. Lin Yan hesitantly asked him in a low voice: "Are you going to leave?"

"Haven't you been looking forward to it?" Xiao Yu replied coldly.

Lin Yan didn't know what to say. He raised his hand and gently touched his face. His delicate and cold skin felt like fine porcelain. He slowly rested his palm on his face and stroked his jaw. Xiao Yu didn't shy away, quietly lying on Lin Yan’s knees. Just when Lin Yan thought he was asleep and was going to take him back to the bedroom, Xiao Yu suddenly shot up. He spread open the book on Lin Yan’s lap and stared at him calmly, eyes almost sad.

"You really want me to learn this?" Lin Yan asked in surprise.

Xiao Yu nodded. Lin Yan still wanted to argue, but when he saw his serious expression, he swallowed his retorts.

The books from the online store covered almost every subject. Not only was there I Ching Feng Shui, the Five Elements of Yin and Yang, Astrology and Geomancy, Tomb Charms Guide, Qimen Dunjia*, but even calling back souls to raise corpses so they could continue their lives. Some of the books were reasonable and well-founded, but most of them contradicted themselves. The authors were shooting themselves in the foot trying to sound all-knowing with all the contradicting information. The more Lin Yan read, the more nonsensical it all seemed. He yawned sleepily. He had drunk three cups of coffee overnight and smoked almost a full pack of cigarettes without finding anything. Every time he wanted to stop. he was forced to continue by Xiao Yu's murderous eyes. He wasn't allowed to sleep at all until dawn.

*(T/N: 奇门遁甲 - a type of divination)

Feudal superstition kills people. People need to be selective about what they absorb from traditional culture. Keep the essence stuff and discard the rest. Lin Yan vaguely remembered his junior high Chinese history textbooks. He muttered that after years of atheistic education, he was forced to go to Liangshan* by a ghost.

*(T/N: 梁山 - this is where the Daoist heroes from the Water Margin were from. So kind of like a land of heavy spiritualism)

If someone really wanted to learn something, you can’t eat one bite to become a fat guy*. Lin Yan lazily lay on Xiao Yu's lap, his cold palm stroking his shoulders down to his waist. After getting used to the coldness of his body, he felt very at ease. Lin Yan huddled up on the sofa and all the symbols and phrases in the book appeared in his mind; so much Yin and Yang, the sun rises in the east, how to disrupt a nightmare, avoid bad luck. . .

*(T/N: 一口吃成个胖子 - an idiom that means basically it's not going to happen all at once)

He slowly nodded off as the dawn sky began to lighten.

The next few days were extremely hard. In addition to visiting the young Daoist priest in the hospital every day at lunch with Yin Zhou, Lin Yan spent almost all his time buried in a variety of old books. Xiao Yu seemed determined to train him to become a Daoist master. On the table were large stacks of white paper, each one scrawled with odd incantations taken from the books. Some of them weren't even in Chinese. He could only trace them with a pencil, noting the patterns and corresponding them with their intended purpose.

The worst thing was that he had no way of experimenting with the effects of these charms. Lin Yan lay on the table and stared at Xiao Yu's back, reluctantly thinking that the only thing he had as a test subject was this ghost. But no matter what talisman he tried, there was no reaction. After trying more than a dozen, Lin Yan's patience had finally worn out. He uncontrollably swept the books onto the ground. He slammed his hands on the table and yelled at Xiao Yu: "Are you fucking playing with me?"

Xiao Yu wasn't angry. He patiently picked the books off the ground, turning back to where they had been and placed them in front of Lin Yan. He stepped aside and looked at him quietly. Lin Yan felt like a dumb firecracker, extinguished by a pot of water before he had the chance to explode. It happened to rain for several days, the sound of rain and the sound of pages turning made the house extremely quiet. Lin Yan, for the thousandth time, wrote out notes on geomancy. Xiao Yu had more patience than him. No matter how long Lin Yan sat at his desk, Xiao Yu stayed beside him for as long as he could. Every time Lin Yan turned around, their eyes would meet. He had given up on the idea of slacking off. He lit a cigarette and continued to bury himself in the pile of books.

"You have been sitting here with me for ages, don't you feel bored?" Lin Yan sighed. "The remote is on the table and there's a notebook in my room. I'll teach you how to use it. This is also your home. You don't need to be so polite with me."

"There's some pens and ink. You'll have to use it yourself. You can write or paint anything you want. I don't have that kind of talent anyways. I won't be able to tell if it's bad." Lin Yan chatted up and laughed a bit. "It's a bit like filming a TV series."

He still didn't answer. The whole room seemed to grow mouldy in the rainy weather. Coupled with the chilly aura radiating from Xiao Yu's body, Lin Yan felt that he had become a mushroom growing in one of the damp corners. Before Xiao Yu could speak, he always liked to hug him whenever he had the opportunity. Now that he had regained some consciousness, he didn't touch him as much. He just watched from behind, the silence suffocating and making Lin Yan somewhat uneasy.

[gamerwoo]

Junhui: Noodles

Characters: Junhui x female reader

Genre/warnings: badboy au, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, some crack-y moments, very slight angst, mentions of smoking, implied violence

Word count: 6,079

Summary: Junhui’s the kind of person parents warn their daughters to stay away from but you’ve never had the inclination to go near him anyway. But it’s not until he comes into the animal shelter looking for a kitten named Noodles that you start to learn more about the mysterious Wen Junhui.

a/n: I really felt like writing a badboy au and there aren’t a lot for Jun and I had this idea and @sadienita​ really liked it so this is kinda for her :] merry christmas 💕

You couldn’t care less about the boys that hung out outside the dive bar on the street corner. It seemed every girl was always squealing about how cute they were or every parent was warning their kid to not go near them. But you didn’t care. You didn’t wonder what they were like despite that being a hot topic with a lot of your friends -- seriously, it was like they never shut up once they got started, which was why you now hated when they wanted to go to that stupid bar but it was the only one in your stupid, dinky town.

Alternatively, Wen Junhui and his friends didn’t know shit about you nor did they recognize you. Wonwoo recognized one of your friends because she always seemed to stare at him whenever they’d pass by them, and Mingyu would wink at the one who would bite her lip and eye him up and down shamelessly. But you always rolled your eyes and minded your business, never sparing them even a passing glance. So none of them ever noticed you or thought anything of you.

Despite this, you still definitely knew who he was. At least, you’d heard the stories. The thirteen rowdy boys were always causing trouble. If they weren’t causing it, they were looking for it. Your parents had also jumped on the “stay away from those boys” bandwagon, and you listened without question because you didn’t have the desire to approach them anyway. You weren’t afraid, you just weren’t interested in knowing more. 

Besides, with the amount of cigarettes they smoked, you would’ve sooner strangled yourself than stand anywhere near them. Actually, strangling yourself would probably be the equivalent of being around that much smoke. 

However, your disinterest for the group of boys didn’t stop you from running into one of them. You had just decided to volunteer at the animal shelter on weekends because your parents refused to let an animal into the house despite the fact you insisted you would care for it solely and they wouldn’t have to lift a finger. Volunteering at the shelter was the next best thing. It was your first weekend there, and while you were excited, that excitement died down when you looked up as they front door opened.

Even if you weren’t interested in knowing the thirteen boys, it didn’t mean you didn’t recognize Wen Junhui.

“He’s so beautiful!” your friend, Mari had squealed so many times it made you want to jam scissors in your ears so you’d never have to hear it again.

But yes, Wen Junhui was beautiful. He, for some reason, dyed his hair a lilac color which brought out his brown eyes that looked up from the floor to you. Instead of a cigarette between his lips, he had a toothpick that hung out the left corner of his mouth. His classic leather jacket was looking as dingy as always, but it matched his ripped up black jeans and scuffed boots.

‘What could he possibly want at an animal shelter?’ you wondered to yourself.

You wanted to tell him to get lost, but you knew you weren’t supposed to do that -- even if this was Wen Junhui.

Junhui strolled up to the counter, his hands in his front pockets. He leaned up against the counter with one arm on the top of it, looking at you as he cocked his head to one side. You half expected him to say something about recognizing you even though you weren’t sure why he would recognize you anyway.

But instead, he asked, “Do you know if Noodles is here?”

You blinked at him a few times as you processed his question before finally asking, “...What?”

“You new?” he asked you instead.

“Yeah…?”

He sighed as if he were growing impatient with you, but his eyes were kind as he explained, “Noodles is a little orange tabby cat that was sent here a few weeks ago. Do you know if she’s still here?”

“O-oh, uh…” you looked down at the computer in front of you, typing in the name. “Yeah, she should still be in the cat room.”

“Cool, thanks,” he said simply before walking away toward the cat room.

That was your first encounter with Wen Junhui, and it definitely wasn’t what you were expecting from him.

-

On most Friday or Saturday nights, your friends liked to go down to the bar. You weren’t sure at this point if they genuinely enjoyed hanging out with each other every weekend or if they just did it in hopes of getting noticed by the boys who hung around out front, but with your new job at the shelter, you were thankful that you now had a reason to turn them down other than the usual responses that they stopped buying into.

“Sorry, I’m working at the shelter tomorrow.”

Nobody can call you out for that. What, do they expect you to just go into work drunk?

But it was that very next weekend that you saw Junhui again. You thought it was strange the first time he came in, but it was even more strange to you that he came back the very next weekend. He, again, walked over to the counter and asked you if Noodles was still there.

She was.

He went to the cat room.

You continued to stare at the door to the cat room until it closed and you couldn’t see Junhui anymore. What was his deal? Why did he want to see this cat so badly, and why did he even care? 

“What’re you staring at?” your coworker, Sam wondered as she came out from the back.

You turned to look at her, “Does a guy ever come in here asking you if Noodles is here?”

“Oh, you mean Jun?”

She knew Junhui? Actually, she knew Junhui enough to just call him Jun? Now you really had no idea what was going on. Was this some sort of alternate universe you were in?

“You know him?” you asked with surprise clear in your tone and on your face.

She chuckled, “Everybody at the shelter knows him. He come in every weekend, but lately, he comes just to visit Noodles. He really likes that kitten.”

Somehow, despite all this new information, you still couldn’t get passed the fact somebody named that poor kitten Noodles.

-

“You work too much, so you’re coming,” Rina decided.

Apparently the “I have work tomorrow” excuse could only work so many times before your friends decided it wasn’t good enough anymore. You really did have to work the next day at the shelter, but Rina already had a death grip on your wrist and was dragging you along behind her toward the shitty little bar that you really didn’t want to go to.

“Do you think they’re there?” Mia giggled.

‘I fuckin’ hope not,’ you wanted to say, but you just let them gush over the boys they hardly knew like you always did. ‘Man, what’s with girls and the badboy type?’

As you got closer to the dive bar, you could see about half of the boys standing under the same streetlight they always were. They were laughing so loudly that you heard them before you saw them, and when you did see them, you could see a few of their silhouettes shoving each other around as their laughter grew louder. 

Normally, the boys didn’t pay much attention to anybody who came by. They didn’t care about other people because they knew nobody else cared about them, so they paid them no mind and carried on with what they were doing.

But for some reason, Junhui felt inclined to look over to his right.

“Hey!” you heard him call out.

Your whole group stopped, looking at him like deer in headlights. Nobody from that group had ever said a word to any of you, and the fact that Wen Junhui had acknowledged them and stopped them to speak was sending your friends’ hearts into a frenzy.

You felt fine, even when his eyes locked on yours.

“Aren’t you the girl from the shelter?” he asked with a nod of his head.

You replied to his question with one of your own: “Aren’t you the Noodles guy?”

He chuckled, “She still there?”

“I didn’t work today, bud. Couldn’t tell ya.”

And then you brushed past your friends and led the way inside the bar. They all looked bewilderedly between you and Junhui as they shuffled in behind you like robots that were just doing what they were programmed and not really thinking for themselves.

“You know Wen Junhui?!” Elly gasped.

You shrugged, not seeing it as a big deal, “He comes into the shelter.”

“Is that why you’re so worried about work?” Mia giggled as she nudged your side with her elbow.

“No,” you sighed,” it’s because I actually don’t want to go into work hungover every single weekend and get written up four fucking times.”

You shot a pointed look to Rina who simply shrugged and said, “Party, dude.”

Most of the night consisted of you and your friends sitting at a table together while you drank and ate stale chips with shitty salsa and laughed at fat, drunk men playing darts very poorly. They hit the actual walls multiple times, and one even threw a dart while the other was over collecting his darts from the board, and it hit him right in the shoulder. There wasn’t any blood, but it was still fucking hilarious.

More patrons entered the bar, but you never paid any attention to them. Thankfully, your friends’ attention was gradually pulled away from the windows where they could see the seven boys outside, and you were actually able to have a good time with them.

Then again, maybe if they were staring out the windows and drooling like normal, you might’ve seen the handsome semi-stranger walk into the bar and walk up behind you, tapping your shoulder.

You sighed, figuring you already knew what this was about, so you didn’t even bother turning around. You figured it was some creep trying to hit on you, and you were not about to give any man in this place the time of day -- or night, rather.

“Listen, buddy,” you began as your hand tightened around your glass of beer, “I’m not interested. And if you’re gonna call me an ugly whore now instead, you can go fuck yourself.”

“At least you’re direct,” Junhui’s semi-familiar voice chuckled.

You whipped around, suddenly mortified by your words, “O-oh, I thought you were--”

“Yeah, I know,” he nodded, still laughing at your mistake. “But, I mean, you might tell me that after I say what I’m going to say.”

Your heartbeat picked up and you didn’t like it. What would Junhui say to you that would make you tell him to go fuck himself?

“My friend, Soonyoung thinks you’re really hot,” he told you, slightly sniggering about it. “He’s too big of a pussy to come in and ask for your number, though, so he made me do it since I kinda know you.”

You knew your friends had their jaws dropped at this, but you were looking at Junhui the whole time. Even as your face shifted to one of confusion.

“Who?” you asked.

He turned and pointed out the window, “Black hair, black shirt.”

“Dude, that’s like, three of them.”

“He’s the one with the cute cheeks!” Elly told you as if it was common knowledge. “And his eyes are really distinct.”

You were pretty sure you vaguely knew which one he was talking about. A somewhat fuzzy image of him came up in your head, and you recalled seeing him once eat a piece of gum off of the streetlamp just for five bucks and some laughs from his friends.

“No thanks,” you said flatly.

“_____!” Mia gasped like you were being rude.

But how could it be rude when you didn’t even know the guy and the only memory you had of him was eating ABC gum?

“Honestly, that’s a safe choice,” Junhui chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll break the bad news to him gently.”

You turned away from Junhui as soon as he began walking away from your table. Your ears were filled with your friends scolding, telling you that that was their only chance for an in with them. If you went out with Soonyoung, you could hook them up with Wonwoo and Mingyu -- which were also names you could not match to faces and you were sure you didn’t want to.

But above their whining, right as the door opened, you heard Junhui shout, “Yo, Soonyoung! She said to go fuck yourself!”

-

Where was he? You knew Junhui was going to come in like he did every weekend, and despite it only being your third weekend, you were sure he would be there because he said so when you left the bar.

“Girl from the shelter!” he called, catching your attention.

You really didn’t want to look toward his group because despite not knowing Soonyoung, you were embarrassed that Junhui told him you told him to go fuck himself. But still, you stopped and turned around to see what he wanted.

“See ya tomorrow!” he grinned cheekily.

You only nodded at him before leaving with your friends to go home and get as much rest as you could before you had to open the shelter.

But it was tomorrow, it was around the time Junhui usually showed up, and the boy in question was still nowhere to be seen. Now that you were more sober, you wanted to chew him out for passing along a message to a stranger that you didn’t even give.

“_____, could you give this pill pocket to Pepero?” one of the other workers asked as she handed the little treat over to you. “He needs his medication but Fishstick is being difficult getting his shots and I need to help out.”

As you took the pill pocket from her and began walking toward the cat room, all you could think was, ‘Who names these poor cats?’

You pushed the door open and searched all the cages in search for the one labeled ‘Pepero’. You couldn’t find it in the cages in the front, so you circled around to the back to see if maybe he was back there.

But instead of Pepero, you found the boy you’d been looking for.

“How the hell did you get in here?” you blurted.

Junhui jumped, startled by your sudden outburst. But his face melted into a smile as he laughed lightly and put a hand over his heart.

“You scared me!” the way he smiled and giggled was actually almost...cute -- which was weird since he came across as very cocky the previous night. He stood up from his crouched position and closed the cage he had opened while he played with the cat inside. “Liza let me in this morning. Sometimes I show up a little early.”

“For Noodles?” you guessed.

“Well, this time, yes. But I’ve done it before Noodles. I just like her a lot.”

You leaned over, peering down at the cage Junhui had opened. Sure enough, it said ‘Noodles’.

“Is that for Pepero?” he inquired, pointing to the pill pocket you were holding.

Not only were you shocked he guessed the cat you were giving medicine to, but he went over to Pepero’s cage without skipping a beat or needing to read the names, and opened it up for you.

“His ear infection is getting a lot better,” he told you as he pet from the cat’s head down to its tail. The fluffy, white-haired cat seemed to like it as he immediately started purring. Junhui plucked the pill pocket from your fingers and held it out to Pepero, who sniffed it for a second before eating it. “Yeah, you’d eat pill pockets just for fun, huh?”

“You know a lot about the cat room,” you noted dumbly.

Junhui chuckled with a shrug, “Just a little.”

“Do you come here often?”

“Every weekend.”

“Why don’t you just work here?”

Junhui scoffed, looking at you like you really were dumb, “Because if I worked here, a bunch of people would throw a fit or just wouldn’t come in. Business would go downhill which would mean a bunch of sweet animals would be fucked. It’s best I just come in to check on them.”

That did make sense. Wen Junhui was Wen Junhui, and people didn’t like him. He was a ‘bad person’. He was definitely a hit with the girls your age, but girls your age were also really into rebelling against their parents for some reason. That, and cute boys. Junhui was basically those two things thrown into one thing, and that meant that parents didn’t like him. If people from town came in and saw Junhui working here, the shelter would no doubt close down within weeks.

But you weren’t here to talk about that. You were waiting for Junhui to show up so you could chew him out for what he did. And now that you had him in front of you, you’d do just that. You didn’t care if he was some tough guy in a leather jacket and ripped jeans or if he still smelled like cigarette smoke. You weren’t afraid of him.

Okay, well, maybe a little afraid.

“Also, what the fuck was that last night?!” you demanded as you whacked him in the chest.

Okay, maybe not that afraid.

Junhui looked almost shocked that you did that, and even a little afraid of you as he put a hand over the spot you’d hit.

“You told Soonyoung I told him to fuck off, and now he’s gonna think I’m some rude bitch or something!”

Junhui only giggled as he grabbed his jacket on either side and gently tugged to adjust it, “Soonyoung doesn’t think anything, he hardly has a braincell.”

“But still!”

He smirked as he crossed his arms over his chest, shifting his weight to one foot so he was leaning into you, “Why do you care so much what Soonyoung thinks of you, hmm?”

You felt your cheeks heating up, leaning away from him, “I don’t care what he thinks specifically. I’d be mad no matter who you said it to.”

Junhui sighed as he closed Pepero’s cage before turning and letting his back rest up against the cages, “You wanna know why I said what I said to Soonyoung?”

You nodded vigorously.

Maybe you were seeing things, but Junhui looked...nervous. He looked down at his feet, taking in a deep breath as he thought over his next words. He ran a hand through his lilac hair before he closed his eyes. He lifted his head slowly, opening his eyes to meet yours.

“I’d say I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I think you’re a good person, shelter girl. I kinda like you,” he admitted, “and you deserve way better than Soonyoung.”

That only caused more questions. What did you do to make Junhui like you enough to protect you from somebody he claimed wasn’t good enough? Why was he friends with Soonyoung if he thought Soonyoung was too shitty to date? Wouldn’t he be similar to Soonyoung if they were close? What did he mean by ‘kinda like you’?

Despite all of those questions you could’ve asked and probably should’ve asked, you said, “My name is _____.”

-

You didn’t see Junhui all week but you knew you’d see him on Saturday. Who you didn’t think you’d see on Saturday was Mari. She smirked as she opened the doors and her little brother excitedly ran in, though it was clear he wasn’t really sure where he was going.

“Over here, dude!” Mari called as she walked up to the counter, her car keys swinging from the lanyard in her hand.

Her brother suddenly made a u-turn and ran right over to the counter, pressing his hands up against the side of it.

“What’re you doing here?” you asked her.

“Kid wants a dog but my parents didn’t want to be the ones to take him,” she explained as she glanced down at the child who was continuously hitting the side of the counter with both hands. “You can probably guess why.”

You just shrugged, deciding you would make the thumping sound that would soon be the tempo for the headache it would give you seem not as awful as it was, “He’s not so bad.”

“You wanna show us around the dog room then?” she asked with a toothy grin.

While there were other people working, it would be pointless to hand the task off to somebody else when you weren’t even busy. But you knew Junhui would be coming in soon and some part of you really wanted to see him when he came in. But you didn’t have an excuse so what could you do except say yes?

“I mean, I gue--”

Just on time, the door opened, and in shuffled Junhui with a toothpick in his mouth. Mari saw your eyes drift behind her, and she followed your gaze, her eyes landing on Junhui. She looked absolutely dumbfounded seeing the handsome boy casually walk into the shelter, his eyes finding you at the counter before anybody else. But it was after he saw you at the counter that his eyes flickered over to Mari, then down to her brother who was still banging the counter, and then back up at you.

“_____?” he spoke up.

‘Now’s my chance.’

“Um, I actually have to show Junhui something in the cat room,” you told Rina. “But Sam can take you to the dog room. C’mon, Junhui.”

You stepped out from behind the desk and began walking toward the cat room, leaving Sam alone with Mari and her brother despite the fact you felt guilty forcing her to deal with Mari’s annoying little brother. Not to mention your friend would have plenty of questions for you next time you saw her, but that was something you could deal with when you had to cross that bridge.

“What is it?” Junhui asked as the two of you entered the cat room, his voice laced with worry. “Was Noodles adopted?”

“No,” you sighed a breath of relief as you rested your forehead on the cool bars of one of the empty cages. “I just really didn’t want to deal with Mari today and needed an excuse to not help her brother pick out a pet dog.”

“_____!” Junhui whined. “You scared me!”

Why did Junhui genuinely sound upset? You turned around to see him rushing over to Noodles’s cage. He stuck his slender fingers through the bars, smiling softly as the orange kitten playfully batted at them with her paws. Just from the way Junhui looked at the cat, you could tell he absolutely adored her. Hell, he visited the place every weekend asking if she was still there so he must’ve loved her.

“Hey Junhui?”

He looked up from his playing, though the little smile stayed on his face even when he looked at you.

“Why don’t you just adopt Noodles?” you wondered.

“I took in a stray cat that hung out around my apartment like...two-ish months ago?” he replied, trying to remember how much time had gone by. “She’s still nervous around other animals and people. Honestly, she might not ever be used to other animals, and I don’t want to stress her out.” 

It seemed like the more Wen Junhui came around the shelter, the less like Wen Junhui he seemed. You were taught he would be scary and aggressive and rude and just overall bad. But he was funny and kind and caring and persistent. You wondered what made people think Junhui was a bad person if he seemed to be the opposite. Was it the people he hung out with? The way he dressed? Was that all it was?

Was Wen Junhui not the person you thought he was?

-

Junhui wasn’t outside the dive bar that night. You were dragged out by your friends once again, but this time without putting up a fight. Another few weeks had gone by, and you were hanging out with Junhui longer and longer when he’d come visit the shelter. The main reason for his visits was always Noodles who still had yet to be adopted, but it seemed he stopped coming in asking for Noodles and started coming in just saying “hey, _____”. 

But the one time you decided to go to the bar, hoping to see Junhui, he wasn’t there. None of his friends were there. The only sign that they had been there at all were their cigarette butts and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke that faintly burned your lungs.

“Boo,” Elly frowned as Rina opened the door to the bar and led the way in.

As you sat in the bar for the next few hours, drinking and laughing with your friends, you had almost forgotten about Junhui. You were so preoccupied with the stupid stories and loud giggles and dumb jokes that the fact you didn’t see him like you wanted to had completely slipped your mind. Even when Mia said she had to get home and left first, or when Mari said she had to get back before 11 because her parents were leaving and she had to babysit, or when Elly asked if you wanted her to walk home with you at 1am and you declined. You never once thought about Junhui.

Not until you saw him, at least.

You told Elly should could go without you. You were about to beat this guy at pool and you planned on sticking it out to the end. Sure enough, you ended up winning even if your friends weren’t there to celebrate your victory with you. But you decided that was a high enough note to end your night on, so you shuffled your way out of the bar with various patrons that you’d managed to befriend that night wishing you a good night and a safe trip home. Considering you were a girl walking home at night alone, you definitely valued those wishes.

However, your mind was veered away from your trek home as soon as you left the bar. In their usual spot, Junhui was clinging to the lamppost like it was the only thing holding him up. He sucked a sharp breath in through his teeth, and while he was facing away from you, you knew something wasn’t right.

“Junhui?” you asked as you walked over to him quickly.

“_____?” his voice was pained as he managed to turn himself around, keeping himself leaned up against the post.

As soon as he faced you, you sucked in a breath of your own. His clothes were torn up, his face was bruised and bloody, and his jacket was only hanging off one shoulder. His hair was a mess, sticking out in all directions while his eyes squinted at you like he was trying his hardest to keep them open. He clearly looked like he was in a lot of pain.

“What happened to you?” you gasped.

Despite how beat up he was, he managed to give you a small smirk, his eyes closing, “It’s nothing new. I just need to be cleaned up a bit.”

“A bit?” you scoffed. “Can I help you home?”

He hummed in response, his eyes staying closed. You walked closer, taking his weight off of the post and letting him put it on you. You put one of his arms around your shoulders while you held his waist and guided him in the direction he told you to go. It was a good thing he was at least coherent because otherwise you wouldn’t know where to bring him. You actually asked when you were almost to his apartment if you could bring him to a hospital because you completely forgot that that should be the first idea, but Junhui insisted he would be fine and he just wanted to go home.

His apartment wasn’t in a great part of town. It definitely could’ve been worse, but it wasn’t great. It was one of those places that still made you wary, especially with Junhui not really being himself. You were sure if you had come here with him any other day, you’d feel perfectly safe. But between the two of you, you were the strongest one at that moment. That definitely wasn’t reassuring.

He gave you the keys from his jeans pocket, and you managed to get him in the building. That definitely made you feel better, but it wasn’t until you were actually in Junhui’s apartment that you felt more relaxed. Then you could focus on just getting Junhui fixed up instead of worrying about who could be lurking in the shadows or secretly following behind you.

“Be quiet, though,” Junhui murmured as you led him over to the couch and set him down on the cushions. “I don’t want Minnie to get scared.”

“Is that your roommate or something?” you asked.

“My cat, Minnie.”

‘Right, the stray.’

You’d completely forgotten that Junhui had taken in a cat off the street. Honestly, considering the place he lived, you were happy for the cat -- even if it was hiding somewhere because it was afraid of you.

“Do you have a roommate that can help you?” you wondered.

“It’s cute that you think I could afford an apartment with more than one bedroom,” he smiled tiredly, his head falling back against the back of the couch as his eyes slid closed again.

“Alright, where do you keep your first aid stuff?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Seriously? No bandaids or cotton balls or anything?”

“I have a washcloth and warm water.”

You sighed, figuring that would have to do. So you went to the bathroom and grabbed a towel that was hanging off of the shower rod. You dampened a corner of it with warm water before going back to the living room. You sat beside Junhui on the couch and began dabbing away at the blood on his face. He hissed slightly at first but he started to get used to the stinging.

“Do you wanna talk about what happened now?” you mumbled.

“It’s just something that happens sometimes,” he shrugged. “Parents don’t warn their kids about us for nothing.”

“Did everybody else get beat up, too?”

“Just me. Wrong place at the wrong time. Happens a lot. Lotta people hate us.”

So maybe Junhui really was who you were told he was. Maybe he was violent and scary. Maybe he was somebody who wasn’t to be messed with. Maybe he was bad news.

“Do you need me to call somebody for you?” you wondered.

“Nah,” he replied. “Minnie’s more than enough company. She’ll come out after you leave and sleep on my chest -- she usually does when I come home like this. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be okay.”

But even if he was all that, he was still just like the Junhui you knew from the shelter.

“And ____?” he peeked one eye open to look at you.

“Yeah?”

One of his hands found yours that was pressed against the couch cushion to support yourself as you cleaned him up. His hand wrapped around yours, giving it a soft squeeze.

“Thank you for helping me tonight. I know this is cheesy to say but I’m glad I met you.”

-

Maybe you were silly. Maybe you were reading too much into it, but maybe it was worth the risk. Besides, worst case scenario was that he’d take it as a friend thing. But what would be so bad about that? Weren’t you already friends with Junhui anyway?

You finally realized that weird need to see Junhui was actually you having a crush on the guy. It was definitely weird, especially considering it had even persisted despite seeing the other side of Junhui last night, but you were just gonna go with it. You knew he wasn’t all bad, and you could make your own decisions anyway. And your decision was that Junhui was a good guy and you liked him and that was that.

So when Junhui walked into the shelter again on Saturday and your heart started racing, you knew why.

Well, there was also another reason.

“Hey, _____,” he grinned. His split lip had healed, but around one of his eyes was still a little yellow. “How’s it goin’?”

“It’s goin’,” you shrugged.

Usually, you would nod toward the cat room and say something like “she’s back there” or “you can go in” or whatever. Something that would let him know Noodles was still there. But when you stopped talking after your short response to his question, his eyes widened.

“I-is Noodles…?”

You shook your head slowly.

Junhui looked distraught, “R-really? ...W-well was the person at least nice? I hope she went to a good home because she’s such a sweet girl and--”

“You can judge for yourself,” you shrugged. “I mean, you did say you think I’m a good person, so…”

As Junhui’s brain tried to piece together what you’d said, you bent down behind the desk and lifted up the small carrier that the small, orange kitten was in. As you set her down on the counter and she saw Junhui, she meowed at him. 

His eyes flickered from Noodles to you to Noodles and back to you.

You grinned at him, “I am now a proud cat mom.”

Junhui’s look of confusion spread into a wide, toothy grin as he walked over and stuck two fingers between the bars and let Noodles paw at them, “Why’d you decide to adopt her?”

“Well, you said Minnie doesn’t like animals, and I know you wanted Noodles for yourself so…” you wanted to be bold about this but now that you had to say what you wanted to say to him, you felt shy and flustered, your cheeks starting to heat up. “I just kinda figured if I own her then you could like, visit or something… I mean, you already visit her at the shelter but now there’s no way she could be away from you, y’know? Like, you’ll always be guaranteed to see her now.”

You kept staring down at the counter and at Junhui’s fingers when you talked, but you finally gained the courage to look up at him. His cheeks were stained pink as he tried to hide a smile unsuccessfully.

“So you adopted her...b-because of me?” he asked with a flustered giggle.

“M-maybe…” you shrugged.

This time, he had to look away from you, keeping his eyes on Noodles in her cage instead. He just smiled at her -- or he was still smiling about what you said -- for a moment without saying anything, and it was absolutely torture. But then he finally looked over at you and took his fingers away from Noodles, stepping sideways so he was standing across from you at the desk.

“Do you wanna go out after work?” he asked bluntly, though his face was still flushed and he was still grinning like he was shy about asking.

“Yes,” you blurted, covering your mouth and clearing your throat before saying, “Um, that sounds cool.”

He giggled some more, running a hand through his purple hair, “I’ll pick you up here, then?”

You nodded, “I’ll see you then, Junhui.”

“Y’know, for as long as we’ve been talking, I figured you would’ve caught on to calling me Jun by now.”

“You still call me shelter girl have the time.”

“Touche. I’ll see you tonight.”

He walked out with his hands in his pockets, pulling out a pack of cigarettes before the door closed. But he suddenly spun around and looked at you, a playful smirk on his face now instead, “We should get some noodles in celebration, right?”

All you could think was how you couldn’t care less about Wen Junhui, and Wen Junhui didn’t know shit about you, nor did he recognize you. But now he made your heart feel warm whenever you were near him, and you were going to go on a date with him after work.

All because of a kitten named Noodles.

You nodded, “Right.”

[ddaenggtan]

black irises in the sunshine | kth

anger is everything. other gods tease you for the short fuse, but it comes with the territory. people have called you stupid, have called you dumb, oafish, useless, incompetent, insolent, rude, arrogant. all of it. insults and mockery flung at you, but even your skin isn’t thick enough to deal with constant abuse. it’s the exact reason you keep going to the underground, knuckles bloody and bruised, fighting anyone that dared enter the cage. it’s the reason you go to the clubs, surround yourself with mortals and their writhing bodies. it’s there that you see him the first time, voice husky as it rolls through the room. it’s there you find someone who treats you differently than the rest. you just never expected him to be one of the muses. | monsters and gods pt 3 (masterlist)

pairing | taehyung x reader

genre/warnings | greek god au, calliope!taehyung, ares!reader, theres a lot of violence and it does get descriptive so be aware of that, none of the main characters other than ares get hurt and its not uncalled for or anything in a narrative sense, so just be aware of that; there are mentions of other idols, but if you can guess them you get a cookie because they are Vague; suuuuper bisexual Ares, Ares Can Step On Me, like I am SO gay for her it isn’t funny; explicit smut ft: cunnilingus, taeHUNG bc hes got MASSIVE SCHLONG,  some body worship kind of and then just....regular worship? like? idk how to explain that? lots of praise and lots or orgasms

word count | 14k | cross posted to ao3

a/n | HOOOOOOO this has been sitting in my google docs for literal months waiting for an ending and i decided to try to get it out for tae's birthday bUT that didn't work because i have a Job and shit so YEET I GUESS HAPPY FUCKIN NEW YEAR??? LIKE??? YEEEEEEEEEEEEE this fic is very near to me because Ares is my sweet sad angry babie and i love her, and i love tae and i love suho and i love the muses and i just........lOVE this fic like i think this is currently my favorite of the mag series so!! i hope yall also enjoy it!!!! yall are welcome to send me messages about this even tho I'm terrible at replying to them in a timely manner!! thanks to everyone who helped me with this, and everyone who has expressed interest in it, and everyone who has ever read anything of mine, because you're genuinely the best people ever, and this is literally a gift to y'all because you deserve it. 

Fuck, that was too hard .

The guy across from you goes flying, hitting the chain link wall of the cage harder than you intended. Every nerve ending in your body is on fire, and even holding back, you've got a better buzz than even the best nectar can give. Your blood sings as the guy gets back up, and you almost wish you could remember his name, because he's put up a hell of a fight. For a mortal, anyway. 

He charges at you again, and time slows as your vision tunnels. You can see the feint as he decides on it, how he hesitates in bringing his left up. You wait, watching him get closer and closer. You start to dart to your left, letting him think he's got you, before you side-step and dart to your right instead. His punch goes wide as you steady your balance and move. The top of your foot connects with his ribcage and the resulting crack of bone is lost amid the cheers and yells of the audience. 

Your opponent steps back and you're proud of the way he doesn't show the pain. He doesn't wince, doesn't move to touch the spot you hit, just tightens his stance and clenches his jaw. It's only you that notices the hitch in his breath, the way he flinches with every inhale. Your eyes narrow at that, zeroing in on the rib. You'd meant to just crack it, had been holding back most of your strength to keep from hurting him too seriously, but as he steps forward, you can see the way he grits his teeth against the pain. 

The fight leaves you immediately, like a bucket of cold water straight to the chest, and you drop your hands. 

"Yield." He just stares at you, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Yield to me, and then go to the doctor."

"I'm not gonna yield," He says. He spits a mouthful of blood out onto the floor. "I'm not weak."

"Seriously, dude," You insist. "You're not gonna win this, and I don't want to hurt you more." 

His scoff has you seeing red. "As if a princess like you could hurt me."

Your fist connects with his face before either of you registers that you've moved. There's a voice in the back of your head reminding you that he's just mortal, he can't take the same kind of beating you can, but it's lost in the haze of fury. The next thing you know, the ref is dragging you away and slamming you into the cage wall. Your opponent is being dragged out - you still don't know his name - and he looks beaten senseless. Victory rolls through you accompanied by a sick satisfaction at the way his blood looks decorating the canvas beneath your feet. 

It lasts for less than an hour. It's always like this; the thrill of the fight, the burn of success, it's gone faster than you can blink. It's what drives you to keep fighting, to keep going to match after match, just to seek out the under-the-table stuff afterwards. It's never enough, not anymore. Back in the old days, they'd let you fight anything. Bears, bulls, lions, giants, anything they could get a noose around long enough to point it at a colosseum. That was a long time ago, though, before all the rights movements happened. You won't lie: you miss fighting beasts like that. The sheer power and strength they have, the survival instinct that makes them such fierce competitors, it's so much better than the rules and regulations of the mortal world now. Fights have gotten dull, rehearsed, more like a performance or a show than an actual fight. People make more money losing than they do winning and it's made the world boring. 

You flex your hand as you open the door to your favorite bar. Something caught it at some point in the last fight, a cheekbone or a tooth, and it stings a little. Doesn't hurt, not exactly, not for a goddess, but it did enough that you feel it at all, which means it couldn't have been anything but torture for the guy on the other end. The bartender waves at you and gets your usual ready as you sit, and you idly wonder if Busted Rib Guy will be okay. It looked painful, for a human, and you'd tried to hold back, but…

Well, you weren't really responsible for what happened to condescending little fucks, were you?

You sip the bourbon, enjoying the burn as it goes down. The lights are dim, tonight. You're glad. You don't want to deal with people looking at you, men coming over to talk to you, trying to advise you on how to properly bandage your knuckles or how to avoid the bruise on your cheek next time. If you had wanted to avoid it, you would have. You'd intended it to hurt worse, honestly, but that first guy'd had a weaker right hook than you expected. 

You look around, wondering if anyone here would provide a decent distraction for the night. There's a pretty brunette in the corner with carefully crafted braids, and as your eyes travel, you imagine what's hiding beneath the silk and leather. You're pulled from the thought by the sound of music, and you curse under your breath. You forgot that it's an open mic night and you'd meant to go to the bar across town instead. Irritation colors your vision; every open mic night is awful, full of lofty poets talking about their trauma and wannabe Taylor Swifts thinking they're on the same level as Sappho. Ah, now that was a girl with a set of pipes. You miss her, wonder what she would say to the butchering of whatever song you're about to hear.

The voice that comes isn't what you expect. It's smooth and deep. The world turns to velvet around you as the voice wanders from one speaker to another, creating a mesmerizing multi-dimensional effect despite the way the singer doesn't ever leave the stage. You turn, knuckles white around your bourbon glass; he's utterly magnetic, every eye in the room trained on him as he purrs into the vintage mic. Long fingers are wrapped around the scuffed metal, decorated with jewels that glitter in the dim light of the bar. You can smell the lingering cigarette smoke from the guy beside you and the Jäger from the girl two stools down and for once, you don't even care. He's captivating, voice travelling between speakers in the bar and coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. 

Your eyes don't leave him, and you wonder if you can memorize the way the blond waves fall against his forehead if you stare long enough. 

The red seeps away from you, slinking back into the corners of your mind, settling once more into a low thrum under your skin. It fades into the background of this man's voice, the charisma that rolls off him in waves as he pulls the mic in close just to push it to the side with a teasing smirk. It settles something in your chest that hasn't been calm since the fight in Athens so long ago. 

The music fades out sooner than you'd like, and he gives a slight bow before wandering into the crowd. You do your best to follow him, but the gold of his hair disappears almost immediately, lost in the throng of people around the stage waiting to speak to him. You turn back around, downing the next bit of bourbon that Suho pours you. 

"I know," He says with a grin. You cock a brow at him, not having said anything he could agree with. "He's good. That's what you were thinking, right? He's why we're so packed on open mics. Got the audio and lighting guy whipped, so he's got all these special effects, too. Drives people crazy.”

"He's alright," You mutter. You toss a few bills down on the bartop and step back. Suho gives you a courteous nod as you leave. The bouncer gives you a dirty look when he spots the lit cigarette between your lips, but he knows better than to try to tell you otherwise. You've taught him better. 

You lean back against the brick wall of the alley and take a drag. The warm smoke fills your lungs and you close your eyes. It's a different kind of burn than you're used to, a distraction from the crawling sensation that drives you to fight. It's calmer, more controlled. Feels like the smoke from Hestia's fires. Feels like home. 

"Never expected to see you here," A voice calls out. It's deep and startling in the darkness, but you don't jump. You just open your eyes, exhale, and look to where it came from. 

The singer stands before you in the same undone white button up and black tee he performed in. He doesn't have a cig, doesn't seem to have much of any reason to be outside. He moves almost lazily, as if he doesn't even need to, just wants to, and when his gaze flicks up to meet yours, your vision fills just for a breath with every opponent you've ever faced lying at your feet. 

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" The words slip from your tongue before you can stop them. It's not his fault, the voice in your head says, he didn't mean it that way, but still, your blood is thrumming now that he's here and you want to know what he's talking about. Want to know why he thinks you wouldn't be here when there's attractive people and good bourbon and you've never seen this man before in your life. Want to know why he already seems to think you aren't civilized enough to be at a bar, why he spoke but all you heard was Zeus' voice in your memories.

"Exactly what I said. Should I be clearer?"

"Yeah, probably," you spit. Yet another person that assumes you're stupid, that you don't understand basic languages, as if you haven't been speaking them since the ancient times. As if you couldn't speak circles around him if you wanted. "Unless you want your teeth on the fucking ground."

"Good to know the stories are true." He tsks and you're filled with a strange sense of disappointment and fury, both at him and yourself. Your vision turns red at the edges and the cigarette between your fingers is crushed in your grip. He pays no mind to it, just saunters past with a lazy, swaying gait that draws your eyes to his hips and then down the long leather-clad legs. "See you around, Ares."

"That's not my fucking name," You yell after him. He doesn't respond when you shout your actual name, the one you chose, on your own, as a middle finger to the Olympians. "Get it right next time, dickwad."

He turns the corner of the alley and the streetlight catches his face just enough for you to see the smirk he wears. For once in your life, you're torn; you want to smash his face in, yes, because how dare this random guy speak to you like that when you could kill him with one finger to the right pressure point. You also find your skin's hotter than usual, stretched too thin over your bones, and you want him to run his hands over you until it feels right again.

Until it feels like it did when he was singing. 

How did he know my title?

The thought comes unbidden, days later, with the desperate hit of a palm against your shoulder. You've got the woman in a headlock, patiently waiting for her to pass out completely so the fight can be called, and your mind is wandering. 

How did the singer know who you are? You hadn't thought anything of it at the time, distracted by fury and frustration, but with time comes a special kind of clarity. You've never seen him before, not that you know anyway, yet he didn't hesitate to call you Ares. The only ones who know of your kind are your kind, but you haven't seen any of your siblings among mortals in a long time. You thought you knew the other gods and goddesses, but maybe not. It has been a while since you stepped foot in the golden city.

The woman in your grip goes slack and you release her. You're still lost in thought as the ref calls the match and leads you out of the makeshift ring. The cheers of the audience are background noise at this point, akin to static or the buzz of electricity, and you pay them no mind as you head to collect your winnings. You didn't even get any kind of buzz from success this time, too immersed in the way the singer walked and talked and looked. The image of his smirk is burned into your retinas. 

"Yeah, you didn't hear? He just got out of the hospital. They had to keep him overnight because they thought he might puncture a lung. I heard that if it had been a little worse, they would've had to wire his jaw shut." You stop, fingers brushing over the stack of bills you don't even remember being handed. You look up, making eye contact with the guy whispering nearby. Your suspicions are confirmed when his friend smacks his arm and juts his chin in your direction before they both disappear into the crowd. 

You shove your way outside, frustration creeping through you and coloring your vision. You manage to keep it contained long enough for you to make it to the alley behind the warehouse, but it explodes from you in a rush of thrown dumpsters and sheet metal. 

Fuck , you never meant to hurt him like that. You told him, you fucking told him to yield, it isn't your fault he didn't listen. It's not your fault that he went and insulted you, acted like he was better than you just by virtue of being a dude, as if you weren't worshipped in the old days for the power you had and the blessings you could give. You'd held back, through all of it, you'd told him to yield, and he insulted you. It wasn't your fault. 

You slide to the ground, running a shaking hand through your hair. It isn't your fault , you repeat. You close your eyes and take deep breaths, the way Hestia taught you, willing the fury to dissipate. It's like a fire in your veins, burning and bubbling your skin until you can't resist anymore. You take another breath. It isn't your fault. You tried. You offered an out. It isn't your fault. Fuck, what was his name? 

With a growl that quickly morphs into a scream, you kick the dumpster once more before stalking off into the darkness. You need a fucking drink and you're gonna find a distraction in someone else if it's the last thing you do. 

The club is packed when you get there; you're not usually a fan of clubs like this, too full of people who are too friendly, but they're perfect for nights like tonight. You don't even need to wait in line, just slip the bouncer a 50 as you pass, and the bartenders are quick to spot you. You're pretty notorious in the city for over-paying, which means you're knocking back bourbon before you have a chance to ask for it. There are people everywhere, pressed up against both sides of you while the bass thrums in your throat, and it takes you longer than you're proud of to realize why. 

There's a band playing, apparently. They're not bad; the vocalist isn't anything like the singer from Suho's, but it doesn't make you want to tear your ears off, so you consider it a success. 

You're dancing before you remember deciding to. Everything's a blur when you get the itch in your bones, the need to make someone bleed. To feel something that isn't rage or condescension. People are even closer here on the dance floor, suffocating in their proximity, but there's a woman grinding her ass into you, and it sparks the dying fire in your gut. The beat of the music drowns your own heart, and it's all flashing lights and heat and a body pressed against yours that is all too willing.

She follows when you go back to the bar for another drink, and giggles when you lick salt from her wrist before downing tequila. Her hands are wrapped in the leather of your jacket as she kisses you, your own resting lightly on her hips. She laughs against your lips and says something you don't hear before ordering another drink. Something makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You take the brief reprieve to look around the club, searching for whatever it is that has you on alert. You find him on the upper level of the club, leaned over the balcony with a drink in hand. You can't make out his expression, exactly; it's too far away and too guarded. But you'd know him anywhere now. The singer knocks back whatever's in his glass, eyes never leaving yours. You don't know why he's here, if he comes here often or if the Fates are having a laugh at your expense, but you do know you want to make the most of it.

The girl is back, pressing a heated kiss to your lips and drawing your attention from him. You return it, nipping at her lips and getting a small gasp in return. You smirk and bite your way down her neck. She's breathy in your ear, hitched moans lost in the beat of the music, but you barely hear her as you suck bruises into the skin of her neck. He's still watching you. His drink is gone and he's gripping the bannister of the balcony, rings glinting in the light. You wonder if the cool metal could soothe the burn in your bones. You want to know if he can bring that calmness from before back, if he can soothe the frenzy in your mind with his hands the way he can with his voice. Just imagining it has you soaking through to your jeans.

The girl makes a particularly loud noise in your ear and you're brought out of your thoughts. As if he can sense it, the singer straightens. He gives you one last look before disappearing back into the crowd, and you wonder if you're imagining the disdain in it. You draw back from the girl's neck, about to tell her to find her friends when she slides her hands in your hair and tugs.

The burn in your blood is back, now, and you hope this girl is prepared for what awaits her.

"You're here early," Suho says when he spots you in the nearly empty bar the next night. He's not wrong, either; you skipped the fights tonight completely. There was no buzz last time, no relief, and you have no reason to believe there would be tonight. Not with the way the singer captivates your thoughts. 

Besides, you have enough money leftover from the previous few to last a couple days.

"What, did you decide not to kick someone's ass before getting wasted?" Suho doesn't wither at the look you give him, just pours you a couple fingers of bourbon and slides the glass over. "Or did they just stop letting you in completely?"

"I might change my mind if you don't shut up," You tell him. There's no real heat behind it. You've known Suho for years now, been coming to his bar for so long it almost feels like home. You're almost friends at this point. 

It helps that he knows when to bite his tongue so he doesn't get his teeth knocked out.

"Seriously though, I don't think I've ever seen you here this early. Especially not on mic nights." You're very careful in your lack of a reaction to his words. You'd seen the workers setting up for it when you came in, and even if you hadn't, you know when mic night is. You've spent enough time avoiding it.

"Does he sing every time?" You ask in lieu of an explanation. You don't look away from the amber liquid in your glass, letting the silence hang as the bartender does his best to follow your thought process. 

"Taehyung? Most weeks, yeah. It's been a nice change from the usual drunken karaoke. He goes around to some of the other places in town, too. Apparently he just likes to sing." 

"Taehyung," You repeat. The name rolls from your tongue a bit awkwardly. It's more than you expected, somehow, but you can't place exactly how . Just...more. "Is he always that good?"

"Oh, yeah. We have regulars now for mic night because of him. He's got a whole fan club and everything."

"Hm." You drain the rest of your bourbon and Suho refills it. He leaves you in peace then, serving some others that appear at the bar. 

The place fills faster than you can blink. That's what it feels like, anyway. It's like one moment there's you and a handful of other people scattered around, and now you're being jostled between some dude a million feet tall that definitely doesn't look old enough to be here and a girl with her tits up to her throat and surrounded by a cloud of perfume so thick that it starts a migraine behind your eyes almost instantly. She flirts with Suho a little, likely trying to score free drinks, and you roll your eyes. She pouts at him when he gives her the total, batting eyelashes that go on for miles, and for once, you wish Suho would just give in and comp the drinks. 

"I'll pay for them," You say. She was definitely saying something, maybe you should have been paying attention to it, but fuck , this migraine is only getting worse the longer she stands there. "I'll pay for your drinks."

"Oh, thanks," She says. Her smile is hesitant, and quickly turns apologetic as she takes in the boots and the ripped jeans and the leather jacket. "Um, I'm not...I don't, uh…"

"Do I look like I want to fuck you, sweetie?" She looks a little affronted and a laugh escapes you. You lean closer, letting your breath ghost over her cheek as you speak in her ear to be heard better. "If I wanted to fuck you senseless, you'd know it. And I can guarantee you it would be a hell of a lot better than the watered down rat piss this guy's giving you." 

When you lean back, her face is flushed and she's stammering. You smirk and hand her the drinks she'd ordered. 

"Too bad you’re not, you don’t, huh?" You tell her. The patronizing tone isn't lost on her, nor is your mockery of her earlier words, and she shuts her mouth with an audible click before strutting off. Suho glares at you as he pours more bourbon.

"Can you please try not to run off my patrons?" He mutters. "Some of us actually need money to live."

"Some of us would like decently timed refills and to not choke on perfume," You quip. "And better bourbon, for that matter." He hisses something about what he's giving you being top quality but you tune him out, throwing one leg over the stool Perfume Girl vacated. You'd like to keep just a little bit of personal space. 

Across the bar, you catch a brief glimpse of the girl from the night before and you wince. Her neck is thoroughly bruised, and you catch a peek of bruises and scratches on her back as she shrugs her jacket on. You didn’t mean to be so rough with her, even if she had been into it; you’re usually pretty good about remembering that the mortals are just that - mortal - and as such have to be handled delicately. They’re so fragile, it feels like they could break with a strong wind. Guilt settles in your gut and turns the bourbon in your glass to cough syrup. You’ve half a mind to just leave before she sees you, are about to turn and do exactly that, but the speakers screech to life and the deafening feedback from the mic keeps you glued to your seat. 

The crowd quiets even as the excitement ramps up, all talk silencing but for the occasional hushed whispers here and there. The first few notes of the song echo through the speakers, and a spotlight appears on him. 

He looks different this time, his hair dyed a vibrant blue that matches the glinting jewels in his ears and on his hands. He's an absolute vision and you wonder how Aphrodite has allowed him to live so long when he's so beautiful. His voice hangs in the air and calms you, the same settling in your chest as last time, the same freedom from the burn in your veins. It's addictive. 

The song doesn't last nearly as long as you want it to but the stillness inside you lingers long after he's done caressing the microphone. You place a few bills down for Suho and light up a cigarette as you head outside, ignoring the dirty looks from other patrons as you do. You're on a mission, the thrum of bloodlust returning with every second that passes, and you can't even be sure if he's still around or if he's wandered off already. 

You stand in the alley for what feels like hours, turning at every sound and smoking cig after cig just so you have something to do. You've almost decided to say fuck it when footsteps sound from the back of the bar, coming closer to you. 

His blue hair is visible even from the other end of the small alley, a giveaway similar to the light at the end of your cigarette and the smoke you blow into the air. There's no way he hasn't seen you, you think, you're making no effort to hide or be sneaky, and yet he's continuing forward as if he doesn't see you at all, eyes focused on a phone in his hand. You wait until he's just a few steps away before speaking.

"How do you know my title?" You ask him. He stops as if he'd always meant to and doesn't even bother to glance up at you or respond. The edges of your vision turn scarlet at the blatant disregard and you're speaking before you can even process the words. "I asked you a fucking question, pretty boy, you're gonna answer me. Unless you want that precious mouth bloodied up."

"And you wonder how I know who you are," He drawls, still not bothering to spare a glance at you. A scowl grows over your face at his sarcastic tone. "If you're going to hit me just get it over with. Otherwise, I have places to be."

He stands, waiting and expectant, but you don't move. He's humming, quiet and to himself like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and the red seeps away from your mind until you're left clear-headed once more. You sigh, long and heavy, and crush your cigarette into your denim-covered thigh to put it out. It tickles. 

"I'm not going to hit you," You tell him eventually. "I just wanna know how you know me. And how you do it."

He cocks a brow at that, finally looking up from the phone in his hand to level dark eyes on yours. "Do what? Sing?"

"No." You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat. The words are harder to find than you thought they'd be, lost in the depths of his gaze, in the clarity you're so unaccustomed to, in the way you feel like you can breathe for the first time in days. "I don't care how you sing, that's not important, it's the...fuck, you know what, never mind, it doesn't fucking matter." You push off the wall and step past him to head towards where the streetlight gleams off the bar windows. 

"Tell me." The command has you stopping in your tracks, and you're again flooded with just wanting to know how. How he clears the haze, how he stops you, how he makes you feel real. You turn, hands stuffed into the back pockets of your jeans. "How I do what?"

It takes you several long breaths before you can answer, and you aren't even sure he can hear you over the sounds of people leaving the bar, and you find yourself disappearing into the crowd without waiting for a response. Your own words are reverberating in your skull, getting louder with each step you take, and you wish you could just turn it off . 

"How you make me feel like a person again."

You avoid the bar for a few weeks, going hours away from your usual area to an unfamiliar hole in the wall just to make sure you don’t see him. You’re more deadly than usual in your fights, victories coming quicker, injuries piling up along with the guilt, but you can’t bring yourself to return. It’s unnerving, the way everything goes quiet around him, the way you can think, but the worst is the way you can feel. Everything’s calm and steady and blue, and it only makes it easier for the regret and the guilt and the anxiety to curl around your throat and squeeze until you can’t breathe, to clog in your throat while the laughter of your siblings echoes in your ears, and you...can’t. You can’t do that, you can’t let it win, you can’t let them win, they can’t know that you’re everything they think you are and worse. 

You can’t let yourself drown in that, and yet you find yourself back at Suho’s, lost among the crowd while Taehyung’s voice surrounds you. The ache in your bones fades away, chased by the thrum of the fight that still lingers despite the hours that have passed since you felt your opponent’s femur break under your palm and their screams echoed in your ears. Everything is calm again, and the guilt nearly drowns you.

He hasn’t even finished singing before you’re outside, chest heaving as you gasp against the weight on your chest. You broke someone’s femur , and did you even really need to? The fight itself is a blur even now, snapshots playing through your mind like a montage. The way they’d darted at you first, how their foot felt connecting with the backs of your knees, the determination in their eyes when you went down, the jolt of shock as your hands wrapped around their leg, the dull throb of a barrage of hits against your waist as you pulled them down as well and bloodied their face, the blood-curdling scream as you snapped the bone like a pretzel stick.

Your breath comes faster in your lungs, forced out by the growing guilt that lodges there in its place. Images swirl in your mind, chased by a never-ending stream of thought and regret that you should be used to by now. Fuck, you didn’t need to, and you still did it; you lost control, you fucking hurt them, and for what? A couple hundred? Was it even worth it? Who knew when they’d be back into shape to fight, what if they needed the money? They weren’t even half-bad. They got you down, at least, shouldn’t you have gone easy on them? You don’t even remember their face, can’t remember what the announcer said their name was, words drowned out by the buzz under your skin.

Metal crumples under your grip and you spare a half-second to mourn Suho’s dumpster before you slam your knuckles against it. It tingles, not even real pain, and you don’t hesitate to repeat it. By the time the metal is disfigured completely, a distorted mess of paint and steel and garbage, you still aren’t in pain, but there’s a sheen of gold across your knuckles and you feel less like you’re drowning and more like you’re suffocating. The usual. You can handle that. You think. 

You don’t even realize that you’ve slid down to the ground beside the dumpster until the back door of the bar opens and footsteps echo through the alley. You wish you knew how long you’ve been here, how long you’ve sat among empty bottles and stale beer and broken glass, but you can’t be sure. The brief reprieve brought by Taehyung’s voice is long gone, chased away by the guilt and rage that still sits heavy in your chest. You hope you’re not noticeable here, that whoever’s left will just pass by and leave you to piece yourself back together on your own. 

Voices tell you that it isn’t likely, the deep baritone of one too familiar to ignore. The other is new, but you’re familiar with the tone, the inflection, the intent behind it. You've heard it before, in crowded clubs as a guy pushes too close to some girl who can barely stand, in a coffeeshop when a random customer can't take a fucking hint, at the local campus when some professor insists that there could be maybe one thing her student could do to pass. It makes everything in you curdle, the bourbon from earlier threatening to work its way back up; it screams predator , and you absolutely refuse to let anyone fucking talk to someone like that, like they have some right to whatever it is they want. 

You refuse to let someone talk to him that way. 

"Seriously, Kratos, didn't I tell you to leave me alone? Did Aphrodite not teach you your lesson last time you harassed someone?" Taehyung's voice brings a calm that's an unsettling match to the anger washing over you. You're used to the red at the corners of your vision, the tint to everything you see, but you aren ' t used to the way it all turns purple and focused and clear . 

There's no haze this time, there's no abrupt shift of you moving before you know you've done it. You can feel the glass crunching under your boots with every step you take, can feel the way the air has a chill that creeps down into your lungs with every breath, can almost taste the apprehension that's rolling off of Taehyung despite his relaxed stance. The only thing that gives him away is the tense set of his jaw and the mix of relief and fear when his eyes land on you. 

"I'm pretty sure he said no, Kratos." The god turns at your voice and you watch the realization wash over him as he realizes what - who - you are. 

"Been a while since anyone's seen you, Ares." He scoffs a little, not moving from where he has Taehyung caged against the wall of the bar, one hand pressed firmly into the brick. He's entirely too close, and you have no doubt that the stench of him permeates the very oxygen around them. 

"Been busy. Doesn't change the fact that the man said no. Take the loss, walk away." Kratos' eyes narrow at your words and he steps away, but only to move closer to you. 

"Why do you care so much? You've never been one to care about any of us before." Kratos inches closer and the hyper-focus that Taehyung's voice causes starts to melt away with every twitch of your fingers. You've never liked Kratos, all brute strength with no respect for the challenge, no appreciation of the fight, too focused on sheer power and exhilaration. He is the worst of the worst of the worst of your kind, of all the war-focused gods. Every bit of yourself you hate is every piece that Kratos loves about himself. 

"I care that you don't seem to be able to understand when someone doesn't want to be around you, you absolute piece of filth. Taehyung had a point though, I really thought the whole thing with Aphrodite would've taught you how to back off. Or should I pull the video out, I think I still have it saved for when I need a good laugh." Malice and fury twitch across the other god's face and you absolute revel in it. You can feel his anger prickling across you, like needles in your very pores, and you ache for it. It's been so long since you last had a good fight, a real challenge where you didn't need to hold back at all. 

Too long since you fought a god like yourself.

"You're testing my patience, cousin," Kratos spits. It's a little generous to call the two of you cousins - you're several times removed, at best, and potentially closer than that with your family's warped history - but you let him have it. It might make him feel better. "I'm having a conversation, that's all. And if said conversation means that we end up back at my place, then, well, can anyone really blame me for what might happen to this pretty little m-"

Your fist connects with his jaw immediately and the red floods you for the few seconds it takes to register Taehyung calling your name. The calm struggles for a second, warring with the rage, but it wins out eventually. The singer's talking, but you can't make out any actual words. You're too focused on Kratos, the way he's righting and readying himself for a brawl. There's a fire in his eyes that matches the one in yours and everything in you feels alive for the first time in too long. 

This fight is different than your usual ones. There's no blur, no warped sense of time that usually comes with the adrenaline. You're focused and controlled in a way you haven't had to be for centuries, careful and precise and deliberate with every swing and every kick. The red seeps back in slowly and every time you think you're about to lose it, you hear Taehyung, still pressed against the wall of the bar. 

Kratos lunges at you for what has to be the tenth time, clearly trying his best to knock you to the ground - he succeeded, once; you let yourself get distracted, too caught up in thoughts, but it didn't last long - and you sidestep him just in time for him to ram into the ruined dumpster instead. He looks pissed when he turns back around and something in you sings at the sight. He makes for you again and you dodge again, only to be dragged back towards him by the grip he has on your jacket. Fuck, should've taken that off , whatever, he's too close.

Pain explodes in your side and you're fairly sure he's busted part of your rib, but you just slide your arms out of the sleeves and twist to plant your knee straight into his gut and then slam your heel down onto his much-less-safe toes, and then back up to knee him in the groin. It's nowhere near enough to take him out, but his nose is oozing golden ichor and he groans with every shift of his weight, and you've got him pinned against the wall with your forearm pressing hard into his windpipe. 

"Now, you're gonna listen to me you steaming pile of dog shit," You hiss. "When someone tells you no, it's not a fucking negotiation. It means you fucking leave and find someone with loose enough morals or enough internalized self-hatred that they're willing to subject themselves to your absolutely pitiful fucking excuse of an existence for the thirty-two seconds it'll take for you to get off." 

Kratos doesn't respond, just sneers and spits blood at you. It's a miracle you don't actually try to rip his head from his body, because the thought crosses your mind for a second too long. Instead, you just press harder against his windpipe and enjoy the choked gasp that it draws. 

"You don't stalk people either, the way you did with 'Dite. Don't you know it's better to let them come to you sometimes?" You tsk, ignoring the way he claws uselessly at your arm. Gods may not need to breathe, that's a fact, but they feel pain, and there is no way this isn't absolutely excruciating for him when even you can feel the small bones in his neck cracking and breaking. "And if I hear even a whisper of you pulling shit like this again, then I'm gonna find you, you pigshit. And when I do, I won't hold back even the slightest, and do you know what comes after that?" 

His eyes are full of fear now, and only grow wide with terror as you lean in close enough that he can feel your lips against his ear as you whisper. 

"You are going to wish that you could die." 

When you do release him, he disappears instantly, with a cloud of acrid grey-green smoke curling around your ichor-spattered boots. He's only been gone a second when you slump, the adrenaline fading as quick as Kratos had left. Your side is throbbing now, your knuckles are bruised and broken and gold, there's a pain in your leg that you aren't sure what's causing, your head is screaming even through the high of the fight, your face stings in the crisp-cool air. Every breath makes the pain worse so you stop breathing. The brick wall of the bar is rough against your palms, but it's the only thing around that can keep you upright, so you'll take it. 

"Well," a voice drawls from your left. You'd jump if you had anything left in you, but every ounce of energy is gone, spent teaching Kratos what Aretha Franklin meant when she sang about respect - and really, there was another fantastic singer, you really should visit her sometime soon - so instead your head lolls to the side. You aren't sure what it is that jolts through you when your eyes land on Taehyung, fingers curled carefully around the collar of-

Your jacket. That's your leather jacket. You barely remembers shrugging out of it, but you're glad it's not on the ground, trampled and covered in the gold spatters that decorate the rest of your body. 

"Well?" You echo, wincing at the pain it causes. You've definitely got a busted lip, that's for sure from the way it feels different and swollen, and you're pretty sure there's a head wound, too, because you don't remember there being a golden halo around Taehyung before the fight. 

"Well," He repeats, slinging the jacket - your jacket - over a shoulder. "You should get that looked at." He starts walking, making his way to the entrance of the alleyway. He gets halfway there before he stops and turns and cocks a brow. "Are you coming, or do I get to keep this?" Your jacket waves a little, as if he's wiggling it, and it makes you feel like a stray dog being lured off with treats. 

You're never going to tell anyone that it works.

Taehyung's place is as nondescript as the car he parks outside. It's a plain apartment building on the outside - looks like maybe it was a hotel back in the 1930s, based on the outdated carpeting in the lobby and the grate on the elevator he steps into. Even the hallway is plain and unassuming as he leads you to the end and uses an old, tarnished brass key on an older, more tarnished brass knob. You aren't sure what you expected, you can't even begin to guess what Taehyung is like outside of the dirty alley or the stage where he sings, can't fathom what kind of decor he could possibly have. 

What you step into isn't anything you could have guessed. It looks like he has the entire rest of the floor to himself based on what you can see, but there's also a spiral staircase tucked into a corner, bookshelves built in under each step that are filled to the brim, and a fireman's pole in another corner, so there's at least one more level above this, but something tells you both the staircase and the pole continue past that. There's artwork everywhere, pieces you recognize and pieces you don't, several van Goghs and a couple from Matisse and you think in the corner you spot an actual fucking da Vinci sketch that's supposed to be somewhere in Europe. There's a gramophone beside a top-of-the-line sound system, an entire wall that's just a record collection, books upon books, framed bits of poetry - including an actual hand-written rupi kaur, a signed Maya Angelou print, and a signed cover of ain't i a woman by bell hooks that you would die to know how Taehyung got his hands on. It's a museum's wet dream and yet it retains a lived in atmosphere. There are mugs left on tables, blankets strewn about as if someone just got up from a nap, an easel propped up by a far window with what looks like an impressionist painting of the cityscape, books tossed down half-read with receipts and coupons and candy wrappers and everything but a bookmark tucked between the pages. 

It feels like a home and it makes your heart flutter in your chest at the same time that something in your stomach shrivels up into itself. 

Taehyung walks like he’s meant to be followed, so follow you do. You spy another man - older, you think, but it’s hard to tell, really - sprawled across a couch, blanket splayed across his lap as he watches some kind of dance show on a flatscreen hung above a warm and roaring fireplace, a couple of girls in what looks to be the kitchen, one sitting on the counter while the other stands between her legs and pretends not to notice the former stealing strawberries from her bowl as she taps at her tablet, and there are footsteps creaking above you, hidden behind walls even as Taehyung leads you up the staircase. They all look up when you pass, but only the man gives you a second glance; his eyes are a weight on your back that doesn’t leave until you’re upstairs and following Taehyung into a large, rather nice bathroom. 

It’s vintage as well, but it’s spacious and well-kept, like the rest of the place. Taehyung pats the marble counter by the sink and you bite your tongue against the urge to tell him you aren’t a dog. You don’t move though, instead watching him as he lays your jacket across a brass bar on the wall and then digs around in a cabinet for a minute or two. When he straightens up, he’s got a somewhat dusty off-white box in his hands, and he frowns. 

“Up,” He says. “I need to look at your ankle.” 

You don’t move, but you can tell he doesn’t miss the twitch of your nose at the thought of being commanded like an animal. Like someone who can’t understand. Like-

He sighs. 

“Please, will you sit on the counter, so I can look at your ankle?” You huff, but you do as he says. 

He doesn’t speak as he works, completely silent except for the odd command - “Roll it for me...alright, now flex that...deep breath...stop fidgeting or I’ll only make it worse…” - and the occasional hum under his breath. It seems to be second nature, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, and it endears you more than you’d like. His touch is gentle but firm as he lightly squeezes your ankle and wraps it, lifts your pant leg to rub some kind of cream into a somewhat worrisome golden bruise forming on your calf, darts under your shirt to quickly and painlessly set your ribs before wrapping those as well. He doesn’t say anything at all until he’s almost finished with the cuts on your hands, golden ichor long gone and wounds already on their way to healing thanks to some sort of mist he spritzes on them. 

It only stings once, as he’s spraying something over some kind of cut on your thigh where Kratos ripped through the denim there without you noticing. You can’t stop the hiss as the pain hits, though you regret it when he glances up at you. 

“Sorry,” He mumbles under his breath as he dabs lightly at it with his long fingers. 

“It’s fine,” You tell him. “I’m used to it.” Your voice is rough, always, but softer than usual. You don’t know why. You can’t decide if you like it.

The entire time he works, you wait. For him to tell you it wasn’t necessary, that he can fight his own battles, that he’s not surprised a brute like yourself got into a fight, that you’re no more than what the rumours say you are. You’ve got a million different curses and insults ready to spit back at him when he finally speaks.

“Thank you,” is what comes. It shocks the words out of your mouth, and you actually look up from where you’ve been watching him methodically wipe gold away from a scrape on your forearm. His gaze is concentrated on the injury and his lips are pursed and you wish you could figure him out. 

He must take your silence for the confusion it is, because he continues. 

“I mean it,” He says. “I’m usually not someone that lets other people fight for me, but we both know that I couldn’t have taken Kratos. He’s too strong, and he was counting on that. Until you showed up.” You don’t respond. “Is there a reason you left before my set was done? Or why you were sitting in an alley beside what is possibly the most gnarled dumpster I’ve ever seen?”

You don’t answer him, instead focusing on the way his hands feel as they tilt your chin so he can look at the cuts and bruises and scrapes that decorate your face. You focus your gaze just past his shoulder, content to memorize the pattern of his gaudy vintage bathroom wallpaper, and he doesn't press for more. The distracted humming picks up again every time he stops talking, and eases the storm of guilt shame rage pain hurt grief loneliness in your chest. 

"I fight," you eventually say. Your voice is too loud in the quiet of the bathroom, shatters the silence like a sledgehammer, and you hate the way it trembles. Still, Taehyung doesn't look away from where he's carefully wiping gold from your skin, just cocks a brow, and it's as if a dam breaks in your throat. "Like, real fights. Actual competition, with rules and shit, and...sometimes the bad ones, because they tend to fight differently, it's a different kind of fight, y'know, and it's never really fair, because I'm...I'm me, but I hold back, just for fun, y'know, and it's, uh. It's alright usually, I go in, do my thing, I win, I go drink, and it all gets, I dunno, easier, maybe, for a while, like I can think right, but, um.”

You hesitate for a split second and force yourself to focus on the way the alcohol-soaked cotton tickles the cut on your head. 

“Sometimes it's not...sometimes I can't control it as well, the anger, and I kind of just lose it on people, and a while ago this guy, he almost needed his jaw wired shut, but he was kind of a prick anyway, I guess, so whatever, but, uh, today, I...there was this girl and she was doing really well, actually, y'know, managed to get me down to the mat, which is rare and pretty impressive, and I'm pretty proud of her for it now, but then, I just. I just kinda lost it, like, I just kept swinging, I couldn't stop, and then I just...I broke her leg, for no real reason, just because I wanted her to hurt, and I don't...I'm not sure why I even did it, because I'd already won, right, like what was the point of doing any more, it wasn't even helping at that point, y'know, it's not like the buzz kept up any longer because I broke this kid's leg, and I love the fights, they help clear my head for a second, but I never wanted to actually-"

You words stop short, like there are too many of them to say in too short a time, and it's then you realize Taehyung's hands are in his lap and he's looking at you fully. His expression isn't neutral anymore, it's not the carefully crafted mask of a performer, it's real and open and genuine and all you see there is pain . For you. Pain and understanding and compassion you never expected to find anywhere but the deepest corners of your soul. Looking at him looking at you like that makes you feel like you can breathe again.

"You never wanted to hurt anyone." His voice is rough, like maybe there's emotion clogging his throat as well, and you aren't sure what that does to you, but something in you jumps at the thought.

Tears mar your vision as you nod and you curse under your breath before wiping them away. He catches your quivering hand in his and just holds it for a second. His eyes don't leave yours and there are a thousand things you expect him to say but what he says is: 

"I believe you."

And that...it's more than you can take, and you break, right there on his bathroom counter, sobbing into his chest while he just rubs your back and hums and you remember the face of every person you've ever hurt and the look in their eyes as you left some of them for dead. 

You wake up the next morning curled up on the most comfortable chaise lounge in human history, sitting up and shoving the blanket off of you in a rush before you remember where you are, why you're there. A glance around tells you that you aren't alone; there's two guys bent over a table that you think might also be a tablet, conversing quietly and pointing every so often at whatever they're looking at, a girl balanced along the edge of the staircase holding a lyre - which, wow, you haven't seen a lyre in that good condition in a while - and strumming lightly along it before she frowns and shakes her head and restarts whatever melody she's playing, and the same guy sprawled over the couch with a blanket strewn haphazardly over him while he watches a different dance video on the flatscreen. He's the closest and you don't really want to talk to any of these people but you think you might have to because you aren't really sure how Taehyung got you here last night but you know it was quite a drive. You'd just mist over to the bar if you really wanted to, but your ribs hurt like a bitch still thanks to that fucker Kratos. Anything as intense as misting is out of the question for the time being.

The man on the chaise spares you a glance that feels longer than it should, full of a judgement you have no doubt you deserve and yet somehow fires your anger anyway. 

He rolls his eyes before you even say anything and waves a hand towards the kitchen. You snap your mouth closed and shoot him an irritated look, but you storm in that direction anyway. Healing is exhausting, and you want nothing more than some meat to tear into and a cold beer. 

When you get into the kitchen, however, Taehyung is standing there already, as if he’s been expecting you any minute. There’s a plate in front of him, full of food you barely recognize, and he slides it towards you. 

“Eat,” He says. You grit your teeth, unmoving, and he sighs again. “Please sit, and eat. You need the strength to heal properly.” 

You resist for a split second, but there’s a softness to him now. Something you can’t exactly put your finger on, but that you know is different , somehow, and it changes things. It makes you want to listen, to do as he asks, because he is asking . He’s not telling, he’s treating you like an animal. 

It’s a request, not a demand, and that makes all the difference. 

Taehyung is quiet while you eat. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t watch to make sure you’re doing it, but you have no doubt he’s keeping an eye on you. It’s quiet, but not unbearably so; the air is broken by the sounds of the lyre and the television, as well as the soft chattering of the men at the table. It makes it comfortable, makes it soft in a way you’re unaccustomed to being, like the way people talk about lazy Sunday mornings or that voice they get when they see a cute animal.

It feels like home should be, instead of what yours is. 

“So why’s Pretty Boy giving me the death glare?” You eventually ask past a mouthful of food. Taehyung barely looks up, just glancing past you to the guy laying on the couch. You can feel his eyes boring into your spine, but it’s nothing new. 

“Taemin’s just protective,” Taehyung says softly. “Especially considering the stories.”

“The ones about me, you mean.”

A myriad of emotions passes through his eyes when he nods, and you wish you could more easily decipher them. Maybe in time, you will. 

Maybe.

“Those, yes,” He says softly. “But he’ll learn.” He doesn’t say it, but nonetheless, you hear the words as clear as day. Just like I did.  

Someone hums behind you and you glance over to see a woman - the strawberry thief - making her way into the kitchen. She gives Taehyung a look you don’t care enough to figure out, and they have an entire conversation in the span of five minutes. Something about it irks you, and it only gets worse when they start moving around each other, Taehyung handing her things without her asking. 

It’s ridiculous, and you know it, but the air gets heavy in your lungs and your head starts to swim and suddenly you’re suffocating. It’s too much, there’s too much here, and you can’t take it anymore. 

The force with which you shove away the counter would have slammed it into the wall were it not already attached. There are slight cracks in the granite tops, though, and there’s just enough clarity as Taehyung calls your name for you to feel guilty about it. It’s not enough to stop you though; you have to get out, you need to get out, before you do something worse, and the cracks in the granite are proof of that. 

You’re out the door in an instant, your form coalescing painfully back into solid matter as you reach the hallway. Your ribs ache, screaming with the effort of trying to mist away from this place, this home , and you lean against the wall in the hope that it will help steady you. 

The door opens behind you, the creak of the old hinges deafening in the silence of the hall. There’s a commotion behind it, voices overlapping each other and reverberating in your skull until they’re a twisted mockery of your siblings. 

You stumble down the hall, one hand clutching your ribs to keep them as still as possible despite your movement. It’s not lost on you that there are footsteps following you, but you can’t focus on them now. You’re not moving fast, and you need to be, you should be running , but you can’t. Your vision is already clouding slightly at the edges, the sudden spike of adrenaline waning now that you’re out of the apartment. 

Someone says your name and you swing. 

It’s instinct, the way your fist flies through the air; you can’t control it, not this, not when the red is all you can see even as it seeps away and turns lilac. It doesn’t matter anyway. You don’t make contact with anything but the wall, plaster crumbling around your fist and onto the carpeted floor. 

“That was rude,” Taehyung says softly. He doesn’t sound mad, though he should, considering you almost decked him straight in the nose. “I’ll take you back.”

He drapes your jacket over your arm and walks away, toward emergency stairs tucked into the corner instead of the elevator, and you follow. He hums as he goes, and he lets you lead the way down the stairs, keeping pace with your quick steps until both of you step out a side door into an alleyway. 

Out of habit, more than anything, you light a cigarette and put it between your lips. You don’t miss the disgusted scrunch of Taehyung’s nose, but you do ignore it. The smoke is familiar in lungs, comforting, and he doesn’t understand it, won’t ever understand it, but he doesn’t have to. 

“Sorry, Tae,” You say after a few minutes of silence. Taehyung shrugs one shoulder and moves to lean beside you against the stone of the building. 

“Are you okay now?” You nod, taking a deep breath, remembering how Hestia had taught you, so long ago, how her hand felt against your chest, the warmth and love it held. “Then you’re forgiven. And you can call me Calliope, if you want.”

You’re both quiet after that. He doesn’t make fun of you, he doesn’t judge you, he just silently drives you back to Suho’s bar, which is when you remember that he doesn’t know where you live. You’re fine with it; you don’t want to see him in your run down hovel. It’s not much, especially compared to his own apartment, but that makes sense, too. 

What could ever live up to the home of a Muse? Not even a muse, really. The Muse. The Head of the Nine Muses, the one called on most often by those in need, the one that everyone knew, the one that Hephaestus just put statues of in the gardens of Olympus, according to the rumors that Apollo sent you. 

The calm that he brings lasts until you get back to your apartment, nearly ten full minutes after you disappear into the alley beside Suho’s bar. It’s the longest the calm has ever lasted, and the view of the city tinted lavender is one you think you love. 

If you can love. 

Things get clearer, somehow. The weight on your shoulders lessens, makes you feel less like Atlas and more like you, how you were all those years ago in the now-ancient days when things made sense. When people fought for honor and glory and justice more than they fought for oil and death and greed. 

It could be because open mic nights are frequent around the city, and you’re able to figure out his schedule pretty well. You don’t go every night that he sings, just when it gets to be too much, when the scarlet haze starts to bleed into your irises like a flag in front of a bull. It helps, for a while, lets you settle long enough to pull the pieces of you back into a shape that vaguely resembles yourself. 

It could be because the fights happen every night, and Taehyung is no stranger to where to look to find them. He watches every one that he can, when he isn’t singing, and his presence anchors you. Focuses you, so that you can pull your punches just enough, so that there’s less hurting and more fighting. It doesn’t work every time, you still lose yourself in the rage and do more damage than you ever mean to, but it helps enough. And when it doesn’t, he’s there, to slide a hand across your shoulders in that exact same way that Hestia used to, that Apollo might if you let him close enough to know you’re alive, that Artemis would , were she anywhere but where she is. 

It’s a strange feeling. You’re not used to companionship, you don’t know how to have friends. You still say the wrong things and do the wrong things and he still speaks to you like he expects to be listened to, but you both are learning. You apologize more often, and he corrects himself quicker. It’s a slow, fragile thing, this friendship, but it’s there. 

Until the night when it’s not. 

You aren’t sure how it happens. It’s been weeks since you last saw Taehyung; he mentioned some project he was working on, something or another that would have most of his attention along with that of several of the other Muses. You had brushed it off when he said it, some snide remark about how you don’t need him there to win. 

You would take it back if you could. 

Because you were right, of course, you don’t need him there to win; you can do that on your own. And your control has gotten better, stronger, over the last few months, but complacency is what always leads to disaster. 

The guy deserved it, is what you tell yourself as you’re pulled out of the ring. He was a piece of shit anyway, you remind yourself as you call Apollo with shaking hands. He didn’t deserve your mercy, you tell the golden gold after you’ve begged him to help save the man’s life. Artemis would have done the same, you insist to him, long after he’s hung up the phone and left to follow the ambulance to the hospital. 

You don’t go to Suho’s. You can’t bear it, not when he might be there, not when he would read it on your face in a heartbeat. You don’t want to watch the disappointment crumble into something more familiar, something worse, you can’t watch him look at you with the knowledge that your siblings are right, that they’ve always been right, that you’re nothing better than a crazed animal. 

The club is packed full when you get there. The bartender starts to pour you a drink and you just take the bottle, leaving a too-thick wad of bills in return. The bourbon tickles as it goes down but it warms your stomach and distracts you from the haze in your mind, the repetitive beat of they were right they were right they were right they were-

“Whoops, sorry,” someone says, a second before they knock into your shoulder. You’ve been around long enough to know a fake fall, and you scowl as you glance towards them. 

He’s cute. Taller than you, with skin that would hide the marks you so love to create, and hair that looks like it would be soft in your hands. His clothes fit well, and they look like they were chosen for comfort over style despite the way he walks like a model in them, which you always find attractive. 

The smile that slips onto your face is familiar, as is the way you bring your hand up to rest on his hip in an effort to steady him. 

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” You tell him, not being subtle in the way you eye him. He looks soft; you love them soft. “You headed to get a drink?”

“I might be,” He says teasingly, a coy grin forming on his lips. 

“I’ve got something better, if you’re interested.”

His eyes roam along your body, his breath drawing somewhat quicker when he notices the scrapes on your knuckles. “I might be.”

It takes five minutes to get him to a corner quiet enough to talk. Less than three to get your lips on his. One and a half to start sucking a mark into his neck that makes him moan so pretty you can’t help but want to hear it again. 

One of your hands is up his shirt, playing with the pebbled buds and the metal pierced through them, while the other teasingly massages the skin of his hip when he’s torn away from you roughly. 

“What the fuck?” Your voice growls as you look up. The guy is standing there, looking for all the world like he’s ready to run, but he isn’t watching you. 

No, his eyes are on a familiar sight; Taehyung, his hair now a pretty lavender that makes you think of a home you don’t have, even as he doesn’t look at you. 

“Taken,” He growls, releasing the collar of the guy you had every intent to make cry with pleasure. The guy scurries off before you can stop him, though, and you don’t bother to hide your disdain. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” You demand, already lighting a cigarette as you head outside. Taehyung follows, pulling it from between your lips and crushing it in his hands before you have the chance to get your lighter out.

“Me? You looked like you were about to eat him .” He follows you all the way to the street outside and down the sidewalk, pulling each cigarette out of your hands before you can light it. He waits until you’re a decent distance from the crowd outside the club before he stops you, one hand lightly encircling your wrist. 

Your boots scuff against the ground as you stop, not turning to look at him. You’re too afraid to, too worried he’ll see it all on your face and just know that you’ve fucked up, maybe beyond repair. 

“Apollo called me,” is what he says instead. “Said I might want to find you tonight.”

You should’ve known. That little fuck, of course he would rat you out. 

“I didn’t-” 

The words choke in your throat. You want to say you don’t need him. You don’t need him to come running like you’re some scared little girl who can’t control her strength, you don’t need him to piece you back together because you aren’t broken, you don’t need him because you don’t need anyone, you never have. 

“I know you didn’t,” Taehyung says quietly. “I know he deserved it, I know what he did, and I know you didn’t mean to.”

Something inside of you breaks and you find yourself shaking. 

“He hurt her , Tae, I heard it, I heard her telling her friend about it on the phone, I saw her crying, I saw her clothes, okay, he-”

“I know,” Taehyung says, pulling you into a loose hug. “I know you did, it’s okay. He’s going to be okay. He’s not gonna escape his punishment from that, you didn’t send anyone to Hades today. It’s okay.”

The cloud struggles, for what feels like hours. Guilt settles like lead in your stomach, and you wish you weren’t so used to the feeling. The rage returns every time you remember what that girl looked like, what she sounded like on the phone, how you felt when you realized it was your competitor who had done that to her. 

There’s no honor in that. There’s no justice, no glory, in beating an opponent who was never aware they were in the ring, and it makes your blood boil all over again. Taehyung’s voice soothes you, slightly, makes the edges of your vision turn indigo, but it isn’t enough. 

It’s never enough. 

“I have to go,” You say, pulling yourself away from him. “I need- I have to find-”

“A distraction,” He finishes for you, too aware that you can’t find the words you need. “Some mortal that you can bruise and break and bang until you feel less like a monster?”

That’s exactly what you want to do, what you had been about to do with that guy at the club, and it’s only Taehyung’s voice calling your name in that soft, sweet way of his that makes you wonder if that’s not a good plan. 

“I’ll be a distraction, if you need one.” You whip your head around, staring at him, but he doesn’t flinch. “I’m sturdier than the mortals, I can take more. Let me be your distraction.”

“I…” You hesitate. You don’t know why. You shouldn’t even be entertaining this idea, it’s not a good one, but then...when have any of your ideas been good? “I can’t fuck in a house with eight other people.”

“You have an apartment,” He says easily. “Let’s go there.”

It’s a bad idea. You don’t do that, you don’t fuck people at your apartment, you don’t have people in your apartment, it’s your space. It’s a bad idea, it can only end in disaster. 

“Okay.”

Taehyung’s lips are soft against yours, yielding and pliant just the way you’re used to. His hands are big and warm against your ass, even through your jeans, and the feeling gives you the courage to slide your own under the ridiculously patterned button-down he’s wearing. 

He lets you lead the way through the door, kicking it closed behind you with slightly too much force. Your apartment is small, a studio with a bed tucked in the corner for the rare times that you need it. 

You push Taehyung onto it and slide yourself onto his lap, already grinding down onto the hard length you can feel there. He's not quite as enthusiastic, but his fingers are like steel against you, pulling you down with every rut of your hips. 

This, you can do. This, you're familiar with. 

You push on his shoulders, doing your best to get him on his back so you can have better access to the clasp of his jeans, but he resists. You try again, firmer, using a harsh suck against his skin as a distraction, but he still doesn't go. 

Frustrated, you pull back. 

"Not like this," He says. His voice clears some of the fog, and you frown. 

"Do you want to be on top, then? Because I don't mind, I just need it," You tell him. He sighs a little, but he flips the two of you over so he's kneeling between your open legs and your back is cushioned against the mattress. 

"How long has it been since you spent the night with someone who knows who you are?" He asks, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he sits back on his knees. 

You shift, uncomfortable. "A while. Why does that matter? Just fuck me."

"No," Taehyung says, voice gentle but firm. You cock a brow at him and move to get out from under him, but he stills you with a hand on your thigh. 

"You are a goddess," He tells you, trailing his hands down so he can undo the laces on your steel-toe boots and slide them off. "You have held Victory in your palms and set her free." 

His palms burn through the denim on your thighs, but you welcome it as he slides your jacket over your shoulders to the bed beneath. 

"You are the winner of wars. You are the one who grants battlefield wishes. You are the dead's escort to Hades." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek and then down your throat. 

He pulls back as he gets to your collarbone, eyes blown wide with unfamiliar desire, and it makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You," Taehyung tells you, with desire in his eyes and belief in his voice, "Deserve to be treated like the goddess that you are, with the respect you have earned, and the care you deserve." 

As often as you fuck people, it's been a very long time since anyone wanted to fuck you for any reason beyond your appearance and the personality you show them. But this? This look in the muse's eyes as his hands settle on your knees as he waits? 

Taehyung wants to fuck you because you're you. Not despite it, not because he doesn't know . He has seen you at your worst and yet he keeps coming back, keeps showing up as you fall apart. Each time he stays, hands you a basket so you can pick the pieces of yourself up off the ground, holds the tape so you can mash it back together, and is ready to help steady you when you start to crumble again. 

He's here for you , to treat you in a way no one has ever treated you before. He's your friend.

He cares.

You nod, however tentatively, and his lips are on yours in an instant. They're firmer now, less pliable and more controlling, but you don't mind. Not this time. 

Not with Taehyung. 

His hands don't hesitate as he strips you both of your clothes, but you can feel it each time he checks to make sure you're okay. The way that he watches your expression, the tense of your muscles under him, the cadence of your gasps for air between kisses, he reads all of it as clear as if it's a book in front of him. He slows down before you can stop him, his lips drawing back from the kisses he draws across your thighs, and he speeds up as your thoughts start to drift, swiping his tongue and two fingers through your folds to tease and bring your attention back to him. 

His fingers bury themselves in your heat, crooking slightly to brush against that soft part of you that makes the world spin, and it's all too intense. His lips are hardly even touching your skin, just pressing gentle kisses against the skin of your thigh, a gentle complement to the way he glides his fingers in and out of you, slow and steady and delicious, but it's absolutely intoxicating. 

He's talkative, too; he gives you constant praise. He tells you how well you take his fingers, how good you look with his fingers inside you, how absolutely fantastic you taste on his tongue, how he'd live between your thighs if he could. 

It's too much, and you can't be sure why, not when your orgasm is approaching quicker than it ever has, not when your walls clench around him and you soak your sheets, not when he's cleaning your cum off his fingers with his tongue.

"Good," He purrs. "Now you're all warmed up." 

His mouth hits your heat without hesitation or warning, before the aftershocks are even finished, and your hips buck upwards. His arms slide underneath your thighs only to grip them and bring them back down. You can't move much in his grip except to grind your pussy against his mouth, which he seems to enjoy, if the muffled grunts that escape him are any indication.

He doesn't stop until his tongue is buried inside you with one finger drawing lazy circles on your clit and you're cumming again, hands gripping the soft strands of his hair so tight that you would be afraid of pulling it out if you could focus on anything besides the feel of him against you.

He lets you ride the aftershock, this time. Waits until your pants die down slightly, until you're back in your mind. 

"Good?" He asks you. His voice is deeper, rumbles instead of slides, but it breaks through the post-orgasm haze long enough for you to nod. “More?”

“More,” you agree, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into a heated kiss. You haven’t been this clear-headed in a while. Every sensation is clear and crisp, every sound heightened, everything is simultaneously more while also being exactly what it’s always supposed to have been. 

Taehyung’s cock is everything you could have expected from a muse; thick, long, beautiful, and it fills you in a way that’s indescribable as he slides inside. He groans at the feeling, deep and throaty and beautiful, and begins his thrusts nearly immediately. 

It’s as slow as he was with his fingers; steady and forceful, but unhurried. As if he wants to take his time. As if he wants to savor it. Savor you . 

“Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” He mutters, almost as an afterthought. “What you look like right now, what you look like when you’re fighting, when you’ve won and you’re triumphant? It’s fucking addictive, seeing that confidence in you.”

“Shit, Tae, don’t stop-”

“It’s so fucking intoxicating,” He groans, pace quickening. Your arms wrap around him more fully, nails like claws down his back as you arch your back to get him deeper. “You get this look in your eyes, like you can do anything you fucking want to, and it’s so fucking brilliant, because you can , you can do anything and everything you ever fucking want to do, and no one can stop you.”

A whine you’ll never admit to escapes your throat, and Taehyung drives his cock further into you. 

“Let go, my sweet,” Taehyung purrs in your ear. “Let yourself relax, just this once. For me.”

His hand touches your clit and it’s so much, too much , you’re feeling everything so intensely that it takes a solid minute to realize you’re coming down from an orgasm. Taehyung has stilled inside you, unmoving but groaning as you flutter around him, and you push weakly at his shoulder. 

He slides himself out of you, looking entirely too proud of wet spot underneath you and glistening against his lower stomach. You wobble your way up to rest your elbows underneath you, and it’s like he can sense your words before they come. 

“No,” He says simply. “I don’t you to get me off with your mouth.”

“A hand then? I don’t want you to leave unsatisfied.” 

A frown pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he leans down just enough that your lips are almost touching, a not-there kiss that you can only wish for. 

“In what world is fucking you to the point of Elysium unsatisfying?”

The crowd around you is deafening; some of them are cheering for you, but the majority are rooting for your downfall. Such is the life of a challenging the champion, you suppose. 

You don’t know how Taehyung found this place; maybe Artemis had heard rumors, or maybe he searched for it himself. You can’t bring yourself to care, not when you’ve got someone worth fighting on the other side of the arena. 

The sand crunches beneath your feet. It’s hot, hotter than it should be since you’re still wearing your signature jeans and boots - without the jacket this time. You learned from that mistake. 

Your vision tints pink as you size up your opponent; he’s massive, not one to be easily defeated, and you relish the challenge. It’s been so long since you’ve fought a giant. Excitement thrums under your veins as he turns to you. He scoffs. 

If you had a little less control, you might be flying across the arena already. He clearly has no idea who’s standing across from him. Probably thinks you’re some demigod, come to challenge him for the fleece he isn’t supposed to have. 

He’ll learn. 

Something moves in the distance. It should blend in, considering how dark it is, but instead it draws your eye, and you don’t even question why. You would recognize him anywhere, have recognized him everywhere, and his presence calms you. Makes you remember a few nights ago, falling into bed in a hotel in Rome because the burn was to much and you needed him to help you release it. 

“Try not to be too quick, princess,” The giant across from you huffs. You cock a brow and send a look to your muse, who just rolls his eyes, despite the smile playing across his face. 

Violet rings your vision as you ready your stance. The announcer yells something that’s lost over the noise of the crowd. Taehyung leans forward, elbows on his knees, excitement and pride in his eyes. 

The giant swings. 

[crystalstar8]

Knights of the Night (ch 17)

Chapter 17

Ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5, ch 6, ch 7, ch 8, ch 9, ch 10, ch 11, ch 12, ch 13, ch 14, ch 15, ch 16, ch 17

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29139240/chapters/71536491

pairing: Jungkook x oc

genre: vampire au, college au, twilight, romance

word count: 3,171

warnings: blood (obviously), kidnapping, child kidnapping, needles, France, human trafficking

notes: vampires, vampire au, college, college au, so many twilight references, blood, needles, kidnapping, children, homelessness, dance, ballet, flashbacks, romance, slow burn, probably no smut, idk yet tho, France, French things, attempted genocide, inaccurate French history, bisexual main character, @strawberriewithchocolate-blog @mozy-j  @daechwitad-2​ @zobadak​ @fallenstar-7​​​

summary: Catalina starts college in a small town all the way across the country. She doesn’t know anyone and isn’t exactly looking for friends. She just wants to focus on dance. But when she meets fellow dance major, Jimin, and adventurous, fellow freshman, Jungkook, Catalina ends up discovering a whole new side to the small college town; one that is dangerous but oh so enticing…

(I am sorry this is late in the day. Enjoy🙂)

(also, give this a listen: “To my Hope” (Spotify))

The dance studio was empty, as expected this time of day. Hoseok stepped inside and set his boombox down at the back of the room. The cassette tape he pulled out of his coat pocket had a strip of tape on the front, the words “To my Hope” written on it in marker. In his other pocket was a cassette with “To my Sunshine” written on it, which he zipped closed. Hoseok smiled and loaded the tape into the deck, pressing play before standing up. “Friday I’m In Love” by The Cure filled the studio. He warmed up in front of the mirror, stretching his arms over his head and rolling his neck. He quickly stretched his legs and ankles, then started dancing. He let the music move him, popping and gliding across the floor. “P.Y.T.” by Michael Jackson came on next.

               This one was much more suited to Hoseok’s style. He smiled as his freestyle adjusted to the more upbeat funk. She was supposed to get out of class any minute, but there was no harm in warming up before she arrived.

               Hoseok tried to jump into a flip he saw once in a music video, but rolled out of it. He tried again. He knew he could do it. With his next jump, he nailed the flip, landing with a giddy cheer.

               “Poison” by Bell Biv DeVoe came on next. Hoseok nailed the flip a few more times, letting his experimental dance flow into “Let the Beat Hit ‘Em” by Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam.

               The studio door opened and Hoseok stopped dancing. With a glance at the door, he let a smile take over his face. She was wearing a short floral dress, a black choker, and his oversized flannel shirt. Her strawberry blonde locks looked windswept and tangled. She smiled back at him when she heard what was playing.

               “You’re late,” said Hoseok.

               “Class let out late,” she said. “I see you found your gift.”

               Hoseok smiled even wider, his cheeks hurting. “Yeah, and what a coincidence, because I just so happen to have something for you too.”

               He pulled the other tape out of his pocket and handed it to her. She bit her lip as she looked down at it.

               “I’m listening to it before I go to bed tonight,” she said.

               “And you’ll call me after?” he asked.

               “No,” she laughed, shaking her head. “Because tomorrow is Friday, and I know you don’t work, and I don’t work, so I was thinking I could just show what I think of it then.”

               Hoseok pulled her close by the waist and said, “I can’t wait.”

               “Well, are we gonna dance or what?” she asked.

               “Doo Wap” by Ms. Lauryn Hill was playing now, so they mostly just jammed to the beat. This was how he met Sunny. They were both regulars in the empty studio, loving the space for freestyle sessions. This thing they had going on only just started over the summer.

               They danced and showed off new moves for another hour until they were sweaty and tired. They laid side by side on the floor, listening to “Waterfalls” by TLC. The song ended with a click, and the studio was only filled with the sound of their heavy breathing.

               “I know a lot of those songs aren’t the best to dance to but-“ Sunny began.

               “No, it’s perfect,” Hoseok said. “I love everything on here.”

               She smiled and stood up. Hoseok took the hand that was offered to him and stood up as well.

~~~~~~~~~~~

               “I heard you made her a mixtape and everything,” Drew said. Hoseok took a seat at their picnic table and opened his notebook. It was still sunny and warm in L.A., despite being well into autumn.

               “Well, she made one for me first,” he said.

               “Dude, she’s totally into you,” Drew said, leaning forward. “When are you gonna ask her be your girlfriend?”

               “I don’t think…I mean,” Hoseok struggled.

               “Oh, come on,” said Drew.

               “I just don’t want to rush things,” said Hoseok.

               “I don’t understand what you- oh hey Sunny!” Drew said, waving to someone behind Hoseok.

               Hoseok turned around to see Sunny approaching, three McDonalds bags in her hands. Hoseok’s stomach growled at the sight. He hadn’t eaten for a day or so and it was really getting to him. She dropped herself into the seat next to Hoseok and set the bags onto the table.

               “I brought sustenance,” she said.

               “Oh! Thank you, Sunny!” Hoseok exclaimed as they all dug in. “You’re the best.”

               “Yes, you’re the best Sunny!” Drew said. “You’re just sooo amazing and so sexy!”

               She kicked him under the table, making him yelp. Hoseok almost fell off the seat laughing.

               “So, I was thinking we could all go out tonight,” Sunny said with a mouthful of fries.

               “Go out as in…” Drew said.

               “There’s a new club downtown,” she said. “What do you say boys?”

               “Yes! I miss going out to dance!” said Hoseok. “I’ve been needing a break.”

               “A club is a break?” Drew asked.

               “Yes, Andrew,” Sunny snarked. “It’s fun to let loose once in a while.”

               “You damn extroverts,” Drew said with a wave of a hand. “But yeah, I’ll go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               The music was so loud that Hoseok could feel the beat in his chest; just how he liked it. Drew had settled at the bar, unmoving. After a few shots, Hoseok followed Sunny to the dance floor, which was packed with the bouncing crowd. They pushed their way into the mix, pressing close and letting the music move them. Sunny was in a short tube top under his flannel, her pants hanging low on her hips. She knew she looked good, she moved like she knew. Hoseok looked good too, he was wearing his leather pants tonight, which he knew Sunny was a fan of. She turned around and pressed her back to him, he put his hands on her hips and swayed with her.

               They danced until they were sweaty, then joined Drew at the bar to drink some more.

               “I wanna go home!” Drew shouted over the music.

               “We just got here!” Hoseok said.

               “Come dance with us!” Sunny said. Drew shook his head and held up his drink with a grin on his face.

               Hoseok felt a hand on his back. He turned around to see a beautiful woman with big hair and dark skin. Her full lips pulled into a smile as she sidled closer.

               “Dance with me?” she asked.

Sunny nudged him and grinned. He let the woman lead him out onto the dance floor. Once they were closer and under the flashing lights of the dance floor, Hoseok noticed that her eyes were red.  “Contacts?” he asked. She nodded. “That’s so cool!”

“Come with me!” she said, pulling on his hand. She led him off the dancefloor and into a backroom through a bead curtain. It was a little lounge, a pink sectional couch around the walls and matching chairs. A man and two women sat on the couch, greeting the pair as they came in.

“Have a seat,” the man said, an easygoing smile on his face. He and the two women sitting with him continued their conversation.

Hoseok sat down and the woman he danced with took a seat beside him. She grabbed his face and planted a deep kiss onto his lips. He made a sound of surprise and pushed her off.

“I’m not…I’m really not looking for anyone tonight,” he said.

“Oooh that cute girl out there?” she asked. “The one you were dancing with before?”

Hoseok’s drunk brain caught up with him and he wondered if she was watching him for a while. He nodded.

“Do you guys come here often?” she asked.

“Isn’t this place new?” he asked.

“New management,” she said. “Same place though. I’d like to see you again.”

“I should probably get back to my friends,” he said.

“Sure. I’ll see you around,” she said, watching him leave the lounge.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hoseok walked back to the dorms from work, headphones on, mixtape in his Walkman. “Come on Eileen” by Dexys Midnight Runners filled his head as he danced across the sidewalk. He actually got tipped today so he stopped by the little bodega just outside campus to pick up a few cups of ramen. By the time he made it back to his dorm, “Loser” by Beck was just finishing its last notes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               On Monday, after classes, Hoseok went to the studio. Summer was already there.

               “Hobi! Check it out,” she said. She turned the music up on the boombox and performed the flip he had taught her last week, perfectly.

               “Whoa!” he exclaimed, giving her an applause. “That was perfect! Were you working on that before I got here?”

               “Yeah, I just got it like, a few minutes before you came in,” she said.

               Hoseok took off his coat and joined her on the dancefloor. He felt exhausted two songs in, which was bad. He knew it was because he wasn’t eating enough.

               He pushed through it anyway until he felt lightheaded.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               The club was just as packed as it was last time. Sunny pulled him onto the dancefloor. The crowd pushed them together as they swayed to the beat. Drew wasn’t there with them this time. A few drinks in and they were back on the dance floor. Sunny pulled him down for a kiss and Hoseok’s heart beat louder than the music.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

               “You’re way too skinny,” said Sunny. She was in his dorm, hands up his shirt as he was trying to do his homework.

               “Well, you’re too handsy,” he said. The words on the page he was reading were blurring together. He didn’t feel good today and all of his concentration was being stolen.

               “Oh please,” she said. “You love it.”

               “Well, yes. Usually,” he said. “But I’m trying to do my homework.”

               “What are you working on?” she asked, peeking over his shoulder.

               “English,” he said.

               “Ew,” she said.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               The lounge at the back of the bar was stifling. Usually, the loud music and dancing was calming, but today, Hoseok felt like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. Everything was too much. The woman from last time, Jamie as he learned, was sitting across from him.

               “So, if what you’re saying is true, why are you here?” she said.

               Hoseok bit back a grimace as he let out a sigh. “I…I don’t know.”

               “I’m sorry that happened,” she said. “That must have been painful.”

               He didn’t say anything. The image wouldn’t stop popping up in his mind. He had never even seen that guy before. How long was Sunny seeing him? Hoseok thought…

               Well, he’s not sure what he thought. He’s not sure if this year with her meant anything. He’s not sure if anything she did with him over this year meant anything. If anything she’s said meant anything. If he meant anything to her.

               What was he doing here? He supposed he wanted to let off some steam but he ended up just spending all his money at the bar. Looks like he won’t be eating until his next paycheck. Again. Pretty soon, he wouldn’t be able to dance like this.

               “Do you want me to buy you a drink?” Jamie asked.

               “You don’t have to,” he said. “I should probably stop drinking anyway.”

               “I’ll get you a water then,” she said.

~~~~~~~~~~

               His head felt like was going to split open and his stomach felt like it was eating itself. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t even open his eyes. The ground was cold and hard, but he couldn’t remember where he was the night before.

               Eventually, he could move his arms, but if he moved them too much, a wave of nausea washed over him. Panic hit him when he opened his eyes. The room was cement. It was dark but Hoseok could hear water dripping somewhere behind him.

               It took him a long time before he was able to move properly and sit up. There was a mat on the floor beside him and a bucket beside that. He lunged for the bucket just in time. Barely anything came out though, he ended up dry heaving for several minutes.

               Hoseok felt weak, his limbs were heavy and shaking, but he forced himself to drag his body to the wall where he sat with the bucket between his legs. There were pipes running along one wall, one of them dripping into a small puddle below. Next to the pipes was a heavy looking metal door. Besides that, the room was bare.

               He tried to control his breathing before he passed out again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               “You need to eat,” the woman said to him. She was pretty, with blonde hair and red lips, but her eyes were red and mean.

               “I can’t,” said Hoseok.

               “You need to,” she said. “We will force feed you if we have to, but I really don’t want to. You don’t want me to either.”

               “I think I’m sick,” he said.

               “Then we’ll get you medicine. You need to eat. You’re too underweight.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               “Just hook him up,” the large man said. “We’ll take a little bit at a time for now-“

               “It’ll kill him,” the blonde woman said.

               It’s been days. Hoseok didn’t know what they were talking about, but he was too weak to protest anything.

               “Why isn’t he eating?” the man asked.

               “I think he had a bad reaction to the drugs,” the woman said. The man sighed.

               “Fine, at least get him to eat something for now, we can wait for the drugs to get out of his system,” he said.

               They both left again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               Hoseok supposed he was finally at a healthy weight, since he was now hooked up to the IV a few times a week. Or at least it felt like that. Hoseok wasn’t sure what day it was, or what time it was in any given moment. He did know that every time they took his blood, he felt weaker and it took longer to recover.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               After a while, all thoughts of escape flew out the nonexistent window. He was just too tired. All the time. Some days, he could barely move. Those days became more and more frequent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               Sometimes, people would come in and drink from his blood bags. Sometimes they would discuss prices. Hoseok didn’t like when they talked about prices, but he didn’t have the energy to do anything about it.

               Everyone who came in always had red eyes. He wasn’t sure if that was a figment of his imagination or not, but it was terrifying.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               Then one day, he got out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               “Someone fucking catch him already!”

               The screaming outside his door made him open his eyes. There seemed to be a lot going on out there; loud crashes and bangs, lots of screaming. His door flew open and a man with crazed, bright red eyes stumbled in. He scurried over to Hoseok and frantically bit into his neck. Hoseok used what little energy he had to try to push the man off, but it was no use. He couldn’t feel his body anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               “If he finds out about this, he’s going to be pissed.”

               “Well, he won’t find out. We’ll replace them.”

               “Five? We’ll replace five people in two weeks?”

               “We have to. He’ll kill us if we don’t.”

               Hoseok’s body was on fire. He opened his eyes and looked around. He was in the bed of a moving van, four other bodies laying around him. Some were twitching, some were writhing, one wasn’t moving at all. Hoseok couldn’t move. The pain was too much. It felt like his veins were on fire and his face was being stretched.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               When he woke up again, he was still in pain but no longer in the van. He was in the woods, the four other people from the van lying around him. It took a while, but they all eventually regained their movement around the same time.

               Two of them ran off immediately. The third wandered off in a daze hours later. Hoseok stayed, wondering what the pain was in the back of his throat and in his stomach. He wanted to run and find help, now that he was out, but he didn’t know where he was, how deep in the woods he was. It was cold, colder than it usually got in L.A.. There was even some snow on the ground.

               He was still disoriented. One person was still there with him. She was crying.

               Once the nausea passed and his head stopped spinning, the thirst doubled and his hands started shaking. He was getting frantic, but he didn’t know how to stop it.

               Standing up, he took a look around and picked a direction.

               “Wait, where are you going?” the crying woman asked.

               “I don’t know,” Hoseok said. His voice was rough, foreign to his ears.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               He wandered for what felt like forever.

               The little town he ended up in only made things worse. Everyone smelled way too good. It didn’t take long for him to figure out what it was he was craving, and it was getting harder and harder to resist. There were people everywhere, even in the alleys Hoseok mostly clung to.

               He needed to drink soon. He was getting sicker and sicker and it was getting harder and harder to control himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               The first person he drank from, he ended up killing. She was homeless, living in the same alley he stayed in.

               He was sick about it for weeks, but there wasn’t anything to throw up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               When Hoseok found the hospital, he thought himself a genius. That is, until he had to actually sneak in. There were always people walking around. The hospital never slept, but between two to four am, it was as quiet as it could be.

               Sneaking in was difficult, but it wasn’t something he would have been able to do before. He was stronger and faster than he remembered, and more graceful as a result. Some days, when he wasn’t having constant flashbacks of his cement cell, he felt like he was in a spy movie.

               Taking blood from a blood bank was not ideal, but it was saintly compared to hurting people on the street.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

               He missed his mom and sister.

               He missed school.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

               A janitor caught him and called the police. He ran away before the police showed up but he was still hungry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

               When Taehyung found him behind the hospital in the next town over, Hoseok thought he was an angel. He was so unearthly beautiful, so kind and gentle. His red eyes were startling, but he offered a place to stay, and a reliable food source of food.

               During the car ride to the mansion, Taehyung turned the radio on. “Waterfalls” by TLC was playing.  

.

.

.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3nm0tRz73YzcTPl8plRsbS?si=37672afb915348b8

[kpoppwriter]

The Pleasures of Life pt.3

Genre: demon/angel au 

Words: 1.8k+

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, drinking, blacking out

A/N: y’all seem to be into this series and I’m so glad you do! I was really proud of the first part and was so happy people wanted more. I’m thinking about doing side stories with the boys that aren’t main characters just because I have ideas that I think wouldn’t make it into the main story. Also I have an idea for some smut for this story but idk how well it’d go over...

pt.1 | pt.2 | pt.3 | pt.4 | pt.5 | pt.6 | pt.7 | pt.8 | pt.9 | pt.10 | epilogue

You stared at your reflection in Jeonghan’s full-length mirror. You still couldn’t believe that you were looking at yourself. Your reflection looked like a completely different person. Your usual light-colored clothes were tossed aside somewhere in Jeonghan’s room. You were now wearing one of Jeonghan’s shirts, a black one with some band logo on it. It was long on you but not long enough to make you feel comfortable. You tried to convince him to give you some pants or something to go underneath the shirt. After much debate, he gave in and gave you a pair of black shorts that some girl left at his place. That lead to a discussion you didn’t think you’d be having with Jeonghan. Ever. 

Along with the clothes you were wearing, he lent you a pair of shoes. They weren’t anything too fancy just a pair of fashion sneakers. He tried to get you to wear heels but they were far too tall and hard for you to walk in. He even went the extra mile and helped you do your hair and makeup. He styled your hair in just the right way, making it look styled but also messy at the same time. 

“So Y/N,” he grabbed a brush from his little makeup kit, “You still haven’t told me about this demon you’re trying so hard to impress.”

“Ok well, first of all, you’re the one who told me I should impress him-” 

“Uh huh, and where would you be without me? Probably at home moaning and groaning about your feeling for him.”

“Hey! I never said I had feelings-,”

Jeonghan just waved his hand in your direction dismissively, cutting you off

“You’re too obvious, Y/N,” he laughed, “But tell me. If he’s the club and partying type, I probably know him.”

“Oh uhh..his name is..Seungcheol,” you muttered

“Seungcheol?” Jeonghan looked at you in surprise, concern gracing his features for a moment, “You had your first time with him?”

“Y-yeah, was that a bad idea?” you asked

“I mean...he’s handsome so I get why you went to him but he has a bit of a reputation.”

“Well, I know that. Everyone knows about him,” you scoffed

“No, I mean...he has a bit of a reputation as a player,” Jeonghan sighs, “He’s never alone and switches between partners real quick.”

“Oh...”

Your mood turned a bit sour, this new information making your heart sink. You looked down at your fingers picking at the skin around your nails. Jeonghan’s hand came atop yours stopping your fingers. He smiled at you softly.

“That doesn’t mean you don’t have any luck with him. Who knows, maybe he needs an angel to put him in his place.”

~

Jeonghan dragged you up to the entrance of the club. Yes, in theory, this seemed like a good plan but now that you were here and staring at the dark entrance of the club, the music loud enough to be heard from the street, you had second thoughts. Jeonghan assured you he’d be with you all night and would keep an eye on you, he’d even keep from drinking to make sure you were okay. You sighed as you approached the entrance. Jeonghan just flashed a flirty look at the bouncer before walking through the threshold. 

The club itself was even more intimidating than Jeonghan had described. It was unbelievably dark, your eyes having a hard time adjusting at first. Dim purple and red lights flashed around the area you assumed was the dance floor. The music was extremely loud seeing as you could hear it before you even walked into the building. Even though it was late (”Y/N, it’s not even 11:30pm. It’s not late for a club”), there were many people scattered around, some dancing on the dance floor, some sitting at tables drinking. 

Jeonghan made a beeline for one table, in particular, dragging you with him. It was a large booth up on the second-floor balcony of the club. It overlooked the whole bottom floor. There weren’t as many people up on the second floor in comparison to the first floor but there were still quite a few people. Someone turned around and called out to Jeonghan. He waved at the person before pulling you towards the booth. Jeonghan greeted what you assumed were his friends as you stood behind him awkwardly.

“Han, who’s your friend?” one of the males asked sweetly

“Oh! This is my friend, Y/N.”

You smiled awkwardly giving a wave to the guy. Some of the other people at the booth glanced your way, some giving you a nod or a wave. Jeonghan went back to talking with his friends. You stood awkwardly for a moment before deciding to go over to the far edge of the balcony a bit aways from everyone. You looked over the railing watching the people below dance. You let out a squeak when you felt an arm wrap around your shoulders.

“Hey, Angel.”

You turned around. Behind you stood Seungcheol still looking as handsome as ever, even in this shitty lighting. You smiled at him shyly.

“Hi Seungcheol,” you said just loud enough for him to hear over the music

“What’re you doing here? This doesn’t seem like your scene,” he asked

“It’s not- well, not usually! My friend invited me out and I wanted to see what it was like to drink and party.”

Seungcheol raised his eyebrow intrigued by your answer. He smirked as he watched you try not to make eye contact with him. His arms caged you up against the railing of the balcony, his hands resting on the edge. You could feel him gazing at you seductively but you refused to meet his eyes. One of his hands moved from the railing, his fingers coming up to ghost over your neck and collarbones. You shivered at his touch, eliciting a chuckle from him. His fingers traced over the marks he left on you that Jeonghan had been very adamant about not covering up. He leaned in a little closer. You could smell the slight scent of alcohol on his lips. 

“Mmm, your skin looks so pretty with my marks,” he hummed

You shivered again, his breath tickling your face. His fingers came up under your chin tilting your face up to look at him. His gaze was...soft yet slightly seductive. You felt lost in his dark eyes. You knew how bad he was yet he drew you in like you were under a spell. You were pulled out of your spell when you heard someone laughing loudly from the booth. 

“Have you met the guys yet?” Seungcheol asked

“Not really. I just said hi.”

“I’ll introduce you properly.”

You were pulled over to the booth. Seungcheol wrapped an arm around your shoulder as he introduced you again to the group. You greeted them again finally getting their names. Over on the far side of the booth just drinking some cocktail by himself was Woozi. The man you talked to earlier was named Mingyu and next to him was Wonwoo. You didn’t get to meet two of the guys properly as they were on the dance floor but you still got their names, Minghao and Jun. You sat down next to Jeonghan, Seungcheol and Mingyu going to get drinks from the bar. 

“I saw all of that,” he said to you smirking, “I told you leaving those mark uncovered would be a good thing!” 

You gently hit his arm and scolded him for watching and listening in on you.

“Wow, you’re starting to sound like Joshua. It’s a good thing we’re turning you into a baddie. I don’t need another Joshua in my life.”

“I’m not turning into a baddie! I’m just experiencing new-”

“Who wants shots?!” Mingyu shouted as he and Seungcheol returned with a few bottles of alcohol in their arms

~

As you started to wake up, you could feel your head pounding, hard. You felt so nauseous and your eyes weren’t even open yet. You moved slightly realizing you were under a blanket. You felt a pair of soft sheets beneath you as well. When did you get into bed? The last thing you could remember was...something involving Jeonghan and Seungcheol and alcohol. You couldn’t quite remember, the throbbing of your head making it hard to think. Your eyes opened slowly. You weren’t in your room. You weren’t in your room.

You panicked and sat up in the bed. You groaned loudly, the sudden movement making you sick to your stomach. There were sounds coming from outside of the bedroom. Then a figure showed up in the doorway.

“You’re up,”

“Ah, Seungcheol,” you murmured

He came over to the bed and sat down on the edge next to you. He handed you a glass filled with water. You thanked him and took a long drink. He handed you some ibuprofen as well to help with the pain in your head. You happily took the medicine and swallowed it with a sip of water. 

“How’re you feeling?” he asked

“I don’t feel great,” you groaned

“I wouldn’t think you would,” he chuckled, “I’ve never seen someone drink so much for their first time trying alcohol. You’re definitely a lightweight.” 

“I wish I’d known that before.”

Seungcheol only laughed, ruffling your messy bedhead. You looked around the room realizing you were in his room. Memories of the night you spent together came flooding back and then you had a thought.

“Umm...did we...?” you gestured shyly between the two of you

“No-no! We didn’t,” he shook his head, “Jeonghan ended up getting pretty wasted and I couldn’t get him to tell me where you lived so I brought you back to my place.”

You hummed, thankful that drunk you didn’t sleep with him. Not that you didn’t want to sleep with him again- you just had to figure things out first. You thanked him for taking care of you, telling him he didn’t have to do that.

“Of course I did,” he smiled, “I don’t know what I would’ve done if something happened to my angel.”

You felt your face heat up. You don’t know if it was because of his words or because of how warm his bedroom was- his bedroom was unusually warm for some reason...maybe because he was a demon? Regardless, you knew your face was bright red. Your hands automatically went up to hide your face. You groaned knowing Seungcheol had probably already seen your red face, his cocky laughter giving it away. He pulled your hands off of your face and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek.

“You’re cute when you blush,” he smiled, “And it’s so easy to make you blush.”

“Don’t tease me,” you pouted, your gaze fixed on your lap

“But that’s what I’m best at,” he smirked, kissing your other cheek

He chuckled as he got up from the bed making his way to the bathroom, saying how he needed a shower. Once the door was closed, you flopped down onto the bed covering your face with a pillow. He was right. Teasing is what he’s best at.