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jeonbunnie · 3 years ago

Text

between you & me

pairing: reader x taehyung

anon requested: “could you write a fluff (and smut if you’d like) with idol!kim taehyung x non!idol reader piece with the song “between you and me” by betty who?”

summary: testing out a new dating app leaves you with more than just a online connection.

genre: fluff, smut; blind date au

soundtrack: between you and me— betty who

content/warnings: 18+, strangers to lovers, POV shifts, dirty talk, protected sex

a/n: this was supposed to be a lil drabble…but my hand slipped lol. also reader is wild for this don’t go home with strangers! do as I say not as I write lol. ty for being patient anon I hope u like it!

word count: 4.4k

♪ Just between you and me I can feel something here, wondering if you do, too ♪

Going on a date with a celebrity was the last scenario you imagined when you first joined Vibez.

Initially, you didn’t have any interest in signing up for yet another trending dating app. But you couldn’t watch Youtube without their commercial popping up or scroll through your feed without coming across their slogan: “love is blind.”

Maybe you were feeling a bit lonely, or you had too much wine, but in a moment of absolute insanity, you downloaded Vibez. There were no photos. Profiles only consisted of a person's bio and anonymous icon of their choice.

You were starting to resent that fact as you had no idea what to expect or who you were meeting on your date tonight. You only had a name.

Kim Taehyung.

You tugged on the hem of your little black dress then internally cursed yourself for fidgeting. You wanted to appear sexy, confident, and open—not like some awkward girl on her phone at the bar—but your anxiety was getting the best of you. You opened the app and sent him a text.

[ 7:01pm] 🦋: You're late.

You were joking. Kind of. Technically, it was only a minute past 7 p.m. but that minute started to feel like an hour. Sitting at a crowded restaurant alone on a Saturday night only seemed to edge on your nervous state. You got there a little early and ordered yourself a drink, but as the minutes passed on you were starting to wonder if your date stood you up. Just as soon as the thought crossed your mind you got a text back.

[ 7:02pm] 🐻: I would never show up late to our date.

[ 7:02pm] 🐻: I’m here.

You looked up from your phone, heart spiking in your throat as you scanned the crowd around you. You hated that he could be anywhere and you wouldn’t know it.

[ 7:04pm] 🦋: Here where?

[ 7:0pm] 🐻: I’m at the bar.

At the bar? You hadn’t noticed a man near your age around you. To your left, a group of party girls laughed amongst themselves and clinked champagne glasses. You looked to your right. Next to you, there was a man around his fifties cradling a beer in his palms. You shuddered at the thought. No. . . it couldn’t be, right?

You quickly turned away from him, already regretting your decision to come out on this blind date at all. You briefly covered your face with your hands and prepared yourself to sneak out as quickly as possible, ready to abandon ship. But when you looked up, the group of girls were gone, and someone else was there in their place.

His back was turned to you, and you couldn’t see his face, but he was tall, with a slim build and dark hair. This could be him? Maybe it was wishful thinking, but you hoped so; he looked like your type, and he was around your age. Your nerves took over again, but this time you fought against the instinct to run and crossed the space between you to tap him on the shoulder.

“Kim Taehyung?”

When he turned around, and you saw his face, the world seemed to slow all around you. Because he wasn't a stranger to you at all, you knew this face. You’d seen it on countless magazines, album covers, and across the red carpet. But now that he was standing in front of you, it felt like a dream, like you could hardly recognize him as real.

How could it be that your Kim Taehyung was the Kim Taehyung?

I mean, what were the odds?

“Y/n?” The rumble of your name in that dark voice you knew all too well had you weak in the knees.

“No way,” You said. “Is this some kind of joke? You’re not my blind date, are you?”

Taehyung laughed, the sound deep and hearty. “Wow, I wasn’t expecting that reaction. Would it be so bad if I was your date?

You startled, waving your hands as if to wave away any offense you might have dealt him. “Not at all! Sorry, it’s just? A little hard to believe.” When the algorithm matched you with a bear emoji named Kim Taehyung, you didn’t think twice about the name. Maybe you should have. But you were more focused on figuring out what to say when your phone pinned, letting you know he initiated a chat with you.

You never would've thought answering that message would have led you here, to him. He looked too good to be true sitting in front of you in a black dress shirt and jeans. You couldn’t help but eye him. Only someone as famous as him had the power to look so handsome while dressed casually.

Even if you had figured out the truth based on his name alone, you still wouldn’t have thought it to be true. Part of you felt like it was a prank; any second now a TV crew would pop up.

You felt silly even thinking that, but still, you had to ask: “Is this really happening?”

Taehyung read the look on your face. He thought of this scenario so many times. People reacted strangely when it came to his fame, and he figured you’d either be starstruck or repulsed. It was the whole reason Vibez appealed to him in the first place. He wanted to get to know someone honestly, without the haze of the lights clouding his image.

Texting you felt more like checking up on a friend than anything else. Phone calls became texts, and pretty soon, he’d stopped saying hello and started answering the phone with ‘hey you.’ It wasn’t long before he quickly found himself up all kinds of hours, laying on your side in bed with the phone pressed to his cheek and the biggest smile on his face.

There was something different about getting to know someone with only their words and the sound of their voice. He liked learning all your little tells; when your voice filled with worry or sleep. The pause on the line right before you’d let out a big laugh. The steady sound of your breath after you’d fallen off to sleep.

He liked putting a face to all that information, too. And though he hadn’t expected the disbelief on your pretty face, he was more amused than offended by your skepticism.

He offered you a genuine smile. “I am your blind date,” he said. “I know my identity comes as a surprise, but if it’s any consolation, I’m surprised by you, too. You’re even more beautiful than I imagined.”

Had anyone else had said that to you, the compliment would’ve been cloying, but coming from his lips, the words were saccharine sugar. “That’s so sweet of you to say, thank you.”

“I mean it,” he said, brown eyes so open and honest, you couldn't help but believe him.

So when he took your hand in his, you let him guide you to the empty barstool beside him, almost in a trance. You tried not to blush at the warmth of his hand and the heated eye contact he maintained. His eyes were magnetic, pulling you in; no wonder he was a teenage heartthrob. If he looked at fan cams the way he looked into your eyes, then you pitied the poor soul on the other end of that lens.

Still, you found the reality of your meetup all so strange. “I don’t get it. Why would—“

“—Someone like me ever use a dating app?”

You nodded, grateful that he knew exactly where your mind was at.

“Well, I was hoping you’d let me buy you a drink and give me a chance to explain.”

You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. “First, prove it.”

“Prove it?”

“I’ll let you buy me a drink if you can prove you’re the Taehyung I know online. Tell me something only the real Taehyung would know.”

“Okay. I picked the bear emoji in our Vibez chat.”

It took all your strength not to roll your eyes. “That doesn’t mean anything; it's a popular emoji. Anyone could have the same one.”

Taehyung cocked an eyebrow, amusement filling his eyes. “Okay, then. During your high school graduation, you tripped and fell in front of everyone and—”

You covered his mouth before he could finish. “How could you say something so embarrassing out loud?” When you told him about the public embarrassment months ago in private, you never imagined he’d repeat out loud.

“You forced my hand; you asked me to prove it?” He laughed, the sound of his voice muffled underneath your hands.

You pulled away from him, stunned. “I—it’s really you isn’t it?” All this time you’d been spilling your heart out to one of the most famous men in the world. You felt embarrassed and enamored at the same time.

Taehyung winked at you before he caught the eye of the bartender and ordered champagne for both of you. When your drinks came, and you took a sip of the sweet, sparkling wine, you realized he knew your taste exactly. You couldn’t help but be impressed.

“Okay, you won me over. Now tell me why.”

He gave you a sheepish smile. “It’s hard to get close to people and have them see me. I mean, see me. Not some image they made up in their heads.”

When you first started talking, there were some things he kept private. He wasn’t very specific about his job, obscurely telling you he worked in the entertainment industry. He avoided any talk about work with smooth transitions asking about your workday. Sometimes you let him get away with it. Other times you pushed back.

“You could’ve told me,” you said. “I would’ve understood.”

You heard the smile in his voice when he answered. “I know that. You’re my safe place. I just didn’t want anything outside of us to taint that.”

You could understand that. Taehyung was your safe place, too. You could confide in him, tell him anything, and your secrets would be safe with him.

“I don’t know. You make me feel like I’m not alone. And when we talk, everything else falls away. It's like. . . Right now, we’re in a crowded room, but it feels like we’re alone. Like it’s just you and me.” He paused, leaning in close.

You mirrored his body language till you were close enough to see the dark curl of his lashes, till you felt the heat radiate off his body in waves.

Taehyung looked down and licked his lips, pink tongue darting out. You knew it was probably a sign of him being nervous but the action had your thoughts straying elsewhere and it gave you butterflies. God, you only met him for five minutes and you already wanted him. You willed yourself to get it together enough to focus on his words.

“Am I crazy?” He whispered, making eye contact again. “Or is it like that for you too?”

You felt the same way. Something pieced together through all the late-night phone calls and the midday check-ins. The energy between you was like magic. There was an intimacy, one you’d never known with anyone else before. Normally on a date like this, you’d feel all kinds of nervous and awkward around someone new. But you didn’t feel that now. He felt so familiar.

“You’re not crazy. . . ” You said, heart thrumming in your chest.

For so long, the thought of meeting him frightened you. Talking to him was fine and all when it was just you, alone in your room. But you worried about what it would be like to bring your relationship outside into the real world.

If you were completely honest with yourself, you were a bit in love. You fell for him months ago getting to know him online. You fell for his heart, his character. His dreams and his worries and even the silly way he used emojis. You only hoped the feeling was mutual.

Dinner went by in a perfect blur. The champagne helped you relax, loosening any nerves you had, and once you started talking, you realized how little you had to fear. He was the same in person as he was in your private chats. The truth was—you liked him. He was funny and charming and down to earth in a way you hadn’t thought possible for a star of his magnitude.

And even though you were meeting for the first time, you could feel yourself falling for him a little more.

It took a little for you to get used to being in his presence. He was gorgeous, so good looking it almost hurt to look at him. Your attraction to him was through the roof. And the chemistry. . .You only had one drink, but you felt drunk from his presence alone.

As you winded down, a comfortable quiet drifted between you two. Somehow you ended up curled into each other, close but not close enough. You wanted more. To be closer, but any further, and you’d practically be on the man’s lap. Right now, the thought seemed tempting. If it were anyone else, the idea wouldn’t have ever crossed your mind. But it was Taehyung, your Taehyung. And after tonight, he felt so real, so personable to you it didn’t feel strange to want to connect with him at a deeper level.

Staring into his eyes, you felt completely and totally seen. To be known by such a perfect stranger. . .the irony didn’t escape you. You laughed to yourself, amused at the notion.

Taehyung smiled at the sound of your voice, eyes crinkling up in confusion. “What?”

“It’s nothing. I just had a thought.”

“Tell me? Please?”

You shook your head, suddenly bashful. “It’s too much for a first date.”

You didn’t want to scare him off with your feelings. Or be the first one to admit to having feelings, because what if he didn’t feel the same?

But Taehyung was persistent. He held your hand, rubbing small circles on the back. “Tell me anyway,” he said in that deep soothing voice.

You did your best to ignore the butterflies he gave you and tried to pull our thoughts together. “I feel like I know you. We just met, but it feels like I’ve known you forever. And…”

“And?”

You bite your lip. “I more than like you.”

Taehyug couldn’t believe his luck. He knew there was a slim chance of the date going right, of you wanting to see him at all. He’d thought as much but so much can be misconstrued over text. But to know his feelings weren't one sided, that he wasn’t the only one falling over the phone—

“Too much?” you asked, nervous.

He was so quiet for a moment you wondered if you made a mistake. Then something ignited in his eyes. The heat of his gaze stunned you, but you didn’t dare look away.

“I more than like you too.”

He was so close. The musky scent of his cologne—warm and woodsy— flooded your senses. Taehyung closed the gap, till there was nothing between you and him, till his warm lips met yours.

And then you were kissing him. His tongue slipped in your mouth, and you sighed at the taste of him, bittersweet from the champagne. And when his hand came up to cup your jaw, you all but melted in his palm.

You’d imagined this kiss so many times, and it didn’t disappoint. It was everything you expected and more. Maybe it was your connection, but the desire you felt for him was unreal. As sweet as the kiss started, it quickly turned into something hungry. when he licked into your mouth, swirling his tongue just right, you felt your stomach dip, pleasure building there.

And just like that, you were over the small talk. Suddenly you weren’t close enough. You wanted more. You’d risk it all if it meant you could feel his touch, his lips traveling elsewhere, your neck, your breasts, your thighs. . .

When he pulled away, you were flushed, panting, and desperate for more.

Girl, get a grip! You hoped he couldn’t see the look in your eye how badly you wanted him.

If the look in his eye was any indication, you weren’t the only one aroused after the kiss. Taehyung smiled, eyes glinting devilishly in the dark. “Do you wanna get outta here?”

You knew it was crazy and stupid to go home with someone on a first date. But one look at Taehyung, and you couldn’t care less.

Before you knew it, you’d gotten in his sleek black Porsche and were already en route to his apartment.

When Taehyung looked over to you at the red light, it made your heart stop. No one's ever looked at you like that. His stare sent a shiver down your spine.

“You're nervous?”

“I don’t normally do this,” you blurted out. You didn’t know if it was adrenaline or endorphins or what but you couldn't help but be honest right now.

“I know,” he said, smoothing a hand down your thigh soothingly. “Me neither.”

You couldn’t stop thinking about his huge hand, the veins there, and those long slender fingers resting on your inner thigh.

You squirmed in your seat a bit, thighs pressing together.

The touch was innocent enough, but when the tips of his fingers slipped past your dress and rubbed against your center, you couldn’t contain your moan.

Taehyung sucked in a breath, “You're so wet,” he said, fingers sliding your underwear to the side. When he rubbed against your soaping entrance, you threw your head back against the seat.

“Don’t tease me. It’s your fault,” you pant.

‘My fault, huh? You’re saying I made this mess?”

Yes. “You can’t look at me like that and expect me not to lose it.”

Taehyung cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? How did I look at you?”

“Like you wanted to eat me up.”

“I do. I can’t look at you without wanting to spread your thighs apart and eating you out till you come apart, till you beg me to stop.”

“But that’ll have to wait until later—I want you right now.”

It’s a miracle you made it from the restaurant to his place without crashing. All you can do is try not to melt when you share a glance with him in the glassy mirror of the elevator, but Taehyung was so composed.

No one would ever guess the dirty things he said to you in the car ride over.

Standing before you, he was the perfect gentleman, civil, calm, the only hint being the sly smirk on his mouth.

That mouth. You want it all over you. You want everything he promised. You can’t stop thinking about it.

As soon as the lock clicked in the door, you got what you wanted; he was all over you. Kissing down your neck, sucking hickeys into your skin that you knew would leave marks later.

His hands dug into your thighs, hiking your legs up to wrap around his legs, and then you were pressed between him and the door in the most delicious way.

You arched your back and rolled your hips forward, aching to feel more of him, and Taehyung moaned in your mouth, the sound making you clench around nothing.

“Fuck,” he said, pulling back. “Now, who’s teasing?”

You giggled and cupped the back of his neck, kissing him again. You couldn’t get enough of him. You hadn’t meant to tease him, but you’d do it all night if it meant you’d get to hear that sound again.

Taehyung, however, had other plans. He couldn’t go another minute without feeling your skin on his; he carried you to his bedroom and laid you down on his plush sheets.

All at once, you felt incredibly vulnerable, incredibly aware of what was about to happen between you. You fantasized about having Taehyung so many times; you almost didn’t know what to do with him and now that it was real.

Taehyung saw it all over your face. He took a step back from the bed. “If you don’t want this, just say the word. Tell me to stop; and I’ll walk away.”

That was the farthest thing from your mind. You wanted him to stay. You wanted it to mean more than just a hookup, more than just a one-night stand. You couldn’t bear it if the electricity you thought flowed between you was one-sided. But you were willing to take the risk.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Taehyung leaned down and kissed you as he climbed on the bed, the slightest smile on his lips, “That’s all I wanted to hear.” His hands traced up your thighs, sliding your dress up as you lift your arms, letting him tug the garment off you. You followed suit, ripping him out of his clothes as well.

You felt hot under his eyes lingering over your body now that you were bare before him.

Taehyung touched you gently, hands grazing up your sides as he looked at you in awe. You were beautiful; art made flesh. His fingers swept across every curve, taking in the masterpiece that was your body.

“You’re breathtaking. . .” he said.

You couldn't respond, too wrapped up in the feeling of Taehyung's hot, wet, mouth trailing down your chest while his hand explored between your thighs, dipping a finger inside you. You’re so wet it's easy for him to slip one inside you. And even though he’s easing inside you just right, you’re craving something else.

“Taehyung, I want you now.”

He paused, pulling back to look at your face. “Are you sure? I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You both knew he could. You could feel him hard against you now, long and thick. Somehow you didn’t care. Touching wasn’t enough. You needed him inside you.

“Please? I can take it.”

“Fuck.” When you begged for him like that, how could he say no? You didn’t need to ask him twice.

Taehyung shifted, grabbing a condom from the bedside table and rolling it on before he crawled over to you, spreading your thighs apart with his knee. You felt the tip of his cock nudge against your entrance, then he pushed into you slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you. You gasped, eyes screwed shut, as you felt the burn of him stretching you.

Taehyung kissed you sweetly, sidetracking you from any pain. Though you certainly felt it, you couldn’t help but feel full and satisfied being closer to him than ever before. You were forehead to forehead, nose to nose.

You felt those butterflies again, doubled with the pleasure of feeling him inside you.

When you felt your body relax against his, Taehyung moved, grinding deep and drawing a moan from you both. You were so tight; the feel of your walls squeezing him was dizzying.

“You feel so good,” he rasped, voice rough, “Like you were made for me.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, drawing him even closer as he picked up the pace. Taehyung thrusts were sensual, hips rolling against yours in a way that made you cry out. Every stroke had you falling closer to the edge.

With chests pressed together, you weren’t sure if the thumping beat between you was his heart or yours. Everything molded into one; his pleasure was yours, and yours his.

You wanted to stay in the moment, blissed out and bound to him, but you already felt yourself getting lost in the feeling of being filled in the most perfect way, over and over again.

Taehyung could feel you getting close—he was too. He hooked his hand behind your knees, folding you in half and somehow reaching new depths inside you. The reaction was instant, your pussy clenching down on him.

You threw your head back at the new angle, your orgasm cresting. “Taehyung!”

“I know, baby. I’m coming too. Come with me.”

When he hit that sweet spot inside you, you came, toes curling as your eyes rolled back, warmth spreading all over your body. Even then, he kept pounding into you, working you through your orgasm so the pleasure went on and on.

Taehyung thrust once, twice before coming himself, hands gripping your ass as he buried himself inside you. His brows pulled together and he bit down on his bottom lip, groaning deeply as he slowed down. You felt him throbbing inside you as his hips still.

He released your thighs from his grip instead, wrapping them around his waist, and rolled to the side, taking you with him to avoid crushing you with his weight.

You laughed at the sudden change in position, still trying to catch your breath. In his arms, you relaxed, becoming familiar with the intimacy of how he held you to his heart.

Taehyung kissed your forehead, your cheek, then finally your lips. He reveled in the feeling of you kissing him back. You kissed him passionately like you were his. God, did he want you to be.

Taehyung nuzzled his nose against yours. “Stay,” he breathed. “I want you here when I wake up in the morning.”

“Okay,” you nodded, snuggling in his arms.

You couldn’t move even if you wanted to, already feeling yourself sinking into the sleepiness of your afterglow. But you were happy to know whatever the two of you had would last more than just one night.

#ksmutclub #ficscafe #btshoneyhive #ficswithluv #taehyung x reader #taehyung smut #bts smut #taehyung fic #bts fic #bts scenario #taehyung scenarios #poc reader #song fic #my fics.🍪#req fill.📦

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eusuntgratie · 3 years ago

Note

Nobody knows about Dylan's secret Instagram account. bilinski420 is anonymous with a generic Stiles headshot he found on his phone as its profile pic and a blank bio. He doodles around on Instagram, checking up on what everyone's doing, following a few fan pages, seeing what the latest rumours are, actively liking everything Taylor Swift has ever posted, and oh -

Well, there's Hoechlin.

For a man who doesn't post much content of himself, there sure is more than enough being posted about him. Dylan's feed is a mess of Swiftie conspiracy theories and his former co-star, in various states of undress and with various degrees of chest hair.

It's been ten years and Dylan still feels like that awkward nineteen year old who looked at Hoechlin and wanted.

He still wants, is the thing. A teenage crush it may have been, but it's matured like fine wine, into something shockingly undeniable.

He double taps another post to like it and scrolls down.

And nearly swallows his tongue.

He's used to Hoechlin's chest, the ridiculous muscles and the way they'd grease him up for Teen Wolf, but they'd always made him wax, at least until season four and they'd barely shared any scenes so it wasn't like Dylan had been able to just... perve on the scenery.

But this is a... gym selfie? A shirtless gym selfie. And indecently short shorts. Hoechlin's smiling like he's proud of himself, and damn right, he should be, because - guh.

Dylan doesn't reply to posts. He likes them and moves on. But. But - oh, what the hell, he's anonymous and he's only human.

bilinkski420 commented SIR.

He doesn't think anything more of it as he closes out of the app (not before screenshotting it, not that the fans will ever let that post disappear from memory). He gets off in the shower to thoughts of running fingers through coarse black chest hair, rubbing his cheek against wiry thighs and - and it's fine, it's fine. Maybe he needs to get laid, but it's fine.

He goes to bed, and really, that should be the end of it.

Spoiler alert: it's not.

His phone pings at some god awful hour which can only mean disaster. He groans and reaches for it and blinking bleary eyes tries to unlock it.

He has a WhatsApp message from Hoechlin.

Fuck. Okay, they do talk, but mostly in the group chat. Their last private conversation is dated three months ago.

Hoech: I saw you liked my post.

Dylan's stomach does something he didn't know it could do, sort of flips and sinks in on itself all at once.

He hates whoever came up with the idea for read receipts, and then sees Hoechlin's typing again.

Hoech: I liked the comment you left too.

Which - this has to be a cruel prank. Dylan stares at his phone. Then stares at it some more. Hoechlin is still online, waiting. Dylan doesn't dare tap out a single message.

An image comes through.

It's Hoechlin sprawled out on his bed, wearing nothing but his stupid I'm-very-manly-I-workout underwear, which just makes his thighs look obscene, actually, and Hoechlin's looking at the camera like he's looking into Dylan's soul and oh god.

Hoech: Yeah?

Dylan bites his bottom lip. Yeah, he types back hesitantly, and sends it.

A video call starts ringing through. He answers, still half asleep, adrenaline and excitement warring inside of him.

Hoechlin's face pops up at a slightly awkward angle and he's so him that Dylan can't help but smile. He's terrified, but Hoechlin puts him at ease. That smile. It could launch a thousand ships.

"Hey Dyl," Hoechlin says. "Sorry, I forgot it was early for you."

"It's okay," Dylan says. "How - how did you know?"

He needs to know. Hoechlin's beautiful and smart and funny, but he's not like, a detective, right? There's no way he could have known one anonymous account was Dylan.

"MTV never released the photo you're using as your profile pic. You asked for it. Said it made your nose look cute, which, it does. But it's not on Google. Everything's on Google, Dyl, but not that. It's okay," Hoechlin says, eyes scanning Dylan's face, looking for what? Hurt? Anger? Fear? "It's really okay. I'm not upset. Kinda flattered. Kinda wondering - been wondering for a while, actually. Whether you meant it. The likes, and then - well," Hoechlin chuckles. "Your comment. Felt kinda like maybe you had some feelings about the photo."

"I did, I mean, I do," Dylan says. "God, I do." He closes his eyes, and then opens them again. "If I was a fan, I'd be the kind of fan you should be crossing the street to avoid, and possibly calling the cops too. I'm pretty obsessed with you. Hoech, you're - you know. You have to know. Don't make me spell out how perfect you are this early in the morning. I'm compromised."

"I'm compromised too," Hoechlin says, and Dylan tries to breathe. It feels like his lungs are too tight. "Been trying to get you out of my head for years. Thought I could get it out of my system, but I can't. You're in there. Want to touch you. Just - think about it sometimes and don't know why we never tried that. Seems like we should have."

"You wanted that? Want that?" Dylan whispers. Hoechlin tilts his head. God, he's so perfect.

"Really do," Hoechlin replies.

"Fuck, you have no idea what you do to me," Dylan says. "How quick can you get on a plane?"

"Not quick enough, but I could make it work, if you wanted me to," Hoechlin says.

"Please," Dylan isn't above begging, so he begs.

"Please?" Hoechlin teases.

"Please, sir," Dylan says, and watches Hoechlin's eyes go dark even through the shitty resolution of the camera.

"I'll look at flights," Hoechlin says.

"Okay," Dylan says, disbelieving.

"Means I need to hang up the call now though," Hoechlin points out. He absently runs a hand up his chest and Dylan follows the movement.

"Is this real?" Dylan asks, and Hoechlin chuckles, face going all squinty and adorable.

"Yeah, baby, I think it is," Hoechlin says.

"You should go - flights, and that."

"See you soon," Hoechlin says, and the screen goes back to their conversation. Dylan, ridiculously, misses him.

Twenty minutes later, Hoechlin sends through a screenshot of a ticket confirmation. It leaves in an hour.

This is real.

Dylan can't quite believe it.

His phone shows a notification that Hoechlin has added a new Instagram story. He taps through to it.

It's just text, white on a blue background:

Ever think you're about to have a really good day?

Dylan smiles, and taps out a reply.

Yeah.

It gets marked as read.

(And yeah, he has a really, really good day.)

🥰😍🥰😍🥰😍

this is?!? So wonderful? The chest hair thirst? GYM SELFIE?!? THIGH THIRST? so much thirst but so sweet? Ahhhhhhhh

THANK YOU HOBRIEN ANON 💜💜💜

#what a lovely surprise to come home to 🥰#hobrien anon #hobrien #all i want for xmas is hoechlin gym content #and/or sweaty gym selfies #I LOVE THIS #long post

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toriwakes · 4 years ago

Text

Pretty Boy 187 [s.r x reader]

summary: reader finds out that her new found tumblr crush is none other than her coworker.

content warnings: she/her!reader, mentions of alcohol

a/n: hi!! i’m so happy to be posting again. i’m really proud of this, so i hope you all like it! as always, let me know if you have any requests!

convincing spencer to get tumblr was tough. not only did he hate technology, he didn’t like social media either.

“it’s gonna be fun! c’mon, please?” you’ve been bugging him about it for about a week. “spencer, please just download it. if i have to hear (y/n) whine again i’m gonna loose it.” said derek, plopping is papers on his desk. “you like it when i whine.” you teased, causing derek to flash you a toothy grin. “alright! jeez.” you clapped of joy and jumped to help spencer, but he stopped you. “no way, i’m not letting you follow me.” he kept his phone facing away from you, your arms dropping to your sides in defeat. “fine. i’ll find your account somehow.” “we’ll see about that.”

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over the next few weeks you acquired a few new followers, only one catching your eye. ‘prettyboy187’ followed you on a quiet friday afternoon. the username caught your attention at first, but when you checked is profile? that’s when you were hooked. half of his pictures were just aesthetically pleasing: outside of his window, his extreme sugary coffee, some books. but others...

it was an excerpt of a poem and his hand was holding back the pages. you doubt he meant to capture it so beautifully. just his hand was godly. you wasted no time dming him.

hey :)

how desperate did you look right now? he followed you barley an hour ago. you cant stop staring at that picture.

hello

he didn’t sound happy. well, he didn’t “sound” anything, you guys were texting. but you could feel his tone through the screen. where you overthinking this too much? you shuffled into your bed, wrapping yourself in the covers as you pondered what to say next.

i just wanted to tell you i really like your account. are you a photographer or something?

no, i’m not. my friend convinced me to get this app and i noticed people post aesthetically pleasing photos on here, so i’m just doing the same haha.

ok, well you don’t post nice pictures. at least, not that type. maybe you’d post a picture of the snow or your bed, but every now and then you’d bless the feed with a picture of you in a swimsuit. it was more for opinions on the suit than anything else.

ohh. maybe i should start doing that.

how do you mean?

oh.

that sounded like a very judge-y ‘oh’. your eyes scanned your own profile to see what he could’ve hated. there was you in your favorite red swimsuit, a picture of your computer with netflix on the screen. the rest of the posts were of the same type, so you couldn’t pinpoint what the problem was.

what is it?

no, nothing. your recent picture. that’s a nice swim suit.

oh. that’s what he meant. you practically threw your phone across the room and squealed. thank the universe that he didn’t dislike you already. you shot him another text. just like that, you had your first ever tumblr crush.

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“what’s up with you pretty girl?” derek asked when you walked into work. you supposed you still had the blush on your face when pretty boy wished you a good morning and day at work. “nothing!” you said, obviously it being something. as if on cue, spencer walked in behind you also giddy. “what, you’re both sweet on someone now?” when neither of you responded, derek laughed. “what?” emily inquired, taking her seat. “spencer and (y/n) both have a crush.” emily’s jaw dropped. “spencer has a crush?” everyone broke into laughter, jj overhearing and almost dropping her files. “why is that so surprising?” spencer defended himself, derek giving him a ‘you know the answer to that’ look. “well?what’re their names?” he pushed. you bit your tongue. you didn’t even know his name. yikes. “let’s start.” aaron called. saved by hotch. thank goodness. “this ain’t over.” derek warned the two of you. yes it was. by the end of the day morgan would’ve forgotten all about this.

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you were right like always. morgan didn’t ask anymore about it, instead offering to get drinks. you turned it down, desperate to get home and text your boy. and you did, only at 11pm.

hey, sorry it’s so late. had a long day at work.

no worries, so did i. listen, i have a question.

this boy only sent messages that would make your heart drop. with a pacing heart, you texted back.

yes?

his ‘online’ button flashes on. then he was typing. then he was deleting. it seemed like hours before he responded.

what’s your name?

godamnit. you didnt have a display name because you didn’t want anyone you knew finding your account. what’s a fake name you can use? maybe...

lila.

why did you pick spencer’s ex’s name? you don’t know. you remember being insanely jealous of her because she got to kiss spencer in the pool while you were posted outside. your crush on spencer was still very much alive, but not as much as it was with pretty boy.

that’s a pretty name.

thanks. now you have to tell me yours ;)

you’ve never been so nervous for a text conversation in your life. for some reason, the back of your head wondered what it would be like if you were texting spencer. it was just a thought, though. spencer would never say half of this stuff.

call me morgan.

oh NO. please no... you stalked his profile again, terrified that you’ve been flirting with your coworker this past month. alas, your eye caught another body picture- this time of his arm. no tattoos like derek. not to mention he was much smaller. not that that’s a bad thing. you don’t think you’d ever be able to handle derek...

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you arrived at work yet again with a blushing face. “come on, you can’t keep hiding this from me! tell me something at least!” derek whined. “okay! his name is morgan. and i know what you’re thinking, and no, it’s not you, my boy is much more attractive.” derek’s mouth formed into an ‘O’ shape in fake offense. “that’s damn near impossible. ain’t nobody prettier than derek morgan.” spencer walked in now, again with a dorky smile on his face. “spencer. (y/n)’s got a crush on-“ you jumped to cover his mouth, the sound of your crush’s name muffled. “what- hey! no fair! derek gets to know but i cant?” spencer whined. derek held his hands up and sat back down, not wanting to get you mad. smart. “three can’t keep a secret.” was all you said before sitting down to clean your workspace.

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the new highlight of your day was texting morgan. you learned several things about him; he has a job he can’t specify for personal reasons, he really wants a dog but he feels like animals hate him. you told him about your cat joel, and how they could absolutely love him. he appreciated that.

if i tell you something, do you promise not to freak out?

depends. are you about to tell me you’re a serial killer?

no!

you giggled to yourself at your humor.

i wanna meet you.

you promised not to freak out, but you were freaking out. it was just now setting in that you didn’t know this man at all. where he lived, how old he was, even what he looked like. you took a few deep breaths and asked a question.

where do you live?

quantico virginia.

no hesitation on that one. he lived in the same town as you? you didn’t know how you’d be able to turn this down...

shit, me too. let’s meet up then.

i’ll send you a good place to get drinks.

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“every time you walk in here, you’re blushing. now so are your ears.” you beamed at derek, sitting at your desk before spilling. “i’m gonna meet him.” “wait what? are you sure that’s safe?” you rolled your eyes. “i’m an fbi agent. i’m not scared of a little danger.” you playfully winked and derek blew out a huff of air. “if anything happens, you know you can call me.” you pouted at your friend and nodded, appreciating his concern. spencer was spinning in his seat. “you happy too?” you asked. he only nodded and didn’t elaborate. you we’re going to press on, but hotch called you all in and you lost your chance.

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on rare occasions, the bau got tough cases with very happy endings. this was one of those cases. the plane ride home was extremely joyous and derek offered to get drinks again. this time, everyone accepted (all except hotch). you texted morgan telling him you were going out tonight and you wouldn’t be back till late. you laughed to yourself. it was like he was your boyfriend.

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the night was young and you were fairly tipsy. ok that’s generous, you were drunk. you were spending most of your time with penelope and it took you a minute to remember spencer. “ohmygosh! spence!” he was startled at your presence but he gave you that flat mouthed smile of his. “how are you! you’re my favorite scorpio.” you nodded as you said it, as if trying to convince him it was true. “thanks? i’m good. you’re drunk.” he pointed out. “no shit. hey!!! you never showed me your tumblr user! you gotta show me that girl you like, bet you she’s really sexy.” you didn’t even know what you were saying at this point, whipping out your phone and snapping a picture with spencer. “what are you doing?” he asked, watching you type. “posting this on tumblr! i want everyone to know you’re my favorite in the world.” he wanted to ask favorite what, but a ping on his phone distracted him. lila posted. he smiled and checked her page.

holy fuck.

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“(y/n)?” he asked, not looking away from his phone. “yess?” you responded. “what’s your tumblr?” what is your tumblr? “uhhh..i don’t know, check.” you tossed him your open phone, and his eyes only grew wider. “you’re lila?” the words rang through your ears like a siren. “what?” the word was breathy, you couldn’t add stability to what you said. spencer showed you his phone, ‘prettyboy187’ on the screen. “you’re morgan?” still no confidence in your voice whatsoever. your feelings were supposed to change, you weren’t supposed to like that morgan was spencer. but they didn’t. you didn’t even think about the fact he saw your swimsuit photos. you loved that morgan was spencer, and you still wanted to see him on the weekend. “are you mad?” you asked, not being able to stop yourself from sipping from your glass. “no. should i be?” you smiled. “no. do you still wanna meet up this weekend?” “yes. but i don’t wanna get drinks.” he wasn’t even drinking, why is he complaining. “where should we go then?” “my house.”

#spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #ssa spencer reid #ssa reid #dr spencer reid #doctor spencer reid #criminal minds

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definitelynotkatesblog · 4 years ago

Text

Illustrated Man l Spencer Reid Fic

Pairing: Reader x Spencer Reid

Category: Fluff

Summary: Spencer comes home from a particularly difficult case, and begins to doubt himself. Reader helps him unwind and helps paint a picture of all the great things about him.

A/N: Helloooooooo friends! Yet again, I thought of a single line of dialogue I really wanted to make work so I spit a thousand words around it to bring it to life lol. Anyways! This fic is free of reader pronouns and gender identifiers, so anyone can read this and make the “I”‘a their own ☺️

P.S. I’ll see what I can do about not disappearing again for weeks on end, but I make no promises

Content warning: None! Except Spencer has his shirt off? But that’s it!

WC: 2.4k

The sound of the door clicking shut and Spencer vacating his lungs of all air drew my head up from my book.

“You’re home!” I cheered, closing my book and getting up to greet him.

He lifted his satchel over his head and gave me a small smile that didn’t touch his eyes. I nodded, mostly to myself, knowing that this meant the case was harder than most. On nights like this, Spencer was hard to reach. I padded my way across the living room and wrapped my arms around him like he might slip away if I didn’t hold him tight enough.

I pulled his head down to rest on my shoulder as his arms snaked around me, wrapping himself in me, too. We stayed like that a while until he stood up and cupped my cheeks in his hands, bringing my face up for a kiss.

‘Hi,” he said softly.

I smiled into his palms. “Hi.”

I took his hands in mine and kissed his knuckles, then led him to our bedroom to get him out of his work clothes. I helped him out of his cardigan and dress shirt, then left him to do the rest while I got him some water. When I returned, he was laying face down across the bed in a pair of sweatpants. His head rested on his crossed arms, and turned to face me when I laid next to him on the bed. I propped my head up one arm and gave him a half smile.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

He thought for a moment before giving me a recap of the case, leaving out the gruesome details. I listened and ran my fingers across his back, alternating scratches with swirling patterns on the soft skin. Sometimes my hand would find itself at the nape of his neck and work through the hair there.

As he spoke, his voice became more resolved and tired. He worked so hard, but the things he saw, the things this job had put him through weighed on him. He was strong and incredibly smart, but just because he carried it well didn’t mean the load wasn’t heavy.

I took a deep breath and spoke gently, not wanting to offend him. “Maybe you can take some time off?” I suggested.

He shook his head, his chin brushing his hands folded under his chin.

“The team needs me. These victims and their families need me.”

I bit my tongue. I needed him, too. But this was hardly the time to bring that up.

“But this job,” he paused for a moment before continuing, “It takes pieces of me I can’t get back, and I’m scared all I am is the parts I’ve managed to pick up off of the ground.”

I closed my eyes and wished away the tears forming in my eyes. I heard him take a deep breath but he didn’t say anything else.

“I have an idea. Stay there.”

His head lifted and his eyes followed me around the room to our closet where my painting supplied resided.

“I’m going to paint you.”

“Paint me?”

I turned around, a towel in one hand and my box of paints and brushes in the other. “Yes. You’re gonna lay here and talk to me about anything in the world and I’m going to paint you.”

His eyes scanned the contents of my hands. I could see the gears in his head turning for a moment before he shrugged and gave a small nod.

“Okay.”

I ran a hand through his hair and bent down to kiss his forehead before climbing on the bed and straddling his thighs, setting my supplies on the towel beside us. “Talk to me.”

His head cocked to the side as he contemplated his answer.

“Not about work,” I clarified.

I felt his laugh beneath me. “Okay then, what would you like me to tell you about?”

I tapped my bottom lip with the handle of my paintbrush. “Hmmm. Read any good books lately?”

I could feel his smile without seeing it. If there was one thing Spencer loved more than saving lives and doing crossword puzzles in pen, it was reading. “I revisited some Ray Bradbury on the plane home,” he said.

“Mmm, tell me about it.”

He took a deep breath beneath me and began. “I re-read The Illustrated Man. It’s a compilation of short stories told through interactions between an omniscient narrator and a man covered in tattoos that each tell tales of events that have not happened yet. The tattoos are magic, and they come alive to tell the stories they depict. The stories are mostly science fiction, but have elements of pretty universal truths that Bradbury is famous for addressing.

For example, in one story explores the deep seeded longing of one man to take a trip to outer space. Something that, in this story, is attaintanable. He works his whole life to be able to fulfill this yearning, but he is torn between going or staying with his family, whom he also loves. It begs the question of the existence of duality of desire and duty.

Then, in another, there’s this incessant rain. And this group of men are searching for cover and sunshine, but it’s wearing them down and breaking them. These small raindrops, just water, becomes torture. It’s interesting how something as small as raindrops can break both canyons and men.”

I listen as he tells me about each story behind the man’s tattoos, about how they’re all different but important and lend themselves to portraying the then-futuristic perception world around us. Sometimes, his voice gets sad at the implications of the stories, but other times he seems to appreciate the sentiment behind them.

I dip my brushes and admire the way they drag across his soft skin, leaving a wake of vibrant pigments behind. I hmm and ahhh at appropriate times, partially paying attention but mostly glad that he’s able to enjoy himself and is able to think of something other than the darkness in his world.

We stayed in our respective positions for the better part of an hour- him laying on the bed with his head on his hands while I straddled the back of his thighs, stroking brushes across the lines of his back.

When I’m finally finished, I roll my neck and place my hands on the small of his back, taking a moment to take it in. The idea of creating a universe compelled me; there was so much beauty and so much unknown in the expanse of space. The concept seemed fitting for what I hoped to help him understand. I’d mixed a navy blue paint for a base, and created swirls of light with yellows, creams, and whites to create a brighter contrast and background for the more intricate featured parts. One section had books, a coffee cup, a molecular model I’d hoped was an actual chemical, and a small red apple.

The next was a canyon, modeled after one of the scenic drives we’d taken the last time we visited Vegas to see his mom at her new care facility. We parked at a lookout spot and watched the sun set- gorgeous oranges, yellows, and pinks painted the sky over the rock. It was at that moment I’d never been more jealous of Spencer’s perfect memory.

Another section, closer to the bottom curve of his spine was a silhouette outline of the Christmas card the team had sent out two years ago. Spencer had a copy hanging by a CalTech magnet on the fridge, another on his desk, and a folded and fading copy in his wallet.

He loved that photo – the way it captured their joyous spirits and ability to be carefree despite the things that initially brought them together.

I took a deep breath and playfully patted his bottom. “All done!”

He threw a boyish grin over his shoulder and handed me his phone.

I snapped a few pictures, holding the phone up by my chin to capture the expanse of his back, then a bit closer to the individual parts. I passed the phone back over his shoulder and brought my clasped hands up under my chin. “Okay, so, if you don’t like it, that’s okay you can wash-” I rushed, but stopped short when I felt his breath hitch from underneath me.

He was silent for a moment, staring at the phone in his hand.

I took a deep breath. “Spencer, you contain multitudes. You’re a loving son, an amazing friend, a brilliant profiler, a great cat-sitter, an instant mashed potato extraordinaire, and my favorite boyfriend.”

I dusted an invisible speck of dust off his shoulder before continuing, giving my words a moment to sink in. I needed him to hear me, and to know these truths. “You are so much more than the things you don’t love about yourself. You are more than this job, you are more than the obstacles you’ve had to overcome. They’re a part of who you are, yeah, but they’re not all that you are.”

I shook my head, though he couldn’t see it. The knowledge of the man beneath me not knowing he was deeply loved seemed so wrong.

“You are so incredibly loved, Spencer. The people in your life are so lucky to know you and to be loved by you. Each and every one of your friends is changed and is better for having known you, believe me.”

He was silent for a short while, pinching and zooming in on the screen to see the different parts of him illustrated in his skin. He cleared his throat a few times. Part of me was grateful I couldn’t see his face, and he couldn’t seem mine. Though, I didn’t need to see the way his mind was working to know he was trying to find a flaw in my logic.

The amount of love I had for the man beneath me threatened to spill over in the form of tears.

“Favorite boyfriend?” he asked finally, feigning insult.

I laughed. “So far, yeah.”

I knew that wasn’t the only thing he’d heard, but probably was the only thing he could bring himself to comment on.

I scrambled off of my perch unceremoniously, stretching for a moment before straightening up and offering my hand. He laid with his chin resting on his fists stacked, staring at me for a moment.

“What?” I asked with a small huff.

“Being loved by you is one of the greatest joys of my life.”

I felt my mouth pop open, a bit taken aback at such a bold admission. A sweet smile touched his lips while he watched me try to scoop my heart back into my chest. He climbed off the bed gingerly, careful not to rock the tray of paint and brushes with his long limbs.

His large hand wrapping around mine grounded me from cloud nine and I could feel the smile forming on my lips. I turned and started heading towards the bathroom.

“Come,” I said, pulling him along behind me.

When we arrived in the small room, I halted and spun him so the back of his thighs were resting against the porcelain countertop and I was flush against his front. My hands came to rest on the edges of the countertop, caging him between my arms. I looked up at him, squinting slightly.

“I’d like to take a picture, is that okay?”

I knew Spencer was wary of having his picture taken; most of our pictures together were candids I’d puppy eyed my way into him letting me keep.

He narrowed his eyes back at me. My lower lip made an appearance, coupled with a knitted brow and cautious look from under my lashes.

He laughed and shook his head. “Okay.”

Before he could change his mind, I grabbed my phone and rushed back to my place in front of him, pressing my front to his.

I snaked my arms around his torso so our chests were together while his back bearing my painting faced the mirror. My arms poking out from between his arm and torso space made him look like an alien, but placing one hand on his hip while the other held my phone gave the pose a more artistic feel.

I snapped a few pictures, messing with the lighting and exposure, playing with shadows from the vanity and positioning him every which way. Every once in a while, I’d pull my arms from him and show him a few shots I liked but they never felt like the one.

He smiled and nodded encouragingly, taking my direction to tilt this way or arch his shoulder that way. I started to feel for him, we’d been there for 15 minutes at least.

I pouted and let my head fall back dramatically. “I give up,” I whined.

He gave a small smile and leaned down to kiss me. I met his lips with a smile of my own before resting my head against his chest.

“Try one more time,” he encouraged.

I nodded and wrapped my arms around him again. I poked my head out so it was just visible behind his arm, resting my chin on his bicep as I focused my phone camera to capture the two of us and my work on his back.

“Smile,” I said before snapping a few shots. Spencer’s body shook with his laugh as he leaned down to press a kiss to the top of my head. My thumb grazed the shutter button, capturing the moment.

It was perfect.

His back was illuminated perfectly by the soft glow of the vanity mirror lighting, the muscles in his back tensed when he bent down, creating dips and curves that separated the focus points brilliantly. My hand wasn’t posed, just gently resting on his hip, a soft touch that lent itself perfectly to the lightness of the moment.

I pulled myself from around him and held the phone between us. His hand found the small of my back and he pulled me closer to him, sealing our lips together. Our lips were unhurried, enjoying the softness of the moment and the love between us. His free hand cupped my cheek as we broke apart. His eyes bore into mine, both pairs slightly glossy.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

I nodded and buried my head into his chest so he wouldn’t see the fresh tears springing in my eyes. His arms wrapped around me as he pressed more kisses to the top of my head.

——

Let’s talk about it!

#criminal minds #criminal minds fan fic #criminal minds fan fiction #spencer reid #Spencer Reid fluff #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid x reader #Spencer Reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #gn reader #criminal minds self insert #Spencer Reid gif #criminal minds gif #my writing

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softkuna · 4 years ago

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Sukuna || Interview || Fic

Part 1

Content ║ Punk!Sukuna x reader. There is an oc version here.

Beauty wasn’t in the eye of the beholder, no, it is in the mind. Sukuna was enraptured. Addressed again, he shifted his posture, leaning into the arm of the couch as she did with her chair. The two were close in their cohort. An air of comfortable conversation lingered between them, much to his dismay. Her question wasn’t unusual. He’d been asked it in the beginning of his career and one where he had a planned answer.

Count ║ 2,626 K

Consider ║ Swearing. Female Pronouns (she/her).

Creator ║ This is the reader version. I took the name of the oc out. Hopefully the double post isn’t too weird? I did research on punk fashion, culture, and all which was really interesting. I knew some stuff about it before, but it’s really rich! I hope it’s not too information dense for you guys. Either way, Punk!Sukuna is now my comfort au and writing him is an absolute delight!! Also, Sorry for changing from ‘you’ to she/her ;v; it’s a lot easier for me to write/edit this way.

Sukuna had a lazy grin as he lounged back into a modern cream sofa. His arm stretched across the back of it, ankle crossed over his knee. Eyes staggered from the two cameras set up to the woman talking with some other chick. One held a small stack of papers, the other was grandly gesturing. He breathed out a short-stop breath, wishing they wouldn’t waste his time with bickering. Annoying as it was, it left a thick self-satisfactory lather over his ego.

“-didn’t you say the band?”

“Yeah, but this is better.”

“Sure… but what happens if-“

Quite frankly, he hated most press and avoided it, so to just have him in the hot seat was a double-edged blade. They didn’t get the whole band, but they did have The King himself. Whatever publicity he thrived off of were live shows, signings, fancams, tangible and real-time events. Interviews were a complete and utter waste of his time. He did a couple in the beginning, but found them pointless, callous even. They all asked the same shit. So, him coming alone was absolutely a note to pin to the fridge, even if it were a passive-aggressive post-it note.

His head turned to the two going back and forth. It wasn’t until the third minute ticked by that Sukuna felt the flashpoint of his blood plummet, “Yo! We doing this or what? You’re wasting my time here, Eros.”

The blogger whipped her head to the man with an indignant, “Excuse me?”

“Eros. Known for being reckless and unreliable? Like your scheduling.” He leaned forward, elbow on knee and chin in palm. The aura of shit-eatery exponentially growing, “You’re not excused, sorry, not sorry Princess.”

“I think you have the wrong God,” She quipped as she dusted off the front of her outfit. It was a smart look and an intentional one for an interview with a punk rocker. What would strike the best complement than a khaki academic outfit? It consisted of a white high collared button up, sleeves billowing before cinching at her wrists. The blouse was stuffed into high-waisted, cuffed khaki chinos, pleated at the center of each pant leg. Over top, a gray woolen sweater vest. Accessories included various silver rings, a black ribbon to tie under the folded collar, and small silver studs as earrings. Makeup remained that done-up natural with brow, liner, and mascara. Hair had been swept into something similar to a faux 1920’s bob, pulled loosely back. The overall silhouette made the perfect contrast.

Sukuna wanted to peg her as your average superficial fashion bitch, he really did. Even at the concert, she dressed smartly despite the pathetic look on she wore on face. It wasn’t until afterwards when he saw the burn in her eyes, that he craved for her to prove him wrong.

Black flats clacked as she approached her own seat, a matching armchair to the couch. She held a certain command once she walked in, instructing him on where to be, which camera to look at, and what the introduction would be. He listened, admiring how her small frame moved to and fro, fixing up last minute edits on a paper, chattering with who he assumed to be a videographer. It was a whole production. One that was hers. The set itself was practically out of a home décor magazine. It was a general space used across the publisher, but she was born to be there. Deserved to be there. Her calculated glee and deliberate positioning of each member made him feel as though he were looking through a mirror.

The interview process began.

She sat professionally, legs crossed and leaning on the arm of her chair closest to Sukuna. He was unmoving, that slit to his lip curling upwards as the cameras began. She introduced the blog, the channel, her social media handles. With a smile, she introduced herself, “With me in this special is lead singer of Two Face, the King of Curses – Sukuna.”

The camera panned to his lazy wave, “Yo.” He looked to her, she looked to him and for a moment she thought she saw a flicker of interest. Maybe the man was meant for cameras after all.

“After looking more into the punk scene, there’s a pretty interesting history behind it. Revolution, social discourse, poverty, violence, and unity. As someone in the scene, can you talk a little bit about what you know of the background?”

Sukuna drank in her voice, smooth and warm like the steady strum of a bass guitar. For a moment, he wondered if she sang. He quirked a brow, “Sounds like you didn’t research enough to summarize it yourself,” Eyes flickered to her features, watching as slight annoyance crinkled onto her nose then smoothed, “Let me learn you, Daisy. Starting back from rock in the 50’s, take that, strip it, build it with shit you find in the backyard…” His wrist rolled as his harmonious voice sang on, lacking even a single stutter as he summarized the movement top to bottom, inside and out, “…So, people would make their own records, sell them in plastic bags, they’d scan and reprint photos to make their own ‘zines. Shit was hard to distribute without tech…”

Much of his dissertation, she hadn’t even found on her own deep dive into the culture. Sure, the anarchist and nihilistic ideologies were well known to pretty much anyone who would listen, but the deep history and connection between communities was far beyond the surface scratched into.

“There’s a crowd of sub-genres now. Fuck ‘punk is dead’ what even is that bull shit?” Sukuna scoffed, jerking his chiseled chin to the side, “Only thing that’s dead here is – ironically – peoples drive to change.”

His interviewer sat in silence for a moment, mind spinning. He spoke in the way a well-educated University professor gave a dissertation to his peers, dripping in confidence from his storm of information. He was articulate despite the fowl language, even including a tie in to modern perception. Excitement curled into the recess of her mind. In a delightful turn of events, expectation and reality didn’t match up.

�� She leaned forward slightly folding her hands over the arm of the chair, “That was comprehensive. Thanks!” She chuckled, causing the man before her to freeze and thaw with a nod. She continued, “With all of this mention of D.I.Y. culture in punk, let’s talk about Vivienne Westwood.”

Sukuna kept his attention to her profile as she spoke to the camera, catching himself in the glow of her enthusiasm, “On Kings Road in England, she kickstarted the fashion movement into gear. Now, many would think that with a style such as this, it would’ve been hand-me-downs, pins, self-stitching, but contrary to this belief, many of the clothes in her store were expensive. Knock offs circulated, and seeing as much of it did have that hand-done finishing touch, many decided to take tailoring to their own hands…” Not that this was a competition, but she found herself trying to prove his ‘research’ comment wrong. Her ability to scour and exhaust her resources of fashion history is the furnace that kept her going and she would make it well known that she was not to be challenged.

The approaching lurch of a stalemate stuck to the walls of the vocalist’s stomach. Something he didn’t think he’d feel for a while. Small stuff over here may not’ve known all there was about the cultural history, but he could feel the crashing wave of fascination washing over him as she spoke. Sure, some of it he knew. Some of it he naturally garnered from stylistic preference and others he learned for marketing, however there was just a certain target she aimed for with such precision that he bled a newfound admiration.

“You’ve answered it already, yeah, I know. I saw the interview,” Her head tilted to the side, pleasant smile hinting at her trick, “but enlighten me for a second about how your natural style transitioned to what it is on stage. We’ll put up some of the photos taken from last night here,” her hand gestured to some empty space, “You basically turned chiaroscuro and made it a performance. It’s obvious in how each member contrasted with themselves and the stage.”

The chick didn’t even know who he was a week ago, yet somehow watched every interview since the start? An answer tumbled from the tongue readily, “Punk is like a renaissance of music. Like I said before, it tore down the foundations of what was before and built something new out of it.” The words were succinct, but as her pretty lashes bat, he was goaded into continuing, “Contrast is important. I like art. I like plays. Just ‘cause it’s punk doesn’t mean I can’t have it look aesthetic? Or is that a word only snobby fashion journalists can use now?”

“Hm. Change ‘journalist’ to ‘vocalist’ and you’re a word away from meeting the requirement,” It was a sour candy treat traded for his lemon warhead.

“Ouch. Miss Blog-Spot here has some sass,” His large frame leaned further into the armrest, cheek resting on that fist.

“Mister Eight-Track here is some a–“

The videographer clapped his hands, “We have sponsors, you know. We can at least censor him.”

It was Sukuna’s time to laugh a loud, hyena-like cackle. A large hand smacked his leather-clad knee. She scrunched her nose again, biting back her tongue from childishly jutting out at him.

As soon as the videographer clapped his hands again, she recollected herself, shuffled her papers, and continued on, “From what it looks like, you took a mixture of old and new high-trend brands and added a touch to them to keep with theme. Even now, you’re wearing a Real McCoy with cone spikes embedded. Is that custom made? McCoy isn’t cheap.”

Part of him hated her keen eye, but reveled in her raw talent all the same. “I’m not going to bull shit you and say I dumpster dive for my clothes. I like high quality things. What’s the point in making money if I can’t spend it? What’s a bigger ‘fuck you’ than having your version of a top-brand item being worth more than the original?” With a proud glint in his eye, he rolled the jacket off, sure to make a grand display of strong, bare arms as he did so. The muscle tank he wore was similar to the concert before, white with a pocket, neckline was stretched and worn. It hung over the dense muscle of his shoulders and chest. Sukuna could feel the trail of her eyes on him. His chest puffed from her approval. He threw the jacket over his knee, flipping the leather inside out to show where the studs had been placed, “See this? Did it myself.”

Manicured fingers touched the inside of the jacket, thumbing the connecting points that the studs were pressed in by and sealed. The work was immaculate. Sukuna leaned back, canines gleaming as he saw her mouth move in a silent ‘wow’. He picked the front of his tank top, snapping it up and allowing it to billow back to his body, “Embroidered this, too.”

He waited for her comment, her praise. Why? Like he needed some two-bit Vanderbilt bitch’s validation. He chalked it up to being praised by a master of the craft. He hadn’t been prepared for her to take the fabric between her fingers and rub it, concentrated brows cinched like a corset. Well-toned abs flinched in response to her delicacy, but she didn’t notice.

The embroidery was messy and chaotic, but it was obviously intentionally. The way the needlework was so clean, barely leaving a hole from the pull of the exceptionally soft fabric. It wasn’t floral like in the concert, but abstract stitching created crosses and streaks here and there, using the composition of the fabric as like it were a canvas. Experimentalist. It was like touching the work of Westwood herself.

God, she hated how perfect it was. It squeezed her heart to know that he was so effortlessly multi-talented. She rubbed the fabric between her fingers once more, attention being stolen by his baritone voice. She could practically hear the treble in it, “Ey Princess, you think it’s okay to just touch me?” His breath caught under the arrogant teasing of his words. Not from the words themselves. Couldn’t care less about that. What choked him up was whatever resplendent emotion flared from them when she peered up to him.

“Let me check the tag.”

“What?”

The blogger leaned back, cheekily snapping the shirt as she did so. “Your shirt, can I check the tag? I want to see what its made out of. Also, sorry.”

Sukuna blinked twice, mouth stupidly hanging open before he leaned forward, “I’ll allow it.”

He may have tinnitus, but he wasn’t deaf enough yet to miss the mocking ‘I’ll allow it,’ muttered under her breath. He wanted to laugh, but for the second time, the graze of chilled fingertips along his skin shut him up. Along the back of his neck, she fiddled to flip the collar and tug it. Her eyes squinted and a hum escaped her throat. Sometimes she wished she could read upside down. That’s when she sat on the back on the sofa and leaned closer, pulling the shirt to better read the small print. If Sukuna were a cat, he’d lean his head into her. The thought physically bothered him.

“I knew it. It’s American Pima. Thanks for letting me check.”

He missed the shiver her touch gave him as she sat back into her chair.

“While I have more questions for you, this video’s gotten pretty long already, so we’ll have to cut it a bit short here,” She gave a closing statement, motioning for her guest to do the same. With a thanks, the cameras were cut.

While the editor and videographer chatted together, She leaned heavily into the back of her chair, poised posture slipping into something more comfortable. Long lashes slid closed and a heavy drag of breath lifted her chest. Sukuna’s eyes trailed along her form, contemplating Eros once more.

She exhaled sharply, “I do appreciate you coming on stage. It’s disgusting how talented you are.” She laughed, cracking an eye open to meet his, “I prepped a lot of questions thinking you’d be short with me. It’s a shame I only got to ask a few.”

He was surprised himself. It was more than just her talent to make him talk - she may have been the first to see him as an opportunity rather than a commodity. ‘She would be the first and last reporter to see me as a meal’ was the thought he had going into this interview. He had every single intention to shut down her buffet, make it apparent that he was not to be dined on by a single soul. Yet, if his dish were ‘opportunity’, hers would be ‘intrigue’. He wanted to devour it, to know its palette and identify its spices. It was a compulsory urge to order, just to see why he craved it in the first place.

“Film the next few concerts. Backstage.”

Tags: @lovesakusa

#⛩.sukuna #⛩.fic #⛩.punk #🍺.jjk #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #sukuna #sukuna x reader #ryoumen sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen fic #jjk fic

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thewhitejournal · 4 years ago

Text

“The Intern” Part Two

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

hello all! the love on this first part was absolutely unexpected, but i am so grateful for it! here is the link to the first part of the series, go ahead and read that in case you haven’t yet. if you liked this part or have any feedback, do not hesitate to let me know. without further ado, onto the show!

content warnings: mentions of child sexual assault and murder

link to the inspiration for this fictional case

You and Penelope started looking over the file Agent Hotchner had given you. Not soon after you read over some of the details, a blonde woman swung open the door to the office.

”Garcia, debriefing in five. Hi, I’m Jennifer Jareau, but you can call me JJ. I’m the liaison for the team; I’ve heard so much about you, Penelope is so excited to not be alone in her office all the time.” She smiled at you, offering you her hand to shake, and you took it.

”It’s so nice to meet you, I’m (y/n) (y/l/n).” You smiled back at her, and she called for Garcia over her shoulder as she left. You looked up to Penelope, silently asking what your next move should be.

”C’mon kid, you're on this case. I have a little feeling Hotch won't mind if I invite you to work it.” She said to you with a knowing smirk playing on her lips, heat flooding your cheeks. You'd hope not, you didn't want to make the boss mad the first day you were shadowing.

Following Penelope out of her office, you looked around and noticed other agents heading the same way. Agent Jareau was walking ahead of you, talking to a dark-haired woman, and your path aligned with a skinny, long-haired man wearing a sweater vest and gun on his waist that looked like it physically weighed him down.

“Uh, hi, I-I’m Spencer Reid, Garcia told me about you. It’s nice to meet you.” His lips were in a straight line, and he didn’t make direct eye contact with you. You smiled at him.

“(Y/n) (y/l/n).” Without responding, he picked up his pace a bit, catching up to the two women in front of you. Garcia chuckled.

“He’s not the most social butterfly in the garden.” You scoffed, laughing lightly yourself. She assured you he would warm up to you though, which made you feel better. You didn’t want a single member of the team to dislike you.

You all eventually gathered in the debriefing room, and you couldn’t help but wonder where Hotch was. Penelope introduced you to the other agents sitting at the table that you hadn’t met yet, and they welcomed you warmly. Agent Rossi said something about always needing extra help, which gave you a nice feeling in your chest.

JJ stood to present the case, and not a second later, Hotch walked in the door. She must have seen him coming. The only empty seat left happened to be next to yours, and he took it. He gave you a very small smile, then turned to face JJ. You suddenly remembered you were in a room full of profilers; if you were going to steal glances at Hotch, well, it’s probably better you didn’t. How frowned upon is a relationship with the boss, especially with someone not even officially part of the team? You didn’t want to think about that, it was just a silly little crush after all.

Pictures from crime scenes and documents you had to be closer to the screen to completely identify crowded every screen in the debriefing room. A twelve-year-old boy went missing outside of Seward, Nebraska. Unfortunately, he wasn’t missing long, because his body was found in a ditch off of an interstate not three days after he was reported missing. The cause of death was asphyxiation, and there were signs of sexual assault, post mortem.

“You know, this reminds me of the Oakland County Child Killer. He was responsible for the killings of four children in Oakland County, Michigan in 1976 and 1977. Each child's body was discovered in a public area within 19 days of their disappearance, two boys and two girls. The children were all either strangled or shot, and the two boys had been sexually abused.” All this information at once took you by surprise; how did he know all of that? It was like he was reading it straight from a book.

“Are there any more missing kids in the area? This could be some kind of copycat.” Morgan questioned.

“There hasn't been any reported since this boy, Nathan Harrison. Reid, how far apart did the Oakland County Child killer take his victims? If this is a copycat killer, we could try to estimate when the next victim might be.” JJ asked him.

Reid thought for a moment. “His first victim was in February of 1976, and he didn’t kidnap again until December of that year. Then, though, the last two victims were taken only months apart in 1977. I don’t believe this killer had a pattern, other than always placing the bodies where they could easily be seen.” Hotch sighs, eyes darting around the table that’s filled with case files and crime scene photos like he’s taking in all the information. His dark brows are furrowed; you guess he’s thinking of what the team should do next.

“Well, I don’t want to wait around and see if he makes his own M.O. or if he follows this killer’s actions. We’re going to need to do more research on the Oakland County killer and if there are anymore unsolved child cases in Nebraska that might be connected to our unsub. Wheels up in thirty.” Hotch looks around the room at everyone as he says this, and his gaze lingers a second longer on you before he leaves the room. The other agents start gathering the files and coffee mugs they may have brought into the room and head out too.

“Just like that, they’re gone?” You ask Penelope, turning your chair to face hers. You were the only two people left in the room. She nods.

“Just like that. You and I will stay behind and help with all the fun behind the scenes stuff unless they need us out there later.” She stands, jewelry jingling with the motion. You followed suit, trailing behind her back to her office. Looking around the room, the agents were carrying duffel bags out the door and to the elevator. You saw Hotch still standing in his office, preparing his bag and making sure he had everything.

“You think they’d let me come with you?” Your voice lowered. Secretly, she knew you meant Hotch. You didn’t want to overstep any boundaries, this was their case after all.

She only nodded, dangling earrings swinging as she did so. Hotch exited his office and you tried to inconspicuously watch where he was going. You’re sure you can’t have been that sly about it though. He rounded the corner and looked like he was going to go out the door, but he stopped behind you two, calling out for Garcia. You turned around in sync to face him.

“I don’t know what we’re walking in to yet, I want you to have a go-bag ready if needed.” He turned to face you. “(Y/l/n), if you’re comfortable with coming along with us now you’re more than welcome. We’re leaving in fifteen.” With that, he slid past you, walking through the doors to the elevator in the hall. For a split second, you felt his body heat in your space; you even caught a little whiff of his cologne.

You looked over at Garcia. You didn’t know what to do; you were here to shadow as a technical analyst, not as a profiler. You weren’t supposed to be in the field, it wasn’t the plan. You searched her face to try and figure out what she might say next, and if she was okay with you going. Maybe it could be fun, a good experience. It might be a chance to get to know the team better, maybe one to get to know your temporary boss better too…

“You can go if you want to honey, I know it appeals to some people. I am not some people, however. I like my office. My screens. And hey, nobody said you had to stay here. Maybe they’ll make you wanna be a profiler.” She placed a hand on your arm, gently patting it, her smile beaming at you. You gave her a small smile back.

“I don’t know Garcia, I don’t know the first thing about being in the field and profiling and working an actual case like that. I’ve been studying tech stuff, it’s all I know.” Your lips tightened and your brows knitted. Your eyes fell to the floor; you couldn’t look her in the eyes. It felt like you were abandoning her, as silly as it sounds.

“I may not be a profiler, but I can tell you want to work this case out there. I’ll still be here when you come back in one piece.” A small smile came upon your lips, and you met her eyes.

“Thank you, Garcia.” She smiled with her lips. Her eyes scanned your body.

“If you end up needing to stay there, you can probably fit Prentiss’s or JJ’s clothes. I’m going to send you all the teams’ contact information too. Be careful. Tell them they better take care of my girl.” She gave you a quick, unexpected kiss to the forehead. Turning into her office, she grabbed your purse and handed it over to you. She told you where to go to board the jet, and you hurried out to the elevator. You heard her laugh behind you, but you didn’t care. You were excited to be going into the field and getting to be able to know the team and all the ins and outs of the job. Maybe you did want to be a profiler.

Hotch filled your mind again though, inevitably. You were still thinking of how he extended the invitation to you personally, did that mean something? Maybe he was just being nice to you, trying to make you feel welcome here. Or did he really want you to be there with him and the team, did he want to teach you the ropes and spend more time with you? You shook your head to yourself, now heading out to board the jet. You needed to be focused on this case. But you had a feeling that being in a little space with him for at least three hours, which you knew would feel like so much longer, wouldn’t help your focus at all.

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fuckyeahmercury · 4 years ago

Note

Hello. This is @freddiemercuryonline (I wanted to write this under my blog but it won’t let me switch to my Freddie blog, anyway), I want to apologize for not crediting the pictures I took from here, I didn’t know you actually EDITED them, I thought you took them from other websites, so yeah my apologies for reposting without credits. But there’s something I don’t understand, we (Insta accounts) are getting blames for this but I also don’t see you or other blogs giving credits to the books you +

I would usually stay away from this since I got better stuff to do but I choose to speak up about this ongoing issue. I decided to do a bit of my own research on your @freddiemercuryonline Instagram. and I found that the photos you post, I posted them just a day or two before. Some examples:

I posted this on July 11, you posted it on July 14

I posted this on June 14, you posted it on June 15

again, my post from May 20, yours 6 days later

my post from April 18, yours 5 days later

my post from April 1st, yours the next day

and this is far back from December 19, 2019, you reposted it 2 days after with stating that you edited it

I could go on because this is never ending but you get the point.

what I'm writing now doesn't have anything to do with you personally, attention to your Instagram profile has been brought to me by this anon message, not to mention there's thousands of fan profiles on Instagram just like yours that repost not only from my blog but others too, so maybe it was time to talk more extensively about it and show my followers just how unfair it can feel when someone else is building their fan site or a fan base by stealing content and not giving credit on purpose, even when they know exactly what source to credit.

the main issue is that it doesn’t matter what you thought where I took the photos, you chose not to give my site any credit on purpose. you obviously do visit my site daily and as I can see, none of your posts taken from my site had my Tumblr as a credit. so you can't come here and pretend like you were unaware of the fact that FuckYeahMercury is the source where you take some of the photos from for your own Instagram, shamelessly, posting them the very next day. this is exactly why you (Insta accounts) take the blame, you can't even write your own caption, let alone find a good photo on your own.

to answer your question, I want to explain the whole edits thing. I don't really do 'edits' as such, this means I don't click on a random Freddie Mercury fan page, take the photo and add brightness/contrast to it. I actually take my time to research the web and find relatively uncommon or unseen pictures from photo agency sites and news websites and anytime I can, I credit the photographer. I go to great lengths to find stuff that other fans may not be able to find because I love bringing new content to the table when it comes to Freddie/Queen community. as for books, magazines, clipping and posters I scan, I cannot always give credit because most of them don't even have the photographer written in there. this is the difference between you and me, for every photo I post, I know exactly where I originally acquired it and I do my best to give credit. as I said, I don't own any of these pics, I never took them, I never met Freddie or Queen but I do my job running this blog because I love it, just to find that someone else is enjoying my fruits of labour in extensive number of likes and followers. so, ignoring to give credit on your fan page to a source you constantly take from and writing the same caption with something along the lines of "I edited this high quality image😝" is plain unjust. it's unfair to all the blogs who disappeared over the years that had really good content. I personally know fans who stopped sharing rare stuff exactly because of this attitude with reposting things.

I’d say that yours or anyone elses apology doesn't mean much to me... I don't care if I lose followers or someone asks why I'm blowing this out of proportion. I've been here for a long time and tried to accept the fact that "fans share stuff" but in so many cases unfortunately, it's not being done respectfully and some things just had to be said. so if you're a fan or have a fan page, I hope if you read this, what you take or learn from this is please - if you share stuff, just give the credit. it won't hurt you. in my mind, you can only gain respect for it ✌

#instadrama2020 #i'm tired y'all

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sunnyrosewritesstuff · 4 years ago

Text

Day 3 Hobbit Plot Bunnies

Title: Second Chance at a Happy Ending

Summary: Modern Reincarnation AU. Thorin is the CEO of Erebor Industries and Bilbo is a reclusive paralegal. Two people who have no business existing in the same universe as each other, and yet they dream of each other from the time of The Hobbit. So when Gandalf offers Bilbo’s services in regards to a legal problem in Erebor, well it’s a second chance neither of them thought they would be lucky enough to receive.

Possible Trigger Warnings: Thorin struggles with PTSD

POV: Switches between Bilbo and Thorin

It was happening again. The dreams. It wasn’t every night. In fact, sometimes Bilbo would go months, even years, without having one. However, every single one of them was as vivid as the last and seemed to haunt him for the rest of the day.

“You! What were you doing?” The injured dwarf commanded relying on the help of his kin to regain his footing.

“You nearly got yourself killed!” He continued taking a step closer. “Did I not say that you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild? That you had no place amongst us.”

At this point he was mere inches away. Close enough that Bilbo could feel the warmth radiating off of him and the glare burning into him. Not that he was able to raise his eyes higher than the dwarf’s booted feet.

“I have never been so wrong in all my life.” The dwarf sighed in relief before enveloping Bilbo in a tight hug.

Bilbo stiffened completely unprepared for the embrace, and he was certain his jaw was dropped in surprise. Being in his arms though...a smile split his face as he hugged back just as tightly amidst the cheers of the remaining company. Too soon, the dwarf stepped away looking him over as if to double check that he was alright.

“I am sorry I doubted you.” He stated, his eyes full of guilt.

Bilbo shook his head, his chest burning under that look.

“No, I would have doubted me too.” He answered. “I’m not a hero or a warrior...or even a burglar.”

Never once did the dwarf’s sky eyes waver. Never once did his soft smile wane. Bilbo would have done anything to always have that smile on him. However, the sounds of eagles screeching seemed to drag both of their gazes away, and when Bilbo looked back the dwarf was staring over the top of his head, his mouth agape. As he walked ahead, Bilbo spun around as well only to see a single mountain rising out of the expanse as if trying to reach out to the rising sun.

“Is that what I think it is?” Bilbo questioned following the dwarf to the edge of the ledge they were standing on.

“Ere.... The Lonely Mountain. The last of the great dwarf kingdoms of Middle Earth.” A familiar voice answered.

“Our home.” The dwarf breathed reverently.

Bilbo stared at him with a smile appreciating his strong profile as his eyes stayed glued on the mountain. Somewhere behind them there was something about a bird.

“We’ll take it as a sign.” The dwarf grinned looking over at Bilbo fondly. “A good omen.”

Bilbo felt his chest puff up in pride as he nodded along. He turned back towards the mountain as if it held all the answers to his problems.

“You’re right. I do believe the worst is behind us.”

Bilbo truly believed it too. And then there was a giant golden eye glaring at him.

Bilbo gasped, his hand reaching for his ring finger, yanking at something that wasn’t there. When he finally had his wits about him again, he fell back against the pillow rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He glanced over at his alarm clock with a groan. It was still too early to get up.

He fiddled with the lamp on his side table before reaching for the notebook in his first drawer. His mother had taught him to keep a dream journal back when he finally decided to confess them to her. The beat-up twenty year old spiral was full of torn and stained pages that contained detailed accounts of the odd encounters with the dwarf king he had taken to nicknaming Oak.

Once he wrote down what he remembered of the dream, he flipped to the back where he had been working towards a sketch of Oak. The problem was, as clear as he could see him while dreaming, the image always tended to flicker away from his consciousness the moment he woke up. All he had so far was a very detailed set of eyes with a rather striking nose. When Bilbo finished eking out every last moment he could remember, he carefully put the notebook back in the drawer and hopped up to make a pot of coffee before starting his day.

Not that long ago, his morning would consist of fighting his way into a suit to get out the door with plenty of time to fight the Tube’s morning commute to one of the top law firms in London. However, the death of his mother three years ago had him re-evaluating his priorities. So he said goodbye to the spacious apartment, goodbye to the hustle and bustle of Zone Two, and retreated north to Lancashire. He would have quit his job as a paralegal completely, but Gandalf Grey, one of five partners at Maiar Law, refused to accept his resignation.

So here Bilbo was, receiving his workload via email, and going outside only for groceries and to mess around in the garden in order to preserve his image from total and complete hermit. Not exactly where he pictured himself at thirty-four that was for certain. He was in the process of seeing what exactly Gandalf had in store for him today knowing he still needed to finish putting together the information on the Proudfoot case only to narrow his eyes at the strange email in his inbox.

As he opened it and scanned the contents, he immediately had his phone in hand and Gandalf’s name highlighted before he even stopped to think of whether it was a good idea or not. Especially considering it was 6:30 in the morning.

“Bilbo! My dear fellow, how are you on this glorious morning?” Gandalf’s voice answered.

It was almost obnoxious how cheery he was.

“Do you at all remember our conversation last week?” He demanded, skipping the pleasantries.

“Of course.” Gandalf returned.

“You came all the way down to my house and said there was a job for me in London if I wanted it, and I told you I was fine where I was.” Bilbo prompted further.

“I dare say my memory hasn’t failed me quite yet.” Gandalf huffed. “I recall the conversation.”

“So then why in the world do I have an email from Erebor Industries confirming my 2pm appointment with someone named Thorin Durin?!”

“Because I thought your argument was a load of poppycock.” Gandalf scoffed. “So I took the liberty of accepting for you.”

If the man was standing before him, Bilbo would throttle him. He swears he would.

“No, absolutely not. I won’t do it.” Bilbo snarked, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Can you give me one good reason why you shouldn’t?” Gandalf pestered.

“How about the fact that I only stayed with the firm because you allowed a work from home clause to my contract? How about the fact that I’m woefully underprepared to meet with one of the richest CEOs in the UK? Oh and if those aren’t good enough, let’s bring up the fact that I’M NOT ACTUALLY A LAWYER!”

There was silence on the line for a long moment. Long enough for the anger to slowly dissipate out of Bilbo.

“Bilbo, what you’re doing right now isn’t living. It’s existing. The world isn’t there in your little cottage amongst your books and garden. It’s out here. Come back to us. Besides, all I need you to do is gather information on what Mr. Durin needs our services for. You’re not to advise him in any way, and he’s well aware of this fact. Just this one small favor, and I’ll leave you to your precious Shire.”

Something ugly and painful welled up in Bilbo’s chest at Gandalf’s words. What did he know anyways? Bilbo was perfectly content here in his mother’s house. Perfectly content.

“I’m sorry Gandalf, but you have the wrong person for the job.” He murmured softly.

“Well…” Gandalf’s disappointment rolled through the phone in waves. “I don’t believe that is true. But if this is what you wish, I won’t press the matter. Take care of yourself, Bilbo Baggins.”

With that, he ended the call, and Bilbo numbly set his phone down on the countertop. Well that was that. He decided to pitter about the kitchen and start on something for breakfast. Probably just eggs and toast. He pretended the silence of the house wasn’t oppressive in the least.

He took a shower, dressed in something sensible, and settled himself into his study again with a nice cuppa. He fished a pair of reading glasses out of the pocket on his jumper, staring at the documents to do with Mr. Proudfoot’s case. However, he couldn’t take in the words. His mind was elsewhere. He felt relatively guilty for his behavior towards Gandalf. Maybe he could just put together some information about Erebor Industries that could help whoever was going to take his place.

He opened up a search tab on his computer and started reading through the google listings. He knew the company for it’s massive steel mill, but he had no idea they had a jewelry chain, and that they made weaponry for the military. That seemed rather ominous until he read further and found out that Thorin Durin was a war vet. Medically discharged eight years prior for a shot in the chest that nearly collapsed his lung. Bilbo winced, rubbing his own chest in sympathy.

His search switched gears at that point, and he clicked on a page dedicated to the relatively young CEO. Forty-two, only surviving family was his sister and two nephews. Seemed to be a relatively private person. He found it odd that there were no scandals surrounding him or the company. It was odd for someone seeking legal counsel outside of his own company. Then, there at the bottom of the page, was a photo of Thorin Durin, and Bilbo swore his heart forgot how to beat.

It was him. It was Oak, the dwarf king. Bilbo would recognize the face from his dreams anywhere. How though? How was this possible? Bilbo’s fingers traced Thorin’s haunted eyes and humorless face so unlike the soft smile from his dream this morning. In that moment, Bilbo wanted to do whatever he could to relieve this man of even a fraction of his worries.

Bilbo jolted. The meeting. He had to be there. No way was he missing out now. He checked his phone. He had time. He ran into his bedroom turning on the iron as he searched the closet for one of his good suits stuffed in the back. Twenty minutes later, he was all but flying to his car. It was going to be a long drive into London. He paused to send Gandalf a quick text before peeling out of the drive like his house was on fire. He had an appointment with destiny he was not about to be late for.

#7 days of plot bunnies #bagginshield #thilbo #birthdayplotbunnies #starterdrabble #our boys didn't get a chance to boink in canon #so here's their chance

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semperintrepida · 5 years ago

Text

The Sellout, chapter three

three: the bad news

"So are you going to look at it, or what?"

Ellen was talking, from her favorite seat on the couch with the best view of the register, but Kyra just stared at the jar on the counter, at the card lying face down and innocent on top of all the other cards inside it. She knew damn well what company that card came from — she'd seen the flash of green as it spun in the air from being dunked into the jar with savage glee.

Starbucks green.

"Kyra?" Ellen's voice was closer now. Right at the counter.

Kyra wordlessly pushed the jar in her direction, and Ellen pulled up a sleeve and stuck her hand in, her head tilting into a question. Is this it?

Kyra nodded.

Ellen fished the card out of the jar, her eyes widening as she read it. "Motherfucker," she said. "You were right — she is bad news."

"Show me." Kyra held out her hand.

The card landed in her palm, and as she flipped it over, her fingertips slid across bumps embossed onto its surface. Braille. On a business card. There was nothing a billion dollar company wouldn't do to give itself the tiniest edge over the competition.

The Starbucks logo greeted her on the front of the card. No surprise there. She scanned the text, eyes glancing over the woman's name — Kassandra Agiadis — but her name was less important to Kyra than her title: Vice President of International Real Estate Development.

The words on the card began to smear, and it was like falling while roped in during a climb; that sudden, twisting spin before the world dropped out from under her.

Real estate development. What's the premium for a high visibility retail space in this neighborhood?

She considered the card in her hand — amazing how something so weightless could be so crushing — then tore it in half, flinging the pieces onto the counter hard enough for them to fly off the edge on the other side.

Ellen's head swiveled to follow their flight path, and then she silently walked past the counter and stooped to pick the pieces up from the floor.

Kyra knew this day would come, but like all disasters, it had sat off in the distance until the moment it showed up on her doorstep. For years, Starbucks had been content to keep mostly to the west side of the river, with seventeen stores crammed between I-405 and the waterfront.

Seventeen stores. Down in the Pearl District, there was a Starbucks on every fucking corner, choking out all but a handful of indie shops. But the river had made a good moat, and with Starbucks contained, she'd been able to make a decent living within the rougher, more corrugated edges of the Central Eastside and Distillery Row.

She'd survived Dutch Bros putting in drive-throughs north and south of her on MLK, the coffee shortage of 2011 that tripled the price of beans, and the slow sprouting of competing coffee shops across the neighborhood. She'd managed to stay on the right side of the profitability line, but she'd been clinging to survival by the smallest of handholds for months now. One slip would be enough to send everything plummeting to earth.

She should have taken Thal's money and opened up more shops. She should have sold to Stumptown when she had the chance. She should have—

Her eyes began to sting. She resisted the urge to flee to the storeroom; if she went back there and let the tears leak out, she wouldn't be able to stop them again. And running off wasn't an option even if she wanted to — she was the only one working this shift and someone had to watch the fort.

She breathed in slowly, breathed out, until the prickle in her eyes faded enough for her to push the retail mask back into place.

Ellen was still standing there, watching her. "You'll figure something out, Kyra. You always do," she said, placing the torn halves of the card on the counter. "Hang on to this shit, huh? Just in case."

Ellen made it halfway back to the couch when Kyra spoke up again. "Do you have your laptop with you?"

"How else would I abuse your wifi?"

"Can I borrow it for a few minutes?"

Ellen's grin was feral. "I thought you'd never ask."

.oOo.

It took a while to get the laptop sorted, much of it involving frantic clicking and password after password as Ellen rambled something about needing a VPN and not trusting the government, but eventually Kyra found herself looking at an empty browser window with a cursor blinking lazily in its address bar.

"Where are we stalking first?" Ellen asked, rubbing her palms together in anticipation.

Kyra pulled up LinkedIn and typed "Kassandra Agiadis" into the search field, and when the results appeared, the photo at the top of the list smiled a familiar smile, the woman's confidence captured in pixel form along with that sharp glint in her eyes.

Kyra opened the profile.

Executive leader and consummate strategist with a proven record of results in aligning real estate acquisitions and portfolios with business goals...

She skimmed the suit-speak until she reached the background part of the profile.

MBA, Sloan School of Management, Massachusetts Institute of Technology BS, Economics, Stanford University

A lengthy list of job titles followed. Kassandra had only been at Starbucks a little more than a year. Before that, stints at Apple, Chipotle, CVS. The list went on. She'd rarely stayed longer than three years in a position.

Ellen whistled. "That's a lot of different companies."

"She's a mercenary," Kyra said. "Hired to do something specific and then move on."

Kyra opened another tab and searched Instagram, finding the woman's profile easily enough. The grid of photos featured a lot of concrete and metal, clean lines and minimalism, more Dieter Rams and Mid-Century Modern than any ostentatious displays of money being tossed around. Kyra kept scrolling. Except for the cars. And motorcycles. Apparently Kassandra liked her cars fast and her motorcycles retro.

"It's all very sterile, don't you think?" Kyra said, tapping a finger against her lips.

"I'll say. It's fucking fake. No one lives like that."

"I'm not sure all of it's fake, but it's definitely curated." She wiggled the cursor over a photo of the interior of a cabin, blonde wood and floor-to-ceiling windows framing a view of a lake. "She's paying someone to manage this for her."

"What's the fucking point of that?"

"Maintaining an image. Projecting a sense of old money." But something didn't add up, and Kyra couldn't pin down what it was.

She opened a third tab, this time for a good ol' Google search, and skimmed the list of results. A press release announcing Kassandra's hiring at Starbucks. More press releases. Talks at various conferences. Nothing particularly revelatory in the first few pages, but then a headline caught Kyra's eye and she clicked through.

Agiadis leads Stanford to national championship win

NEW ORLEANS (AP) — Led by a scintillating performance from Kassandra Agiadis, Stanford won its second consecutive national championship in a come-from-behind victory over rival Tennessee on Monday night.

Agiadis scored 24 points, muscled her way to 12 rebounds, and was two assists away from a triple-double as she powered Stanford to a 76-72 win, including sinking three crucial free throws in the final 34 seconds, in a game where Stanford found themselves in an early 12-4 deficit at the end of the first quarter.

"She wants to win more than anything, and she showed that tonight," Stanford coach Tara VanDerveer said of Agiadis. "We were in a hole after that first quarter, but Kassandra lifted this team up and said, 'Whatever it takes.' She simply refused to lose."

The article was old, and the photos accompanying the text were small, but unmistakably her: Kassandra, basketball in hand, pushing past two orange-clad players under the hoop. There was plenty of broad-shouldered muscle in that white Stanford jersey, but it was Kassandra's eyes, bright and clear with relentless focus, that caught Kyra's attention.

Ellen snorted from over Kyra's shoulder. "So she's a fucking jock. Why am I not surprised?"

Kyra didn't respond, too distracted by the second photo, which showed Kassandra surrounded by her teammates in a storm of confetti as she held an enormous trophy over her head in triumph, her smile as radiant as the sun.

And now she wore a suit instead of a basketball jersey and cut real estate deals for fun and profit. Seemed she was good at it too, but did it ever make her smile like she had while holding that trophy?

Kyra hoped the answer to that question was no.

.oOo.

She drifted through Wednesday and Thursday, irritable by day and sleepless at night, and when Friday evening arrived with its expanse of free time, she made three attempts to dig into Green's translation of the poetry of Catullus before setting the book aside and walking out to the shed in her back garden where she'd built her bouldering wall.

The faint scent of sweat, chalk, and dusty earth greeted her inside. It was her sanctuary, her shrine to defying gravity. Every handhold was as familiar as a lover.

But tonight she couldn't even climb the simplest problems. Her toes kept slipping and her fingers faltered.

She'd lost her grip.

Eventually she gave up and lay on her back on the crash pad, staring at the curving shadows the holds cast upon the wall, thinking of how problems she'd solved a thousand times could suddenly become so impossible.

.oOo.

Five minutes before closing on Saturday night, Kyra was wiping down the fridge under the counter when the door opened and a presence entered the shop. Maybe it was the way her visitor displaced the air in the otherwise empty room, or the sound of heavy footsteps, but Kyra knew exactly who she'd find when she stood up again.

Kassandra was standing next to the table closest to the register. This time, she wasn't wearing a suit — just an untucked linen shirt over tailored slacks — and she'd pulled her hair up into a loose chignon. The effect was to make her seem casual and relaxed, but no less moneyed.

Kyra wiped her hands on a clean rag to keep her eyes off the intersecting curves of Kassandra's jawline and neck. "Are you going to ask me to make you another fucking cappuccino? Because if so, I'm closed."

That drew a short laugh from Kassandra. "No. As much as I loved the one you made for me, even I'm not evil enough to ask for another this late."

"Then why are you here? So you can gloat before you put me out of business?"

"I don't want to put you out of business." Kassandra pulled a chair out from the table and made herself right at home, stretching her legs out before her. "I want your business."

Kyra's eyebrows lifted.

"I'll buy this," Kassandra said, as easily as if she was ordering a drink. She gestured around the room. "All of it. Right now."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm very serious. How much would it take to get you to say yes?"

Kyra walked out from behind the counter to the narrow wooden bar that ran along the windows, and began flipping stools over on top of it. "Never mind buying me out — why are you here? Don't you have some lackey to work deals like this for you?"

Kassandra shrugged. "I like your coffee."

"Enough to buy my shop." She tugged the pull cord on the OPEN sign to turn it off.

"It beats the alternative."

Kyra skirted around Kassandra's outstretched legs on her way past, and when she reached the counter, she leaned back against it and crossed her arms. "And that would be..."

"We put in a new flagship store down the street from you on MLK — and you take your chances."

Ten years ago, Kyra would have been thrilled at the news that Starbucks was opening a store nearby. In those heady days, Starbucks was a tide that lifted every coffee shop around it. It was Starbucks that taught the average American that there was better coffee out there than freeze-dried instant — and that it was worth paying more than fifty cents a cup for. The spillover in foot traffic from a nearby Starbucks could launch a shop's profits to stratospheric heights.

Those days were long gone. Coffee had become cutthroat and commoditized, and now people bitched that her lattes cost a nickle more than the ones they could get at Starbucks. Sure, there were people out there who cared that her coffee was sourced from a roaster who paid a fair price for beans from small, family-run farms, but there weren't enough customers like them to keep her lights on and her espresso machine humming. So she kept trimming her margins, trying to stay competitive on price while offering better product, knowing it was unsustainable in the long run.

Kassandra's offer was tempting. She could take the money, take a real vacation for the first time in years, make the funds last long enough to find a job, somewhere. Fuck, she could go and work for Thal at his chain of shops over in Bend. She'd probably make more money with a lot less stress, and she'd even have time to climb—

The sound of the door opening again brought her back to reality. A man stumbled into the shop, disheveled and dirty, wearing an oversized puffy coat and a shredded pair of work pants. He shuffled closer, stopping a few steps away from Kassandra. His body swayed with the restless twitching of an addict, too far gone to know where he was, much less care about sweltering in a heavy winter coat during a spring heatwave.

Trouble piling on.

"I'm sorry sir, we're closed," Kyra said as neutrally as she could, threading the line between being welcoming and unwelcoming.

His eyes darted to and fro, unfocused, and he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot while he gestured aimlessly around him.

Kassandra eased herself to her feet. "Hey man, what do you need?" she asked, her voice taking on that even, reasonable tone that most people used when talking to the unhinged.

"Got any spare change?" He was shaking now, deep in his need for another hit.

Kassandra slowly lifted her hands. "Sorry, I'm all out," she said. Then she nodded back towards Kyra. "She's all out too."

Kyra shook her head apologetically.

Her movement caught his attention, and he peered at her with manic eyes. "What you doing here? Huh? Huh?" He reached up and pulled angrily at the hair above his ears. "My house. Mine."

"Nah," Kassandra said. "You're all turned around. Your house is out that way." She motioned towards the door.

He didn't seem to hear her, his eyes hardening to glare at Kyra as his face twisted. "You!" he shouted, and then the moment crystallized into a series of quick-cut images, unfurling into a jerky slideshow: the man lunging towards her, Kassandra sliding in between to intercept him, Kyra dodging out of the way as he slammed into Kassandra, knocking her off her feet...

Kyra could only watch helplessly as it put Kassandra's head on a collision course with the display case on the counter.

Chapter three of The Sellout. Continued in chapter four...

Author's Note: I've taken some liberties with NCAA women's basketball history here. Apologies to UConn fans — I've borrowed a couple of your titles and given them to Stanford. Creative license, eh?

#kyssandra #kassandra #ac odyssey #coffee shop au #sorry this update took so fucking long #the sellout

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stutterfly · 6 years ago

Text

Love Bytes 02 | Firewall Breach | KNJ (M)

Last time on LB01: You find yourself at Tae & Kookie’s place for your Saturday night hangout. Some teasing and drinks are had, and you’re waiting outside for your ride with the boys while mindlessly swiping on Tinder. Hoseok catches a glimpse of the steamy image on your screen.

Rating: M (18+)

Word Count: 7.4K

Series: Love Bytes (2/?)

Genre: F2L, Fluff, Bestfriends!au, CollegeProjessor!Namjoon, friendship feels, slow burn, fluff, sexual tension, humor, pining, embarrassingReader, light Jimin smut (tempting me)

CW: grinding, teasing, pining

Pairings: Namjoon x Reader, brot7

masterlist // previous chapter // next chapter

Do not repost.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Hoseok sits with his chin resting on a palm, staring down at the same image with a concentrated gaze. For a moment only your eyes move, now acutely aware of the man to your left. You’re frozen in place, hoping the shame will kill you instantly so you don’t have to face the subsequent humiliation.

You sit motionless, like maybe if you’re still enough, he’ll forget you’re there. You pray his perception is based on movement as your teeth sink deeper into the flesh of your knuckle, letting only shallow breaths escape. But as the seconds pass, they grow increasingly unbearable. You turn your head, ever so slightly, immediately locking eyes with Hoseok. The crooked smile on his face speaks volumes louder than the whisper that follows.

“Such a dirty girl.”

You blink a few times and guiltily drop your hand to cover the screen. A nervous laugh escapes your throat. “What do you mean?”

You squirm as you stretch your legs out and press your thighs together, trying to pretend he didn’t just catch you in the act. His eyebrows raise and you feel like prey as he tilts his head towards you, husky voice chastising you with your own name.

"You know what I mean."

You sit in stunned silence, wishing Hoseok would let you transform into a statue and become one with the stairway. It seems fate has other plans as a car rolls up to the curb.

“Show me your profile."

The tone of his voice tells you it's not a question, and the hand snaking around your back tells you there's no escape. Hoseok springs to his feet, dragging your stumbling form towards the car. You feel him prying the phone from your clammy fingers.

“You’re paying for my fucking drinks,” you counter, deathgrip on the case.

“Deal!” He’s shaking your hand and the phone fervently as you both shuffle down the final step.

To prove his merit, he presents you with a credit card, knowing full well you’ll beat him to the bar. You eagerly snatch it before he changes his mind. When keeps his palm extended and snaps his fingers a few times, you know he wants far more than just a peek at the profile. With a low groan, you surrender the device, hoping that by some miracle he’ll be merciful.

“Please don’t tell them, Hobi,” you quietly beg, swallowing hard. He’s already hungrily scanning through and you're desperate to limit the damage of whatever he's so eager to see.

You lock eyes with Jimin just as he finishes climbing into the back seat. He sends you a smile that threatens to make your knees buckle. You panic for a moment at the thought of being forced to sit next to him, but the alcohol is catching up to you and the growing heat between your legs nearly cancels out the butterflies in your stomach.

Hoseok hums, reaching for Namjoon, whom is already palming the handle on the front passenger door. "Nah nah nah nah nah. Let Y/N sit up front. I gotta show you something.”

Namjoon furrows his brow as Hoseok ushers you into the front seat. You stumble with one hand around the door frame, glaring daggers at him, which does not go unnoticed by your best friend.

Hoseok waves your phone up in the air and wiggles his eyebrows at you before taking his seat. “She needs our help.”

Namjoon shakes his head and speaks in a low tone, almost as if he’s talking to himself, “Man, she’s really pissed. I’m almost afraid to see.”

“Hobi, you’re such a dick,” you whine. God, if only you were a little more drunk, maybe you wouldn’t feel so mortified.

Hoseok is sandwiched between Namjoon and Jimin, giving a content sigh as he buckles himself in, unbothered by his knees jutting up on either side of the armrest. You’re about to fasten your own seatbelt when you feel pressure on the back of your seat. Namjoon loudly clears his throat, as if you couldn’t tell his gangly kneecaps were the culprit. You roll your eyes hard, making sure he sees the reaction in the side mirror before you comply. He presses his lips together in a thin line, and even in the dim light you can see the dimples forming.

The car takes off and you’re grateful the radio is on loud enough so you don’t have to hear what the men are saying. The driver has the rearview mirror angled off so you can’t use it to spy on the interaction. You’re not sure if that’s better or worse than being able to witness it. You attempt to distract yourself by looking out the window, but you can see Namjoon’s profile in the side mirror and your eyes are glued to him, looking for any sign of the judgement you know is coming. His lips are still pressed together, but you can’t make out any additional details as the street lights outside become sparse.

Hobi stone cold fucking betrayed you and you knew you should have expected it, but still. What the fuck did he mean you needed their help? You were doing fine! You wrote an intro with a few witty lines and a bullet list of interests. You admit they’re probably kind of niche, but similar interests make for good relationships, right? Compatibility is a standard for those kinds of things. After all, if you have an Intel CPU, you can’t be trying to install a motherboard built for an AMD processor; it just doesn’t work that way. People are kind of like that too, except with more variables. You’ve told yourself this countless times and yet now your resolve falters, knowing your marketing strategy is falling under heavy scrutiny.

Your pictures weren’t anything fancy --three selfies you had taken in the last couple months. Definitely nothing you would call “sexy,” but it was hard enough to write a profile that felt like “you,” nevermind taking photos for it.

The first was a smiling headshot on a day when your hair was cooperating and your skin wasn’t on a moody breakout rampage. The next was more cringeworthy, not because it was a bad photo --on the contrary, you looked pretty cute leaning casually against a wall, and for once your trademark sweatshirt wasn’t covering up the natural curves of your body. But you know the painstaking effort that went into taking it, and how many times you had to run back and forth from the camera to the wall before auto-timer went off. How many terrible body selfies did you take in order to get the one? Too fucking many. You involuntarily crinkle your nose, remembering some of the particularly unflattering ones. You silently bless your past self for deleting those ahead of time.

The last was an angled selfie of you in the lab, elbow deep in repairs, completely taken on a whim while you were working late. I mean, it is your life after all: fixing shit and looking like a hot mess, pretty much 24/7. Might as well be honest about it.

You spare a peek back. The phone screen illuminates Namjoon’s glasses and you can see your first profile picture reflected there. Jimin leans in, resting his chin on Hoseok’s shoulder; you know your profile has his full attention. He’s pointing and saying something, but you can’t make it out. Your cheeks flare with heat; there’s no way your pictures would be up to his standards.

Jimin touches the screen and the reflection in Joon’s eyes changes. You’re suddenly positive all three photos are way shittier than you remember. You lean out further from behind the seat, eyes wide with drunken curiosity at the reaction. It’s like a fucking trainwreck and as bad as the damage is, you want to see it. You fucking have to.

You don’t need much light to notice the way Hoseok is positively beaming; at least he’s enjoying this. Fucker. Jimin darts his tongue out and you’re so focused on the path it traces around his mouth that you miss the way Namjoon sucks in a shallow breath and bites down. It’s only when you notice the absence of the reflection in his glasses with the tilt of his head, that you realize Joon is reacting at all. He leans down to get a better look, slowly letting his lip drag across his teeth. You freeze, shocked at the salacious response to whatever caught his eye. What the fuck? No way was that in response to anything you have up there. You swear to god if they got distracted and are using your phone to look at porn, you’re going to be pissed.

All three men have their fingers on the phone now, talking amongst themselves and leaning in towards the screen. You’re ready to fucking explode with curiosity. You face forward in a huff, knowing you can’t hear them right now, no matter how hard you try. As you turn towards the window, you drum your fingertips on your thighs to the rhythm of pop song on the radio, aching to end the boredom.

Again, your eyes lock onto Namjoon’s silhouette, desperate to glean some information from him. You take note of the swoop in his hair, how it falls over his eye and brushes against his cheek; despite how unkempt it is today, it still looks good, and you kind of hate him for it. When was the last time he cut his hair anyway? He usually didn’t allow it to grow this long. You pat your pockets in search of your phone, meaning to text him a snarky reminder when you realize it’s still in the boys’ possession. Ugh. The dissonance of the trio’s laughter is the one thing that carries clearly through the car. You slink down into your seat, waiting to arrive so you can get drunk enough to ignore the world.

Thankfully, the car pulls up before much longer and you desperately scramble out and beeline for the doors of the club, ignoring the way Namjoon is calling your name. Whatever he has to say can wait until you have a drink in your hand. The bouncer sizes you up as you present ID, and you offer a dorky smile as he stamps your hand; despite being in your mid 20s, you still never feel like you’re old enough to go to these places.

It doesn’t take long for you to circumvent the crowd to an empty seat at the bar. You slide the bartender Hoseok’s card, asking him to start a tab before ordering your usual. Resting your elbows on the bar allows you to prop your chin on the back of your hands as your eyes drift across the room.

You don’t see the others, but you know they’re definitely here. You can feel Kim Seokjin’s drunk hoe energy sparking throughout the club. Out of all the drunk hoes in the room, he was probably the drunkest--and at this point, the sluttiest. That was part of the beauty of Jin, though. He was always so considerate, so ready to help at the drop of a hat, even when there was no way he possibly could. But he was also the same broad-shouldered hunk that accidentally flashed his dick to everyone in the room while attempting a handstand the week after you met him. That was when you learned to love basketball shorts.

At first you thought him to be soft spoken and meek, but that wasn’t really his persona. He did his best not to be imposing or threatening; he wanted to be someone whom could earn your trust, someone you could come to for any problem whatsoever, and he definitely was. So level headed, so genuinely kind, he could heal any wound with his dumb jokes and affectionate hugs. You loved him for it. But as with any of the friends you cared for so greatly, there were layers to him. And one of those layers was being the biggest pervert and party boy you have ever met in your goddamn life. When the alcohol came out, the floodgates opened, and the pants came off. Maybe someday if you were brave enough to break the firewall, you could take advantage of that opportunity. Fat chance though; you were fully aware of your cowardice.

The Tequila Sunrise slides its way over to you and you grant the bartender a nod of approval as you take that first delicious sip. Gentle fingers sweep against the nape of your neck. Ready to kill, you round on the offender to find no one. Quickly turning to the other side, Namjoon is already sitting in the seat next to you, resting his cheek on his knuckles with a grin. Your eyes narrow before he says a word. He presents your phone and your greedy fingers snatch it up, spinning back to face your drink.

He leans in close and you find your shoulder and neck craning together to combat the hot breath that tickles your ear. “How come you didn’t tell me you were on Tinder?”

It’s hard to detect the nature of his tone over the thrum of a heavy bassline, and it’s dangerous to assume anything about Namjoon. You’d learned that his profession had given him a great amount of practice keeping himself composed in front of others if he chose to do so.

You quaff the beverage in response, keeping your eyes fixed on his. Your cheeks pucker in around the straw and the liquid quickly disappears.

He watches you expectantly, blinking a few times and raising his eyebrows. When he realizes you’re downing the whole thing to avoid the question, he leans in close enough to be sure you’ll hear the deep sigh that follows, “Ooh yeah. Suck it up baby. Suck it all up.”

You almost choke on the liquid and cough around the straw briefly before smacking your hand against the bar and continuing to drain the cup.

“Oh? Are you choking? Is it too much? Oh, that’s it, use your hand. Mmm. I love it when you choke, baby.” The way he tilts his head towards his shoulder as he provokes you sends a jolt of electricity through your spine.

Christ, Joon.

You loudly smack your lips as you finish the drink. Namjoon steals the cherry sitting on a mountain of ice and pops it into his mouth, letting the stem dangle out from between his lips. “Attagirl.”

“Nothing that a good suck can’t distract you from, huh?” Your lips curl into a smile as you notice the bartender making his way back over and you motion for another as you starting flipping your phone around in your hands.

“You gonna actually talk to me about it? Or would you rather me just... sex you up some more?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you and you can’t help but laugh. He has the strangest way of making you feel at ease, even when you’re ready to burst from anxiety.

You place your phone on the bar and blink at him a few times, noticing the stem still hanging from his mouth. “Hey, I was gonna eat that!”

“Your own cherry?” He winks, giving you a playful nudge with his elbow. “Impressive.”

You swirl the straw around the ice in the empty glass a few times. “I didn’t want you judging me for using a dating app.”

He sits back and crosses his arms. “Judging? I’m not judging.”

You spare a glance, catching a hint of the dark smugness there. “I see you with your judgy eyes! You’re doing it right now!”

He snorts and rests his elbows on the bar. “I’m not."

"Yeah, okay," you sneer, rolling your eyes. You flash a grin at the bartender as before taking a short sip.

"I just… want you to be safe." His muffled voice dies against his hands, completely lost to your ears in the music. He orders a shot of tequila before he turns his head towards you. "Hey, we worry about you is all."

"I can take care of myself," you challenge, eyes narrowed.

Namjoon is eying the cherry nested on the rim of the new glass. You're quick to suck it up before he can take a swipe at it, gasping as the fruit lodges itself in the back of your throat. You choke out a few coughs and fish for the stem, pulling it from your mouth entirely.

He's got an eyebrow raised as his shot is set before him. "And you wonder why we worry."

"Fuck off," you manage to sputter, eyes watering.

You drag the spit covered cherry back into your mouth, separating the stem with your teeth. Namjoon’s eyes drag over you in revulsion before turning his attention to the shot before him. He downs it with a quick shake of his head and snatches the orange slice from your glass to act as a chaser. Instinctually, you crinkle your nose at him and continue to siphon alcohol through your straw, placing the cherry stem on the napkin below your drink.

“Wait, where’s your stem?”

Namjoon’s jaw snaps shut and he raises his eyebrows. “Mmm?”

“The cherry stem,” you continue, a laugh bubbling in your throat. Namjoon shifts in his seat and you can’t help the cackle that escapes you. “You fucking ate it?”

He expels a puff of air as he tosses the rind on the bar, leftover juices making a small puddle on the countertop. “You know, guys aren’t gonna like it when you laugh like a witch. Might wanna stop that shit.”

“I’m not about to take advice from someone who doesn’t know how to clean up after himself. Case and point.” You pick up the orange peel and drop it on the napkin, wiping the area around your drink.

He blinks at you indignantly, “Wow.”

“Yeah, I call it like I see ‘em.”

You sip on the fruity beverage, focusing your attention to the phone on the bar for the first time since Namjoon had returned it to you. You swipe at the screen and are surprised to see everything is as you left it. There’s a red notification bubble on your messaging app and you’re drunkenly tonguing the straw as you open it, trying to remember why you’d leave it unread.

Joonie: DIRTY GIRL???? 😂

Ugh. Now you remembered. You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or the fact that you know he’s reading his own words over your shoulder, but your face is burning. “You know I was hoping that text would just disappear if I ignored it, but the notification was bothering me.”

He lets out an amused hum and cocks his head to the side, watching you swirl your tongue across the straw between sips. He slides you a glass of water that definitely wasn’t there before you started looking at your phone. “You’re gonna get sick if you keep drinking this fast.”

He’s right.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you spit, using your finger to push the water back towards him and start sucking on the straw with renewed vigor.

“Then don’t be dumb,” he answers simply. You can tell he’s annoyed by the way he pokes his tongue out over his top lip as he carefully glides the cup over to you.

When you tilt your head back to give him that incredulous look he hates so much, you feel the world spin a moment, causing you to blink a few times. As you look at the counter again, you realize the second tequila sunrise is half gone. You know he has a point, but your pride has already taken enough of a beating tonight that you’re not willing to concede.

Namjoon sighs as you sit there with your bottom lip protruding in a pout. He takes the straw from the alcoholic beverage and sets it in the water. You’re about to protest when an arm drapes around your shoulder and a familiar voice steals your attention.

“Ma’am is this man bothering you?”

You turn to see Seokjin wearing aviator sunglasses, two leis draped around his neck. You strain to keep your posture as Jin pulls you both close to his chest. What once resembled a hug had now become a sort of chokehold, pressing your cheeks partially against each other and partially into his sweat-soaked shirt.

“Yeah, officer, take him away,” you mumble, giving Jin two playful smacks on his jaw.

“Can’t you let me off with a warning?” Namjoon pleads, playing into it.

Jin loosens his grip, allowing you both to escape. He tilts his head forward, which pushes the glasses down the bridge of his nose. “Okay, but I hope you learned your lesson.”

Namjoon bows his head slightly. “Of course! Of course! Sorry, officer.”

You smirk at the display, absentmindedly sipping water through your straw.

Jin turns his attention towards you, a dark and wicked grin on his features. “Do you want to get laid, Y/N?”

The water nearly shoots out of your nose as you choke out a response, “J-Jin?”

You can see Namjoon snickering behind his hands. “Oh, she definitely does.”

Jin takes the pink chain of flowers from around his neck and drapes it over you with a nod of approval. “Ah! There! You are now,” he hiccups mid-word, “leid!”

You can’t help but laugh at his stupid joke. “I can always count on you, Jin.”

“Count on me? One, two, three. One, two, three.”

Confused, you watch him for a moment as he does a waltz by himself, which contrasts the heavy baseline of the current song.

“Join me, Y/N!” he calls, motioning for you to go to him with wide gestures. He begins to disappear into the crowd, accidentally smacking a few people as he goes.

You take the straw from the water and drop it back into the alcoholic beverage, rising from your seat, immediately wobbling. Namjoon’s arm is already out, looped around your waist in support before you fall. “I gotcha.”

The contact of his hand causes you to shiver, despite feeling incredibly warm. Your chin comes to rest on his shoulder as you exhale softly against his ear. The slurred pout that escapes you is dripping with sweetness. “Finish my drink for me, Joonie?”

He sighs loudly. “God, you’re gonna be so sick later, aren’t you?” He pauses to inspect you. “You good?” As you nod, you’re puffing your cheeks out like a child. He murmurs under his breath, “Okay, I’m not babysitting you this time. I’m not.”

The way his fingers slowly trail up your side and drift across your back cause your eyelids to flutter a moment. Not allowing yourself to linger on the sensation, you grab the glass of water and chug it down as fast as you possibly can. Water comes dribbling down from the rim onto your chest before you slam the empty glass down on the counter and tuck your phone into the top of your shirt, securing it beneath your bra.

Namjoon laughs, taking the straw out of the tequila sunrise before gulping it down. “You’re such a fuckin’ mess.”

You wipe a sleeve across your mouth, a wide grin left behind. “Takes one to know one.”

He shakes his head as you disappear into the crowd in search of Seokjin.

____

Hours had passed and you find yourself in the thrall of alcohol, dancing like an idiot with Jin for a good portion of it. He was just so goofy and fun; it was hard not to jump around with him, especially since he had gotten you leid. He had this weird way of making you forget about all the shitty parts of the week. You bobbed your heads together and threw your arms around one another, dancing ridiculously around a swarm of sweaty bodies.

Taehyung and Jungkook had been competing for the same girl’s attention, trying to outdo each other all night. Currently, they were sandwiching her between their pelvises, and it was obvious she was LIVING for it, milking the competition for all it was worth. You couldn’t help the envy coursing through your veins as you watched them grind her like coffee beans.

Yoongi had been busy drinking, disappearing upstairs with a couple of girls last you saw him. The few times you made your way back to the bar, Namjoon was nowhere to be found. That was fine by you, since you didn’t feel like getting yelled at for drinking more anyway. Hoseok was the life of the party, dancing his way around the club, a drink almost always in his hand. You haven't seen Jimin since the ride over, slightly disappointed by the lack of juicy booty in your life.

Your body is overheating and you wrench yourself away from your smiling friend, heading towards the doors for some air. You can’t pull the hoodie off your body fast enough as you reach the exit, tying it around your waist and letting your hair down. You sit alongside the curb, reveling in the temperature of the concrete.

“Fancy seeing you out here.” Your head snaps toward the voice to see the familiar blonde hair of Jimin in the moonlight. He grins as his dark eyes run across your now exposed torso. “Cooling off?”

You nod enthusiastically, exposing your neck to the brisk night air. You arch your back, chest rising higher than normal in an exaggerated stretch for his benefit. Alcohol had made you brave. Stupid, but brave nonetheless.

You hum in acknowledgement, your lips curling into a smile as you note the angle of his gaze. “Did you see what Tae and Kookie were doing to that girl?” You tug on your top, excessively fanning the air along the inside of the fabric, allowing a playful glimpse of the dark lace underneath. “Whew, way too hot for me. Got me a little dizzy.”

“Oh?” His body floats gracefully down, coming to rest beside you. The warmth radiating from his core immediately causes sweat to trail down the back of your neck. “You did have a lot to drink. Do you need some help standing? Do you want me to get you a ride?”

Yeah, get me a ride on that dick.

You feel yourself clench around nothing, despite knowing he’s being kind and trying to take care of you. You inhale deeply and shake your head, willing the thought away before giving it a chance to pass your lips. Letting the bravery take control for the short amount of time it’s available, you lean in and link arms, lightly tracing the denim with your other hand. “Mmm, I’m okay. I think I might just need a breather before going back in. The air feels so good right now.”

Jimin smiles softly and tilts his head down at you. “Any luck with tinder so far?”

You scoff, eyes scanning the cityscape for something else to focus on. “I’d be more successful finding a guy to grind on and take home with me tonight.”

He laughs. “I guess that’s true. Though I’m not surprised. Your photos suck.”

Your eyes snap to his face, immediately allowing the shame and disappointment course through your knotted brows and slack jaw. Fighting the surge of tears, your hands retract to hug your knees and find a building to focus on in the distance. “Not all of us can be models,” you huff, unable to hide the defensive nature of your tone.

He chokes out a laugh. “No no no no no, not like that. It’s so mean like that. I’m sorry. Hey, look at me.”

You chew on your bottom lip and do your best to keep your attention elsewhere. It’s not until a small, soft hand is tapping your shoulder that you turn back, eyes threatening to spill out at any moment.

“I meant to say… You're a lot prettier in real life,” he mumbles, the tinge of pink in his cheeks apparent even in such low light. “Your photos don’t show it well enough.”

You're not sure if you're hearing him correctly as your chest tightens and the blood rushes to your ears. But the shy smile growing across his face has you questioning your judgement. You wipe your eyes as tears inadvertently fall, unknowingly smearing the eyeliner and mascara across your face. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Of course I do. Ah?” He pauses a moment, registering the sight before him. “Oh nooooo. I made you cry?” It’s then that his eyes also begin to water. “I’m so sorry. You know I don’t like,” he can’t fight the sob that interrupts him, “to see you cry, Y/N.”

“Don’t you start crying, Jimin! You’re gonna make me...” The words are almost indiscernible as your voice raises two octaves. “...cry more...”

It’s too late; the tears are flowing freely down his cheeks and you can’t fight the way your eyes are stinging as your makeup runs into them. The alcohol has an iron-clad grip on both of you. He turns towards you, arms sloppily finding their way around your shoulders and knotting around your neck. You lean in towards him, pressing your forehead into his. Being this close and seeing how swollen and red his face is, you can’t help the wet snort that bubbles in your throat, allowing a giggle to escape.The more you try to stop, the more they keep coming.

He scoffs desperately as he looks at you through puffy, squinted eyes. “Why are you laughing at me? You’re being so mean!”

“I’m sorry! You’re just so drunk! It’s cute,” you try to explain between wheezes, tears still dribbling down your cheeks and across your nose.

“You’re more drunk than me!” he protests, unable to stop his own giggle as he runs his eyes across your bloated, streaky face.

“Now who’s the mean one?” you sniff and wipe at your face with the back of your hands, unable to ignore the black smears left behind. “Oh god. I’m a fuckin’ mess.”

You pull back from Jimin, eager to go find a mirror to fix your face. His arms, however, remain locked around your neck. Seeing you shift uncomfortably, he drops his hold on you. “You’re not a mess,” he whispers, tracing a thumb around your face and resting it on your chin. “You’re pretty.”

Your heart aches, body set ablaze and yearning to go in further, but you’re frozen in awe and fear of his beauty. The swelling in his face has already faded, the frown replaced with high cheekbones and a warm smile. Joon was supposed to help stop you from getting into situations like this, but right now you can’t tell if you’re upset or relieved he’s not here this time. Entranced by Jimin’s ethereal gaze, he draws you in --guiding you towards him with his thumb. You’re not sure if he’s pulling you or if you’re leaning into it; either way you’re fucking hammered and far beyond making sense of it. You close your eyes pause as your lips lightly brush his, feeling his hot breath mingling with yours, and again you find yourself stuck, trying to will your mouth forward just a bit more.

You both hold there, breathing, skimming your lips across one another without pressure, aching for him to just fucking do it already. You steal a glance through half-lidded eyes and see a cheshire grin overtake his features. He’s watching you, waiting for you to react. Mother. Fucking. Tease.

“Want to dance?” he asks, letting his lips graze yours ever so slightly, knowing full well his provocation is having the desired effect. The game of chicken will continue, even though you know you’re far too drunk to not cross the line.

You drop your face into the crook of his neck and groan. “Fuck you.”

“Careful, Y/N. It’s not nice to tease,” he laughs, patting the back of your head.

“Who says I’m teasing?” you challenge, pausing to purse your lips and read the reaction.

His eyebrows raise, a look of incredulity spreading across his features as he tilts his head back. “Aren’t you?”

Your fingers drift along his hair, lightly brushing his skin with the back of your palm. His tongue briefly darts out to wet his lips, curious about what you’re about to do. He sucks on the inside of his cheek, causing his mouth to bend into a lopsided smile. Letting yourself gravitate towards him, you stop just shy of his lips --a reciprocating action of what he had done to you earlier. “Let’s dance.”

Your sweaty bodies writhe in time with the rhythm of the base. You buck your hips against his pelvis and grind your ass back into him, intoxicated by the way he groans into the back of your neck. It’s hard not to notice the length pressing into your backside with each thrust and body roll. Every slight movement causes more and more heat to pool between your legs, craving a deeper grind, deeper satisfaction from the movements. Under normal circumstances, you would have been down-right embarrassed at the state of your panties, twisted up and soaked inside your jeans. But alcohol had given you stupidity and courage, and at least the temporary effect of not giving a flying fuck about how desperately you wanted to fuck Park Jimin tonight.

His hands roam across the curve of your torso, tracing the outer edge of your breasts before grasping your hips and pressing you further back towards him. You’re unsure whether this is torture of ecstasy for the both of you. Lost in the sway of his hips, you allow him to lead your motions, rolling your head back and seizing the side of his face with a curled palm. Before your brain can register what’s happening, Jimin drags his tongue across your neck, tracing a line around your jaw before returning to the crook and lightly dragging the flesh through his teeth. Your pussy clenches around nothing as he latches onto your neck, tonguing and sucking the sensitive skin while relentlessly grinding into you from behind. You let out a loud moan that gets lost in the sound of music.

The reward of a needy purr from Jimin vibrates through your neck and raises goosebumps across your chest; despite the heat radiating from your body and the disgusting amount of sweat coating your skin, he has a way of bringing that electric chill through you. A playful bite on your earlobe has you weak, his heavy breaths the only sound you can focus on as he lingers there. You want to turn your face to his, to taste those delicious, plump lips. But the sound of him desperately panting into your ear has you hypnotized, with your dripping pussy aching to grip the cock at your backside. You’re so caught up in each other that the music might as well be white noise, the other patrons merely shadows moving too fast to perceive.

You clutch at his thighs and your back arches up, leaning on him for support as you roll your body in time with his. He releases a sigh against you --and with it a distraught curse that’s so soft you almost miss it. “...fuck…” You’re in disbelief at the sound, and panting like a bitch in heat to match his frenzied breaths. His arms trace up your body again and latch around you possessively, as if to pull you impossibly closer.

He claps one hand to your hip while the other is splayed across your chest, heaving with the movement of your bodies. Before you have a chance to mentally quell the new tidal wave forming in your panties, Jimin dips his hand beneath the fabric of your shirt, allowing it to roam freely across your abdomen; the skin-on-skin contact is enough to make sure that later on when you’re peeling away your sticky panties and throwing them out, you have to throw away the jeans too.

You want to stop yourself, but your starved pussy advises otherwise. You look back to meet his gaze, breathless smile matching your own. You knot your fingers in his hair before closing in on his lips. Fingernails dig into your belly as the greedy kiss consumes your air. Sloppy tongues roam over each other and you turn back towards him, allowing yourself to drag his lower lip through your teeth and slowly let it snap back to him. He doesn’t hesitate to quickly relieve the space between you again, hungrily chasing your lips when you attempt to tease him.

While you feel up his chest with impatient hands, he wastes no time in wedging a thigh between your legs and grinding up into your crotch, causing a fevered moan to escape between parted lips for a fraction of a second before your mouths are crashing down once again. You’re in a state of euphoria as you roll your hips down, grinding your clit into his thigh and drinking in a slew of wet kisses.

You have to take a moment to allow oxygen to fill your burning lungs, but you use the opportunity to lathe your tongue along his jawline, wanting to taste all of him. All you can taste is salty sweat. You don’t know what you expected.

___

Namjoon had been watching from across the bar for some time. He kept telling himself it was creepy to just keep staring like this --and that he should stop-- but he couldn’t seem to focus on anything else. He kept telling himself this was fine; it was what you had said you wanted after all. Firewalls be damned. You wanted him to let you break the rules: you had always joked about it, but he knew you were one hundred percent serious if he’d never stop you.

After seeing your prospects and dating profile… well maybe you could use someone who could make you feel good. And who was he to keep stopping you? Granted, you had asked Namjoon to step in and stop you from breaking the group dynamic, but this was different, wasn’t it? You needed to get laid, and you already liked him. Jimin was perfect. He could give you the raw emotion you needed to see in someone else. He would laugh at your stupid jokes and tell you how impressive you were for doing your job. He could give you the fulfilling sex it was obvious you were craving. He would talk you up and treat you the way you deserved, inside and out. He’d regard you as a princess and fall head over heels for you. You’d be so happy.

As your best friend, Namjoon wanted you to be happy. So why did it feel so bad to see finally unfolding like this?

“Wow, they’re really going at it huh?”

Namjoon jumps back a bit in surprise. He was so busy doing the spying that he never thought someone would be paying much attention to him. Hoseok stands a few feet away, leaning against the bar and sipping on a drink as his eyes fix on the way you and Jimin seemed to become one blurry form, chests rising and falling together.

“Who?” Namjoon pretends to squint into the crowd, as if his eyes weren’t glued to your form for the better part of an hour.

Hoseok sets his drink down on the bar, giving Namjoon a stern look. “Really?”

Namjoon returns the stare, blinking a few times and pursing his lips innocently.

“You know, you could just tell her.” Hoseok rolls his eyes hard and starts cleaning underneath one of his fingernails.

“Tell? Tell who? What’s there to tell?” Suddenly Namjoon is as cool as can be, hiding behind a stoic mask.

Hoseok finds Namjoon’s shoulders, gripping them tightly. “You go up to her just like this and you say ‘Y/N, I need to talk to you about something.’”

Namjoon scoffs. “Come on, man. Don’t be weird.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll let you be you. Pretend I am her. Come on.” Hoseok clears his throat before getting as high pitched as he can. “J-joonie, why do you need to talk to me?”

Namjoon lets out a soft chuckle as he keeps his eyes trained on the dance floor to make sure you’re still there, even though each touch you share with Jimin causes a pang of hurt to run deep through his belly. “Because… I need you to know I care about you.”

Hoseok drops to his normal tone. “Oh shit. Okay direct. I like it. Oh? So why do you send me to Jimin’s arms?”

“Because he can be better for you than I can,” he responds absentmindedly as he watches you crane your neck towards the ceiling, exposing the skin for Jimin to pepper kisses along, to which he readily obliges.

Hoseok gives a slap to Namjoon’s face, causing the man to rub his cheek in disbelief and regain his attention. “No! You stop that. You’re perfect!” He clears his throat and goes high pitched again.“You could be my tall man, Joonie.”

Namjoon can’t help but laugh. “Why the hell am I playing along with this?”

“Because you looooove me. Say it.” Hoseok raises his eyebrows, shit-eating grin strewn across his face, which causes Namjoon to pause.

“I don’t ...Ah…” he starts, eyes drifting back to Jimin pulling the hair from your face. He tugs at the lei around your neck, bringing you down low enough to meet his lips. Again the bite of jealousy stings Namjoon, posture stiffening and voice firm. “It’s not like that.”

Hoseok drops the charade and allows his drink to dribble back into his glass in order to interrupt. “Like hell it ain’t! Don’t even play, Joon. You can’t even keep your eyes on me when I’m pretending to be her, not when you know she’s over there with her tongue down Jimin’s throat.”

Namjoon’s eyes dart back to Hoseok, defense faltering with the crack in his voice. “I don’t love her.”

“Yeah, okay. And I don’t love pussy,” he mumbles; the caustic statement deafened by the liquid hitting his tongue.

Namjoon clears his throat, gesturing towards the dancefloor. “Don’t you think she looks happy?”

“I think she looks drunk,” he answers with a shrug, cocking his head to the side when he sees the way you’re sliding your hand along Jimin’s pants. “...And horny! Whew! You sure it was a good idea to let them go at it? I can cockblock if you want.”

A conflicted groan lingers in Namjoon’s throat as he shakes his head. “...No. I just need to not be bothered by this whole Tinder thing. She wants to get laid. Let her get laid by someone we trust.”

Hoseok opens his mouth, but promptly shuts it before taking another sip from his drink. “It’s been over a year and you still haven’t done anything about how you feel. Of course it’s going to bother you.” He whistles, watching you and Jimin both teasingly tug on each other’s shirts. “Especially since they’re not going to make it back to his apartment at this rate.”

Namjoon knows he’s right as he watches you claw Jimin’s bare shoulder in response to the blonde burying his face in your chest. He also knows that very drunk you is about to make the mistake of fucking a very drunk Jimin in the bathroom and you’re both probably going to be crying about it later. Jimin would cry because he wouldn’t have been able to give you his best, questioning whether you actually enjoyed it or not-- that and not being able to see your tits because he’d undoubtedly be fucking you from behind-- and Joon would have to hear all about it. You’d be crying because you’d fucked Park Jimin in a bathroom stall like a cheap whore instead of fucking Park Jimin in his bed like a reasonably-priced whore. And again, Joon would have to hear all about it.

Or worse. You’d be going down on him, and gag all over his dick. With how much you’d been drinking, it seemed plausible. You both would cry to him for sure. But what if both of these drunken messes somehow had the most mind-blowing sex and wouldn’t fucking shut up about it? Or worse, they’d do it again and again, leaving his mind to constantly think about how Jimin would make love to you in ways that Namjoon had been aching to for ages. He hadn’t thought it through. It was going to drive him crazy no matter the direction the night took.

Hoseok must have been watching the mental gymnastics going on, because he pounds the rest of his drink and rubs his hands together. “Showtime.”

#bts fic #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #namjoon x reader #ot7 x reader #bts #bts au #bts scenario #series: love bytes #fic: love bytes #jimin x reader #namjoon fanfic #ot7 fanfic #jimin smut

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 years ago

Text

Baby You Were My Picket Fence [Chapter 6: Have You Ever Seen The Rain]

You are a first grade teacher in sunny Los Angeles, California. Ben Hardy is the father of your most challenging student. Things quickly get complicated in this unconventional love story.

Song inspiration: Miss Missing You by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (not smutty).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing) HERE

Taglist: @blushingwueen @queen-turtle-boiii @everybodyplaythegame @onceuponadetectivedemigod @luvborhap @sincereleygmg @stormtrprinstilettos @loveandbeloved29 @ohtheseboysilove @jennyggggrrr @vanitysfairr @bramblesforbreakfast @radiob-l-a-hblah @xox-talia-xox @killer-queen-xo @caborhapch @kimmietea @asquiresofftime @hardzzellos @sleepretreat @ramibaby @jonesyaddiction @ixchel-9275 @omgitsearly @lovepizza-cake11 @deacy-dearest @shishterfackisback @mrbenhardys @deaky-with-a-c If I forgot anyone, please yell at me :)

Something’s wrong.

You know that even before you open your eyes; the house is far too quiet, too still. Dazedly, blinking in the sharp early morning light, you unravel from the tangle of blankets and couch cushions, pushing yourself up with your palms. Your thoughts are misted and clunky, like stumbling through a dark room.

Why am I on the couch?

Oh right, because your bed is littered with the kids’ science projects, because you and Ben had been in too much of a hurry to carefully relocate them, and so the couch was the next best thing; and you had both laughed about that—red-faced and gasping in each other’s arms, Ben pinning your wrists above your head against the hallway wall, his teeth grazing your throat—about how one can’t simply tell a first grader: So sorry Winston, your meticulously-done collage on marine mammals suffered a terrible accident but it was all for a good cause, Miss Teacher got LAID!

But there’s no uninhibited laughter echoing through your hallway now. You peer blearily around the living room: papers and plants and books stacked on every surface, seashells and pebbles scattered on windowsills and shelfs. There’s no sign of Ben. You drag your iPhone off the coffee table. It’s 6:57 a.m., three minutes before your alarm is due to ring. With a few inartful swipes of your thumb, you’ve disarmed it. And there’s something else: no calls, no texts, resounding radio silence.

Your bare feet hit the rug, visions from the night before flaring through your mind like flashbang grenades: Ben pushing your thighs apart with smooth seeking palms, your fingernails biting into his back and shoulder blades, your taste dripping from his tongue; flesh and heat and passion and inexplicable ease, like sinking into a dream; tumbling into sleep with your face buried in his chest. You remember what he asked you—“Don’t you want to look at me?”—once all his clothes were wrenched away, his voice heavy with resignation, as if every encounter of his life would be tinged with the menace of stardom, of crash diets and five-hour workouts, of worth being measured in landed roles and muscle definition. And he smiled when you answered, your fingertips resting against his cheeks, your eyes not tearing from his: “I am.”

You soar through the living room and to the kitchen window. Ben’s black Lexus—which he’d left in your driveway before you both caught an Uber to the club—is gone. He’s gone.

“Oh no,” you breathe, without knowing exactly what you’re feeling; it’s some breed of deep, instinctual trepidation. Is this bad? Is this normal? He’s a busy guy, after all; movie stars live whirlwind existences. You know that Ben’s mom was watching Eli; maybe Ben hurried home to take him to school. You stare at the phone still in your hands. Should you text him? No; Ben never texts you, only calls. Should you call him? Is that desperate, is that weird? Goddammit daddy demon, I didn’t realize I’d need a fucking instruction manual for the morning after.

And then you turn and see the refrigerator. The magnets spell this: I’m sorry.

Cold confusion and dread roll down your spine. Sorry? Sorry for what? Sorry for leaving without saying goodbye? Sorry for the earth-shatteringly brilliant sex that undoubtedly ruined every other potential romantic interest on earth for me? Sorry for the multiple orgasms? Sorry for WHAT?

“This is fucking textbook demon behavior,” you say to your empty house. The plants and painted walls and vinyl records have no wise words to offer whatsoever.

What did I do wrong?

It’s 7 a.m., and rays of sunlight are pouring through the kitchen window. Birds are chirping carelessly in the trees outside. If you don’t start getting ready now, you’ll be late for school. And the kids are expecting thoughtfully-coordinated accessories.

You piece yourself together, your eyes infuriatingly transfixed by your persistently soundless, unilluminated phone.

~~~~~~~~~~

The class is clamoring in “eww!”s and “cool!”s, elbow-deep in loose, sifting soil. You’re on your hands and knees next to them in the Dolphin Cove Elementary School garden, surrounded by herbs and sprouting fall vegetables, pumpkins and beets and carrots and cabbages.

“There are worms,” Maisy moans, her lips quivering.

“Yes,” you concede, “but worms are friends to the garden! Worms help our vegetables grow.”

“Really?” Winston asks, his forehead crinkled with skepticism. Rachel Lynn, a prissy little thing who’s already in training to be a fourth-generation trophy wife, frowns and wipes her hands on her pink skirt.

“Worms are the best!” you gush enthusiastically. “Worms dig tunnels that help air and water enter the soil, and they eat up all the dead stuff, and they even make natural fertilizer—”

“With their poop!” Brayden shouts, and all the students burst out laughing.

You smile. “That’s right, Brayden.” Then you scan the group until you’ve found Eli. He’s painstakingly collecting worms; as you watch, he plops a seventh into his open palm. Then he begins creeping towards Rachel Lynn, whose back is to him. You stand and prop your hands on your hips. “Eli, dearest?”

He freezes, his fingers pinching a wriggling worm. “Yes, Miss Teacher?” He almost always refuses to use your name.

“What are you planning to do with those?”

“Uhhh...” His eyes flick to Rachel Lynn, to the worms, to you, back to Rachel Lynn.

“Gross!” she screeches.

If he starts flinging worms at future Miss America, her mother will flay me alive.

“Eli,” you say calmly. “Worms are happiest when they’re in the dirt. And they can’t help the garden grow if they’re in our hands. Maybe you could do the worms a favor and find a nice soft patch of soil for them to live in?”

For a long time, Eli just glares at you; you’re enmeshed in the world’s fiercest standoff with a six-year-old. After what feels like an eternity, he tilts his hand and the worms somersault to the earth. The muscles that have tensed all across your body release like cut strings.

“Thank you, Eli. Now, who wants to try a carrot?!”

“Me me me!” the kids bellow, leaping up and down.

You dig a few ripe carrots out of the ground, wash them off with water from the purple-painted hand pump, and start distributing pieces to the students.

“Are these organic?” Frances sniffs disdainfully. “My mom says I can only eat organic vegetables.”

“Yes, Frances. They’re organic.”

“Can I have some hand sanitizer?” Rachel Lynn asks.

You sigh. “There’s some in my teacher bag, dear. Help yourself.”

“What’s this?” Kayden inquires, tugging a leaf of basil off the stem. He mashes it against his knuckles as Brayden and Brendyn look on. “It smells like pizza!”

“Awesome job, Kayden! That’s basil. It’s an herb that’s used in tomato sauce, so it might remind you of pizza or pasta dishes, like spaghetti.”

“My mom makes spaghetti sometimes,” Eli says softly, and your mind goes utterly blank, like a chalkboard wiped clean, like a starless sky.

You turn to him, trying not to betray shock. So she’s not ENTIRELY out of the picture. What does that mean? You’ve tried Googling Ben, of course; but his low-profile initiative appears to be almost ludicrously successful. There are a few red carpet photos of him posing with assorted models, but no information about ex-wives or girlfriends. There’s barely even any digital footprint for Eli. Wikipedia knows that Ben has a young son, but not his name or birthdate. Who is she, Eli? What did she do to you both? You sputter haltingly: “And...do you...like when your mom makes spaghetti...?”

Eli nods, but he seems troubled. You swiftly pivot topics.

“How about pizza, Eli? Do you like pizza?”

“Yeah,” he answers, grinning now. “Especially pepperoni.”

“Good taste, kiddo. Me too.” And he peers up at you through curly russet hair with something like gratefulness. Your dad and I are going to have a lot to talk about if he ever stops ghosting me, demon kid.

After science it’s time for math, and then lunch, and then recess. You check your phone once you’ve walked the kids to gym class, and there’s a blessedly welcome notification on your screen. “Oh thank god,” you murmur, and then listen to the new voicemail.

“Hi, it’s me. Ben. Daddy demon.” His voice is as it always is: deep, reverberating, warm like an open flame. “Sorry for rushing off this morning, I had a...a work thing. But I miss you already. Hope you’re having a good day and my kid isn’t making you want to jump off a cliff. Eli mentioned being excited about gardening. Watch out for his worm obsession. Anyway, give me a call when you get home. Okay, talk to you soon. I love you. Bye.” And then: “Oh fuck. I didn’t mean to say that. I mean, I meant it, but I didn’t mean to say it over the phone the first time, and I...fuck. Bloody hell. Just call me. Okay, bye. Love you. Bye.”

Your lips curl up at the edges, the relief flooding through you like frothing waves, like birds taking flight. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to worry about him being a good guy. “I love you too, Ben Hardy,” you whisper.

There are clicks of high heels out in the hall, and then Sasha appears in your classroom doorway. The third graders are with the librarian. “Hey, babygirl.” Sasha is tall and willowy, with immaculate sienna skin and a massive cloud of inky ringlets. She’s wearing a loud orange dress with golden geometric patterns.

“Hi, Sasha! Come on over.”

She tiptoes into the room, weaving between desks as you dish out fresh alfalfa pellets for Creampuff. “So...have you heard from daddy demon yet? Or do I need to figure out if Vice Principal Lucetti has some Italian mafia connections we can exploit?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. Your earrings jangle against your neck. “No need for daddy demon to sleep with the fishes. He left a voicemail.”

“How 1990s.”

“We like old-fashioned things.”

Sasha slips into a student desk and grins salaciously, her black eyes glittering. “How was it?”

You collapse into your plushy rolling chair and spin around once, then set your elbows on the desk and rest your chin on the back of your hands. You sigh dreamily as a response.

Sasha gasps, covering her mouth with long elegant fingers, her eyebrows raised. “That good, huh?”

“He’s amazing, Sasha.”

“Well I want details. Not now, of course, not here. But soon. Maybe this weekend? Do you have plans?”

You think of Joe’s promise to teach you how to play baseball, of your phone call with Ben in the not-too-distant future. “Nothing set in stone yet, but I suspect my schedule will fill up. I’ll reserve Sunday brunch for you.”

“You are a treasure.” Sasha stands and smooths her dress. “How was the garden lesson?”

“It went swimmingly until Eli hurled a cabbage at Brayden’s head. His hand-eye coordination is terrible, fortunately.”

“Demon kid strikes again!”

“I think we’re making progress.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.” You smile faintly. “Slow and steady, but we’ll get there.”

“I believe in you, lady. Hang tough.” Sasha strolls to the doorway, then pauses and turns back around. She points to your earrings. “Those are cute. What are they?”

“Oh.” You touch them. “Thank you! Megalodons.”

She laughs. “You’re a trip, Y/N. See you soon.”

“Bye, lovely.”

You spin in your chair, tapping a pencil absentmindedly against your lips, wondering if it’s possible to sieve everything you’ve felt in the past three weeks into words: shock, apprehension, bliss, recognition, homecoming. And who knows how much more you’ll have to tell by Sunday.

Reading and writing pass uneventfully, and the kids perform adequately on their weekly spelling tests; not a single one bungles the word throw. When the time comes you herd the students out to the pickup area under a clear, sweltering sky. The sun is so bright it hurts to glance towards the West. You watch as Eli disappears into an SUV driven by a neatly-dressed, middle-aged blond woman who must be Ben’s mother. You wave as Eli peeks through the tinted windows, and after a moment of hesitation he lifts a hand in reply.

Fifteen minutes later you’re barreling down the highway with your windows down, wind whipping your hair, singing along to AC/DC’s Back in Black album. When you’re a few blocks from home, you swing by Trader Joe’s to peruse the sushi selection, then unwittingly end up with a cart full of cookies and gourmet ice cream. “Freaking...delicious...reasonably-priced...organic dessert items,” you mutter as you stroll through the aisles. Frances’ crunchy granola mom would be proud.

As you finally arrive in the fresh produce section, your eyes catch on a familiar silhouette like fabric snagged on a nail. It’s Ben. He’s standing in front of a vegetable display, turning a green pepper over in his sturdy fingers, examining it like a foreign language. And he looks so perfectly ordinary, so domestic; you can imagine dicing peppers and onions with him in your tiny unremarkable kitchen, sizzling chicken or shrimp in a skillet, warming corn tortillas on the stovetop. You can imagine living every gloriously commonplace sliver of life with him.

“Hi, Mr. Hardy,” you tease as you approach.

He whirls and spots you, and for the second time today you know something is wrong; because Ben doesn’t smile, he doesn’t look happy to see you, he looks stunned and horrified and haunted. The pepper drops out of his grasp and rolls across the floor until it comes to rest under an elderly lady’s shopping cart. His jaw is hanging open like an unhinged door.

“What...?” The words catch in your throat, burn there, disappear completely.

A woman appears at Ben’s side carrying a small plastic tub in each hand. “Hey, remind me, is Eli obsessed with the edamame hummus or the roasted red pepper...?”

She’s Eli’s mother, she has to be, she looks just like him: flawless olive skin, voluminous dark curly hair, eyes like the Pacific Ocean. She’s Italian or Greek or Portuguese, a jewel mined from the salted cliffs of the Mediterranean, an idol ripped out of the pages of myths, Artemis or Aphrodite or Venus or Diana. On her left hand is a ring with a dazzling stone only slightly smaller than the Hope Diamond.

She spies you and recoils, blinking. “Hello...?”

“I’m so sorry,” you stammer. “Hi, hello, I’m Miss Y/L/N, Eli’s first grade teacher, and you...” You point to the woman, to her expensive red dress, to her faultless body. “You must be his mother.”

She’s wearing a ring.

Ben isn’t looking at you, at either of you; his eyes are cast upwards, towards a mural of the ocean shoreline painted on the store wall. He’s biting his lower lip and shaking his head so subtly it’s almost imperceivable. The expression on his face is disbelief, and mourning, and unfathomable rage.

Why is she wearing a ring.

“Yes, that’s me, I’m his mom!” the goddess chimes, beaming, her sapphire eyes flashing like blades. And suddenly, you know exactly what she is going to say. The sound blaring through your skull is like fingernails raking a chalkboard, like a scratched record, like a scream. “And Ben’s fiancée.”

#ben hardy #ben jones #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy fic #borhap fic #borhap imagine #borhap #bywmpf #baby you were my picket fence #baby you were my picket fence series

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etherealwaifgoddess · 5 years ago

Text

Maybe I Am? - Chpt.1

Characters: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Summary: After meeting in a chatroom Steve and Bucky finally meet up in real life, however Bucky isn’t anything Steve was expecting. Master list HERE.

Content Warning: a very confused Steve, an adorably disappointed Bucky.

Word Count: 3.1k

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! One of my favorite versions of Steve is the sweet confused Steve, and so I decided to have a little fun with him in this fic. Also, Steve Rogers is a Slytherin and I will fight ya’ll to the death on that one. If you don’t believe me read #10 in THIS article. There will be six chapters total, one posted every evening until we’re done. Hope you enjoy! XOXO - Ash

Chapter One

Bucky stared at Alpine, desperate for more companionship than the fluffy white cat could provide. He’d been stuck inside for the past four days while he got over the damned late winter cold he’d caught. Bucky hadn’t been sick in almost two years so he couldn’t really complain, but he was social by nature and Alpine could only do so much for her end of the conversation. He finally drug himself out of bed, carrying his fluffy duvet to the sofa with him so he could throw on a rerun of The Good Place and fire up his laptop. Bucky logged into the chat site he used to frequent that hosted discussions on all different fandoms from movies to television shows to music. He used to love hanging out online in some of the Harry Potter chats, especially HuffleHaven which he was pleased to see was still active. Bored and not really feeling up to fangirling at a level appropriate for a proud Hufflepuff, he hopped into a punk rock appreciation chat to hopefully find a way out of his bored funk.

WinterBae: so ur a Greenday fan?

AmericanIdiot: What was your first clue?

WinterBae: well i heard the sounds of hysteria

AmericanIdiot: LOL nice. Is that your cat in the profile pic?

WinterBae: yuppp, that’s my girl Alpine

AmericanIdiot: She looks sweet. So, what fandom are you here for?

Bucky flicked over to view AmericanIdiot’s profile and was instantly smitten with the blonde who claimed punk rock was life and he could live on tacos alone if given the chance. He wondered briefly if the pic was real, it wasn’t unheard of for people to use model’s photos instead of their own, and the guy in AmericanIdiot’s picture was definitely model worthy. Tall, buff, and gorgeous; Bucky was definitely interested in more than conversation. Well, nothing to make himself feel better than a little harmless flirting.

xxXxx

Three months later.

AmericanIdiot: I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.

WinterBae: oh come on! it’s not that bad, just let the hat sort you and i’ll let you retreat to your boring punk rock group.

AmericanIdiot: You so owe me for this one.

WinterBae: puhleeeease please please please

AmericanIdiot: FINE. But you still owe me.

WinterBae: whatever you want. Promise :D

[Private Chat Initiated]

AmericanIdiot: Well shit.

WinterBae: was i right??

AmericanIdiot: I hate you.

WinterBae: nope, u luv me. and i told u so ;)

AmericanIdiot: How in the ever loving fuck am I a Slytherin?? I literally help my neighbor with her grocery bags every week! I feel like a puppy kicker now.

WinterBae: the hat sees inside ur soul puppy kicker mwahaha

AmericanIdiot: You totally owe me.

WinterBae: fine. coffee? sunday morning maybe? r u near red hook?

AmericanIdiot: I’m over in Park Slope. So not too far. Wait, are you serious? You really want to meet up?

WinterBae: let’s meet @ magnolia cafe 10am on sunday

AmericanIdiot: But how will I know it’s you?

WinterBae: i’ll wear a red rose tucked in my hair. cuz i’m classy like that lol

AmericanIdiot: Haha. Nice. I can’t wait.

WinterBae: me too :)

Steve closed the lid of his laptop, unable to believe his luck. He was finally going to meet WinterBae in real life after months of witty banter and playful flirting. He pulled on his sneakers, ready to go run out all the nervous energy thrumming inside him, and he hoped he wasn’t getting his hopes too high. Sam had already pointed out several times that he didn’t know a whole lot about WinterBae, not even what she really looked like. Steve maintained he wasn’t shallow and he knew enough about her to know that she was everything he’d hoped to find in a woman. She was bright and funny, kept him on his toes for sure, and had a biting wit that left him laughing harder than he had in years. Steve had been so lonely since Peggy up and left him, moving back to England after eight months of living together. He was finally ready to move on and he hoped WinterBae would be the one to do that with.

Across the bustling streets of Brooklyn, in his little apartment in Red Hook, Bucky was rapid fire texting Nat about his date. She cheered him on good naturedly, happy he was actually putting himself back out there after the disaster that was Brock Rumlow. Bucky was proud that he’d been so smooth in asking AmericanIdiot to meet up, or at least smooth by his own nerdy standards. He reminded himself several times that even if the profile pic wasn’t really AmericanIdiot, he would most likely still be interested. How could he not be after spending the past three months talking to the guy every day? They talked about everything together and Bucky felt like he knew AmericanIdiot better than some of his real life friends. Two more days and he would have a name and a face to put with the amazing, brilliant, artistic guy he was completely head over heels for. Now he just had to figure out where to buy a red rose.

xxXxx

Bucky sat at a small cafe table inside Magnolia Cafe, trying not to fidget with the rose tucked behind his ear. He felt a little silly for wearing it, but also kind of like he was in a romance novel waiting to meet his knight in shining armor. He had worn his very best skinny jeans and a black button up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, leaving his assortment of bracelets on display. He wasn’t getting his hopes up, but damned if he wasn’t going to look his best just in case. Nat had insisted on going along, wanting to make sure Bucky’s online friend wasn’t some kind of creeper. The fierce redhead sat a few tables away, poised and ready to strike should the guy make any untoward moves. Bucky loved how protective Nat was, though honestly she was a bit terrifying at times. So he waited, scrolling through Buzzfeed News, hoping that maybe this once luck would be on his side.

Steve was so nervous he was sweating a little by the time he got to the cafe. He wiped his palms on the side of his tee shirt, wondering belatedly if he should have put in a little more effort. All he had was work clothes anymore, even the navy tee he had on was emblazoned with their star logo and the name of their gym underneath. Paired with the only jeans he owned and a lightweight leather jacket, he hoped he would make a good first impression. WinterBae had mentioned being into fashion but Steve had never had an eye for that sort of thing. Nerves rising, Steve hoped he would be able to find WinterBae easily. He knew only that she would have a red rose tucked in her hair, and from a brief mention a few weeks ago about haircuts, he knew to expect shoulder length wavy brown hair. But that was it. Steve reminded himself that he needed to go into this with open eyes, if nothing else he would walk away with a new friend. Someone other than Sam to hang out with, somewhere other than the gym they co-owned. Deep down though, he still hoped for more.

The cafe was dimly lit inside and it took Steve a minute to let his eyes adjust. He scanned the room quickly, taking note of all the women sitting at various tables. Most were with other people, leaving only four on their own, but try as he might he couldn’t spot red roses on any of them. He felt a pang of disappointment but prayed he was just early and not being stood up. He was about to go order himself an Americano to sip while he waited when he heard a rough, masculine voice call out “AmericanIdiot?” in a tone tinged with awe.

Steve turned in the direction of the voice to see a man about his age with a red rose tucked into his shoulder length wavy brown hair. His mouth moved while his brain reeled, “WinterBae?”

“Yeah! Hey!” Bucky felt like he was vibrating out of his skin; he was so thrilled. The blonde god standing in front of him really was the man from the picture, and he looked even better in real life, if that was possible. Brilliant, sweet, and hot. Bucky had hit the jackpot.

Steve let himself be pulled into a warm hug, the man was a few inches shorter than his own 6’2” and fit nicely against his chest. The man. WinterBae was a man. Steve replayed all of their conversations in his head and kept coming up with the same assumption. Steve had never once in a million years thought he was a man. He supposed in retrospect that having a female best friend, a love of clothes, and a cat he called a “fur baby” was not necessarily concrete signs of being a woman, but damned if Steve had even thought twice about WinterBae’s gender. He forced himself to return the hug, happy to meet a new friend, even though his heart was crushed under the disappointment that nothing more would be coming of this meeting.

“I’m so glad you made it.” Bucky told him as they pulled apart.

“Of course. Gotta get my cup of coffee for being tortured by a magical hat.”

Bucky laughed, a rich rumbling sound, “Yeah, a Slytherin would never pass up the opportunity to benefit off the kindness of others.”

“Well at least your poor little Huffle-brain won’t realize what’s going on.”

“Ouch, punk. Those are some strong words from someone who watched Sorcerer's Stone for the first time less than a month ago.”

“It’s your fault I did too, jerk. Uh, you can call me Steve by the way.”

“Steve, nice. It suits you. I’m Bucky. Well, James, but everyone calls me Bucky.”

“Now that’s a story I have to hear.” Steve said with a laugh and let Bucky lead him over to the line for his drink.

They ended up spending two and a half hours talking at their little table at the cafe. Coffee turned into a muffin to split, which turned into a panini and iced teas for both of them. Steve couldn’t remember the last time conversation flowed so easily with someone. Talking to Bucky felt like they had been best friends for years opposed to only knowing each other a few months. They topic hopped relentlessly, never losing each other along the way. Steve found himself laughing so hard his ribs hurt when Bucky spoke about one of his teenage misadventures with his sister Becca.

Bucky was very clearly flirting by the time they finished their lunch; shooting Steve sweet little smiles every so often and pushing his hair back behind his ear coyly. Steve knew he should put the breaks on the flirting, he didn’t want to lead Bucky on, but it was so much easier to just smile along with him. In his thirty years of life, Steve had never once questioned his sexuality. Men had never held any attraction for him, but something about the way Bucky chewed on his bottom lip, the tiny tip of his pink tongue peeking out, had part of Steve wanting to taste that lip himself.

With a cough, Steve shook his head, trying to clear his unexpected wayward thoughts. “I’m sorry, I missed that.” he prompted.

Bucky titled his head slightly with a lopsided smile, “It’s okay. I was just saying that my sister was the one who gave me the courage to come out to my parents. She came out first and seeing how my parents reacted made it a lot easier for me to. She was only 15 at the time, but she always has been a hell of a lot braver than I am.”

“I doubt that. But that’s great you guys are so close.”

“Yeah, she’s been my best friend since the day she was born. Well, other than Nat, but don’t tell her that.” Bucky chuckled thinking back on the loving bickering Becca and Nat used to do when they were younger. “So how did you come out to your parents?”

Steve wanted to die on the spot. A bright blush tinged his cheeks, staining his pale skin all the way down his neck. “I, uh. Well. I’m not. Um. I didn’t, actually. Because I’m not, um, gay.” Please god, let the ground open up and swallow me whole, he prayed silently, unable to meet Bucky’s eyes.

The smile Bucky had worn, waiting for what he thought must have been one hell of a story based on Steve's blush, completely vanished. Along with all his foolish daydreams of dating someone as amazing as Steve. “Oh. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.” he finally choked out semi-normal sounding.

“No, it’s my fault.” Steve hastily protested, “We talked so much online and I didn’t realize you were a man.” The wide eyed shock on Bucky’s face made Steve realize he hadn’t made things any better.

“Wait, what? You thought I was a woman?” Bucky asked incredulously.

“Well, yeah. Nothing about your profile or our conversations were very clear and I guess I just somehow jumped to the conclusion that you were. I’m sorry, Bucky.”

Disappointed but not wanting to miss out on a great friendship Bucky forced himself to smile reassuringly at Steve. “It’s okay. No harm done. So you're straight then?”

“I think so.”

That did not help things. “That’s kinda something you know.”

“Yeah, I thought so too. I like talking to you though. A lot.” Bucky was looking at him like he had three heads and Steve just wanted to crawl home and die of embarrassment.

“Okay. I like talking to you a lot too. We can just be friends though, Steve. I’m not going to get my feelings hurt just because you bat for the other team.”

“Thanks. I really am sorry. If I were to ever switch teams you’d be the first guy I call. You’re incredible.”

“Aww come on. You don’t gotta say that. It’s all good, really. Now tell me more about this gym you run.”

Steve sighed, thankful to change topics, “Well, my best friend Sam and I opened it when he retired from the Air Force six years ago.” Steve launched into the story of how he met Sam through the VA where they had both volunteered as teenagers and then years later, they teamed up to start Shield Gym which was now one of the most popular gyms in the city.

The conversation lulled a little after that and Bucky politely refrained from any more flirting. Steve found himself missing the cute little gestures. He couldn’t figure out what the hell was wrong with him but he knew he needed to figure it out sooner rather than later. They parted as friends, swapping cell phone numbers so they could text instead of the message boards and private chats online. Steve initiated the goodbye hug, wanting to test the feeling of the smaller man in his arms once more. It was just as nice as the first time and only added to Steve’s confusion.

Nat caught up with Bucky barely a block from the cafe, pulling him for a tight hug when she saw his morose expression. “Do I need to kill him?” she asked seriously.

“He's straight.” Bucky told her, “Well, he said he thinks he’s straight. Whatever the hell that means.”

Nat quirked a brow at that, not commenting though.

“Either way, back to spending all my nights with you and Alpine. And Becca, when the brat has time to fly out.”

“Maybe don’t write him off just yet.” Nat said carefully, “I saw you two together, it was sweet.”

Bucky sighed, “I can’t do it, Nat. Just let the poor straight boy be slightly confused on his own before he settles down with some perfect human barbie doll he meets at his gym.”

Nat pursed her lips in disapproval but remained silent. She wrapped an arm around Bucky’s waist and followed him home so they could share a pint of gelato and watch a trashy rom-com until Bukcy felt better.

“Shit, Sam.” Steve whined at his best friend back in their gym in Park Slope. He’d gone straight from the cafe to the gym, knowing Sam was working the midday shift. “How did this happen?”

“You made an honest mistake, it happens.” Sam tried to be kind with his words, “But, and I’m not saying I told you so, you didn’t really know as much about this guy as you thought you did.”

“That might have been the politest ‘I told you so’ ever.”

“I am sorry that it didn’t work out though. I know you thought you really falling for this WinterBae.”

“His name is Bucky. And, I don’t know Sam, he’s just as incredible in person. More so, even. I don’t know what to do. I’m not gay. But…. maybe I am?”

Sam set down the bottle of spray disinfectant and the rag he was wiping down the machines with. “Steve, I know you had your hopes up for this guy. But he’s a guy. And being straight, or not straight, is typically something you figure out before your thirties.”

“I know. I know.” Steve groaned, raking his hands through his hair.

“At least you made a new friend, right?” Sam tried hopefully.

Steve shook his head, “Yeah, but it doesn’t feel like enough. I don’t know what to do, Sam.”

“You gotta figure that one out on your own, man. But whatever you do, don’t drag that poor boy through whatever premature mid life crisis you got going on. It wouldn’t be fair to him to get his hopes up.”

“I know that.” Steve fought to keep the glare he wanted to give Sam off his face, “I would never hurt him. I just… I need to think about it, I guess.”

Sam clapped Steve on the shoulder supportively before resuming his cleaning, “You do that. And if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

Steve thanked him and then headed out. He had a lot of thinking to do.

#steve rogers #bucky barnes #stucky #steve rogers x bucky barnes #idiots in love #confused steve rogers #gay bucky barnes #meet ugly #stucky fanfic #stucky fanfiction

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