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ylangelegy · 2 months ago

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babe for the weekend ❄️ soonyoung x reader.

Everybody thought that you and Kwon Soonyoung were a foregone conclusion, but then he had to go and change the ending. Six years after the breakup, he decides to come home for the holidays— and now, you’re stuck between your pride, his dreams, and the road not taken. ‘Tis the damn season, indeed.

୨ৎ pairing: dance studio ceo!soonyoung x lawyer!f!reader. ୨ৎ genre/warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, romance. alternate universe: non-idol. mentions of food, alcohol consumption, swearing/cussing. post-breakup dynamics and quarter-life crises. high school lovers to exes. law terms. spiteful reader. rated T for languages and themes. title and synopsis shamelessly reference taylor swift's t'is the damn season. ୨ৎ word count: 16.6k ୨ৎ footnotes: this is part of @camandemstudios's winter with you collaboration! ´◡` thank you so much for trusting me with soonyoung. also eternally grateful to @shinwonderful and @biniaiahs for beta reading. may revisit this to do edits in the future, but for now, we settle.

in the words of a, i am the 'harbringer of doom and angst.' happy holidays, everyone! + tag list in the comments.

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ winter with you masterlist ┆ my masterlist ┆ the official babe for the weekend playlist.

This has to be the universe’s idea of a joke.

It’s like the time your professor refused to round up your grade in college and you almost got set back a semester. Or that one day at work, where the forecast said it would be sunny— only for you to get caught in a downpour on your way home.

The universe had to be an aspiring amateur comedian, because why else would Kwon Soonyoung be in front of you right now?

“What?” Soonyoung chirps. “No ‘hello’ for your favorite ex?”

Six years. It’s been six years since you last saw each other, and those are the opening words he decides to go with.

You’re torn between smacking him upside on the head and strangling him. Maybe both, you muse, as you survey the ways he’s changed over time.

His hair is blonde now. His once-pale skin is a little more tan. And— as much as you loathe to admit it— he looks more fit. You can vaguely make out the muscles straining underneath his casual wear.

Dancer’s build, you begrudgingly concede.

When Soonyoung calls you out in a bid to snap you out of your daydream, you physically flinch. Your name still rolls right off his tongue like honey. You don’t have the right to call me that, a small, bitter voice says in the back of your mind. You don’t have the right to talk to me at all.

“Hellooo,” he sing-songs, waving one of his palms inches away from your face. “Did you have a stroke or something?”

That prompts you to speak.

After all that time, your first words to Soonyoung in six years are cold and curt: “Get out.”

A corner of Soonyoung’s mouth twitches upward. The infuriating bastard. He probably anticipated a reaction like this from you.

He straightens until he can shove his hands into the pockets of his winter coat. “I don’t see any signs that say I’m not allowed to be here,” he says. “Did I miss it?”

He makes a whole show of looking around your family’s restaurant. A part of you is grateful that you’re the only one on today’s shift; your parents would’ve undoubtedly had over-the-top reactions to Soonyoung’s sudden reappearance. It’s only through years of conditioning that you’ve learned to keep your reactions under control, even when the world throws you curveballs such as these.

Your expression is perfectly blank as you dryly note, “There’s a sign out on the front, actually.”

“Oh? Really?”

“Yeah. No strays allowed.”

Soonyoung shakes his head. “Brutal,” he says, but there’s still that hint of a smile on his face.

If you strained your ears, you might hear the trace of affection in his tone. The thought of it— of Soonyoung holding any sort of fondness for you— makes you want to scream.

You manage to tamp that urge in favor of jerking your head towards the front door of the restaurant. “Out,” you repeat, your gaze briefly flickering to the CCTV in the corner of the store.

Your father would probably kill you if he found out you were turning someone away. A supposed family friend, at that. But this wasn’t just a customer, and you weren’t sure if you could still call Soonyoung a friend, and it’s been six years, damn it.

“Is that any way to treat a customer?” Soonyoung goads.

“You’re not a customer.”

“You haven’t given me the chance to be.”

“That’s because you’re not welcome here.”

“It’s pretty bad for business that—”

That wasn’t going to fly. You weren’t about to take business advice from Kwon Soonyoung of all people.

One minute, you’re behind the counter with your hands clenched into fists. The next, you’ve closed the space between you and Soonyoung. He falters as you approach, looking almost like he’s holding his breath.

It’s not a slap that greets him. Most definitely not a hug, either.

Instead, one of your hands dart out until you’ve got a firm grip on his ear.

Soonyoung is still taller than you, but he folds over at your rough tug. “Ow, ow, ow!” he screeches, his own hands flying out of his pockets in a futile attempt to either push you off or shield himself.

In his split second of indecision, you manage to haul him back over to the entrance. Because you had been manning the fort, you hadn’t even noticed that it had started to snow. The first of the year.

You don’t have the time to appreciate it. Your focus is entirely on channeling your energy to shove Soonyoung out of the restaurant. He stumbles out on the sidewalk where he rubs his offended ear with a scandalized expression on his face.

A lesser man might have snapped back, might have demanded an explanation for being manhandled so shamelessly. To your sheer annoyance, Soonyoung only laughs.

It’s a full-bodied sound, one that practically bounces off the street. He laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs, clutching at his stomach like this is the funniest thing in the world.

Remember how, earlier, you thought you might scream? Now, you truly almost do. Because the years have passed— but Soonyoung still laughs exactly the same.

You don’t stick around to find out if you do end up yelling. Instead, you march right back into the restaurant with your chin jut up in a show of confidence. You can hear him trying to choke out words between his laughing fit, something akin to, “Hey, wait—,” but you’re not about to hear him out.

Not today, not ever.

It’s the most satisfying feeling in the world, getting to slam the door in his face.

“Why did you come home?”

“I got hungry.”

“ — tried to give me business advice! Me, business advice!”

You punctuate your exclamation with a slap to your office table. Jihoon and Wonwoo are a little too familiar with your fits of passion to be surprised; Wonwoo barely looks up from his round of Block Blast, while Jihoon only shakes his head.

“Sounds like something he would do,” Jihoon offers empathetically.

You lean back into your chair, your expression contorted into one of utter frustration. The three of you rarely meet in your office, but you had called a DEFCON 1 situation in light of recent events. Jihoon and Wonwoo lounged leisurely in front of you as you ranted your heart away for the past thirty or so minutes.

“Who does he think he is?” you seethe. “Showing up here unannounced!”

Wonwoo pipes up. “It wasn’t unannounced.”

Jihoon silences Wonwoo with a warning glare. You can only glance between the two boys before Jihoon heaves out a sigh and admits, “We knew that he was coming back to visit.”

The look of betrayal on your face must be clear as day, because Wonwoo guiltily pauses his game to flash you a sheepish grin. “We met up with him— yesterday, was it?”

Yesterday. “And you didn’t tell me?!” Your voice is a little shrill and a whole lot incredulous.

Ever the pragmatic one, Jihoon quips, “You’ve always said that you want nothing to do with him. I presumed that involved knowing whether or not he was coming home.”

Damn it. Jihoon got you there.

You’re not sure what you would’ve even done, really, if you’d been given a heads up. Would you have boarded up the doors to your home? Would you have sought him out yourself in a prideful bid to maintain some twisted sort of upper hand?

You’re still mulling it over when Wonwoo delicately says, “Look at the bright side. You probably won’t run into him again.”

Jihoon attempts to distract you by getting you to talk about your most recent client— a stubborn chicken shop significantly behind on mortgage payments. You give in, if only because you want so very badly to believe in Wonwoo’s words.

You should’ve known better, really, because of course your friends would lie to you.

That’s the only thought on your mind as you keep your eyes firmly ahead and away from the smirking blonde in your peripheral vision. Already, you’re contemplating the bodily harm you’ll cause Jihoon and Wonwoo for leaving out this vital piece of information.

But you can’t be wrathful. Not in front of the kids.

The gaggle of twenty-something elementary students sit cross-legged on the floor, their gazes all trained on the newcomer. They’re whispering excitedly among themselves, so much so that Teacher Kang has to clap more than thrice to recapture their attention.

“Now, everyone,” Teacher Kang announces. “Do you remember what I said about having a very special guest for today?”

A high-pitched chorus of “Yes, Teacher Kang,” resounds throughout the auditorium.

“Very good. Can we please give a warm welcome to Teacher Kang’s friend, Soonyoung?”

Soonyoung makes his way to the front of the gaggle with an easy grin and a relaxed gait, like he belongs here. And maybe a part of him does. This was his turf once, too.

“‘Soonyoung’ is a bit long, isn’t it?” he says, speaking to both Teacher Kang and the kids in front of them. It’s a small grace that he isn’t calling you out just yet, though you wouldn’t put him past it.

“Everybody!” Soonyoung proclaims. There’s a bit of a flourish in how he moves, how he looks down at the awe-stricken kids with a bright, wide smile. He puts up one hand to his face and bends his fingers in an imitation of a paw. “You can call me Hoshi!”

The kids echo it back to him— “Teacher Hoshi!” “Hello, Mr. Hoshi!” “What’s a Hoshi?”— while Teacher Kang only smiles fondly. For your part, you keep your expression perfectly controlled, even though you’re telepathically trying to get Soonyoung to combust.

It’s one thing for him to waltz back into your life like it’s nothing. It’s another thing for him to come around and introduce himself with the pet name you used to have for him.

Suddenly, you’re teenagers again, visiting the zoo on a field trip. The two of you had tried so hard to hide from your chaperones that you were holding hands in the pockets of your winter coats. In hindsight, it had been the most obvious thing in the world.

Soonyoung had excitedly pointed out the Bengal tigers lounging in their enclosure, and you joked about how similar he looked to them. 호랑이의 시선. Horangi-ui siseon, the tiger’s gaze.

Soon after, you took to calling him Hoshi when he was on stage, when the two of you were arguing over something petty, when you wanted to be affectionate. Hoshi, let’s get ice cream today. Hoshi, take me to the library. Hoshi, I love you!

Something that was once yours alone was now everybody else’s, too. It bothers you more than you care to admit.

You’re so caught up in reminiscing that you almost miss Teacher Kang saying, “Soonyoung— er, Hoshi— is going to help us with the Christmas showcase. He’s a very popular dancer in Seoul, so we’re happy to have him here.”

The betrayal that rises up within you is sharp albeit short-lived. Teacher Kang didn’t owe you a warning the same way that, say, Jihoon or Wonwoo might’ve. But still. Any indication at all would have been nice.

One of the younger students— an absolute sweetheart by the name of Iseul— tugs at your pant leg. You lean down so she can cup her little hand over your ear.

“Do you know Mr. Hoshi?” she whispers conspiratorially.

How fitting, for a five-year-old to pose the million-won question. It’s a loaded gun of a query even though there’s technically no right or wrong answer.

Of course you knew ‘Mr. Hoshi’. Your mothers were best friends. The two of you were in the same classes. You dated him throughout high school. You knew him well, like the back of your hand.

That was before he got up and left without so much of a glance over his shoulder, though.

You give Iseul a tight-lipped smile. “I knew him once,” you answer. It’s not quite the truth, but it will have to do for now.

“Why did you come home?”

“Took a wrong turn and ended up here.”

“Are you going to ignore me the whole time, or…?”

You answer Soonyoung’s prodding by ignoring him.

The past week has been largely uneventful, sans Soonyoung’s occasional effort to poke his nose into your business. He at least had the decency to not show up at your family’s restaurant again, and whether or not he knows of your office is yet to be seen.

Your interactions with him have been largely limited to the one-hour a day that you’ve dedicated to Yangjeong Elementary School.

Yangjeong was yet another thing that the two of you shared. You were once a pig-tailed menace who outran all the boys on the playground, and Soonyoung was your snot-nosed partner-in-crime.

Planning Yangjeong’s Christmas showcase has been your yearly commitment for as long as you can remember. Even when you were off at college, you had made it a point to set aside time for it. Volunteers have come and gone throughout the past, though this year’s volunteer was undeniably one of the more annoying ones.

“You’re going to have to talk to me eventually, you know.” Soonyoung practically flops himself onto the desk in front of you, the sudden weight of him making the table creak. As you turn your face away, you catch sight of the pout beginning to form on his lips.

You almost snipe at him, something along the lines of stop that or grow up or that doesn’t work on me anymore. You hold your tongue, in favor of wordlessly getting up to move to a different chair.

Soonyoung is right. You will have to talk to him soon enough.

But as you sit as far away from him as possible, readying yourself for the day ahead, you can at least decide that today will not be that day.

Preparations for the showcase involve discussing the program with the teachers and readying the students for their performances. It’s never anything spectacular— just your run-of-the-mill rotation of tone-deaf singing and middling dances— but the town’s overzealous parents are always more than happy to indulge the show.

Today, you and Soonyoung are set to meet with Teacher Kang to discuss the showcase’s overarching theme.

The sixty-something-year-old woman had been your teacher as well, and so it’s understandable why she’s eyeing the pair of you with poorly concealed amusement. There’s a palpable tension between you and Soonyoung, though a significant majority of the awkwardness is likely from your end.

“Have the two of you not kept in touch?” Teacher Kang asks as she sets down two mugs— coffee for you, hot chocolate for Soonyoung.

“No,” the two of you say simultaneously.

Soonyoung steals an all-too obvious glance. You keep your eyes on the coffee in front of you.

Teacher Kang— bless her heart— decides not to push it. She settles in her own seat, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea.

“The principal wants all the kids to do a number. Nothing too flashy, but something that will give everyone a chance to be on stage.” The elderly teacher sips at her drink before going on. “That’s why I called you in, Soonyoung.”

“I’m the reinforcements,” he jokes.

Teacher Kang gives a short laugh in response. “Something like that.”

She turns to you, then, with that same motherly simper that you’ve never been able to say ‘no’ to. You wonder if she’s doing this on purpose— pulling all the stops to get you to agree to what she’s going to say next.

“I know your hands are going to be full with the program and the staffing,” she starts. “But you’ll work with Soonyoung, won’t you?”

What kind of person would you be if you said ‘no’? If you threw a fit and demanded for Soonyoung to be thrown out?

“Of course,” you say, the word gritted out through your teeth.

At your side, Soonyoung lets out a loud cough to disguise his grumble of ‘bullshit’. You fight the urge to kick him in the shins.

The beguiling expression on Teacher Kang’s face is merciless. At this point, she’s no longer hiding the way that she’s watching you and Soonyoung’s heatless bickering. And when she comments on it, when she says “You two haven’t changed,” you almost walk out then and there.

I’ve changed, you want to insist. He’s changed. We’re both changed; we had to.

Otherwise, it wouldn’t have been worth it. The breakup, the distance, all of it.

Soonyoung recovers before you do.

“Ah, before I forget!” He digs for something in his pants pocket, which he eventually holds out for Teacher Kang. “You asked me for this, the last time we saw each other.”

Despite yourself, you can’t help but try and crane your neck to catch sight of what had been handed over. Soonyoung catches the small shift and huffs out a laugh.

“You could just ask, you know,” he says, reaching back into his pocket.

Your protest of “I don’t—” is cut off by him shoving the same thing in your hand. Your fingers close around the calling card bearing the illustration of a tiger and a string of unfamiliar numbers.

Hoshi, A.K.A Kwon Soonyoung, it also says. Chief Executive Officer, Eye of the Tiger Dance Studio. B1, 47, Dogok-ro 27-Gil, Gangnam-Gu, Seoul.

“So you know where to find me,” he says with the world’s most obnoxious smirk.

“Why did you come home?”

“I forgot something.”

“From six years ago?”

“From six years ago.”

Everybody thought that you and Soonyoung were a foregone conclusion.

It had been your stereotypical small town romance. You were kids together and then you were teenagers together. Some might have blamed it on forced proximity, but you like to think that the attraction and affection was real. That it wasn’t a matter of not having any other choice.

You had chosen Soonyoung happily. He had chosen you right back.

After an awkward dance of ‘will-they-won’t-they,’ the two of you started dating in your freshman year of high school. It was the type of thing that had everybody— your respective families, your mutual friends— breathing a sigh of relief. Something akin to finally.

For nearly four years, Soonyoung was it for you.

He was the one walking you home, the one you messed around with behind the library building. The two of you shared nearly every first that mattered. Every first that a high schooler could afford, anyway.

First date.

First kiss.

And, so it goes— first heartbreak.

Soonyoung had worn his heart on his sleeve; it was abundantly clear to everyone what he cared about. Two things in particular defined him: You, and dancing.

If you really tried, you can still remember the first time that Soonyoung had choreographed a dance himself. He had been young, scrappy, hungry— all the qualities that made it possible for him to tear up the stage and leave the rest of you in awe.

He went on to be president of your school’s modern dance club. He went on to compete, both in groups and by himself, and win.

You picked up on it, too, if only to indulge him. The two of you had your fair share of semi-viral dance covers and podium finishes at local contests. It was yet another testament to your partnership, to what everyone presumed would spell out endgame.

Except you only loved to dance, while Soonyoung lived for it.

“Come with me,” he had invited you the night before your high school graduation.

The two of you were supposed to be in bed, but your phone buzzed underneath your pillow and you couldn’t resist one last act of rebellion. You climbed out your window and met up with Soonyoung at your typical halfway point— the derelict playground the two of you have long since grown out of.

“To where?” you asked, your sandaled feet dragging through the sand beneath the swing. Uncharacteristically, Soonyoung hadn’t kicked off at all, instead opting to remain still.

His fingers had been tightly clenched around the rusting chain of the dated swing. You remember that much. In hindsight, he looked nervous.

There is a timeline where he might have proposed to you that night, might have asked for an early hand in marriage, with how on edge he was acting.

But, instead, you had prompted, “Have you finally decided on a uni?”

A beat.

His voice— soft and vulnerable— broke the silence of the February evening. “I’m not going to uni.”

You should have stopped swinging, then. Should have ground to a halt and grabbed Soonyoung by the shoulders. Should have called him crazy, insane.

Maybe you should have asked him to reconsider. That might have changed things.

Except you only kept on pushing. Back, forth. Back, forth. Like this was just a normal conversation and not a relationship-defining, life-altering moment for the two of you.

“I’m going to Seoul,” he elaborated, desperate to fill your silence. “I’m going to try and be a dancer. You— you could, too.”

Your answer was immediate. “I’m not as good as you.”

“You are,” he argued. A muscle in his jaw jumped, then. You’d known him for long enough to recognize his little tells and ticks, and that had been one of them. An indicator of a lie.

“I’m not.” You kept swinging, kept your face angled away from your boyfriend who was slipping through your fingers. “I’m going to uni, Soonyoung.”

“But—”

“But what?”

You’ll never admit this, but you had been cruel back then. You know that now.

There are things you would have done differently. You wouldn’t have snapped. You would have looked at him.

You were young, though, and angry. Your heart had been shattering in your chest and the only thing you could do was go back and forth on that creaking swing as Soonyoung tried to get through to you.

It hadn’t been that much of a surprise. Soonyoung’s general disinterest in college applications— and his constant rumblings about city life— had given you some idea of what his plans might be.

You just thought you would be more involved in it. That you wouldn’t be simply handed the decision, as if it were something you would have to accept.

Young, angry, and selfish to boot.

“Nothing.” Soonyoung eventually said. His words sounded like a concession, like some form of twisted acceptance. “You’ll go to uni.”

“And you’ll go to Seoul.”

In your peripheral vision, you had seen Soonyoung tilt his head away as if trying to hide his face from you. Six years is a long time ago. You can’t tell if he had cried, or maybe you’ve chosen to erase that from your memory.

“I’ll go,” Soonyoung repeated, an edge of defeat in his tone.

You swung, and swung, and swung, like it was the only thing keeping you tethered.

Back, forth. Back, forth.

The quiet had stretched, giving you a chance, an opportunity. To convince him otherwise. To change your own mind.

But—

“And I’ll stay,” you had responded.

That’s the thing about endings: They’re susceptible to change.

The first civil words you utter to Soonyoung are “Yeah, I think the kids will enjoy Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”

He’d been spewing out prospects for the showcase’s group dance, though each idea had to be delicately shot down by Teacher Kang. Jingle Bell Rock? Performed three years ago. Baby, It’s Cold Outside? Perhaps not the most appropriate for children.

You can see from a mile away, the signs of Soonyoung’s growing frustration— the downturn of his lips, the furrow of his brows. When he recommends the Maria Carey classic, you throw him a bone. Just to try and wipe that look off his face.

You immediately regret your kindness, because Soonyoung’s head whips around and he looks at you with the most disbelieving, wide-eyed expression. You return the overreaction with a half-hearted glare.

“What?” you ask defensively.

“It’s—” He pauses, his eyes flicking to Teacher Kang. “Nothing, nothing.”

His jaw ticks. All that time apart and he’s still never learned how to get better at lying.

You don’t have to poke and prod to know what’s coming. Once your little meeting draws to a close— Teacher Kang eventually agreeing with Santa Claus Is Coming to Town— Soonyoung makes a beeline for your side, his excitement barely concealed.

“Is the world ending?” he asks you.

You attempt to shoulder past him, but he only follows you out of the classroom, sticking to your side. “You said we would have to talk eventually,” you point out. “Here’s your ‘eventually’. Don’t be too happy about it.”

“But I am happy about it,” he responds, his tone almost like that of a whining puppy. “Not too much. Just an appropriate amount.”

So help me, God.

You keep your gaze ahead as you walk out of the school. Soonyoung matches your pace, humming underneath his breath. You better watch out, you better not cry. You better not pout, I’m tellin’ you why.

Once the two of you are out the front doors of the school, you’re greeted to a light dusting of snow on Namyangju’s sidewalks.

“So,” Soonyoung says casually as you pull out your phone to check the weather for the rest of the day. “You don’t work full-time at your parents’ restaurant, do you?”

Involuntarily, a derisive snort of laughter escapes you. “Small talk? Really?”

There’s a boyish grin on Soonyoung’s face. “Gotta take advantage of you being chatty,” he shoots back, which only prompts you to shake your head.

You could ignore him, like you always have. You probably should. That had always been Soonyoung’s style.

Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.

And yet—

“No,” you grumble, your eyes still absentmindedly scanning your weather app. “I only work at the restaurant part-time.”

“The rest of the time?”

“I didn’t realize this was going to be a talk show.”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m primetime’s most charming host—”

“Law. I work at a law firm.”

The answer is ripped from you in a bid to avoid Soonyoung’s theatrics, and you find yourself blinking with mild surprise, like you hadn’t prepared to divulge the detail at all. Soonyoung notices, and his lips curl in a smug smirk.

“I know,” he says simply. “Jihoon told me.”

You make a mental note to berate your mutual friend as you exasperatedly say, “Why did you ask, then?”

“Because I wanted to hear it from you.”

Soonyoung lets his words hang, linger, before he goes on. It’s just four words, what he utters next, but it still threatens to tilt your world on its axis.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You’ve heard your fair share of the platitude throughout the years. From Jihoon and Wonwoo, when you first got into law school. From your parents, when you passed the bar exam. From Teacher Kang, every December, when the Christmas showcase is pulled off.

This is something entirely different. This has you shoving your phone back into your bag, just to hide the way your hand had begun to twitch at the words.

“You can’t say stuff like that to your ex,” you snap.

Soonyoung’s answer comes without a moment’s hesitation. “Why? Being exes doesn’t take away the fact that I’m proud of you.”

Too much, too much, too much. It’s too much for your pride, your emotions, your heart. You wish you could take this for what it is— a compliment, some kindness— but the history goes deep, and the words feel like a scab being picked.

You do what you do best. You turn on your heel and begin to walk away.

Thankfully, Soonyoung doesn’t follow you. But he’s nothing if not vexatious, so he squeezes in a sing-song cry of “Byeee, attorney!” as you leave.

You quicken your pace just a little bit more.

Jihoon has the tendency to look like a kicked puppy when he’s being told off.

He doesn’t pout, no, but the expression on his face is a close thing as you give him grief over telling Soonyoung about you. Wonwoo, stuck in the middle as per usual, only calmly cuts into his lunch.

“Why did you have to tell Soonyoung about my work, huh?” you demand as you slice a little too forcefully into your bulgogi. “Giving him free ammunition or something?”

Jihoon finally gets a word in edgewise. “It’s because he asks about you,” he deadpans.

The thought of it is so insane that you bark out a laugh. The retort— bullshit!— is right on the tip of your tongue, but it dies out when Wonwoo bobs his head up and down.

Wonwoo has always been the less likely of the two to lie to you. You’re still a bit baffled even as the bespectacled man confirms, “Yeah. He asks me, too.”

“Asks what?”

“How you’re doing.” Wonwoo is so nonchalant about the whole affair that you’re tempted to call him out, too, but the lack of teasing in his tone gives you some sense of where his head is at. “What you’re up to. Stuff like that.”

Kwon Soonyoung has kept tabs on you.

In the years that you’ve tried to bury the memory of your friendship, of your relationship, Kwon Soonyoung has kept tabs.

“He—” You clear your throat when your voice comes out a little more high-pitched than usual. If Jihoon and Wonwoo notice, they mercifully don’t call you out.

You manage, “He could have just reached out to me.”

Jihoon, who had taken advantage of the reprieve to shovel some spoonfuls of rice into his mouth, swallows hard before speaking.

“Would you have answered?” he inquires, one eyebrow arched upward.

The truth— rarely plain, never simple— lies in a single, two-lettered word. No. No, you probably wouldn’t have answered. And even though you want to defend yourself, to claim otherwise, both Jihoon and Wonwoo would only do what you had wanted to do earlier. Call bullshit.

You let out a groan of defeat, slumping forward until your forehead has planted on the table in front of you.

“No further questions, Your Honor,” Wonwoo chirps, and though you can’t see him, you can already imagine the smirk that he’s sporting.

“Why did you come home?”

“I thought there would be a high school reunion. I think I got the date wrong.”

The abundance of existing routines for Santa Claus Is Coming to Town makes it somewhat easier for you and Soonyoung to dumb it down for the kids.

You spend the next week keeping the students in line as Soonyoung teaches them how to shimmy, how to slide, how to do jazz hands. Every so often, you catch him at a loss— like when one of the younger boys tries to eat a crayon, or when the kids go into a scream-filled debate about the existence of Santa Claus.

These are things you’re used to. These are things you can handle.

Taking the crayons away or assuring the kids that Santa Claus is real is far, far easier than being in forced proximity with the one that got away. You’re reminded of that, now, as Soonyoung taps out for a breather and you sub in to go over the routine with the kids once more.

They’re more prone to listening to you, and so you easily get one run of the song down without a hitch. In the years that you’ve voluntarily choreographed for the showcase, you’ve never thought too much about the technicalities of your skill. You danced well enough to teach, to pull off a decent, child-appropriate routine. That had been enough.

But with the scrutinizing eyes of dance studio CEO ‘Hoshi’ following your every move, you feel that simmer of competitiveness in your stomach.

After three more runs of the number with the children, you let them go. As you go to catch your breath over one of the auditorium’s bleachers, you’re surprised by a hand holding out a Cool Blue Raspberry Gatorade.

“Is this still your poison?” Soonyoung asks with a hint of amusement as he settles into the space next to you.

You don’t answer. Briefly, your mind goes to those days— the salsa competitions, the random play dance events. How Soonyoung’s backpack always had his Game Boy Color, a change of clothes, and a blue Gatorade. The last one, always for you.

You uncork the drink, tilt your head back, and take a long swig. It’s as close to a confirmation that you’re going to give him.

The two of you sit in silence as the children begin to file out of the auditorium. Once the only two of you are left, Soonyoung speaks up, the words far too quiet in the otherwise empty room.

“You really are good, you know.”

It takes you a beat too long to realize that he’s talking about your dancing. If the two of you were on better terms, you might have teased him about that night on the playground, many years ago, when he had fibbed about you being as good of a dancer as he is.

As it is, you can only respond with an equally soft, “Thanks.”

Being the bigger person lasts for all of fifty seconds, though, because Soonyoung’s next words prickle.

“Could’ve been much bigger.”

“Excuse me?”

He freezes, an oh shit type of expression crossing his face. Even so, he doubles down. “I'm just saying,” he starts, his tone growing slightly more defensive. “You could have done much more—”

Your words are cold as your fingers close tighter around the half-empty bottle of Gatorade. “Am I not doing much where I am right now?”

“You’re twisting my words,” he shoots back.

“Those are exactly your words,” you fume.

It’s an old wound, one that Soonyoung poked with something sharp the second he returned home and made his presence known. You’ve done everything you can to ignore it, to keep the ache and the bitterness at bay, but you can’t help the way that it rises in your throat like bile. Something acidic, and foul, and unwelcome.

You get to your feet, leaving the offered Gatorade on the bleacher. “Sorry not all of us moved to the city and had a big break, Kwon,” you say as you begin to gather your things.

“Jesus Christ.” Soonyoung’s cuss is punctuated with a laugh, but it’s not like any of the laughs you’re used to from him. The sound is annoyed, pained. Almost hurt, even, though you try not to dwell on that.

Your relationship, your breakup, is an old wound that hasn’t completely healed. It’s been on the edge of festering ever since you lost contact with him.

And, now, as you leave him stewing in his emotions, you figure that it’s only going to fester some more.

Back then, the two of you had dubbed each other The Great Pretenders.

Dating in high school required a certain level of delicadeza. While your relationship was largely accepted and acknowledged, there were still a number of things you had to hide from your families and friends. Tear-stained faces after petty arguments. Hickies under the collars of your school uniforms.

It’s been years, but The Great Pretenders makes a reappearance when the pair of you have to face Teacher Kang the next day.

It goes unspoken that whatever the hell is going on between you two shouldn’t affect the showcase, shouldn’t be obvious to anyone that matters. And so the two of you update her on the kids’ progress, and sip the warm drinks that she offers, without any indication of having had a spat.

The check-in winds to a close after a couple of polite exchanges. Teacher Kang seems pleased with preparations so far, though she looks even more happy about you and Soonyoung’s perceived civility, which damn near bowls you over.

“By the way, Soonyoung,” Teacher Kang says conversationally as the three of you pack up for the afternoon. “How’s the studio?”

“All good.” He pauses, like he realized he hadn’t given that sufficient of an answer. “We’re usually busy around this time of year, but I have one of my staff keeping watch while I’m here. I plan to head back once the holiday season is over.”

You should’ve seen it coming, but something beneath your rib cage still twinges at the thought. You ignore the feeling in favor of shouldering your backpack.

“You shouldn’t wait so long before coming back again,” Teacher Kang half-jokes.

Soonyoung’s chuckle— a dry, unconvincing huff of ha-ha— is chased with the cool delivery of “I’ll try to make it a more regular thing.”

In the corner of your eye, you catch what Teacher Kang misses. The most imperceptible tick in Soonyoung’s jaw.

Liar, you think. Liar, liar, liar.

You and Soonyoung had mastered the art of pretending, sure, but you could never quite get away from each other.

“Why did you come home?”

“I’d forgotten the sound of my mother’s voice.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

The snow returns with a vengeance.

It’s that time of winter where the streets are blanketed with white, where the sleet and rain makes conditions horrendous. You have no choice but to soldier through the soft hail as you make your way to the school, which you’re committed to reach come rain or shine.

Except when you get to the front doors, you’re greeted by a bemused-looking Soonyoung.

You pat down your snow-clad clothes as you look him up and down. “Where are you going?”

He answers your question with one of his own. “Haven’t you heard?” He holds up his phone. “Practice is cancelled today. Everybody’s snowed in.”

You were rarely the type to walk and text, so your phone has been sitting pretty in your pocket this whole time. When you go to check it, you find messages from Teacher Kang. Canceling showcase preparations in lieu of the weather. Stay safe and dry.

“I just found out myself,” Soonyoung says delicately.

Ah. That explained why he was the only other person around.

Disgruntled, you glance at your surroundings. There’s barely anyone present, and the snow is only seeming to fall heavier with each passing minute. You’d be lucky to get a cab at this rate—

“Or I could just drive you.”

You jump a bit. At what point had you started saying that last thought out loud?

“That’s not necessary,” you start to say, but Soonyoung is already fishing for his car keys in his jacket pocket.

“I know you hate my ass,” he responds bluntly. “But that hatred isn’t worth freezing to death over, no?”

His face is turned away from you, so there’s no way for you to tell what expression he’s sporting. It’s a small grace. Even though you dread the thought of being stuck in a small space with nothing but your thoughts and an old ghost to keep your company, you do hate the prospect of hypothermia even more.

That’s how you end up in the passenger seat of Soonyoung’s beat-up Hyundai Pony, which stutters and bucks every time he has to take a turn. It’s the very same car that you both learned to drive in, though it’s looking significantly worse for wear.

While nostalgia has proven to be a bitch, you can’t resist the jab on the tip of your tongue. “Jesus,” you breathe, your fingers tightening around your seatbelt as Soonyoung barely makes a corner. “I can’t believe this thing’s still alive.”

“That makes two of us,” he quips with a grimace.

Once the car miraculously makes its way past a snowed-out road, Soonyoung notes, “Remember when my dad first taught us how to get through rain?”

The memory brings the flicker of a smile to your face. “You were so scared you might run a squirrel over,” you say.

“You swore up and down that you’d never drive on a wet road,” Soonyoung shoots back.

“I still don’t,” you respond, glancing out the window for the lack of a better thing to look at. “I ask my dad to drive whenever it’s raining.”

Soonyoung’s next words make you pause. “Your dad hated me,” he huffs.

You let out a snort of laughter. “That’s not true. He really liked you.”

“He always left the room whenever I came in,” Soonyoung argues.

“He wanted to give us privacy.” You can’t help the sigh that slides past your lips, the sound edged with annoyance. “Really, you’ve got to stop blaming other people for why we didn’t work out.”

The words hang heavy in the din of the car. You wonder, for a second, if you’d been too callous, but there’s something like a rueful smile that tugs at Soonyoung’s face.

“Sorry. Coping mechanism,” he responds, and you don’t push any further.

An awkward couple of moments follow. Unfortunately for you, Soonyoung has never learned the art of tact— always pushing it just a little bit, right to the point where the tension is drawn like a rubber band.

“You know, my mom has been asking about you,” Soonyoung says conversationally as he turns into your neighborhood. “Says I should invite you over for lunch.”

Your grasp on the seatbelt is white-knuckled. It wasn’t like you were actively avoiding the Kwons; you were perfectly polite when you saw them in public, when you ran into them in the supermarket or at church. But it’s been years since you last stepped foot in their house, and for obvious reasons, too.

“I’m not ready for that,” you answer tersely.

Soonyoung is either oblivious to your agitation or ignorant of it. Regardless of which, he goes on, “I said the same thing. I guess she still thinks—”

“Let’s not go there.” Your tone is just cutting enough to give Soonyoung pause, to have him stammer to a halt as he pulls to a stop in front of your house. “I’m hot having this conversation with you, Soonyoung.”

He doesn’t apologize, though he does back down. “Right,” he mumbles as he parks. “Right.”

You unbuckle your seatbelt, careful to keep your gaze trained away from Soonyoung. “Thanks for the ride.”

Soonyoung is graciously quiet as you step out of his car, though that lasts for all of ten seconds— just enough for you to almost close the door on him— when he speaks up.

“Hey. For the record,” he starts, leaning over the center console to get in the last word. “I don’t blame anyone else for our breakup. I know whose fault it is.”

You raise an eyebrow. He throws you an infuriating grin before reaching over to pull the door close himself.

Soonyoung peels away, once again leaving you with more questions than answers.

“Why did you come home?”

“It’s cold in the city, during the winter.”

You and Soonyoung find yourselves doubling your efforts as the date of the showcase looms.

You spend more of your time with Teacher Kang. You extend a little more patience to the kids. You dance— dance the routines, dance with Soonyoung, dance around the truth.

But when the elephant in the room is as big as it is, ignorance is not an option. And Soonyoung never did learn how to keep his mouth shut.

It’s late in the evening, the two of you having pulled extra hours to work on decor. You’d felt like it was going a little too well with the way that the two of you were uncharacteristically cordial throughout the afternoon. But of course that was too good to be true, because just as you were packing up for the night, Soonyoung had to go and say—

“Are you happy here?”

You freeze midway into packing away the multi-colored, Christmas tree-shaped banners. That familiar flash of frustration, that inkling that he’s looking down on you, rises up again.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you say, and he’s immediately prickly.

“It’s nothing.” He shoves some of the props behind the stage, hasty in his pursuit to end the conversation as fast as possible. “Forget I said anything.”

“Come on,” you bristle. All the while, you’re also putting things back in place— your movements just a little more forceful than necessary. “Spit it out. You started it.”

“I was just asking.”

“You’re never ‘just asking’. Go on, say it.”

“You—”

The two of you are glaring at each other, now, your face red and Soonyoung’s fists balled at his side. When you speak, it’s with a tone that could cut through ice.

“Just because I chose to stay,” you say. “It doesn’t mean my dreams are smaller than yours.”

Soonyoung looks dumbstruck. His voice is impossibly tight; his words, reverberating in the otherwise empty hall.

“I wasn’t going to say your dreams are small. It’s just… We—” He backtracks, like the pronoun had been a scalding slip of the tongue. “You could’ve sold out auditoriums.”

Your answer is immediate, if not a little strained.

“A sold out auditorium doesn’t matter if the one person you want isn’t at the recital,” you say. “Some people find happiness right where they are, and this is mine.”

And that’s always been the crux of it, hasn’t it? Soonyoung has tried to make a name for himself in cities, in rooms full of people cheering his name. His definition of success was only achievable in quantity, in scale. Yours was different, and he could never really quite accept that.

There’s a moment where Soonyoung doesn’t say anything, just looks at you with a pinched expression on his face. He opens his mouth like he might say something—

“Oi! You two!”

You and Soonyoung jump, the tension that had been simmering between you two disappearing at the interruption. The school’s ancient janitor lingers by the door, squinting at you two.

“Whaddya think yer still doin’ here?” the old man croaks, wielding his broom in a fashion that still makes you recoil. “It’s past curfew! Geddout!”

Never mind the fact you and Soonyoung were now in your late twenties and long out of high school. The two of you still cower and meekly mumble, “Sorry, Mr. Cho.”

It’s snowing again when the two of you step out. Soonyoung’s face is set in stone as he mumbles, “Get in my car.”

Right. Like that was going to happen.

With a wordless huff, you begin to march in the opposite direction to him. “Hey,” he calls out. “Where are you going?”

“Home!”

“In this— hey, it’s snowing!”

“That’s what happens during the winter!”

You’d be a little more conscious about having a screaming match in the streets if it wasn’t nearly midnight. Something about the incessant snowfall and the cloak of darkness gives you just a little more courage to speak your mind, to toe that line that the two of you have so haphazardly drawn.

Soonyoung marches after you, his own misgivings about the weather momentarily forgotten. He’s raring to fight, and it shows in the way he stomps through the snow like an overgrown child.

“So that’s it, then?” he hollers from a couple of paces behind you. “You’re just going to stay here for the rest of your life, playing it safe? Work at the family restaurant because of filial piety? Marry— I don’t fucking know— guy-next-door Joshua Hong, and have babies, and—”

“What is your problem?!” you snap, rounding on Soonyoung. He skids to a halt, stopping himself from completely barreling into you. “Why are you acting like you know me?”

“Because I do!” His voice cracks on the last word. “I know you!”

“No, you don’t.”

“I know you very well.”

“From what? Jihoon and Wonwoo’s stories?” There’s a muscle straining in your neck from the way you’ve raised your voice, but you can’t find it in yourself to back down. “Think that’s enough to fill a six-year gap?”

That seems to get Soonyoung. “You never reached out to me! Not once!” he seethes.

“Well, neither did you!”

“I didn’t think—” His breath catches. He pushes on. “I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.”

“That’s a bullshit excuse and you know it.”

“What’s your excuse, then?” he shoots back. “Come on. I’m dying to hear it.”

What’s your excuse, he’s asking. Why haven’t you reached out? If you were so angry and upset about the radio silence, why did you do nothing about it?

Several answers occur to you at once. There was Soonyoung’s own flimsy reasoning. I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.

There was something close to the truth, something a little too vulnerable to be spoken out loud. I was mad at you. I hated you for a bit. I think I still hate you even now.

There was the whisper of something treacherous, something damning. I was scared that I would only end up asking for you to come back.

None of those words come out. You stay standing across from Soonyoung in the wake of his challenge, your face flushed, your gaze narrow. He glares right back at you, unyielding in his pride and his pain.

The silence stretches. It becomes an answer in itself.

“Exactly,” Soonyoung says with a heavy exhale. There’s a spark of flint in his eyes, a flicker of something that could almost be likened to hurt. “It takes two people to break up. You always seem to forget that.”

As he begins to stalk away, you’re overcome with that feeling again. That heavy weight in your chest, put there whenever you know he got the last word, whenever he turned out to be right. Soonyoung has only taken about three steps away before you’re bending down and cupping some snow in your hands.

The hastily-made snowball hits Soonyoung on the back of his head. It splatters against his hair, leaving tiny, glistening flakes tangled in his blonde strands.

He freezes, but only for a moment. In the blink of an eye, Soonyoung is already crouching down to retaliate. He’s quicker and much more savage, and his revenge soars through the end to land squarely in your chest.

You stagger backward, the gasp catching in your throat. Oh, it’s on.

What ensues is the most ruthless snowball fight that your small town has seen. Snowballs are hurled with reckless abandon, the ice crystals getting everywhere from your clothes to your socks. Neither of you even bother to try and hide from the onslaught. The two of you take each other’s attacks, every hit punctuated with heatless insults that have simmered too long.

“You never called—” Soonyoung screeches, sending a cold sphere against your shoulder.

“You didn’t visit—” you shriek as you shape ammunition in your gloved hands.

“You deleted every photo of me off your Facebook—” A snowball to your side.

“You talked to Jihoon and Wonwoo, but not me—” Another square hit to Soonyoung’s chest, sending a puff of powdery snow up into his face.

“Coward!”

“Asshole!”

It feels like hours before the two of you let up.

The two of you are covered in snow from head to toe; your chests heaving from exertion, your cheeks ruddy from the cold. The heat of the exchange leaves you both puffing breaths that cloud the air between you.

There’s a hint of something in your stances. Something that feels like it belongs to another time— before the breakup, before the distance.

Quietly, Soonyoung starts to laugh.

His hands are on his hips and his head is tilted back. The flakes catch on his eyelashes, his hair, but he keeps his face upturned to the sky as he laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

That old, familiar sound. The one that warms you up from the inside, whether or not you care to admit it. You’re doubled over, your hands on your knees, as you watch him look more and more like the boy you loved and lost.

“I hate you,” you choke out, though a corner of your mouth has twitched upward.

He doesn’t even look at you as he responds.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Missed you, too.”

“Why did you come home?”

“Am I not allowed to?”

“Soonyoung says you two kissed and made up.”

You shoot Jihoon an unamused glare.

From across you, he raises his hand in a defensive gesture. “I didn’t believe him, of course,” he insists, though you don’t miss the way he and Wonwoo try to discreetly exchange money under the table.

Wonwoo catches your suspicious expression and gives you an apologetic grin in return.

“Made a bet,” he says.

“You two suck,” you groan.

Your three’s weekly lunch has gone mostly swimmingly up to the point that Jihoon had brought up Soonyoung. Now, though, with the topic broached, neither of your friends see the need to be discreet about it.

“I do wonder why Soonie decided to come home now, after all these years,” Wonwoo muses aloud, toying with his chopsticks as he speaks. “Seems a bit out of the blue, doesn’t it?”

“He came home because Teacher Kang asked him,” you point out.

One of Jihoon’s eyebrows cocks upward. “Teacher Kang has asked him every year for the past couple of years,” he says. “So it’s not just that, I’m sure.”

Wonwoo chimes in with, “Must be something real important, then.”

Jihoon nearly smirks. “Or someone.”

What feels like your nth groan of the evening escapes you. “Put a sock in it, you two,” you grumble, drawing snickers from your friends.

Jihoon mouths something to Wonwoo. You can’t make it out for certain, but it looks suspiciously like a wordless grumble of Bet’s still on.

Civility is a rare thing to share with Soonyoung.

With the showcase mere days away, it’s a welcome development. At least it’s easier for the two of you to iron out the chinks in the routines, to ensure the program is up to par with the school’s standards.

But with civility comes an even more fragile thing— hope.

It’s in the way Soonyoung will hold open doors for you or haul the heavier props on your behalf, much to your chagrin and to Teacher Kang’s amusement.

It’s in the way Soonyoung starts to make small talk about everything from your day job to your parents, never minding much that he’s the one who has to carry half the conversations.

It’s in the way Soonyoung tries to make you laugh, and how, one afternoon, he finally succeeds.

You can’t even remember what it was. Some terrible joke about the kids, maybe. All you know is that a snort of laughter had slid out of you, the sound not quite the derisive giggles you’d been giving him the past couple of weeks.

You’re still chuckling when you see Soonyoung’s face.

Immediately, you sober up. “What?” you ask, because he’s staring at you with his jaw slack and his eyes slightly wide.

He tries to rearrange his expression into something more acceptable; it’s too late, given that you’ve already caught him. Soonyoung may have not always been honest, but he was expressive.

You glare at him, indicating that he’s not about to escape, and he huffs out a defeated sigh.

“It’s just— I forgot, okay?”

“Forgot what?”

“How good happiness looks on you.”

Who the hell says something like that on a random Thursday?

Soonyoung still has that vaguely dazed look in his eyes, even though you’ve begun to stare at him like he’s insane. As he walks away to go and refill his water bottle, he nearly collides with one of the auditorium’s poles, drawing raucous laughter from the kids.

You shush them, the tips of your ears beginning to flame.

“Why did you come home?”

“It was about time.”

It’s nothing short of a miracle, how you, Jihoon, Soonyoung, and Wonwoo all end up at the same table at Taco Joe’s.

Jihoon had been the one who proposed the idea. So casually, too, like he was readying himself for one of your infamous tirades or a flurry of your punches. Soonyoung wants to grab drinks with all of us.

To Jihoon and Wonwoo’s surprise, you had only responded with, “When?”

Neither boys want to look a gift horse in the mouth, so they’re extra careful in playing their cards right. Wonwoo vows to be the designated driver. Jihoon holds back on making any jokes about the whole affair. And, Soonyoung— well, he’s just happy to be there.

“This place really hasn’t changed, huh?” Soonyoung snickers as he sips at his beer.

There’s not a lot of bars to choose from in your small town, making Taco Joe’s something of an institution. Its low lights, Top 50’s playlist, and cheap drinks attract more of the mid-twenties crowd, though there had been a time in your teenage years when you’d all tried and failed to sneak in.

“Joe threatened to ban us for life when we first stepped foot in here,” Jihoon reminisces.

Wonwoo pushes his glasses up his face by the bridge of his nose. “Worse,” he says. “He said he would tell our parents.”

Simultaneously, the four of you shudder. A small smile tugs at your lips as you extend your cocktail for the boys to cheers with.

“To vindication,” you announce.

There’s a ripple of laughter among your friends.

“Vindication,” they echo, clinking their bottles and glasses with yours.

A part of you is suspicious at how pleasant the night is going. The conversation is easy, if not a little on the safe side. The drinks are good. The music is more often a hit instead of a miss. It’s shaping up to be a decent evening, though there are a handful of interruptions here and there.

Kwon Soonyoung is a bit of a local celebrity, after all.

Everybody and their mother knows about his swanky dance studio in the city, about the idols and celebrities he’s met in his line of work. Every so often, someone will stop by to greet him, to exchange a word or two with him.

Soonyoung is perfectly amicable to all of them. His smile, practiced; his words, cool and smooth. After the fourth or so person has come up to say hello to the Hoshi, Jihoon voices out what you’ve all been thinking.

“It’s so exhausting hanging out with you,” Jihoon says dryly.

Soonyoung giggles mid-swig of his alcohol. “Can’t help it.” He fakes a tired sigh, his shoulders rising in a shrug. “Everybody wants a piece of me.”

“I’ll tear you to pieces if anyone else comes up to us,” Wonwoo warns.

Your gaze flicks over Wonwoo’s shoulder, towards someone approaching your corner table. “Get those claws ready, Wonu,” you say.

When Joshua Hong saunters up to your group’s table, though, his greeting for Soonyoung is cursory at best.

“Nice to see you back, Kwon,” the man says politely before turning his attention to you. “Hey, you.”

You straighten in your seat. Jihoon and Wonwoo exchange a look. Soonyoung’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as he gives a grumbled ‘hello’ to Joshua’s lackluster greeting.

It’s apparent that Joshua isn’t there for him, because Joshua is instead smiling at you. “Hey,” you respond in kind. “What’s up?”

Joshua had been an upperclassman during your school days, part of the infamous trio featuring troublemaker Yoon Jeonghan and varsity captain Choi Seungcheol. But Joshua was more on the mild side, known for his volunteer work at the local choir. He wasn’t any less unattainable, though, and you’re reminded of why Soonyoung so callously threw his name out during your more recent spat.

Prior to dating Soonyoung, you did have a raging crush on Joshua, after all. You’re briefly reminded of it as he flashes you a warm smile. “I was hoping I could buy you a drink,” he says. “For… you know.”

There’s absolutely nothing coy in Joshua’s words. He’s not suggestive, not trying to come on to you. All the same, the three boys at your table react like Joshua had just proposed.

Jihoon bites back a grin. Wonwoo cocks his head to one side. Soonyoung shoots back a quarter of his beer.

For… you know, Joshua is saying, and you know exactly what he means even though the rest aren’t privy to it. You’re already getting to your feet before you can register it. “Yeah,” you say, nodding towards the bar. “Let’s go.”

None of your friends say a thing as you step away with Joshua, but you can feel their eyes on your back. You know you’re going to get hell for it later— but, for now, you focus on the small talk that Joshua has to offer.

He lets you pick out your cocktail of choice. As the bartender goes to make it, Joshua smiles down at you. There had been a time where you might’ve keened over at the sight of it; now, though, it only makes your heart flutter a bit.

His voice is just loud enough to be heard over the thumping music, but low enough that it’s just for the two of you.

“Thank you for your help,” he says. “Really. You’re a life-saver.”

Your expression softens underneath the lights of the bar. “How’s your dad?”

Joshua’s smile is a little tight, but not any less sincere. “Better,” he responds. “It’s rough, of course, but he’s coping.”

Earlier in the year, Joshua’s father had been one of your firm’s clients. It had been a lot more challenging than you thought, working with someone you personally knew. The arduous process had involved unsecured debts, scarred credit scores, and seized collaterals, but you were ultimately able to help the Hongs in closing down their music school.

“I’m glad.” You pause, as if realizing that’s not quite the right thing to say. “I’m not glad about what happened—”

Joshua’s laughter cuts through your tirade. Your shoulders ease when you realize it’s not a particularly mean laugh. More of an amused sound at your panic.

“Don’t worry, I get it,” he reassures as the bartender slides your drinks to you. Joshua gives the other man a nod and a mumbled promise of tipping later.

“I don’t want to keep you,” Joshua says. “Just wanted to show my appreciation.”

“You didn’t have to.” Your fingers wrap around the drink he brought you. “But thank you, anyway.”

Joshua nods, grins. The lines are clear as day. He’s not flirting, not trying to get in your pants or anything. The drink is exactly that: A show of gratitude. Nothing more, nothing less.

Some old version of you might have been disappointed. Tonight, you are only oddly relieved. The two of you talk a little more— about things that are neither here nor there— before Joshua lets you go.

Upon your return to your table, you’re greeted with a sight for sore eyes.

Somehow, in the fifteen or so minutes that you were gone, Soonyoung had already shot back his first bottle of beer. As you slide back into your seat next to Wonwoo, your bespectacled friend quietly divulges, “That’s his third one.”

“Third?” You glance toward Soonyoung, your eyebrows raised quizzically. “Are you trying to get alcohol poisoning or something?”

Soonyoung only flashes you a grin before taking another swig. He ignores your question in favor of chatting Jihoon’s ear off; the latter throws you a bemused look before going back to his conversation with Soonyoung.

You huff out a sigh as you go to nurse the cocktail that Joshua got you.

“I wonder what’s gotten into him,” Wonwoo says, his tone just a little too smug for his own good.

You shoot him a sideways glare. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, hiding his blooming smile behind a sip of his soda.

As the night wears on, you begin to feel that familiar buzz in your system. The telltale signs of your tipsiness leave you pleasantly sated— your laughter a little less restrained, your brain a lot more empty. So when Soonyoung leans across the table to yell at you, “Let’s dance!”, your first instinct is not to say Fuck off.

The words that come out instead are “To what song?”

Soonyoung is already standing up and moving around the table to get to your side. An intoxicated Jihoon and sober Wonwoo only watch on, spectators to this impending dumpster fire, as Soonyoung reaches out to tug you out of your seat.

“Any song,” he breathes. His face is flushed a deep shade of red, but his eyes are as bright as ever. “Anything you want.”

There’s a right thing to do in this situation.

The right thing to do would be to let Soonyoung down politely. To tell him no, you’re not interested in dancing. You’re happy to drink with him and your friends, but you’re not about to indulge him with the thing that once made the two of you so close. You don’t think your heart can take it.

But you’re two cocktails in. The music is good. And Soonyoung is looking at you with that absolutely incandescent expression, faring not any better than you in the game of sobriety. How could you deny him?

You let him pull you to your feet. His hand stays wrapped around your wrist as he drags you out onto the dance floor, as he leans over to the DJ and yells, “Do you have any GD?!”

The current track transitions into the unmistakable beats of Good Boy. Soonyoung’s face lights up like a firework.

You’re drunk enough to laugh at him, with him, as you easily fall into the decade-old dance routine. No matter how long it’s been, it seems like your body still remembers every step, every hand movement.

You’re drunk enough to not care that Wonwoo is not-so discreetly filming the two of you, that Jihoon is wearing a knowing smirk. Come tomorrow, your friends will have a lot to say about this moment. But, right now, it’s all inconsequential.

You’re drunk enough to dance. To dance in a way that isn’t simply for Christmas showcase purposes. To dance and remember why you loved it so much in the first place.

To dance with the boy who got you into it in the first place.

Good Boy spins into Home Sweet Home, then Fantastic Baby, then Gee. You and Soonyoung dance through it all. Honestly, you’re no longer built for this the same way that you once were, and you’re certainly not up to par with Soonyoung.

His drunkenness does nothing to dampen his energy or his dancing skills. He moves across the floor with the practiced ease of a professional, putting everyone to shame without even trying. His toothy smile never leaves his face as the two of you swing and pop and glide.

By the time the DJ starts to play more modern pop, you call for a time-out. Soonyoung stumbles after you and the two of you collapse onto a nearby couch, boneless from the non-stop dancing.

Wonwoo is off to one side, chatting with a girl, while Jihoon is nowhere to be found. You wouldn’t hold it past the latter to be on a smoke break of some sorts; nights out always tended to drain him, after all.

“Insane,” Soonyoung croaks out. Blonde strands of his hair stick to his face due to sweat. You resist the urge to fix it.

“I haven’t danced like that in ages,” you say, rolling your shoulders to fight off the growing ache in your body.

Soonyoung tries to laugh. The sound comes out more like a wheeze. His next words are mumbled in between attempts to catch his breath. “You’re good, babe.”

Come Back Home is thumping through the speakers. You try to focus on that instead of Soonyoung’s Freudian slip; you fail miserably, and it must show on your face because Soonyoung sucks in some air through his teeth.

“Sorry.” He’s laughing, but the sound is a bit rough around the edges. “Moment of weakness.”

A beat. “Wanna dance some more?” he prompts.

Whether it’s a desperate bid to run from his words or a sincere offer by a man who simply lives to dance, you don’t question it. “Yeah,” you say a little too quickly. “Let’s dance.”

You dance until you feel like your feet are going to fall off. Soonyoung matches your pace, never missing a beat. When he needs to take a break, he drinks some more— an endless cycle of dance floor shenanigans and drawn-out sips of beer.

It’s probably why he’s swaying by the time that you’re all calling it a night. Wonwoo and Jihoon flank Soonyoung on either side, the blonde still somehow having the tenacity to chatter while dragging his feet. He’s talking out of his ass about one thing or another, like music these days “not being as good as the OGs,” and you can sense Wonwoo’s exasperation over the whole thing.

“Living in Seoul has done absolutely nothing for your tolerance,” Wonwoo grumbles, prompting Soonyoung to go into a long-winded rant about the cultural differences in drinking culture.

The relief on Wonwoo’s face is palpable as he shoves Soonyoung into the backseat of his car.

Jihoon gives a nod of his own. “You’ll be good to drive?” he asks Wonwoo.

“Didn’t drink a drop,” Wonwoo chirps. “You?”

“Sobered up, like, two hours ago,” Jihoon says wryly. He gives you a vicious side eye— wordlessly blaming you for not being able to go home any earlier, since he was your designated driver— and you raise your shoulders in a half-shrug.

“You were the one who invited me out to drink.” Your voice is hoarse from all the alcohol, from the physical exertion of non-stop dancing.

You’re somehow lucid enough to register that Soonyoung is calling for you. There’s a slight pout on his face, like he’s upset to be missing out on the conversation. He’s bracing himself against the frame of the car door, his legs swung over the seat, as you gingerly approach.

“What?” you ask.

This close, you can smell his faint cologne, mingling with the scent of alcohol and sweat.

This close, you can see the way his eyes are slightly unfocused; his mouth, still bearing the hint of a glowing smile.

“You—” he croaks out.

His gaze darts to your lips. It’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. You don’t miss it.

Your breath stills in your chest, and Soonyoung is looking up at your face like he’s searching for something. Denial? Reciprocity?

He must not have found what he was looking for, because the words he grumbles are, “I’m going to hurl.”

Wonwoo’s panicked shriek cuts through the otherwise quiet parking lot.

“Not in my fucking car, asswipe!”

Soonyoung’s hangover the next day is comical.

You can’t help but snicker as he rolls up to the showcase’s dry run with shades over his eyes and a large cup of coffee in his shaking hands.

“You suck,” he hisses to you as he slides on to the bench next to you. Teacher Kang is busy heralding the students, getting them into their costumes and places, so the two of you have a minute alone before the hubbub strikes up.

“You’re the one who can’t hold down his alcohol,” you respond, eyeing his slumped form with amusement.

Soonyoung mumbles some incoherent cusses, his free hand reaching up to rub at his temples.

“God, my last memory was Hong coming up to the table,” he grouses.

You’re reminded of the inordinate amount of alcohol he downed in your brief absence. I wonder what’s gotten into him, Wonwoo had said.

“That clears,” you say sympathetically.

There’s a moment’s pause before Soonyoung tentatively asks, “Did the two of you ever…?”

You don’t immediately register what he’s asking about Joshua. When it hits you, though, you find a startled laugh sliding past your lips. Because there’s Wonwoo’s answer, even though you don’t recognize it then and there.

“Hong? No, no.” For reasons you can’t quite explain, you feel compelled to tack on, “I haven’t really had the time to date.”

“Oh.” It kills you, how Soonyoung almost sounds relieved. “Me, too. I mean— me neither.”

“Ah.”

“Running a dance studio is a lot of work.”

“Right.”

“And I’m sure— law school, right? That was a lot of work, too.”

“Right, yeah.”

It’s a stilted conversation, one heavy in its implications. The real things that the two of you want to say, want to address, linger on the surface, but neither of you seem to want to break that ice.

You settle, instead, for this moment. For the negligible distance between the two of you on the bleachers and how it closes, slow but steady, like the ticking hands of a clock.

Your shoulder just barely presses against Soonyoung’s.

Neither of you move away.

“Why did you come home?”

“Because I love you, and I miss you.”

“You’re lying.”

“Only one of those is a lie, actually.”

You’ve always liked being front of house during the showcase.

You’re a familiar face to the parents of the children, to the community members who attended the event every year. Their warmth is a welcome reprieve from your nerves.

You make small talk. You usher people to their seats. You try not to wonder where the hell Kwon Soonyoung is.

Despite having his calling card, you haven’t deigned to reach out. It’s tucked away in a drawer at home; you don’t quite know what to do with it. Maybe you’ll actually save his number one of these days.

You’re entertaining the thought when you feel a hand at your elbow. The smiling face of Iseul’s mother— the pompous but well-meaning Mrs. Hwang— greets you.

“There’s no need for that,” she says with a chuckle as you fold into a bow. You don’t miss the way she nonetheless preens at your formalities. It’s why you keep up with it.

You let her link your arms and, out of instinct, you begin to lead her to one of the free seats in the auditorium. “Are you excited for this year’s show, Mrs. Hwang?” you ask conversationally.

“You know it,” she answers. “Iseul has been talking non-stop about her performance, but she refuses to tell me what song to expect!”

You’d recognize Mrs. Hwang’s baiting tendencies from a mile away. With a curt giggle, you tell her, “You’ll find out soon enough, Mrs. Hwang. I promise it’ll be worth the suspense.”

The older woman gives you a disapproving frown, but it smooths out as she seems to realize a change in topic. The auditorium is notably a little more packed this year, enough to have the volunteers bringing out additional Monobloc chairs.

“I guess people want to see what the Kwon boy has done to the showcase, hm?” she notes, speaking into existence the fact that you’ve neglected to acknowledge so far.

Surprisingly, you don’t feel bitter about it. People were showing up to assess Soonyoung’s choreography, to bask in the product of his labor. There’s a twinge of something in your chest. It could almost be mistaken for pride.

Mrs. Hwang tacks on, “Mighty shame.”

That throws you off. “Pardon?”

She doesn’t respond immediately, her eyes zeroing in on an empty chair by the front of the stage. She practically drags you there as she continues, “It’s really so unfortunate. The whole thing about his dance studio tanking.”

The whole thing about his dance studio tanking.

What the hell was she talking about?

The universe, once again, had to be messing with you. You’re convinced this is some skit. Some buildup to a joke.

But the punch line never comes, and you end up admitting, “I don’t think I’ve heard about that yet, Mrs. Hwang.”

Your voice is surprisingly even for someone whose world was closing in. If Mrs. Hwang can sense the trepidation in your demeanor, she makes no indication of it. You’re grateful for her obliviousness, even, because she only keeps talking as she settles into her seat.

“My girls are always talking about it,” she says, referring to the group of forty-something-year-old women who like to gather and gossip in the town’s sole Italian restaurant. “That’s why he’s back. Couldn’t hack it out there.”

When she glances up at you with a scrutinizing expression, you just know you’re not going to like what she says next. You’re proven right when she says, “We thought he’d ask for your help, actually. Isn’t liquidation your specialty?”

You can’t be bothered to correct the woman over the technicalities. You give her a tight smile, a nod of your head, a polite ‘goodbye’ as you take your leave.

There are much more pressing matters, you think to yourself, as you go to greet more guests, make sure the music is all queued up, check in on the host’s script.

You didn’t spend over a month preparing for tonight only to lose yourself before it’s even begun. You refuse to let the new piece of information trip you up, even though it has your heart acting like a caged animal underneath your ribs.

The showcase goes by without a hitch. The children are more than phenomenal; they’re perfect.

The audience is enamored. The teachers are overjoyed.

You want nothing more than to go home and tear up Soonyoung’s calling card.

As the showcase wraps up to enthusiastic applause, Teacher Kang snatches the microphone from the host for one last announcement.

“This wouldn’t have been possible without two of our very tireless volunteers,” she says, and— from backstage— you wince. Before you know it, you’re being pushed out onto the stage.

Soonyoung exits from the other stage wing.

He’s managed to evade you the entire showcase, and now you realize why. In his arms, he holds a monstrous bouquet. Yellow acacias, striped carnations, bunch-flowered daffodils. Your first thought is how expensive it might have been, to find out-of-season blooms in the thick of winter.

Your second thought is that you want to hurl, but that’s neither here nor there.

As Soonyoung strides in from the other side of the stage to meet you in the middle, he sees it. He sees the hint of trepidation underneath your practiced grin, sees the way your eyes flash momentarily. His own grin drops ever so slightly.

But the two of you are in an auditorium, on a stage in front of Namyangju’s best and brightest. Neither of you can afford to give voice to what you feel.

Soonyoung hands you the bouquet. You nod in acknowledgement.

The two of you instinctively reach for each other’s hands.

You hadn’t noticed that the crowd had gotten to their feet. A standing ovation. It feels like an echo of the past, a cruel reminder of an alternate universe.

Even so, your smile never wavers. Neither does Soonyoung’s. He raises your hand. The two of you take a bow.

The Great Pretenders put on their best show yet.

“What was that?”

A part of you is surprised that Soonyoung found you. The moment the showcase officially concluded, you were booking it out of the auditorium before he could even get a word in edgewise. Gracefully, the dozens of people hounding him for photos and small talk let you widen the gap.

Still, he caught up. Just as you were passing by the godforsaken playground that had witnessed the ending of it all. Oh, the universe and its jokes.

Soonyoung is red-faced, like you’d embarrassed him somehow despite the convincing act you both put on. Your fingers tighten around the bouquet he gave you.

“What was that?” he repeats, and what little restraint you had left snaps.

“Why did you come home?” you ask point blank.

“Teacher Kang—”

“Don’t,” you snipe. “Teacher Kang asked you last year. And the year before that. Why did you come home now, Soonyoung?”

The question hangs heavy in the early December evening. You and Soonyoung are staring at each other, mere paces away from the swing set where the two of you made your choices.

He doesn’t answer right away, so you prompt him with, “Is it because of me?”

Soonyoung misinterprets the question. You can see the way his eyes light up, the way his lips part like he’s just about to say something of consequence.

You almost feel guilty about the next words that tear out of you. “You’re going bankrupt,” you say, and the hope on his face fizzles out like a popped lightbulb.

“Who told you—” he chokes out.

“So it’s true?”

Kwon Soonyoung is struck dumb.

Soonyoung, whose mouth ran faster than his brain. Soonyoung, who was full of quick quips and witty remarks.

Soonyoung, who is now staring at you like you’ve told him the world was about to end.

You contemplate throwing his bouquet in his face. It will make for a dramatic, pretty picture— the petals falling onto the soft snow, the fuck you loud despite being unspoken. For now, you only clutch the arrangement closer to your chest like it's a lifeline.

“And here I thought—” Your breath hitches on a scoff, the puff of air visible in the chill. “I was a fool who thought you came back for me.”

The truth cuts. Your laugh bitterly as you go on, “I guess you still did, though, huh? Because you need me. What? Were you hoping to avail of cheap services, Kwon?”

“That’s not—”

“That’s exactly it!” Your tone is shrill. Soonyoung always did bring out the worst in you. “You were away for six years, and now you’ve come crawling back—”

“Do you think I wanted to fail?”

Soonyoung’s voice rises, his frustration bubbling over to match yours.

“I starved out there,” he bites out. “Ate cup noodles for a year so the studio could afford rent for one more month. Sold half of my stuff so I could pay my employees. It was so hard.”

The way Soonyoung’s voice breaks on the last word makes something in your heart clench. For a moment, you think it might be pity, but you kill the feeling as soon as it tries to make itself known.

You don’t want to pity Soonyoung, which is both an insult and a grace.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask instead, even though a part of you already knows the answer.

A sound that’s almost like a delirious laugh escapes him. “Not when I was the one who made it out,” he responds.

You never realized how much you’d prefer Soonyoung’s cocky, self-assured self over this version of him. This boy— man— who is defeated and resigned. Even in your anger, there is a small part of you that wants to do something to wipe that look off his face.

“I made it out,” he repeats wearily, like it’s taking everything in him to face the truth of being Namyangju’s failing poster boy.

He continues, “I gave up everything to be there. I gave up you.”

Your grip on the bouquet tightens. There’s a faint prickle behind your eyes, but you refuse to let those tears fall. “You did that like it was easy,” you mumble, your voice just loud enough to carry.

Soonyoung meets your gaze. He looks like he’s on the verge of sobbing himself, but his tone brokers no arguments.

“It wasn’t,” he says.

And that was that.

You’ve never been able to stand not having the last word. You clear your throat, attempting to speak through the lump forming there. “Yeah, well,” you say shakily. “You’re not the only one who lost something.”

It’s a shitty comparison and you know it. Soonyoung’s sacrifices dwarf yours. You weren’t the one who moved away, who bore the weight of an entire city’s pride.

Thankfully, Soonyoung doesn’t call you out on it. He only takes a sharp exhale and turns his gaze away, his eyes fixed on the swings.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet. Almost like the words are an afterthought. “For the record— that night?” he says. You don’t have to ask for clarification. You know exactly which night he’s talking about.

“I was hoping you’d change my mind,” he confesses.

A physical blow to the chest would have hurt less. You stagger, but you try to mask it like you’re taking a step back. Like you’re walking away, even as your eyes never leave Soonyoung’s face.

“And I was hoping I’d be worth staying for,” you say with a humorless laugh, the distance between the two of you growing, growing, growing.

Your parting words are the proverbial nail on the coffin: “I guess we both didn’t get what we wanted.”

“Why did you come home?”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

For once, Jihoon and Wonwoo have nothing to say.

No wisecrack. No jab. No exchange of money in some backhanded bet.

They listen as you recount the salient points of the argument. You keep the personal stuff out of your own retelling, focusing only on the broad strokes. The biggest concern lies in one nagging question.

“Did you know?” you ask, your hands bracing the table in front of you.

“No,” Jihoon says immediately.

Wonwoo chimes in with a quiet “Me neither.”

You know these boys. You’ve seen them lie to their parents about their homework, lie to their girlfriends about where they were.

They’re not lying now. You know that much.

A shaky exhale escapes you. It’s been three days since the fight and you’ve yet to run into Soonyoung. You wouldn’t hold it past him to avoid you, either by steering clear from the places you frequent or getting on the first bus back to Seoul.

“When he asked about how you were doing,” Jihoon says gruffly. “I thought it was just— yearning or some shit.”

“Me, too,” Wonwoo adds.

Yearning or shit. The words almost make you laugh.

The pinched expression on your face prompts Wonwoo to ask, “Are you upset?”

‘Upset’ feels like too light of a term to describe the maelstrom of emotions within you. There are facts: You wish you had known. You could have afforded to be kinder. You are afraid that you will never stop being angry.

You answer Wonwoo’s question with a mumbled, “Would it be cliché to say that I’m just disappointed?”

“Ah.” His face is thoughtful, understanding. “Because you expected something from him.”

“That’s not it,” you say dryly.

It is.

The three of you lapse into contemplative silence. Jihoon breaks it after a couple of moments, his tone soft and serious.

“I know it’s shitty,” he says. “But I do hope that he’s okay.”

That would be the mature thing to do. Even Wonwoo is nodding his agreement, willing to set aside his own gripes in favor of well wishing.

You can’t bring yourself to do the same. The platitude sticks in your throat until you feel like it will suffocate you.

Soonyoung has an alibi for not showing up to Teacher Kang’s post-processing session.

You’re grateful that the elderly woman doesn’t go on about the details of his absence. She mentions something about him being busy with the holidays, and you take it in stride.

You try not to picture the way his jaw might’ve twitched before sending out the text, before lying to get away.

“Everybody loved the show,” Teacher Kang gushes. “I’m so proud of you, dear. I really do hope we can have Soonyoung on board more often.”

An offhand joke of “we’ll probably be seeing a lot more of him in the near future” crosses your mind, but you hold it back. You may be calloused, but you’re not heartless.

You nod. You agree with Teacher Kang. You hold it together, up until you’re halfway out the door and she calls you back for one last word.

“You know,” she starts. “I remember the two of you when you were kids.”

You’d been dreading this— the inevitable trip down memory lane. You thought you had escaped it, but now you’re facing it with one of the world’s fakest smiles.

“That was a long time ago,” you say.

“It was.” There’s a glimmer in Teacher Kang’s eye. Something unbearably tender. “Soonyoung always made you smile a certain way. You’ve started smiling like that again. It’s nice to see.”

You don’t know how you manage to laugh it off, to bid Teacher Kang goodbye and make your way back to your car. Your hands are shaking as you slide into the driver’s seat of your car.

The school’s parking lot is gracefully empty. It’s a good thing, because then no one can hear you as you fold in half and screech.

You scream until your voice goes hoarse, until the windows shake.

You scream until you can’t hear the way your chest is caving in on your heart.

Your theory of running into everyone but Soonyoung is proven when you’re sooner to cross paths with Mama Kwon.

Your carts nearly collide in the pasta aisle of the grocery store. You’re already bowing, apologizing profusely, when you realize that you recognize the woman holding a can of pesto.

She says your name with the fondness that could rival your own mother’s. It takes everything in you not to bolt at the sound of it.

“What a coincidence,” she says with a tinkling laugh.

You know in your heart of hearts that it’s exactly that. A coincidence. Still, you can’t help but think some higher power is out to get you. Call it karmic justice.

“How have you been, Mrs. Kwon?” you ask, feeling the slight nip of not addressing the woman as you typically might.

She notices too, if her slightly furrowed brow is any indication. She manages to rearrange her expression into something more neutral as she answers.

“You know how the holidays are,” she says, wielding her pesto bottle in an absentminded gesture. “It’s a full house!”

That stings.

You’ve heard from your mother how the past couple of years, Mama Kwon would complain about her household feeling empty during the holidays. The seat at the dining table stayed vacant for the son that refused to come home.

You don’t know how much she knows about the state of the dance studio, so you decide to play it safe. “I’m sure it is,” you say.

The small talk is tearing you up from the inside, but you don’t want to be rude. Don’t want to be a stranger to the woman who once cared for you so deeply— who probably still cares for you, if you really thought of it.

The question is out of you before you can hold it back. “Are you with Soonyoung?”

What would you even do with that information? Would you have booked it if she said ‘yes, he’s right around the corner’? Would you have cried if she revealed that he headed back to the city?

You’re not sure.

Here’s what happens instead: A sigh nearly breaks out of you when Mama Kwon responds, “He’s in the next shop over, getting some repairs for the car. We’re meeting at Italianni's for lunch.”

Still here, a small voice murmurs in the back of your mind. Hasn’t left for Seoul just yet.

You shake the thought away as Mama Kwon delicately prompts, “Would you like to join us?”

Mama Kwon is probably not inviting you solely out of politeness. She’s making the offer because she wants you to be there. She wants you to be at the same table as her family, sharing a pizza and whatever the restaurant’s special for the day is. She wants you to sit next to Soonyoung and play nice, even though you currently can’t stomach the thought of being anywhere near him.

For some reason, it makes you want to cry.

To lose somebody in a breakup is painful, yes. To lose all the things that came with it— like the family that you might have learned to love yourself?

A different type of ache all together.

Your smile is so painfully fake, almost hurting the edges of your mouth, as you try to let her down gently. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” you say. “But thank you for thinking of me.”

For once, The Great Pretenders is met with negative reviews.

Then again, nothing ever really escaped Mama Kwon’s scrutinizing gaze. She surveys your expression and purses her lips. You can practically see the way that the cogs turn in her brain, as if trying to decide on the response that will do the least amount of damage.

It doesn’t matter how gentle she tries to be. The words that she eventually extends still hurt like a bitch.

“He still talks about you a lot,” she muses.

Oh.

“Oh?”

“Nothing bad,” Mama Kwon says quickly. She laughs again, smiling very much like how her son might.

“Just—” She leans in. Your body autonomously mimics the action.

You’re reminded of being younger, of when she’d do the exact same thing to whisper you some ‘secret’. I got Soonyoung new shoes for Christmas. The car side mirror is busted because of me. I packed you extra of those choco pies you like.

Today, she whispers, “I think he came home for you.”

“Why did you come home?”

“I had a nightmare that I visited and I couldn’t recognize a thing. All the street names were different. The buildings were new. I kept running, trying to look for something familiar, and I just— I was just lost. And that sucked. This was mine once. You know?”

“It still is.”

“You don’t have to lie to me. It isn’t anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time.”

“You know, I really have missed your mother’s cooking.”

You smile ruefully at Soonyoung’s words.

He’s digging heartily into your mother’s signature kimchi jjigae, and you have half the mind to tell him to close his mouth as he chews. Instead, you let him devour the dish.

It had taken a little bit of masterminding to pull this off. Maybe it would’ve been easier to send Soonyoung a text of Let’s meet up, but your blasted pride was one of the last things you had left. You’d be damned if you were going to give that away, too.

You enlisted Jihoon and Wonwoo’s help in orchestrating this, in convincing Soonyoung that he could sneak into your family restaurant undetected. Sure, the blonde had been more than a little miffed when his friends ditched him and left him with you, though his irritation was short-lived in the face of the food he had been craving for God-knows-how-long.

“Maybe that’s because you’ve only been eating shin ramyun,” you point out.

Soonyoung barely looks up from his bowl as he shovels more food into his mouth. “Low blow,” he says in between bites.

You wince. “Sorry.”

“You’re not really sorry.”

“No, I am.”

That drags Soonyoung’s attention away from his stew.

His guarded expression slots right back into place, like he’s realizing you have some ulterior motive beyond feeding him. He rests his spoon against his bowl and leans back into his chair. With one eyebrow raised, he says, “This feels a lot like the lead-in to a breakup.”

A bark of laughter escapes you. Of course Soonyoung would make a joke like that.

You reach into your pocket until you’ve found what you’re looking for. Wordlessly, you slide it across the table until it’s resting by Soonyoung’s hand.

“I’ll give you a discount,” you tell him. “But only, like, fifteen percent. Anything more than that is just pushing it.”

Your calling card stares up at him. It bears your name along with your firm’s address, your phone number, and your title. Consumer bankruptcy lawyer.

Even now, Soonyoung can’t help but be expressive. His wide eyes are fixed on the card you’ve laid out. For a moment, your offer hangs in precious balance, but you don’t have a single urge to take it back. It’s entirely, wholly for Soonyoung to take.

He asks the question that you know is coming. “Why are you doing this?” he says, his words like a raw nerve.

You almost smile. Almost.

In the past week that you’ve mulled it over, you’ve reached at least a dozen different answers.

Because Jihoon and Wonwoo worry about you.

Because it’s the right thing to do.

Because Teacher Kang talks about you like you hung the stars and the moon.

Because I owe you one.

Because I don’t want you to let Mama Kwon down.

Because I’ve missed you, and I want you to be happy, even if that happiness has nothing to do with me.

The answer that eventually, finally comes to you is none of the above.

You simply say, “Because you’re my favorite ex.”

The call asking for your help never comes.

A couple of days after that lunch, you find something on your desk. Your calling card.

If it weren’t for one small thing, you would’ve thought that it was a stray card of yours that you’d forgotten. But then you catch sight of a doodle in one corner right before you’re about to tuck the card away in your closet.

A crude drawing of a tiger, with crescent-shaped eyes and a toothy smile.

You instantly know what it means. Sure enough, you hear from Jihoon that same evening.

Kwon Soonyoung has left as quietly as he arrived.

There is relief. There is regret. How you feel ultimately doesn’t matter, because you knew it would always come to this— a choice being made.

He left. You stayed.

The world spins madly on.

The last of the snow is melting on an unassuming Tuesday afternoon when your phone pings in your pocket. You fish it out to find two texts from an unknown number. The first is a link to a news article.

You’re suspicious, but curiosity always did kill the cat. The article loads and fills your screen.

Eye of the Tiger Dance Studio To Start Offering Child-Friendly Dance Lessons

By: Xu Minghao

SEOUL, South Korea – Eye of the Tiger Dance Studio, founded by renowned choreographer and performer Kwon Soonyoung, better known as HOSHI, is expanding its mission to inspire a new generation of dancers. The studio announced it will officially begin offering child-friendly dance lessons following a successful pilot program last month.

Parents and young aspiring dancers can look forward to the official launch of child-friendly lessons early next year. According to HOSHI, the initiative aims to “nurture the joy of dance from an early age and build a foundation for self-expression and confidence.”

The studio piloted its first all-children dance classes in January, offering a creative and supportive environment for young dancers to explore movement. The program’s success has led to an upcoming showcase featuring the children at the KB Art Hall in Gangnam.

HOSHI, celebrated for his innovative choreography and passion for dance, revealed the inspiration behind this new direction.

“There was a time I felt lost, like I had lost my purpose for dance,” HOSHI shared, reflecting on a challenging period in his career. “I was going through the motions, using dance as a way to distract myself from everything else, rather than embracing it as a part of who I am.”

“But I realized something important recently,” he goes on. “Dance shouldn’t be an escape or a vacation. It should be a homecoming.”

And that’s exactly what they hope to do with their upcoming showcase. Details on the event can be found here.

The second text bears only a couple of words, but it changes the ending of everything.

There’s only one seat that will matter in that auditorium, it reads.

Please make sure it’s not empty.

“Why did you come home?”

“Home had you.”

#winterwithyoucollab #svthub #mansaenetwork #soonyoung x reader #hoshi x reader #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #soonyoung imagines #hoshi imagines #soonyoung fic #hoshi fic #soonyoung angst #hoshi angst #svt fic #seventeen fic #( <3 here it is! my love my light the fruit of my labor etc. )#( annotations/editing are imminent. but for now know i was insaneee over this )#(💎) page: svt #(🥡) notebook

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sbk-prompt-week · 2 months ago

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☁️Welcome to skyblock kingdom’s prompt week event! This will be running from January 19th to January 25th, 2025. Modded by @in-the-multiverse

☁️Use #sbkpromptweek to participate

☁️Below the cut are FAQ (please read through them) and a little ramble about each prompt to spark ideas or inspiration (optional to read). Have fun creating! :D

What is a prompt week?

It’s a scheduled fandom event dedicated to characters, ships, or fandoms in general— usually with a list of prompts or themes to inspire and encourage fanworks. They’re announced in advance and fanworks are posted on the corresponding days of the week. In this case, it’s for the sbk fandom as a whole! This blog will be archiving all creations submitted as long as they follow the guidelines

Is this limited to fanart and fanfiction?

Nope. You’re more than welcome to make moodboards, stimboards, song playlists, edits, cosplay and the likes! Additionally, there’s no art requirements or minimum/maximum word count. Anything ai generated is disallowed.

What type of content is allowed?

If it’s within a creator’s boundaries, it’s allowed (this information can be found in #member-info on the SBK Community discord). Tag accordingly for shipping or content warnings if your works contain them. Make use of the tumblr blacklist for topics you don’t want to see. If you don’t like something, don’t engage. Be respectful. And please be patient to those who haven’t stated what they are/aren’t ok with.

Can I post something late?

Absolutely! This isn’t an event with a hard set deadline.

Do I have to make something for every day?

Nah, you can make as little or as much as you’d like, at whatever pace you’re comfortable with.

I have a fanwork I’m already creating, can I submit it to this event?

If it fits within the prompts provided, yep!

Can I combine prompts?

Sure, just mention which ones you’re combining when you post.

Why isn’t my post reblogged?

If I miss something a week after the event is over, please reach out in an ask and I’ll archive it here. Late entries may take more time to be reblogged as I’ll be monitoring the tag less frequently.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️👑☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Bond

Have a pair or group of people you enjoy seeing together, or would like to depict together? This goes for friendships, romantic pairings, queer platonic relationships, familial bonds, etc. Is it unconditional love? Complicated? Yearning? Or perhaps something more abstract?

In a different world

AUs, crossovers, homelands that weren’t 99% void, we imagine them in a different setting! Maybe you’d like to add a fic or fanart to an AU that already exists, or maybe you’d like to come up with one of your own. Want to explore how the sbkers would react to being in a different mcyt series? Or meet other characters? Whatever your imagination compels you to create, go for it!

Fashion

Casual modern clothing? Royal outfits? Goth? Punk? Catmaid? Cottagecore? Let’s stylize those cubitos! Or maybe you’d like to spin this prompt another way. Does it extend into world building? Is it kingdom specific? The possibilities are up to you!

Horror vs. Fantasy

Wanna put a blorbo through the horrors? Are they the horrors? Or would you rather create something more whimsical? Depict fantasies of certain characters? Wanna do both? The canvas and/or keyboard is all yours.

Retrospect

What happened this season that you’d like to revisit? A fond memory, favourite bit, nostalgic beginnings, something that’s been spinning around in your brain since it happened. Or perhaps you’d like to retell a moment from a different perspective: through another character’s eyes, another narrative lens, etc.

Meme redraw / Crackfic

We get silly with it! Have a reaction image or funny stock photo you’d like to redraw the sbkers in? Maybe a show screenshot or random internet image? Or how ‘bout throwing these guys in scenarios where you don’t have to worry about getting Serious writing it? We’re cringe and free >:3

Free Day

You’re more than welcome to come up with your own prompt. Whatever you feel drawn to, whatever gets your gears going, have fun creating it!

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️👑☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

#skyblock kingdoms #sbk #mcytblr #mcytblrsource

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avastrasposts · 1 year ago

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A Baker's Dozen**

Ezra part two

Ezra’s chapter finished second in the poll about who should return to the bakery, and it made me so happy. I'd never written Ezra before and he was a challenge! But the story came together well with the help of his language and personality. But it was also sadder than I planned it to be, and I really wanted to revisit him and continue the story. So please enjoy part two!

(I'm editing and posting this in slightly more unconventional circumstances, so please excuse any errors!)

With a sigh you lock the front door of the bakery and flip the ‘Closed’ sign to face outwards. It had been a long weekend, lots of customers, and not all of them very polite. And to make matters worse, your shop assistant, the high schooler who’d worked extra on weekends, had been accepted at the last minute into their first college of choice and this was your first weekend without them. You’re exhausted and looking forward to your day off tomorrow.

The knock on the back door makes you jump just as you turn off the lights in the shop. Cautiously you walk to the back room and stop by the door.

“Hello?”

“It-it’s me, Ezra,” comes a muffled voice in a stutter from the outside, “P-please…I..”

You don’t need to hear more, you rush to the door and unlock it, throwing it open and the man on the other side almost loses his balance, propped up against the door frame. His appearance makes you gasp, reaching out to steady him as he wobbles. The stark blonde patch in his hair is plastered against his forehead, stained with blood from the cut just above his eyebrow, another cut marks his cheekbone, a bruise already blooming around it. From the way he’s curled his arm around his torso, you can tell something’s hurting his chest.

“Ezra, what happened?” you wince, helping him to step through the door, his face twisting in pain as he puts weight on his left foot.

He only grunts in response to your question, inhaling sharply as you carefully try to take his weight.

“Lean on me, let’s get you to the chair, I’ll call an ambulance, it’ll be ok,” you say, making him lean on you as much as you can as he hobbles into the kitchen and sinks down on the chair with a groan.

“No, no ambulance, I am not that badly off,” he says, shaking his head as you pull over the stool on wheels and make him put his injured leg up onto it.

“What happened, Ezra?” you ask again, sinking down to get a better look at him. He’s pale under his golden complexion, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

“It’s nothing, no matter, I just need to-,” he says, but even as he says it, he closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose, his hand tightening over his chest.

“Ezra,” you implore again, putting your hand on his uninjured leg, “you’ve turned up, injured and bloody, weeks after you disappeared, and you try to tell me it’s nothing? Do you think I’m that stupid?”

With that he peels his eyes open and looks down at you, and the pain in his eyes almost makes your heart stop.

“Ezra…” you implore again, softer this time, “be honest with me, I want to help, you know that.”

“I’m…I’m ashamed…” he whispers, his eyes falling to your hand on his leg, “you know what I am. I know I left you without explanation last time, after you were so kind to me. And here I am, needing your help again, because I have no one else to turn to.”

“Just tell me what happened, please, Ezra,” you say, “let me help.”

“I…I’ve…some men…” he begins, his eyes still on your hand on his leg, “I’d fallen asleep on the bus stop bench, and some men seemed to take offense,” he looks up at you, and you’re suddenly reminded of the mask Ezra is so skilled at pulling up over his true face, it’s firmly in place now, his hesitancy gone as he picks his words.

“They decided to make me leave by shoving me off the bench, and I twisted my ankle as I fell. When I couldn’t get up they roughed me up, threw me in a dumpster when they were done. I hurt my side trying to get out of it, fell badly when my foot gave up,” he gives you a humorless laugh, “Turns out climbing out of a dumpster with only one good arm and leg is rather tricky.”

“Ezra…that’s terrible, we need to get you to the ER, they need to check your chest, you may have broken ribs,” you make to stand up but his hand comes out and grabs yours before it leaves his leg.

“No, please, no, it’s not necessary,” he says, squeezing your hand, “I just need to clean the cuts and, if you have one, a bandage for my ankle so that I can at least stand on it while I make my way home.”

“You need to get your ribs checked, Ezra,” you reply, not taking a no from him, “and you might need stitches on the cut over your eye, it looks deep. Please,” you add as you see him shake his head again.

“Sweet girl, I can’t, please just let me get cleaned up and I’ll leave, I won’t impose on you again.”

“Ezra, you’re not imposing, except with your stubbornness, I’m taking you to the ER and that’s it. I’m not letting you leave without getting looked at by a professional.” You pull your hand from his and reach for your coat and he gives a forced little chuckle, smiling without mirth, his hand coming up as if to make a dismissive gesture in the air, but you stop him. .

“And don’t try that act with me, Ezra, I spent enough time with you last time to know when you’re lying, either to protect yourself or me.”

His hand falls back down, his shoulders slumping, “Your eagerness to help does you credit, but you don’t understand,” he says as you shrug into your coat.

He’s shaking his head, staring down at his solitary hand, picking at a fleck of blood on his stained pants, and you wait for him to press out the words. His words failing him in a way that is so far from his usual unstoppable stream that it makes you stop and look down at him with even more concern as he continues to pick at the blood.

“I…I simply don’t…I don’t have the…means, I just…can’t pay it,” he stutters, clenching his fist tight, his voice defeated, “I have no insurance…I don’t even have a valid driver’s license, they will not even let me in…” He doesn’t meet your eyes as you move closer to him, but he shakes his head again, his shoulders lifting up to his ears as the tension builds in his body, “No address.”

You sink down in front of the chair, taking his hand, stilling it against his leg, unraveling his fist as he sighs again.

“I’m as homeless as an alley cat, you see, sweet girl. I’m ashamed to say I have nothing, nothing to my name.” His voice is low, eyes downcast, and he doesn’t take your hand even though you wrap your fingers around it.

“I guessed,” you say, your voice low, trying to make him meet your eyes, “But you still need help, and I can take you to the clinic down by the church. They can check you out and get you more help, free if you need it,” you give his hand a squeeze, “Please, Ezra,” you implore, “let me help.”

You sit quietly next to the chair for a few seconds while Ezra seems to fight something inside him, his jaw ticking with the tension. With a small grunt, he finally gives you a short nod, his shoulders sinking down again, “You’re too good for this world, sweet girl,” he mutters, taking your hand properly and letting you help him to his feet.

“Not at all,” you reply, getting him to put his arm over your shoulder as you help him limp to the back door again, “but you’re my friend, and you need help whether you want to accept it or not. And I can be a lot more pigheaded than you.” The last you say with a smile in your voice as you help him down the back stairs. And it gets a small chuckle out of him before he winces at the pain.

You get him to sit in the back seat, his injured leg elevated as he grumbles about getting dirt in your car. Rolling your eyes in response, you strap yourself in and reverse out. Ezra shifts in the back, trying to get comfortable, in the rear view mirror you see him gently touch the cut over his eye that’s still bleeding.

“Would you recognise the men who did it?” you ask, looking back at the road.

“Maybe, but I’m not talking to the police,” Ezra replies, guessing what you’re thinking, “They don’t care about someone like me, I’m more likely to get into trouble for bringing their attention to my lack of address.”

“I was just thinking, maybe they make a habit of it, attacking sleeping people, they should be stopped.”

“Not by me, sweet girl, I don’t have enough fight left in me for that.”

You glance back at Ezra again, he never sounded so defeated the last time you saw him, and now he’s leaning his head against the window, staring into nothing, looking utterly forlorn.

Letting the subject rest, you drive in silence the rest of the short way to the clinic.

A nurse comes over as she spots you and Ezra coming through the door and soon he’s been told to lie back on a stretcher while you hover awkwardly nearby.

“Do you want me to wait outside?” you ask him as the nurse leaves to find the doctor on call for the evening.

“Only if you wish to,” he says, dropping his head back on the pillow and staring at the ceiling, “thank you for escorting me, but it’s not necessary to wait, I can manage on my own now. You should go home.”

“Ezra,” you hiss, keeping your voice low in the open room, only curtains separating his bed from his neighbors, “quit being such a pigheaded martyr, you’re such an idiot.”

His eyes snap to yours when he hears your anger, and you continue, “If I didn’t care about you I wouldn’t have opened the door in the first place, and I certainly wouldn’t have cried for a week after you disappeared the last time.”

His eyes widen at this and he opens his mouth to say something but you don’t let him.

“I’m staying. And you’re coming home with me when we’re done here. No arguments, so you can just hold that clever tongue of yours.”

Ezra closes his mouth and opens it again, meeting your glare with astonished eyes as he fumbles for a reply. But before he has time to compose himself, the curtain around the bed is pulled to the side and the doctor appears, followed by the nurse.

Ezra doesn’t protest any more as the doctor treats him. With a small bag of over the counter painkillers in your hand, and a crutch under his one arm, he slowly follows you back to the car without a word. Luckily no fractured rib, but a sprained ankle and a few strips of surgical tape over his two cuts is the tally of the beating, and you’re grateful it’s not worse. You’re even more grateful Ezra found his way back to you for help. You’ll be damned if you’ll let him go back to the streets, even if you have to shackle him to a radiator in your house. Ezra seems to realize this, and doesn’t say anything as you stop at a supermarket on the way home, and return to the car with a toothbrush and various other supplies he might need for his stay with you.

He doesn’t speak until you’ve closed the door behind the both of you and he’s hobbled into your living room. You put the painkillers on the coffee table and turn to help him sink down on the couch.

“Thank you. Truly,” he says, as you put a cushion under his leg, propping it up on the low table.

“Don’t fight it so much next time,” you tell him, “people are nice sometimes.” Straightening up you change the subject as your stomach rumbles, the time for talking is later, “Are you hungry?”

He nods, “Very.”

“I’ve got some leftover pasta sauce and bread, I’ll heat it up for us,” you say, leaving him on the couch. But it doesn’t take long before you hear him hobble after you into the kitchen, sitting down on one of the stools by the island.

“I apologize,” he says, “I was ashamed of showing you how pitiful my life is, both when we met last time, and today. I…I find it hard to accept help, I don’t want to burden anyone with my plight, it was my own foolishness who brought me to this low point. I should carry the consequences of my actions and not burden you with them.”

“Ezra…” you say softly, trying to keep any trace of pity out of your voice, “we all make bad choices, or just have a run of bad luck. Maybe next time I’m the one who needs help, and I hope someone is willing to give it then.”

He nods, but he still looks forlorn and you ache to put your arms around him, but you think he might see it as pity, so you give him a smile, and turn back to the stove.

“You should go back to the couch, Ezra,” you say, “put your leg up again, like the doctor said. I’ll bring you your food.”

“Will you join me on the couch for dinner?” he asks and it’s your turn to nod.

“Of course, I’m starving. Get comfortable, pick something to watch and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

When you return to the living room with two plates, Ezra has propped his leg up again and readily accepts a plate from you. Some nature documentary is playing on the tv and you gratefully sink down on your end of the couch and dig in. Ezra balances his plate on his lap and from the corner of your eye you can see him struggling with twisting the spaghetti onto his fork with his left hand. His eyebrows are pulled together in frustration and the fork clinks angrily against the plate.

You set down your own fork and leave for the kitchen, returning with a tray on legs, for having breakfast in bed.

“Here,” you say, putting it down and placing his plate on it, “Ask for help, Ezra.”

He gives you an indecipherable look, but you just return to your own plate, your attention on the rainforest birds on the tv.

“Thank you,” he says after a minute, looking over at you.

“You’re welcome,” you reply, giving him a quick smile that he returns, the first smile you’ve seen from him since he arrived back at the bakery.

The rest of the evening passes in companionable silence for the most part. You want to ask Ezra about where he’s been since you last saw him, how he’s been. You know why he didn’t return to the bakery, the other shop owners on the street certainly made it known that they didn’t trust him, and didn’t want him near. And you see now, even more clearly, how little value even Ezra places on himself.

I have nothing to give to anyone.

That’s what he’d written in his note to you, the day after his first visit. And it echoes in the back of your mind as you go over the events of the evening, stealing looks at Ezra sitting in the other corner of your couch.

He came back to the bakery when he was injured, but it seems even that had been a hard task for him, to ask for help, and then very reluctantly accepting it. He’d told you he lost his arm in a mining accident, but you don’t know if that was the true story or not. But whatever the truth is, you’re starting to understand the strange dark haired man with the odd blonde patch, a little bit better. He must’ve been fiercely independent before he lost his arm, capable, his skill matching his sharp intellect. And strong, if the shape of his wide shoulders and broad back is anything to go by. You can still remember how his muscles flexed and bunched under your exploring hands when he’d kissed you in the kitchen, a strength that hadn’t diminished when he lost his arm.

To lose that independence, and then his home, to be reduced to relying on others for help, even with the simplest things, it could turn any person bitter. And yet, the Ezra you met in the bakery, as wary as you’d been of him at first, had been warm and passionate, tender and gentle even. The mask he’d let slip while you baked together, had revealed a man you could fall in love with, even with the circumstances of his life twisting the person he showed the world.

You give him another look, his strong profile lit by the tv, his chocolate hair and beard longer and scruffier than before, more streaks of gray and the bags under his eyes heavy. But underneath the layers of grime, the stress of his life, he’s still a handsome man, albeit a little bit dirty right now. But that’s a problem for tomorrow you decide.

With a yawn you stretch and get to your feet, picking up the plates.

“I’ll get you a pillow and a blanket,” you say, “I left a new toothbrush in the bathroom, and a clean towel.”

“I can’t stay,” he says, predictably, and you ignore him, going back to the kitchen to put the plates in the dishwasher, turning it on before you return to the living room. Ezra is standing by the couch, the crutch under his arm.

“You’re staying, Ezra,” you interrupt him before he can protest, “You’re injured, and quite frankly, you’re dirty. Sleep here tonight, wash up in the morning, and then we’ll see.”

“Sweet girl…I can’t let you…” he begins but you shake your head.

“Do you think so little of me? That you think I’d let anyone, let alone an injured friend, sleep rough on the streets?”

Ezra looks back at your raised eyebrows and challenging look.

“Well?” you ask, “Do you think I’m that kind of friend?”

“No,” he says eventually, a small, exasperated smile, softening his face, “I know you’re not that kind of friend.”

“Good. Toothbrush and towel in the bathroom, go clean up, I’ll make your bed,” you point your finger in the direction of the bathroom and give him a stern look, softened by a crooked smile that Ezra returns.

“Yes, boss,” he says, and hobbles away.

Ezra beds down on the couch and you make sure his leg is propped up by a couple of extra cushions before you retreat to your own bed. You can hear him shifting on the couch, the old thing creaking under his weight, before you drift into sleep.

A loud crash startles you from your dreams hours later, early morning light coming through your curtains, and you shoot up in bed.

“Ezra?” you call out, scrambling out of bed, wrapping your gown around you as you hurry out of your bedroom. You find him by the open front door, cursing silently as he struggles to pick up the crutch from the floor.

“You’re sneaking out,” you state, stopping as you see him straightening up, the crutch still on the floor, his hand on the wall for balance.

“I’m afraid I have to depart, a pressing matter requires my swift attention this morning,” he replies, and oh, the mask is so clearly in place, the polite, apologetic smile, hiding the real man.

“What kind of pressing matter?” you ask, “Let me get dressed and I’ll drive you,” you challenge, crossing your arms and challenging him to just fucking dare to lie to you again.

“No, I can’t let you do that,” he smiles, wider now, even more apologetic, “I must converge with a most disagreeable drifter, a small matter of business I have with him that needs to be settled, I truly do not wish you to meet him. Such a rough, uncouth-”

“Ezra…” you say, your voice a warning, as you bend to pick up the crutch, holding out of his reach. It’s a dirty trick but he won’t get far without it.

“I assure you, sweet girl, I really need to depart, it would not be fortunate for you, or your excellent business, to be seen around town with myself, or this disagreeable man. I can’t bring this misfortune down on you after you’ve treated me with such kindness,” Ezra tilts his head, looking up at you through his dark eyelashes, the ringmaster at work, using his words to bend the audience to follow his ques, to believe his illusion.

You shake your head, and lean the crutch in a corner, away from him.

“You forget, Ezra, that you’ve bared more than you maybe intended to me, and I see what you’re trying to do,” you say, moving around him and closing the front door. “Your smooth lies don’t work on me anymore, I can see that mask you pull up whenever you try to bend me to your will.”

You stop in front of him, and he wavers, the smile, almost a leer, slips from his face. Carefully, as if he’s an animal you don’t want to spook, you bring your hand to his cheek, your thumb brushing across his scruffy beard.

“Ezra…you don’t need to fight so hard. Not with me.”

The mask is gone again, his determination to oppose your will melting away faster this time, and Ezra’s eyes fill with regret as he leans his face into your hand. You seek out his, hanging limp by his side and lace your fingers together, squeezing it lightly as you let him hold on to you for balance.

“I left you a note,” he whispers, “I’m truly grateful, I didn’t want to leave again without explanation.”

“What does it say?”

He sighs, closing his eyes briefly, “Same as I said last night, I don’t want to bring you more trouble, I have nothing to give, I don’t want to be a burden. And I know what you’ll say,” he looks up at you as he hears you inhale to berate him, “You don’t think I’m a burden, that I won’t bring you trouble. But I have not lived life honestly, and the people in this community know me as a trickster who cons them. It can only bring you trouble if they see you with me.”

“Have you stolen from them?” you ask, and he shakes his head.

“Not from them, no. But I have stolen in the past, and not only what I needed of food and clothes. And I conned them, used their good hearts against them, they will not pardon me and see me as favorably as you do, sweet girl.”

You caress his cheek again, “Maybe it wasn’t honest, but it’s not like you forced them to give you things, just like you didn’t force me to make you a soufflé. Even though I realize I was probably just a con to you too.”

Ezra drops his eyes from yours at that, looking away as he gives you a small nod.

“It was a con, at first, I have to admit it. I was hoping for a loaf or two of bread, maybe something sweet, but…the soufflé, it wasn’t a con, I promise.” He looks up at you again, your hand has slipped from his cheek, down to his shoulder, he’s so close you can smell the toothpaste and his unwashed clothes, the antiseptic from the bandage on his cheek and forehead. You remain silent to let him continue, to see if his mask comes up again, or if he tells the truth this time.

“I told you that you captivated me, and that’s the truth, I was watching you the first day I came into the shop, you were decorating a cake, your concentration palpable, you were clearly very skilled. And knew if I conned you, I couldn’t come back, so I bought a croissant…and I left.” Ezra gives you a small smile at the memory, “You wouldn’t even know, but that croissant…it bound me to you, it was that perfect. I couldn’t help but keep going back, to watch you work, to taste more of what you’d made. And then you noticed me, and I should’ve left, but it was too late, I had already made a plan to trick you, another kind of trick.”

“What kind of trick, Ezra?” you ask and he gives you the smallest of chuckles.

“The kind that let me spend more time with you, to let me be seen as something else than the sad, homeless drifter my life has turned me into.”

He sighs, letting go of your hand to drag his rough palm over his face, rubbing at his eyes, “I’ve thought since that perhaps it was the worst of ideas, that I tricked myself more than you. I let myself step into a bubble of what could’ve been, if I had been a very different man, build a fantasy in my head where you…never mind,” he cuts himself off, leaning on the wall for balance as you seek out his hand again, “I never conned you, and I wish things were very different.”

“Ezra, I missed you when you left, and I was hurt and confused by your note and what other people said about you,” you say, taking his hand in both of yours, “but I trust you, even if you don’t believe me, I trust you. And I want you to stay, at least until you’re better, please stay this time.”

“But your neighbors, your shop…” he begins and you step forward, pressing your lips to his, silencing him. He holds himself rigid for a beat, before you feel his lips part with a soft hum.

“Fuck ‘em,” you whisper against him, “Please, Ezra, just be selfish with me.”

You don’t let him answer, but you feel his arm move, circle around your waist and you take it as a capitulation as he pulls you a little bit closer.

The kiss doesn’t last long, just a mark to pick up where you left off the last time in the bakery. Instead you pull back from him after a little while, retrieve the crutch and lead him back to the living room. The note, Ezra’s lopsided, left handed scribble on it, sits on the coffee table next to his makeshift bed.

“Do I need to read it?” you ask and he shakes his head, taking the paper and crumpling it.

“No, I’ll stay, at least until you bid me to leave.”

“Not while you limp, you’re stuck with me for a while, con man.” The last part you say with a wink, teasing him, and you’re rewarded by the dimple appearing on his cheek as he smiles, his face transforming.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be stuck, sweet girl,” he winks back.

The morning passes easily, now that he’s decided not to leave as soon as you give him a chance. You make breakfast, stacking the bacon high on his plate, an extra fried egg with the bread and mushrooms, three sausages on the side and a large glass of orange juice.

“Sweet girl, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you stopped me from leaving just to give me a heart attack instead,” Ezra says, eyes bulging as you set the plates down on the coffee table in front of him.

“No offense, but you look like you haven’t been eating that well. Let me spoil you while I can,” you reply, sitting down in front of your own, smaller, serving.

"You’re not mistaken, and no offense taken, it has been a few arduous months,” he says while cutting into the food, humming in satisfaction as the yolk smears the bread. It’s the last you hear from him for a while, the food takes all his attention as he works his way the whole plate, even the extra mushrooms and bacon you slide over. Eventually he leans back, balancing a fresh mug of coffee on his belly, letting out a deep sigh.

“I fear I may burst if I eat another bite,” he huffs, his little tummy expanding as he takes a deep breath, “As usual, you’re too good to me, cream puff.”

“I told you, enough with the baking related pet names,” you laugh, leaning back with your own coffee. “I think we agreed on ‘honey’ last time, but I like ‘sweet girl’ too.”

“Sweet as honey,” Ezra smiles, “such a delectable name for the most captivating of women, for someone with such compassion for the most miserable, unfortunate man. Although…” he tilts his head so that he can look over at where you’re curled up on the couch, “perhaps I’m not so unfortunate, I count myself the luckiest man to have wandered into your particular bakery and then even to be allowed to call you ‘friend’.” His smile is soft, “How did a wretch like me stumble into such fortune?”

“There is that charmer that stole my heart,” you smile back at him, “I’ve missed you, Ezra.”

“I did not want to leave you last time, but you understand now why I told you the illusion had to break?” He puts his mug on the table and takes your hand across the couch as you scooch closer to him.

“I understand, but I hope you know now, that you don’t have to leave, and I don’t want you too… however…” you trail off, as the smell of his unwashed clothes reaches your nose again, “you need to shower, and change…”

Ezra looks down at his clothes and frowns, “I have nothing to change into, but I do agree that these old breeches are somewhat on the smelly side. The rogues that roughed me up made off with my bag and the clothes within.”

“Ezra, you should’ve said, we could’ve bought you something yesterday,” you say, pushing off the couch and going to the hallway closet that holds your winter jackets, “I’ve got an old oversized sweatshirt, a relic from an ex, if you don’t mind?” You hold up the sweater and Ezra shrugs.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, if it fits, I will gladly wear it.”

“I’ll put your clothes in the wash,” you dig deeper in the closet, “these will probably fit, my brother’s old shorts, they’ve got paint stains from when we painted the bedroom, but they’re clean, I promise.”

Ezra accepts the clothes and retreats to the bathroom as you clear up the breakfast. You hear him run a bath, and even the satisfied groan as he sinks into it, making you smile as you load the dishwasher. But the disgruntled growl doesn’t sound good a few minutes later so you gently tap on the closed door.

“You ok, Ezra?” you ask and a grumble floats through the door as something clatters to the floor.

“I find that washing my hair, which it is in dire need of, is impossible with the way this bruise seems determined to burn a hole in my side. I can’t lift my arm high enough. And I only have one of those, as you know.”

“Can I help? Are you decent?”

“Sweet girl, I have no concerns about being decent in front of you,” he huffs, “You’ve already been privy to my very lowest state. Besides, your bubble bath really is very efficient.”

The last thing he says with a chuckle and you open the door. You’re met with Ezra laying back, no, Ezra laying back in resplendence, in your bathtub, all but covered by bubbles and a satisfied grin on his face.

“This bathtub really is a most colossal feature, I feel like I could go for a swim,” he smiles up at you as you bend to pick up the shampoo bottle from the floor.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it, it’s half the reason I bought the house,” you say, sinking down behind him, “Can’t believe you got me washing your hair too, Ezra,” you mutter, but there’s no venom and Ezra hears the smile in your voice.

“I’ll repay the favor tenfold once I’m all healed up again, honey,” he says and scoots forward, giving you free access to his dark curls.

He’s like a cat, all but purring as you scrub his hair, letting your nails drag across scalp, rinsing it out once and giving it another wash. As you massage his head he closes his eyes and breathes deeply, you’re certain he’ll start snoring any second, and you gently tap his shoulder for him to sit up for a second rinse.

“Conditioner, sir?” you ask him with a teasing tone, as he moans.

Ezra opens one eye and looks up at you, “Are you mocking me, baker girl?”

“Only your obvious attraction to the skill of my hands, your moans are loud enough for the neighbors to hear.”

“Oh, I’ve always been attracted to the skill of your hands, in more ways than one, and I’m sure I can think of other uses for them too,” he winks and closes his eye again, leaving you with burning cheeks as his double entendre makes heat rise in your body.

As you rinse the conditioner from his hair you brush it back from his forehead, running your fingers through the blonde patch, stark white now that it’s properly clean. On impulse you bend down and place a kiss to it as you move to get up.

“All done, sir, enjoy the rest of your bath now.”

His hand comes up and grabs your wrist, surprisingly fast for someone right handed using their left, and he pulls you back down.

“Thank you,” he says in a low voice, bringing you close enough for him to reach up and return your kiss, warm lips pressed against yours for a moment.

“Anytime, Ezra,” you reply when he pulls back a little, your voice barely a whisper. You lock eyes for a few seconds, Ezra’s chocolate brown darkening as he rubs his thumb over the thin skin of your wrist.

“Anytime, sweet girl,” he whispers back and lets you go.

You feel unsteady as you leave the bathroom, slowly letting out a long exhale as you go back to the living room, aimlessly tidying, moving three books from one end of the room and back again twice before you realize what you’re doing and give up. Slumping down on the couch you turn back to the nature documentary from last night and try to zone out, but it’s no use. As you hear Ezra come out of the bathroom you shoot up from the couch and head to the kitchen, doing what you always do to calm your mind; bake.

The rest of the day passes without any more heated moments between the two of you. Ezra rests his ankle and you feed him, he complains that he can’t help you in any way, but you shush him and prop an extra cushion under his leg. From the corner of your eye, you see the soft smile he gives you as you turn back to the kitchen.

When it’s time for dinner you join him on the couch for the Great British Bake Off, a show Ezra is well familiar with but he’s missed most of the past seasons so the evening ends with you going back through the seasons and starting over. Before you know it, you’re lying down, your toes tucked in under Ezra’s warm leg while he absentmindedly strokes small circles on your calf. The whole scene is so domestic, he looks calm, more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him. His whole face transforms as he laughs at the tv, looking over at you to see if you’re laughing too. And you are, but mostly because it feels good to see Ezra so comfortable and content.

When it’s time for bed, you scoot over and kiss his scruffy cheek, smelling your shampoo on him.

“Sleep tight, Ezra,” you mumble, relishing the soft touch of his beard against your lips.

“Sweet dreams, sweet girl,” he mumbles back, giving your leg an extra squeeze, “Do you want me to leave in the morning?”

“Not even a little bit, stay.”

“Then I won’t attempt to slip out unnoticed again,” he says, a crooked little smile at you as you straighten up.

“Please don’t, waking up when something goes bang in the night is not my favorite way of waking up,” you say, “Night, Ezra.”

He does stay, the next day and the next and the one after that. You go back to the bakery on the second day, leaving Ezra sleeping on the couch and come back to find him making dinner, wobbling one foot, chopping a stubborn onion with his left hand. The next day he’s done all the dishes and made your kitchen spotless. You berate him for not resting his ankle but he just shrugs and smiles, his soft southern lilt becoming more pronounced as he tries to charm you into believing that his foot is all better now. When you scold him, he gives you the most insincere puppy eyes, mischief lurking just under the surface until you crack and smack his arm and laugh at him. You almost kiss him, his infectious chuckle, the way his dimple appears as his eyes crinkle. The evenings end like the ones before, tucked in on the couch with The Great British Bake Off, but on the third evening you yawn widely and he pulls you in, his strength no match for yours.

“Rest your weary head on my leg, sweet girl,” he says, putting a cushion propped up against his thigh, “don’t stay so far away.”

You do as he says, and he pulls the quilt down over you and rests his hand on your arm. His slow movements, calloused fingers softly gliding up and down over the quilt, lulls you to sleep and it’s not until Ezra gently shakes you, that you blink awake to the end of the episode, and you stumble to bed after kissing his cheek.

The next day you come home to find Ezra packed up, what little he has, in a plastic bag by the door.

“I reckon I’ve imposed on you long enough, sweet girl,” he says as you question him, “I still limp, but I can walk now.”

“You’re not imposing, Ez, you know that,” you reply, putting down your shopping and stopping in front of him on the couch as he gets to his feet, “I want you to stay for as long as you want.”

He is moving a lot better, you can’t deny that, but the cuts and the bruises are still visible on his cheek and forehead. The bigger bruise on his torso has faded into yellows and greens and doesn’t seem to pain him anymore.

“And besides, where would you go?” you ask. You don’t want to be unkind, but pointing out the obvious flaw in his plan of just leaving seems logical. “Stay here at least until you have a place of your own, you know I won’t let you leave just to sleep in a shelter or in a car.”

“Sweet girl, how long would that endeavor not take me? I have no employment, no money to my name, and without it, I have no choice but to find improvised shelter. And finding a job without an address is not easy, finding a job for a one-armed man? Impossible.” He shakes his head and moves around you, “No, I’d rather leave now, and leave you missing my company than stay and have you tire of my disagreeable old face.”

As he limps towards the front door you feel the slow gears of your brain working until it clicks into place.

“Ezra! I have a job for you!”

He turns and looks back at you, a pitiful smile as he shakes his head.

“Do not make up a job for me. Your kind heart does you credit but I won’t accept any more charity from you, sweet girl.”

“It’s not a made up job, Ezra, I need help at the bakery,” you say, “The high school student who worked extra left for college last week, this weekend was my first without them and I hardly got any baking done. I can’t manage the bakery and the shop at the same time, especially not since I'm going into peak season with weddings and graduations. I need someone to work in the shop and you could do that, even one handed I’m sure.”

“I fear it would not do your business any good to have me at the front of your shop, or do you forget how I conned my way around the last time?” Ezra shakes his head again, turning towards the door to pick up his sad bag of belongings.

“And if there’s anyone who can charm his way back into their good books, it’s you!” you protest, yanking the bag out of his hand. “I need someone who can start tomorrow, someone who understands baking and the things I make, and who is as passionate about it as I am. You’re the perfect fit, Ezra!”

You take a step closer to him, putting your hand on his cheek. You haven’t touched since the kiss in the bathroom, it’s just been a comfortable closeness on the couch. He seems to have been holding back, not wanting to impose another layer of complications to the situation of a homeless man sleeping on your couch. You, on your hand, have been squashing your feelings and urges to touch him, not sure what he feels, if he even wants you close, he seemed so intent on leaving as soon as he could. But now you touch him, stepping over the thin line you’d both drawn, needing him to understand how much you want him to stay, not just for the bakery or out of pity for him.

And Ezra leans his head into your hand as you gently caress his cheek, the scruffy beard soft under your fingers, as he looks down at you, something shifting in him too as you come so close to him he can smell the cinnamon from the bakery in your hair.

“I want you to stay, Ezra. I missed you when you were gone, and I need you, not just in the bakery, but I need you in my life too, if you could let yourself believe that.”

“I’m a selfish man,” he mumbles, his hand coming up to rest on your waist, “I’ve been telling myself to not complicate your life, but if you offer it to me, I’ll take it.”

“Please, take it then, Ezra, I’m tired of trying to convince you that you’re worth something more, just take it, you-”

He cuts you off, his hand coming up to your cheek as his lips find yours, pushing you back against the wall with his body as your brain catches up, wrapping your arms around his neck, fingers finding purchase in his hair and kissing him back.

You sigh into his mouth when he makes you part your lips, claiming your tongue the same way you remember from the bakery, the feeling you’ve been dreaming about since he left. He groans softly, his hand slipping down from your neck and curling behind your back to hold you even closer.

“Tell me again, I want to hear you say it again, that you want me to stay,” he whispers, pulling back just a little and looking at you with his dark brown eyes, filled with need, darkening with lust as you press your mouth to his lips.

“Pigheaded fool,” you smile, “How many times do I have to say it? I want you to stay.”

His responding groan, his mouth opening to let you taste him, sends a sharp jolt of desire through your body. Turning off all rational parts of your mind, you reach behind you and take his hand, pulling him with you through the house. When lead him into your bedroom he falters, an uncharacteristic shyness, or maybe uncertainty, flashing across his face.

“Sweet girl…” he whispers as you pull him onto the bed, making him tumble over you as he loses his balance, “it’s…been so long.”

“Do you want to, Ezra?” you ask, as he holds himself over you on his one arm.

“Yes, very much, I have dreamed so many nights of taking you to bed,” he breathes, his voice low, laced with both trepidation and lust, “I just never surmised you would ever want me like this, and I’m not sure these old broken bones could ever give you the pleasure you deserve.”

“How about we try out your old broken bones and let me judge how much pleasure they give?” you tease him, running your hands down his back, still as broad and muscular as you remember. He chuckles at that, some of the tension slipping from his face as you continue to stroke his soft shirt, tangling your fingers in the curls at the back of his neck, and then back down to his waist again. He puts his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and you can feel his warm breath over your lips, a slow exhale as he relaxes under your palms.

When you slip your hands under the edge of his shirt and pull it off he hesitates, the stump of his arm has always been hidden by his clothes or the bubbles in the bathtub that one time, now you sense his unease again.

“Do you want to keep your shirt on?” you ask, letting go of the hem and resuming your path up and down his back.

“No, no I want to feel your skin against mine,” he mutters, “I’m just afraid…you might find it…repulsive.”

With gentle hands you take hold of his shirt again and push it up his torso, making him roll over onto his back as you pull it over his head, freeing both his arm and the scarred stump. Ezra watches you with dark eyes, apprehensive in a way you’ve never seen him before, watching your reaction as you lean down and place a soft kiss on the scar tissue that covers the end of his arm.

“I’m sorry you lost it, Ez, but I’m glad you’re still here,” you whisper, placing another kiss on the rough texture before his large, remaining, hand cups the back of your head and guides you up to his mouth, his hot tongue seeking yours.

Now it’s his turn to tug at your shirt and you slip it off, tossing it over the side of the bed, letting your bra go the same way. As you sit up, straddling his narrow hips, the apex of your thighs rubs over the growing hardness in his pants, he growls and grabs your hip, rolling his own up into you. You gasp and Ezra pulls himself upright, his eyes now fully dark, lust blown and all trace of hesitancy gone as he pulls your core down over his cock.

“Sweet girl, I’m determined to make you cry my name until your voice is hoarse,” he says, his voice rough and low with a layer of intensity you’ve never heard from him before, “I really have craved you so many nights, dreamt of having you unfold underneath me, make you moan so prettily in my ear again, like you did when I kissed you before.”

He cups your sex with his hand, bringing the heel down over your sensitive nerves, making you ride it through the denim of your jeans, as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. His mouth leaves heated, wet marks on your skin when he sucks bruises into your collar bone. Hand moving over the buttons, he peels down the zipper and you feel him slide down inside your pants, fingers meeting flesh as he ignores your underwear.

“What if I can make you cry ‘Ezra’ in that delicious moan, make you pant for me, with just my fingers buried in your cunt?” he growls, hot breath on your skin, “Will that prove me worthy of your devotion?”

“You-you…already a-are…” you gasp, his fingers slipping further down, thumb finding your swollen bundle of nerves, two of his thick fingers sliding deep inside and curling back. You feel him chuckle against your throat when you buck your hips, demanding more.

“Fuck, Ezra…” you moan, head tipping back, his beard scraping over your throat as he sucks another mark into the thin skin of your neck.

“Let me feel you fall, sweet girl,” he mutters, pulling back, his dark eyes finding yours half closed, blissed out, “So beautiful, captivating, my sweet girl.” He looks hungry, greedy, and he surges forward, seeking out your skin again. You feel his teeth nipping on the curve of your jaw as he curves his fingers deep inside you, finding a spot that sends stars through your veins. Your fingers dig into his broad shoulders, leaving fresh marks on his flesh as he brings you closer to the peak.

“My sweet girl,” he purrs, close to your ear, his thumb rubbing tight circles, “come for me, honey, I’ve got you.”

It topples you over, his dark voice tickling your mind into submission, your back arching, pushing down on his fingers as he brings you through it. You cry out his name, pant it into the dim room, and he licks his tongue over your sweat salt skin.

“Ezra…” you croak, dropping your head onto his shoulder as he slowly caresses your slick folds and pulls out, his sticky hand curving around your waist and landing on your back. It takes a few minutes for you to catch your breath, Ezra mumbles into your ear, his words wrapping around your brain, trapping them in the haze of your orgasm. When you turn your head and scrape your teeth over the thin skin of his neck, your tongue licking the edge of his ear, his breath hitches, interrupting his torrent of sweet nothings. Against your core you can feel his cock twitch, ignored and aching.

“Take your pants off,” he says, the command soft in his voice, “And take mine off too.”

It doesn’t take long for you to rid the both of you of the rest of your clothes. Ezra hisses as you pull his cock free, letting your hand stroke it, catching the weeping head with the pad of your thumb before you stand up.

“How do you want me, Ezra?” you ask, returning from the bathroom with a condom in your hand. He’s flat on his back, his hand slowly moving up and down his cock as he watches you walk naked across the room.

“On my lap, my symmetry is sorely lacking in balance, I fear I might give you a bloody nose if I was on top,” he smirks, moving himself to sit against the headboard, giving his thighs an invitational pat.

“Just admit it, you’re lazy,” you wink at him, “just want me to do all the work.”

He grabs your hip and pulls you down, his hard length pushed up against the soft swell of your belly, “Oh, sweet girl, if I had both my hands I’d trap you beneath me and not let you leave until you were a quivering mess, begging me to let you come,” he smirks, kissing you hard when you bend your head down to him.

He rolls his hips, giving friction to his cock pressed between you, and you feel him hiss into your mouth, groaning deep in his chest.

You push back and unwrap the condom, slipping it on while he watches your hands with dark eyes. When you rise up on your knees, his fingers dig into your hip, his teeth capturing his bottom lip, biting down hard with a groan as you position yourself. With one hand wrapped around his twitching length, the other on his shoulder for balance, you stroke the head through your slick folds, watching Ezra let go of his lip, an almost animal snarl escaping him.

“My sweet girl, honey…” he pants, opening his mouth to continue, but you sink down over him, squeezing his length, and he groans, a low rumbling pressed up through gritted teeth, head tipped back, eyes closed. You feel him buck his hips, his hand guiding your hip, as he tries to fuck up into you and you hold on to his shoulders with both hands, stroking down over his arms, caressing both his good side and the edge of what remains on the other.

Ezra curls his arm around your waist and pulls you down, bucking up again with another groan. He sits deep inside you, making sparks run through your veins, the feel of him giving you as much pleasure as his graveled groans and panting breath. .

“I’m not going to last,” he mumbles, biting his lip again, “I’m…you feel…f-feel so good.”

You roll your hips over him, your clit rubbing against the dark curls at the base, moaning as he bucks up, rubbing over something electric deep inside. The sight of his face tilted back, eyes half closed in bliss, as his arm sits like a vice around your waist, it brings you to the edge of your own climax much faster than anticipated. Your thighs are protesting, sweat drips down your back, and Ezra claims your mouth again, while you work yourself up and down over his slick cock.

He’s rambling, mumbling into your mouth between licks of his tongue, he’s getting messy, kissing the corner of your mouth, down your jaw, burying his face into the crook of your neck while he grinds against you. His teeth sink into your shoulder as he cries out, his body going rigid underneath you, a hoarse shout against your skin and your own climax explodes. You know you’re leaving marks on his skin, but you can’t let go, Ezra is rolling his hips up, pumping himself into you as best he can, pulling you down onto him.

As your muscles relax you feel him loosen his grip on you too, and you drop your head down on his shoulder, caressing his back, his arms, pressing slow kisses into his sweat damp skin.

“My sweet girl,” he mutters, kissing the mark he left on your shoulder, “my sweet, sweet girl,” heavy breaths still making his chest rise and fall as he pants.

You rake your fingers through his damp curls and lift yourself off him, helping him handle the condom and toss it. Ezra stretches out and you curl into his side, sighing deeply and closing your eyes.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch anymore,” you mumble into his chest, and you hear the chuckle rumble under you between deep breaths, still recovering.

“I’m sure we’ll figure out other usages for the couch if you intend to keep this up with my broken old bones,” he says, smiling, his eyes closed as he begins to caress what he can reach of your back.

You both lie in peaceful silence for a little while, your breathing returning to normal, and your bodies cooling down. When the air raises goosebumps on your skin, you pull the covers over you both, and Ezra makes you curl closer to him.

“You really don’t find it repulsive?” he asks after a while, and tilt your head to look up at him, you know what he’s referencing. His dark eyes are turned to you with a questioning look, the smallest hint of worry clouding his forehead.

“No, I really don’t,” you say, moving your hand so that you can caress the scars at the end of his severed arm, “It’s just skin, or proof that you’ve survived something very difficult, why would I find it repulsive? I’m very happy you survived it.

Ezra places his lips on your forehead, kissing you softly while his one good arm pulls you in tighter.

“Thank you.”

“There you go, Mrs Levinson, all set for the weekend, I envy your guests, you sure do spoil your grandchildren! But I know you would spoil me just as well if turned up on your doorstep like a stray dog.”

Ezra gives the elderly lady his warmest smile and a wink, mischief twinkling in his eye as she returns the wink.

“Ezra, you scoundrel,” she giggles, “you know you’re both always very welcome for dinner any day, and I’ll make sure to spoil you rotten.”

“Never would I be so uncouth as to impose such inconvenience on you, Mrs Levinson,” he replies, a hand on his chest in mock shock, “You should come to our house, I’ll cook my famous one armed bandit stew,” he grins and Mrs Levinson giggles again.

“Oh Ezra, you really do brighten my day, you’re such a treasure to have around,” she titters, collecting her shopping bags, “And I’ll be sure to take you up on that offer.”

“You’re too kind, Mrs Levinson, enjoy the rest of your day now, you hear!” he smiles as she gives him a wave and steps out through the front door.

Ezra turns and heads back into the kitchen, where you’re preparing the final batch of millionaire’s shortbread, sprinkling chopped peanuts over the melted chocolate.

“I may have invited Mrs Levinson for dinner,” he says, coming up behind you and wrapping his arm around your waist, “Said I’d make my stew.”

“I heard,” you reply, “your famous ‘one armed bandit stew’? You’re too much, Ez,” you laugh as Ezra chuckles.

“I did always have a flair for marketing,” he smirks, "maybe we should rename the bakery too, make it official.”

“Make it official that the scandalous baker and her ‘one armed bandit’ are in it for the long haul?” you ask, turning around so that you’re facing him and can see his warm smile as he looks down at you.

“Are we in it for the long haul, my sweet girl?” he replies, bending down to brush the strong curve of his nose across your check, pressing a small kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Well, it’s been two years, and you haven’t tried leaving again, so I think I finally made you realize I want you around,” you mumble as he nudges your head to the side to make better rooms for his kisses.

“You’re stuck with me now, sweet girl,” he mutters, “do you regret it?”

“Not even a little,” you sigh, tangling your fingers into his soft curls and he chuckles.

The bell over the door jingles and Ezra straightens up.

“Go on, Ez, go charm another customer into buying more than they need.”

“Yes, boss,” he smirks, pressing a final quick kiss to your lips before he hurries back into the shop.

“Good afternoon, ma’am, how may I help you on this most beautiful day?”

Part Fifteen

Specifically tagging my Ezra mentor @morallyinept !

@harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3 @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @oberynslady @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @thewiigers

#prospect ezra #ezra x reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal #ezra fanfiction

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xxwritemeastoryxx · 8 months ago

Text

Hostage Situation

Author: xxwritemeastoryxx

Pairings: Elijah Mikaelson x Fem!Salvatore!Reader

Word Count: 1970

Warnings: ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. Fluff. Cutesy shit that just goes with this whole series in general. Reminder that this is an AU human fic.

Author’s Note: The inspiration for this was from the post Daniel Gillies had done on Instagram for a convention that he was going to. Inspiration hit and I just needed to revisit the Sweet Family of Mine characters. Please note that while you do not have to read the others to get the full picture of this fic, there are details/references that make more sense if you've read them.

I do not and will not ever give permission for my fics to be copied and posted on other sites. Don’t do it. Don’t be that person that ruins it for me and everyone else.

Feedback gives me life and motivation for future things. While likes are appreciated, reblogs are gold. Seriously, if you enjoyed this in the slightest, please reblog ♥

Sweet Family of Mine

Mikaelson Photography Studio was in its busy season. The summer months meant Y/N Mikaelson practically had a camera in her hand 24/7. It had been years since Y/N had taken that fateful step out of the shadows her father had casted upon the Salvatore children. And once she had, that small little business she created had now expanded to several locations throughout the state.

The sound of the camera shuttering several times filled the room before she gave instructions for a new pose with her current clients. An adjustment here and there had her grinning as she looked through the lenses, seeing the happy smiles on the newly engaged couple. And after several more clicks of the camera, she was one hundred percent positive she had gotten everything the couple had asked for.

“You guys can go ahead and relax.” She smiled as she began going through the images on the camera. “Is there anything else you would like to do before we end the session?”

It was something she always made sure to ask before she called the session completed. She wanted to make sure there was no stone unturned in what they wanted. In most cases, they couldn’t come up with anything else as Y/N usually hit every mark they asked for.

Her phone buzzed in her back pocket just as the couple had confirmed she had gotten everything they asked for and more. And with that, she began explaining her turnaround time for her process of editing and the promise of calling them as soon as they were ready.

Her phone went off twice more, before she finally pulled it out of her pocket to view the messages that were awaiting. It never failed that a grin would pull at her lips at seeing her husband’s name in the notification bar.

Y/N and Elijah had been happily married for close to twelve years. Their lives had become everything they ever wanted it to be and more. Their little family had expanded with the birth of their daughter, Evelyn, and four years later with their son Jayden.

Her eyebrow raised as she opened the text messages. The first message sent had been in all caps.

WE HAVE YOUR HUSBAND

It had been followed by:

BE SURE TO WATCH VIDEO FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS

Part of Y/N wanted to be afraid. Elijah was taking this week off to spend with the kids during their first week of summer break. Surely nothing serious must have happened since she had left earlier that morning. It wasn't until the thumbnail for the video had shown the edge of a nerf gun that the spike of fear had subsided instantly.

When she pressed play, she could hear Jayden laughing in the background before Elijah came into view with a blindfold over his head as he was forced into a chair, no doubt by Evelyn as she held back a chuckle. The nerf gun came into view against his head before she caught sight of Evelyn’s hand pulling away the blind fold. A piece of paper was forced in front of Elijah and Y/N knew it was a script written out.

A grin pulled at her lips as she continued to watch the video. She wondered who had been the mastermind between the three of them. Jayden was sure to go with any antics his sister could come up with. But to have Elijah be held hostage and held at gunpoint, she knew it had to have been either Elijah or Evelyn.

“My darling wife,” Elijah’s voice came over the phone speakers. “These heathens we call children hav-'' Jayden pushed the gun closer to Elijah causing him to stop. “Excuse me, these rather lovely and adorable children have grown tired of your absence. They believe I am your weakness and believe holding me hostage would bring you home sooner. Though part of me doesn’t believe that given you left without-”

“Dad…” Evelyn whined slightly as she peeked into the screen. “You’re supposed to stick to the script.”

“Oh right.” Elijah tried to keep the smile from forming on his face as he looked between his kids. “Their terms for my release include: One, you are to stop wherever you are on your work day and come home. Two, You are required to pick up the delivery that will be awaiting on our doorstep. And lastly, for the four of us to take a well deserved vacation. They’ve also written that we know this was your last client for the next few days and you cannot use an excuse. You have an hour to meet their demands. If you don’t…” His eyebrow raised as he looked over at Evelyn. “You’ve spent way too much time at your Uncle’s house.”

The sound of the nerf gun cocking back caused Elijah to look back at the screen. Y/N couldn’t stop the laugh that passed her lips as she waited for the end of that sentence. Elijah sighed. “If you don’t, I’ll be forced into a coffin and hidden where you’ll never be able to find me.” Both Jayden and Evelyn burst into a fit of laughter as Elijah feigned his fear. “I love you and I hope you consider saving me from these creatures whom I love dearly.”

The video ended a moment later and Y/N shook her head as she laughed. Her thumbs moved along the screen as she typed out her message and hit send.

I’ll be on my way shortly to save you, my love.

The response was almost instant.

Never doubted you for a second.

She couldn’t keep the small smirk from pulling at her lips as she typed her response.

And what do I get in return for saving you?

Whatever your heart desires.

And if my heart desires fangs?

I would gladly bring fangs on this trip and prove to you just how much I still know how to use them.

I’ll hold you to that.

When Y/N returned home within the timeframe of the ransom, she was greeted by her kids. Their arms wrapped around her tightly as if they hadn’t seen her in days when in reality it had been only a few hours. They talked over each other about how excited they were for the trip their dad had planned out for the four of them.

All Y/N could do was hold onto them and listen as they laughed and talked about how it had been Elijah’s idea to do the video. Evelyn explained her parts and Jayden filled in the rest. She laughed and hugged them tighter.

“That was one of the best ways to get me to come home from work.” She said to them as she gave them each a kiss on the cheek.

“I told you mom loves dad a lot.” Jayden said, smiling up at his sister.

“Now if it was you kids that were held hostage,” Y/N began. “I would have been home a whole lot faster.”

“I tried telling them that.” Elijah said as he stepped out of the house with several bags. He made his way towards the trunk of the car before dropping them in. “I believe they just wanted to rough me up without getting into trouble.” The kids laughed but didn't deny it.

After closing the trunk, Elijah made his way towards his family. Over the heads of their kids, he leaned in and kissed his wife. Jayden's mumbled ‘gross’ as he pulled his arms away from his mom made both him and Y/N laugh as Elijah pulled away from her.

“Why don't you two go get the rest of your things so we can get on the road.” As soon as the last words were said, both kids rushed off towards the house.

Y/N shook her head slightly, a smile pulled at her lips. Out of habit she reached out and took Elijah’s hand. “And where are we going? The ransom video left out that detail.”

He chuckled, bringing her hand up to his lips, kissing the back of her hand before bringing their hands down to their side. “The cabin. I was reminded that our last getaway had been over a year ago. Freya reminded me of how much we're workaholics when she stopped by earlier.”

A laugh came from Y/N. “In comparison to before the kids, I think we're doing okay.”

“We're more than okay.” He said as he brought his free hand up to run along her cheek. “Our lives are everything I've imagined it to be and more. Even for workaholics.” They both laughed at that.

“We're ready!” Jayden yelled out as he and Evelyn came out of the house with their bags.

Looking at the kids, they both couldn't help but smile at them. The two of them had been a perfect blend of their parents. While Evelyn had taken after her father, Jayden had Y/N’s eyes and hair color. Their own personalities are completely opposite from each other. But even then, the two were close.

“Can we stop at Uncle D's bar for burgers before we leave?” Evelyn asked as she walked over towards the car.

“Of course we can.” Elijah said with a nod of his head. “It's not a family trip if we don't stop there beforehand.”

It was a tradition that Evelyn herself started. Her relationship with Damon never changed as she grew. Damon was her favorite Uncle and there would be no changing that. No one could ever convince her to turn her back on Damon.

Any time they planned a trip out of town Evelyn insisted they stop to see her Uncle before they left. Over time, the burgers became a ‘Before we leave’ meal.

It wasn't long after that they were all loaded up into the car and headed out. Conversation filled the car as they talked about what they'd be doing once they got to the cabin. Some of the stress from work left them the further they drove from town.

And when silence came from the backseat, Y/N looked over to see both of them asleep. Her heart warmed at the sight before she looked over at Elijah. A small smile pulled at her lips.

Even after all this time, she always wondered what she had done to get the life she had. It was far from what one would consider perfect. But to Y/N, this little family of hers was as close to perfection. Who knew that teenager that used to sneak out to parties would be a woman with everything she ever wanted.

Elijah glanced over at her. When he saw her smile, his own grew. “What is it?”

“Did you ever think when we met we'd be where we are now?” She asked, her smile never leaving.

He chuckled. “Part of me knew from the moment I agreed to make sure you got home safely that night. But what I’ve imagined dims in comparison to the life we've created for ourselves. I would make a deal with the devil to ensure I would never lose what I'm so fortunate to have.” His hold on her hand tightened slightly as it rested in between them.

“You've always had a way with words.” She said, attempting to blink back the tears that threatened to form.

“I have a way with many things.” A smirk pulled at his lips.

She laughed and shook her head. There was no doubt about that. But she could never imagine a life without him. Nor could she imagine not having the family. Her heart was in that vehicle. And just as Elijah expressed, she'd gladly make a deal with the devil to keep this sweet family of hers intact.

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@mrs-maximoff-kenner @mizzzpink @friendelius @thatfanficstuff @mushroomelephant @23victoria @avengers-fixation @fayeatheart @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @wearehufflepuffs

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sabrinasam · 8 months ago

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People seem to forget that Feyre's bonus chapter was initially part of ACOSF, but SJM and her editors pulled it out because it added nothing (SJM’s words) – hence why it became a bonus content for the special editions.

So when people speculate Azriel's bonus over Feyre's, it's not because "Gwyn wasn't included in Feyre's" – it's because there's nothing to speculate with Feyre's.

Apart from the info we gained on Feysand (Feyre wondering why Rhys had been in a mood lately, Rhys's reaction to the pregnancy, and the two of them coming up with baby names) nothing new was disclosed.

The tidbit on Elain was not a new revelation. Not really. We already know there’s more to Elain than meets the eyes. We already know she still has some lingering trauma so exactly what new information or crumb apart from that did SJM leave us to speculate further?

Nothing.

Because the bonus wasn't about Elain nor did it hint at anything substantial about her. How people managed to make Feyre's AND Azriel's bonus about Elain is wild considering she was not even so much as an afterthought soon after she left the page/conversation. If anything, Feyre's chapter in relation to her sisters revealed how strained their relationship still was.

Back to my point though, post and prior to the release of ACOSF SJM mentioned in her interviews that she wanted to revisit and enjoy Feysand again. Considering ACOSF was the first book from Nessian's perspective, it made sense why she wanted to write a scene from Feyre's POV regarding the pregnancy (bc that was the premise of her chapter) and why her editors pulled it out.

Thus, when people speculate Azriel's bonus over Feyre's, no, it's not because Gwyn wasn't included in Feyre's. It's because there's actually something worth speculating with Azriel's.

It's why SJM asked her friend to read his chapter.

It's why she said she scattered crumbs all over it.

***Also, it's worth reminding that B&N holds exclusive rights to Feyre's bonus. Just like BAM holds exclusive rights to Azriel's. Therefore B&N including Feyre's chapter in the paperback of ACOSF (just like how it was included in the hardcover) is not a surprise or at all unusual given they have exclusive rights to it.

#acotar #acosf #azriel #feyres pov #azriels pov

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nanowrimo · 1 year ago

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12 Tips for Drafting Forward During NaNoWriMo (And Beyond!)

To accomplish your big writing goals, you have to focus on drafting forward. The team over at Freewrite knows how to do that better than most! Freewrite, a 2023 NaNoWriMo sponsor, is a dedicated distraction-free drafting device designed just for writers to separate the drafting from the editing process and get words on the page. Today, the Freewrite team is here to share their top 12 tips for doing just that:

Here at Freewrite, we love when NaNoWriMo comes around, because we’re all about helping writers set their stories free. We’re big proponents of the “write now, edit later” method of writing to help writers reach writing flow and increase productivity. The goal of drafting forward (and NaNoWriMo!) is to get a first draft recorded and translate your thoughts into writing on the page.

We’re going to share the top tips we recommend to writers who want to try this method but don’t know where to start. Try these out during your next writing session to see how they help you ditch the distractions and make serious progress!

1. Save research for later. (Or start with it!)

Yes, research is important. But it can also quickly turn into a form of procrastination. Complete the bulk of your research before you start writing, or, if it’s a topic you know well, commit to doing any research after. When you’re drafting and come to a place where you need to fact-check or gather information, simply leave a note to yourself right there in the text and continue drafting.

2. Plan well.

With a timed challenge like NaNoWriMo, it helps to plan out your daily benchmarks in order to finish on time. Consider setting a daily word count goal or making a schedule for the month so you know exactly where you stand each day. Make an outline if you’re a plotter, or if you’re a pantser, spend some time getting into the world of your story.

3. Decide you’re going to write a messy first draft.

We recommend stating it outright to yourself, or maybe writing it down on a Post-It where you can see it each day: My goal is to write a messy first draft. Embrace that imperfection so that you can write more freely!

4. Silence your inner critic.

As you write, revisit your messy first draft goal and resist the urge to critique or edit your work as you go along. Instead, concentrate on getting your thoughts down without judgment. This means not overanalyzing each sentence. Did that last sentence sound ridiculous? Who cares?! Anything goes in a messy first draft. You’ll refine and revise later!

5. Turn off your inner spell-check.

Freewrite devices have no spell-check or grammar checker for a reason. Every squiggly line is a distraction, a moment that your writing flow is broken and you have to resist going back to fix typos. Even if your eyes recognize a typo, train your brain to fix it later! Remember: we’re focusing on getting out thoughts and ideas in the first draft, not grammar.

6. Eliminate external distractions.

We’ve done the hard work for you by creating Freewrite. 😉 Now, put your phone in the other room, turn off the TV, and start writing.

7. Write quickly.

This is just another way to trick your brain into writing from that deep, creative place that can’t be reached when you’re overthinking. Strive for a flow state where you’re typing at the speed that your thoughts come to you.

8. Use placeholders.

If you can’t think of the right word or need to look up a source, just insert a placeholder and keep writing. Our favorite placeholder is “xx” because that can easily be searched in editing software later. Other people like the more straightforward “[INSERT SOMETHING FUNNY]” or “[CHECK SOURCE]”. You can fill in those gaps during the editing phase.

9. Keep moving forward.

If you encounter writer’s block or a difficult section, resist the temptation to stop and dwell on it. Skip to another part in your story and return to the challenging section later. We like to add a note to ourselves right there in the draft to remind us to come back to that spot when editing.

10. No back-tracking.

Often while drafting, a brilliant sentence will come to us. But it’s describing something we just described. What to do? Do not go back, delete the first sentence, and replace it. Simply keep writing the new sentence! These redundancies are easy to correct later.

11. Experiment.

Try different styles and approaches without judgement. You can compare and contrast and pick the best one later, during the editing stage.

12. Write!

Relish in the creative flow and the freedom of having one job to do: writing. Don’t worry about grammar or story structure. Focus on the joy of creating.

With a few tweaks in how you draft, we hope you’ll be surprised by how much you write, the creative ideas your imagination comes up with, and how much fun you have while writing.

And if you try the above rules of forward drafting, we’d love to hear your experience!

Reminder: NaNoWriMo 2023 participants are eligible for a special Freewrite offer. Find all the details here.

#nanowrimo #fast drafting #writing #writing advice #writing tips #by nano sponsor #freewrite

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sentimental-idiot25 · 3 months ago

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Account and Ao3 Update

Hi everyone,

I wanted to take a moment to share something important with you. I’ve recently made the decision to remove most of my fics and works from Ao3—going from 41 pieces to just 7.

First, I want to apologize to those of you who enjoyed my writing and found yourselves revisiting it. I know how much stories can mean to us, and it makes me so happy that mine could be that for some of you. Your support, no matter how big or small, has meant more to me than I can put into words.

Writing has always been deeply personal for me. I’ve always dreamed of calling myself a writer—not necessarily in a career sense, but as someone who could create something meaningful with words. Since pursuing it professionally isn’t an option, I threw myself into writing as a hobby. For years, it felt like a lifeline, something I could pour my heart into and share with others.

I first started writing when I was 11, full of ideas and excitement. That passion fizzled out after a couple of years, and for six years, I didn’t write at all. When I finally came back to it, it was like falling in love again. I would spend hours writing and revising, completely immersed in creating stories that felt alive. It consumed me in the best way possible.

But somewhere along the way, that fire dimmed. I’d set aside entire days to write, staring at the screen for hours, unable to put a single sentence together. And as much as we, as writers, like to say that we write only for ourselves, external validation does matter. I would pour my heart into a piece, dedicating hours to it, only to get little to no response. It’s not that I expect the world to celebrate my work, but when your effort feels invisible, it’s hard not to lose motivation.

Being a small writer is tough. It often feels like fighting an uphill battle, screaming into a void where no one can hear you. You put the same passion, care, and hours into your work as bigger writers, but your voice is drowned out before it even has a chance to be heard. It’s a lonely and demoralizing experience that leaves you questioning why you even bother.

In my case, I started shifting my focus to writing things I thought people would notice, things I knew might get traction. Ironically, my most popular work—the one with the highest numbers—is the farthest from who I am as a writer. The content doesn’t feel like mine, and while the numbers brought some fleeting joy, the story itself doesn’t. I don’t see myself in it.

What I wish, more than anything, is for the stories that truly reflect me—my introspective pieces, my silly ones, the ones that come from the heart—to get that same recognition. Those are the stories that feel like home to me, and I want to focus on creating more of them.

That’s why I’ve decided to take a fresh start. Over the next year, I’ll be reworking, editing, and polishing many of the pieces I’ve taken down. I want to revisit them with the care and love they deserve and create something that feels true to who I am now as a writer. When they come back, I want to be proud of them—not for their numbers, but for their heart.

To those of you who have supported me through all of this, thank you. You’ve kept me going, and your encouragement has meant the world to me. Being a small writer may feel like shouting into the void most days, but knowing that even a few of you are listening makes it all worth it.

Thank you and will post soon <33

#sentimental idiot25 #ao3 life fr #me rambling #important

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xunandran · 9 months ago

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Tease (more than a) Tidbit Tuesday - PolyFire Edition

Extra bit since I don't think I posted anything last week. Here's the first part of some PolyFire smut I'm working on. some of the prompts for the piece include:

Buck and Tommy want to fold Eddie into their dynamic.

Tommy shows Eddie all the different things that he's found that drives Buck crazy.

-- Your body, my only lesson (3054 Words - Unfinished) --

Every two weeks, the television at the Diaz household is taken over by, as Buck puts it ‘half naked men pummeling each other.’ Back in the beginning, it was Eddie and Tommy. Marisol usually took Christopher out for ice cream or pizza or to the movies. After Buck and Tommy started dating, the dynamic gradually shifted. It was still Eddie and Tommy watching the fights, but Marisol became less and less of a fixture, instead replaced by Buck and Christopher in the teen’s room, often playing some video game or another.

Tonight’s fight isn’t one for the record books. It’s slow and uninteresting, affording Eddie and Tommy more time to talk than usual. They’re already on their third beer in rather quick succession, Buck already agreeing to get him and Tommy back to their places at the end of the night.

One of the things Eddie’s noticed about Tommy in their months of hanging out is how honest he gets when he’s had a few too many. When Tommy and Buck had first started officially dating, outside the tragic pizza parlor incident, it was on this very couch that an inebriated Tommy had spilled the beans as to how quick a study Buck was in the bedroom.

Eddie wants to claim that he is scandalized by this knowledge. If anyone asked, Tommy included, he’d surely hem and haw and make some show of being thoroughly disinterested in the fact. But in truth, since he’s admitting it to himself and nobody else, knowing Buck’s sexual prowess secondhand is somehow more enticing than hearing it from Buck himself. He tucks Tommy’s stories into a small box in the back of his mind to revisit behind his bedroom’s closed doors.

Over time, he’s come to expect and enjoy these little confessions from Tommy. He pretends that he’s not hanging on the older man’s every word or storing the way Tommy demonstrates some new trick Buck’s learned on the bottle of beer in his hands. He always makes sure the fridge is stocked, making a special trip every two weeks to make sure Tommy has his favorites.

Periodically throughout the evening, Buck passes through, padding to the kitchen for more pizza, more popcorn, more juice for himself and Christopher. At first, he’d comment toward them as he walked back, but as time and familiarity with their relationship bloomed, words turned to looks, looks turned to touches, and touches turned to gentle kisses as he carried whatever snackfood he had in his hands toward the back of the house. If he’s ever heard Tommy’s confessions, he’s never said or acted bothered.

Tonight’s confession comes four beers in, and it’s a doozy. They’re between matches when Tommy slides closer to Eddie and whispers “You know I was interested in you too, right?”

Eddie swallows dryly, both from the words and from the way Tommy’s hot breath ghosts against his skin. “What?” His single word is higher pitched than he’d like. He doesn’t want to turn to the right. That’s not true. He wants to turn to the right because Tommy’s not moved back to his neutral and safe spot at the other end of the couch. He’s still leaned in, strong hand clapping on Eddie’s shoulder like he’s said the most casual thing a friend can say to another.

“When?” Eddie risks a glance to the right. Steel blue globes are still trained on him, scouring over his eyes, his cheeks…

His lips. He needs to swallow again. He settles for another drink of his beer to coat his suddenly dry throat.

“You know…” Tommy’s voice is smooth and sure. His thumb massages along the strip of muscle north of Eddie’s collar bone, occasionally daring to trace the rough digit against the skin under his collar. “Vegas… Muay Thai… The Chevelle.” The light strokes are mesmerizing, and they’ve barely noticed that the next fight has started.

Eddie dryly swallows a second time, brooding eyes tracing over wide, sharply angled lips. He could kiss him, kiss Tommy. They’re so close. He reads the permission in the other man’s stance and eyes. It’s been weeks since he separated with Marisol. That’s enough time right? It’s not like it’s a relationship. It’s not like he’s moving too fast again, right? His breath is sharp, in through the nose, out through the nose. “What about Buck?”

Tommy’s lips lift into an effortless smile. “I’ve told Evan, god, what, about a month after we started dating. He… understood the interest.”

Eddie laughs, using the levity to break the hold that Tommy’s lips have on him. “I honestly had no idea. When Buck told me that you two were on a date that night, I was clueless.” And he was. Thinking back on it, it didn’t really surprise him that Buck could be into guys, but Tommy? And apparently into him? It was flattering. He clinks their bottles together. “Another?” Tommy nods and Eddie gathers their empties and stands to go to the kitchen. Logic would dictate that it’d be easier to circle around the back of the couch to get to the kitchen. Instead, Eddie lifts his leg and straddles Tommy for the briefest of moments as he steps over the other man to get into the open area of the living room. Tommy’s blue eyes track the line of Eddie’s waist through the entire movement.

Eddie makes a detour to check on Buck and Christopher. They’re singularly focused on their video game. Eddie hovers in the doorway and watches the way the pink tip of Buck’s tongue slides along the side of his mouth as he concentrates. A brief lull, a loading screen, and Buck looks up from his spot on the floor, teeth flashing in the brightest smile Eddie’s seen. Should he tell Buck about what Tommy’s said? What if Tommy hadn’t actually told Buck anything. He didn’t want to be the reason that anything happened between them.

“You okay?” Buck’s voice is concerned, quiet.

Eddie shakes off the thoughts of kissing Tommy, of even kissing Buck. “Yeah. Just checking in on my guys.”

“Aww…” Buck teasingly draws a small heart with his index fingers. “How are the fights tonight?”

“Boring. Tommy and I have been chatting mostly.”

“Oh?”

Eddie doesn’t know if it’s the single syllable, the tone that Buck uses on it, or the unreadable glint in his bright blue eyes, but something about their interactions seems heavier and more stout than a second before. He walks to the kitchen and discards their empties before grabbing two more from the fridge. He cracks the bottles and tosses the caps, trying to decide on his next course of action. He can’t exactly hide in the kitchen. Tommy’s expecting him. He pads back to the living room, this time opting to walk behind the couch. He hands Tommy his beer as he sits down. The brief brush of the other man’s fingers against his is electric. They clink the bottles together and start on number five.

“I’ve dreamt about you, you know,” Eddie admits. He doesn’t know why it’s his turn to confess, but the words slip from his lips before he’s properly thought of them.

Tommy chokes on the potato chip that he has just stuck in his mouth. “Uh, what?”

“You heard me.” Eddie fixes his gaze forward, focusing on the fight on the screen. He pulls a deep swig from the bottle of beer between his hands before setting it on the coaster in front of him.

Tommy coughs, throat still a bit raw from the sudden sharp fried projectile. “What kind of dreams?” His voice is slightly raspy from the incident. It sounds great on him. Eddie fixes him with a look that needs no explanation or elaboration. “Oh,” Tommy smirks, nodding and taking a large pull of his own beer.

“It’s not just you,” Eddie supplies to fill the space between them. “There’s plenty of people.” Buck chief among them, but he doesn’t say that one.

Tommy breaks into a jovial laugh. “Someone’s mind is working overtime.”

Eddie sips on his beer. “I don’t know why. I’m in my thirties. I’m not some randy teenager. Hell, I wasn’t even this bad when I was a randy teenager.” Now that it’s out in the air, he likes that he can admit these things to Tommy, risking little more than some gentle teasing but overwhelming support. It should be Buck though. The thought plays in his forefront of his mind, the steady mantra continuously pounding through him like a second heartbeat.

They sit in silence, eyes fixed on the fight. Eddie doesn’t know if it’s awkward or not. He steals glances to his right, furtive sightlines sliding over Tommy before flitting back forward. His fingers drum against his leg nervously as he tries to only pay attention to the screen in front of him.

Tommy’s noticed the shift, and he’s turned and about to comment when Eddie looks at him. “Did you mean it… that Buck knows?” The words are fast, breathless.

Tommy nods slowly. “I can text him right now if you don’t believe me. Yes, I know he’s in the back with Christopher, and we could just go ask him, but I’d imagine that’d be awkward.”

Eddie palms his hand over his face and groans. When his fingers slip from in front of his eyes, he glances right. Tommy’s bemused expression is endearing.

Tommy sets his bottle on the coffee table and slides closer to the center of the couch. Not too close, like he’s trying to give Eddie enough time to make some sort of decision. “We’ve talked about it,” He says, almost matter-of-factly.

“It?” Eddie swallows. He knows what Tommy’s talking about. He’d be lying if he said that recently he hadn’t thought about it, even outside the admitted dreams. But Buck’s his best friend. He knows that argument’s weak. Shannon was his best friend too, before everything.

“You.” Tommy says as he slides his phone out of his pocket. “Us.” He opens a conversation between Evan and himself and hands the phone over to Eddie.

Evan:

>> Hey! I have a question, and I hope you

>> don't take offense.

Tommy:

I doubt I can take offense to a simple <<

question. What’s on your mind? <<

Evan:

>> Have you had a threesome?

Tommy:

A couple. Why? <<

Evan:

>> Did you like them?

Tommy:

They were alright. Where’s this coming <<

from, Evan? <<

Evan: >> Would you have another?

>> I’ve never had one.

Tommy:

Really? <<

With all the stories about Buck 1.0 <<

I would have assumed a threesome <<

or two would have been par for the <<

course <<

Evan:

>> You never answered the question.

Tommy:

Do you want to have a threesome? <<

Evan:

>> I kinda do. Not that I’m not extremely

>> happy with things how they are. I’m

>> just curious.

Tommy:

Do you have anybody in mind? <<

Evan:

>> You’ll laugh.

>> Or maybe not.

>> Maybe I shouldn’t say.

>> It’s probably weird.

Tommy:

Is it Eddie? <<

Evan:

>> It’s weird, right?

>> He’s my best friend.

>> And all I can think about

>> is what he’s like in bed.

Tommy:

That’s not weird, Evan <<

It’s natural. I told you I <<

thought Eddie was hot, <<

right? I mean, after we <<

started dating. <<

Evan:

>> I wonder if that’s what’s put

>> it in my mind.

Tommy:

I’m up for it. Would you like me to <<

test the waters and see if Eddie’s <<

interested? <<

Evan:

>> You’d do that?

Tommy:

Sure, Evan. Plenty of couples have <<

threesomes. I’d rather it be with me and <<

someone you trust. <<

Eddie licks his lips as he reads the message string twice. Buck wants to have a threesome? Buck wants to have a threesome with him and Tommy? He hands the phone back to Tommy and takes a shuddering breath. “Well…” he says airily, not quite knowing what to say. His brown eyes dart around Tommy’s still too close features. Did the man scoot closer while he was reading?

“So what do you think?” Tommy’s voice is measured and clear, casual. How is he not as nervous as Eddie is right now? All he has to do is say yes and he can know the answers to the questions that have nagged at him for the last couple months. He can know for certain if the feelings he’s been harboring for Buck and Tommy are just his mind trying to understand a new dynamic, or if the ache in the back of his throat is one that can be salved with their touch.

“You’ll show me… I mean… I’ve never…” Eddie trips over his words, his cheeks blazing with a fiery red blush. Tommy closes the distance and tenderly slides his lips against Eddie’s. Eddie breathes their connection with a shudder. For as rough as the man should be from his occupation and his build, his lips are soft and taste of a lingering belgium stout and barbecue from their wings. When Tommy pulls away, Eddie’s body tries to follow, his dazed form captured in Tommy’s magnetic pull.

Tommy chuckles as Eddie’s mind catches up to the rest of him. “Somehow I’m not surprised that you both had the exact same look. You okay?”

If Eddie were capable of currently making sounds, he’d tell Tommy that yes, he was in fact okay. He tries to form his traitorous voice around numerous different words before simply nodding and smiling dopily.

“Good.” Tommy strokes his fingers through Eddie’s hair and watches in real time as the redness in his cheeks and neck fade to a comfortable tan. “We’ll show you everything you need to know.” His fingers slide down Eddie’s cheek, and Eddie wants to kiss him again. He leans into the caress, lips pressing against Tommy’s palm.

“Can you get a sitter for tomorrow evening?” Tommy asks nonchalantly as he strokes Eddie’s cheek. “Does tomorrow work for you? Not too fast?”

Eddie huffs and vigorously shakes his head. “Not too fast. I can find a sitter.”

“Okay then,” Tommy says, lips brushing lightly against Eddie’s again. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

===========

Buck has spent the following day texting Eddie throughout. It’s little things mostly, some memes, random bullshit. Eddie’s aware of what he’s doing. He’s trying to keep things as normal as possible. Eddie doesn’t know if the texts are helping, or rather serving to make him more nervous. He wonders if Buck’s just as hyped and/or nervous as Eddie’s been feeling all day. Thankfully, Tommy’s been a bit more muted in his communication. He checked in around lunch to confirm that Eddie was still up for the evening.

He’s showered twice today, thoroughly cleaning himself in preparation for the evening. Though he’s never been with a man, he’s somewhat familiar with some of the logistics, by virtue of his time as a medic. Should he text and ask what role they are expecting of him? He opts to message Tommy, who says not to worry, he’ll be alright. By the time that Carla shows up to take care of Christopher, Eddie’s wound pretty tight, a solid 50% nerves, 50% excitement.

They’ve agreed to meet at Tommy’s. Eddie swears he catches every red light on his way there. Tommy texts him along the way to just go ahead and come on in and lock up behind him. Tommy’s place is dark and quiet, save for the low murmur of Buck’s voice from the back. Eddie latches the locks before rubbing his sweaty palms against his jeans. With his hands in his pockets, he pads back to Tommy’s bedroom, not entirely sure what he’s going to walk into.

Buck is sitting cross-legged in the center of Tommy’s king bed. At present, Tommy’s mostly sat on the edge, but he’s laid back so that his head is in Buck’s lap. The younger man absently slides his fingers through Tommy’s hair as he looks up at Eddie. “Hi.” The word is thick, Buck’s own voice a worried and somewhat raspy mess. Eddie watches as he presses his tongue nervously against the back of his slightly parted lips, the barest hint of pink briefly flicking into view.

Tommy looks up at Buck before sitting up. “Hey.” Eddie pulls his hand from his pocket and sheepishly waves. He’s not sure what the protocol is, so he’s thankful when Tommy stands up and walks near him. The large man’s presence is strangely comforting as well as exciting. “Evan and I talked while we were waiting.” Tommy’s voice is low in Eddie’s ear and firing through his bloodstream as he circles him.

“And?” Eddie’s own voice is dry, and he swallows in a vain attempt to moisten the desert behind his lips.

“So Evan thinks, since you’re new to all this, that I teach you what he likes.” Tommy’s lips brush against the back of Eddie’s neck, and Eddie focuses on Buck.

Buck’s blue eyes are already dark and intense with desire. He pulls himself off the bed and closes with Eddie. Eddie groans as he’s sandwiched between the two lovers. Tommy’s hands drift lazily over Eddie, fingertips tracing their way down his arms. They slide over his hands, interlacing with his own fingers. Buck’s cologne, or maybe it’s just the way he smells sears its way into olfactory memory. He stares at the other man’s lips, so pink and plumped, begging to be kissed, to be nipped and greedily sucked on. Tommy’s strong hands nudge, pulling Eddie’s fingers across Buck’s midsection. The two friends hiss a low groan, eyes locked with each other. Buck’s gaze never wavers as Tommy guides Eddie’s hands under Buck’s shirt and across his hot skin.

“He’s very sensitive,” Tommy whispers, lips still tracing along Eddie’s neckline. As if on cue, Buck’s stomach ripples underneath Eddie’s light touch. Tommy shifts, lips sliding against Eddie’s ear. His steel blue gaze locks onto his boyfriend. “Evan? Tell Eddie what you want.” Eddie shivers as Tommy’s breath ghosts against his earlobe.

Eddie can see the trepidation in Buck’s features. It’s not something he can miss, having known the man for so long. Buck’s lips part and Eddie focuses on the image of his lips on Buck’s. Buck’s eyes slide from Eddie’s to Tommy’s. Eddie can’t help but wonder at the look that the other man is giving Buck right now.

“Undress me, Eddie.” Buck’s voice is small, near afraid.

#tease tidbit tuesday #polyfire fanfic #my fanfic #911 fanfic #eddie diaz fanfic #Evan Buckley fanfic #Tommy Kinard Fanfic #Tevie fanfic #Buddietommy fanfic

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zepskies · 8 months ago

Note

Hey, Yep! Have you ever had writer's block? And if so, how did you break it?

Hey, Arty! 💜

Oh, definitely. 😅 No writer is safe from the dreaded state of "writer's block," but I do have some tactics I use to get through it...

5 Tips for Beating Writer's Block

Start plotting with an outline. ✍🏽

There are two kinds of writers, in my opinion:

Architects: writers who outline.

Adventurers: writers who freeform.

In most respects, I consider myself an Architect. My brain craves structure. So the way I beat writer's block while working on a project is by having a roadmap of what's going to happen next. That's thanks to my outline.

Even freeformers can develop some kind of pre-writing plan, whether that's creating a list of character bios, starting with the basic 3-Act triangle, or writing out a handful of bullet points to get you going.

For my personal process, I'll go from creating the basic premise/summary, to some loose bullet points of the story structure, to then fleshing out into full outlining of each chapter and scene, and finally drafting (and editing).

While I'm outlining, I'm also doing research and fact-checking as needed to get me through to the next scene and the next, until the end. My "roadmap" tends to be very detailed, so when I get to the drafting part, all I should have to reference is my outline.

Now, this doesn't mean that plot points won't change, or get switched around, or get chucked entirely. But if I have the blueprints of the house, I can change a window or a door, or even a whole support beam here and there, so to speak.

2. If I get stuck at any point during the outlining and/or drafting phase, I'll often go back and reread what I have already. 🧐

I'll edit and tweak as I do those readthroughs, whether it's my outline or drafted chapters. It freshens up the earlier scenes and plot points in my head.

In doing so, it'll hopefully unlock ways I can continue the later plot points, and even tie them back to things I'm setting up earlier in the narrative.

3. Revisit the thing that gave you inspiration in the first place! 🍿

Rewatch, reread, revisit the episode, movie, book, story, artwork that stroked your muse and had you daydreaming and brainstorming about the WIP you're working on. That can be a good way to revitalize you when you feel you're getting stuck on something in a plot point, or lacking motivation.

4. Create a music playlist. 🎶

I love doing this, especially for a series. I often create a playlist of songs that remind me of the setting, the characters, the overall story, or the romance I'm trying to create. Whether it's the words or the tone/rhythm that get me going, music inspires me greatly.

5. Go for a walk. ☀️

I walk for exercise, but it also gives me time to daydream and run through scenes in my head while vibing to my music (sometimes looking like a crazy person as I nod and make hand motions lmao).

This helps me clear my head, get some fresh air, then come back to my laptop with a little more pep in my brain, ready to pick up where I left off while writing. 👌🏽

Thank you so much for this question, @artyandink! (Sorry, meant to tag you when I originally posted.) I hope these ideas help you beat writer's block. 💕 Let me know if you have any additional questions!

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petertingle-yipyip · 10 months ago

Text

CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE - MIGUEL OHARA

//idk why this took so long to post, it was already done when i revisited it. edit: nvm its cause i kinda missed some of the request//

Pairing: dad!miguel x GN!reader

Word Count: 1,801

Summary (request): hii, this is platonic request! can you do a fic where miguel comforts a reader ( gender neutral if possible ) who's turned 18 recently and is super anxious because their parents are pressuring them to pick a career/collage, decide what they wanna do in the future, etc and it's all making them feel really overwhelmed and restless?

“Hey there, kiddo.” Your dad strided into your room with your mom in tow. “How’s homework?”

“It’s fine.” You answered quizzically. “What’s going on here?” You gestured to the two of them.

“Well, we just came to see if you needed anything.”

“No, I’m okay. Thanks though.”

“Honey.” Your mom offered your dad a look and you could tell there was something else.

“Okay.” You sighed and pushed away from your desk. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” Your dad tried, which earned him a pointed look from you.

“Alright, alright.” He put his hands up in surrender. “Your mother and I-”

“You need to start thinking about your next step.” Your mom cut in.

“Oh… Guys, I’ve still got time.” You tried. “Besides, I’m not sure what I want to major in.”

And that was true. There was so much going on with your vigilantism and latest recruitment into the Spider Society that you hadn’t had time to sit and think about your major, let alone what school you wanted. You knew MIT and Columbia were great options. Harvard was on the table, as were the other Ivys. But what was the point of applying if you didn’t know why you would be there?

“Calendar wise, yes, there’s time. But you know how steep the competition to these higher schools can be. Are you ready for the SATs? Or the ACTs?” Your mom continued, and her high emotions began to grate your own sensitive nerves.

“Mom.” You tried.

“We’ll pay the application fees.” Your dad offered, though your mom was still on her rant.

“No, I don’t need you to.” You told him.

“And your personal essay, what would you write about? Do you have any ideas? Oh goodness, there’s so much to do.”

“Mom.” You said roughly, finally cutting through her own words. “I don’t know, okay? I’ve been busy… I haven’t thought about it.”

“You can’t waste time anymore, Y/N.” Your mom said firmly, pushing your chair back against the desk.

“I’m not wasting time, Mom. Please just relax.”

“Sweetie, maybe Y/N needs to do this at a different pace.” Your dad offered and you gave a thankful expression.

“I don’t care.” She snapped. “My child won’t miss an opportunity because of hesitation.”

She slid your laptop in front of you and then leaned down to meet your eyes. “This is your chance to get somewhere better than this.”

“I like where I come from.” You said honestly.

“That doesn’t mean you have to stay here.”

“How about I take Y/N to the library to do these?” Your dad offered. “Wi-fi’s been acting up today.”

“Yeah, and maybe I’ll find inspiration.” You added on. “I can look through some books and see if anything feels right… I get what you’re saying, Mom, but I don’t want to rush into something I shouldn’t.”

She blew out a sigh and stood straight. “Fine.” She conceeded. “But please, get at least two done today.”

“Yeah, okay.” You nodded, figuring you could at least do that much, even if just to please your mom.

After all, she had given you everything she could growing up. Her and your dad gave up a lot so you would have what you needed and what you wanted. You didn’t have everything under the sun but you had more than enough. And that dedication was what inspired your actions as a spider-person. Your parents looked out for you in ways no one else ever would. They put everything on the line for a payout that didn’t always go in their favor, but in yours.

And being able to give that back to the community you grew up in, the community that supported you and welcomed you. That was what you wanted your adult life to be, something so giving and so genuine that it could inspire someone else to do the same.

But what kind of career or schooling could give that to you?

When your dad dropped you off, he gave you his credit card and said your mom would be checking the account to see the pending charge so you had to keep your end of the deal. You offered a laugh and thanked him for getting you out of the house.

“Kid, I know she’s a bit overbearing but she wants what’s best for you.” Your dad said honestly.

“I know, Dad.” You nodded. “I’m just a little bit caught in the middle right now. Can’t look too far ahead.”

“Can’t look back, either… Remember where you come from, of course, but don’t let it hold you back. Okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Call when you’re done.”

You offered a lazy sluate before skipping up the library steps. Once your dad’s car was out of view, you ducked around the side of the building to the library’s alley. You pulled your watch from your backpack before tucking it behind the usual pile of boxes and fit the device into place. You weren’t even in your suit but you’d wandered HQ in your pajamas before, so coming in your school clothes wouldn’t be a big deal.

Once you stepped through your portal, various spider-people greeted you in the halls. You offered nods or waves but didn’t stop for much conversation, not until you reached the head honcho’s office.

“What are you doing here?” He asked without turning to face you. Surprisingly, his platform was actually ground level today, meaning no one had annoyed him enough to raise it. “Don’t you have something else you should be doing?”

“No.” You shrugged. “It’s still daylight back home and the weirdos don’t start till dusk, at least so…”

“Not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

“Those college applications you promised your mom.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah, oh.”

“Why are you spying on me anyway?” You asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Because you, insectito, are the biggest pain the ass here… So what’s the problem then?”

“I don’t know what I wanna do with my life.” You said honestly, scooting some of his papers over so you could sit on the desk. “Mom wants me to just throw my name in the pot everywhere to see what happens and Dad just wants to make Mom happy.”

“Mmm.. And what do you want?”

You shrugged. “I dunno.”

“What do you like to do? Any classes in school get you excited?”

“Not really.. Bio is cool sometimes but..”

“That’s a start.” He glanced over with a small, almost proud smile that lasted half a second. “Biology major is broad enough to start picking schools.”

“I guess but-”

“What about bio do you like?”

“Miguel, can you just-”

“People, plants, or animals?”

You groaned and flopped backwards on the desk, throwing your arms over your eyes. You thought coming to Miguel would be a good time to rant and not be given advice, because half of the time he seemed to drown out your voice anyways. But of course the one time you just needed him to ignore your words, he had to do the exact opposite of what you wanted.

“You’re the worst.” You muttered, to which you felt a kick to your foot. “Hey!”

“Y/N, your parents are right.” He started and you groaned again. “You’re a smart kid but you have to find some sort of direction.”

“I’m just caught up in the middle, trying to keep going.. But it’s just not that simple.” You complained and when you got no answer, you kept talking. “But I have to keep going or they’ll call me a quitter.”

“Who will?”

“Everyone.” You shrugged. “I don’t know, probably no one.”

Miguel turned fully and took hold of your arms to haul you upright. You let out a loud sound of complaint as he did so and you didn’t bother to fight it, not that you’d have much of a chance to do so anyway. You dramatically let your head fall back so you could see his expression and he looked down at you with a small smile. You huffed a sigh and raised your brows expectantly as you waited for him to say something.

“What about a geneticist?” He offered and you were taken aback, no doubt your face showing it because he gave a quick chuckle. “I’m serious.”

“Yeah, you usually are but what the hell are you talking about?” You said in bewilderment.

He shrugged slightly before turning back to his work and you couldn’t help but follow him.

“You’re always lurking around to see what I’m doing.” He explained. “You ask questions about what I do and how all of my stuff works.”

“Like that injection you refuse to talk about.” You agreed and peaked up with a questioning expression. Without looking at you, he pushed your face away.

“Exactly.” He agreed with a nod. “And then you could study your own DNA and see if you can find anything cool.”

“I could give myself fangs!” You yelled with excitement before camping a hand over your mouth when you realized how loud you were.

“Yeah, and then you give yourself a lisp.” He rolled his eyes slightly. “What I’m saying is that maybe some sort of higher level biology career is where you’re heading… You’re one of the smarter spiders around here anyways. Might as well do something other than engineering.”

“Don’t you think science in general is a bit stereotypical for a spider? … Oh, shit. Is it our canon?”

“No.” He laughed a little. “There’s a Peter Parker around here that’s a photographer for a newspaper.”

“Oh.. That’s fun?” You tried.

“He takes fake candids of Spiderman and sells them to his Daily Bugle.” Miguel deadpanned and you laughed. “Not every spider leads a strenuous academic life.”

“But you think I could?”

“I think you should. Y/N, you’re always challenging yourself physically. Maybe it’s time to do it academically.” He shrugged. “But what do I know?”

You pursed your lips in thought as you considered his words. Maybe not genetics, but a STEM field could be fun. And with your current academic status, you’d be able to swing one of the better programs with better labs and better opportunities. You could try your hand at different branches and see what stuck. Even if you didn’t find one, you’d have a better direction for a graduate school at the very least.

“Thanks.” You said honestly with a small smile. “That actually helped… You always do.”

He put a hand on your head and gave you a small shake that made you laugh.

You went home after that and headed straight into the library after you fished out your backpack. You ended up doing four applications and got a text from your mom after each one. With every submission, you felt a little less stuck.

#miguel ohara #miguel o'hara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel spiderman #atsv miguel #miguel x reader #miguel spiderverse #spiderman fic #spiderman 2099 #across the spiderverse #atsv #spiderman fanfic #spiderverse fic #dad!miguel ohara #gn reader #gn!reader

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lillifaba · 7 months ago

Text

Here's why I'm still unimpressed with the Wicked movie trailer

A while ago I made a post explaining my thoughts on the Wicked teaser trailer. A lot of it was mostly negative due to the poor CGI, acting, lines etc... Well the official trailer dropped and I've got some new thoughts both good and bad. This is going to be way longer than my last post because I'm going to go into detail about why I think this movie won't live up to the musical by comparing it to other movies and musicals. I'll also be talking about some scenes from the featurette.

THIS IS JUST MY OPINION SO FAR ON WHAT WE SEE IF YOU LIKE THE TRAILER OR LIKE ANY OF THE ACTORS THEN DON'T GET YOUR PANTIES IN A TWIST MY WORD ISN'T GOSPEL NOR IS IT MY FINAL OPINION ON THE MOVIE.

Starting off with things I liked:

I'm actually starting to warm up to Cynthia as Elphaba. In my last post I argued I didn't entirely see her as Elphaba mainly because it was obvious she's a thirty seven year old playing an eighteen year old. While I still believe she doesn't pass for younger Elphie and her simple "I am" comeback is weak, hearing more of her lines and performance is actually on point with Elphaba's character. I wouldn't be against her revisiting Elphaba on stage after the movie. Bottom line: I think she's a great singer and am happy a fellow WOC is playing Elphie.

Holy shit that witch cackle gave me goosebumps. It might be the editing and sound in the trailer that makes me feel that way so we'll have to see when it happens in the movie.

Michelle Yeoh???? Like hello? Although she seems more toned down compared to the campy personality MM has on stage, she plays the role of the evil villain quite well. (I'm sad she had to stop using her beautiful Malaysian accent ;_; I hope it was by her choice and not by the choice of the executives.)

Some set designs look quite nice. I'm particularly curious about the scene where The Wizard is dancing around a full size diorama of Oz.

The effects of the grimmerie are quite neat. I despise the new shape of the book, but I think it's cool how instead of going for some floating colorful lights to pass as "look magic oooo", they're going for the spells to be coming out of the pages. Very unique.

And now, on to the negative. This is where I'll be comparing some of the shots and scenes of the trailer to other movies and parts of the musical.

I hate hate hate the CGI. You don't understand I absoultely for forever deeply truly LOATHE the CGI. It cheapens the movie and all that talk and show about how they built up the sets and rainbows showing over their productions goes all out the window when I see those flying monkeys.

Let's talk good CGI vs rushed CGI.

First off I do not blame the VFX artists for this movie looking the way it does so far. VFX artists are one of the most overworked and underpaid workers in the film industry who have to pump out content in a short amount of time. It is also not their fault that audiences are tired of seeing overdone CGI movies every month. It's part of the reason why the Wicked teaser trailer got so much hate when it came out (on top of Ari/🧽, reactionary bros, etc...)

The CGI (mostly in the Emerald City) looks AI generated. Most of my issues with it come from the effects looking poorly rendered. Elphaba flying looks obviously fake. I know they recently touched up some of these scenes but honestly it doesn't make a difference to me at all in quality.

If John Chu and the team behind this movie really cared about this like they insist they do, it wouldn't hurt to take time with the effects. When you do so, you get mind blowing results like this:

Onto other effects: The flying monkeys don't look great. They look poorly rendered along with the rest of the effects. For that I wish they would've stuck to practical effects like Pan's Labyrinth did or literally any character Doug Jones plays like down below.

Heck, even the musical does a better job:

I seriously encourage you to watch B T S footage of Wicked to see how insane and amazing this effect is. Once you see it, you'll realize just how bad the movie fucked up on this.

Bottom line: movies that take their time with CGI effects and utilize other methods like practical effects before leaving everything up to post have better results than your run of the mill CGI Marvel or DC blockbuster.

I'm still not feeling Arianna as Glinda. Before you fans eat me up alive I need to say again I don't hate her and even like some of the stuff she puts out there. This critique is not a reflection on who she is as a person because I don't know her personally. With that out of the way I still cannot stand her Glinda impression. "But Lilli!" You say. "You said you didn't like Ari as Glinda because she's not giving Glinda but she's doing Glinda's voice!" And I stand by that. She's not giving Glinda. She's giving Kristen Chenoweth. You might think that's the whole point of playing Glinda but let me ask you; When you watch Megan Hilty as Glinda, did you think she was imitating KC to the bone? What about Kendra Kassebaum? Ginna Claire Mason or McKenzie Kurtz? Did you think KC was imitating Billie Burke? Or were all of them doing their own interpretations of Glinda that made the character unique to themselves and not a copycat version of the original? Because I argue that's what makes every Glinda special and unique from the previous actress who played her. Doing a copycat rendition of KC makes me believe you have no faith in yourself as an actor and you are incapable of playing character that's been done before without having to copy the source material beat for beat. Because of this, I still cannot seperate Ari the pop star from Glinda The Good.

This point has less to do with Ari as Glinda in the movie and more as what she's doing to promote the movie. I have no idea where else to rant about it but here. I hate hate HATE how Arianna is making this movie and Glinda her ENTIRE personality. She acts like she's part of this fandom yet never interacts with anyone in it (unless its directly involves her) and it all feels so... artificial and money grabbing. Someone please tell me I'm not alone. Like girl please call me when you read and write fanfic on AO3 and get three kudos on your multichap fic lol.

DTL: Again I ask, WHY IS THIS MOVIE SO DARK? DTL is meant to be in a ballroom with tons of bright lights and projections. This ballroom looks so dark and depressing. I'm not thinking "let's dance because dust is what we come to" I'm thinking "turn me into dust already." When I saw Elphaba putting that hat on in the teaser trailer, I thought that was a scene in defying gravity. John Chu failed this scene which makes me angry because I this is my favorite scene in the musical.

Adding on to DTL, we have to talk about the scene where Elphaba and Glinda establish their friendship. If you know this scene in the musical (which duh) you'll know that this is where Glinda realizes that she did a horrible thing to Elphie and wants to make things right, even if it means putting her reputation in the gutter in front of her friends. I know this is an edited trailer so we won't know for sure how the full scene plays out in the final movie, but Glinda immediately going for a hug before they start dancing threw me off guard. At this point, they still aren't best friends because Elphaba doesn't realize that Glinda is sorry for what she did, their relationship is only now starting to build up. Let me ask you, what do you think makes a scene more impactful? Glinda hesitantly and nervously walking up to interupt Elphaba doing a solo dance and then cutting in to make her feel less alone, which eventually leads to all while making them ease up around each other as the song and dance progresses OR Glinda rushing into a bear hug with Elphaba before they even establish them making amends on the dance floor? One seems like a slow burn that tugs at your heartstrings while the other feels like a cheap attempt to get some kind of emotional response from the audience? (Then again not sure how this scene will play in movie but it's not looking good right now)

Final point, why is Elphaba crying during this scene? I get she's just been put through public humiliation and is just now getting an act of kindness from someone but don't you think it's too soon to show her in such a vulnerable position? One of the things about Elphaba in both the musical and books is that she's built a wall of apathy around her because she's been judged her whole life and doesn't care how other people percive her. We don't see her breakdown in the musical until Nessa's death because she's been forced to stay strong her entire life. Maybe at the earliest, we'll see her tear up during defying gravity but I'd argue that's a part of the actress playing her and not the character herself.

I hate how this trailer has been edited to make Arianna look like the protagonist. I get she's bringing in a large audience, but she's playing the secondary character, not the main one. It just pisses me that the protagonist (who is a WOC) has to be in the shadow of the white woman. It almost makes me believe they're doing it because they're more worried people would be offended at the prospect of a POC being a leading role.

The main actors still look way too mature to be playing their characters. I spoke about this already. I don't buy any of these adults (with the exception of Marissa Bode) as college freshmen.

Still hate that riff at the end of defying gravity and that after all the backlash, they're still going with it. I also can't believe some of you are defending it to the death and acting like Cynthia Fucking Erivo can't do a better take than what she gave. (Yes, I know every Elphaba does a different take on the riff and we all have our favorite ones but I'm going to say something that is controversial yet brave: Not every riff that every Elphaba does is great. Some of them are range from underwhelming to straight up bad) Here's a reddit post I found that better explains my gripe with the riff since I'm bad at explaining musical terms:

Costume and makeup design is still atrocious. I'm sorry, but the low effort looking costumes cannot hold up to the extravagance and camp the stage has. They should've brought Susan Hilferty back. Look at Elphaba's act 2 dress and the dress movie Elphaba wears and tell me you're not disappointed.

Adding on, why does everything look modern, including the makeup? Arianna using her brand of makeup in the movie doesn't impress me when she's using a modern day mascara wand over her wispy falsies in a 1900's inspired society when she should be using one of these:

Like... come on? Can you imagine a scene of Glinda doing her makeup while she's ranting to Elphaba about how men (except for darling Fifi of course <3) are so entitled and disrespectful and in the middle of her sentence, she just SPITS on her mascara cake, scrubs the brush like she's scrubbing the floor and does her lashes? Iconic honestly.

Adding on to the makeup looking modernized, I'm not a fan of Elphaba's modernized makeup either. It could be the deaging filter they added on everyone older than thirty but one thing that stood out to me is they used 90's era lip liner on her. I'm much aware if you're darker skinned, you will often times need to use a liner in order to blend in parts around your mouth that are darker in comparison to your lips. Counterpoint however:

They could've easily used a dark lipstick post-Popular like they already do. The 1900's era mostly used a single shade of lip color anyways. And no, I don't want to hear from any of you how none of this matters because Oz is an advanced society or some half assed excuse why it's totally okay they didn't care about the miniscule details while they cared about the number of tulips used in Munchkinland for NMTW. (also note: Oz was considered an advanced society FOR THE TIME IT WAS CREATED. Meaning they weren't envisioning the future items we have now like a mascara wand) If they allowed Arianna to use her own brand of makeup for the movie, they could've allowed an expert on BW's makeup history on set for their main protagonist.

Set design. I've got to say, while some of the sets are impressive, they really don't fit into Wicked or Oz. I mostly blame CGI and lighting, but even then, it can't hold up to the simple, yet brightly colored sets we see on stage. Shiz looks like something out of Hogwarts, which nearly every fantasy academia story looks like these days. Can we please have something original for once?

What I would've enjoyed seeing the movie do is something similar to Melanine Martinez's K-12. They were working on one location on a smaller budget, yet it looks better than the dimly lit and CGI sets we're seeing.

Obviously I'm not saying Wicked should look EXACTLY like K-12 because they have completely different themes and genres, but my point is good lighting, original set designs and color correcting can take you a long way. Wicked is deserving of having the same whimsy look that the WOZ movie had, while still having dark parts where needed.

Some more examples of good use of lighting during dark scenes in movies:

Continuing from not being a fan of the sets, I'm FUMING at the location of Fiyero and Elphaba freeing the lion cub. Why is it in a dark dreary forest?????? Did John Chu mix up the locations between INTG and ALAYM???? The lion cub scene takes place in the poppy field, with a soft orange pinkish lighting that creates a romantic atmosphere and establishes the growing romance between Fiyero and Elphaba (<3) This forest looks too erie and mystical, which should've been used for act 2.

Another hot take: I think the tulip field in Munchkinland looks completely unnecessary. I literally do not care if they planted thousands of rows of them. They look CGI'd because nearly everything in this movie is CGI.

Now onto some things I'm confused about.

God I was so looking forward to Peter Dinklage as the voice for Dr. Dillamond,but from what I heard of his voice acting so far, it just sounds... underwhelming. But I can't complain too much because at least it's not James Corden. I still believe in Peter and hope he will pull through.

Why did they feel the need to change the shape of the grimmerie? It was fine the way it was!

Adding to Dr. D, I'm not sure if I like his new design. I'm guessing they're taking inspiration from the book but if we're discussing live action, I really prefer makeup effects over CGI. One of the things I liked about the Animals in Wicked and in Cats the Musical is they find a perfect balance between blending human features and animal species without it going into the uncanny valley.

I feel underwhelmed by Jeff Goldbulm's acting as The Wizard :( I can't complain too much because he kinda-

On a final note: I think this movie just cannot and will not match up to the excellence of the musical. Will it be a good movie? I don't know yet. I'll still see it in theaters and will give my thoughts.

While brainstorming my thoughts for this trailer, I've really been thinking about why I hate what I'm seeing so far while I enjoy other interpretations of Wicked, especially when it comes to costumes. Then I realized something.

I love non-replica productions of Wicked... So why don't I like the design of this movie?

Part two of my take COMING THANKSGIVING 2025

Not really, give me like a week or two.

#wicked #wicked movie

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aprilc0t · 5 months ago

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This is my first time revisiting the story since volume 17 got translated to English. Crazy because I've claimed myself to be a fan of Kazeki for quite some time, so why have I only read the story once? Simply because I just didn't believe I could take the mental anguish again, the ending just morally destroyed me when I first read it.

I must say I knew how the story ended way back before that, though (because I was desperate, asked, and someone told me, lol). I still was in denial that THAT was the ending. Then the Spanish license was announced, and I waited to get my hands on the last volume (which in Spanish is volume 10, because they released the Bundo-ban edition), and at this point I had been waiting years for this; I knew what was coming, and I actually thought the ending was "Fitting." Bettter said, I thought it was realistic for the story, but I still didn't like it.

That was almost four years ago. When I read the story for the first time, I was the same age as the characters, fourteen. I'm not a 14-year-old teen with unsupervised internet access anymore; I'm a 20-year-old with a slightly more developed frontal lobe (wait for my kazeki rereading when I turn 25).

Now, why am I saying all of this in my silly little post about me the first volume? Because this is also my first time reading the full story without time gaps of waiting for translations AND the first time reading it all in Spanish (which is my first language). Tragedy back to back, good for me. This last part has actually been really impactful in my reading. Kazeki was notorious for being passed around scalation groups, and the first scans are well, not the best (yet not the worst; I'll forever be grateful for those first scans of the manga), so it's easy to miss some details in Keiko’s artwork (Kurt fans, you know what I mean if you own the volumes), and it's been overall more easy to read; the story feels more coherent somehow it gives me a better understanding of everything, and I'm actually comparing the English and Spanish translation as I read. And its kind of crazy how the vibes change, i guess because of the words and phrasings in some parts of the spanish one, I resonate a little more with it.

I’ll wait for my second volume to arrive to give my complete thoughts on the first part of the story (I'm a demon that buys books out of order and I'm still missing some volumes lmao). For the moment, I would like to say that those first pages are Berserk crazzy levels of first pages, or actually, Berserk’s first pages are Kazeki levels of crazy.

#kaze to ki no uta #kazeki #la balada del viento y los arboles #the poem of the wind and the trees #風と木の詩 #gilbert cocteau #serge battour #shoujo manga #year 24 group

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doks-aux · 9 months ago

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Fic: Dead Men Take No Dares

Fandom: Our Flag Means Death

Characters: Izzy Hands, Edward Teach, Stede Bonnet, Lucius Springs, Ivan, Fang, Nathaniel Buttons, Crew of the Revenge

Relationships: Izzy Hands & Edward Teach, Izzy Hands & Crew of the Revenge, Izzy Hands & Ivan & Fang

Rating: PG-13/Teen

Content/Warnings: Truth or Dare, friendship (existing, mending, and growing), humor, and a callback to one of my favorite jokes from Season 1

Summary: “Fun, huh?” He breathed in and out once very deliberately then opened his eyes to look at Fang, face carefully neutral. “All right. I can do fun.”

Izzy is strong-armed into a game of Truth or Dare and decides to play by the rules.

Notes: Written for the zine Above All Else: An Appreciation of Izzy Hands in 2023 and set in a possible post-Season 1 future where everyone is trying to get along and no one is very good at it. (Except Fang, of course.) Written before the premiere of Season 2 and has not been edited to reflect any of that updated canon. The only difference between this text and what appears in the zine is the correction of three minor grammatical errors that will haunt me for the rest of my natural life.

Word Count: 1368

Read on AO3

Israel Hands was seven minutes and fifteen seconds into his frantic search for his captains or, indeed, any sign of life on the Revenge, when he finally heard Bonnet's voice ring through the halls of the gundeck.

“All right! Perhaps we ought to revisit and revise our ‘no more than two truths before a dare’ rule to ‘at least two truths before a dare.’”

The conversation was coming from the jam room, and Izzy hastened his steps in that direction, taking note of each voice that joined in.

“But then we’d barely get any dares!” Black Pete whined.

“I’m fine with that.” That was Spriggs, vaguely distressed as always. “I’m great.”

“Uh, it’s not Truth or Dare without any dares.” Black Pete again.

“Maybe that can just be a rule for Captain Ed and Wee John.” Roach then.

“Sorry about that,” Feeney said at the same time that Edward chirped, “Sorry, mate,” neither sounding particularly sorry at all. Was the whole fucking crew in there?

“Now, we don’t want to single anyone out...” Bonnet waffled--prompting a small chorus of “Yes, we do”--just as Izzy stepped through the door.

“Captain... s?” he asked, catching himself before he forgot to pluralize. He looked first to Edward then to Bonnet, taking in the room’s remaining occupants in between. It was, of course, the whole fucking crew. “Wh--?”

“Hey, Iz-dog!” Edward bellowed cheerfully, springing to his feet and barrelling toward Izzy with enthusiasm he had not anticipated.

“Oh, no, Izzy’s here!” Spriggs gasped, also jumping to fling himself at Izzy.

Edward reached him first, gripping his bicep and tugging excitedly. “You’ve gotta get in on this, mate. We’re--”

“I guess we have to stop having fun now,” Spriggs’ exaggerated lamentations rose over the rest of Edward’s sentence. “So sad.” Undermining his words, he grabbed Izzy’s other shoulder and leaned in to hiss, “What took you so long? There’ve been three fires already.”

“Fire?” Izzy darted his eyes between Edward and the boy before scanning the room more thoroughly. “Where is there a fucking fi--?”

“It’s out, Boss,” Ivan announced, and Izzy whipped his head around to see him stomping out the last embers of a fucking fire.

“Why is there--?”

“In my defense,” Edward cut in, snapping Izzy’s attention back to him, bright-eyed and grinning, “I was dared.”

Izzy held Edward’s unwaveringly mischievous gaze for a moment, just in case an explanation would be offered unprompted.

It was not.

“What are you--?” he began, valiantly suppressing most of a weary sigh.

“We’re playing Truth or Dare,” Jim interrupted this time, annoyed, though whether with him or Edward, Izzy wasn’t sure. He was getting whiplash all the same.

“What the fuck is--?” But Izzy cut himself off this time with a frustrated shake of his head, a growl dying in his throat. That one he actually knew, and it wasn’t the point. “Never mind. Edward, wh--?”

“You should play, too, Iz! It’s a blast!” The implish gleam in his captain’s eyes dimmed just slightly, his smile turning sheepish. “Didn’t mean not to invite you. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

That wasn’t the point. It was not within five hundred nautical miles of the fucking point. But the genuine apology in Edward’s tone took Izzy off guard all the same, stayed his tongue while he allowed himself to appreciate it.

“Oh, of course,” Bonnet butted in before Izzy could find his words again, which was marginally better than interrupting him, but that margin was about as thin as Izzy’s patience. “You can squeeze right in, we haven’t been playing long.”

“Three fires,” Spriggs mouthed silently in Izzy’s peripheral vision.

“I don’t care about your fucking game.” It came out with more bite than Izzy meant it to even if it was true. (He was trying to be less of a dick. They all were. They were bad at it, but they were trying. It just was not the point right now.) “Edward, listen. Wh--?”

“Aw, don’t be like that, Iz. Play with us!”

“Edward, I need to--”

“Join the game, and you can ask him anything you like,” Bonnet said, chipper and smug. “When it’s your turn.”

Edward squashed Izzy’s delusions that he might consider reason by immediately nodding along. “There ya go, Iz, just wait your turn.”

On second thought, fuck the both of them.

“That settles it! Have a seat, Izzy,” Bonnet continued like he didn’t even notice Izzy’s heroic attempts to explode him with his mind. “We’ll do a few rounds so you can see how the game is played.”

“I don’t--”

“And then you can have a turn!”

“Captains--”

“Just let it happen, Boss,” Ivan muttered, calm and commiserating, throwing an arm across Izzy’s back. “Come sit with me and Fang.”

Not wanting to fight because they weren’t supposed to be doing that sort of thing anymore (and because Ivan could scruff him like a cat if he chose), Izzy allowed himself to be led to the bit of floor claimed by Fang, who beamed and scooted over to make room for them.

“Hi, Izzy,” Fang greeted as Izzy sat beside him. Izzy grimaced in reply, careful not to shift his weight onto his bad foot as he settled on the floor. Ivan sat on Izzy’s other side, bracketing him between his old colleagues.

“Does anyone remember whose turn we were on?” Bonnet asked, and conversation erupted through the room, everyone talking over each other while Izzy straightened his spine and tried to catch Edward’s attention through the chaos.

“Anyone who doesn’t love arson,” Spriggs groused, flopping in defeat beside Black Pete.

“Seconding no arson,” Boodhari agreed.

Frenchie laughed. “That’s not a big number on this boat, babes.”

“May I have a turn?” The Swede raised his hand. “I will not choose fire.”

And on and on the inane chatter continued, Izzy squirming in impatience as Edward looked everywhere but at him. He was nearly ready to snap when he felt a gentle touch at his back.

“It’s not so bad, Boss,” Fang murmured kindly, giving him that soft-eyed look that Izzy never knew how to respond to since he’d promised to stop yanking his beard. “Give it a chance. Maybe you’ll have fun.”

Izzy bit the inside of his cheek before he could spit something ugly. He clenched his fists until his fingernails dug into his palms, squeezed his eyes shut until he saw stars, and tensed every muscle in his body until he had no choice but to relax.

“Fun, huh?” He breathed in and out once very deliberately then opened his eyes to look at Fang, face carefully neutral. “All right. I can do fun.”

He would wait his turn.

Fang smiled like he was proud of him, and Izzy did not tell him to fuck off. Bonnet got the game started up again, and Izzy observed the proceedings dutifully. There didn’t seem to be any sort of logic to how the turns were taken, the rules were clearly made up as they went, and the truths asked and dares accepted were as ridiculous and reckless as he would have expected. Nevertheless, he was grudgingly impressed that the Swede could contort his limbs into a pretzel with such ease.

Finally, Bonnet looked to Izzy and spread his arms out with his customarily unwarranted pomp. “Now it’s your turn, Izzy. Ask anyone anything you’d like.”

“Fine.” Izzy looked Edward straight in the eye. “Truth or Dare?”

“Truth,” Edward answered, still constrained by the new dare limit.

“Who’s steering the fucking ship, Edward?”

“The fuck do you mean? Buttons is. Right, Buttons?”

Izzy watched realization dawn in Edward's eyes, his slow, horrified turn to the wall, where Buttons had been standing the whole time.

Buttons, very much not steering the ship, stared back, unblinking. “Olivia wanted to watch the game,” he said of the seagull perched on his head. “She’s a yen for hot gossip.”

“...SHIT!”

Edward tore out of the jam room, most of the crew stampeding after him. Izzy remained seated, Ivan and Fang still at his side and Buttons still against the wall. Under the thunder of footsteps and bickering and Bonnet shrieking in panic, Izzy smiled.

“You were right, Fang. That was fun.”

#Izzy Hands #Israel Hands #Edward Teach #Blackbeard #Stede Bonnet #Lucius Spriggs #Ivan #Fang #Nathaniel Buttons #Our Flag Means Death #pirates #doc's fanfiction #doc's stories #doc pretends to be a writer #zine entry #ofmd fanfiction

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kristailine · 1 year ago

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KAZUJUN FANFIC MASTERLIST

Hello, I'm Krista 🐱 I write kazujun fanfics for fun and post it on AO3. I decided to start writing my own kazujun fanfics since there's not a lot of it on the net and I decided to take the matter in my own hands so other kazujun enjoyers would get to have two or more fics to enjoy.

This is a masterlist of all the fics I've written so far for easier navigation if some of you guys would like to check it out or revisit. This would also be constantly edited every time I publish something new.

I only post my fics on Archive of Our Own. If you see any duplicates on any other website besides it, please report to me

Archive of Our Own Account: kristalline

1. Think of Me in Between the Words of a Sweet Melody

✨ A collection of kazujun one-shots that unravel their relationship through a descriptive narrative inspired by songs.

STATUS: ongoing / constantly updated

Chapters include:

✨✨ This Love - a narrative that delves on Kazuya's and Jun's loneliness and longing for one another during the all the years they have been separated since Kazuya's assumed death.

✨✨ If I Could Fly - Kazuya struggles with his past traumas while Jun comforts him. Set in Tekken 2 timeline.

✨✨ Little Freak - a very brief moment of Kazuya, during his time away from civilization, thinking about Jun in the middle of a lonely night.

✨✨ Afterglow (Part 1) - a heated argument with Jun and three days of no contact would make Kazuya realize just how lonely his days had become. He would also find himself hurt because of the pain he had caused Jun. Set in Tekken 2 timeline.

2. When I Lost You

✨ One-shot fic. Jun and Anna Williams sit down to have a talk about the death of a lover. Kazuya walks in on the conversation and Jun narrates to him the pain she has been through when she lost him. Set in Tekken 8 timeline

STATUS: Complete

3. Our Worlds Eclipse

✨ One-shot fic. Kazuya and Jun explore the mystery of the sanctum after having detected frequencies coming from the area. They are soon greeted by an alleged ambush of Kazuya's enemies. Kazuya realizes there are things he considers much more valuable than winning a fight, and that is to ensure that Jun is safe and unharmed. Set in Tekken 8 timeline.

STATUS: Complete

I write during my free time and when I am inspired. I'm still a student attending university while juggling with a sideline. I do this for the fun of writing and because of how much I adore this ship, and I'm always very enthusiastic about sharing my works with the rest of you who adore kazujun as well. Comments and kudos on my works are very much appreciated, but what matters to me is the fact that you also enjoyed reading my works the same way I enjoyed making them :>>

I hope this masterlist finds you well and may all the works be a meaningful read for you all 🫶

#ao3 fanfic #archive of our own #fanfic #kazjun #kazujun #kazuya x jun #tekken #jun kazama #kazuya mishima #kazama jun #mishima kazuya

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yobotica · 3 months ago

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Fandom Homework

Idea by @razielim, I like the idea of sitting down and talking about the stuff I want to be working on! Mostly pretty rambly here, so I'll put it all beneath a cut:

It's all gonna be about the WIPs, baby! I think the thing that comes to mind most on 'boy I wish I could finish this' is actually the fallout AU I have for Assassin's Creed. ShaunDes, of course, but I think the ultimate plan was to try for OT3 with Clay on this one. I've never done it, but I get a lot of comments for that on my other fics and I think it would be interesting in this setting if I can make it work. I think the current plan for this one is more a sort of main 'how the group got together' vibe (all the moderns) and then snippets/side stories for some of their adventures. I do have an overall plot involving everyone figuring out who they are, secrets coming to light, etc. I just gotta get it all written is all.

Second is obviously to finish my in progress titanfall fic, which I usually just refer to as Weary, lol. While I've never once really felt pressured that updates are few and far between by comments on AO3, I sometimes regret posting it before it was finished. I never post WIPs as they're worked on because I am the slowest writer - once I get going, I can write pretty fast, it's just the getting started that trips me up. That, and i end up writing a lot of stuff that it turns out, it's not time for, or it's just not right for the story. I think I'm at like, over 15k words discarded for this fic overall, some of which has been repurposed/used already (just later than when it was originally written), but most of which has not. (Yet; I know at least two bits are just too early).

Third is a fic that is almost 10 years old and unfinished. It's only been posted up to chapter 10 on the assassin's creed kinkmeme, the last chapter of which was posted in 2016. It's almost complete, actually, sitting at just under 55.5k words, but I can't quite pin down the ending. Then it needs to be edited. Insert sad-cowboy emoji.

I'd really like to revisit my old DS9 stuff. I never published any of it on AO3 - in fact, I can't even remember if I've published any of it anywhere. It's some of the earliest stuff I've written, and it's pretty rough by my standards, but it's still something I'd like to get some time into and whip up into something readable at some point.

I want to learn how to draw transformers! I've wanted to for a while, but I recently watched Transformers One and it was gorgeous. There's a lot of different styles for the whole franchise, but I like that one a lot. That and Transformers Prime, which I haven't seen yet, lol. I'm a pretty recent fan, to be honest, but me and a friend have spent a lot of time making transformers OCs that I'd love to be able to draw just for fun. (It's the only reason I play Forza Horizon 5 at all, is to make the car forms for those that can be made in that game.)

I'd love to get works written for a few fandoms I've been into for a while, but never written for. Stuff like Dishonored, Legacy of Kain/Soul Reaver, Inception or even Dragon Age. Mostly based on vibes rather than concrete ideas (except for dishonored, which I have exactly one (1) idea that could be used for fic), but still. It's something I'd like to do.

Oh! I need to finish and edit the FFXV fic I have in progress! It could be considered complete enough, to be honest, but it feels incomplete to me for some reason. I wrote up to a certain point, then lost all steam. It's set post Episode Ignis alternate ending, a really, really cute and sweet fic.

I think one thing I'd like to do is maybe just post a collection on AO3 of my WIPs. I don't think of anything I've written as abandoned, even if it's been years since I looked at them, but I also do think some of it was pretty good! I don't know how readers feel about this, though.

I'd like to get more Deus Ex fic written, too. I had a few things perk my interested for kinktober but October was mostly a really shit month for me, so I got no writing done at all. I definitely don't mind using those prompts late or anything, but I still haven't got any creative juice for writing right now, so they're just sitting there, waiting for their time.

I've also had a few ideas that I think I might never write but maybe folks might be interested in hearing about or adopting themselves? Like prompts, maybe. Adoptable fic ideas. Mostly it's stuff I'd love to read but not research to write myself, but that feels a little selfish, lol. But I also just think they're fun to talk about and gush over even if they never actually get written.

I think this was nice to sit down and write out. I don't post very much about myself or my work, but I've enjoyed seeing people talk about things they'd like to get done or things they have in progress and thought I'd share. I'm wishing you all well and hoping you all have something creative you'd like to look forward to doing as well! <3

#writing #my writing #and stuff #fandom homework

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sesamestreep · 2 years ago

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the first tuesday in may

A/N: I originally wrote this as a prompt fill and then decided I hated it and wrote something else instead, but I held onto the draft because I liked the concept. After revisiting it and editing it into something not completely mortifying to read, I decided to post it after all. Double prompt fill! What a time to be alive! (posted to AO3 here)

Sloan thinks she is uniquely terrible at being a famous person. Not that she gets into trouble as a public figure all that often (trouble finds her with alarming frequency, but she does her best not to court it, at least), but rather that she doesn’t care about a lot of the things she thinks she’s supposed to as a celebrity. If she had her way, she could work at ACN, be on several new programs a day as an anchor, and still somehow not be recognizable at all. This doesn’t make sense to her friends and family. She understands that, on paper, it doesn’t make much sense at all. If she wanted to be some anonymous economist, she simply should not have agreed to ever be on television. She’d chosen this life instead. Some days, she still can't figure out why.

All of this is to say, she never really anticipated being invited to the Met Gala. Honestly, she hadn’t even heard of it until she started working with Mac and even then, she didn’t think about it much. She does like fashion, though, and she likes museums in a theoretical way where she wants them to exist and have funding but she also gets bored after 15 minutes in even the more interesting ones. The fervor and fanaticism around the Met Gala, though, had surprised her and then intimidated her, in that order, when she’d gotten her invitation. But a designer had agreed to dress her and she’d managed to walk the red carpet without falling on her face and she’s pretty sure she didn’t say anything to a reporter that she’ll regret, which means the night was an unmitigated success for her. The thing she’s really worried about is how her colleagues at ACN will react the day after. She’s ultimately more nervous about the first Tuesday in May than she was about the first Monday.

Despite her preparation for commentary and possibly mockery from her co-workers, the morning fortunately passes without incident. By the time she’s finished with the 12 o’clock show, though, most of the staff for the prime time shows have started to trickle in and, truthfully, it’s them she’s most anxious about. Neal is the first to say something, but because it’s Neal, it’s also the cheeriest possible comment she could ever hope for.

“Saw pics from the Met Gala last night,” he says, as she passes by his desk. He doesn’t even take his eyes off his computer in order to say it. “You looked amazing. How many best dressed lists did you make?”

“I haven’t checked,” Sloan replies, with a slight eye roll. “I’m guessing very few.”

“No way.”

“There was some debate over whether I dressed properly to the theme.”

“Yes, but that’s what people love about the Met Gala. The debate is the fun part!”

“If you say so.”

“Regardless, me and all the other brave soldiers on Sloan Sabbith stan Twitter have your back.”

“I know what most of those words mean individually and yet, together, they’re a mystery to me.”

“So, a ‘stan’ is actually—”

“Oh, no. I’d like it to remain a mystery, thanks.”

Neal clamps his mouth shut with an amused expression. “Suit yourself.”

“I appreciate the loyalty, though,” she calls over her shoulder, as she makes her way to Mac’s office.

“Always!”

Her knock on Mac’s door is immediately met with an invitation to come in, but she hesitates in the doorway when she sees Will there already.

“I can come back…”

“Not at all,” Mac says, waving her in. “Will and I were discussing what to do with your segment for tonight’s show as it is.”

“We have so many options for what to discuss,” Will says brightly, “since you missed last night’s show.”

Sloan sighs. “Okay, I knew this was coming…”

“Did you have fun at your fancy party? With all your celebrity friends? While the rest of us were working?”

“First of all, Charlie approved it, and I was there representing ACN, so I was working, thank you very much,” she replies, crossing her arms over her chest. “And secondly, you’ve been to the Met Gala like five times! Don’t take it out on me that you got snubbed this year!”

“Why would they want me there, when they can have someone younger and more beautiful?”

“Yes, it’s that and not your feud with Anna Wintour that prevented you being invited,” Mac says, giving him an arch look.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Will says, spreading his hands out in a wide, innocent gesture.

Sloan, for her part, is delighted. “What did you do, Will?”

“Nothing!”

Mac snorts. “He called her a shrew at Anderson Cooper’s birthday party three years ago.”

“That’s not true,” Will shouts. “How did you even know about that?”

“He told everyone at CNN about it,” she replies, looking down at the papers strewn about her desk, like this subject is boring her completely.

“I did not call her a shrew,” Will says, this time to Sloan. “I would not say that about anyone, even if they deserved it, like Anna Wintour very clearly does.”

“He was very drunk at the time,” Mac says, also to Sloan, over-pronouncing the words like she’s speaking about a child. “He doesn’t remember.”

This, at the very least, does make Will look sheepish. “I wouldn’t say it, even drunk,” he insists, though he doesn’t sound quite so confident anymore. “But I think we can all agree that her reaction is not unlike how a total shrew would behave.”

“Just apologize to her, dude,” Sloan says, leaning on the available chair in front of Mac’s desk, rather than sitting in it like a normal person.

“Don’t call me ‘dude,’” Will says, pointing a warning finger in her direction. “And I’m not going to apologize for something that I never did in the first place.”

“Allegedly,” Mac says.

“Shut up,” Will shoots back.

“I’m just saying, if you smoothed things over with Anna, you and I could be Met Gala buddies next year.”

Will looks incredulous. “Oh, it’s ‘Anna’ now, is it?”

“Well, yeah. We really bonded on the dance floor when Bruno Mars was playing.”

Will makes a disgusted sound, while Mac hides her smile in her fist. “Leona must have been in heaven,” she says, tactfully trying to move the conversation in another direction. “She loves Bruno Mars.”

“She was. I think she invited him to her birthday party next weekend. Reese looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel.”

“Leona’s birthday was in March,” Will says, frowning.

“I know,” Sloan says, patiently. “Do the math on that one quicker, Will.”

Will’s face clears with comprehension. “Poor Reese,” he says, shaking his head. “Anyway, now that we’re done gossiping about our country’s elite and their posh exploits at an event designed to market luxury brands to those who will never be able to afford them, we should talk about tonight’s show, which will be dedicated to the working class, the average citizen, and the—”

“And the suit you’ll be wearing will be custom Armani,” Mac interjects, unimpressed. “Nice try, farm boy.”

Half an hour later, Sloan emerges from the meeting with her topic for her segment on Will’s show settled and makes a beeline for her office, praying that she’s already been accosted by everyone who cares about the Met Gala and she can make it through the rest of the day in peace. Unfortunately, she’s not so lucky.

Kendra offers her some polite praise on her dress in passing, which prompts Martin and Gary to do a quick Google search while she’s standing right there. It’s a new form of torture she was not remotely prepared for.

“Woah,” Gary says, artless as always. “You look glam, Sloan.”

“That’s kind of the point,” she replies, fighting the urge to fidget.

“Did you meet anyone cool?” Martin asks, and she disappoints him by saying she didn’t. He then swivels his monitor towards her so she can see a picture of her talking to Bradley Cooper, which she fully doesn’t remember happening. When she just shrugs, Martin looks crestfallen and she takes that as her cue to leave.

Later on, when she’s walking through the bullpen after a meeting with Zane, Jenna stops her to say how much she loved her dress and to ask if Bruno Mars was nice in person, which leads to a repeat of the same situation as before, except now it’s Maggie and Jim googling her in front of her.

“I didn’t really talk to him much,” she says, keeping an eye on the others. Jenna’s clearly disappointed by this answer, so she adds, “But that’s only because he made a point of talking to everybody.”

“That’s so cool,” Jenna gushes, mollified at last. “He seems so down to earth, you know?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sloan says, vaguely. She definitely should have paid more attention to who she talked to last night. She was too busy praying to every god she could think of that Bruno Mars would become Reese’s new stepdad to retain any details of her actual conversation with him.

“Wow,” Jim says. “That’s a lot.”

Maggie fixes him with a glare. “Don’t be an asshole,” she says, with real fire. “Sloan, you look beautiful.”

“Oh, thanks,” Sloan replies, shrugging. “It’s like a costume party, kind of, so it’s supposed to be over the top.”

Jim, for his part, looks embarrassed. “I wasn’t trying to be rude! You know that I think you’re beautiful too, Sloan. I was just saying—”

“You think she’s beautiful?” Maggie asks, lightly. Too lightly. It’s the most obvious thing Sloan has ever heard, and she’s intimately familiar with being too obvious with people she likes.

“Yeah, I mean. Clearly,” Jim says, scratching his neck and (if Sloan’s not mistaken) wishing he’d never been born. “She’s—you’re very beautiful, Sloan, in a textbook kind of way.”

Sloan and Jenna wince simultaneously, and Maggie’s head swivels sharply to stare down Jim even more intensely. “What is that supposed to mean?” she asks, and Sloan gets the vague sense that she’s handed them another convenient reason to pretend to hate each other for the day.

“Nothing,” Jim practically shouts. “Sloan’s beautiful. But like, you know, she doesn’t need all this—” he waves a hand in the direction of Maggie’s monitor, presumably at the photo of Sloan on the red carpet—“to be beautiful. I think she looks nice in real life, when she’s more natural.”

“Oh, right,” Maggie replies with an eye roll. “You’re one of those guys who likes women when they wear no makeup, right?”

Jim looks over to Sloan and Jenna, who are watching this disaster unfold with stone faced solemnity. Sloan tries to convey with just her eyes that he needs to stand down or get his ass handed to him, but it definitely doesn’t come through. He decides to dig his own grave, instead.

“Yeah, I mean, that’s preferable, isn’t it?”

“How much makeup is Jenna wearing right now?” Maggie asks, smelling blood in the water.

“Uh, none. Right?”

Maggie swings her gaze over to Jenna. “Is that true?”

“No,” Jenna says, with another sympathetic wince.

“How many products did you use to get ready this morning?”

Jenna sighs. “Twelve.”

“No fucking way,” Jim says, staring at Jenna like he’ll suddenly unlock x-ray vision somehow.

“Women have to put so much effort into their appearance just to look like what men think of as ‘natural,’” Maggie says, truly on a roll now. “And then men like you criticize women who wear makeup that looks ‘over the top’ or ‘obvious’. It’s like we can’t win!”

“To be fair,” Sloan attempts to interject, “I don’t think Jim meant—”

Jim doesn’t take the assist, because he interrupts to yell, “I don’t see how it’s my fault that beauty standards—!”

“I wasn’t saying it was your fault,” Maggie replies, hotly, “just that you’re part of the problem.”

“Oh, yeah, because that’s so much better!”

Sloan gives Jenna a sympathetic shoulder pat, as she delicately makes her exit. Jim and Maggie will be at each other’s throats until they run out of oxygen, and she doesn’t need to wait around for that. Unfortunately, Jenna, as an intern, probably will. She returns once again to the peace and quiet of her office.

Getting ready for Market Wrap-Up at four o’clock, she gets into a conversation with the make-up artist—not the usual girl, who’s out with what she suspects is strep throat—about the gala, what it’s like to attend, if the exhibit is any good this year, which are questions Sloan is more happy to answer. No, she didn’t get to keep anything she wore. Yes, she was worried she was going to fall on those stairs. No, she didn’t bring a date.

This last answer seems to displease the woman. “If I was dating someone off the New York Giants, I’d make sure everyone knew,” she says, as she dabs mattifying concealer on Sloan’s nose. It’s to reduce shininess from sweating under the intense studio lights, Sloan knows, but she can’t help regretting the way it obscures her freckles too.

“I’m not…dating anyone on the New York Giants,” Sloan says, carefully.

“Oh, don’t worry! I’m not going to tell TMZ. You don’t have to pretend for my benefit.”

“I’m not pretending. I’m really not dating anyone from the Giants. Or any other NFL team, for that matter.”

“So, who are you dating, then?” the woman asks, with a knowing sparkle in her eye.

Sloan shrugs. “No one.”

“That’s too bad. You’re pretty. You should be dating someone.”

Sloan wants to object to that assessment, or the overly familiar way this woman she doesn’t know is talking about her love life, but she can’t muster the energy. She’s been on a string of bad dates lately, including one with, yes, a New York Giant, but none of them had come to anything. She’s officially too old to consider second dates with men who can’t be bothered to ask her a single question all night long. And there’s the recent experience with having her private photos leaked by an ex that she’s still reeling from. Overall, her wariness is probably not unwarranted. That doesn’t dispel the loneliness of it all, though.

“Do you think I look old?” Sloan asks, suddenly.

The makeup artist does a gratifying double take, looking back and forth between Sloan in real life and Sloan in the mirror. “Girl, where are you seeing that?” she asks.

“Not here,” Sloan says. “I saw the pictures of me from the event and I just thought I looked tired and old. I don’t know.”

“Absolutely not,” this woman she barely knows says with more confidence than Sloan can imagine having. “Don’t do that. You look amazing. There is nothing wrong with looking your age, but you sure as hell do not look old. Don’t do that!”

“You’re right. I just—”

The woman adjusts Sloan’s head so she’s looking straight into the mirror. “Honey, if you can’t even have confidence in yourself, the rest of us are definitely in trouble.”

That is enough to startle a laugh out of her, though she hides it by looking down at her lap. “Thank you,” Sloan says, feeling far too raw about it. “I…did I even ask for your name when we got started?”

“You didn’t, but it’s Mika.”

“Thank you, Mika. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it,” Mika says, like it really is nothing to her, as she touches up Sloan’s eyeliner with a deft hand.

It’s a couple hours after that, when Sloan is frantically trying to put the finishing touches on her segment for Will’s show, that she remembers she left some of her notes from their meeting behind in the green room. In her rush to go grab them, she nearly collides with Elliot as he’s leaving the room with Don in tow.

“God, did you get taller?” she gripes, as their almost run-in just brings her attention to the fact that she only comes up to his sternum.

“Nice to see you too, Sloan,” Elliot replies, elegantly side-stepping her. “Rough day?”

She glowers at him. “No. Why?”

“I thought maybe you might have indulged in too much champagne with Rihanna last night or something.”

“I didn’t meet Rihanna,” Sloan says, rolling her eyes. Though, given her Bradley Cooper slip-up earlier, she honestly isn’t even sure that’s true. “And I’m not hungover at work, thank you very much.”

“Just a joke,” Elliot says, holding his hands up in surrender. “My wife wanted me to tell you she thought your dress was beautiful. She’s obsessed with Vivienne Westwood.”

“Oh,” Sloan says, caught off guard by this praise. Elliot’s wife is so much cooler than him. “That’s so nice.”

“You didn’t get to meet her, did you?”

“Very briefly, but all my meetings and fittings were with her people, unfortunately. She was nice, though, when we did meet.”

Elliot smiles. “I’ll tell her. She’ll be so jealous. She really wanted to get married in one of her dresses, but it wasn’t really in the budget back then.”

“Next time we have an office party or something, tell her to come pester me with questions.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’d love that.”

“You’re the best, Sloan,” Elliot practically shouts, as he makes his way down the hall, leaving her and Don alone together.

If she’s being honest with herself (which she tries to do as infrequently as possible), it’s Don’s opinion of the whole Met Gala thing she’s most worried about. Unlike some other people here—she thinks of Mac and Will, specifically—Don doesn’t bother to pretend that he’s above paying attention to the less highbrow items that make the news, but given that he’s also a straight man who wears the same five flannel button-ups to work on a regular rotation, he might be above caring about news that pertains to fashion. He might think the whole thing is stupid, which is the way Sloan wishes she felt. She can’t go in for some of the more avant-garde and impractical sides of haute couture, but she likes a well-made, properly fitted, beautiful piece of clothing as much as any sane person does. Her favorite outfit might be jeans and a hoodie, but she can also appreciate the work that goes into those couture gowns even she, an actual celebrity like it or not, will never have occasion to wear. So, yes, she’s bracing herself for Don’s opinion, provided he has one. Which, obviously, he does, because he’s Don.

“Allow me to be easily the 150th person to tell you that you looked beautiful last night,” Don says, after they’ve been quietly standing there like idiots for a few minutes. Sloan is already in the process of scoffing, when he interrupts to ask, “Did you have fun?”

Sloan makes a helpless gesture with her hands. “I guess…?”

“You guess?”

“It’s…really overwhelming. And exciting! But loud. And there’s so many people and they’re all taking photos. And I had to be careful not to crush my dress when I sat down, so that was awkward. But it really was cool! Seeing the exhibit while the museum was closed was awesome.”

“I bet. Whenever my sister visits the city, she always drags me to some new exhibit at the Met. If I ever win the lottery, I figured I’d rent the place out for her for a big birthday or something.”

“That’s…” Not adorable. Not sweet. Not I’d love to meet this sister I’ve never heard of before next time she’s in town. Has she ever been shown around the Met by someone who saw the exhibit while Gisele Bundchen was six feet away, because I’d be happy to— “That would be such a good idea.”

Don smiles, and his eyes do that thing where they crinkle at the corners. “Well, cross your fingers I win the Powerball soon.”

Sloan very dorkily crosses her actual fingers, making him laugh. “Maybe then they’d let you go to the Met Gala,” she says, like a stupid idiot.

Luckily, Don just laughs again. “Oh, I don’t think they’d ever admit the likes of me.”

“No?” Sloan tries to picture it and fails. Don on a red carpet doesn’t make a lot of sense, if she’s being honest. He has that behind-the-scenes energy, that frustrated stage manager from high school theater aura that he just can’t shake. Still, she can’t help thinking that she would have had more fun if he were there with her, which is a line of thought she’s not allowed to pursue any further.

“I don’t think schlubby E.P.s of poorly rated cable news programs are ever going to drive viewers to Vogue’s website, even if they happened to be independently wealthy,” he says, plainly.

“You’re not schlubby,” Sloan objects before she can collect her wits. She feels a little bit of Mika’s ire from before when Sloan called herself tired-looking hearing Don put himself down. “Don’t say that.”

He waves her off. “Either way, I have a hard time imagining it will ever be an issue for me.”

“Too bad,” she replies, too incensed to be cautious. “I can’t help feeling like the event would have been way more fun with a buddy.”

He looks at her, in that Don way of his, like he’s running diagnostics or something. Like he’s reading her thoughts and intentions and trying to figure out what the fuck to do with them. Hell, she knows they’ve both been through a lot lately, especially where their love lives are concerned, but how many times can she make her interest clear before they confront the damn thing?

“But then you’d have to rent a tux, of course,” she says, when the silence stretches too long and she loses her nerve. “And who wants to do that?”

“Well, that won’t be an issue either,” he says, looking at her seriously.

“Right, of course! I was—”

“I mean, I already own one,” Don says, cutting her off.

“Oh. Well. That is…good to know for, um…well…”

“Future reference?” he suggests, eyebrow raised inquisitively.

“Yeah, for future reference. Exactly. Just in case I ever, um…”

“In case you ever need a date.”

“Right,” Sloan says, feeling insane. “Like at the last minute or something like that.”

“Yeah,” Don says with a smile. “Something like that.”

“Well, I’ll keep you in mind.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Sloan entertains several bad ideas at once, ranging from making up a wedding she needs a date for this summer so she can see him in this tux he supposedly owns to desperately admitting he doesn’t need to ask her to keep him in mind, that she thinks about him all the time, that she hasn’t figured out how to stop thinking about him yet, but she ultimately manages to keep her cool with great effort. For someone who was anxious to confront this thing between them a moment ago, she’s not doing very much confronting right now. In fact, she’s trying to figure out a way to get out of this conversation as fast as possible so she can retreat to the safety and seclusion of her own office again and regain some damn equilibrium. But they’re in too deep now to cut and run without making things even more awkward. She’s stuck.

“Don, thank God!” Mac exclaims as she rounds the corner, startling them both. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

“I just finished a meeting with Elliott,” he says, taking his eyes off Sloan belatedly and managing to sound normal and casual as he does so. Maybe he’s not managing anything. Maybe he feels normal and casual. Maybe Sloan is the only one freaking out. “What’s up?”

“I had a question about—sorry, I’m not interrupting, am I?” Mac asks, seeming to only notice Sloan just then.

Don, of course, being an unholy plague on her peace of mind, looks over at Sloan, as if to pass the onus of answering Mac’s question on to her. Why couldn’t she develop feelings for someone nice? Why did it have to be Don, who’s tough and perceptive and smart, but stubborn and self-effacing and impossible at the same time? Couldn’t it have been someone easier and more laidback and more straightforward? Then again, even as she thinks it, she finds herself growing bored of this hypothetical person. She wants Don, even if it’s a bad idea, but she’s not ready to say it out loud just yet. Not again. The last time had nearly killed her.

“No,” she says, pasting on a smile for Mac’s benefit and hoping it’s enough to fool someone who knows her so well. “Nothing important.”

“Oh, good. You have a second to talk, then, Don?”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, with an easy shrug. “Let’s go to my office.”

“See you in a few, Mac,” Sloan chimes in, as she ducks around them to sneak into the green room.

Don doesn’t let her off the hook that easily, though, because he turns at the last second and says her name, pulling her attention back to him. When she meets his eye, he says, simply, “I meant what I said before, Sloan. I’m here, if you want me.”

With Mac watching them like a hawk, Sloan can’t acknowledge that with much more than a nod. “I know,” she says, too softly for someone trying to be casual. It must be enough for Don, though, because he nods too and heads off with a bemused looking Mac. Sloan is sure, if nothing else, that Don can be trusted to distract Mac with work talk and that whatever just happened between them is safe with him. He would never give her away like that, not even to Mac. When she turns back to the room and catches sight of her flushed cheeks and bright eyes in the mirrors that line the walls, though, she’s not convinced their secret will be safe with her for very long.

#it's still A monday in may so I feel like this is pretty timely by my standards #almost capturing the zeitgeist which is a thing i'm usually even worse at #anyway #the newsroom #sloan sabbith #don keefer #don x sloan #just realized this is the first fic in this collection that actually involves the ensemble at all #also fwiw if you haven't watched 'the first monday in may' i highly recommend it #it's a documentary about putting together the 2015 met gala and it's excellent #also contains an anna wintour moment that I still routinely crack up over several years after watching it #anyway here's wonderwall #homelywenchsociety

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