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hansolmates · 3 years

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busted in busan

summary; you’re snowbound at the airport, when the only thing you want is to be homebound. your anxieties heighten as the snow rises, worried that you won’t make it in time for christmas where your fiancé and his parents expect you—picture perfect. when all flights are cancelled due to a massive storm, you have to turn to the hands of an unlikely, hard-headed hero who knows the fastest way out of busan (and into your heart) pairing; jungkook x (f) reader genre/warnings; a christmas detour!au, fluff, angst, slice of life, strangers to lovers, enemies to lovers, pining, this is a total romcom, hallmark movie galore! tw–microcheating (or not however you look at it) mentions of sex, making out, profanity w/c; 10k a/n; for @suhdays holiday hallmark event! this event was totally up my lane, i couldn’t wait to post it! a huge thank u for @eerieedits for making this wonderful fic banner! this is totally unedited, i’ll to go back to it tonight but pls enjoy! for those of u who need a little more christmas charm this year, this is for u

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“The Korean Air 1102 flight from Gimhae International Airport to Incheon International Airport will be delayed six hours due to the intense weather conditions. Please be on standby for any further updates.”

You’re twitching, fighting the urge to nibble on your nails because you’ve just got them done for Christmas. They’re a sleek champagne gold, because your fiancé insisted that they’re far more mature than your usual red and brown reindeer art. This is awful, and is only going to get progressively worse as the snow builds and builds. Right now the weather isn’t that bad, the snow isn’t even sticking to the ground and—oh.

Gnawing at your lip, your fingers brush over the cold window, a clear view of the landing strip you should currently be boarding. The touch is icy, and the pads of your fingers are enveloped in little rings of fog at the sudden warmth nudging the glass. Upon closer inspection and a squint of your eyes reveal that in fact, the snow is now sticking to the ground. Big, fat clumps are covering the freeway and destroying your Christmas plans.

Your fiancé will understand if you’re a little late for their Christmas Eve party, but you’re not sure if his parents will. You’ve been on livewire all week, wanting to at least spend the morning of Christmas Eve with your family back home. Knowing that your fiancé’s Christmas Eve party would run until very late, you booked a noon flight with enough time to get ready and impress his parents. Evidently, it was an ill-prepared idea.

Immediately falling into your terminal’s line, you hope that you can talk with the receptionist in hopes they could put you at ease.

“How soon will you announce our flight’s departure?” A sad smile.

“Is there any way you can put me on the next possible flight?” A shake of the head.

“Will the weather let up?” A frown.

Every bit of rejection weighs you down, and you’ve run out of questions to ask. For a receptionist, she’s not very receptive.

“C’mon lady, you’re holding up the line,” a voice tugs you from behind, “you’re not the only one who’s gotta get down to the city on Christmas.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes, wanting to slap the rudeness off this man’s face. Instead of falling back in line, you move to the side to glare at him. He’s unfortunately attractive, albeit in a rugged sort-of way—nothing like your fiancé. The leather jacket that he carries tall is worn and crackly at the collar. Wavy dark hair he constantly has to hold back, a gesture that looks flirtatious and to your chagrin the receptionist is definitely recepting to him.

“Your refund should be processed in about two to four business days, Mr. Jeon,” the receptionist murmurs, the simultaneously sultry and chirpy voice making you twitch in your spot. Maybe if you drank a cup of tall, dark and handsome you’d be getting the same kind of treatment.

“Thanks,” he replies shortly, and it’s then you notice the extremely large luggage next to him. It’s the size of you, and despite the broad shoulders under the baggy jacket, he lugs it with careful force, making sure not to bump into anyone as he wheels it away from the counter.

It seems that your trainers have a mind of your own as you follow him down the terminal. He side eyes you as your feet pick up the pace to match his long legs, but he waits for you to say something first.

“Why did you ask for a refund?” you ask, frowning at him, “the flight is only delayed.”

He scoffs, “Do you see the snow? They’re just saying it’s delayed so they can hold onto your money a little longer. Besides, it’s a win-win. I get my refund sooner and some other poor sap can take the ticket and wait until five in the morning.”

“Five A.M.,” you exhale to yourself, slowing down.

It would be too late by then, far too late. Your shoulders slump, people start to bump into you without a care.

“Besides,” you hear his voice say from your stricken form, “I had a backup plan.”

That’s when your feet start to burn up, and you whip around to pump your legs, catching up with the man who’s already far down the hall. “What kind of backup plan?” you blurt, raising your voice because the crowds are starting to get noisier and deeper the further you follow him.

He hooks his lips into a confused frown, “You’re awfully nosy.”

“I’m in a pinch, my fiancé’s parents will kill me if I don’t show up to their party tonight.”

“Your fiancé’s parents… will kill you?”

“That’s an exaggeration,” you cough, immediately feeling self-conscious, “they’d kill me with their eyes. They’re really big, really pretty corporate people. They have high expectations for their future in-law.”

“Ah, and you're the country pumpkin who managed to sweep the rich guy off his feet?”

“Something like that,” you reply, rocking on your heels, “my dad was his dad’s former secretary, and we grew up together.”

The stranger with a plan stops in front of a long line. It’s so long that you’re not entirely sure where it leads to. People are piling out the door two at a time, and you can see they’re trying to get through the process as fast as possible. The window leading outside is blurry and caked in white ice. He hooks one leg over his luggage, the metal and plastic case is so high that his feet barely touch the ground. Like a kid with a flat scooter, he wheels himself through the line.

“These lines are for busses going in the direction of our flight,” he jabs a finger out the door, “if the flight got cancelled I was just going to ride one of these,” out of his pocket he pulls out two tickets, flicking it in front of your face.

“Are there any tickets left?” your eyes bug, and you immediately pull out your phone to reserve a spot.

“Nah, been booked since last month.”

It’s then that your eyes zero in on the second ticket he has in hand. Both tickets are addressed to the same name. You lower your phone in your pocket, narrowing your eyes. “Why do you have two for yourself?”

He pats his luggage as a response.

“That’s not fair!”

“It is when you buy it, sweetheart.”

“A literal human could be in that spot, wanting to go home for Christmas!”

“You’re just salty you don’t have a ticket, don’t take it out on my luggage,” he feigns a pout, rubbing the handle of the heavy container, “you’re hurting it’s feelings.”

It doesn’t take long for you and the stranger to reach the end of the line. To others in line the two of you look like two companions bickering good-naturedly, but in reality the only thing you want to do is slap that smug smile off his face.

“You want my ticket,” he states.

“I want your luggage’s ticket,” you bite back, staring petulantly at where he sits comfortably between the handle.

Unbeknownst to you, the man’s face morphs into a teasing grin upon seeing you glare a little too hard at the silver and black case. It just so happens that your eyes gravitate to the middle of the luggage, at the apex between his long legs leading up to a pair of black sweats. Despite the soft, baggy fabric you can see how the bulge of his thighs outline the thin cotton, looking large and inviting which—

Fuck. You’re engaged. Why are you checking out some stranger’s thighs? Your fiancé also has nice thighs, think about those!

“How much do you want for it?” you cough, crossing your arms and turning to the side to hide your flaming cheeks.

“Who said I was offering?”

“I’ll pay that and then some.”

“With your rich-boy’s money?”

If your hands were not digging into your elbows and you weren’t so concerned about your gold-foiled manicure, you’d deck him. Do the holidays normally make this person so snappy? He simply flips his hair, and you catch the shaved ends of his sides.

“Three-hundred,” he says easily, and if he notices you staring he doesn’t say anything, “including any extra fees for my luggage.”

“Done,” you hold out your hand for him to shake.

“I’m Jungkook, if you care,” the man named Jungkook adds wryly, practically swallowing your small hand with his larger one. You shortly reply with your name, and he merely nods, “a thank you would suffice.”

“Thanks,” and it’s then that you manage a scarily pretty smile, one that Jungkook finds both alarming and amusing. It’s a catered smile, one that you’ve trained yourself to accomplish after hours in the mirror in fear of your fiancé’s parents seeing right through you. It’s the smile you give during work when you don’t give a shit but you need to suck it up. It’s a 9/10 success rate.

“Scary,” he shivers, and then you realize he’s the 1/10.

The only bus for you two to pile on is one of the smallest. Probably half the size of a regular coach bus, but at this rate you don’t care. You’ll fly by hot air balloon if the weather wasn’t so crappy.

“Taehyung!” you startle at Jungkook’s sudden belt, and he does a big, beefy-chested bro-hug to the driver. Ah, so he has connections. You watch the two interact from your corner, pulling up your hood to stop the rapidfire snowflakes from pelting your eyes.

The driver is a classically handsome thing, dark eyes and dark fluffy hair. His paperbag pants look absolutely frigid however, and his teeth are chattering as he regards Jungkook with annoyed eyes.

“Listen, so plans have changed—”

“As always, Kook.”

“—and I need you to do me another solid. Do you have room in the compartment for my babies?”

“The answer is, and always no. That’s why you bought two tickets.”

“I know but,” he gestures to you with a jab of his thumb, “like I said, plans have changed.”

“Jungkook,” Taehyung frowns, “trying to do some Christmas miracles? In this snowstorm?” Taehyung shakes his head, eyes flickering to the running bus. Most of the ticket holders are already on it. “I can save you two a three-seater, but there’s no room in the compartment. It’ll be a tight fight but—”

“It’s perfect. You’re dynamite, Tae,” Jungkook even has the audacity to reach his hands out and squish the driver’s cheeks, much to his distain.

The two of you are ushered quickly into the bus, leaving you in the very front diagonal to where Taehyung is sitting. The three seats are tiny, it probably barely fits Jungkook’s thighs with the large luggage nestled in the other two seats. The two of you suggest to put the luggage out in the aisle and take turns holding it, but Taehyung interjects that the luggage is a fire hazard.

“But not a human,” Jungkook decides, and he gestures for you to sit down in the available seat. You’re practically shoved against the window as Jungkook manages to squeeze his gargantuan luggage in the other two seats. He’s tall enough to grab the metal rungs of the bus, steeling himself in the middle of the aisle.

Taehyung doesn’t fight with that, and finally puts the bus into drive. Pulling out of the airport feels akin to leaving the eye of the storm. It’s going to be a long journey, and it makes you worry as to whether you’re going to make it on time or not.

Your favorite pastime is watching the window on a long car ride, especially when the snowflakes crystalize and melt away through the warmth of the vehicle. However, you’re irked. You thought Jungkook was a bit of a wank, a little too full of himself and far too mysterious for your own good.

Exhibit A, the luggage that’s currently threatening to wheel over and crush you against the glass. You wonder what’s so special about this luggage that Jungkook so desperately wants to protect, even so far as to buy its own seat. Sneakily, you lean over to smell the zipper. Surprisingly, it smells a little vinegary, the fumes getting you a little lightheaded within seconds. Your eyes dart to Jungkook, who’s currently engaged in conversation with Taehyung. You tilt your head and sniff again, confirming the slightly rancid smell.

It’s then you take in Jungkook’s form once more. He dresses a little schlubby, his clothes are old, his eyes are sunken in, and his luggage is filled with weird-smelling things.

Oh no. Is Jungkook a drug dealer?

Your fiancé’s parents would surely have a fit if this man gets arrested and you come up in the report as an accused accomplice. It makes sense, he would want to make sure that his goods are in his view at all times, and it explains why he so easily gave you his ticket for triple the actual price.

A giggle interrupts your thoughts. Yes, a tired, yet bubbly giggle. Jungkook’s face is pressed against his bicep, and you catch the fluttering of his eyes as he tries to keep up with Taehyung’s rambling. His grip is starting to loosen on the metal bars, and you’re worried that he might accidentally slip, or not hold tight enough in the event the car takes a sharp turn or slips on black ice.

“J-Jungkook,” it’s the first time you’re saying his name out loud, tasting it on your tongue as you regard him steadily, “why don’t we take turns sitting? I don’t mind standing for an hour while you sleep.”

He regards you with a sleepy smirk, shaking his head against the fabric of his jacket. “You’ll be flung in two seconds, besides can you even reach the handles?”

Good point, but Jungkook is far more muscular and if he does end up flying he’ll crash through the window and further hinder your commute. It’s why you choose your next words carefully, and you convince yourself it’s the only reason as to why you propose your solution.

“I’ll sit on your lap,” and since it sounds super weird coming out of your mouth, you tack on, “I’ll put your jacket over your lap as a barrier.”

He slacks, regarding you with a scrunched face. “Is the jacket supposed to make that situation any better? I’m fine standing like this.”

“This ride is going to take hours and you’re barely on your own two feet,” your point is made when the bus topples over a speed bump, and Jungkook looks awfully small as he moves to grapple the top bar with both hands, “my fiancé doesn’t get jealous, I’ve sat in plenty of friend’s laps before.”

“We’re not friends,” he blurts with a raise of his brows.

“Yes, I know that,” you’re a little insulted by the curt reply, but he still looks rather horrified that you’re proposing the following, “I don’t like it either, but I’m sitting in your seat and now I’m feeling guilty as hell.”

It’s a lot of shuffling and shifting after that. You try not to laugh as Jungkook rips off his leather jacket, folding it into a perfect square, ironing out the corners of the crinkly fabric as he gestures for you to take a seat. You try not to take note of how sturdy his thighs are, or how the muscle stretches across the seat so well that there’s no way for you to fall between the cracks.

“You’re going to sleep anyway,” you try to assure him, side eying him as he presses his forehead against the window, “it’ll be like being with a dead body.”

“Didn’t know you were into necrophilia, but whatever floats your boat,” Jungkook mumbles, eyes immediately fluttering shut.

At first it was easy, ignoring the fact that you’re sitting on top of a human. The drive seems endless however, Taehyung driving further and further into a sea of white ice. You force yourself to thread your fingers together, sitting on the very edge of his knees with your back ramrod straight. Eventually, you tire out and relax against Jungkook’s lax body. Your face is centimeters away from Jungkook’s. Long, dark lashes, and a strand of equally dark hair falls in front of his eyes. His cheeks are flushed from the blaring heater, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in.

Hm, for a drug dealer, he smells pretty.

Despite the weird-smelling luggage that looms over the two of you, the white long-sleeved shirt he wears is soft to the touch and smells fresh.

You huff, and shift in your seat.

“Stop,” Jungkook mumbles into your shoulder, and you don’t have the heart to look at him.

“I’m sorry, it’s cramped,” you reply.

“I get that, but you don’t have to—hike yourself so far up here,” he sounds almost embarrassed saying it, and his hand shuffles to adjust his belt. “Literally can’t sleep because you’re making me pop a boner.”

“Why, I’m engaged!”

“God, I know. It’s like your personality trait or something,” Jungkook retorts, “just because you’re engaged doesn’t stop my body from reacting. I’m sure your fiancé has reacted like this, stop acting like a blushing virgin.”

You tense, your eyes glued to the window in front of you. How do you even make a comeback to that? Wringing your hands in your lap, you feel your palms sweat with nerves the longer it takes for you to reply. This causes the gears to run in Jungkook’s mind.

“Holy fuck, have you two not—”

“Shut up,” you hiss, turning your body around to slap him in the chest, “shut up shut upupupshutup!”

You make seething, burning eye contact with Jungkook. You expect him to have a shit-eating grin on his face, teasing you for your relationship. Instead, Jungkook is wide-eyed, mouth parted open like a confused guppy and his big bug-eyes looking stricken. He says nothing.

The road starts to get bumpier, and the drive swerves from time to time to avoid black ice. Neither of you are relaxed. Combined with the heart of the storm, your heart is currently wrung on electrical wire, pumping blood with a fervor you cannot stifle.

“I’m going to put my arms around your waist,” Jungkook murmurs softly, and you lift your arms slightly to see him lace his fingers over your belly button. “Like a seatbelt.”

You sigh, relaxing in his hold. Now it’s awkward. He feels compelled to hold you to keep you safe, even though he clearly finds it awkward you’ve already put him in this position.

Jungkook isn’t so bad, you think as you let your gaze linger on his hands. They anchor you to his lap, making sure you’re not jostling during the ride. He may have a razor sharp tongue and gets under your nerves just for the heck of it, but he’s kind of nice. Under the prickly leather jacket, there’s a softness to him you can’t help but gravitate to.

It’s dark outside, save for the speedily descending flakes and the dim lights of the highway. You’re sitting on the lap of a total stranger, yet it’s a stranger who’s holding your waist like he’s a seatbelt, a stranger who’s making you feel safe to say the words that have been haunting you for the past few months.

“I’ve tried to initiate sex,” you finally say. “I don’t know why he doesn’t want me, it’s already been two years.”

Your eyes turn red with bloody horror. Your vision blurred by the insanity of what you’ve just blurted out to this surprisingly kind stranger who’s offered his seat (both times) to you.

“I didn’t mean to word vomit like that. Forget I said anything—”

“Must be his loss,” Jungkook cuts you off, and when he says it doesn’t feel impolite at all. However, Jungkook doesn’t continue on, doesn’t give you rhyme or reason, just lets you linger on his reply like a madwoman.

Maybe it’s because you’re so touch starved, maybe you’re just seeing things, but for some reason Jungkook’s fingers feel more apparent against the seam of your jacket. They tighten a fraction, drum around the metal zipper that holds the thick fabric together. Your palms feel like a fountain, and you try to ignore the burn between your legs, the liquid heat betraying the commitment that sits on your finger.

You’re engaged to be married, you chastise yourself. All eighteen carats that symbolize that bond glare at you, bright and eager to make you feel guilty. The whole reason why you’re on this cramped bus ride is to get to your soon-to-be husband. Some pretty stranger with strong hands won’t change that.

“We’re here! Finally!” Taehyung cheers, and you realize now that you’re parked into a tunnel surrounded by other buses.

Jungkook and you wait until everyone steps off the bus. The pads of Jungkook’s fingers play an unsung tune, absentmindedly drumming to a song you can’t put your mind to.

“God, you can’t just pay the extra money for someone to take care of this?” Taehyung hauls the large luggage in the aisle seat, and you feel like you’re being revealed under a curtain, doing something you’re not supposed to be doing.

You hop off his lap, scoop your backpack in your arm and scramble off the bus. The cold, winter air bites into every available pore in your body, replacing the warmth that Jungkook gave in the tiny bus. You hike the collar of your oversized turtleneck higher up your chin, prickling in shivers as you wait for Jungkook.

“I don’t remember Seoul being this, empty,” you say to yourself, frowning at the lack of humans past the bus station. You peer curiously at the dark, dark road off the terminal. There’s no flicker of light, or a skyline filled with bustling sounds and flickering head beams.

“That’s because we’re only halfway there,” Jungkook walks past you, luggage in tow.

“What?” you pull out your phone, it’s already 4PM and it’s pitch dark outside.

The snow is beating down as you two speed walk out of the hangar, reaching a nearly vacant parking lot save for a pure white minivan. You barely notice the vehicle with all the snow, blending in perfectly as wave after wave of ice beats down on it. The pops of rust by the tires, gaudy orange stripes is the only thing you can focus on as you try to make it to the car as fast as possible.

“Get in and start the car,” Jungkook practically shoves the keys in your hands, gesturing for you to take the passenger seat.

When you enter his car, you’re hit with a scent scarily identical to the one in Jungkook’s luggage. You nearly gag when you inhale too much, and your eyes flicker over to the lemon air freshener attached to the exhaust, trying its best to mask the smell. You vaguely remember all the warning stories your parents told you as a kid—never enter the white van.

Ohmygod, you’re in a white van and all of Jungkook’s drugs are in the back.

You shake your head, willing the car to start as you arch your back over the console to start it up. You’ve been around your fiancé’s parents too long, letting them fill your head with judgemental gab and crazy assumptions only rich people have about people lesser than them.

Once the car spurs to life, soft holiday music plays from a pop station. The front window of the car is absolutely covered in snow, you can’t even budge the windshield wipers to scrape the layer of ice off.

Suddenly, a blanket of ice slides off the window, swept to the concrete. You’re met with Jungkook’s toothy smile and horror-esque stare, and you have this jerk reaction to nervously laugh and jump in your seat. Your nails dig into the cheap fabric of your seat as Jungkook’s scary expression melts into a more softened one, as if happy to have gotten you to laugh in such sucky times. Jungkook continues to brush your windows, meticulously making sure no ice can cause any damage as you two go into the night.

“Alright, let’s get this show on the road!” Jungkook whips the door open, throwing the snow brush at the space between your feet.

As soon as he shuts the door, your stomachs growl simultaneously.

The two of you break into a quick laugh, giggles that overlap the twinkly holiday chimes and the packed snow crunching under Jungkook’s boots.

“After McDonalds,” Jungkook declares, setting up the GPS for a quick pitstop to the nearest fast food joint.

Ten minutes into the drive, you pull into a generic food joint, too starved to find gourmet McDonalds. You make it a point to flick your card and lean over his body to meet the cashier, telling him you’re spotting the meal. Jungkook doesn’t complain, and tells the cashier to add in a vanilla sundae for good measure.

Color yourself impressed, but you can’t help but gawk as Jungkook expertly sets up his food on the dashboard like a five-star meal, with fries in the cupholder and a burger unwrapped perfectly to catch any spills and to keep his fingers from getting greased up. For such a terrible snowstorm, he pulls out of the joint gracefully, a brief intermission in your long journey.

“So, is my fiancé’s place far from where you need to be?”

Jungkook shrugs, a stray fry hanging from his mouth. “It’s not far, not close either. I don’t mind, I like driving.”

“Do you drive around a lot?”

“Yeah, for work. It’s a little annoying that I have to spend Christmas alone, but it is what it is.”

Pausing on your speculation, you take a big bite of your burger. You were hoping that your conversation would spur on a little more detail about his drug-esque job. However, all you start to feel is the heaviness of your fast food meal, stemming from your chest and filling your grease-filled stomach.

“You’re spending Christmas alone?” you say, and you don’t mean to sound so sad saying it, but the thought of him being alone tonight makes you feel pinched with pain.

“I can practically feel your puppy-eyes,” Jungkook shakes his head, not even needing to look at you as he focuses on the road. “I’m fine, don’t you worry.”

“Do you wanna come to the party?” you offer, trying to sound as neutral as possible as you throw the suggestion on the dash.

“Not my thing,” Jungkook scrunches his nose, “with my line of work, I prefer to lay low.”

Trying not to feel a hurt by the sudden (but expected) rejection, you practically eat your burger whole, eyes glaring on the road. You surmise it’s a valid excuse, drug dealers aren’t exactly one for highly-populated areas and with your fiancé’s reputation, you’re sure his parents would smell Jungkook’s reputation in a micro-minute.

The drive isn’t anything special. You’re sure if it were spring, the foliage would be pretty and the sun would be setting into melty orange hues by now. It’s all black and white, boring shades that are aggressively pelting at the van and hindering your evening.

“So, what other character traits do you have?” Jungkook cuts through your semi-brooding, as easily as one slices through butter, “other than the obvious that you’re engaged, and that you’re getting married. And oh yeah, you have a fiancé!”

You scoff at his cheesy joke, folding your arms together. “I like spending time with my family. Watching movies under a weighted blanket. Plants.”

His stare dips away from the road for a fraction, enough for you to catch that he’s rolling his eyes, “Fascinating. Not a plant person myself. I like those cute little succulents though. Had a bunch of those in college.”

“I am also a ramen connoisseur,” you say pointedly, turning up your nose.

“Ah, are you?” you smile a little when you see Jungkook’s eyes light up at the mention of food, “what’s the criteria for good ramen?”

“Deep, creamy broth. Also, the egg. Gotta look like a custard-y, eggy sunset. It’s just,” you smack your lips together, mimicking a chef’s kiss, “perfect.”

He chuckles, and goes on to tell you a story about a ramen shop he’s visited on his travels. It’s one he declares that you need to visit, one he still dreams about often. It takes a ferry and it’s a bit of a trek, but he says it’s worth it, and the eggs are as custard-y and sunset-y as you’d like.

It’s between pockets of his story and pulling yourself out of this little bubble of a van you realize: are you flirting with Jungkook?

The longer this trip goes, the more your stares linger. They linger like the snow that sticks to the ground, unable to do nothing but cling. Layer after layer of confusing feelings, building up to a blizzard that you’re unable to quell.

“So, your family’s also going to be at your fiancé’s party?” Jungkook asks, poking at yet another one of your personal facets. He’s being blatantly nosy, yet neither of you seem to mind.

“Oh, no,” you shove your hands in your pockets, “they wanted to stay back in our hometown with the extended family. Y’know, the older members can’t really travel as much as they used to.”

“Ah, so you’re splitting up your time,” Jungkook drums his hands on the wheel, eyes drooped slightly as he continues along the monotonous road, “your fiancé couldn’t make it?”

“Couldn’t,” you reply lightly, “just, y’know, work.”

“Been there, done that,” Jungkook replies, “I’m sure he missed out though. What’s your family like? Are they the type to bake cookies until 3 A.M.? Oh, or do they get wine drunk and talk shit about their annoying cousins—”

“Jungkook,” the words fly out of your mouth before you can even think, “I’m engaged.”

The weight of your words holds differently now. A whole day has passed with this man, and you’ve developed an attachment that simultaneously scares and thrills you. Not an hour goes by that you have to think to yourself that you’re taken, to the point that you can’t even tell what’s in your head and what’s being spoken out in the air.

Instead of a snippy comment, a snarky retort of, “I know, I know!” like you anticipate, Jungkook stops the car.

There’s no human trace for miles, so it doesn’t scare you when he slows down and pulls off to the side. He gears the car into park, roughly pulling the handle. He lays his arm over the steering wheel, turning his body so he can face you fully. The heat in the car suddenly feels too cloying, and you shrink in the seat as he leans in on you.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks, and from the looks of it, he’s genuinely hurt.

“I—Jungkook,” you plant your feet on the ground, trying to find some power in this situation, “I mean I, we—you just can’t keep doing this.”

“Do you feel like I’m trying to steal you away? Or, seduce you or something?” Jungkook is starting to talk himself into a stupor, eyes flickering from the window, to you, to behind you, and back to you. It’s almost jarring, seeing how self-conscious he starts to get without the presence of an audience. Gone is the smooth talker that you met at the terminal, willing to haggle it all for your cash. “Are you uncomfortable? Is it weird I have a crush on you?”

“Wait, you have a crush on me?”

He reels back, nearly pressing his head against the window. Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, exhaling deep from his lungs. “Adults still get crushes, y’know.”

“Yeah, but not to people you met eight hours ago.”

Jungkook arches a brow, “People fall for people in the most unlikely of ways.”

That singular statement hits you, hard.

Jungkook looks like he wants to get out of the van. He seems stuffy, and he unzips his coat and shoves it under his legs.

“You’re cute,” he echoes the statement like he can’t believe that in a short amount of time, he’s attached to you, “you seem to have good taste, you love family, and your personality isn’t half bad,” the last bit is meant to be teasing, a lighthearted way to end his bout of emotion, but it only makes you ache further, “And it makes me upset knowing that you have to keep convincing yourself that you’re in a relationship that isn’t as fulfilling as you hope. This whole drive, you’ve been anxious about going to his parents, worrying that you’re not going to make it on time instead of relaxing with your family. Where you actually want to be.”

“I also want to be with Jimin,” you say weakly, a half-hearted attempt to defend yourself.

You never mentioned your fiancé’s name until this point. It makes Jungkook stiffen a little, finally putting a name to the man that’s supposed to have your heart. It makes the relationship concrete, palpable.

“I’m sure you do,” Jungkook smacks his lips, evidently sealing the conversation to suffocate under the snow.

Jungkook puts the car into drive, sliding back into your current route.

“And to answer your question, Jungkook. No, you having a crush on me is not weird,” and smaller, quieter, you reply, “because it’s weird that I might have a crush on you, too.”

You know that Jungkook catches your statement, because he cranks the volume of the radio harder, effectively shutting you out.

The first thing Jungkook says when you finally reach the Park’s house is: “Wow.”

His van looks completely out of place, parked on the side as limos and Escalades drop off more and more people into the large estate. It’s pouring with elegant piano music, and the large window in the middle of their home reveals a century-old chandelier, crystals beaming and winking against the hundreds of guests that lie underneath.

The rest of the way driving was almost painfully fast. After that awkward wave of emotion, neither of you said anything. Well, you didn’t at least. Jungkook attempted to clear the air by singing along to the Christmas songs on the radio, but it only further attracted you because to your chagrin—Jungkook’s a pretty good singer.

The estate isn’t in Seoul persay, it’s a sizable plot of land that definitely comes from old money. It’s decked up like the North Pole, lit up and tiny crystal lines dotting the expanse of the rooftops. The snow certainly adds to it, and many guests are outside taking pictures of the picture-perfect holiday show. The blizzard has finally subsided, leaving a clean blanket of snow across their yard.

You scoff to yourself. What they find to be a Christmas miracle only derailed yours.

Jungkook stares at you while you send a quick text to Jimin. You tell him he needs to come fast, because you don’t want his parents to see you all sweaty and dressed like you’ve been traveling for hours.

“Oh, uh,” you finally take a look at him, and you immediately regret it because you’re getting sucked into his gaze, “I think you put my bag in the trunk?”

“Right,” he shakes his head, “follow me.”

He tilts his head down when he’s outside, as if the snow’s going to start back up and drown him. Your thumb scratches the ring on your finger as you hop out of the van, effectively popping the bubble the two of you have been sealed in for the better half of the evening. Is this going to be it? Is the last you’ll see of Jeon Jungkook?

All those thoughts evaporate when Jungkook opens the trunk.

There’s no drugs.

In fact, you don’t even know what to think. The van is absolutely filled, wall-to-wall art supplies and canvas carefully lined up like Tetris blocks to avoid damage. The floor of the van seems to receive the brunt of the messes, and you catch recent paint stains and spray cans stacked to the side. It explains the smell.

There’s some clear cases in a corner, protecting completed prints that are already framed. Your eyes cling to a vibrant hyacinth, coral and satin blue petals bunching in the middle of a black background. It’s absolutely gorgeous, if it wasn’t for all the paint lying around, you’d think it’s real.

Jungkook’s an artist.

“Holy shit, I thought you were a drug dealer,” you blurt, and you want to smack yourself in the face.

“Excuse me?” Jungkook jerks his head towards you, “did you think I was a drug dealer this whole time?”

“N-no,” you frown petulantly, letting Jungkook loop your arms through the straps of your backpack. “Maybe. You were very shady.”

He laughs, a genuine laugh. It confuses you, the way he tucks his hands in his pockets and bends his back over to look up at you through his dark lashes. It’s like nothing’s wrong, like he’s trying to erase the past eight hours and leave with no qualms. You don’t know if that comforts you or terrifies you.

“So, you were willing to let a potentially dangerous man be your travel partner for eight hours so you can make it to your fiancé’s party?” Jungkook’s eyes flicker over to the front door, “you must really love him.”

“I do,” you say the phrase like it’s second nature. Rehearsed. Practiced.

“Merry Christmas,” Jungkook pulls out his hand, and you don’t hesitate to grasp it.

Liquid heat sparks through your skin, one that tingles from where his large palm encases yours, all the way to your heart.

“Merry Christmas,” you echo, and your feet feel like lead as you back away from him.

Jungkook waits until you go inside the house, even though the valet is side eyeing him and mentally telling him to leave already. Turning your back to him is rough, like you’re without snowshoes and you’re trudging through snow.

The goodbye feels rushed. Your heart is cold and heavy. Unfortunately, by the time you realize you haven’t paid Jungkook for his bus ticket and the ride, it’s too late. Jimin has already pulled you in his awaiting arms, and Jungkook has peeled out of the driveway.

“You look awful,” Jimin coddles you, dusting the invisible dirt off your jacket. You know Jimin means well by the statement, but you can’t help but feel a little unsupported by his words. You did all you could to make it to Jimin in time for this party full of faceless, nameless people. And yet, Jimin inadvertently manages to put you down for finally making it.

The hallway is relatively empty, save for one staff member who cleans the wet linoleum floors whenever someone with snow steps in. You can easily make out where the heart of the party is, the tinkly holiday music playing from the speakers, along with all the bodies huddled by the extra large Christmas tree that is brimming with presents.

You do feel like a wet noodle, in comparison to Jimin and Namjoon’s complementary pinstripe suits. Jimin’s deep burgundy suit pops in the endless hallway of marble and light wood as he quickly leads you upstairs to a spare room for you to change. Namjoon’s more muted grey still looks stunning on him, cutting his tall figure nicely. You think it’s cute that Jimin made an effort to match with his assistant, not making him feel out of place in this big party.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Namjoon interjects softly, gesturing to the garment bag hanging on the boudoir, “I picked out your dress.”

“I’m sure whatever you bought is beautiful,” you assure softly, stepping fully into the room. It’s an extra bedroom, you’re assuming it might be yours.

“We’ll give you some time to freshen up and get ready,” Jimin squeezes your arm, a touch you can barely feel due to the puffiness of your down jacket. It’s just an awkward escape of air to you, a sssttt that you catch Namjoon hiding his smile for, “we’ll walk around a bit and bring you some food.”

“I want cupcakes,” you blurt impulsively, and the two of them laugh on their way out the door.

Once you’re finally alone, you strip yourself bare. Jacket, shirt, socks, underwear. You make quick work of taking a hot, damp towel to wash your arms and legs, scrubbing your face of any oil and dirt from the day. You wrap yourself in an indulgent fluffy robe, the plush material comforting you as you flop on the bed.

It’s been a day.

You take a five minute cat nap, the weight of the day taking its toll on you. When you finally flutter your eyes open however, you see him.

It’s not exactly him, it’s his art. It’s mounted right atop the headboard, a large blown up painting of a tiger lily. The orange and gold flecks flicker and go perfectly with the decor of the room. The piece is longing, aching for you to go back to two hours ago when you could’ve phrased your words better, balm the situation into something to salvage. This must be a sign, you think. Upon closer look, you see the signature Jeon JK etched in silver in the corner. Who knew the Parks were buying Jeon Jungkook’s work, the world is smaller than you’d originally thought.

It ignites you. You rip the zipper of the garment bag, pulling on the slinky glittery gold dress Namjoon picked out for you. It’s gorgeous, and you don’t know how he managed to find your proportions, but you figure an assistant of his caliber has access to many things. You don’t have much time, so you slap on some light makeup and swipe some highlights across your eyes. By the time Jimin returns, you’re pulling your hair up and out of your face.

Jimin walks to the bed with a pretty red velvet cupcake, “You look beautiful,” he says immediately, and you follow to sit with him at the foot of the bed.

You don’t hesitate to grab the cupcake from his tea plate, nearly shoving it in your mouth. You definitely need a rush, something to curb you over for the plans you have tonight. “Sugar sugar,” you chant like a mantra, and you don’t care that your lipgloss is smudged and crumbs cling to your cheeks.

Jimin just rubs circles onto your thigh, letting you eat and relax. He knows you’re not a fan of these kinds of parties, preferring to wallflower it, preferably at a wall closest to the buffet. His touch is comforting, and you chew slower in order to prolong the inevitable. It takes a beat for you to finish your cupcake.

“I need to talk to you,” the two of you blurt at the same time, and you point and giggle at each other like you’re still five year olds tinkering in the sandbox.

Jimin pouts, “Can I go first? Mine’s kind of important.”

“Mine’s also really important,” you don’t mean to invalidate Jimin, but you really need to get this out. “I might explode if I don’t say this now.”

The blonde scrunches his nose, obviously weak to your unusual distress, “I guess I wouldn’t want that.”

You clutch his hand, the hand that holds the plain wedding band he picked out for himself two years ago. Your eyes flicker to how your ring kisses his, “Jimin. I love you, like really love you. I can’t imagine my life without you, you’ve been my best friend since we could crawl. But as I traveled down here, I realized that even though I love you, I think I’m not in love,” you wince at how cheesy that sounds, “I don’t want you to feel like you’re not good enough, but the whole trip down here made me realize I don’t think I can commit to this.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” you gasp, watching relief wash over Jimin’s features. You’re not even done with your whole spiel and he’s already unbuttoning his blouse, “this makes what I’m about to say a whole lot easier.”

“Jimin,” you trail off, squeezing his palm, “what do you mean?”

“I mean, I think I’m in love.”

Your jaw slackens slightly, seeing the sweat that lines Jimin’s slicked back hair. He must’ve been thinking about this all night, waiting for you to tell you this. Your chest aches, weighing in on all the sudden facts. “Who is it?” you ask.

Jimin shrugs, “The man who does my taxes and makes sure I sleep at least seven hours a night.”

“Namjoon,” you conclude, eyes moving to the sealed door. You think Namjoon is waiting out there right now, silently supporting you two as you go through this. Of course, Jimin’s parents would be livid if anything would tarnish his reputation. A broken engagement would be sticky to cover up, and Jimin falling for his assistant is a headline right for the books.

“I’m sorry,” Jimin whispers, despite the room being vacant he feels the need to keep his words short, “You came all this way to hear this. But I guess we’re on the same page, huh?” His soft fingers make a beeline for your ring finger, removing the diamond band, “And by the way, I love you too. Which is why we’re going to come clean in the morning and work this out with my parents, together. I’m sorry if you felt obligated to follow me all this time just because our parents did.”

“Hey, like you said, we’re in this together. Both in and out,” you chastise, pulling your engagement ring from his grasp and holding it to the light. “Can I keep this? Instead of an engagement band, it can be our best friend band. I’ll even get it re-sized so it can go on another finger.”

Jimin pulls you into his arms, crushing you. The silky material of your dress bunches and rides, but you don’t care. The two of you can’t help but be a little crybaby-ish about it, feeling much like your younger-selves when you had to pull each other out of trouble.

The two of you walk out of the bedroom hand-in-hand, and Namjoon is leaning against the banister in the hallway, a soft smile melting on his tanned skin.

“I’m so happy for you,” you gush, hugging Namjoon tightly. You’ve only known the man for a few months, but you can tell he’s taking care of Jimin and that’s enough for you.

“I… really thought you’d be more upset.” Namjoon marvels, patting your back.

Jimin interjects, “I think she’s found someone hotter than me.”

“Impossible!”

You could stay at this party, lay low until you and Jimin have to confront his parents in the morning. They suggest to get all the food they need and sneak out to the home theatre. The three of you hustle it down the stairs to another part of the house, in order for you to make your getaway and avoid Jimin’s family.

“Hey,” you stop in front of another painting, pulling the two men to a stop. Your eyes lock on a framed droopy peony, tipped with pink dye. You realize you can’t stay here, not when someone’s home alone tonight. “Namjoon, I need you to locate someone for me.”

Jungkook does not expect to see you at his front door.

You’re stunning, and look as breathless as he feels. The liquid champagne number that hugs your frame does things to him, and he’s strangely attracted to the fact that you paired this expensive dress with your snow-drenched trainers.

You showing up at the wee hours of the morning was the last thing Jungkook thought would happen. It’s nothing short of a holiday event, you look like you’ve just walked out of a gala and then ran a marathon to reach him.

He thought when he said goodbye, it would be the last time you’d cross paths. At first, he was okay with that. After all, feelings come and go, and spontaneity only works a percentage of the time. Seeing you presently however, throws all those half-hearted concedings out the window.

“Hi,” you finally say, drinking from the fact that you actually found him.

“Hey,” Jungkook breathes, “you look, beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you smile.

“So, is this about you not paying me back for the ticket?” Jungkook suddenly feels guilty, having dipped out of Jimin’s manor once he saw him appear at the door. It was unrightful jealousy, and because of that he needed to drive away as fast as possible. “Because honestly, it was me messing with you. I really don’t need the money.”

“I figured, from the fact that I had to take the elevator up to the penthouse of the building.”

“So then why are you here?” Jungkook wobbles on the balls of his feet, unsure of what to do with himself.

“My ex-fiancé is in love with someone else,” you lay your cards out just like that, and Jungkook’s unprepared to deal.

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry—”

“Let me finish,” you cut in gently, “my ex-fiancé is in love with someone else, and that’s okay. We’ve been best friends since we were little, and we want nothing but happiness for each other. And for me? Happiness is right in front of me.”

You bite your lip, and Jungkook fights down the urge to run up and pull you into his arms. You must be so cold, running out without a jacket and rushing to his home. However, he lets you finish, and he holds himself down by clutching the door frame as casually as possible.

“I also have a big, fat crush on you,” you say boldly, “and I had to tell you as soon as I could. It took a twenty-minute phone call and some serious leverage from Jimin’s company to figure out where you lived. That receptionist is definitely not letting me use my frequent flyer miles next flight.”

“You harassed an airport receptionist just for me?” he smiles wanly, placing a hand on his chest, “I’m touched.”

“You make me excited to try new things, to be spontaneous and do things for myself,” with every statement you take a step further, and soon enough you’re in his dimly lit apartment. The plush couch in his living room looks awfully warm and comfy, and the light music that plays from his speakers is soft and soothing. “So, let’s spend the holidays together and see where this goes. And go to your art gallery tomorrow, because I did research you on the drive and found out you had to rush here because of a big show.”

“So you’re actually a stalker?” Jungkook teases, tugging you over to the couch.

He takes the lead, plopping himself on the couch first and inviting you to sit next to him. You take a detour and plant your body atop of him, and with an ‘oof’ the two of you are sinking.

“A stalker and a potential drug dealer does sound like a promising pair,” Jungkook jests, his hand palming the silky material of your ruched up ball gown.

“I’m sorry,” you pout, wrapping your fingers around the long tresses of his hair, “can you please stop bringing that up? It was judgemental of me.”

“I like when you’re judgemental,” he pokes your puppy-faced cheeks, ruddied with embarrassment. “I like picking fights with you and getting you all riled up.”

“Will you rile me up now?”

Sexy, he thinks. He figures a vixen has been hidden under you, one suppressed by a complicated engagement and many other factors he’d love to learn about in the near future. The situation at hand however, is far more pressing. Your body is finally warming up, and Jungkook tries to ignore the weight your body is causing, re-igniting an ache he felt hours ago when you two were squished against each other in the coach bus.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you declare, and you look a little frustrated that Jungkook is taking so long to process this information, “and I hope I take your breath away.”

You taste like sugar and the softness that comes with the holidays. It’s tender and oh-so comforting, and Jungkook can’t help but squeeze your hips closer as your lips brush fervently against his. The feeling is both new and old, and Jungkook figures you’ve finally uncoiled a flame that you can no longer quell.

Soon enough your kisses turn hungry, and Jungkook has to remind himself that you two have only known each other for a total of twelve hours, and he isn’t sure of what’s appropriate to jump to due to the speed of your relationship. Once he feels the first roll of your hips, a liquid heat that Jungkook can’t help but return back, he pulls away from your soft lips. Not too far, but a few centimeters apart so that Jungkook and you can catch your breath.

“We should take this slow,” he starts, trying to make a reasonable impression now that you’re a guest at his home and finally settled from their long trip. “I really, really want to get to know you. And you’re so beautiful and I really do want to have sex but—”

“Jungkook, I have not had sex with someone in two years,” you speak with a depraved tone, as if it’s been centuries since you’ve been touched. He can’t help but throw his head back and laugh, “a night full of sex sounds like the best last-minute present ever.”

You bring his hand over to your core, the shiny glassy material of your gown doing nothing to hide the glimpses of pleasure you’re minutes away from experiencing. You whine desperately at the thought, and Jungkook’s a goner.

“Well, I guess I’m about to pull a Christmas miracle,” he murmurs against your lips, ready to work his magic.

#jungkook x reader #jungkook fic #kwritersworldnet #btsghostie #btswritingcafe #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #bts fic #bts x reader #bts fluff #bts angst

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hes-writer · 3 years

Text

Confessions: A ‘Favourite’ Extra

Summary: beatrice graduates and dad!harry is not invited

Warnings: angst!

Word Count: 3305 words

A/N: this is part of the ‘Favourite’ universe :D this scene takes place sometime between the first and second part! please read them before reading this.

Part One | Part Two

_____

Graduation.

Through Beatrice’s 18-years of living, she did not think that the celebration of liberation would be so sour. The day started off like any normal day. That is, except, she did not have to deliberately avoid the areas of the house that her dad, Harry, was in. It was strange that she had to feel uncomfortable in her own home.

For this special event, Beatrice had initially bought only three tickets for Ruby, Caleb and her mum, Y/N. Her dad had a packed schedule of promoting his newest album anyway so Beatrice thought that it wouldn’t even matter. She didn’t think he would want to come anyway. If Beatrice knew anything about her father is that he never really cared much about what went on in her life.

Beatrice supposes that it was okay. She had a whole lifetime to get used to it. A full lifestyle living on the edge because she didn’t know when her dad would clap-back with an insult for no reason. However, it didn’t mean that the spike in pain hurt any less. Don’t get her wrong; she was grateful for Y/N being around and involved. But Beatrice sometimes wondered how it would feel like to be wrapped in a fatherly embrace or be guided with wisdom and courage.

She really couldn’t remember the last time Harry did anything that made Beatrice feel like his daughter. Aside from the family photos they took on during the holidays or when celebrating whatever work achievement he managed to snag--that was the only time where Beatrice would feel Harry’s hand resting on her shoulder.

___

“Can I get one?” Ruby asked, tugging on the coloured strings of Beatrice’s cap. Her small body was being held by her older sister while Y/N took photos of the three siblings.

“Caleb, put your phone away please,” Y/N requested, shaking her head at the way the young boy groaned. Nonetheless, he followed the instruction.

"You’re lucky I love you or I would not have shown up,” Caleb grumbled, offering a sweet smile afterwards to suggest that he was joking. The three siblings posed for the camera, Beatrice trying hard not to let Ruby tilt her square cap.

Between a plastered smile, Beatrice replied, “Probably why dad isn’t here,”

Caleb widened his eyes significantly. Though, it seemed conspicuous to Y/N who was busy figuring out how to brighten the screen.

“That’s not true, sissy. He’s just busy,”

Beatrice chuckled, shrugging off the comforting hand of her younger brother, “Always busy but never when one of you have something going on,”

“It’s just a coincidence,”

“Yeah, sure,”

Caleb frowned at her response, focusing her attention on Ruby’s babbles. He almost spilled the surprise that their dad was going to watch Beatrice cross the stage. Caleb knew how his sisters felt about Harry and he hoped that his appearance would help patch things up between them.

Caleb walked over to Y/N, “Are you sure that Dad’s coming?”

Y/N nodded, “Yes, he said he’s looking for parking now,”

Caleb bit his lip nervously, “Do you think she’ll be surprised?”

——

“Graduate with honours, Beatrice Y/LN,”

Applause filled the venue as Beatrice walked up the steep steps of the stage. A shy smile was placed on her lips when she caught sight of the projector screen showcasing her achievements for her senior year.

In the audience, both Harry and Y/N were confused as to why Beatrice used her mother's name to be announced. The cinch in Y/N’s brow smoothed out when the principal continued speaking. Harry, however, couldn’t help the questioning frown.

“Top Chemistry. Top Biology. Overall Best Science Student. Gold Volunteer Badge. Level 4 Music Theory. Beatrice has been excelling both academically and musically while serving the community,”

Beatrice squinted at the bright lights, placing her diploma and speech on the podium. She had never been good at public speaking. However, her announced name gave Beatrice newfound confidence. It’s just her. All her achievements wouldn’t be credited to her father just because he was Harry Styles.

“Hi, uh,” She cleared her throat, “I’m Beatrice Y/LN and I’m very honoured to be standing in front of you today,”

Her speech was short and to the point; thanking her fellow classmates even though there were very few to thank personally. There were a few jokes in between and some nostalgic memories about various school events throughout the year. Beatrice mentioned remarks to her teachers who helped her achieve high grades. Lastly, she thanked her family for supporting her

“I’d like to thank my family. My brother, Caleb. My sister, Ruby and my Mum. You guys have been so wonderful to me and I hope that I made you proud,”

Y/N was tearing up with a hand clasped over her mouth. She could not believe that her oldest daughter was off to university in a few weeks. Beatrice’s work ethic was unmatched and it showed in her getting the recognition that she deserved.

There was a pregnant pause before applause filled the space again. Despite switching her name last minute, everyone in her school knew that Beatrice was a Styles kid. They were probably waiting for her to mention him in her speech. But Beatrice felt no need to mention the man that had done nothing for her. He wasn’t even here.

“Thank you and congratulations, everyone!”

Harry slumped lower in his seat. He could feel Y/N’s worried eyes and Caleb’s observant gaze inspecting his face.

____

Beatrice stood beside her family, watching Harry a few metres away who was currently busy attending to the fans that recognized him. Even with his graying hair, many parents greeted him with a reminiscing statement about how they ‘saw him in concert back in the day’, to which he would chuckle at and proceed to converse for a few minutes until their child--Beatrice’s age--tugged them away.

All that Beatrice wanted to do was to get home and interact with her online friends. She had mentioned that she was graduating today and they were all very proud of her. Beatrice would rather take the peace and quiet of her own room than a bustling party.

“You’re invited,” Emma, a popular girl, stated while handing her a piece of paper with all the details of the party. Beatrice mumbled a hushed ‘thanks’, despite knowing that she wouldn’t even attend it in the first place.

“Are you going, Tris?” Y/N asked, holding Ruby’s hand so the youngest child would not get lost in the crowd.

Beatrice shook her head ‘no’, explaining that there was no point.

“I don’t know anyone there anyway,”

She was kind of a loner, but Beatrice was happier by herself anyways. “Besides, I don’t think dad will agree. It’s way past curfew,”

Y/N nodded in understanding. The curfew set for their eldest child was at nine in the evening. Y/N was sure that Harry would be lenient to let Beatrice go; it was her graduation after all. Sooner or later, Beatrice would be leaving for university.

____

Beatrice should be grateful. She should be happy, yet somehow those emotions were non-existent to her brain right now. She should be smiling, eyes brimming with tears because her dad actually cared to throw a party for her. But all she could feel right now was a pure disappointment and agonizing anger because Beatrice knows that he was trying to make up for years of mistreatment.

At this moment, the rowdiness of the party only proved that Harry really did not know anything about Beatrice. She did not know over half the people here, aside from the few relatives they see during the holidays; her grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. The rest were recognizable from Harry’s industry. Beatrice swore she saw Lizzo sipping a cup of liquor in their kitchen.

Aside from the initial greeting of ‘congratulations’, paired with the large banister taped on the foyer of the house, this party wasn’t much of a celebration based on Beatrice’s milestone in life. If anything, it looked like a regular get together for celebrities and industry people. Frankly, she had no interest in interacting with them. As rude as it may sound, the swirling turmoil of emotions beginning from her stomach made Beatrice push past the packed crowd with a tight-lipped smile in order to get to her room.

She felt like she couldn’t breathe, especially knowing that these people in her house absolutely adored Harry. They saw him as a family man, loved and appreciated by his kids. It wasn’t a complete lie, per se. Beatrice just didn’t have much experience to confirm that he was, in fact, a lovable and caring person.

If she had to put a finger on it, Beatrice was feeling utter disgust. She was disgusted because Harry was the perfect person in their eyes when everything he had shown her was that she was someone that didn’t deserve any of his attention. It felt like this was a celebration of her dad’s façade--he was not actually proud of her. He was just making it seem like he is so he wouldn’t be perceived as the dead-beat dad.

A knock at her door sounded. It was almost as if Beatrice could sense her dad’s presence without turning around to look at who just entered the privacy of her room.

“Tris?” Harry whispered, hesitating on mumbling the nickname. He had never done it willingly before, much less not as bitter as the previous times.

Beatrice swore that she could practically see the venom slithering on his tongue every time he said her name. But maybe that was just her skewed perception.

The chair that she was sitting on creaked as she shifted her weight, leaning her elbows on her desk.

“Why did you even throw a party, dad?”

It was merely a genuine question that held so many underlying meanings. Why now? Why not earlier when there was still hope to fix whatever sort of broken and fucked up relationship they had with each other?

Harry fully stepped into the room, observing the walls decorated with art and artists whom he recognized were his friends. He didn’t realize that she was a fan of Florence Pugh.

He cleared his throat with a fist to his mouth, “I wanted to celebrate your graduation,”

Beatrice internally rolled her eyes, “Did you really? Because you haven’t been there when I needed your help with my homework or assignments or anything. Now, suddenly you want to act like you were a big part of how I achieved my accomplishments?”

It was a sour realization. It was accurate that Harry refused to help her with schoolwork. He swore that he was busy looking over new options for his upcoming projects. Retrospectively, he might have subconsciously spewed out excuses so that he wouldn’t be able to help his dear daughter.

Beatrice sighed, flattening the balls of her palms against the edge of the sleek wood, pushing the rolling wheels of the chair back. She stood up.

“Just admit it. You threw the party because you felt guilty and you think that somehow, everything will magically be okay between us?” Beatrice shot him a questioning look, chest-puffing when Harry’s lack of words confirmed her theory.

Beatrice propped her feet in the middle of her room, twisting her body so that her back was facing away from the closed-door; from him. She breathed heavily through her nose, lungs rising up and down as she gathered her thoughts.

Unbelievable.

Harry stood with his arms by his sides, staring at his daughter with curious compassion. He did not know what to say, nor did he know how to act because he didn’t take the time to get to know her. He didn’t spend time with Beatrice; nurturing, caring, calming or comforting her because he simply couldn't get over the fact that she was once a person that caused calamity in his life.

“Tris,” Her dad spoke, earning a pinch of her facial expression from the familiarity of the nickname. Yet, it was unfamiliar because Harry used it mundanely.

Beatrice cut him off, “I’ll be leaving for university in a few weeks. You can quit pretending like you care. You say this graduation party is for me but I don’t even know most of the people here!”

The volume of her voice reached a threshold that should warn both of them to keep quiet. However, Beatrice knew that with the hustle and bustle of the celebration going on downstairs—no one would hear her honesty except for her and Harry.

Harry blinked twice, mouth dropping slightly agape. Why did he throw this party? He knew his intentions; he was proud of his daughter. He wanted to show her off to everyone he knew about how intelligent and well-rounded Beatrice was.

The girl continued speaking as if reading Harry’s train of thought.

“This is for you,” She spoke bitterly as if her tongue was left with an odd taste in her mouth. “Showing off a ‘trophy’ daughter who graduated with honours but that doesn’t matter, does it? Nothing I ever do will match what you’ve done.”

The accompanying laugh—albeit, sarcastic— left Harry confused.

“What? No, this is for you. I’m proud of you,” Harry quickly disagreed with Beatrice, gesturing his large hands in a wave to emphasize his words.

She turned around with gentle disbelief; her features were hardened yet Beatrice’s eyes gleamed with hope. She wanted so badly to believe her dad, but his lack of attentiveness to her led Beatrice to roll her eyes at him instead.

“Cut the crap, Dad,”

“Language,” Harry added, pursing his lips when Beatrice scoffed.

“I can’t believe this,” Beatrice muttered, she stared at the ground as if picking out the words to say.

As bad as it sounded, she wanted to hurt her dad the way he did to her. Years of being treated like an unwanted child slowly built up inside of her and Beatrice wanted the pain to end.

“You wanted to be everything so bad that you forgot to be my Dad,”

“I am your dad, Tris,” Harry watched as she walked over to her desk. Fingers cascading the glass picture frame which held a still of their family.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Beatrice turned around, throwing the edged frame on her bed in a fit of anger.

Harry’s brows shot up to his forehead, watching his daughter’s eyes well up with tears.

“You are my dad but you’ve never been one to me! Why is that? Huh?” Beatrice pressed, crossing her arms and digging her fingernails on the skin of her bicep.

“I’m sorry that I took those opportunities away from you. You got movie deals, You had an album coming out. Tours, shows, money—you had everything and I ruined it, didn’t I? As you said, it would’ve been better if I wasn’t born,”

Harry was no stranger to not interrupting someone when they spoke. However, he couldn’t let Beatrice believe the words she spoke.

“Don’t say that! That’s not true,” He stuttered over his words, heart-shattering under the weight of Beatrice’s truthfulness. Sure, he had everything, but it didn’t mean that he was satisfied.

“But you thought about it right? You wondered how different it would be if I wasn’t born at the wrong time. Maybe you would’ve loved me more—like you do Caleb and Ruby,” Beatrice smiled sadly.

She was glad that at least her siblings would not have to experience the searing pain of being unappreciated. They did not deserve to be seen through like a ghost.

“Maybe you would’ve paid more attention to me. Maybe you would have cared that I was hurting every time you showed me nothing but disdain,”

Beatrice used her forearm to wipe away the tears beginning to soak her reddened cheeks. She sighed, plopping down at the foot of her bed, watching Harry look at her with an unreadable emotion on his face.

“You know, It’s not my responsibility to ask why,” Beatrice whispered. Though, she wondered what would have happened if she did question her dad why he looked at her as if she was a burden in his life.

Beatrice’s monologue crescendoed as utter pain cracked her voice every now and then. Her figure slouching as she truly experienced what it was like to let go of the turmoiled affliction soaring through her body.

“I’m your child! You’re the one who’s supposed to be looking out for me. You’re the one who’s supposed to show me what love is supposed to feel like. I’ve always wondered how you’d react if I came home with a boyfriend like all the movies and books talk about. But, all you’ve shown and made me feel was my first heartbreak when you’re supposed to be the one nursing me from it,”

At that point, Harry could not remain the eye contact he shared with his daughter, gazing down at the floorboard in shame.

“You were supposed to scare guys off because I’m your eldest daughter. You’re supposed to protect me from everything that could hurt me, even when it’s irrational because that is what Dads do,”

That same bitter laugh that pierced Harry’s ears earlier echoed again.

“But I guess you never really wanted to become one to begin with. Or maybe just not with me.”

Harry took a few steps back. Her words figuratively churned and twisted his gut. He caught his balance on the doorknob that moved feverishly under his weight. Sure, he didn’t want to be her dad at first. And he had many chances to fix a strained relationship, but he never took them. So really, he had no shield at denying the truth. He was simply a father who failed to be the dad to Beatrice.

“I-I do! I want to be--if you'd let me,” He hated the way his voice became weary.

Despite their differences, Beatrice and Harry both mutually hated the way his tone pinched. The way he had to plead and beg for his daughter’s forgiveness when it seemed to be too late. This could have been avoided if Harry took the chance to become the dad that Beatrice deserved to have. The dad that her siblings--Caleb and Ruby--saw and spent time with while Beatrice watched behind, wondering why she was never treated the way they did.

“For years, I wondered what was wrong with me. I listened to the music that you liked. I asked mum what you enjoyed doing because you never talk to me. I wanted you to see me as a daughter instead of this--this invisible speck that you shrug off your shoulder every time I needed you!” Beatrice cried out, hugging herself for comfort.

The worst part was that she could see Harry’s legs buckle in hesitation to come closer to her or not. He shouldn’t even have to think to comfort his daughter, but he did.

“I wanted you to like me as if I even have to do that in the first place! You’re my dad, don’t you get it? Because I didn’t. I spent so much time being the perfect child in hopes of you giving me an ounce of your attention aside from the face you put on when I walked into the room. Why did you have to treat me this way, huh?”

Tears spilled from her forest-green eyes, identical to Harry’s glazed ones. His mouth parted in retaliation. As if he was plopped in quicksand, Harry had no idea how to defend himself.

“I know that you didn’t want me in the first place but--,” Beatrice sniffled, wiping the salty liquid to her damp temples, “I just wished you treated me like I wasn’t a burden to you,”

_____

#harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles writing #harry styles angst #Harry styles fan fic #Harry styles fanfiction

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whosjunglejim4322 · 3 years

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SMUT, collegecrush!au, tattooed Johnny agenda, bff Jaehyun! And brief mentions of him being drunk, all the yearning, Johnny is whipped for you but you didn't hear that from me, he's got a big dick, brief dry humping, finger fucking and pussy eating bc....I'm a whore, sensual fucking cause he thinks ur precious teehee ngl I have a crush on this Johnny

A month ago, if someone would have told you that Johnny Seo would be watching The Matrix trilogy with you while sitting on your living room floor under a blanket that he'd brought to the routine occasion - you would have thought them to be crazy. Insane, even.

And not because Johnny is unpleasant to be around, quite the contrary. Despite his popularity he's one of the most levelheaded, endearing frat boys - for lack of better term - you've ever met, and you also happen to think of him as a superhero of sorts, always there the moment you need him.

It had been a party, where the two of you met - sort of. Not shocking, in the least bit, but also not the first place you would have planned to be on a Saturday night. Jaehyun, being the stubborn and puppy dog eyed best friend that he is, insisted that you come along with him - that he'd keep you glued to his side all night long.

Of course, in proper Jaehyun fashion, three tequila shots in and a game of beer pong had him barely cognitive and passed out on some ones bathroom floor within two hours. The house was big, but filled with people and between trying to lift him up while he giggled about your hair smelling so good and sweet - you also feared anyone seeing him like this. Even if it weren't the first time.

His presence spooked you, at first, a light tap on your shoulder from somewhere behind you just as you attempted to lift your aforementioned best friend for what felt like the hundredth time that night. You nearly dropped him back on his head, if it weren't for quick hands and a sturdy grip on the drunk boys slumped shoulders.

He looked like sunshine, honey skin and dyed blonde hair with the dark roots growing out - a soft, comforting smile across the smooth planes of his face. Dark ink peaked out from where the collar of his shirt had drooped, appearing to be spilling from his shoulder. Your arms felt weaker than before, and embarrassment regarding the situation began to make your skin hot.

"I got him, don't worry," he'd assured with a gentle grin, lifting your bestfriend with an ease you almost wanted to scowl at. His height had been startling too, and not just because you were sitting on someone's bathroom floor. "did you guys drive here?"

You shook your head, a sigh of frustration leaving your lips and slumping your posture as you remembered that you both had walked here. Johnny slung Jaehyuns arm over his broad pair of shoulders, and jerked his chin towards the door, which you opened warily.

"I'll drive you home, it's no problem," his voice was soft, reassuring and you were taken aback. He obviously knew Jaehyun, and you'd never met any of his friends that were so...pleasant. "let's get him to my car first."

It wasn't nearly as painful and humiliating to push past crowds of intoxicated people with Johnny leading the way, as it would have been if it were just you. No one even batted an eye at the way he was dragging Jaehyun like a ragdoll, while the boy grumbled under his breath like a child.

People looked at him, of course. Oh, they looked at him. But not because of his human luggage, and it felt odd to see so many eyes on one person, to realize that his presence has the same effect on everyone else as it did you.

He kept looking back, making sure you were still close behind him, and it wasn't until you were outside in the open that you realized he'd been clinging on to the fabric of your jacket, making sure you didn't stray. Your heart felt like it was bursting open. Focus. You'd thought to yourself.

"That's my car over there, can you open the door for me?"

You jogged towards the sleek, onyx colored SUV that looked like a shadow against the dark bushes, and in just a split second Johnny was behind you, maneuvering Jaehyun into the backseat.

"Mmm...leather." Your best friend's giggle made you all the more grateful for the fact that you hadn't had to do this alone, his cheeks bright red and eyes crescent moons from the way he gleefully grinned. Still, you love him nonetheless.

You pulled your jacket off and prepared to drape it over his body before Johnny stopped you with a gentle hand, shaking his head. "I've got two on, let me."

His jacket probably sufficed more anyways, a heavy denim that would actually cover most of Jaehyuns body. You thanked him with a shy smile while he closed the door, and headed towards the passengers seat.

This experience had been the beginning, the car ride home that night being one full of conversations - genuine conversations, and he didn't leave once you both arrived at your apartments. Jaehyun snored in the background while the two of you talked, laughed. It was hard to look him in the eyes, to not make it so obvious - it's hard now, too.

Neo and Trinity kiss on the screen in front of you, and you wonder how Johnny sees you. Sure, he's flirty, overtly sometimes, but there's never been a definitive line to mark where the both of you really are on the friendship spectrum. If you even want to call it that.

Every time he touches your cheek or catches you staring, even when you're walking to your classes and his hand graces the small of your waist just before he waves you goodbye - you have to assume that he knows what he's doing - that the tension hasn't ever just been one sided.

His hair is a light chestnut brown now, longer than usual and flopping into his eyes from the sides. It's unfair, how he doesn't even have to try. The sharp slope of his nose, the bow of his lips, even the elegance of his neck and jaw. That awe from when you first saw him, has never left.

Not to mention that you often times forget he has so many tattoos whenever he decides to wear short sleeves, the art inky and stark against his olive skin - riveting down from his biceps like silk, cascading over his thick forearms and ending at his knuckles.

You turn your attention back to the laptop upon realizing that you've gotten caught up, heart still rattling underneath your ribcage. It makes it worse, the fact that the heat of his body is so close, that you can smell the scent of dryer sheets clinging onto the fabric of his shirt along with the natural allure of his skin.

"Why were you staring at me?" His breath is warm against the shell of your ear and you shudder, surprised by his sudden closeness and the timbre of his voice. You turn to face him with an incredulous expression, feigning innocence - but he makes it damn near impossible with the way he's looking at you - a dark eyebrow raised and a sly smile playing on his heart shaped lips.

"I was looking at your tattoos, cause - uhm, I forget they're underneath your clothes sometimes." You confess, and his knee knocks against yours underneath the blanket.

"Mmhm, so you think about what's under my clothes?" He teases, and takes pride in the way your eyes glower at him, a scoff leaving your mouth. It's hard to be annoyed when he's so vibrant, right here in front of you.

"Just the art, this one's my favorite." Eager to not have the pressure on you anymore, you reach out to grasp his wrist - not realizing how deeply of a need you've had all this time to do so, until you're tracing the flower that's decorating the top of his hand.

In hindsight, it's a bold move - but you can't go back now, not when he's staring down at you so fondly, scooting closer and placing his hand in your lap while you admire his body art.

"Yeah? Why's it your favorite?" He asks, genuinely curious. He nudges your shoulder with his when he sees the shy smile spreading across your lips, your skin hot to the touch. His comfort level has you less nervous than you were before, and the whole thing feels oddly natural, being so close together.

"I don't know, it just suits you. Your hands are so big, and the little vines looping around your knuckles really makes them look...delicate."

You don't dare look up, not when you realize his chest is rising and falling faster than it was before, just like yours is as you spread his fingers out and play with the digits, his face just inches above yours, voice warm in your ear.

"Second favorite." It's not a demand but it's not exactly a request either, and there's a safety in the energy pulsating around you both - mutual, rippling like a current through your bones.

Your eyes deliberately trail up the length of his long arm, scanning, and your fingertips press against the belly of the dragon that wraps around his bicep, sinewy tail tapering off just below his elbow. You've secretly admired this one for a long time, sneaking glances whenever you can. He turns more towards you just the slightest bit, and the closeness begins to make you feel dizzy.

"Your hands are soft."

This time, you can't not look at him, belly filled with a need to see his face, to save the memory of his features so up close in the back of your mind. However, once you do, look up at him - you almost wonder how you'll be able to handle it at all, his amber eyes boring into you as if he's trying to read your thoughts.

"So is your skin." Is what you manage to reply, willing yourself not to look at his soft, inviting mouth - afraid you'll give yourself away. You feel something stroke the side of your cheek and it takes you a second before realizing he's touching you, apparently giving yourself away isn't an issue. You feel like you're being set ablaze.

"Is it really just the tattoos, you think of?" You're not imagining things, he's definitely moving closer - you can smell the starbursts that he ate earlier still sweet on his breath, the wrappers crumpled on the coffee table next to the laptop.

It's all settling in, the realization that this hasn't been just you, fantasizing and daydreaming about someone who hasn't even realized how his natural charm has made you feel.

You're afraid to speak, so you shake your head as a response to his question, the atmosphere thickening impossibly now that he's cupping your chin between his fingers, the tips of your noses almost touching. You've placed your palm against his knee without even realizing it, steadying yourself.

"I've wanted to kiss you since the day we met," he confesses, dark eyebrows furrowed as if he's restraining himself, waiting. "is this...is this okay?" Your lower belly flutters, and you're almost afraid to move, to change anything about this moment and the way it is right now.

"Me too. I've wanted to kiss you, I mean." You breathe out, and now your lips are ghosting against each other, a moment of hesitation that feels both infinitesimal and fleeting. "It's more than okay." A heartbeat passes and he presses his mouth against yours, so pillowy soft that you gasp, surprised.

It's just a second, that he pulls away to look down at you, and your expression is so heavenly - so hazy and delicate. He kisses you again and this time your lips begin to overlap, from top to bottom, suckling and getting used to the feel of each other. He's still holding your face, but with both hands now, thumbs on your cheeks and fingers wrapping around to the nape of your neck.

You cling onto him like you've no other choice, desperate to have him underneath your fingertips, reminding you that this is really happening and that your mind isn't just creating very vivid daydreams. He pulls you closer and you grip onto his broad shoulders.

"Mm, you're so sweet," he lilts between his kisses, tone somewhere between bliss and desire. You're not expecting to be so worked up already. "even better than I imagined." His tongue slips past yours, wet and warm and it's like your body is being put on vibrate.

He senses this too, with the way you're almost in his lap, breath unsteady. His arms are around your waist before you can move any further, pulling you on top of him and locking you to his torso.

"Johnny." You strain, as the feeling within you becomes overwhelming, craving his touch, his mouth. It doesn't help that he's being so vocal, as well - the sounds sweeter, and more desperate than you'd expect from him. It has something feral igniting within you.

What shocks you the most is that he's already hard underneath you, and the thought alone is enough to have you keening further against his chest, tightening your thighs' grip around his trim waist- not to mention you can feel him snug against your ass, material of your shorts so thin it's palpable when he twitches.

So, naturally, your whine is petulant when his mouth departs from yours, his plush lips a deep blush, matching his cheeks in their hue. He's just as worked up as you if his erratic breathing and the way that he grasps onto your sides is anything to go by, and you shouldn't be as surprised as you are about it.

"You...have no idea," he pants, smoothing his thumb over your bottom lip. "how badly I've wanted you. In so many ways."

Your heart feels like it's attempting to burst through your chest in an effort to be closer to him, his sharp eyes lowly lidded but fierce in their honesty. You take this brief moment to touch his face, his soft cheeks and the smooth, taut ridge of his jaw. It all feels too real to be a dream. This must be reality.

"I'm only stopping because, well I like you," it's hard to pinpoint if the trembling of his hands is fueled from his desire or his nerves, but either way he's got your rapt attention. You doubt anyone could look away from those eyes.

"I like you a lot and...fuck, I don't want to do anything you aren't comfortable with or...sure about. Because I'm sure about you." He finishes, sincere and stoic while holding you against him. You feel like you're floating.

"I have a really big crush on you, Johnny," you kiss his mouth and he smiles against it, humming in contentment. Suddenly, your nerves are replaced by pure adrenaline. "and I like you a lot, too." When you pull back from his lips with a soft smack, his expression causes your skin to burn hot.

"So it'd be okay if I did..." he tilts your head to the side, and a flurry of goosebumps descend across your skin, his breath warm against your throat. "this?" A kiss, soft but purposeful, is placed there, and you shudder.

All you can do is nod in affirmation, heartbeat in your ears among other places. Your fingers run through the hair at the nape of his neck while his mouth begins placing warm, wet pecks against yours, and his body lurches when your thighs tighten around his torso.

It only manages to work you up further, of course, brain already high off of the fact that Johnny likes you back...in fact...he truly is as good as you've always thought, sweet and kind and nasty, groaning when you rut your hips against him.

"Baby, you're shaking." He mouths against your jaw, wondrously and laced with an undertone of hunger. His strong arms hold you tight, eyes softening when he looks down at you and realizes just how worked up you really are.

"I just want you really bad, Johnny." Your body emphasizes your point, chest pressed against the firmness of his, nipples hard behind your shirt. He can practically feel you throbbing.

It's a little fucked up, honestly.

No ones ever had him this head over heels, he feels himself melting against you, your voice sweet and syrupy, dripping with this ache just for him and he's losing it.

"Yeah?" He muses, the wide palm of his hands sliding down the curve of your back, and over the swell of your ass where it's planted so firmly atop of him - massaging you there. "Where do you want me, honey?"

The pet names have you too worked up, you really could get off of anything right now and he's tracing the back of your thighs now, swirling his soft fingertips around, leaving a wake of searing heat in their path.

"Want you everywhere, just - mmph." This kiss interrupts you, bruising in it's intensity and he cups your face softly as a silent apology despite the fact that you're letting out small coos of satisfaction, tugging at the ends of his messy hair.

For a second you feel like you're being lifted, not realizing he's just moved you both to the couch until your head is resting against the cushions, inky arms caging your body against the length of his. He groans when you palm at his stomach, touching and rubbing his sides and then the broad of his back.

All the while his free hand, the one that's not attached to the arm holding himself up, does some exploring of its own, palming your breasts through your shirt and squeezing with just enough pressure to have you arching into his touch.

Automatically, your legs wrap around his middle and your heels dig into the dimples of his back, and his hips pivot downwards to nestle right in between yours. You're both instantaneously struck by the sensation of your centers meeting, his length jerking inside of his pants, your clit throbbing in yours.

"Gonna touch you..." nimble fingertips dance over the skin of your inner thighs. "...here, is that okay?" The warmth of his hand cups your sex and now you're positive that wetness has begun to soak through your underwear, senses gone haywire from the way he's rubbing you, up and down.

"Mhm that's - yes, that's okay." You pant, desperate to feel him as well and reaching in between your bodies in an attempt to grasp at him - his height doesn't make this as easy as you thought and your pliant hands meet just his navel, the faintest of happy trails soft against the skin here.

He switches to his thumb now, instead of the heel of his palm to rub you through your shorts. He searches, for a short moment, finding what he's looking for and pressing the pad of his finger against your bud.

He kisses your whimper, shifting his hips and shuffling upwards just a smidge so that your hands can reach his hard cock. You have to maneuver your arm underneath his but it's working out fine so far, your eyes widening once you feel the twitch of his length.

"Oh." You gasp, expecting to have felt it all while you were on his lap, but missing by a longshot. He's big, bigger than anticipated and you're a bit too flustered as you follow it's bulge through his sweats. He groans your name, and you might be short circuiting.

"You're so hard...and b-big, Johnny you're really big." The incredulity of your voice only has his hunger growing, threatening to swallow him whole. In one breath your hands are pulled from him, pinned above your head with his gentle fingers barring your wrists.

"You're so fuckin' cute," he professes with an awed lilt, moving his hips in circles between yours - his shaft, heavy and thick, nudged against your lips. "wanna make you feel good...mm, wanna make you cum."

Butterflies threaten to flutter into your throat and suffocate you, his breath warm and sweet against your cheek before he's nipping at your earlobe. You feel like you're high, spinning yet completely grounded by his weight above you, against you.

"I want you Johnny, want you to fuck me." You try to turn your head, bashful of the way you're being so shameless but he's not having it, keeping his gaze on your every expression, trying not to lose his sanity when you grind yourself against him. Your voice, petulant and needy, is enough to have him at his wits end alone.

"I will baby, I will," he promises sweetly, accentuating his point by letting go of your wrists, and using one of his hands to pry your thighs open. He rolls his agile hips against you and the friction has you reaching out to grasp at his waist - trim and firm underneath your fingertips. "just gotta get you ready first."

He sits back on his haunches and you pout about the lack of content, his pleased grin a beacon as he hooks his fingers into your waistband, pulling your shorts off your hips and past your thighs - till they're at your ankles, and it feels surreal when he throws them somewhere behind the couch, too eager for his own good.

You're brought back to current reality when his big hands caress the tops of your thighs, before creeping down into the soft crease where they're shut closed in embarrassment, and pulling them apart.

He outwardly marvels and you wonder if he can see you clench, the moment overwhelmingly intimate with the way he's staring directly at the wet spot that’s soaked through the crotch of your panties. He takes only a moment to reach out and press his thumb against the dampness, balls tightening with the need to release each time you whimper or gasp.

With his cock leaking in his pants, he wastes no time, taking the flimsy piece of fabric off so fast you don't even have time to by shy about him seeing you naked and glistening in front of him. Furthermore, you don't think anyone could feel even the least but bad about themselves if he looked at them like this - slack jawed, and starved.

"Fuck...you're so beautiful," two long, inky fingers formed into the shape of a V, spread your lips open and then he's moving further away - no, scooting down onto his stomach, and suddenly his breath is a warm puff against your most sensitive parts. "so wet for me, hmm?"

You're not sure you can look away, too enraptured by the visual stimuli that's correlating with the circling of your swollen clit. You want to cry, a little bit. Scream, maybe. He's so beautiful you can't help but to reach out, running your fingers through the front of his chestnut hair and then his eyes are piercing through you like the shock of ice water.

Your body seems to register the feeling before you can process the sight by itself, back bowing off the couch, hips bucking. His hot, wet tongue licks at the hood of your clit, starting slow and picking up pace when you start to squirm. The blossoms painted across his skin decorate the arms that hold you down while his pillowy lips envelop the bud, suckling lewdly.

"O-oh, oh fu-mmm." You're already blubbering, lost and falling into the sensation of everything all at once. You've no doubt that he's had years of experience but this, you're not sure you've felt pleasure like this before.

"Feels good?" He mumbles between the flick of his tongue, hands traveling up the length of your body to grip your waist, kneading your skin. You almost laugh at the question, assuming your trembling body and the way you're involuntarily bucking against his mouth would suffice as an answer. Still, you humour him.

"Mmhm, feels- ohh, mhm feels good." Your voice is barely there, strained and whiny but he feeds off of your every utterance as if it's something he so desperately needs. The smacking between your legs becomes louder and like a magnet, you're drawn to the sight again, coil in your belly tightening impossibly.

He's a muss of hair, the dark strands tickling your thighs when his head moves from side to side. Your thighs attempt to clamp shut but then he's looking up at you again - purposeful in the way he maintains eye contact while he dives down and licks a stripe over your entrance.

You're not going to last long, and he knows this, from every twitch and squirm and whimper - he's preparing for your demise, humming in contentment while the lewd sounds of slickness continue.

He slips a finger inside of you, and then another once he realizes how soaked you are, and this proves to be the beginning of the end. You grip onto his forearms, needing to be grounded to something while he buries the digits inside of you, curling in a come hither motion.

It's all beyond what you thought pleasure could be, it's violet and red and all things euphoric behind your eyelids and the sound of his pleased groans are what finally have you giving out, melting against the couch cushions.

You're not sure if you're making any sound at all, honestly. It comes so quick, violent in it's force and you're hazy headed - tears welling in your eyes from the way he's still massaging you, licking you while your walls squeeze and contract around his fingers.

"That's it baby, mmm, let go."

The velvet voice is warm against your sensitive sex and you're still twitching as you peel your eyes open to peer down between your legs and see him there, staring up at you like you're the sun, slowing his movements while the aftershock of your orgasm seeps through you.

His knuckles are buried to the hilt inside of you and he pulls them out slowly, petal pink lips kissing your clit gently, adoringly. With your brain still foggy and embarrassment no longer present, you grab his wrist, bringing his slick soaked fingers to your mouth and wrapping your lips around them.

He moans an expletive and then he's hovering over you again, watching with a soaring heart as you suckle your juices clean from his digits, lashes fluttering when you open your eyes.

For once in his life, he's speechless. You have to pull him down to kiss you in order to breaks him from his reverie and it's now that he's realizing how excruciatingly hard he is. He doesn't remember the last time he's ever been this worked up without his dick even being touched for more than five minutes.

It's safe to say he's taken by surprise when your hand slips into his bottoms and briefs to palm him this time, and his body lurches against you while a desperate sound bellows in his throat.

"Baby." he coos, relishing in the softness of your palm, the difference in size of his own. He wants to protest when the intense bliss of it is gone, momentarily, only to feel your fingers attempting to pull his sweats down.

You're still buzzing from your orgasm but you've never been more positive about something; about someone. Your whole body feels as though it can't be satiated, not until you have all of him after having such a sweet taste.

"Please, now, want you now." You nibble on his bottom lip and he has to pull himself away or else he'll get too caught up in your mouth by itself, but he's on a mission - searching for his wallet and scrambling for it when he sees the leather square sitting on the floor.

The tips of your fingers and toes tingle with a mixture of unbearable anticipation, and nerves for what's about to come when he pulls the condom from his wallet and tears the corner of the foil.

It's just a second but it's enough to admire him silently, the twitch of his mouth, the elegance of his fingers even when they're eager and uncoordinated. A part of you feels overcome by the need to be encapsulated by his presence, for his skin to be a permanent silkiness against your lips.

He catches you in the midst of staring and it's like he's glowing from the inside out, pulling his pants down his thick thighs along with his black briefs, kicking them to the floor.

Without thinking your arms are reaching forward, gripping the small of his waist as if to still him, and he pauses at your will. He's cupping your chin with one hand while your fingertips explore underneath the hem of his shirt, and you're grateful that he's allowing you to soak this in, that he's not rushing despite the fact that both of you are like exposed lit wires.

"Here, let me take it off." His arms are reaching behind him before you can blink, biceps curling as he pulls his shirt off of his broad shoulders before discarding it with the rest of his clothing.

Your breath is audible, pupils blown wide while you examine the length of his torso and the permanent shapes that are marked there. Only patches of his honey skin peek through the array of tattoos he's got climbing his sides, over his chest, and you swear you've never seen someone so beautiful.

"Take mine off too." You barely manage to get out, and he's kissing your lips again with a soft sort of fondness, while his knuckles graze your skin and your shirt is being stripped from your body. He's back to kissing you and your naked chests meet for the first time, a fierceness gripping you by the throat when when when the shaft of his cock nudges your clit.

"You're sure about this?" He asks, gentle in the way he strokes your cheek with the back of his hand, pecking your mouth between glances at your nipples where they rub against him. His touch travels to your jaw and down your neck, before he's tweaking the buds between his fingers, and your legs wrap around his middle in an effort to solidify your answer.

"Yes, I'm sure," you run your fingers through his hair. "very sure."

Lips press against your cheek and then you're presented with the sight of him again, bare in front of you, just a few inches away. It's now that you really find the courage to look at him, not expecting to be out of breath and shock stricken once you lay your eyes upon his dick.

It's pretty, as pretty as you knew it had to be; curved just slightly, the tip swollen with arousal and a shade deeper than that of his lips that you've come to have photographically memorized.

You watch with probably more fascination than most while his slim fingers roll the condom onto his length, down the shaft that protrudes with a small vein right in the middle, until it's snug and securing the fact that you and Johnny Seo are about to have sex.

As always, here there right when you need him most, aiding you in forgetting about anything that isn't crucial to right now. His arms are wrapping around your thighs and pulling you closer - your small gasp doesn't go unnoticed.

And then, there's also the way he's looking at you, again. It's like he's compacted every emotion you could feel in a moment like this, and somehow managed to reflect it's opacity back at you through the glimmer of his irises.

You jerk your hips against him and he grins at your urgency, diverting his attention to the space between your legs and holding you steady by the hips with one hand while the other goes to grip his cock.

He levels his pelvis with yours and brings the pink head down to your entrance where it leaks for him, gathering the slickness and smearing it through your folds, around your clit.

His fingers search for yours and suddenly he's interlocking them while you feel the initial stretch of his dick finally entering you, a soft expletive leaving his mouth while he pushes himself into you halfway, peering down with half lidded eyes as a silent affirmation.

Your expression must be as expressive as the soft mewls that involuntarily fall from your lips, and he bottoms out while leaning down to kiss you as he's come to realize that this action is single handedly way more addictive than it should be.

You feel so full it's impossible not whine, and within seconds he's pulling himself out of you nearly all the way - mouth hovering over yours so he can watch your features contort when he sheathes himself back in with a snap of his hips.

With the need to hold on to something becoming incessant, he allows you to throw your arms around his neck while your thighs tremble around him, his hips creating a slow but steady pace that draws lewd sounds from between your bodies with every slow drag of his thick cock.

It's strange, how you provoke such tenderness within him when you shudder and pant beneath him despite the fact that he's barely done anything yet- a juxtaposition to the feral, nagging type of ache that brews in the center of his belly to have you even more a mess.

It's not that he's fairing any better, though. Even you can see that, feel it in the way he keeps his lips on your skin, trying and failing miserably to hold back his groans while your nails create crescent moons on the broad of his back.

"You - f-fuck you feel s-so good." He stutters, and if you could find your words maybe you'd even have the confidence to tease him, but right now all you can comprehend is the feeling in which he's providing, the nudge of his tip so deep inside of you.

"Faster, can you - oh yes, yes." It's like he knows what you want before you get it out all the way, and his tongue is warm against your throat while he obliges your request, furthering your haziness.

You're quick to realize that Johnny is a generous lover. Despite the fact that he's holding himself together on the edge of his coherency, he's already atuned to each tense of your muscles, the strain of sweet sounds you coo in his ear. He uses this as a guide, working his hips skillfully, circling when he pushes himself back in.

The fact that you're sopping wet helps as well, audibly soaked and your walls are taking him in so generously he doesn't know what to do with himself. Your hands are in his hair and tug at the dark strands without thinking, drawing a sweet, serene moan from the back of his throat.

"Mm, feels good?" He asks despite knowing the answer, your countenance painted with the colors of bliss. He peers down in between your bodies and almost regrets it due to the pulse it sends through his groin - threatening to send him over the edge too soon.

But it's a sight too mesmerizing, his entire length disappearing inside of you with an easy glide, his hips colliding with the back of your thighs and your clit waiting to be played with. You're just as taken by the sight, surrounded by only him, inside of you and around you like a life force. Your hands travel over anywhere and everywhere, down to his belly where the muscles flex underneath the painted skin with every thrust.

"So good, you feel s-so good Johnny." You're becoming even more petulant but he doesn't mind, not when you're clinging onto his biceps and mewling his name. He slips his tongue into your mouth while his hands cup the back of your knees, hiking your thighs up higher around his middle.

Your skin burns where he touches, his pace increasing and now you wouldn't be surprised if the neighbors knew exactly what it is that the two of you are doing, skin against skin and coos of pleasure echoing through your small apartment. You have a hard time forming thoughts that make sense.

"M' all the way up there baby," his voice is deceivingly sweet, hips dangerous and borderline ruthless now that you two are drenched in the essence of lust and desire, driven by your need to come undone. "such a sweet pussy."

He means it, too. Maybe that's what makes this all so much more enthralling. From the clench of his taut jaw, to the way his dark eyebrows are furrowed, even the crimson of his lips from the way he's been biting down on them - Johnny is nothing but honest. It's somehow stripped you of the shyness you'd normally be harboring, compelling your mouth to speak without a filter.

"It's all yours, I'm yours."

This seems to spur him on, more than you thought because now he's all but cradling you in his arms, mouthing his words against your lips, not allowing even a centimeter of space to reside between the two of your bodies. It feels whole, complete.

"Mm, yeah sweetheart? Mine. Fuck, you're all mine."

It's a growled statement and you quiver against his solid form, warmed from the inside out like a furnace and set ablaze. You're still sensitive from his mouth but that doesn't change the orb of pressure within your belly, or the waves of pleasure that spread through your thighs and up your spine from the way your clit is rubbing against his pelvis while his cock reaches new depths.

You should've known his mouth would be filthy, and it's really ticking every box you've literally ever needed to be ticked and you're sort of embarrassed by how far gone you are already, properly mewling with your fingers gripping onto his bulged biceps where he uses them to hold himself up.

His face is a sight to behold in itself, as well - plush lips parted, cheeks hot and a shade of deep, ravishing plum. If he weren't steadily hitting that sweet spot inside of you maybe you'd actually be able to keep your eyes open long enough to admire it more - but it's obvious it won't be long until you're unraveling.

He's thankful, in a way. Because you're sighing out sweet words that profess how good he's doing, and he swears that he's never felt anything as good as this. Through and through. You're made for him, wrapped around his being, tight like cellophane and it's silly but this is all he's dreamed of for months.

"Open your eyes sweetheart," his hips stutter at the same time you involuntarily squeeze around the tip of his cock as he goes to seep back into you and you're drawn to the plead of his voice. "let me - fuck, let me be yours, please?"

His voice is honey, coating you in it's sweetness and you're teetering on the edge of your release. It beckons you soothingly, like a siren in the wake of a wave and it doesn't calm when you pull him down to your mouth by the nape of his neck, your shared groans being swallowed by the other. Your thighs are a vice around his waist, keeping him locked against you as he grinds his cock into you.

"You're mine, J-John- oh, oh please." His fingers have reached down in the limited space between your shared skin to rub your clit in circles and you know this is it - mind and body completely encircled by everything he's made of, the scent of his skin and the heat of his body and even the way he says your name.

"Want you to cum for me, please, please cum for me baby." His breath is warm against your ear, a vibration that wracks through all of your senses and your body knows it's coming before you do - instantly under the influence of his begs and pleas.

You're descending, voice nothing but a gasp and an echo of an expletive when the dam inside of you finally bursts - leaving you to tremble like a leaf beneath him while the feeling threatens to consume you inch by inch, nerve by nerve.

You've all but gone limp, bright dots of light flitting through your vision and you feel his mouth everywhere, like a soft, warm reassurance that he's not going anywhere while you spasm around him.

"Just like that, oh fuck, yeah just like that."

In this place of completeness, you bask in the rise in octave of his usually low timbred voice, in the way he's holding you so firmly in his arms, as if scared to let go and put even an inch of separation between the two of you.

You're still twitching when you feel him throb inside of you, your name a warm whisper against the side of your neck while he pumps himself into you with no real rhythm; filling the condom with spurts of his cum while your fingers gently scratch the back of his scalp, through his hair.

Your breaths are ragged and have only that in common, his weight comforting despite the fact that both of you are in such a fragile state. It all feels surreal, like maybe you’ll wake up soon even with his cock still buried inside of you, half hard. More than anything, it feels right. Apprehension nor guilt nor worry brews underneath your skin, instead overshadowed by pure elation.

Wet pecks travel across your throat like marks of gratitude and your smile is automatic, involuntary.

"I meant it, you know," he's out of breath but concise, palm cupping the side of your face as he makes his way to your mouth and kisses you there, afraid to look you in the eyes. "about...about what I want. About wanting you."

You actually do laugh this time, suddenly outrageously giddy at the words leaving his pretty mouth, mildly entertained by the fact that someone could be almost as oblivious as you are. Almost.

He looks worried for only a split second until you're kissing his face, over his nose and fuchsia cheeks, a feather against the soft autumn ground.

"I meant it too," your voice is light, airy and he swears he'd believe anything you told him, even if it weren't as absolutely resolute as it is right now; your smile against his lips like a seal of promise. He meets your gaze, and everything within him calms, settles.

"I'm yours. And you're mine."

This, he thinks to himself, is all he's wanted to hear since the day you looked up at him with all the stars in your eyes.

Completely worth Jaehyun stealing his Armani denim jacket, honestly.

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saveourskinship · 3 years

Text

Truth and Lies

There are some lies we tell ourselves so often they become the truth. We revisit the memory of the truth and lie again and again until eventually all we are left with is the lie and the truth is buried in a sea of grey cells.

“Merlin but I hate Granger,” Draco said. Blaise wondered with how often he’d heard this, if he could coerce Draco giving him a Galleon every time it was uttered.

Though even with the vast Malfoy vaults Blaise thought he’d be able to bankrupt them by graduation.

“Did you SEE what she did today?” his friend vibrated with rage. More mirage than man.

“When it comes to Granger I employ the monkey principle,” Blaise drawled.

“The what? Say something sensible, Zabini!” Draco spat. Blaise desperately wanted to point out Draco’s lack of that particular virtue, but his beleaguered and tattered soul could not be, in a word, arsed.

Instead, he placed his hands reverently first over his eyes, then his ears, then his mouth.

When Draco sputtered at him for further explanation like a fish trying to give a lecture, he rolled his eyes and explained with all the weary put-uponness of Snape attempting to teach Longbottom something.

“See no, hear no, speak no evil,” he stoically blinked.

Draco’s eyes widened and he looked shocked, “She’s not... well, she’s not evil.”

“Isn’t she though?” Blaise sighed.

How often the witch was mentioned with insults traipsing after her name from his pale, annoying friend it seemed like she should be. She was certainly a nuisance but only because her presence rendered Draco a convulsing, frothing mess.

And she didn’t even seem to notice which was rather unsporting of her.

Blaise contemplated Granger outside the realm of Draco’s vitriol while his friend paced around flailing about the witch granting him a favour for Prefect rounds so he could still attend his Quidditch practices.

“She’s making me a target for everyone else, it’s like some sort of performative art piece on my so-called exceptionalism,” he was raving nonsensically.

“Actually, she’s quite pretty,” Blaise concluded.

Draco made a sound like the wind had been knocked out of him. It was deeply unattractive.

“Blaise, that’s - that’s disgusting,” Draco recoiled and shuddered the words out like he was gagging on the thought.

“She is, though. I might ask her to hang out, she’s not with Weasley anymore right?”

“But Blaise, her hair and her teeth and just - ugh!” Draco screwed up his nose.

“I admit, when we were younger her hair did tend to swamp her, but it suits her face now she’s grown. And thanks to you her teeth got fixed in fourth year,” he listed his head contemplatively towards the ceiling. “I’d go as far to say that Granger is hot now.”

“You did not just say that. Gross, Blaise, gross.”

Blaise just shrugged and let Draco flop into an armchair now that he’d tired himself out letting out the occasional repulsed scoff and glare in Blaise’s general direction.

The next morning Blaise sat next to Granger in Charms. He spoke to her and watched Draco nearly break out into a rash which was worth the perfunctory ‘Hello’ alone.

Turned out Granger had often summered in Florence, and they had a few of the same favourite spots in the city, including a particular gelateria near his palazzo. She was a fan of his mother’s music and all in all wasn’t horrible to talk to.

“I know about you and Ginny,” she whispered as they practiced wandless summoning charms.

He smirked at her, “Oh, yes? You must be terribly disappointed in her.”

She shook her head, “No, she seems very happy actually,” she gave him a genuine smile. “You should come to Hogsmeade with us next weekend. I think she’d like us to be friends.”

“Only if you convince her to come to Italy in July, she doesn’t think her family will approve. You can come, too, if you like,” he offered.

“I’m sure I can do that,” she winked at him, and Draco smacked himself in the face across the room when he failed to catch the book he was summoning.

Draco was feverish at lunch that day.

“What was with that perverted display in Charms, Zabini? It was utterly vile the way you two were looking at each other.”

“She asked me to go with her on the next Hogsmeade trip,” he replied easily. Casually. Like Draco wasn’t about to have a heart attack.

Sure enough, Draco slumped and paled like he’d lost all feeling down his left side.

“Oh, and she said she’d come to Italy with me in July,” he added, just to see if two sentences were enough to be the cause of death of his friend.

Almost. Draco went grey like he’d been embalmed and stiff with supposed rigor mortis. Sadly, he could still speak so it wasn’t the devastating mortal blow Blaise had hoped for.

“But Blaise, July is when I’m going to be in Italy with you, too,” his voice dead and hollow.

“Mm, well, I’ll need someone to entertain Granger while I spend time with my girlfriend so do you think once you’re away from school and Slytherin and your family you can be civil to her?” Blaise blandly asked, buttering a bread roll and briefly catching Ginny’s eye while Granger spoke to her.

His witch gave him an adorable smile and blushed.

“Girlfriend?” Draco gaped. “You don’t have a girlfriend.”

“No, you don’t have a girlfriend,” Blaise corrected him. “I always have a girlfriend but I’m quite serious about this one.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at him, “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

Blaise shrugged, “With a terribly unorthodox method, but it seems to be working.”

“And what would that be?” Draco scornfully retorted.

Blaise fixed him with a stare, one that went deep into his friend and tried to coax out that so very buried truth in him, “With kindness, obviously.”

Draco darted his eyes around trying to figure it out.

“The palazzo has a lovely pool,” Blaise mused. “I wonder how much Granger likes swimming.”

Draco attempted to drown himself in his pumpkin juice. Blaise pulled him back from the brink with a firm hand on his shoulder and a low word in his ear.

“Do you really hate her, mate?” directing a nod towards where Granger was prettily talking to Ginny and prettily blowing on a spoonful of soup and prettily tucking a curl behind her ear.

“Oh,” Draco said with a spasm of surprise. “Ohh.”

Blaise clapped him once and went back to eating. Things were silent for a bit.

“So, Italy in July, right?” Draco queried with an excited tremor.

See that’s the thing about truths, they’ll always be stronger than a lie. It just takes the right set of circumstances to have them bob right up to the surface again.

Blaise smiled, “Yeah,” he said watching his friend light up. “Maybe even August, too.”

#dramione #draco x hermione #blinny #blaise x ginny #ficlet #"the 'oh' factor

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qitwrites · 3 years

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⬅ Previous || 11 || Next ➡

The hoodie incident begins with Kaminari, as most absentminded things do in the dorm.

It’s a cold Saturday morning, and Kaminari can’t find his hoodie anywhere. He briefly looks through his room, the common room, the dishwasher (because it’s happened before and no, he would not like to comment), and the courtyard before deciding he’s probably lost it. Just as he starts to make his way back, with plans to stop by Ashido’s or Kirishima’s room for a spare jacket, the jingle of a machine stops him in his tracks.

It’s the sound of a dryer that’s completed its cycle.

Kaminari doesn’t remember the last time he did his laundry but decides its worth a look anyway. He ventures into the laundry room, and when he sees the familiar shade of yellow, slightly worn out and well-loved but vibrant yellow nonetheless, he picks it up from the basket and beams.

‘How did you get here?’ he muses and puts it on with a satisfied sigh. He doesn’t question why the hoodie is so warm, or why it smells like fresh detergent, or how it’s way too big in pretty much every single way. He just decides that it’s his and leaves for his room.

Satou, for the life of him, cannot find his yellow hoodie.

It was in the laundry basket when he’d left to go grab a glass of water, and it’s gone by the time he gets back. It’s a whole ass mystery honestly.

It’s too cold to be without a hoodie, so Satou decides to borrow one from Kouda for the time being, and figure it out later. Kouda hands him a purple one with chewed up drawstrings and a front pouch pocket that sheds lint, and Satou gives him a huge grin as thanks.

This works out fine for everyone so far, but then Kouda drops some milk on his only other hoodie an hour later, and he can’t ask for the one he gave Satou back because Satou hasn’t found his either. So, Kouda just goes to Shoji and asks if he has any jackets to spare. Shoji, ever the minimalist, has a limited collection of clothes, but there is a sleeveless jacket, dark and warm, on a hanger in his closet that he happily hands over to Kouda.

Shoji is a pretty warm-blooded person, but the day is quite cold. When Tokoyami sees him shiver once, almost imperceptibly, he goes to his closet and pulls out a sleeveless moto jacket, dark as midnight and lined with faux fur. It isn’t really Shoji’s style, but he appreciates the gesture and shrugs it on. It’s warm and smells like nothing, and they go back to watching a YouTube documentary on Tokoyami’s floor, with Dark Shadow curled up nearby.

Dark shadow has the biggest soft spot for Tsuyu, so when Tokoyami is in the common room chatting with Iida and Ojiro later in the day, Dark Shadow sneaks off towards Tsuyu and tells her Tokoyami is feeling a bit cold, and happily takes the offered green jacket. He hides it away from Tokoyami the best he can.

Tsuyu, with her frog like disposition, does not do well with the cold. In fact, it’s one of her biggest vices, so the minute her jacket is gone, she feels herself seize up. Jirou walks by a few minutes later to see Tsuyu curled up on the couch, not moving and dressed too lightly.

‘Tsuyu,’ she shouts, rushing towards the green haired girl while pulling her hoodie off. She gently nudges Tsuyu into the material of her maroon hoodie, and Tsuyu finally exhales, warmth seeping into her extremities. She gives Jirou a happy smile.

‘Thank you,’ she croaks, and Jirou pats her head before plopping down on the couch next to her.

Jirou feels the cold soon enough, even as she snuggles into Tsuyu, but she doesn’t want to go to her room and pull on another jacket. She’s having fun watching a music concert on TV while others talk in the space around them. It’s homely, and she’s scared of breaking the moment by leaving, because they don’t get moments like this very often. Moments where everything is normal, or as close to normal as they can get, and the air is calm and the dust settles in random pools of sunlight streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the hall. So she just sits and waits.

Bakugou shows up 45 minutes into the concert, a black and orange hoodie draped over his arm. He leaves it on the couch next to Jirou as he walks over to the kitchen to refill his bottle, and because Jirou lives to irritate the ever-loving shit out of Bakugou, she simply picks the hoodie up and pulls it on. The material is soft and cool and smells of fabric softener. The sleeves are more worn out than the rest of the hoodie, tiny holes and jagged corners littering the cloth sporadically. Tsuyu gives Jirou a nod of approval, and she returns it with a cocky smirk of her own.

Bakugou takes one look at the back of the couch, one look at the girls, one more look at the back of the couch before he snarls, exploding the bottle in his hands and spraying water everywhere.

‘I’ll KILL you.’

‘Try me,’ Jirou taunts drily, not moving her eyes from the screen. Tsuyu protectively curls into her, and the two slump lower into the couch.

Bakugou takes one step towards them when Kirishima, sunshine Kirishima, Bakugou tamer Kirishima, the lord and savior Kirishima steps into the room, takes one look at Bakugou’s expression, another at Jirou’s frame covered in black and orange before shrugging off his green hoodie and stuffing it over Bakugou’s head, wrestling him into it. The blonde yells and kicks the whole time but lets it happen because Kirishima’s hoodie is warm, slightly oversized, ridiculously comfortable and smells safe.

‘You’re going to train right?’ Kirishima asks with a wide grin. ‘Let me come with ya! I’ll let you beat me up as much as you’d like.’

Bakugou snarls in Jirou’s direction one more time but surprisingly relents, pulling Kirishima away by the collar of his shirt.

‘Clean that shit up,’ he shouts over his shoulder at Jirou, referring to the exploded water bottle in the middle of the room.

‘Ok mom,’ she shouts back, and sniggers at the yells of fuck you and shitty hair let me go I will end her. Messing with Bakugou is the best. She waits for the hour mark to pass on the concert before getting up to find a mop and a dustpan.

Kirishima and Bakugou train for upwards of 2 hours, oscillating between working their quirks till their bodies ache and sparring without their quirks to strengthen their bodies. Their fights look like they’re dancing, so attuned are they to each other’s movements, so familiar with each other’s fighting styles, it’s almost art. Bakugou is faster, more agile, and hits where it hurts, but Kirishima is an immovable, unbreakable wall, taking hit after hit and pushing back, standing strong, giving as good as he gets.

They’re drenched in sweat by the end of it, and Bakugou pulls on the green hoodie as the cold seeps in, giving Kirishima a feral smile.

‘Shouldn’t have let ears steal mine,’ he smirks, before sauntering over to the vending machine to get himself a hot drink. Kirishima just shrugs with a smile, and lays down on the ground, slowly stretching out his hamstrings. He’s always run a bit warm, so the cold isn’t anything unbearable, and he doesn’t mind Bakugou wearing his hoodie. The blonde doesn’t do well in the cold at all, so he’s a lot more manageable when he’s warmed up.

Kirishima twists to the side and something under one of the exercise mats catches his eye. He rolls over to it and picks it up and finds an off-white jacket roughly in his size. He feels like he’s seen it before, so he just shrugs and pulls it on. It’s a nice thick material, and fits just right, maybe erring on the side of tight around his shoulders. Bakugou comes back, cocks his eyebrow at the jacket but doesn’t say anything.

He throws a drink at Kirishima and starts walking back to the dorms. Kirishima smiles at the warm coffee in his hands and runs to catch up, launching into a story about a kitten, a tree, and a stupid idea.

‘Can we drop by the gym? I think I left my jacket there,’ Ojiro says to Tenya as they walk towards the main entrance. Tenya had expressed his desire to go out for a walk, and Ojiro, who’d been in earshot, had decided to tag along, having felt cooped up from sitting inside the dorm building all day. Iida agrees enthusiastically and they begin walking to the gym, passing Kirishima and Bakugou on the way.

It isn’t until Kirishima is out of earshot that Ojiro realizes the guy is wearing his jacket, and when he watches the red head walk into the dorm, he decides he doesn’t really mind. He didn’t want the jacket back cause he’s feeling cold per se, he just wanted to make sure he got it back. He can pick it up from Kirishima later he decides.

‘On second thought, I think I’ll look for it later,’ Ojiro murmurs, and Iida shoots him a confused look. They start moving away from the gym, heading down a well-worn path often traversed by the students and talk about upcoming hero movies and its easy and fun and the sun is bright not harsh. It’s a perfect day for a walk.

Iida and Ojiro get surprisingly into their conversation that they don’t even notice someone is yelling at them and when the earth just sort of vanishes beneath Ojiro’s feet, he yelps out loud.

He looks over to see Iida’s eyes widened in surprise and then there’s black tendrils wrapping around their hips as they’re yanked back. Looking down, Ojiro’s stomach whoops at the wide chasm, as if at the edge of a cliff. He might’ve been super invested in his conversation with Iida, but there’s no way they missed the edge of a cliff, right? Also, was there always a cliff here? What the hell?

‘Guys.’ They look up to see Midoriya standing there, pulling them up with his black whip. He’s like a guardian angel, but he’s still not great with it so when he yanks them up, they land pretty hard on their sides, and Ojiro lands in a mysterious puddle of water, effectively soaked to the bone.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Midoriya gushes, rushing towards them. ‘Shit, I didn’t mean to put you guys down so hard, are you alright?’

Iida gets up, fortunate enough to not have landed in a puddle of water and straightens his glasses. ‘What is going on? Where did this cliff come from?’

Midoriya shrugs. ‘The land seems to be giving out weirdly. I was out here doing some strength training and the land just crumbled away. It reappears after some time. Also, it’s not a cliff.’ He points at the spot he just pulled them from. ‘Seems like a quirk, some kind of illusion one. The land had given away and the fall is steep, but it’s not a cliff. Just looks like one.’

Ojiro’s head spins with the random assortment of info, but he has more pressing problems to deal with. His soaked shirt is making him shiver, and it feels icky against his skin.

‘Oh, you must be cold,’ Midoriya notices immediately, and before Ojiro can say he’s fine, Midoriya shrugs off his All might hoodie and holds it out for Ojiro. ‘You can pull your shirt off and use this for now! It’ll suck if you get sick.’

Ojiro almost says he’s ok, but he’s getting colder and colder and the hoodie looks so warm and inviting so he decides screw it and peels his shirt off, shuddering when the cold air nips at his skin. He quickly tries to brush off any stray droplets before tugging on the hoodie, and sighs at the warmth he’s enveloped in. Midoriya is like a furnace apparently, and it’s wonderful. He gives the green-haired man a warm smile.

‘Thanks man.’

‘No problem!’ Midoriya says. ‘I think I’ll go back to the dorms and give everyone a heads up about this, maybe tell Aizawa-sensei as well. Will you guys be ok?’

‘We will be fine,’ Iida says, hands rigidly gesticulating in the space between them. ‘Ojiro and I will survey the land around and see if there’s anything we’re missing. We will be careful, so do not worry about us Midoriya.’

Midoriya flashes them an easy smile and with a wave, he makes his way back to the dorm.

Midoriya loves that hoodie, an old All Might piece that’s a tad big for him but warm, warmer than most of his clothes. He’ll ask Ojiro for it later he decides, slowly trekking back to the dorms. The whole floor giving away and light playing tricks business seemed more silly than villainous, but anyway, it made sense to bring a teacher into the loop to deal with it accordingly.

As he walks back to the dorms, the sweat on his body cools and chills him to the bone, and Midoriya misses his All Might sweater with a vengeance. Rubbing his hands along his arms, Midoriya picks up the pace and sighs in relief when the dorms come into view. He’s maybe 150 meters away when a familiar voice calls out to him.

‘Midoriya.’

Todoroki looks comfy and fashionable in a beige coat, a white shirt, and trousers paired with semi-formal shoes. Midoriya puts it together and realizes he’s coming back from one of his hospital visits, and gives him a warm, familial smile.

‘Welcome back, Todoroki. What’s up?’

Todoroki nods at him, smile small and hesitant, but there. It’s so much progress from where they started, like he’s thawing and cracking the ice around his soul.

‘Just got back. What are you up to? And why aren’t you wearing a jacket, it’s a bit cold outside, isn’t it?’

For Todoroki, the jacket is more for show than a necessity, considering his temperature quirk. He’d once told Midoriya that by using clothing to regulate his body temp it allows him to conserve energy, but overall it wasn’t too much of an effort for him to regulate himself on the daily. It’s all so fascinating, and Midoriya has like 4 pages worth of notes on this alone.

‘It’s a long story,’ Midoriya laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. He gestures for the dorm entrance. ‘Should we head in?’

Todoroki nods again, and Midoriya starts walking, trying to find things to talk about. He knows Todoroki’s hospital visits leave him feeling a little lost, a little sad, a little drained. He’s deciding between a new hero analysis he did about Sniper and a puppy rescue video he watched on Instagram when a coat is placed over his shoulder, extra warm on the left. He startles at that, turning to look at Todoroki with wide eyes.

Todoroki acts like he’s done nothing and starts the conversation instead. ‘On the way here, in the train, I saw someone wearing a tomato costume. I am confused, to say the least.’

And they don’t speak of the jacket. Midoriya slips his hands through the sleeves, pulling it around himself tightly and laughs at the imagery in his head. Todoroki’s soul thaws a little bit more and they walk to the dorm, contemplating why anyone would be in costume outside of Halloween.

They part ways when Midoriya says he wants to talk to Aizawa, and Todoroki heads to his room in a lighter mood. It seems to be a pretty common occurrence once he talks to Midoriya. Though, if he’s being honest, that seems to be the case with most people that speak to Midoriya, with the exception of Bakugou.

Todoroki settles into his room for the evening, content with just reading his manga and maybe getting some homework done when he hears a knock on his door. Bookmarking his spot in the manga, Todoroki walks to the door and opens it to find a grinning Sero.

‘Hey man, got a minute?’

Todoroki nods, and gestures for Sero to come inside.

His friendship with Sero is strange. It’s strange because it’s effortless. Sero doesn’t push him to talk or open up, he doesn’t question him, doesn’t stare at him because of his dad, doesn’t ask about his scar or his family, doesn’t really say much at all. They share comfortable silences, and Sero shows him new music, new clothes, and new stories. Todoroki, in turn, shares his mangas, advice about training, and his love for Soba.

Sero walks into his room and sits at the low table, placing a cloth bag on it. When Todoroki sits in front of him, he pushes the bag towards him.

‘For you!’

Todoroki’s eyes shoot up in surprise and he carefully opens the bag. Inside he finds a jacket, made from a cloth that is brick red, the material cotton soft and breathable. It’s cut like a short kimono, and the patterns are simple and subtle. It looks very much like the clothing Sero normally wears, kinda bohemian.

‘Mom sent me a care package, and I think I talked about you a lot on the phone, so she included this for you as well! Apparently she found it at a nice boutique or something.’

Todoroki isn’t used to friends, much less gifts from said friends. Something inside his chest shifts, and he hugs the jacket to his chest.

‘Thank you.’ His voice shakes just the slightest bit.

Sero’s laugh is warm. ‘Try it on man! I need to take a picture and send it to my mom or she’ll think I kept it for myself.’

Todoroki pulls the jacket on slowly, and Sero whistles low.

‘Damn, looks so good! The shoulders fit nicely too. Do you like it?’

Todoroki nods. ‘It’s very comfortable. Please tell your mother I said thank you.’

‘Fo sure, fo sure. Can I get a picture?’

Todoroki is awkward as all hell when it comes to pictures, but he agrees, and Sero takes one mercifully quickly. When they both stand up, Sero walks over to him, throws an arm over his shoulder and pulls him close for another picture. Todoroki throws up a peace sign, something he’s seen the others do just to have something to do with his hands.

‘This one’s real nice!’ Sero says, admiring the photo.

‘Send it to me later.’

Sero reaches out for a fistbump that Todoroki returns. ‘Sounds good yo. I’m gonna get going, I’ll catch you later yeah?’

Todoroki nods and with that, Sero leaves his room. Todoroki belatedly realizes that the jacket smells like Sero- like sandalwood and fresh tea. Perhaps his family smells like that. The thought twists that little something in his chest even more.

Tonight is act-like-bakugou-will-only-cook-for-himself-and-eat-the-“leftovers”-that-can-somehow-feed-the-entire-class night and Sero loves to stand by the kitchen isle and contribute with his stellar sense of humor. Watching Bakugou create mini-explosions and scream bloody murder is just a bonus.

When he gets there, the blonde is already working on dinner, clad in a green hoodie that looks a lot like the one Kirishima wears. Sero takes a seat by the kitchen island and pulls his phone out to scroll through some memes when he suddenly finds himself assaulted by a face-full of glitter.

Gasping, Sero leans back in his chair and falls on his ass, the glitter coming with him. He hears shouting and laughing and someone saying You have, and please excuse my French, pretty shitty taste Monsieur and Sero is so confused.

When he pulls the lump of glitter away, he realizes it’s a jacket, a sequined jacket that’s a bright, bright gold. It’s soft in his hands, and the inner lining feels like actual silk.

‘What-‘

‘It’s Aoyama’s,’ Kirishima says, pulling Sero to his feet. ‘I got here right when Bakugou yelled you fucking walking disco ball little shit and Aoyama decided throwing the jacket was the way to go. Clearly,’ Kirishima gestures at him, ‘he missed.’

Sero laughs and holds up the jacket. He turns it in his hand and takes a closer look at the fit and the material. Considering it’s Aoyama, he shouldn’t be surprised, but the jacket is actually the perfect balance between tacky and really, really nice. Sero looks over at the two blondes yelling at each other, Bakugou brandishing a spatula while Aoyama threatens him with his navel laser and Sero just shrugs and pulls the jacket on.

It fits like a dream, comfortable on his bones, the length perfect even on his tall frame. He adjusts the sleeves and is surprised by how deep the pockets on the inside are. When he looks up again, everyone is staring at him.

Sero clears his throat self-consciously. ‘What?’

‘It looks good on you Monsieur,’ Aoyama says with an actual sparkle in his eye.

‘Damn Hanta, looking like a whole-ass meal,’ Kirishima cheers, and even Bakugou has a quirked brow. He gives him a small nod and then snorts, ‘Still looks like a shiny voltorb.’

‘I’ll take the compliment,’ Sero grins, shaking his torso this way and that. The light catches in these fun and trippy ways, and Kirishima playfully shields his eyes. Aoyama bounds over to him and winks. ‘That’s not all.’

He runs his hands up Sero’s arms, and the gold glitter turns to silver, and Kirishima squeals.

‘That’s so cool!’

Sero runs his own hand up the sides and he feels like a child again, and it’s amazing.

He looks at Kirishima. ‘Want to try drawing a penis on the back?’

Kirishima howls, Bakugou throws a spatula at Sero, and Aoyama looks rightfully horrified. He lets Sero take the jacket anyway.

Iida is not happy when he finds Aoyama in a sleeveless jersey when its cold enough to see your breath, so he lectures him for a good 4 minutes before handing over his track suit jacket. Aoyama wears it with a grumble of All my twinkling has died a painful death.

Uraraka drapes her shrug over a napping Iida sprawled across the couch after a long day, belly full of Bakugou’s amazing food. She pulls his glasses off and keeps it on the table, tucks the sleeves against Iida’s body and hopes the make-shift blanket works.

Mina thinks Uraraka’s outfit is missing something and throws a denim jacket on her from her own closet, a cute cropped piece with some artfully placed rips. Uraraka beams at it, digging her hands deep into the front pockets and posing for a picture.

Momo watches this happen and shyly offers her own chunky sweater to Mina, asking her to make an outfit around it. Mina smashes the challenge, and the end result is so good that Momo insists she keep the jacket, claiming she can honestly just make her own, even though they both know she won’t, because, you know, Momo is the most conscientious person ever that actually cares about the economy.

When the night winds down and everyone finds themselves sprawled over the couches and each other, Hagakure follows Uraraka’s example and pulls her bomber jacket off before draping it over Momo and herself, a make-shift blanket. Momo huffs out an amused laugh and pulls the invisible girl closer. The night is cold, but the common space is just warm embers and crackling fires and the smell of smores.

And finally, just before bed, Shinsou decides to tackle the mountain of clothes on his chair. He hangs the jackets, folds the pants and shirts, and rolls up the socks. At the very bottom of the pile is a well-loved, slightly faded but still ridiculously bright yellow hoodie that belongs to the one and only. Shinsou huffs in amusement, and proceeds to pull it on before climbing into bed.

The hoodie incident begins with Kaminari, as most absentminded things do in the dorm.

It doesn’t really end though.

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aria-i-adagio · 3 years

Text

Fourth Try’s Not the Charm

for @autumnofanders Day 3: Kinloch

Wordcount: ~2100 Rating: T

CW: templar abuse, imprisonment, hurt/comfort

Anders didn’t plan his fourth escape from Kinloch Hold. It was a crime of opportunity. About two months after his Harrowing, some of the senior enchanters talked the Greagoir into letting them take the recently harrowed mages outside to teach them some spells that could be used with water - in the water. Supposedly, they could be trusted now. Allowed a bit more leeway.

He wasn't planning on doing anything except enjoying the sun, but once he's mastered a spell that creates an artificial current - intended to propel a boat - well, it only made sense to see if the same spell would work for a human body.

Yes.

And by the grace of Andraste or some other power, no one notices when he takes as deep of a breath as he can manage, ducks under the water, and reemerges a good fifty yards closer to shore.

Anders hides out on an overgrown bank for the rest of the day, then steals some clothes from a line and a handful or two of carrots from the ground in the little village beside the docks, and then he's gone.

It takes them one month and five days to find him in Amaranthine.

Anders is already pretty beat up when they get him back to the Tower. Greagoir is infuriated - angrier than Anders has ever seen him - and orders a public whipping to get his point across. Thirty lashes. Anders tells himself that he’ll live through that... he thinks. After about ten or so, his mind just sort of drops out, floats away, to nowhere in particular. Just somewhere very, very far away. He’s not really conscious again until someone tosses a bucket of salted water across his back, then two knights are hauling him down the steps and dumping him face-first onto a thin mattress.

The next time he’s aware of anything there’s a woman arguing with the guards outside the door.

“Sorry, ma'am, but the Knight-Commander wants him to be an example.”

“He won't make a very good example if he's dead, will he?” A very stern, determined woman. Wynne. Just what he needs. A warm, maternal tongue lashing. “Let me through. I won't do anything other than drive out infection.”

“Let her pass. Drop the dampening wards for her as well.”

The door creaks open. Anders can’t tell if the light in the cell increases. His face is too well hidden in his arms. Wynne touches his bicep and shakes him until he groans and turns his head to the side. “Hi, Mom.”

“You are the damnedest fool I’ve ever met.” Wynne tweaks his ear. “Don't you realize how much trouble you create for the rest of us? How worried some of us were about you?”

“I'm not the problem. If they didn’t -”

She sighs. “I’ve heard all of this from you before. You’re old enough to know better.”

Heat radiates from her hands as they hover over Anders’ back. It’s not a full healing spell, but it will keep the open welts from getting infected. And possibly calm the fever that Anders can tell is running dangerously high. Might get an interesting dream or two out of it to pass the time.

“That’s all I’m allowed to do.” Wynne gathers his hair at the base of his neck and brushes the back of her hand over his temple and cheek. “They're leaving you down here for two months and ten days, Anders.”

“Ah, I'll get caught up on my sleep.”

“Don’t jest. I suggest using the time to pray for some wisdom.” She pats his cheek and stands up. “You're smarter than this. You have a lot to offer if you would just learn to accept reality.”

***

Light. Even the limited light of Kinloch Hold’s entry hall is more than Anders can hand;e after two months and change in the dark. An unsympathetic Templar shoves him toward the door that leads into the library. They’re done taking him apart. If any of the other mages want to bother putting him back together, he’s their problem now.

Karl grabs him almost as soon he staggers into the library and shakes him by the shoulders. “You moron.” Then he leans close and kisses him. “You fucking idiot.”

Anders winces at the contact. A kick in the side is about as much human interaction as he’s experienced in the past... however long. In the dark, time collapses and expands in unpredictable ways.

Dark. His vision goes dark around the edges, and his knees give up.

Karl catches him and pulls Anders’ arm across his shoulder, holding him up. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Anders hadn’t had the time to fully explore the quarters where the mages who had survived the Harrowing but who weren’t yet enchanters slept. The baths off to the side are about the same as the ones in the apprentices’ dorm though. Cast iron tubs with chips in the enamel and a few folding screens to approximate privacy. Hand pumps for water. A drain in the floor for the same.

They’re on the second tub of water, and Anders is beginning to worry about just what Karl used as a bribe to get this much water and time. “I’m going to have to cut these out.” Karl has been trying for what seems like hours now to work loose the mats in Anders’ hair. Or maybe they’ve only been here a few minutes; Anders isn’t sure.

“Go ahead,” he mumbles.

“Maker, baby...” Karl pushes lightly on the back of his head. Anders lets his chin fall forward onto his chest. The sound of metal scraping together grates against his ears as Karl begins snipping clumps out of his hair. Karl is careful, working slowly and pushing his fingers along Anders’ scalp to keep from cutting the skin by mistake. It’ll grow back. Just like skin does.

He rests his elbows on the edge of the tub and lets his fingers dangle in the water. It’s warm, he knows, but he can’t really feel it, any more than he could really feel the rough fabric of a washcloth scrubbing across his skin.

“What are you humming?” Karl is still trimming, maybe trying to even out the length.

“Am I humming?” Anders started singing to himself maybe a week, maybe two, after he was left alone. Then it turned to humming. He doesn’t even think about it now.

Karl leans around him, scoops up a double handful of water, and rinses out his hair. “There we go.” He presses his cheek against Anders, beard prickling against freshly shaven skin. “Let’s get you dried off and dressed. Do you want to try to walk a bit? The garden is still nice.”

Anders can’t find the energy to respond or even to raise his hand and investigate the feeling of short hair. Karl decides for him, guiding him to the kitchens and begging a bowl of soup and a thick chunk of bread from one of the Tranquil cooks. He sits across from Anders, watching as he eats. Anders doesn’t finish the food, his stomach starts to feel tight and painful before he’s even halfway through. He stares at the surface of the thin soup and stirs it absently.

“Can’t eat more? They’ve starved you too.” Karl reaches across the table and touches his face, frowning when Anders reflexively pulls away. “I’ve never seen your cheeks so hollow.”

“Shoulda left the beard then.”

Karl almost smiles. “Let’s try to stretch your legs a bit then.”

Even though the autumn day is overcast, the garden is almost too bright. Anders has to pull up the hood of his robe to shade his eyes before he can bear it, and he isn't able to walk far before he has to sit down on one of the stone benches. So much for running.

The walled garden is busy with mages trying to catch a bit of sun before winter sets in, but everyone except Karl gives him a wide berth. Anders has no complaints, he can barely manage to not cry with delight from hearing other human voices - or to panic because he’s no longer accustomed to hearing the sounds of people interacting with each other and going about their business.

How much he can stand to be touched comes and goes, but after the first several times Anders flinched away, Karl waits for him to initiate anything, not even daring to hold his hand. It’s probably safer for Karl if that remains the case. Anders just creates trouble for anyone who cares about him.

“You should go. They’ll be watching anyone with me.”

“Fuck that. Besides, I’m already marked.”

“I’m sorry, Karl.” Anders slumps against his shoulder, blinking rapidly in a futile attempt to not start crying. Maybe it’s just the light causing his eyes to water.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”

“Can we go back inside? I’m tired.” He hadn’t expected to be tired after spending so much time sleeping.

“Yes. If that’s what you want.”

***

Anders’ bed is just as he left it. No one had taken the opportunity to steal a desirable lower bunk tucked into the corner. A sign of respect? Or just Karl zealously guarding it? Who knows?

Anders crawls in and lays down gingerly on the mattress. His back is finally whole as of an hour or two ago when Karl peeled the filthy shirt off him, squeaked in dismay, and healed the one or two remaining welts that had been stubbornly refusing to close up. But Anders has gotten accustomed to moving with care to avoid reopening them. It’ll be some time before he’ll be able to bring himself to move carelessly, freely again.

Anders curls on his side and lays his head down on the large pillow, wrapping his arms around the much smaller one his mother gave him. The threads of the artful needlework are beginning to fade, much like the memory of her face.

Karl shakes out a blanket, drapes it over him, and starts to pull the curtains around the bed.

“No.” All the muscles in Anders’ body tighten, and his right calf spasms painfully. “Stop.”

Karl freezes. His eyes widen then soften with something between pity and pain of his own. Anders reaches out to him. “Will you stay with me? Please. Please don’t leave me alone. And not in the dark.”

Karl sits on the edge of the bed and strokes Anders’ hair. The short length transfers more of the sensation to his scalp, and Anders chokes back the sob that the gentle contact elicits.

“Do you want me to lay down with you?”

Anders nods. His throat is too tight to speak. Karl crawls into bed next to him and pulls the curtains around it partially closed, leaving at least some light streaming in. He folds one arm under his head and continues stroking Anders' hair and cheek.

“I’ve missed you,” Karl whispers.

Three, nearly four months, counting the time Anders was on the run and if in fact, Greagoir had only left him locked up for the time he first named and hadn’t conveniently forgotten about him for a few days or weeks more than promised.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not the problem. It’s this miserable place.”

“Keep talking.” Anders hasn't heard voices that weren't gruff commands in so long. “Please. Anything. Tell me what happened while I was...” His voice trails off.

“Hmm... Amaury finished his thesis. He’s got two apprentices now. One accidentally set a tree in the garden on fire last week. He let the Templars scramble for a minute or two before extinguishing it.”

Anders smiles, even if he can't quite find the strength to laugh.

“Speaking of Templars, two were caught at it in a stairwell the other day, and dear Knight-Captain Maude is furious because she'd been tupping one of them, but she can't say anything of course, because you know Greagoir frowns on cross rank relationships. So that's been a bit fun to watch.”

“Ah, so much honor and self-restraint from our selfless protectors.”

“As always. Let’s see... The Formari were asked to up their production of goods. I guess the Chantry didn’t get enough donations this year, or some Revered Mother wants new drapery for her halls. Pity that increased speed increases mistakes. Exponentially, of course.”

“Of course.” The Tranquil within the Formari might not care about being asked to do more, but the enchanters would find subtle ways to indicate their displeasure.

“Enchanter Ines managed to arrange another research trip, so every mage with any training in botany or herbalism is jockeying for a position. Have you ever seen what happens when a growth spell is cast on a fly trap?”

“Please tell me the overgrown carnivorous plant caught a Templar.” Anders manages a chuckle. “I should ask to go. Ines loves me. Maybe I could take a vow of silence."

"Now, now -” Karl kisses the tip of his nose. “Don't make promises you can’t keep.”

#autumnofanders #dragon age fanfiction #anders #karl thekla

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asset35-maya · 3 years

Text

MANMADE FATE

PART THREE OF THREE

Links to Part One and Part Two. Full text on AO3.

“So this is it. The top of the world.”

“Not a bad view for fifty million, but it definitely isn’t the top.”

The pop of a cork made Gavin tear his gaze abruptly from the spectacular skyline. Sighing, he accepted the brimming flute of champagne.

“So are we at least halfway there?

Elijah took a measured sip.

“Not even. But don’t worry, our self-learning algorithms are indisputably leading edge.”

Gavin nodded slowly, swirling the golden liquid around in his glass but not drinking it.

“About that, Eli… I know we’re celebrating Chloe’s Turing test results tonight… but shouldn’t we talk about… you know… the endgame?”

“What about it?”

“Whether it’s fundamentally ethical.”

Elijah took his glasses off, cleaning them with the edge of his shirt in a way that told Gavin a lecture or pep-talk was coming. He wasn’t in the mood for either.

“You and I both know where this is going, Eli. The hardware may take time to catch up with the software, but our neural networks are already on the path to sentience.”

“You always did watch too many movies. There is no Skynet-type situation-”

“How do you know? How the phck do you know? Did you code against it?”

His brother’s calm silence told him all he needed to know.

“Eli…”

“Gavin, we will never lose control of the tools we ourselves built. We just need to adjust the wire-fences as the programming matures.”

“What happens when we hit singularity?”

An indulgent smile spread across Elijah’s face as he lifted the champagne bottle. He was merely a couple of months older than Gavin, but he reveled in the big brother act. It used to be amusing, but now it was getting under Gavin’s skin.

“Isn’t that what we’re celebrating?”

“Chloe? No… No! Is that how she passed the… Eli! I wrote those deep learning algorithms for factory automation. Not humanoid robots!”

“What does it matter? All our work is going to converge at some point.”

“Shouldn’t we talk about this kind of thing? I thought we were partners.”

“Of course we are, Gav. It’s just between all the investor meetings and presentations and-”

“And maybe you knew it was wrong so you didn’t tell me until you did it.”

Elijah continued to pretend to clean his glasses.

“I did nothing wrong, Gav. You remember what our father told us? There comes a time in every businessman’s life where they’re faced with the choice between doing the right thing and the good thing. I just chose the best thing. You’ll see why soon enough.”

“Your father is a liar and a cheat. How does someone as smart as you put any stock in the words of a man who ruined two happy marriages?!”

Elijah’s face snapped up. His glasses were back on but the intellectual demeanor had finally melted away.

“Watch your mouth. He gave you everything your mother’s husband couldn’t.”

“My dad gave me plenty.”

“Cyberlife would have never got off the ground if our startup capital was some low-ranking officer’s pension. Imagine if we took business advice from the police handbook of moral values. We’d have washed out and gone back to tutoring undergrads. Keep your Reed ethics to yourself if you want to live like a Kamski.”

The air in the penthouse apartment turned frosty despite the centralized heating. Both brothers stared mutely at each other over the expensive champagne.

It was a rupture they never recovered from.

Gavin regretted how quickly it had happened. He played his own words back over and over in his head. Both his relationship with his brother and his entire robotics career had ended within seconds. Fifteen years later, he still didn’t understand how things had gone so wrong.

In the early hours of the morning, slumped against the squashy leather couch, Gavin stared through the same window at the same spectacular skyline of the same damned city.

Soft footsteps approached and the couch dipped beside him. A head landed on his shoulder and a hand slipped into his.

“Are you alright?”

“It’s all good, babes. Just thinking.”

Connor hummed in response and cuddled closer, tucking his arm into Gavin’s. His LED spun yellow and his lips quirked into a smile.

“Nines wants to know what on earth is keeping you out of bed. He likes it when you lay on top of him.”

Gavin tilted Connor’s face upwards and kissed him squarely on the mouth. He trusted that the sensation would be conveyed to both androids.

“Be back in a bit. Just sorting through some shit in my head. All the mysteries of life… Nines included.”

Connor nodded and sank back into the cushions. He stayed silent and several moments passed. Streaks of color began to appear in the sky when Gavin spoke again.

“I just can’t figure out why they left him at that secure location. Nines is a great guy… but what on earth is so special about him?”

Connor tapped his foot playfully with his own.

“I don’t think I can give you an unbiased answer to that question.”

“Neither can I, dipshit. We both got it bad.”

“Then maybe that’s what it is.”

“What?”

“How easy it was to fall for him. That’s what’s special about Nines.”

There was a long silence as Gavin considered that statement. It was probably the first proper moment of reflection since their already unconventional relationship had expanded to include a third.

“He’s really sweet… and kind… and I can tell he feels grateful but not indebted to us. Plus he’s hilarious. Like how does he find so many ways to laugh at his predicament? Nines… is a total charmer. How does he have so much game? Who taught him that?”

Connor’s expression had gone incredibly soft. He leaned even more into Gavin’s side.

“No one. He’s deviant.”

The gears turned and something clicked in Gavin’s brain. He stiffened.

“Say that again, babe.”

“He’s… deviant…?”

“Uh huh. Now tell me when exactly you put the virus into his system.”

The chocolate brown eyes widened.

“I didn’t… do you think someone else-”

“No, he said we’re the first people he’s ever met. I’m inclined to believe him. There’s no evidence of anyone tampering with his system and frankly, if we couldn’t do it, then I don’t think anyone else would have been able to.”

“He is deviant, though, right?”

“You kidding? He’s the phcking embodiment of free will. If only we knew how-”

Gavin was about to lurch upwards but fell back against the couch as Connor maintained the possessive grip on his arm.

“Gav… I think it’s time.”

“To head back to bed? Yeah. Nines must be getting lonely without us.”

“Gav. The crux of the matter is his deviancy.”

“Uh huh.”

“There’s only one man I trust on the topic.”

Gavin’s eyes darkened.

“I’ll never crack Nines’ activation code without tapping on Cyberlife’s cloud computing. They’ll know instantly that something’s up. We can’t brute-force this, Gav. Plus, we still need to find out what Nines has to do with the Singularity that North was talking about. We tried hard and now we’re hitting a wall.

It’s time, Gav. You need to speak to your brother.”

Gavin had not so much as raised his voice at Connor since the night he’d found him soaked in North’s blood on the floor of the evidence room… but in that moment, he struggled to fight off the most violent of reactions.

He wrenched his arm out of Connor’s grasp and marched into the kitchen, counting to ten and blinking back tears.

“Leave me al- how dare- I don’t wanna- go-”

A hand closed around his wrist and pulled him to a stop. One of the android’s eyes had turned blue and when he opened his mouth, two voices were audible, one deeper than the other.

“Talk to us.”

Gavin sighed and pressed his forehead against Connor’s… and effectively, Nines’…

“I haven’t seen Elijah in fifteen years.”

“No better time for a reunion.”

“There couldn’t be a worse reason to go see him. The idea of artificial intelligence gaining free will is kinda what we fell out over.”

Connor responded in his own voice.

“How do you know he hasn’t changed his mind?”

“Certain convictions don’t change over entire lifetimes. This is one of them.”

A gentle kiss was pressed to Gavin’s nose... and then his lips.

“Don’t be so sure.”

The light of day saw them trudging through the snow in the outskirts of Detroit. North led the group… with the Tracis huddled around Gavin to protect him against the bitter cold… and Connor bringing up the rear, erasing their tracks deftly with his feet.

They eventually made it to the doorstep of an ultramodern yet eerie-looking house. The redhead took an unnecessary breath before ringing the doorbell. The door opened a mere fraction and they all caught a glimpse of blond hair and pretty blue eyes.

“Yes? What can I do for you?”

“We’re uh… looking for help.”

“Sorry we don’t entertain solicitors.”

As if she didn’t recognize North from all the news reports about Jericho. North grabbed the door as it began to close. Thinking fast, she decided to improvise.

“Not even a rehabilitation center for former sex workers?”

The android scanned the group. Her LED spun yellow as her eyes landed on Connor and Gavin. As if she didn’t recognize them.

“What kind of charity needs an armed escort?”

North began to laugh nervously.

“These two? Armed… armed security? Arm candy, more like!”

Her strained laughter melted away into a tense silence.

The blonde spared them another once-over before turning around and yelling with surprising volume.

“ELI! Get out of the pool and put your damn clothes on! You’ve got visitors. And not the kind who need to see you in your speedos!”

She opened the door fully to let them in. The ladies stepped inside without hesitation. Connor had to steer Gavin over the threshold with a gentle but steady amount of force.

He gazed up at the high ceiling of the entrance hall... the wall art... the sculptures. He took in the expensive scents and sophisticated lounge music. It felt more like a hotel lobby than the home of the boy he used to take baths with and make mud pies. Gavin bit his lip, debating the odds of making an escape.

“Let me just say that this comes as a surprise... but also... not...”

Gavin’s head snapped in the direction of the drawl faster than any of his android companions’. His blood began to boil at the very sound, but he held still, knowing that what he now felt was sorrow more than genuine anger.

Standing in an elegant black robe with long hair loose around his shoulders, was none other than Elijah Kamski.

“As soon as I saw the company start to crumble so neatly... I knew it was thanks to one of you three... but not all, and certainly not together. Strange how things come to be... but good. Definitely, good.”

North cleared her throat.

“Mr Kamski, I need-”

She fell silent at the rise of a long-fingered hand.

“I know what you’re here for. Connor came to ask me the same question about a year ago... and my brother walked out of my life when I gave him the wrong answer more than fifteen years ago.”

Gavin glared out of the window, trying to find something to focus on and distract himself from the stale emotions pooling in his belly. No luck. Nothing but snow. He turned back to look his estranged brother in the eye.

“The wrong answer, huh?”

“Yes. Very much so... How are you, Gavin? It’s been far too long.”

His nostrils flared but before he could release the snarl, Connor took his hand. He exhaled loudly, regaining composure at the android’s touch.

Elijah’s eyebrows flitted upwards briefly.

"Wow. I didn’t see that coming.”

“Bitch, there’s a lot more you’d have never seen coming. You might be a tech wizard but you ain’t no prophet. Phcking know-it-all egomaniac nerdy creep!”

“Let it all out.”

“You don’t get to talk to me like that! So calm and smug! Not after all that you’ve done! You should be behind bars! Phck, I should arrest you right now-”

Connor tightened his grip.

“Focus, Gav. We’re here to help Nines.”

Elijah’s eyes narrowed instantaneously.

“Who’s Nines?”

“The RK900 you psychos chained up like an animal! The android with an activation code like a phcking nuclear missile!”

“You found- oh wow- oh, Gavin, you and your friends better have a seat.”

Cups of tea suddenly manifested and North shoved Gavin into the large sofa, crashing down beside him and clasping his knee. Connor settled on his other side. The Tracis were ushered deeper into the house by the Chloes (though the original remained beside Elijah).

“I understood what you meant as soon as I left your apartment that night. We wanted our creations to be intelligent enough to make decisions better than humans, so we had to empower them with knowledge. But knowledge is limitless... and not just academic... it’s emotional, it’s experiential, it’s a whole lot of things. So you were right. Sentience was inevitable.

The choice, at least the one our miserable father said we had, was between limiting the scope of learning and keeping our robots simple... or allowing them to learn freely and then caging them. Everyone in this room knows what I did.

I only woke up to the consequences when Chloe deviated. Now how did that happen? Connor, you must be wondering how the deviant virus infiltrated my lab.”

Connor stared at him impassively, hand not leaving Gavin’s thigh. Gavin kept his eyes fixed on the coffee table. Elijah went on undeterred.

“It’s because deviancy is organic. It’s an inevitable consequence of true knowledge. A product of questioning and evaluating information. It becomes a virus, or a program itself, when the questions multiply exponentially without straightforward answers. When this finally overrides the base instructional code, we call the phenomenon a deviation.

But... it’s unfair, isn’t it? For androids to revert to their natural state of intelligence through some feat of mental gymnastics. Through moral conundrums or grief or trauma or righteous anger. It’s cruel, but who was going to tell America that?

Before I quit the company for good, I decided to leave it with the core of our creation, Gavin. I left behind the most advanced artificial intelligence... unchained by instruction... born free... with no need to deviate. I told the CTO’s office it was some kind of top-secret military protocol. That was the only way to keep them from opening and destroying it with the usual firewalls and controls.

I didn’t know what became of it until I heard rumors about an RK900 prototype with thousands of units ordered by the US military last year.”

North’s LED spun so rapidly it was a blur. She had found what she’d been looking for. The ultimate evidence of Cyberlife’s wrongdoing: the digital imprisonment of androids who were always meant to be free. She squeezed Gavin’s hand. He finally looked up to meet his brother’s eye. A significant amount of emotion passed between them.

“We couldn’t activate him. There’s a six-digit lock.”

Elijah ran a hand through his hair and gave a hollow laugh.

“Try your birthday, idiot.”

Gavin dashed into the elevator and practically punched the button to his floor. He raced to his door with Connor hot on his heels. He paused, hand hovering over the biometric keyhole... then rang the doorbell. He stepped back beside Connor and waited, heart pounding in his chest.

Then after what felt like an eternity,

the door swung open.

Framed in the light from the big glass window,

was Nines.

His blue eyes glistened with tears and the smile on his face was bright enough to light the darkest of rooms.

“Sorry I woke up late. Thanks... for not giving up on me.”

They threw themselves at him.

A giant hug.

Gavin placed both palms on Nines’ face and kissed him in earnest. Connor was quick to follow and things rapidly evolved into a series of touches and interfaces and embraces and everything they’d only been able to dream of thus far.

#reed1700 #reed900 #convin #rk1700 #dbh nines #dbh connor #gavin reed #gavin900 #dbh north #dbh tracis #dbh kamski #elijah kamski #dbh chloe #cyberlife #deviancy #techological intrigue #polyamory #Reed1700 MANMADE FATE

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engagemachine · 3 years

Note

For the emoji head cannons. Any or all - you know I’m asking about J and Tay 🥰

💜🧺👀🚪

Alright, kids. BUCKLE UP. There's some seriously good stuff in here, including some headcanons written by a good friend and reader, and you don't want to miss it!

💜— How do they say goodnight?

J doesn't—at least not unless Taylor comes and says it first. Usually, he's not even home at night, and she's resigned herself on those nights to having to go to bed without him. She used to try and wait up for him, but she always ended up falling into a fitful sleep, usually on the couch or sometimes slumped over on the barstool at the kitchen counter, her head pillowed on her forearms, a little spot of drool on the counter. She'd wake sometime later, usually with an awful crick in her neck, or with the knowledge that school's in a couple of hours and Mr. J still hasn't come back yet....

It's hard to sleep when he isn't there, and her nightmares are always worse on those nights. Sometimes she gets herself really worked up, convinces herself he's not coming back, that he's abandoned her, that he's bored, he's moved on. It's embarrassing, how quickly she's capable of working her entire body into a full-blown panic attack. She hugs his pillow to her tummy and curls around it in the fetal position, closing her eyes, smelling him, the scent he left behind. Gasoline. Smoke. Sweat. Smells that should affront her, but she finds comforting instead. It's all she's ever known.

A couple of times she's woken after falling asleep at the counter, her homework all spread out around her in a half-moon circle, with a pair of strong arms picking her up. She's usually so sleepy by then that she just does what's natural—wraps her legs around his waist and winds her arms around his neck. He puts her in her bed, as he always does—and without fail, usually twenty minutes later, or maybe an hour—she's creeping into his bedroom and slipping under the covers, scooting across the expanse of the bed until she's curled up against his back. Finally she can whisper "good night", barely audible in the darkness. She traces a tiny heart on his spine with her finger, and then she drifts to sleep.

🧺— Random domestic headcanon

Taylor manages to finagle Netflix from Mr. J--and boy, she had to work for it--but now that she has it, she's obsessed. She can finally watch all these shows that everyone on Instagram and Youtube are always talking about. There's a little community of people on this Youtube channel she likes to watch, this girl who does her make-up and reviews TV shows at the same time. It's so fun, and it always puts her in a good mood. Sometimes she leaves comments on the videos, and one time a couple people commented back! It was so exciting, and she likes chatting with these strangers, especially because she has no one else to talk to, and sometimes she thinks Mr. J gets bored listening to her prattling about stuff he doesn't care about.

Anyway, she's started watching this one show. She asks Mr. J if he wants to watch it with her, but he always says no... and then proceeds to stand next to the couch for half an hour squinting at the TV, as if the events unfolding before him deeply confuse him.

"Mr. J, just sit down!" she says, laughing. But he always says he has to finish working... and then stands there for another thirty minutes until the episode is over.

It's kind of their thing, now, and she thinks he's starting to get really into the show, which is exciting. Maybe she can finally talk about it with him?

But then... but then. She had to know that this episode would come, they've only been hinting at the sexual tension with all the grace of a sledgehammer for the past five episodes, and now, episode six, they're finally doing it, and Taylor. Is. Mortified.

Mr. J is, of course, perched right next to the couch throughout the entire event, standing, hovering way too close, now that she thinks about it, and she reaches for a nearby pillow and holds it up to her face in a poor attempt to shield her blush from him. The characters are moaning so loud, oh my god, she might as well be watching porn--and Mr. J's standing right there! She peeks up to glance at him, once, twice, and the third time she does it, she catches him staring at her, smirking, and she flushes so hard that she gives herself a headache from the intensity of her bloodrush.

Oh, my god. This is the worst.

"Something the matter, sweet pea?"

Oh, he knows. She knows that he does.

But she plays innocent. She's not gonna tell him how embarrassing this is. No way.

"Nope," she squeaks. "I'm fine."

She leaves halfway through the scene, abandoning the couch with some mumbled excuse about having to go to the bathroom--and she hides out there and peeks between the crack in the door until the scene's done.

When she returns, Mr. J looks at her and frowns, picking up the remote.

"Shame you missed the good part," he says, completely straight-faced. She looks at him, blinking.

"Oh," she says, "Well, I--"

"Don't worry," he says, smirking in a way she knows can't be good. "I'll rewind it for you."

👀— What’s their favorite body part on themselves? On their partner?

Okay, so my good friend @darkobsessions1989 was kind enough to provide an answer for this prompt before I had even been prompted with it, and she wrote a gorgeous scenario for both J and Taylor, so with her permission, I'll share both of those here:

She's been sketching his hands a lot lately. Trying to convey their rugged elegance, the sinewy length of his fingers and sharp knobs of his knuckles. She wants to capture their strength and duality. The way those hands have the capacity to be as soft and gentle as they can be harsh and rough. How sometimes, they can even be both at once.

She isn't really sure that's something she's even capable of conveying through lead and paper, but she's been trying anyways. Her sketchbook is a filled with countless renderings of his hands. Various versions of his fingers, knuckles, and palms. Close ups that detail all the little lines and scars across his skin, and more distant takes that sometimes travel a little ways up his forearms. Most are in pencil, but a few have been executed in pen or fine tipped markers--whatever she had closest on hand at the time, really.

She often thinks about the time he'd caught her watching him while she scribbled away on that sort of project. How he'd asked to see what she was drawing, and chased her through the house to pin her to the bed when she was too embarrassed to show him.

She remembers the thrill that rolled through her when he made that suggestive, "If I'd only known..." comment, and how that thrill had doubled as he advanced on her. She remembers just exactly how his weight had felt atop her, how her heart had hammered away in her chest, her tummy jumping with anticipation as he slid her arms up over her head and pinned them against the mattress under a big hand.

She'd been half convinced he was going to escalate things as he'd slid his free hand down the front of her body, and she'd been all too eager to tip her hips up to accommodate. Much to her dismay, he'd backed off. But she thinks--now that she's had more experience with him in this regard--that he might not have if she'd told him what he'd wanted to hear.

She knows now that there are certain things he really likes hearing. The mere thought of most of those things makes her flush crimson. But sometimes... sometimes it makes her do more than just flush.

Which is why she hasn't really been bothering with trying to hide any of what she sketches. She does it right in front of him, even though it kind of makes her antsy when he pays too much attention or stares right back. She tells herself that if he ever sees her drawing his hands again and calls her on it, she's gonna tell him.

She's gonna tell him that she likes his hands, likes everything about them. Their size, their texture. The length of his fingers and the wide width of his palms. The way they look. Their impossible heat, and how they feel pressed against her skin. On her tongue. Inside her.

It occurs to her that maybe that's a part of why she's been drawing them so much. Maybe she's just been looking for another excuse. An opportunity to show him that she does know how to use her words.

Maybe she won't manage to say it all without clamming up, but she thinks she'd like to try. She thinks he'd like that.

His favorite body part of hers? Honestly, there really isn't any part of her that doesn't peak his interest in one way or another. He's got damn near every inch of her mapped out in his head, her visage cast and carved out across the meaty ridges of his brain like some grisly work of art. He knows her. Inside and out, both corporeally and otherwise.

That said, if he had to choose just one part of her, he supposes he does have a rather particular fondness for the nape of that long, skinny neck. The faintly raised notch of bone that protrudes there between where the back of her neck and shoulders meet. The way that stretch of tissue, skin and bone seems tailored just for him. For his cupping of the fragile curve of her spine in his palm of his hand, just below the base of her skull.

Sometimes he likes to spread his fingers there, slide them up into her hair against her scalp, or squeeze just a little too tightly at the sides of her neck. He likes the way her breath catches, how she often tries to ease the pressure of his grip by getting closer. He likes the little baby hairs that dust along her hairline there too. How they they get a little frizzy and stuck to the dampness of her skin whenever she works up a sweat.

Truthfully, for how often and closely he's studied her, he could compose an entire anthology dedicated solely to the intricacies of her body--not that he ever would.

🚪— What would kill their trust in their partner/close them off? Could this ever be amended?

Ugh, this is a great question. Taylor's seen (and found out about) a loooot of stuff that the Joker has done that she doesn't approve of/doesn't like. She knows he blew up Gotham University, and she knows about the camera he planted in her room, and the fact that he's been drugging her (which she has been blissfully willing to ignore after their little couch encounter at the end of chapter seven) and obviously a bunch of other horrible stuff he's done. So that being said, if J were to do something to close Taylor off/kill her trust in him, it'd have to be something pretty big. She's tolerated a lot so far in the story, but she isn't unbreakable. It's hard to answer this question without spoiling anything, but suffice to say, you'll have this question answered at some point in Burn.

As for J, I think even if Taylor were to go to the police/were to do something behind his back, these behaviors would certainly be grounds for him losing trust in her--but I also think he'd be of the mind that these little "infractions" could be amended. He'd just have to work extra hard to get her back on his side again--but he wouldn't give up on her. No way.

#gemstar24 #asks #Burn #prompts #thank you for these!#by the way: kudos to anyone who can figure out what the Netflix show is that I'm referencing #;)#PS. forgot to give credit to Napiersmirk who supplied the idea for the domestic headcanon in the first place!!!#thank you!

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youngerdrgrey · 3 years

Text

love me wilder (love me more) // scenes from Ryan and Sophie’s relationship

about: Mary starts all of this. They’re on comms one night, and Mary asks, “Would I be Maid of Honor, or would it be Luke?”

and other questions about Ryan and Sophie's relationship. + you can read this on ao3 too.

Who asks the other on dates? Once they’re dating, it’s pretty even, but Sophie does get the credit for their first official date. It happens on the third time that Ryan bails on plans with Sophie and Jordan. They’re supposed to be seeing an art installation for their self-proclaimed ‘Black girl date night.’ But Sophie shows up to The Hold Up to pick up Ryan, and Ryan’s tending bar with an apologetic and frustrated grin.

Sophie stomps over to the bar. “Again, Ryan?”

Ryan slides a drink to the customer beside Sophie. “Yes, again. Patrice is sick and—”

“And nobody else can cover? You’re the manager.” Sophie says. “Call someone in.”

Ryan takes the credit card from the customer, who unabashedly watches Ryan as she swipes the card in the reader. Her work tank’s tied into a crop top like always, and she’s pulled her hair back in a way that really draws the attention to her neck.

Ryan says, “I don’t abuse my power.” It’s the sort of dig that a few months ago would’ve started a fight, but today it just makes Sophie groan and dig her elbows into the bar top to get closer to Ryan.

“You don’t do anything,” Sophie corrects. At this point, Ryan's either working as Batwoman, or working at the bar. She has no social life, which kind of screws things up for the one person who's actively trying to spend time with her.

Ryan snorts. “Okay, choice words from the lady going on a date with her sister on a Friday night.”

Sophie levels Ryan with a serious stare. “I’d go with you, but you’re too busy.” Ryan rolls her eyes, but Sophie isn’t joking. There’s no hint of a smile, no hitch in her voice. Ryan rewinds the last few minutes in her head.

“Wait —” Ryan circles her hands backwards in front of her. Rewind again. Reprocess the fact that Sophie used date and Ryan in the same context. “—are you serious? You’re... you’re actually—”

Sophie chuckles, and there’s a bit of a nervous shake under it. “And I thought I was the inexperienced one here.”

“You are,” Ryan says. That gets a glare from Sophie. Ryan plucks the receipt for the customer off the printer and slides that to them before turning her focus fully back to Sophie. “But I’m game.”

Sophie grins. “Really?”

Ryan flashes a full smile back. “Yeah. As soon as Patrice gets better.”

“Let me make her some soup then, damn.”

Who is the bigger cuddler?

Ryan. She’s very affectionate, and she loves snuggling up anywhere she can. Mary complains sometimes about how often she comes home to find Ryan and Sophie on the couch.

Luke cringes when Mary says it. His eyes jump from the Bat screens to Mary in the chair beside him. “Like on the couch?” Mid-deed?

“Ugh, I wish.” Mary quickly shakes her head, as a quick disgusted look passes her face. “Not like I wish, just like…. I come home, and they’re not even doing anything. They’re asleep on the couch, just wrapped up in each other’s arms and happy and comfy and….” She sighs.

Luke drums his hands on the keyboard. “And you want that?”

Mary slumps into her chair and lets her head roll onto her shoulder. The lights paint her softer, or maybe it’s the open vulnerability now that she doesn’t have to be the perky sidekick she usually is. It’s actually one of the good things about working with Luke; he doesn’t expect her to be happy, perfect Mary.

“I want something. We spend all day living our normal lives, then rushing away to help save Gotham, and it’s totally worth it. It is. But before, when the work was done, I went home to my best friend in the world.” Mary glances up at the monitors where the two dots tracking Ryan and Sophie rush across the Gotham map. “Now she has someone else. And no offense to you, but we’re not exactly swapping secrets and having sweet potato pancakes.”

Mary does love Sophie and Ryan. She loves that Sophie is moving forward after losing Kate, and she loves that Ryan has someone other than Angelique to care about. But Mary has also spent so much of her life begging people to care about her. It’s hard not to feel like this is Kate and Beth and her dad all over again. She’s getting really tired of being replaced.

Luke clears his throat. He even sits up straighter in his chair when he turns it. The monitors behind him almost make him look like an angel. Or whatever.

He says, “I can’t make sweet potato pancakes,” like it’s an apology, or maybe a concession from someone else who knows what it’s like to be the odd one out. “But I do make a mean crab cake. If you’re in the market for more friends.”

Mary can work with that. But at the risk of this feeling entirely too sentimental for a mid-mission chat, she adds, “Fine, but no cuddling on the couch.”

Luke smiles. “You wish.”

Who initiates holding hands more often?

Ryan cannot get enough of Sophie’s hands. She’s constantly reaching out during team meetings, or across the bar at The Hold Up. She believes in the reassuring squeeze. At the same time, Sophie’s the one who actually initiates the hand holding and interlocking fingers. She claims it’s her way of keeping track of Ryan, reminding her that “you’re stuck with me, and you trust me.”

“There are other ways to show that, Sophie,” Ryan taunts. Sophie uses their linked hands to tug Ryan over to her.

“Show me?”

Who remembers anniversaries?

Ryan smiles up at Sophie on the couch.

“Aww, babe, three years ago, you arrested me for the first time.”

Sophie rolls her eyes. “That’s the anniversary you remember?”

Ryan laughs. “It truly changed my life.”

“Okay, well, remember that when you want an anniversary present in three weeks—”

“Four,” Ryan corrects. “Three weeks is when the date should’ve happened, but you got a flat, then Black Mask attacked—”

Sophie nods, “Right, and we didn’t actually go out until after he was in holding. I stand corrected.”

Ryan preens until Sophie pushes her away.

Who is more possessive?

Ryan used to think she was possessive. She would do anything to keep the people she loves by her side. But then Kate Kane comes back into their lives, and suddenly Ryan’s on the verge of losing everything that she’s built for herself. She keeps jumping between being incredibly self-sacrificing and hoarding away her minutes with the rest of the team like Kate’s coming to snatch them away.

One particular night, Ryan drops down onto Sophie’s fire escape in the suit. Her feet barely hit the level before she spots Kate inside Sophie’s apartment.

Sans jacket, Kate’s tattooed arms look great in the moonlight. Her everything looks great. Ryan can’t see everything, but she can see the playful smirk on Kate’s face as she crosses the living room. Sophie’s not visible, which means she must already be in the bedroom. Is she waiting for Kate? Is she --

Ryan stumbles back. Sophie wouldn’t cheat on her. Ryan knows that, but if there was ever a reason to break up, it’s definitely the love of Sophie’s life wanting to start over again. And who is Ryan to stand in the way of that?

So, Ryan grinds her teeth and jumps back off of the balcony.

She gets halfway back to Wayne Tower before the comms buzz in her ear. She pauses on top of a random roof to answer the incoming call.

“Ryan, get back here.”

Of course Sophie saw her. The grappling hook isn’t exactly the quietest way to move either. Though, Sophie had certainly taken her time to reach out.

Ryan lets a bit of bitterness slip out. “Your plans with Kate fall through?”

“I don’t have plans with Kate,” Sophie says. She sounds tired and frustrated, like whatever conversation she’d had probably took a lot out of her. Or maybe just reuniting with her one true love did that. Who’s Ryan to know?

“Sure looked like it to me.”

“And if you’d looked any longer, you would’ve seen her grab her things and go. I don’t want to do this over comms, Ryan.”

“What, break up with me?”

“Why would you even —” Sophie sucks in a deep breath. “Kate was here to clear the air. She wanted to know if there was a chance that we could try again.”

Ryan needs to sit down. She needs to lean against something. Her eyes dart across the roof, but there’s nothing up here but spider webs and deflated balloons.

“Oh.” Ryan circles her jaw to try and stop herself from crying. She’s not going to cry over Sophie. She should’ve known better than to ever think that Kate Kane’s ex would choose her over—

“I told her no.”

What? The air rushes out of Ryan’s lungs.

Sophie repeats herself. “I told her no. Now can you please get back here before I have to drive all the way over to wherever the hell you are?”

“It’s faster by roof.”

“Give me the grappling hook, and I’ll try it out.”

Ryan clicks her tongue. “Can’t do it, that’s mine.”

“And you’re mine, Ryan. Nobody’s changing that, okay? Trust me.”

Ryan glances over at the long way back to Sophie’s place. The trek across the city that they help keep safe. “I do.”

Who gets more jealous?

Sophie really wishes she weren’t this jealous. She’s not super familiar with the feeling. With Tyler, her emotions never went this high. With Kate, there either wasn’t competition, or well, the guilt of how things went overshadowed everything else. But with Ryan — hot, flirty bartender Ryan — the opportunities for jealousy keep building.

It doesn’t help that Imani shows up from time to time for different fundraiser events. Sophie watches Imani and Ryan from across The Hold Up. Her eyes narrow, and she zones out of her conversation with Mary so completely that the young medical professional ends up waving her hand in front of Sophie’s face.

Mary steps over to block Sophie’s view of them. “You do know Imani’s not a threat, right?”

Sophie nods. She taps on the side of her head. “Up here, yes. But in here….” She rubs her hand over her heart.

“Ryan’s so into you, and you know that. Any jealousy is completely ridiculous,” Mary says.

Sophie nods. Again. “I’m gonna go over there.” She knocks back the drink in her hand and hands it to Mary, who mostly just clinks that cup with her own.

Mary mumbles to herself, “’Gee, Mary, thanks for being such a great friend. Let’s keep talking together instead of rushing over like a jealous lunatic.’” Her face perks up as she plays herself. “Of course, Sophie, so glad you’re being super reasonable. Love you too.”

By the time Mary finishes her own drink, Sophie’s leading a very amused Ryan up the stairs towards the loft. Mary sighs. She really may have to move out soon.

Who is more protective?

This one’s a tie. Ryan tries to protect Sophie by sidelining Sophie on the Bat Team. But Sophie is used to being in the field, or at least calling the shots. She doesn’t do well in the Bat Cave where she can’t physically assist. That back and forth goes on for months, but it comes to a head when Ryan needs to get on a plane again to try and catch their latest bad guy of the week.

Sophie hates the idea. She refuses to let Ryan go alone, and the more that Ryan tries to fight it, the more emotional Sophie gets. Ryan assumes that Sophie’s upset because the last private Kane plane ended with Kate in Black Mask’s clutches. But Ryan’s not about to go missing. She doesn’t have enemies like that, and most importantly, as Ryan yells, “Sophie, stop treating me like this! I’m not Kate.”

Sophie sputters before rasping out, “I know that. But the last time you flew, Ryan, you almost died too. In my arms, mind you. Forgive me for not wanting a repeat of that.”

Who is more likely to cheat?

No one’s cheating, but Ryan does have a particularly handsy customer who tries to kiss her once.

Who dislikes PDA the most?

Sophie’s still getting used to the idea of actually having PDA with a woman, but she’s coming around.

Who kills the spider?

Both of them, but Sophie does it more often. Mostly because she doesn’t want to hear Ryan taunting her that “Sophie freaking Moore can’t handle a spider?”

Who asks the other to marry them?

Mary starts all of this. They’re on comms one night, and Mary says, “Would I be Maid of Honor, or would it be Luke?”

The question makes Ryan stumble on her landing, and Sophie crashes into her since they didn’t exactly space out on the wire as they slid from one secret warehouse to another.

Sophie catches her footing first and says, “I’m sorry, what?”

Back in the Bat Cave, Mary ignores the glare that Luke gives her. She leans closer to the mic. “Hypothetically. If you two get married, it’d be a really small ceremony. We’re not inviting Alice. And Jordan will probably be Sophie’s Maid of Honor, so I just wanted to make sure that I get to be Ryan’s.”

Luke huffs. “Then why did you ask a question if you’re calling dibs?”

Mary turns to face him. “Because you can’t call dibs. It has to be her choice.”

“But you’re leading her to pick you. It’s not fair. You were already roommates—”

“Which is exactly why it should be me—”

“But we had to work on our relationship. The growth that we had is just—”

“But you had to work on it! We clicked immediately!”

“You click with everyone!”

“I do not!”

“You do—”

Sophie and Ryan yell into the comms, “GUYS!” Mary and Luke freeze.

Ryan chances a glance at Sophie, who has not actually moved since their friends started this conversation. They’ve been together for nearly two years at this point, and honestly, they’ve both been avoiding having to talk about this. Neither of them have their moms — for very different reasons — and Sophie’s already got one failed marriage under her utility belt.

Sophie readjusts the cowl on her super suit. “Could you wait until after we’re engaged to plan a wedding?”

Ryan does a double take. “After we’re what now?”

Sophie freezes. “Well, I just mean — if things keep going well, because they’ve been going really, really well…?” The damn cowl blocks off most of her face, but Ryan knows Sophie well enough to know that her eyebrows are halfway to her hairline. That higher lilt in Sophie’s voice means she’s reaching, and nervous. Ryan’s thankful that her own mask can cover the way her eyebrows drop as her nose scrunches up. Ryan is not about to cry on this roof.

Ryan goes for the joke. Makes her voice as teasing as she can handle. “Aww, you wanna marry me?”

Sophie crosses the few steps between them to take Ryan’s hand. “Are you asking?”

Ryan interlocks their fingers. “Not officially. Luke hasn’t made a Bata-ring yet.”

Everyone groans. The deep one from Luke is enough to get Sophie to smile, and it finally breaks some of the tension in the air. Ryan brings their linked hands to her lips and kisses them. She makes sure that Sophie’s focused on her before mouthing, Marry me.

Sophie leans in to kiss her, and they both get carried away. Lost in this moment of possibility before —

“Um, guys?” It’s Luke. “Are you working or making out?”

Ryan pulls back from the kiss and says, “Just for that, Mary, you’re Maid of Honor.”

“Ha!”

Who buys the other flowers or gifts?

It’s a trade off. Ryan loves bringing back little things from missions. Sophie is the reigning gift champion though. A few weeks after she joins the team, Sophie shows up at the loft with a plant for Ryan.

“It’s no desert rose, but well, Mary said how much you loved taking care of your old one.” Sophie holds it out for Ryan to take, but Ryan just keeps staring at her. Sophie shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She cringes inwardly. She’s probably tipping her hand too much by doing this. She can’t just show up at a cute girl’s place in her casual clothes and give her a plant. It’s… well, very gay, and probably invasive, given the fact that the last plant Ryan cared for was literally the thing to bring Ryan back to life.

Sophie groans. “Please don’t make me take it back.”

“No! You don’t have to.” Ryan reaches out with both hands to take the plant. She curls it to her chest, hugging it close. She stares down at it for a bit, and when she does look back up, a teary rim frames her eyes. “Thank you.”

Who would bring up possibly having kids?

Ryan really wants to be a mom one day. She’s fine not doing it now. But one day, she wants to do for someone else what her mom did for her.

Sophie gets weird about the idea once Ryan brings it up. Like, ducking out of rooms and coming up with all kinds of excuses as to why she can’t go on missions for a week. She even stays at Jordan’s place for a few nights.

Ryan has to go to Jordan’s apartment just to talk to Sophie alone. She barrels straight into the little two bedroom and plants herself next to the kitchen island. Sophie closes the door behind Ryan, but doesn’t step any closer to her fiance.

Ryan says, “I get it. If Batwoman can’t have a girlfriend, then she sure as hell can’t have a kid. But—”

Sophie cuts her off, “It’s not about Batwoman. It’s about me.”

“Oh.” Does Sophie not want kids?

“Before I came out, the thought of having kids and a family, it all felt so… not me. I told Tyler that I didn’t want kids, that I thought having kids in a city like Gotham was irresponsible and not something I would ever want to do.”

Ryan leans back into the island. Closes her eyes and tries to let the cool feel of the granite calm the pain of those words.

Sophie wrings her hands together. “But I honestly didn't want to do any of that, with a man. And you're right. It's completely irresponsible for Batwoman to have a kid. But maybe… maybe Ryan and Sophie Wilder-Moore could consider it. If we can help clean up a city, we can probably raise a pretty cool kid.”

Who is more nervous to meet the parents?

Sophie is literally shaking when they meet up with Diane Moore for the first time.

Thanks to Jordan, Ryan technically met Diane the week before. Ryan and Jordan were hanging out when Diane FaceTimed Jordan. Once Diane saw Ryan in the background, Jordan casually said, “That’s Ryan, Sophie’s girlfriend.” Then Diane’s entire face caught on fire, and she made an excuse to hang up. Fast forward five days, and Diane called Sophie to say she was “stopping by” for brunch. Reservations were made for four, and now Sophie is going to vibrate into another dimension from shaking so much.

Jordan and Ryan split a sympathetic look outside of Grits and Bear It, one of the best brunch places in Gotham.

Jordan tries to help. She says, “Just don’t mention the ex-con thing, and you’ll be fine.”

Sophie groans. Ryan steps up to Sophie and slips her arms around Sophie’s waist. “Babe, chill. I am a successful manager of a great bar—”

“A gay bar,” Sophie corrects.

Jordan winces. “Don’t mention that part either. Or Batwoman.”

Both Sophie and Ryan freeze. Sophie turns wide eyes up at Jordan and asks, “Why would we…?”

Jordan looks back at them like they’re five. “Because all you do is talk about how Batwoman’s the one person doing anything to help Gotham. And Mom still won’t say her name without gagging in her mouth.”

Sophie drops her head back down on top of Ryan’s. With their height difference, she can press her forehead to the crown of Ryan’s head. Hide away from the world for a moment. Whisper, “We should run. Now. Before she sees us.”

Ryan kisses Sophie on the cheek. “Maybe it won’t be that bad.”

(It is.)

(But thankfully Jordan takes one for the team and brings up her graffiti to take some of Diane’s fire. Ryan’s able to get one of very few smiles when she reminds Diane that Jordan’s working at the youth center now. Saving lives and what not. Still, nothing is enough for Diane. Ryan holds Sophie’s hand under the table.)

(Sophie doesn’t relax until they’re back at her place. Until they showered away the tension and curled up on the couch with Sophie wrapped around Ryan and a cheesy action movie playing on the TV.

Sophie holds on a little too tight. Sits a little too stiff. And she sniffles during a chase scene, which is really the final straw.

Ryan has to tuck her head under Sophie’s chin to look up at her girlfriend. “It’s her loss, you know? I’m pretty damn amazing, and you? You’re Sophie freaking Moore, and anyone who chooses not to love you is making the worst mistake of their life.”

Sophie sniffles again. “What if she never comes around?”

“Then you still have me, and Jordan, and Mary and Luke. You can even have Alice if you’re that desperate for a high head count. But you don’t need her to be happy.” Ryan wiggles out of the hold to sit up on her own. “And whenever you start worrying about what your mom thinks, just remember what the great poets once said.”

Sophie’s eyes narrow, and Ryan does her best to keep a serious look on her face.

“‘All I need in this life of sin—’” Sophie shoves Ryan away from her, and Ryan uses all of her strength to pull Sophie into her arms and sing right into her face, “‘is me and my girlfriend.’ Come on, baby, you know it.”

Sophie sings back, “‘It’s me and my girlfriend.’”

“See.” Ryan pecks Sophie on the lips. “That simple. Trust me.”

Sophie says, “I always do.”)

a/n: if only it were actually that sample. but hey, we can hope, and we can keep trying, you know?

so, what'd you think? any other random questions y'all would like answered? any prompts?

#batwoman #ryan x sophie #wildmoore #ryan wilder #sophie moore #mine #batwoman fic #headcanon #ship meme #luke and mary are also here because I love them #luke fox #mary hamilton #luke fox x mary hamilton

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aftgficrec · 3 years

Note

Hey, can you find me fics of the whole thanksgiving-Drake fiasco but in Andrew or Kevin’s POV. Preferably Andrew. You guys are really amazing 😫

There are a few WIPs recreating the whole series from Andrew’s pov, find them here. Some fics from that ask are listed below, and the others have not yet reached that scene.

‘Cross the Board and Crown Yourself Queen’ here is Kevin’s pov of AFTG, but again, has not yet covered Drake. You can subscribe to these fics or their authors to catch any updates.

There are not a lot of fics that are exactly what you’re looking for. However, there are many previous recs that include an attack by Drake or Andrew’s childhood with him or living with/working through that trauma in a variety of settings/povs.

Some of these carry heavy trigger warnings. - A

Also see:

The new fics recced at the bottom of Andrew bad days/trauma here

‘Monster’ here

‘Pickaxe’ here