#you can like him and say he's another entitled rich man out of touch that's fine | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wildernessuntothemselves · 2 years

Text

You Are My Queen Now | Part 2

Word Count: 4.6k

Genre: Smut, angst

Summary: Growing up as a child of a minor lord, you had it instilled in you since a young age that you needed to find yourself a rich and affluent husband that would not only provide a comfortable life for you, but would also help further your family’s position in the court. So it was of the utmost importance that you remain a virgin in order to land such a coveted husband.

The problem lies when the man you secretly love, Prince Beomgyu, suddenly and unabashedly propositions you.

Warnings: This a Yandere!beomgyu fic and will contain future noncon so if that is not something you’re comfortable with please avoid reading altogether. This particular chapter includes: handjobs, inexperienced oc, corruption, thigh fucking, pushy beomgyu, switchy dynamics but mostly dom!gyu.

Honestly Beomgyu’s theme song for this series

This really isn’t good for your heart–being tipsy and hiding away in your very own secluded section of the gardens with Beomgyu under the starlight that pales in comparison to the light in his own doe eyes. Yes, it’s your tradition that has become sacred over the years, but it’s here exactly where the trouble first started, and now that you’ve developed this physical relationship with Beomgyu, he’d become very bold in his touches, wrapping his arm around your waist or stealing a kiss when you least expect it, something your poor love-riddled heart can’t handle much of.

And now here he is again, tugging on your hand and demanding cutely that you come closer. “Why are you sitting all the way over there, baby? I’m cold. Come warm me up.”

Anyone else saying these words to you would make you cringe, but coming from his pouty lips, flavored with his unique brand of adorable mischievousness, they only make your heart flutter.

“Because I know what you want.” You try to protest. You know as soon as you’re close enough, he’ll be on you. He’s been insatiable since this whole agreement started. You’d think that helping him get off would take some of the edge off and make him calm down but it seems to only spur him on more.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He bites his lower lip in a failed attempt to keep from smiling as he pulls you flush against his body.

God, he’s ten times more beautiful from this close up. And the way he looks down his nose at you with that cheeky smile on his face makes you want to combust. So it’s no wonder that you only put up a minimal fight, just for appearances really, when he leans down to kiss you.

Hungry. That’s a word you’d come to associate with him. Nothing is ever enough for him. One kiss would never do. He comes back in for another. And another. And another until you’re on your back with him hovering over you and you’re both breathless and dizzy from more than just the wine.

In moments like this, you can almost fool yourself into thinking you’re lovers. Isn’t this what lovers do? Steal kisses under the moonlight?

But you’re not lovers. Because what lover would say what Beomgyu says to you next.

"I want you to touch my dick this time. I can’t keep humping you like a dog in heat.”

His words make you stiffen, all the giddiness fleeing from your body at once.

It’s not just him ruining the moment that upsets you, but it’s the way he’s become so pushy with you. Gone are the cautious appeals and desperate pleas. Now he just demands what he wants like you owe it to him.

"What makes you think I have to do that?" You scoff.

"I'm paying for it, aren't I?"

There it is. The root of his entitlement. You suppose you brought this on yourself when you introduced money into it.

Still it hurts your pride.

"I'm not a whore, Beomgyu. I'm only doing this to help you out but I can stop."

Lies. You’re doing this for you too.

Ever since you started this, you’ve accumulated more things now than you've ever had before. Not just dresses but jewelry and all manner of fine things. You finally feel like you fit in with the other ladies. Even if they look at you strangely, no doubt wondering how you came across this sudden wealth. They never outright asked you but you still felt the need to mention in passing how your father’s business has been booming lately. You don’t know if they buy it or not but even with their suspicions, you still fit in a lot more than you did before.

And the other big thing you’re getting out of this is Beomgyu himself. Yes, he’s brash and demanding but he’s not the only one enjoying these debauched moments. Yes, the context makes you feel dirty, but at the end of the day you’re still getting the attention of the man you love. And what attention it is. Beomgyu is positively obsessed with you during these moments. Seeing him so lost in the little pleasure you provide him feels even better than all these riches.

"I know you're not a whore." He breathes against your skin, kissing along your jaw, and you almost relax. But then he continues, “That’s why I chose you.”

He’d have less luck hurting you this much if he was trying.

This is your only value to him, that you're not a whore. It’s not that he’s attracted to you personally. No, you're just the only lady who would let him do these things to her.

"Now can you touch me, already? I feel like I'm going to burst."

You want to cry, but you refuse to do it in front of him. Not just because you don’t want to look vulnerable, but because he’s still your best friend and he’s bound to ask why you’re crying, and you don’t trust yourself not to confess everything to him.

So you grit your teeth and go through with it.

The problem is, you don’t really know what to do. All these times before it was easy to project confidence and control since you made him do all the work, but now you're lost.

But you can’t dwell on it too long or you’ll give yourself away. Steeling yourself, you just go ahead and touch him, your right hand trailing down his body to cup the bugle in his pants.

He sighs, resting his head against your shoulder, and you take that as a good sign to continue. You’ve never done this before but you’ve swiped one book from the library that talks about the ways of pleasuring a man or a woman and you’ve heard little remarks here and there from the maids enough to get a rough idea about it.

As you move your hand up and down his confined length, you remember something you’ve read about the nipples being an erogenous zone for some people. So you move your free hand underneath his shirt and you fumble up until you reach one of his nipples and brush your fingers over it.

He gasps against your skin and you immediately stop, thinking you’ve done something wrong.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No, no.” He moans, grabbing your hand and putting it back on his crotch, pushing the heel of your hand down as he grinds into it. “Just didn’t expect you to touch my nipples, that's all.” He laughs, “And didn’t know I was sensitive there.”

“Is that good or bad? Should I stop?” You know you're letting on how clueless you are, but you don't want to hurt him.

“No, keep going.” He groans, sucking a kiss onto your neck that makes you shiver.

“Okay.” You say shakily, your hand going back to his nipple again to rub the little nub, making him groan and grind against your hand.

“Ah, baby. I need more.”

"What do you mean?"

"Put your hand down my pants."

"Oh, okay." You hesitate, feeling like you’ve barely got the hang of this and now you’re thrust back into unfamiliar territory.

Once again, you just gather your courage and do it, squeezing your hand under his waistband and grabbing his bare dick. You suck in a sharp breath at the feeling, but it’s drowned out by the moan he lets out.

“Fuck, baby, that’s it.” He hisses, continuing to move against your hand, now without the barrier of clothes. It’s a tight fit so you can’t do anything except rub awkwardly over his dick but he seems to like it anyway if the moans he’s letting out are any indication.

"It’s so warm and soft." You marvel at the heat of his member in your hand. You’ve always heard it described as hard, and it is, but you’re surprised by how soft the skin is. “And… wet.”

“That’s what you do to me. You like it, baby?” He hums, pulling back to stare at you. “Wanna see it?”

You do. You know you won't ever get to make love to him, but at least you'll get to imagine it better.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, sitting back and unbuttoning his pants, making a show of it as he pulls his dick out and strokes it languidly.

It’s too much for you, the way he touches himself while staring you dead in the eyes, and you end up looking away from the salacious sight.

"No, no." Beomgyu tuts scoldingly, grabbing your face and turning it back towards him. "You have to look at it. You have to see what you’re doing to me.”

You take a moment to steady your breathing before you look down at it again.

It’s bigger than you thought, and it’s red, explaining the heat you felt before. Looking at it, you understand why Beomgyu is so horny all the time.

“Is it supposed to be this big?”

He groans. “If you don’t want to get fucked, don’t say things like that.”

You pause. You hadn’t meant it like that, but he seems to like it.

"Don’t just stare at it. You're driving me crazy here." He whines, his husky voice doing things to you.

“I-I don't know what to do." You admit finally, “I’ve never touched a man like this before.”

“Oh, baby, you’re so cute." He leans down to kiss you deeply. "What are you going to do when I tell you I want you to put it in your mouth?"

You gasp, scandalized. “Beomgyu! I’m a lady!”

“I know, baby. A lady who would look good with her lips wrapped around my cock.” He says, running his thumb over your lips as he stares at them, no doubt imagining that exact scenario.

You falter. Is that something you’d be willing to do for him? It’s disgraceful, but you find yourself gulping at the thought of getting to feel the weight of his hot member on your tongue, to taste the wetness that’s seeping out of it in need.

These lustful thoughts fill your mind and you unconsciously poke your tongue out to wet your lips, but end up licking against his thumb in the process. His lips part in a heated exhale and he pushes your tongue down with his thumb, trapping it.

A heated silence follows and you struggle not to squeeze your thighs together to relieve some of the need that’s burning you up.

Thankfully, Beomgyu snaps out of it, sparing you the disgrace of your own thoughts.

“But that’s for another day.” He murmurs, pulling away from you as he sits back on his haunches, finally giving you the space to breathe in something that isn’t him, helping your mind clear up a bit.

“Come on, I'll teach you how to jerk me off.” He says, grabbing your hand and directing it to his cock. “Just wrap your hand around it, okay?"

“Okay.” With cheeks burning, you take his dick in your hand.

“Good.” He grunts, bucking into your loose fist. "Now move your hand up and down."

You press your lips together in determination and follow his direction.

“Tighter.” He groans, falling back over you and resuming his kisses along your neck.

You tighten your grip around him slightly, not wanting to hurt him, but he doesn’t like that.

“Tighter.” He repeats and you hold him even tighter until it seems to his liking.

“Good girl.” He murmurs wetly against your skin, making your pussy leak even more arousal. “Faster now.”

You follow his demands, pumping his dick faster, the movement causing an embarrassingly lewd noise.

“Yeah, just like that.”

“You like it?” You ask, needing to hear from him how much you’re affecting him.

“Yeah, you’re perfect.” He answers, and everything–his hoarse voice, his moans, the open mouthed kisses he lathers upon your skin–make you feverish. You wish to be touched too, but you can’t ask that of him. You can’t give him more than he’s already taking.

Your thoughts must’ve distracted you, causing you to neglect him, which Beomgyu doesn’t appreciate.

“Why did you slow down? Keep going.” He complains, biting down hard on your shoulder.

There it is again, the entitlement. It annoys you more than it probably should but you can’t help it when you’re trying so hard to get him off when you yourself are uncomfortably wet and neglected.

“My hand is tired.” You shoot back brattily, “I’ve given you what you wanted. If you want to cum then just fuck my hand like the horny dog you are.”

You still your hand, holding it in a tight grip around his swollen length as you stare each other down. You feel your heartbeat pick up even more speed than it did before. He really doesn’t like your attitude, and you get antsy at his lack of response.

When he still doesn’t move, you start removing your hand. “Well, if you don’t want to–”

He growls, moving his hand over yours and tightening it around his length as he starts thrusting into it. "Such a spoiled princess. I give you all these things and you won't even be good for me."

You falter, the new nickname prickling at you. "I'm not a princess." You say bitterly.

"You're my princess." He doubles down, making you feel like a joke. What kind of princess would let a man that’s not her husband treat her like a toy for his sexual gratification? You're closer to his whore than his princess.

"Shut up. Someone could hear you.” You sniff in disdain, deflecting

"I don’t care. Let them see what a brat my princess is being."

Each time he calls you that, you feel more and more humiliated so you do the only thing you can think of to shut him up–you put your hand over his lips.

But this is Beomgyu you’re dealing with, and you can count on him to always find a way to come out on top, and this is no different. He uses this chance to slip your fingers into his mouth, sucking on them obscenely.

"You're such a pervert!" You screech, ripping your hand away, feigning disgust when in reality, the feeling of his hot mouth around your fingers and his tongue prodding at them shoots straight to your pussy, making you wonder what it would feel like if he were to eat you out.

It’s disgusting. No proper lady should ever wonder such things, and it’s all his damn fault.

With renewed zealousness, you go back to pumping his cock, going faster than you did before while simultaneously rubbing his nipple, the wetness making it all the more sensitive and, before long, he gets close.

"I'm gonna cum.” He mewls, mouth parted as his moans never cease. “Gonna spill over your hand."

That’s what you were waiting for, your chance to retaliate, and you suddenly stop.

"Why?" He heaves, looking at you wildly.

"Where are your manners?” You ask haughtily, “Didn’t I teach you to ask nicely for what you want."

"Don't play with me, princess." He growls, his tone brokering no argument but you stupidly don’t back down.

"Don't call me that." You hiss, "Ask nicely, puppy."

That seems to be the wrong decision on your part, for he pulls back and grabs your legs, placing them over his shoulder, making your dress ride up to your waist and his dick come to rest over your underwear.

"Wanna see me act like a dog?” He spits on his hand and gives his dick a couple of strokes. “Then don’t be surprised when I treat you like a bitch."

“What are you–” You’re cut off when he pushes your thighs together around his cock and snaps his hips forward, fucking your plush flesh.

“Oh.” You squeak, the position causing his dick to drag over your pussy every time he ruts his hips forward. And soon, you’re too overstimulated to say anything. This is the first time you’ve gotten so much direct touch before and you don’t know how to handle it.

Unfortunately, Beomgyu notices it too.

“Finally gonna behave?” He mocks, smacking the outside of your thigh, no doubt seeing how dazed you are as your body jostles with each of his thrusts, your tits jiggling obscenely and the doughy flesh of your thighs engulfing his dick. You can’t even help the little gasps and moans that are forced out of you by his rough thrusts.

“God, look at you. You look like you’re being fucked for real.” He drawls, his eyes eating you up. “And you sound like it too.”

You immediately bite down on your lip to silence your moans, but they still burst out of you every time his hips slam against yours, and they excite Beomgyu to no end.

“Gonna cum for you, baby. Can I please cum?” He asks sarcastically.

You wish you could say no. The way his hips are slapping against your ass and his cock drags over your pussy have you so close to the end yourself, but you can’t expose yourself to him and you can’t tell him to stop without explaining as he’d think you’re messing with him again.

“Yes, cum for me, Beomgyu.” You whisper as seductively as possible, and he finally breaks eye contact as his hips stutter and he looks down to where his cum lands on your stomach. It feels warm and entirely based. And for a moment you get an out of body experience and you look down at yourself, splayed over the garden floor with the prince’s cum soiling you.

It’s not right. What you’re doing is not right.

But you can’t dwell on it for too long because you’re suddenly forced back into your body when his thumb brushes over your clit. "Look how wet you are. You like playing with me, baby? Making me go crazy just for a little touch?"

Your legs shake around his head. You’re so fucking close, all it would take are a few more strokes and you’d be creaming your underwear.

"Beomgyu, stop." You mewl before that can happen. He's been trying to touch you even since that first time, never once getting discouraged by your constant rejection.

You use your legs that are over his shoulder to try to push his torso away but that only brings his head down to your lap as he resists you, and now he’s face to face with your pussy.

"At least let me taste you." He says, before he flattens his tongue along your clothed pussy, making you yelp and squirm until you manage to scramble away from him.

"Stop it!" You pull your dress down, covering yourself.

"Why are you being so stubborn?” He grabs at your ankle, “I know you want me."

“I don’t!” You lie through your teeth. “Let me go or I’ll stop this whole thing.” You threaten, watching him clench his jaw, clearly displeased with the fight you’re putting up. But he lets you go and you stand up, straightening your dress–or straightening it as well as you can after the events of the night–and demanding he take you back to your room.

_______________

You’re such an idiot–-you think as you rush through the halls of the palace, running late to breakfast because you spent way too much time last night touching yourself to the thought of Beomgyu’s mouth on you, his lips around your fingers, his dick slipping in and out your thighs, the heat of it seeping through your underwear to your sopping pussy…

Fuck, you can’t go down that rabbit hole again or you’ll not only be late for breakfast but you’ll have to sit there soaking through your undergarments in the presence of the entire royal family.

You’re bursting through the dining hall door, apologies already tumbling out of your lips, when your eyes catch the gaze of an unfamiliar person and you screech to a halt.

The man smiles lightly, pretty dimples showing even with that slight smile, making your heart flutter. Who is this devastatingly handsome stranger?

“Oh, good morning, sir.” You sputter, staring at him dumbly.

“Good morning, beautiful lady.” He greets you back, his voice sweet and light and so melodic it almost distracts you from the fact that he called you beautiful. You have no idea how to respond to that. No man has ever called you beautiful before.

You’re lucky the king chose now to speak up or else you would’ve made a fool of yourself just standing there and staring at the stranger.

The king helpfully introduces the newcomer as Lord Taehyun, the head of the Kang family.

You immediately straighten up. The Kang family is one of the most ancient and dignified noble families in the kingdom, probably second only to the royal family themselves. They control the harbor that lets the sea trade into the kingdom, so it goes without saying how much power they hold. Even worse, they’re renowned for their ruthlessness. They have to be, since they not only let the sea trade into the kingdom, but they also hold down the sea border and protect the kingdom from any pillaging or invading forces.

It’s even rumored that the man standing in front of you has killed his own father in order to become the head of the family. Of course that’s just hearsay, but that doesn’t make you feel any better.

“Apologies for my rude interruption, my lord.” You bow deeply. God, you hope he doesn’t start demanding they take your head off for ruining his breakfast. “I’ll take my leave.”

“Don’t.” Lord Taehyun speaks out, his gentle voice but it stops you right in your tracks. “I will not have such a beautiful lady suffer through an empty stomach on my account. Please, have a seat.”

You blush at his unexpected kindness, scurrying to your seat with a low “Thank you, my lord.” before he thinks you’re disobeying him.

Once you’ve sat down at your designated seat next to the other ladies, you hazard a glance towards him, only to find him staring back at you with that same smile, and you quickly look down again.

“And what is your name, pretty lady?”

You jolt when you hear his voice, not having expected him to acknowledge your presence again. You tell him your full name, your voice uncharacteristically weak.

He looks a little puzzled at that. “Forgive me but I’m not familiar with your family, my lady.”

The queen speaks up before you can. “That’s because it’s a small family. Minor really.” She says, almost disparagingly, and you’re taken aback.

You know your family isn’t much, but no one in the royal family has ever spoken that way about it, at least not to your face. It makes you feel so small in front of such a powerful lord and you stare down at the plate in front of you in shame.

“No matter to me. It just means I have more to learn about the beautiful lady.”

You breath catches in your throat at that and you look up at him in disbelief. Is he… flirting with you?

You hear the sound of a glass being slammed against the table and you look to the source of the noise to see Beomgyu staring Lord Taehyun down. The other man looks at him with mild interest, no doubt wondering what his problem is.

Luckily, the queen interjects, diffusing the tension. “So, Lord Taehyun, are you ready for the next archery competition? Beomgyu has been practicing so much lately. I think he’ll finally snatch the title of the best archer in the kingdom from you.”

Oh right. Lord Taehyun always wins the archery competitions the crown holds. He’s supposed to be a prodigy in the field. Not that you’d know. You’ve never been allowed to attend these competitions before as Beomgyu insists that it’s really no place for a lady. But you don’t understand how that could be true when his own mother and sister attend them every time.

Lord Taehyun lets out a short laugh. “I’d like to see him try.”

You throw a glance at Beomgyu's way. You know that must’ve irked him. He’s always complained to you about his losses against this man and how much he wishes he could take him down for once.

You can see Beomgyu’s grip tighten around the utensils he’s holding. “You will.”

“I wish I could be there to see that match.”

You don’t know why the hell you spoke up, but suddenly, the whole table’s eyes are on you.

“Why don’t you come?” Lord Taehyun cocks his head to the side.

“Oh, I…” You trail off, glancing at Beomgyu again, and you wonder if he’ll actually disintegrate the knife and fork in his hands from how hard he’s gripping them.

“Better yet, why don’t you come down with me to the archery range and I could teach you to throw a couple of arrows yourself.” He grins at you invitingly, and your jaw slackens.

“I could never.” You breathe out, once again looking to Beomgyu. You know he wouldn’t like that. He’s always told you that a lady shouldn’t worry about such things and that it’s a man’s job to protect her when you’ve mentioned to him how much you’d like to learn archery. “It’s unladylike.”

“Nonsense. Everyone could benefit from learning how to defend themselves, even women. Especially women.” Lord Taehyun says.

“I guess so.” You reply in a small voice, unsure of what’s happening right now.

“Then it’s settled. You’ll accompany me to the archery range?” He asks, then turns to the king. “That is, if the king would allow me to make use of the palace’s range.”

The king hesitates for a moment before replying, “I’m afraid I can’t, my lord. The guards are scheduled to have their practice there today.”

You deflate at that. You hadn’t realized how much you wanted this until the king said no. It’s not just the archery, either. It’s lord Taehyun. This is the first time a man has expressed an interest in you and you were so looking forward to exploring that. Maybe, just maybe, your dream of getting married to a powerful man wasn’t completely hopeless. But now you’ll never know.

“That’s a shame.” Lord Taehyun ponders for a moment as you sit there lamenting your bad luck. “No matter. I’d still like the company of the beautiful lady if she’ll have me. What do you say you accompany me on a stroll through the palace gardens after this, my lady?”

Your head snaps up so fast you’re afraid you might’ve cracked your spine.

“I-I-” You attempt to formulate any sort of an intelligible response, but Beomgyu beats you to it.

“She can’t. She has obligations.” His voice is sharp and his expression is hard.

You stare at him in confusion. “But… I have nothing.”

“Yeah, you do.” The princess pipes up suddenly. “I need your help with something.”

“Oh.” You say dejectedly. Seriously, how rotten is your luck?

“That’s okay.” Lord Taehyun gives you a patient smile. “I’m staying here till the morning. We could just arrange something later. What do you say, my lady?”

“I’d love that.” You breathe, simultaneously feeling like the luckiest and unluckiest girl on the face of the earth.

_______________________

A/N: oh my god I worked so hard on this chapter so you guys better give me some feedback. Also what personality would you like taehyun to have?

#txt smut #beomgyu smut #yandere!txt #yandere

710 notes · View notes

tenthgrove · 3 years

Text

This one was sent to me by @pseudo-possum via messaging so I’ll paraphrase here. The concept is that Risotto visits his grandmother (My OC, Vittoria Nero) and she attempts to set him up with with her new maid. Both Risotto and the maid know what’s going on, but they’re fine with it and open to the idea of a relationship.

A Welcome Arrangement

Risotto x Reader (GN), Romantic, SFW

When you made the decision to seek work in the cleaning industry, your hopes were low. You were fully willing to tolerate some rude, entitled rich prick as your employer so long as they paid you decently for it.

Instead, you got Vittoria Nero.

Vittoria’s house is small, by the standards of those that usually warrant a personal cleaner. Furthermore, although elderly, Vittoria is in excellent health and would certainly be capable of cleaning the place herself if she wanted to. Instead, you suspect she just wanted a maid for the company.

Vittoria is a most generous employer. Even though you rarely have enough tasks to busy yourself for more than a couple hours each morning, she pays you for a full day of work each day. She lets you have the spare bedroom free of rent, and spoils you so frequently with her cooking you barely have to worry about that expense either. You feel less like a housemaid and more like a much-treasured niece.

Vittoria calls to you and you snap out of your thoughts, turning off the vacuum hoover to listen to her.

“Did you do the other room, dear?” she asks you.

“If you mean Risotto’s old room, then yes, I just got done with it. Lots of dust. Definitely needed doing,” you affirm.

“Certainly,” Vittoria nods. “That said I hope you didn’t move too much around. My grandson has always been very protective of his things and he wouldn’t like to be reminded of someone touching them,” she adds.

“No worries, I remembered. Everything is exactly where I found it,” you assure her. Vittoria smiles.

“Good, good. I knew you would. Come, sit with me,” she beckons you. The pair of you sit down on the comfortable sofa in the main room. She drums her lap restlessly. “I have news. Risotto’s stay has been extended to a month. It turns out the first assignment he had scheduled for after this holiday of his is in Palermo anyway, so it's more practical for him to carry on staying with us while he takes care of it,” Vittoria announces.

“Oh, good. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the extra time with him,” you remark. You can’t say for yourself if time with Risotto is time well spent- you’ve never met the man, but Vittoria speaks of her grandson with a deep fondness you can only see as earned. Nobody ever gains Vittoria Nero’s respect without earning it.

“Certainly. And I think he’ll enjoy being home. I can only guess how much Naples has been wearing him down,” Vittoria looks down across the room. Sadness fills her eyes for a moment, but she shakes it off. “Regardless, my advice remains from before. Remember that certain features of Risotto’s life, especially his business, may be off limits, but you should by no means shy away from him. You will both find this month much more enjoyable if you can appreciate each other’s presences.”

“Of course, Vittoria, I’ll keep it in mind.”

::::::::::::

The next day you drive over to the next town to do some shopping. As you pull back into the driveway of the Nero house you find an unfamiliar car in the usual spot. Vittoria doesn’t get visitors, ever. Clearly, it would seem, Risotto has arrived a few hours early.

You open the front door with trepidation. Will Risotto find it strange that you, a simple cleaner, treat the house so much like your own? Should you knock instead? No, you’d rather not bring any unneeded attention to yourself. You swallow your anxieties and step into the front room.

“Oh, (y/n), there you are,” Vittoria greets you. Your eyes fall straight to the tall, black-clad man standing beside her. Christ, you expected Risotto to be intimidating, but not like this. At first glance he’s the complete opposite of his grandmother in every way- morose, sombre and imposing. But the resemblance is unmistakable. “Cat got your tongue, dear?” Vittoria prompts you. You snap out of your stupor.

“Excuse me. Risotto, I presume?”

“Yes, you must be the maid Nonna mentioned. It’s good to meet you,” Risotto greets. Wow, that’s a compelling voice. So deep and sultry… you think you could get used to listening to it over the next month.

::::::::::::

Vittoria excuses you from your duties the next day. Unwilling to face the sweltering Sicilian sun with her in your garden, you retreat to your room and read. You don’t know what Risotto is doing.

There’s a crash and you start. It sounded like… falling glass, and it came from just across the hall from you. Quickly hurrying from your room you follow the sound into Risotto’s. He isn’t there (thankfully for your embarrassment) but the shattered remains of a drinking glass lie in pieces on the floor by the window. A breeze shakes the curtains. Did it somehow blow it off the edge?

Regardless of what caused it, you should probably clean it up before Risotto finds out. God forbid he steps in it on accident. You turn around and immediately headbutt a broad human chest. Well, speak of the devil.

“Are you alright? There was crashing and Nonna said to investigate,” Risotto explains.

“I’m fine, I think the breeze blew it off,” you say, gesturing to the broken glass.

“Strange, I don’t remember putting that there,” Risotto remarks. “Nonna must have left it. I’ll help you clean.”

“Wait, you don’t have to do that for me Risotto,” you call, but he’s already half way down the hall. He returns with a dustpan and broom, handing the latter to you before he helps you to clear the mess. As you clean, you notice Vittoria sitting in her deckchair, watching you with her drink and smiling. Did she just… what on earth is her game?

::::::::::::

“Vittoria, it really won’t be necessary. If Risotto doesn’t want to go I’ll be fine by myself,” you insist. Vittoria shakes her head.

“Nonsense. Driving that far out alone is dangerous. Risotto should go to protect you,” she maintains. Behind you, Risotto sighs.

“I thought you sent them shopping alone all the time, Nonna,” he reminds her. “Didn’t they go on the day I arrived, anyway?”

“Well, now I need them to go again, and I need them to go further. So you’re accompanying them.”

Risotto groans and turns to you.

“We aren’t winning this. Come on, let’s get in the car,” he surrenders.

You’re half an hour into the drive when Risotto suddenly curses.

“I’ve figured it out,” he says.

“What?”

“What she’s doing. All the little accidents, the conveniently needing us to spend time together. She’s trying to set us up.”

Looking up at his eyes, you expect to see anger, but then Risotto laughs.

“That woman,” he exclaims, chuckling again.

“Oh christ, you’re right,” you realise, recalling all the times Vittoria assured you of how well the two of you would get on together. “Why?”

“Nonna has always wanted me to settle down. She thinks domesticity would suit me.”

“Well fuck. She just had to make this awkward, didn’t she?” you comment, sniggering a little between your teeth. Risotto looks at you for a breath moment of apprehension before his normal calm veneer returns.

“She’s always been very prudent in her decisions, that’s all I’m saying,” he remarks.

Is… is this flirting?

“You don’t say.”

Risotto lifts his hand from the gearbox and overlaps it on yours. He caresses your hand gently. You smile at each other. Perhaps Vittoria will have to find another cleaner soon.

#la squadra #risotto nero #risotto nero x reader

84 notes · View notes

overwhore-s · 3 years

Text

A Freak in a Sheet (Ghost!Bakugou x Reader) part 2 NSFW

part 1

AO3

There are more advantages to living in a haunted house than just cheap rent.

Warnings: swearing, sex (gender-neutral reader)

It was a shit day if you’ve ever had one, and at the end of it, you just want to curl up on the couch and binge the fuck out of Keeping up with the Kardashians. Kicking off your shoes, you call out to Bakugou.

“You wanna see what Kim’s been up to?”

“Fuck yeah I do!” He answers from the living room. You grin. You are extremely lucky to live with someone who shares your passion for cheesy reality television.

When you walk into the room, he’s already waiting for you, TV remote in hand. “You look like shit,” he observes upon seeing you. You don’t take it personally though, knowing it’s his own unique way of encouraging you to open up about what’s been troubling you.

You stifle a yawn and plop down next to him. “Tough day. Customers were acting entitled as usual. And I forgot my wallet at home, so I didn’t have enough money for lunch. Or dinner.” Honestly, worse things have happened to you. It won’t be the first, nor the last day you went without eating.

Bakugou doesn’t see it that way.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” He yells, jumping up from the couch, surprising you. “You can’t be skipping meals!”

“It’s okay dude, I can just order takeout or something,” you try to calm him down, but Bakugou is bit like a really spitty cat when he’s angry – the more you try to soothe him with words, the more aggressive he becomes.

“No pizza for you today. No fucking way. We’re gonna cook you a real ass dinner with real ingredients,” he huffs, already on his way to the kitchen. Confused, you trail after him.

The concentrated manner in which he gathers all his supplies tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. He definitely has a presence in the kitchen, like some Michelin chef. And his chopping technique! You’ve never seen anyone chop onions that fast.

“Whoa,” you say, feeling kinda awkward just standing around and letting him do all the work, “you’re really good at this.”

His cheeks redden, his hand holding the knife slowing down momentarily. “So what If I am?!”

“Man, you really need to learn how to take a compliment,” you chuckle, “what are we making, by the way?”

“Fried rice. So make yourself useful and grab me a pan and a bag of rice, would you?”

“Roger.”

You work well together, you think. While he takes care of chopping and cutting the vegetables, you heat olive oil on medium heat, waiting for that tell-tale sizzle. You soon catch yourself humming some tune you heard on the radio at work, hips swaying as you stir the vegetables, rice and meat Bakugou put in the skillet. You giggle as he makes you surrender the frying pan so that he can toss the rice, and subsequently you marvel at how expertly he’s doing it. It’s been a while since you last cooked. You almost forgot how fun it is – even more so in good company.

“A shame we don’t have cashew nuts,” said companion murmurs, frowning at the contents of the pan after they’ve been tossed and fried and spiced to his liking. He looks at it almost longingly; you can’t help but notice. Ghosts can’t smell or taste anything. Bakugou told you he feels things, like pressure or texture to a certain level, but only if he concentrates.

“Ah, well, this is a low-budget kitchen,” you wave your hand in dismissal, eager to lighten up the mood. “Never mind though! It smells absolutely delicious!” And it looks absolutely gorgeous, but you don’t say that aloud, fearing his ego might explode.

“You should taste it before serving, just to be sure,” he suggests, already bringing a spoon to your lips. You hesitate for a second, suddenly hyperaware of all the sounds, smells and sights in the kitchen. The oil sizzling. The sweet smell of spices and fried onion. Bakugou, staring at you expectantly with an undecipherable expression on his stupidly attractive face as you part your lips and slowly, tentatively lick the spoon.

He shouldn’t have need for oxygen, but his breath hitches all the same.

“So, how is it?” He asks, voice so low it’s almost a whisper.

“Delicious,” you answer, but in truth, it’s not the food you’ve been paying attention to.

He positively glows in the kitchen lights. Like some otherworldly, ethereal being, and in a way, he is one. You look at him and have to fight the impulse to touch, hold, never let go.

“That’s all?” He questions further, with that adorable frown of his.

And his lips. They look soft. If you were to kiss him, right now, right there next to the stove under the lights and in your silly little apron, would he reciprocate it?

Stop it. You’re being disgusting. He’d probably, no, certainly think so, and push you away and never talk to you again.

“Why don’t you taste it as well?” You blurt out, realizing your error far too late. The spoon has already been pushed to his mouth, conveniently open as he was about to say something – most likely tell you to get fucked – and then he swallows and his eyes widen like he’s discovered something amazing.

“You…” You start to say, only to get immediately cut off by him.

“How in hell is this possible?!” He shouts, but not angrily, more like he can’t hide his excitement. “I…could taste it. The onions. The carrots. The…the fucking chili.” He brings the spoon to his mouth one more time and here it is again – that glint in his eyes. To the evident surprise of both you and him, he laughs, a rich, beautiful sound you��ll never get sick of.

Happy Bakugou is a foreign concept, but you like it very much.

“You kidding me?!” You exclaim. “That’s excellent news! Does that mean your sense of smell is back as well?”

He sniffs the air before grinning widely. “It wasn’t there just a few minutes ago, but now there’s no mistaking it. That’s some good fucking fried rice we made, all right.”

We made. You and Bakugou, together. And for some reason he can feel like a human now? You can only speculate why that happened, but maybe your grandma would know? She’s the one who introduced you to the world of the not-living, after all. You have to ask her, gosh, she’s going to be angry with you for not giving her a call in so long – but first, first you have to hug Bakugou.

And so you do. You squeeze him for all you are worth and he responds in kind, arms wrapping around your back to press you even further into his firm chest. As always, he’s slightly cold to the touch, but warms up quickly enough.

The hug lasts for ages, and as much as you wish to fall asleep like this, the food must be getting cold. You wonder if he can eat it with you – it’s not too much to hope for, is it?! – but when you attempt to wriggle free from the embrace, he grunts and presses you against him even tighter. And that’s when you notice, when you feel it, the unmistakable hardness poking you in the lower belly.

Oh. So that works too.

This is impossible, and flattering, and far too tempting to not comment on.

“All that just from a hug?” You tease, as if you yourself weren’t practically dripping just from him spoon-feeding you.

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Well, he doesn’t have to tell you twice.

You kiss him like your life depends on it. He appreciates the intensity of it, judging by the groan escaping from low in his throat, the way his hands drop from your sides to knead at your ass. He slides his tongue into your mouth, rubbing it against yours. You’re only kissing and your head is spinning already.

He nibbles at your lower lip before releasing it and looking you straight in the eye. “You want more?” He asks, urgently.

Incapable of responding verbally, you only nod.

He gives your ass one last playful squeeze before lifting you up onto the kitchen counter, the fried rice all but forgotten as you dive in for another heated kiss. Bakugou, you find, is a very hands-on kind of lover. His calloused palms venture under your shirt, exploring your smooth flesh and curves with unhidden curiosity.

“So soft,” he informs you in between kisses, making you blush even more if that’s even possible, “and you smell nice.”

You disagree, seeing as you’re in a sore need of a shower after the long day you had, but you’re not about to argue with a man who has his tongue in your mouth.

He lifts the hem of your shirt and pulls it over your head, chuckling when you get trapped, and gasping when you free yourself and grind against his still clothed cock in revenge.

It soon becomes painfully clear the kitchen won’t survive you fucking in it once you knock over the bottle of chili and it spills on the ground, creating an ominous red pool.

“Bed?” You say, breathlessly, and he agrees. “Bed.”

You stumble into the bedroom as in a drunken haze, and while you remember him undressing you on your way to the bed, him becoming suddenly naked was not your doing. Well, he is a ghost. You can’t exactly say you’re bothered by it, as it saved you significant time and trouble.

“Before we do this,” you whimper as he lavishes your neck and chest with wet, open-mouthed kisses, “I need t-to tell you…”

He slides further down your body, positioning himself between your thighs. Your breath catches in your throat, knowing what he’s about to do. “B-Bakugou…”

“You can tell me later. Just relax now,” he purrs, his hands spreading your legs further apart. You close your eyes and press the side of your face into your pillow.

The very first touch of his tongue to your overheated sex is enough to send your mind reeling. You whine, wanting more pressure, but he keeps you in place, keeps teasing you with short little licks and bites to your inner thighs. It’s infuriating. Every time he brings you close to the edge, he purposefully slows down, robbing you of your release. It’s hardly fair; he hasn’t so much as felt anything in years, you’ve only gone without sex for months, so how does he find himself with so much more patience than you?

“I think you’re ready for it now,” he notes, finally reappearing from between your legs.

“I have been forever now, thanks for noticing,” you roll your eyes.

He narrows his eyes at you. “If you don’t like it…”

“Never said I don’t! Shit…look…j-just do it already, okay?!” You bite your lip, looking at him pleadingly without actually saying please. You’ll save begging for later. Something’s telling you you’ll need it.

Bakugou’s expression is that of concentration as he aligns himself with your entrance. “Say if it hurts.”

It doesn’t. You thought it would be cold too, but he’s just as warm as a real man. He is a real man, you remind yourself. He certainly takes you like one, all hard thrusts and savage grunts as he chases his, and your release.

And God fucking damn it, he’s beautiful. Illuminated by moonlight, shining with sweat – yours? Do ghosts even sweat? – producing all those sounds that are pure music to your ears. You run your fingers through his spiky, soft blonde hair, scratch his scalp and have him reward you with a particularly deep thrust. It’s usually awkward with new lovers, not knowing what they prefer, having to learn it the hard way, but with Bakugou, you fuck like you were made for each other.

This round – because you know there will be more – looks like it’s going to be a short one. You’re too overstimulated from his earlier ministrations and Bakugou, well, he isn’t exactly pacing it out with how fast he slides in and out of you.

In the last few seconds, as need for release overdrives all his senses, he grabs onto your hips so hard you’re sure he’ll leave bruises, and buries himself into you for one last time before coming with a shudder. You’re close behind, burying your face into his shoulder while babbling incoherently. You don’t believe you ever came this hard. Your ears are ringing, heart beating fast like a hummingbird’s.

“What?” He asks, petting your hair comfortingly as you try to catch your breath. He sounds fine, if not a little dazed. His chest does not heave with uneven breaths, nor is he all red and sweaty in the face. And, the wetness sticking to your inner thighs is all your own.

“You wanted to say something, before,” he murmurs, as you begin to calm down, “so what was it?”

You meet his eyes with your own, finally. You must look like a mess, but he doesn’t seem fazed. Instead he stares at you like you’re the only thing on Earth he doesn’t hate, and the feeling’s mutual.

“I love you, you asshole,” you sob.

“I love you too idiot. So whatcha crying for?” He frowns, wiping a stray tear with his thumb. You lean into his touch, drawing a sharp breath before answering.

“I’m just so damn happy.” And you are. Really. You’ve spent years believing there wasn’t a person alive who could possibly love you in a way that you deserved, and turns out you were right.

You lie there for a while, limbs intertwined, dreaming up a wonderful future together, until you’re propelled to sit up by a terrible thought. “The food!”

“Shh. You can still microwave the shit.”

“But it won’t taste as good! I don’t wanna let your good food go to waste…”

“Hey.” He pulls you back into the bed just as you were going to leave it. “I can bring it to you. Get some rest, pipsqueak.”

Fried rice in bed?! The man wants to spoil you.

And you don’t mind in the least.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou smut #if you are reading this i am sorry mom

361 notes · View notes

catty-words · 3 years

Note

can you please tell me how you interpret otis' relationship with jean?

mm, so, while i don’t always find it enjoyable on a minute-by-minute basis because jean’s boundary issues touch a nerve and because i’ve imprinted so completely on my boy otis and hate to watch his autonomy challenged, there can be no denying that otis and jean’s relationship is incredibly rich and complex. there’s So Much to talk about, it’s kind of hard to pick a starting point.

but the aspect of their relationship i find most fascinating, i think, is the way both jean and otis’ number one priority is to mold otis into/become a man who doesn’t at all resemble remy. jean tries to accomplish this by constantly reframing otis’ reactions to her in the female point of view. like, think of the moment in 1.02 where otis says something to the effect of “you're stalking your son” and jean responds “that word carries a lot of weight, young man, don’t misuse it” or even the scene in the pilot that establishes their relationship for the audience, where otis takes jean’s latest sexual conquest to task and jean points out the sexism inherent in the argument otis is making.

and i like how years of this kind of guidance, this encouragement to see the broader cultural consequences of the worldview you’re imposing on others, has both helped otis flourish as a compassionate person and given him a crippling self-consciousness. he can both offer useful and mature sexual education to his peers, and fail to step outside his preoccupation with his insecurities in order to forge sexual relationships of his own.

also, one of the compelling consequences of the fracturing of their family and their subsequent preoccupation with remy’s part in it is the way jean’s unwillingness to be emotionally available to a partner affects otis. he’s watched her hedonistic approach to sex and leaned that sexual intimacy can - and perhaps even should - be developed only with people you don’t care about on a deeper level. it’s a way to invite intimacy into your life while maintaining steady boundaries around your heart. even remy’s absence, and the reason for remy’s absence, reinforces this for otis. having sex with someone you care about, with someone you’d willingly adopt as a life partner, gives them the power to hurt you beyond repair.

we see this guiding life principle take its toll on otis throughout season two, where he struggles with the idea of jean dating jakob and chooses ola over maeve again and again because he sees her as the safer alternative to being with someone he cares for deeply and in a way that’s already painful without it being as intimate as it has the potential to be. otis’ lashing out during the season comes from the fact that he’s unprepared to deal with his mom changing the foundation upon which she’s built their lives. that foundation being suddenly called into question by jean willingly becoming emotionally intimate with another person post-remy only makes otis’ latent anger more pronounced. now that he actually has a sexual life of which to speak, he’s building it in jean’s own image. so if she changes her mind about what makes physical vs. emotional intimacy worthwhile, that means otis has to deal with the fact that he could have followed his heart all along instead of choosing the closed-off and pragmatic option. what he’s missing, of course, is the way emotional intimacy after all this time doesn’t come naturally to jean. she’s working very hard to go against her nature in order to maintain - or fail to maintain, as it were - her relationship with jakob and that, in point of fact, the effort is what speaks to the relationship’s worth. relationships are the work of two people, they don’t magically spring into being by nature of intense chemistry and they aren’t time bombs that blow up in your face at random. for all jean’s preoccupation with keeping her dynamic with otis open and communicative, she certainly fails to pass along the idea that, above all else, passivity is the worst thing you can bring into any relationship.

which brings us to the other aspect of otis and jean’s relationship that’s of most interest to me: the aforementioned boundary issues. both otis and jean are very internal and largely private people. for otis, we see it manifest mostly in his relationship with jean. he doesn’t want to tell her about maeve, or the sex clinic, or his fight with eric. for jean, it’s in her consistent shutting down of anything more than sex with her various suitors and, most notably, in the 1.06 scene about otis’ thrashed wardrobe with jakob - “do you always avoid questions like this?”

but even while jean shares otis’ preference toward self-reliance and contemplativeness, she battles against his every assertion of privacy, wandering into his room to look through his stuff both when he specifically asks her not to and at random. the kid doesn’t get a lock for his bedroom door until he’s sixteen for crying out loud and, when he finally does, jean kicks open the door in a violation of what the lock symbolizes - namely, otis’ ability to choose when and what he shares with her.

so while this parent-child dynamic is far too close to home for me to make me particularly warm toward jean or identify with her, i do appreciate the way it brings endless complexity to the character. her whole persona is built on respectful and direct communication. it’s her greatest tool as a therapist, and it’s her greatest pitfall as a mother. because for every spoken “let the negative energy dissipate” and ‘let’s have a calm and rational discussion about this,” there’s a choice she makes to actively violate otis’ spoken and unspoken requests for stronger boundaries.

aside from her practice, otis is jean’s whole life. and you can clearly see the ways she’s done an exceptional job at raising a compassionate and thoughtful human being with all the energy and time she’s focused on doing just that. on the other hand, otis is jean’s whole life and you can clearly see the ways him behaving similarly to her both reinforces jean’s perception that she’s entitled to his life on her terms and creates tension around the fact that all otis wants is to assert the self-reliance she’s instilled in him.

#bigwhispersmusic #replies #sex education #jean milburn #otis milburn #sex ed meta

41 notes · View notes

escapewithbts · 3 years

Text

Secrets in a Foreign Language - Jungkook (Part One)

So I’m not entirely sure if this is going to be just a couple parts or a small series, I kind of just came up with it randomly! I also couldn’t think of a better title so bear with me please haha nevertheless I hope you enjoy! I loved writing this beginning so far!

------------------------------------------------

>>next

You fiddled with the keys in your hand, searching for the one you marked for this particular unit. Finally, you found the correct one, pushing it into the lock and opening the front door with a click. It looked like pretty much every other apartment in the building, modern with a large living space, open concept kitchen with stainless steel appliances, large windows that looked over the city of Seoul. Just another multi-million dollar home you could only ever afford in your dreams.

Yet here you were, entering the home of an individual who could afford such a space in their reality... because it was your job to clean it. Yes, you were a housekeeper for the company who owned this apartment building; one of the most expensive places to live in all of South Korea.

You had moved here to Seoul from your home country abroad in search of change. A new adventure? Something to push you out of your comfort zone? Really you were just extremely bored back home; sick of the same routines, the same people, the career you didn’t enjoy. So, before you could talk yourself out of it, you contacted a job agency based in Seoul, South Korea whose mission was to find jobs for foreigners who spoke little to no Korean (aka you). And that is approximately how you landed this gig. Only a few months in and your Korean had significantly improved (requiring basic necessities like, you know, food and toilet paper, forced you to learn how to acquire said items in this new language) and you weren’t hating this job at all. You were alone most of the time, cleaning wasn’t too difficult since you have been doing it your whole life, and because it was for such a wealthy company the pay wasn’t bad either. Was it what you wanted to do for the rest of your life? Probably not. But it paid the bills and still left some income for exploration of your new home country.

And honestly, the most difficult part of it all was the scheduling. Sometimes you had limited time to clean a home based on the person’s day, sometimes you had an excessive number of units to clean in one day and wondered how exactly you were going to finish them all. But once you came into a routine that stuck you quickly found a pace for yourself that worked perfectly.

And since you were entering the homes of some of Korea’s wealthiest and most famous, the contract and background check for the position were quite lengthy. For example, you couldn’t touch anything unnecessary in their homes, couldn’t snoop around (obviously, you wouldn’t do that for a “regular” person anyway?), you weren’t even allowed to use their bathroom if you had to. The company had contacted all your previous employers, colleagues, some friends, even randomly requested internet browsing history a couple times! (I guess they wanted to make sure you weren’t a crazy stalker “fan” some K-pop groups you had heard about having, or a spy for another company’s CEO). The process was rather insane in your opinion, but alas, you passed, and honestly, the fact that you were a foreigner who didn’t speak much Korean probably helped your case. And to be fair, you really didn’t care about whose house you were in, you were just thankful to have acquired a job after your decision to move across the world that happened on a whim.

This particular unit was actually decorated quite nicely. It was more minimal style, with modern furniture that still felt warm and inviting. You figured it must be the home of someone younger, probably mid-twenties like you, but you also got the feeling they didn’t spend much time here. It was already in fairly immaculate shape (thankfully, it was your last job of the day, so you knew it was going to be quick) and didn’t seem very lived in in general. You couldn’t help but notice what looked like speakers and recording equipment shoved into the corner of the room. This place must belong to a musician or producer of some sort, you thought. You shrugged and turned back to where you had entered, lugging your cleaning supplies in through the front door. Then you put in your wireless headphones, pulled on your rubber gloves, and began by dusting around the surfaces of the living room.

Not long after you had started, you were in the bathroom off the guestroom wiping down the sink. A sudden sound of what you thought was the loud slam of a door shutting startled you. Your head shot up and you stopped what you were doing to remove an earphone from one of your ears. Immediately you heard the raised voice of a young woman coming from down the hall, followed by a quieter one from a man. Your heart started racing. Were you in the wrong unit? Had you read the schedule incorrectly? Did you get the address mixed up? You frantically pulled your phone from your back pocket to check the schedule that came directly from management. Yes, the date matched, it was Tuesday. Yes, the time matched, 2 in the afternoon. And the address was correct, too. So why were there people suddenly in the home? Did they know you were here? This had never happened before in the short time you had been doing this job, so you had no idea what to do. Continue working like you didn’t realize they were here? Make your presence known so you don’t seem like you’re being suspicious? Were you going to get in trouble with the company? Certainly not if you were just following the schedule, right? Your mind was going a mile a minute.

Then before you could quite make up your mind, the voices sounded even closer, and you could only make out a little bit of what they were saying, especially since your Korean wasn’t great yet.

“Why didn’t you go with me?... What were you thinking?” you heard the woman’s voice say (or something like that so you thought?) She sounded angry.

“I don’t know…” the man replied, followed by something else you couldn’t comprehend. He was still a lot quieter than her.

She spoke again.

“What are people going to say, Jungkook?”

You froze.

Jungkook.

Jungkook? Of BTS?

Okay, so you weren’t a crazy stalker fan or anything, but it was impossible to avoid knowing about the K-pop group BTS. They were literally everywhere around Seoul. Commercials on tv, billboards all over the city, posters on the subway trains… their faces even appeared on the coffee drink you had every morning for goodness sake! Since you kept seeing them, after you had gotten the job, you researched them a little bit. Their music was good, they seemed like genuine people, but never did you think you would be in one of their houses. There were hundreds of Korean businessmen, executives, celebrities, and only 7 members of BTS. Honestly, what were the chances?

Pretty good apparently. Fuck.

“I’m your girlfriend, Jungkook,” she continued annoyingly.

Ah, that’s right. In your brief research you had read he was seeing another idol. What was her name again?

“No, Cho-hee,” Jungkook replied.

Oh right. Kim Cho-hee. You remember now.

“You’re my pretend girlfriend.”

Your heart stopped.

Oh fuck! You definitely weren’t supposed to hear that. You had to show yourself now. That’s it, your decision was made for the sake of your career.

You quietly walked out of the room and found the two of them in the hallway with their backs turned to you. Just as Cho-hee was opening her mouth to respond you cleared your throat.

They both whipped around at your sudden sound. Yep, it was them alright. You recognized them immediately. They stared at you stunned for a second before Cho-hee spoke up.

“Who are you?!” she practically barked in Korean, taking a few steps towards you with her long slim legs, her large brown eyes wide, her dark hair whipping around her shoulders, her pale skin painted with a red hue.

“I, uh, I’m…” you stuttered, attempting to find the correct Korean words but failing miserably from being put on the spot.

Jungkook calmly put his hand around Cho-hee’s arm and pulled her back slightly.

“She the housekeeper,” he answered in Korean for you. Yes, that was the word you were looking for. “I don’t think she speaks Korean.”

Not well, anyway, thanks Jungkook.

He turned toward you, his dark brown eyes finding yours. Your stomach flipped from nervousness.

“You speak English?” he asked timidly in your native tongue.

All you could do was nod.

He let out a sigh of relief and said something you didn’t understand to Cho-hee, causing her to step back and a look of relief to wash over her face, too.

It was then that you realized they probably thought you didn’t understand their conversation. That you didn’t know the meaning of any of it. Should you come clean and tell them you understood? Particularly the “pretend girlfriend” stuff?

Cho-hee turned back toward the main room and beckoned at Jungkook.

“Come on, let the help continue working.”

Oof. ‘The help’. You definitely understood that. You knew cleaning the homes of rich people meant you may run into some entitlement, but dang, you didn’t think someone would make it so obvious, language barrier or not.

You winced.

Jungkook cocked his head, a confused look on his face. But then he shook it off.

“I think…” he said hesitantly in English, then shook his head to correct himself, “Ah um no, I thought you were here on Wednesday?”

You shook your head.

“No, um, my schedule says Tuesday. So, unless it’s wrong then…”

Jungkook put two fingers to the bridge of his nose in thought.

“Aiishh, no you are right, I’m sorry. I’m not here very often so I never can remember which day.”

You began taking off your gloves.

“It’s-it’s okay, I can go, come back at a better time…”

He waved his hands in front of him in protest.

“No, no, stay, continue, please. I don’t want to be an... interrupt... interruption? That’s the right word?” a blush formed on his face as he chuckled at himself.

You smiled. Cute.

“Yes, that’s right. Thank you. I’m almost done, I promise.”

He smiled at you again and nodded.

“Jungkook-ah!” Cho-hee yelled from the kitchen.

Jungkook then bowed to you and whispered a quick “thank you” before disappearing into the other room.

You hadn’t realized how tense your body had become until you they were out of your sight and you released your muscles with a deep breath.

You quickly decided to keep their conversation to yourself; no point in letting them know you accidentally heard every word and understood, right? You wouldn’t tell anyone, after all it wasn’t your business. Still, there was that thing you felt for not speaking up right away. What was this feeling again? Oh yeah. Guilt. You tried to shake it off and just continued scrubbing.

There were, thankfully, no more loud conversations between the two of them while you cleaned, but just as you were finishing up in the last room of the home you heard the front door open and close. Were you by yourself again? You listened for noises. Silence. You couldn’t help but feel a bit of relief.

However, upon stumbling back into the kitchen with all your cleaning supplies you noticed Jungkook sitting on a stool at the kitchen island. He was scrolling through his phone and eating a bowl of cereal. He jumped when he saw you, clutching his tattoo covered hand to his chest.

“Holy shit, I forgot you were here,” he stated breathlessly.

Your face turned hot.

“Sorry, I’m... sorry for startling you. And again, for being here while you’re here; the, um, schedule mix up, I’m, uh, not sure what happened…” you stumbled over your words. Real smooth.

He waved his hand while shoving another spoonful of cereal and milk into his mouth.

“No, no, really, it’s my fault. I forget the schedule sometimes.”

You shrugged and nodded.

“Yes, well, I imagine you’re pretty busy most of the time.”

Shit. The words fell out of your mouth before you could stop them. Weren’t you not supposed to know who he was? You mentally smacked yourself in the forehead.

He didn’t seem bothered though, he just replied with a nod and a small “mhmm”, as if to say, ‘you’re not wrong’.

You started walking towards the front door to leave (before you could get yourself in even more trouble), but right as you did so Jungkook lifted the cereal box up from its place on the counter, looked at you and asked, “Want some?”

You stopped in your tracks and hesitated.

“Umm… I’m not sure… I’m allowed?”

You felt silly for saying this as you were a grown ass adult, but you knew it was true. There were so many rules put in place with this job, and they hadn’t quite gotten to the clause about eating the client’s cereal.

Jungkook stood up and walked around to the cupboard, pulling a bowl down from the shelf and grabbing a spoon from the drawer.

He placed them at the spot across from him and gave you a small smile before sitting back down.

“It’s okay. I’m okay. Your secret is safe with me.”

He ran his fingers along his lips like a zipper which made you both laugh.

“That is my favorite cereal…” you admitted, putting your things on the floor and walking over to the stool.

As you were sitting down, Jungkook began pouring the milk into your bowl. You stared at it confusingly, caught off guard for a second. Not cereal first? He read your expression immediately.

“I know, I am weird, I put milk first, okay?”

You put your hands up and laughed, a blush on both your faces.

“I didn’t say anything,” you retaliated.

Jungkook jokingly narrowed his eyes at you as he poured in the cereal, a grin still across his lips.

“I saw it in your face.”

You chuckled nervously and looked down at your now full bowl, taking a spoonful up to your mouth.

“What’s your name?” Jungkook suddenly asked.

You swallowed before answering.

“(y/n).”

There was a pause.

“What’s… yours?” you asked coyly, wondering if you could get away with pretend naivety.

Jungkook cocked his head and let a breathy giggle out his nose as he chewed, it scrunching and creating wrinkles.

“Hmm... my name is… Park Jimin.”

You snorted, thankful that no milk shot out your nose.

He laughed at that, his perfect teeth on display.

Clearly, he was testing you. Two could play at that game.

“Oh yeah? Well then it’s nice to meet you, Jimin.”

He didn’t break eye contact with you as he took another bite.

“You too, (y/n).”

You smiled and shook your head, looking down to fill your spoon once more.

The two of you continued eating, just causally chatting, mostly about you and your move to Korea and your life back in your home country. Jungkook seemed so shy and sweet, the complete counterpart to his “pretend” girlfriend.

Your stomach flipped at the memory of the conversation you had overheard. You had almost forgot about it by now, wrapped up in the random moment of eating cereal with Jungkook. The guilty feeling returned. You knew you had to let him know, especially after how kind he has been to you. He could hate you, that was okay, it’s not like you had anything to lose.

Oh, except your job.

You dropped your spoon into the now empty bowl and took a deep breath.

“Umm... I have to tell you something…” you began before you could chicken out from this awkward conversation you were about to have with basically a stranger.

He put his bowl to his lips and slurped the milk while simultaneously looking up at you, waiting for you to continue.

“I speak some Korean. And I heard your conversation earlier… with, um, Cho-hee, and I understood… well, most of it,” he slowly placed his bowl back on the counter in front of him and stared at you with wide eyes, his lips slightly parted open, “But I-I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I just wasn’t sure what to do, and I-I swear I will keep it to myself and never mention it ever again; I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear anything, okay? Seriously. I promise.”

He didn’t say anything, and you couldn’t read the expression on his face. He stared off into space for a minute, then stood up and grabbed the empty bowls, walking them over to the sink and placing them inside. His back was to you as he hunched over, his hands supporting him on either side. Your heart was beating a mile a minute, your hands getting sweaty as you fiddled with your fingers.

“I really am sorry,” you whimpered softly, “Please, please don’t have me fired.”

He turned back to you, a surprised look on his face, his doe eyes wide.

“What? Why would I do that?”

You looked down.

“I don’t know… for not telling you I heard right away. For listening. For… being here while you’re here.”

Jungkook sighed and ran a hand through his long black hair, then shut his eyes tightly.

“I’m not worried you tell anyone, it’s okay. I have been thinking about… trying to end it anyway.”

He opened his eyes again and suddenly looked tired and worried. But you didn’t want to pry. It really wasn’t your place.

“Okay.”

Was all you could come up with to respond.

He glanced at you briefly and gave you a shy side smile.

“So, I don’t tell anyone you ate with me, you don’t tell I have a fake girlfriend?” he said jokingly, knowing he was the one who persuaded you to eat with him in the first place.

You chuckled and stuck out your hand.

“Yeah. Deal?”

He put his hand in yours. It was warm and felt so strong against your small one.

“Deal.”

You were so thankful he didn’t seem upset about the whole thing. In fact, he almost seemed relieved that someone else knew now. In this short time spent with him you knew you were leaving with only high praises and positive thoughts of Jeon Jungkook.

“Well, I better get going,” you said, standing up from the stool. You grabbed all your supplies and looked back up him.

“Thank you, um, for the cereal and being so understanding about everything.”

He nodded at you.

“I will remember your schedule next time and not disturb you by being here, okay?”

You smiled.

“You didn’t disturb me, but okay.”

“Tuesdays at…umm what time do you get here?” he put his fingers between his brows in thought again.

“2pm.”

He grinned at you and gave you a thumbs up.

“Okay! Okay okay! I got it! Let’s get it!”

You laughed and he chuckled embarrassingly.

“Well it was nice to meet you, Jungkook. Take care.”

You gave him a little wave as you went to the front door, opening it and stepping out.

“You too, (y/n),” he called after you, “I’ll see you around.”

>>next

Masterlist

89 notes · View notes

taexual · 4 years

Text

i’d love you to stay but that’s simply insane // JJK (1)

jungkook is an uncontrollable lead vocalist of the campus band, and you’re a goal-oriented top student that’s known his rich and complicated family since childhood. you don’t want anything to do with each other, until each other is exactly what you want to do.

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader

genre: college au

warnings: strong language, accidents caused by drunk driving (DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, DRIVE WHILE DRUNK OR AGREE TO RIDE WITH SOMEONE WHO’S DRUNK!!!)

words: 4.4k

chapter one.

The music coming from the stage was deafening and headache-inducing but the ambience of the club itself was absolutely energizing, and you kept switching between regretting the decision to come here, and thanking your roommate for convincing you to. Glancing at the girl next to you – she’d already finished her fourth drink and you weren’t sure if she realized it because she seemed to be hypnotized by what she was seeing on stage – you smiled even despite knowing that you’d be stuck helping her battle a killer hangover tomorrow.

“It’s crazy,” Inna said suddenly as if having read your thoughts, “isn’t it? I mean, they’re driving the whole club insane, look at them!”

You did look but not at the band on stage. The second floor of the club provided you with a great view of the first floor and the sight of your heavily intoxicated and barely legal peers dancing so close to the stage, they were nearly on top of it already, distracted you – it always amused you to see the duality of the top students in your class.

“Yeah,” you said. “But Parental Advisory brings the insanity with them wherever they go. I saw some people who brought actual posters to the club.”

“Shit, I should have thought of that,” Inna said, hitting herself on the temple with her palm in disappointment.

“I don’t even get it,” you started and your roommate was already groaning. Even drunk, she could recognize the tone of your voice when you were about to complain. “I mean—”

“Come on, you said you wouldn’t complain!” she whined.

“I said no such thing,” you disagreed, “and I’m not complaining, anyway. I’m just saying how they’re nothing special. Everyone’s only listening to them because they’re the only band on campus.”

Inna looked like she wanted to argue – like she’s done a million times before – but then she decided to let it slide and finish her drink instead.

“You’re only saying that,” she pointed out then, the straw of her cocktail still in her mouth, “because you have a weird prejudice against their lead vocalist.”

You raised your eyebrows with a skeptical scoff. “Jungkook? I don’t have anything against him. I just think he’s an overrated, arrogant asshole.”

Your roommate glanced at the stage again, seemingly losing herself in the performance for a minute, before she agreed to give you the benefit of the doubt, even though she always suspected that there was something more there – she knew you and Jungkook had history and she felt like your open dislike for him was concealing your deeper feelings.

“He may be arrogant,” she said just as Jungkook tossed the towel he’d used to wipe the sweat on his forehead off into the crowd, “but that’s just because he’s aware of how good he is.”

“Or maybe it’s because his dad owns a successful business,” you said, “and he’s just an entitled heir.”

“Sure, that could be a factor. But being an heir wouldn’t make those girls so devoted to him,” she was only half-joking as both of your gazes immediately fell to the side of the stage where a group of girls was already waiting for the performance to be over.

“There’s always a crowd of girls wherever he goes,” Inna continued, her eyes glistening. She chuckled then, “and, let me tell you, word is, they’re never disappointed.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes even despite having heard the rumors on campus as well. It wasn’t that the members of Parental Advisory slept around – or maybe they did but they weren’t ones to brag about it – but they knew what to give their audience to make them satisfied. That included their shows on stage and their parties back at their shared house – a notorious place already, known all over campus as the only spot where a party could stay alive and burning all throughout the weekend.

“Do you think his groupies leave reviews?” you slipped into sarcasm without meaning to. “Do they rate his performance on and off the stage out of five stars?”

“No, are you seriou—okay, that’s enough for me. I’m going to get another drink,” Inna stood up, choosing to focus her energy into having a good time rather than trying to get you to see the band from her point of view.

You debated stopping her -- she’s already had more drinks than she could handle -- but the determination in her eyes as she turned around and crossed the room towards the bar stopped you. You didn’t dare to interrupt a woman on a mission.

Finishing your own drink as you waited for her to come back, you took this time to focus on the atmosphere of the club. Despite the fact that Parental Advisory was, obviously, not one of your favorite bands, they did play good music – even if you could already feel a headache creeping in – and, there was no denying, they definitely knew how to put on a show.

You watched Jungkook lean into the crowd with his mic stand, his white shirt almost see-through from his sweat – and everyone who was close enough to touch him went wild. It was almost as if he ignited wildfires inside of them with his eyes – just one look and everyone around him dropped all of their inhibitions and started to live.

You knew of the effect he had on people even before he joined the band as you found yourself reminiscing about all the times you’d listened to Jungkook play a very strained version of Für Elise on his grandfather’s old piano. He’d always look at you after he finished playing and the glitter in his eyes made you feel as though you’ve just listened to the most harmonious melody in the world, even if his family’s cat wouldn’t stop hissing, begging him to stop and get away from the piano.

Somehow, listening to Parental Advisory – even though they favored alternative music and stayed clear of Beethoven – always brought back the memories of Jungkook at the piano. It softened you until you started to understand why every person at the club was completely at his will, responding to his every gesture, and, for a little while, you could relate to them as you followed Jungkook on stage with your eyes.

You didn’t like these memories – they lowered your walls against your will – so you were glad to get distracted by Inna as she plopped back down on her seat next to you, a new drink in her hand.

“Man,” she said and then took a sip, “if I’d brought a poster too, maybe we could have gone to the after party.”

Of course she wanted to go to their after party. When it came to Parental Advisory, after parties were basically a part of their performance, so she couldn’t just leave in the middle of it.

“You can still go even if you don’t have a poster,” you said, already coming up with a plan of how you were going to get home after the final song ended. “It’s not like their parties are exclusive.”

“Well, they sort of are,” Inna said. “It’s different when you just show up to the party. The people who matter arrive with the band. And they usually invite some of the girls with the posters backstage after the show.”

“The people who matter,” you repeated with disgust, “I hope you realize how pretentious that sounds. You’re not a loser if you don’t roll up to the party with the band.”

“It’s—okay, maybe it’s a little pretentious,” she said. “But I’d still like to be a part of that crew. Or, at least, arrive with someone.”

She wasn’t trying to conceal her wistful tone and even if she was, she probably wouldn’t have been very successful, because her wish to get a glimpse into the inside world of Parental Advisory was obvious in her eyes as she watched the band play out the final chords on stage.

Despite dragging you to gigs like this nearly every weekend, Inna was, all things considered, a good friend and you felt like you owed her this one thing because tonight really wasn’t as torturous for you as you may have made it seem.

You still couldn’t help but sigh before speaking to let her know how difficult saying this was for you (all so she wouldn’t expect you to do this every time you went out, really), “I suppose we can go to the party together. I’ll make sure you don’t feel like a loser.”

Her whole face lit up as she turned to you. “Do you mean it? Because I’m too drunk to recognize it if you’re mocking me right now.”

“I mean it,” you said sincerely. “If you don’t mind arriving with me instead of the band.”

“Oh, who cares, the band will be inside,” she dismissed her previous stance immediately, “thank you! I’ll make sure to repay you by getting you a clean cup of beer so as not to repeat my last mistake.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, frowning as you tried to resist the memory of Inna’s last mistake that involved accidentally making a cocktail of beer and tequila and then leaving you to fend for your life as you battled a hangover that seemed to last the whole week.

“Let’s not go there,” you said, “I’ll get my own drinks this time. Or, actually, maybe I’ll stay sober. One of us has to.”

Inna chuckled. “Good! I think it’s a little too late for me to do that.”

As it turned out, your roommate wasn’t the only one who got drunk way before the after-party started, because, by the time you returned to campus and reached the large building Parental Advisory lived in – courtesy of their rich parents, of course – everyone there was already wasted and in the middle of a very intense game of how-many-stupid-things-can-I-do-in-one-night. The guy who dived head-first from the roof into the jacuzzi in the backyard – no clothes on him whatsoever – must have been winning.

“Did you see that?” Inna laughed, her eyes lighting up like a child’s in the presence of candy. “There’s a reason why people won’t shut up about the parties here.”

“Hmm,” you looked around, more concerned about the girl from your Philosophy class who was attempting to do a keg stand all by herself. “But how do they not have accidents here? Everyone’s drunk out of their—”

“Oh my God, there they are!” your roommate squealed as she stopped walking suddenly and you automatically bumped into her. She turned to you, completely unbothered by the fact that you’d made her spill half of her drink. “Do you want to say hi to Jungkook?”

You lifted your gaze until you saw the four members of the band make their way towards the kitchen – which was, conveniently, directly behind you – and then scoffed.

“Not at all,” you said as the group approached. “But even if I did, watch how he successfully ignores me.”

But your expectations weren’t met as Jungkook – still mid-laugh about something someone had said to him – stopped right in front of you.

“Oh!” he looked surprised to see you, but not nearly as surprised as you felt when he stopped to talk to you. Inna had stopped breathing as she watched you from the side and, frankly, you thought your lungs had given out, too. “Nice to see you here. Having fun?”

You hadn’t talked to Jungkook in seven years at least – a lucky number, one would think – and now that he was suddenly addressing you again, you weren’t sure if you’d ever learned how to talk at all.

“Sure,” you ended up saying because what else was there to say? “I like what you’ve done with the place. Before the party started, I mean.”

He laughed, giving the space that was once his living room – but was now a dance-floor with a couch that was nearly tipped over by some couple that was making out on it – a good look and then turning to you again.

“Thanks,” he said. “My mom took care of it.”

“Of course,” you let it slip. Acting like you didn’t know him was obviously not going to work because you did know him, and you knew very well that his mother was an interior designer because she was the one that designed your parents’ house, too. “Hope she’s doing well.”

“She is,” Jungkook said but it sounded a lot like the automatic response you’d given him before – “sure, I’m having fun at this party” – and he realized that as he cleared his throat, “she, uh, she’s still in touch with your mom, I guess, yeah?”

“Well, they’re best friends,” you said. Once again, your mouth opened before you could control yourself and every single word came out sounding overly sarcastic and borderline snotty. It was like you were trying to live up to his arrogant nature while he was pretending to be humble. “Anyway, it’s, uh, good to see you, I guess. I’m going to—”

Your eyes were already on Inna – who was no longer as amused by Jungkook as she had been moments ago, and was currently ogling Taehyung, another Parental Advisory member, who was talking to someone a few feet away from her – and you were already in the middle of taking a step past Jungkook and towards her, when he suddenly grabbed your forearm, stopping you.

The act – or, his touch, to be precise – shocked you so much that you turned to him with parted lips but weren’t able to express your surprise out loud.

“Wait, you guess?” Jungkook asked, sounding oddly amused. “So, it’s not really good to see me, then?”

For a moment, you didn’t understand what he was saying at all – because you weren’t thinking what you were saying when you spoke to him – but then you realized and pulled your arm out of his grasp.

“I’ve made small-talk with at least a dozen people I didn’t know before tonight,” you said, “it’s been good to see them all.”

“You know me, though,” he insisted, grinning now. It was like he listened to the sarcasm in your voice but deliberately chose not to hear it.

Still not really sure why he was talking to you now of all times – you’ve been going to the same classes for three years now and there have definitely been opportunities for you two to interact but you both ignored all of them – you figured he was just bored. Doing the same thing every Friday night – performing and then going home to get drunk with strangers who basically worshiped him – was bound to get tiring after a while and maybe he was looking for new ways to entertain himself.

“I knew you,” you clarified, not wanting to become his newest form of entertainment.

He shrugged, seemingly unfazed by the seven years you’d spent not talking. “You still do.”

You scoffed and were clearly about to disagree, so he jumped in before you could.

“We can always catch up,” he said with a nod towards the kitchen. “Let’s get a drink.”

“Why?” you asked. You couldn’t help it, this was too weird.

“Why not?” he countered, ever the opportunist. You didn’t reply. “What’s with the frown? Do you still plan everything out in advance? Should I make an appointment with your secretary before you can agree to get drinks with me?”

You felt the frown he’d mention deepen as your skeptical expression turned into a full-on scowl. You didn’t appreciate being mocked.

“You should,” you said. “But, fair warning, I’m booked until graduation.”

You were already turning to walk away – and noticed that Inna had disappeared – but, once again, Jungkook pulled you right back in by speaking louder.

“Aw, that’s disappointing,” he said in a way that made him sound more excited than disappointed. “Won’t you make an exception for an old friend? You used to.”

You felt goosebumps rise on your skin as he said this but didn’t even attempt to defend yourself. He had always been the exception to everything in your life – no matter how busy with homework you were, no matter how many school events the student council needed your approval for, you always made time for him – and, somehow, that came back to bite you in the ass.

“I haven’t talked to you since we finished middle school,” you said, purposefully not sticking to the day in discussion for too long or Jungkook would have undoubtedly used that against you, too, “lots of things changed. I only make exceptions for the people who matter now.”

Jungkook – who was absolutely going to discuss your middle school graduation in great detail if you’d stopped talking after you mentioned it – grabbed his chest and threw his head back dramatically.

“Ouch,” he fake-moaned, “that’s really cold, you know. I’m just trying to reconnect with you.”

“I think you have more important matters at hand,” you said, finally finding an excuse to walk away – it came in the form of three girls who had appeared by his side, evidently too tired to be waiting for his attention from across the room.

He hadn’t even noticed them at first – which was surprising, considering how strong the scent of their combined perfumes was – but, as soon as he turned his head to finally look at them, you walked away.

Instead of being annoyed by your abrupt exit, however, Jungkook seemed to grow even more amused. This was the first time you’d left him hanging – things really have changed.

“I’ll call you!” he called out across the living room but you didn’t turn back so he assumed you didn’t hear. Sighing, he turned back to the girls by his side. Taking the one closest to him by her hand, he pointed towards the kitchen. “Ladies.”

When you finally turned around to look at him – because you did hear what he’d said – he was already guiding the group of girls into the kitchen and filling their cups. An unexpected sense of disappointment settled in your chest but you tried to shake it off.

He was the one who decided it’d be better if the two of you stopped being friends at the beginning of ninth grade. It couldn’t have taken him seven years to change his mind.

A loud commotion outside distracted you from the conversation you’d been having with someone who, apparently, lived in a dorm room across the hall from yours – funny how you haven’t even seen each other before tonight – and you both turned to look out of the window.

“What the fuck was that?” you heard Yoongi, another one of Jungkook’s bandmates, ask himself, as he hurried past you. “Is that fucker fighting again?”

Your heart rate picked up as you realized that the “fucker” in question must have been Jungkook. Thinking rationally, you knew you had no reason to go out there and check what was going on, and yet the possibility that Jungkook was in a fight – and not for the first time, apparently! – was enough to send you right after Yoongi, until the two of you stopped in the backyard, both looking around to see what was causing the loud noise.

“Do you see him?” Yoongi asked you, too drunk – and too busy looking after his lead vocalist – to question why you were outside with him when everyone else settled on watching the scene play out through the windows of the house.

“Why do you think it’s him—oh. Yeah, I see him,” you pointed to a black car parked at the far end of the backyard – clearly, the car belonged to one of the members – and Yoongi saw Jungkook as soon as he turned to look.

Frankly, it was hard not to see Jungkook because he was being unceremoniously thrown on the hood of the vehicle by a guy that was about twice his size. And yet Jungkook seemed so much more aggressive than him as he pushed himself off the car and attacked.

“Fuck,” Yoongi muttered briefly before breaking into a sprint. “Jungkook! Shit, get the fuck away from him. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

Profanities continued to spill from his mouth as he attempted to break the fight up. You found yourself running to catch up with them – which was a blessing for Yoongi because he struggled to hold the other guy back when Jungkook kept throwing himself at him – but you didn’t dare to intervene just yet.

“What are you doing?” you demanded – no one paid any attention – and then cleared your throat before trying again, louder, “Jungkook!”

Still, the boy was far too focused on his opponent – who was being cradled by a huffing Yoongi – so you had no choice but to step in – literally – and place both hands on Jungkook’s chest, pushing him back into the car roughly.

Taken off guard, he stumbled and fell on his back, landing on the hood of the car yet again and nearly taking you with him as he had angrily grabbed your wrists before he fell. He was seemingly ready to push them away before he looked into your eyes.

“Fuck,” he exhaled as soon as your gazes met, his grip on your wrists softening but not disappearing as he held your hands against his chest that moved up and down, his heart beating rapidly under your fingertips.

After waiting until his heart rate slowed down just slightly, you pulled your hands out of his and stepped away so he could stand up from the car.

“What the hell happened?” you asked. You could feel yourself start to shake but it wasn’t due to the chilly evening air.

“He’s being a dumbass again, that’s what happened,” Yoongi snarled, pushing the guy he’d been holding back off of himself and glaring at him and Jungkook both. “You need to get your shit together, man. I’m sick of looking after your sorry ass.”

The last part was directed at Jungkook who groaned, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down. The guy he’d been fighting spat on the ground, gave him one last frustrated look, and returned to the party. Jungkook looked like he was going to yell something at him but Yoongi cursed loudly and gave up right then and there, turning around towards the house.

“I don’t need you to look after me!” Jungkook yelled after Yoongi, who pretended not to hear him as he walked away, and then – much to your surprise – the younger boy threw the driver’s door of the car open.

Confused and seriously concerned, you watched Yoongi leave before turning back to look at Jungkook. “W-what are you—”

“Just go!” he snapped at you as he got into the car.

“You can’t drive!” you protested in panic, grabbing the door before he could close it.

“I can do whatever the fuck I want,” Jungkook snarled, looking at you with a fire so prominent in his eyes that you ended up letting go of the car door out of sheer surprise. You’d never seen him like this before.

And then, as you turned away from him for just one second, searching for Yoongi – surely, he’d come back to stop him – Jungkook started the engine of the car.

You swore under your breath, knocking on the window of the car but it brought no response from him. “Jungkook! You can’t—”

He said something and you automatically stopped pounding on his window to listen. The engine of the car was drowning out his words and you expected him to lower his window and repeat what he’d said, but Jungkook used the moment when you took an unconscious step away from the car, and pushed the pedal.

You swore loudly as you watched him drive away, running your hands through your hair in desperation. For the next minute, you watched the car maneuver around the front yard clumsily and then drive down the main street. When he disappeared from your field of vision, you pulled your phone out from your back pocket but you didn’t know who to call.

Looking around again, you realized that Yoongi had gone back inside, and suddenly, you weren’t sure what would be faster, calling the police so they’d be on the look-out for a drunk lunatic behind the wheel or finding the rest of the Parental Advisory members so they could hopefully find a better solution.

But before you could reach a decision – it all seemed to happen in a split-second, honestly – you heard a loud crash. With your heart immediately falling down to your stomach and then plummeting all the way down to your feet, you ran across the yard and towards the main street, hoping – praying – that the sound was unrelated to Jungkook.

And yet, as soon as you stopped on the sidewalk and looked down the road, you saw the same black car right there, next to where the road split into an intersection. It had been forced to stop by a lonely lamp post, the view of which was partially blocked by a large tree trunk, but even so, you could tell that Jungkook had slammed the car right into it.

Struggling to breathe, you listened to people pour out of the house. They seemed to be much more alarmed than they’d been when they first heard someone fighting.

You didn’t think you could move.

“Call an ambulance,” you whispered, your eyes glued to the smoke that was coming out in dark, angry swirls from underneath the totaled hood of Jungkook’s car. “Someone needs to call the ambulance!”

Your own phone was lit up with the number of the police that you’d dialed mere seconds ago but you couldn’t find the control in your fingers to press call. Then, you heard cursing and realized that the people from the party weren’t going to help. They didn’t even consider helping.

They were running away. Escaping from the accident which seemed to them like the perfect reason for expulsion from university. They no longer wanted to be a part of the special club that got to arrive to Parental Advisory parties with the members of the band themselves.

Inhaling deeply, you realized that no one else was going to do this for you, so you finally managed to pull yourself back together again.

You pressed your phone to your ear and with each beep of the dial tone, you cursed the Parental Advisory parties more and more – they were an accident waiting to happen. An accident so awful, it could erase seven years of silence as you hoped Jungkook would be able to talk to you again.

keep reading | masterlist

2K notes · View notes

phykios · 3 years

Text

honesty and promise me part 9, co-written with @darkmagyk [read on ao3]

He doesn’t text her later. He doesn’t text her for two weeks. On day fifteen of no contact from Percy, Annabeth begins to accept that whatever they had might be over now.

That’s alright, she reminds herself. She had been working up to breaking it off with him for a while, and he just went ahead and did it for her. Saves her the trouble, really.

October rolls on, wet and cold, inching ever closer to Halloween, and Annabeth finds herself seeking refuge at Piper’s, lending her body and her skills to help her friend finish her collection before her self-imposed deadline. At least the work provides a nice distraction from her silent phone--when Percy stopped texting her, Thalia did, too. Well. That’s that, she supposes.

Still, the fact that they were never officially dating doesn’t stop Annabeth from scrolling through his Instagram at 2 AM like some pathetic ex-girlfriend, screenshotting all her favorite photos so she can look at them later without the threat of accidentally liking them. He’s been posting a lot of stills from that fucking music video again, the divinely crafted muscles of his body on full display in cool, blue light, brown cheekbone and jawline sharper than ever. Beyonce herself even liked a few of them.

God damn she’s a fucking idiot.

It must be the self-pity that’s making her crazy, because when Luke calls her up to be his date/eye candy to some fancy semi-costumed party that weekend at an art gallery on the Lower East Side, she agrees without even thinking about it.

The gallery isn’t that far (certainly much, much closer than the Lincoln Center) but Annabeth has not worn heels in probably up to a calendar year, and she just cannot make herself walk that far. She will not. Her tiny-ass cross-body bag isn’t big enough to hold a separate pair of walking shoes. So she ponies up the exorbitant cab fare to the Lower East Side, asking the driver to drop her at the Seward Park Library so she can elegantly sashay down the sidewalk with the rest of the rich and glamorous.

No one spares her a second glance, which is both relieving and strangely disheartening. She’s become too used to turning heads, she thinks.

Well. One head in particular.

“Hey, Annabeth!” Luke appears from thin air, dressed immaculately as always. His sandy hair has come a long way since business school, now tamed and laid perfectly, but with the faintest touch of dishevelment, like he couldn’t completely fix it after someone’s hands had been all over it. He looks even more handsome than he had on her birthday. He kisses her on the cheek, right on the sensitive skin of an old, failed piercing, and she shivers. “You look incredible.”

Before she left Piper’s apartment that day, Annabeth had raided her small stash of designer clothes and had rediscovered her old faithful that Piper had tried to bury, the midi-length Valentino dress she had worn to the unveiling of her and Leo’s collaboration. It’s a light, powder blue, which can’t be helped, but the lace collar and three-quarter sleeves cover most of her tattoos. She had dug out her tiara, too, making herself a low-key Halloween costume out of the spring season dress. Though the dress doesn’t fit like it did a year ago, Which is depressing as all hell. “Thanks. You, too.”

He beams at her, holding out his arm. “Shall we?”

“Who did you say was the artist, again?” she asks, taking it.

“I didn’t. Something with an ‘L,’ I think. Levelle? Levique? I don’t remember.”

The white gallery walls have been draped in shades of inky blue and midnight purple, all the better to see the crystal sculptures on display: beautiful renderings of swords and skulls, deadly weapons and human bones. There’s something mind-numbingly obvious about holding a spooky, macabre-themed gallery show on Halloween night, entitled “Death and Riches,” but she has to admit, the artwork is stunning. The crystals take what little light is cast from the weak ceiling lamps and multiply it, casting the dark velvets in rainbow reflections. Annabeth feels like she’s walking through the night sky, like she could reach out and rearrange the stars in the constellations. “Look at this,” she murmurs to Luke, stopping them in front of a sculpture of an ancient cavalry sword. “This is incredible.”

He grunts. “Yeah, it’s cool.”

Annabeth fixes him with a look. “‘Cool’? Seriously?”

“What? It’s just a rock.”

She shakes her head. “You are wasted on an art gallery.”

“I am,” he agrees, swiftly. “I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for my bosses.”

“What do you mean?”

Luke steers her away from the sculpture, moving them onward. “One of our assistant executives, he’s about to close a huge deal with some big wig from Europe who runs this massive import/export, but before everything is made official, he wanted to meet all of us.”

“Why here, though?”

“He’s in town for this gallery opening; the artist is his niece, or something.”

Ugh. This is why she swore off business bros: always an ulterior motive with these people. “Hey, I’m going to go look for something to drink, do you want anything?”

“No, I’m good,” he waves her off.

Annabeth, teetering on her towering heels, has to make her way against the current of the crowd towards the refreshments table along the edge of the wall. She feels ten pounds lighter without all the metal in her face, her center of gravity completely out of whack--not to mention she’s having trouble seeing with all this hair in her face. To better disguise her undercut, she had brushed all her hair over her head in one big, voluminous side ponytail on the wrong side of her face. It’s disorienting, to say the least.

Her stomach roils at the display of food, even as her mouth waters a little bit at the bruschetta with olive tapenade. Rather than risk it, she decides to just go with a glass of sparkling cider. She’s been feeling sick and anxious all day long, dreading every moment of this gala; the last thing she wants to do is exacerbate it with champagne.

Before she makes her way back to Luke’s side, however, she wants to take another look at the actual art. Or at least find out who the actual artist is. Whoever they are, they are phenomenally talented.

“Excuse me,” Annabeth says to the staff member manning the food table. “Do you have any more information about the artist? I’d love to see more of their work.”

“Sure!” she chirps, turning round to grab something off a stack of pamphlets beside her. “You can read more about Ms. Levesque here.”

“Thank you,” says Annabeth, taking the glossy brochure. Levesque. Levesque Levesque Levesque. She knows that name, she’s sure of it. Penny in the air…

Slowly, like she’s walking a labyrinth, she makes her way around the gallery. The booklet has descriptions of each piece of art on display, contexts and histories and prices that make her sweat a little. But by the time she returns to the cavalry sword, her head is swimming--probably from the lack of food--her eyes straining in the dim light. She has completely lost track of Luke. She has completely lost track of the time. Annabeth puts her hand to her head, pressing her fingers against the bone of her forehead.

“Hey, are you okay?”

She jolts at the feel of a hand on her shoulder. The owner of the hand pulls away immediately, holding it up in a placating motion.

“Whoa, hey, it’s okay. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Annabeth blinks at the person in front of her. He’s blond, tall, with glasses and a scar on his upper lip, and she cannot shake the bone-deep feeling that she’s seen him before.

“You look a little pale. Do you need to sit down?” he asks, electric blue eyes shining with concern.

She shakes her head. “No, no, I’m okay, just a little… the light, you know. Makes it hard to read.”

“I know how you feel,” he says, nodding sagely. “The lighting setup here is absolute murder on my glasses.” Then he sticks out his hand, proud and jutting. “I’m Jason.”

Furiously, she blinks away unbidden tears, turning her sudden sob into a light laugh at the thought of the last time she had met someone named Jason. Or, someone she thought had been named Jason. “Annabeth.” His grip is firm and congenial, like a senator. “Are you with Mercury Exchange, too?”

“Oh, no,” he says, “I’m just here to support the artist. She’s my cousin.”

“Well, congratulations to your cousin on a beautiful gallery opening,” says Annabeth, inclining her head with a smile that he returns. “These sculptures are incredible.”

Jason follows her gaze, and when she looks at him again, he’s smiling. The scar gives his smile an adorable edge. “Hazel is very talented.”

Penny drops. “Hazel Levesque?” Annabeth asks. “Your cousin is Hazel Levesque?”

“Yeah!” Jason beams. “You ever listen to a band called Pluto’s Daughter?”

“You’re Jason Grace?”

That takes him aback, blinking in shock. “Yes… how did you--oh, you know Thalia?” he asks.

No. No no no, this cannot be happening. “Um, not-not really, I just--”

“I just saw her, like, ten minutes ago--”

No no no, she cannot be here, she can’t see Annabeth, not like this-- “Actually,” Annabeth cuts in, “I should really get back to my date, I’m sure he’s worried sick, it was nice meeting you!” And she bolts from the conversation in the general direction of the exit, leaving a very confused member of the cousin consortium in her wake.

Stupid, so stupid, how did she not look this up beforehand, how did she not put it together sooner? She can’t let anyone see her like this, dolled up and--and downright clean. The crowd has turned into an impenetrable wall, the gaps between patrons too small for her to slip between. The dark walls close in around her, suffocating her, and her panic rises, stomach churning, bile crawling up her throat.

From the crush of people, a hand shoots out to grasp hers, and she jumps a foot in the air. “There you are!” says Luke. “Come on, I want you to meet the big wig.”

“Oh, Luke, I don’t know,” she stammers, “I’m-I’m not feeling very well, I think I had a bad burrito earlier, and--”

“It’ll just take a minute,” he wheedles, “We just gotta show up, make some small talk for a few minutes, then I’ll get you home. Sounds good?” But she can’t resist as he pulls her deeper into the gallery.

Like fucking Moses and the fucking Red Sea, the crowd parts before them, laying out a clear path to the three very well dressed men in the center of the room. Even from behind, she can tell that they’re all related: three copies of the same broad build, the same thick, black hair, peppered with grey, the same radiating aura of power and influence, engaged in deep, important conversation.

“Mr. Olympianides?” Luke politely interjects.

As one, the three of them turn to face him, identical gazes sizing them up, pinning them in place. “Yes?” intones the oldest-looking one, his earth-brown eyes cold and dispassionate.

“I think he means me, brother,” says the middle-looking one, jovial. “You’re with Mercury too, if I’m not mistaken?”

“Yes, sir,” says Luke, holding out a hand. “Luke Castellan, it’s an honor to meet you.”

“Ah, of course!” he says, taking Luke’s hand. “I’ve heard great things about you from Prometheus. I understand I have you to thank for the success of the Saturn deal?”

Luke, wholly in his element, smiles his perfectly practiced sycophantic smile--just the right cocktail of humble and arrogant, gracious and gregarious. You can tell he double majored in theater. “It was no trouble at all, really.”

Then he turns his gaze to Annabeth, and she just about faints.

Those eyes. She knows those eyes. Perfectly blue-green, like the waters of the Mediterranean in the sunshine, beneath thick, black eyebrows, with an aquiline nose and a full, salt and pepper beard--she is, without a doubt, looking into the unimaginably handsome face of Percy’s father.

“May I have the name of your lovely lady?” He takes her hand, bringing it up to his for a kiss.

Annabeth’s eyes practically bug out of her head. This is what Percy will turn into in twenty years? Good lord.

“This is my…” Luke trails off, sparing her a glance. “This is Annabeth Chase. She’s an architect here in New York. Annabeth, these are the gentlemen I was telling you about: Hades, Poseidon, and Zeus Olympianides.”

Oddly enough, part of her relaxes, even at Luke’s little fib. If Percy’s father is here, then that means that Percy might not be. She would still have to duck Thalia, but if Luke lets her leave within the next few minutes, that shouldn’t be too hard.

“Chase--like the Boston Chases?” the oldest brother asks. She’s seen those dark eyes, as well, lined with black, and sometimes with glitter.

Annabeth smiles, just a little vacant. She hasn’t had a conversation like this in two years, but back in Boston she’d had them nearly weekly. “That’s the one,” she agrees, letting a giggle out at the end. With business bros her age, they preferred a little bit of a too cool attitude, they’d loved her with all the metal in her face. But the older ones like a giggle. From the corner of her vision, she sees Luke give her just a little bit of a side eye.

“You’re Randolph’s daughter?” Asks the other brother. His eyes are electric blue. Even if Annabeth hadn’t just met Jason, she’d have known this was Thalia’s father from twenty paces.

“I’m his niece,” Annabeth says. “Frederick is my father.”

“The middle one?” Percy’s father says, with a little bit of a grin.

“Yes.” So far, so good--and no one has asked about her mother. It doesn’t exactly take a genius to see that she is not her stepmother’s daughter.

There’s maybe the slightest hint of snideness when Zeus says, “Another Harvard graduate, I assume.”

So there are a lot of Chases at Harvard. On a whim, one night while she should have been writing her Modernism final instead, Annabeth had spent several hours making an academic genealogical chart, inordinately pleased when she found out that her old, decrepit freshman history professor had also taught her father, way back in the day.

“Guilty,” she titters, “but I did attend Miss Minerva’s here in the city.”

“So your Randolph’s niece,” Thalia’s dad asks again, “And Frey Vanir is married to your aunt.”

“Yes.” She bites down on the “sir.” She’s got to have some standards.

“Good families,” Nico and Hazel’s father says, nodding at her, “Chases and Vanir.”

Annabeth has some very, very hazy memories of meeting her own fabulously wealthy extended family, just after her little cousin Magnus had been born. She doesn’t recall much, but she can remember the high, vaulted ceilings of her aunt’s apartment on Commonwealth Avenue, the view of the Public Gardens just down the block, and the very big, very sharp-looking sword hanging above the mantel. The Chases are a well-off family, it’s true, but the Vanir, old money from leftover Nordic peerage are very much on the Olympianides' level, even if Annabeth is the one wearing a tiara that allegedly once belonged to the crown jewels of Sweden.

Athena Pallas is on that same level, too, but Annabeth would rather run into Thalia then talk about her mother. Especially with these people.

Then Poseidon’s gaze fixes on something behind her, and he breaks into a broad, heartbreakingly familiar grin. “Ah, Percy, there you are!” he calls.

The smile drops from her face, and her blood freezes. Caught in the gravity well of a black hole, she turns.

A huge mistake.

Her only thought is How dare he be so handsome.

He’s in a suit she’s never seen before, crisply pressed, but comfortable, simple black but with pearl cuff links, to match his father’s. The sharp lines of the suit hide his beautiful form beneath them in a way that makes Annabeth understand the appeal of lingerie like she never has before. He looms, back discipline-straight, his face scrubbed clean and eyebrows perfectly shaped, and to cap it all off, a pair of simple, classy diamond studs in his ears. Percy Jackson remains, as always, unfairly gorgeous, the perfect specimen of male beauty, and Annabeth is powerless under his gaze.

And he’s just heard every word of their conversation.

“Percy,” his father says, “have you met Annabeth Chase?”

Percy stares at her, mouth open a little. She watches those eyes take her in from top to bottom, hairstyle to clean face to conservative dress to high heels. Never, ever one to hide his emotions, she can see his inner monologue playing out on his face: shock and awe, bewilderment and confusion, jerkily transitioning to… to a politely blank face. Like the surface of the ocean, the wave of his feelings disappear beneath his skin, leaving no trace that they were ever there. “No,” he says, in a tone that broaches no argument. “No, I don’t believe I’ve ever met Annabeth Chase before.”

He takes her in again. Percy was never above leering, but he was always pretty situational about it. He would wait until sex was explicitly on the table, wait until she wanted to see him go just a little bit crazy for her. He doesn’t leer now, cataloguing the dress, the shoes, the tiara.

“Cinderella?” he asks, before the conversation can become awkward and their audience can notice something else.

“Yes,” she says, unable to force the smile she’d used on his father just minutes before. “What girl doesn’t want to be a princess for Halloween?”

“Cinderella was always your favorite, wasn’t she?” Percy’s father asks him. Then he laughs. “Once we went to Disney in Paris, I think, and Percy, all of ten years old, cried because he didn’t think he was going to be able to meet her.”

Percy’s face stays blank. “I was six, Dad.”

Annabeth winces, internally. That was the year, he’d told her, that he’d spent in shoes that didn’t fit because his new ones had been destroyed by bullies taunting him over ballet, and he didn’t want to tell his mother because trying to buy him a second pair of shoes would have been a struggle. She wonders if maybe he was crying because he’d spent the day walking around Disneyland in shoes two sizes too small, and no one had noticed.

His father laughs again. “Still,” he says, “Cinderella is your favorite.”

“I don’t have much use for princesses anymore,” Percy says. “Fairy tales and true love are kid stuff.”

His uncles laugh along with his father, and Luke just frowns at Percy, like he’s not sure what to make of him. But his family seems convinced it's the wisdom of youth.

“Oh,” says Poseidon, “You never know when you can find someone special.” He does leer at Annabeth, just a bit. There isn’t a lot to leer at in this dress, but it's unmistakable. He’s very handsome, but the leer is perhaps the first time she’s thought he didn’t favor his son.

“Were you the one who dated the princess of what it was called?” Thalia’s father asks. “Or was Triton? Or was it both of you?”

“No,” Hazel and Nico’s father says, “no, they both dated Atlas’s girl. Right?”

“Yes, Uncle Hades,” Percy says.

“Zoe?”

Calypso, Annabeth thinks, just before Percy says it out loud and they all nod.

“Is she here?” Thalia’s father asks, glancing around. “Or do you have a different date tonight?”

Annabeth hasn’t even considered Percy having a date. But the idea of it causes a wave of nausea to come over her, of a beautiful woman on Percy’s arm, one of his fellow dancers, or perhaps some heiress, who he could take to fancy parties and show off to his father and uncles.

That could have so easily been you, says a voice in the back of her head.

I’m no one’s arm candy, she wants to yell at herself.

But she can’t, because she’s literally resting on Luke’s arm, while three powerful businessmen ogle her.

She breathes through her nose, and tries to keep from throwing up. Or crying.

“Percy knows its best to come to events like this stag,” Percy’s father winks at him, and then unmistakably at her, “you never know what sorts of lovely creatures you might run into.”

Percy frowns, clearly uncomfortable. “I think Miss Chase definitely came with her boyfriend.” He nods to Luke, and gives him a smile Annabeth has never seen. So forced and fake and clearly unhappy.

She wishes she could stop everything and scream at Percy that Luke’s not her boyfriend. That he could never be. That she does not want Luke, not the way she wants Percy.

But time goes on, and so does Percy. “I don’t like coming to these sorts of things alone, if I can help it.”

And the world nearly collapses out from under her feet.

“The buddy system is important.” He turns his head, clearly searching the milling crowd for someone. Annabeth doesn’t follow his gaze. She doesn’t want to see the woman he willingly shows off to his father. She glances at Luke instead. His face is still placid, but she’s known him a long time, in all sorts of states. He’s clearly uncomfortable.

“Thalia,” Percy’s voice says, not a shout, but a request. Annabeth doesn’t look over at him, or the direction he shouted, but Luke does. He breaks away from her gaze and actually unlinks their arms. His mask slips a little bit more.

At the last possible second Annabeth looks over too.

Thalia Grace looks exactly like the Thalia Annabeth has always known. Her hair is slicked down in some old fashioned pin curls, and she’s wearing a cocktail dress and red soled heels that are too big for her, but you can see the tattoos up and down her arms and legs, underneath her ripped fishnets. Her facial piercings are all still in, and her eyebrows and ears are full of safety pins and the necklace around her neck is made of them too. She’s wearing the same beat up leather gloves as always.

For just a second, Annabeth hates her. Because Thalia is clearly so Thalia, so comfortable in being Thalia, and she can walk around this fucking gala, with buisness bros and old money, and look totally comfortable and confident.

And Annabeth keeps adjusting her sleeves and hair, worried that somethings going to move wrong, and it's going to become obvious that she’s… something?

Then their eyes meet, and it's almost as bad as when Percy showed up. Thalia looks lost, and then she glances to Annabeth’s side, at Luke and her face settles into a frown not unlike Percy’s.

She stops beside Percy who smiles at her, “Thalia and I always use the buddy system.” He says. Then, as he holds out his hand to her, his smile becomes the closest she could ever refer to as cruel. “Thalia, have you met Annabeth Chase? Of the Boston Chases? Her uncle is Frey Vanir.”

Standing tall, bright eyes ringed in black, Thalia takes in all of Annabeth. She’s done this before, when Annabeth was drunk and crying on a dirty bar floor, with a couple hours old tattoo on her arm and a couple of days old ring in her eyebrow. Annabeth had seen her mother on Wednesday for lunch and had destroyed her life by dinner. She doesn’t really remember what they’d talked about, in the wee hours as Friday became Saturday: not being good enough for your family, how New York took your dreams, chewed them up, and spit them out, how your father would never understand you and your mother would never love you. That sort of thing.

She’d been a gross, pathetic mess. But Thalia had seen something in her that night. Had lifted her off the floor and out the door and eventually onto the mattress in the place she’d been renting weekly at the time. She’d taken Annabeth into her world.

Now, it doesn’t look like she sees anything good in Annabeth Chase of the Boston Chases, in designer heels, with a designer bag, wrapped in a designer dress and dripping in jewels. Annabeth knows she looks like a dozen other girls at this event, girls that Luke’s (and maybe Thalia’s and, God, maybe even Percy’s) eyes have wandered over with interest.

“Miss Chase, despite being from Boston,” Percy says to Thalia, “was mentioning some of the schools she went to in New York. I thought maybe you might have known each other through one.”

Percy’s face has gone perfectly blank, but Thalia’s… Thalia’s is angry.

“No,” she says, “we did not go to school together. But Luke and I did.”

It’s Annabeth’s turn to gape, eyes wide as she turns to him, shocked.

Luke tries to smile. “Yes, we did, but--”

Thalia doesn’t let him finish. “Are you still sending weekly audition tapes to Lorne Michaels?” she asks, a snarl that only an idiot would mistake for a grin on her face.

Annabeth would laugh, if she felt like laughing at anything right now.

Luke tries to speak again, but Thalia talks right over him. “No, of course not. You’re doing some business thing.” She eyes his suit and then her three older relatives. “Why else would we be here? I know you never really had the brains for the arts. You were always more interested in the carnal passions of acting.”

Annabeth actually does laugh, just a bit, both because that’s clearly something Luke had once said (and Annabeth remembered him coming straight out of NYU, a Yankee transplant to Boston, she could totally believe it) and because Thalia got Luke’s cadence and tone down perfectly.

But it does nothing to relieve the tension. If anything, it's gone up.

Percy’s father forces his own laugh. “It is so much fun when you run into old friends like this.” He offers, clearly sensing the storm brewing. Percy has at least tried to force it down. “And it's good to see you, as well, Thalia. It's been a long time.”

“It has, Uncle Poseidon,” She agrees.

“Mr. Castellan has left the world of acting for our bland business and finance meetings, but are you still acting?”

Thalia goes very still.

Annabeth, in the two years she’s known Thalia Grace, has never even once heard her so much as allude to acting in anything. She set up equipment and tended bars for cash. The only acting she ever did was pretending not to be hungover.

It’s a slight movement, but she sees Thalia reach out and grip Percy’s arm. He meets it, holding on. Steadying.

He understands what’s going on here.

“She’s not,” Thalia’s father says. He’s been polite so far this evening, but now he sounds annoyed. “All that talent and all that promise, and she’s thrown it all away.” He looks at Thalia, electric eyes to electric eyes, and shakes his head. “You could have been just like your mother.”

Percy, Luke, and Hades all let out a sharp breath.

Thalia’s smile, sharp, turns acidic. “I can't be,” she says. “I don't drive. So I couldn't drive myself into a tree.”

Her father narrows his gaze, mouth tight. Annabeth has actually seen that look on Thalia’s face before. Poseidon looks suddenly very sorry he ever opened his mouth.

Thalia turns to Percy. “Do you think Hazel would mind if I committed a murder and ruined her big night?”

It's a very Thalia thing to say, but Annabeth has never really considered the theatricality of her before. This is an artist working her craft, taking words and turning them into daggers.

“Hazel loves performance art,” Percy says. “And it is on theme.”

Thalia nods and then looks at her father. She smiles. “That sounds like a lot of work, so, instead, why don’t I do just what you want. I’ll be my mother. I’ll go get fabulously drunk and embarrass you horribly. Unfortunately, this is a 21+ event, so I won’t be able to endanger any children in the process. But you never know.”

She spins on her heels, and walks away.

“I'm going to make sure she doesn’t enganger any children just to prove a point,” Percy says. “I'll see you later.” He nods to his family, and then offers Annabeth a very formal handshake. “So nice to meet you.”

She’s missed his hands on her. She doesn’t want to let go.

But she lets him, and he moves over to give Luke one, too. He leans in, just a little bit, and lowers his voice so only Luke and Annabeth can hear. “You shouldn’t make a scene in a public place. But you deserve to know, she’s been cheating on you since May.”

Annabeth can’t breathe for a moment. The perfect man, handsome and charming and crueler than she ever believed possible.

Her stomach rolls again.

Behind her, she hears Poseidon say, “Do you often tell women whose mothers’ acting career dried up and then descended into substance abuse that you hope they have the same career as said mothers? Because wow."

“I’m sorry,” Luke whispers. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but I’m very sorry.”

He turns to speak with the three brothers, to formally and probably seamlessly untangle themselves from all of this, and she tries to turn too, but the effort to spin gets too much.

She’s still nauseous, feeling light-headed. The stiletto heels only add to the problem. She shakes and stumbles, right into Luke, who catches her on one arm, Poseidon on the other. Annabeth has to work very hard not to yank herself away from him.

“Are you alright?” Poseidon’s accent isn’t the same as Percy’s at all, his hands too smooth. There are differences between the two that she can focus on.

“I haven’t been feeling well tonight,” she admits, if it will get her out of here faster.

“Do you need to sit down?” Asks Poseidon. “I’m sure there is a medical professional around here.”

“No, no, thank you,” she says. “I should probably head out, If that’s okay,” she tells Luke, apologetically.

He nods, finally complying with her need for escape. “Of course.”

When Poseidon lets go of her arm, she basically falls into Luke. It's embarrassing. Her eighteen year old self is probably cheering. Unfortunately for her, that crush was killed two great heartbreaks ago. Now, it’s just quiet and awkward as they walk away. “Sorry,” she says.

“Sorry? I should be thanking you. That was a really good excuse.” Then he looks at her--really looks. “It wasn’t an excuse, was it?”

She shakes her head, miserable.

“Is it because of that guy? Percy? Do you know him?”

She nods.

“Why does he think you’ve been cheating on me since May?”

“Because he thinks you and I are a couple, and I’ve been sleeping with him since May.”

Luke lets out a low whistle. “You and those business bros.” He shakes his head. Sometimes he doesn’t quite have the self-awareness that he should, she thinks. “I blame myself. If I didn’t invite you to that MBA party, maybe you wouldn’t have lost your virginity to that asshole in my cohort.”

“Percy’s not a business bro,” she says, defending him, though for the life of her she doesn’t know why. “He’s a ballet dancer with NYCB. It… ended about 3 weeks ago. I’d tell you about it, but I do actually feel pretty horrible.”

Luke frowns at her. “You want me to get you a cab?”

Annabeth shakes her head. “I know you have more business bro things to do. I can get myself home.”

He waits several seconds, before giving her a hug and a kiss on the forehead, wishing her goodnight, leaving her in the middle of the mingling crowd and the crystal displays.

Annabeth shuffles towards the exit, passing the food table. Even the smell makes her feel like she’s going to throw up. Walking faster doesn’t exactly help.

Eventually, she manages to get out of the main gallery, where the lobby and coat check had been set up, very much regretting letting Luke go. Right now, walking outside and finding a cab might as well be like attempting a quick little jaunt up Mt. Everest. Head aching, stomach rolling, she slumps against the wall outside the coat check, laying her warm cheek against the cool wall.

That’s when she hears the muffled shouting.

Two voices she knows intimately.

“How can you say that?” Thalia whisper-screams. “In what possible universe are they the same?”

“How are they not?” Percy quietly shouts back. “They’re exactly the same.”

“I can’t even believe you’re defending her. She lied to us--she hurt you, just like--”

“Don’t you dare try and tell me you’re doing this for me. This is about you and your problems. Like always.”

“I don’t have to listen to this shit.” Then comes the telltale clacks of Thalia stomping about in her high heels. She flings open the door of the coat closet, and comes face to face with Annabeth--who probably looks about like death warmed over. Thalia takes one look at Annabeth, sneers, then stalks away, anger sparking off of her like static shock.

Hot on her heels comes Percy, equally furious. "Then find someone else’s couch to crash on tonight!" He shouts at her retreating form.

Then he sees Annabeth.

She hopes she never has to see him that angry ever again.

It takes a couple of pounding heartbeats, but he visibly dials it back down, rage giving way to something a little less intense, the bitterness bleeding out of him until he’s only just annoyed. “Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”

There’s a million and one things she wants to tell him; her mind is a hurricane, every thought and feeling moving at a hundred and fifty miles per hour, sentences forming on her tongue in one second and ripped away the next. She wants to tell him that she never meant to hurt him, but all that comes out is, “Luke isn’t my boyfriend.”

“What, he dump you already?”

“We’ve never dated,” she says. “He’s just a friend. I haven’t cheated on anyone.”

“Oh, so you’ll get all dolled up for some guy that isn’t your boyfriend, but you couldn’t be bothered to find a pair of jeans without holes in them to come see my show?”

Her stomach lurches, in both anger and regret. She did do those things. “You told me that you didn’t care what I wore.”

“And I didn’t, because I thought you didn’t either.”

“I don’t!”

“Oh yeah? Is that why you parted your hair on the wrong side? Because you didn’t care if someone would see your undercut?”

She can’t say anything to that, because of course, he had hit the nail on the head.

“I mean, Thalia may be messed up, but at least she has the guts not to hide it, but you--” he sputters, gesturing angrily to her head, “you put on a tiara and pretend you haven’t been gutter trash for the last two years.”

Indignation rises in her. Gutter trash? “You’re one to talk--you can’t go anywhere nicer than Antonio’s for dinner but you own a custom fucking Italian suit and diamond earrings?”

He scowls. “Oh, I'm sorry, just so we're clear, Kym got me this suit so I would stop, and I quote, 'embarrassing her with my poverty.' I borrowed the earrings from Nico. But you're right. The same Christmas I had my power and heat turned off in Paris, my dad got me these pearl cufflinks.” He raises his hands, brandishing them. “Just what I always wanted!”

“Don’t give me that--the man takes you, his bastard,” she spits, “on the family vacation to the Greek islands every goddamn summer! You think he wouldn’t drop a couple million for you if you asked? Meanwhile, I had to grovel at my mother’s feet for years for even the barest hint of support--”

“That is not even remotely the same thing, and you know it!”

“It isn’t?” She laughs, cruelly. “Because from where I’m standing, we were both left at the mercy of our shitty parents, but you’re too much of a coward to tell your father to fuck off when you really want to.”

That just about sets him off. His eyes darken like sea storms, raging and thunderous. “Don’t you dare try to pin this on me. You’re the one that lied to me for months, to Thalia for years--Jesus, Annabeth, was any of it real? Was everything you said to me over the last five months just some game to you?”

“How dare you,” she hisses. “How dare you even ask me that when you know full well you’re the only person I’ve shown my designs to in years.”

“Oh, really,” he says, and she goes cold. “What about the one that won the Eta Industries award? Did you not show that to anyone? Or did you get that one because they knew you were Annabeth Chase of the Boston Chases.”

Clenching her fists, she growls, standing up against the wall. “Leo and I put our hearts and souls into that project, and we won, fair and fucking square. I wouldn’t expect you to understand, seeing as you probably only got into NYCB because someone cashed a seven figure check.”

She doesn’t know if she’s ever said anything she believes less.

Percy laughs, an ugly, bitter thing. “If it had been that easy, I would have asked him to do that five years ago.”

Then he frowns. “Are you… feeling okay?”

She is not, as a matter of fact, but it’s no longer his fucking business, now is it. Annabeth opens her mouth to tell him so, then abruptly closes it as a little bit of vomit erupts from her esophagus. She covers her mouth, pressing against her teeth, trying to will it back inside.

Warm hands encircle her shoulders, holding her up as her legs threaten to buckle beneath her. “Come on,” he says, gruffly.

Together, they stagger into the single-stall bathroom, when Annabeth rips himself from his grasp, dropping to her knees before the toilet, and hurls. Faintly, she hears the lock of the door click behind her, then jumps at the feel of his hand on her back. “Leave me alone,” she spits, hocking bile into the toilet.

He doesn’t answer, only gently repositions her braid behind her shoulder so she doesn’t get any vomit on it.

She will not admit that his hand on her body is the best she’s felt all day. She will not.

“Ugh,” she moans, in between bouts of bile. “Fuck me.”

“Jesus, what did you eat?”

Annabeth has barely eaten all day, so it’s mostly sparkling cider and a bit of the olive tapenade from earlier.

Finally, after several excruciating minutes, it subsides. She feels twenty pounds lighter, like she’s vomited up all of her organs. Now if only she could have barfed up her heart as well. She’s sure Percy can feel how hard it’s beating, just from being around him again.

When the hell did she let herself get this worked up over a fucking guy, anyway? She hasn’t felt like this since she was nineteen, moping over a missed connection. But she’s not nineteen anymore, she’s a grown woman who doesn’t need anyone taking care of her. She can handle it herself.

“Feeling better?” he asks.

She coughs, attempting to clear her throat, throwing him a glare over her shoulder. “Leave me alone.”

“I’m not leaving you alone like this.”

“I said,” she growls, fingers tightening around the bowl of the toilet. “Leave me al--” Her genius retort is, sadly, cut off by another bout of vomiting, so forceful that her tiara comes flying clean off. It would have landed straight into the bowl, were it not for Percy and his lightning reflexes, snatching it out of the air before the crown jewels of Sweden landed in a puddle of barf.

When she comes back to herself, she realizes that she’s crying.

The second wave passes, and she can breathe again. Her awareness returns to her in pieces, starting with the pinch in her knees from kneeling on the cold, hard floor for too long, then the cool porcelain of the toilet, oddly soothing against her flushed skin. Her mouth tastes like you’d expect, and she spits, trying to clear it in vain.

“That’s it,” Percy murmurs behind her, rubbing gentle circles on her back. “Just let it out.”

Her chest heaves on a sob, quickly disguising it as a cough. Why won’t this man just leave?

When another five or so minutes pass without any more upchuck, she pulls away from him, practically crawling back until she hits the bathroom wall, the floor pressing up against her bones, and she kicks off her heels. Everything is too cold and too hot, Annabeth practically shaking out of her skin, taking in huge, gulping gasps of air. Faintly, she hears the door open and close, softly and carefully.

Good. He’s gone.

Her whole body shudders. Stubborn tears force their way out of her, crawling down her cheeks, mixing with the taste of vomit and lipstick.

But she can’t wallow in it for too long, because a minute later, Percy comes back, crouching down next to her, offering her a plastic cup of water. “Here.”

She takes a swig, swishing it around her mouth. Staggering to her bare feet, she shambles over to the sink, spitting it out.

There’s no way Annabeth can avoid looking at herself too closely in the mirror, but she tries, her eyes skating over her smeared mascara and running foundation, taking in her (thankfully) vomit free braid and her bare head. “Where,” she coughs. “Where is my tiara?”

“I got it.” In the mirror’s reflection, Percy holds it up. “Wouldn’t want the crown jewels of England to wind up in the toilet.”

“Sweden,” she says, on reflex.

“What?”

Why can’t she just shut her stupid mouth, for God’s sake-- “They were part of the Swedish crown jewels.”

He stares at her in the reflection, his eyes unfathomable. “I just don’t understand.”

“Understand what?” She asks, a question to which she really doesn’t want to know the answer.

“How I keep letting this happen.” Percy closes his eyes, shaking his head, raising his chin to the fluorescent lights of the bathroom. Like this, all the angles and contours of his stupidly beautiful face are thrown in sharp, brutal relief. He looks thin, somehow, the quiet sadness of his expression carved into the lines of his frown, of his squeezed shut eyes and the grim line of his lips. “I thought I was done with letting rich girls fuck me to make a point.”

Funny, how a simple sentence can feel like a knife in the stomach.

Percy, always so tall, slumps his shoulders, running a hand over his face. In seconds, the sadness is gone, replaced with a blank void of expression. “Will you let me call you a cab to take you home?” He asks, because of course, he’d never leave her alone like this. He’s too fucking good.

Annabeth nods into the mirror.

He sidles up to her, slinging her arm around his shoulder. In his other hand, he carries her shoes and her tiara, dangling limply from his fingers. For a wild second she wants to turn and kiss him. She’s wanted to do that for weeks. She wants to wipe the tears and vomit off her face, stick back on her tiara, and go back to the party on his arm. They could make a beautiful picture, she thinks, Poseidon Olympianides’ son and Annabeth Chase of the Boston Chases. But when she tries to move, maybe to make a big mistake, she sways, unsteady. His grip on her waist tightens, holding her close, but his face is turned stubbornly out. He won’t even look at her.

The cool night air and the smell of city dirt is a welcome balm on her flushed face. In no time at all, Percy has hailed a cab, letting her hang off of him as she falls heavily onto the seat. With the utmost care and precision, he gently places her shoes and her crown on her lap, as controlled and careful as when he puts down a fellow dancer. There is no mistake here, she knows. Their little dance together is over. It feels like the end of one of those romantic movies from the 50s her dad used to love to cry over.

“Take her home, please,” he informs the cab driver, giving him her address, then without even sparing her a glance, he closes the door on her.

But greedy for one last look, Annabeth presses her face to the window as the driver pulls away from the curb. The night is dark and the streetlamps are unhelpful, but she can still see him as he cups his hands to his face, glowing like he holds a little star between his fingers, can see him tilt his head up and exhale, sending cigarette smoke up into the heavens.

#this one's a long boi folks #long and sad #but this is as bad as it gets! we've hit rock bottom!#it's all uphill from here i promise #pjo au #ballet au #percabeth #pjo fic #the rivalry ends here

29 notes · View notes

scarlets-maximoff · 3 years

Note

Hi! Here's my prompt: jealous!Wanda and oblivious Agatha. Agatha is always flirting with someone, it's just natural to her, but Wanda doesn't like it one bit.

hi, anon!! I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long, but it is finally here: some feral, jealous wandagatha thing that might have become slightly darker than I intended!!

thank you for the prompt by the way, i loved writing it! enjoy, my dude <3

—

She followed Agatha's every movement. Every slow curling of lips, every light touch to someone's arm. Wanda sees it all. And she doesn't like it one. Bit.

Strange has asked them to help him infiltrate a party, some gathering of rich people who were—his words, not hers—conspiring to 'threaten and destroy the very fabric of reality’. Wanda knows a lot, more than she would want to admit, about reality and its workings. Why wouldn't she? She was the Scarlet Witch, Harbinger of Chaos, and—as those idiots would soon find out—Agatha Harkness' wife.

And as such, she is entitled to care for and protect what is hers. Even when she is not supposed to. Don't get her wrong, she is perfectly aware of Agatha's role on this mission. The relentless flirting, the sultry tones of her voice, the lingering touches-

It is all an act. Her wife needs to do it if they want to stop whatever threat they’re fighting against, but to do so, the couple has to pretend that they aren't married. Wanda knows it's crucial for Agatha to get the precious information they require. But she can't help herself.

Wanda can't help the way her sight blurs with red, dark, and heavy and furious when she sees a hand lingering on Agatha's waist. She can't help the sneer on her lips at the sight of her wife, her Agatha, giving in to this man's touch. The rational part of her brain, the one that controls most of her actions—nowadays, at least—tries to dissolve the other part of her from going over there and, and- Calm down, Wanda, calm down!

She doesn't.

"Um, hello there!" She grips the man's shoulder, the touch soft enough to not bruise, but hard enough to make him jump. At least he’s not putting his paws on her wife anymore. "I see that you've met my friend," There's a pleading look in her woman's eyes, it says something like Wanda, I was almost getting what we need, it's okay- Her eyes, which once were of deep, vigorous green, now flash scarlet. A warning. "I'm Wanda, a pleasure to meet you…?" Behind the man's towering figure, her wife is softly shaking her head, blue eyes worried. Wanda doesn’t budge an inch.

She extends a slender hand towards him, a strained smile on her face. Her magic starts creeping around her mind, but she wills it away. Not now, she thinks, I'll have my fun first. On the other hand, the man has a slightly confused, if not irritated, look in his eyes. "I'm Chris." They shake hands. Wanda wants to squeeze it until its bones break; until he falls on his knees and begs-

His handsome face twists into a frown as if he is constipated. Behind him, she hears Agatha snicker. "We were in the middle of something here, miss. Excuse-"

"Oh, I'm so sorry to interrupt! But if you just let me borrow her for a minute…" And Wanda watches as faint tendrils of purple magic, almost translucent to the untrained eye, touch his temples. His features relax into passiveness. Shoulders hunched, a hazy look on his blue orbs, Chris goes away.

By the time she closes the distance between them, the guy is already lost in the crowd.

"Wanda, what were you thinking? I was this close to getting the intel we need! I cannot believe-” Wanda doesn’t let Agatha finish, already taking her away to the closest empty room she can find. Agatha mutters nonsense under her breath, struggling to keep up with her taller, legs-for-days wife. Wanda's rings dig into the tender skin of her forearm, and something in the back of her mind scratches against its surface. Looking up to Wanda, she notices a dark shadow looming on her gaze.

Agatha shivers from head to toe. Something is not right.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Agatha tries to untangle herself from Wanda's hold, but to no avail. As if snapped back to reality, the redhead suddenly lets her go. There are red tendrils swirling between her fingers. "Dear? What is it? Please, tell me." Wanda waves her hand and-

In a blink, both women find themselves inside a dimly lit kitchen, only moonlight shining through the half-opened window on the back. There's a confused, almost catatonic look on Wanda's gaze, and this is what scares Agatha the most. It is as if the woman herself did not know what was happening and, most importantly, why.

Approaching her wife carefully, Agatha closes the distance between them with an extended hand, which is promptly held by Wanda's. With a tenderness many would have thought uncommon but only a few knew it existed, Agatha lifts her other hand to gently caress Wanda's cheek, worry never leaving her eyes. She asks again, "What happened back there, darling?" Yet again a shadow crosses her lover's face, red flashing over green orbs.

"He was touching you, putting his hands all over you and I just- I couldn't stand back and watch it," Wanda practically snarls, the eastern accent coming through sharp and clear, like razor blades. It is then that Agatha notices arms around her waist, pulling her close.

"You were jealous?" Disbelief hangs from her words, "Oh, honey, don't be like that… Hey, look at me," At some point Wanda has buried her face in the crook of her neck, probably to calm herself down. Gently cradling her face in her hands, Agatha takes her time to kiss her lover. To soothe her. They move in sync with one another, and by the time Agatha pulls away, there's no scarlet shadow coloring her wife's eyes.

"I'm yours, okay? Always yours," She brushes her nose against Wanda's, "And no one will ever take me away from you." Kisses her swollen bottom lip, making sure to bite it before pulling away again. She feels warm lips nipping at her neck, and has to hold back a moan.

"I know," Without moving away from their embrace, the Scarlet Witch leads them further across the room, until Agatha's back hits the wall, "I wouldn't let them." And this time, Wanda bites.

Dr Strange eyes them warily when they meet him outside the manor. Why is there a hickey on- Ugh, nevermind. Sighing, the sorcerer teleports them away.

At least they got the intel, right?

#wandavision #wanda maximoff #agatha harkness #harkximoff #wandagatha #wanda x agatha #moon writes

50 notes · View notes

boop-le-snoot · 4 years

Text

PARTY FAVOURS | CHAPTER 2

Rating: Explicit. 18+

‼️TW: Reader is EIGHTEEN! Recreational drug use, smoking and alcohol consumption, deeply internalised self-loathing, very questionable moral standards. Daddy kink taken half-seriously. BDSM themes in later chapters - explicit content will come with it’s own TWs. FIRST PERSON POV.

Summary: You’re Peter’s classmate, a child of rich and famous but uncaring parents. Getting paired up for a lengthy project with the boy was an interesting turn of events and you don’t know whether to feel blessed or cursed when you develop, seemingly, a perfectly normal, harmless crush on Tony Stark. Fueled by feelings of inadequacy and boredom, your life spirals out of control - and you’re lucky your newfound friends are there to pick up the pieces even if you cannot find it in yourself to believe these amazing human (and not so human) beings voluntarily give you more than a fleeting glance and an offhanded thought. And they brought cake!

A/N: Bad girls are sad girls! Always wondered what goes through the mind of a spoiled, rich but intelligent and perceptive teenager? Have you found yourself craving that adrenaline rush, the danger of a forbidden fruit? Okay. That was cheesy as hell. Gross.

Let’s try again. Sarcasm? Check. Vine references? Hell yes! Crude humour? Check. Blunt honesty? Double check. We’re living in a Lana del Rey song, ladies.

The author doesn’t actually condone codependent relationships in real life. This is a filthy little fantasy. Enjoy, deviants.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @vozit @another-stark-sub @mostly-marvel-musings

Beta read by the lovely and patient @miscmarvelwritings ! She deserves all the love 💙

Peter woke me up at eight AM the next morning like the little shit that he was, demanding I make him pancakes. It wasn’t the first time I’ve had the joy to experience him in the morning and he knew exactly how to antagonise me enough to make him the special pancakes he liked so much. They had become kind of a ritual whenever he stayed over at my house, which was quite often - teachers liked me enough to pair me up with one of the most sensible kids for any projects that couldn’t be done alone by yours truly on her own.

I put on my yesterday’s dress, applied moisturizer and obediently trotted behind an excitedly mumbling Peter. The kitchen was large, beautiful and delightfully empty of any resident superheroes. I’ve indirectly crossed paths with all of the tower’s residents hanging around Tony, but I’ve yet had to speak more than polite niceties to any of them.

Spying a bowl of boiled eggs and some sort of weird salad alongside half burned toast on the counter, I suddenly understood why Peter demanded his pancakes. I strictly instructed the disaster child to stay away from my cooking process and set to work with one ear listening to his ramblings and a headphone in the other.

A set of thumping footsteps appeared behind me as I was pouring the batter for the first pancake. Their owner loudly sat down next to Peter, sighing, groaning, generally making “I’m not a morning person” sounds.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes,” Peter’s tone was way, way too chipper.

“‘mrng,” The Sergeant grumbled. “Who’s this and why is she making pancakes?”

I turned around, spatula at the ready. “It’s me,” We’ve actually met before, but Barnes had left before I could even come over from my side of the work bench to say hello.

He nodded in acknowledgement after giving me a suspicious once-over. “One of Stark’s science children. I’m James but you can call me Bucky,” His voice sounded rough and gravely, and he clutched a coffee cup half the size of my head.

I snorted. “Science child, sure,” It wasn’t half-bad actually. I wisely choose to ignore the part of being Tony’s. No matter how hot the man was, I wasn’t anybody’s but my own, thank you very much. “Go get the bananas, Nutella and maple syrup, fellow science child.”

Peter scrambled to follow instructions as I plated the pancakes and cut the bananas into neat little rings to fill the sweet circles with. A tablespoon of Nutella, half a sliced banana, wrap, garnish with powdered sugar and pour maple syrup generously on top. I really didn’t see how this could be difficult but any and all attempts to teach Peter how to recreate my masterpiece always ended up in an absolute mess. I turned around to ask Bucky if he wanted any. The look of a man starved answered all my questions.

“You’re a goddess,” Peter moaned around his mouthful, nose smudged white with the powdered sugar.

“Gross, chew first then talk, you neanderthal,” I scoffed, prepping more batter for the second batch of pancakes. I wasn’t sure if everybody would show up but figured it would be rude to exclude them from the sheer magnificence that were my pancakes. I was just that good.

The music in my ear drowned most of Peter’s disgusting chewing noises, thankfully. My second batch vanished into thin air, inhaled by the two males like the garbage disposals that they were. Peter, in particular, ate an alarming quantity of food and I was surprised how he managed to stay so skinny. His daily eating schedule resembled the Hobbits.

More people appeared, this time acting less surprised regarding me standing at the stove. Hawkeye, Black Widow, Scarlet Witch and her brother, all of them wandered in wearing sleep attire with various amusing prints. Thankfully, they mostly kept quiet or chatted with Peter - I would have definitely grumbled if someone tried to talk to me. As far as my body was concerned it was still the middle of the night.

“PANCAKES,” A booming voice announced and I shuddered at the sheer intensity and devotion contained in that one word. Thor.

“Please use your indoor voice,” I snapped reflectively. My brain caught up with what I just did so I hastily backtracked. “Sorry, I’m a bitch in the mornings.”

The blonde man chuckled, coming over to poke his nose into my flurry of pour-flip-fill sequence. Then, with all the grace and manners of a prince, he dipped one (1) large finger into the jar of Nutella and wandered off with it stuck in his mouth. With this turn of events the Nutella was bound to run out sooner than expected.

I turned around, annoyed confusion in plain sight. “The fuck?.. That’s gross, don’t do that,” Finding his brother (adopted!) sitting next to Thor, wearing a haughty smirk, finger still in his mouth. So Loki turned into his brother to steal Nutella from a jar. I sighed. Nobody even batted an eye. “Your alien germs are in there now, double ew.”

“Alien germs? Where?” Bruce entered the kitchen with a tablet under his arm, wearing Hulk themed pajamas, Captain America in tow. I was honestly on the verge of breaking down into hysterical laughter. Domestic Avengers wasn’t something I’d expected to see or experience, ever, much less be a part of. It took a moment for me to remind myself that they were people, too, and each of them was entitled to their own quirks.

“America, egg-splain,” Peter muttered under his breath, giggling. “Loki stuck his hand in the Nutella jar,” He pointed at said jar. “She got grumpy,” Peter pointed at me. “Don’t make her grumpy, please, I want more pancakes,” And turned his pleading puppy eyes in my direction again.

“This is indentured servitude,” I pointed my spatula at the little shit. “You just had, like, ten.” But I made more batter nonetheless. I must admit it was kind of cool, seeing the earth’s mightiest defenders so relaxed. And Pete being happy, that was just… The best. I don’t know how to explain it. His eternal cheerfulness was highly contagious.

Chuckles filled up the room, the adults chatting and bickering amongst themselves while they patiently waited for their own breakfast.

“Do you need some help?” Bruce approached me after stopping to fetch himself a cup of tea. It smelled strongly of tangy herbs and honey.

“I need more Nutella and bananas,” I admitted, surveying the sheer amount of people I had to feed. I didn’t doubt the Captain and two Asgardians had an appetite to match Peter’s which meant a literal extra set of condiments was required. Thankfully, Bruce fetched them for me, coming to a stop next to me. “Anything else?”

“You know, I tried making these with Peter and he just ended up with powdered sugar and chocolate all over himself,” I mused, noting the way Banner was carefully observing the assembly of a pancake. “You think Doctor seven-phds can manage to add a few toppings to a pancake without causing a disaster?“

Bruce rolled his eyes fondly, bumping me with his hip. "I’m no Clint Barton when it comes to cooking but at least I don’t burn my toast like Steve,” True to his word, his hands made swift motions of filling, wrapping and plating each individual pancake. They were almost as good as mine albeit more messy. I had lots of practice though. We finished off a batch in companionable silence, sounds of the team and my music playing in the background.

I didn’t notice when I started swaying to the rhythm, catching a confused look from Bruce. I brushed back my hair, revealing a wireless headphone in my ear and he chuckled in understanding. “What are you listening to?”

“Right now? Kings of Leon,” I said, leaning towards him so he could hear the chorus “Use Somebody” currently occupying my right ear.

“I like them, too,” He said, his cheek gently touching mine. His hands slowed on the pancake, a soft hum vaguely reminding me of the song’s melody emanating from his throat. “What else do you usually listen to?”

“Mostly heavier stuff, but I have a whole separate playlist dedicated to mid-2000s bops,” I answered. “I’ve heard I’m quite old school when it comes to music.”

“Well, I am an old man, so…” Bruce grinned mischievously. “But my guilty pleasure is Lady Gaga,” He admitted with a laugh.

I laughed, too. The image of his dancing in his lab to Born This Way was too much for my brain and I hung my head, fighting giggles. Bruce bumped me with his hip again, faking a pout. “Okay, okay, that was a fucking hilarious image, you go dude,” I finally powered through my struggle to contain laughter. “My own guilty pleasure would be… Umm… Lana Del Rey, I guess.”

Bruce made a vague noise of confusion. I took a brief break from mixing the batter to dig out my second headphone, presenting it to him and switching to a song. “This is what makes us girls”. Despite the fact I have never stolen a car or had a close female friend, the nostalgia was real. “Carmen” followed after the first song and I silently thanked whatever deity that “You can be the boss” was taken out of Spotify - I don’t think I was prepared to share that kind of information with a lab partner. An older, handsome lab partner. Wait… Where did that come from?

“I like it,” He said after the song ended and my more usual stuff began playing. “It suits you, I think.”

I groaned. “Really? I think it’s edgy,” Hiding away the embarrassment, I passed him a tray of freshly baked pancakes, occupying his immediate attention.

“You’re an old soul,” He gave me a lopsided smile. I saw a very faint blush tinting his cheeks, the kind of blush that had me wondering about the meaning behind his words.

I gave an attempt at a smile in response, the left corner of my mouth barely tilting up. We talked some more about the rock music we shared in our earphones. I had a lot of 80s hair metal and 90s grunge in my playlist. Bruce was not a Curt Cobain man but enjoyed the works of his legacy, Marcy Playground.

A tan hand wormed its way between me and Bruce, snatching a handful of banana slices and disappeared just as swiftly. “Tonyyy,” Bruce groaned, picking up another banana to replace the stolen pieces.

The spatula in my hand became a weapon as I blindly aimed at the target behind my back. A loud “ow” indicated I hit it. When I turned around, Tony was clutching the side of his face, a hurt look in his eyes and cheeks stuffed full of stolen goods. I stared him square in the face, absolutely refusing to acknowledge the fact that he was shirtless - the arc reactor glowed brightly in the middle of his toned chest. Fuck.

His chest was honestly what I was aiming for. I constantly kept forgetting how short he actually was. There was this one time when Tony had to put his arms around me to steady a piece of tech - he felt huge, hard and enormous around me.

“What’s that for, Princess?” He finally chewed through his food and found his voice.

“For being a Tony,” I retorted. “Stay away from my workspace and wait for your breakfast like everybody else.”

“Hey! This is my kitchen,” He whined immediately, like the adult man that he was. I nearly cried from how adorable his face became, eyebrows scrunched up. “I don’t want to wait! And why does he,” Tony’s finger accusingly pointed at Bruce, “Get the bananas?!”

“Because he’s Brucie-bear,” I stuck my nose up in the air when Bruce’s arm wrapped around my waist. “He’s my science father,” I stuck my tongue out at Tony, seeing Bruce’s triumphant smile. Banner used every opportunity to get back at Tony’s incessant sass.

The gleaming in Tony’s eyes should have alarmed me. “But he’s not your science daddy,” Tony’s flirting was accompanied by a salacious eyebrow wiggle and Peter’s screech of “OH MY GOD!"

It took me every ounce of willpower to not flush. It was one of those rare times that I was at a complete loss of words. Thinking on the spot, I gave a very meaningful look to Bruce - thankfully, he got the gist and returned an equally filthy smirk back. Tony gaped.

"Is this how they are in the lab?” The Captain’s quiet voice leaked horrified amusement.

“All.The.Time.” Peter’s resonating groan was followed by Romanoff’s laughter.

We went up to the lab after breakfast. Thankfully Tony stopped his dramatic bitching when I served him my pancakes, scarfing them down much like everybody else. So me and Pete were accompanied by one (1) happy engineer, all three of us tinkering away on a robot that we were supposed to present in our science class in a month. The focus that was required to solder was immense and our usual banter was missing, replaced by an occasional request for a specific tool or a water bottle.

It took a few hours to get the dirty job done even with Tony’s help (technically he wasn’t supposed to but neither me nor Pete had the heart to forbid him from it when the man looked so content and happy soldering away). By the time I uncurled from my spot on the bench, my back was in knots and my dress had oil stains and holes all over it. I immediately went to the nearest water bottle, finishing half of it in seconds, picking up my phone to see if I had any important messages from my mother.

None.

Just a message from Bruce.

I tapped on my phone, idly scrolling through the Instagram app, liking some pictures of people I barely knew and keeping up a general appearance of being very busy. When the ringtone started playing, it took me a whole five seconds to understand it was, in fact, coming from my phone - I certainly wouldn’t put something so… Outrageous as my main tone.

Banner had discovered the power of the internet. You Can Be The Boss played loudly, and it played from my phone and Bruce was calling me. I picked it up, turning around, fighting the incoming laughter. “Yes, Brucie?"

To say that Tony’s and Peter’s faces were scandalised was nothing. The boy’s face was such a deep shade of red, I started worrying about his blood pressure and Tony’s mouth hung open limply, like he was witnessing the second coming of Christ.

"Is Tony sufficiently traumatized?” Judging by the breathless tone of his voice, Banner was resisting a mighty laughing fit of his own.

“Oh, absolutely,” I happily chirped.

“Good, keep it up. Come to my lab before you leave,” Banner snorted and then, realising what he’d done, promptly hung up, the tell-tale beginning of a giggle fit abruptly interrupted by a dial tone.

I put the phone in my bag, gathering the rest of my things with a look somewhere between innocence and indifference. At least, I hoped it was - my mind kept jumping between the engineer’s ridiculously scandalised face and the way his mouth went slack, lips moist and soft and plush. That’s a very dangerous trail.

A very dangerous trail I couldn’t resist exploring in the solitude and privacy of my own bedroom, at home.

#bun writes #party favours #tony stark x reader #tony stark x y/n #bruce banner x reader #bruce banner x y/n #stephen strange x reader #Stephen Strange x y/n

176 notes · View notes