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biscuit-buddy · 4 years

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kuzumochi. (18+)

Endeavor x Reader (Smut, Birthday Fic, 3.1k)

A/N: holy shit guys this got so much longer than expected i’m sorry if it drags at all i just had so much i wanted to get out! Also its 11:22pm so its technically still his birthday. ha.

What do you get for the man who could already have whatever he wanted at the snap of his fingers? Being the number one pro hero meant that Enji already received truckloads of expensive things, tickets to exclusive events, and the newest technologies simply because of his status. You knew this because everything he received went through you after being thoroughly checked at security. Eight months as his personal secretary offered you a glimpse into his extravagant world and honestly left you with a small bite of bitter jealousy. Some of the things that passed over your desk could pay the rent in your measly apartment for the next year, and you were sure he never gave most of it more than a second glance.

Your pen tapped lightly against your bottom lip as you stared at the pad of sticky notes on your desk, nothing more than illegible lines, dots, and scribbles covered the top one. With a sigh of frustration, you detach it from the stack, crumple it and toss it in the trash. Today was the first day of August, and the mental countdown to your boss’ birthday plagued your thoughts. While your job was comfortable as is, the cold treatment from the man you worked for grated on your every nerve. You’d think after nearly a year in his employment he’d begin to warm up to you, maybe even bother to remember your name. This was your chance to finally stand out to him if only you could think of something that the hero could possibly want for his birthday.

As much as he’d probably like a break or a vacation, you were in no position to provide that for him. He obviously didn’t want for anything material either. Does he even have a sweet tooth? You wondered silently as the tapping of your pen resumed against your face. I can’t even imagine a guy like him eating a cupcake. You know what? Actually I can and it’s hilarious. I bet his mustache would burn the frosting and-

“Ahem” Well, speak - or think- of the devil and he shall appear. Endeavor himself stood at your desk with an impatient look on his stern face. The goofy smile you’d been developing at the thought of the massive man eating sweets was quickly wiped off and your back straightened at an uncomfortable pace.

“Daydreaming on the job?” he asked, but you got the feeling he didn’t really want an answer, so you just bow your head in apology. In an embarrassed mumble, you replied, “Sorry sir, won’t happen again” and he gave a huff in response, not unlike that of a great dragon. You held back another smile at the fleeting thought of smoke puffing out of his nose in discontent, as he handed you a manila envelope stuffed to the brim with some kind of paperwork.

“I need this hand-delivered to the Hawks Hero Office immediately. This is sensitive information I’m trusting you with.” You gingerly accepted the packet, but couldn’t avoid the brief touch of his massive hand sliding past yours. You noted briefly just how warm they were, though you shouldn’t really be surprised. Courier work isn’t exactly in your job description but lately, you’ve been desperate to suck up anyways, plus some fresh air couldn’t hurt. You stood and gave one more quick bow, “of course sir, I’d be happy to deliver it” He seemed content with your answer and turned to walk through the frosted glass double doors that led into his office without so much as another word.

Honestly, that had gone better than most of your interactions in the past. Pleased with the slight development in your relationship you gatherers your purse and the envelope and headed for the elevator. Floors passed monotonously as you continued to float gift ideas around in your head, this was looking to be harder than you initially thought.

Once the lift reached the lobby you made your exit, pushing past a crowd of workers who seemed to just be returning from lunch. They laughed boisterously and made no notice of you squeezing around them. Finally, you made it to the front door of the Endeavor Agency and swiped your employee ID badge on the terminal next to the front door alerting the system that you had left the building. Fresh warm air tickled your skin as you made your way onto the sidewalk and began the trek to Hawks’ Agency. It wasn’t particularly far, only a few blocks away and the route was dotted with storefronts boasting all kinds of wares from cake to clothes to flowers.

In theory, one of the displays you passed should have given you an idea but once more you found yourself coming up blank as you approached your destination. The young man at the front desk smiled politely when you entered “Hi there, do you have an appointment?” his eyes flickered between you and the computer screen in front of him.

“Actually I’m here on delivery for Endeavor” you waved the yellow folder a bit to accentuate your statement “something about sensitive information?” This really wasn’t part of the job you signed up for. Face to face interactions with strangers is so damn awkward. Luckily the receptionist probably dealt with people like you all day and didn’t bat an eye before saying

“Of course, his office is on floor 22 but if he’s not in there, try the roof. I’ll let security know you’re heading up” and he began tapping at the keyboard with one hand while making a ‘go on’ gesture toward the elevator with the other. You thought about boarding but instead made your way to the staircase. I already walked this far, might as well make it a cardio day, and give myself a good excuse to order takeout for dinner. You were truly a genius, maybe it was time to apply at NASA instead of working your ass off for Mr. Hothead.

Twenty-two floors was a bit more of a workout than you thought it would be, and when you finally arrived at the top you were mildly sweaty cheeks ruddy and more out of breath than you’d like to admit so you take a moment to calm down before opening the doors and walking past the security guard. He gave you a sideways glance but kept his mouth shut as you knocked twice on the office doors.

The lack of a verbal response clued you into the fact that he was likely on the roof just as the receptionist had said, so you hung a left and let yourself sprint up one more flight of stairs. Once you made it through the door marked ‘rooftop’ you spotted the winged hero perched near the railing. You announced yourself so as not to startle him,

“Excuse me, Mr. Hawks? I’m here on behalf of Endeavor, he asked me to deliver this to you as soon as possible”

He wheeled around at the sound of your voice, and his eyes lit up with amusement at your disheveled appearance. “Hey, thanks! I was kind of expecting the big man himself but you’re certainly a nice surprise” he winked and took the folder from your hands “Nobody told me Endeavor hired such a cutie to be his secretary, ya think I have any chance of poaching you from him?” Despite your earlier thoughts about NASA, you had no intention of leaving your current position so you just laughed.

“I’m flattered but unfortunately I’ve got some oddly placed sense of loyalty for him”

“Oh I get it” he cocked an eyebrow “I would too if I was you, the guy’s a size queen’s dream after all. Gotta love the whole naughty secretary dynamic too”

You sputtered at his bluntness “Oh god no nothing like that I-”

“Aw, I’m just teasing kid, how couldn’t I when you come up here looking like that” He gestured to your flustered appearance and you immediately regretting taking the stairs moments ago “Besides, I’d be surprised if you got him to warm up to you enough to remember your name let alone bend you over his desk” He was spot on, you had to sigh at that.

“You’re right there, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t even notice if there was an entirely different person sitting at my desk tomorrow”

“Heh, yeah, sounds like him. But you know, his birthday is coming up maybe a gift will put you in his good graces” another effortless wink was shot your way and despite him being the one with wings, the attention really ruffled your feathers. It’s like he had a secret mind-reading quirk or something.

“I thought of that, but I have no clue what a guy like him would even want. It’s not like shopping for your mom, where you can just give her a picture frame that says ‘Live Laugh Love’ and she cherishes it forever ya know?” Hawks snorts in amusement at your comparison. You’re right and you’ll defend that if he asks, but he doesn’t.

“In that case, I’d be willing to let you in on a little secret, some little known Endeavor lore, a true exclusive if you ask me”

“I’m not a tabloid Hawks, just tell me already” this guy messes around a lot for being the number two hero, its an incredibly stark contrast from his only superior.

“Okay, okay, you gotta lean in though, he’d kill me if I leaked something so personal” you lean in closer as instructed and he whispers into your ear, “his favorite food... is kuzumochi” You pull back in visible disappointment.

“That’s it?”

“Yeah, he goes crazy for the stuff. Honest to god I’ve seen him inhale an entire batch in like five minutes. You want him to notice you? Then this is the best possible way, trust me.” and for some crazy reason you do. This could actually work, if it’s really as much of a secret as the blonde claims, you’d certainly stand out among the other gifts he’s sure to get.

You thank Hawks and turn to leave with a newfound confidence in this new plan, but not before he makes you promise to tell him how it goes after the big day. As you exit the winged hero’s agency building the work phone you were assigned chimes with a new email letting you know that you can go straight home after the drop-off, and your grin widens. Even better, now you have time to stop at the grocery store on the way home, the decision already made to go big or go home. You were bound and determined to make the kuzumochi from scratch, and it was gonna be the best damn thing your boss had ever tasted.

*******************************

The rest of the week dragged on in a painfully average way, the only thing keeping your mood afloat was the surprise dish you had been working on every night. You’d gone through multiple test batches, determined to get the flavor and consistency just right. The work paid off on the night of the 7th, just in time when you completed your best batch yet. With a content sigh, you washed your hands and packaged up the kuzumochi like a damn professional. Finally, you were able to take a long hot shower and climb into bed early with the anticipation of tomorrow bubbling in your chest.

Morning came quickly and your daily routine was done with care, then you grabbed the gift and began the short commute to work. Brain on autopilot, it seemed like no time at all until you were seated at your desk and logging in to the company’s computer system. The pristinely packaged gift was nestled into the corner of your desk, waiting for the perfect moment.

This moment came just before lunch when a mildly scuffed up Endeavor breezed past you in a huff and headed straight into his office. This is it you thought Sure, he’s a little pissy at the moment but this’ll cheer him right up. And with that, you knocked once on the office door and peeked in. The sight of him slumped in the leather office chair in front of the massive floor to ceiling window, eyebrow cocked at your intrusion made your heart jump just a little. How can one man be so damn intimidating? You cleared your throat and began to speak with entirely false confidence.

“Sorry for barging in sir, I just wanted to give you a birthday gift. It’s not much, but I hope you’ll accept it” the whole situation reminded you of confessing to your crush with a box of chocolates in middle school, and it’s funny how some things never truly change. You presented the box to him and to your surprise he actually reached out to take it.

His scrutinizing glare never let up as he untied the silky ribbon and lifted the lid, but once he recognized the contents his expression shifted quickly to one of surprise.

“Is this... kuzumochi?” His gaze fell on you and it had nearly physical weight.

“Yes sir, I have it on uhm, good authority that it’s one of your favorites” should you admit that Hawks told you this bit of information?

“Why?”

“I’m sorry? Its… well, it’s your birthday, right? I wanted to get you something that would stand out.” It felt silly to admit to his face.

“And why would you need to stand out, Y/N?” You had to keep your jaw from hitting the floor when he so casually dropped your name, the name you were sure he hadn’t even known. He decided to let you mull over the question as he took a bite of your carefully crafted treat, you could hear a small satisfied hum in his throat and it gave you chills. He beckoned you closer, “it’s delicious, would you like a taste?” when you hesitated he added, “it would be awfully rude to refuse your boss on his birthday, especially after all the trouble you’ve gone to making these”

A heavy step carries you over to his desk, like lead weights attached to your ankles. As you approach he rises out of the chair, a new unreadable look replaced the one of irritation you had been so used to all these months. “Come closer,” he said when you stopped just short of the desk. He’d never spoken to you like this before, and it sent chills down your spine. A few more steps took you around the desk to where he stood, and you barely flinched when he placed a large palm on the side of your jaw, the other held a piece of kuzumochi near your mouth. His intent was clear, he was going to feed it to you by hand. “Open” he commanded softly and you couldn’t deny him if you wanted to, so you complied.

The sweetness melted over your tongue, you truly had outdone yourself here. And once the piece was securely in your mouth, a warm thumb brushed over your bottom lip where his eyes also happened to be resting, completely content in watching you chew and swallow. The intimacy of the situation wasn’t lost on you. You recalled something that Hawks had said about a ‘sexy secretary dynamic’ and once again he was right. When the taste had completely faded from your senses, you looked up to finally meet your boss’ eye. The intensity in them shook you to your very core.

“I’ll ask you again, why do you think you need to stand out?” at this, his hand dropped from your lip down to your waist “Were you hoping for some kind of special attention?” the depth of his voice made your thighs clench, knowing full well where this conversation was heading. He noticed the action and quirked his lips into the faintest smile, one full of mischievous intent. One large step forward for him pushed you back onto the sturdy wooden desk. “I can’t possibly disappoint my favorite little employee then, can I?”

You barely had time to brace your arms behind you before his hand moved over again to res on the top of your thigh, and the one that remained on your jaw guided you into a kiss. It began soft, Endeavor was no fool. He tested the waters, your willingness, before jumping right in. The second you started to kiss back it was full speed ahead. The man was experienced for sure, he knew exactly how to coax your mouth into a dance with his own. Once his tongue pushed into your mouth it was all over for you, you’ve become a slave to the feeling.

All too quickly he broke the kiss, and you had half a mind to whine at the loss of contact. When you opened your eyes you noticed he was leaned over towards the box of kuzumochi that started everything. Odd time for a snack but okay. And when he returned to face you he did have another piece in his mouth, as well as the red ribbon you used to tie it in his hands. Your mouths met once again, this time he pushed the food into yours with his tongue. While you’re distracted with the odd sensation of kissing and eating at the same time you hardly notice the way he pushed both your arms up above your head and deftly tied your wrists together with the ribbon. When he was sure they were secure he let them drop and find a home around the back of his neck.

You swallow the kuzumochi just as he turns up the intensity, completely claiming your mouth with his own. This time, he pushes you even further back until you’re laid completely flat on the desk. His fingers rake up and down your sides while his hips press against yours. You can feel his growing excitement pushed up against you and the feeling has you nearly moaning. Nearly isn’t good enough got the number one though, and he starts trailing kisses down your jaw and further until he reaches the junction of your neck where he bites and sucks like his life depends on it. This finally brings forth the noise he was chasing, and when you go to cover your mouth from embarrassment is when you finally realize that your wrists are bound.

Your boss’ attention is directed elsewhere though, as he reaches a hand under your skirt, past you panties, and begins to stroke your folds. You both realized how wet you’ve become at the same time, and now it’s his turn to moan. One large digit enters you as his mouth travels further south, now nipping at your collarbones and chest. Your wrists slip from around his neck and his free hand strokes upwards from your side to push your arms up over your head. Completely exposed to him he continues to ravish your skin and curl his finger in and out of your cunt. Quickly you come undone around his finger and he removes his mouth from you long enough to drag the digit along his own tongue.

“You’re even sweeter than the kuzumochi, here” he pushes the finger into your mouth and you diligently suck the rest of your juices from it. “Good girl.” The praise itself makes you moan once again. When he’s satisfied with your work he begins to remove his pants and you finally get a glimpse of what you’re working with. You nearly get up and walk out right then, because the man is massive.

“Just relax, I’ll start slow” he reassures and stays true to his word. After a long moment of adjusting he’s fully sheathed inside you and you swear this is what heaven feels like. The moment he begins to move you know you were wrong. If that was heaven you must have finally ascended even further, to wherever gods go when they die. Endeavor fucks you hard and slow against his desk until your eyes are rolling back in your head and you can see every constellation on your eyelids. And when it’s over, you’re shaking like a leaf.

He pulls out, not giving a second glance to the fluids leaking out of you and onto the floor, and begins to untie your wrists. Both of them are red and raw from the friction of the ribbon, and he places a tender kiss on each of the marks. One more kiss on the bruised patch he left on your neck, then he’s hoisting you upwards in a sitting position. Still unsteady but slowly coming back down to earth, you feel a soft tissue wipe at the mess between your legs while a strong hand continues to keep you upright rests at your side.

When you look up to meet his gaze, your confidence is no longer an act. “Happy birthday,” you say and for once he breaks out a genuine smile that makes him look ten years younger.

As he rests his forehead against yours he replies, “It’s not over yet” but before you can question his meaning the intercom system next to his computer rings and a voice announces “Mr. Hawks is on his way up, sir” and you choke. You did promise you’d tell him how things went.

#endeavor x reader #endeavor #enji x reader #enji todoroki #bnha #mha #happy birthday endeavor

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dreamescapeswriting · 4 years

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Set and Match ~ JJK [Request]

↬↬↬Word Count:

↬↬↬Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader

↬↬↬Genre: Fluff

↬↬↬A/N: Okay so I had to google what volleyball was because in my school (in the UK) we called it Netball and I can hardly remember anything about it. The only sport I played and was good at was Hockey and I was kicked from the team because I smacked the person who bullied me a lot in the shins with my hockey stick ((Not even sorry about it. She deserved it alright.)) My love for horrible histories is back and I wish I’d gone on to study history in sixth form

The concept of Volleyball was lost on Jungkook but he loved how passionate about it you were and how much you loved the team you were on. He adored the way your eyes would light up whenever you would talk about previous or upcoming games. You were a history major in university and so your relationship was mostly long-distance since he was away on tour a lot and you were away at college,

"You have a game this week don't you?" Jungkook asked while you studied from your history book, you hummed as an answer and he smiled at the sight of you Your hair was pushed back and you were dressed in sweatpants and one of his shirts he'd left with you the last time he'd managed to sneak onto your campus. He had to sneak on and off whenever he came to see you since he was in one of the biggest bands in the world and no one knew you were dating yet, which meant he would show up in hoodies, baseball caps and a mask so no one would notice it was him. Not that anyone paid attention they were all too busy worrying about their exams, or overdue projects that needed to be finished.

"Do you have an exam as well?" You nodded and looked away from your notes,

"Can I email you my notes and you quiz me?" You asked and he nodded, it was something you did a lot whenever he had the free time. He would take the notes you'd written and quiz you on everything that was on them, telling you if you got it right or wrong.

"Okay, first one, Kings Charles the second was nicknamed what?" He questioned and you knew it like the back of your hand,

"The Merry Monarch." You shot back and he smiled continuing to question you about the King Of England. You were having an exam on the English Tudor times so you were focussing on a King each day and today was King Charles the second.

"Who ruled before him?"

"Oliver Cromwell." He smirked at how smart you were about history and he continued to question you about it more and more until your brain couldn't take it anymore.

"Good luck on Friday, not that you'll need it. You always crush the games you play in." You nodded trying not to seem disappointed that he wouldn't there, he couldn't come even if he wanted to since he was famous but it still upset you when he couldn't come and support you.

"I love you." He said to you through the phone and you smiled convincingly enough and smiled at him,

"I love you too." He hung up the phone and he couldn't help but feel guilty in the back of his mind.

"Are they gone already? I wanted to say Hi." Jimin sighed realising Jungkook wasn't on the phone anymore, Jungkook looked over at him before getting up and going to find Namjoon in a rush.

"Jungkook what is it?!" Jimin asked thinking something was wrong with you but Jungkook was just getting excited at the thoughts he was having.

"We're off all week, what if we went to watch them play?" He questioned Namjoon who was a little lost at the question, he had no idea who Jungkook was talking about until he realised he was talking about you.

"Jungkook what about the school? People will recognise us." Jungkook shook his head going into a description of what his plan was to avoid being seen, they would travel in a group of two's and a group of three to avoid looking like a group of famous guys.

"We can sit in the back so they won't see us and then when they win it'll be a surprise." Namjoon was thinking about it for a long time before finally agreeing to let Jungkook go and see you.

"On three!" You yelled to your teammates, you were winning by a landslide and Jungkook was more than excited to see you playing for the first time and to see you were winning.

"Their good," Jin said as he watched you serving the ball to start off the second round, Jungkook was too busy watching you closely and to see what you were doing. He'd only ever seen highlighted clips of you on the university website but seeing it in person somehow made him more excited about the game.

"Right! I told you!" He said as he watched you serving again, you frowned hearing his voice and you looked around for him in the stands and spotted him and the boys all dressed in black hoodies and wearing baseball caps inside, you sent him a small smile and wave before continuing with the game.

"With 25 points to 10, the winners are LiveMix!" The MC called out over the microphone, as soon as your team name was yelled out Jungkook cheered loudly knocking his hat off his head as he rushed over to you and engulfed you into a tight hug.

"Jungkook." You warned him about his hat but he didn't care, his arms were wrapped around you tightly for the first time in months and you smiled laying your head in the crook of his neck as he held you close to him.

"I told you that you would crush them!" He yelled looking at you and smiling widely, he kissed you putting his hands to the back of your head and drawing you closer to him as if it was even possible. You smiled against his lips before pulling away to greet the rest of the boys who were now all taking off their hats to greet you properly. The cat was out of the bag already with Jungkook anywhere so there was no point hiding it anymore.

"You did amazing." Yoongi said as you hugged him and then the rest of the boys all began congratulating you,

"We should go before this place is swarming with fans." You laughed looking at Jungkook who was now blushing at the fact that he'd just alerted everyone to where they were. He linked his hand with yours as you walked out of the sports hall together and you would just grab your things later when they were gone.

"I say we go to dinner to celebrate!" Jungkook called out as you walked in the direction of a van that was waiting for them to come out.

"I need to go back to my dorm and shower first," You told him and Jungkook said he would go with you, smirking as you realised what that meant.

"I've missed them that's all." He said to Namjoon who was watching you both closely as you walked away to find your car in the parking lot.

Tagline:

@writingdreamsnottragedies @yoongisdumplingcheeks @snowy-meowl @lynnthevirgo @jooniesdarlingdimples @chimchims-stories-and-tales @fan-ati--c @mitzwinchester @lyoongx @callingmyangel @rjsmochii @btsiguess-kpop

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mystic-oneshots · 4 years

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Video Games ( Jumin x MC) (Juminweek - Day 3)

I know at the time of this post Jumin week is officially over but I haven’t been able to post in time as I haven’t been very well. I also had ides for what to write and changed them half way through! However, Here’s day 3! I got heavily inspired by Animal Crossing as that's what I've been playing when I’m not playing Jumin’s route on repeat! I can imagine Something like this happening so I had to write it. I hope you enjoy!

(Video games vs soap operas)

My head rests against the soft feather pillow as I adjust the linen bed sheets around my body. I snuggle in wiggling my toes and ankles around the covers to get warm. It doesn't take long to get comfortable.

A warm glow faintly lights the room from the lamps positioned on either side of the bed. The door to the on-suite bathroom is left open ajar, letting the light from that room sneak out into the dimly lit bedroom where I lay. My husband's phone occasionally brightens up as either a message or an email gives him an alert, although he isn't able to see them right now. The last spot of light comes from what is sat in my hands.

Each night since receiving the gift from my husband, I have been spending some time playing on my 'Nintendo Switch'. Specifically to play 'Animal Crossing: New Horizons'. I am often off before my husband comes and joins me in bed, so we can spend some time in each others arms before drifting off to sleep. Tonight however, I have been informed that I would be having a meteor shower in the game, and I don't want to miss it!

Jumin emerges from the bathroom. He tugs gently at the collar of his pyjamas as he walks towards his side of the bed. His eyes don't leave me despite mine being glued to the small screen of the console. The sheets are lifted and his body soon comes to join me under the duvet. His eyes still don't leave my presence.

"Can I ask a question?" Jumin says, bringing his body in closer to mine and placing his arm underneath my head. The heat of his body gives me a sense of stimulation, however, it's not quite enough to bring me out of my trace the game has caught me in.

"Uh-huh" I respond, not taking my eyes off the screen as I move my thumbs around the control buttons. I can feel him frowning in response to me not looking at him.

"Can you explain what makes this game so special to you?" He curiously asks. His eyes drift away from me and onto my screen as I move my character round the environment. Seeing him take an interest in something that is way beyond his expertise is an entertaining yet welcome thought. It was at this point I divert my attention to him instead. I crack a smile at him and I place the console down on my lap. I wonder why he'd ask that?

"Are you interested in it?" I tease. Jumin's eyes lift to meet mine. His ash black locks fall effortlessly in front of his eyes. His expression is warm and gentle but I can see curiosity sparking in his smile with a faint smirk.

"One could say so. I just want to know why you're so invested in it! It seems like it's all you're doing in you're spare time now." His free hand tucks a loose wisp of hair behind my ear and his thumb delicately rubs across my cheek. Through his touch he I could feel that he's somewhat disappointed. It breaks me a little. I didn't realise I was that invested and it was secretly affecting him.

"Have I been spending too much time on it? I'm sorry! Ugh, why didn't I realise that-"

"Don't be ridiculous, princess!" He laughs. "I must admit, I wish to have some more attention, but then again, I can see how happy it makes you so that is enough to satisfy me. I want you to show me what you're playing so I can understand why you love it so much!"

Hearing him say that makes my heart flutter. He's genuinely curious. That's adorable!

My head turns to fully face him. A joyful sigh escapes my lips before I pull my body in closer to his. I rest my head on his shoulder and his head falls to lay on top on mine. His free arm wraps around my waist as I bring the Switch up to my face again. I tilt the console enough so Jumin has a clear view of the screen in between my hands. It's so nice to be able to share this with him!

"Will I need to explain everything to you?" I question him.

"No, I've seen advertisements for this game before so I get the base idea of the concept. If I have any questions I'll ask." he responds. I hum back in content.

I show my husband my island that I have spent hours on to make perfect. The first place I decide to take him to is the airport to show of the creativity of my island entrance. Cliffs littered with flowers, small knickknacks, and the odd waterfall stand before my character.

He remains quiet as I tour him around the cliffs and pathways, pointing out my villagers homes and the areas I've decorated to resemble different community places. I know his silence is a good thing. He's not bored nor not paying attention. When he's like this, I can tell he's invested. It was something I had to learn to get used to, however, that's how he's always been apparently.

"Was that a cat?" He quickly exclaims. He sounds excited! I let out a light-hearted laugh as I make my character retrace her steps. Indeed it was a cat. Someone who I spent a lot of time and dedication to find. A cat named Raymond.

"It took me weeks to finally find him! He's one of, if not, the most popular villagers in the game but that's not why I wanted him..." I tell Jumin. My voice trails off and I feel his grip around me tighten.

"Why did you want him?" He softly asks. My cheeks flush red. I'm thankful that he can't see my face properly right now for I'd be rather embarrassed if he did. I hesitate to answer at first, trying to laugh it off and hoping he wouldn't notice my awkwardness.

Truth is, I wanted him because he reminded me so much of Jumin. For a start, he's a cat! He wears a little suit and talks in a sophisticated way which is very typical of Jumin too. I doesn't help that his house is designed to look like an office either! It was like Jumin was in mind when they made him!

"It's a silly reason really..." I mumble under my laughter. It's not really silly but it's just a bit cringe worthy.

"It's because he reminds you of me isn't it?" He speculated. My cheeks only flush more. How on earth is he so good at figuring me out? It's like he can read my mind!

I move my head from his shoulder and turn my body to face him. His eyes are drawn to the peachy hue of my cheeks which trigger a chain reaction in his own. Seeing him become flustered makes me feel less embarrassed. It also makes my reasoning feel less child-like and more meaningful.

"I think that might be enough for tonight." Jumin's arm reaches for the console in my hands and carefully plucks it from my hands. He places it on the bedside table before bringing his hand back around my body. He pulls me in closer for a tender cuddle, holding my head against the warmth of his chest.

"What do you think of my island?" I gingerly ask. His fingers run through my scalp relaxing me as my eyes start to slowly become heavy.

"It's very creative, darling. You certainly have an eye for detail, although I already knew that and wouldn't expect anything less from you." A tone of flattery runs through his voice. "Seeing what you've done has now made me consider about getting one myself! I'm sure there's a way we can connect on it to play together right?"

"What really?" I jolt my head up to look at his face. A huge smile bares his lips as he nods and hums in reassurance. I giggle as I settle down again against his chest.

This happy feeling is exactly what we need to sleep well tonight.

#jumin x mc #juminxmc #juminweek #juminweek2020 #jumin #jumin han #mystic messenger jumin #mystic messenger #mysme #cheritz

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alixanonymous · 4 years

Text

How A Demon Commissions An Angel ~ A Daminette FanFic ~ Chapter 9: An Opening For Options

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Sent you an email for Jason’s jacket. Had an idea I think you might like.

Mr. Postscript: I see popular culture references strike again.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Is that a problem?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Cause I’m not even sure “Hit me with your best shot” would be considered a pop culture reference. I mean isn’t that song from like the 80’s?

Mr. Postscript: 1979 but I think it has less to do with when the source material was released and more with how often the reference is used in modern times, which in this case would be much too frequently.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Did google help you come to that conclusion?

Mr. Postscript: …

Mr. Postscript: All online research must begin with the use of a search engine.

Mr. Postscript: At least I don’t use Wikipedia as a resource.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Everyone uses Wikipedia.

Mr. Postscript: Clearly not everyone.

Mr. Postscript: …

Mr. Postscript: Do you?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Of course! I even donate to them every now and then!

Mr. Postscript: I see.

Mr. Postscript: I’m beginning to reconsider our friendship.

Mr. Postscript: I just don’t know if I can forgive this egregious offense.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Really, Mr. Drama Queen? My friends and their interrogations won’t scare you off but my support of the largest archive of free information will?

Mr. Postscript: Your friends were perfectly in their rights to see if I was worthy of your friendship.

Mr. Postscript: I believe I passed the test.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: You were great Damian! Honestly, thank you for putting up with them. Maybe you’re not as bad with people as you think.

Mr. Postscript: Yes, well it does help if they are more than three thousand miles away.

Mr. Postscript: There’s also the fact that I’ve admired Ms. Tsurgi’s fencing style for a while now which may have something to do with it. I’ve been following her career for years.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: …

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Damian, how do you know who she is? We never told you her last name.

Mr. Postscript: Right…

Mr. Postscript: It may have come up in my initial search for your identity.

Mr. Postscript: I don’t imagine there are many girls your age named Kagami who know how to fence, live in Paris, and have close ties to your class.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Okay, that explains that.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I mean it’s still pretty creepy mind you but I went into this friendship knowing how it started.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I guess it’s just weird to think that you know so much about me and I still know so little about you, not even your last name.

Mr. Postscript: You know more about me than anyone besides my family, angel. I wouldn’t want you knowing my last name to make you think differently.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Because you’re famous?

Mr. Postscript: In a way, yes.

Mr. Postscript: You could probably find out who I was if you wanted, you have enough information to work with but I wish you wouldn’t.

Mr. Postscript: I don’t think you’d like what you’d find.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Trust me, I know better than anyone that people sometimes only see what they want to. A little bad publicity won’t make me think differently of you.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Besides, I already told your brother, Damian. You get to decide what you tell me and when.

Mr. Postscript: I should’ve given you the same choice. If I’d known the kind of person you were beforehand, I would’ve.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: That’s the thing, you can’t know who people are before you get to know them.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: You have to give people a chance, Dami.

Mr. Postscript: What if they end up being like Ms. Rossi?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: If we constantly think the worst of people, we’ll end up like Lila, calculating and manipulative.

Mr. Postscript: I suppose I see why you might think that.

Mr. Postscript: You know…

Mr. Postscript: If my family ever finds out how we met, I’d hate to have to deal with their disappointment. I think Todd already wants to adopt you.

Mr. Postscript: Be on alert for another phone theft.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Well, they may never know. After all, they’ll get these amazing gifts for Christmas that will obviously show a lot of thought and consideration.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: They’ll never suspect we had a rocky start.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: But back to the subject of amazing gifts, do you like the wording? Is it not his style?

Mr. Postscript: Oh, Todd will love having that across his back.

Mr. Postscript: I just have a question about the “o” in shot. It’s supposed to be a target right?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Yes! Well sorta?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I want to make it look like a poker chip with a target on it.

Mr. Postscript: Oh. I can see that. Why a poker chip? I don’t recall it coming up in our earlier discussion.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I mean it did in a way.

Mr. Postscript: Oh? How so?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: The poker chip would be stitched on the back of his right shoulder meaning he’d have a chip on his shoulder.

Mr. Postscript: …

Mr. Postscript: I approve the design. The double meaning in your designs will be incredibly entertaining for me every time I see my brothers wearing them.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Well, like I said. Subtle details are my specialty. But I don’t recall any double meaning in Grayson’s design.

Mr. Postscript: Right.

Mr. Postscript: I stand corrected. I simply meant there are a lot of subtle details.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Okay! That reminds me! I’ve started Grayson’s sweater.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Just sent a progress update to your email.

Mr. Postscript: It’s looking exactly like your drawing. I approve the choice of yarn; the colors are appropriately vibrant.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Great!

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: So what were you thinking for Drake’s sweater?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I think I remember you mentioned a drawstring hood.

Mr. Postscript: I did, yes. However, I’ve been rethinking that idea.

Mr. Postscript: I can picture my family accusing me of trying to suffocate Drake.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: …

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Well, we wouldn’t want that!

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: You know maybe the “hit me with your best shot” thing wasn’t the best idea either.

Mr. Postscript: It’s not that concerning with Todd. I’m sure he’ll just love that across his back. Drake and I have a more complicated history.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Didn’t you say your inside jokes with Jason were your attempts on each other’s lives?

Mr. Postscript: Yes but it’s Jason. He antagonizes everyone.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Got it. But Drake’s different?

Mr. Postscript: Yes. Everyone loves Drake. Well, except for Todd but we’ve established that Todd hates everyone.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: So why are things complicated between you too?

Mr. Postscript: Correction: Two

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: …

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: You know what? Okay. I stand corrected. Question still applies.

Mr. Postscript: I may have treated him poorly when I first joined the family. He was the most recent addition to my father’s collection of orphan children and I may have tried to claim his place in the family by forcibly removing him from it.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I see. So you felt threatened by his presence and handled it poorly?

Mr. Postscript: I would say that is a drastic yet not wholly inaccurate interpretation.

Mr. Postscript: However, I’ve since realized that my initial concerns were unnecessary. Drake is a threat to no one but himself.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: But your family still holds it against you? They still think you might actually hurt him?

Mr. Postscript: Well, I was a bit extreme and while I no longer harbor the same intentions, no one could accuse us of being particularly warm.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I see.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Have you tried apologizing?

Mr. Postscript: You mean sincerely and not because father ordered me to?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Yes.

Mr. Postscript: Then no.

Mr. Postscript: However, before you begin what would surely be a fruitless campaign to get me to change that…

Mr. Postscript: Might I remind you my family isn’t big on addressing our feelings? I believe Todd’s tried to hurt Drake before too and I highly doubt he ever issued an apology yet they seem to be on good terms again.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Right.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Well, as your resident people skills instructor, I think I’m supposed to give you some kind of advice like two wrongs not making a right but frankly I’ve begun to realize that is utter bullshit, pardon my english. So I can understand why an apology would not be on the table.

Mr. Postscript: I’ve never understood that saying and I’m glad that I will not have to hear it from you.

Mr. Postscript: Do not mistake me, I understand the sentiment in a way however, I’ve always felt it to be too general and way too easy to use in a non-applicable, negative context.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Good to know where on the same page there.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Damian, I don’t mean to pry but can I ask you a question?

Mr. Postscript: You may ask and I may answer.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Do you feel like your family holds you to a higher standard?

Mr. Postscript: …

Mr. Postscript: I don’t know if I’d call it a higher standard.

Mr. Postscript: …

Mr. Postscript: I simply have more to catch up on. I started with less knowledge of some basic things than the rest of my brothers. However, I wouldn’t say I’m treated differently in any case. You should see Todd and father argue sometime.

Mr. Postscript: I just hate feeling behind. I’m used to being the best, the favorite like I was when I lived with my mother. So failing like I have recently has been frustrating, especially with what’s now on the line.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: You mean the threat of moving?

Mr. Postscript: I wouldn’t call it a threat. I actually feel like I should mention that the place he wants to send me to is actually somewhere all my brothers have attended so it’s not like I’d be the first to go there in any case.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Oh, so it’s like a family tradition?

Mr. Postscript: I suppose you could say that.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: So would going really be that bad?

Mr. Postscript: Honestly?

Mr. Postscript: In theory, it wouldn’t be the end of the world or anything. In actuality? I can’t imagine it would be pleasant.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Okay. If there’s one thing that makes you not want to go, what would it be?

Mr. Postscript: Is it not self-explanatory? Why would I want to start over again and lose all I’ve earned since coming here? I spent ten years of my life without my family, is it a crime to not want to waste any more?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Okay, I would say that does sound rather awful to put it lightly but would it really be like that? I mean it’s not like you’re going off to war or anything, right? You’d still talk regularly and video chat and stuff?

Mr. Postscript: I’m sure we would, angel, but they’d still be here, all together and I’d be miles away, with only people I’d have no clue how to interact with for company.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Right.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Are you worried about feeling like an outsider again?

Mr. Postscript: No.

Mr. Postscript: Not quite…

Mr. Postscript: I’m more worried about feeling like a failure. Nothing is more shameful than being a disappointment. Especially when I have three brothers who aren’t even related to contend with that seem to be doing him proud.

Mr. Postscript: Except for Todd but he’s turned disappointing father into its own type of game and at which he’s winning.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Aren’t your brothers older than you? And haven’t they been with your dad longer? Surely it doesn’t make sense to compare yourself to them?

Mr. Postscript: Please!

Mr. Postscript: When Drake was my age, father was already training him to take over the family business.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Damian, in any case it’s not a competition, right? You’re not competing with them for your father’s regard.

Mr. Postscript: Maybe that’s so. I still feel like I’m losing and I hate that.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Yeah, I imagine you would.

Mr. Postscript: How helpful.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I mean, you’re always allowed to feel how you do.

Mr. Postscript: Thank you for the permission. I do so appreciate it.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Okay, Mr. Sarcasm, do you really want to know what I think?

Mr. Postscript: …

Mr. Postscript: Go on.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Okay, you might not want to hear this and of course this is just my opinion but it seems to me like you have really high expectations to meet, maybe they’re other people’s or maybe their your own. Whether or not you actually have to contend with your brother’s achievements, you obviously feel like you do and I can see how that would be hard to turn off. So maybe some distance from the situation would be a good thing?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I know that having to meet new people especially when socializing isn’t your strong suit sounds daunting but I kinda feel like you’re selling yourself short. Sure, you’ve had trouble in the past but you’ve made progress right? Moving to a new place doesn’t erase any of that. I get that the first time you had to start over was hard but now you’re older and wiser and have family to support you and a wonderful friend/moral compass to help you (aka me). Plus, I don’t know, it just feels like you’re really focused on doing what you think people expect of you and not what you really want for yourself. I don’t know, maybe some time away from expectations and legacies might give you some perspective.

Mr. Postscript: …

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: …

Mr. Postscript: Withdrawing now, giving up and moving on, wouldn’t that be like quitting? Is quitting not another form of losing?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: If you’re looking at it like that, I’d ask yourself this: Is winning worth it if you hate the game you’re playing?

Mr. Postscript: …

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: …

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: So, totally overstepped there, didn’t I? Sorry!

Mr. Postscript: No need to apologize.

Mr. Postscript: I’m just not sure how I feel right now.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: That’s okay! I’m not trying to force you to make any big decisions right now or anything. If you just want some time to think, that’s cool. Whatever you end up doing, you deserve to have a choice in it so let’s come up with something for Drake’s sweater so your dad doesn’t force your hand okay?

Mr. Postscript: Okay.

Mr. Postscript: Marinette?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Yes?

Mr. Postscript: Thank you.

Mr. Postscript: Everything you’ve done and said so far has shown a level of care for me I’ve done nothing to deserve and I know you’re always just trying to help me and I'm very grateful. I just want you to know I will do my best to be as good a friend to you too.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I know, Damian. You may have your faults (we all do) but loyalty is not one of them.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: For whatever it’s worth, I think your family also wants what’s best for you like I do. It just has to be up to you to decide what that is.

Mr. Postscript: Right.

Mr. Postscript: Well for starters, I think it would be best for me to avoid being accused of attempting to suffocate Drake.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Yeah, I agree.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: So would you want just a regular sweater for him then? Or I could make a drawstring hood that doesn’t close completely? I could make it so there’s always a gap left to breathe through.

Mr. Postscript: I like that last idea best.

Mr. Postscript: My original vision was that Drake could easily shut out the world and fall asleep in it so we don’t have to deal with his insomniac coffee zombie antics all the time.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I want my business card to have “insomniac coffee zombie” on it.

Mr. Postscript: I highly doubt you’d get a lot of business that way. It’s a poor marketing strategy. It comes off as unprofessional.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Please, my clients are normally the reason I pull all nighters. I would give it credit for illustrating my dedication to my craft.

Mr. Postscript: Don’t get me started on Drake’s work ethic.

Mr. Postscript: The thought that you and Drake might actually have a lot in common is quite unsettling.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Really, anything else we share besides a coffee addiction and ambition?

Mr. Postscript: Well, you both are child prodigies in a way. For all our differences, I can’t deny Drake has done much for father’s company at a young age and you have created a whole brand for yourself at only sixteen.

Mr. Postscript: I’d never thought about the logistics of balancing schoolwork and commissions. Is it difficult?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I mean, yes and no. There have been times when I stretched myself too thin and paid the price in sleepless nights. But that’s the perks on being your own boss I guess. I just learned to pace the commissions and be selective with my clientele. It’s worked pretty good so far.

Mr. Postscript: That’s a relief to hear. However I hope my order didn’t come in a bad time. Did you already have a lot on your plate?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Nah, I usually keep the holiday season light so I have time to make Christmas gifts. Although, I suppose that’s not as much of a concern this year.

Mr. Postscript: Oh?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Quite a few classmates have been crossed from the Christmas list this year.

Mr. Postscript: I see.

Mr. Postscript: I don’t know whether I feel happy or upset for you.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Ha! Me neither.

Mr. Postscript: I suppose it is both then. I am happy that you are standing up for yourself but upset that they have forced you to.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Thanks Damian. I can’t help but feel a bit like I’m being petty.

Mr. Postscript: Petty is a word people use when they hold you to a higher standard than themselves.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Now I want to put that on a t-shirt!

Mr. Postscript: Hm. I would order one.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Really? You’d match shirts with me?

Mr. Postscript: Well, no. I wouldn’t wear it around you per se, I don’t think I’d pull it off as well. However, I’d happily parade it in front of my brothers.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: You know what I’ll take it.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Shelving that design for now, let’s get back to Drake’s sweater. So I got a general sense of his taste from the pictures you sent me although I already see I’ll have to take some liberties when it comes to fabric because these pieces don’t look like they were made particularly for comfort and that’s a priority here right?

Mr. Postscript: Yes. I trust your judgement when it comes to fabric.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Great! All that’s left is the design and for once I actually have an idea right off the back.

Mr. Postscript: Is that so? Consider me impressed.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Well, it all hinges on Drake being as big of a coffee lover as you make him out to be.

Mr. Postscript: Trust me angel, coffee addict is literally Drake’s personality. I don’t know how that’s possible but he managed it.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Okay. It’s time then.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I’ve had this idea in the back of my mind for a while now and I’ve never taken the time to fully develop it but if I pull it off it may well be the greatest piece I ever produce.

Mr. Postscript: And of course, it goes to Drake. He’ll never let that go.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I’d hope not. He should feel honored to be the recipient. T.G.Y.T.T.B.: However, I’ll need two things from you to make this work.

Mr. Postscript: Well?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I’ll need you to take a picture of your brother’s coffee, after he’s poured and added whatever he adds (although if he’s truly a coffee addict that won’t be much).

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: It is CRUCIAL that you make sure to show me the exact shade he drinks, understand?

Mr. Postscript: Now you’re even starting to sound like him when he’s in a coffee-crazed state.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Do. You. Understand?

Mr. Postscript: Yes. I can do that. What else?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Right, I’m gonna need you to trust me on this, okay? The design is going to be so much more than meets the eye so I’m not going to show you any drawing or photos before you get it in the mail, okay? T.G.Y.T.T.B.: I know that’s kind of a lot to ask but I think you’ll understand why in the end.

Mr. Postscript: …

Mr. Postscript: I’m not going to pretend any of this isn’t ridiculously strange but since you obviously know what you’re doing and Drake actually loves a good mystery, I’ll allow it. Use your idea.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Yay! You won’t regret it!

Mr. Postscript: So is that all you need?

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Yup, Grayson’s sweater is already started, I’ll go shopping for the materials for Jason’s jacket tomorrow, and Drake’s can be started as soon as I get that picture of the coffee.

Mr. Postscript: That won’t take long. I should have it to you by tomorrow at the latest.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Great!

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: Um, Damian. I really have to go. There’s an akuma.

Mr. Postscript: Yes. I got an alert. I signed up for them when you mentioned the situation. Is it close? T.G.Y.T.T.B.: it will be ill text you tomorrow okay?

Mr. Postscript: Yes. Be safe.

T.G.Y.T.T.B.: thx bye1

From:[email protected]

To:[email protected]

Date:November 10, 2021 7:00 P.M.

Subject: (No Subject)

Postscript: I would like you to know that I found your use of the phrase “Pardon my English” after swearing to be the pinnacle of comedy and would like to request permission to use this myself someday? - Damian

From:[email protected]

To:[email protected]

Date:November 11, 2021 7:30 A.M.

Subject: RE: (No Subject)

P.S. Permission granted. :)

- Marinette

Hello Tumblr! It’s been a while, sorry for that. Life has been a rollercoaster these last few weeks and unfortunately not the kind that only goes up my friends. On to better news however, this chapter being posted means Tumblr is finally caught up to where the story is at on AO3. Even better, chapter ten is mostly finished. Everything is written and now I just have to go over and edit it one last time. I do plan on posting it today which feels so weird to say because writing this chapter was so different than my usual experience. It totally breaks my usual chapter structure and I feel like I wrote it at a snail’s pace. Here’s hoping it will have been worth the wait! I’ll see you again soon but as always AO3 will be updated first! <3

Master List

#MariBat #Daminette #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Damian Wayne #FanFiction

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the-cult-of-russo · 3 years

Text

Push and Pull (Part 12)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x OC

Warnings: cursing, mentions of human trafficking

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The next morning Daphne was woken by a knock at her door. She let out a groan as she rolled out of bed. Her hair was down and every which way and she was in some pyjama shorts and the t-shirt she kind of stole from Matt. It was soft and cozy and she deemed it great to sleep in. She squinted at the clock, seeing it was 8 am before she swung the door open. Foggy stood there, coffees in one hand and a bag of something in the other. He flashed her a sheepish grin as he took in her very sleepy state.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he said apologetically.

"It's 9 in the morning, Foggy. What did you think I'd be doing?" She asked incredulously.

"I kinda forgot you have your own work hours," one toothy grin later and the pair were sitting in her living area in their usual spots. She was alternating between sipping her mocha that he'd gotten her and nibbling on the croissant. She couldn't stay mad when he'd brought two of her favourite things to her.

"Any reason you're here?" She asked after a moment of weird silence. He glanced at her and shrugged.

"I can’t come visit one of my friends after a while?" It was a valid answer but his weird tense voice alerted her to his lie. She squinted at him and he squirmed under her gaze. It didn't take long before he cracked and she idly hoped he fared better when he was in court.

"Matt said I should check on you. And for the record I have missed you and wanted to come by anyway," he blurted out. She felt herself straighten up a little and clenched her hand around the coffee tighter.

"He told you?" She asked with a deathly cold tone.

He frowned and looked at her like she'd sprouted another head.

"I don't know what you think he told me, but I told him I missed seeing you and he suggested I should come and check in. Should he have told me something?" He asked, looking worried. She shook her head rapidly and downed the rest of her coffee. It was still a little hot but the burn distracted her from her thoughts.

"Did something happen?" He prompted softly. She wanted to tell him to fuck off and leave her alone. She would have if it was Matt. But this was Foggy and she couldn't even be a bitch to him if she tried. She blew out a breath and forced her muscles to relax. It did make her feel better that he genuinely seemed to not know what she was talking about and Matt hadn't just gone around talking about her behind her back. She'd rather talk to Foggy about it herself.

"I went to see him yesterday and he helped teach me some moves. In case I got attacked again. It went surprisingly well and I learnt some stuff. But then…" she trailed off with a sigh, tossing the coffee cup into the trash can near the sofa.

"What happened?" He asked carefully.

"I freaked out. He was teaching me how to get out of some holds. But then his hands were around my throat and I couldn't breathe," she started reluctantly.

"He choked you?!" He yelled. She blinked in surprise by his outburst before shaking her head vigorously.

"No! That's the thing. He didn't even apply pressure and suddenly I'm back with Keiran being strangled. It was ridiculous, Foggy. I knew Matt wouldn't hurt me and I just flipped out," she lamented, tucking her knees up and wrapping her arms around them.

Foggy was quiet for a moment before leaning forward a little in his chair. When she looked at him all she saw was concern and understanding.

"You went through something traumatic, Daphne. You need time to process it, there's nothing ridiculous about how you reacted," he soothed. She scoffed and shook her head.

"I hate that it's still bothering me. I hate that I'm not over it yet. I thought I was stronger than this," she huffed.

"It's not about strength. If that's the way you wanna look at it then focus on the fact you got away. You went through an ordeal. Yet you got the upper hand and survived. You got out of there and because of you, that lunatic will get what he deserves. The mental stuff… that'll go away in time. It won't be forever," he murmured. She blinked at him for a moment before a small smile graced her face.

"You're a good friend, Foggy," she said sincerely. He beamed a smile at her and pretended to dust his shoulders.

"I know, it kind of my thing," he smirked.

"Mhm. Daredevil's sidekick," she teased. He looked thoroughly offended and it made her laugh.

"I am not the sidekick. That's what I want you to believe. Really I'm the mastermind behind the whole thing," he snorted. She smiled ruefully with a shake of her head.

"So…" he started again.

"I don't wanna talk about my feelings if that's where this is going," she interjected. She’d had enough of that for now.

"It's not. I was just wondering if you lashed out at Matt after all that. It would explain why he's been moping this morning," he quirked a brow at her and she tried to look innocent. He just blinked at her and this time it was her turn to cave.

"Fine. I was a grade A bitch to him and I do actually regret it. But I doubt that's why he's moping because he really doesn't like me anyway," she put her hands up in mock surrender. Foggy gave her a look and crossed one leg over the other.

"He doesn't like you? Even though he's saved your life, cooked you food and helped with training even if it did end badly?" He asked sceptically.

"Hey dude, he's your friend not mine. He's weird," she smirked at him.

"You're both insufferable," he groaned before standing. She didn't move from her comfy place on the couch and he shook his head like he was disappointed with her.

"You're not even going to see me out? Where have your manners gone?" He asked with mock hurt.

"I never had any," she grinned. He chuckled, leaning down to her spot to give her a quick hug before walking to the door.

"I'm tired of asking you both this, but maybe be a little nicer next time you see him. You're so similar and you'd actually get along if you tried," he chided, opening the door.

"Yes, dad," she saluted with a raised brow. With one last laugh and shake of his head, he was gone.

She was glad he'd come by. She'd gotten used to his visits and how easy it was to talk to him. She meant it when she said he was a good friend and she had no idea how he put up with Matt all the time. She spent the rest of her day in her pyjamas, watching Netflix and looking at her emails. She had a few potential clients and she found herself hesitant after the whole ordeal with Mr Lee. But she tried to tell herself that was different. It had turned into more than she expected but she'd done plenty of cases in her years as a PI and something like that hadn't happened. It wouldn't happen again.

Soon enough it was dark outside and she was considering going to bed. She was thinking of seeing Brett in the morning and seeing if anything was going on with the Italians and their upcoming meet. She just wanted to do something to keep her occupied. As she was closing her laptop, a knock sounded at her door. Her first thought was Foggy. Maybe he'd come to scold her some more for her attitude with Matt, even if it was 11 pm. But she looked through the peephole anyway as she got to the door. It wasn't Foggy. Instead there was an old lady she didn't think she recognised.

Opening the door, she looked at the woman warily.

"Ms Weaver? Private investigator?" She asked with a worried look. She instantly felt on guard. She never gave out her address. Clients would contact her via emails or phone and she would go to their house. The fact this woman knew where she lived and who she was made her suspicious.

"Who's asking?" She bit out. The woman sniffled, glancing up at her.

"Detective Mahoney sent me. My… my grandson's missing, please will you help me?" she pleaded. Brett's name put her at ease although she was confused why he'd be involving her. It wasn't like she didn't take missing cases before but it was rare and usually the parents or carers would seek her out on their own, not be sent by the police. Most of the time they were teens out partying, looking for a way to rebel and piss off their parents.

"Please, Ms Weaver. He's only 11. He's been missing for 3 weeks and the police… they can't find him. It's like he's a ghost," she broke down crying. She felt a pang of guilt in her chest watching the woman so heartbroken but her words smacked her in the face. A ghost. When it came to a missing person, that never meant anything good. It usually meant trafficking and usually there was little chance of finding the person. It made her feel sick.

"Come in," she murmured, opening the door wider to let her in. The woman looked grateful, wiping her eyes as she stepped inside. After Daphne shut the door, she padded over to her couch, gesturing for the woman to sit in the armchair usually reserved for Foggy. She walked over and sat down hesitantly, clutching her bag on her lap.

"Brett told me to give you these. It's his case file, all the reports and any leads they had," she murmured as she rummaged in her large purse and pulled out a file. Daphne took it, opening it and briefly flicking through it before closing it again.

"And don't worry about payment, whatever you need, I can try to get it," she insisted. Daphne pursed her lips before shaking her head.

"No," she frowned. The woman looked panicked, as if thinking she was turning down the case and shook her head desperately.

"I mean I don't want money. I'll take the case but I don't need payment," she clarified softly. The old woman looked relieved and Daphne had a feeling she would have struggled to give her anything. She wasn't about to take a penny off this woman. Especially when she wasn't sure if she could really help her.

"I need to be transparent. I'll take the case but I can't promise I'll be able to find him. I'll try my best but… I don't want you to get your hopes up," she sighed. She didn't want to hurt the woman anymore than she was clearly hurting, but it would only hurt more if she wasn’t up front about it. The woman nodded, hand over her mouth as she gave her a watery smile.

"Your best is all I can ask for," she said sincerely.

"I'll look it over, see what I can do and I'll talk to Brett too," Daphne smiled softly.

"Thank you. You don't know how much this means to me. That boy is my life," she murmured.

Daphne stood, the woman following suit as she walked her to the door. After more tearful thank yous that Daphne felt like she hadn't earned, she was once again alone. Deciding to abandon sleep, she stayed up all night with coffee as her only companion. There wasn't much to the file really, and that had been where police were struggling. There were the basic details about the boy, James Johnson, and the account of when his grandmother last saw him. He’d gone out on his bike to the park near his grandma's apartment complex where he lived with her and just never came back. Gone in the wind with no reason or no sightings from anyone else.

By the time 9 am rolled around, she’d scoured the internet for anything, any sightings, any news, but nothing. There weren't even any media covering his disappearance which was strange to her. She showered and got dressed, her patent boots and jeans along with a dark grey t-shirt and black zip up hoodie. She pushed her unruly hair up in a messy bun on the top of her head, case file stuffed in her backpack and her camera around her neck.

She made her way to the park where the boy last went. She wasn't even 100% if he even made it there but it was a start. It was quiet in the park, no kids there this early and cold. She looked at it through her camera lense, snapping some pictures for later, but nothing was standing out to her. With her camera still poised, she turned around and through her lens she saw something that made her tense. The Yellow Lily. It was the same Chinese restaurant the Italians and Chinese would be meeting in. Meaning the Chinese mob were somehow linked to this specific place. She remembered how not that long ago the Chinese were trafficking people, using them to incubate their drugs. She felt dread settle deep in her bones and she took off running.

She was breathless by the time she reached the station but she didn't know if Brett had made the connection. He would have found out about the meet after the boy was missing and it wouldn't have been fresh in his mind. But she knew this was more than a coincidence and if she was right, the boy needed to found ASAP and he probably wasn't even far. She burst into the station like a bat out of hell. She wasn't expecting to see Ms Johnson, especially talking to Matt, Foggy and Brett. Matt was already glancing in her direction, no doubt sensing her a mile away. She didn't have time to think about their last encounter.

"Oh, Ms Weaver! I was just telling these nice gentlemen about you helping me with my boy. Free of charge too," she smiled warmly at her. Daphne's chest was heaving as she tried to calm herself down a little.

"Do you have news?" The older woman answered hopefully.

"Uh… no. I just need to steal Detective Mahoney real quick," she gave her a fake smile trying to act like everything was okay. She didn't want to worry her.

"Jesus, Daph. Did you sleep at all?" Foggy chimed in. She'd almost forgotten he and Matt were there. She glanced at him and shook her head. With a desperate look to Brett, he seemed to sense it was urgent and ushered her into one of the interrogation rooms.

"What is it?" He asked warily. He sat down but she was pacing like crazy. The coffee she'd been drinking all night hadn't helped her jitteriness.

"I think the Chinese took him," she lamented, she couldn't hide the concern in her voice if she tried. Brett frowned with a groan, wiping a hand over his face.

"Shit. You sure?" He sighed. If she was right, things just got way messier.

"Not 100%. But the park he was last at, it's right across the street from the Yellow Lily restaurant. And who's meeting there later this week? The Italians and the Chinese," she said with a shake of her head.

"This is… fuck, this is bad," Brett muttered. She agreed with him.

"Look, I'll talk to my guys, put some feelers out and see if we can get more info before we go in guns blazing," he explained.

"Don't tell her... Ms Johnson. Don't tell her yet," she implored. He gave her a nod, they both knew this was bad and there was no need to worry her more. Not until they knew for sure what was happening.

"See, this shit is why I sent her to you in the first place," he gave her a weak smile as he stood, clapping her on the back. She almost rolled her eyes. She hadn't done anything special but she supposed fresh eyes and the new news of the meet had helped.

When they walked out of the room and back near the desk, Ms Johnson was gone and Matt and Foggy were talking to the person at the desk. She made a beeline for them.

"I need to talk to you," she said firmly, aiming it at Matt but not caring if Foggy followed or not since he knew about Daredevil anyway. Matt glanced her way with a tense nod, holding her arm much like he did with Foggy as they made their way out front. Foggy stayed put where he seemed to be talking about a case with the cop on the desk. Once out in the sun, she ushered them over out the way to the side.

"The Chinese?" Matt asked with a frown. She was glad his radar ears picked it up so she didn't have to go over it again.

"Might be. My gut says it is. When you're out doing your thing, could you ask around? See if anyone’s heard or seen anything? Or if they know anything about the Chinese and their trafficking operations?" she looked at him imploringly but it wasn't like she'd need to beg. He nodded resolutely.

"I'll see what I can find out. Someone's gotta know something," he affirmed. She breathed a sigh of relief. Between her, the cops and Daredevil, they had to find something at some point. Even something small that could lead to something bigger.

"Thanks," she breathed, worrying her lower lip with her teeth.

"We'll find him, alright?" He asked, trying to be reassuring. A bitter scoff left her lips though as she looked off at nothing.

"What? You don't think we will?" He probed.

"I hope we will. But trafficking… Do you know how many trafficking cases I've managed to crack? None. Because they covered their tracks too well. And the Chinese, they're fucking pros at this. So I want to find him, Matt, I really fucking do. But I can't give myself false hope and assure myself that we will," she said angrily. Matt's jaw ticked a little before he looked away from her with a nod. There wasn't much else to say. She'd just have to wait and see if he or the cops turned up any leads and she knew it would chip at her sanity.

"Ms Johnson thinks you're an angel. Wouldn't shut up about how nice you are. Almost told her she must have been talking to an imposter," he mused, trying to lighten the mood. She gave him the side eye and her lips quirked up slightly.

"I'm a lovely person, just ask Foggy. It's just you that's the problem," she retorted. He smiled ruefully as he glanced down at nothing.

"Well Foggy seems to think we're basically the same person, so that means the problem is actually you," he smirked. She snorted, half a mind to shove him down the steps and see if he'd actually keep his act up and fall or if he'd ninja his way out of it. She did appreciate him making her smile though. Maybe it was time she swallowed some of her pride.

"I uh… I'm sorry. About the whole… thing that happened the other day. I was angry at myself and embarrassed and I shouldn't have taken it out on you. Don't get me wrong, you're an asshole and most of the time I mean to be a bitch. But you were just helping me and it was uncalled for. I also appreciate you not telling Foggy what happened," she murmured softly. She couldn't look at him though. It felt uncomfortable and she wasn't used to apologising much. He seemed genuinely shocked she even said it before he smiled softly.

"It's alright," he replied. Now that awkward silence was back where they didn’t know what to say. She hated when this happened.

"I'm gonna head off. Let me know if you find anything?" She asked as she took a step back.

"Will do," he nodded.

"Oh and let Foggy know that if he wakes me up at the ass crack of dawn again, I'll murder him," she shot a toothy grin his way and he chuckled with a nod. She hopped down the steps trying to ease her mind of the worry for the young boy. There wasn't a damn thing she could do but wait now. Waiting was always the worst part.

#matt murdock x oc #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock #daredevil x oc #daredevil fanfiction #daredevil

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serpentinesarang · 4 years

Text

Bend, Not Break

pairing: i.m (im changkyun) x gender-neutral reader

genre: non-idol!AU, boss/subordinate!AU, third-person POV, similar to the kdrama “Romance is a Bonus Book” (small book publisher setting), part of a series

word count: 1683 | next

content warnings: one mention of blood, one mention of alcohol

summary: you work as a copy editor at a publishing house, and you’re a genuine hard worker who never breaks rules—that is, until a new boss takes over your department. you find yourself magnetized and lusting over him, and vice versa, so perhaps your morals can bend just a little?

requested by: @livingwithmx

a/n: From here on out, I’ll be incorporating more Korean language and cultural things into my writing, but fear not: I will list a handy key each time with translations and pronunciations! To make it more universally easier to understand my included Korean, I’ll write the Romanized words in the story and add the Hangul in the key.

korean key:

⦿ biseonim (비서님) = secretary; pronounced “pee-suh-neem;” (titles follow one’s surname) ⦿ annyeonghaseyo (안녕하세요) = most common and formal hello; pronounced “on-yawng-ha-seh-yo” ⦿ pyeongjibjangnim (편집장님) = editor; reader’s work title; pronounced “pyung-jeeb-jahng-neem” ⦿ soju (소주) = clear Korean grain alcohol, similar to vodka; pronounced as it looks ⦿ jungyeok (중역) = executive director; pronounced “jung-yuk” ⦿ pyeonjibguk (편집국) = editorial department; pronounced “pyun-jib-gook”

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

“Good morning, YL/N-pyeongjibjangnim!” Seoyoon calls out from behind the wide reception desk, her adorable chipmunk cheeks dimpling as she watches Y/N step off the elevator and onto the eighth floor, where their employer is located in the building.

“Annyeonghaseyo, Park-biseonim!” Y/N replies, throwing their hand up to wave briefly. They stop at the desk and peer down at Seoyoon. “How was your weekend?”

“Really good, actually,” she chirps with raised brows and blue-contacted eyes aglitter. She moves her hands off her keyboard to prop herself up on her forearms. “He finally kissed me!” she whispers excitedly.

Y/N’s mouth drops open in happy surprise. “It’s about time!” they say, matching Seoyoon’s excitement.

Seoyoon leans back in her swivel chair. “Right?! I still feel so good.”

Y/N smiles, bringing the black coffee tumbler in their hand to their lips.

“I even slipped some soju in my tea,” Seoyoon murmurs, raising her eyebrows again and jerking her head toward the dainty cup in front of her computer.

Y/N swallows their coffee hard and shoots Seoyoon a disappointed look with pursed lips. “Park-biseonim… You know alcohol isn’t allowed on premises,” they remind her softly, friend to friend.

Seoyoon exhales. “I know; I know… Just this one time?”

Y/N pauses, examining the secretary’s face. How could they alert their superior when the sweet girl was just so happy about her boyfriend finally kissing her?

“All riiight,” Y/N replies, turning toward the main doors leading into the office. “Only because of that kiss.”

They smile again before disappearing through the windowed double doors and making their way to their corner office on the far end of the floor. Y/N greets their coworkers, waving at those already submerged in their work and bowing to their superiors. Odd, they think, the entire executive board is here today. Something must be happening.

Y/N gets themselves situated at their modern Plexiglas desk, powering on their huge monitor and turning on lamps here and there. As soon as the computer hums to life, a loud two-toned chime goes off, signaling a high-importance email.

Smoothing out their slacks as they sit on their swivel chair, Y/N opens the email, which was sent to the entire editorial department. Something is happening, indeed.

In it, the department’s director had written:

Good morning, team:

Please meet in the conference room at 8 today to join me in welcoming a new employee to our department. I have important news to share, as well.

~Choi Jaeho-jungyeok

Y/N glances at the time on the computer: 7:57 AM. Yeet! they mentally screamed, shooting out of their chair and bee-lining for the conference room, situated between the editorial and creative departments.

Bursting through the large room’s white double doors, Y/N is greeted by a small symphony of good morning!s and annyeonghaseyo!s, and they bow their head to everyone while walking around to the last open chair at the corner of the rectangular table. Some coworkers have pads of paper in front of them; many have cups of steaming liquid; and others simply have their cell phones lying out. There’s one unfamiliar person sitting directly across Y/N in the other corner seat, though, looking like a stone with their elbows on the chair’s arms, hands clasped, and with nothing in front of them.

As soon as Y/N sits down and scoots in, they glance up to find this man already gazing at them.

Oh my God, they think.

The man across from them is young, around their age or older, and he looks like an Olympian god. Plentiful, chocolate-brown hair frames his intense, dark eyes, and his full lips are slightly pressed together in the tiniest of smirks. He’s wearing a crisp, white button-up with a skinny, dark purple tie. The lanyard holding a small placard hanging over it reads, Im Changkyun and beneath it, Jungyeok, Pyeonjibguk.

We have two directors now? Y/N thinks to themselves. Is that Choi-jungyeok’s big news?

Im Changkyun is still watching Y/N, and normally in a situation like this, they’d break eye contact. But something about this guy has started sucking them in, and the enigmatic glow of his eyes is not helping.

Jaeho causes both of them to snap out of it, though. “Okay, everybody, let’s get started.”

Jaeho is a fortysomething man, gray hair peeking through at his temples and his youthful face looking strangely alight today. He’s not normally this smiley, either. Standing at the head of the table, he clutches a large mug of fragrant coffee.

“You all got my email, evidently, so thank you all for being here and on-time. I mentioned that I have news, and I don’t intend to beat around the bush, so with that being said, I will be resigning as jungyeok, effective next Monday.”

A gaggle of gasps, what?!s, and nooo!s sounds from around the table.

“Order, order!” Jaeho dramatically raises his free hand like a judge, grinning at his joke. “I have been offered a wonderful opportunity on the other side of the city, and I spent a long time thinking it over, so this wasn’t an easy decision.”

He pauses to gulp some of his coffee, pocketing his other hand. “Many of you have already noticed the new face among us, and he’s here today to get acquainted with his new team, as he will be replacing me.”

Several of the surrounding executives collectively respond with an excited, “OH-ohhhhh.” No one seems really upset by this news, and even Im Changkyun has broken into a sheepish smile.

Y/N observes Mr. Im in the moment, noticing his sharp cheekbones and thick brows. His lips look the most tantalizing, totally full on the bottom with a perfectly curved Cupid’s bow above. They recognize a pair of silver hoops on his lobes, specifically from Cartier’s Love collection—ironically, the same design as Y/N’s gold ring on their thumb. Without realizing it, they emit a small hm in their amusement.

When Mr. Im glances at Y/N, they stiffen and immediately angle themselves toward Jaeho again.

“I have been training this employee both off-site and after-hours for the past week now because I, admittedly, wasn’t sure how you all would take the news. So I wanted to train him away from prying eyes,” Jaeho explains, occasionally looking down at the table. “For the next week, though, he’ll be in-house, sharing my office with me—’cause it’s really his now—and familiarizing himself with everyone as well as how you all work together. This is the last leg of onboarding for him and the last leg of Phenomenon Publishing for me. I’m very excited for both my and his future.”

Jaeho drinks more of his coffee and steps around his chair, pushing it in and resting his free hand on top. “I’d like everyone to get back to doing their magic now, and your new jungyeok will spend the day going around meeting everyone. Thanks, guys.”

And with that, Jaeho exits the conference room.

Everyone sits around for a moment, processing their director’s words, but more so trying to figure out if they should say something to Mr. Im, who’s still in the room.

Mr. Im speaks up, sitting upright in his chair. “Annyeonghaseyo, everyone. I want to make my introduction to you all a little more personal, so instead of doing it here and hiding with Choi-jungyeok the rest of the day, I’m going to spend a little time with each of you today. I don’t just want to know your name and role; I want to learn a little about you guys too because we’ll be working closely from now on. I hope to fill the jungyeok’s shoes, quite honestly,” he finishes with a deep chuckle.

Im Changkyun’s voice is like hot blood sliding down Y/N’s skin: unsettlingly appealing, deep, magnetic, and velvety. They gulp hard, fidgeting with their gold ring under the table as Mr. Im speaks.

Y/N’s coworkers rise from their seats, formally bowing to their new boss and making hush-hush conversation amongst themselves as they filter out of the brightly lit room. Y/N is the last to follow the crowd out, and as they send one last furtive glance toward Mr. Im while approaching the double doors, he turns to meet their curious eyes and raises an eyebrow.

Stunned at their unusually brazen behavior, Y/N nods politely before ducking out and speed-walking back to their office. They close the door a little too hard but only because they’re desperate to sit down and catch their breath.

What is happening to me, they think, drinking their own iced coffee.

Y/N spends the rest of their day immersed in their editing tasks, working diligently to keep their mind from dwelling on God himself and how heart-stopping-attractive he is, how entrancing his voice is. They respond to emails as normal, reference the same books as normal, listen to the same low-fi playlist as normal, field interns’ questions as they take turns knocking on Y/N’s door as normal, and they even spend their lunch hour in the cozy break room.

Im Changkyun is nowhere to be seen, and by the time 4 PM rolls around, the last hour of the workday, Y/N had calmed down. In fact, they’d had a spurt of productivity after lunch and were able to finish editing two of the larger manuscripts that’d been stressing them the past few weeks.

Y/N even debated taking off the last hour to quietly read at their desk instead of emailing the finished documents for Choi-jungyeok to skim over, as he gives final approval before the company convenes with the respective authors again. But that’s never been Y/N’s style, breaking rules. They were there to work—“do their magic,” as Jaeho had put it, and that’s how they’d spend the remainder of the day.

Wrong.

The all-glass door to their office swings open, and God himself walks in, plopping down in the small loveseat on the right side of Y/N’s desk.

“I saved you specifically for last,” he says, leaning back in the chair and freezing his eyes on Y/N’s.

They pause for a second before cannonballing into the unknown. “I figured.”

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abuttoncalledsmalls · 4 years

Text

Take A Giant Step - Chapter 8

Warnings: Alcohol, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Medication, Language, Mention of Death, and Panic Attack (sort of)

Pairings: Frankie Morales x f!OC

Word Count: 2.0K

A/N: Here is Chapter 8! If you would like to be tagged (or un-tagged) in upcoming chapters, please don’t hesitate to let me know. Shout out, as always, to the AMAZINGLY LOVELY @yespolkadotkitty for beta-ing this and for my banner! Please enjoy. <3

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

“Please print,” I mumbled to myself as I clicked the command screen on my computer. I was at the Gallaway working on last minute pre-production tasks for our next show Measure for Measure. By the first rehearsal I needed to have contracts drawn up for the entire company, designer budgets finalized, scripts obtained, and parking passes ready to go. Thankfully, it was Wednesday afternoon and I had until Friday to make sure everything was taken care of.

I was just the production manager this time around. It would be a lie if I didn’t say that I was relieved. I wouldn’t have to attend every single rehearsal, schedule said rehearsals, schedule fittings, and be accessible 24/7 for actors. I only needed to be physically present for production meetings and tech week. Which meant that I was able to take off that weekend and miss the first rehearsal that was scheduled for Sunday.

Frankie and I had planned to drive up to Jefferson State Park and go camping for the weekend. He wanted to take me camping - especially when he found out that I had never been before. The trip was all he could talk about for the past week and a half. His eyes lit up every single time he spoke about hitting the trails. He’d get a dreamy look on his face talking about building a campfire. The moment that he was the most excited for was us sleeping under the open night sky. Together. Whenever he talked about that particular topic, he made sure to wrap his arms around my middle, pull me in close, and whisper “under the stars together” in my ear. The opportunity to share one of his favorite hobbies with me made him absolutely glow.

As I was drifting off into a daydream where Frankie and I were sharing a sleeping bag, my phone’s text alert went off. I looked down to see that Jeff had sent me a message. It wasn’t unusual for him to send me text messages or emails from his office. He was a big proponent of energy conservation. In his mind that consisted of sending me texts instead of walking 20 feet to my office to talk. I opened the message and read “Please come into my office”.

Those five words seldomly were followed by good news. Especially from Jeffery Rogers. The last time he said that phrase, the two of us had to confront and terminate a box office associate for stealing from the cashbox. I rose from my chair and made the short trek to Jeff’s office. As I entered the space, he asked me to close the door in a soft voice. I did so and in the process noticed that his “emergency whiskey” bottle was out. Opened and obviously drunk from. This clearly was not a Gallaway related situation and not a good one.

“Hey Jeff. What’s up?” He looked up at me with puffy red eyes. It was evident that he had been crying.

“Do you remember my nephew, Jack?”

“Tall, skinny, and with a mass of wild curls? Yeah.”

“My mother just called to let me know that he passed away this morning. Lately he was having complications related to a seizure disorder he had. The issues were getting progressively worse and he was having to go into the hospital more frequently. He just couldn’t make it through this last time.” Jeff started to tear up again.

“Jeff, I am so sorry. How’s your family?”

“Really, Maggie? A twenty-two year old with his whole life in front of him died. How the fuck do you think they are?”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. That was a stupid question.” I went over to hug him and he fell apart. He shared with me about the time that he first held his nephew. How he swore that Jack looked up and smiled at him. He then talked about how Jack was the best man at his wedding. As each memory came out, he cried harder. The only time I had seen Jeff in this much pain was during his divorce which took place the year before.

“The funeral is this weekend. I know that the first rehearsal for Measure is on Sunday. I also know that I need to be there and do the schmaltzy thing. I can’t miss this though. My sister and niece are devastated. We all are. We need to be together right now.” I nodded my head. He picked up the bottle and took a giant swig of whiskey.

“Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll stick around this weekend. I’ll be on-call on Saturday in case anything goes wrong. On Sunday, I’ll give the whole Gallaway welcome speech and let them know about the gala. I’ll also stick around for the reading. Just concentrate on you and your family.”

“Thank you, Mags. I think it may be best if I left for the day.”

“I would agree. Go home and rest up. I’ll call an Uber for you.”

“One last thing - you could please not tell anyone about this? I don’t need people getting worried and asking questions.”

“You have my word.”

****

Once Jeff was picked up by his Uber, I pulled out my phone. I wasn’t looking forward to telling Frankie that I was going to have to cancel our trip. He was going to be so upset. On the other hand, he was a reasonable man. He would understand that things come up and sometimes plans have to change.

“Hey babe. What’s up?” I texted. He responded quickly.

“Not much. Thinking about you. You?”

“I’m gonna have to bow out of the camping trip this weekend.”

“What?”

“An emergency came up at work and I need to stay in town this weekend. I’m really sorry.”

My phone began to ring and I picked up. It was Frankie.

“We’ve had this planned for almost two weeks, Maggie. Can’t you get Jeff or Alexis to cover for you?”

“I wish I could, honey. That’s just not possible for this situation. Someone from staff needs to be there. Jeff is unavailable.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Frankie. You know that if I could get out of this, I would.” A brief silence took hold.

“Fine. You can’t go camping this weekend.” The disappointment dripped from his voice.

“I promise that I’ll make it up to you. We can go next weekend.”

“Okay. I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk with you later.”

He hung up. My instinct was to text him right back and to continue the conversation, but I didn’t. Whenever I let someone down, my compulsion was to fix it at that moment. That response had been hardwired into my brain since childhood. I felt that if I didn’t make things right at that exact moment then the person I let down would write me off forever. The very real fear that Frankie would be angry and leave me began to turn into a serpent of anxiety. I fished for my bottle of Xanax in my grey backpack. Opening the amber prescription bottle, I took one pill out, placed it on the back of my tongue, and washed it down with a drink of water.

****

I got home around four-thirty. I checked my phone for what felt like the seventeenth time to see if Frankie called or texted. He didn’t. I decided that I’d call him around seven. Every weeknight he would watch reruns of Cheers from seven to eight o’clock on the local CW station. I knew that he would be home then - sitting on his couch with an open beer, laughing at the shenanigans of Sam and Diane.

The next two and half hours were agonizing. I tried to read, but I couldn’t concentrate on the words in front of me. I was too wound up to nap and too unfocused to listen to the radio. The best thing I could think to do was to take a walk. I got changed into my black shorts and threw on an old grey shirt that read CAT HAIR IS LONELY PEOPLE GLITTER. I put on my sneakers, put in my earbuds, and headed off.

I walked around my subdivision for an hour. I would stop every now and then to look at my neighbors’ blooming flowers. After stealing a sniff or two, I would continue on my way. Although the beautiful and hot afternoon was helping ease some of my anxiety, Frankie was still on my mind. I hadn’t figured out what I was going to say to him exactly. The only thing I knew for certain that I was going to tell him was that I was sorry. That I didn’t mean to hurt him. I turned onto my street. As I got closer, I saw what I thought was Frankie’s truck in the parking lot. I walked over to the truck to inspect it. It was indeed Frankie’s, but it was empty. He wouldn’t just leave his truck in a random parking lot.

I pulled up his number on my phone and tapped it. The phone rang, but there was no pick up. I figured that I would return to my townhouse, take a shower, and then try to call him again. Walking up to my stoop, I was surprised to see Frankie sitting there. He was looking down at his hands.

“Hey.” He looked up and gave me a small smile.

I walked over to him. “Hi.”

“I just tried to call you. I saw your truck but no you. I got worried that someone may have taken it for a joyride.”

“No joyride. I didn’t want to talk on the phone. I wanted to see you.”

I felt my stomach drop. Was this it? Was he going to break-up with me? Why else would someone want to see me after I disappointed them?

I braced myself for his goodbye and started to tear up. “I’msosorryaboutthetrip!Ididn’tmeantomakeyouupset.Nowyou’regonnahatemeandleave.” I couldn’t contain my tears anymore. They came pouring out with my jumbled words. Frankie had a confused look on his face.

“Huh? Baby, I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. You’re my Maggie May. I’m not going anywhere. Where did you get an idea like that?” He pulled me onto his lap and kissed the side of my head. He held me close.

“Because I had to cancel the trip this weekend and you were upset. You sounded really bothered on the phone. I have to stay in town this weekend. There was a death in Jeff’s family. So I am stepping in and doing some things for him over the next few days while he goes back home. He asked me not to share what was going on. I’m really sorry and I promise that I’ll make it up to you. I know that you were really excited.”

Frankie nodded. “I was a little let down, but that’s no reason to throw away a relationship. Remember when you told me that you were in this for the long haul? I am too. I care about you too much to let you go without a fight.” He kissed me and gently rubbed his thumb over my cheek. “I came over because I wanted to talk to you about an idea I had.”

“Okay.”

“You have a backyard. It’s not the great outdoors, but we could set up the camping equipment out there. We’d still be able to grill, make s’mores, and sleep under the stars.”

“Together..?” I coyly asked.

“The only way I’d want it.”

“That sounds like the best way to spend a Friday night.” I gave him a long and tender kiss. Any and all fear that I had vanished instantly. I reveled in the security of our relationship as I ran my fingertips over his whiskers. When I arrived at one of the bare patches in his beard, I lightly grazed the area with the pad of my finger.

He let out a contented sigh. “We’re good then? I’m not upset with you, I’m not going anywhere, you can do your work thing, and we still get to spend time together.”

“Mmm-hmmm. Francisco?”

“Yeah?”

“I know Cheers starts in like an hour and a half. Could I persuade you though to stay for dinner? I’m thinking pizza with copious amounts of making out?”

“I’d love that.”

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

TAGS:

@larakasser

@absurdthirst

@yespolkadotkitty

@fioccodineveautunnale

@wickedfrsgrl

@agirllovespasta

@ah-callie

#frankie catfish morales #frankie x oc #catfish x oc #Francisco Morales #Frankie Morales #Triple Frontier #catfish morales #catfish morales fic #frankie morales fanfic #francisco catfish morales #abuttoncalledsmalls #take a giant step #takeagiantstep

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concerningwolves · 4 years

Text

the fact that you can only use telephone or a text relay service in order to contact the people who manage disability benefits is pretty fucking telling about the shite quality of accessibility and the general ableism that undercuts how everything is run.

with the level of technology we have available to us, a textphone/ text relay service ought to be a superior solution for people who are d/Deaf or have speech impairments – but if today has taught me anything, it’s that that is absolutely NOT the case. the set-up was fairly simple, but once i’d got it running on my laptop i quickly realized that the PC app is only available as a Lite version and therefore not useful at all. so, i switched over to the mobile app and..... still kept running into brick walls. the text relay lags so the relay assistant is always behind the voice, the typing interface is clunky (it sends every time you press the space bar which means that i sent a typo when trying to confirm my date of birth and had to start the whole call again), and the relay assistant’s typing was full of errors. which, yeah, okay, human error is fine and perfectly understandable. but considering that for many this service is the only way to communicate over the phone, it’s just,,, awful. imagine not having any residual hearing at all and trying to make sense of “ct btweeen 5-4 easier to g t thro”

i have wound up making four attempted calls via text relay today. one i had to disconnect from myself because i made a mistake in trying to get to grips with the service, one was cut off by the relay assistant because i didn’t say whether i wanted to hold or try again later, and the other two were cut off for reasons i couldn’t figure out after roughly 18-20 minutes of being on hold. I started attempting to contact the DWP at 11:20 AM and it is now 2PM. i desperately need help to make this call and would usually have mum to support me, but she’s out all day and the text relay service that is supposed to let me make calls that “... are easy to manage and relaxed. For fluent communication with anyone, anywhere...” (as stated on the relay UK website) has consistently let me down.

there is no other way to contact the DWP. they expect me to contact them by tomorrow. if i do not contact them to resolve this query, my benefit could get suspended. they’re supposed to be here to help, but this isn’t helpful at all. it’s terrible, knowing that my only stable income could get cut off by no fault of my own due to things i cannot control.

so you know when i say that being d/Deaf, neurodivergent or disabled is made inherently traumatic & alienating by institutional ableism? this is what i mean. this utter lack of suitable accommodations. it makes my blood boil. the DWP do in many ways hold my livelihood in their hands, and they’ve made it nigh impossible to just contact them without a) using a clunky relay service, b) making a phone call and hoping that i can understand the person speaking to me/ stay coherent long enough to hold a conversation (spoiler alert: usually i cannot), or c) seeking help from another person, which often isn’t a viable option.

i am angry and upset and on the verge of an utter meltdown right now so i don’t really know where i’m going with this, i just.... can’t quite believe it sometimes? even though i have grown up surrounded by ableism my whole life it still manages to hit me anew with the force of a sledgehammer at every turn, and every time it does i’m again surprised and disappointed. i can write emails or letters and i can fill in complaint forms, but at the end of the day it always feels useless like it doesn’t change a fucking thing.

#ableism #oh boy this week has been not at all great

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96harmony96 · 3 years

Text

Chapter 14

The next morning dawned with an odd surreality. I made it to work, and then through most of my pre launch day in a kind of chilly fog. I couldn’t get warm enough, despite wearing a cardigan over my blouse and a scarf that didn’t match either one. It took me a few minutes longer to process requests than it should have, and I couldn’t shake a feeling of dread.

Lauren made no contact with me whatsoever.

Nothing on my smartphone or e-mail after my text last night. Nothing in my email inbox. No interoffice note.

The silence was excruciating. Especially when the day’s Google alert hit my inbox and I saw the photos and phone videos of me and Lauren in Bryant Park. Seeing how we looked together—the passion and need, the painful longing on our faces, and the gratefulness of reconciliation—was bittersweet.

Pain twisted in my chest. Lauren.

If we couldn’t work this out, would I ever stop thinking about her and wishing we had?

I struggled to pull myself together. Mark was meeting with Lauren today. Maybe that’s why Lauren hadn’t felt pressed to contact me. Or maybe she was just really busy. I knew she had to be, considering her business calendar. And as far as I knew, we still had plans to go to the gym after work. I exhaled in a rush and told myself that things would straighten out somehow. They just had to.

It was quarter to noon when my desk phone rang. Seeing from the readout that the call was coming from reception, I sighed with disappointment and answered.

“Hey, Camila,” Megumi said cheerily. “You have a Magdalene Perez here to see you.”

“Do I?” I stared at my monitor, confused and irritated. Had the Bryant Park photos lured Magdalene out from under whatever troll bridge she called home?

Regardless of the reason, I had no interest in talking to her. “Keep her up there for me, will you? I have to take care of something first.”

“Sure. I’ll tell her to have a seat.”

I hung up, then pulled out my smartphone and scrolled through the contact list until I found the number to Lauren’s office. I dialed and was relieved when Scott answered.

“Hey, Scott. Camila Cabello.”

“Hi, Camila. Would you like to speak to miss. Jauregui? she’s in a meeting at the moment, but I can buzz her.”

“No. No, don’t bother her.”

“It’s a standing order. she won’t mind.”

It soothed me immensely to hear that. “I hate to throw this in your lap, but I have a request for you.”

“Anything you need. That’s also a standing order.” The amusement in his voice relaxed me further.

“Magdalene Perez is down here on the twentieth floor. Frankly, the only thing she and I have in common is Lauren, and that’s not a good thing. If she has something to say, it’s your boss she should be talking to. Could you please have someone escort her up?”

“Absolutely. I’ll take care of it now.”

“Thanks, Scott. I appreciate you.”

“It’s my pleasure, Camila.”

I hung up the phone and sagged back in my seat, feeling better already and proud of myself for not letting jealousy get the better of me. While I still really hated the idea of her having any of Lauren’s time, I hadn’t lied when I’d said I trusted her. I believed she had strong, deep feelings for me. I just didn’t know if they were enough to override her survival instinct.

Megumi called me again.

“Oh my God,” she said, laughing. “You should’ve seen her face when whoever that was came to get her.”

“Good.” I grinned. “I figured she was up to no good. Is she gone, then?”

“Yep.”

“Thanks.” I crossed the narrow strip of hallway to Mark’s door and poked my head in to see if he wanted me to pick him up some lunch.

He frowned, thinking about it. “No, thanks. I’ll be too nervous to eat until after the presentation with Jauregui. By then whatever you pick up will be hours old.”

“How about a protein smoothie, then? It’ll give you some easy fuel until you can eat.”

“That’d be great.” His smile lit up his dark eyes. “Something that goes good with vodka, just to get me in the mood.”

“Anything you don’t like? Any allergies?”

“Nada.”

“Okay. See you in an hour.” I knew just the place to go. The deli I had in mind was a couple blocks up and offered smoothies, salads, and a variety of made-to-order paninis with quick service.

I headed downstairs and tried not to think about Lauren’s radio silence. I’d kind of expected to hear something after the Magdalene incident. Getting no reaction had me worrying all over again. I pushed out to the street through the revolving door and scarcely paid any attention to the man who climbed out of the back of a town car at the curb until he called my name.

Turning, I found myself facing Christopher Vidal.

“Oh…Hi,” I greeted him. “How are you?”

“Better, now that I’ve seen you. You look fantastic.”

“Thanks. I can say the same to you.”

As different as he was from Lauren, he was gorgeous in his own way with his mahogany waves, grayish-green eyes, and charming smile. He was dressed in loose-fitting jeans and a cream V-neck sweater, a very sexy look for him.

“Are you here to see your sister?” I asked.

“Yes, and you.”

“Me?”

“Heading to lunch? I’ll join you and explain.”

I was briefly reminded of Lauren’s warning to stay away from Christopher, but by now I figured she trusted me. Especially with her brother.

“I’m going to a deli up the street,” I said. “If you’re game.”

“Absolutely.”

We started walking.

“What did you want to see me about?” I asked, too curious to wait.

He reached into one of two large cargo pockets of his jeans and pulled out a formal invitation in a vellum envelope. “I came to invite you to a garden party we’re having at my parents’ estate on Sunday. A mix of business and pleasure. Many of the artists signed to Vidal Records will be there. I was thinking it’d be great networking for your roommate—he’s got the right look for music video.”

I brightened. “That would be wonderful!”

Christopher grinned and passed the invite over. “And you’ll both have fun. No one throws a party like my mother.”

I glanced briefly at the envelope in my hand. Why hadn’t Lauren said anything about the event?

“If you’re wondering why Lauren didn’t tell you about it,” he said, seemingly reading my mind, “it’s because she won’t come. she never does. Even though she’s the majority shareholder in the company, I think she finds the music industry and musicians too unpredictable for his tastes. By now, you know how she is.”

Dark and intense. Powerfully magnetic and hotly sexual. Yes, I knew how she was. And she preferred to know what she was getting into at all costs.

I gestured at the deli when we reached it, and we stepped inside and got in line.

“This place smells awesome,” Christopher said, his gaze on his phone as he typed out a quick text.

“The aroma delivers on its promise, trust me.”

He smiled a delightful boyish smile that I was sure knocked most women on their asses. “My parents are really looking forward to meeting you, Camila.”

“Oh?”

“Seeing the photos of you and Lauren over the last week has been a real surprise. A good surprise,” he qualified quickly when I winced. “It’s the first time we’ve seen her really into someone she’s dating.”

I sighed, thinking she wasn’t so into me right now. Had I made a terrible mistake by leaving her alone last night?

When we reached the counter, I ordered a grilled vegetable and cheese panini with two pomegranate smoothies, asking them to hold the one with a protein shot for thirty minutes so I could eat in. Christopher ordered the same, and we managed to find a table in the crowded deli.

We talked about work, laughing over both a recent baby food commercial faux-blooper that had gone viral and some backstage anecdotes about acts Christopher had worked with. The time passed swiftly, and when we parted ways at the entrance of the Crossfire, I said good-bye with genuine affection.

I headed up to the twentieth floor, and found Mark still at his desk. He offered me a quick smile despite his air of concentration.

“If you don’t really need me,” I said, “I think it’d be good for me to sit this presentation out.”

Although he tried to hide it, I saw the lightning quick flash of relief. It didn’t offend me. Stress was stress, and my volatile relationship with Lauren was something Mark didn’t need to think about while he was working on an important account.

“You’re golden, Camila. You know that?”

I smiled and set the drink carrier down in front of him. “Drink your smoothie. It’s really good, and the protein will keep you from feeling too hungry for a little bit longer. I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”

Before I put my purse in the drawer, I texted Cary to ask if he had plans on Sunday or if he’d like to go to a Vidal Records party. Then I got back to work. I’d started organizing Mark’s files on the server, tagging them and placing them in directories to make it easier for us to assemble portfolios on the fly.

When Mark left for the meeting with Lauren, my heartbeat quickened and a clutch of anticipation tightened my stomach. I couldn’t believe my excitement just from knowing what Lauren was doing at that particular moment, and that she’d have to think of me when she saw Mark. I hoped I’d hear from her after that. My mood picked up at the thought.

For the next hour, I was restless waiting to hear how things had gone. When Mark reappeared with a big grin and a spring in his step, I stood up in my cubicle and applauded him.

He took a gallant, exaggerated bow. “Thank you, Miss Camila.”

“I’m so stoked for you!”

“Jauregui asked me to give you this.” He handed me a sealed manila envelope. “Come to my office and I’ll give you all the deets.”

The envelope had weight and rattled. I knew from touch what I’d find inside before I opened it, but still the sight of my keys sliding out and into my palm hit me hard. Gasping with a pain more intense than any I could remember, I read the accompanying note card.

Thank you, Camila. For everything.

Yours, G

A Dear Jane brush-off. It had to be. Otherwise, she would’ve given me the keys after work on the way to the gym.

There was a dull roaring in my ears. I felt dizzy. Disoriented. I was frightened and agonized. Furious.

I was also at work.

Closing my eyes and clenching my fists, I pulled myself together and fought off the driving urge to go upstairs and call Lauren a coward. she probably saw me as a threat, someone who’d come in, unwanted and uninvited, and shook up her orderly world. Someone who’d demanded more from her than just his hot body and hefty bank account.

I shut my emotions behind a glass wall where I was aware of them waiting in the background, but I was able to get through the rest of my workday. By the time I clocked out and headed downstairs, I still hadn’t heard from Lauren. I was such an emotional disaster at that point I felt only a single, sharp twinge of despair as I exited the Crossfire.

I made it to the gym. I shut my brain off and ran full-bore on the treadmill, fleeing the anguish that would hit me soon enough. I ran until sweat coursed in rivulets down my face and body, and rubber legs forced me to stop.

Feeling battered and exhausted, I hit the showers. Then I called my mother and asked her to send Clancy to the gym to pick me up for our appointment with Dr. Petersen. As I put my work clothes back on, I mustered the energy to get through that last task before I could go home and collapse on my bed.

I waited for the town car at the curb, feeling separate and apart from the city teeming around me. When Clancy pulled up and hopped out to open the back door for me, I was startled to see my mom already inside. It was early yet. I’d expected to be driven solo to the apartment she shared with Stanton and wait on her twenty minutes or so. That was our usual routine.

“Hey, Mom,” I said wearily, settling on the seat beside her.

“How could you, Camila?” She was crying into a monogrammed handkerchief, her face beautiful even while reddened and wet with tears. “Why?”

Jolted out of my torment by her misery, I frowned and asked, “What did I do now?”

The new cell phone, if she’d somehow found about it, wouldn’t trigger this much drama. And it was too soon after the fact for her to know about my breakup with Lauren.

“You told Lauren Jauregui about…what happened to you.” Her lower lip trembled with distress.

My head jerked back in shock. How could she know that? My God…Had she bugged my new place? My purse…? “What?”

“Don’t act clueless!”

“How do you know I told her?” My voice was a pained whisper. “We just talked last night.”

“she went to see Richard about it today.”

I tried to picture Stanton’s face during that conversation. I couldn’t imagine my stepfather taking it well. “Why would she do that?”

“she wanted to know what’s been done to prevent information leaks. And she wanted to know where Nathan is—” She sobbed. “she wanted to know everything.”

My breath hissed out between my teeth. I wasn’t sure what Lauren’s motivation was, but the possibility that she’d dumped me over Nathan and was now making sure that she was safe from scandal hurt worse than anything. I twisted in pain, my spine arching away from the seatback. I’d thought it was her past that drove a wedge between us, but it made more sense that it was mine.

For once I was grateful for my mother’s self-absorption, which kept her from seeing how devastated I was.

“she had a right to know,” I managed in a voice so raw it sounded nothing like my own. “And she has a right to try and protect himself from any blowback.”

“You’ve never told any of your other boyfriends.”

“I’ve never dated anyone who makes national headlines by sneezing, either.” I stared out the car window at the traffic that boxed us in. “Lauren Jauregui and Cross Industries are global news, Mother. she’s light-years away from the guys I dated in college.”

She spoke more, but I didn’t hear her. I shut down for self-protection, cutting off the reality that was suddenly too painful to be endured.

Dr. Petersen’s office was exactly as I remembered. Decorated in soothing neutrals, it was both professional and comfortable. Dr. Petersen was the same—a handsome man with gray hair and gentle, intelligent blue eyes.

He welcomed us into his office with a wide smile, commenting on how lovely my mother looked and how like her I was. He said he was happy to see me again and that I looked well, but I could tell he spoke for my mother’s benefit. He was too trained an observer to miss the raging emotions I suppressed.

“So,” he began, settling into his chair across from the sofa my mother and I sat on. “What brings you both in today?”

I told him about the way my mom had been tracking my movements via my cell phone signal and how violated I felt. Mom told him about my interest in Krav Maga and how she took it as a sign that I wasn’t feeling safe. I told him about how they’d pretty much taken over Parker’s studio, which made me feel suffocated and claustrophobic. She told him I’d betrayed her trust by divulging deeply personal matters to strangers, which made her feel naked and painfully exposed.

Through it all, Dr. Petersen listened attentively, took notes and spoke rarely, until we’d purged everything.

Once we’d quieted, he asked, “Sinuhe, why didn’t you tell me about tracking Camila’s cell phone?”

The angle of her chin altered, a familiar defensive posture. “I didn’t see anything wrong with it. Many parents track their children through their cell phones.”

“Underage children,” I shot back. “I’m an adult. My personal time is exactly that.”

“If you were to envision yourself in her place, Sinuhe,” Dr. Petersen interjected, “would it be possible that you might feel as she does? What if you discovered someone was monitoring your movements without your knowledge or permission?”

“Not if the someone was my mother and I knew it gave her peace of mind,” she argued.

“And have you considered how your actions affect Camila’s peace of mind?” he queried gently. “Your need to protect her is understandable, but you should discuss the steps you wish to take openly with her. It’s important to gain her input—and expect cooperation only when she chooses to give it. You have to honor her prerogative to set limits that may not be as broad as you’d like them to be.”

My mother sputtered indignantly.

“Camila needs her boundaries, Sinuhe,” he continued, “and a sense of control over her own life. Those things were taken from her for a long time and we have to respect her right to establish them now in the manner that best suits her.”

“Oh.” My mother twisted her handkerchief around her fingers. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

I reached out for my mother’s hand when her lower lip trembled violently. “Nothing could’ve stopped me from talking to Lauren about my past. But I could have forewarned you. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it.”

“You’re much stronger than I ever was,” my mother said, “but I can’t help worrying.”

“My suggestion,” Dr. Petersen said, “would be for you to take some time, Sinuhe, and really think about what sorts of events and situations cause you anxiety. Then write them down.”

My mother nodded.

“When you have what will surely not be an exhaustive list but a strong start,” he went on, “you can sit down with Camila and discuss strategies for addressing those concerns—strategies you can both live with comfortably. For example, if not hearing from Camila for a few days troubles you, perhaps a text message or an e-mail will alleviate that.”

“Okay.”

“If you like, we can go over the list together.”

The back-and-forth between the two made me want to scream. It was insult to injury. I hadn’t expected Dr. Petersen to smack some sense into my mom, but I’d hoped he would at least take a harder line—God knew someone needed to, someone whose authority she respected.

When the hour ended and we were on our way out, I asked my mom to wait a moment so I could ask Dr. Petersen one last personal and private question.

“Yes, Camila?” He stood in front of me, looking infinitely patient and wise.

“I just wondered…” I paused, needing to swallow past a lump in my throat. “Is it possible for two abuse survivors to have a functional romantic relationship?”

“Absolutely.” His immediate, unequivocal answer forced the trapped air from my lungs.

I shook his hand. “Thank you.”

When I got home, I unlocked my door with the keys Lauren had returned to me and I went straight to my room, offering a lame wave to Cary, who was practicing yoga in the living room to a DVD.

I stripped off my clothes as I crossed the distance from my closed bedroom door to the bed, finally crawling between the cool sheets in just my underwear. I hugged a pillow and closed my eyes, so tired and drained I had nothing left.

The door opened at my back and a moment later Cary sat beside me.

He brushed my hair back from my tear-streaked face. “What’s the matter, baby girl?”

“I got kicked to the curb today. Courtesy of a fucking note card.”

He sighed. “You know the drill, Camila. she’s going to keep pushing you away, because she’s expecting you to fail her like everyone else has.”

“And I keep proving her right.” I recognized myself in the description Cary had just given. I ran when the going got tough, because I was so sure it was all going to end badly. The only control I had was to be the one who left, instead of the one who was left behind.

“Because you’re fighting to protect your own recovery.” He lay down and spooned against my back, wrapping one leanly muscular arm around me and tucking me tight against him.

I snuggled into the physical affection I hadn’t realized I needed. “she might’ve dumped me because of my past, not her.”

“If that’s true, it’s good it’s over. But I think you two will find each other eventually. At least I’m hoping you will.” His sigh was soft on my neck. “I want there to be happily-ever-afters for the fucked-up crowd. Show me the way, Camila honey. Make me believe.”

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lonestarbabe · 4 years

Text

Holding Out For A Hero

Chapter 7: Paralyzed (AO3)

T.K.

T.K.’s day didn’t start well. When he woke up at eight am because of his phone vibrating against his nightstand, he knew that he was getting up on the wrong side of the bed. He had every intention of not answering, but when he saw that it was mom, he picked up right away. This conversation will end one of two ways: she’ll lie about looking forward to my show tonight or she’ll make an excuse why she can’t come to the show tonight.

“Mom?” T.K. asked in case he’d somehow misread the caller ID. She didn’t usually call him. She was more of an email person. He’d tried to get her to convert to text, but she said that she already had to send emails for business anyway so it was easier to use one platform. She was one of the few women in America who didn’t want to text him; yet, she was the one who he wanted to text him the most.

“Hi, honey,” she said, and her apologetic tone made T.K.’s heart sink. It’s happening again. Not even my own mom wants to see me. She’d do anything in her power to avoid me because I’m an awful son who she got stuck with.

“When is your flight coming in?” he asked, a hint of wishful thinking in his voice. I’m such a fool. I should know better than to hope. Hope only leads to heartbreak.

“About that…” her voice was sad and slow. It had been that way since 9/11, at least to T.K. She sounded more normal at work functions. It made T.K. wonder what was wrong with him. Why am I the one who my mom can’t stand?

“You’re not coming,” T.K. confirmed, and he wondered whether she didn’t want to come because of a bout of depression or because she wasn’t interested in his career.

He imagined the way she was probably biting her lip and giving him that look she always gave him as a child and she told him that he couldn’t have something that he wanted. He didn’t expect much from her anymore.

“I’m sorry, Tyler. I just have a work thing that I can’t miss.” A work thing usually didn’t mean she actually had a work thing. When she had actual work things, she was always more specific. She loved talking about her job, so when she avoided talking about it, T.K. knew that she was overcompensating for lying.

She always did this, and he let her because she was a grown woman, and he was a grown man. They both had lives of their own, and if their lives didn’t align, that’s just how it would have to be. He’d learned to deal with it, but the sting never went away. He felt it each time she rejected his attempts at having a relationship with her. He couldn’t help but think about how unfair it was that he lost his dad and that he had also lost his mother too. She used to dote on him when he was little. She cheered him on in his kindergarten play. She made him costumes for Halloween. She did everything a mom should do and more, and then she stopped doing all that. She ditched whatever mom duties she could get away with.

After 9/11, he’d spent the whole summer with his dad’s parents, and she’d barely called him. He’d cry until he was sick on those balmy nights because he missed his family, and his whole world felt unsteady. His mom said it was good for him to get out of the city for a while, but even though it had been attacked, the city still comforted T.K. Wounded or not, it was still his home, and his mom was in it, and it made T.K. terrified to not be able to see that she was okay. He followed her around for an entire month after he’d returned home. He’d cry each day when she’d go for work. When school started, he’d go to the nurse’s office and beg one of the nurses to call his mother to pick him up. Eventually, she stopped showing up, so the nurses would give him some soda and crackers until he’d calmed down enough to go back to class.

Whenever his mom went anywhere, he worried that she would never come back. Her brow would furrow as threw another fit and begged her not to go. “I have to go to work, honey,” she would say, tired and lost without Owen. “Please, don’t make a big deal of this.” But T.K. was too scared not to throw a fit. If she never left, he never had to worry about her coming back.

Maybe I exhausted her too much then. I was too clingy, and she got tired of me being around. Maybe that’s why she needs so much space.

“It’s fine.” This was all fine. He wasn’t a kid, so he didn’t need his mom there, and she’d been to plenty of shows before. It wasn’t like she was missing anything that special. But she told me that she would be there. T.K. had been looking forward to seeing her all week. They didn’t get a lot of time to talk, and he’d imagined how nice it would be to have her around for a few hours. He’d gotten his hopes up, something that he should have known better than to do because when you get your hopes up, you can only ever be disappointed.

“Are you sure? Maybe I can catch a later flight and see you after your show.”

“No, it’s okay.” He wasn’t going to make her come if she didn’t want to. “I’ll be tired, and there’s no point flying out just for one night.”

He wanted her to protest and say that it would be a bother to fly out to see him for a few hours, but he heard her sigh in relief. “We’ll get together another time.”

“Any stop on tour I can get you tickets for. I’ll pay for accommodations too.” I’d do anything in my power to get her to a show, but no amount of cajoling will sway her.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude. I know how boys your age like to go out and have fun. I wouldn’t want to ruin that.” If she knew anything, she would know that he only liked to “go out and have fun” when he wanted to forget. It wasn’t something he did for recreation. It was a need. Something he had to do to get out of his head. Before he could answer, she said, “Well, I better go.”

“Yeah, me too.” Got to go wallow a while.

“I love you.” Those words sounded different when they were an apology.

T.K. held back a sigh. “I love you too.” T.K. hung up, and he plopped back in bed. He wished he could go back to sleep and never wake up. Maybe his mom would actually show up at his funeral. Nothing draws a crowd quite like the final show.

Carlos

Carlos’ day started with his air conditioning breaking. He was woken by a huge clunk, an in his drowsy state, it took him fifteen minutes to realize that the noise had come from the vent in his living room. The air conditioning sputtered and then came to a halt. Carlos was surrounded by an uncomfortable silence. He’d gotten used to the sound of the air conditioning always being on, and the quiet had always put him on high alert because when things were too quiet, that’s when he With his limited knowledge, he tried to get the air conditioning to work, but the couple of youtube videos he watched and the wikihow hadn’t gotten him very far.

He was sweating with the exertion of a job not done when the doorbell rang. Carlos groaned. Who is bothering me this early? His first instinct was to think T.K., but it was 9 am, and T.K. didn’t get up that early if he didn’t have to. It was a show day, though, and everything is different on show day. T.K. sometimes had too much energy to sleep in on show day. It has to be T.K., Carlos assured himself because he hadn’t had the time to make a relationship with anyone else. There’d been a one night stand when he’d first arrived for the job, but that hadn’t been satisfying, and he hadn’t had the care to hook up with any guys since. I have my hands full with protecting T.K.

Certain that it was T.K. dropping in to visit him, as T.K. did from time to time when he was bored and needed entertainment, he didn’t even look through the peephole to see who was at the door. As a former police officer and a bodyguard, he should have known better, but he was hot and tired, making it hard to think straight.

He swung the door open, “Hey,” and the sight of the willowy blonde woman in front of him nearly knocked Carlos off his feet. “Emma? What are you doing here?”

She didn’t wait for him to ask her inside. She brushed past him and sat on the couch, patting the cushion beside her like she owned the place. “We need to talk.” Emma had always been bold, and she had always expected the world to bend to her will. Until everything with Taylor happened and there was nothing she could do to make the situation better.

“It’s been a long time.” Carlos wasn’t sure why she had popped up now. There were plenty of times when he still lived in Austin that she could have come for a visit. He chose to sit in the chair next to the couch, leaving more room between him and Emma. They had never been that close. They had only ever known each other because of Taylor. Even then, they hadn’t been more than acquaintances.

“Michelle’s still looking for her sister.” Emma’s hate for Michelle was probably a big reason why she and Carlos had never become more than two people forced to spend time together.

“She’ll never stop, and you wouldn’t either if it was someone important to you who was missing.” For all her faults, Emma was loyal to the people she loved. She’d do anything for them, which was probably why she’d come all the way to LA to see Carlos. “You’re here for your brother.”

“I’ll never forgive her for dragging you into that whole thing.” Emma hadn’t been so concerned about Carlos. It was more like she had been concerned about what the Iris situation had done to Taylor because of Carlos. “That was the beginning of the end. If you’d never gotten fired—”

“Emma, stop. That’s not what happened. Things were tumultuous before that. Me getting fired didn’t make Taylor do what he did.”

“Michelle makes things worse. She pokes at the fire until it explodes.” More than that, Michelle was a healer, and she did whatever she could to help people. She could become obsessive, but so could Carlos, which was why they got along so well. They both were dedicated to get what they want and protect people from suffering.

“Don’t talk about her like that. She’s my friend, and I offered to help.” It was true that he’d offered his help only after Michelle had begged him to do something, but he had loved Iris too, so he didn’t need much convincing. He wanted to know what happened to her nearly as much as Michelle. “I would have done it for any friend who needed me.”

“She ruined your career.” His career had been ruined for reasons much more complicated than going against orders, but it wasn’t something he’d ever talked much about. What would be the point? Carlos knew that if he had been a white, straight man that his superiors would have let his transgressions slide, but he wasn’t, so one strike and he was out. They’d been glad to get rid of him. Austin was liberal, but there was still bigotry and corruption in its systems. Other officers could commit cold-blooded murder while he’d tried to find a lost life and had been punished for it.

“I was the one who investigated a case I was told to drop.” He had been a young cop, so he’d had no business acting like a detective.

“We all know it was Michelle’s idea.” Emma acted like Carlos was just a puppy who had no autonomy. I make my own decisions. I may let other people influence me, but no one can force me to do something I don’t want or something that I don’t believe in.

“That doesn’t matter,” which was true. Carlos took responsibility for his actions. He couldn’t excuse away what he’d done just because someone else had suggested it. He didn’t even regret his actions. “What are you here for Emma?”

“Taylor isn’t doing well. I want you to come to Austin and visit him. I think it would lift his spirits.”

“I think that would send the wrong message.” He wouldn’t want to get Taylor’s hopes up when he had no intention of being part of his life again.

“You’re the love of his life,” Emma looked desperate, and he felt for her, but he couldn’t help her.

“That’s exactly why it would send the wrong message because he’s not mine. Not anymore.” Carlos wasn’t sure that he ever loved Taylor as deeply as Taylor loved him. Carlos had cared for Taylor, but their relationship was unbalanced.

“You can fake it for just a little while. He’s going crazy without you.”

“He broke up with me, not the other way around,” which had allowed Carlos to get away from Texas and start bodyguarding in LA. It was a blessing in disguise, even if he didn’t consciously realize it then.

“You weren’t going to stay with him.” That was probably true, even though Carlos would never admit it. Their relationship had been too much, and it wasn’t going to survive everything else. Carlos had needed to get away from Taylor for his own sanity, so he’d been relieved when Taylor had ended it first.

“I was never given the chance.” With everything that had happened between them, there was no reason to think that they would have been able to keep going.

Emma crossed her arms and gave him a disbelieving look. “I’m not here to argue about your intentions or what might have happened. All I want is for you to talk to him. He’s been depressed.”

“Listen, Emma. I don’t want anything bad to happen to him, but I can’t be responsible for his mental health.” Not anymore. I need to protect my own mental health. I can’t save anyone by destroying myself.

“Whatever happened to your hero complex?” Emma’s voice was cold, and he knew that she was trying to get a rise out of him. She knew how Carlos was, and she knew how to put his head in a bad place. He didn’t have time for this.

“We were toxic together, Emma. Why would you want us back in the same room?” I can’t let Taylor back in. I get lost in Taylor’s bubble, and I can’t let that happen again.

“Because I want Taylor to stay alive. I’m worried what he’s going to do to himself.”

“He’s in jail. There’s not much I can do to help him.”

“It’s your fault that he’s in there.” As much as Carlos knew that Taylor’s actions weren’t his fault, he still felt guilty about everything that happened. He wondered if he made different choices that things might’ve been different. I couldn’t help Taylor when he needed me the most. I let him down, and the damage that has been done can never be erased.

“He got himself there. I had nothing to do with it,” but the anxious, doubtful feeling in Carlos’ chest made him wonder if he was only fooling himself. Even when he’d said his goodbyes to Emma and ushered her away from his life, he knew that his bad mood wouldn’t lift easily.

T.K.

The feeling of disappointment and rejection lingered as he went about his day, and he knew that he needed to snap out of it because he wasn’t going to be able to perform if he had a rain cloud over his head for the whole damn show. He’d been resisting the temptation since the morning. He’d done pretty well, reminding himself that he needed to keep his shit together, but the more he tried to avoid doing something stupid, the more he imagined doing that stupid thing. The only way to stop thinking about doing drugs was to do drugs. I don’t want to have to think anymore.

It was only 3 pm, but he knew that he wasn’t going to get through this day without a little something extra. If he took something now, he’d be okay for his show at seven. Mellower. Happier. Hopefully. He’d be able to stop thinking so much about how he was unloved by and unimportant to his own mother and anyone else who has had the displeasure of knowing me. The only people who like me are the ones who don’t know that much about me. My fans think I’m great, but they don’t know that I only ever ruin things. The world would be better off with me in it, but here I am. Still here. Still suffering. Still a fuck up.

Before he could think better of it, he swallowed an upper, as covertly as he could, because he’d sworn off narcotics. At least for a while. He’d been pretty good about being sober, facing the world with a clarity that made him feel like he was a ball bouncing two inches from a cliff. Most of the time, but sometimes he just couldn’t stand it. His body itched to be filled. When it came to oxy, it was more than just a psychological itch. It was a physical need. It made him sick to not have it, which was why he was trying to replace with the party drugs that didn’t leave him feeling like shit when he didn’t have them. Nothing was as good as oxy, though, but E was pretty good. It was something, and it would keep his brain from spiraling too much. I really want an oxy. What if I just have one? One was one too many, he knew. If he gave in, he’d keep giving in. He had some control of himself with the stimulants, at least he liked to think that he did, but when it came to oxycodone, he had no resistance.

The restless feeling in the pit of T.K.’s stomach didn’t go away right away, but as the drug hit his bloodstream, his brain started to feel like cotton balls. I need to find Carlos and tell him how good I feel right now. He wanted to share his happiness. Because I like Carlos so much. I want to be someone who he could like back, but that’s not who I am. Too much has happened for me to be anything more than a nuisance. I’m awful, but he’s still so good to me. He treats me with dignity even if I don’t deserve it. He has such a nice smile too. He’s handsome. He’s strong. He’s brave. He’d make a really good hero. If only he could save me.

It took him fifteen minutes to find Carlos around the venue. T.K. had searched everywhere, and there weren’t a lot of places that Carlos could be, but T.K. kept getting distracted. His thoughts were fragmented, but he was too high to care. When he finally saw Carlos, he felt accomplished, and when Carlos saw T.K., he grinned. T.K. beamed back, feeling so happy to be the object of Carlos’ attention, even if just for a moment. I never want him to look away. T.K. had feelings for Carlos that he would never address when he was sober.

T.K. couldn’t help but throw his arm around Carlos’ shoulder. I want to be close to him. I don’t feel close to people often. The feel of Carlos’ sturdy body under T.K.’s arm made T.K. forget all the gapping distance in his life. “You’re so nice, Carlos. You always make sure I’m okay, and you make me laugh when everything seems unfunny.” I love him so much. “I never have to worry when I’m near you. I always hate it when you go away. I hate it when anyone goes away.”

“What are you talking about?” Carlos said distractedly, paying closer attention to the security briefing he was reading than T.K. He didn’t notice the glossiness in T.K.’s eyes or how he was clearly having a mental breakdown muted by a pill that made everything feel good even though life was so gray. Maybe it’s better that way.

“I just really like you because you don’t act like I’m the gum on the bottom of your shoe. I’m, like, the gum in your mouth. You know, a fresh piece of gum that you actually enjoy. Not the gum after an hour when it tastes like nothing and makes your jaw hurt. You make me feel like the five seconds of delight you get from bubblegum.” It was as close to a love confession as T.K. could come. He didn’t even know if what he was feeling was love or admiration. Whatever it was, he didn’t want Carlos to leave him. He’d be devastated when he did because he will. Sooner or later everyone leaves.

Carlos looked up, seeming concerned, and T.K. shrunk in on himself. Maybe he can look away just this once. I don’t want him to see me like this— high, crazy, broken. T.K. felt a sudden pang of shame. He wished he could vanish and take back the words that he’d said to Carlos. They’re too honest. Too insane. I shouldn’t fall in love, or admiration, so fast. I barely know anything about him other than that he’s nice to me. It’s pathetic to love someone just because they don’t treat you like shit.

Carlos

Carlos narrowed his eyes, looking T.K. over, and now that he was paying attention, he could tell that something was very wrong, and it made him sick to think that T.K. was not okay. This is not good. T.K. is not okay. He has a show tonight, and I should have noticed that something was off sooner. It’s my job to protect him, and I can’t do that when he’s so set on hurting himself. “You’re high,” Carlos stated. There was no questioning or doubt in his tone. This was not what Carlos wanted to deal with when he came to work. He was already reeling from his visit with Emma, and now T.K. was on a path of self-destruction, and Carlos didn’t know how to deal with it. How am I supposed to help him? How do I keep him safe from himself?

“I’m not,” T.K. refuted, and his voice sounded weak. “Please, Carlos, you have to believe me. I know I’m acting weird but…” he trailed off, excuses failing to be fabricated. I knew he wasn’t going to get better overnight. This shouldn’t have caught me off guard. I should be better prepared for this. I should know what to say, but I don’t. I just want to shake him and hope that sense settles into his brain and slaughters all the mental illness. That’s not how it works, though. I am powerless. All I can do is stand here and hope that he’s okay. Just like I did with Taylor. I couldn’t control Taylor just like I can’t control T.K. If it were any other client other than T.K., Carlos wouldn’t have felt so strongly. T.K. hit all the right buttons that made Carlos want to shield him from all bad things in the world. I have feelings for him, unprofessional ones, and I’m worried that I have them because of Taylor. T.K.’s so different from Taylor, but he’s just the same in all the wrong ways.

“Don’t lie to me,” Carlos shouted. T.K. bit his lip, and Carlos could see the hesitance on his face. “Lying to me is only going to make me angrier,” and Carlos knew that he needed to hold in his temper. He could feel all the feelings of this day bubbling up and threatening to burst from his body in a slimy, filthy goo of past and present worries culminating into one nasty monster. He tried to keep his tone down, but he was being as loud as he could be without drawing attention to them. He needed T.K. to know that this situation was serious. It wasn’t something Carlos was going to ignore the next day when T.K. had sobered up and was acting normal again.

“Fine, I am. I’m high. What’s it to you? You’re my bodyguard. Not my mom or even my manager.” I care, dumbass, he wanted to say, but he couldn’t form those words on his tongue between all the anxiety and fear that were forming words of their own.

“Why can’t you get it through your thick skull that I am here to keep you safe, and if you’re high, I can’t do that. You making it impossible to do my job, T.K. I didn’t sign up to care what you do in your personal life, but I am getting paid to keep you safe. If you’re going to mess up your life, at least do it on your own time, and don’t drag me into it. I like this job, and I want to keep it.” I like you, and I want to keep you.

T.K. froze, looking startled, and he looked like he was going to try to return a nasty remark, but his mouth opened, and then it closed again. I’m such a jerk. T.K. looked like he might cry, and Carlos couldn’t blame him. Carlos had long ago trained himself not to cry when the hot bubbles of sadness, fear, and frustration pricked at his eyes, but when he was alone, he cried a lot, letting the feeling vacate his body like soda from a shaken bottle.

Carlos couldn’t take the silence so he continued on his tirade. “You have so many people rooting for you, but then you go and do things like this. You can’t keep doing the same old things and expect that the people around you aren’t going to be impacted. You’re entitled to your feelings, but everyone else has feelings too, and you never seem to consider those.”

“That’s not how it is,” T.K. tried to argue, but Carlos was already fired up, and he couldn’t be reasoned with.

“It is, T.K. You hurt other people with your actions, and I’m not saying this to make you feel bad, but you’re unhappy, and you’re dragging everyone down with you. I don’t want to be unhappy.” I’ve worked too hard to get away from my unhappiness to go back.

T.K.

“Stop yelling at me,” T.K. said because he couldn’t take the way Carlos’ words made him feel. Every insecurity T.K. had about being too selfish, too needy, and a waste of space was amping up, and the cloudy happiness of his high was clearing with Carlos’ words, but he was still high enough that the pain of what Carlos was saying wouldn’t strike him until later when his show was over and he had time to think without the assistance of Ecstasy. When he sobered up, Carlos’ words would hurt more than T.K. would ever admit. I must pretend like things don’t hurt because denial is a substance nearly as strong as a pill.

“You’re fucking up your life. You have a show, and you can’t just go around popping pills when you have a job to do.” I’m just a job to him. I am the gum on the bottom of his shoe, after all. I’m the unsatisfying bubble gum that has lost all its flavor. I can’t believe I thought he might care. He’s no different than anyone else. He doesn’t know me. He just follows me around and sees most of my life, but he doesn’t care to look at me more than he has to. I’m just a junkie who is useless and ruins everyone’s life.

“Not for like three and a half hours,” which was a bad excuse considering that once T.K. took a drug, his whole day was set up to be unproductive. He couldn’t get his head screwed back on once he went down the addiction rabbit hole.

“You need to stop this shit.” T.K. hated being lectured. The person who had a right to lecture him was dead, and he didn’t want to care about what anyone else thought. Still caught up on my dead dad.

“It’s not that easy.” Trying to be sober was one of the hardest things that T.K. had ever done. It wasn’t like he could just decide to stop and be done with it. It took time and too much effort. Being mentally healthy required the energy that being mentally ill had taken.

Carlos’ face softened. “I know it’s not, but you still need to try. You can’t keep acting like you’re invincible. This could kill you.” T.K. logically knew that Carlos’ hard words were because he was worried, but that didn’t stop the thoughts of inadequacy from clumping in his head like a blood clot.

“I know that.”

“But you don’t take this seriously.” He couldn’t take anything too seriously without having to do self-analysis that he wasn’t ready to do.

“I do. I went to the therapist that you and Judd wanted me to see.” That was technically a lie, but Carlos doesn’t need to know that.

“Yeah, but are you putting the work in, T.K.? Are you trying to do better? Or are you going through the motions?”

“This is my first relapse. It’s not even oxy. There’s no need to freak out.”

Carlos pinched the bridge of his nose. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

“What did you take?” T.K. didn’t see how it mattered because it’s not like he could do anything about it now.

“Who cares?” No one should. There’s no reason to care about someone like me.

Carlos gritted his teeth. “I care.” It made him feel like a loser, but hearing the words, “I care,” did something to T.K. It melted some of the rage and stubbornness he was feeling, and it made him want to confess everything to Carlos. To be vulnerable. But only for a second.

“Ecstasy.” He hadn’t premeditated taking it, but he had kept a stash of it just in case. So, maybe it had been more planned than I realized.

“That isn’t good for you either.” That’s the whole point! I like destruction. I like being wasted. I like wasting my life. Maybe my misery will end sooner this way.

“I don’t fucking care.” I care, but I can’t let myself care. Caring only brings pain, and I’ve had enough pain in my life. People have had it worse than me without ruining their lives, and I can’t understand how they do it. I’m not strong enough to be like them. I’m weak, and I’m a loser charading to the world as someone who matters. But I don’t matter, and no matter how many hit songs I have, I never will because no one will ever know the real me.

T.K. felt a surge of rage fill him, and he didn’t know what to do with it. It was going to consume him, and before he could think better of it, T.K. punched the wall, and with the drugs, he didn’t feel the strong as much as he might've, but he could see spots of blood on his knuckles where the skin had been peeled off. Carlos’ eyes grew wide, and without saying anything, he dragged T.K. into the bathroom and sat him down on the closed toilet seat.

Carlos

The day had gone from annoying to horrendous, and it seemed to keep getting worse. I shouldn’t have yelled at him. I’m such an asshole. He’s an addict. I can’t expect that he’ll get instantly better. I know how addiction works, and I know how hard it can be to stop using a substance. Carlos hated seeing T.K. go through this. It never got easier to see someone important to you struggling.“Are you okay?”

Carlos exhaled. “I’m sorry. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have blown up at you.”

“It’s not,” T.K. refuted. “I took drugs before you yelled at me, so pretty sure it’s my fault.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have taken my feelings out on you. I had a hard morning.” He felt like the worst person alive for yelling at T.K. Carlos knew that the drug use wasn’t his fault, but he couldn’t help but wonder if it could have been avoided if he had been more careful with his words. He should have sensed that T.K. was spiraling before it had gotten to the point that it had, but he had been so caught up in his own shit that he’d not done his job. I need to start acting more like a professional. I should have never lashed out at a client. I’d resign if I didn’t think that T.K. would drive any other bodyguard away. He needs me here, and I need him to be alive.

“Are you okay?” Carlos looked exhausted, he knew, but everyone who was part of the tour got exhausted. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, dude.”

Carlos ran a comforting hand through T.K.’s hair, but he quickly pulled it away because it didn’t make him feel like he was just T.K’s friend. “I’m okay.” He’d been having a lot of nightmares lately, but it wouldn’t be professional to say so. Like any of this is professional anymore. I’ve crossed so many lines. I’ve gotten too close. I’m compromised, but I can’t walk away. “I’m more worried about what happened with you today. Do you need to talk about your relapse.”

T.K. shook his head, looking down at his hands instead of Carlos. “No. I’d rather not talk about that.”

“I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“You already apologized. What I did wasn’t because of you. I was having a bad day, so wasn’t something you did to set me off. That was the final straw I guess.”

“I’m just saying that you shouldn’t, like, feel guilty about it or anything, and you can’t treat me like glass just because I might slip up.”

“I’ll do better T.K.”

“I’m an addict. You don’t need to do better. I need to do better.”

“Okay,” Carlos said, and he didn’t look convinced.

“You know that moment when you take a bath and dip your head underwater and the world is muted. You still hear sound, but it’s so distant that you can detach it from yourself, and in that moment, it feels like you can finally breathe, but obviously, if you stayed under there, you’d drown. So, you come back up only to crave wanting to be in the water again, even if it kills you.” Carlos didn’t know that feeling, not that exact one, but he knew what it felt like to have your head dipping underwater and bobbing back up when you never know when you’ll be able to breathe and when you’ll have to hold your breath. That feeling lingered. It followed him no matter where he went, and it could be suffocating, but it was never life-threatening.

Carlos nodded sympathetically, “Sometimes drowning feels like a noble pursuit rather than a death mission.”

T.K. sighed. “Yeah, and sometimes a death mission feels like a noble pursuit.”

#holding out for a hero #911 lone star #911 lone star fic #911 lone star au #Elise Writes #my writing #my fics #911 lone star fics #tarlos fic #wip

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shreddedparchment · 5 years

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Man and Wife Pt.05

The Two Lives

04/14/2019

Pairing: Bucky x Reader Word Count: 11,536

*Masterpost in Notes Warnings: angst, smut, language, jealousy, love triangles

A/N: I’m not going to make this long. I hope you enjoy this one. Things kinda blow up. Also, this story is becoming much longer than I anticipated. Damn. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

“You want some help?” Henry sidles up beside you, staring down at the box of manuscripts. There has to be at least thirty to forty stories, all of them riding on the hope that you might like one of them and then the process will commence.

Only one of the authors in this box will be picked for next year’s Spring publishing cycle and though normally this weight would be heavy on your shoulders, a different sort of worry weighs you down.

In this moment, standing in the small two-story office in town in front of your very plain wooden desk, the only thing you can think about is whether Bucky has gone back to the apartment yet.

Had he shown up and seen you gone? Would he have waited for you? Is he still waiting if he’d decided to? It’s a Saturday but you’d come in knowing that Henry would be here. He’s always here, working too hard.

You’d asked him once if he didn’t have a girlfriend or wife at home angry at him for coming into work on a day he could be spending with her, but he’d assured you that he was very single.

Although you and Henry have been coworkers—technically he's your boss—for a long time, the two of you have always avoided conversations about each other's love lives. For good reason.

However, today…today, you can't seem to control your mouth.

“If you were married…would you be here? At work?” You wonder, staring at the loaded box with dazed eyes.

“Me?” Henry reaches up and scratches the coarse hair on his scruffy chin. He shoves his left hand into the pocket of his gray slacks, the sleeves of his white button up rolled up around his muscular forearms, the dark blue vest stretched taut with very little wiggle room along his sculpted body. “Well, first off, it would take an amazing woman to get me to walk down the aisle.”

He lets that sit in the air between you. You’re not sure why, as out of it as you are. When you don’t respond to the comment, he turns around to semi-sit and lean against the edge of your desk. He reaches out towards you and wraps his hand around your wrist to get your attention.

“Y/N? Did something happen at home?” Of course, Henry knows all about Bucky. The fact that you have a husband is no secret.

Your phone flashes—almost as if on cue—with a new text alert and the picture of you kissing Bucky’s cheek is nice and visible for a second across the shattered glass.

Proof of your marriage is not only on your phone’s lock screen, but there’s a framed picture of you and Bucky at your wedding on your desk, and you’d also sent in a change of name email to Sana—who by herself represents the entirety of the HR department—so that everyone would know to call you Mrs. Barnes if they were going to refer to you by name. Your desk plaque was changed too and the Y/N Barnes, etched in steel, glints up at you as the sun from the open window hits it.

Of course, calling you Mrs. Barnes doesn't apply to Henry. He’s your boss. He can call you whatever he wants, within reason.

You look at him, away from the box and force a small smile. It's tight, disingenuous, and it makes the worried pucker between Henry's eyes more pronounced.

“When you get married, don’t leave your wife alone often. It’s important to make her feel like she matters.” You nod, agreeing with yourself.

“Did Bucky leave again?” Henry asks.

You give him a real smile this time, and shake your head. “I don’t know. He usually wakes me up when he has to go for a few days. I think he just went to work out with Steve. He wouldn’t leave on mission without telling me.”

Of this you are certain.

You reach for the box’s lid, pulling your arm out of Henry’s gentle grip and slide it onto the box.

You look up at Henry and see his eyes flit to your left hand. Your smile vanishes and with a small ache in your chest you pull that left hand up towards your chest where you place it and then cover it with your right hand.

“He still hasn’t bought your wedding bands?” Henry wonders.

“He’s been so busy.” The wedding had been so hastily planned that wedding rings, which should have been your first priority when planning, had slipped your mind.

You should have just gone out and bought the rings yourself but you've been wanting to go with Bucky to choose them.

“Too busy to go out and get your rings?”

“Henry, he was gone for a week. He just got back and-”

“And he’s already left you alone to go work out with his friends? People he just spent seven days with?”

Henry criticizing Bucky is pissing you off. You know that he’s right because you’ve been telling yourself these exact things since you and Bucky had that first discussion about calling when he got home so you wouldn’t worry.

“They’re more than just friends, Henry. They’re like brothers.” You protest, defending Bucky fiercely.

Silence fills the large space, but Henry doesn’t stop staring at you.

“No.” He says.

You’re so confused by the word that you look up to find his dark eyes. “What?”

“If I were married…No. I wouldn’t be here. I’d be taking my wife to the beach since this is probably the last we’ll see of some good warm sun. Cold front’s supposed to roll in the next couple days.”

Oh, that’s what he’s talking about. You'd already forgotten you asked him that. You shouldn't have asked him that question.

“The beach sounds nice.” You reply, suddenly distracted.

You smile, picturing Bucky and yourself having a picnic on the beach, the loud soothing roar of the ever crashing waves lulling you into a nap as you sit with your head on Bucky's stomach. He’s stroking your hair and you’re in heaven. He’s laying back, his metal hand under his head as he stares up at the sky and you stare out towards the ocean.

Your smile slowly shifts into a sad frown because while the daydream is nice, it fades and you’re pulled back to reality.

“So…let’s go? Right now.” Henry offers and he sounds serious, almost wistful.

You look up at him and can see the hope in his eyes.

So much has changed for you in so little time. As he searches your eyes, his brow still puckered and his gaze intense, you flash back to the day after your wedding when you’d come back to work.

~~~~~~~~~~

You'd left work a single woman. Having chosen to take two weeks paid time off for a long overdue staycation. When you returned, you were Mrs. Y/N Barnes.

The first thing you do when you sit down at your desk is power on your computer, sign in to your work email, and quickly shoot Sana a letter explaining how you are now a married woman and will be going by Y/N Barnes from now on.

As expected, because Sana tells Kim everything and Kim tells everyone everything, the word of your marriage spreads quickly.

Happy flutters fill your tummy all day as you receive well wishes and congratulations from your coworkers. Almost all of them seem genuinely happy for you.

Only Lyla, a fellow editor, seems almost smug and sarcastic in her congratulations. She walks up to your desk and drops a large marked up manuscript so that it falls with a loud heavy thud.

You jump, wrapped up in your own work, and when she speaks she speaks loudly. Everyone in the large room will be able to hear her.

How does she do that? How does she speak loud enough for everyone to hear but not make it a shout? Weirdo.

Maybe it's only weird because you can be so soft spoken? You should learn to project.

“So, I hear you got married? Congratulations, Y/N. I’m surprised you found someone who-" Suddenly Lyla stops in the middle of her insult as she spots the photo on your desk.

A beautiful silver frame, a picture of you and Bucky looking at the camera within. Bucky looks dapper in his black formal wear, his hair pulled back into a loose bun but carefully styled. His blue eyes are so bright that they aren’t steel blue but aquamarine, small flecks of green towards the center. Made more prominent thanks to the flash of the camera. His full beard, excited pearly white smile, and nervously flushed cheeks complete the breathtaking beauty that is James Buchanan Barnes.

You aren’t so bad either in your white, shiny satin dress, the lace on the bodice handmade according to Tony. However, Lyla doesn’t have eyes for you. She's looking at the handsome man beside you.

She grabs the frame and holds it closer to get a better look. She's going to smudge it!

“This is him? This is your husband?” You can see the disbelief in her eyes as she can’t fathom how anyone who looks like Bucky could want you.

You reach out and take the frame back, yanking it rudely out of her hands. You don’t care for the judgment and sheer shock on her face.

Bucky loves you! Although, you’re still kind of confused as to why.

“Yes.” You snap.

“How? Isn't he an Avenger? I’ve seen him before. On the news.”

“Can I help you with anything, Lyla? I really need to get back to work.”

Lyla opens her mouth to retort but just as she places her perfectly manicured left hand on your desk and leans in close enough to spit vile venom at you, Henry moves into his doorway. A large imposing figure with a scowl that contorts his usually bright expression.

“Y/N? In my office.”

You turn your chair, swiveling to look at Henry while Lyla shoots up, standing straight and at attention. She fiddles with her dark hair nervously and adjusts her pants.

“Lyla, don't you have work to do?” He's curt and hard with his words, focusing most of his scowl on Lyla but at the last second, as he turns to disappear back into his office, he turns it on you.

“Y-Yes, Henry. Sorry.” Lyla sputters, her disappointment is clear in the careful downturn of her lips.

You’re not sure what look she gives you as she turns to head back to her desk because you’re staring at the now empty doorway to Henry's office.

Had you fucked up already? You just got back. You hadn’t done much work yet. What could you have possibly ruined that he's mad at you? Damn. So much for a good first day back.

Afraid you’ve ruined something for a client you get to your feet.

With a shaking hand you carefully put the picture of you and Bucky back in its spot. You run your finger along the curve of his jaw as you sigh, terrified of a reprimand, and silently plead with him for courage.

You grab your little brown leather book, a journal where you keep notes during meetings, and proceed into Henry's office holding the journal against the black fabric of your pencil skirt on your lap.

Henry's office is sparsely decorated. There’s a large ficus by the window where the sun streams in, a picture frame of his favorite book, American Gods on the wall behind his desk, and two large red leather arm chairs in front of his modern maple wood desk provide one of the only splashes of color in the office.

Aside from those small touches, there's a computer on his desk. The wall beside his window is covered in filing cabinets, and there's a set of weights and a weight bench behind you.

You swallow hard, watching as Henry keeps his back to you, both hands in his pockets. He stares at the framed poster.

“Shut the door, please.”

Shit. You definitely fucked something up.

You do as he says.

“Have a seat.”

You do, choosing the red chair on the right as you worry your lower lip. You don’t dare look away from Henry. There’s a slump of disappointment in his shoulders and as he moves around his desk, his eyes dart to your hands. You’re still clutching your journal to your lap but now sitting, you realize how nervous it makes you look to hold it so tightly.

Trying to relax, you release a breath you weren't aware you’d been holding.

“You’re not in trouble.” Henry assures you and you wonder how he knows that's what you’re thinking.

He stops at the exact center of his desk then seems to change his mind about something. He turns towards the other red chair to your left and angles it to face you. He sits on the edge, then reaches out and takes hold of the arms of your own chair and turns it until you’re facing him too.

It surprises you but you keep your mouth shut and observe.

Henry is leaning forward, his shoulders still hunched so that he's right at eye level. He's still scowling but there's something else to his expression. Something like sadness.

There’s a question in his eyes but you can’t read what it is. In your alert curiosity, you sit up straighter.

“If I’m not in trouble then why the intrigue?” Four years of working with Henry come crashing down. Four years of late nights. Four years of laughter and long conversations about books and movies and anything and everything.

You smile, still nervous but relaxed.

“You’re kinda scaring me.”

“Is it true?” He asks, his hands still resting on the top edge of your seat's arms.

“What?” You ask, your smile vanishing in your befuddlement.

His eyes flit to your left hand on your lap then back up to your eyes and the same moment he speaks, you understand what he's asking.

“Are you really married? Did-did you get married while you were on vacation?”

He's breathless and your heart is hammering in your chest. Your mind isn’t sure why but your body is already panicking, clammy hands, shortness of breath, and a turmoil of tumbles in your stomach.

“Um…yeah.” You say, unsure.

Henry's hands grip the arms of your seat more tightly as he drops his head and looks down at his feet.

“Sorry I didn’t invite you. It was all short notice.” You laugh once. “It all happened so quickly I-"

“No.” He groans.

“Henry?”

“No. No. This-this can’t be happening. You weren’t even dating anyone before you left!” He looks back at you and you’re startled by the intensity of his eyes. You know that look because over the last two weeks, you’ve seen Bucky give you that look.

Fuck. You weren’t expecting this. Not after four years. Why now? Four years! Shit, Henry!

“You can’t be married yet, Y/N. I haven't even had a chance to-to tell you yet.” His voice is strained, pained, but there are no tears in his voice. It's more of a lamentation than a sobbing.

It still hurts to hear. Henry's your friend. Why does he choose to do this now when he had so much time before?

You don’t ask what he wants to tell you. You know very well what he's referring to so you turn your eyes down to his knees to hopefully deter what's coming.

“Y/N?” He's leaning down more, trying to catch your eyes to read you, to see you.

“Henry, please don’t do this.”

“I love you. I-I have for a long time. You can’t be married before I’ve even had the chance to try.”

You look up to meet his gaze, feeling upset now that he's said the words. Those words. Those three stupid words that mean everything when Bucky says them and now mean pain when Henry does.

There’s a small hint of pining in your chest as you consider Henry's confession.

Once upon a time, during your second year working here, Henry had caught your eye. You'd been like all the other girls in the office. Completely smitten by the six foot-one tall man, his dark skin supple against his tight muscles, his laugh easy and free.

In some ways, if you think about it, Bucky reminds you of Henry. Bucky's more serious but when it's just the two of you, he's like Henry. He makes you laugh and he's free with his smiles.

His beautiful smiles, only meant for you.

At the time, when Henry had been all you wanted, he'd been dating a beautiful model.

A literal model. He'd met her at a photoshoot for one of the raunchy romance books the company had published. What chance had you had against a perfect body and an endearingly demanding personality?

When she'd cheated on him and they'd broken up, you comforted him, as any good friend would. Secretly hoping that maybe now that he was single he might see you.

He never did. Or if what he says now is true and he has loved you for a long time, he let you torture yourself. He said nothing then so he shouldn’t get to do this.

No. He doesn’t get to do this to you now that you’re happy.

“Henry, I don’t want to hear that right now.” You assure him. “Why would you do this right now?”

“Y/N…?”

“No, Henry.”

“Please?” He reaches out and places his hand over yours.

“No!” You reply loudly, yanking your hand away from him and getting to your feet. “How dare you do this to me now.”

You drop your voice so that the gossips that linger by doors to listen can’t hear you.

“After all this time? Years! I have known you for years and not once have you even indicated that you wanted to see me outside of work.

“Bucky knew me for only two hours and he asked me to marry him." Okay, that sounded more romantic in your head. “You’ve known me for four years and you have said nothing!”

Henry stands, hands clenched into tight fists.

“What did you just say? Two hours?! You married someone who asked you to marry him after two hours?!”

“Yes!” You turn your chin up defiantly because although your voice is full of strength and passion, it’s still on the softer side. You don’t raise your voice often if ever. “Bucky is my husband now. And I’m happy. I’m so fucking happy and I will not let you ruin it for me. I love him-"

“Love him? How can you love him? You barely know him!”

“Keep your voice down.” You growl quietly, looking towards the door.

“You know me and I know you. I know how we work, Y/N. Us. We'd be great together! I know everything about you. Does Bucky know about how you say you don't have a favorite ice cream flavor but you always seem to go back to vanilla?”

You turn away from him, reaching up to press your hand to your mouth as you try to contain the sorrow and anger all at once.

“Stop.” You whisper. You had yearned for this man. You'd imagined what it would be like to kiss him, to have him hold you, to have him get down on one knee and ask you to marry him. It hurts.

“Does he know how you like your coffee? Your favorite pizza toppings? How old you were when you lost your parents and your grandpa?”

You shake your head, your anger growing. “Stop, Henry.”

“What about when you lost your virginity? Does he know you held out for so long?”

Fuck! “That's enough, Henry. Stop it!”

You turn to look at him, fuming because the ache in your chest has no right to be there. You'd given up this hope. The stern quality of your voice prompts Henry to listen and he stops talking, his mouth open as he breathes hard with emotion.

“You don’t get to do this to me. You don’t get to throw our friendship in my face and use it as justification for you thinking I shouldn’t have married Bucky. I love him.”

Henry begins to open his mouth to argue.

“I said, I love him, Henry. And nothing you say is going to change that. I…”

You see the sorrow in his eyes and guilt begins to gnaw at your chest.

“I'm sorry that this hurts you but you never said anything. If you really loved me, anywhere close to how I love Bucky then you would not have been able to stand being quiet.”

“I was waiting for the right time.” Henry explains, sadly.

“And when would that be? After I got back from vacation? Six months after that? Next summer? Fall? Winter? I waited for two years. You never said or did anything. How long was I supposed to wait for you to finally notice me? I liked you so much but I knew that you could never-”

Henry's eyes flash with hope. “You like me?”

“Liked. Two years ago after you and Iko broke up. Past tense, Henry. I liked you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He takes a step towards you and you take a step back, on the defensive.

“Why didn't you?! Why am I the one that has to put myself out there to be broken and trampled on? Why do I need to take that first step? You should have said something. You.” You shake your head, recalling your anger. “Look, I…I don’t want to fight. What's done is done and I’m happy. I love my husband and I’m sorry that hurts you and that you don’t understand that I feel closer to Bucky after knowing him only two weeks than I have to anyone else I’ve ever met—save for Casey. And if you’re my friend, then you’ll tell me congratulations and never bring this up again.”

Cruel? You feel like it a little. Henry is trying so desperately to understand what went wrong for him.

He's quiet for so long, staring at your face as you fix him with a determined gaze.

“Henry?”

He seems to snap out of his daze but his sorrow doesn’t relent.

After a moment of consideration and knowing you need to get out of this office, you offer him your left hand. “Congratulate me, Henry, and wish me good luck.”

He looks down at your hand and then takes it. He turns it over so that he can look at the back of it, searching.

“No ring?”

You yank your hand away angrily. “Ugh, I’m going back home for a few days. Paid. I don’t think my vacation was long enough.”

You march around him and the chairs, then move back towards the door. A few more days away from the office will be perfect. After today's shocking confessions, you need distance.

“Y/N?” You stop and look back at him, feeling worse. “Congratulations.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Henry,” You chastise him, and he caves immediately, relaxing his shoulders and turning that pleading gaze normal again.

As you shift uncomfortably, he sighs. “Sorry.”

You don’t want to deal with this on top of how shitty you’re already feeling at how Bucky left you alone again.

“I should go.” You make to lift the box but it's heavy and although you lift it well enough, you’re struggling.

Henry hurries forward, placing his hands on the handles of the cardboard box over yours.

“I’ll help you carry it home.”

“No, I’m alright. It's only two blocks.” A short walk and you’re home. A short walk and you’re at work.

It was one of the reasons Bucky chose this neighborhood. For you.

“It's heavy. Let me help.”

“No, I said I’ve got it.” You insist, trying to pull the box out of his grip. His hands are really hot over yours.

“Y/N,” The firm way he says your name halts your resistance. “I know you’re refusing to let it show how upset you are, for his benefit. I can see you're hurt. I don’t know what he did but, I can’t let you walk home alone while you have that look on your face.”

Startled by your inability to hide how you feel, you drop your hands and he easily takes up the weight.

“Besides, this box is heavy. Are you gonna let me feel like a douche? Or can I walk you home?”

You worry your bottom lip, hating the temptation of having him help you. You don’t see anything in the escort but Henry? He might think it means more than one friend helping another.

“I don’t know…”

He tilts his head, frowning at you as if to say, Come on. Stop being stubborn. You give in.

“Okay.” You still feel weird about it, but Henry walks you home, holding your box casually.

He walks you into your building. Up the stairs. And all the way to your door. You stop there, staring at the wood, wondering if Bucky is inside.

What are you gonna say? You really don’t want to fight but this isn’t okay. You can’t keep letting him think that leaving you alone as he has is alright. Because it isn’t. And it’s piling up into a mountainous problem. What if one of these days it gets so big that you can’t get over it?

“Y/N?” Henry gently urges.

You swallow hard then fish out your keys and unlock the door. He’s still not home. It wouldn’t have been locked if he were home. He never locks the door.

Your heart drops as you open the door into the empty apartment. Moving inside you move past the kitchen, into the large open room that makes up your living room and your dining room. You gesture Henry towards the large table with six chairs behind the sofa.

“Just drop it there.”

“Wow.” Henry moves in admiring the architecture of your home. “This place is nice.”

It really is beautiful. Art Deco curves and angles, swift sharp edges and then softly curved accents. The furniture is equally beautiful, and the only modern touches came from the items that you bought. The yellow throw pillows on the couch, the blue dishes sitting dirty in the sink.

Shit…you need to wash those. Bucky hates that.

As you’re caught up staring at the dirty dishes, you reach up and scratch the back of your neck.

“Thanks.” You say absentmindedly.

Suddenly, your attention is pulled to Henry, his large imposing form beside you. He’s not looking at the dirty dishes though. You find him looking at the large wedding photo of you and Bucky hung on the other side of the dining table.

“You looked beautiful, Y/N.” He says softly.

You don’t like the way his compliment makes your stomach shift.

There are more photos of you and Bucky on the end tables by the couch, on the empty shelves of the bookcase by the TV, there’s even one of you two cooking in the kitchen.

There is your life laid bare for Henry to see. You could show him your bedroom. There’s more in there. And then maybe if he saw the bed where Bucky fucks you, he might finally abandon his apparent love for you. You don’t need the reminder of it every time you go to work.

“You looked happy in those pictures.” Henry gestures only at the one in the kitchen sitting between two cabinets underneath the smoke detector and over the coffee maker.

Looked happy. You caught that.

“I am happy.” You insist.

“Right.”

“You should go.” You tell him and move towards the front door to open it up for him again.

He follows and stops just outside the doorway as you occupy the space in front of him, arms wrapped over your chest as you lean against the jamb.

Henry turns, shoving his hands into his pockets where he must be clenching them because you can see the strain of his veins on his forearms as he looks at you.

“I don’t know what’s upset you. And I know you won’t tell me. I…I took that away from you. Our friendship.” Henry sighs.

“Henry…please don’t.” You beg, you don’t want these words in your head when things are already so difficult.

“I need to say this.” He moves towards you, reaching to take hold of your arms just above the elbow. “I’m here, Y/N. I know that it might not be what it was but if you need to talk, or vent, or just not talk and spend a few hours doing something to get your mind off of whatever it is that’s bothering you—I’m here. I will always be here for you. As your friend…or…whatever you might need?”

The hopeful tone in his voice as he finishes what had begun as a comforting notion of having someone less aggressive than Casey to talk to, drives all the pleasantness of his words away.

You pull your arms away and he drops his hold on you.

“Thanks.” You tell him. “But I’m fine.”

Henry watches you for so long, you begin to feel exposed. He can see through you and you don’t like that or the ache that renews in your chest.

You’re slightly startled when you feel a warm flutter on your cheek as he presses a soft kiss to your skin. You freeze.

“I mean it. I’m here.” He pulls back and leaves.

You don’t watch him go. You stare at the spot he’d just been in, confusion washing over you in waves as you go back inside and shut the door. As if you’re on autopilot you wander into the kitchen, pull on your apron—a gag gift from Steve that looks like his Captain America uniform—and settle in front of the sink to wash the dishes.

You’re only at it for a few minutes. Enough time to get three plates washed, before the front door opens and shuts.

Your hands freeze for a moment, but you go back to washing when you feel eyes on you. You scrub hard. Too hard. You don’t care. You’re not really seeing the dishes. You’re gauging the room. You’re listening for his feet. You’re waiting for his words. Instead you smell soft soap and blue water musk as a warmth curls around your back.

He’s so fucking silent sometimes!

Shining metal reaches out and shuts off the sink leaving your hands soapy and wet. The hand retreats to the edge of the sink and holds the counter firmly.

“Where’d you go?” He asks and you see red. You’re so angry at him!

“Where did you?!” Not a shout. Never a shout. You don’t scream often. But your soft voice is stern. Hurt.

A heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. I…I’m an idiot.”

“You keep telling me that, Bucky but it doesn’t seem to change anything.” You turn to look at him, but he doesn’t adjust his distance. He keeps you there in the tight circle of his arms as you meet his eyes.

There’s guilt in his expression. Good. At least he really means it.

“Why did you leave this morning?”

“I didn’t think.”

“I waited for you last night, Bucky. I-I cancelled plans with Casey and Jess because I wanted to see you. Because I was worried about you. And then I wake up this morning and you’re gone?” Now that you’ve let it all tumble out, it’s flowing quickly.

You’re not afraid of him getting angry because you’re so upset that you don’t care.

“I wasn’t thinking.” He admits, dropping his eyes to your neck and away from the hurt in your eyes. “I-I don’t even know what else to say. I’m an idiot.”

“Don’t you want to spend time with me?” You ask him, more hurt than anything else now.

“Of course! Of course, I do, Y/N. How could you think that I don’t-?”

“Because you’re never here!” Okay, this time you’re loud. You push him away and move towards the cabinets with the picture of you and Bucky cooking. You glare at the picture for a second then turn to look at him again, accusation and uncertainty flooding towards him. “You leave and you come back, and you don’t come home. I know that your job is demanding. I get that. That’s what you do, and I don’t want you to stop doing it because it’s who you are but when you’re not working at least for one day after you get back why can’t you just stay here? With me? I wake up and you’re gone. Sometimes I go to bed and you’re still not home. We go out and then we come back home, you leave again. You say that you want to be with me but everything that you do tells me that you don’t.”

He’s silent, staring at you with a wrinkled brow, that adorable pucker between his eyes not so adorable as you rage at him because of how you’ve been feeling. You need him to understand. Can you just say it? Maybe you should just say it?

“Sometimes…” You hesitate. You shake your head and convince yourself to not say it.

“What?” Bucky asks, closing the space between you again, and wraps his arms around your waist.

“No.” You pull away, but he tightens his hold and he keeps you facing him.

“Tell me. Please?”

“I-”

He pulls you closer and his body reminds you of what you’ve been missing and unfortunately what you’ve also been suspecting.

“Sometimes I think that maybe all I am to you is a guaranteed lay.” Your voice is almost dead as you say the words aloud. You never wanted to speak these words out and much less to Bucky himself. What if he confirms them? “You go away, and you come home, and you sleep with me and then you leave. Maybe I’m stupid for thinking it could be anything more than that since that’s how we started? Right? Sex in public before you even knew my name.

“That must be all I am. Spread legs whenever you need them and complacent silence when you leave?”

“No.” Bucky growls, suddenly pulling you into a crushing embrace. He reaches up and holds your head tenderly with his right hand while his left pulls you tight against his chest. “No, never think that, Y/N.”

The quiet that fills the apartment is deafening and you don’t wrap your arms around him. He holds you tighter, maybe feeling the distance you’re feeling because he’s almost desperate in how he clings to you.

“You’re more than a lay. Shit, Y/N, you’re all I think about when I’m gone.” He assures you and pulls back to cradle your face in his hands.

You look for the lie in his eyes but don’t find one. It brings you back to the pain you’ve been feeling, shoving the numbness away.

“Then, why?” You reach up and grab hold of his wrists as he holds your face. “Why do you always leave me? We could have done so much today. We could have gone to the park. Or the movies? Or the beach?”

A slight sting of guilt cuts you as you remember Henry’s offer but that memory sprinkles through your mind and vanishes quickly because Bucky is here, right in front of you, desperately clinging to what he thinks is a wife slipping through his fingers.

“I-I don’t know.” Bucky admits. “Yesterday I just…I-”

“You forgot about me?”

“No!” He says loud, deep booming voice starling you into jumping slightly. “I did not forget you, Y/N, I just forgot to look at the time. And last night you were so upset with me that when I woke up, I thought maybe you might not want to see me?”

“I always want to see you, Bucky. I don’t see you enough. Even when I’m angry at you I need to see you.” You sigh, frustrated with him. “Don’t you understand that when you aren’t with me all I can do is worry about you? I miss you. I want to be with you. You’re all I think about and for you to just leave me by myself especially when you’re here and you can choose to be with me but you don’t-?”

“Fuck, Y/N, I’m sorry. I don’t know what else I can say except that I’m so, so sorry. I’m not setting out to make you feel like you’re not important. You are so important to me. Ask Steve! I’m day dreaming about being back here with you-”

“But you keep leaving!”

“I know!”

Now you’re both shouting.

You push his hands away and move around him, but he catches your wrist and pulls you back into the circle of his arms. You try to push him away, but he doesn’t let you go.

“My job-” He begins quietly.

“It’s not your job I’m talking about, Bucky.” You pull away from him and he lets you this time because you’re still shouting. “I already told you that I know your work is going to take you away from me. I’m not complaining about your work, I’m trying to understand why it is that when you aren’t on mission, you don’t seem to include me in your life? Maybe we did this too soon?”

“Did what?” He asks, anger flashing in his steel blue eyes turning them into ice.

“This. Us. Maybe we shouldn’t have gotten married so quickly?”

“How can you say that?” Bucky growls moving towards you, his hands cradling your face once more so that you can’t look away from him as he looks into your eyes, searching for the regret of marrying him.

He doesn’t find it. He won’t. No matter how much he searches because you will never regret telling him, ‘I do.’

“You don’t know how to fit me into your life, Bucky. And I can’t keep waiting for you in this apartment until you’re ready to see me. I feel like you don’t want me in your life, and you take absolutely no interest in mine. Is this what a marriage is supposed to be?”

Bucky sees that you’re right. He’s created this line in his life and kept you on one side of it and his Avenging and his friends on the other. Why did he do that? Why hasn’t he tried to take you and mingle you with the other half of his life? He’d been doing it a bit before the wedding but after the wedding it all just fell into two parts.

You were here, his perfect, beautiful, wife. You gave him a home and a family of the like he’d never expected to have. He loves you and he loves that you gave this life to him but how does he pair it with the one he leads at the compound?

He can’t see you around Sam’s snarky teasing or Steve’s serious focus when it comes to missions. He doesn’t want you to deal with Nat and her harsh observances or Vision’s lack of tact. He doesn’t want you exposed to anything that might hurt you but here he is, hurting you himself.

Then there’s your life. It’s true, Bucky doesn’t know what you do when he’s not home. He’s never thought about it because who cares? As long as you’re with him when he’s here, what does it matter what you do?

At least, it didn’t matter before today. Then he saw just how dangerous not only leaving you alone is but also how unexpectedly dumb he is to the possibilities of what your life might offer away from him.

~~~~~~~~~~

Who the fuck-?

Bucky slides back behind the wall into the doorway of the stairwell and hides, grabbing the knob to stop the door from shutting loudly. He peeks out and stares down the hall at a tall black man. He’s built like a house and he’s good looking. What the hell is he doing coming out of Bucky’s house?!

Then you appear in the doorway and Bucky’s mouth falls open because you know this guy. It’s so clear in the way you look at him that you know him. You’re also defensive, with your arms crossed tight across your chest. Did this guy hurt you? Bucky’ll kill him!

Instead he watches as the man turns to you with softness in his eyes. Fondness. What the hell is going on here?

“I don’t know what’s upset you. And I know you won’t tell me. I…I took that away from you. Our friendship.” Friendship? You’ve never told Bucky you have a friend who looks like that. What the hell?

“Henry…please don’t.” That tone…why are you so upset? Bucky doesn’t like that tone. It reminds him of…

“I need to say this.” The black man moves towards you, reaching to take hold of your arms just above the elbow. Bucky grits his teeth, squeezing his jaw so tight that his teeth creak and groan as he fights the urge to rush over to you and cut the man’s arms at the wrist so that he can never touch you again.

“I’m here, Y/N. I know that it might not be what it was but if you need to talk, or vent, or just not talk and spend a few hours doing something to get your mind off of whatever it is that’s bothering you—I’m here.”

Like fuck he is! Bucky thinks. What the hell would you two do for a few hours that would silence your mind?

Sex of course pops into Bucky’s head and he grabs the handle so tight with his left hand that it curves to the shape of his fingers.

“I will always be here for you. As your friend…or…whatever you might need?”

Bucky sees red and this time he takes a step out towards the hallway, intent on killing this guy because there was no question in what he meant. He’s offering you sex. Definitely. And from the hopeful tone he uses, love? Does that guy love you? Why? Who the hell is he? Why do you know him so well? Since when did you have a friend who looks like that?!

“Thanks.” Your voice stops Bucky and he quickly hides again. “But I’m fine.”

Bucky can hear it in just your voice that you aren’t okay. What has he done? Why would he leave you alone after what happened last night? He’s an idiot. He deserves to have you stolen from him for the way he’s been treating you.

The man—Henry?—seems to see this too because he just stares at you as you continue to look more and more uncomfortable.

Then he kisses your cheek and Bucky just about blacks out. Several scenarios play out in Bucky’s head. He could follow the man and pull him into an alleyway and strangle him to death. But that would be too quick.

Better to kidnap him, take him into that abandoned warehouse on the edge of town. Then he can starve him and cut at him for several hours. Maybe even days? Then he’ll sew his lips shut and slice them off just when he thinks that it can’t get any worse.

The violence of the images that flash through Bucky’s mind pull him from the haze. He hasn’t felt this way since his brainwashing, and he’s startled by the intensity of the emotions that brought it forth.

There is no doubt in Bucky’s mind—and there never has been but it’s so certain in him now—that he loves you more than even he might understand.

“I mean it. I’m here.” Bucky thanks God that this Henry leaves.

When you shut the door and go back inside, Bucky moves out and walks down the hall towards home.

As he passes him, he sees that Henry recognizes him, probably from the pictures in the apartment, and as much as Bucky wants to reach out and squeeze this Henry guy’s windpipe to crush it, he walks past him with his chest puffed and his eyes glaring death. It’s only when he knows that he’s gone that he shrinks and stares at the doorway for a few minutes hoping that he hasn’t done any kind of irreversible damage to your marriage.

~~~~~~~~~~

Unable to help himself any longer and since you’re the one that brought it up, he asks.

“Who was that guy I saw leaving?” He’s as gentle as he can be in his question. He doesn’t want you to see or hear the anger he felt when that idiot kissed you.

Your face loses all color and you look away from him to the curve of his neck.

“Henry. My boss.”

“That’s your boss?” Bucky demands, surprised and now cursing himself for never showing an interest in your work before today. He’s an idiot not only because now he knows there’s this dude, so clearly wanting you every day that he can’t be around, reminding you that if Bucky’s not there, then this guy surely is, but also because it took this kind of jealousy to make Bucky realize how little he knows about your life.

He understands what you’re saying now. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. The two of you should be living a life together. Not apart. How has he not seen this until now? Stupid hot Henry guy making Bucky all jealous.

It’s quiet between the two of you for several minutes. Bucky drops his hands, trailing them down the sides of your neck, along your shoulders, and then finally stops them on the sides of your arms. He squeezes them, relishing in the softness of your body.

So much of his life has been hard, cold, rough, sharp, and painful. You give him everything opposite; soft, warm, smooth, gentle, and love. So much love. Bucky needs to make this up to you, and he knows what the first step must be.

Bucky pulls you closer, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours as your hands trace the shape of his shoulder blades, straining and tense on his gray t-shirt.

“You’re right.” Bucky admits and your breath catches. “You’re so fucking right, and I’ve been so blind. I’m sorry. I haven’t been trying hard enough to build us a life together. I’m sorry I haven’t shown any interest in your work and the things that you do. This isn’t how it should be. You’re…you’re right, Y/N.”

You don’t want to hear that you’re right. That’s not why you’re angry.

“I don’t want to be right, Bucky. I just want you and me to be happy.”

You can see the pain flit through Bucky’s eyes at the implication that the two of you haven’t been happy.

Since that first problem you two faced with him calling you when he got home, small things have cropped up. Nothing serious. Small marks of irritation or annoyance as you two learn to live together. Bucky hates that you leave the dishes unwashed for a while. You hate how he doesn’t pick up his towels after he showers.

He complains about how you leave clean clothes piled on the chair in your bedroom instead of putting it up right away. Bucky doesn’t clean up his hair from the sink after he trims his beard. You don’t pick up your hair from the drain in the shower. Bucky forgets to put the toilet seat back down. You put your feet up on the coffee table. Bucky drinks straight from the carton of milk.

Small things piling up and making life just a little less easy.

But these aren’t the things that have made you unhappy. Though life is more real for the two of you now, the fact that you still feel like you’re living two lives is why you’re unhappy.

“I’ll do better. Next time we have a mission, I want you to come with me to the dinner we have afterwards.” Bucky promises and you feel bad because he’s not the only one that’s been messing up. Sure, he’s the one that’s been leaving you alone, but you should have spoken up much sooner.

“Really?” You ask, surprised and excited suddenly.

“Of course.”

“I’ll try harder too, baby. I’ll do better, too.”

“You’re perfect, Y/N.” Bucky insists, but you’re not.

“We’ve both been messing up. We’ll both do better. I love you. I don’t want to lose you.” You sigh, eager for this fight to be over. It does finally seem like Bucky gets it and that more than anything softens your anger.

“You won’t lose me, kitten. I’m not going anywhere.”

You lean up to kiss him because you need to feel his lips, but he pulls back and your heart clenches painfully.

“Hold that thought.” He smiles down at you and hurries back towards the door. When he comes back, he’s holding a bouquet of y/f/f.

You smile, heart fluttering. You really are too easy to woo. Some reassurance and an offering of flowers and you’re putty in his hands.

“I’d been waiting for a bit and I thought maybe I’d need some backup to apologize so I went out and got you these. Should I have got you a necklace instead?”

You laugh lightly and nod. “They’re beautiful, Bucky. This is perfect.”

When he offers them, you take them, and smell them before leaning back up towards his lips. Bucky pulls back again and this time you frown.

“Bucky…”

“It’s just, what you said-I don’t only want you for sex, Y/N. I need you to know that.”

“Ugh, that’s why I didn’t want to tell you about that. It was a fleeting thought after we had sex and you left the next morning to workout with Sam and Steve. It was a flash of a worry and then it was gone.”

“But it was still there. I love you, so much. Not just your body.”

You reach over and put your flowers on the counter as you move in close to press your body against Bucky’s. He looks down at you, intense and confused.

“But you do love my body, right?” You slide your hands up under his shirt, tracing your hands along the hot skin of his sides.

His eyebrows twitch upwards at your touch.

“Of course, I love your body.” He assures you. “But I love you too.”

“Okay. I get that, but right now, I need you to show me how much you love my body.” You explain. “It’s been a week, Bucky. I’ve missed you so much.”

There’s a groan in your voice as your hands move up along his bare back. They go about hallway up before they drop down to the small of his back and you slip the tips of your fingers down into the waistband of his jeans.

The curve of his bum is sudden and deep. He has a really nice butt. You trace it down, touching him with desire.

“You’re not angry anymore?” He asks, but his hands are already on your waist, slipping the strings of the apron you’re wearing off. He reaches under your puffed sleeve yellow top and traces the skin of your back, all the way up to the center drawing you closer.

You shake your head slow and mid-shake, Bucky dives down to meet your lips.

He swallows your sigh and you inhale his groan. Both of you melting into the other after such an exhausting fight. He pushes you back until you hit the counter and then he reaches down to lift you up by your waist and sit you on the cold tile.

He undoes the buttons of your dark gray; lace tiered shorts and you lift your butt as he tugs them down and off. He tosses them over the counter and into the dining room quickly followed by your underwear. He nudges your legs open and settles between them, with his right hand searching your folds for your nub.

You’re already dripping wet, having missed him in his absence and wanting nothing more than to have him touch you.

You shudder at his prodding and when he slips two fingers into you, you gasp and lean forward towards him. He wraps his left arm around you, catching you in a kiss as he pumps his fingers in and out while his palm presses hard against your nub.

His kiss slowly shifts and somewhere between finger pumps, he deepens it with feeling rather than lust.

You pull back, surprised and breathless by the shift because you can feel it in your chest. You can feel the ache of confusion and he doesn’t let you get far. He pulls his fingers from your core and lifts you from the counter.

He stares into your eyes as he carries you to the bedroom then lowers you onto the bed. You fall with a small bounce, but you watch as Bucky strips himself naked. There are bruises on his torso and you sit up, startled by the wounds you hadn’t found yesterday because you hadn’t been looking for them. You’d been so wrapped up in your feelings of neglect that you hadn’t noticed his hurt.

“Oh, Bucky…” There’s a gash along his left side, a faded pink puckered line. You know it’ll be gone by tomorrow but the thought of the cut that had been there before it sealed. The blood he must have lost and the sharp pain he must have felt?

“I’m okay.” He assures you then as you look up at him, still tracing the scar, he kisses you breathing you in as he opens his mouth to deepen it.

You shut your eyes as he hooks his hands into the bottom of your shirt, and he relieves you of it. Your breasts are freed shortly after and Bucky pushes you back to crawl over you. He reaches down to pull your legs apart, settling between them once more but this time sliding into you without warning.

You go still beneath him, your mouth open in a silent gasp as he stretches you. He watches you, enjoying the expression of surprise, pleasure, relief, and love you’re giving him.

Pushing your hair back, he bites his bottom lip as he begins to pump in and out of you, burying himself as deeply as he can. He blinks slowly, never breaking eye contact.

You see what he’s doing. What he’s saying. As your body jerks upwards, bouncing against the bed, he’s telling you that he loves you.

You don’t know why it happens now, maybe it’s because of the fight? Or the sheer intensity of his gaze? Maybe it’s because he’s still cradling your face, staring at you as if he’s already lost you and he’s just now realizing how much he loves you, but you start to cry.

“Oh, Y/N…” Bucky sighs, leaning down to lay on you completely as he wraps you up in his arms and his lips find yours to kiss you with feeling.

He moves slowly, his hips moving in soft waves as he pushes himself into you. Every time he bottoms out, his pelvis rubs against yours, pressing your button just right to draw a small moan from your lips. He’s like water in his movements, smooth and flowing.

This isn’t the sex that you two have when it’s lust that drives you forward. You had never been able to really tell the difference between making love and having sex. Not until you met Bucky. The first time this had happened after your fight about calling home, it had been similar but nothing like this.

The way he’s holding you against himself, clinging to you as he marks you as his, something’s changed.

He pulls up, tracing kisses along your jaw and neck before stopping beside your ear. “I love you.”

His whisper is warm and smooth. The flutter in your heart and the stretch of his cock war for dominance in importance. Together, they make your body hum.

“Bucky…Bucky…” You moan, sweet whispers as he takes you closer and closer to ecstasy.

His hips begin to move faster, he groans, pushing himself up as he angles himself to pound into you a bit more roughly. Despite the pace, his hands are soft, feather touches against your skin as he traces the shape of your breasts and then your ribs with the tender tips of his fingers.

His touch raises goosebumps and you whimper raising your knees and reaching down to grab handfuls of his bum to press him down harder against you.

“Tell me, baby.” He coaxes your desires forth, wanting to hear how much you want him just as much as you want to feel it. “Say it.”

“Harder, Bucky.” You plead, begging for contact. “I want you in deep.”

Your words make him growl and he leans down on his forearm as his metal hand reaches down to take hold of the right side of your ass. He holds it still as he shoves himself into you, roughly pounding into your nub.

You shut your eyes, your hands wandering up to his lower back as his movements become quick and wild.

“I love you so much.” Bucky gushes. “Come for me, kitten.”

You’re not sure whether it’s his declaration of love or the way he’s talking dirty—well, dirty for you, but your legs suddenly wrap around his waist and you pull him flush against your core as it explodes with fire and sparks.

Your head goes dizzy, whirling the world around you into fog.

Bucky keeps thrusting. Just a few more times before he groans and drops his head to your neck. He bites down, making you purr, as he erupts within you.

Ragged breathing, musty sex, and the fresh scent of soap fill the room. Sweating together, you cling to each other, desperate to hold on to this moment of bliss after the terrible low of your fight in the kitchen.

But reality comes crashing down as you wonder if you both forgot or just you? How could you let all the emotions get in the way of this one thing that you had sworn to keep in mind before you and Bucky had sex each time?

Bucky pulls out of you reluctantly and slides to the edge of the bed. You see him fumble between his legs as he pulls off the condom and tosses it into the wastebasket by his bedside table and a wave of relief washes over you.

For a moment you’d thought both of you had forgotten protection. Relaxed, you sigh. “Bucky?”

You reach for him, your fingers sliding along his lower back. He looks back at you and lays back down, turning to hover half over you and half on the bed. He kisses you lazily, still wrapped in the warm glow of his orgasm like you are.

“Tell me about your day.” Bucky says. “Why did your boss come here?”

You smile because you know he’s doing what he promised. It’s easy to do it right away, just after you had a fight about it. He’s taking interest in your life. Hopefully he’ll continue to do it when things are busier and time has passed.

“He was helping me carry the box on the dining room table home. It was heavy.”

“You should have called me.” Bucky argues lightly.

“I should have.” Yes. You really should have.

“What’s in the box?”

“Manuscripts. People send them in for publishing and I have to pick one to publish for the next Spring release. I’ll choose one in the next few weeks and then we’ll have the author come in to do edits. Then eventually we’ll publish it.” Bucky’s eyes sparkle with interest.

“Don’t agents have to send the manuscripts in? Or can anyone send them in?”

“Normally yeah, it’s agents. But we’re still a growing publisher so we take what we can get. If we ever get really big then maybe we’ll start to do it that way but if I’m honest, I like it this way.”

“Why?”

You shrug. “Because this way, I get to truly know the author. I call them. I talk to them. I set everything up. I get to see why they’re writing. What they want from it. I see the passion for what they do or lack thereof. It’s eye opening. Some people do it for the money which almost always means a shallow story. Some people do it because they really enjoy writing. Fusing words together in unique and beautiful ways. And others…my favorites…are the ones that like to tell stories.

“They’re not weighed down by the idea of perfect grammar or amazing prose.”

“Isn’t that important though?” Bucky wonders, relaxing beside you. You turn to look at him as he settles in, head on his pillow.

“Of course, you want to see that a writer has taken time to go back and fix things. Misspelled words are okay and sentence structure has always been flexible for me so long as it benefits the story, but when I read that first manuscript, I’m looking for a spark. A good story. Something people want to read. I’ve read some stories that are beautifully written that aren’t very interesting. Every once in a while, I find someone who’s good at what makes the writing pretty and also good at telling the story. But it doesn’t happen often.”

“Sounds like you love your job.” Bucky realizes, a small worry in his eyes.

“I really do.”

Speaking of jobs. On your bedside table, where Bucky’s phone is charging, it suddenly begins to ring.

You know that ringtone.

Bucky pushes himself up and rolls over you to reach for his phone. As he stretches towards it, you quickly react, and grab hold of his right wrist.

He looks down at you, slightly startled by your hold.

“Bucky,” You start, chewing your bottom lip. “Don’t answer it.”

Bucky stares at you then looks up towards his phone as it stops ringing and then shuts off. He meets your eyes again and slides his hand down until he can intertwine your hands together. He pulls both of your arms up over your head as he dips down to meet your lips in a clearly lustful kiss.

He reaches over, closer to his side of the bed than yours, and takes another metallic silver package in hand so that he can pound you into the bed once more.

You’d fallen asleep in Bucky’s arms, clinging to his strong torso, nestled in the nook between his metal arm and his side. He’s breathing heavily, fast asleep, and you’re only awake because you swear you just heard knocking.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

There it is again. Your eyes open a bit wider as you look up towards your bedroom door.

No. You think because you know what that is.

THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

Bucky shifts beside you, sitting upright, startled by the knocking. You’re already awake and you sit up with him.

He looks down at you, sleepy but happy to see you there.

Like instinct he leans down to kiss you, forgetting the knocking on the door, as if he needs to make sure you’re really there.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! “Buck!”

You groan and when Bucky pulls back, you whine. “No.”

Bucky sighs, hating to leave the bed but he does get up. He pulls on a pair of sweats then makes for the door. You rush to get to your feet, pulling your gray robe on. You quickly fasten it as you follow him but stop at the mouth of the hallway to glance towards the front door as Bucky pulls it open.

Sure enough, just as you’d first suspected the day after your wedding, if Bucky didn’t answer the phone then Steve would surely come and get him.

Here’s the proof that you were right. There’s Steve, looking serious, in full uniform.

“What is it, Steve?”

“We found him. I think we finally found him, Buck.”

Bucky’s relaxed body quickly shifts into mission mode and though you would normally admire the tight pull of his back muscles, the tension there means he’s already decided.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. We need you.”

“Give me five minutes.” Bucky leaves the door open for Steve to come in as he moves back towards you.

As he passes you, he gives you a quick look of apology as he caresses the right side of your face with his metal hand. You reach up to clutch it there but there is no holding him back when he’s decided to go.

He disappears back into your bedroom and you turn to give Steve a nice hateful glare.

How surprised had your neighbors been to spot Captain America walking up the stairs?

“Sorry, Y/N.” Steve apologizes, and it sounds like he means it.

You continue to frown as you move after Bucky and find him already dressed in his black Avengers garb. The spare that he keeps in the closet in case he should need it. It makes you feel better to see him at least appropriately armored but at the same time, you just want to keep him here with you.

He shoves a few more things into his duffel bag, reaches up to tie his hair up into a loose low bun, then after a minute he reaches into his duffel and pulls out a handgun. He places it on your bedside table.

You know that handgun. It’s the one he cleans on the dining room table. It’s got his name, Barnes, etched into the grip. It’s his favorite handgun.

“You keep that there. Steve is such an idiot, coming here wearing full uniform.” And you’re surprised at how angry Bucky sounds as he says Steve’s name.

“Why is he-?”

“Anyone who saw him walk in here will know that someone important lives here now. And when they see me walk out with him, it won’t be hard to guess who.”

You think back to the first week after you were married. News and internet articles had sprung up with stories about Bucky getting married. Everyone knew that he had a wife though no one knew who it was. They didn’t know where you lived with him, but they knew that somewhere out in the world there was a woman who’d married James Buchanan Barnes. Someone he loved.

Although the public still avoided Bucky, they gave him his space because he was—to some of them—still the Winter Soldier, they feared him. But Captain America? There would be pictures of him surfacing from this building within the hour.

“Why do I need the gun though?” You look at it, uncomfortable and worried about having to use it.

“I’ve been an idiot for not getting you ready for this possibility before. When I get back you and I are going to start training a bit. I’ll show you how to fight and how to shoot.” Bucky closes his duffel bag and throws it over his shoulder.

You’re too busy staring at the gun, suddenly terrified about someone showing up here to pick a fight with Bucky to find you alone.

Bucky’s in front of you, arms wrapped around you as he pulls you close. “You’re safe, here, Y/N. I’ll ask Tony if he can send someone to tighten up the security. Make it harder for someone to break in. The gun is just in case someone happens to get in. You point, hold the gun with both hands, Y/N, and squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull it. And don’t you dare close your eyes. You keep them wide open when you fire. Aim and shoot.”

“Bucky…” You’re suddenly scared of being here without him.

“I’m sorry I have to go so soon.” He sighs and pulls you into a mind-numbing kiss. When he pulls back, you’re breathless but your mind is alert and worried.

“Please be safe.” You beg. “I need you to come back to me, Bucky.”

“How can I do anything but come back to you when I’ve got such a beautiful and loving woman waiting for me?”

He hugs you, holding you tenderly to his chest as he tells you without words how much he doesn’t want to go either.

“I love you. And I’m so sorry I’ve been such an ass.”

“I love you.” You whisper back at him.

Bucky pulls away but takes your hand and walks with you into the living room. Steve gets to his feet and moves for the door.

“Sorry this is such a quick visit, Y/N.” Steve says.

“I hate you.” You tell him and Bucky smiles while Steve turns around just outside the door and looks offended.

“What did I do?”

You ignore him as Bucky stops at the door and turns to give you one last kiss. “Lock the door.”

After he and Steve are out of sight you shut the door and do it.

Thanks for reading!

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honeyedhoseok · 5 years

Text

Don’t You Need Me?

Genre | Angst, Taehyung x Female reader, friends->lovers->friends? au

Word Count | 9.6K

Summary | “Send me back in time, to those nights when we had it all / Will this come out right?” Set 1 year into Y/N and Hongbins relationship; You and Taehyung timidly rekindle your friendship online and then in person when Taehyung moves less than fifteen minutes away–which leads to dinner, wine and a sensual moment that was never supposed to happen.

Warnings | Language, slight smut (dry humping), mentions of weed and alcohol

A/N | Here’s the next part of The V2 Series, a flashback that details the first time Y/N and Taehyung ever hooked up after breaking up in high school. Thanks @sleevelessparkjimin for being my plot coordinator & helping me soooo much with this, you’re the best :* Enjoy! <3

— Set 1 year into your relationship with Hongbin —

You stare at the blinking cursor on your screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard of your laptop, stomach twisted in nervousness. The feeling either stems from the venti caramel macchiato that you just chugged on an empty stomach—which has been known to leave you anxious and trembling on more than one occasion—or, more accurately, it may have something to do with the decision you are currently contemplating.

Your eyes graze over the home screen of your Facebook, where you stopped scrolling in awe at a status update from a former . . . friend.

Kim Taehyung is feeling accomplished—with Kim Eon Jin and 2 others.

Underneath is a picture of Taehyung in a graduation cap, his parents flanking him on either side mirroring his signature smile with ones of their own. Taehyung had a reason to feel proud—in high school he’d sworn he wasn’t going to go to college; he’d said it wasn’t for him, it was for people who had done better than him and who actually had a chance at surviving two more years of education.

Like you, he’d said. You’re smart. You should definitely go back to school, baby.

The nickname echoes in your head. You can still hear the soft tone of it, the way sometimes he’d caress your cheek when he said it, the way he’d whine the word when he wanted you to get off the couch and get him something to drink because he didn’t want to miss a minute of the game, the way he’d make it come out of your own mouth in a more wanton way when you two were—

This, you think, is why after you break up with someone, you should delete them from all social media. And if you were at all smart like Taehyung thought you were, you would have done it a long time ago. Because then you wouldn’t be thinking of sending a congratulatory message to a person you hadn’t spoken to in over two years.

It could be simple, right? Just a “congrats,” nothing else. That wouldn’t hurt anything, would it?

Your fingers jump over the keyboard, itching to write the message and get it over with, so you place your hands under your legs. You glance around at the Starbucks cafe, trying to catch any suspicious eyes averting to yours, wondering why you are concentrating so hard on the tiny screen of your computer.

When your gaze is unmet, you look back at the screen, at that god damn blinking cursor that is mocking you in the comment section of Taehyung’s status. Why were you so scared? Two years was a lot of time to mature—and if you did it in a mature, nonchalant way, Taehyung would also take it as a mature compliment . . . right?

But then, who all would be able to see it? Everything that you commented on or liked on Facebook and any other social media always ended up on your friends timelines. A public comment wasn’t a good idea. A DM, instead? Or was that too personal? Too closed off? Too secret?

You groan outwardly, leaning back in your seat. A woman to your right reading a novel at a small table glances over at you, but doesn’t say anything.

“This is stupid,” you murmur to yourself quietly. “Just do it!”

You quickly pull up your chat and type Taehyung’s name into a new box and start your message:

Hey, congrats on graduating

Too brief. Do it again.

Hey, an Associates! That’s awesome! Always knew you would get there one day. Remember in high school when

Too long-winded. And too fucking happy. Again.

Hey, uh, just wanted to say congrats on the achievement

“UH”? Were you a bumbling moron?

Hey, long time no talk

You pause, biting your lip. That was casual, right?

Hey, long time no talk. Just wanted to congratulate you on getting your degree, and I hope you’ve been doing well :)

You let out a long breath of air from your nose, reading the two lines over and over again until you finally hit ‘Send,’ and close out of the app as quickly as you can. You close the lid of your laptop too, realizing for the first time that your heart is beating rapidly in your chest, pulse singing in your veins. It feels good, but you’re worried it won’t last long. What if he didn’t even answer back?

You don’t give yourself much time to dwell. You pack up your things, throwing away your empty venti cup in the trash can beside the door as you exit the cafe. You decide to give it twenty-four hours before you check to see if he read it, just to save yourself from disappointment and from looking over-eager to reply to him—if he decided to reply .

But Taehyung doesn’t care about either of those things, obviously, because as soon as you are settled into the front seat of your car, your phone buzzes with a message:

Y/N! Thanks so much. I never thought I’d get there, honestly. & it HAS been such a long time . . . how are you?

— 1 month later —

“Can you pause it?” you ask Yeonwoo. “I have to pee.”

She rolls her eyes. “This is like the third time!” she groans, but pulls the remote from underneath her blanket and hits pause. “We’re never going to finish the HP series at this point.”

You two were having a movie marathon during a dreary Saturday—as the movie paused, you could hear rain splatter heavily against the windows in the living room—and Yeonwoo had insisted you start the Harry Potter series from her favorite, The Goblet of Fire. You were actually a fan of The Prisoner of Azkaban, but when you suggested watching it first, Yeonwoo had acted like she hadn’t heard you.

“It’s the margaritas!” you yell, already halfway down the hallway to your bedroom. “Stop judging me!”

As you round the corner into your bedroom, you whip out your phone from your hoodie pocket, tapping twice on the screen to make it light up.

The first message you have is from Hongbin, an email sent thirty minutes ago:

I have a meeting tonight after work. I’m sorry I keep cancelling our anniversary dinner, but I promise I’ll make it up to you.

-Hongbin

He wasn’t allowed on his phone during work hours, so he’d resorted in the last few months to a distant, formal mode of communication that the computer on his desktop would allow him. You hated it, mostly because a message from work meant the inevitable—Hongbin was telling you he was getting off late and/or cancelling plans. Today it was both.

You use the bathroom and wash your hands, drying them off on a towel next to you before picking your phone back up. You bite your lip, reading over the message once more. Your anniversary was three weekends ago, and Hongbin and you still weren’t able to celebrate because of his demanding schedule. You just wanted some time with him, but Hongbin insisted on getting dolled up and taking you out—which led to reservations and a special time allotted that he, in turn, kept being unable to make.

You sigh. There’s nothing you can do—sending back a biting remark or getting mad would do nothing. Hongbin was working hard at his firm, determined to climb the ladder after his father. Who were you to complain about that process? He had drive, ambition, goals—and what did that matter in the face of his girlfriend wanting to spend a little time with him after a year of dating?

As you exit out of the email app, your phone vibrates in your hand, alerting a new message in a private Facebook chat. You click it open, revealing a smiling picture of Taehyung standing beside a road sign—one that you recognize well. Underneath the caption reads:

Guess who has two thumbs and just moved all their shit into an apartment here?

You break out into a grin instantly, fingers flying over the keyboard.

Shut UP! No fucking way! You got the job at the library???

Taehyung is typing . . .

Duh! Those fuckers want me to start Monday

I don’t have a bed frame or a comforter

My mattress is sitting on the floor with just a navy fitted sheet on it

You breathe out an airy laugh before sending your response.

Lmaooooo, poor kid

Congrats tho

That was so quick, you’re insane

It was too good of an opportunity to pass up!!

& thnx :) How’s your day going?

“Y/N, this century, please!” Yeonwoo yells from the living room. “Jesus.”

You send a quick movie marathon w/ Yeonwoo. Harry potter to Taehyung before tucking your phone back into your hoodie and walking back to the living room. You fall back on the couch, bundling up with your blanket and margarita glass.

“Sorry,” you say, giving her a smile. “Press play!”

Hongbin 9:36pm

Just getting home. I’m so tired

You roll your eyes at the message, throwing your phone back down onto your bed. You were cuddled up in a blanket, catching up on shows on your DVR while Yeonwoo was getting dressed for a night downtown. It was still raining, so you’d decided to stay in—but your roommate obviously didn’t care about her hair or herself getting wet whatsoever as she stepped into your room donning a short, black skirt.

“Is this cute?” she asks, turning around in a circle. “Maybe with a jean jacket or something?”

You nod. “What about that rugged one you just got from the thrift store a few days ago?”

She disappears again, some rustling coming from her room as she searches. “Are you sure you don’t want to go?” she calls. “We can pick one place and stay there, so we don’t get soaked!”

“I’m fine,” you say back, eyes trained on the TV. “I’m not really feeling it, just gonna watch some shows or something.”

Yeonwoo comes back into your room a few moments later, hair curled in pretty, loose ringlets and outfit complete with a skirt, floral top, jean jacket and boots.

“Good?” she asks.

“Cute,” you say. “You leaving now?”

“Yeah, I just called the Uber. I’ll let you know when I’m on the way home, okay?”

You nod, listening to the sound of her boots clunking down the hallway before the front door opens and closes. You sigh. You probably should have went with her, knowing how she gets, but you hope that for once she can handle herself without you. Or that one of her friends is playing the “mom” card for the night. You wanted to sulk for a little bit; if your boyfriend was going to cancel plans, you might as well sit inside and do nothing and it be completely his fault.

You settle back into your blankets, trying to refocus on your show when your phone vibrates again by your thigh. You’re thinking it’s Yeonwoo, saying she forgot to lock the front door, or Hongbin, wondering why you haven’t responded to his earlier messages—but it’s neither.

Video Call from Kim Taehyung…

You stare at the screen, bewildered. Looking back at you is the reflection of someone who should not be seen in video form—but you find yourself hitting the ‘Accept’ button, anyways. Taehyung and you don’t video chat, so this is new.

Taehyung’s face fills the screen immediately, and your heart jumps at the sight. He’s wearing a dark beanie, his ashy blonde locks sticking out from the front and sides a little. In an awkward silence, he blinks twice into the camera, making sure he isn’t frozen from his side of the connection.

“Y/N?” he says with caution, and your breath hitches quietly at the sound of your name coming out of his mouth after so long.

Of course, with you and Taehyung having reconnected on social media a month ago, you’d done your fair share of stalking his profile—looking at pictures, status updates, his tagged content—but seeing his face on the screen of your phone was something else entirely. You find yourself speechless.

His eyes, pretty and brown, search the camera unsurely.

“Are you frozen?” he asks again, shifting in his seat. “Hello?”

You finally break out of your trance, opening your mouth and shaking your head a little. “Hi,” you say quietly, watching Taehyung’s face brighten at the sound of your voice.

“Hey!” he says, grinning. “We had a bad connection for a minute, there.”

“Yeah.” You laugh lowly, nervously. “The internet here sucks, sometimes.”

“Yeah, same.” He moves around with his phone in his hand, placing the camera lower so that you get more of his chin and neck, the strong line of his jaw. In the background, you see plain white walls and kitchen cabinets, making you realize where he is, finally.

“Is this your new place?” you ask, sitting up in bed. “Let me see.”

“Yep!” He taps his screen twice, turning the camera around to the kitchen.

It’s a small, cozy room with dark granite counters and white walls, giving it a modern feel. Taehyung gets up from his seat and walks into the living room, giving you the tour. A small, dark couch sits against one wall with a ton of boxes surrounding it.

“I haven’t gotten much done,” he says, laughing nervously. “Moving by yourself is so hard. I had no idea.”

“You did everything alone?” you ask. “Your parents didn’t help?”

He doesn’t answer, moving past the living room to his bedroom, which is exactly like he explained earlier with a single mattress sitting against one wall, a night stand placed beside it and a desk on an adjacent wall.

“I was thinking of putting my bed in this corner,” he explains, “then it wouldn’t be up against that window and I’d have some space to do stuff in the middle.”

“Like what?” you tease. “Dance?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Taehyung says, laughing. He taps the screen again so the camera is back on his face, and your stomach clenches at how he prettily smiles into the camera. “You never know what can happen at casa de Taehyung.”

You roll your eyes, which only makes his smile grow brighter.

“But yeah, my parents helped me move the big stuff and then they left.” He frowns. “Now I have to unpack everything before I work on Monday.”

You shrug. “Well, you don’t have to. But I guess that would make the most sense, huh?”

“Yep.” He sighs. “Oh! I have a reason for this phone call that I keep forgetting to ask you.”

A little part of you feels relieved. It felt odd but good talking to Taehyung, but you were beginning to wonder why he’d chosen videoing instead of a text or phone call—either way, you were happy he was taking your mind off of other things for the time being.

You watch him walk back through his apartment to the kitchen, where he turns the camera on a bouquet of flowers sitting on the table.

“How do I keep these alive?” he asks. “Someone gave them to me as a housewarming gift—don’t ask why, I have no idea. I mean, seriously,” he turns the camera back on himself, quirking a thick eyebrow, “do I look like a flowers kind of guy?”

You giggle. “I mean, maybe?” you say. “Remember in high school when Mina asked you to prom? She went all out with it, too! She got someone to record it and she brought you flowers—”

“And I had to gently let her down because I’d just asked you out a week earlier?” he finishes for you, cringing at the thought. “God, that was terrible.”

“Hey, I told you to go with her!” you counter, laughing. “I didn’t care about prom whatsoever, but you made me go anyways.”

Taehyung shrugs, giving you a soft smile. “But you were so pretty in your dress, so I don’t wanna hear it.”

Your next laugh dies in your throat, but you manage a smile at Taehyung’s compliment. You two are quiet for a beat, eyes focused on each other in the camera lens as you relive the moment in your memories.

“The flowers need a vase,” you say, finally. “Do you have one?”

Taehyung cocks his head to the side. “If I’m not a flower guy, why the hell would I have a vase handy?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes again at his ever-present sarcasm. “Shut up.”

“Should I put them by the window?” he asks, getting up from his chair. “In the morning, they can—”

“No!” you say, a little louder than you mean to. Taehyung freezes on your screen. “I mean, direct sunlight will make them wilt faster. Don’t you know anything?”

“I know you’re being very unhelpful to my situation,” he says, tsking. “Do you have a vase?”

“Yeah?”

“Then bring it to me.”

You pause, feeling your heartbeat increase as you ponder the offer. Bring it to him? As in to his house? As in seeing each other for the first time in two years?

“Oh, uh—yeah,” you stutter, eyebrows furrowing. “I guess I could. I mean, you said you needed help unpacking . . . before Monday . . . right?”

Taehyung nods, keeping his expression even. “I’ll make it worth your while—I can make us lunch or dinner or something. Whenever you’re free to help tomorrow.”

You’re still quiet, so he tacks on: “Don’t feel like you have to or anything!”

“No, no.” You shake your head. “Sunday is good.” Hongbin was going on a golfing trip with some coworkers and Yeonwoo would be passed out until the afternoon time. “I can come, and I’ll bring you a vase.”

You’re glad you agreed, because the way Taehyung’s face brightens—a wide smile splitting his face—makes you feel like you’d do anything to see it happen more often.

“Great,” he says. Then he sighs, and looks past the camera around at his apartment. “Well, I’m going to try to get some stuff done in the kitchen tonight so we have somewhere to eat tomorrow.” His eyes meet yours once more: twinkling, hopeful, a little mischievous, but that’s just Taehyung. “I’ll see you then?”

“Yeah,” you hear yourself say, “See you then.”

His voice is a soft hum to your ears, “Goodnight, Y/N,” right before he disconnects the call.

The screen goes back to Facebook, and you stare at it for a little while, relishing in the excited rush flowing through your veins, at the familiarity of it all, at one thought turning over in your brain for the rest of the night: you were going to see Taehyung tomorrow.

You tell Taehyung you won’t be headed over to his place until after lunchtime, but your excited nerves have you awake at eight. You stare at the ceiling fan rotating in the center of your bedroom for a while, watching a single blade spin while your mind reels similarly until you feel dizzy and have to close your eyes again. It was just Taehyung, and you were just doing him a favor. So why did it feel like you were keeping a secret?

After watching a little TV in the comfort of your bed, you get up and take a shower, going through your normal routine at a leisurely pace to help waste some time. You grab a granola bar off your desk and eat it while you pick out an outfit. When you finally step out of your room and into the living room, you’re surprised to see Yeonwoo stretched out on the couch, a white sheet mask covering her face as she watches TV.

“Hangover?” you comment, snickering. “You’re up early.”

“So are you,” she snaps back, but her usual biting remark is softened by the stiffness of her mouth as she tries not to move too much and disturb the mask. “Where you going?”

You decide to tell the truth, seeing if it helps ease the building anxiety in your stomach. And to cover your tracks for later, whatever later was. “I’m helping an old friend move into their apartment.”

Yeonwoo sits up, eyeing your outfit—a pair of plain jeans, a crew neck sweater and sneakers. When she’s satisfied with your believable clothes, she relaxes, shrugging her shoulders. “Sounds like a shitty way to spend a Sunday, but okay. Have fun.”

You laugh with her, trying to sneak out of the house without any further questions. Just as you open the door, she hits you with another: “What’s with the vase?”

“Housewarming gift!” you quip, stepping outside. “Bye!”

You realize on the way over that you’re making a mistake.

You should have told Hongbin. You weren’t just going to help an old friend, you were going to help an old ex. A person who, foolishly, in high school, you thought you were going to spend a good portion—if not the rest—of your life with.

You look down at the housewarming gift in the passenger seat of your car: a bottle of white Riesling with a gold bow around it, and your stomach twists in nausea. As the GPS directs you to make a u-turn because you just missed the exit to Taehyung’s house, you find yourself pulling off onto the side of the road.

Hongbin answers on the fifth ring.

“Hey,” you say timidly, biting your lip for a second. “I just wanted to call you—I’m like, I don’t even know what I’m doing right now—”

A roar of laughter erupts in your ear, cutting you off. You hear Hongbin excusing himself and some rustling before he finally addresses you. “Y/N, hey,” he says, rushed. “What’s up? I told you I was busy today with work.”

It’s a response so fucking typical of him you can’t even give him the satisfaction of getting mad. Here you are, trying to give him some insight on your worries and he’s too busy chasing a promotion to care.

“Seriously? You’re not at work, Hongbin,” you remind him sourly. “You’re on a golfing trip kissing ass.”

“And if we ever expect to move in together, I’m going to have to get back to kissing said ass, Y/N,” he snaps back just as easily. “I’ve got to go.”

“Fine. Forget it. Bye.”

You hit end on the call and throw your phone down in the seat next to you, listening to the harsh sound of it smacking against glass. You wince, and although you don’t want to, you glance down to make sure you haven’t broken the two gifts beside you.

Taehyung. Your annoyance at Hongbin drains and nervousness replaces it—but it’s a feeling you’d rather have a thousand times over than one of neglect. So you put the car back into drive, make the designated u-turn the GPS is telling you to, and get back on the road to Taehyung’s house.

Which building/room?

Taehyung is typing . . .

1100/425!

You grab the wine in one hand and the vase in the other, making the short walk from the parking lot to the building lobby. You take a deep breath as you step into the elevator, letting it fill your chest, lungs, stomach, and letting it out through your nose only when the shaft lurches to a halt. A ding sounds as the elevator stops on the fourth floor, and all too quickly you are standing in front of room 425.

With your heartbeat pounding against your rib cage, you rap your knuckles softly on the surface. You hear heavy footsteps and clicks of the lock, and then Taehyung is swinging the door open, his face full of delight to see you standing on the other side.

He’s traded the beanie and sweater from yesterday for freshly washed hair that sits in voluminous, messy pieces on his forehead, a grey zip up hoodie, and black sweats. He looks so reminiscent of times when you two were in high school hanging out at his house that you feel relieved—if anything, he was still the Taehyung that loved to be in baggy, comfortable clothes.

“You made it!” he says, grinning. “And you brought the vase!”

He steps back and gestures for you to come inside, which you do, cautiously. You glance at the floor, following his bare feet into the kitchen, watching as they come to a stop in front of the oven.

You set the vase down on the table, still gripping the wine awkwardly in your left hand. “I um—brought this, for you,” you say, holding the bottle out towards him. “Hope you still like sweet white.”

Taehyung smiles softly, taking the gift from you. “Of course I do. Maybe we can crack it open after dinner.”

You nod, and the space between you two falls into an uncomfortable silence. Taehyung tries to make it not as obvious that he’s taking you in—eyes trailing from your head to your toes and back again, taking note of all the changes—but you can feel his gaze on you even as you look away, bringing an embarrassing heat to your already warm face.

You clear your throat. “How much did you get done last night?”

Taehyung seems to remember why you are there, finally, pushing off his relaxed stance against the counters and walking into the living room.

“The kitchen is pretty finished, I think,” he says. “But there are so many boxes in the living room that need to be unpacked.”

Your eyes trail over the ones stacked on top of each other on the couch, blocking any and all possible ways of relaxing in front of the flat screen TV already perched on an entertainment stand.

You sigh. “Well, let’s start with those, then.”

You two fall back into your old rhythm quickly. You’re grateful for this, because the first thirty minutes are spent quietly unpacking, neither of you being sure what to say to the other until Taehyung finally starts talking about his library interview.

You catch back up on what each other have been up two since high school: you, working full time and just recently deciding to go back to school, and Taehyung, living with his parents while he took day classes and saved up money to move out. In two years time, both of you have grown up so much; but also not, by the way you still reminisce about the past, teasing each other about old embarrassments and times together.

Taehyung has matured. He has hardened in places—the line of his jaw and playful glint in his eyes both sharper, body filled out and lean underneath the thin t-shirt that you see after he sheds his hoodie, voice sultry and deep, an air of confidence that follows his movements that you aren’t used to seeing. You wonder what changed him, but you’re fine with whatever it was because this is a good look for him.

“We’re so stupid for moving out so early,” he says later, flopping back on the now-cleared couch. His face glows with a radiant warmth, his hairline a little sweaty from moving furniture around in the living room. You’d offered to help but you couldn’t lift much—and Taehyung had insisted he could do it by himself.

“Hey, Yeonwoo and I are doing just fine,” you counter, frowning. You take a seat on the opposite end of the couch, pulling your legs underneath you. “You should have gotten a roommate. It would make everything easier.”

“I don’t want to live with anyone, though,” he replies.

“Why?”

He shrugs. “It’s hard.”

“So is paying rent by yourself,” you add, laughing. “I think you’re hard to get along with, and that’s why you don’t want a roommate.”

Taehyung raises a questioning eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Explain.”

“Well for starters,” you begin ticking each point off on your fingers, “everything has to be neat and tidy. You hate mess.”

“This is true. Go on.”

“And,” you add another finger, “You survive off of coffee and chicken wraps like a weirdo, so a roommate would starve going grocery shopping with you.”

Taehyung rolls his eyes, but lets you have that one. “Mhm, and?”

“And, you smoke. Not everyone likes that.”

Taehyung smiles, knowing he has the one-up on you. “That, my dear, is where you’re wrong,” he says. “I quit.”

You sit up a little. “What? For real?”

“It’s too expensive,” he says. “I do something a little cheaper, now.”

“Cigarettes?” you say, unable to hide the disgust in your tone.

Taehyung reaches in the pocket of his hoodie thrown over the back of the couch. “Cigars,” he says, brandishing a rectangular box.

You furrow your brows. “But you used to smoke these before.”

“And now they’re weed-less,” he counters, giving you an impish grin. “Here, smell.”

He takes one out and hands it to you. It’s skinny—not the giant ones that mob bosses smoke in movies—and you bring it to your nose with caution. On the inhale, your senses are flooded with a sweet, smoky smell, something reminiscent of fruit and maybe, firewood.

You hand it back to him and he digs around in his pocket for a lighter. You reach for the box instead. “Summer blend?” you read.

“Yeah, they’re pretty good.”

He lights it up, takes a long inhale. You watch the tip glow red, watch the way Taehyung’s mouth purses around the end before he blows out a continuous exhale of smoke. Even though you’re on the other end of the couch, the smell hits you immediately and you realize it’s one that has been floating in the air since you got there. Earlier, when Taehyung brushed past you to get another box you would smell it, and you thought it was just the scent of his deodorant or body wash. Somehow, knowing it comes from a cigar makes it more enticing, and you watch curiously as Taehyung takes another slow drag.

His eyes meet yours through the skinny smoke hovering in the air and he raises an eyebrow. “Want to try?”

You feel yourself reaching for it before you’ve entirely made up your mind. You smoked a cigarette, once. You hated it. But that wasn’t with Taehyung watching you intently from the end of the couch, so you find yourself more inclined to like cigars as you bring the plastic tip to your mouth.

You cough a little on the exhale, but otherwise it doesn’t feel like anything. You find yourself wishing for something a little stronger, and your eyes drift to the unopened bottle of wine on the table as you hand the cigar back to Taehyung. His eyebrows raise questioningly at you, but otherwise he doesn’t say anything.

You gesture to the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?” You pause. “Or late lunch, rather?”

Taehyung scratches the back of his neck lazily. “Umm—”

“You didn’t buy anything, did you?” you guess with a sigh. “So typical of a chicken-wrap-and-coffee guy.”

“What? No.” He laughs. “I said I was going to cook for you but it’s going to take a second. Is that okay?”

“Oh.” You perk back up. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Great.” He gives you a smirk. “But you’re right about the chicken wrap thing—I'm also a dying-vase-of-flowers guy,” he adds jokingly, getting up from the couch and walking towards the dining room table. He puts his cigar out in a little ash tray on the table, touching the wilted bouquet before spinning on his heel to look at you. “Can we salvage these?”

“I suppose I can work my magic,” you say playfully. “You start cooking.”

“Deal.”

While Taehyung pulls pots, pans, and ingredients from the cabinets, you work on cutting the stems on the flowers shorter. As you run them under cold water in the sink, Taehyung looks on from your side.

“Girls must be born with the ability to take care of things,” he hums appreciatively.

You smile a little and try not to let him see it as you pull dead leaves and wilted petals off before finally, sticking all the stems in the clear, glass vase you brought from your apartment.

“Pretty?” you ask.

Taehyung turns around from where he’s chopping vegetables at the counter. “Perfect,” he agrees. “You’ve earned a glass of wine.”

“You say that like I didn’t buy it,” you snort, rolling your eyes.

“Hey, it’s my housewarming gift,” he says. “But I’m willing to share.”

You grab a glass from the cabinet Taehyung points to, thanking every instinct under the sun that you thought to get a bottle that had a screw-on top. Without looking for it, you know Taehyung wouldn’t have a wine opener.

“What are you making?” you ask.

“Stir fry,” he says. “I figured it would be quick and easy. That okay?”

You sip quietly and stand beside Taehyung as he chops, looking at the graceful way in which he handles food. His hands, big and tan, work with a knife flawlessly. You can’t help but wonder where he learned the skill—in high school he hadn’t known how to cook eggs properly.

He gets you to pour some wine in a separate glass for him that he sips on occasionally. You’re glad you thought about buying it—somehow having a drink in your hands eases the awkward staleness in the room that seems to creep back in during silences. He asks you a few more questions while he prepares—what was the best place to eat in town, what was the nightlife like, what was there to do for fun—and you rattle off what you little you know.

Lastly, he pulls out a small package of white mushrooms and begins slicing them. When he sees the uneasy expression on your face at the addition of a certain hearty vegetable, he shakes his head.

“I’m cooking them in a separate pan, love,” Taehyung murmurs quietly, brow furrowed in concentration. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it, casually tacking on the old pet name onto the end, but you’re glad he doesn’t, because the shock on your face would tell everything.

He hasn’t forgotten anything about you or your preferences. The thought pulls at invisible strings on your insides, but it’s not the same anxiousness as earlier. It’s more of a warmth, an appreciation, a heartfelt emotion that has been silently gnawing at the back of all your interactions since you stepped foot in his apartment. You missed this.

You down what’s left of the wine in the bottom of your glass, hoping the alcohol will take that tight feeling in your throat with it as it travels to your stomach.

“Shit, I forgot to cut up the broccoli!” Taehyung says suddenly. “Y/N can you do that while I get these mushrooms frying? They’re going to take longer.”

You nod, going to the refrigerator. Taehyung puts a pan on the stove and turns on the burner, digging around for a spatula to cook with as you grab the knife and get to work. Somehow, you forget everything you’ve ever learned about cooking or cutting, and a few seconds into slicing the broccoli stem, the tip of the paring knife goes right through the tip of your index finger.

“Ow, fuck!” you say, dropping the knife immediately and cradling your injured finger with your other hand. It oozes blood and you step back from the cutting board to save the food.

Taehyung is at your side immediately. “You okay?” He cuts off the stove burner and rushes out of the kitchen. “Run it under some water, I’ll get the first aid kit!”

It isn’t bad, but it’s going to need a band-aid if you expect to carry on the night without a huge mess. You watch the dark red liquid start to run down your finger so you walk out of the kitchen to avoid getting blood in that sink and opt for the bathroom connected to Taehyung’s bedroom instead.

“I know the first aid kit is around here somewhere,” he murmurs as you walk through, his back to you as he bends over a few boxes stacked in the corner of his room.

You turn the sink on and rinse off the blood pooling at the end, blotting it dry with a square of toilet paper. Taehyung walks into the bathroom with the first aid kit just as you are closing the lid on the toilet, sitting on the seat as you apply light pressure to the cut.

“Is it bad?” he asks, crouching down in front of you. He pulls some ointment out of the kit and flips your hand over, cradling it with his much bigger one as he inspects the damage.

“It’s fine, I think,” you say, trying hard not to show the way tingles are shooting up your arm as Taehyung spreads a small amount of ointment on your finger, hands dancing and caressing your skin with care as he tends to it. “Sorry that I’m so awful at using a knife.”

He looks up at you, giving you a pretty, genuine smile. “It’s okay, I should have remembered—last time we tried to cook together it ended in a disaster, too.”

There’s a beat of silence—partly because you are racking your brain trying to remember the specific time Taehyung is referring to, and partly because suddenly, his face is close to yours for the first time of the entire night and you can see everything that you missed about Taehyung: the chocolate irises that stare happily back at you, the freckle that dots the tip of his nose that you used to kiss over and over, the softness of his pink lips and the way they pull back over a set of straight, beautiful teeth and send a warm smile your way.

And then his head is bent again, the moment gone as quickly as it came as he focuses back on the task at hand. He grabs a thin band-aid from the kit and works on unwrapping it, letting go of your fingers for the time being.

“Thanks for this,” you say, finally. “And thanks for inviting me over, I’m really—” you pause, licking your dry lips and trying to swallow the lump that’s suddenly formed in your throat, “I’m glad I got to see you.”

Taehyung doesn’t look up immediately at the confession—instead, he lets it linger quietly in the air of his cramped bathroom as he peels the paper strips off the sides of the bandaid. He wraps it around your finger gingerly, dropping the trash in the waste basket that sits beside the toilet. Still crouched in front of you, Taehyung pulls your hand up, fingertips aligning with his as if measuring your hand sizes before he intertwines them between yours. He gives your hand a squeeze like this, and you find it hard to look away as your eyes meet.

“Me too, Y/N,” he says softly. “I missed you.”

The quietness of Taehyung’s apartment lays easily on the conversation, covering the confession like a warm blanket. Your face is hot, and you can’t tell if it’s because of the wine or the intensity in which Taehyung is staring at you, still crouched in between your legs and holding your hand with his own.

When his eyes lower from yours finally, you realize you had been holding your breath the whole time, and you let it out quietly through your nose. Taehyung seems to deflate in front of you as well—deciding against whatever was rolling in his mind and making his eyebrows furrowed, as he loosens his grip on your hand and moves to straighten up.

But you don’t want him to move yet. You want to stay in this atmosphere, in this pulse-racing closeness with Taehyung because it’s a feeling that hasn’t coursed through your veins in a long, long time. You tug him back into place and he stutters at the movement, opening his mouth to say something but you don’t let him.

You just want to touch him, to feel him underneath the weight of your fingertips, to run your hand across the tan, smooth skin of his cheek. The feeling is so strong you can’t decide a solid reason why you shouldn’t. So you untangle your hand from his and rake it through the long, blonde strands of his hair, scratching lightly at the back of his neck where you know he likes it. Taehyung’s eyes close from pleasure, familiarness—and when he opens them, you know he’s lost the battle with himself from the fire lit behind his brown irises. You don’t mind, because you lose the same battle when you decide to lean in, using your hand resting on the back of Taehyung’s neck to guide his lips to yours.

The kiss is timid at first, a testing of the waters with closed mouths pressed against each other because neither of you are sure what is happening, or if it should be happening. But when Taehyung brings his hands up to cup the sides of your face, breaking away for just a second to reposition so that his lips are slanted across yours in a harder, more urgent kiss—all sensibility you had leaves the room.

Taehyung pulls you up from your sitting position as he straightens his legs from crouching, using the opportunity to bring you closer and wrap his arms around your waist while his lips graze feverishly across your own. It’s been over two years without pressing your lips against his, but the moment they touch, everything comes back. Taehyung kisses you to leave you breathless, his tongue easily slipping in after a few moments, lacing with your own in a way that is familiar but exciting and new at the same time.

You’re reminded of the mushrooms suddenly, and that Taehyung hasn’t forgotten anything about you like this, either, despite some time apart: the way you loved it when he cradled your face with one hand while his other wrapped around your waist, cocooning you in his warmth and pressing you against his lean body; kissing you slow, but hot and needy to where your body can’t help but feel like melted ice cream in his hands; the way you loved it when he pulled back and looked at you, gauging your reaction to it all, even when he knew exactly what he was doing to you before diving back in with eagerness that made your heart skip.

When you break away to get some air, Taehyung only moves his attention to the skin of your neck, peppering kisses down your jawline until he reaches your pulse point, suckling on the skin lightly there. You close your eyes, tilting your head back to encourage him further, a breathy sigh releasing from between your lips at the warmth of his mouth.

Somewhere along the sucking and nipping and feverish, open-mouth kisses on your skin, Taehyung begins walking you back through the bathroom door frame and into his bedroom. You stumble with him towards the bed, unable to take your hands off of each other for fear that the moment will be ruined and unable to be recaptured with quite the same amount of passion. Neither of you speak, either, for the same reasons, you suppose--but you couldn’t say anything if you wanted; Taehyung doesn’t give you a chance with the way his mouth dances across yours.

Taehyung lightly pushes your shoulders once you’re at the edge of his mattress that sits on the floor—sans bed frame—and you lower yourself down as he follows you, covering your body with all of his. He positions himself perfectly between your legs so that his hard cock sits right against your center, placing pressure on your most sensitive bits, and Taehyung milks a slight moan from your mouth when he ruts against you.

Your clasp the sides of his face, bringing his lips back to yours with fervor unmatched to any time you’d been kissed in the past two years. While Taehyung licks inside of your mouth, your hands roam underneath his thin, white T-shirt, fingernails dragging along the skin of his back in a light scratch that has him groaning in the back of his throat. He leaves your mouth again to nip along your collarbones, bringing one of his hands up to pull down the collar of your sweater and give himself more access.

It’s hot in his room, and not because the A/C isn’t working—in between closing your eyes, you see the vent on the ceiling right above your heads—but your skin is warm all over your body, a feeling that only comes with the circumstance of Taehyung between your legs. You roll your hips upward to meet his, making his mouth stutter in the marks of distinction it was making along your chest. He sits up, kneeling between your legs and looking at you with curious eyes. Taehyung’s lips are swollen from all the kissing and his hair is mussed from your fingertips running through it, but in this moment, you’ve never been more attracted to him.

You tug at the bottom of his shirt and Taehyung snatches it over his head with ease, smirking when your eyes roam over the tan, lean planes of his chest and stomach. His shoulders have widened and broadened, but he’s still managed to keep a slender, boyish figure over the years; you want to run your hands over every crevice of his body and re-remember all the lines so that when this moment between you two is done, you can revisit the memory over and over and over.

When Taehyung leans back over you to connect your lips again, you roll over his body before he can, pushing him flat on his back and swinging your leg over so that you’re straddling his waist. Though Taehyung looks surprised at first at the sudden dominance, his eyebrows slowly return to their normal position on his forehead as you lean down to kiss him once more.

He melts underneath the brush of your mouth, his hands rubbing up and down your thighs caging him on either side of his body. While you trace the underside of his jaw with your tongue, he breathes out, “God, I missed you,” while his hands roam upward, grabbing what he can of your ass through the jeans you have on. The movement makes you jump in surprise and Taehyung laughs a little at the way you pull back from him to look at the playfulness in his eyes before he leans up and kisses you on the mouth chastely.

With his hands spread across your backside, Taehyung pulls your hips towards him, causing you to grind against his hard cock that sits beneath the crotch of his grey sweats. You close your eyes as Taehyung’s tongue sneaks out to tease against yours, coaxing you with the warmth of his mouth and his lap to continue your ministrations.

“Tae,” you breathe out, bowing your head as you continue to grind on him.

Your panties are slick with your wetness, sticking to you uncomfortably underneath your jeans but you’re too lost in the haziness of the moment to do anything about it. You realize how pathetic you might sound, moaning because of the friction between so many clothes, but when you open your eyes and look at Taehyung, staring half-lidded back at you and breathing heavily—you couldn’t care less. His gaze sends a knot coiling in your stomach, tightening with every roll of your hips.

When you moan his name again shamelessly, Taehyung sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, closing his eyes as if fighting with himself for what he wants to say—but then he loses when the words escape his plump lips.

“What is it, baby?” he murmurs. “Why don’t you take these off?” He pats his hands where they rest against your butt, squeezing once again through the material.

The thought flashes in your head of what underwear you wore today—certainly not a fuck me pair—and try to think of how Taehyung would react to seeing your simple, baby blue cotton panties.

“Hm?” he asks, letting his hand come down on your ass in a harder smack this time—still encouraging the roll of your hips against his cock. “Take them off, I want to touch you.” He pauses, fighting the groan building in the back of his throat. “Wanna—make you feel good, Y/N.”

Hongbin is never this forward with you—he wasn’t much of an ass guy in the first place, so he would never do this—and since it had been a while since you two shared a passionate moment because of his work schedule, you couldn’t remember what it was like with Taehyung overpowering those memories with his sensual, fiery touches and narrations.

You want to get completely lost in the moment, but you can’t. Hongbin—he floods back into your brain, unwarranted and at the utmost wrong time he possibly could. It’s all happening so fast—but not fast enough. Your mind takes over instead of your body, your wants, and you open your eyes from their closed state, taking in the sight before you:

Taehyung, underneath you. Shirtless. Small, pink marks covering his neck and chest from your mouth. From your mistakes. From your infidelity. You snatch your hands back from where they rest on his stomach, guilt flooding your system as the fog in your brain thins. Taehyung’s eyes open to anxiously search yours, and he knows immediately what has happened in the last few, precious seconds.

“Taehyung—” you gasp, moving off him and scooting away, off the mattress and toward the wall of his bedroom. When the cold, hard material presses against your back, you realize how far your shirt was pushed up—how close you were to taking it off with your pants following shortly after, and it only makes you feel worse.

“Y/N,” Taehyung says, rushing to crawl after you on his hands and knees. He cradles your cheeks between his hands, brushing away trails of tears you didn’t even know you were crying. “Y/N, I’m sorry—fuck, I’m so fucking sorry. I—” he pauses, running a hand through his air, looking past you with far off eyes. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, god. Fuck!”

You run a shaky hand through your hair, blinking away tears and moving your head side to side in disbelief.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, pushing his hands away. “I have to go—I have to leave, I’m—” you push up from the floor, walking on shaky legs towards Taehyung’s bedroom door.

He grabs his shirt and is after you in a flash, reaching out to capture your wrist in his before you can make it far. “Y/N, wait a second, we should talk about this.”

You pull out of his loose grip and he lets you, watching you with worried eyes as you put on your shoes and jacket by the door.

“Y/N, please,” he says, and you can hear the hopelessness in his voice. It makes you pause and look up at him, but then your eyes zero-in on the marks on his chest, at the shirt in his hand, and your eyesight blurs with tears again.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Taehyung,” you say. “I’m sorry, this was—this was a mistake.”

Taehyung flinches at the sound of the word, but he nods slowly in understanding. “I’m sor—”

You manage a soft me too, cutting him off before he can say it and then you are rushing out, pulling Taehyung’s front door shut behind you. Just before it closes you catch a glimpse of his kitchen, at the pans on the stove sitting with the cold, forgotten remainders of a dinner that never should have happened in the first place.

— One week later —

“You all right?” Yeonwoo asks as she sits across from you at the kitchen table, setting a mug of steaming hot coffee in front of your tightly clasped hands. This is about the millionth time she’s asked since you got back from Taehyung’s last Sunday—it’s annoying, but at least you’re getting to practice your lying by having to convince her over and over.

“I’ll be great as soon as I drink this,” you say, giving her a smile right before the cup touches your lips. You welcome the burning feeling of the coffee, coating the lies and guilt that keep building up in your throat whenever she asks you.

Yeonwoo hums in agreement, naively, and takes a sip from her own mug.

Of course, you couldn’t tell her what had happened—you couldn’t even process the thoughts yourself, much less explain to someone else what made you cross such a terribly huge line in your seemingly stable relationship. You know you’d wished for it in the moment, but now you want the unrelenting memories of Taehyung to stop flashing through your mind at any given moment and give your poor, guilty heart a fucking break.

“Want to go shopping today?” Yeonwoo asks, not looking up from scrolling on her phone. “I need a new pair of boots.”

You take another sip of your coffee in contemplation, glancing at your own phone sitting a few inches away on the table. Taehyung hadn’t contacted you once since then, and it was eating at your nerves a little bit—shouldn’t he have something to say about it?

“We can go,” you say, finally. “But I need to make a phone call, first.”

Yeonwoo nods and doesn’t look up as you leave the room. You walk in your bedroom, phone in hand and shut the door behind you. For good measure, you lock it, just in case Yeonwoo decides to burst in while you sit Indian style in the middle of your floor and try to figure your conflicted emotions out.

You tap the Facebook app on your home screen and type ‘T’ into the search bar—the first person that pops up is Kim Taehyung from your incessant checking of his timeline within the last week. All he’d posted was a few normal pics of himself sightseeing around town and going to work; it was all boring, mundane things that didn’t help the insatiable craving to reach out to him, but at least he looked cute in his new work button-ups.

You pull up your chat, staring at the last message between you two:

Which building/room?

1100/425!

You knew where his house was, you could just have this conversation to him in person—the thought has you shaking your head before you even finish it. If you couldn’t control yourself last time, how the hell would it be any different during a second round of being alone together?

But, deep down, did you really want it to be any different? The thought had been scaring you for a week straight.

You drag both of your hands down your face in anxiety, pressing your knuckles against your eyes until you see black and static stars. You cross and uncross your legs, pick your phone up and put it down a few times before you finally click in the space to type and let your thoughts formulate freely:

Taehyung, I’m sorry that I left last Sunday and we didn’t really get to talk about what happened. But I’ve had some time to think. Honestly, I think the only thing we can do is put it behind us and move on. I’m sorry that it happened and it shouldn’t happen again. But meeting up made me realize how much I’ve missed you, and I think I kind of need you around as my friend. I’m really sorry, and I hope you still want to talk to me after this. I understand if you don’t, though.

You press send and throw your phone away from you, pulling your knees up to your chest and burying your face in the space between your legs and chest. You breathe out shallowly, thinking over in your head what you just texted and hoping it didn’t make you sound like a pitiful, stupid, selfish idiot.

You knew it was wrong of you to ask Taehyung to come back in your life after what happened between the two of you. Hell, you know it was wrong to bring him back into your life after two years of radio silence between the two of you. What happened was more than just a moment—it was a melding of hidden feelings, of unfulfilled desires and the unrelenting urge to be with someone who knew your body better than you did.

You loved Hongbin. But Taehyung set a fire within your ribcage that billowed outwards and swallowed everything you thought you wanted in your relationship with your current boyfriend; Taehyung, in just a few short hours, had made you forget all of it, made you cross lines you swore you never would because you knew what it felt like to be cheated on. But something about it had felt so right in the moment—

No. If you were going to do this, you had to do it right. You had to be Taehyung’s friend. You had to bury the moment you two shared along with all your dirty desires and do what was right.

But then again, you never were the best at making decisions. The thought passes through your mind as you hear the distinct, vibrating hum of your phone across the floor a few feet away from you, and you snatch it up with sweating palms, a racing heart, and an unrelenting sense of hope blossoming in your chest.

Before the message even pops up, you know, without a single fucking doubt in your mind, that this moment is going to change everything.

Taehyung is typing...

#taehyung x reader #bts x reader #taehyung angst #bts scenarios #bts smut #kim taehyung smut #bts angst #honeyedhoseok #the v2 series #don't you need me?#v2 flashback

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