#last year i was crying all through awards
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hey scioly side of tumblr 😀🫠
remember how i was the bitchless hoe who posted abt writing scioly based fanfic last yr?? yeah this yr i dragged my boyfriend to regionals as a sub LMAOOOOO
sharing this cos it was the funniest experience of my life but AJSDHEWKHWKJEF tell me why everyone was scared I would be distracted cos he was around but then I placed high in all the events he walked me to 🥱🥱💪🏼💪🏼!! actually in love w him cos like he rly gave up his saturday to compete in events he got no time to prep for and hang out w me 😭❤️ i was supposed to spend 100% of my time grinding for astro but watching him stress over code and experimental was so ❤️❤️ he cant come to states tho so im 😭😭
#scioly#YIPPIEEE#love my bf sm bro#the absolute 180 i went through#last year i was crying all through awards#this year i was just so happy cos he was there#science olympiad#if my president sees this hi hello yes i definitely was grinding astro 100% of the time#we did towers together!!#or kind of#he was on the jvb team#its so funny to me how the ratio of ppl w partners on my schools varsity team is like 2:13
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yesterday while feverish i wrote about how boats can moor next to each other like pigeons, cooing with the gentle rap of water against their hull. you once said that that the way i see things - birds in the water, feathers in marina paint - was "childish and naive." you said i'd been misdiagnosed - "it can't all be adhd. you might be just kind of stupid and lazy."
i still do certain things like how you taught me - turn the pillow case inside out before putting it on. drive defensively. hate myself entirely.
the prompt for this poem is "mahler's fifth." i wish it wasn't, but mahler's fifth was our song. it ended up in my book. every person that knows your name has promised me they'll give you one swift rabbit punch, right to the face. dean read the book and showed up on my front porch, drenched in sweat from running the 8 miles at 4 in the morning. he was shaking. pacifist and gentle - he works with children - i'd never seen him furious. a punch isn't going to do it, he said, and then said i'm sorry. i had to come to see if you were okay.
mahler's fifth was mine first, like my girlhood. i like the way each movement piles onto the next movement, each instrument bleeding into the next. i like the horn version the best. before i met you, i danced to it on grass still-wet from sprinklers.
later you would tell me that the way you heard it was somehow better. you understood something in it that i couldn't quite wrap my fingers into. once, on our anniversary, you asked the classical music radio station to play it for us. we missed hearing it because we were fighting. one of the things people get wrong about abuse is that sometimes victims are, like, brutally aware of the stupidity of our situation. what do you mean that you thought i wasn't good enough for you? you? you're just... nothing.
sometimes people can pull the poetry out of your life. i watched my words become clothesline, and then thin out into kite twine. i watched you chew through every good syllable of me. so many good songs and places and moments were ruined. i am glad you didn't like most of my music - less to tie back to you.
but still mahler's fifth. the music swells, and i am 21 and throwing up in a bathroom on my birthday. a woman i will later refer to as lesbian jesus runs a cool hand down my back, her perfect pantsuit starch-pressed. she told me to leave you. she said - and this is true, and not an invention of rhyme or fantasy - i'm you from the future.
i am 22, and i got home from an award ceremony, and i remember you telling me - you act so proud of yourself when you're actually so fucking embarrassing. i took you to disney world. you took my virginity. i gave up visiting spain for a week with my family - i instead choose you, to spend the time just-cuddling. you called it "our fuck week." the music swells. it probably should have been a red flag that for about 3 years - i just gave up on crying. my grandfather died and you said nothing. my uncle died and you ghosted me for 3 weeks. you said i need to protect myself from your ongoing tragedy.
every so often i come back to the memory of one of our last afternoons in person. i had just told you that i wasn't going to law school, despite the free ride - i was going to join a creative writing program. master's in fine arts. i was going to finally do it - i was going to follow my dreams. this blog was already internet-famous. however reluctantly, i would occasionally refer to myself as a poet. i got into umass amherst's writing program for fiction authors. it is one of the the top 5 programs in the country.
wait are you seriously considering actually attending that? dumbfounded, you turned completely towards me in your seat. for the 3rd time in our relationship, you almost crashed the car. you actually want to be a writer?
the first time i went viral, it was for a poem i wrote about you:
he wants to say i love you
but keeps it to goodnight
because love will take some falling
and she's afraid of heights.
every time i see that, i want to throw up. you weren't in love with me, you were in love with the control you had over me. a little truth though: i am afraid of heights. you caught a rabbitgirl and skinned her alive.
mahler's fifth still makes me sick.
give me that back. give me back music. give me back everything i had before you. give me back fearlessness. give me back bravery. give me back a scarless body.
give me back what you took from me.
#nosebleed club#sorry stephen not ur fault#just like. thinking#writeblr#spilled ink#warm up#every time nat is like - oh let me get that for u#im like .... this is a trick right like ur gonna be mean now bc u did something nice rn#so obviously if ur being nice now either u did something mean and im about to learn about it#or you're going to BE mean#or ur gonna hold this over my head forever and i'll never get a nice thing ever again?#and every time nat is like .... babe i just actually like u#lesbian jesus story is 100% real btw. she also told me not to be an event planner#literally changed the shape of my life
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As a crazy cat lady, may I offfer...
Eddie who has always loved cats, how free and soft and elegant they are, how they purr and close their eyes in affection, how they make him forget all his worries and stress. He's loved them ever since a neighbor's cat found him crying behind the trailer after he got bullied for his new haircut, the last gift from his shitty dad before Eddie got whisked away by the social services. The cat ignored his sniffling and jumped in his lap, plopping herself over the bony knees and thin thighs, and when she started rubbing her face against his scraped palm, Eddie felt complete.
He can't adopt one yet because he lives with Wayne who is allergic. Wayne offers to take antihistamines but Eddie refuses, he doesn't want to inconvenience him in his own home. Still, he dreams of one day sometime in the future, a small apartment of his own and at least two cats who will greet him when he comes home.
Eddie finds himself volunteering in a shelter and when a new cat café opens, he jumps at the opportunity. He is hired and spends his days taking of their cat ensemble and preparing delicious coffees. Cats help him be less jittery and more grounded, so it's a win win. Eddie loves this job.
Enter Steve Harrington, an insanely handsome man who stops by to make a reservation. Eddie is his usual flirty self, although he expects Steve will bring a date and that's the end of that. But then Steve leans to Eddie and asks: "Listen, uh...I will need some help."
Suppressing an internal groan, Eddie asks: "what, do you need me to drop an engagement ring into the coffee or something? Because can do, but it needs to be sanitized first."
"Oh no. Not that, no..." Steve runs his fingers through his hair and even though it looks like a nervous gesture, Eddie is seconds away from a cuteness induced nosebleed. "Not at all. I just...I have a little sister, you know? I mean, my adoptive dad is fostering her and she's the kindest girl you've met, but she had it rough in her original family. Apparently there was something involving animals and...she loves cats so much, but is terrified of hurting them. She would never!" he clarifies when he sees a frown forming on Eddie's forehead. "It's just that whenever she showed affection to any animal, her biological father made sure it would get hurt or at least chased away. And that's gone, that man is in jail and I just...I want to show her that it's okay to love animals again. That she can pet a purring cat without worrying about its safety."
Eddie just stares at him with mouth open. "That's...wow," he says. "Sorry. Processing."
Steve does the hair thing again and laughs and Eddie thinks that this man deserves a brother of the year award, yep, he'll ask Gareth to 3D print one right fucking now. "Yeah, sorry. I didn't mean to dump all that on you, but I had to be honest because this is a big deal to her. To me as well. Just...listen, I like cats a lot, but I'm not the best at interpreting what they mean, their body language and all that. And I really need Jane to have someone here that can tell her what to do, when she's doing a good job...someone who will protect the kitties if she messes up. Her words. I know it's a lot to ask, but..."
But Eddie shushes him. "Say no more, big boy. I'll be here and I'll give the young lady the cat experience of a lifetime."
Eddie used to think he couldn't love his job any more. But with Jane's uncertain smile and big eyes, her incredulous squeal when a cat chose her for the first time, when she kept asking Eddie for specifics of each cat in his care - "which one is more shy, which one likes to be picked up, which one is a picky eater?" - he thinks he's finally found his calling. Steve beams at him and comes back the next day with a bag of approved cat treats for the cats and a box of chocolates for Eddie as a thank you, then asks him out for a dinner - "if that is even appropriate, shit, sorry, I don't want you to feel pressured or something, this is your job, I get it, but I just really admire you and you were amazing to Jane, uh, and the stuff you say about cats is so interesting I'd just love to hear more". Eddie's heart flutters like the traitor it is and he thinks - maybe this is someone I could adopt a cat with one day.
And unsurprisingly, he's right.
#steve harrington#eddie munson#eleven stranger things#jane hopper#steddie au#cat cafe au#steddie#steddie drabble#stranger things#THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ONE PARAGRAPH FFS
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—seven days. [ iii ]
pairing: max verstappen x manager! reader.
summary: as the third time world champion, max verstappen's manager, you function on the belief that whatever max verstappen wanted, max verstappen shall get. but this time, after four years of working as his manager, you can't give him what he wants anymore and that was to stay.
author's note: hi hello welcome to part three. i flunked the quiz. lemme know what you think. NOT BETA READ. NOT EDITED. this chapter kinda sux. can't believe i went through a breakup just last week and i still cant write decent post-breakup scenes.
tags: @whatamidoingwithmylife-ramdom @eugene-emt-roe @bellezaycafe @barnestatic @theseerbetweenus @wcnorris @notyouraveragemochii @lpab hope i didn't forget anyone.
masterlist.
you: *sent a link*
him: ?
him: what's this
you: benefits of crying
you: read it it's enlightening
him: some people do not cry over a breakup you know and that is totally okay
you: why crying helps.
you: 1. tears release toxins, stress hormones to be specific. it is good to let all the bad energy out.
you: 2. it aids sleep. no need for further explanation.
you: 3. crying releases oxytocin and endorphins. i know you don't know what an oxytocin or an endorphin is but they're happy chemicals.
you: 4. crying helps you receive the support you need from the people around you. EMOTIONAL VULNERABILITY is okay, max. stop treating it like an STD.
him: it feels like an std
you: pussy
you: emotional vulnerability is a thing and it's normal so stop trying to be a big strong man when you're barely holding it together.
you: you may look fine now but i know you
him: please stop
you: no
you: 5. crying has a self soothing effect. very nice actually. it activates the rest and digest system.
him: what even is that
you: the parasympathetic nervous system
him: ??
you: this is why you shouldn't have dropped out of high school
you: education is important yknow
you: youre already lacking in three forms of intelligence, academic, emotional n social intelligence
him: fuck you im smart
you: fuck you 2 and yeah you're smart but only in geography
you: you probably can't do your taxes
him: im dutch so the company's account department do it for me by default
him: the american system is just weird
you: cant argue w/ u there
you: also, 6. crying helps restore emotional balance
you: see? you need that
you: yknow now that i think abt it you should consider seeking therapy
him: what makes you think i’m not in therapy right now
you: well have you considered getting MORE therapy?
You stand in front of the body mirror, holding the Red Bull polo shirt against your body to see how it looks on you for one last time. On your right sleeve, the word MANAGER is written in bold, white text. Because that was what you were. Just a manager.
In another universe this is not the shirt that you’d be wearing. The MANAGER would have been ENGINEER. In another another universe where your family has been well-off enough to continuously send you to karting school and you would have been the one driving the fucking car by now.
You know, if Max has even tried talking to Horner and suggested that you should be moved into the engineering team, then you wouldn't be stuck wearing this god-awful polo that burned your skin every time you wore it for work. Everybody reduced you as Max’s American manager and because you are American, most of them kind of just assumed that you're dumb, you know?
Does the world even know how smart you are? That you graduated top of your class, got the best thesis award, and that you had finished your masters just this year? Did they even know that a Japanese car company wanted you on their research team? That a NASCAR team wanted you on board as one of their engineers? Does Max even know?
Fuck no. He only knows that you're the best at ironing clothes and organizing his Google calendar and memorizing his entire coffee order by heart. He knew you're good at extinguishing kitchen fires and kicking ass in YSL Opyum heels. You doubt he knows that you can do Calculus in your sleep.
You can take it if the world puts you down for your appearance. But if the world puts you down because of your intellect? That's a different story. You'll take any insult to the face but not to your intelligence.
You have four days left in Monaco so you have begun packing already. You're right, everything did fit into three suitcases. Also, you haven't told Max yet. For some reason, you’re too anxious. Which is shocking to say the least because you never ever gets anxious when it came to Max Verstappen. You wouldn't have lasted this long working alongside Max if you were a pussy.
Max Max Max Super Max Max—
“[Name] here. Need anythin’, champ?”
Hearing a sob on the other end of the line immediately activates your fight or flight response. Your eyes widen and you toss the Red Bull shirt aside. Your legs leads you to the nearly empty shoe rack stationed beside the front door, grabbing the pair of shoes at the very top of the tiny shelf and throwing them on.
“I’m comin’ there. Hang on, Max. You wait for me, okay?”
He doesn't answer, just continuing to sob and the sound absolutely breaks your heart.
You run to his penthouse at a speed that will even put the RB19 to shame. Not even bothering to knock, you barge in and yell his name in the empty halls of his penthouse. You search in the kitchen. He's not there. The living room. Not there either. The room where his simulations are. Not there. You run to his bedroom upstairs.
The door is locked. Dammit. Panic overflooded your system.
“Max, sweetheart, you there?”
No answer, but you can hear a faint sound behind the door if you press your ear against the wood. Firefighter training covered how to open a fucking door when it was locked so this once again becomes a situation where you're grateful that you did that tiring and borderline suicidal volunteer work.
Max keeps a fire extinguisher inside his penthouse as per your advice. There is one stationed in almost every room inside his house. You knew there is one inside his room and another one just at the end of the hallway. You make a quick run for it and once you have the extinguisher in your hands, you run back to his door.
“Step away from the door!” you instructed while your mind mentally calculates your payment plan as you hit the door knob with so much force, the walls tremble at your strength. You're functioning on pure adrenaline. Your instincts only yell one thing and that is: go to Max. No one and nothing in this world will keep you from him. It isn't long until his bedroom door broke down. With one last final kick, it crumbles down from its hinges and you forcefully pry it open and sprint inside.
Max tucks himself in the tiny space in the corner of his huge bedroom, his knees shoved up to his chest. A 181-cm tall man trying to make himself as small as possible.
This is it. This is the bottled-up emotions he's been storing since Abu Dhabi. You cannot say you have not anticipated this. Max is bound to explode sooner or later.
Panic attacks have made a home in Max’s body since he was a child. That's what one gets when they’re parented by someone like Jos Verstappen. He killed Max’s soul and made the boy a machine and for what? To shape a child into a man, a racer that he wanted to be but failed to become at the cost of Max's mental health and childhood.
When Max looks up with that heartbreaking look on his face, you almost crumble. Almost, because you cannot crumble. Not when Max needs you.
Sometimes, you forget what it took for Max to become the champion that he is today. A childhood sacrificed for his dominance on the tracks. A whole lot of hatred from the people to become a WDC. And now, a love lost for his third consecutive championship.
“You came,” his voice cracks towards the end.
Your eyes soften, “You called, Max. Course I’ll come.”
You barely brace yourself for the impact that is Max’s body wrapping around yours in a tight hug. The man have literally launch himself from the floor to you at sixth gear speed. You stumble backwards slightly, holding his bed for support so the both of you won't fall down.
“Max—”
“No,” he whispers and his grip on your tightens as if he's afraid that you’ll slip away if he even tried to give your lungs space to breathe. “Don't speak. Stay.”
What Max wanted, what Max would get. So you shut your mouth, shuffle slightly so he'll be in a more comfortable position and allow him take whatever he wants from you. This will be the last chance he’ll ever do it anyway because in four days time, you’re flying to Texas.
You stay for what is probably hours in that position. Crumbled together on the floor, leaning against the side of Max’s king-sized bed. Your shirt is completely damp from his tears but you cannot even bring yourself to care about it.
“Your shoes…” It's the first time Max has spoken since the start of his meltdown.
“Hm?” you turn your head and your nose nuzzles against his hair, making you scrunch it up a little. His hair is tickling your nostrils. If you lean a little forward, your lips will meet the skin of his temple.
“They’re mismatched.”
Brows furrowed, your eyes move to your feet and see that Max is right. Your shoes are indeed mismatched. On your left is one of your Adidas slides and the other is your slip-on Skechers. You ran from one building to another in mismatched shoes. Fucking embarassing.
“Ignore them.”
Silence.
“You good now?”
“No.”
“Okay,” you say. “If you want to talk, I’ll listen.”
You hear Max let out a shaky breath, “Just stay for a while. Don't leave me alone.”
“Okay.”
Eventually, you manage to talk Max out of the hug. You're beginning to feel claustrophobic but you do not want to say it out right so you try to negotiate instead. That's how you and Max found yourselves inside his kitchen again. You're trying to replicate your Abuela's cheesecake, which she was known for back in Austin, and Max is…well, he's Max and he’s trying to be helpful in any way he can. If it's some other day, you'd have shoved him out of the way because you prefer working alone in the kitchen. Having eyes on you gives you anxiety. But given today’s circumstances, you do not have the heart to make Max leave so you task him with doing the little stuff like mixing things and throwing shit to the trash can nearby. And he does so splendidly.
“Thank you, by the way.”
“For what, baby?” You internally wince at your own slip of the tongue. Damn that habit of yours of calling people with affectionate call signs. Thankfully, Max seems to have not noticed it.
“For coming here.”
You shrug.
“I only did what you did for me in 2021.”
Again, your breakup with Leo was bad bad. You spent a month crying for a love lost and Max was there for you. For the most part, at least. You want him to focus on winning and winning alone that you pushed him away a lot of times but you appreciated how he was more obedient to your commands, that he held his tongue so he wouldn't piss you off even though he was not liking your words, and that he was considerate of you.
“I hope you won't go into fights though,” you chuckle. “Like I did after my breakup.”
He smiles, shaking his head lightly and you know he's recalling the memory. 2021 is a hilarious year for you, the Red Bull manager. You went viral after getting into a cat fight with a girl and a whole fist fight with her boyfriend.
You and Leo called it quits a week before Monaco and even though it had been four races since then, your heart was still in a quite fragile state at that specific race weekend. One minor inconvenience was enough to ignite a wild blaze of fire within you and nobody could extinguish the flames.
After Silverstone FP1, you were leading Max to the cool down room to brief him with Horner’s relayed instructions and someone had thrown a glass bottle towards the both of you while walking. Originally, Max was the main target of the bottle but you happened to have moved towards the line of trajectory and the bottle landed on your temple, hard enough that you stumbled upon impact.
You barely heard Max’s shocked gasp and shout of panic over the sound of glass shattering on your foot because the only thing you could register was the terrifying feeling of a thick liquid trickling down the side of your face and you didn't even need to see it to know it was blood.
The only thing you saw was red and it was on fucking sight.
Fucking Hamilton fan. Fucking Hamilton. He’s in Max’s way. He’s in your way. He’s the wall that was dividing you from your dream position in the engineering team.
You shoved the iPad you were holding to Max’s hands and marched down to the woman wearing the Merc #44 merch, swiftly jumping over the barricade and grabbing her by the collar of her pristine white Versace top.
The events that followed were too fast. You grabbed her collar. She pulled your hair. You also pulled her hair. Someone pulled her away from you. You tried to grab her, clawing her bare arms with your manicured nails. She screamed. You screamed back. You pulled out some curse words in Spanish as well because cursing her in one language alone is not enough. Her boyfriend appeared. A quick punch to your cheek. You fell to the ground.
The world stood still. There was a sting on your palm because your skin got torn from the hard surface of the concrete ground. You let a bloodcurdling war cry and your Dad would definitely be disappointed at you for using the boxing techniques he taught you for self defense purposes only to fight a guy two times your size.
Everything was a bigger blur from there. But you did remember the sensation of Max’s strong arms around you, stopping you from lunging forward again. He was saying sweet words to your ear to calm you down but your brain failed to intercept them so you could hear the words, could hear his voice, but not understand any of it. You remember Christian Horner's disappointed face that haunted you even two years later. You remembered feeling so terrified as you sat outside Christian Horner’s office waiting for the final verdict while he and Max and a few of the Red Bull higher-ups argued about your future with the team. You remembered hearing Max’s loud snarl on the other side of the mahogany door: “Did you see her face?! There was blood everywhere! On her nose, on her mouth, on the fucking side of her head!” You remembered the girl taking the case to court. You remembered fearing that you’d be sent to jail. You remembered that she lost the case because it was ruled as self defense and your injuries were grave. You remembered discovering that it was Max who used all his power and got the best lawyer to fight your case. You remembered the atmosphere in the Red Bull garage shifting when you entered it a few weeks later and everyone stared the bandages and bruises. Everyone thought one thing: of course, it would also take a monster to manage a monster like Max Verstappen. You remembered Lewis Hamilton, seven-time world champion, apologizing personally for the fight caused by his own fan. He didn't need to but he was so sincere with it that you cried when he handed you the apology flowers. God, how could you even hate this man? Your anger towards him was misplaced.
You’d been living with the guilt ever since, that you were horrifyingly violent for a day, that you were capable of killing for a day. And it could happen again. One day. God, you hoped you wouldn't have to see that day. You knew all your coworkers have been careful with angering you ever since. They're terrified of you even. Max should be, too. But then again, why would he when he already saw the horrors done by his father’s hands ever since he was a child? He was used to it.
“I won't,” he says, smiling at you. “I wouldn't want to add anymore problems for you to clean up.”
But you will not be the one cleaning it up because you resigned. You didn’t tell that to him though. Not right now. He just had a meltdown over Kelly leaving him and the news of his manager leaving him too will destroy him.
The cheesecake is a little burnt when you take it out of the oven but it actually adds more flavor to it so yeah, that's a win.
“We should drink,” you suggest.
“It’s mid-afternoon.”
“We drank at mid-afternoon yesterday,” you give him a blank stare. “With Alex and Charles, remember?”
He doesn't say anything as you make your way to his fridge and pull out two bottles of beer. Max has champagne stored somewhere but you have enough of those expensive champagnes. You need beer. Beer is good. Beer is nice. You're a beer type of person and it is time Max becomes one, too.
“I’m no scientist,” you begin, biting off the beer’s bottle cap. “But according to chemistry, alcohol is solution.”
Well, technically, edible alcohol or ethanol is not a mixture. Rather, it's a pure substance that happens to be a liquid at room temperature and typical atmospheric pressure. Pure ethanol is not a solution. Hard spirits though? That's a solution.
Beer is not a hard spirit. It's more of a fermented drink. But Max doesn't know that, though, so you don't bother explaining the science behind it.
Somewhere down the road, the two of you move to his living room. You use the Youtube app in his TV to search karaoke video and have the bestest time of your lives. You're screaming along some Daddy Yankee and El Alfa songs and Max doesn't know how to speak Spanish so he’s just vibing to it.
At 5 PM, you pull out Max’s expensive vodka bottle. Now this is the real shit. The ten bottles of beer? Those are just pregame. Max is already drunk with just those because he’s a pussy but you’re no pussy, so the only right answer is vodka! Viva la vodka or whatever.
Your throat gets tired of singing and Max gets tired from dancing, too, so you both decide to just go entertain yourselves in other ways. First, you introduced Max to beer-pong. He loses, of course. He sucks at everything not racing. Then, the two of you move onto chess. Max gives up mid-game. He cannot understand the rules. Then, lastly, you move to the billiard table Max owned. He only used it when the other guys are over and you do not even know why he bought it when he sucked at playing billiards.
“You know what Kelly said the morning before the race?” Max suddenly says and you look up at him, brow raising slightly. He’s drunk; his skin is flushed and he is all giggly and smile-y as he sits on the billiard table’s side rail and using the billiard stick as some sort of support stand to keep him from falling. You hope he won't accidentally poke himself. You're no better, too. Ten beer bottles and a few glasses of vodka. But you’re not as drunk as Max, and you still have a straight vision and you can still sink the colored balls into the pockets of the billiard table.
“Hm?”
“That it was unfair for her.”
You raise a questioning brow, “Why?”
“I bought shoes and they don't fit her.”
You blink. He laughs at himself as if he has uttered the funniest joke in the world.
“Three years of relationship gone because of a single pair of shoes,” he continues. “She wanted those shoes, too.”
Kelly….what the fuck?
“But that's okay. She….She made me open my eyes, you know? She made me realize what I truly love.”
“Racing.” It's not even a question. It's the truth.
Max stares at you, long and hard, and you look away first because you fear that if you allow yourself to stare too long, you’ll drown in those beautiful blues. This is enough heartache for the day. No need to add more.
“Hey [Name],” he begins. “If I asked you to kiss me, would you do it?”
#manager!reader#max verstappen x you#max verstappen x reader#max verstappen#f1 x reader#f1 imagines#formula one#fanfic#angst#mv1#mv33 x reader#mv33
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Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in an oven for this! When Taylor Swift took the Grammys stage last month to claim her award for Best Pop Vocal Album for Midnights, she saw that spotlight as an opportunity to announce her 11th studio album: The Tortured Poets Department. The follow-up cut to audience members—Swift’s music industry peers, mind you—told us all that we would ever need to know, and the collective disinterest across the crowd echoed through our TVs.
Folks from all walks of life took to social media to express a multitude of reactions. Swifties clamored to their beloved monarch’s forthcoming era, while others lambasted the terminally cringe title and artwork and ridiculed Swift for making a night recognizing musical achievements across an entire industry about herself—knowing perfectly well that it would send her fanbase into a surge that would, no doubt, overpower the excitement around the ceremony itself.
Quite a few people questioned whether or not that moment suggested that a critical—definitely not commercial—tide would turn against the world’s most-famous pop star. And, perhaps it has—but, to most, it will look like nothing more than a single ripple in Swift’s ocean of successes.
Swift remained relatively hush-hush about The Tortured Poets Department up until its release, leaving her fans, admirers and haters alike with nothing but an album title to ponder about. And it’s a bad title.
If you have never been in Swift’s corner, her taking the route of labeling her next “era” as “tortured” was likely catnip for your disinterest. If you are a fan—not necessarily a Swiftie, but even just a casual lover of her best and brightest work—you might be beside yourself about the first Swift album title longer than one word in 14 years.
In terms of popularity—certainly not always in terms of quality—no musician has been bigger this century than Swift, which makes it impossible to really buy into the “torture” of it all.
This is not to say that Swift being the most famous person in the world makes her immune to having multi-dimensional feelings of heartbreak, mental illness or what-have-you.
But, she has made the choice—as a 34-year-old adult—to take those complex, universal familiars and monetize them into a wardrobe she can wear for whatever portion of her Eras Tour setlist she opts to dedicate to the material.
Torture is fashion to Taylor Swift, and she wears her milieu dully. This album will surely get comparisons to Rupi Kaur’s poetry, either for its simplicity, empty language, commodification or all of the above.
And, sure, there are parallels there, especially in how The Tortured Poets Department, too, is going to set the art of poetry back another decade—as Swift’s naive call-to-arms of her own milky-white sorrow rings in like some quintessential “I am going to take pictures of a typewriter on my desk and have a Pinterest mood-board of Courier New font” iPhone fodder. 2013 called and it wants it capricious, suburban girl-who-is-taking-a-gap-year wig back!
Soaking our book reports in coffee or having our moms burn the edges with a kitchen lighter cannot come back into fashion; the cyclical notions of culture cannot make the space for such retreads.
There is nothing poetic about a billionaire—who, mind you, threatens legal action against a Twitter account for tracking her destructive private jet paths—telling stadiums of thousands of people every night that she sees and adores them.
Tavi Gevinson says it well in her Fan Fiction zine: “When 80,000 people are also crying, you become less special, too.” If Swift can return to one of her dozen beach houses across the world, kick up her feet and say “I’m a poet of struggle,” then who is to say that millions—maybe billions—of people with access to a notes app and a social media account won’t dream that dream, too?
Maybe that looks like a net-positive, but it’s inherently damning and destructive to take an art form that has long stood on the shoulders of resistance, of love and of opposition to power, systematic injustice and climate warfare and boil it down to the new defining era of your own 10-digit revenue empire. “My culture is not your costume,” yada, etc.
The Tortured Poets Department does begin with a shred of hope that, just maybe, Swift knows what she’s talking about—as she sneaks in a cheeky “all of this to say,” textbook transitional phrasing for poets, on opening track “Fortnight.”
But “Fortnight” unmasks itself quickly as a heady vat of pop nothingness, though it isn’t all Swift’s fault. “I was a functioning alcoholic, ‘til nobody noticed my new aesthetic,” she muses, attempting to bridge the gap between a behind-the-scenes life and on-stage performance—only for it to occur while propped up against the most dog-water, uninspired synth arrangement you could possibly imagine.
Between producer Jack Antonoff’s atrocious backing instrumental and the Y2K-era, teen dramedy echo chamber of a vocal harmony provided by out-of-place guest performer Post Malone, “Fortnight” chokes on the vomit of its own opaqueness.
“I took the miracle move-on drug, the effects were temporary,” Swift muses, and it sounds like satire. This is your songwriter of the century? Open the schools.
The Tortured Poets Department title-track features some of Swift’s worst lyricism to-date, including the irredeemable, relentlessly cringe “You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate, we declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist / I scratch your head, you fall asleep like a tattooed golden retriever” lines glazed atop some synthesizers and drums that just ring in as hollow, unfascinating costuming.
Aside from the Puth nod, which I can only discern as a joke (given the fact that he is one of the 150-most streamed artists in the world and is one of the blandest pop practitioners alive—I don’t care if he can figure out the pitch of any sound you throw at him), I think Antonoff should stick to guitar-playing. Get that man away from a keyboard, I’m begging you.
Synths can be, if you use them correctly, one of the most emotional and provocative instruments in any musician’s tool-box. There’s a reason why keyboards defined the 1980s; they rebelled against the very oppressive nature existing outside of the cultural company they kept. There’s resistance in electronic music that, while they brandish an aesthetic that, to a layman’s ears, seems like technicolor hues for any infectious pop track, it’s a genre that aches to tell its own story. That is simply not the case here, and that electronica hangs Swift out to dry when she drags us through the lukewarm “I laughed in your face and said, ‘You’re not Dylan Thomas, I’m not Patti Smith’ / This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots” lines, only to hit us with a softly sung F-bomb that sounds like a billionaire’s rendition of that one Miranda Cosgrove podcast clip.
I used to rag pretty heavily on Reputation—mostly because I thought (and still do, mostly) that it sounded like Swift had given up on making interesting, progressive pop music; that, in the wake of her (arguably) best album, 1989, it seemed like she’d lost the plot on where to go next. But as she’s put out Midnights and The Tortured Poets Department back-to-back, I find myself clamoring for the Reputation-era more than ever—at least seven years ago, Swift wrote songs like she had something to prove and even more to lose.
That was the always-obvious charm of Reputation, even despite the downsides—that she took a big swing from the echelons of her own musical immortality, that the comforts of winning every award and selling out the biggest venues in the world were no longer pillowing her aspirations. Even though that swing didn’t land, she still made it in the first place—and Swift is at her best either when she is clawing upwards (Reputation) or faced with nowhere to go but into the studio and noodle with the bare-bones of her own sensibilities (folklore).
You get something like The Tortured Poets Department when the artist making it no longer feels challenged, where she strikes out looking.
The mid-ness of The Tortured Poets Department will not be a net-loss for Swift. She will sell out arenas and get her streams until she elects to quit this business (a phrase decidedly not in her vocabulary, surely).
She will sell more merch bundles than vinyl plants have the capacity to make, and rows of variant LP copies will haunt the record aisles of Target stores just as long as Midnights has—if not longer.
Perhaps, in five or six years’ time, we will speak of this record just as we now do of Reputation. But right now, it is obvious that Swift no longer feels challenged to be good. The Tortured Poets Department is the mark of an artist now interested in seeing how much their empire can atone for the sins of mediocrity.
Can Swift win another Album of the Year Grammy simply because she released a record during the eligibility period? The Tortured Poets Department reeks of “because I can,” not “because I should.”
On “I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can),” Swift tries stepping into the shoes of the country renegades who came before her—the Tammy Wynettes and Loretta Lynns of the world. But her self-aggrandizing inflation of importance, glinting through via a seismically-bland bridge, is backed by a minimal set dressing of guitar, drum machine and keys.
“Good boy, that’s right, come close,” she sings. “I’ll show you Heaven if you’ll be an angel—all mine. Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man. No, really, I can.” On “Florida!!!,” Swift calls upon Florence + the Machine to help her sing the worst chorus of 2024: “Florida is one hell of a drug / Florida, can I use you up?”
Even Welch, who is a fantastic pop singer-songwriter in her own right, delivers a grossly watery verse: “The hurricane with my name, when it came I got drunk and I dared it to wash me away.”
Not even the typos on the Spotify promotional materials for this album could have foretold such offenses. I won’t even get into the sonics, because Antonoff just rewrites the same soulless patterns every time.
What separates The Tortured Poets Department from something like Reputation is that, on the latter, Swift made it known what was at stake and who she was making that album for—herself, in the aftermath of her greatest long-standing criticisms (“Look What You Made Me Do” triumphs exactly because of this).
On The Tortured Poets Department, there is a striking level of moral nothingness. The stakes are practically non-existent, and the album sounds like it was made by someone who believes that they had no other choice but to finish it, as if Swift fundamentally believes that her creative measures are firmly embedded in the massive monopoly her name and brand currently hold on popular music. That’s how you get meandering pop songs about hookups, wine moms, Stevie Nicks comparisons, Jehovah’s Witness suit mentions, hollowed-out, tone-deaf nods to white-collar crime in lieu of empowerment and, topically, Barbie dolls.
(Don’t even get me started on the Anthology lyrics, which feature these absolute barn-burners: “Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto” and “My friends used to play a game where / We would pick a decade / We wished we could live in instead of this / I’d say the 1830s, but without all the racists / And getting married off for the highest bid.”) This album and its hackneyed grasps at relevance exist as “Did I just hear that?” personified, but in the most derogatory sense of the notion.
My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” features another low-point in Swift’s lyrical oeuvre, as she sings “I felt more when we played pretend than with all the Kens, ‘cause he took me out of my box”—perhaps a measure of her capitalizing on the Barbenheimer mania that none of us could escape, not even the musician who spent most of 2023 flying across the world from one country to another.
But you, us, the listener—we want to believe that Swift makes these records because she has the artistic will, drive and interest to continue giving us parts of her story in such ways that they exist as an archival of her life.
But the problem is that, on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift is packaging her life into a form that is easily consumable for the 17 or 18 years olds who pour over her music. Just because her Eras Tour film is on Disney+ doesn’t mean she has to strip her songwriting (which we know can be, and has been, phenomenal) down for the sake of it being digestible by a wide spectrum of ages.
And, sure, maybe that makes the work accessible. But on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift makes Zoomer jargon her bag—titling a song after one of the most popular video games in the world and conjuring flickers of “down bad” and “I can fix him”—and it feels like she’s cosplaying because the Fountain of Youth was out of order.
Now that Swift is in her 30s, it sounds like she is infantilizing her own audience more than ever before—that singing to them at a level that could force them to reckon with something more akin with adulthood would be some kind of kink in the coil or her consumeristic threshold, that writing lyrics that sound like they were penned by a 30-year-old would, somehow, deter the interests of the billions of people who adore her.
If making one, continuous coming-of-age album is what Swift has been doing for 15 years, folklore and evermore were hiccups in the timeline—existing as the most fully-formed renderings of Swift’s own insecurities and concerns. They mirrored our platitudes towards an uncertain future with sweet, stirring remarks about isolation and heartbreak and the unavoidable, hard-worn truth about getting older. On those records, her larger-than-life living seemed, for once, to truly feel as close to the ground as ours.
Now, though, Taylor Swift is at the top of the mountain. Far better artists have made far worse records than The Tortured Poets Department, but you can’t read between the lines of this project. There is nothing to decipher from a place of quality.
Sure, Swift’s fan base will pour over these lyrics for the rest of their lives—insisting they know, for certain, which song is about who. But you cannot place a bad album on the shoulders of lore and expect it to be rectified.
We are now left at a crossroads. Women can’t critique Swift because they’ll run the risk of being labeled a “gender traitor” for doing so. Men can’t critique her because they’ll be touted as “sexist.”
And, sure, Swift is probably too easy a punching bag in this case—and most of the time, I would argue she is undeserving of being a victim of such barbs. But, you cannot write about someone being a “tattooed golden retriever” and get away with it and still retain your title as the best songwriter of your generation. You just cannot.
Sisyphus should be glad he never got the boulder to the top of the mountain—because Taylor Swift is showing us that such immortality and success ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. And, when you’re standing on the peak alone, who else is there left to hit?
In a recent interview with The Standard, Courtney Love said that Swift is “not interesting as an artist,” and I think The Tortured Poets Department proves as much. She has nothing to fight for, no doubters left to drown.
So where does she turn? Well, to boredoms of celebrity thinly veiled as sorrow everyone and their mother can latch onto—because we’ve all had to “ditch the clowns, get the crown” at some point in our lives, right?
The billionaire is having an identity crisis, but there are no social media apps for her to buy up. So she sings like Lana Del Rey and writes meta-self-referential songs about looking like Stevie Nicks.
What’s hollow about The Tortured Poets Department is that the real torture is just how unlivable these songs really are. No one can resonate with “So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street, crash the party like a record, scratch as I scream ‘Who’s afraid of little old me?’ You should be.” And normally, that wouldn’t be an end-all-be-all for a pop record—but when your brand is built on copious levels of “I’m just like you!” as the demigod saying it to their fans does so from a multi-million-dollar production set, it’s hard to not feel nauseated by the overlording, overbearing sense of heavy-handed detritus we’re tasked with sifting through on The Tortured Poets Department.
Love’s words to Lana, her advice to “take seven years off,” should be applied to Swift. Now, that doesn’t mean that, to make a good album, you must sit on material for years and labor extensively through the sketching, shaping and recording in order for it to be transcendentally landmark. But it’s obvious now that not even Taylor Swift wants to be the head of an empire—that she, too, can’t outrun the damning fate of being plum out of ideas by hopping in her jet and skirting off to God knows where.
See you at the Grammys.
****
#this review is everything#anti taylor swift#taylor swift#travis kelce#3.6 !!!#hope Pitchfork comes for her too#jack antonoff#taylor swift reviews#the department of tortured poets
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If I have to ask, I don’t want it.
Alexia Putellas x Reader [ANGST.]
Years into married life, Alexia gets bored of you. Based on a quote from Frida Kahlo.
//
I’m not asking you to kiss me, nor apologize to me when I think you’re wrong.
“Where the hell were you?” you ask Alexia, confronting her after she walks into the house way past midnight. It’s four hours past she promised to be home, having gone out with the girls for a drink after training. You were home all day waiting for her but she sounded like she needed some time to relax after being cooped up at home from her surgery so you told her to have fun and sorted yourself out. She had promised to only be an hour or two, but it turned into six hours without even a phone call or text.
“Don’t start with me, I’m not in the fucking mood for one of your lectures,” she growls, throwing her bag down and walking into the house without even a glance at you. Your eyes fill with tears, hands clenched into tight fists by your side as she slams the bedroom door behind her.
You follow her, tears flowing down your face. She’s in the bathroom brushing her teeth, rolling her eyes when she sees your crying state in the doorway.
“What does that mean?” you ask her, arms crossed before wiping away your tears.
“I wanted to drink, it’s none of your business what I do.”
“You promised me you’d be home by 8.”
“I’d rather be out with them than stuck at home with you.”
//
I won’t even ask you to hug me when I need it most.
Tears rolled down your cheeks when the doctors told you you couldn’t have children. Your heart shattered into a million pieces when he uttered those words to you and your wife. Alexia looked almost distant, you figured that she was simply devastated by the news and didn’t know how to process it. The moment you got home though, she had lots to say.
“You’re telling me you didn’t fucking know?” she yelled the moment the front door closed.
“Ale, I’ve never had problems before! I-”
“Save it. You know I wanted to start a family and now you fuck things up.”
“Ale, I’m sorry…I’m so so sorry,” you tell her, moving closer to her. you reach out for her hand but she flinches away.
“Save your apologies for someone who cares.”
//
I don’t ask you to tell me how beautiful I am, even if it’s a lie, nor write me anything beautiful.
You’re at an award ceremony with Alexia, she’s sat at the table chatting away with Aitana while you are backstage waiting to receive an award. The beige dress you had on matched Alexia’s suit, there were many compliments hurled your way the entire night. One person hadn’t said anything to you yet, not one compliment from the person that mattered the most to you. Even if you knew that you didn’t come close to being hers.
“She looks stunning in that dress, doesn’t she?” Aitana compliments you as you walk out on stage. Alexia is on her phone, texting someone who’s clearly more interesting than her wife receiving an award on stage.
Aitana slaps her arm, getting more and more annoyed at her friend.
“What?” Alexia says angrily, Aitana just rolls her eyes.
“Alexia. She’s looking at you.”
Alexia looks up at the stage just in time to hear you thanking her for being her beautiful wife and for sticking with her through all the rough patches throughout your career. She forced a smile, knowing that there was surely a camera on her.
You know her well, and that itself hurts because it’s when you walk off stage and you see her smiling at her phone that you know you’ve lost her.
//
I won't even ask you to call me to tell me how your day went, nor tell me you miss me.
Three days. It’s been three days since you last heard from Alexia. You were both on international duty, the England camp was going smoothly when Sarina called for a quick break. You sit beside Leah and go on your phone, hoping to see if Alexia has texted you. Nothing. Your shoulders slump a little and your best friend notices, a look of concern across her face.
“What’s up?” Leah asks, genuinely curious.
“Nothing, it’s,” you contemplate telling her. telling her that you know Alexia is seeing someone else. Loving someone else. Kissing someone else. Fucking someone else. But you hold your tongue. You force a smile like you’ve seen Alexia do in front of you lately, hoping it’s enough to convince your best friend. She doesn’t buy it but knows not to pry, especially when she can see that you’re hurting.
“It’s nothing.”
//
I won’t ask you to thank me for everything I do for you, nor care about me when my soul is down.
“Dinner’s on the table,” you tell Alexia as she walks into the kitchen. You look up to see her all dressed and ready to go out, your expression changes to one of sadness.
“You go ahead,” she says, grabbing her car keys. “I’m meeting someone for dinner.”
“Is it the woman you’re always texting?” you ask quietly, back turned to her. You were a coward, your mind told you; you couldn’t even bear to see the expression of pure surprise on her face that quickly turned into one that was serious.
“I am texting no one,” the front door opens, “Don’t stay up.”
//
I won’t ask you to support me in my decisions.
Having requested to be loaned for the rest of the season, you were excited to see what clubs would want to have you for a while. Arsenal had always been interested in you, having played alongside Leah in the academy when you were younger. So when their legal team got into negotiations with Barça, you immediately agreed.
Things at home hadn’t at all improved, you figured that some time apart would be good for you both.
“Can I speak with you for a second?” you sheepishly ask Alexia who was sitting in the living room on her laptop working away.
She doesn’t even look up at you, nodding her head for you to continue.
“I’m moving to Arsenal for the rest of the season.”
“Why?” she asks with a sharp tone, eyes narrowing in an accusatory fashion.
“They don’t need me here at Barça, besides, it’s not like you need me either.”
“So your solution when we’re having issues is to run away to England? You’ve always thought about yourself and not the team.”
“Don’t you dare say that, I have given this team my everything.”
“And yet here you are, throwing it away because you’re mad at me!”
“Who the hell says I’m doing this for you?” she looks taken aback when you raise your voice. You rarely did, and it takes her by surprise.
“I am doing this for us. You can’t even LOOK at me without looking like you’re disgusted by me. I am going, whether you fucking approve or not.”
//
I won’t even ask you to listen to me when I have a thousand stories to tell you.
“She’s having the time of her life there! Did you see that goal she scored over the weekend, that’s goal of the year material no?” Patri talks to Lucy and Ona about you, the girls missing you, and having spent the weekend bonding and watching your game against Watford.
“Sí, it was perfect. She is thriving at Arsenal, but I hope they give her back!” Ona says with a light chuckle, leaning into Lucy’s side in the locker room after training.
Alexia walks in, Patri yelling at her to join in on the conversation. It was her wife they were talking about anyway.
“Did you talk to your wife at all today? She called me last night and said that she misses you.” Lucy tells her, watching the captain sit in her cubby and undo her shoes. Alexia shakes her head, immediately getting on her phone.
“No, I didn’t have time last night. I’ll text her.”
“What could you possibly be doing except sulking when she’s not at home? You didn’t have a drink with us either, quite frankly you seemed eager to leave after watching the game yesterday.”
“What I do or where I go is none of your fucking business,” Alexia stands and walks across the room to them. She shakes with rage, eyes filled with pure anger at the insinuation of her being unfaithful. She was, but the thought of her friends finding out that she was doing this to you ate at her. You were perfect in their eyes, the person who would be there for anyone, no matter what. And there she was, being the very thing she promised never to do to you the day you got married.
//
I won’t ask you to do anything, not even be my side forever.
Divorce. That was where your marriage was headed. As you sat in your lawyer's office drawing up the documents, you were devastated. Pictures of Alexia with another woman surfaced just before you got home for Christmas. The plane ride was the worst 2 hours of your life. Alexia and you were through. She hadn’t loved you for a very long time but you had tried so hard to ignore it and convince yourself that it wasn’t true. Those pictures were a slap to your face.
She looked happy with her.
She looked content with her.
She looked in love.
You set the papers in front of her at lunch with the girls. They sat in silence as she read the stack, slowly realizing what you had just handed to her. She tried to get you to take them back and work things out but you firmly held your own.
You knew your worth.
You didn’t need her anymore.
You didn’t need to ask for her love ever again.
Because if I have to ask you, I don’t want it anymore.
#alexia putellas#alexia putellas angst#alexia putellas x reader#alexia putellas imagine#woso x reader#woso soccer#woso imagine#woso fanfics#fc barca femeni#woso#woso community#womens football#liquidation writes
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warnings: age-gap, adultery, mentions of cheating, NSFW scene hinted at
"Mrs. Bakugou look over here please!"
You squint against the harsh flashing of the paparazzi cameras, careful to not let your smile drop as you pose for them. Your feet were killing you in the heels your mother-in-law made you wear to match the custom dress she also had her say in designing for the annual Hero Gala. Thankfully your husband was by your side, hand on the small part of your back to keep you steady.
Peeking up at him through your false eyelashes that felt too heavy for your eyelids, you were envious that Katsuki wasn't pushed to smile for the cameras.
It was his role to be the brute, strong man while you played into the dainty, tempting trophy wife that was so small compared to his large size of pure muscles and testosterone.
You weren't a fan of the label his publicist team slapped onto you after you said 'I Do' to Japan's #2 Top Hero almost a year ago. Yet, being a trophy wife was better than being known as —
"Hey home-wrecker, you still talk to Uravity? I heard she's taking full custody of their daughter, would you like to comment?"
Bakugou moved to correct which ever journalist spoke out, and the they just loved that.
"Dynamite, are you on good terms with your ex wife?"
"Does (Y/N) prevent you from seeing your child?"
"Sir, did you only marry her to save your image?"
Their questions were harsh, as they were just mean. Thankfully the Bakugou family security moved in before Katsuki had to, and soon the pair of you were ushered off the red carpet.
You could still hear them calling out to you from behind the closed doors of the venue before another victim caught their eyes.
"Stupid fucking press, think they know everything," Katsuki mumbled before hiking up the stairs that led to the main ballroom where the award ceremony was held.
You hesitated at the bottom, staring up at the man who was your husband, the man who called you his wife. He was just as handsome as he was when he debuted as a hero even though now he was hitting his mid-thirties while you barely just turned twenty-two. The invasive questions that were thrown at you are rattling in your head, making it nearly impossible to move to be beside your Husband, The Hero Dynamite.
Katsuki notices you're not following him mid way up the stairs and scoffs before walking back to you.
"Stupid hag, I told her you don't know how to walk in heels," Is all he said before taking your hand and helping to lead you up the stairs.
You want to ask him about what the paparazzi was saying, if it was true that Ochako was trying to get full-custody of Katsumi. That meant he was lying to you when you asked if everything with his ex-wife was okay, right? And that last question... did he only marry you to save face —?
"What's wrong, you look like you're going to cry?" Katsuki asked quietly as a waiter showed them where you were sitting, up and center to the stage where the shiny awards were shown off on the platform.
You sit in the cushy seat, and not even the delicate decorations of the table; the shiny, white plates surrounding the centerpiece made up of what seemed to be hundreds of red roses— were enough to make you swoon and forget your worries.
Taking in Katsuki, how handsome he looks in his sleek black suit with the handkerchief peeking out of his chest pocket matching your dress, makes your heart clench.
You didn't want to cause a scene, or be an issue.
That's what Katsuki wanted, that's what he told you when you first met him.
"My wife is such a worrier, always on my ass and so damn dramatic." That's what he said, and it stuck with you because if he could leave her, a distinguished hero and the mother to his first and only child, he would leave you in the blink of an eye. Then what will become of you? The press would have a field day with that, "Fellow homewrecker gets her karma and now is heartbroken, single, and broke."
So, you suck it up, and shake your head. Putting back on your fake smile, your facade, you try being what he wants.
"Nothing at all baby, I'm just so proud of you," You lean in the gain a kiss, and it does make you a tad better when Katsuki grants you it.
———————
"Daddy!"
Thank god Katsuki had fast reflexives.
The moment the bedroom door is flung open, he's sitting up in bed. Katsuki pulls your naked chest to his and wraps the comforter up your shoulders to hide any naked skin from the view of his six-year old daughter Katsumi.
"'Sumi," He grits his teeth in annoyance but Katsuki never yells at his daughter. You hide your face into his neck, his body heat almost feeling scorching hot against yours as you blush red from embarrassment at almost being caught doing it by the little girl.
"Hi (Y/N)!" Katsumi yells when she spots your hair poking out of the comforter.
"Shhh," Katsuki shushes Katsumi, making her red eyes widen in worry. "(Y/N) is sleeping baby, what do you need?" Katsuki was sure that leaving his daughter occupied in her room with snacks and her favorite Bluey episodes playing on her TV would give him at least an hour to destress.
Katsumi cups her hands to her mouth, whispering, "I missed you guys and wanted to see if (Y/N) would play with me?"
Having Katsumi love you unconditionally was something you were immensely lucky to have, and her plea to play with you makes you teary eye at her sweetness.
Being identical to Katsuki in terms of looks, with his blonde hair and red eyes, she didn't inherit her father's temper. Katsumi was kinder and more willing to wear her heart on her sleeve, which made loving her easy for you.
Katsuki could feel the annoyance of being interrupted vanish at his daughter's sweet question, his hands that were anchored on your bare, bruised hips, gave you a gentle squeeze.
"Sure baby, let me wake her up and (Y/N) would love to play with you," Katsuki said.
Katsumi cheered before she quickly quieted down to not 'wake you', running out of the room after softly closing the door behind her.
You shimmy the blanket off you, both you and Katsuki red in the face from almost being caught.
"Do you need help with this?" You tease, rolling your hips to reignite the pleasure Katsuki was pulling from your body. His cock was still hard inside of you, seeing how he was almost finding his release before Katsumi interrupted.
Usually, Katsuki would take any opportunity to use your wet pussy to make himself feel good so imagine your surprise when he shakes his head no.
"I actually have to head to the office to finish up some reports from the week. Do you mind watching Katsumi until I'm finished? We could go out for dinner afterwards?"
Katsuki doesn't wait for your answer, he easily lifts you completely off his cock and placing you on the bed next to him before he gets up and begins getting dressed. You sit there for a bit, watching as your husband covers up all the love bites you left on him.
"Reports?" You ask, still in shock that he didn't finish what he started.
Katsuki's head falls back as he sighs, annoyance making his brow furrow as he puts on his shirt.
"Yes (Y/N), reports. They're important to hero work, you would know if you were one."
The last part bites, and it's the sting you needed to get up and dress yourself. Katsuki knew talking about your lack of having a quirk was a sore subject to you, you told him this countless times. Yet, he would bring it up time to time when he wanted to showcase how he was wiser, older, and knew what he was talking about and how you were stupid for questioning him.
You're having a pretend tea-party with Katsumi in the living room when Katsuki bids his farewell.
"Girls, give me a kiss for luck," He orders, and Katsumi springs up in giggles to give her father a big kiss on his cheek.
You are slow to make your way to him, still hurt by what he said and because he hadn't apologized.
Katsuki doesn't wait for you, he pulls you to him with a strong hand cupping your asscheek and giving it a squeeze. You kiss him, and he groans softly against your mouth.
"Tonight, we lock the fuckin' door, yeah?" He growls against your ear, too soft for Katsumi to hear as she already was back to playing.
It wasn't a proper apology, but the way your core tightened and your cunt leaked, it would do.
Later, as you now played princess in Katsumi's bedroom in front of her giant doll house, your mood began to damper again.
"(Y/N), does my daddy still pay you for babysitting me?" It was an honest question, and you knew Katsumi didn't mean anything by it but you still flinched at her words.
You try smiling the pain away, shaking your head. "Of course not silly girl, your daddy and I are married now."
Katsumi's sweet smile looks too much like her mother's and it reminds you of how Ochako would look at you when she'd come home from work: naive and so happy, oblivious to the fact that Katsuki had you bent over the bed he shared with her just moments prior to her return.
You had to look away so Katsumi wouldn't see the tears gathering in your eyes as you swallowed back the guilt you felt for breaking up the sweet girl's family.
Katsumi, still oblivious and not able to read nor have access to the internet just yet, still treated you like you were the best stepmom ever.
How many years do I have left before she only sees me as the other woman?
———————
Drop-offs were always awkward for you.
Despite the rumors the paparazzi spread, the relationship between Dynamite and Uravity was civil. Yet the relationship between you and Ochako was a bit strained, to say the least.
You hug Katsumi goodbye as she leaves to spend the week with her mother, before she gets into Ochako's car.
"No Katsuki?" Ochako asked with a raised eyebrow.
You cower under her questionable look, and you shrug. "He got caught up in the office again this week."
Your answer seems to be funny to her, and Ochako laughs before shaking her head. "I've heard that one before."
Saying nothing, you almost feel relief when the woman turns to walk back to her car before turning back to you.
"Let me give you piece of advice sweetheart, wife-to-wife," Ochako said coldly. "When Mr. Bakugou starts using the excuse of being 'caught up at the office', you better start claiming assets for the divorce."
Your eyes tear up, and your bottom lip quivers as the older woman rips into you.
"Trust me (Y/N), you don't want to keep holding on when he's already balls deep in someone else," Ochako warns, scoffing at your distress and walking away finally.
"I can't believe Katsuki liked them so young and stupid," The former Mrs. Bakugou said as she walked.
You openly sob as she drives away, Katsumi's confused face zooming past as you cry standing in the huge driveway of the house Katsuki owned.
It felt like your heart was ripped out of your chest, the idea of there being someone else when you've given your all for Katsuki and this marriage nearly drives you insane with grief. Karma was a bitch—
Your phone dings which takes your attention away from your pain, and you nearly cheer up when you notice a new message from Katsuki, only it read:
be home late, don't wait up
part two
#bnha bakugo katsuki#katsuki x reader#bakugou x reader#bakugou katsuki#bakugo katuski#bnha bakugou#bakugo katsuki#bakugou x reader angst#bnha ochako#bnha ochaco uraraka
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Memories || B.K
|| in honor of someone sending in a hate mail about my writing and specifically part one of this work, which you don’t have to read to understand this. Here’s part two! This is dedicated to that hater! Listen to Memories by Conan Gray to get the full effect! ||
It had been six months since she saw him, since he broke her heart. Since he walked out the door like she meant nothing. She saw him on tv often, Pro Hero Dynamite, every week it was a report about how he saved the city or was accepting a new award for his heroics.
It wasn’t fair.
She stilled lived in the same apartment, mainly cause they had signed a two year lease so she couldn’t leave. She had finally managed to get herself to stop crying when she would look at the old pictures of the two of them.
She watches the rain out the window, a black cardigan pulled around her as she sees the sidewalks puddled with water. She takes a sip of her red wine as a soft knock breaks the gentle silence of the apartment. The cat she had gotten a month after he left her, gently meows and jumped up on the entry table next to the dark oak front door.
The walk to the door is quick from her cozy chair that overlooks the sidewalk. She looks through the peephole and sees red eyes peering through it at her. She jumps before she opens the door.
“Bakugou?” The use of his last name makes his skin crawl, he groans.
“I just.. can we talk? Y/n?” He looks at her, he can watch the gears in her brain turn as she looks at him. She can see how wet his hoodie is and she can’t help but open the door for him.
He slides in and goes to walk into the living room but stumbles over the cat.
“Who put a fuckin’ cat there?!” He grumbled before letting the cat sniff his hand.
She watches him cautiously, like she’s a wild animal and he’s prey.
Somehow they end up on the kitchen floor, Bakugou is wrapped in a blanket, his clothes put in the dryer. Y/n has her back against the cabinets as she watches him, her knees are pulled tight to her chest as if they were a shield guarding her heart from him.
“I miss you.” His voice is rough, she can see the remainder of the black make up he wore under his hero mask.
“I wish you’d stay in my memories.” She bites back, her tone is sharp, callous, calculated.
“I deserve that.” He agrees and runs his hands through the damp blonde streaks, the black cat named Starfire had curled up next to him.
‘Traitor’ Y/n thinks in her head as she eyes her companion.
“I hate what I did to you.. I was trying to pr-“
“So help me god if you say protect me.” Y/n snaps, her eyes watering from the confrontation.
“Y/n.. baby.. you don’t get it..” he tried to reason, his eyes search hers for any hope that he can explain.
“I get it. I got it when I came home to a half empty apartment and you sat me down and then walked out. I understood when you blocked my number. I understood when you had security kick me out of your agency when I wanted to talk to you.”
Bakugou closes his eyes, the alcohol has gotten to his head and he feels ill, or maybe it’s the guilt for his actions.
“You protected me all through out high school and college and I supported you when you were in hero school and starting out and you faced greater threats then whatever it was this time. You didn’t leave me then. So what was it Bakugou? What the fuck was it?!”
His last name on her tongue feels wrong, he wants to hear katsuki from her pretty lips.
“I.. I got scared. I wanted to marry you but I got scared. I wasn’t ready.” He whispers and moves closer to Y/n, he moves to lay on the ground, his head in her lap.
“Please Y/n… I’m sorry… please understand.”
She can feel the tears fall on the bare skin of her thigh, she thinks about the last few months that they were together in her head. The way he had gotten a call about a nine thousand dollar transaction on his card, the way he always would stand in the closet and be staring at something but hide it away when Y/n would come around. His mom texting and asking when they could go get their nails done even when they had never done that before.
Y/n looks down at the sobbing drunk man and sighs, she rubs the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes shut. The sound of the dryer going off rips her from all thought.
“I’ll be right back.” She gently maneuvers out from under him and goes to get his laundry. When she returns with the clothes, he’s still on the floor petting Starfire and whispering to himself.
“Your mom is so beautiful, I wish I never fucked things up.. I miss her every day. I know I ruined her but I could fix it.. make it up.. god..”
Y/n clears her throat and Bakugou sits up quickly startling Starfire who scampers off.
“You can sleep in the guest room. You’re in no condition to drive or walk.“
Bakugou stands up, keeping the blanket tight around him.
“Okay,” he agrees and walks to where the guest room was, he loved this apartment, remembered the day the two moved in like it was yesterday. He opens the door and it looks different. Y/n’s things are in here.
“Wrong door.” Y/n says as she crosses her arms over her chest.
Bakugou turns and opens their old bedroom. The guest room furniture was now in here.
“Why?” He asks and looks at her.
“Couldn’t stand to be in there.” She looks away.
He doesn’t say anything else as he goes into the room.
“Oh. Here.” She grabs his clothes from the kitchen counter and hands them to him.
“Thanks Y/n.” He smiles, his head feels gross, he needs to lay down.
“Yeah. Well good night.”
She walks into her bedroom and closes the door, she puts her back against it and slides down it, hands running through her hair.
Y/n lets herself cry, she sniffles as she wipes her tears on the black cardigan. It’s not fair she tells herself that right as she’s fully put back together he comes in here and fucks it all up, it’s not fair that he can ruin her own self image of herself and run back to her like it meant nothing.
She takes her sweater off and puts on a big t shirt and crawls into bed. Within a few minutes there’s a knock at the door and Bakugou peeks his head in.
“Y/n?” He says “I love you.” He finishes.
Her eyes flick to him and she jumps out of bed, the door flying open to see his full body
“No. No. No. No.” she picks up a pillow and starts to hit him with it, all the rage she had built up exploding out.
“You don’t get to say that! You don’t get to come here and ruin my life over again like you did already! You don’t get to make me believe that we could be something again when you already proved that I was nothing! You made me feel like I was nothing! Don’t you understand that you’re holding yourself back from finding someone you actually love?! I was barely surviving after you left! It’s not fair!” She screams at him, tears rolling down her cheeks like the storm that rages outside.
Her face is red and warm and her body feels like she’s laying on hot coals. Bakugou gently grabs her and pulls her into a hug, she can faintly smell the cologne he always used, the one she still kept in her bathroom. She can smell the beer on him as well. She breaks down in his arms, she can barely hold herself up as he strokes her back and holds her.
“Shhh, I got you. It’s okay.” He whispers and pulls her to the bed, he lays down with her on his chest. He keeps a tight hold.
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.” He whispers over and over.
They fall asleep like that. When the sun comes up and shines in their eyes, they lay in the aftermath of the storm. Bakugou wakes up first like he always did. Y/n isn’t far behind when she feels gentle kisses on her forehead.
“Morning sleeping beauty.” He whispers
“Hi.” She muttered and closes her eyes once again.
Maybe they didn’t have to be what they were before, maybe they could be something better.
Bakugou gently sits up and holds her.
“I am sorry Y/n.. and I do miss you. Just please.. one shot..”
Y/n takes a deep inhale of the cologne that sticks to his body. She slowly nods.
“Okay.. one shot, that’s all you get.”
“That’s all I need. I won’t fuck up again. I promise.”
#bakugou x reader#bakugo x reader#katsuki bakugo x reader#katsuki bakugou x reader#katsuki x reader#mha x reader#bakugou katsuki x reader#bnha x reader#my hero academia x reader#bakugo katsuki x reader#bakugo katsuki#katuski bakugou#katsuki bakugo#katsuki bakugou
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conflict, conceal, confess | minho
kinktober day 31: thigh-riding
pairing: lee minho x reader
word count: 18.1k (💀)
genre: college au, enemies to lovers, (modern!consort au)
warnings: sexual content (thigh-riding, oral sex, fingering, handjob, marking, a whole lot of smut honestly, like 6k words of it), swearing, an ungodly amount of academia
summary:
“Why don’t we call a truce?”
Minho blinked, caught off-guard. “Truce?”
“Yeah. No more arguments…” you trailed off, the words already sounding hollow and you were the one saying them. “OK, maybe some academic debate. But nothing personal.”
“Nothing petty,” Minho added, giving you a pointed look.
It took an impressive amount of willpower to force your smile to stay on your face. “Exactly. We somehow managed it as kids. How hard could it be to do it again?”
“Your brother is such an asshole.”
You wondered how many of your conversations with Felix had started with those exact words. In the years since childhood, there had probably been countless variations of this very situation: you collapsing into a seat near Felix, ready to unleash after biting your tongue for however many hours beforehand.
His reaction was second nature at this point. Without even glancing towards you, Felix paused in the middle of rolling out what looked to be shortbread dough and turned to switch on the coffeemaker. “What is it this time?”
“Do you remember how many new people signed up to debate at the start of the year? Had to be at least twenty, right? Maybe thirty?”
“At least thirty,” Felix confirmed. “I gave out blondies to every person that signed up. The entire pan was gone in like an hour.”
Yes, you remembered that day. Specifically, you remembered Felix holding up the empty pan with a big smile on his face and proudly declaring how many people had shown interest in joining. And you’d had to figure out how to politely break it to him that the hordes of first-year students walking back and forth in front of his table were eyeing a little more than just his baked goods.
Sweet boy. Sweet, innocent, oblivious boy.
“Guess how many are left,” you challenged him, eager to prove a point.
Felix frowned, thinking it over. “There were still about fifteen when I was last there. So, ten?”
“Six,” you exclaimed, balling your hand into a fist and planting it onto the tabletop for dramatic effect. “And Minho made one of them cry today.”
In just a few years, you and Minho had transformed your university’s debate team into one of the most successful in the country. You’d won awards, you’d attended international competitions, you’d gained notice from several notable figures in academia. Membership of the debate team had gone from a minor footnote you’d discard in an application to a badge of prestige, of recognised talent.
Minho’s standards were high, shockingly so, but he got results. As a second-in-command in all but name, it was usually up to you to run damage control, to nudge members towards persevering instead of walking out the door. The good cop to his bad cop, the carrot to his stick. You’d be tempted to call it exhausting, were it not for the undeniable rush of satisfaction whenever you succeeded in building up a member where Minho failed.
Lately, however, your efforts were starting to fall short. In just eight weeks, over twenty recruits had quit before team selections had even finished.
“Oh, jeez,” Felix muttered. Before he could say anything more, the coffeemaker chirped behind him, and he wasted no time pouring you the biggest cup he had lying around.
You motioned it over with greedy little grabby-hands, accepting it with a smile.
Felix returned to his shortbread dough and picked up a star-shaped cookie cutter. “Why did they cry?”
You made a vaguely displeased noise through a mouthful of coffee, only managing to word a response when you set the mug down. “I don’t even know. This week’s debate was on the ethics of nuclear power, and I could tell she took pretty much all her talking points from Wikipedia. I assume it was about that. Minho probably got all Minho about it and tore her to shreds.”
Felix paused. You wondered if it was just because he was concentrating on his cookies, until you realised he was hesitating. “…I don’t know. I know Minho takes this stuff seriously, but he’s not the kind of guy to make some poor kid cry over debating.”
“Why not?“ You asked, and you can’t stop the bitterness creeping out into your voice. “It’s nothing he hasn’t done before.”
“Oh…” Felix said, eyes widening in realisation. He lifted his head up to look at you, sympathetic. “Shit, yeah. I’m sorry.”
For the most part, you’d gotten over your experience in high school debate club, but the memories still stung a little.
You’d been so eager, signing up the very second you were eligible, talking Felix’s ear off about how excited you were, how much you were looking forward to it. You’d known that Felix’s older brother - a year ahead of you - was somewhat of a big deal in the club, and you’d maybe imagined him taking you under his wing. Looking out for you, encouraging you with gentle feedback and a warm smile.
You’d gone into your first debate, attempted to expand upon the few points you’d known about the topic, and shyly waited for Minho’s counterarguments.
He had stepped up to the microphone, levelled you with a blank stare, and eviscerated every single argument you’d made. Pointed out every logical fallacy, every gap in your research, every misspoken or poorly worded statement, everything. He’d cut you right to the bone, with zero mercy.
You spent the rest of the club meeting holding back tears, ran all the way to Felix’s house as soon as it was over, sobbing your eyes out – and actually, maybe that was the first of many “your brother is an asshole” exchanges.
Huh. Funny how things come full circle like that.
When Minho returned home about a half-hour after you, you’d stormed into his room and demanded to know why he would treat you so badly. Did he want to drive you away from the club? Did he secretly hate you this whole time?
You’d never forget his response. The shrug he gave you, the arch of one eyebrow as he took in the sight of you, burning with rage, fists clenched by your side. The fucking sigh.
I just thought you’d do better than that.
What a fucking thing to say to a fourteen-year-old. Especially one that looked up to him the way you did.
And, deep-down, there was a certain sting that accompanied his words. Something you could never bring yourself to admit out loud, not even to Felix. An extra flash of pain, because back then you’d…
Whatever. It was ancient history.
You had almost quit on the spot. Instead, you dove headfirst into researching the next week’s topic, determined to beat him, paranoid about every little mistake he might pick at.
And that…
Well, that was your life for the next nine years. Even that one blissful year when Minho had graduated, the year you’d taken over as head of debate club, the year you’d gotten your team all the way to nationals - he still didn’t leave you in peace.
He’d turned up to that final competition, gaze intense, face neutral. You’d spotted him in the audience, unable to tear your eyes away, watching every little twitch of his jaw, every tiny shift in expression, and knew he was picking apart your arguments. Waiting for you to trip up and fail in front of everyone.
It felt like a glorious ‘fuck you’ when your team won that year. You’d held that trophy, looked right into Minho’s eyes, and wanted to scream ‘I fucking told you so’ right in his smug face.
Ugh. Asshole.
“It’s all in the past,” you said, forcing yourself to shrug it off.
Taking another swig of coffee, you reached over and poked Felix’s shoulder, grinning.
“And besides…Minho isn’t the one coming with me to the U.N. next month.”
“Next month,” Felix repeated, slightly in awe, matching your excitement and then some. “Holy shit, it’s so soon.”
It was. In just a few weeks’ time, you’d be standing in front of a U.N. committee giving a speech on commitment to environmental preservation with your best friend by your side. You’d worked for this for months, years even. And you’d be doing it together.
“I’m afraid I have bad news about the U.N. speech.”
You sat there, horrified, as your supervisor – Dr. Koning – shuffled the papers on his desk with a grave expression. “What? What happened? Don’t tell me it’s cancelled.”
“It’s not cancelled,” Dr. Koning said, before pausing. “…But it has been postponed. Certain recent global events have pushed it further down the agenda. The speech will happen next January.”
“January?” You repeated, and horror quickly dawned on you. “No, wait. Felix can’t do January. He’s studying abroad next semester. There has to be some other…”
“I’m afraid there’s not. I’ve tried to speak to the few contacts I have, but changing the agenda of the United Nations is…well, a little beyond our capabilities, I’m sure you can understand.”
“But this is just as much Felix’s speech as it is mine. It’s on environmental preservation, he’s the one that’s specialising in environmentalism, he can’t just get dropped like…what if he flew back for the U.N. speech? That’s doable, right?”
“Even if he could, he would still be missing the weeks of preparation leading up to the speech,” Dr. Koning reminded you, sounding genuinely apologetic. “Unless he withdraws from his study-abroad program, I’m afraid we have to give his spot to someone else.”
You felt like you’d just been punched, right in the gut. Felix couldn’t withdraw from the program. It was one of the main reasons he’d chosen this university in the first place. He’d spent months competing for the limited spaces at the best partner university, he’d e-mailed the faculty there ahead of time to begin networking, he’d based his entire career path on the connections he could make there.
Even the fucking United Nations wasn’t worth the damage his future plans would take if he dropped out of studying abroad.
“…Who’s taking his spot?” You asked, quiet, defeated.
Dr. Koning looked down at the papers, and adjusted his glasses. “Well, there are a few candidates in mind. But at such short notice, there’s really only one feasible choice. One of my colleague’s PhD students, you might know him. Lee Minho?”
…No.
No.
Absolutely fucking not.
You choked on the sudden anger bursting from your chest, trying your best to push it down before you started cussing out Lee Minho right in front of your professor. Finally, you were able to respond through gritted teeth. “Yes, I know him. We don’t…really get on.”
Dr. Koning frowned, pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry to hear that. Are there any incidents I should be aware of?”
“No, nothing like that,” you said. “Just…it’s been a thing since we were kids. We don’t like each other.”
“Well, we can look for others…” he said, before trailing off. Frowning, he leaned forward slightly, granting himself an air of conspiracy, like he was letting you in on a secret. “But, honestly…if this is something you feel comfortable setting aside, just temporarily, you should know that Minho really is the best candidate. By quite a wide margin.”
Of fucking course he was.
You let out a deep breath, closing your eyes and fighting the urge to start massaging your temples.
“…Maybe,” you relented, even if it took every ounce of willpower you had. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Good to hear,” Dr. Koning said, smiling. “I really do hope the two of you can work together on this. Both of you have shown astounding potential. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.”
“…Mm-hm. Me too.”
It was a cold, crisp Monday morning, and you found yourself stood on the steps of the lecture halls. The expression on your face was enough for the dawdling first-years around you to give you a wide berth, allowing you to scroll through your e-mails in peace.
Scroll through your e-mails, and wait.
For him.
Felix had mentioned that Minho was sitting in on a talk from a visiting financial expert on the state of global economics, and you figured now was as good a time as any to confront him about the speech.
…And by ‘confront’, you meant ‘patiently and politely open channels of communication’. Of course.
Fuck, it was freezing.
You shivered, pulling your scarf just a little tighter around your neck, and exited out of your e-mails to shoot a text to Felix.
You
Who in their right mind voluntarily sits in on an economics lecture at eight o’clock on a Monday morning?
Lixie
…
i mean
…literally you last week
You
OK first of all
That was a fucking Guillaume Van Bebber seminar
The man has a Nobel prize
Second of all
That wasn’t a Monday
Third
Shut up
Lixie
ok no cookies for you
You
Wait no, what??
I take it back.
Take it all back.
You’re my bestest friend in the whole world.
Bestest and smartest.
Waittt
You were so distracted texting Felix, you didn’t notice the doors to the lecture halls opening, and the slow stream of students beginning to file out.
You did, however, notice a familiar voice.
Your head snapped up to see Minho at the top of the steps, talking with who looked to be the guest lecturer. The two were standing still, rather than walking along with the rest of the students, positioned just out of the way so they could continue whatever conversation they were having without interruption.
Cool, even more waiting.
You shifted your weight, shoving your hands into the pockets of your coat to keep warm, and watched as Minho continued to speak – and, unbelievably, managed to make this lecturer laugh.
You blinked.
What the fuck? Minho didn’t make people laugh. He made them miserable, yes, but never laugh.
And then, suddenly, as if he could sense your insults, Minho looked over and locked eyes with you. His eyebrows raised slightly, probably in surprise at seeing you on campus so early in the morning. You made sure to maintain eye contact – an old habit with Minho, by this point. You hated being the first to look away, it always felt like weakness.
He turned away, saying something to the lecturer with a slight incline of his head.
The lecturer blinked, before nodding. You watched as, with a warm smile, the lecturer extended what looked to be a business card to Minho.
Minho accepted it, the two exchanged one final handshake, before Minho turned on his heel and descended the steps.
Towards you.
It was a little unfair, you wanted to grumble, that Minho always looked so put-together, no matter the time of day. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater, perfectly suited for the chilly October morning air, under a tailored beige overcoat. It looked designer, the plaid pattern on its lining looking vaguely familiar, but that was standard for Minho’s wardrobe. You’d known since you were a little kid that Felix’s family had money.
Like, fuck-you money.
You forced your eyes up to his face before they travelled any further downwards, but you knew from a glance that Minho was wearing some form of tight black jeans. They were a staple of his wardrobe, and you hated them. You hated any and every reminder of Minho’s…
Well, Minho’s fucking tree trunk thighs.
Which you also hated.
With a passion.
He did dance as a kid. And some kind of equestrian thing in his teenage years – because, again, fuck-you money – which all contributed to…
You know what?
Didn’t matter.
Because you hated them. They weren’t worth mentioning.
“We need to talk about the U.N. speech,” you said, as soon as he got close enough, cutting straight to the chase.
“OK,” Minho nodded, approaching closer. You paused, confused, as he showed no sign of slowing. He drew closer and closer, and something tightened in your chest, as he–
He brushed past you, shoulder nearly bumping yours, continuing onwards past you.
You stilled, rooted to the spot for a moment, blinking at the empty air where he had just been standing.
Shock quickly morphed into incredulous anger, and you turned sharply to storm after him, blown away by his rudeness. “Hey, where – what the fuck?”
Minho paused, turning to face you, halting so suddenly that you almost bumped right into him. You stumbled back a step or two, before righting yourself, as Minho asked. “…Wait, did you mean now?”
The way he said it, confused, as if you were the strange one for not specifying the obvious.
“No, I was thinking in three weeks. But let me just check my calendar first,” you retorted, deadpan. “Yes, now. Why else would I be here?”
“For classes,” Minho pointed out, gesturing to the lecture building he’d just exited.
You opened your mouth instinctively, before pausing.
Because the honest answer, that you were here because you’d been waiting for him, now sounded…
“…Look, are you free to talk about the speech or not?” You asked, folding your arms over your chest.
Minho stared at you for a moment, before giving you a shrug. “I’ve got about an hour before my next class.”
“Good.”
“I usually get coffee around this time, while it’s quiet.”
“…OK? Good for you?” You said, frowning slightly.
Minho kept staring, looking…strangely expectant.
What, he wanted a pat on the back for having coffee in the morning?
Finally, with a sharp exhale that could almost be mistaken as an exasperated sigh, Minho turned away and set off walking again.
Rude. You were literally just having a conversation? Now, he just expected you to follow him?
Ugh.
Reluctantly, you did just that, having to quicken your pace to match Minho’s stride with those…fucking gargantuan legs of his.
Legs that didn’t matter. Because you didn’t notice them. At all.
To your surprise, Minho didn’t head for Muffin House, the main coffee shop on campus. That was your go-to place for caffeine – it was cheap, they had a bunch of muffins in different flavours, and they had an irresponsibly large number of discounts on extra espresso shots for students.
Instead, you had to follow Minho down a little side street nestled between two of the towering science blocks, cut across a near-deserted car park, and finally took a right towards a quiet little pocket of buildings on the edge of campus.
You would have walked right past the coffee shop entirely, were it not for Minho suddenly ducking through the doorway of a non-descript stone building. You paused, and it was only after looking up and studying the front face of the building that you noticed the sign for Kwon’s Koffee.
Inside, it looked indistinguishable from other coffee shops on campus – except it was far less crowded, with only a few tables taken up by exclusively postgraduate students.
This was definitely one of those little insider-knowledge haunts for PhD students, like Minho. And the idea almost made you want to hate it on principle.
You joined the queue behind Minho, gaze wandering toward the board of coffee specials.
…Fuck, OK, they did look pretty good.
Still, the principle of the matter remained.
“You realise Muffin House was so much closer, right?” You asked, glancing at Minho.
Minho made a face. “Yeah, but their coffee is shitty.”
“No, it’s not!”
“It’s always bitter.”
“Yeah, because it’s made to go with the super-sweet muffins,” you said, slowing your words as if trying to explain the concept of taste to a toddler. “They balance each other out.”
“Which means if you don’t get muffins, you’re shit out of luck,” Minho pointed out, and glanced over his shoulder at you. “And I never get them.”
You stared at him, genuinely affronted by this statement. Yet another thing to add to the colossal-sized list of reasons to dislike Minho. “What? Why? How?”
He shrugged. “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.”
“How are you and Felix even related?”
“It’s because of Felix,” Minho argued, and you had to admit, your interest was piqued. “Who do you think was the test subject for all his recipes?”
“What, were they bad?” You asked, intrigued.
Minho smiled ruefully. “Some were. But the most dangerous ones were the great ones. There’s only so many whole pans of brownies you can inhale before your body just rejects sugar on sight.”
Huh.
You forgot, sometimes, how close Minho and Felix were. It didn’t entirely fit in with your general doctrine of ‘Minho = The Worst’ so it was often banished to the back of your mind.
You supposed even the absolute dregs of humanity usually had at least one redeeming quality.
…Wait, this was coming dangerously close to an actual conversation with Minho.
“I think you’re just a coffee snob,” you dismissed with a shrug.
Minho rolled his eyes, and that brief façade of reasonable humanity vanished. “If Muffin House figured out how to brew coffee without burning it to shit, I’d drink it. But they haven’t yet, so…”
You opened your mouth, already raring to start an argument, but it was at that moment that the person in front of Minho in the queue finished ordering. Minho turned away from you, and walked up to the counter.
You followed closely behind, and it was only when your attention shifted from Minho to the person behind the counter that your eyes lit up.
“Seungmin?”
Seungmin blinked, leaning to the side just a little to look over Minho’s shoulder at you, surprised. “Oh, hey! Long time no see.”
Seungmin had been a stalwart member of your debate team for the first few years of undergrad, until he landed a job as research assistant for one of the most respected professors on campus. You had a lot of good feeling towards him, not least because he – along with Felix – often acted as the mediator between you and Minho.
He must have remembered that role too, as his gaze soon shifted back and forth between you and Minho, and his brow furrowed slightly. “Wait, are you two getting coffee? Like, together?”
You saw Minho bristle out of the corner of your eye, and you fought back a scoff. Did he really find it so insulting to be seen in public with you? “Yes, we are.”
Seungmin’s eyes flickered between the two of you again. “…Voluntarily?”
Minho answered this time, seemingly through gritted teeth. “Apparently.”
“Huh,” Seungmin said, mostly to himself. “Interesting.”
“Can we order now?” Minho asked, impatiently.
Seungmin shrugged, ignoring Minho’s rudeness, and set about taking your orders.
(Of course, Minho took his coffee black. Pretentious motherfucker probably had a whole thing about palate and bean aroma or whatever. You threw in a muffin with your order, to spite Minho more than anything else.)
It was only at the end, when it came to payment, that Seungmin looked up again at the two of you. “Are you guys paying separately, or…?”
That was kind of a dumb question.
“Separately,” you said, pointing out the obvious.
“Very separately,” Minho echoed, giving Seungmin a very pointed look.
Impressively, Minho’s glare did little to change Seungmin’s expression. In fact, Seungmin only smiled a little wider, calmly reverting back to his standard customer service script. “…OK. Cash or card?”
After payment, it only took a few minutes of waiting for your coffee before you found yourself sat at a table in the corner of the coffee shop, facing directly across from Minho.
The two of you sat there in silence, coffee in front of you.
How did you…how did you even start a conversation with Minho that wasn’t an argument? Usually, you relied on him to say something incorrect and pounce on it.
Now? You had to figure out how to be…nice. Civil. All because of this dumb speech.
You watched Minho shrug off his coat, turning in his seat to drape the coat over the back of his chair. The black turtleneck he was wearing underneath was surprisingly form-fitting, and when he turned back around to face you and pick up his mug, your eyes dropped down to your own cup before you gave into the urge to scowl openly.
Sometimes, you wondered if it would be harder to hate Minho if he were less attractive.
It was a thought you crushed down the second it came into your head, but you couldn’t entirely deny it. There had been moments, unspeakable moments, when you started dating someone, that your brain betrayed you and compared them to Minho. It was like he had to just…infect every part of your life. He had to ruin everything.
You swallowed, curling your fingers around the handle of your mug, tapping the edge of it with your thumb. “…So, the speech.”
“The speech.”
“I assume Koning already talked to you about it?”
“Yes.”
“…And?” You said, resisting the urge to scream. This was like pulling teeth. “Your thoughts?”
Minho sat back in his chair, eyeing you closely. “Why the U.N.?”
Easy question. So easy, you’d almost call it moronic. “It’s the U.N. It’s literally where I want my career to take me.”
“You want to work at the U.N.?” Minho asked, and you could almost mistake his tone for interest.
“Yes,” you said, confidently, half-prepared to defend yourself in case Minho decided to find your ambition laughable. Screw him. “The Human Rights Council, preferably, but I wouldn’t say no to a job in the General Assembly.”
“Who would?” Minho remarked, deadpan.
“Ergo, a speech there. It wasn’t easy, but we managed it,” you said, not even pretending to be humble.
“…It’s impressive, honestly. What you’ve achieved.”
“What me and Felix achieved,” you corrected him automatically, but honestly, you were a little thrown. That sounded…dangerously close to a compliment. From Minho.
“Koning said it was your idea,” Minho said. “You came up with the proposal, and you were the one ballsy enough to actually submit it to the U.N.”
“Yeah, but the speech is literally on environmental preservation–”
“International NGO commitment to environmental preservation,” Minho interrupted, and you bit down the sudden flare of anger that he felt the need to correct you on your own fucking speech topic. “International commitment is your wheelhouse, isn’t it?”
“And Felix is literally specialising in environmentalism,” you reminded him, and it was then that one of your biggest concerns about this whole situation reared its head. “Which reminds me, actually, why did they pick you to replace him on it?”
Minho stared at you for a solid moment, eyebrows slowly raising, as if he couldn’t believe you were being serious.
You felt yourself bristling, growing defensive. “What? You’re a politics student, not–”
“My master’s thesis was literally on environmental activism. I help teach undergrad classes on green politics and ecological efforts in government policy. How do you not know this?”
…OK. So, fine, maybe you didn’t pay that much attention to what Minho actually studied. Why would you? You imagined it would only piss you off more, reading through his fucking glowing examples of academic writing – like, seriously, in your second year of undergrad, one of your professors used one of his essays as a literal example of how to do the assignment.
You scoffed, lifting your coffee up to your mouth, muttering under your breath. “Ego-logical efforts, more like.”
Minho tilted his head, clearly having heard every word you just said. “What was that?”
You stared him down, taking one long, unabashed drink of coffee, before setting your cup down. Maintaining eye contact, you forced your most innocent smile. “Nothing.”
Another moment of silence fell between the two of you, as Minho’s mouth twitched. You could tell he was very tempted to call you out, and you almost wanted to dare him to say something. Going this long without some kind of conflict with Minho felt…weird. Strange.
Instead, Minho sighed, and you couldn’t imagine the visible shock on your face when his expression actually softened towards you. “…Look. I know you really wanted to work with Felix on this. It’s really shitty that this got taken out of your hands.”
…What? What the fuck was happening here?
He continued. “I’m sorry you got screwed over like this.”
What the fuck was in this coffee?
“I’m not trying to butt in and mess with everything you’ve prepared,” Minho said. “I genuinely just want to help you. I know we’ve got…issues.”
“That’s a bit of an understatement.”
“Sometimes people just don’t get along,” Minho said, eyes flickering downwards to his mug as he took a sip of coffee. “But I hope we can be professional about this.”
You fought the urge to scowl, but you couldn’t quite stop yourself from clenching your jaw at the assumption.
You could be professional.
You could be insanely fucking professional.
“Yes, I hope we can,” you said, your voice perfectly level. Calm. Composed. Professional. “So, actually, until this speech is over…why don’t we call a truce?”
Minho blinked, caught off-guard by your choice of words. “‘Truce’?”
“Yeah. Until the speech is done, we’ll try to be nice to each other. No more arguments…” you trailed off, the words already sounding hollow and you were the one saying them. You backtracked slightly. “OK, maybe some academic debate. But nothing personal.”
“Nothing petty,” Minho added, giving you a pointed look.
It took an impressive amount of willpower to force your smile to stay on your face. “Exactly. We somehow managed it as kids. How hard could it be to do it again, for the next few months?”
Minho didn’t answer immediately, clearly thinking the proposition over.
You took another sip of coffee, trying your best to leave it at that. But you couldn’t help but add, pointedly. “I mean, I don’t think it’ll be hard for me. But if you think you–”
“I’ll manage,” Minho interjected, dryly, unimpressed. “You’re the one who starts it most of the time, anyway.”
“I don’t–” you bit your tongue, taking a second to claw back your patience. “…I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure.”
You sat just a little taller, frowning. “OK. So, we’re decided.”
“Yep.”
“Truce?”
“Truce.”
“…Good.”
“Good.”
“Great,” you said, maybe just a little eager to get the last word. Maybe.
It was only when you took another sip of coffee, content with yourself, that Minho dropped the sudden curveball. “My housemates are throwing a Halloween party this weekend. Maybe you should come.”
You very almost did a spit-take with your coffee. “What?”
“If you’re so interested in a truce,” Minho added, tapping his fingers against the wooden surface of the table, and that was when you recognised the invitation for what it was.
A challenge.
Minho was absolutely trying to get you to chicken out.
You straightened your shoulders. “I’d be happy to,” you said, and it sounded vaguely threatening.
“Great, I’ll let them know.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“Me too,” Minho said, his words so edged, you could imagine them slicing into you.
Yeah, this truce was definitely going to last.
This was a terrible idea.
You hesitated on the pavement outside of what was very obviously a Halloween party in full swing. You’d purposely waited a little, hoping to avoid the awkward early stages of house parties, your imagination filled with dreadful images of being one of the first to show up and having to make conversation with Minho.
The later, the better. More people to act as a buffer, and a better excuse to get drunk.
Hopefully, fingers-crossed, maybe Minho had already gotten absolutely wasted and wouldn’t even notice you were there.
Bolstered by the thought, you shot a text to Felix – who should already be inside, having volunteered to swing by early and help his older brother with decorations – to say that you were here.
OK.
Breathe.
Go.
You marched up the path towards the front door, refusing to be distracted by the partygoers scattered around the front yard, smoking and chatting and one couple leaning against the wall and already looking very handsy.
The front door was open, and you made your way inside, senses alert for any sign of Felix (to approach) and Minho (to avoid) as you did so.
The house was impressively large for student housing – of course it was, Minho lived here – and yet, every room held a crowd of people. Dancing, drinking, having fun. A drunk girl, dressed in what looked to be some variation of zombie Disney princess, stumbled into you, giggling apologetically as she did. Her drink – a can of something, maybe a bottle – was icy-cold as it brushed against your thigh.
You should have worn something longer, you thought. Your costume was cute, and dare you say, maybe even kinda hot, but it was not cut out for any temperatures colder than a room full of warm bodies. Just the walk up to the house had you shivering, just a little.
Your hunt for Felix led you from room to room, as you tried and failed to prevent yourself from rolling your eyes at the size of this place. Someone had set up tables – multiple – for beer pong in one room, while another room hosted an impressive speaker system for dancing, while another room was all softly-lit and calm background music, clearly the designated room for quieter, laid-back conversation.
A layout that checked all the house party boxes, sure. But a terrible place to try and track someone down.
Eventually, somehow, you found yourself in the kitchen, and it was here that you wondered whether you should just give up for a second and grab something to drink. You’d find Felix at some point, hopefully. Just as long as you didn’t run into…
“Oh.”
You turned at the voice, instinctively, but on second thoughts maybe you should have pretended not to hear.
Minho was standing in front of you, leaning against the kitchen counter.
And he…
He looked…
Holy fucking shit.
From the fake blood on his billowy white shirt and the painted-on bite mark on his neck, he was clearly some kind of vampire. Someone – maybe Minho himself – had applied the subtlest amount of eyeliner, and between that and the rumpled dark hair, and the…
Fuck, those were leather pants. Skin-tight.
Oh, you had to leave right now–
“Hi,” you said, standing your ground.
“You’re late,” Minho noted.
It was only then that you realised Minho was part of a loose cluster of guys, all of whom turned to see who Minho was talking to.
And one of them, to your intense relief, was Felix.
“Hey!” Felix greeted, wandering over to throw an arm around you in a half-hug. He was a cheerful drinker, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t help your confidence a little to see someone so unambiguously happy to see you here.
When he pulled away, you noticed that the little hand-drawn stitches around his neck had already started to smudge. Miraculously the little fake plastic bolts on either side of his head remained intact.
“I like your costume,” Felix told you. “It’s very…pink.”
“It is very pink,” you agreed, looking down at yourself.
When you glanced up, you caught the way Minho’s eyes flickered upwards too, as if he’d just finished looking you up and down.
You tensed a little, preparing yourself for some kind of critique. Lee Minho, champion appraiser of cheap Halloween costumes.
To your surprise, however, Minho quickly averted his eyes and took a deep swig of the drink in his hand.
“I like your costume too,” one of Minho’s friends chimed in. He was kind of cute, all dark hair and big brown eyes, so adorable that his werewolf costume came across as looking more like a chipmunk. “What are you?”
You smiled, relaxing a little. “The most accomplished woman of our time.”
The guy blinked, looking briefly thrown for a second, eyes back on your costume as he tried to decipher who you were.
But Minho, astonishingly, cracked a half-smile. Which, for Minho, was practically a laugh. “Are you Barbie?”
“Yes,” you admitted, reluctantly, half-tempted to lie just to be petty. Except, damn it, no more pettiness. You’d agreed.
“Barbie is the most accomplished woman of our time?”
“Princess. Astronaut. President. I am prepared to fight you on this.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and I’ll win.”
“Mm,” Minho hummed, and again, his gaze flickered downwards. What, was it so shocking to see you in pink?
You shifted your weight, and you almost folded your arms over your chest before you remembered what the neckline was like on this dress. Maybe not.
Unbeknownst to you, Felix and Minho’s friend exchanged a look.
Clearing your throat, you turned your attention to the large and varied alcohol selection littering the kitchen counter. “So, what can I get to drink here?”
“Minho can talk you through it,” Minho’s friend suddenly announced, patting Minho on the shoulder. Minho blinked, tearing his eyes away from you to look at his friend. “I’m gonna go find Chan, he promised me a beer pong rematch. Felix, bro, you should come with.”
Felix hesitated. “…Actually, maybe I–”
“Nah, come on,” Minho’s friend insisted, hooking his arm with Felix’s, cheerfully pulling him away. “Be my cheerleader.”
You stared, as it dawned on you that your biggest support in this minefield of a conversation was being frogmarched away.
Right. OK. Alone with Minho.
Cool.
You chanced a look back towards Minho, only to find him still watching you, and you quickly diverted your attention to the alcohol again. Smoothing down your skirt, you forced yourself to shrug. “I thought about coming as Frieda Dalen, but I figured no one would get the reference. She was–”
“The first woman to speak at the U.N., yeah.”
You snapped your head back to stare at him, bewildered. “How the fuck do you know that?”
Minho raised one eyebrow, and you were genuinely irritated that, in combination with the hair and the blood and the outfit in general, it almost…almost maybe twisted something in your gut. “My first official university debate was about the history of women in global affairs. She was a good factoid. 1946, right?”
You fought the urge to scowl as you confirmed his answer. “Yep. 1946.”
And, because even the tightest of leather couldn’t dull your burning dislike of seeing Minho smug, you pressed him further.
“Do you remember which country she was the delegate of?”
“No,” Minho admitted, tilting his head slightly to one side as he looked at you. After a moment, he straightened up from where he’d been leaning, gaining an inch or two of height in doing so, forcing you to tilt your chin up slightly to continue meeting his gaze. “Why don’t you tell me?”
His words should have sounded patronising.
Except, there was a strange edge to his voice, almost a playfulness but not quite. Not a lightness, because it definitely didn’t feel light. It felt kind of heavy, actually.
If you didn’t know any better, you would almost mistake it as…
“Minho!”
Both of you jolted at the sudden shout, barely having the time to turn towards it source before a tall guy with a Phantom of the Opera mask and ridiculously pretty long, blond hair staggered into Minho and hugged him.
You blinked, too caught off-guard to even appreciate the bemused expression on Minho’s face as the pretty guy mumbled into his shoulder. “Minho, I think…I’m druuunk.”
You took that as the perfect opportunity to back out of this…interaction with Minho, even as something strange twisted inside of you. You quickly grabbed the closest drink you could and retreated out of the kitchen as fast as your dignity would allow.
You needed to drink. And maybe dance. Anything to distract you, before your mind wandered anywhere dangerous.
This wasn’t working.
Drinking your problems away was a terrible idea in and of itself, but you’d been tempted to give it a go. After your second drink, however, you were blindsided with the intrusive thought of getting wasted and throwing up in Minho’s bathroom, and all the humiliation that could go with it, and it had warned you off alcohol for the rest of the night.
Dancing, your alternative solution, had worked for the first hour or so. You had let loose a little, but as your drink-fuelled buzz slowly faded, you found yourself growing increasingly uncomfortable by the stale air and the press of warm bodies. You were getting hot, something under your skin beginning to itch.
You needed to get out of here, just for a moment, to clear your head.
With crowds of people blocking your way to the front door, you decided on a different path towards some peace and quiet. Upstairs was mostly left untouched, understandable since there were no drinks to be found and no music playing, and you breathed out a sigh of relief when you reached the top of the stairs and turned a corner, and found an empty hallway.
Perfect.
Before you could think twice, you sat down on the floor, your back against the wall. The relief of taking a break from standing in these heels was immediate, and you let your head loll backwards, closing your eyes.
You just needed a few minutes here, you decided. Just to recharge.
“What are you doing?”
You didn’t open your eyes, but you felt your expression immediately sour. Of course it had to be the worst possible person to find you here, alone and close to misery, sitting in the hallway.
Minho approached, or at least, that was what you gathered from the sound of his footsteps. He came to a halt fairly close, pausing, and spoke up again.
“How are you this wasted already?” Minho asked, and there was surprisingly little amusement in his voice at the idea. In fact, you’d almost mistake it for concern.
“I am distressingly sober, actually,” you replied, slowly opening one eye to glare at him, but it was half-hearted at best, and you closed it again. “Just needed some quiet. Had a headache.”
Minho didn’t say anything in response. In fact, it was silent for so long, you started to wonder if he’d walked off without you even noticing, when he suddenly spoke up again. “I know a good place for quiet. And for fresh air, if you want it.”
Slowly, you opened your eyes again, fixing him with a look of suspicion. Admittedly, whatever he was suggesting sounded like the perfect place for you right now – which was exactly the reason you were so suspicious. “Where?”
“It’s pretty nearby,” Minho said, and to your disbelief, held out his hand.
Your eyes flickered from his face, to his outstretched hand, to his face again, before taking a deep breath and pushing yourself up to your feet by yourself. To his credit, Minho withdrew his hand smoothly, seemingly unaffected by your refusal to take it.
“After you,” you said, still reluctant to let down your guard.
Minho nodded, and set off down the hallway, going just a little further from where you were sitting, and stopping in front of a door. With a glance back to you, probably checking to see if you were still following, or if you’d lied about being sober and collapsed while he wasn’t looking, he opened it and wandered inside.
You took a few steps towards it – and then caught one look inside the room and halted dead in your tracks.
That was…
Was that…?
“Is that your fucking bedroom?” You asked, in pure disbelief.
Minho stopped, turning around to look at you, and how the fuck could he look so calm about this? “…Yeah? Last time I checked, why?”
“Why? Are you…” you trailed off, scoffing, before putting on your best Minho impression. “‘I know a good place, come follow me’ and it’s your bedroom. Come on.”
“I wasn’t…I was talking about the balcony. There’s a balcony through…” Minho gestured vaguely towards the far wall, where you realised the huge ceiling-to-floor curtains hanging there must be hiding the doors to it.
Of course he has a balcony.
Of course.
For once in his life, Minho looked just the slightest bit ruffled as he finally caught on to the incredibly obvious implications.
He swallowed. “Look, if you’re not comfortable, that’s–”
You interrupted him with a scoff. “I’m not uncomfortable.”
In fact, to prove just how comfortable you were, you marched into his room, forcing yourself to appear entirely unbothered.
“See? Fine,” you said. “Just, maybe lead with the balcony thing next time, so you don’t look like some massive sleaze.”
Again, Minho’s reaction surprised you. Instead of anger or annoyance at your accusation, Minho cracked another half-smile. “Fair.”
…Yeah, you really weren’t used to this whole ‘nice’ thing between the two of you. It felt weird, like the very foundations of your dynamic were shaken by it.
As Minho led you towards the balcony, you tried your best not to look too closely at his bedroom, as much as your curiosity protested otherwise. The most detail you got was that it was fairly neat, fairly clean, and he had a stupidly large bed. Which, you know, Minho, fuck-you money, that made sense.
You point-blank refused to dwell on it.
As soon as he slid open the door, you quickly leaned forward and breathed in that refreshing cold night air, and felt your headache fade just a little. It was only when you stepped out onto the balcony that you truly felt yourself relax, and the tension built up in your head began to ease.
“Better?” Minho asked, and you heard him come up from behind you, coming to a stop beside you to look up at the night sky. You couldn’t make out many stars from here, thanks to the light pollution of the city, but it was still undeniably a pretty cool view.
“Yeah,” you admitted and, begrudgingly, you turned towards him to mutter. “…Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“I won’t be too long out here,” you added, feeling the weirdest need to justify accepting this kindness from Minho, to downplay it. “I’m not exactly dressed for October weather.”
Minho paused, keeping his gaze fixed on the night sky above and very much not on you. “Yeah.”
…Yeah?
You frowned, unable to stop yourself from feeling slightly defensive. “I mean, you’re one to talk.”
That got his attention. Suddenly, Minho had no problem looking at you. “What?”
“Your pants, Minho. Did you paint them on yourself?”
And you realised then and there that you must have made some kind of error, because Minho looked genuinely amused. Glancing down at himself for a moment, his eyes wandered back up to meet yours, and there was a genuine note of curiosity in his voice. “What, do you like them?”
You stilled, faltering just slightly, before retorting. “I’d probably like the cow they’re made from more.”
“Don’t worry, they’re not real leather,” Minho quipped back. “If that’s your only issue with them.”
“Well, you know, the fake leather industry is actually…” you trailed off, because your comeback sounded lame even in your head. “Whatever.”
The two of you fell into a silence, both watching the stars for a moment, listening to the thud of the bass downstairs and the muffled cacophony of voices.
And then, quietly, reluctantly, Minho spoke. “…Can I ask you a genuine question?”
If it was about the pants, you might actually throw him off this balcony. “OK. You’re not guaranteed a genuine answer, but go ahead.”
“The U.N. speech. It was your idea. If you want to go into human rights, why are you doing a speech about the environment?”
You paused, genuinely flustered by his question. Your response came out jumbled. “I don’t…you know, the two aren’t mutually exclusive, environmental damage is having a huge impact on–”
“Yeah, but that’s not what the speech is actually about. It’s a great speech, but why isn’t it on a subject youwant to do?”
“Who says? You? You don’t know what I want,” you shot back, irritated, refusing to admit that he’d touched a nerve.
Rather than snapping back at you immediately, Minho took a deep breath, calming slightly. “…You’re right. I don’t. I shouldn’t assume.”
What was this? You didn’t want him to agree with you, you wanted an argument. This ‘nice’, truce stuff was really starting to grate on you. “Exactly.”
“It’s just…it’s important that you do what you want, and not try to shape yourself around other people.”
“I don’t,” you argued. “Maybe what I want is for you not to attack every little decision I make. Like you always do.”
Minho’s brow furrowed, his stance shifting slightly. It took a second to realise that he was appraising you, eyeing you thoughtfully.
“You…really seem to dislike me,” he noted.
“Oh, do I?” You remarked, bitterly.
“Why is that?”
You let out a deep breath, mostly out of frustration, but also a little out of exhaustion. Closing your eyes for a moment, you tried to construct some kind of response.
There seemed to be a multitude of answers to that question. Minho was arrogant. He was atrociously blunt in most social settings and seemed indifferent to the hurt he caused others. He had an exorbitant amount of money and had very few qualms showcasing it. He scared away almost every single new debate team recruit because he was apparently allergic to the concept of constructive criticism. He’d ruined more than one relationship you’d had. Apparently, you talked too much about him, but there were only so many ways to honestly answer questions about your day or how you were feeling without mentioning how aggravating Minho was in some capacity.
But honestly, the more you thought about it, the more you felt yourself slipping back into the shell of that little fourteen-year-old, looking up at the cool older boy with wide eyes and hoping for just one kind word.
And it made you feel so…small. Pathetic.
“Because you’re an asshole,” you stated, simply.
Minho stared at you for a second, before frowning slightly. “I mean, not really.”
…Oh, he decided to say just exactly the wrong thing there, didn’t he?
“You absolutely are. Like, objectively,” you argued. “You literally made a girl cry last week over debating.”
“What? Who?”
“That first-year girl. Dark hair, super perky. You know, when she’s not crying her eyes out.”
Something approaching recognition dawned on Minho’s face, but to your surprise, his expression dimmed slightly. “Oh, her. She told you it was about her debating?”
Well, not in exact words, you wanted to say. But it wasn’t hard to read between the lines, given what you knew Minho to be capable of.
“OK, then what was it about?” You asked.
“She came up to me after our last meeting and asked for some tutoring,” Minho said, before giving you a very pointed look. “As in, a specific kind of ‘private’ tutoring. Very specific. And she was not subtle about it.”
You blinked. “…What?”
Minho’s brow furrowed, visibly searching through his memory of the incident. “To be fair, I might have laughed in her face. In my defence, it was less about her and more about the audacity.”
You pictured the scene, of that girl coming onto Minho, his face when he realised what was happening, and the worst part of you maybe wanted to smirk a little. But you would not indulge it. “Still, sounds like you could have been nicer abut it.”
“OK, yeah, I feel a little bad. But no, it wasn’t over her debating skills. I might be harsh, but you think I’d make someone cry over that and not give a shit?”
Every ounce of amusement drained out of you in an instant, replaced by something cold. “I mean…yeah, you’ve done it before.”
“What? When?”
He didn’t know?
How could he not know?
You might have finished sobbing by the time you’d confronted him, all those years ago, but hadn’t it been extremely obvious?
You stared at Minho for a good few seconds, waiting for him to slip up, to give up the joke. But all you got in return was a genuinely confused expression on his face, waiting for you to clarify what exactly you were talking about.
Oh.
Yeah, he really didn’t know.
Shit.
You swallowed, looking down at your hands, picking at one particularly jagged edge of your thumbnail. “…Me.”
Minho stilled. You could feel his eyes burning into the side of your head, searching your face. “You cried?”
Oh, fuck this guy. You stiffened, embarrassment roiling in the pit of your stomach, and snapped, seething. “Just forget it–”
“No, I didn’t mean…” he trailed off. When you braved a look over at him, you didn’t find the smirk you were expecting. Minho looked genuinely chastened, watching you with a deep but unreadable emotion. “I…didn’t know.”
You didn’t like this, you didn’t know how to handle…earnest Minho. Where the fuck did asshole Minho go?
“It was just the once. It was my first debate, and you were a dick about it,” you said, forcing yourself to shrug.
“Oh,” Minho said, with such a strangely specific tone that you couldn’t help but look over at him. There was a look of dawning realisation on his face, and the slightest hint of…
Embarrassment?
“I think I remember that,” Minho said, sounding vaguely horrified. “…This is going to sound dumb.”
Minho? Dumb? And aware of that fact? “…OK.”
“And a little pathetic.”
“Good, go on.”
“But I think, at the time…I was hoping you’d ask me for help.”
You stilled, trying to comprehend the string of words that had just left his mouth. Trying to forge them into anything that made even the smallest bit of sense.
“…And you didn’t, I don’t know, think about offering your help? Before humiliating me in front of my classmates?” You asked, and you almost surprised yourself with the way your voice shook with an old, familiar anger. “That didn’t, you know, maybe occur to you?”
Minho turned his whole body to face you head-on, hand curling around the balcony railing at his side. It was in that moment, seeing him entirely, that you glimpsed that blunt, ruthless young man that had cut you so deeply all those years ago – and saw, for the first time, how small he really was. That memory had taken up so much space in your mind, had warped itself until Minho towered over you, a titan, a symbol of each and every one of your failings.
Now, for once, a new image appeared. An awkward teenage boy, too embarrassed to admit that he wanted to be something in your eyes.
You softened, just for a second.
And then, remembering yourself, remembering all that had happened between the two of you since then, you came back to your senses.
“And what about everything after? It’s not like you were nice after that one little misunderstanding, you picked at everything I did for years.”
“In my defence, neither were you. You refused to speak to me unless you had to for years,” Minho pointed out. “And I realised how much you could do, what you could achieve–”
“If you kept being an asshole?”
“If I held you to actual standards,” Minho corrected, and for the first time in this conversation, he was starting to get heated. Good. “The next time the club met, you wiped the floor with seniors. Seniors. You were just as good as me, and you barely had experience.”
A compliment from Minho, however begrudging and biting it was, had a dangerously addicting effect on you. Actually, maybe the begrudging part only made it better. “And what? That pissed you off?”
Minho’s expression faltered, just for a split-second, and that spoke more than any confession could.
“It did,” you said, half-shocked for a second, before pressing on. “So, you wouldn’t get off my fucking back foryears. You even turned up at nationals after you graduated, hoping I’d fall flat on my face.”
“Is that what you think?” Minho asked, incredulous.
“What else would it be?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe…” Minho stopped, before letting out a short, bitter laugh. “Never mind. Forget it.”
You wanted to press him further, but the anger that had sustained you so far was starting to flag a little.
This was just…exhausting, sometimes.
You let out a deep breath, just as a cold October breeze decided to kick up, making you shiver. Instinctively, you folded your arms over your chest, tucking your hands into your sides to get just a little bit of warmth.
Maybe it was time for you to leave.
You looked over at Minho, opening your mouth to say something–
Only to catch his gaze openly, unmistakably, dipping down towards your cleavage.
You stopped.
You stared.
His eyes moved upwards again, finding yours, and he realised he’d been caught.
He tensed, just for a second, and you watched a tangle of emotions play out across his face before he settled on a neutral, blank, composed expression. But he didn’t speak.
He just…looked at you.
Waiting for you to say something? Daring you to say something?
It was hard to decipher, because at that moment, your brain was still 100% stuck on the fact that Minho had been checking you out.
Because that wasn’t some little accidental flicker, his gaze had stayed there.
Minho had been absolutely, undeniably, checking you out.
For all your complaints about the cold weather, it was starting to get very warm out here.
Why the fuck wasn’t he saying something? Anything?
You swallowed – or, well, you tried to at least.
Something had awoken, deep in the pit of your stomach. You felt it starting to unfurl, slowly, your nerve endings beginning to prickle.
“Are you…” you didn’t finish the question, you couldn’t finish the question, because the words ‘are you into me?’ were so laughably alien that they just refused to leave your mouth.
Minho waited, expectant for something, searching your face. Whatever he found – or didn’t find – was enough to make him speak.
“What?” he asked, and it was that same voice he had in the kitchen. Quiet, loaded, just a touch lower in register that almost made your breath catch.
It was like he was challenging you. Goading you. Wondering whether you were too much of a coward to finish that question.
You needed to ask. You needed to say it.
Come on, you were about to talk to the fucking United Nations in a few months, surely you could handle asking one question to Lee fucking Minho.
“Are you…attracted to me?”
Already, you were starting to cringe internally. Already, you were preparing for the worst. You tried to reassure yourself that it was fine, that when he said ‘no’ you could call him out on staring at your chest, he had no room to speak, it was a logical question, it…
Except Minho didn’t say ‘no’.
He didn’t say anything.
And the longer he looked at you, the longer he stayed silent, the more obvious his answer became.
…Oh.
That…
Maybe you were drunk, actually. Surely you had to be. Because the idea that Minho found you attractive didn’t drive you off like you thought it would.
Minho found you attractive.
Minho, the man with an ego so large it could smother a man, a superiority complex so vast it could bring awe-stricken observers to tears, that Minho…found you attractive.
Huh.
As you stared back at him, you were hit with the sudden thought of kissing him.
Which would be a terrible idea.
Because Minho was Minho and just because he was into you, just because he was perhaps objectively maybe a little good-looking, just because he’d admitted that all these years he’d seen you as an intellectual equal, just because he had the kind of thighs that could probably crush a watermelon, he…
He…
You paused, mind-blank, before rising up on your toes and pressing your lips to his.
The first few seconds were strange. Of course they were, it was surreal to feel someone’s lips on yours and know this was Minho, holy shit. You could feel how still he was, how shocked, and you knew he must have been on the exact same wavelength.
And then, he closed his eyes, his hand lifted up to gently cup your cheek, and everything clicked together perfectly.
This felt right, like really weirdly right despite it all. Some kind of base level of brain chemistry was screaming about how right this was, and it had you shivering in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.
Was this a bad idea? The two of you had to work together for the next few months, you should have been aiming to keep things strictly professional, personal issues could complicate–
Minho let out the tiniest exhale, recapturing your lips immediately, and your thoughts stopped dead in your tracks.
Fuck professionalism, you’d earned this, you’d been working your ass off for months, you deserved to take satisfaction whenever you could get it.
You looped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself up slightly to press the entirety of your front against his. He was warm, shockingly so, and when his free hand moved to press itself into the small of your back, you chanced parting your lips just a little.
Minho followed suit, deepening the kiss, angling his head just slightly. Everything about his touch, how he held you, it was all so strangely gentle in comparison to the usual way he treated you. As if you were an illusion, like if he squeezed too hard, you might disappear.
One of your hands came up to run your fingers up his neck, through his hair, and the drag of your fingernails coaxed a quiet hum out of him.
Every noise you pulled from Minho, every little reaction, felt like winning an argument. It felt like a strange natural extension of your debates, isolating the weakness in the other’s defence and targeting it.
You let your fingers tangle in his hair, biding your time, and when you tested a sharp little twist, you heard his breath catch.
Minho went still, just for a second, just enough to take a deep breath, before grabbing your hip and swinging you around, pushing you up against the sliding balcony door, trapping you between it and him.
The impact was enough to knock a gasp out of you, and he pulled away briefly. You watched him, cheeks flushed, eyes dark, breath heavy, as he tried to form words. “Fuck, are you–”
You pulled him back to you, a hand fisted in his shirt collar, too impatient to let him finish the rest of his question. Your kiss was rushed, insistent, and you took your time before you pulled away to mutter against his lips. “I’m fine. Just…fuck it, just keep kissing me.”
Minho’s head dipped towards yours, briefly, as if he were about to do just that – before he paused. “…Ask me nicely.”
“Fuck off,” you snapped, impulsively, heat rushing to your face.
He pulled his head away, his whole body even, until the two of you were just barely touching. He lingered, teasingly close, an amused glint in his eye. “Why, is that want you want? Me to fuck off?”
You didn’t know if he was being sincere or not. You never knew if he was being sincere or not. That was Minho, through and through.
You scrabbled for an answer, brain still sluggishly working through the fact that you weren’t kissing anymore, chest rising and falling with every quickened breath. You found your words, looking him directly in the eye, tilting your chin up slightly.
“Kiss me,” you said, practically venomous, before setting your jaw. “Or I’ll find someone else to do it for you.”
You didn’t know why that was the threat you made. Logically, it held no weight – Minho might have been attracted to you, but would he really care if you kissed someone else? You half expected him to laugh you off, and wander off back to the party without even a glance back at you.
He did neither of those things.
In fact, the teasing look in his eye vanished completely. His gaze turned so intense that you wondered if he could burn a hole straight through you.
When he finally spoke, he was deceptively calm, his voice perfectly even as he noted out loud. “I see. So, that’s how we’re playing this.”
You barely had time to process his words, before his mouth was back on yours, almost feverish, and with a newfound harshness.
You met him with just as much enthusiasm, matching him move-for-move.
A gentle Minho was too complicated. A soft, kind Minho forced you to confront some preconceived notions that you were very happy to keep unchallenged.
This Minho, the one who dragged his right hand down your side, the one who gripped your hip so tightly you could imagine it bruising, this was something you could handle. Something you didn’t have to overthink.
Because, fuck, you really, really didn’t want to think right now. You were sick of thinking, your whole life was thinking.
Minho’s hand slipped downwards to your thigh, his palm sliding around to the back of it before he lifted your leg up slightly to slot his thigh right between yours.
The instant he lowered your leg, you realised exactly what he’d done. Immediately, you felt the press of him between your legs, subtle enough to allow plausible deniability, and yet too firm for you to just ignore. To make matters worse, you were now just slightly off-balance, your foot just brushing the floor.
You couldn’t lower it, you couldn’t regain your balance, without pressing down even more on his thigh. You tried anyway, and the friction resulted in your first whimper of the night, light and breathy against him.
Minho’s grip, still on your leg, tightened.
He dropped his head to press his mouth to your neck, kissing at the skin there – and then he clenched his fucking thigh muscles, and your resulting moan slipped out right by his ear.
Your hands scrambled for him, clutching his shoulders, breath heavy as you tried not to rock your hips. You couldn’t give him the satisfaction, you absolutely refused to. You grabbed a fistful of his hair again, pulling by the roots to drag his head back upwards so your mouths could meet again.
Your kiss was now heated, almost clumsy. You caught Minho’s bottom lip between your teeth and nipped, enjoying the way he hissed, the way his tongue licked over where you’d done it, the way his left hand came up to your face – not to cradle this time, but to clutch, to grip.
His right hand moved up to your ass, giving it one firm squeeze, before suddenly and very deliberately pulling you down and along his thigh. More noises fought their way out of your mouth, and you were too weak to resist just one roll of your hips, chasing that same friction. It had barely been a few minutes, and you could already feel yourself starting to ache, heat beginning to collect at the apex of your thighs.
It was gratifying to learn, when you pulled Minho even closer, forcing the full length of his body to press against yours, that you weren’t alone in that. You felt something firm beginning to press into your hip, and when you slid your hand down to confirm what it was, palm sliding against it, Minho inhaled sharply.
You grinned against his lips, and squeezed him through those damned fake-leather pants.
He groaned, eyes drifting shut for just a second, before suddenly snapping open.
“Come on,” he said, swallowing, and took you by the wrist. Before you knew it, he pulled you away from the balcony door to slide it open again, and hurriedly tugged you inside.
You had been a little too distracted to notice how much colder it must have turned outside, but inside welcomed you with a warmth that radiated through your whole body.
But it took you a moment, brain still in a thigh-induced haze, to realise the full extent of what it meant to be inside.
To be inside Minho’s bedroom.
You hesitated as Minho slid the balcony door shut behind you, drawing the curtains together.
You stared ahead, eyes on that huge bed – and the first hints of panic seized your chest.
Quickly, almost unthinkingly, you grabbed Minho by the arm and pulled him. He stumbled, clearly caught off-guard, but he went along with it, letting you pull him to you and turn, pressing him up against the wall.
Easy. Your back was to the bed now, removing it from your sight, and that strange new weight of anxiety disappeared entirely. You went back to kissing him, hands back in his hair. Your new comfort zone, apparently.
Apparently, however, you didn’t entirely fool Minho, who must have picked up on your tension at least a little.
“I thought,” he murmured, between kisses, and made no move to grab at you like he had outside, “you might want,” more kisses, “some more privacy.”
You hummed, non-committal, your concerns already disappearing as you tried to figure out how to get Minho’s leg back between yours again without outright asking.
“Outside, people can…” he paused, probably because your nails had scraped along his scalp almost accidentally, and he shivered, “hear.”
You pulled away slightly, hiding how breathless you were, fixing him with a playful look.
“Hear what?” you challenged, pretending as if you hadn’t literally moaned in his ear just a short while ago.
Minho didn’t answer, but you knew that expression. It used to keep you awake at night, anger burning through you at just the thought of it. He was smug.
Surprisingly, the sight no longer filled you with burning rage – but it did prompt you to back him up against the wall again, stepping right back into his personal space, and pull his head down to kiss you again.
He relaxed into you, soft and gentle as his hands eased over your sides, which only served to wind you up more. Frustrated, you tugged at his shirt, pulling it up and out from where it had been tucked into his waistband, and let your hand snake up under it.
You had learned over the course of the evening that Minho, as mouthy as he liked to be around you, wasn’t the most vocal partner you’d encountered. Maybe that would have discouraged the average person, but you knew Minho. You’d known him for years, you knew every tell he had, the meaning behind every hint of body language.
You knew that when Minho’s breath caught, as your hands ran up his stomach, up his chest, exploring his upper body, it was basically his equivalent of shaking with anticipation.
You took the hint, grasping his shirt with both hands and pulling it upwards. The shirt – some kind of billowy white poet’s shirt, the kind with the little lace-up ties at the neck that he’d left undone and open – was loose enough to remove easily, and you let it drop without a second thought.
Even now, despite everything, you were reluctant to stroke Minho’s ego by openly ogling him. It was a challenge, trying to ignore the smooth skin, the lean muscle, so you dipped your head before he could see your reaction, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the underside of his collarbone.
Again, it felt like a special talent to recognise Minho’s deep inhale, when your hands brushed his chest, for the emotions it betrayed.
Your mouth descended lower, eager, towards his chest – and you let your tongue brush his nipple.
His breath caught again, and when you experimented with a quick nip of your teeth, his grip on your sides tightened briefly.
That was Minho’s equivalent of being horrendously, painfully turned on.
Your hand slid down past his abdomen, cupping him through his pants, and this time you let your palm gently grind against him.
Minho’s body shivered under your touch, and it felt like winning.
And then, suddenly, as if he had somehow read your mind, he scrambled for the zipper of your dress, determined to even the playing field. You briefly pictured denying him, pictured staying clothed while undressing Minho, having that kind of advantage over him.
Tempting, maybe. But then you imagined the feel of Minho’s hands on your bare skin, and you made your decision pretty quickly.
Minho pulled down your zipper, building anticipation as he hooked two fingers under each of your spaghetti straps and slowly peeled your dress from you, letting it pool around your ankles.
His eyes dropped, and his expression changed.
“Oh, wow.”
You couldn’t help but grin slightly, glancing down at what you knew Minho was staring at. Your underwear was a matching set of pastel pink silk, with little hints of lace and ribbon, even a bow or two. You’d taken one look at it and knew it screamed princess.
“I always commit to my costumes,” you replied, refusing to feel even the smallest hint of embarrassment. It was hard to feel so anyway, with Minho staring down at you with dark eyes, drinking the sight in, amusement long since shifted into something else entirely.
He reached forward, tracing the ribbon at the edge of your bra cup with his thumb, before letting it sweep down over the lace – and right over the peak of your nipple, eliciting a sharp inhale from you. “Were you expecting someone to see it?”
“No,” you admitted, half-tempted to arch your back, just to press your breast into the curve of his palm. “Nothing about this was expected.”
Minho hummed quietly in agreement, still taking his time admiring you. He grabbed at your breast, not quite rough but not entirely gentle, fingers splayed, making sure to drag his thumb back over your nipple as he did so. “I never imagined you wearing something like this.”
You were so focused on the weight of his hand on your chest that you almost missed the implication. Almost. “Imagined? You imagined?”
Minho’s eyes darted up to meet yours, looking caught out for just a moment before his expression smoothed again. “Sometimes. Occasionally.”
OK, you had to ask. “What did you imagine?”
“Not this,” Minho stated, stubborn, refusing to give a single detail.
Your mind whirred at the possibilities anyway. What? Did that mean it was the complete opposite of this? What was the opposite of this sugary pink ensemble? Black, sexy? Leather? A whole dominatrix-style thing, was that what Minho was into?
“Tell me,” you demanded, incredibly curious now.
He hesitated, before sighing. “…You know that red skirt you wear sometimes?”
Well, that was not where you thought this was going. “Yeah?”
“I’ve thought about you wearing it at debating. You’re stood behind the podium, most of you hidden from sight,” Minho described, and his voice slowly began to shift. “I’m stood behind you, like I’m reading your notes over your shoulder. You don’t look at me, but your legs part, just a little.”
Your breath caught, as his left hand brushed against your inner thigh, fingertips stroking circles into the sensitive skin there.
“You let me slide my hand up,” he continued, and slowly, his hand begins to drift upwards. “Because you want me to know you aren’t wearing anything underneath.”
Holy shit.
“And you want me to feel how wet you are, waiting for me,” Minho said, pausing his hand just a few inches from the edge of your underwear, waiting as he checked your face for any signs of protest.
You couldn’t imagine what exactly your expression was, but you’re certain that protest was probably the furthest fucking thing from it.
And so, his hand moved, cupping you through your underwear, feeling just how damp the fabric was. Your breath rushed out shakily at the first moment of contact, almost akin to a gasp, body shuddering.
“That’s what I imagine,” he said, and fucking shrugged, even as his thumb pressed directly against your clit.
You moaned, your hand immediately flying up to clutch at his shoulder for balance. Everything about Minho’s touch, the pressure, the pace, screamed relaxed. He wasn’t trying to do anything but just…touch you. Gauge your reaction.
You closed your eyes, dropping your forehead to his shoulder, as his fingers continued to work small, slow circles around your clit, still over the barrier of your excessively pretty underwear.
“Should have known,” you murmured, trying not to gasp, and trying not to push your hips towards his hands. “You’re the type to tease.”
Minho’s voice came low from somewhere above your ear, as his hand moved at that same maddening pace. “Not usually.”
“Ah,” you breathed, understanding. He was on the exact same wavelength as you. Every reaction sparked from the other was a victory, to be enjoyed, to be savoured. “I get it. I’m special.”
Minho murmured something under his breath, something you couldn’t quite make out, and pressed just a little firmer against you. You moaned from the surprise of it, burying your face further into his neck.
Beneath your hand, you could feel his dick twitch, now so firm and so insistently pressing against your hand that you knew it had to be aching, trapped in those skin-tight pants like that.
You moved your hand up, struggling briefly with how tightly his waistband sat around his hips, before your hand suddenly slipped inside, fingers grazing roughly against something slick and warm and hard.
Minho finally moaned, loudly, openly, hips bucking briefly up into your hand. “Shit.”
“What was that you were saying?” you asked, innocently, running your fingers back over what you knew to be his cockhead, teasing. “About no underwear?”
Minho sucked in a breath, and from where your head was resting in the crook of his neck, you could hear him swallow. “…These were already too fucking small.”
“They are stupidly tight.”
“Don’t act like you – fuck,” he hissed, cutting himself off. Probably because you’d squeezed him again.
His free hand found its way to the corner of your jaw, prying your face away from his neck so he could duck his head down and kiss you, hungrily. You reciprocated, basking in the way he groaned against your mouth.
And then, he asked. “Bed?”
You stilled, hesitating. “…Bed?”
Minho paused, pulling away a little to take in your expression. Immediately, you did your best to smooth it out, to appear unbothered, casual, fine.
He wasn’t fooled. “Is something up?”
You swallowed, still trying to maintain your composure. “Besides your dick? No.”
Minho raised an eyebrow, and faked one short, sharp laugh. “Ha. You’re so funny when you dodge the subject.”
“I’m not dodging anything,” you argued.
He paused again, waiting, watching you. And, after a moment, he pulled his hand away from your underwear to wrap around your wrist, gently tugging your hand out of his pants.
“OK, fine,’” you relented, composure cracking. That old familiar dread returned, lodging itself in the pit of your stomach. “I just don’t…do this. All this,” you said, gesturing between the two of you, and towards the room at large. “The way it’s all spontaneous, I mean.”
“Me neither,” Minho said, calmly, still waiting expectantly. “What else?”
Fucker.
You scowled, jaw clenching, teeth gritted as you admitted. “And my experience in general, is…one could say limited.”
“I figured as much.”
“Rude,” you pointed out, vaguely offended. You’d had this man fucking shivering from just touching him. And what? Now, he was calling you inexperienced? Amateurish? Like he could tell the whole time? Bullshit.
“No, not…” Minho cleared his throat, looking mildly exasperated. It was a look you often inspired in him. “I don’t mind. That’s why I’m saying this, because I don’t want you pretending when it comes to shit like this. If you’re not going to be honest, I don’t want it.”
Honest.
Shit.
You hesitated, debating internally, weighing the pros and cons in your head. It was so fucking Minho to pick the most aggravating time to do the right thing. Of course, the one time that him being an asshole worked in your favour, he refused to do it.
“Fine,” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest. “Fine. OK.”
He waited, eyes on you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from averting your gaze, looking up at the ceiling.
“Technically…technically,” you repeated, with emphasis, “one might argue that…I haven’t had sex yet.”
Minho stilled, staring at you, eyes widening.
You swallowed, trying to stay firm. “It’s really not a big deal…”
“It is,” Minho argued, tersely, but when you looked at his face, there wasn’t a hint of anger. There was, however, a strong hint of guilt in his eyes. You could practically see his thoughts, the way he replayed everything he’d done tonight, the fear that he’d done too much, come on too strong, picturing you as some blushing innocent virgin he’d deflowered–
“I’ve done everything else,” you said, eager to clear up that misconception. You were far from innocent, there was just one particular act you hadn’t gotten around to. “Hands, oral, all that. Done it. It’s literally the one thing that hasn’t…like, I’ve had relationships, it just never reached the point that…”
It always went around in circles. You wanted your relationship to be serious, to be settled and firmly established and in a good place before it happened – but the time it took to get there made your partners panic, made them think that to go so long without sex, without wanting them, the relationship must actually secretly be failing. And then you’d break up, and you’d be even more guarded and hesitant the next time, and on it went.
“And I’ve been busy with school and my career anyway,” you added, swallowing, forcing a shrug. “Who has the time?”
Minho was still staring at you, but at least the guilt had faded away.
He’d made no move to get away from you, at least, so you took this as a good sign. With a deep breath, you turned around and took slow, measured steps towards that ridiculously large bed, and looked him dead in the eye as you made a point of sitting down on it.
Doing your best to sound certain, reassuring, convincing without leaving a single bit of room for doubt, you spoke.
“I’m happy and comfortable with everything but sex-sex happening. So, if you want that…” you trailed off, trying to think of a polite way to phrase the thought in your head, before giving up with a shrug. “Tough shit, I guess. That’s my line in the sand. Everything else is fair game, though, so don’t get all…weird about it.”
“I’m not getting weird about it,” Minho said, stubbornly.
“You were. Just a little. Like you’re afraid to break me or something.”
Something sparked in Minho’s eyes, and he smiled slightly. “I’d never think I could do that.”
“Good, because you can’t,” you repeated, firmly. “There, honesty. Done. So, either come over here or leave.”
“Leave my own room?” Minho asked, amused.
“Yeah,” you said, doubling down, leaning back to plant both hands behind you on the bed. “It’s my room now.”
For a second, it looked like Minho was going to laugh. And then you caught the way his eyes began to lower, following the lines of your body, the way you were sitting on his bed, clad only in underwear, waiting.
He exhaled slowly, appreciatively. “…This is happening.”
You weren’t sure if that was aimed at you, or himself, but either way it didn’t matter much when he crossed the room in a flash. Barely taking the time to plant one knee into the mattress beside you, his mouth was on yours, hand on the back of your head.
It was a gentle gesture, sweet even, how he cradled the back of your head.
So, just to be certain that he knew exactly where you stood, and exactly how much patience you had for gentleness, you took his other hand and slid it into your panties.
Minho groaned, pulling away from the kiss to look down, and you felt his fingers slip through your folds, the movement made slick and easy by the way you were soaked.
“You’re so impatient,” he muttered, but he didn’t sound particularly annoyed about it. “All the time.”
“Yeah,” you replied, unapologetic. “I know what I want.”
“Mmhm. And so do I,” he said, and pulled his hand out of your underwear. You opened your mouth to argue, to question why, until you felt his hands move to your back, to the fastening of your bra.
He unhooked it easily, sliding the straps off your shoulders. Pushing up from the bed to stand tall, Minho let the bra fall from his hands, before reaching down to grab at your waist and pull you to standing.
He kissed you again, briefly, ignoring your bewildered expression, before switching your positions – him sat on the bed, you standing over him.
“These are staying on. They’re a bitch to peel off,” he told you, and your gaze was practically glued to his hand as it ran up his faux-leather-clad thigh before he gestured to your underwear. “It’s up to you, what you do with those.”
Your hand, unthinkingly, drifted to the lacy hem of your underwear.
“…What, no preference?” you asked him.
Minho stared at you, eyes dark, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly with knowing, and didn’t reply.
Heat flooded your belly. You swallowed once, and hooked your fingers around your waistband, stripping out of your underwear before you could think twice.
He reached for you immediately, his hands on your hips, pulling you towards him. From what you could tell, he seemed to be guiding you towards straddling his lap – to which you took the slightest detour at the very last second, planting your knees either side of his thigh, the very same one that had been pushed between your legs on that balcony.
How very familiar a feeling. And yet, how very different, because now you were pressed against Minho’s naked chest, and when you kissed, one hand went straight to your bare breast, the other arm hooked around your bare waist.
Logically, you should have felt exposed – but there was very little room for logic here, not when Minho was squeezing you so tightly against him. You felt…enveloped by him. By his warmth.
It was…nice.
And then you finally let go of those last few traces of stubborn pride, and let yourself grind down on his thigh, and it was fucking fantastic.
You moaned, breaking the kiss to press your forehead against his, and rocked your hips faster. His thigh was so solid under you, thick bands of muscle from a lifetime of sports, clenching and unclenching. Heat pooled in your gut, spiking with every rock of your hips, every drag of your clit against him.
You felt Minho’s hand drop from your waist to curl around your hip, gripping tightly, urging you to keep moving. You pulled your face away from his, just in case – headbutting him in the nose, no matter the context, would very probably be a mood-killer – and instead lowered your head to plant kisses on the side of his neck.
Minho tilted his head back, just a little, granting you better access, his breath escaping him in one long, shaking exhale. You were forced to grip onto his shoulder with one hand, just to steady yourself, still grinding down on him.
Tension built between your legs, pulsing with every heartbeat as you continued to grind against him, and your kisses grew clumsier. Open-mouthed, harsher, teeth scraping against sensitive skin in a way that left Minho gasping.
“If I left marks, would it…” your voice was sluggish, raspy, dazed, “would…can I?”
It was a silly question, because the obvious answer was ‘no’, he wasn’t going to want any reminders of this temporary lapse in sanity.
And yet, Minho’s reply was immediate. “Yes. Yeah, you can, if…that’s…”
He broke off, with a noise so low in his throat that you could almost feel his chest vibrate from it, as your mouth latched onto his neck.
Your movements weren’t deliberate, not exactly. You had no strict intentions of marking up Minho’s skin, but it was just whenever it felt good. With every new sudden jolt of sensation shooting through your body, you sucked, leaving a path of your own pleasure scattered intermittently along his neck, the base of his throat, the swells and dips of his collarbone.
Minho reacted to each, and when you thought to look down, you saw his dick straining against his pants, so much so that it was even starting to pull his waistband away from his skin, revealing glimpses of what lay underneath.
You watched his hand lower to his crotch, as he tried to adjust himself, to figure out a way out of his discomfort. Without thinking, you reached down and pushed his hand away, letting your own slide into his paints.
Minho sharply inhaled, as you slid the palm of your hand over the head of him, letting your fingers grow slick, before wrapping your hand around his length.
He was hard, very obviously and very painfully hard.
And all of that was because of you.
Because he wanted you.
You felt your body physically judder at the thought, your thighs clamping around his. Something sparked inside of you. Up until now, you’d been turned on – obviously. You were naked on Minho’s bed and straddling his thigh, of course you’d been turned on, but it had been manageable. Like burning coals, smouldering, blazing hot to the touch, sure, but under control.
This, seeing him like this, was as if someone had jabbed right in the heart of those coals, oxygen rushing in and flames erupting, sparks crackling in the air. No longer under control, but all-consuming and desperate.
The muscles of your core clenched so tightly that it was almost painful, and with a ragged breath, you finally began to ride in earnest.
Minho clutched you with one hand as you moaned, his other snaking down to join yours on his dick. You let him guide your hand, controlling how hard you squeezed him, how slow you pumped him. Honestly, at this point, you didn’t have the concentration for it on your own, not when your legs were starting to shake with every new press of his thigh. You could feel something build, like a wave swelling, the crest just in sight but not quite…
“That’s it,” he murmured, and pressed a kiss to your chest. His eyes were dark when he pulled back, watching the way you bounced. “You’re…God, you’re fucking hot, do you know that?”
His words only drove you further, stoking something within you, and you moaned in response.
“Oh, is that what you like?” Minho asked, eyes lighting at his new discovery. His moved the hand on your waist to settle on your breast, squeezing lightly. “Me telling you how good you look?”
“Minho,” you muttered, half-warning, half-longing.
“With our history, I’d have thought you liked me mean,” he continued, and you should have wondered where that smart mouth of his had been this whole time.
He leaned in, kissing your neck, following upwards, until he reached your ear.
“But that’s not it,” he observed, murmuring into your ear. His hand – the one on yours, the one helping you stroke his dick – quickened, gripping yours just a little tighter, and his breath caught for a second, before continuing. “You want to hear how good you feel. How good you are.”
You whined, your body faltering for a beat, before picking up again.
“That’s it, isn’t it? You like praise,” he said, so very confident. Knowing, almost, like there was something else to it. Something he recognised, intrinsically. “You want me to admit how…fucking perfect I think you are.”
“Minho.”
You felt him twitch under your hands, felt the way he reacted to the way you breathed his name.
“Because you are,” he said, the words falling from his lips, as you grew even more frantic. “You are, you are, you’re good, you’re perfect, you’re…fuck, keep going. I can feel how wet you are, you…”
Fuck, fuck, it was too good. Too good and yet not good enough. There were tears in your eyes and your legs burned from how tightly they were clamped around Minho’s thigh, how desperately you’d ridden him, trying to chase an orgasm you just…you just couldn’t quite…
“Maybe you should fuck me,” you whined, voice hoarse, shaking. You’d spent the last five minutes essentially edging yourself, your brain was fried, and all you could imagine was how easy it would be for Minho to pull you over just a short distance onto his dick, let it fill you, maybe it…
“Don’t. Fuck, don’t say that,” Minho gasped, trying and failing to make it sound insistent, final. You could see the effects of your words. He was tempted, he was sorely fucking tempted. You knew he was picturing the exact same thing that you were. “I’m not taking your virginity at a fucking house party. You…”
He broke off with a moan, letting whatever words that would follow die on his tongue as you squeezed him.
“I need…I need more,” you gasped, through gritted teeth. Your body was starting to betray you, your legs starting to give out before you could reach your climax.
You buried your face in his neck, panting.
“I can’t…fuck,” you moaned, before one little word fell from your lips, the one word he’d asked for so long ago, out on the balcony, “Please.”
With a sudden, sharp breath, Minho hooked his arm around you and rolled you over, pressing you into the mattress. Your hand slipped out of his pants as he moved, hurriedly, down your body.
He paused at the apex of your legs, glancing up. “Are you OK with–”
“Yes,” you hissed, your hand fisting in his hair and pushing him downwards. You were so close, you were so close, and his thigh wasn’t between yours anymore, and you just couldn’t… “Yes, fuck, please.”
You could glimpse the beginnings of a smirk as he followed your hurried pushing, but before you could even register it, you felt him lick one long stripe along you, and your head emptied of all thoughts.
His mouth was hot and wet and almost immediately targeted your clit, leaving you shaking as you ground up into his face without shame, chasing the orgasm that had been just inches away for so fucking long. You could barely breathe from it, each breath wracking your body in almost-sobs, every muscle stiff and coiled in desperation.
You felt Minho hook an arm under your leg, pulling it up so that it could sit on his shoulder, parting you just a little wider.
You arched your back, your head pressing even further into the mattress, eyes squeezing shut. When you spoke, it was barely coherent, a loose string of words. “…H-hands, fingers…please, whatever it…Minho, I’m so close, I’m…ah…”
You felt him slide in a finger – two fingers? More? You didn’t know, you didn’t care, you just knew how close to the edge you were. Your muscles were locking up, body shaking, even as Minho placed his free hand on the curve of your hip, thumb brushing your skin in small, reassuring strokes.
Your grip in his hair tightened, mind going blank, tears in your eyes as you gasped. “Yes, keep – keep…keep–”
You came, and it felt like shattering. Your body’s muscles locked, rigid, shaking, as your own moans rang in your ears. At some point, your thighs had clamped around Minho’s head, your one anchor as you tried to come back down to earth.
It was like every rational thought, anything with even the slightest bit of complexity to it, evaporated. You were left weightless, on your back, dazed. Slowly, sluggishly, your gaze drifted to Minho.
What a sight, you thought. Pretty.
His cheek was pressed into the flesh of your inner thigh, skin flushed so pink, head tilted down so that most of his face was hidden by his rumpled hair. He was kneeling, and you saw that his hand had returned to his dick. It was as if he were trying to be discreet, almost quiet, even as he desperately pumped himself.
Barely even thinking about it, you reached down. His breath caught when you wrapped your own hand around him again, letting him guide your movements once more.
His head lifted, and you caught a glimpse of his dark brown eyes looking up at you. Always so unreadable, even now, even when burning.
Your mouth moved before your thoughts could catch up. “You’re…”
You didn’t know how to finish that. Gorgeous? Annoying? Terrifying?
All of it was true, none of it felt right to say in that moment.
You just watched him, eyes locked, until he choked out a moan, squeezed his eyes shut, and came with a soft, low, “fuck.”
It felt dirty, almost voyeuristic, to watch him cum. But even if you didn’t look, you still would have heard him, you still would have felt it on your hands, your thighs. You still would have felt the way he slumped forward, head dropping to your chest, forehead pressed against the valley between your breasts, his quick, deep breaths against your skin.
You still would have felt the way it all fell quiet – until it was just you, Minho, and the impending repercussions of what just happened.
What you’d done.
What had you done?
Your head dropped back against the mattress, looking up at Minho’s ceiling but not really seeing it, as your senses slowly returned to you.
Shit. Fuck. Every other fucking expletive, they all ran through your head.
What the fuck had you–
Minho cleared his throat, lifting his head up off of you. You could feel the weight of his gaze on your face, and you tried to school your expression into something neutral, pushing down the storm of thoughts in your mind.
You didn’t know why, but you expected him to withdraw from you immediately. Maybe that was doing him a disservice, but it was true.
That was why you were so surprised by the kiss he pressed to your temple, strangely gentle, even as his usual sardonic tone crept back into his voice as he spoke. “Let’s clean up first, overthink later.”
“I’m not overthinking,” you argued immediately, because old habits died hard even in a fucking surreal situation like this.
He didn’t laugh, but there was the slightest twitch to the corner of his mouth as he replied. “Sure.”
He sat up, and you caught the way he winced, probably in newfound discomfort over the state of his…current attire. While he attempted to strip out of his ruined pants with anything close to dignity, you pushed yourself up to a seated position, trying to look anywhere but him.
What now? What now? It was all well and good for him not to overthink, but you couldn’t drive away the sudden flood of consequences that threatened to overwhelm you. Of all times, why did it have to be now, when you were forced to interact with Minho so much more? You’d have to work with this man for the next few months, fuck, you had to talk at the U.N. with him. What would people say?
What would Felix say?
Something powder-blue and soft entered your field of vision, smelling of detergent and lavender fabric softener. You blinked, looking up to find Minho offering you a towel, and you wondered how long you must have zoned out, wrapped in your own thoughts. There wasn’t quite a smile on his face – nothing so extreme like that from Minho – but there was something gentle in his eyes.
You took it, swallowing, and cleaned yourself up as best as you could. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Minho pull on a pair of black sweatpants – and when he straightened up to standing, you finally clocked the blooming purple marks littered across his skin.
“Oh, fuck, your neck. I’m so sorry,” you gasped, mortified at the blooming purple marks on Minho.
He glanced towards you, and gave you half a shrug. “It’s fine.”
They were very much not fine. They were prominent, the kind of hickeys you’d be embarrassed to leave on a long-term partner, let alone a…
A…
Well, whatever Minho was.
You swallowed. “It’s not, have you seen them?”
He paused.
“…Yes,” Minho replied, firmly, and there was something about his tone that made you stop, that made you stare at him.
He stared back, face perfectly neutral but refusing to look away. The implications were not lost on you, and your face began to warm.
Clearing your throat, you set the towel by your side and reached for your clothes, having to get up to pick up each item along the shameless trail that ran from the bed to the balcony doors, gathering them in your arms in a small, pink pile. “Please tell me you have your own bathroom.”
Minho laughed a little, nodding towards the door to your right. “Where do you think I got the towel from? Through there.”
You spent a few minutes in the bathroom, trying to compose yourself, trying to clean up properly, slipping your costume back on. The strange feeling in your stomach didn’t ease up, not even once. In the mirror, you looked almost exactly the same as you had when you first stepped into Minho’s room – but how was that possible, when everything had changed?
Fuck, just…you didn’t need to think about it. Deal with it later, deal with all of it later. You just needed to get out and get some space and distance and just…
You drew yourself up as high as you could, squaring your shoulders, and pushed open the bathroom door.
You found Minho standing in the middle of the room, seemingly in mid-step, turning quickly to face you. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was…what? Pacing?
“I can’t stay,” you stated, trying to sound firm. You mostly succeeded, were it not for the slightest hesitation you had, the faintest strain to your voice.
Minho paused, catching it immediately. “…Do you want to?”
You didn’t know how to answer that. It felt like a trap, even now, as if Minho was preparing to pull the rug out from under you. You wished you couldn’t imagine that level of cruelty, and yet you feared it, however irrational it was. “…I don’t want people to talk.”
Minho eyed you for a second, and yet again waited before he spoke, like he was trying to choose his words before they left his mouth. He settled for a very simple, very Minho statement. “Fuck people.”
At any other time, in any other situation, you would have rolled your eyes. You even felt the urge now, tied up in the same desire to go back to normal, to pretend everything was fine. “It’s not as easy as that.”
“It is,” Minho argued, but there was no irritation in his voice. Just quiet. “But I get it.”
“This was very…uh,” you swallowed. “…Impulsive.”
“Yes. It was definitely that,” he replied, and was he even capable of being any more cryptic?
You glanced away, finding it difficult to look him in the eye as you admitted, quietly. “…But, uh, good.”
Minho paused. “��Yep.”
Couldn’t he just say what he was fucking thinking? You needed to know, you needed to know if he was on the same page as you, if he was also thinking that it was too weird to just leave things like this. Silent and awkward and just…dancing around each other like this.
You swallowed, and folded your arms over your chest. You weren’t quite brave enough to look at him again yet, but you spoke up again. “Did you…have a good time too?”
And just when you were expecting another cryptic little non-response, Minho decided to cut straight to the point and catch you off-guard. “I had a great time.”
You blinked, shocked enough that your eyes darted back to him without a second thought. “…Good. That’s, uh…good.”
It was so strange to see him like this. Lee Minho, always so put-together, never a shred of vulnerability – and there he was, hair mussed, shirtless, barefoot, taking a breath as he tried to put together his next words.
“I had a great time,” he repeated. “With you. And…”
He stopped.
“And…?” You asked.
His mouth opened. Closed. And opened again. “…I…you don’t have to go.”
You felt something warm unfurl in your chest. “Minho, do you want me to stay?”
“…Yes.”
You took a step forward, tension melting from your shoulders, replaced with a new curiosity. You couldn’t quite believe this was happening, and yet…
Well, you couldn’t let him off that easily.
“Yes, what?”
He exhaled, making a sound almost akin to a huff. You recognised that sound, you knew it from debating, from arguing, from whenever you caught a weakness in his defence and pressed him on it. “Yes, I want you to stay.”
You took another step. “Why?”
This time, he scoffed, as if it could hide the slow flush of pink making its way up his neck. “You know why.”
“No, I don’t.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly, and wow, this was fun. “Yes, you do. You’re too smart not to.”
You grinned. “Thanks, but no. You’re going to have to say it.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“I am,” you said, without shame, and added. “You’re into that.”
He sighed, and gave in. “Yes, I am.”
“Well done,” you laughed, finally drawing it out of him. “You’re into me.”
Minho eyed you for a second, still just a touch out of reach. Like he’d done it on purpose, kept just enough space to protect himself.
You watched the way he hesitated, and for once, his mask slipped and his face gave away just a peek into what he was thinking. You could see the thoughts warring within his head, the way he hesitated before committing.
“…More than just that,” he said – he confessed – softly.
Just four words, but the meaning behind them was loaded. They hung in the air, obvious, weighty, vivid.
You froze, taking them in. You didn’t know why, you didn’t know how, but despite everything that had occurred tonight, Minho still had the ability to surprise you.
More than just that.
More than just…
Oh.
That was all your brain – your proudest attribute, your big, university-educated, sharp-witted genius brain – was capable of thinking.
Oh.
“So…” Minho said, before trailing off, watching you, and eventually forcing the smallest of shrugs. “Don’t go.”
You were still reeling. You tried to make it all fit, every piece of information you had. The gentleness he’d held you with, the strange softness he’d had, the look in his dark eyes when you threatened to find someone else to kiss, the way he smiled sometimes when you were trying to piss him off, the way he just…watched you in conversations, in arguments, like he was just as interested seeing you think as he was countering the words that came out of your mouth.
When you laid it out like that, when you visualised it like points in a debate – with so many in the for argument and frighteningly little in the against – it seemed so obvious.
“I…” your words came out hoarse, dazed. “…Yeah, I can…not go.”
Minho’s eyes searched every inch of you, trying to figure out what exactly you were thinking.
“…You look like you’re about to pass out,” he observed, bluntly.
“You just said you like me, can you blame me?” You asked, hysteria close to creeping into your voice.
Minho didn’t reply for a second, still watching you. “Is it such a surprise?”
“Yes,” you blurted out, instinctively, until you took a second to actually think about it. “…No? Yes and no? I don’t…you’re, like, annoyingly hard to read.”
“Am I?” Minho asked, but the corners of his lips were twitching, suggesting he already knew the answer to that. “I’d say the same about you, but honestly, sometimes you’re an open book.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Especially when you stare at my mouth.”
Your eyes snapped up back to his, blinking, caught. There was definitely amusement in his gaze now, a glimpse of relief creeping in.
You scowled, face beginning to heat. “You’re enjoying this.”
He smiled, not a trace of hesitation behind it, a real and genuine smile, and finally stepped towards you. “I absolutely am.”
“Assho–”
You were cut off, as Minho ducked his head down to kiss you, and you couldn’t even pretend to do anything other than respond eagerly.
The next time the two of you got coffee, on another cold autumn morning when you were ten minutes deep into a squabble over geopolitics that you were determined to win, Seungmin had the grace to at least act surprised when Minho bought you a muffin and slipped his arm around your waist.
“Wow,” he murmured, deadpan, watching the way you relaxed into Minho’s side, even as you unpicked every thread of his argument. “Gee. Who would have guessed?"
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say something pt 3.
summary: although playing for the same club, pedri and y/n cannot stand the thought of being around each other. enemies to lovers for all my slow burn girlies out there - i got u
a/n: not proofread and all in english + more installments coming soon!!
"Sir, can I get an extension on this? I've got a game the same day." The room was small enough for me to get my voice across. We had finished learning all the content and were just revising and studying for our exams.
"Talk to me after class and I'll see what we can do." I hated asking for extensions and grants on assessments, and I could almost hear everyone in the room roll their eyes every time I asked for one. I was also avoiding Alex. I last saw him at my match where I blew him off. I was planning on talking to him about everything. I really felt bad about how I was treating him.
As the professor wrapped up class, I began packing my things into my duffel. I had training later today, but I was absolutely dying for some food.
I followed everyone down to the exit and stopped at the desk. "Listen Y/N, we're all quite aware of your commitments to football." The Professor, Mr Lanigan, was filing papers into a binder. "But we've awarded you too many grants. I'm sorry, but for this paper the day you are sitting the exam is set in stone."
To say I was shocked would be an understatement. They generally were totally fine with my footballing schedule. "I can't make it then sir. You know how strict they are." He looked at me sympathetically.
"You're a bright girl. you'll figure something out." I walked out after thanking him, but I was pissed. There was no way I could sit that test. Barca were strict. Missing a game for university was a big no no, they were already being flexible with me, allowing me to attend lectures during the day.
After a quick pitstop to the closest cafe on campus, I decided to walk back to the apartment. I needed to collect my thoughts and find out a way for me to attend my assessment while also getting to my game on time and prepared.
While walking through the streets of Barcelona, I was stopped numerous times by fans asking for my photo. Now it wasn't uncommon for me to be stopped, but I took at least 30 photos today which was way more than usual.
As I got back to the apartment, I was greeted by a sleepy Salma. "Morning girly." She was still in her pyjamas, obviously looking for something to eat. "Sal it's 2pm." She shrugged, making me laugh.
"Hey I need to get to football a bit earlier, I've gotta talk with Jonatan." Salma opened the fridge, "Yeah that's fine, I'll drive."
"So do you know what time your exam is?" I was sitting in Jonatan's office, begging him to help me figure something out. "It's from four until five." He shook his head at my response.
"I'm sorry Y/N but you won't be able to make the game." I wanted to throw my head back in anger but I didn't. "Please, is there anything you or the president can do? I can't miss this exam and I can't miss the game." I had found out that the game that I was set to miss because of my exam was an El Classico. I wasn't going to miss that.
"That's not in my power. You must speak to your university and make a decision." I could feel my eyes swelling. It may just seem like a game, but I had been dreaming of an El Classico at the Camp Nou my entire life. This was the first year that they had decided to play the derby at the iconic stadium, and I wasn't going to miss it for the world. "I hope you can figure it out. I'll see you on the field." He stood up and helped me out of the room.
I couldn't look at him as I felt the tears come on. I walked down the hallway with my head down, trying as fast as I could to get back to Salma's car. She had given me keys and trusted me to drive it even thought I still didn't have my license. And right now, it seemed like the perfect place to cry.
I continued walking and picked up my pace. That was until I walked straight into someone. The apology came out of me before I could even look up.
It was Pedri.
He was holding my arms, and was concerned when I looked up. "Y/N are you ok?" I was so angry. I needed to just get all my thoughts out.
"No I'm not Pedri. Everything is so fucked." My voice turned croaky but I kept speaking.
With his hands still on my arms, he pulled me into a random office with him, he told me to keep talking.
"I just can't do school at the same time as this. Why did I think it was a good idea to play football. Or go to university." I had begun crying. "And now I have to either miss out on one of the most important exams I will ever take, or miss out on the most important game of my life." I wiped the tears from my cheek and continued as Pedri stepped closer.
"And I'm sorry if this is gonna come off as rude but I have to go to uni. My job is not as permanent as yours." He pulled me in and held my tight, lightly running his fingers through my ponytail. "If I fuck this up then I need a backup. And there's just so much pressure to do both. I can't handle it anymore Pedri."
"It's ok baby, let it out." I couldn't stop crying. I had bottled these emotions up for too long, and they needed to come out. I just wish it wasn't Pedri who would have to see me like this.
We stayed like that, me in him arms for at least another minute while he reassured me. When I pulled away, he picked up my chin and wiped away a tear. "You're a pretty crier." I lightly smacked him, sniffling. "We should probably get to training Pepi." He agreed, and walked out with me.
We walked down to the changerooms together where he then spoke up. "You can talk to me if you need. I may not be able to relate to you or your situation, but I can understand you." I hugged him. It was all I could do, no words were coming out.
I stepped into the women's changeroom and was met by Salma's eyes. "So what did he say?" I shook my head at her. "He can't do anything."
She got up from her seat to hug me. "You smell like cologne." I blushed into her shoulder, I wasn't gonna tell her about what happened.
"And girls, please make sure you're on time tonight." Lucy spoke to us all as we finished up training. Tonight was the some type of ceremony for our sponsors. These fancy dinner happened almost fortnightly, however it wasn't often that we all had to attend.
Lucy was definitely targeting us. Salma had made us late so many times, walking in awkwardly when someone was mid-speech.
"Oh and the boys'll be there too." The whole changeroom groaned. As much as we were 'one club', we couldn't stand the guys. It was something about their cockiness that really pissed everyone off.
"Girl you look fire. Surely your trying to impress someone tonight." Salma nudged my shoulder while I was putting on my make up. "Watch it Paralleulo, one wrong move and my lipstick becomes foundation."
I chose a gorgeous blue and white dress. It wasn't too formal, but also not to casual - the perfect pick.
"Oh and I'm not driving. Pedri is picking us up." My eyes widened in the mirror. Pedri. Driving us. Pedri? "Don't give me that look girl, I know you wanna jump in his pants."
"That's gross Salma. When will he be here?" Salma peeked out the window. "Now. Him and Gavi are outside." I ran to the window, finding Pedri and Gavi dawdling on the sidewalk. "Come on Sal, let's go down."
Once we approached the two boys, Salma ran to Gavi, giving him a big hug. Pedri and I locked eyes. He smiled awkwardly before coming closer to me. He wrapped his arms around me and I did the same. "You look great." We peeled off each other as Pedri went to Salma, and I to Gavi.
"Alright guys come one we don't want to be late." Gavi ushered to us as we packed into the car. He offered the front seat to me, basically forcing me to sit in with Pedri.
"Y/N chuck on some music, let's see what you've got." Pedri helped me connect the bluetooth to my phone, and soon enough, I had the car pumping to some 2000s pop.
The trip didn't take too long. We were on the road for about 30 mins and it was truly enjoyable. Salma led most of the conversation, but soon enough Pedri and I warmed up.
"Oh guys, does anyone wanna go out after this thing? I'm happy to drive around?" Pedri called out to us, he turned he head to mostly face me. I smiled at him, "Yeah actually that would be great." Salma spoke after me, "Surely we go and pick up some McDonalds."
"Do you know what this is actually for?" Pedri leaned into my ear. We were seated at a table together with some sponsors. Literally just us. "Boy don't ask me, I'm still half asleep." He chuckled at my response.
We spent a decent amount of time talking to the people at our table, most of them were major sponsors of the club. "So Y/N, you think you'll be able to fight for Champions League this year?" The short man opposite me asked. "Of course, I've always got space for silverware on my shelf." Everyone around me laughed, the found my cockiness funny. "Atta girl." Pedri rubbed my back gracefully.
"This is boring." He was playing around with the food on his plate. It was some type of concoction of left-over steak with a dark red sauce. "Shut up and eat your food Pedro." He rolled his eyes before sticking his fork into one of the roast potatoes on my plate. While looking straight at me, he ate it. "Hey don't eat my stuff." I smacked him on the shoulder.
"So how long have you two been dating for?" Pedri practically choked on his food. "Huh?" I looked at one of the women sitting a few seats down from me. "How long have you two been together? I mean with that much chemistry, it's gotta be a few years." My cheeks turned rosy.
"Umm." I cut him off "Oh we're not together." Despite how loud the venue was, I could hear the silence radiating from our table. "Oh woah, I'm sorry. I really thought you were- never mind." I smiled at her almost apologetically.
I leaned over to Pedri. "I'm just gonna head to the bathroom." He nodded.
I walked straight to the bathroom to touch up my makeup. I was feeling flushed from what that woman had said. I didn't think we were too affectionate, or even flirting. Well at least not a lot.
I fixed up my hair before pushing open the door. As I walked through the narrow hallway, I felt a hand from behind pull me in.
I spun around and was immediately pulled into a kiss. Pedri had one hand on my cheek and the other on my waist, kissing me relentlessly.
As I pulled away, I smiled at him. There were faint lipstick smudges on his lips. "You need to stop making out with me outside bathrooms." I punched his shoulder playfully.
"Come here." He pulled me back into him, this time his hands were exploring my back. "You're so gorgeous." I kissed him harder to shut him up.
When we had finally stopped kissing I laughed. "Go to the restroom and clean that lipstick off your face." Concerned, Pedri tried to wipe it off. All I could do was smile. "I'll catch you back out there."
"You good?" Salma had caught me as I entered back into the show room. "Your hair's a mess." I rolled my eyes as we made our way towards the table. "Where's Pedri?" I raised my shoulders.
"Holy shit. You just fully fucked him huh?" I smacked her. "Shut up Sal." She was in awe. "I was wondering where you two went holy shit." I turned her around to face her away from everyone, and from the hallway out walked Pedri.
"You slut." Her smile was from cheek to cheek. "We kissed now please don't say anything." She couldn't stop looking at me.
I found Pedri again and sat back down next to him. “And to think that only a few days ago you smacked the shit out of me.” I laughed at what he said. I stood by my decision to smack him up - he deserved it.
Halfway through the dinner I got a message from Alex, I immediately began responding to him. I needed to tell him how I really felt.
He was asking me for some notes from class. Something about interview techniques. I told him that I was happy to send them through but only when I had gotten home.
“Who you messaging?” Pedri was staring at my phone. “One of the boys in my class - you’ve seen him.” He nodded his head, still reading the incoming messages. Alex was asking me when we could meet up next. I instinctively told him tomorrow. I wanted to right some wrongs with him. He was a genuinely sweet guy, just not the guy.
Swing by mine tomorrow - I need to talk to you
The car ride home was pretty silent, we didn’t end up going to McDonalds and instead Pedri drove us straight home. He hadn’t really said much since we kissed. I put my hand on his thigh, only for him to move his leg away.
When we had reached the apartment Pedri didn’t bother leaving the car. “Come on ladies, I’ve got you.” Gavi walked us to our rooms, and explained how he was gonna go clubbing now with Pedro.
“Don’t get too drunk yeah?” I patted him on the shoulder. “Yeah and don’t let her boyfriend get too drunk either.” I gave Salma a death stare. “Who Pepi?” She smiled at him. “Did you two…” he didn’t finish he sentence. “No we didn’t sleep together god.” He laughed and ushered us inside.
As soon as I had taken off my dress and removed my makeup, I landed straight into my bed. “What’s up with you girl?” Salma opened my door.
“If this is about Pedro… just trust me, he’s literally in love with you okay? Yeah he’s an angry dickhead, but he does really care for you.” I rolled over in my bed “He’s so confusing Sal.”
After what seemed like the longest sleep in of my life, I was woken up by the sound of my phone buzzing. Alex was messaging me about when he should come over - I told him in an hours time before taking my phone out of the charger and checking instagram.
Well if that wasn’t a huge fucking mistake.
Each photo and video in my feed was of Pedri making out with some girl. And that girl wasn’t me. I tried not to immediately jump to the fact that it was last night, but his coat jacket and blue button up were far too recognisable.
I went looking for more and felt my heart shatter when I saw the girl sitting on his lap. His arms were wrapped around her, holding her tight to his body.
I found even more videos until I couldn’t bare seeing what I saw. Salma cautiously walked into my room. “Hey babes.” She sat down on the end of my bed. “Have you seen the fucking videos?” She looked at me sadly. “Aw come here.” She wriggled her way up to me, holding me as I felt the tears begin to fall.
“I thought he liked me Sal.” She brushed her fingers through my hair. “He does Y/N, he’s just really fucking stupid.”
To me, this feeling was worse than a breakup. We weren’t together but that’s what made it worse. He wasn’t even cheating on me. God he was just out clubbing and making out with a hot girl.
The tears fell effortlessly down my face. “I never want to see his stupid fucking face again.”
“So, has the club figured anything out?” My professor asked. I knew that he was trying his hardest with the university, but they wouldn’t budge. “Nothing sir. I’m just gonna have to bite the bullet and hope they don’t kill me for missing an El Classico.”
He looked at me sympathetically. “Listen, I’m gonna try for one last push. I’ll see what I can do.” I thanked him once more and left the building. Alex was outside waiting for me - I told him that I was too unwell to meet up yesterday.
“Hello beautiful.” He kissed me on the cheek and took the tote hanging off my shoulder. “Are you still okay for lunch?” I nodded at him, and soon enough we were in his car.
He was driving us to a local Thai restaurant - apparently it was his favourite. When we entered, I realised it wasn’t just a Thai restaurant. It was undoubtedly one of the fanciest restaurants I had ever been in. “Oh wow Alex, you really didn’t need to do all this.”
“It’s honestly nothing if it means I get to spend time with you.” I blushed and picked up my glass of water.
“So what’d you need to tell me?” His eyes were on the menu but still directed his voice at me.
“Umm.” I had no idea what to say. If Pedri wasn’t a complete and utter dickhead - making out with randos right after me, I would’ve told Alex that I wanted to end things.
But if Pedri really didn’t feel the way I thought he did, then I wasn’t going to waste my time or energy on him. “You know what, it’s nothing.” He smiled at me.
We were sat for at least two hours, letting ourselves completely loose; talking about anything and everything. As we finished up, he insisted that he paid. “Please, seriously it’s my treat.”
After lunch, we took a leisurely stroll close in the Botanic Gardens. Alex couldn’t stop taking photos of the flowers, and after a few accidental brushes, our hands were interlinked.
“Y/N you know I really like you right?” We walked past a grand oak tree, I smiled assuringly at him. “Like I genuinely see you as someone I want in my life for a long time.”
I froze. I liked Alex sure, but I wasn’t ready for that type of commitment. “Alex, I genuinely do enjoy spending time with you but I can’t commit to anything right now.”
His head dropped. “I’m sorry.” He rubbed my hand. “I understand.”
“Omg Y/N! Please can we get a photo?” I immediately dropped his hand. “Sure girls.”
Pedri’s POV
“The fuck is this shit?” I threw my phone across the room. “Calm down Pepi what is it?” Gavi called out to me.
“Is it Y/N?” He walked into my room and picked up the phone one the floor. “Oh shit.” He muttered to himself.
“So did that kiss mean nothing to her?” I practically shouted at Gavi.
“Oh, so she can’t go out to lunch with some random guy, but you’re allowed to make out with the first girl that jumps on you?” He chucked the phone at me.
“Salma called me and Y/N is pissed Pepi. That girl is absolutely head over heels for you, but you can’t control your dick enough to see how good she is to you.” I rolled my eyes.
“Yeah well what the fuck do you expect me to do when I see her messaging a guy, telling him to come over right after I fucking confessed my feelings to her?”
“I always knew she was whore, I just didn’t expect her to fucking use me.” Gavi slapped me. Right across the face. “Don’t call her that.” I stared at him. “Get the fuck out.”
“You need to talk to her Pedro. She’s really hurt.”
you know the drill! lmk if you like this series and want to be tagged in the next!! some accts wouldnt let me tag so sorry if that was u.
if you have any reqs pls submit them, i'm working on a few rn!!
@poppyflower-22 @girlidekanymore @heli991113 @xxenia14
#football#football fanfic#football imagine#enemies to lovers#pedri#instagram au#fc barcelona#football social media au#pablo gavi#pedri fic#pedri x you#pedri x reader#pedri imagine#pedri gonzalez#gavi#salma paralluelo#football fic#footballer#soccer#barca#barca femeni
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MRS TELEVISION | a. frederick
summary: a scroll through your internet presence as 'mrs television'. [social media AU.]
pairing: fem!reader x arthur frederick (arthurtv)
faceclaim: bri kerr
notes: first piece for mrs television out of the wag universe. bri is gonna be the main fc I use for mrs television, hopefully you like it!
liked by arthurtv, arthurfhill and 1,129 others
yourinstagram helped out on someone else's video for once, chris finally let me leave the dungeon!!!
view all 92 comments
user she kills me
user hottest producer award goes to...
chrismd_10 drinking on the job?
yourinstagram constantly
user she looks peppered in the 3rd slide
user first risky pic from y/n ever on the 6th slide
georgeclarkey thanks for the candid of me and my man 😌😌
arthurtv please someone get him away from me
user y/n's friend is inhaling that guinness 🫢
arthurtv great photography for the 1st and 3rd pictures, big fan!
yourinstagram humble as ever mr television
liked by georgeclarkey, wroetoshaw and 1,398 others
yourinstagram lots of fun at work recently, constantly mixing business and pleasure 🥂 chrismd thanks for keeping me employed even if I drink at work
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user I can't tell if shes joking about drinking at work 😭
user its definitely a joke, most bts has y/n yelling at chris to pull his head in lol
user she keeps him in line!
yourinstagram have been going on 15 years
user we thank you for your service 🫡
arthurtv no jerseys at the match???
yourinstagram the nerve!
chrismd_10 who's that handsome fella in the last slide?
miniminter leave the md clutches and come to sidemen
yourinstagram throw in talia and you have a deal
georgeclarkey you drunk
yourinstagram seems to be the new normal now, just embracing my new brand (like you and your Invisalign ads)
georgeclarkey too far
liked by callux, arthurtv and 1,781 others
yourinstagram more of a traveller atm than a producer! enjoyed spain very very much, definitely swipe to the 8th slide to see what arthur classifies as a front flip
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arthurtv it's called being flexible, you wouldn't know anything about it
yourinstagram your six-year-old sister does a better front flip than you
arthurtv leave flora out of this
user guys stop flirting in front of us 😭😭 the false hope hurts
georgeclarkey always appreciate meeting a fan
yourinstagram die
calfreezy that photo was sacred y/n
chrismd_10 I feel ashamed, embarrassed
willne the absolute cheek
user why is no one talking about how good y/n looks in these pictures??
faithlouisak Im thinking the same thing?
user literal island princess
user is that danny aarons in the 5th picture 😭😭
yourinstagram dont even ask how he got the invite
chrismd_10 we're still not sure tbh
liked by callux, arthurtv and 1,901 others
yourinstagram filmed a very *cool* video this week 🌨️
view all 234 comments
arthurtv again, who is your photographer???? such raw talent is exquisite
yourinstagram im very close to letting him go actually, you can have him!
user arthur being the first to comment on her posts fuels my mrs television heart really, give us something guys
user I love them at my core I can't lie
user she is just so pretty
chrismd_10 get back to work
yourinstagram I literally just want to breathe chris
user someone make chris let y/n go, she needs to be a free woman
bezhinga faiths phone is dead but she says 'u look leng'
yourinstagram I love you faith kelly x
liked by callux, arthurtv and 2,193 others
yourinstagram very good friends! (happy one year doofus)
view all 401 comments
user A WHOLE ASS YEAR???????
user who even are they????????
user I feel like I have been swindled here miss l/n
user can we finally call her mrs television??? shes more than chris' producer now, she's one of us
arthurtv best friends for life! (I love you very much)
user I can't tell if im going to cry or faint tbh
user why is he always playing chess, arthur PLEASE
yourinstagram I'm asking this question all the time?
chrismd_10 I take credit for this relationship btw
yourinstagram how so?
chrismd_10 if I hadn't sat with arthur in class and then dragged you into our group project, I like to think this wouldn't have happened
georgeclarkey I love all of the fans so much but please stop sending me these pictures of my fiancé wrapped around another woman
user GEORGE PLEASE
#arthurtv x reader#arthurtv#arthur frederick#arthur frederick x reader#arthurtv imagines#arthurtv fluff#cel's social media aus
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40 just playing the part — after party !
epilogue
scaramouche x g!n reader
notes: still in the future, tw: fluff, suggestive content, this is just a little smth to wrap the au up neatly
You exchange smiles and polite nods as you make your way past the staff and fellow actors backstage, clutching your award in your hands against your chest. There was residue sweat stuck on your face from the fluorescent lights of the arena and your mouth was dry from all the speeches you did. But you had your mind on one thing, better yet one person. Your fiancé whom you hadn’t seen in a week due to opposing schedules was finally under the same roof as you and the night was nearing its end before he was swept away on yet another flight.
After what feels like a stressful eternity you finally spot a tuft of indigo hair in the distance making its way to sneak into a dressing room to get away from socializing. Typical.
You maneuver your way through, catching the door with your heel and slipping into the dressing room. You look around, it was barren. You narrow your eyes, had you gone insane from not seeing your lover for so long you were hallucinating him?
Just as you were about to turn around to leave disappointedly you felt a pair of arms snake their way around your waist and a firm chest press against your back.
“Hey,” Scara greets, his chin on your shoulder as he plants a kiss on your neck, “Congrats.”
You turn around, quickly wrapping your arms around him and going straight for his lips.
“You too,” you grin, eyeing the trophy identical to yours with his name imprinted on it sitting by the mirror, “I had a running bet you’d cry on stage, you lost me a hundred.”
“I can cry for you in bed later,” he murmurs, his hands caressing your hips as his lips trail your jaw, “I don’t have to leave until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good,” you say, sliding your hands underneath his dress shirt impatiently.
“My mom was in the crowd today,” he says against your lips, taking the trophy from your hand to set it on the table so he can gently press you against the dressing room door.
“Took her long enough,” you smile before you feel the door behind you push against you in an attempt to open.
You and Scara quickly separate from one another and try to fix yourselves as your manager, Jean, walks in. She eyes Scaramouche’s undone collar and your disheveled hair with a heavy sigh.
“No comment from me,” Jean says, shutting the door behind her, “I’ve received the news.”
“About…the project?” you ask, sharing a look with Scara.
“Yes,” she smiles, waving her phone.
You and Scara had been trying to book a role in your ideal marriage location so you guys could finally tie the knot whilst working. But everytime something comes up to prevent it. Whether it be a last minute location change, you both having to film in different spots, or your friends not being able to fly in. It was torture.
“You guys finally got it,” Jean announces, “The project starts next year. I’ll leave you both to…celebrate in your own ways,” she knowingly says, shaking her head as she slips out of the dressing room.
“It’s finally happening,” you grin the moment she’s gone, squeezing his elbow and yanking him closer.
“Fucking finally,” Scara sighs, letting himself begrudgingly be wrapped in a hug.
“You’re stuck with me.”
“Fuck you.”
“Those better not be your vows!” you chastise.
“What do you want me to say?” he hums, pressing himself against your back to lower his lips to your ear, “You are the bane of my existence, and the object of all my desires.”
“Now you’re just quoting one of your movie lines.”
“I meant it though.”
You bite your lip to fight the smile threatening to show itself on your face, a childlike bundle of glee in your stomach at his words.
“You want me so bad.”
“Shut up.”
“You mispronounced I love you.”
“It goes unsaid, you already know I do.”
.
.
.
୨⎯ THE END ⎯୧
just playing the part !
masterlist — prev
synopsis: you and scaramouche are both drama majors and have been at each other’s throats vying for the same lead roles since high school. but when you’re both cast as each other’s love interest in your second year you’re forced to be civil with your academic rival and see him in a new light. are his feelings for you true or is he just playing the part?
author’s notes: hi! tysm to you all for reading and keeping up w this work, it means a lot to me that sm ppl enjoy smth i wrote on a whim :) and if ur rereading this or are a reader in the future ty to you too! i appreciate all the silent readers and everyone sending me asks/comments (even tho i cudnt reply to them all i loved reading them) i hope to see you all in my notifs in the future but if not i’m glad you gave my writing a chance <3 ily! have a great day/night mwah
taglist: @monochromaticelliot @kaedear @stxrgxzxr @shirmxie @elakari @lacy-lady @linn-a-a @one-offmind @kithewanderingme @quepasoash @leathernourishingshoepolish @mangobee @lxry-chxn @dameofthorns @kunihaver @kythe1a @elysiasbae @hikaru-exe @tokkishouse @raiihoshii @cherrybeomgyu @kunikuzushiit @thenightsflower @lilneps @goodthingimsam @lovelyiez @euhla @beriiov @abvolat @kittycasie @b0bafl0wer @bubblyclouds @atlatcaheart @artssleepy @baelloraa @tartagli-yuh @satowaluverr @hangesextra @scaranaris-lil-niko @caffinatedcoma @wheneverthesunrise @hajimeseyo @itsyourgirlria @hyunrei @redactedhimbo @caliginous-skies @vinskyspuff @miissfortune @criminalinthemaking @scaramouches-girlfriend @scrmgf [1/3]
#genshin impact#genshin fluff#genshin imagines#genshin impact smau#genshin impact fics#genshin impact drabbles#genshin impact scaramouche#scaramouche x gender neutral reader#scaramouche x reader smau#scaramouche smau#scaramouche x you#scaramouche x y/n#scaramouche x oc#scaramouche x reader#kunikuzushi smau#kunikuzushi x you#kunikuzushi x reader#wanderer gi#wanderer x y/n#wanderer gi smau#just playing the part smau
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you shouldn't
𝙩𝙤𝙟𝙞 𝙛𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙪𝙧𝙤 𝙭 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧
𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 - arriving at toji's home after a break-up, you decide to finally make a move.
𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 - age gap (reader is mid-20s, toji is late 40s), sex, some angst but resolved, fingering, teasing, petnames, no mentions of birth control, dom!toji, dilf!toji
minors + ageless dni
4k words
"What're ya doing here, kid?" Toji was dishevelled, a bath robe tied loosely around his waist, chest open to reveal a few scars behind the silk. Your eyes were puffy, swollen from tears, lips bloated and peeling, a few marks from where you'd bitten the soft skin a little too much. A state you hadn't wanted him to see, but one he'd answered the door to nonetheless, much to your embarrassment.
"He broke up with me." The sentence left you with reluctance, eyes unable to meet his, instead trailing down to meet the indentations of pink painted on his skin, a mark you knew had been the result of a previous job. Toji sighed and stepped back, opening his door wider to accommodate you, though not before shooting you a disapproving look.
"Told ya it wouldn't last." He couldn't help but to scold you for mistakes, no matter how much you'd been hurt in the process. Though, this was new - you hadn't turned up to his home through tears before.
"I trusted him," A sob racked over you as you'd explained, the warmth inside his hall kissing your cold cheeks. "I don't know why. They're all the same." The final words were quieter as you sniffled back another cry, shaking your head.
"You keep lettin' these guys fuck with ya. 's your own fault." His voice was a little muffled; you'd understood he had been bringing a cigarette to lips and lighting it with the way the sentence had left the curve of a half open mouth.
"Thought he was different, Toj'." You glanced up to him, sporting the usual puppy-dog eyes - the sole reason Toji couldn't turn you away. His social battery was lower than most, though when it'd come to you, his tolerance had increased. There was something about the way you'd looked at him, your mannerisms, and the fact he'd known you'd needed him. Even if you hadn't explicitly told him, Toji understood he was a big part of your life.
He'd been your father's friend - not that you'd spent much time with the man himself; a business partner. Toji hadn't thought himself as a good dad, often leaving Megumi for extended periods of time, but when he'd met an eighteen-year-old you over dinner with the old man, he'd realised his parenting had been award-winning compared to his associate's. Your relationship with Toji had been purely business related at first, beginning a career under the family's sector as his secretary, and through pity, the black-haired male had taken time out of his day to look out for you. You'd play back, and he'd appreciate your witty responses, eventually looking forward to the grin greeting him before he'd step into his office. It had been a number of years ago now, and something had bloomed between the pair of you.
Toji had assumed you'd seen him as a parental figure - he'd been in his late forties while you still in the midst of twenties, a large age gap according to him. Though after a few drinks at the work's Christmas party he'd been dragged to, he'd been met with a confession from yourself - "I used to have a pretty big crush on you." One he found himself remembering late at night, pondering over what would have happened if in that moment, he would've made a move. But, that had been a year ago, and you'd seen multiple people within that time frame - all of which Toji had hated.
Though, he needn't worry about them because after a month or so, they'd drop like flies. You hadn't been able to figure out why, though indulging in the positiveness Toji would offer to you after break-ups, spilling gossip to him in the break-room and basking in the odd compliment of your character he'd fish out in an attempt to aid your sadness. He'd figured out long ago that the reason had been down to your mental state, and the damage caused over the years by your environment. The male had figured that the men looking for a fling hadn't the emotional capacity to support you, and at times, he wasn't sure he'd be able to either.
"Can we watch a movie, or something?" You questioned, bringing the back of your hand to rub away the tears that had accumulated over your face, glancing back to the male. Toji nodded, exhaling smoke and gesturing to his attire - or lack thereof.
"Ain't doing shit in this, let me get dressed." The male moved toward the wooden staircase in the hall beside you, placing a foot on the first step before turning back to add to the previous sentence. "Wanna change? Get somethin' comfy on - I don't know what girls like to wear 'n shit."
A laugh escaped tired lips, appreciating the thought he'd had, a gracious nod followed by eager footsteps. Following the male upstairs, you waited outside of the door you'd understood had belonged to his bedroom, listening to the muted noises of movement as he'd rummaged through drawers, pulling a cotton tee and a pair of pyjama bottoms up to study. They'd looked a little too large for you, but with the draw-string, he was sure they'd be good enough. The new outfit had been thrown over his half-bent arm while he'd met you back at the door-frame, stretching the limb out to offer you the fabric. Reaching forward and wrapping fingers around the garments, your skin grazed the silk of his dressing-gown, warmth radiating through the thin attire to bestow heat onto your hand. You'd lingered a little longer than needed, feeling an emptiness once more as his presence left you.
You brought the clothing with you into his bathroom, sliding-door closed behind you for privacy. It had only taken a few moments to change, the newly acquired outfit smelling just like the man you'd taken it from - it had been likely the garments had been left unwashed after he'd worn them last. A large mirror sat above the sink, one you'd glanced over to admire the clothes over your body. The old tee-shirt was baggy, trousers too, hiding your figure in a slightly unflattering way, yet your chest had still tightened as fingers traced over the creases, a warmth within you knowing these had been worn by him.
Toji had been sat wide-legged on the old couch, eyes lingering over you as you'd entered the room. The sensation he'd felt rising through him had been unusual, a fluttering within his stomach, one he'd attempted to push away as he'd removed his gaze from you, hoping the thoughts at the forefront of his mind would subside so he could get through the evening without initiating something the pair of you would come to regret.
"You looked at me funny." The timid voice coming from beside him as you'd seated yourself had caused a strained sigh to leave his lips. He'd wished you'd push your curiosity aside and ignore the tension between the pair of you, something you'd seemingly done with ease when you'd been dating your last fling. Toji was a little too old for you - not to mention a business associate with your father. If the asshole found out he'd fucked his daughter, it'd be over.
"Nah, I didn't." Denial, that was something Toji had done often.
"Do I look that bad?" You'd laughed while asking, though there had been a twang of pain with the question. It was easy to understand he wouldn't appreciate you in the state you'd arrived in, though you'd hoped there was a chance he'd see a natural beauty through the midst of tears, or now, in clothing two sizes too big.
"You look pretty." The response had his cheeks warming up, face tilting away from your line of sight after the last word had left his mouth. The man beside you hadn't been affectionate, and wouldn't start now.
The compliment had caused a grin to spread eagerly across lips, though with Toji's line of sight aimed at the television before you, he hadn't noticed the consequence of the sheepish words he'd spoken. A late night talk show had been showcased before you, the host talking with an A-list celebrity, though it had been difficult to focus on the screen. With Toji's legs spread apart, his right knee had rested against yours, back slumped against the cushions behind him. His face ahd been painted with his usual tired scowl, eyes half open.
It was possible your heightened emotions following the conflict you'd faced earlier had caused a small misjudgement, though you'd been aware of the feelings you'd had toward the male, finally feeling a surge of confidence. There had been some contemplation with your actions before you'd executed the desire, a question of whether the activity soon to follow Toji zoning out before the television had been appropriate - it hadn't. Yet, the fight within your mind hadn't been able to stop you leaning forward, wrapping fingers idly under the hairs kissing his neck, pressing his lips to yours.
You held your lips against his for a moment, awaiting a reaction before continuing. Initially, there had been a jolt of surprise, his palm meeting your shoulder, but following the small movements he'd remained still. There was a weak push, causing you to shift backward, breaking the kiss. Eyes fluttering open, heart beating, you looked at the man wide eyed, the taste of ciagrettes on your lips.
"What're you doing?" His questioning tone had been gruff, eyebrows furrowed with annoyance, yet you could tell from his body language he'd wanted to continue.
"I-" You inhaled, face only inches from his, breath fanning over wettened lips. "I really like you." The child-like confession was spoken as a whisper, imagining the scolding words that were about to leave his lips, because even if Toji had felt the same way, there would be an inner-conflict on whether he'd felt he deserved it.
"You shouldn't." He was quiet, soft timbre from his throat, dismissing the admission. Though as his features moved closer to yours, he'd allowed his actions to counteract his head, closing the gap between you to taste you once more. The motions against one another had been gentle, as if testing the waters.
Toji's tongue slid along yours, exploring your mouth while he'd kissed you, hands caressing your body before settling over your hips. He'd squeezed over the fat as he pulled you toward him, your legs widening to allow yourself room to straddle his lap. Breathing heavy, you maintained the slurry of sloppiness against him, fingers clutching tightly over the hairs at the back of his head, a groan tumbling from him to show appreciation to the action.
Your hand fell to the waistband of the jogging-bottoms he'd been wearing, fingers hooking the hem to pull lightly at the fabric, an indication of what you'd wanted. Pushing his hips upward, he'd allowed the movement, hard dick freed from the confides of the cloth prison. Mirroring the display, the pyjama bottoms he'd gifted you had been removed, cock lined at your dripping cunt before you'd sunk down, a gasp as you'd felt yourself stretch over his size. Toji hissed, throwing his head back while tightening his hands over your sides, as if to offer some stability.
"Fuck, baby." The voice erupting from the male's chest had been one you'd dreamed of, so breathless and hoarse, a demonstration of the pleasure he'd felt through the movement of your hips.
"Feels s' good." You uttered words of appraisal, hands on each of his shoulders to aid in the bobbing movement, messy sounds gushing from between the pair for your thighs. Toji pushed upward, pulling you down in order to bottom out, a whimper falling from your lips at the fullness. Both chests rising and falling at an increased rate, hums cascading from parted lips, Toji brought his head forward, eyes watching intently while you'd bounced on his cock. The way he'd fixated his gaze on you had felt invasive, stare hardened, pupils blown-out from lust. His attention sent a throb between your legs, swollen clit making friction upon his waist with each languish movement.
"Wanted to do this f'r so long-" The deceleration had barely been articulated through whines, thighs shaking from the strenuous activity. You were sure he'd feel the tremble as his hands dropped to sit on your legs, though if he had, he'd been unfazed, simply appreciating the effort. A squeeze of his grip, jolt of his hips followed by a groan had signalled his release, eyes squeezing closed. Toji hadn't often looked at peace, weighed down by the stress of running a business, and having a teenage son, yet during this moment, his expression relaxing through post-orgasm bliss, he had looked calm.
You leaned forward, placing a haphazard kiss against his forehead, hands embracing both sides of his face. Green eyes peered up to your fatigued expression, guilt painted over his countenance, though the nervousness his appearance had given you was pushed down with the hopes of what was to come from the encounter.
"I don't think this should happen again." After holding you close and eventually making your way to his bedroom, the words Toji had spoken while gripping his morning coffee had been the last you'd wished to hear. He took a sip, allowing the statement to brew within your unexpectant mind, panic setting across you. Grimacing, he tore his sight from the kitchen floor to the mug, a reluctant swallow of the liquid before inspecting the coffee machine responsible for the beverage. A large hand flicked the switch on the side, displaying his realisation the machine had been set to cold, pouring the unwanted coffee into the sink before placing the cup back down, whirring filling the thick atmosphere as a second drink had been prepared for him. A situation that, before he'd spoken the short sentence, would have been comical to watch. Now, it had only felt uncomfortable to sit through, pitying the old man's display.
"Why?" You questioned desperately, dropping your gaze to the granite breakfast bar you'd been propped up against, hands holding your chin for support. An attempt to remain calm through the encounter had you consciously breathing in, and out, controlling the amount of oxygen entering your lungs, though with this manual movement, you'd felt more breathless than if you'd allowed your body's natural response.
"It's not right." Toji spoke, morning voice still low, eyes drooping from fatigue. You'd wodnered if he'd slept at all by the state before you, the man's conscience had been worst than most - odd considering the fact he'd come across as egotistical and blunt. When involving friends and family, there had been something deep-rooted within him, most likely due to a past encounter that had been unknown to you. Pride, and loyalty, had been meaningful.
"Look, kid." He began, an elongated exhale had signified his lack of desire for debate, mug now placed on the counter beside him, fingers instead pressing to his temple. "I'm old enough to be your dad. I know your old man ain't shit, but I don't wanna defy him either. Imagine he finds out we're foolin' around." Green eyes failed to meet you as he looked to the other corner of the kitchen, and you were left to wonder if he'd shared feelings with you, or had been unable to accept them.
The thought of either hadn't been comforting. Toji had been the person you'd trusted for the last handful-or-so of years, a person you'd consider a friend. His rejection would mean an alteration in the dynamic you'd shared, something you'd been unprepared for.
"So, you just used me?" The accusation fell from your mouth, anger bubbling through the anxieties you'd felt, thinking back to the night you'd shared, a vulnerability you'd allowed him to see.
"What're you talkin' about? You came onto me-" His voice was raised, hand slamming against the counter beside him as his face contorted in annoyance.
"You could've said no!" Matching the tone he'd served to you, you stood, the chair once housing you now pushed backward with the momentum that indignation had brought you. "I've loved you for years, Toji." His name had your voice breaking, frown trembling with emotion, vision blurring through tears. The fact he'd been like every other male you'd been involved with over the past few years had broken your heart deeper than any pain you'd felt, disappointment in the cracks of your mind.
"Told ya last night - you shouldn't." There was a pain across his features, one that had been difficult to interpret through your own emotion.
"Because, you're scared?" The question was faint, voice soft as you stepped toward him. His arms crossed over his chest, eyes rolling at the behaviour you'd conducted, unwilling to confront how he'd truly felt.
"I ain't scared - god, you're such a brat." Another strained sigh had escaped his chest, Toji shaking his head. "I haven't dated since-" He paused, eyes leaving yours to flicker up to the ceiling in thought, reminiscing on the past. "Since Megumi's mother. I'm not fit to be a boyfriend or whatever shit you've got planned." The admission had your eyes tearing up, a stray tear rolling down your heated cheeks. Reaching a hand forward, you met his face, brushing over the stubble protruding his skin, prickling your finger-tips. Though, you ignored the roughness to bring his face closer to yours, a kiss planted on his parted lips. When it had come to Toji, you were willing to stand up to him, understanding the defence mechanism he'd developed of pushing those he'd cared of away, as if to protect them.
"I just want you." The four words spoken had been enough consolation. Toji pressed forward, bringing his hands to cup both cheeks as he pushed into you, an increase in passion as your lips danced with one another. A kiss unlike the ones shared the night before - years of friendship, of guidance, support, transferred between the pair of you as a reminder of the moments you'd shared.
Hands moved to cup one another's bodies, his gliding beneath the fabric of the shirt he'd given you to feel the curves beneath, lifting the hem to slide fingers against bare skin. His touch had been electric, a euphoric affection he'd gifted to you through the grazing of his tongue to yours. The way in which each of you had slotted against one another had been mesmerising, a feat of fulfilment you had felt with no other being. Two flames fighting for dominance; after last night's events, Toji had wanted to take the lead.
"Bedroom." The noun had been uttered between kisses, the male eventually pulling back to take your wrist into hand, pulling you toward the staircase.
The ascent was quick, a silent journey taken with haste, and once through the door you hadn't a chance to look over the room, instantly being drawn to him as large digits encased cotton, his loose tee being removed from your body. With a moment taken for adoration of the woman before him, Toji leaned forward, attaching himself back to you, your own hands undressing bottom half before being ushered to the double bed showcased within the middle of his bedroom. Somewhere between your arrival and the male placing himself between your spread thighs, he'd disregarded his own trousers, though instead of using his hardened member to fuck into you with, he'd caressed sodden lips with his fingers, ghosting over your clit before dipping a digit into you.
With a gasp, he was encouraged on, adding his ring finger to middle, sliding them into your opening before beckoning them back out. Your back arched, mouth open and static as your body focused on the sensation his fingers brought to you, a smirk on his lips from the lack of your ability to multitask.
"So wet already." His statement was condescending, a rough kiss against your cheek, though despite the cruel action, you'd tightened around him in pleasure. "Like that, baby?" The deep voice tickled your ear, another sloppy press of his lips against neck. Lewd sounds penetrated the atmosphere, a squelching from your increasing arousal. His presence had changed, less conflicted over his actions, allowing himself to take authority over you.
"Listen to yourself, so fucking dirty." Using the hand he had free, Toji wrapped his fingers around your chin, forcing head still to be locked into his gaze. Biting your lip, you challenged his superiority, allowing eyes to meet his.
"Tell me what you want." The demand had been evidence to Toji's desires, wishing to take things further, yet wanting to appear unanimous. He scissored the fingers apart slightly while plunging them in and out of you, a moan being forced from you at the motion.
"Y-your cock, please." The act of begging hadn't been one that had appealed to you previously, though with Toji working you up, you'd understood what it had truly meant to ache for dick. The need to feel his member within your walls, the understanding that his pleasure was as heightened as yours, was all you were able to picture through the haze you'd fell within.
Toji fulfilled the request without hesitation, moving the digits to grip at your side as he'd pushed himself into you, thumb moving to rub circles across your clit as he'd fucked himself deep into you. The gradual build up to this predicament had meant an inability to keep quiet, moans exiting you with each roll of the swollen bud, eyes squeezing shut and mouth wide. He laughed, though through your own sounds it had been difficult to tell.
"So fucking tight." His praise wasn't lost on you despite the noise, a faint smile forming over your lips, another clench around the thick cock that had been fucking into you. "You best be thankin' me when you cum all over my cock, pretty girl." Toji's words echoed through your ears, back arching while you'd fallen closer to climaxing, squeezing and pulsing over him. He'd grunted, eyes threatening to close, though forcing them open as he'd refused to miss a moment of witnessing you writhing in his sheets, moments from creaming over him. He could feel your orgasm approaching, walls spasming, desperate gasps for air.
"What'd I say?" Toji reinforced his request, to wish you'd mumbled out the words;
"Thank you, thank you, thank-" Rendered speechless, only a scream had been able to replace the words you'd spoken, eyes rolling back to reveal only white to the male bullying into you. Toji watched you contort under him, succumbing to the high you'd reached, clamping over his cock. The tight squeeze had him groaning, milking his seed to flush within your walls, a unison of pleasure.
Toji didn't pull out for a few moments, instead basking within the fog of his mind, running hands over the bare body under him. You'd felt cool air when he'd eventually vacated you, opening your eyes when he'd placed hands beneath you, manoeuvring you to lay beneath the sheets, head hitting pillow. He'd joined you, mattress sinking as his weight had been added. You'd wanted to remind him it'd been morning, and protest a nap so early within the day, though as if he'd known the sentence your lips had been about to form, Toji raised a hand.
"Jus' get some more sleep." With his arm resting over you, head residing in the gap between your own and your shoulder, you did as he'd requested, closing eyes to rest beside him once more.
#toji fushiguro#toji x reader#toji smut#fushiguro smut#jjk smut#jjk men smut#jujutsu kaisen smut#toji fushiguro smut#toji fushiguro x reader#fushiguro toji smut#jjk x reader#jjk oneshot#toji oneshot#toji fushiguro oneshot#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk toji x reader#anime smut#jujutsu kaisen one shot#jjk imagine#toji imagine#toji thirst#toji fushiguro x you#toji x y/n#toji one shot#dilf toji#toji age gap#anime dilf#jjk dilf#jjk men#jjk toji smut
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It Ain't Me Babe
Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader
Author’s note: A holiday present from me to you ❣️
Summary: Ellie’s first art club meeting [2.8k]
Warnings: creative insecurity, mentions of financial instability, teacher things, Ellie talking about Sarah, more flirty flirt, I think that’s it??
Nothing has ever been as annoying or guilt-inducing as an unfinished piece of art. Sure, every artist— no matter the medium— has felt like an uncreative, unoriginal hack, but it still feels just as new as it did the first time. Moonlight streams through your window as you glare at the canvas, hoping for an idea or stroke of genius. It's late. You should be in bed, especially since it's a Sunday night and you spent your weekend working at the bar down the street. But you're holding a paintbrush between stained fingers and praying for a miracle. It's been eight months since you last sold a piece for a whopping $200, chump change when it comes to living in Austin these days. Even with two jobs and doing commission work, you're living paycheck to paycheck. Maybe that's why it's so hard to create? That has to be the reason. You don't remember it being this hard when you were younger.
Creating art was the only thing that brought you solace during your teenage years. It didn't matter if it was drawing, pottery, painting, sculpting. All that mattered was that you were doing it and you were good. You won awards, scholarships, and attention. Your art teacher, Ms. Henry, was a godsend. Grey-haired, glasses-wearing, colorful Ms. Henry glided through lessons and projects like it was second nature. She always had pencils in her hair, a mug in her hands, and a kind word on her lips when you entered her classroom. She's the one who pushed you to go to your artsy liberal arts college full of people richer and better than you. Even with her love and support, you struggled and almost dropped out after that first semester.
"There's always someone better," she told you when you ended up crying across from her in a coffee shop. "But there's nobody in the world who can make what you will because there is and never will be another you. I mean, God, what a gift. I'd hate to see you waste it." That sobered you enough to keep going and eventually pursue a teaching certification. Ms. Henry has since retired to the Pacific Northwest with her wife, Mable, and sends you a postcard every once in a while because she believes smartphones will be the downfall of civilization. After so many years in education, you're ready to agree with her.
You sigh, feeling your motivation fluttering away with your breath, and plop your paintbrush down in the cup engraved with the words "DO NOT DRINK" in bold. The canvas doesn't look like much of anything right now— just a mass of colors and shapes that could potentially pass as an abstract version of a landscape. It looks like the other painting you left at the school to work on when you have time. And the painting before that. And the one before that. You curse at exactly the same time your phone buzzes with a text.
You awake?
You don't bother responding and go straight to FaceTiming her. She picks up on the second ring, her beautiful, round face greeting you with a smile. You met Andie during high school, and her effortlessly cool attitude and bulky violin kit quickly became a part of your heart. You two were inseparable all four years of high school, dividing your time between rehearsals and time spent in the studio, but college took you to art school and her to a prestigious orchestra program in Vienna. She's been there ever since graduation, playing for diplomats and royals alike, but she comes home for holidays, and you've been trying to save money to go see her. Being so far from her is hard, but you make it work.
"Why are you awake?" You ask by way of a greeting, more than accustomed to your seven-hour time difference and her early riser habits. She laughs, and you hear a tea kettle whistle in the background.
"Well, hello to you, too," she says. "I have rehearsals all day today, so I got an early start. Why are you awake?"
"I'm staring at my waking nightmare."
"Oh, God, are you having another spiral?"
"I'm a hack."
"You're an artist."
"I got rejected again this weekend," you say as if to prove your point, and she sucks her teeth. "They said my art didn't fit their vision for their exhibition, but to feel free and submit another time."
"Well, they must not know great art when they see it. There will be another exhibition and another chance for you to show off your amazing skills. And when you get accepted, which I know you will, I'll fly in, and we'll drink fancy champagne and talk shit the entire opening night." She says, and you sigh. Her persistent optimism is one of the things you love about her, but sometimes, all you want to do is sulk.
"Or I could fly to you when your first composition gets performed, and we could do all those things in Austria instead of this shithole."
"Hey, some of us like that shithole."
"Some of us haven't lived in the shithole in ten years."
"Touche," she concedes. "But I'm serious about what I said. You're a good artist, just going through a little bump in the road. One day, we'll be really sexy and successful, and we'll look back at this and laugh with our rich spouses while drinking expensive wine."
"One day," you say, smiling. "How are rehearsals going?" She groans at the question, and you laugh. Whenever you talk to her, she's working on a new show or with a new conductor and always has something to say. There are many things you could call your best friend, but lazy is not one of them.
"I feel like we're stuck on this one part, but the conductor won't listen to me. He says he knows better than I do, which might be true, but also, if he just listened to me, then we can move on. I don't know. I'm sure if I poke him enough, he'll have to listen to me."
"Sounds reasonable."
"That's what I'm saying," she says as she shuffles her coffee mug and breakfast to her dining room table before checking the time. "It's midnight there. Don't you have school tomorrow?" She asks, and you sigh.
"And an early morning staff meeting and art club after school."
"Sometimes, I worry about your mental health." She says, and you laugh a little too deliriously to prove her wrong. You stay up talking with her for a while before finally getting hit with a wave of fatigue and crashing into bed.
The next day is not any less hectic than your weekend was. The staff meeting early in the morning is mind-numbing and completely unnecessary. The printer in the teacher's lounge breaks halfway through a heavy-duty print job, and you're left scrambling for new activities and lessons. Not only that, but your students were more out of control than usual, prompting a veteran teacher to come in and scold your class on your behalf. It would be kind if it didn't make you feel two inches tall and your students didn't look at you like you betrayed them. You spend your planning period indulging in the silence of your empty classroom and fighting off a migraine.
The second the final bell sounds, your art club kids are knocking down your door, more than ready to work on their projects for the winter showcase. The winter showcase is hosted by a local art gallery that opens for submissions from students every fall. If a student's work is taken, it gets shown in the gallery, and they get entered into a prize to win money and a chance to paint a mural downtown. It's a big deal. So far, you haven't had a student win first place, but you've had them get very close. You always assure them you're proud of them no matter what, which is especially true when Ellie slinks into your classroom with a shy smile.
"Hey! We're just setting up supplies to work on stuff for the showcase. Do you have something to work on?" You ask, gesturing to the students working around the room in a buzz.
"I think so. Are you gonna play music?"
"Who do you think I am?" You make a face, and she laughs. "Why don't you find a spot and get comfortable while I queue up a playlist?" She hesitates for a second before she takes a deep breath and musters up the courage to approach another student to ask if she can sit with them. They start chatting easily, and her shoulders relax as she gets more and more comfortable with all the new people. You put on a random playlist and move around the room to answer any questions about colors or give an opinion when asked for one. Over the course of an hour, Ellie makes her own little group of friends, and they all talk as if they've known each other forever as they work. She seems so in her own element, and you can't fight the pride beaming in your chest. Okay, so maybe your job can be pretty cool sometimes. Not fame and fortune cool or traveling overseas cool, but cool nevertheless.
Students gradually start packing up their things and leaving when they get texts from impatient parents in the parking lot or close to dinner time, but Ellie stays behind, bobbing her head to a beat or bouncing her knee under the table. She's the only one left in the classroom when you start packing your stuff and preparing the room for the next day. "You've got a ride home, honey?" You ask, and she glances nervously between you and her phone.
"Yeah. My dad should be here soon." She says.
"Alright, well, I've gotta lock up here, but I'll wait outside with you until he gets here."
"Oh, you don't have to do that."
"It'd make me feel better knowing you weren't left behind. Plus, I'm the adult responsible for you until he picks you up, so it's kinda illegal for me to just leave you here." You say, and she looks hesitant again but nods. Together, you walk out of the classroom and through the empty hallways until you get out to the scorching September afternoon. You stand outside in silence for a few seconds, taking in the sunset, before you turn to look at her.
"How'd you like the club?" You ask.
"It was fun! I met lots of cool people."
"I told you, kid. You just needed to give it a chance."
"I know, I know," she rolls her eyes, and you smile. "Thank you for pushing me to go. I don't think I would've gone without you." She's so genuine and kind in her tone that it throws you off-kilter. You're used to being berated by students, staff, and parents. To be told you actually had an impact on someone is not commonplace, to say the least.
"I'm sure you would've found your way there without me."
"Maybe, but you helped me get there a lot sooner than I would've on my own." She says, and you take a deep breath. It feels nice to be acknowledged, especially after the day you've had, and Ellie seems to sense it. You're looking for something to say when she looks down at her shoes and kicks a stray rock. "Just take the compliment and move on. Don't make it a thing."
"Alright." You say, laughing, and she cracks a smile, too. Traffic will be horrible on the way home, and you have nothing to eat for dinner, but it's okay. You did one good thing today. That's all you need.
"Sorry, my dad is taking so long." She changes the subject, a touch of anxiety creeping in, and you shake your head.
"Does he always work late?" You ask, and she shrugs.
"Sometimes. Dad and Uncle Tommy have been picking up jobs to send money to my sister in Boston. "
"What's in Boston for your sister?"
"Medical school. She's about to go into her internship at a hospital there."
"That's a big deal." You say, and she hums.
"Yeah. She'll probably save the world or something one day." There's a hint of something nostalgic in her voice, and you decide to push just a little.
"Do you miss her?"
"A lot," she says. "She's my best friend."
"She's lucky to have you." You say. She smiles but doesn't say anything. You want to ask more about her family, but a rickety, greenish pickup truck comes rumbling through the parking lot before you can. Ellie shifts her backpack on her shoulder as her dad and uncle come into view, and you smile at them. Joel, however, looks frantic.
He's unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the driver's side door before the car can even finish moving. There's dirt on his pants and a little bit of a sunburn across his arms, the muscles straining across the black fabric. He politely pulls the ball cap off his head to reveal sweaty curls as he approaches you, jerking his head toward the truck at Ellie. "Why don't you wait in the truck with Uncle Tommy? He's got a snack for you." He says, and Ellie lights up at the mention of food. When you're alone, he tucks his hands in his pockets and gives you an apologetic look.
"'M so sorry. We got caught up at work and lost track of time. It won't happen again." He says, wringing his hands like he's waiting to be scolded, but you wave him off.
"It's okay. Things happen, and I'm just glad she's got someone picking her up." You say.
"How'd she do today?"
"Really good. I think she fits right in."
"She make some friends?"
"I can't give away all my secrets. What else are y'all gonna talk about at the dinner table?" You tease.
"I guess that's right," he says as he stares at you, a muscle in his jaw jumping. "Thanks for waitin' with her."
"It was my pleasure." You say. You stand awkwardly for a few seconds, rocking back and forth on your feet. His eyes are locked in yours, and there's a silent competition to see who's gonna blink first. "Well, I should let you get home. Have a good night."
"Uh," he starts, stopping you before you can even fully take a step. "I wanted to apologize for the other night. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"You didn't make me uncomfortable," you say a little too quickly, and he smirks. "I was very flattered. Besides, it's not the first time."
"Beautiful woman like you, I'm sure you've got 'em linin' the block for a chance with you." He says. You're dancing a delicate dance here. You're not not flirting, and you're not not interested in him, but if your principal finds out, it could cause a whole new world of problems. Still, it's nice to be wanted after so long of being on your own. You're not a saint, but you're also not doing anything inherently wrong, right?
"The teacher thing usually freaks 'em out before they can get very far."
"That's a damn shame." He's quick with it, and you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes at the line. A buzz in your bag reminds you of the time and why you're still at school, and you find your footing again.
"Uh, I usually give out my contact information to the parents of my art club kids in case they need anything or need to contact me quickly. Since Ellie's an official part of that, I figured I should give you my phone number in case anything comes up. If that's alright?" You say, and he pulls his cracked phone from his back pocket.
"Yeah, yeah. That's more than alright." He says, handing it to you to punch in your information.
"It's for emergency purposes only."
"What d'you consider an emergency?"
"Mr. Miller-"
"Joel." He corrects, and you give him a look as you pass his phone back.
"Don't abuse it. I'd hate to have to put you in a group chat with all the PTA moms."
"You're evil." He groans, and you laugh. Tommy, leaning over and honking the truck horn, interrupts your conversation, and he shoots daggers through the back window.
"I'll see you next week, Joel." You say, dismissing him, and he hesitates for another second before nodding.
"See you next week." He says and turns on his heels to get back in his truck. You think you vaguely catch Joel scolding Tommy for being impatient, but you ignore his deep voice and the engine sputtering as you walk to your own car with a little more pep in your step than this morning.
TAGLIST: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha @cosmoscoffeee @shyminnie07 @beezusvreeland @eddiemunsonsbedroom @harriedandharassed @doodlebob-mp3 (look at how many of you there are!)
#joel miller#the last of us#joel miller x reader#joel miller the last of us#joel miller fic#the last of us x reader#joel tlou#joel miller x female reader#joel miller x f!reader#the last of us fic#the last of us au#joel the last of us#ellie the last of us#joel au#joel miller fluff#joel miller au#tlou hbo#tlou fic#tlou fanfiction
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proud of you
lucy bronze x reader
second to last world cup fic. yhis was supposed to be my last, but i saw another in my inbox that’s i should start on.
my requests are closed as of right now. i’ll open it back up when i’ve finished doing the ones i could do, so bare with me.
i will still be writing ones of my ideas and have a couple almost done so keep a lookout for that.
letme know what you think!
-grey
———
In the stands, decked out in England jerseys, with your last name displayed proudly on your back, your two year old daughter, Evelyn, having ‘Mama’ on hers.
“Are you excited bubba?”
“Yeah! Mama win?” She looks at you with her big innocent eyes.
“We don’t know yet, so we’ll have to wait and see.”
It’s a very intense game, as expected. It is the final of the Women’s World Cup. Everyone was getting pushed, pulled, taken down. Evie did find it amusing whenever she sees someone fall.
In the twenty-ninth minute was when your heart stopped, Spain’s very own captain, Olga Carmona, scored a goal that erupted their fans into loud cries and cheers, you were glad that Evie had some ear protecting headphones, while England fans looked disappointed. You kept your hopes up. There’s still lots of time left.
But all your home diminishes once your heat the whistle for full-time. You were very proud of Spain, especially Lucy’s Barcelona teammates that you grew close with, despite having a shitty manager.
“Mommy dey los?”
“They did bub. But that’s okay, we’re still super proud of Mama right?”
“Proud Mama.” Evie nods in understanding. “We see Mama now?”
“In a little bit bub.”
Your heart breaks for your wife, even more when you see her collapse to the ground in tears. You want nothing more than to wrap your arms around her and comfort her, but you want to give her some time with her team and peers.
After the medal and awards ceremony, family and friends are now allowed to go down onto the pitch. People ruching to go to their footballer relatives. You take a bit longer, trying to pick up all the toys, snacks and whatever else you brought for your daughter to keep her entertained during the match.
Stuffing everything in the backpack, you put the straps over your shoulders and carry Evelyn on your hip, making your way down to the pitch. Once on the grass, Evelyn starts to wiggle, wanting out of your arms, so you put her down. She starts running as fast as her little legs could. In the distance you see someone crouching down, holding her arms open, waiting for your daughter to get to her.
“Mama!” She yells out, excited to be able to hold her Mama again after so long.
Lucy wraps her arms around her baby, spinning in circles. She suddenly feels her neck become wet, pulling her daughters face from her neck to look at her.
“What are you crying bubby?”
“I miss you so much Mama!” She cries, her bottom lip jutting out.
You can’t help but admire your wife and daughter together. She has truly been the most amazing wife throughout your relationship, especially with your pregnancy. You gave her a real hard time and she was a champ through it all.
“Hey, Darling.” She wraps her free arm around you, leaning down to give you a kiss, only for it to be blocked by a hand pushing you away.
“No! My Mama.”
You pout, playfully being sad. “But she was mine first.”
“Bu-but mine now.”
“Well, what if I told you that’s you’ve got to share both Mommy and Mama in a couple months?”
Lucy’s confused. Why would her daughter have to share them both.
“What?” You daughter asks.
You grab a small jersey from the backpack. On the back, it reads ‘Bronze 2.”
“No way!” Lucy starts crying again, you joining her. “Really? It worked?”
“It did, Hun.”
She puts Evelyn down and wraps both her arms around your waist, giving you a tight, but gentle embrace. She pulls back and grabs the sides of your face with both hands giving you and passionate kiss.
“I love you. Oh, I’m so excited.” She mumbled against your lips.
“I love you. And I am so proud of you. You made it this far, be proud of yourself for being here. You played hard and made us all so proud.”
She picks Evie back up in her arms. “You’re gonna be a big sister!”
“Sister?”
“Yeah! There’s a baby in Mommy’s tummy.”
“She eat baby?”
“No, bub. The baby is gonna grow really big so Mommy’s tummy is gonna grow big and keep baby brother or sister safe.”
“Wow! Hi, baby. I sissy!” Evie has her face pressed up on your stomach.
Lucy wraps her arms back around you. “Thank you.”
“For what?” You question.
“For loving me.”
“It isn’t difficult to. I love you more.”
“Not possible.”
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We are lucky to be alive in the age of Andrew Scott, an actor of extraordinary breadth, skill and sensitivity, who can terrify as Jim Moriarty in Sherlock, make us fall in love (inappropriately) as the hot priest in Fleabag and cry in All of Us Strangers. He can also astonish, last year playing eight parts in a stage adaptation of Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya. He recently became the first actor to win the UK Critics’ Circle awards for best actor on stage and screen in the same year. And his latest project, Ripley, is a beautiful and chilling adaptation of the Patricia Highsmith novel The Talented Mr Ripley, with Scott playing the lead, dominating all eight one-hour episodes. It’s been a wild, crowning year for the 47-year-old Irish actor. But in March his mother, Nora, died of a sudden illness; she is who Scott has credited as being his foremost creative inspiration. His grief is fresh and intense and for the first half of the interview it seems to swim just beneath the surface of our conversation.
“We go through so many different types of emotional weather all the time,” he says. “And even on the saddest day of your life you might be hungry or have a laugh. Life just continues.” We are in a meeting room in his management company’s offices, talking about his ability, in his work, to modulate between emotions, to go from happy to sad, confused to scared, all within a matter of seconds. How does he do it? Scott laughs. “I would say that I have quite a scrutable face — is scrutable a word? — which is good or bad depending on what you are trying to achieve. But my job is to be as truthful as possible in the way that we are, and I don’t think that human beings are just one thing at any particular time. It is rare that we have one pure emotion.”
It’s an approach that is particularly appropriate for the playing of Tom Ripley, an acquisitive chameleon who inveigles his way into the lives of others (in this case Johnny Flynn, as the careless and wealthy Dickie Greenleaf, and his on-off girlfriend Marge, played by Dakota Fanning). “Ripley is witty, he is very talented. That’s gripping, to watch talent. I can’t call him evil — it is very easy to call people who do terrible things evil monsters, but they are not monsters, they are humans who do terrible things. Part of what she [Highsmith] is talking about is that if you dismiss a certain faction of society it has repercussions, and Ripley is someone who is completely unseen, he lives literally among the rats, and then there are these people who are gorgeous and not particularly talented and have the world at their feet but are not able to see the beauty that he can see.”
The show was written and directed by Steven Zaillian, the screenwriter of Schindler’s List. It’s set in Sixties New York and Italy, and filmed entirely in black-and-white, its chiaroscuro aesthetic evoking films of the Sixties — particularly those of Federico Fellini — while also offering an alternative to Anthony Minghella’s saturated late-Nineties iteration that starred Matt Damon and Jude Law. This has a darker flavour. “I found it challenging,” Scott says, “in the sense that he’s a solitary figure and ideologically we are very different. So you have to remove your judgment and try to find something that is vulnerable.”
It was a tough shoot, taking a year and filmed during lockdown. Scott was exhausted at the end of it and had intended to take a three-month break, but delays meant that he went straight from Ripley into All of Us Strangers. “Even though I was genuinely exhausted, it was energising because I was back in London, I was getting the Tube to work, there was sunshine,” he says. “I found it incredibly heartful, that film, there were so many different versions of love … I feel that all stories are love stories.”
All of Us Strangers, directed by Andrew Haigh, is about a screenwriter examining memories of his parents who died when he was 12. In it Scott’s character, Adam, returns to his family home, where his parents are still alive and as they were back in the Eighties. Adam is able to walk into the memory and to come out to his parents, finding the words that were unavailable to him as a boy. Some of it was filmed in Haigh’s childhood home, and there was a strong biographical element for him and his lead. Homosexuality was illegal in the Republic of Ireland until 1993, when Scott was 16. He did not come out to his parents until he was in his early twenties. I ask if he was working with his own childhood experiences in the film. “Of course, so in a sense it was painful, to a degree, but it was cathartic because you are doing it with people that you absolutely love and trust. I felt that it was going to be of use to people and I was right, it has been. The reaction to the movie has been genuinely extraordinary — it makes people feel and see things, and that isn’t an easy thing to achieve.”
The film is also a tender and erotic love story between Scott’s character and Harry, played by the Irish actor Paul Mescal. The two found a real-life kinship that made them a delight to watch on screen and off it, as a double act on the awards circuit. “I adore Paul, he’s so, so … continues to be …” Scott pauses. “Obviously it’s been a tough time recently and he just continues to be a wonderful friend. It’s everything. The more I work in the industry, I realise, you make some stuff that people love and you make some stuff that people don’t like, and all really that you are left with is the relationships that you make. I love him dearly.”
Scott and Mescal were also both notable on the red carpet for being extraordinarily well dressed. Scott loves fashion and has a big, well-organised wardrobe that he admits is in need of a cull. “I don’t like having too much stuff. I really believe that everything we have is borrowed — our stuff, our houses, we are borrowing it for a time. So I am trying to think of people who are the same size as me so I can give some of it away, and that’s a great thing to be able to do.” One of his favourite labels is Simone Rocha. “I love a bit of Simone Rocha. What a kind, glorious person she is. I just went to her show.” Fashion, he says, is in his DNA. “My mother was an art teacher, she was obsessed with all sorts of design. She loved jewellery and jewellery design. Anything that is visual, tactile, painting, drawing, is a big passion of mine, so I have tremendous respect for the creativity of designers.”
Today Scott is wearing Louis Vuitton trousers and a cropped Prada jacket, dressed up because he is collecting his Critics’ Circle award for best stage actor for Vanya. I ask how it feels to have won the double, a historic achievement. “Ah …” he says, looking at the table, going silent, having just been so voluble. “I’m sorry …” His voice cracks a little. “It’s bittersweet.”
At the ceremony Scott dedicated the award to his mother, saying of her “she was the source of practically every joyful thing in my life”. Is it difficult for him to carry on working in the circumstances, I wonder. “Well, you know, you have to — life goes on, you manage it day by day. It’s very recent, but I certainly can say that so much of it is surprising and unique, and there is so much that I will be able to speak about at some point.”
He is looking forward, he says, once promotion for Ripley is over, to taking some time off, going on holiday, going back to Ireland for a bit. He has homes in London and Dublin. To relax he walks his dog, a Boston terrier, dressed down in jeans and a hoodie “like a 12-year-old, skulking around the city” or goes to art galleries on the South Bank — he was considering a career as an artist until he was 17 and got a part in the Irish film Korea. He goes to the gym every day, “not, you know, to get …” he says, flexing his biceps. “More that it’s good for the head.” He is social, likes friends, likes a party. When I ask if he gave up drinking while doing Vanya, which required him to be on stage, alone, every night for almost two hours, he looks horrified. “Oh God, no! Easy tiger! Jesus … Although I didn’t drink much, I did have to look after myself. But we had a room downstairs in the theatre, a little buzzy bar, because otherwise I wouldn’t see anybody, so I was delighted to have people come down.”
Scott was formerly in a relationship with the screenwriter and playwright Stephen Beresford and is currently single, although this is not the sort of thing he likes to talk about. He is protective of his privacy, not wanting to reveal where he lives in London, or indeed the name of his dog — but he swerves such questions with a gentle good humour.
He is famous on set for being friendly and welcoming, for looking after other people. “The product is very important, but most of my time is spent in the process, so I want that to be as pleasant and kind as possible. I feel like it is possible to do that, that it is an honourable goal.” He is comfortable around people, with an easy charm — no one I have interviewed before has said my name so many times. And although when we talk he sometimes seems reflective or so very sad, there are also moments when he is exuberant, silly, putting on accents. “I feel like, as a person, I am quite near my emotions. I cry easily and I laugh easily, and there is nothing more pleasurable to me than laughing.”
Scott was raised a Catholic and is no longer practising, but says his view about religion is “ever changing — I definitely have a faith in things that cannot be proved”. When he was younger and felt overwhelmed, just before or after an audition, he would go to the Quaker Meeting House in central London and sit in silence, something that made its way into the second series of Fleabag, in which Scott’s priest takes Waller-Bridge’s character to that same meeting house. “It’s just around here,” he says, standing up, looking out of the window at Charing Cross Road. “When Phoebe and I first talked, we met at the Soho Theatre. We talked about love and religion, we walked all around here. And I said, ‘This is a place I go,’ so we called in and there was no one there, so we sat in there and we talked. It was a really magical day.”
Scott says he sees all the different characters that he has played as versions of himself. “It’s like, ‘What would this version of me look like?’ rather than, ‘Oh, I’m going to be somebody else.’ You filter it through you, and you discover more about yourself. I think that is a very lucky thing to be able to do, to find out more about yourself in the short time that we are here.”
#Andrew Scott#Ripley#Nora Scott#Critics Circle#Vanya#Chekhov#West End#All of Us Strangers#Paul Mescal#Hot Priest#Fleabag#Phoebe Waller-Bridge#Jim Moriarty#Sherlock#Patricia Highsmith#The Talented Mr Ripley#Dickie Greenleaf#Marge Sherwood#Dakota Fanning#Johnny Flynn#Steven Zaillian#Matt Damon#Jude Law#Anthony Minghella#Simone Rocha#Louis Vuitton#Andrew Haigh#Korea#Stephen Beresford
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