What's the chance of Ada getting a romantic partner in her story (specifically that isn't a guy)? Or even that just has a narrative about her sexuality? Y'all put out some of my favorite stories and I love your writing, but you have it referenced as her being pan at one point and it would be cool to see some more about that since all of the couples so far have been m/f pairings with the most LGBTQetc part being the Kinsey scale girls night I think?
Ada’s love interest will be a man, though I imagine her sexuality will be addressed in that and other stories, she won’t stop being pan because she chooses to commit to a man.
Olives and I, as cishet women, are not comfortable tackling a same sex couple at this time. We understand this is disappointing to a lot of people and regret that we can’t accommodate our LGBTQA readers better. However, we hope that they understand this decision is out of respect and a desire to “stay in our lane.” We make an effort to add in LGBT+ side characters and to call out main characters non-het sexualities when appropriate. Steve and Darcy are both bisexual and Natasha, in Tales, is on the ace spectrum.
As always, we encourage any fans with head canons to write their own fic. We are happy to let others borrow our OCs and would love to read and promote anything anyone wanted to share.
i have thought a lot about censorship and what is “appropriate”. not a lot of people know this, but lolita was written to show what we allow on our bookshelves: there being no swear words in it meant it was free from censorship. a book about child molestation was allowed because it didn’t explicitly use the word “fuck”. he wrote it to show we don’t really care about protecting children, and it ended up being seen as a romance.
someone once told me - actually, many people have - that lgbt content isn’t appropriate for children. any content. not just kissing. i’m drowned in questions: “won’t the parents have to explain it?” “kids shouldn’t be thinking about sex at this age, or do you think differently?” “what will the kids think?”
at six i saw disney movies. people kiss and get married. i didn’t ask “what does that mean.” i didn’t ask “are those people going to have sex?” i didn’t ask anything, because i was six, and no six year old thinks twice about these things. nobody ever “explained” being straight to me, it was a fact, and it existed, and i was fine with that. why would being gay require a thesis, i wonder.
someone once told me that the one of the reasons people hate lgbt individuals is because they can’t see us as anything but sexual. we’re not people, so much as sinners. that they don’t see love, they see sex. just sex. it’s perversion, not a matter of the heart. only of the body.
i think i was in my early twenties before i saw someone like me.
how old were you, though, before you saw violence? before you saw sexual assault on tv? i think something like that is only pg-13, and if it’s implied, they can get away with anything. i remember watching things and learning about blood, but knowing sex - sex was what was really wrong. sex was always rated r. sex was always kind of a bad word. i was told a lot that i wasn’t ready.
i had a dream last night that i made a site where people could ask any question they wanted about sex and get answered by a professional. it was shut down in moments because 15 year olds wanted to know if it should hurt, if “double-bagging” was a real thing, if this, if that. we shudder. don’t let the children know about that!
but at thirteen i had seen enough violence it no longer struck me. i couldn’t say “fuck” but i knew that if you break your femur, you can bleed out internally in under half an hour. in school i wasn’t allowed to write about loving girls because what would the administration think - but i could write about wanting to kill myself and people would say how lovely, how blistering.
i have thought a lot about censorship. sometimes people on this site try it with me: don’t write this, don’t be so nasty. some of it is intrinsic. we know as people with a uterus not to complain about “that time of the month”, we know better than to talk about sexual assault (how shameful), we know that talking about a vagina is somehow scandalous. i can say “dick” and nobody questions me. some people only refer to the bottom half of me by “pussy”. they won’t wrap a mouth around “vagina” like it’s poison to them. even discussing this, that the language halts, that there’s an intrinsic desire to say “girls” instead of “women” - feels naughty, illicit. not for children.
the other day someone suggested i make my blog 18+. i said, okay, it deals a lot with depression and other problems that might be for a mature audience. oh no, they said, that’s not it, i think that’s helpful. i said, okay. so what is it then. well, you’re gay. you write about loving women. and i said, i don’t write about sex often and they said. it’s not about the sex. but wlw isn’t for a general audience. teenagers aren’t ready.
lolita is recommended for high school and up. i think about that a lot. i know girls who love it, who say it speaks to them on a deep level. it’s beautiful prose, after all. that was the whole point of the novel. something that looked like a rose but was intrinsically awful. i think about how if i was a model they’d want me to look young, thin, prepubescent. how my body would be sold and how through the mall i walk by images of barely-clothed women while mothers cannot breastfeed in public without fear of retribution.
i think about how i can write a novel about violence and it will be pg-13 but if my characters say “fuck” twice it’s inappropriate. i said fuck three times so far in this post, which makes it only appropriate for adults.
i think about that, and how my identity is something that people suggest lines up with a swear word. that people shouldn’t talk about it. that it’s a vulgarity. bad for children, harsh, confusing.
fuck. i love women. which one makes this only for those over eighteen.
me, internally: I love the dynamic of Klance and I love writing the ship. It was my first ship in the Voltron fandom and my first Voltron Klance fic Bonding Time is still my most popular. But it’s a constant frustration, because the more Klance content I reblog, the more anti blogs and art and posts are recommended to me. Because so many Klance fans are antis, and so Klance is associated with antis, which is so sad because I don’t want to be associated with such a toxic side of a fandom and I know many other Klance shippers don’t either, or don’t see the harm in anti arguments because they support Klance, and they’re defending Klance, so it must be okay, right? I hate that so many antis who ship Klance are also Lance stans, because I love Lance but I do not appreciate the iterations of Klance which make Keith out to be little more than a prop to support and lavish love upon Lance when he needs it - forget Keith’s feelings and character development, he’s from Texas and loves knives and making terrible decisions LOL. I hate the “there can only be one” mentality among so many Klance fans, who will go out of their way to bash other ships in order to make Klance the only “safe” and “non-problematic” one. I hate that the argument “because it’s not Klance” has literally been used when one shipper was asked why she didn’t ship or like Hance, I hate that people label Pidge/Lance as problematic even though Pidge and Lance have great potential as a couple and their age difference is the same as Keith and Lance’s, and most of all I hate that antis who ship Klance (…which is most if not all of them) claim other ships that “interfere” with Klance like Sheith or Shance or Shklance are pedophilia and unhealthy, when they are neither. I hate that antis who ship Klance will go so far as to attack other shippers with slews of hate, death threats, give them labels using words they do not even understand, and worst of all invalidate the experiences and trauma of actual CSA victims in their quest to make Klance the one true pairing. I hate that Klance fans have attacked the creators and voice actors of the show in the same way, I hate that @bext-k has been treated so horribly here on tumblr and then been told she couldn’t defend herself because her bully was a minor (a minor, but not a toddler, someone who is perfectly capable of not being an asshole and whose age does not make it okay for them to say the things they said). I cannot stand the Klance meta posts that analyze the heck out of every interaction between the two of them, and at the same time ignore much more meaningful interactions between characters like Shiro and Keith and deny that there could be anything more than friendship between them. It isn’t that deep, I’m sorry, it just isn’t, and it’s embarrassing to see how far of a reach Klance fans make sometimes in order to make their ship as canon as possible. And look, to a degree, I get it. I love Klance. But I do not love the way so many Klance shippers have broken apart this fandom and created spaces so toxic that CSA victims’ voices cannot even be heard without being shut down, mocked, and insulted. I do not love the way I now I have to check every unknown blog’s description before reblogging a post from them to make sure they don’t say “shaladins get out” or “stinky anti” there. I do not love the way that adult antis claim they are protecting minors and then turn around and reblog nsfw fanart of Keith and Lance, two characters who they apparently see as minors, even going so far as to tag it with things like “yaoi” or “this is so sinful” or something equally insulting. I do not love the way antis gaslight and guilt-trip, I do not love the insidious mob mentality that leads to people feeling afraid of not thinking the way other antis do. I do not love the all too prevalent fujoshi culture found among Klance shippers - have you ever noticed that the overwhelming majority of Klance shippers are teenage to twenty-something girls? Whereas all of the queer guys I know of in this fandom are multishippers and/or ship Sheith or Shance. Why don’t we acknowledge that? Why don’t we acknowledge that queer guys, whose relationships we are writing/drawing/analyzing and fangirling about, have an opinion here, and that their opinion maybe, just MAYBE, matters more than ours? In Hypable’s Battleships poll, this was literally proven - way more guys voted for Sheith than voted for Klance. But Sheith is the toxic relationship. Uh-huh. Right. Okay. Even though they’re both adults and have shown each other nothing but love, trust, and respect. This is what infuriates me about so many Klance shippers. The willful blindness to even acknowledge that other sides, other ships, may have merit. And of course this isn’t all of them, I ship Klance and I know many others who do and who don’t share this mentality that makes me so sad and upset. But there are a significant amount of Klance shippers who do. Why can’t there just be a dialogue? Why can’t antis be people who may not like Shaladin ships but understand that this is a fictional show, people are entitled to their opinions, blacklisting tags/blocking users/not looking at content you don’t like is a valid option, and words like pedophilia and “go kill yourself” should not be thrown around as lightly and frequently as they are? I wish we could. I really wish we could. And I also wish I could ship Klance as much as I want to without constantly being reminded of all the hate spread by people who call it their OTP.
me: yep haha ofc klance will always be close to my heart!
I want an episode where Gabriel tries to Akumatize Marinette.
As in: “on purpose”. He did it to Nino, he did it to Simon, he did it to Santa, he can do it to anyone.
And so Gabriel meets Marinette, this passionate kid who really loves fashion, pastel pink, and banana-haired young models, as she is visiting Adrien, and he decides to ruin her day, because it should be about as easy as stealing jewelry from teenagers candy from a baby.
Gabriel has mastered ‘unpleasant jerk’, practically has a PHD in it. It’s second nature. When you look up 'ass’ in the dictionary, you find his picture next to a stock photo of a donkey. So he tunes it up to 'extreme ass’, aka ‘his normal’, and destroys Marinette’s hopes and dreams by, I don’t know, telling her she has no future in fashion except maybe as a costume designer for underfunded live action superhero shows.
Izuku and Bakugou attend a 5-year reunion for their 3rd-year junior high class!
So they’re like, 19/20. Only a year or two out of UA. Haven’t really established names for themselves in the hero world yet. Probably still working as sidekicks at other heroes’ agencies.
And it’s not like, an official reunion or anything.
More just a bunch of old friends hanging out, wanting to see how each other are doing.
And they invite Deku because like, lol they need entertainment, right? And what could be better than harassing the kid they used to bully all the time in school. It’s not like he could’ve done anything useful with his life.
So imagine, it’s like half an hour past the established meeting time. Almost everyone they’re expecting has already arrived.
Then, Bakugou walks into the restaurant they’re all at, and he’s talking and laughing with someone his old classmates can’t recognize.
He’s tall, with short black curls and a friendly face. He’s built sturdy, and looks to be well on his way to All Might’s physique. He walks with an enviable confidence that matches Bakugou’s, and his shining green eyes are friendly and intelligent.
He’s probably one of Bakugou’s heroics friends from school or from the agency he works at, they all assume. Which isn’t bad or anything, a lot of them have brought significant others or close friends along with them. The more the merrier, right?
They turn out to be both right, and horribly wrong at the same time.
“What’s up, asshats?” asks Bakugou as he walks up to the group, a shark-like grin on his face.
A couple of people roll their eyes at his language, but let it go with mutters of “classic Katsuki.”
“So, what took you two so long?” asks one girl from the table next to theirs after they’ve both sat down.
Virtually everyone is listening in, because as rookie heroes, the two of them are by far the most interesting ones there.
Bakugou just rolls his eyes.
“Work ran late,” he says. “Nothing super exciting or anything, just villain cleanup. And then when I went to pick this asshole up, he decided to be a diva and take forever to finish getting ready.” And then, with an eye roll and a conspiratorial stage whisper, Bakugou adds, “He has a date after this.”
“Oh fuck off, Katsuki,” the other guys says, shoving at Bakugou’s face with one hand while he texts on his phone with the other. “Or did you forget you and Kirishima are coming with us?”
Bakugou just snickers, batting his hand away. “The difference between us, Deku, is that I don’t still get like a nervous schoolgirl whenever my boyfriend so much as looks at me. How long have you and the ice bastard been going out now?”
Suddenly, there’s an audible gasp from everyone in their group, the revelation of Bakugou being not-straight taking a backseat to the fact that, holy shit, the guy with him is fucking none other than-
Izuku flinches a little at the volume of the outcry, then turns to look at them all with a bewildered expression.
“Yeah…?” he asks, confused.
And meanwhile Bakugou just bursts out laughing because damn, he had expected this, but it’s still the most hilarious thing ever.
“Since when did you get…” one of them starts to say, only to be elbowed in the ribs by a friend, and they immediately shut up as their brain catches up with their mouth. “…get to be so close with Katsuki?” they improvise, smiling awkwardly. Bakugou, whose expression had suddenly gotten dangerous, relaxes then, and they thank god that they hadn’t blurted out their original thoughts after all.
“Uh…when he suddenly became a decent person?” asks Izuku, grinning cheekily at his friend.
Bakugou rolls his eyes and huffs sulkily, but doesn’t do anything to deny that he used to be…not so good.
“It’s amazing what good role models and supportive friends will do in improving someone’s shitty, toxic attitude. Now, Bakugou’s at least a lovable asshole instead of just an asshole.”
Bakugou still doesn’t say anything but he’s starting to look like he’s pouting.
Izuku seems intent on trying to rile him up.
“It’s such a relief too,” he says, eyes mischievous. “I mean, we wouldn’t another Endeavor on the loose, am I right?”
“YOU FUCKING SHUT THAT WHORE MOUTH, DEKU!” Bakugou immediately shouts then, little explosions going off in his hands as he slams the table they’re sitting at. “You can say whatever you want about me, but don’t you fucking dare compare me Endeavor ever again or I swear to All Might I will-”
And his old classmates just stare at him, mouths agape.
Not because he’s shouting at Izuku or anything. That’s not anything new.
But because Izuku is just laughing at him, not looking the least bit tense.
Bakugou’s voice may be loud, but there’s nothing aggressive in his body language and even when he’s shouting, the way he says Deku has changed so drastically.
There’s none of the scorn or contempt from their junior high days.
The way he says Deku is less like an insult, and more like a fond nickname.
And that, more than anything, shows just how much their old classmate has changed.
Y/n never went back home. Instead, she spends winter break in the confines of Harry’s apartment—wrapped up in between his bedsheets to keep warm.
The usually cold and brutal winter that always made their skin numb is now warm to them—skin always accompanied by one another’s and feeling more than ever before. And with the mix of never ending company and the feel of the music that always seems to be playing in his apartment, they couldn’t have asked for a better way to start off their relationship.
They never do anything extravagant—never do anything that could take time away from one another. It’s in their simplicity do they find a sense of comfort throughout the festive season. They feel happiest in their own little world—away from everything and everyone, just focusing on them being together without any distractions.
With being so consumed by one another, they’ve learned more about each other than ever before—spending most days watching their favorite movies and baking new recipes they found in Harry’s favorite Christmas cookbook and spending the nights cuddled up against one another as Y/n somehow finds new things to talk about.
Each day, they fall in love with each other all over again. It’s as if their hearts unravel and trap each other in—giving them no means of escape, but neither of them want to.
Whenever she spends the night at his apartment, Harry has to spend nearly an hour each morning just to fight her from getting out of bed. It’s become a routine, Harry having to pull her from the edge of the bed so that he can cradle her back in his arms while she giggles and mumbles some excuses he doesn’t have the energy to listen to.
He just really, really, really loves the feel of her first thing in the morning, especially when the brutal feel of the blistering winds finds its way to his apartment. She’s much warmer than usual and her eyes are brighter and always glistened against the sun. Her lips, too—they are always so much fuller somehow that even in his mild awareness, he finds himself kissing them before he finally lets her slip away from the comfort of the sheets.
But this morning—this morning is different.
After a Christmas night filled with passion and inexperienced intimacy, Harry really doesn’t want to let her go. He’d much rather feel her uncovered body up against his all morning—soaking each other up and holding one another until the sun sets into the night.
It just sounds so right, to keep each other near and close after giving each other their last bit of innocence. Everything they had to offer one another was taken and used to make them whole, so that’s how they should be—together and whole for as long as they possibly can.
But when Harry feels Y/n begin to stir her way out of his arms, he knows she has very different plans.
And he’s just not having it.
He whimpers in his slumbered state, pulling her back against his chest with eyes half-lidded and breathing still steady. He’s holding onto her like never before, refusing to feel her side of the bed empty. He needs her, her, her, anywhere and everywhere as long as it’s with him. And despite having every bit of her last night, he hasn’t gotten enough and he needs her more.
She giggles softly against his neck, gingerly kissing the exposed skin as her fingers run along his jaw. She can already feel him falling back asleep from her touch, a content sigh leaving his lips at their closeness.
“Love, I gotta get up. Y’know me, can’t stay in bed once I’m awake.”
He groans as he shakes his head, somehow filling up the smallest of empty spaces between them and tucking his head into her shoulder. His nose is right up against her skin and he can smell her usual scent—vanilla and lavender from her usual body wash but much more filthy than usual.
She giggles again when she feels his bottom lip poke at her shoulder, her fingers reaching to his hair as she combs through it.
“Oh, none of that, H.” She tisks, thumbing the very exaggerated pout on his lips. “I’ll be right downstairs, won’t be going anywhere far.”
He rolls his body off of her, his back hitting against the mattress with a whine. His eyes remain closed but there’s a very noticeable furrow between his brows, and Y/n begins to wonder what he’s so worried about.
She frowns down at him, observing the rise of his goosebumps from the morning cold on his bare chest. It looks empty and lifeless without her head upon it, and though his body is no stranger to her, there’s something about it that seems much more inviting and she yearns to keep it closer than ever.
And she gets it—she gets his exaggerated whining and the worry in his eyes. After everything that happened to them the night before, he can’t leave her—he can't—and that’s exactly what she’s doing to him, even if it’s only a floor away.
Almost as if to reassure him, she goes with the feel of her heart and decides to spend the next couple hours of the freezing morning right beside him.
Harry loves watching Y/n in her most natural hours.
Her chest and elbows are leaning against the surface of the kitchen counter, one hand holding a mug of coffee while the other flips the pages of her favorite poetry book. Her upper body is clad with Harry’s favorite sweatshirt—ending right at the end of her underwear—leaving her legs exposed and on full display for all of Harry to see.
Despite her hair fully knotted and having an overall disheveled look to her, Harry decides that she looks best this way—in a way nobody other than him has gotten the chance to see—as if she was made for his eyes only.
And he has never seen such a beautiful sight in his life as she looks at him with the softest and most delicate of eyes, a small smile resting on her lips at his presence. Every bit of her looks inviting—like a place of comfort Harry could forever shield himself in.
She’s become so much more than his girlfriend—so much more than someone to call his own—she’s become his muse and his home, his haven and everything in between.
“You always look at me with longing even when I’m right here with you.”
He blinks at her, watching as her cheeks flush with pink under the watch of his amused eyes, loving how easily tranced he becomes in her.
She’s never been confident in herself. Ever since she was a little girl, she used her friendliness to somehow distract people from what she truly felt on the inside. She never truly touched base with her insecurities and never wanted to, so she always found ways to push the most damaging thoughts in the back of her head.
But Harry changed everything. He made her feel beautiful and loved in every way possible, she almost doesn’t understand how he could have so much of that love in him—especially for her. From the way he holds her all throughout the night to the small kisses and gestures whenever he has the chance, she feels it everywhere and she almost feels it in herself.
His sheepish smile confirms her statement, knowing fully that there will never be a moment he doesn’t want her, no matter where she is.
He walks slowly over to her, the smile never fading from his lips and the blush creeping back to Y/n’s cheeks as she turns her body to stretch her arms out at him. It’s the smallest moments like this that make them grateful for the kind of love they share—together.
He presses his lips to hers tenderly when he feels her fingers run across his stomach, his own fingers pushing the material of his sweatshirt up towards her breasts so that he can brush against the swell of them.
“Beautiful.” He whispers, quickly returning back to her lips as they softly release a whimper from the detachment.
She tastes so good—a mix of bitter and sweet from her coffee, leaving his mouth wanting more and more with each passing second. And what was supposed to be innocent turned to lust before they knew it—their movements much more haste and impatient.
In the midst of their desperation, Harry pushes her hips further against the edge of the counter, fingers digging into her skin as his mouth parts open with hers. They both moan into one another, completely consumed by the feeling of their relentless hands and feverish kisses.
Her hands are against his stomach, rubbing along his torso when he hitches her legs around his waist, leaving Harry in control of whatever it is that’s unfolding. Her squeal turns into a moan when his hips collide with hers, the friction making her head spin and body yearn for more.
He feels her hands creep toward the waistband of his sweatpants while his hands bundle up the sweatshirt over her breasts so that they’re fully exposed to him—revealing the most delicate parts of her.
And right as his lips attach to the valley of them, the ringing of the telephone breaks them from their moment.
“H—Harry, the phone.” Y/n gasps.
But he shows no sign of stopping when his teeth sink into an already bruised hickie from the night before, leaving her with shaking fingers between his hair and withering from the soreness. And he really can’t stop, because she feels like no other and she’s so addicting in every way possible. He wants her all to himself.
The answering machine almost dissolves into pure background noise for the both of them, too caught up in the moment.
“Hi, Harry, it’s your mum.”
Only five words and Harry feels the air being knocked right out of his lungs—seizing all his movements and thoughts as Y/n is left completely confused and panting upon the kitchen counter.
"I know it’s been a while and a lot has ended quite messy, but your father does miss you and well—we all miss you, Harry. We would really love for you to come over for dinner tonight as a late Christmas celebration. You don’t have to, but we’ll have an extra seat for you. And—uh—I love you so much. I wish you the best. Please call me soon.”
It’s as if the world around him is spinning faster than ever before—his brain overwhelmed with scrambled thoughts and ears ringing from the anxiety.
There would have been nothing to prepare him for this moment. He never thought he’d ever see his father again—much less be invited back over to his house after everything that’s happened. It’s been so long, he genuinely thought it was over—he thought all of the pain and fear was over, but his biggest nightmare is coming to life and he feels sick to his stomach.
His father is why he’s like this—mute and anxious in social situations. If his dad hadn’t repeatedly torn him down for never being good enough—hadn’t made him believe nobody would ever talk to a little shy boy—he would have probably gained the confidence to speak the more he matured.
But because his father shunned him for being shy and never making any friends, Harry was terrified of what people would think of him if he ever did make friends. Because if his own father didn’t love him, how could anybody else?
Y/n notices the tears in his eyes and his shallow breathing, which she’s quick to mend when her hands reach up to his cheeks. They’re hot and flushed, but all for the wrong reasons.
She frowns, lips peppering small kisses along his face in an attempt to bring him back to her. She doesn’t know much—or really anything—about Harry’s family life; all she knows is that she has never seen a picture of them in his house or any validation that he ever truly had one.
But as she catches the glimpse of fear in his eyes and the small quivering of his lips, he knows very well that there must have been something that went wrong. And even if she doesn’t know what it is that he went through, she knows that if he decides to do this or not, she’ll be right there with him.
“You’re scared.” She whispers, thumbs rubbing against his cheeks softly. “What is it you’re afraid of, baby? Talk to me, please.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, his lips pursing together as loose tears fall from his eyes.
He’s never talked about his family problems and because all of this has happened so quickly, his words get trapped in his throat. To genuinely talk about his family and come to terms with his emotions seems all too much for him, especially when it’s hard for him to speak in the first place.
Y/n clicks her tongue while shaking her head softly, wrapping her around his neck as he nests his cheek into her shoulder. His muscles instantly relax in her arms and has a sense of clarity in her comfort, but there’s still an undeniable thumping in his chest that just can’t seem to go away.
“You don’t have to talk about this, love, but maybe this will be good for you. You know, to test the waters with your family. Maybe this could help you in the long run.”
And he wants to believe her—he really, really fucking wants to believe her—but he knows he can’t. Anywhere in his father’s path is detrimental to Harry’s social anxiety and he knows it’ll only make this worse for him in the long run.
“Y/n.” Harry groans, detaching her arms from his neck so that he can stand properly. His teeth are grit and eyes are distant—looking anywhere but her own and he swallows thickly around his words. “There’s a reason I don’t talk to anybody.”
His words are cracked and desperate—like a plea for Y/n to understand that this is different, that there will never be a day he’ll be able to face his problems. There have been too many times he’s found his way back and he always walks away with a damaged heart.
Y/n watches the way his fingers fiddle around one another and how he can’t stand still, it’s like watching the battle in Harry’s head and watching him fall apart from it.
And no matter how much she loves him now—the way he is now, even without much speaking—she doesn’t want to watch him suffer for the rest of his life. He’s the most undeserving man, he deserves the world and she knows he does.
His heart is nothing but pure and damaged—in need of mending and love. It’s the best part of him, really. It’s what brought them together and she feels the need to protect it at all costs.
He doesn’t feel it, though. He doesn’t feel what his heart has to offer and doesn’t see how it makes him so strong. He only sees himself as a ruin—a lost cause with nothing left to fight for, and he doesn’t deserve it. After what he’s been through, she needs him to understand that he is so much more than he thinks he is.
Because he is—he really is—no matter what he believes.
She holds his head in her hands to distract him from his consuming thoughts. His eyes shift in her gaze as he lets out a small breath.
“I just think it’ll be best to try again. I know—I see how hard it is for you to live the way that you do and I want to be here for you through everything. Things could be different this time—things could actually end well and you might be able to push through this. Because I know you, Harry, more than anybody else right now and I know you can push through this.”
She presses her forehead against his with a sigh leaving her lips, her thumbs running along his knuckles.
“And if there is any point you feel uncomfortable or upset, we can walk right out and leave. Just know that I will be there for you no matter what, okay? Just asking for you to try.”
It’s because she sounds so sure of herself that Harry actually agrees to go to the dinner. He knows that if it were a matter of him going alone, he would never even consider it. But knowing she is going to be right by his side—holding his hand through it all—maybe he doesn’t have to be so scared.
Maybe, it’ll actually be different this time.
It’s not different.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, it’s really not any different than he expected it to be.
Upon their arrival, Harry’s mum and sister nearly fainted from seeing him at the front door. They thought their invitation would go dismissed, like the way Harry’s ignored them for the past three years. But looking at him for the first time in what felt like forever, they were nothing short of thrilled.
And to make it even better, he brought a girl. Harry was holding her hand tightly, keeping her tucked right into his side so that he could feel her with every step he took.
Anne and Gemma swore they had never seen something so heartwarming in their life—to the point where tears sprung from their eyes and arms flinging around their bodies. Y/n didn’t even have to introduce herself properly for them to love and approve of her, anybody who gets Harry to open up—in any way possible—is enough for them.
He was calm when it was just the four of them, Harry watching Y/n hit it off with his family so effortlessly. He noticed the fondness in all their eyes and this was how he wanted it to be forever.
But once they sat down for dinner, Harry knew something was about to happen.
His father didn’t acknowledge neither him nor Y/n in the slightest. Instead, he acted as if they weren’t there and only carried conversations with the rest of his family. And Harry wasn’t sure if he preferred it that way or not—wasn’t sure if he’d rather have his father at least notice him and hate him or have his father neglect him.
Y/n was trying to make the best out of the situation and he could tell. She found her way to the conversations even if his father didn’t respond to her, and still remained her perky self while doing so. She seemed unfazed through it all, almost like she didn’t feel the overwhelming amount of tension that surrounded the room.
She does it for him, though. She knew that if she showed just how uncomfortable his father was making her—he’d never be able to survive this dinner. She had to play strong enough for his sake.
But now that dinner has passed by and all that’s left are empty plates of food and mindless mingling, Harry feels nothing short of uncomfortable and misplaced under his father’s glare. It’s as if he’s waiting for Harry to speak out in the conversation, or do much of anything to make his presence known.
Y/n can see the soft shaking of Harry’s head and can feel the sweat on his palms with each passing second—just waiting for the end of the night so that they can go home and be alone at last.
“You know, Y/n, I never thought Harry would have a girlfriend.”
It’s the first time tonight his father spoke to Y/n directly, making the conversation she was having with Gemma come to a pause as she looked over at him with confusion. There’s a small pout on her lips as she tilts her head in question, almost unsure as to what he was implying. He has no expression on his face, only a small scoff and disapproving look in his eyes.
“How so? He’s lovely, any girl would be very lucky to have him. I’m just happy it’s me who does.”
Her fingers squeeze his thigh under the tablecloth; as if to tell him that there’s nothing to worry about. If his father wants to try hard enough to get to Harry, he has to try to get through her, first.
His father grumbles, his eyes shifting away from hers. The tenseness is his body seems to lighten, though, when an almost sadistic laugh falls from his lips—finding whatever he’s thinking quite amusing and entertaining.
“Isn’t it disheartening? Doesn’t it get boring, to be with a little boy who can’t even get his mouth to open? You seem to be a very intelligent, mature lady—I can tell by the way you talk. Don’t you think it’s a man’s purpose to be with somebody like you?”
Harry squeezes his eyes shut, trying to silence the sudden voices in his head and focus on the feel of Y/n’s tightening hand.
All the childhood fights, all the times Harry had crawled underneath his bed during the night to get away from it all, and all the times Harry almost had the guts to speak up for himself only to be shut down from his father are all replaying in Harry’s head.
The anxiety creeps to his bones and in his muscles, straining him of all that’s left of his strength and leaving him with nothing but a shaking body and lack of control. Every part of him that felt alive before all of this is slowly dying at the seems—ready to be ripped out on his father’s account.
In any other situation, Y/n would have kept her mouth shut if it meant getting the support and approval of Harry’s family. But this—the way he’s talking about Harry as if he’s not right next to her, disrespecting him for something beyond his control is just not okay with her.
She’d rather stand up for the man she loves and believes in instead of watching him suffer in silence—the way his mum and sister are—with fear.
“Harry may not be a man of many words, but he’s the best thing I’ve got. There is so much more to him than his voice. There is so much more to him than you will ever know because you decided to be a shit father and give up on him without giving him a chance. He holds so much more potential than you could ever see, and that’s what’s wrong here. Harry’s not the problem, him being mute is not the problem, it’s you. Because why is it that everybody else can accept him and love him for who he is besides you?!”
The aftermath of her words silences everything around them. Nobody moves, nobody dares makes a sound besides their harsh breathing, because there could be something that makes either one of them snap and nobody wants to be the one to do so.
Y/n’s hands are in fists upon the table, eyes locked with his in fury and jaw so tight she almost doesn’t even look like herself. She’s turned into an entirely different woman with just the thought of Harry getting into harm’s way.
And although Harry really wants to show her appreciation for her words, he’s too panicked that he’s going to die from not being able to fucking breathe.
The silence is overwhelming, but Y/n is not giving up on him—on Harry. He had to live through this for far too long and she’s not allowing it anymore. He deserves better than this treatment—deserves better than to be looked down upon by somebody who’s supposed to be his provider.
“He’s the best thing you’ve got, yeah?”
His father is playing with his bottom lip, eyes narrowed and eyes in the same unpleasant manner as before. His voice is softer, though, more understanding than before and they both don’t know what to expect out of the conversation.
Y/n nods without hesitation, “He is.”
He watches as Y/n looks more determined and positive as ever, not a doubt or a trace of a lie in her features.
She means it—with her whole heart—she means it and she’ll never let anybody make her go back on her word. And she doesn’t have to say it twice, because Harry knows she’s genuine when she says it.
“You must have a very pathetic life, then.”
Harry’s eyes don’t move from their trance on the table—his body doesn’t make a move under his words. This is just how it always ends, and he just don’t know why he still fucking comes back here every goddamn time.
His throat is tight and his eyes are filled with tears. His skin is full of sweat and he swears his heart is beating much faster than it should. And even though he’s experienced this all before, knowing Y/n is being belittled by his father too makes it worse.
Y/n could have stood up for Harry much more, but she knew that if she started an even bigger brawl than what was already unfolding, Harry wouldn’t have been able to handle it.
He’s already drained of color and crying silently within his lost mind, and she’s absolutely terrified for his health.
She’s nearly dragging him out the door, Harry occasionally tripping over his own feet as he’s being drowned with the voices and the thumping in his chest. The world around him seems to be drowning and he can’t keep up with it all.
He just can’t.
“You can’t only keep her around because she’s the only one that’ll fight your battles for you, Harry! It’s only a matter of time before she realizes that you have nothing to offer her! You can’t give her anything with the way you are. You’re worthless!”
Before he could spew any more insults in Harry’s way, Y/n shuts the door in his face.
Harry knows his father was right.
In the long run, he doesn’t have much to offer her. He can’t be the boyfriend that she deserves to have.
He can’t be the boyfriend that can remind her of how much she’s loved or cared for. He can’t be the boyfriend to sing her to sleep whenever she can’t, or be the boyfriend to say his vows at their wedding for all to hear. He can’t be the boyfriend that—God forbid something were to happen to her—can ask for somebody to help her, or be the boyfriend to sway her family’s heart.
He can’t be anything to her besides somebody that she can sleep with at night and wake up to in the morning. Because that’s all it will be, and she’ll get so tired of being the one to be the only one talking to the other.
He’s nothing in her life, and that’s exactly why he can’t look at her anymore.
“Can you please just say something to me, Harry? I need to know why you’re upset with me or else we can never work through this.”
But how can they work through this when he can’t talk to her the way she wants him to?
Instead of answering right away, Harry presses on the gas pedal even harder than before. In the mix of all his emotions—anger, frustration, sad, and absolutely terrified—the only proper thought that can retain in Harry’s mind is dropping Y/n back to her apartment so that she doesn’t have to keep torturing herself with him.
The longer he feels her presence next to him, the more he realizes that he can’t love her the way she deserves to be loved—even if he really, really, really does love her with every ounce of his being.
“It was only—“ He swallows thickly, “It was only a matter of time before this was going to happen, Y/n.”
Her eyebrows furrow in confusion as she turns her head over to Harry, who has his lips pursed in a straight line while his eyes remain on the road.
There’s something different in him, now—something unreadable in his expressions and it’s something she’s never seen before. He seems broken somehow, like a man who’s been damaged one too many times that he’s become numb—emotionless with nothing left to feel.
“Before what was going to happen, Harry?”
She has an idea about what his words meant, but she doesn’t want to believe it. Not coming from him—not coming from the man who’s shown her nothing but how much love he has for her. There’s no way he could be doing this to her. He can’t do this to her.
“We were never going to last, Y/n. This was over long ago, we’re just on borrowed time.”
The sound of it leaves an unusually disturbing churn in Y/n’s stomach and a foul taste in her mouth. She feels as though Harry is taking his own hand and digging into Y/n’s chest, just so that he can grab ahold of Y/n’s heart and rip it to shreds himself.
Her hand subconsciously grabs onto the handle of the car door, eyes glistening with tears and lungs not daring to breathe. The air—instead of it being filled with their love—is now thicker and colder than ever.
She’s never been so confused—so lead on and so scared as to what is happening to them. They were supposed to make this last, they were supposed to make each other happy for the rest of their lives. He promised her he would, too—promised her nothing but love and trust in him.
But what is happening to them?
“How long have you thought that?”
She was tentative to ask, but she just has to know. She has to know if she’s done everything she’s done for nothing or if it actually held some sort of purpose at the time.
She’s terrified beyond words to find out the answer.
“Before or after you decided to sleep with me?”
Harry doesn’t want to make it seem like he never wanted this—never wanted her. He doesn’t want to make her think that he went through all that he did with her just to expect them to break up so soon. Because he didn’t, he never did. He would have never let her give him her virginity if he knew all of this was going to happen.
He loves her too much to do that to her, but also loves her enough to set her free.
So he decides to not answer her because not saying anything at all is easier for him than saying something he doesn’t mean. And he knows he will if it means letting her go and letting her move onto bigger and better things.
And it’s in his silence and twitch of his eyes does she find his answer.
“So you didn’t mean what you said last night. That we fit perfectly—that it’s like we’re meant to be? Or were they just words to you?”
A sob rips from inside of her when he still gives her nothing. She has never felt so hurt before—has never felt so betrayed. And suddenly, her skin feels dirty—sickened by what he’s done to her and how she could have been so stupid as to let it happen.
She feels it now, too. She feels the way his hands touched her that night, the way his lips kissed her that night, the way his hips rutted against hers and she feels so fucking filthy—used and used and used just for his own personal gain.
“Stop the car.”
It’s a weak demand, but Harry is pained to hear it. He has to hold himself back from comforting her and saying how terribly sorry he is for lying to her the way he is. But it’s just easier this way.
“I said stop the fucking car, Harry!”
Her yelling makes him flinch, and without hesitation makes him pull over to the side of the road. And the second he does so, he knows he shouldn’t have because he’d never be able to live with himself if he let Y/n walk in the cold alone, especially at night.
And right as he’s about to turn back, the sound of her hysteria makes his stop everything he’s doing. Her sobs are relentless in her hands and the thickest of tears fall from Harry’s eyes when he looks at the damage he’s done.
She looks helpless and utterly destroyed—he would have never thought of doing this to her if he’d known this is what would come out of it.
His heart is breaking at the sight of her like this.
As if on instinct, Harry reaches his hand over to her shoulder in an attempt to keep her calm. And even when they’re so close, they have never felt more emotionally distant than they do right now.
“No! Don’t touch me! Don’t you ever touch me again!”
She isn’t sure if she means it or not, but the devastating look Harry gives her at her words proves that he knows she did.
The second his touch leaves hers, he feels them falling apart.
It really is over now.
She’s never felt more pathetic and humiliated in her life. Everything she thought was so real ended up being one of the biggest lies she’s ever lived. He had her fooled for months now and she had not a single clue—but she guesses that’s what happens when she falls in love too quickly.
She feels easy.
She swallows her cries as she opens the car door, not knowing where the hell she is or where the hell she’s going, but knowing that no matter where she ends up, it’ll be much better than being with him.
“I hate you. I never want to see you again, not after this. Not after all that you’ve done to me.”
Harry’s eyes widen at her words, mouth falling open and a gasp falling from his lips. The reality of her words hits him with so much force that he genuinely feels every last bit of him fall apart.
And it’s when she walks away from him—from his life—that he breaks.
He chokes out a sob as his fingers grip the steering wheel, eyes as wide as ever and mouth not daring to shut.
Everything hurts. Every bone in his body feels like it’s breaking and every muscle feels like they’re tearing apart. It hurts so fucking much and Harry can’t stop crying, throwing his head back against the car seat as his hand hits the steering wheel in the midst of his hysteria.
❝You had long since gotten over your crush on your co captain slash roommate, Jimin. Other than the occasional wandering hand that maybe wasn’t so appropriate for someone who was supposed to be supporting you while you were in the air, or congratulatory smack on the ass after practice he was uninterested. Very, very, very much uninterested.❞
You blink down at your lunch tray, a scathing look marring your face when you note the mushed grool on your plate is probably leftovers from yesterday. You eye the cafeteria lady warily when she plops another serving on your tray, expression deadpan—you take longer to move along in line and she thinks she’s doing you a favor by serving you seconds.
“Greta,” you grin pleasantly, inching the tray back in her direction, “you’re doing amazing. Love the enthusiasm, that apron really suits you. However, I pay eight thousand dollars in college tuition and this looks like the wet food I give my dog. Do you think instead of this I could—”
She interrupts you with a wet slap of brown mush being added onto your already growing pile.
“Wonderful,” you sigh, when you note the brown spackle on your uniform top, “can I just get a kale salad instead?”
It was for the best, anyway, you chide yourself. The fact that your school served lunch that was about as edible as aluminum foil made dieting easier. The reminder of your diet, however makes you groan as you reach the condiment station, chancing a smell at the ranch dressing in the clear plastic bowl. When you deem it safe enough to consume, you begin working on the croutons—
“Would you like some salad with your dressing?” Someone snorts from behind you.
You lift a wary gaze to Park Jimin, who’s leaning against the counter, working on organizing his grilled chicken. He cocks a brow at you as though he knows you’re glaring, even without looking.
“And to what do I owe this pleasure so early in the morning?”
Jimin rolls his eyes at you, nudging you out of the way so he can dress his own salad.
“Just think of me as your fairy godmother—I get a tingling sensation whenever you start to double carb.” He snorts, snatching the bread roll off your your tray and shoving you in the direction of your regular lunch table.
“It’s wheat.” You say indignantly, snatching it back and shoving it in your mouth.
“Just because wheat bread induces a slightly lower glycemic response doesn’t mean it’s better for you.” He spouts off automatically and you debate whether or not you can smash your head in before he starts scolding, “There’s no inherently good bread, just one that’s gonna make your ass slightly fatter as opposed to one that’s processed whole wheat.”
Apparently there was no avoiding his scolding this afternoon.
“For the record my mother says I have a wonderful figure,” you inform.
Jimin blinks at you before shoving a piece of chicken in his mouth, “Tell your mom to base for you then.”
“You’re in a fine mood this morning,” you scoff, before sending a teasing smile at your co captain, “I take it the freshman pitched their new uniform idea to you?”
Jimins jaw clenches at the thought, rubbing his aching temples, “I’m all for being a whore. I love the concept, I think it’s great. But I hate the bandage skirt idea. And if we’re going to look like hookers, we should at least be Marilyn Monroe and for like presidents and shit. Not Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.”
“Julia Roberts slander aside,” you glare, “I agree with you. They’re tacky and besides, regionals in three weeks—changing uniforms now would just be complicated, not to mention we have to worry about finding another base now that Hoseok’s graduating.”
“God, don’t fucking remind me, I already have a headache thinking about auditions. But also, I’m so happy you agree which is why I took the liberty of telling them to go fuck themselves.” Jimin grins cheerfully as you stab a pice of kale.
“What did I say about making decisions on my behalf?” You pin him with an annoyed look before throwing your fork down with a clank, “we’re a team Jimin, we make decisions together.”
“Yes and it’s because we’re a team that I know you hate all the things I do.” He explains.
“This is why they don’t respect me.” You say, “at least not as much as they do you.”
“They don’t respect me, they’re scared of me. It’s good for our image. Like a good cop, bad cop kind of thing.” He argues before slicing a piece of his grilled chicken on putting it on your plate, “And will you eat? You wouldn’t have to starve yourself if you made better choices. For example a vinaigrette instead of what is essentially going to be an extra three pounds on your ass.”
You blink at him rapidly before sighing, rising to your feet. “Whatever, Jimin.”
“Hey,” he calls out behind you but you’re already halfway across the cafeteria, equal parts irritable and unamused by Jimins lax behavior. You stop when a hand grips your wrist, “okay jeez I’m sorry. I’m kidding. Quit being a brat and eat your lunch. I said try to drop three pounds not starve yourself.”
“Wow, what a sincere apology,” you snort and attempt to walk away again but he’s gripping you by the waist, far too close for comfort with his front pressed against your back and plush lips at your ear.
This is new. Very new.
Your roommate was a lot of things, touchy was not one of them. If anything, he prided himself on his personal space and was constantly shoving you out of his room, out of his bed, out of the fucking bathroom.
“I’m sorry alright?” He mutters and you close your eyes because he was confusing. So confusing it hurt. “I didn’t mean it. I had one too many bowls of bitch flakes today—either that or you’re PMSi—fucking ow.”
Jimin rubs his side where you elbowed before glaring at you.
“Apology not accepted.” You sniff when he turns you in his arms and there was a time when you would have been ecstatic to be in this position but those feelings have long since fled.
He only tugs you closer with a grin when you don’t fight off his hold. Jimin raises a brow at something over your shoulder and you frown.
“Don’t look now but your baby boyfriend is on his way over,” Jimin whispers before retracting his arms.
“My baby what?” You frown and it only takes you a full second to realize who he’s talking about because before long Jeon Jungkook is crowding your space.
“Hey,” he calls, an arm winding its way around your waist before you’re rolling your eyes at Jimin’s teasing smirk. “What’s going on here?”
“Jungkook,” you greet, before extracting yourself from his hold, “What’s up?”
“I could say the same,” he mutters before nodding at Jimin, “We have a problem here?”
Jimin cringes at his cheesy line before pinning him with a bored look, “Actually we—”
“Me and Jimin were going over cheer stuff. Did you need something?” You interrupt.
“Going over cheer stuff,” Jungkook says back slowly. He stares at Jimin for a second too long before returning his gaze to you, “I just came to check on my girlfriend. I have a game today, you didn’t wish me good luck.”
You close your eyes with a wince when Jimin snorts. A warm palm on your shoulder has you opening them only to glare at the all too mirthful boy in front of you, “Let him down easy, champ.”
With a wave and wink in Jungkook’s direction, Jimin is bounding back towards the lunch table and leaving you with a migraine.
Jungkook is holding your hand and swinging it. You’re not quite sure when that happened.
“Look, Jungkook,” you begin, clearing your throat.
“Oh no.” He sighs.
“Nothing is ever good when a girl starts out with ‘look, Jungkook'—my mom, my sister, the dean of students.” He shrugs.
“So you know what’s coming next then?” You ask hopefully.
“Are you gonna put me on academic probation?” He offers and when you shake your head he stares on, “Not gonna lie, I’m drawing a blank here. I just know whatever you’re saying is not gonna be good.”
All hope dies.
“We’re not dating.” You say gently, tugging your hand out of his. It was too big and overly warm.
Jungkook frowns, confusion wrinkling his brow and for a second you almost feel bad for him, that is until he opens his mouth.
“But you let me…” He chances a look over his shoulder before leaning into whisper harshly, “you let me finger you.”
And therein lies your problem.
You knew better—you truly did—than to let the otherwise inexperienced freshman go further than second base but in your defense you were drunk. You were drunk and he was willing and he was fucking Jeon Jungkook. You were a good person but not that good.
“Yes, Jungkook I did but that doesn’t mean I want to date you.” You explain gently.
“But why would you let me touch you if you didn’t want to date me?” He implores and you blink at him because there was no way in hell someone was this naive.
“Because I was horny and you were there.” You say honestly and to your relief there isn’t a look of pain etched on his features only mild confusion mixed in with annoyance. “Now that we’ve got that settled I have a cheer thing I have to—”
“Wait, wait!” He calls out, gripping your wrist, “but what about me?”
You sigh because no matter how innocent or inexperienced Jeon Jungkook seemed he was still a guy at the end of the day, and they all wanted one thing.
“Fine.” You rolls your eyes, “I’ll suck you off after practice but I got to get goin—”
“No. Not that,” he flushes, “I meant what about… what if I wanted to date you?”
You stare at Jungkook a beat and it’s your turn to be surprised because of all the things you expected to happen today that was the last.
“Do you…” You gulp, eyeing him warily, “have feelings for me?”
“No.” He says honestly and you deflate before glaring at him.
“Oh thank God,” you breathe before smacking his arm, “don’t go around saying shit like that. Jesus. Anyway, why would you want to go on a date with me if you don’t like me either? Does that make sense to you?”
Jungkook rolls his eyes at you before tugging you off to an empty corner of the cafeteria, he lowers his voice even though no ones close enough to hear. “Okay don’t look right away but do you see those guys sitting at that table next to the doo—I said don’t look!”
“Ow!” You whine, rubbing at your scalp after he gives your ponytail a hard yank. “Okay, jeez what about them?”
“They’re on my basketball team.” He informs unhelpfully and you give him a bored look.
“You don’t say?” You gasp, a hand shooting up to cover your mouth, “I couldn’t tell from their uniforms and the guy on the table, spinning the basketball, staring at us.”
Jungkook goes quiet again and you feel a headache coming on because what he made up for in looks and general athleticism he lacked in brain cells.
“Are you being sarcastic?” He frowns and what was the point if all your jabs went right over his head?
Instead, you opt for exasperation, pressing a hand to your aching temple. “What about your basketball team, Jungkook?”
“They think I’m a virgin.”
“Well are you a virgin?” You retort, thinking back to the almost painfully awful finger fuck he gifted you with last weekend.
“That’s besides the point,” he waves you off before gripping your shoulders, “I’m in college now. And a guy. Being a virgin is weird and if they find out I haven’t gone all the way I’m toast.”
“So tell them you boned me and let me get on with my life. I give you my permission, young padawan.” You give him a reassuring smack on the arm before walking away, only to be tugged back by your uniform shirt. “What now?”
“That would be great, except they’ll keep hounding me to have more sex which I’m not opposed to I just… I’m not ready yet you know?”
You blink at him, “I don’t know. I’m a slut.”
“Well pretend you get it and date me. Just for a couple weeks.” He says, “If I have a girlfriend they’ll just assume I’m getting laid on the regular and leave me alone.”
“Okay, but what about me? I actually enjoy getting laid on the regular and no offense but getting fingered by you is about as enjoyable as going to the gynecologist.” You sigh and he winces.
“Noted.” He adds dryly before cocking a brow at you, “So are you up for it?”
“No!” you throw your hands up, “besides dating you could give people the wrong impression. That I’m into things like—”
“Virgins.” You correct with a roll of your eyes. “Sorry Kook, you’re just gonna have to figure shit out on yo—”
“Noona please,” he pleads desperately, hand gripping your upper arm and in all honesty you’re not a hard person to sway but Jungkook is still persistent in his pursuit. He clasps both hands under his chin before dropping to his knees desperately. He’s whining and loudly.
Loud enough to garner attention.
“Will you get up?” You hiss, “People are staring!”
“Will you say yes?” He juts his lower lip out.
“No.” You glare, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Then I’m not getting up.” He pouts.
“Because I care,” you snort, “Camp out here if you want. My answers the st—”
“Pleasepleasepleaseplease,” he whines and you grit your teeth in annoyance, “I’ll owe you big.”
“You’ll owe me?” You cock a brow.
“Yes,” he says desperately, “I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?” You ponder and Jungkook’s stomach turns when you openly give him the once over.
“I… shit… yeah, anything.” He sighs.
Jimin doesn’t ask you what’s wrong and you don’t expect him to—you only bang things louder until he’s sighing from his spot on his bed, pausing the game he’s playing to turn to look at you.
“Is something wrong?”
He looks put out, annoyed. You don’t care.
“Everything’s wrong.” You mutter, stripping off your uniform and throwing it in the dirty clothes.
You have half a mind to remember that you were still in Jimin’s room but it didn’t matter anyway, you and Jimin had long since passed the initial crush stage of your friendship slash roommate agreement—well at least you had, you were almost entirely positive Jimin felt nothing save for mild irritation for you on a good day. That coupled with the fact that he was very much gay set your worries at ease.
“Be more specific?” He sighs, disinterested.
You pause in rummaging through his clothes long enough to narrow your eyes at him, “I hate boys.”
“Good. More for me.” He retorts instantly, shooting you a warning glare when you pause on one of his good t shirts, “I’m wearing that tomorrow, the sweatshirt you’re looking for is in the back.”
You don’t even shoot him a so much as a thank you as you shimmy out of your sports bra, with your back turned to him and tug his hoodie over head. When you’re settled and warm you shoot a mischievous smile at Jimin who’s still glaring at you before—
“Don’t you—” he cut himself off with a curse when you dive under his covers anyway. Jimin seethes quietly as you nestle yourself beneath his sheets, “You know you have your own room right?”
“Don’t you miss me?” You whine before snuggling closer, much to his annoyance, he opts to pinch your side instead of shoving you off the bed completely.
“No. Now move over if you want to stay in here.” he scoffs.
“You know I had a really shitty day,” you glare at his side profile and he doesn’t answer, only picks up the controller to un pause whatever he was playing. “it would be nice if you could be even a little bit supportive.”
“I didn’t sign up for emotional support I signed up for half on utilities and you not leaving your pad wrappers on the bathroom floor.” He mutters, still invested in his tv show.
“Don’t use that voice, I hate it.” He grunts.
“What voice?” You pout.
“You know, the voice.” He sighs, sending you a glance from the corner of his eye, “The one you use on guys to get what you want. Your baby voice, it’s annoying.”
Your cheeks heat with embarrassment and you feign indifference because Jimin never means to be hurtful, he’s only talking to you like he would any other friend… but you didn’t want to be any other friend? You weren’t sure anymore, about how you felt about him. Things were blurred because while you were sure things bordered on platonic and that mostly had to do with the fact that he was so immune to your feminine wiles (snort), you also knew you didn’t want to be treated like one of the guys or like any other fucking girl on the team, that he mostly couldn’t stand.
You wanted to be special. Special in what way, you weren’t entirely sure.
“You’re a dick.” You retort and he tears his gaze away from the screen long enough to cock a brow at you.
“You knew this upon signing the lease.” He snorts and you don’t reply because really, what was there to say. It was well known, Jimin was in fact an asshole—he didn’t like kick puppies or make orphans cry (intentionally) or anything but he was curt and to the point and you didn’t get your feelings hurt easily which is why things worked between the two of you. “Hey, did you get that playlist I sent you?”
You pause in scrolling through your phone to turn to him, “Yeah actually I did. They’re all kind of slow, did you want to use them for routine?”
Jimins hands slow on the controller but he doesn’t divert his attention this time, only hums his disagreement, “Nah, just new songs I stumbled upon I thought you’d dig. They’re good right?”
“Yeah,” you nod eagerly, “I added them to my library actually.”
“Cool.” Jimin grumbles, clearly done with the conversation and you roll your eyes.
You go on like that for a few moments because Jimins content with silence, prefers it actually over what he calls your ‘incessant chattering’ it’s one of many things he finds annoying about you—from what you can tell. He’s left almost every group chat you’re in.
“You talk too much,” he says desperately after one night, a long night of drinking with your team and you’re still sending pictures. He’s in your room and his hairs disheveled and he’s shirtless and he looks delectable and annoyed and seconds away from strangling you.
“Sorry.” You squeak, tugging the blankets up past your chin and he narrows his eyes at you. You can barely make him out in your doorway, but the light from the hallway dances against the planes of chest, making you gulp.
“No you’re not,” he grumbles, throat raspy from liquor and sleep, he sticks a hand out expectantly, “hand it over.”
“W-what?” You push hair back from your face nervously and Jimin adjusts his basketball shorts before sauntering over to your bed.
“Your phone. I’m confiscating it. You’re fucking with my sleep schedule and I have a nine am tomorrow,” Jimin mutters, snatching your iPhone from you. He sends you a menacing glare all while fiddling with the device, “You don’t get to bitch if I drop you on your ass during practice. Now move in.”
“Huh?” Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline at that and Jimin is sending you a bland look, a hand pressed to his aching temple like talking to you is causing him physical pain. But he doesn’t respond only yanks the blanket from under you, making you all too aware of your lack of clothing when the bed dips beneath his weight.
“Move. In.” He enunciates, “I’m drunk as hell, tired as hell, and not up for the walk to my room.”
“It’s across the hall.” You remind him and in the darkness of your bedroom, with the pale moonlight dancing in and reflecting off the single chain Jimin always wears you’re overwhelmed by him. By his scent, his body, his withering stare when he presses a finger to your forehead.
“Sleep now.” He grumbles.
And maybe that was when it truly started, when the both of you settled down after that long night of drinking, him telling you to sleep on your stomach so you don’t choke on your own vomit, and you staring on dumbly, the beginnings of an on again off again infatuation for your roommate, your friend, that never really went away—no matter how unwilling a participant you were.
There’s a brief period of time (that you’ve made a conscious effort to block out) that you openly pined for him. There was no stumbling into the kitchen a mess, with morning breath that threatened to singe his eyebrows off if you struck up a conversation. No. If Jimin had class at nine am, you were up, with your lashes curled and your favorite tinted BB cream by seven forty five—you looked fresh faced, what a boy who hadn’t spent nearly five plus years of his life around girls with bedazzled vaginas would consider natural. But alas—
Jimin is a hairsbreadth from your face and you thank every god you could think of you woke up at the ass crack of dawn to wash your hair. His eyes narrow and he worries his lower lip before pulling back.
“You didn’t blend your neck,” he comments before grabbing his hoodie next to you and bidding you adieu.
For the first month of your crush you spend every morning in the kitchen (after of course closely inspecting your makeup under several different lightings), making him breakfast, green smoothies even. But Jimin is a health nut, on top of being an obsessive perfectionist. He preps his food the night before, likes all of his ducks in a row when he starts his morning at eight fifteen on the dot. His expression the first time you offer him turkey bacon and eggs is a cocktail of mild disgust and disinterest.
“I’m counting macros this week.” He explains, before transferring his smoothie from the blender into a thermos.
You tongue at your cheek before taking a bite of the ridiculously chewy meat.
Your first Valentine’s Day with Jimin is always a memorable one, for sheer comedic relief if nothing else.
The two of you are regularly inseparable at practice, and some of it had to do with you being a fly and him base, your base, but a lot of it was because he didn’t… mesh well with others. He was too blunt, too rough around the edges and he took cheer seriously. The times Jimin spoke about himself were far and in-between, but you distantly remember him telling you that before he started doing cheer he did gymnastics competitively for a good chunk of his life. That explained a lot of things, honestly. Why he was so by the book, strict about everything from uniforms to ponytails, to diets—of all the boys on the squad, he was maybe the only one who gave a shit about stuff like that. It was because of all of that that he made a good co captain, and if it weren’t for his inability to compromise and just generally stomach other peoples presence, you were positive he would have beat you out for the captain position.
It also explained why he was so strong. The guy regularly worked out, yeah but he was like, open the pickle jar strong. And then there was his food intake which was crazy, all things considered, because he ate a lot to build muscle but it was all so healthy you couldn’t imagine anyone enjoying it. You wouldn’t lie, the first time Jimin lifted you during auditions your heart nearly beat out of your chest because he did it all with one arm and caught you effortlessly against his chest.
“Here,” Jimin says, handing you a tumbler filled with purple liquid at the end of practice, he hitches his gym bag up higher on his shoulder and waits for you to accept it. “I brought you a smoothie from home.”
“Thanks, what is it?” You ask, sniffing it and ignoring the glare Jimin shoots your way. It doesn’t smell offensive and you take a hesitant sip, “Actually this is good.”
He nods with a sheepish shrug and you try to tamp down the zoo of butterflies in your chest that are telling you that this is a sign, that Park Jimin making you a smoothie is his weird, male, health nut equivalent of chocolates and a confession. Your heart seems to gain wings at the prospect and then he ruins it like he always does because he’s Jimin and he ruins things. That’s his job title and occupation, Park Jimin, The Ruiner.
“It’s a detox smoothie actually,” he says when you’re already on your second mouthful, cheeks puffed with the berry concoction. Jimin was a lot of things, tactless was one of them, “I thought it would help with… you know. Plus, I do strength training in my free time but this partnership only works if you keep up your end. You should come to the gym with me in the mornings, you’re up anyway with like a full face of makeu—”
You shove the tumbler back at his chest before sucking your teeth at him, “I’m gonna go shower and then head home. See you there.”
Jimin frowns at your retreating figure by glancing down at the smoothie, he takes a sip for curiosity’s sake. “What’s her problem?”
The first time you see Jimin kissing a boy there’s no tell tale signs of arousal that all of mainstream media swore by. Only pure unadulterated jealousy tinged with sadness. You watch the way Jimin cups the boys jaw, the way his own jaw works in time with his lips. It’s not rushed or heated, filled with passion like a lover—it’s slow and a little timid, like the first kiss at the end of a date and your stomach turns.
You watch the two boys pull away, Jimin looking the softest you’ve ever seen. You wondered what it felt like to be the recipient of that gaze, but it wasn’t a side of him you were meant to see, or a moment meant for you, and you reminded yourself that you were intruding. You leave the hallway too quickly that day and maybe sulk for longer than was necessary in the weeks to follow, cry even, because your nineteen year old self is (gag) heartbroken. It won’t be another month of stilted conversation and failed attempts at avoidance until you’ve pushed the feeling to the back of your brain and manage to find a middle ground in your relationship with him.
“If you return my shirt with boob sweat I’m gonna use it to smother you in your sleep.” Jimin reminds and you scoff. “That’s my good shirt.”
“That was one time.” You shoot up indignantly and immediately regret it because with regionals nearing you were doing conditioning instead of regular routines and every muscle in your body was on fire from today’s practice.
Jimin sighs before getting to his knees and giving you a hard look, “Did you—”
“Before you ask whatever you’re gonna ask I came straight here after practice, showered and went to class I haven’t had time to do anything else.” You interrupt and Jimin rolls his eyes at you.
“Lay back,” he orders and you oblige immediately because as strict as Jimin was as far as diet and exercise was concerned, he considered you an extension of himself. His partner. And if you weren’t in good shape you were holding him back which is why he ignores your yells of protest when he pushes back on the leg you have pressed to his chest.
“Okay, okay, okay.” You say, slapping his arm so he would let up, “That’s enough.”
“Shut up.” He says mildly, pushing until your knee was nestled between both your chests. He slaps the back of your calf and you glare, “Straighten this.”
“Fuck off.” You grit out.
He cocks a brow at you and you regret your words when he adds more pressure.
“Jimin, fuuuuck,” you whine earnestly, a hand pressed to his chest because the pain was getting to be too much and he didn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon. He doesn’t recline right away, and you peek an eye open in time to see a look cross his face before he guides your leg back slowly with a nod.
“How’s your knee doing?” He murmurs, and you lean your head back against the pillow when he begins feeling up your leg.
As much as you hated to admit it, Jimin’s extensive athletic career as well as his major proved to be useful on more than one occasion in your house. As an athlete you could appreciate a roommate who was studying physical therapy, especially when it came to the massage aspect.
“It’s been fine these last few weeks,” you shrug, “hasn’t been giving me any problems.”
“Start wearing your knee brace again.” He says when he places one hand on your knee and the other on your ankle. You narrow your eyes when he moves it side to side, “Your knees been giving out at practice. I’ll kick your ass if you dislocate it before regionals.”
“Noted.” You scoff, but it’s more of a gasp when Jimin’s hands are on your hips, barely under his hoodie and skimming the skin just above your spandex. His face is passive all the while, nudging you up the bed.
“Move up, I’m gonna check your range of motion.” He explains and Jimin is all work and no fun. Sometimes you wonder how he can remain so disinterested, clinical at times like this when you feel like your whole body is on fire under his touch.
Your leg is back up in the air and Jimin is moving it in hesitant circles, up and down, side to side and you close your eyes, trying not to gasp everytime he presses your legs closed and tiny shockwaves of pleasure shoot straight to your clit. He never presses down long enough to evoke a reaction but you lay back and relax, enjoying what little intimacy you’re allowed with him.
Everything is good, it’s nice, relaxing, his touch is enough to leave you horny, you’ll probably have to rub one out in your room later but not enough to have you cumming right then and there. Your eyes shoot open when you feel him move in, his hand no longer resting on your leg but on the innermost of your thigh, too high up as he presses down.
Too, too high up. Too, too close to the apex of your thighs.
You cock a brow and in typical Jimin fashion he stares on blandly, cool as a cucumber sitting between your legs and forcing them open.
“Buy me a drink first?” You say a little breathlessly, and joking is your way of coping with this, him, your ego, which was sorely bruised because Park Jimin was more than immune to you and that sucked royally.
“Get your head out of the gutter.” He says, but he does it with a small smile, “If you did this on your own I wouldn’t have to do it for you.”
“It’s not as fun on my own.” You comment.
“It never is.” He teases back and it’s the closest you’ve ever gotten to flirting with him. You simultaneously revel in it and chide yourself for still being so head over hills for someone who sees you as no more than an object in his everyday life, like a lamp or the refrigerator. You’d notice if it were gone but you could always get a new refrigerator.
“Okay, I think I’m good for the night! Thanks I’ll just go back to my room an—”
A crack sounds in the room, echoing off his walls, so loud it nearly drowns out the strangled noise you make in your throat. You blink up at Jimin, equal parts shocked and turned on when he rubs the sensitive skin of your thigh, the innermost part he just slapped. Welts form under his soft palm but he doesn’t look the tiniest bit sorry, in fact, he doesn’t look anything. His expression is just as calm as collected as it was when you had first walked in. It leaves you confused, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
“Did you just…” You gesture between your thighs and Jimin patiently waits for you to continue as he closes your legs back up, letting you know you’re done with at home PT. “Did you just spank me?”
“Take better care of yourself and I won’t have to.” He says softly and you’re searching, searching for something, anything in his face that’ll give you even the slightest idea of what the fuck just happened. But you come up empty, even as he presses on, “Stop skipping lunch to talk to that freshman. Make healthier choices so you don’t have to do extreme diets and stop,” He grips your knee softly before staring up at you, “neglecting your health.”
You nod mutely, when he finishes because there’s nothing else to really say. Jimins been acting weird, very weird these past few days and while every fiber of your being, every natural instinct is telling you ‘he likes you! you love him, offer to suck his dick!’ the rational part of your brain quashes any hope and reminds you how well trying to pursue feelings for your roommate turned out the last time.
“I’m going to bed.” You say dumbly, blinking at him and Jimin nods, not moving to say goodbye or watch you walk out.
You press your back against his door when you leave because Park Jimin would be the death of you, but oh what a way to go.
“Look, I’m sorry okay?” Hoseok sighs, trailing after you as you re-shelf the books you were scanning. Stupid midterm paper. Stupid college.
“Hm, I’m sorry I don’t know what you’re sorry for, unless of course you’re apologizing for interrupting my studying then, I forgive you Hoseok because that’s just the kind of loving, nurturing, sweet captain I am.” You return, back still to the older boy when he rolls his eyes at you, “Don’t roll your eyes at me.”
“I’m quitting the squad.” Hoseok says with a finality that makes you snort.
“‘Kay. Don’t be late to practice today or I’ll shove my foot so far up your ass you won’t be able to walk much less cheer.” You say sweetly.
“I admit, it’s a bit troublesome,” Hoseok sighs.
You whirl around on him at that, eyes narrowed, “Getting your pubes caught in the sticky part of your pad is a bit troublesome—you quitting the fucking team three weeks before a competition is a lot of fucking troublesome you asshole.”
“First of all ew,” He whines something that sounds dangerously close to your name and you don’t have to turn to know he’s pouting, “Second, you know there’s more to life than cheer! I’m graduating soon and I need to focus on my studies, and start looking into a career.”
“Listen here you little bitch,” you hiss, shoving a finger in his face until Hoseok was going cross eyed, “I can smell the entire bag of marijuana you smoked on your way here. Who put you up to this? Namjoon? I’ll kick your ass, I’ll kick his ass and then whichever one of your dumb friends helped coerce you into ‘lightening your load’ before you graduate. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”
“But I want to party,” he pouts and nearly eats his words when your eye twitches, “God, you and Jimin are really a match made in heaven, huh? How are two people that are so tiny, so terrifying?”
“Hoseok, you can’t quit we have regionals and the freshman are giving me a fucking ulcer. Where am I going to find and be able to train a base in three weeks?” You implore, pressing a hand to your aching temple.
“I’m sorry,” Hoseok says and he doesn’t look the least bit sorry. You debate on shoving you foot up his ass for old times sake when he pats you on the shoulder, “You’re a good cheerleader. An even better captain, I know you’ll figure it out.”
“Fuck off,” you glare, shoving a finger in his chest, “if anything weird happens to you this week, just know it’s me cursing you.”
You stand there, with your back pressed against the bookshelf for a good minute, just watching Hoseok’s retreating figure. His shoulders are sagged in relief, like he was just let from under a tremendous weight, one he turned around and perched atop your shoulders.
When you get back to your library table you’re pouting, on the verge of losing your shit in the otherwise dead silent room because why, why did bad things happen to good people? As though you weren’t already stressed from midterms, it was like you had a giant fucking sign on your forehead that said ‘hey, screw me over!’
“What is it now?” Someone hums across from you and you barely have time to register that it’s Nayeon before you’re jutting your lower lip.
And for what it’s worth, Nayeon is a good friend because she stops studying, sets her books and binders and pens aside to focus all of her attention on you. Then she listens, and listens, and listens because it’s only been three days since you’ve seen each other but it seems as though a lot has happened. By the time you’re done debriefing her, she’s staring at you, a frown marring her pretty face and her arms crossed over her chest because—
“You’re a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” she sighs, carding hands through her hair, “Let me just… let me just see if I follow here, Jungkook the freshman, the virgin you let finger you at the party last week, he wants you to deflower him?”
“No, he doesn’t even want sex—can you believe…! He wants me to date him, so worst.” You correct, “Fake date him to get his teammates off his back because he’s fucking twelve apparently and not immune to peer pressure.”
“And your roommate, Jimin, your gay roommate,” she emphasizes the gay part and you glare at her, “you think you’re starting to… feel things for him again?”
“I mean, technically,” you put a hand out to stop her, “the feelings never really went away, but they’ve just been lying dormant like waiting for him or myself to entertain them and Nayeon, the other day, in the cafeteria he hugged me. He back hugged me. Jimin, the same person who made a six year old cry last year, and then kicked his dad’s ass. I want to die.”
“And Hoseok,” she presses a hand to her head, “the drug dealing cheerleader. He quit.”
“He’s not a drug dealer, he just smokes a lot of weed,” you roll your eyes, “his friend, Namjoon, he’s a drug dealer. I’m gonna kick his ass because he convinced Hoseok to quit the fucking team.”
“And… you have regionals in less than a month, correct?”
“Yes. So you see my problem right?” You whine.
“You have multiple problems, most of which I can’t help you with, being in love with your gay roommate ranks at the top of that list,” she sends you a sarcastic look before snapping her fingers at you, “but the Hoseok thing. I know how you can fix that. It’ll be like killing two birds with one stone.”
“This is so… lame.” Jungkook groans and you slap him upside the head before gesturing towards the rest of the squad.
“Team, I’d like you to meet our new base.” You smile tightly before patting a hand on his shoulder, and pulling something from behind your back, “This is Jungkook.”
“What’s that for?” Momo, a second year on the team frowns and you brighten at her question, bringing the glass jar to everyone’s attention.
“This,” you begin, “is negative reinforcement. Anytime he says something rude, stupid, or offensive feel free to let me know and I’ll charge him, all proceeds go towards new uniforms for the team.”
“What happened to Hoseok?”
“Hoseok decided to focus on his studies.” You say and you barely make it through the sentence before someone’s cutting you off with a snort. “Jungkook’s going to be replacing him.”
“That’s such bullshit!” Mina scoffs, “Has he ever even cheered before?”
“No but I have more than two brain cells I’m sure I can figure it out.” Jungkook retorts and you press a hand to your aching temple, resisting the urge to argue his declaration of having even more than one struggling fucking brain cell.
“Five dollars.” You seethe and Jungkook only challenges your stare for a moment before he’s reaching in his back pocket for his wallet, shoving a bill in. You cock a brow at him. He curses you before putting in another dollar.
“What’s going on over here?”
It’s a natural response, almost second nature by now, the goosebumps, the heat in the pit of your belly, the chill at the base of your spine. You should be a little more put out over the response Jimin evokes, even after all this time but you couldn’t force yourself to care. Instead you sigh.
“Jimin, this is Jungkook. You two have met before. He’s going to be filling in for Hoseok from here on out.” You explain and brace yourself because Jimin is a lot of things. Complacent isn’t one of them. He doesn’t settle for anything short of perfect and one look at Jungkook has him straightening his shoulders and eyeing you like he’s about to throw you out a window.
“Who says?” Jimin challenges and it’s your turn to cock a brow at him, hands planted firmly on your hips.
“Me, the captain.” You shoot back.
“Did he even audition?” Jimin retorts and you roll your eyes at him.
“Audition for what? It isn’t exactly like we have troves of fucking college kids lined up to fill the spot.” You argue.
“You’re cut.” Jimin says, ignoring you and sneering down his nose at Jungkook.
And Jungkook, for all his complaints and the bitch fit he put up the entire way you had dragged him to the field, didn’t take well to being told what to do. Especially by assholes. Correction, especially by assholes in a matching fucking tracksuit.
“Weird. My girlfriend, the captain,” cue audible gasp from over dramatic cheerleaders, “says otherwise.”
You press a hand to your forehead with a visible shudder because where did this guy find his material? So corny.
“Your girlfriend?” Jimin laughs, and turns his head to peer over at the bleachers before raising a brow at you. You squirm under his intense scrutiny, “So you’re dating the kid?”
“I mean… we’re not not dating.” You mutter and yelp when Jungkook pinches your side.
“What does that even mean?” Jimin implores.
“Like, we’re not like boyfriend and girlfriend it’s just like sometimes he waits for me outside my class and we go to see the newest movies and stuff together and maybe he’ll buy me like lunch on the way and like I don’t know kiss me or hold my hand but not like in a boyfriend way, he’s not my boyfriend.” You rush out and when you glance back up the two boys are staring at you incredulously.
“What exactly is your definition of boyfriend—anal? That sounds like maybe the only thing you haven’t done with him.” Jimin rolls his eyes at you when you slap his chest. He could at least act like it hurt.
“So anyway, let’s start practice!” You clear your throat, pushing past both of them and towards the middle of the field, “Pair up and get started on your stretches!”
Jimin and Jungkook glare at each other even after everyone begins stretching, speeding up your already impending headache.
“I don’t like you.” Jimin comments mildly.
Jungkook snorts at that.
“I’m quivering. Your tracksuit really evokes a sense of fear in a guy.” He rolls his eyes before sneering, “You look like Vector from Despicable Me.”
“Okay, that’s enough. I’ve had it with you two and your dick measuring contest.” You hiss, getting in between either of them and crossing your arms over your chest.
“Bet I’d win.” Jungkook sniffs, “Everytime.”
“Yeah?” Jimin tongues at the inside of his cheek, the way he sizes Jungkook up makes the younger boy squirm, “Wanna find out after this?”
Jungkook opens his mouth to argue before closing it again—he does this a few more times before squinting his eyes and cocking his head to the side at the older boy. “That got really gay, really fast.”
Jungkook turns to look at you, pointing a finger at Jimin before, “Is he—”
“Jar, Jungkook.” You exasperate.
“I didn’t even say anything!”
“You didn’t have to.” You hiss.
“Fine, homoerotic, is that the politically correct term?” He sighs and you clench your hands at your sides in an attempt to not strangle him.
Not in front of witness.
“Stop talking.” You put a finger up to silence him and then turn your attention to Jimin, “Let’s start practice, yeah? We can be mature about this?”
“Matures my middle name.” Jimin seethes.
As it is, mature is not Jimin’s fucking middle name, it wasn’t even his stripper name because between the jabs he had been making at Jungkook’s inability to pick up on the workouts as quickly, or the way he would send the younger boy a pointed look whenever he wasn’t as flexible as the other guys on the team you were about five minutes from strangling him.
“Why can’t I be her partner?” Jungkook argues at one point when Jimin immediately grabs your arm for stretches.
“Because you’ll fuck around and throw her back out and then I’ll kill you.” Jimin says politely before yanking you closer to him. His movement is only slightly halted when Jungkook reaches out to grab your other arm and your glancing between the two of them wildly.
“It’s not fucking rocket science I’m sure she can tell me what to do.” Jungkook scoffs, tugging on your arm.
“I’ve been her partner for three fucking years, if you want to look up someone’s skirt do it on your free time or pair up with one of the other freshman on the team, you’re wasting my time.” Jimin grits out.
“Why can’t you pair up with one of the freshman on the team, if you’re so experienced doesn’t it make sense if noona helps me instead of you? I also need some experienced help.” Jungkook enunciates.
“Fine.” Jimin says, letting go of your arm and making you stumble, he cocks a brow at Jungkook, jaw clenched, “get on your back and spread your legs I’m your new partner.”
You and Jungkook stare at each other for a beat before turning to openly gawk at Jimin, who was sporting an expression that told you he was bored with the entire conversation and had been tired of Jungkook five minutes ago.
“Take your pick,” Jimin shrugs, “it’s either one of the freshman or me. Personally, I can stretch you out real good—”
“Okay stop.” You say finally, pressing a hand to either boys chest, you level Jimin with an exasperated expression, one that he pointedly ignores before turning to Jungkook, “I’m going to partner with him today, Jungkook, the other girls are really helpful and if you have any questions you can ask me but I don’t think it’s a good idea to try and deviate from routine. Me and Jimin have been working together for a lot longer and it’ll take both of us to be able to incorporate you into the flow of things. It’s just easier this way.”
Jimin shoots the younger boy a smug look, one you want to smack off his face because despite the rush of butterflies Jimin’s current possessive nature was giving you, you knew it was only because he didn’t want Jungkook around. He didn’t want you injured because you were just a stepping stone towards his real goal which was essentially regionals. It sucked and was kind of dick-ish but you knew this about Jimin from the get go, he had never pretended otherwise or came to you under false pretenses. Jimin had a very one-tracked mind and it was currently stuck on the aforementioned competition your team faced.
“Stop it.” You sigh and Jimin raises a brow at you, “You know what you’re doing. You’re egging him on an—unf.”
You wither him with a glare when he positions you to get a better seat between your legs. “You were saying?”
You were really beginning to hate stretching. Especially with Jimin.
“You’re little games not cute and it’s making things difficult for m—shit.” You curse when he presses back on your leg until one knee was pressed against your shoulder.
“Should we work on your flexibility next?” Jimin asks and he’s obnoxiously close to you, his cool breath fanning over your face, but your focus was on his lips. Your throat goes dry when he licks them, his voice lowering an octave, “Or should we do that later? When we’re alone?”
His questions hits you like a punch to the gut and you’re suddenly choking because that almost sounded flirtatious but when you glance up to try and get a read on Jimin’s expression, he’s impassive, unfazed by his double entendre.
“W-What?” You stammer, shoving at his chest until the pressure on your leg gives. Jimin blinks at you curiously.
“We might not have enough time, we could do it at the apartment?” He offers innocently, only Jimin was about as innocent as Satan and you didn’t buy his raised eyebrows and saucer eyes.
A sigh leaves your lips as yourself down on the grass. Tired. So tired.
“Since this discussion has long since been put off,” you sigh before plopping yourself down on an available seat of grass, “I’m opening the floor. I hear that you all want new uniforms so Jimin and I have decided that we—”
“Not me,” Jimin corrects, “just her. If it were up to me you’d all be wearing trash bags to better suit your shitty performance.”
“Jimin and I,” you begin again, “have decided to take suggestions and if you guys are really dead set on this then we can work on fundraising too.”
“The current uniforms are fine, the only ones who want to change it are the freshman!” Kihyun calls from the back, garnering more than a few glares and making Jimin snicker.
“They are not fine. They’re gray.” Eunha chimes in, “Like prison cells. Gray is why prisoners are unhappy.”
“Really? I always thought it was the loss of freedom and free manual labor,” Jimin snorts, ignoring when you slap his chest.
“I think new uniforms would be a good look.” Jungkook says, leaning back to inspect the back of your thighs, “I say we take the hem up an inch… or five.”
“Ten dollars.” You say without blinking and Jungkook sulks.
“What about black uniforms? It’s a flattering color! And we could go with gray for an accent so we don’t stray too far from school colors.”
“That's…” You begin hesitantly, “not a bad idea, actually.”
“Oh! Long sleeve tops! I’ve been looking them up online and they look so much more… Professional? A lot of the top schools are going for long sleeve instead of sleeveless.” Eunha offers.
“Maybe if you all started practicing like a top school, we’ll consider it.” Jimin scoffs and groans echo through out the huddle.
“Draw up a design. Get it approved by us and coach and while you’re at it, start thinking of fundraising ideas to pitch.” You say, rising to your feet and dusting the grass from your bottom, “If it’s good and everything works out maybe we’ll be able to get new uniforms before regionals.”
“Practice is over. Go home and stretch, hydrate and ice if you need to assholes, I’m tired of you coming to me with injuries that could have been avoided.” Jimin seethes and you roll your eyes because you think, for a moment, beneath all the bravado he actually gives a shit about the kids.
It isn’t until you’re hitching your gym bag up your shoulder and swapping your tennis shoes out for slippers that you feel Jungkook’s weight being pressed onto your shoulders.
“Can I help you?” You sigh, shaking off his grip and making him whine.
“What the hell was that?” He glowers, gesturing towards the field and when you stare at him blankly he elaborates, “That practice was worst than literally any training I’ve done for basketball—off season included.”
“Welcome to cheerleading, bitch.” You say, slapping him on the shoulder. You turn to leave, and press fingers to your closed eyes when your movement is halted by his grip on your wrist. “What?”
“Can you… you know… help with that thing you offered earlier?” He coughs, rubbing the back of his neck and you eye him incredulously.
“What? No! No! I meant… the routines. It’s just… that… you know Jimin doesn’t like me too much and the stuff we were going over earlier was complicated but I can’t ask him and I don’t want to look like an idiot I just,” Jungkook sighs and it takes every bit of self control not to snap at him, even going as far as to remind yourself that he was doing you a favor. Even if it was only out of debt. He was trying to help.
Which is why you throw your bag down with an exasperated sigh and slip your shoes back on, “Let’s practice a bit then.”
Somewhere down the line you had just assumed, no, hoped that either of the boys would get used to each other. At least enough to be civil. You didn’t need them to be glued at the foreskin but you did need them to not give you a migraine whenever you were forced to be in the same room as them.
“This is shared space. That means no boyfriends after eleven o’clock,” Jimin hissed after one entire evening of Jungkook lounging on your couch, eating a bag of Cheetohs and getting crumbs everywhere. “So get whatever breed of cockroach this is, out of my living room.”
“He’s not my—”
Jungkook cuts you off with a withering glare, pausing the newest episode of Bones to speak around a mouthful of chips, “Noona, can we go over the routine again this weekend? I think I’m starting to forget. I wouldn’t want to choke on competition day. That would suck.”
His threat was so apparent that Jimin’s lips thin, making a move towards the younger boy, if it weren’t for your grip on his upper arm. “Jeon Jungkook, do you wan—”
“Let’s go to my room.” You interrupt, tugging the younger boy up by the wrist and dragging him the rest of the way.
“What was that for?” Jungkook grumbles, rubbing at his wrist as though it hurt, as if he wasn’t a whole foot taller and a person heavier than you.
“Stop pissing off my roommate.” You demand, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Oh come on! I’m not even doing anything.” Jungkook glares, “It’s not my fault he has a hard on for you!”
“Trust me when I say he doesn’t,” you snort and glare when Jungkook leans back against your headboard, completely ignoring you, “Besides, all of this was not apart of our deal. Get out of my house.”
“He totally does,” Jungkook argues, disregarding your earlier statement and making himself comfortable under your throw, “I mean, I know girls have a hard time admitting they’re wrong but trust me, you’re wrong about this one. A guy doesn’t get pissed like that unless you’re fucking with a girl he’s into.”
“A normal guy doesn’t,” you correct, “Jimin likes his space. You are intruding on that, in more than one sense.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, but I’m telling you I’m 100% right.” Jungkook shrugs, reaching over
“He’s wrong.” Nayeon sighs, head rested on her palm as you occupy the seat across from her. Cutting into important study time, again. “Well, not entirely wrong.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You crinkle your nose at her and she rolls her eyes.
“He has a hard on for someone, it’s just not you.” Nayeon whispers and your eyes widen.
“No!” You gasp.
“Yes!” she says, slamming her hands down on the table, and wincing when people several tables over turn to gawk. “I mean think about it. You said Jimins gay right? And that he shows no emotion save for mild disinterest where you’re concerned but suddenly Jeon Jungkook comes along and he’s irritable, territorial, emotional? Jimin is one of those guys, you know?”
“I don’t.” You shake your head, but all your attention is focused on her, you’re hanging on her every word.
“He doesn’t know how to properly express his emotions so he’s lashing out.” she explains slowly.
And it’s like everything suddenly makes sense in the universe, all the pieces click together and your heart feels as though a fat man has just situated himself on your chest. Because, did Jimin really like Jungkook? Were you really going to be forced to sit back and watch him pine for another man, again? Then there was the more jealous part of you, the ugly emotions that lurked beneath the surface that you weren’t ready to address. Thoughts like, do you lie to him? You hadn’t intended on keeping the entire Jungkook thing a secret because if you were being honest with yourself you thought Jimin might try to throw him off the nearest balcony if he knew you weren’t actually dating him. But the more you thought about it the more you wanted to keep it to yourself and it wasn’t exactly lying, was it?
“You’re making the face.” Nayeon sighs.
“What face?” You frown.
“The one you make when you’re having a heated, internal monologue over your skewed moral compass.” She explains.
“I was not…” you lie before plopping your head down in defeat.
You totally were, but Nayeon is polite enough not to call you out on it.
If you had to rank your to do list for the day, telling Jimin that you weren’t actually dating Jungkook so that your roommate who you had been openly pining for for the last three years could swoop in was ranked at the bottom. Right above dying and going to another party with Hoseok’s weird friends. Though if you were being honest with yourself, you’d take death happily at this point, it sounded a whole hell of a lot less painful. Especially when just trying to squeeze yourself into Jimin’s schedule was a pain in the ass.
If he wasn’t on campus, juggling seven classes to complete school on time he was at cheer practice, which wasn’t a prime place to tell him because Jungkook—and if he wasn’t at cheer practice he was at the gym, or asleep and you’d try waking Jimin up exactly once in your entire time knowing him and it was one too many. The guy wasn’t exactly a morning person.
So the gym it was.
“I’m surprised you actually wanted to come.” Jimin muses, fixing your posture before switching out your kettlebell for a heavier one. You try not to glare.
“I figure,” you grunt when he lets go, leaving you to manage the ten pound weight on your own, a small feat when you’ve already been there for thirty minutes and your arms felt like jelly, “you were right. I wouldn’t be a good captain if I started neglecting myself.”
“Hmm..” He hums, and pressed a hand to your exposed belly, “suck this in.”
“So I was thinking,” you pant and Jimin quirks a brow at you.
“A scary prospect.” He murmurs.
“I was thinking,” you begin again, before dropping the weight completely and turning to face him, “about me and Jungkook…. and me and you.”
“Did I say you could stop?” He implores and you roll your eyes at him before switching arms, “What do you and Jungkook have to do with you and me?”
“You’re my roommate.” You grunt, heaving up with all your might. “And you hate him.”
“You’re not wrong about either of those things,” he agrees, “but I’d like to reiterate my first question of what do either of those things have to do with each other?”
“I just…” You try to get the words out but your muscles are on fire and your chest is tight, so instead you throw the weight down with a grunt before turning to him, “Do you like Jungkook?”
“What?” He blinks at you. “You just said yourself I hated him.”
“Yes, okay I know but you know sometimes you say one thing and you mean another.” You shrug.
Jimins expression remains bland, emotionless.
“You’re asking me if I have… feelings for your boyfriend, correct? That’s what we’re getting at here?” Jimin asks bluntly and you shrink under his intense scrutiny.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” you say quietly.
A long silence follows your statement, in which Jimin stares at you, just stares and you cow under his gaze because well, it’s Jimin and he’s pretty fucking intimidating. You look anywhere but at him, the airconditioner, the weights, the treadmill, all while still able to feel him boring holes into the side of your head and you wonder maybe, if you had over stepped. If you had spoken too soon because granted you and Jimin were pretty close but clearly not close enough because to this day he still never really talked about the whole liking boys things or even relationships in general. It made you wonder just how many people Jimin had dated, if he had asked them out, if he was softer, sweeter or—
“You’re really dense you know that?” Jimin shakes his head at you before walking over to the weights, leaving you there slack jawed and a little bit annoyed.
“Hey! Wait up!” You call after him, but he doesn’t, unsurprisingly. “I didn’t mean it like that I was only asking because I wanted to tell you that—”
“Did you watch that new clown movie?” Jimin asks suddenly and he nearly gives you whiplash with how quick he’s jumping topics. You open your mouth to argue, to tell him you were only asking so you could tell him you and Jungkook weren’t really dating but the glint in his eye tells you not to tread there. He’s done talking about it, and by effect so are you.
“No I haven’t.” You sigh, your body slumping in defeat.
“Good,” he grunts, pulling down on the weights before turning his attention to you. And you applaud yourself because you don’t keel over at the sight of a sweaty, sleeveless Park Jimin doing reps on the pull down machine, veins bulging and muscles flexed. He sends you a look that tells you he knows exactly what you’re thinking and makes your back straighten indignantly. “Did you hear what I just said?”
“The clown movie.” You repeat proudly, only for Jimin to roll over and flick your forehead.
“Yes genius, but after that,” he sends you a grin, one you’re not used to seeing. He’s teasing you, but it doesn’t annoy you quite as much as usual, “I said let’s go see it. I figure you owe me after that insult you pulled.”
“Wh—” Your mouth opens and the closes before pointing a finger in his direction, “I didn’t mean it like that, if you would just let me explain—”
“Well I took it that way, you’re the only one stupid enough to date that overgrown toddler. And besides, it’s a simple question. Yes or no?” He frowns and you sigh.
“I mean… I don’t really have anything else to do this weekend so..”
“Good to know I’m a last resort.” He snorts and you hide a flush because if only he knew.
And really, if you looked at the entire thing, your situation with Jimin in retrospect it was truly all your fault. Because no matter how much you claim to have both your feelings and heart in check there is no such thing as control when it comes to love. And so you get your hopes, let yourself hope for a moment, with Jungkook’s earlier words replaying like a soft lull. When really you should’ve taken the idiots advice with a grain of salt. Or just not at all.
Character Pairing:Stripper!Bucky Barnes x Female Stripper!Reader
Word Count:1,992 (whew, barely made it)
Warnings: NSFW 18+ Smut, male and female stripping, strip club scenes, sexual situations/penetration, dirty dancing, language.
A/N:This is my submission for @bucky-plums-barnes 8,000 Follower Writing Challenge! Gen is amazing and deserves all the love in the world!
I enjoyed writing Strip It Down WAY too much… I want to continue this…
Prompt:#26. “Well, my normal fee is $500, but seeing that it’s for you, I’m going to need it in advance.”
The crowd loved Bucky.
Both the men and the women.
You didn’t blame them though. He owned that stage. His last set of the night was always his money maker.
Standing off to the side of the stage you peeked over the edge of the curtain at the screaming women that were vying for his attention. The sea of green bills that pooled around his feet was enough to pay your monthly rent… twice.
The low bass vibrated through the floors as Bucky shed the last piece clothing that was ethically possible. The screams, catcalls and hollers from the crowd drowned out the words to the song. You clutched your robe tighter to your body as you watched him move.
He moved like sex.
He crouched down on his hands and knees, prowling across the stage like a wolf. His hair was falling out of the bun at the back of his head, the loose tendrils framing his face. His back muscles bunched and stretched with each movement. He stopped and pumped his hips in time to the beat. God, to be underneath him and feel those powerful strokes.
Scanning the crowd again, you knew you weren’t the only one in the house tonight thinking that exact same thing.
This is probably gonna come across as quite negative, but it’s really not intended to be. I’m going to be honest because thats what this blog is about, honesty and discussion. I would never usually do a post like this, but I’ve spoken to a lot of people who are feeling the exact same way as myself. This isn’t spreading “hate” so don’t attack me for it, it’s an opinion and it’s something that I feel should be addressed. Anyway, here we go:
I genuinely feel as a fandom, we are all so blinded by how we perceive Lauren to be, that we always attempt to justify the things she says/does when in reality, there’s a lot of things, we don’t actually agree with. I’m struggling to accept this image she’s playing out. It’s obvious their team is preparing her for her solo career next year. Out of the 4, only she and Ally so far have been given permission to release a song for profit in mainstream pop this year. Now, we’ve touched on the younger fanbase issue before. Lauren has always wanted to be older and more mature than who she is. Every stage in life happens for a reason, we accept that as we grow we learn what we need to know, when we need to know it. L attempted to grow up so fast, that she’s now lost who she was. I look at L in 2015 then I look at her today. She was more mature and aware two years ago at 18/19 than she is now. Present day, her actions and behaviour contradict everything she stands for and preaches upon us. She selective, and addresses certain things on social media, leaving other major issues out. Her sexuality is now been questioned and undermined because of who she is been linked to and who she’s supposedly dating. That’s actually fucking sad, not just for L, but for LGBT fans across the fandom. She’s either drunk/high in nearly everything she uploads on Instagram. I understand thats a lifestyle choice, thats completely acceptable. There’s millions of people that do weed, I don’t personally but I don’t have an issue with people doing it, each to their own. However, what I do have a problem with is young fans cluelessly imitating Lauren’s behaviours because of her status and profile. If she wasn’t so public and blatant about what she was doing, I wouldn’t be writing this. None of the other girls are, and this is partly my issue. L attempts to justify who she is and her lifestyle but all she’s doing is conforming to the stereotypes put in place by the music industry by publicising everything but not what’s important.
There’s been instances where Lauren has been so rude and impolite to respectful fans who nicely and respectfully ask for pictures or to talk with her. I understand theres a lot of fans who don’t respect the girls privacy, the airport incident was just one of many situations. But, 90% of the fandom are genuine fans who literally just want to take a picture or talk for a few minutes with their idols. These are the genuine fans that in reality elevated the girls to the level of success they currently sit at today. I’ve spoke to fans who have been left in tears at the Meet and Greets because Lauren couldn’t be bothered to interact with those who had spent hundreds of dollars to specifically meet her. I understand she’s human, she’s allowed to have off days we all have them. But, it’s important to remember, Lauren chose to audition back in 2012, she chose to sign a group contract and she chose fame. Nobody else chose this but herself.
Fame can be the greatest thing in the world. You can do what you love, gain a platform and address issues you’re passionate about and have them taken seriously. However, it’s the most damaging thing to ever exist in humanity. What comes with fame is money and greed, and individuals loose who they perceive themselves to be. L’s confidence in herself often comes across as egotistical and arrogant. In any real life situation, no one should behave like that because no one is ever going to be the best. Why’s that? Because, there’s always going to be someone in life who comes along that’s better than you are and unfortunately, that’s just the way the world works.
I’m going to be completely honest with you all here, I genuinely fear L will lose herself in industry as a solo artist. There’s temptation, and people will try and craft her into a mould for the sole purpose of making money. We’re already seeing this happen. I fear her political and social activism will be degraded because of how she behaves and portrays who she is. There’s that added pressure to be the best vocally and if were being honest, theres always someone new that’s better. Her feminism and liberation as a woman will be taken away from her if she continues being linked to those known for their misogynistic and antifeminist behaviour. Her sexuality, something so empowering, brave and a huge part of who she is, will be degraded and mocked if she’s in relationships with certain people who think bisexuality is a joke. It’s not acceptable.
The healthiest and safest thing for Lauren to do, is to distance herself from social media and concentrate on what really matters. Spending time with family to reground herself of who she is and what she stands for. She’s got so much going for her and her potential is endless. But at the same time, she’s losing a lot of respect from fans who have been there from day one and those are the same fans that regardless of contract, can make or break a career.
Warnings: angst, smut, degrading names, mentions of cheating, dom themes, asshole hoseok
Summary:Jung Hoseok is the devil in Armani. Self-entitled, rich, with striking good looks, there’s nothing he wants for with his parents’ money backing up his extravagant lifestyle. Yet when suddenly he’s forced to find himself a humble girlfriend or say goodbye to his monthly paycheck, he runs into you, lacking everything he possibly looks for in a girl. But he’s desperate, and being desperate makes a man do crazy things.
a/n:tysm to my irl bff @garbageeking for beta-ing for me and providing me with endless sugar!daddy hobi inspo to help me finish this chapter!!! ily!
chime of yet another eager customer ricocheted off of pale yellow
walls, leather booths, and tiled flooring that was worn down with
age. The quaint little shop lacked elegance, yet made up for it with
charm. Watercolor paintings of sea cliffs, dipping waves, and golden
sand hung from every corner of the small cafe, each dated and signed
by a unique signature in the far left corner.
three!” Your father’s gruff voice reminded from the back storage
room, your attention once again redirected to the easily recognizable
and overgrown mop of dusty brown hair, belonging to your best friend,
who wore a forlorn frown, looking especially distressed as he sat
himself into his regular booth. Red leather squeaked under the weight
of his body as he threw himself down onto it, leaning his head
against the cool glass of the large window that overlooked the
crowded sidewalks and busy streets, a long horizon of blue easily
noticeable in the distance.
Neil and Andrew adopt a child. Not a baby because that's not who needs to be adopted the most a child who needed a second chance.
I have thought a lot about the idea of Dan and Matt calling Neil in to help them reach a troubled kid on their kid’s high school exy team and Andrew seeing a lot of himself and Neil in the kid and even though he never wanted kids wanting to help this one.
So, I was super excited to see this ask and this is probably going to be long.
Matt is a retired exy player and coaches his and Dan’s daughter’s high school exy team
And sometimes consults the Fox’s current coach (aka his gorgeous wife) for help
But there’s one girl on the team that Matt cannot reach no matter how hard he tries
Madison is this scrawny little fourteen year-old playing on a high school team with and against teens much bigger and older
And her and Matt and Dan’s daughter are the only girls on the team
Madison hardly talks and she’s usually all reserved off the court
But, on it, she gets into fights with guys twice her size and seems to angle for a red card every game
She can also go from reserved to screaming and swearing very fast and she’s gotten into verbal and physical fights in school hallways
She’s failing every single class she’s in because she doesn’t put in any effort
Matt keeps trying to talk to her and see how to help her
He tries so hard to make sure that she knows she can come to him if she needs help with anything, whether it is exy related or not
But it’s kind of like when he told Neil that he would help him with anything and Neil still tried to handle everything himself and insisted he was fine, even when he clearly was not
requested: can you make an imagine where Tom cheats on his gf and he wants to get back together but he randomly meets the reader (y/n) who is willing to help him get his gf back but he ends up falling for the reader instead
summary: Tom is down on his luck with his relationships, the last one blowing up in his face right in the middle of your coffee shop. He turns to an unlikely stranger for help–you. However, after you agree to help him, he finds himself falling for the unlikely stranger instead.
word count: 2k
pairings: tom holland x reader
a/n: depending on how popular this one gets, i might turn it into another series. we’ll see!! i couldn’t write tom cheating on someone because i dont have the heart to so i tweaked it a tiny bit i hope thats okay // not my gif // i also tried to make the reader as gender neutral as possible
Each time you woke up in the morning, you knew it was going to be a good day–simply because you refused to have a bad one. You sang in the shower, danced while you got dressed, whistled while you put up your hair. It was like you always had happy music playing in your mind, you radiated positivity. And what better job for someone who radiated such happiness? A humble cafe owner in New York City.
You waved to the usuals who were in your shop nearly every day–the familiar faces causing your heart to bloom open like a flower in spring. You donned your apron with a beautiful smile, greeting your employees and began taking orders.
Summary: Modern!AU You hate James Barnes with a burning passion and the feeling is entirely mutual. Just when you think things can’t get any worse, you are tricked into attending his sister’s wedding as his girlfriend. Stuck with a bunch of strangers, you come up with a set of rules that are not going to last long.
Warnings: The usual + Angst
A/N: I’m spamming you guys with fics lol sorry. Also please, don’t let this series flop, I beg you! Alright, I’ll stop whining now. Enjoy :)
You woke up from your nap and stretched your arms over your
head since there was no one sitting next to you. The book Bucky asked
ordered you to read was on the empty seat next to yours. With a heavy sigh, you
picked it up, threw it in your travel bag and left.
Bucky was waiting for you on the platform, his foot tapping
impatiently. The next couple of days were going to be the longest of your life.
“Millicent, what on earth are you doing?” Draco shot his friend a confused look from across the eighth year common room, where his peaceful solitary study session had been interrupted by a weird flapping noise.
“Flapping around with the sleeves of my girlfriend’s oversized sweater.” Millicent replied as she flapped around with the sleeves of her girlfriend’s oversized sweater. It wasn’t even a Slytherin sweater, but one of the Chinese national quidditch league. Cho Chang wasn’t even Chinese, but Korean. Draco didn’t really get the relationship she and Milly had.
“And why are you doing that?” Draco asked with a tired sigh. He was more than done with dissecting the love song they had to explain for muggle studies. He still couldn’t figure out what hit me baby one more time was supposed to mean. Was the singer pro domestic violence?
Stupid Britney Spears.
“Because it’s fun. You know that’s a thing people have, right Draco? Fun? A good mood? Happiness?” Millicent stopped flapping and walked over to him. Ignoring her sarcasm Draco quickly shielded his essay from sight. Millicent would probably know what Miss Spears meant since she had been raised by her muggle father, and he was not looking forward to getting laughed at by her.
Why does Chang even own sweaters that big? Draco wondered as Milly sat next to him. Cho was a petite girl and she’d be able to fit into this giant red tent at least seven times.
“Because she knows I like oversized sweaters, and she knows I like to wear stuff that smells like her.” Milly replied. Dammit, he’d been thinking out loud again.
Draco was so busy scolding himself for his slip up that he forgot to reply. It wasn’t a rare thing to happen these days. After the war getting distracted by all sorts of things was basically the only thing he did. He couldn’t even stare at Harry for longer than half a minute before something else caught his eye. It was maddening.
“Here, you try it.” Shaken out of his thoughts Draco nearly strained his neck as he looked at Milly again. She was wearing a plain grey shirt now, and the red sweater lay in her outstretched hands. Draco frowned.
“Why would I try it? I don’t want to smell like your girlfriend.”
“Not what I meant dumdum.” Milly chuckled, but there was a sad glint in her eyes. “I mean try wearing this oversized sweater and flap the sleeves.”
“I see no reason as to why that would be pleasing in any way.” Draco shot back, still looking puzzled. He pulled his muggle studies homework towards himself again and tried to regain focus, even though he knew it was a lot cause. He couldn’t concentrate for longer than half an hour a day it seemed.
“You say that again once you’ve tried it. Come on, if you do it I will help you with your muggle studies, and I promise I won’t laugh.” Millicent looked at him with puppy eyes, and Draco sighed. He wasn’t going to get rid of her until he obeyed, and since he was constantly sleep deprived he had no energy left whatsoever to protest.
Milly grinned and then actually squealed, before pulling Draco’s reading glasses off his face and shoving the sweater on. It was still warm from when she’d worn it, which left Draco feeling slightly uncomfortable.
Things improved when the smell of mint tea and cheap shampoo filled his nostrils. This left him confused for a moment, until he recalled smelling this exact same thing every time he hugged Milly, and hugging for some stupid reason (which did not fit his aesthetic or his family name at all) was the only thing that could calm him down when his mind was racing again.
“Feels nice ey?” Milly asked with a cheeky grin as she tried to put his glasses back and stabbed him in the ear with one of the legs. He rolled his eyes and grumbled as a pleasant warmth spread through his gut. The knowledge that not all students in the school wanted to see him dead was comforting.
Not that a Malfoy needed comforting or anything silly like that. Don’t be daft.
“You know there’s no shame in asking for help right? Or a hug?” And without waiting for Draco’s approval Milly pulled him into a firm hug. Draco sputtered but didn’t push her away. He was too tired.
And it felt kind of nice.
“Now flap with your arms.” Milly ordered as she released him.
“I’m not going to flap my arms Mills.”
Milly gave him a sharp look and whispered in a threatening voice, “if you do not flap your arms I will tell the Weasleys you were jealous of their knitted sweaters.”
Draco blushed bright red and gave her a look that was a combination of fear, exhaustion and irritation.
“Fine.” He sighed then. He heaved up his arms and flapped the ridiculously long sleeves in front of Milly’s face, knocking off her glasses. He chuckled as they landed on the floor, then he continued to harass Milly’s face with the sleeves. He probably looked ridiculous but now that he had started he found he didn’t care much. He hated being wrong but this was indeed quite fun to do.
“Are you happy now?” Draco grumbled a little out of breath after he’d exhausted his arm muscles.
“Wrong question Draco.” MIlly gave him a sharp look again, but it was less impressive now that her hair was disheveled and her glasses were gone. “What you should ask is are you happy?”
“No, I looked like an idiot.” He tugged at the gigantic red sweater. “Will you help me with my muggle studies now?”
Milly shook her head and sighed, which earned her a shove from Draco, but then she retrieved her glasses and scanned his work. She chuckled. “Well the answer to your question is not domestic violence. It’s sex.”
“Sex? Why would you hit people during sex?” Draco flapped out, turning beetroot as soon as he reasised half the common room was listening to them.
“I haven’t the slightest, I’m more of a Bambi lesbian myself. Maybe you could ask Pansy?”
“Oi! I do not engage in BDSM thank you very much.” Pansy yelled at them. Just as the rest of the common room she had overheard Milly.
“But I bet Potter has you covered.” The asian girl added with a smirk.
“Covered in what?” A dissolved looking Harry walking into the room right that moment.
“Latex and leather.” Pansy answered. Draco wanted to die.
“I prefer the sweater Malfoy is wearing to be honest. Latex and leather sounds rather uncomfortable. Why would I cover Malfoy with it anyway?”
“For BDSM sex of course.” Milly replied. Harry tripped over his own feet and fell hard against the table Draco had been using to make him homework.
“Excuse me?” Harry sputtered with a bright red face as he rubbed his painful upper arm. He looked rather stupid, lying there almost face first on the floor.
“Hey! What did you guys do to Harry?” Ron shouted offended as he entered the common room, soon followed by Hermione.
“We revealed the secret BDSM sex he and Draco are having.” Pansy said matter-of-factly. Draco let his head fall onto the hard wooden table with a loud thud. He hated his friends sometimes.
“Oh that,” Hermione shrugged, “well I’m glad you found someone who’s willing to dominate you, and I for one hope he shares all of your many kinks Harry.”
Ron looked like he might pass out as he stared open mouthed at his girlfriend. “He’s getting whipped by Malfoy?”
“Well that escalated quickly.” Millicent mutterd in Draco’s ear. Draco groaned and threw a quill at her head. She caught it and sat back to enjoy the gigantic mess she’d made, openly enjoying the commotion.
Draco, however, was very much not enjoying the commotion. Sex was always a bit of a taboo subject for purebloods and the little bits and pieces he had puzzled together so far did not feature any of the things his fellow students were talking about. Left alone that he did such things to Harry Potter on a regular basis.
As soon as Ron actually fainted and people weren’t looking at him anymore he fled up the stairs. The last thing he heard before he slammed the door shut was “DEAN THOMAS I AM NEVER GOING TO WEAR A FUCKING LATEX LEOTARD! GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF THE GUTTER.”
All in all Draco was happy to collapse on his bed and pull the curtains shut around it, cancelling out the last bit of the noise. He crawled under the duvet and hugged the oversized sweater he was still wearing.
He couldn’t really wrap his head around the fact that only a year ago he’d been certain he wouldn’t even survive the war, and now he was safe and warm and cozy, wrapped up in a huge sweater from Cho Chang, out of all people. It was ridiculous.
But besides that it was comfortable too, and within five minutes he was sound asleep. He never slept longer than an hour though, because that was the moment the nightmares kicked in.
“Uhm, Malfoy?” Draco stirred in his sleep. The red eyes of Voldemort flickered with green for a moment, but soon they went back to red again. He did not wake up. “Malfoy are you okay? Are you having a nightmare?”
It was the genuine concern in Harry’s voice that penetrated through the fog of the dream and woke Draco up. He groaned and curled up further, shaking from the memory of him. No matter how many times he saw it the face still terrified him. He was unsurprised but not un-ashamed to find his cheeks were wet from tears.
Harry set something down on his nightstand and sat down on the edge of his bed. The way the mattress dipped in reminded Draco so much of his mother bringing him a goodnight kiss that he was crying again before he even realised it.
He turned around, trying to bury his face in his pillows, but Harry stubborn fucking prick Potter wouldn’t leave him alone. A muscled arm, strongly contrasting with Draco’s own weak limbs, curled itself around him and soon after he felt Harry’s chest press against his back. It appeared the slayer of the dark lord was spooning him.
“Luna taught me how to spot the difference between crying alone and crying lonely.” Harry said, his tone of voice more than a little bit uncomfortable and awkward.
“And she showed me how to chase away the fear of a nightmare.” He added rather doubtfully, and he moved away from him so one of his hands got the space it needed to make hard but relaxing stroking movements across Draco’s back.
Draco was so overwhelmed by the nightmare, what had happened in the common room and what Harry was doing now that al he could do was tell himself to breathe. Just breathe.
After a minute or two Harry sat up again, and to his own surprise Draco found himself more relaxed than he’d felt in months, probably years.
“I have no idea why you just did that,” Draco murmured, still a bit out of it, “but I enjoyed it.”
“Glad to hear that.” Harry replied. Draco tried to casually dry his cheeks before emerging from his duvet again. He self consciously put a hand through his hair, certain it would look a right mess.
“You, eh, left your homework in the common room.” Harry indicated at the boks on Draco’s night stand and flushed a bit. “I thought I’d give it back to you before they start reading it out loud downstairs.”
“Thank you Po-.”
“Harry.” Harry cut in. “You can call me Harry, if you want to that is.”
Draco, surprised that Harry would think he would not want to call him Harry, sat up a bit straighter and tried to convey his thanks again. “Well then, thank you, Harry. And do call me Draco, if you want to that is.”
“I do.” Harry blurted, turning even more red. “I mean I do, eh, want to call you Draco.” He finished clumsily and Draco found himself smiling. A rare occasion these days.
“Where did you get that sweater from?” Harry asked, seemingly to prevent an awkward silence.
“Cho Chang actually.” And Draco couldn’t help but laugh as Harry’s face flushed again. The messy haired man looked horribly awkward, guilty, puzzled and shocked at the same time, and it frankly looked quite hilarious.
“Relax Harry. I’m not dating your ex. Millicent would kill me if I stole her girlfriend.” He chuckled as relief flooded Harry’s face, feeling suddenly giddy with the thought that Harry Potter might be interested in him.
“Wait what?” All of the sudden Harry looked puzzled again. “Since when are Cho and Bulstrode dating?”
Now it was Draco’s turn to be puzzled again. “Since the start of the school year.” He said slowly, eying Harry with suspicion. The guy wasn’t fucking with him now was he?
“They are the leaders of the GSA, and they snuggle together like, all the time.” Draco continued. Harry frowned, seemingly digging through his memory to recall any of Draco’s claims. “Harry are you sure you have the right prescription for your glasses? Those two could not have been more obvious if they’d tattooed we are lesbian lovers on their forehead.”
Harry glared at him and pulled his knees up. “It’s not my fault I suck at seeing that kind of thing okay? I wasn’t raised with it you know. With love.”
And suddenly Harry looked very small, sitting there on the edge of Draco’s bed, staring ahead without seeing anything. Draco swallowed hard, not sure what to do now, until he remembered what he was wearing.
“What?” Harry snapped as he changed from hurt boy into an angry adult man.
“Put this on and flap with the sleeves.” Draco held out Cho’s sweater. “It helps, I promise.”
Harry eyed the sweater. He didn’t seem to have much faith in Draco’s method and unlike Millicent Draco had no threats he could use against his victim. Though victim was the wrong word of course.
“You’re ridiculous.” Harry muttered and he turned back to staring at the wall.
“And you won’t be able to hit me in the face with permission if you do not put on this sweater and flap the sleeves in my face.” Draco shot back. He was ready to sell some of his dignity and self perseverance if it meant Harry would look happy again. Though if he was being honest he didn’t have much dignity left.
Harry eyed him from the side, then silently snatched the sweater from Draco’s outstretched arm and pulled it over his head. It looked stupid on him, way too big, the colour didn’t fit and Harry had more of an middle eastern look to him than a chinese one. Still, Draco had so much trouble tearing his gaze away from Harry that he did not even see the man coming when he hit him in the face with his sleeve.
Once it did hit him though he scrambled backwards until he was pressed against the headboard of his bed as a reflex. Harry didn’t seem bothered by this and just lurched forward until he was half-sitting half-lying on top of Draco as he hit him in the face with Cho’s sweater.
“I said flap not hit!” Draco yelled as Harry beated down on his face, but he was laughing as he said it, because Harry was laughing too now.
“I thought you were supposed to be a BDSM fan?” Harry shot back with a wicked grin.
“I don’t even know what that means Potter!” Draco exclaimed just before Harry tired out and collapsed on top of him. “I thought the song was about domestic violence.”
“Cozy mind you have there.” Harry tapped the side of Draco’s head and dragged himself up a bit until his face was hanging above Draco’s.
“Just as cozy as yours, possibly even cozier.” Draco whispered, very aware of the fact that his breath was caressing Harry’s face, and that he had no idea if it smelled good yes or no.
“Show off.” Harry shot back.
Despite his nerves Draco looked smug as he shot back, “It’s not showing off if it’s true.”
“I think it still is, but I’d have to ask Hermione to be sure.” Harry pulled a thinking face, which Draco thought was the single most adorable thing in the world. Before he knew what he was doing he’d drifted off from the conversation to Harry’s eyes, his hair, the patterns on the ceiling, how muggles knitted wool for their sweaters…
He startled when Harry talked again and mentally scolded himself for losing focus. He’d lived in one house with the dark lord, he should be able to handle some stupid concentration issues. And there he was drifting again.
“Did you hear what I said?” Harry inquired with an amused look on his face. At least he didn’t get angry like some of the professors did. Or maybe the anger came later. “I said it is pretty disturbing that two eighteen year old boys are bragging about their shitty mental state when they should be kissing.”
“Kissing?” Draco muttered perplexed.
“Yes Draco, kissing. I hope you do know what that means.” Draco briefly wondered how this idiot of a man had gotten the balls to be so up front about things, but before he could get distracted again he bend forward and planted his lips firmly on Harry’s. And for the first time since the war, he didn’t think anything could distract him from the magnificent experience that is kissing Harry Potter.
It wasn’t perfect, in fact it was rather clumsy, with several collisions of teeth and near-bitings of tongues, but it was right. It felt right. And as Harry reached out and tangled his fingers in Draco’s hair, messing it up even more, the both of them were sure they would be alright.
And they would be.
This turned out to be wayyyyyyyy longer than it was supposed to be and I procrastinated a buttload of homework typing this out so if you could let me know what you thnk that would be extra appreciated this time! (Bc then I know if I wasted my homework time writing something nice or stupid)