#I think it's funny if he wakes up all smudged like he forgot to take off some makeup

[somegrumpynerd]

Do you think the determination stops dripping when he sleeps or does he ruin every pillow he has?

[sunkissedpages]

instead of you [part fifteen]

pairing: [best friend’s brother] tom holland x college!reader

summary: you didn’t expect to spend your summer pretending to be your best friend’s girlfriend- then again, you didn’t expect to fall for your best friend’s brother, either.

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption

word count: 1.7k

series masterlist

Don’t tell Sam. Sam. SAM.

“Shit.”

You had to fix this in a matter of seconds. Should you slap him? Act like nothing happened? Pretend you were drunker than you actually were and play dumb?

“Wait, you’re not Sam?” you squinted your eyes like you were trying to see who was in front of you, acting like you were too drunk to remember who you were with. “Oh my god.”

“Y/n, I’m so sorry,” Tom tried. 

“I-” you didn’t know how to respond. “Why did you do that?”

He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “I don’t know, it didn’t mean anything!” You’d be lying if you told yourself that didn’t sting a little. If he didn’t have any sort of feelings for you, why would he kiss you? “I wasn’t thinking.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Please don’t tell my brother.”

“You want me to lie to my boyfriend?”

“I mean, is it lying if you just don’t mention it?”

“It’s a lie of omission- are you really going to debate me about philosophy right now?”

“Then yes, I do want you to lie to your boyfriend because if he finds out he’ll never speak to me again.”

“You realize what kind of position that puts me in?”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes.”

You couldn’t even think straight. Feelings of confusion, panic, anger, and regret fought for control of your conscience. “What if someone had seen us? Taken a picture of us? You’re a public fucking figure, Tom. That could’ve put your career at risk.” “Don’t you think I know that?” he growled. “I don’t need you to lecture me on how stupid it was.”

“You’re an asshole,” you scoffed.

“I know.”

You stood from the table to leave, hoping he wouldn’t follow you, but he called after you, your name echoing in your ears like a warning. Reluctantly, you turned back to face him with a bitter taste on your tongue.

“You won’t tell him, right?”

You stared him down for a moment, watching nerves etch themselves onto his features before answering. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

It was a promise you didn’t want to make, but you felt like you had no other choice. You hadn’t just broken the ‘no flirting’ rule, you’d blown straight past it into completely uncharted territory. And technically Tom had been the one to initiate, you hadn’t kissed him back, but you couldn’t say you hadn’t felt something when he did. 

You had never lied to Sam before- at least not on this scale. You felt sick to your stomach, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol. 

You almost didn’t want to go back to your room. You urged the elevator to go as slow as possible as you checked your appearance in the reflective wall. The tarnished gold was smudged with handprints, but you were still able to make out your ruined lipstick. You weren’t sure it had been messed up sometime during dinner, or if it was Tom’s doing but you couldn’t take a chance. You used your thumb to wipe away the evidence as the intercom on the elevator let out a ding to let you know you’d reached your floor.

With a shaky breath you pushed yourself into the hallway and forced yourself to put one foot in front of the other to walk to your room. You didn’t have a key, so you had to knock. You half-hoped Sam was already asleep, even if it meant you’d have to spend the night in the hallway. 

But as luck would have it he was still up and he opened the door seconds later. He was definitely out of it, blinking at you to put you in focus. 

“There you are,” he said tiredly, rubbing one of his eyes with his hand. “I was wondering when you’d come up.”

“I hope I didn’t keep you up,” you apologized as you breezed past him into the room. 

“Nah, I was just messing around.”

A lie, you knew, but you let it slide knowing you were keeping a much bigger secret. He was already dressed for bed in his boxers and one of your t-shirts and his hair was wet from a shower. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, noticing your anxious energy.

You nodded. “I had too much to drink.”

“Ah, me too, I think. Come take a shower. It’ll help.” 

You took his advice and tried to sober up in the shower, letting the cold water run over your bare skin until you were shivering. When it didn’t make you feel any better you turned off the faucet completely and dried off, wrapping a towel around your body and sitting on the edge of the tub. 

“Y/n?” came Sam’s muffled voice from the other side of the door. 

“Yeah?”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” 

You sighed. Why did he have to know you better than you knew yourself? You pushed yourself up from the tub and opened the door. 

“I had like three more shots after you left,” you mumbled.

The color drained from his face as he took in this additional information and he frowned. “Jesus, I thought I was drunk. Do you feel sick?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay, well let’s go to bed,” he urged. His accent was always thicker when he was drunk, and in a funny way it sounded like home, like all of those Friday nights back on campus. 

Sam gave you space to change into your clothes for bed and crawled under the covers to wait for you. You dressed yourself, hung your towel in the bathroom, and shut off the main light before feeling your way through the darkness over to the bed. 

You managed to get your drunk ass in bed without tripping which you considered to be a miracle. Sam slung his arm across your stomach as soon as you settled on the mattress and pulled you against his hip. You tensed underneath his touch, but he didn’t seem to notice. 

You couldn’t relax no matter how hard you tried, and sleep taunted you for hours, hovering just out of your reach. 

Sam’s alarm woke you from restless dreaming some hours later, when the sun had barely brushed the horizon. 

You groaned and rolled over onto your stomach, burying your face in your pillow. Your head was pounding and you didn’t even want to think about facing Tom. The simple motion of rolling over had made you nauseous and you knew that standing up was going to be a whole nother ordeal. 

“Come on, love,” Sam said, nudging you with his knee. He was already sitting up, rolling the tension out of his neck from a night on the stiff mattress. “We gotta be downstairs in a few minutes.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and you felt pathetic. You didn’t have the strength to be around Tom today, especially with Sam right there.

“Don’t feel good,” you moaned.

“We’re all hungover,” Sam sighed. “We’re not even doing that much walking today.”

You turned your head enough for him to see the tears running down your cheeks and he pursed his lips, expression turning worried. 

“Oh.”

“Can you make something up?” you pleaded. 

He nodded. “I’ll tell them you have a fever or something.”

You swallowed your shame and squeezed your eyes shut, whispering thanks into his shirt. Sam kissed your forehead and then got up. You vaguely heard him moving around the room getting ready, but drifted in and out of sleep as he did. 

Once he was dressed he softly told you goodbye, that he hoped you felt better, and that he’d bring you back some food later on. 

The door clicked shut and you let your guilt continue eating you alive. 

You wondered how Tom would react when Sam told his family you weren’t feeling well, if his face would give anything away. He was an actor, he should be able to handle it. But you also wondered what he was feeling, if he felt as guilty as you did- or even more so. Or maybe he wouldn’t even care. You never knew when it came to him.

You rolled onto your back and propped yourself up on a pillow, using the free time to respond to some messages from friends and family. It was the middle of the night back in the States, but at least they’d wake up knowing you weren’t dead. To be fair, everyone knew your communication skills weren’t the best so they probably weren’t expecting anything from you anyway, but you still wanted to put in the effort. 

The rest of the day passed by quicker than you would’ve liked. You spent it in bed, tossing and turning as you desperately tried to fall back asleep. You kept pushing the blankets off of you, then burying yourself beneath them again, flipping between hot and cold. Maybe you really did have a fever. Your clothes were suffocating you so you ended up stripping and dropping them on the floor by the bed. 

By the mercy of some higher power you were able to nap for a couple of hours scattered throughout the afternoon, but by dinner time you were wide awake again and passed the time by watching Avatar: The Last Airbender in Italian on the hotel tv. 

It was playing an earlier episode, the one where the gaang visited Kyoshi Island. You couldn’t understand any of the dialogue, obviously, but you still found comfort in the familiar scenes. 

There was a knock on the door suddenly, startling you out of your focus. You jerked your head towards the sound and scrambled from the bed. You slipped back into your t-shirt, but didn’t bother putting on pants before opening the door because you figured it was just Sam. And it was. He looked exhausted, but in the best kind of way and was holding a styrofoam container of food that was presumably for you.

“Forgot the key,” he said sheepishly, offering you the food. You smiled and took it from him, stepping aside to let him in. 

He didn’t take your cue, instead he stayed where he was standing in the doorway awkwardly. It was then that you realized he wasn’t alone, that his older brother had been standing behind him the entire time.

Sam offered no explanation, only shrugged like he didn’t know why he was there either.

“Tom?” you asked, awaiting an explanation for yourself.

“Can we talk?” 

ik tags haven’t been working idk why i’m sorry!!! but lmk what you think i always appreciate feedback!!

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[staticscreenwriting]

Love like the movies // Bucky Barnes // 5

Five - Dirty Dancing

Masterlist

Summary: This is a story of boy meets girl. The boy, Bucky Barnes, finds himself thrown into a world that seems so different from everything he’s ever known. The girl, (Y/N) knows entirely too much about rom-coms and is quite particular about the way she eats her popcorn. Bucky meets (Y/N) a few months after returning to NYC. He knows almost immediately that becoming her friend is inevitable. This is a story of boy meets girl. This is a story about love. (Bucky Barnes x female!Reader // a few spoilers for TFATWS)

Bucky wakes up to music. It's playing from outside the room, echoing through the halls and filling the apartment with sound.

It reminds him of when he was a kid and his mom would make them all breakfast as the radio would softly play in the background. She'd always have a smile on her face and twirl around the kitchen and sometimes, when they were still little enough, she'd pick up him or one of his sisters and slowly sway along with them in her arms.

It's a hazy memory, he's barely able to grasp it, but it's there nonetheless and that makes all the difference.

Rays of sun flood the apartment, coloring it in hues of orange and gold. Bucky steps out of (Y/N)’s room and into the hallway from which he can see straight into the kitchen. (Y/N)’s standing by the stove, a frilly pink apron wrapped around her waist and spatula in hand. Her hips shake slightly to the beat of the song and her lips move along with the lyrics.

Bucky wonders if he’ll ever get that. This feeling of pure comfort in his own home. To find who he really is and allow himself to be that person, no inhibitions, no holding back. Just be himself and be confident in who that might be.

“ You can keep standing there like a creep or you can come over here and help me, grumpy”

At the sound of her voice, he jumps a little, too lost in could-bes and what-ifs to realize she’s long noticed him leaning against the doorway. Her hair is a mess and there’s still eyeliner and glitter from last night stuck to her skin. But Bucky thinks she’s never looked better. It’s an intimate moment, to watch her in all her imperfect ways, move around her own home, being the most comfortable and at ease she’s ever been. There’s something about the way she looks at him then, showered in golden sunlight, a bright smile on her face. Bucky knows what it is he feels, deep down inside of him, flickering up like a light in the dark. He knows what it is. It’s not a feeling you forget once you’ve felt it.

He’s not gonna say it though, not gonna admit it to himself or anyone. All that can come from it is misery and heartbreak and while his heart is of very little value to him, hers means everything. So he’ll ignore it, shove it to the deepest darkest corner of himself and try not to acknowledge it in hopes it’ll go away.

“ You’re cooking? “ he asks as he steps up next to her, eyebrows raised in uncertainty.

“I’m making pancakes, and don’t look at me like that!” (Y/N) replies, swatting him with a dish towel, “ I know my cookies weren’t the best and I am well aware that my coffee sucks. But if there’s one thing I can make, it’s pancakes. Trust me. “

He does trust her. It’s something that he only fully realizes at that moment. Such an insignificant little moment. He trusts her, which is terrifying but also liberating at the same time. Maybe his life is on the right path. Maybe things can get better. Step by tiny step.

“ Hey, I ate your cookies, didn’t I? “

She looks up at him, a small smile playing on her lips, eyes shining with — something he can’t quite place. Maybe, he thinks, maybe he doesn’t need to know what it means. It means something and that's all that counts in the grand scheme of things.

“Yeah, yeah you did.”

For a moment it’s just them and the music and the bliss of a morning spent with a friend.

“ Okay, hand me the batter please?” (Y/N) says and points towards a big blue bowl standing by on the counter to his right. As he hands it to her though, (Y/N) doesn’t immediately start pouring the batter, instead, she dips her finger into it and holds it out to Bucky.

“ Try it, tell me if it’s too sweet. “

He’s hesitant for a moment. You don’t just go around licking your friends’ fingers. Surely social cues haven’t changed that much. But when she moves her hand closer once again and adds a determined “taste it before it drips onto the floor”, he wraps his lips around her finger, tasting the sweet pancake batter. It’s not too sweet, not at all, it’s perfect. He can’t really voice that thought though, not when his mind is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere it really shouldn’t be.

At that moment Bucky feels something he hasn’t felt in forever — arousal.

“ Good? “ she questions him as she pours the batter into the pan, a sizzling sound filling the kitchen.

Buck nods, completely at a loss for words. This is entirely silly and inappropriate. You’re not supposed to feel those things for your friends. Wasn’t this exactly what they talked about in the Harry and Sally movie? Sex ruining friendships. He can’t and won’t let that happen. Not with (Y/N). Not when he’s just starting to trust her. He needs this friendship more than he cares to admit.

“Grumpy? “

“ Hmm? Oh uh — yeah it’s good. “

And it is good, too good to give up. Too good to jeopardize it for some fleeting sense of passion. Too good to ever let go.

It’s ridiculous of him to put any sensual notions to such a silly little gesture. These things can be friendly. Innocent. People probably do it all the time with no ulterior motives. Maybe he needs to go with the times, let go of antiquated morals. Yeah, surely that’s what he’s gotta do.

They’re sitting by the kitchen counter, (Y/N)’s plate licked clean while Bucky is struggling to finish his pile of pancakes.

“ Do you want the rest of mine? “

“ Did you not like them? “

“ No, I did! I ate an entire pile already. But I can see the way you’re lusting after them. Come on. Open up. “

He cuts off a piece, lathers it in the syrup pooling on his plate, and holds it out towards her. Nothing sexual about it, just two friends sharing food. Absolutely nothing sensual about the way her lips wrap around the fork, they’re still tinted red from last night. Absolutely no dirty thoughts as the syrup drips down her chin. Or when she uses her thumb to wipe it away then licks the sticky liquid off of her fingers. All innocent. All —

“ Have you ever seen 9 ½ weeks? “ she asks him, looking up at him through her thick lashes.

“ No. What’s it about? “

“ Um — “ she starts then laughs to herself as if she’s sharing a funny inside joke with herself “ nevermind. “

“ Noooo, you can’t just start something and then not give me an explanation” he declares as the two of them get up and put the dishes into the dishwasher.

“ You know, Grumpy. There are a few things you better figure out on your own, trust me.”

“ Now you’re just being mean. “

“ No, I’m not I — “ her eyes grow wide as the song changes again and a big bright smile overtakes her entire face. Messy hair, makeup smudged, a smile on her face. God, he wishes they could stay in this little bubble forever. Hurt doesn’t exist here. Only them. Only happy things.

“ I forgot Dirty Dancing.”

“ What? “

“ You don’t know Dirty Dancing. “

“ I know plenty of dancing, thank you very much.”

“ No, Bucky. It’s a movie. It’s one of the most famous romantic movies and I forgot about it. I made a list of all the movies I wanna watch with you but didn’t think of Dirty fucking dancing. Sorry for swearing.”

“ You made a list? “

“ Yes, Grumpy. I made a list because I take this very seriously and I intend to make you watch them all with me because — because it’s fun and I like spending time with you. “

People, Bucky thinks, often take the smallest things for granted. The smallest things that make the most impact. That you will remember forever and cherish with all your heart. Like this one. People also don’t tell each other enough how much their friendships actually mean to them. People should. It feels wonderful.

“ I like spending time with you too.”

She grants him another sunshine smile before grabbing his hands and dancing along to the song. It’s faster than their late-night sway on the balcony, way less coordinated and there’s more jumping on her part and more shaking of — pretty much every body part.

This is so her. Chaotic and a little messy but so unapologetic. So fun. So happy.

“ Because IIIIII've haaaaaad the time of myyyyyy lifeeeee. No I neeeeeever felt this way before. Yes I swear it's the truuuuuuuuth. And I ooooowe it all to youuuuuu.”

“ That’s a catchy song,” Bucky says as a smile finds a way onto his lips. Sometimes it feels nice to surround yourself with people who make you smile. It’s one of the little pleasures in life one should allow themself to indulge in.

Bucky wishes he could bottle up this moment and never let go of it. Keep it for himself forever. That’s the thing about losing your memories, it makes you realize how precious every moment is and it makes you want to hold on tightly to each and every one as they happen.

“Right? I can guarantee you’ll be humming this song all day.”

(Y/N) twirls herself under his arm, away from him, then back before her eyes fall onto his glove-covered hands.

“ You don’t have to wear them for me, you know that, right? “

Sometimes he doesn’t even remember he’S wearing them, it’s become such a regular thing to him now. They are a part of him like the arm itself. They’re a shield really. From looks and judgment. And maybe, if he’s being entirely true to himself, they’re also to keep his eyes from focusing too much on the shiny silver of his hand. Of the fact that he will never be whole again. That he will never be able to feel a loving touch there ever again.

“ I know. It’s not you I’m worried about. “

“ Is it you? “

Bucky scrunches his nose up in discomfort. Talking about feelings wasn’t really a thing back when he was younger, especially for men. Sure there had been late-night talks with Steve about god and the world. About their hopes and fears and about the future. But those were few and far between and really opening himself up was never one of Bucky’s strong points. Talking about your feelings makes you vulnerable and being vulnerable was the last thing Bucky was ever allowed to be back then.

But as he said before, maybe it’s time to give up on antiquated ways.

So he nods “ Yeah. It’s — I still have a complicated relationship with the arm. I know it’s part of me and I’m glad it was given to me but it’s a huge reminder of all that I’ve lost and of a version of me that I can never go back to. A man I can never be again.”

“ Bucky,” (Y/N) starts and takes his face in between her hands. It’s a touch so soft, he can’t remember ever being handled this gently. Like a baby bird. Like a piece of porcelain. Like a treasure too precious to break. “I will never be able to fully understand how you’re feeling and I know that some of those things you have to go through alone and do the work yourself. But let me tell you something. Whoever you used to be might be gone but there’s a long-ass future waiting and it lets you be whoever you want to be. Maybe it’s time to let go of the man you were and start being the man you are because that one’s pretty great. And your arm is as much a part of that greatness as your smile or your constant grumpy mood. It’s what makes you you and you are really cool, honestly. “

His heart beats faster and stops entirely all at the same time. When he was younger he used to relish in the compliments thrown his way. He gracefully accepted them all with a knowing smirk playing on his lips. Nowadays it’s hard to believe them. Hell, it was so hard to have faith in Steve’s words. To believe that he was really worth all the effort and trouble Steve and the others went through, for him of all people. It’s so hard believing you are worth something when all you can see are your wrongdoings and shortcomings.

He wants to believe her words though. If only for a moment. If only for right now, safe and sound in their little bubble as the sun filters through the windows and the tastes of syrup still lingers in his tongue.

A few days later...

“They’re screening Dirty Dancing at the cinema around the block from me! Starts at 8pm. Come meet me, I won’t take no for an answer! xx “

He reads the message and tries to remember the way he felt that morning a few days ago when they danced around her kitchen. When she told him he was worth something. When she made him believe he wasn’t the actual worst person walking this earth. A disgrace. A mistake. A killer.

But every time he tries to go back to the bubble, a different pair of eyes show up in his mind. Eyes filled with sadness, with unimaginable suffering, with grief. All of which he put there.

He ran into Yori last night on his way home. The old man looked more fail than usual, sadder, more tired. Bucky found out why a few minutes later when he asked Yori about the cake in his grocery bag. The one with the white and green frosting.

“ It would be my son’s birthday today. I know he’s not here anymore but he was crazy about these cakes ever since he was a kid. Felt like remembering him. Would you like to join me for a piece? “

Bucky made up some half-assed excuse why he couldn’t, rushed to his apartment, and had a full-on breakdown. The kind that you don’t realize is happening until you’re all the way in the center of the hurricane.

There are shards of glass on his floor from when he threw a bottle against the wall. It’s a shame when you can’t even drown your sorrows in alcohol. His cheeks, he’s sure, are stained with tears that he had kept inside for so long.

How could he ever spend another second with (Y/N) when this is the kind of person he is. Brainwashing or not. The blood of Yori’s son is on his hands. Yori’s pain is his doing. All this grief and this hurt. It’s his fault and his alone. And Yori is just one of so many.

(Y/N) deserves a friend that doesn’t have a body count. Someone who doesn’t know what it feels when someone loses their life at his hands. Someone who doesn’t go to sleep seeing the eyes of those he’s killed. Someone who isn’t him.

His phone rings and he expects it to be (Y/N). She’s one of those people that text you then immediately call you right after. She likes to talk. In-person or over the phone. He doesn’t know if he wants to answer. Doesn’t know what to say. Would it be easier to just tell her not to contact him again? To rip off the bandaid quickly and then deal with the pain afterward?

Before he can come up with an answer to any of those questions, his eyes register the name on the caller display.

“ What?” he grumbles and leans his head against the wall.

“ Well, aren't you a happy chappy today. “

“ Sam, now’s not a good time. “

Sam hesitates for a moment then his voice sounds out from the speakers again.

“ Hey, Bucky. Are you okay? “

For a second, Bucky thinks about saying yes. He wants to keep on pretending the way he did so many times before. Wants to deal with this all by himself and not have anyone else get caught in his mess.

But he can’t. He’s tearing at the seams. He’s barely holding himself together, cracking open more and more with each passing second. So he takes a deep breath and tells the truth.

“ No. No, I’m not. “

30 minutes. No actually 34 minutes. He’s 34 minutes late. In fact, he hasn’t even answered her god damn text. He’s read it. Hasn’t answered though. And while that’s not entirely unlike Bucky, it still annoys her. Especially since when she tried to call him, the line was busy. So surely he’s on his phone. Is it too much to ask for a little reply?

If he doesn’t want to come, that's no big deal, (Y/N) tells herself, but a quick text would be the bare minimum he could give her.

Pout on her face and mood soured, (Y/N) enters the cinema and slumps down onto one of the plush red velvet seats. Not even in the mood for popcorn anymore, thanks Bucky.

There are hardly any people in there with her. Probably because by now almost every person on this planet has seen Dirty Dancing before and the weather is actually quite nice out tonight so most would rather enjoy the last rays of sun before winter will fall upon them than be stuck in a dark stuffy cinema watching a decade-old movie.

Not her though.

And if Bucky thinks she’s gonna miss out on watching this classic masterpiece because he can’t be bothered to show up, well he’s gravely mistaken. And yeah, maybe she’s being a bit dramatic, there might be a perfectly valid explanation for his no-show. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

What happens if he actually goes on to date Leah? He’ll have less time for her that’s for sure. Movie dates won’t be happening then. Maybe it’s good she’s getting used to this now before she grows too close to him and breaks her own heart in the process of mending his.

She hates herself a little for those thoughts. Bucky deserves to be happy and if that means their friendship will be put on the backburner, then she should be okay with that, right? That’s what friends do, they want you happy no matter what it means for themself.

The Ronettes’ Be My Baby starts echoing through the room as the lights dim and (Y/N) sinks deeper into her seat, embracing the dark. The screen lights up with a black and white montage of people dancing and a swirly pink font spells out the actors' names. (Y/N) can’t wait to get lost in this picture-perfect version of real-life where things might seem bad but turn out right in the end. They always turn our right for these people. If only real life was this easy.

She’s so ready to just forget about all her troubles for the next 90 minutes.

And then a figure steps in front of the screen, nothing but a silhouette. A black shadow in front of the moving pictures. A shape she immediately recognizes.

“ Come on, dude. What the hell!” some guy in front of her yells out to Bucky, immediately following the words with a fistful of popcorn being thrown his way.

He’s here. He’s here and he’s obviously looking for her. She can’t make out his face but he’s shielding his eyes with his hands and letting his gaze wander over the crowd.

There’s a flutter in her stomach, one she knows oh too well. One she wants to bundle up and stuff to the very back of her being. A flutter that shouldn’t be there. That’s not what this is. Butterflies and goosebumps. This is eating spaghetti on the floor, dancing in the kitchen, and crying tears of laughter in IKEA. That’s what it is and what it should be. Right? But that doesn’t mean they can’t be affectionate. Right? That doesn’t mean they have to be cold and stoic and distant.

Right?

As (Y/N) reaches up her arms and waves, Bucky hurries down the platform and lets himself plop down in the seat next to her.

“ I’m sorry I was — “

“ It’s okay. You’re here now. “

That’s what matters. Being there. Just being there.

“ You deserve to have a friend, Bucky.” Sam said “ and she deserves to make her own decisions. If she decides you’re worth it, who are you to question that choice?”

Sam is right. Of course, he is. Despite how much Bucky hates to admit it, Sam is one of the smartest people he knows. Not in the way Tony or Bruce or Shuri are. Smart in a way that lets you know he gets you, he understands the chaos inside you, empathizes with it. He’s got this sense of incredible emotional awareness and a calm that exudes from him. Bucky will obviously never let him know this but talking to Sam feels more soothing and helpful than talking to his therapist.

He still doesn’t feel like he deserves her friendship, her affection, and her care. But really it would be foolish to think it’s his right to dictate who she can and can't care about.

Sitting beside her now, in the dark, with a movie playing on the big screen, makes things a bit easier. His thoughts aren’t so loud anymore and his heart, though still heavy, feels a little bit lighter. It’s easy to get lost in a story that’s not his and forget about the rest.

He almost forgets about his emotional turmoil by the time the two main characters dance around on a log, when he feels something against his left hand. First, it’s but a whisper of a touch, then more deliberate and then he feels the glove being slid off of his fingers. He doesn’t dare look over at her, eyes focused straight ahead. He doesn’t pull away though. There’s never been a touch quite so gentle against the cold vibranium metal. He doesn’t pull away, instead, he locks his fingers with hers and softly closes his fist.

If there’s moments worth holding onto, this is surely one of them.

“ I’m glad you came.” (Y/N) murmurs as she places her head against his shoulder. The one made of vibranium. The one that’s a part of him like his smile and his eyes and — his grumpy personality.

“ Yeah, me too.”

As Johnny and Baby give their all during the end of the season dance, Bucky can’t help but let himself relish in this moment.

There are two things on his mind.

One is the idea that maybe this is what friendship can be. Showing affection through soft touches and loving words. Maybe he doesn’t have to assign any deeper meaning to it. No matter how much it makes his heart beat faster or how the flutters in his stomach won't seem to settle down.

The other thing is the fact that this song is so damn catchy and while he hates himself a little for it, his feet tap along to the rhythm and he catches himself mouthing along to the lyrics.

And damn if it ain’t fitting because he has never felt this way before either.

Taglist // if you want to be added or taken off just message me :) //:

@zaynyierulez / @je-like-you / @dracoxxyoflam / @jackiehollanderr / @majo240820 / @kay-gilles / @booksb4looksstuff / @jckie94 / @charmed-asylum / @shawnie--jo / @yllwtaxi / @tailsoflightning / @giuliarogers / @mangoogirl / @gerim-1995 / @elen-alambil / @threeminutesoflife / @writeroutoftime / @buckybarn3s /

[kpoptrashlord-007]

Flour Cheeks;; YHS

Word Count;; 1.6k

Genre;; Fluff Overload!

Pairing;; Hongseok x Reader

Summary;;

While you understand that some mornings you'll wake up alone, your curiosity does get the better of you when you realise your boyfriend has chosen to leave the comfort of your shared bed despite not needing to. It's warm, fluffy, and soft and filled with the possibilities of additional dreaming and yet you soon find yourself also being drawn away from its comforts.

Request;;

Hiii! Can I please request something fluffy with Pentagon's Hongseok? Maybe cooking him and y/n cooking and being all cute? Thank you!! <333​

Warnings;;

None!

Notes;;

I remember him cooking well in one of his lives so I went to look for it and found the waffle incident instead ahsjjdkfkg. Also sorry I took longer than I said I would! Our parents stopped by while we were doing our laundry and I didn't have time to write like I thought I would. Hope you enjoy this all the same and...

Happy late birthday to our Honk Honk! ♡

My Masterlist

   Sunlight streamed in through the curtain's gap to cover the duvet in splashes of yellow and white. It brightened the room, forcing you to squint while you checked your phone's notifications. With a huff, you tossed the device back onto the bedside table and closed your eyes once more.

   It was getting late. The sun was high in the sky as if to taunt you for your laziness and the room warmed beneath its abundant rays. You soon found yourself kicking the bedding clear off the mattress as you flipped over and away from the window.

   Due to the lack of your boyfriend's firm chest to stop you from invading his side of the bed, your initial roll was followed by another, more exaggerated flop. Spreading your limbs with a strained sigh, you once again tried opening your eyes. The room was still bright but you pushed through the searing discomfort to search for Hongseok.

   Though the bathroom door was only propped open by a sliver, the lack of light and movement was enough for you to write it off as empty. The bedroom itself provided a similar scene: devoid of Hongseok but with small clues as to his whereabouts. His house shoes were moved but his phone was still on the charger. The dresser hadn't closed all the way, catching on one of his shirts. He had been in a rush and yet he hadn't dressed to go out, having grabbed clothes from the casual section of his wardrobe.

   You chuckled and shook your head. Whatever had been on his mind wasn't important enough to wake you up and you were grateful for the additional rest. Stretching once again, you pushed the remainder of the bedding off with a yawn before curling up into a ball.

   His side of the bed smelled like him (surprise, surprise) and you enjoyed the mornings when you could sleep in after he left almost as much as the mornings you woke up beside him. You pushed your face into his pillow and sighed. His body wash and shampoo flooded your senses. It was comforting and it made you feel safe because he made you feel safe.

   You inhaled breath by breath, drifting off to sleep until the soothing scent of Hongseok dissipated and was replaced by the strong, undesirable scent of burning. Your eyes snapped open a step slower than your body that had already slid out of bed. Without stopping to grab your shoes or to throw on pants, you fumbled out of your shared bedroom.

   The apartment wasn't huge and it didn't take long for your legs that were in pursuit of the smoke to stumble into the kitchen. Inside you took note of your handsome boyfriend wearing that ridiculous apron you had bought him as a gag gift for his last birthday. Flour graced his tanned cheeks and you fought back a laugh, biting your lip to keep yourself silent. His expression was both serious and exasperated while he observed the steady pillar of smoke escaping the miniature waffle maker.

   "If you make it too obvious, the insurance won't pay out," you teased. His eyes latched onto your form, lingering on your bare thighs that peeked out from beneath his oversized shirt. A grin formed on his lips as he beckoned you to his side. You were quick to oblige. "So what's up? Making breakfast?"

   "Good morning beautiful. I can't answer any questions until I have a kiss." He tapped his cheek twice. Powder still marked them. You leaned around him to grab a kitchen towel and you found it through memory rather than sight, your gaze focused and locked onto his. Though he tapped his foot in impatience, he was smiling and mischief shone in his eyes.

   The cloth wasn't the softest material so you were cautious of how much pressure you exerted on his soft skin. It wasn't until you pulled away to admire your handiwork that you noticed the towel (and most of the surfaces nearby) was also covered in flour and your attempt to wipe away the powder had only created a bigger smudge. Your whole body trembled with the bottled-up laughter brewing deep in your chest. "What? What's so funny?"

   "You're covered in flour, baby." You managed to force the words out before you let loose and your laugh filled every corner of the room. Hongseok frowned and turned away from you, focusing his attention back on the waffle maker. At least it was no longer smoking. Next to the appliance was a plate of… something you couldn't quite identify. "And what the hell is that?"

   "What? That? You can't tell? It's clearly a waffle. And here I thought you were cultured," he said, his voice strained as he tried to pry the appliance open. Upon noticing the secured latch, you nudged him aside and popped the lock before flipping the lid open. Out of instinct his arms wrapped around your waist and yanked you back away from the billow of steam that rushed upward out of the small machine.

   "What's the point of using the waffle maker if it doesn't make waffles?" He whined, resting his head on your shoulder.

   "Did it make that"—distaste crossed your face as you gestured toward the plate of goop—"mess too?"

   "No, I tried… it doesn't matter. The last resort is the other waffle maker."

   "Or maybe we should stop now while we're only at two losses?"

   "I'm a man who never gives up, baby. You know this."

   Hongseok flashed you a grin, his eyes sparkling with determination as he cleared the counter. While his attention was on whipping up another batch of mixture, you decided to clean up his prior attempts. You scraped off the goo from the plate and ran it under hot water while you disconnected the miniature waffle maker and waited for it to cool down enough to soak the inner dish. The dishes stacked up in the sink and the small tower of plastic threatened to collapse like a Jenga tower when you added the last powder bowl Hongseok had discarded to the top.

   "So what's the special occasion?"

   "Are you kidding or do you owe me a massage?"

   A massage? That could only mean-

   Shoot!

   "I was just kid-"

   "Looks like my honey bunny owes me a massage! What a great start to our anniversary!"

   "But I didn't forget!"

   "Nah uh. I said the same thing last year, I was in the same boat, and you didn't go easy on me so I don't think I'll go easy on you, either."

   "Hongseokkie," you pouted, jutting out your lips as you pulled on his arm. Your mind wandered when he flexed under your grasp, his muscles toned and strong. His efforts at the gym never went unnoticed. He continued his attempt to mix the blueberries and bananas into batter, oblivious to how your gaze devoured him. "I didn't forget."

   "If I say I believe you, will you give me a massage anyway?"

   "Maybe."

   "Well I don't believe you."

   You scoffed, a playful smile pulling at the corners of your mouth, "Alright, alright. Fine, I forgot, and you'll get your massage as owed. Now will you please abandon this futile waffle mission? We can just have our usual instead. Nothing beats healthy, anyway."

   "Abandon as in give up? Who do you think I am? I'm going to make you the best damn waffles, just you watch."

   "Right, right. Of course. And I'll try not to starve in the meantime."

   He ignored your comment and focused on pouring the batter into the second waffle maker. This one was bigger, at least in comparison to the miniature maker. The miniature (theoretically) baked bite-sized waffles with little snowflakes on them. This regular-sized and completely average waffle maker had no special gimmick. It was straight-forward and easy to use.

   Except that it wasn't.

   Once Hongseok's pride diminished just enough to summon you back into the kitchen, you found yourself also struggling to make a single waffle that could pass as a waffle. None of your creations were recognisable as a breakfast treat. Some weren't even recognisable as food. Several plates of "waffles" had built up, each featuring varying degrees of baked all the way from gooey to charred. Your solo attempts hadn't fared any better.

   "Can we give up yet?"

   "No." He grabbed a piece of overcooked waffle from the maker and frowned. Half of the batter was close to burning while the other half was still liquid. With great caution, he nibbled on it. The regret was immediate. He thrusted it in your direction. "Try this."

   "Gross," you said, pretending to gag. He took the opportunity to shove the waffle piece into your mouth. You swatted him away seconds too late. He laughed, dodging your flailing hits. Though crunchy and quite dry, the waffle wasn't actually that bad. It could be worse, you thought, eyeing the discarded plates. Much worse.

   "So…"

   "So…" you echoed. When he didn't continue, you nudged his slumped shoulder. His expression screamed disappointment upon looking at the numerous attempts which then morphed into irritation as he glared at the appliance and its lustrous shine. Despite the abundance of use it had undergone over the last few hours, it looked brand new and somehow clean. "While this has been quite the adventure, should we settle down with some oatmeal and relax?"

   "You want to give up?"

   "On the waffles? Yes. I'd rather cuddle with you than fight with this clearly defective waffle maker."

   "Waffle makers," he empathised, glaring over at the abandoned miniature version.

   "If nothing else, we've created a memory that will last a lifetime and I can't think of a better gift to receive on our very special day."

   "I can think of something." You knew by his cheeky grin just what he planned to do and before he even raised his finger, you began to lean into his space. He pointed at his cheek all the same and awaited your kiss. Once again you laughed at his cute antics but this time you followed it up with a kiss.

[honoredbastard]

ෆ self indulgent and entilted

characters — bonten!rindou haitani  + *yakuro nanami (oc) .

content and warnings   — mentions of drugs ( yo sanzu ), clubbing, stalker mention, mention(s) of drugging, yelling, angst(?), swearing, and so on.

note  — sorry for the dark content hhhhh, it came with the idea of ackerman being a yakuza that hated bonten and wanted yakuro gone. it may actually be apart of the fic i’m outlining..... these men hold my heart and WILL NOT LET GO OF IT. also they just like dive into my brain 24/7. help i had a fit over what looked best for three hours- at this point i’mma probably make a lil sum’ for sanzu. i love this man and i can’t stop having him appear in my stories that involve bonten. like this guy is 24/7 in the back of my mind.

                                         *Yakuro Nanami.                                            he/they/bun! 

                  Now playing ayanami  — by satin

rindou woke up first to yakuro wearing his bunny ears and a bunny pajama set that he seemed to just slip on before marching into bed. it was cute, but there was still smudges of makeup on his face and the dark circles of terrible inconsistent sleep. rindou sighed, brushing away blonde parts of hair that yakuro was chewing on. 

“yakuro.” rindou lightly pushed yakuro’s shoulder, trying to wake the boy in his semi bunny work attire. “rindou? rindou....” yakuro groaned, his head searched for rindou’s lap or hand that he could lean into. just exist near, to feel his skin and be aware of his warmth, that he was alive and not dead. that he stayed the whole night. “morning doll.” rindou smiled quietly, brushing his fingers over the boy’s hair. 

there was a knock on the door, “come in” as if that was a full offer to entangle himself with the couple he busted through the door and made a running start to jump onto the couple. “HI!” “i don’t do the touching, i’ll sit and pour you your drink and be your personal bunny. please treat the bunny well and we will have no problems. if they bunny feels uncomfortable the bunny has full rights to leave and find a new client. if you understand these rules please enjoy your bunny.”

yakuro stated as if he was at work. it was grilled into his brain and always had to repeat it infront of new clients. working at a bunny suit club was not it, almost rolling over onto sanzu. “bad work day?” “bad work day.” rindou confirmed sanzu’s suspicions with three simple  words. “yaku..” “no.” “yakuuu.” sanzu scooted in between the two, poking yakuro’s cheeks aggressively. he seemed sober, thank god. 

rindou shrugged the mans presence off and trudged to the bathroom to wash and whatnot. “you have another shift, ran told me to wake you up. “that’s not my problem. tell my boss to go fuck himself with a dildo filled with nails.” sanzu’s eyes widened, that was aggressive. although at the same time sorta funny?

“he said he’d cut off your shift times and cut back on how much money you make plus tips.” sanzu repeated what ran had informed him of, with a quite frustrated appearance.  “THAT FUCKER WILL NOT!” raising up from his laying position, yakuro ran into the hallway stumbling here and there from improper pace. 

“i’d love to see him try i swear if he even tries reducing my pay i’ll quit the whole fucking job how about that? i never liked this bullshit bunny shit anyways, it’s annoying when the customers try to touch and then you get stalkers.” yaku was mumbling to hell and back from his bosses call, waving to ran who nodded. making himself a bento before heading off on a small mission.

yaku threw open the washroom door and started searching for his bunny suit attire. the club’s theme was rainbow today so he washed a deep red suit with a black add-on tail and clip on black ears (which were foldable too. yakuro always folds one ear.) when yakuro made it back to his room, sanzu was gone and rindou was crouching near the bottom drawer.

“whatcha lookin for?” yakuro asked curiously, sitting beside the man who made a mess beside him “looking for a red suit now, i’m trying to match with you subtly.” cute- that was the only thinking yaku could think of this man who is a part of a criminal organization/gang. who woulda thought?

“i think you might be better with either a red with black tie or a deeper red of a suit.” yakuro suggested, getting up from his sitting position, joints cracking. “or black would go well, after all i’m only wearing red heel, a red body suit, and red makeup. the rest is black!” yakuro called out to rindou who was still crouched as he exited the room. taking into account his suggestions, he went with a more black with red accents attire.

           ާlocation, bunny palace! ෆ             late night, 11pm.

“here in bunny palace we have many bunnies to suit your taste! male, female, and even those who do not define themselves! run and created by the ackermans.” bunny palace is under the hands of those with the ackerman name. mikasa, the current owner, is softer on us than many. although the music blaring is not something you can get used to.

“hello! i’m moonie! it’s so good to meet you, are you new here?” yakuro was tired, it was about 4 more hours until he shift ended and he was already hungry again. salad’s really don’t fill you up especially when you wolf them down. his feet ached and cried out each time he took another step, he wanted to lay down and use rindou as his personal body pillow.... rindou! ‘i hope he’s okay.’ he thought, placing himself beside the very important client his boss claimed. “oh i am! it’s nice too meet you moonie.”

“it’s so good to meet you too! we have a few rules here that our bunnies tell each new client: i’ll sit and pour you your drink and be your personal bunny. please treat the bunny well and we will have no problems. if they bunny feels uncomfortable the bunny has full rights to leave and find a new client. if you understand these rules please enjoy your bunny. please keep touching to a minimal. do not force your bunny drinks or food. respect your bunny. is that doable?” yakuro asked with big puppy eyes, a big smile, and high pitched voice. “of course!” the customer happily said, hand already on his thigh.

i am SO uncomfortable was all that yaku could think about, his eyes flicking between the customer and each place his gross hands laid upon. squeezing every-so often like it was a pleasuring act for yaku. before he removed the man’s hand, he restrained himself. drawing a large breath before responding to the customer. “i’m so sorry sir! shall i get you something to drink?” yaku pouted, “if you’d like, moonie!” i’m saved.

yakuro smiled and stood up, “why of course! i’ll be right back!” like a breath of relief, he rushed to the staff room. he waved to some girls, “not on stage today moonie?” one asked, a baby stripper new to the bunny palace club. “yeah! boss was all: ‘act cutesy, be close, allow touching this once. there are really important customers here today.’ like thanks for threatening my paycheck and then saying that!”

“oh my, that’s rough babe. ackerman is always like that, it’s like she has a stick up her ass.” one of the older strippers that had been with yakuro since he started chimed in, “you’re right!” yaku chuckled, leaning closer into his vanity mirror to adjust his lipstick and have a chance to message rindou. 

40 missed messages. “i’m so fucked.” “why’s that babe?” “i may have forgot to message rindou telling him ackerman added hours onto my shift.” the room grew tense, “that’s awful? read his messages.” sei suggested, “might cool him off if he’s angry.

“alright!” yaku sighed with a smile, opening the messages. to his surprise, rindou wasn’t angry but instead worried that a client had gotten too touchy and triggered yakuro. after all, ran did inform rindou about the bits and pieces that sanzu did not tell yaku. “whew, i’m good! i’m safe. he’s just worried....” sei and bab took a loud sigh and began laughing. “BUT I’M FUCKED.” “really? that’s great! now go out! your client must be waiting.” 

yup the girls took it that way. “i will! don’t worry don’t worry. i just hope sanzu doesn’t buy the whole club.” “he won’t now go!” sei pushed out yaku who glanced over at the client who finished the previous bottle. his nose was red and was slightly swaying back and forth.

walking up to the bar, yakuro ran into polaris. “polar!” “moonie.” “can you get something for my client? he seems to be a lightweight.” “sure, i’m sure he wouldn’t mind beer.” polar sat down the cup he was wiping back and forth to keep busy.

“the bar isn’t very busy huh?” “oh no, it’s just we got our best girls today dancing and the waitresses and working ten times harder. it works out for both of them and neither of them have to fight each other about unfair pay. tomorrow you’ll be our best so good luck.” polar smiled earnestly to add to the words of encouragement, sliding over the foaming beer over the black marbled counter. 

“thanks! i’ll need it.” turning with the drink in hand, yaku noticed the man’s disgruntled face. he looked as if the whole world was going to blow up and he was watching the countdown. ‘act cutesy, act cutesy, act cutesy.’ it was a constant mantra in his head before he sat down and opened his mouth.

“what could be wrong sir?” yaku felt like rolling his eyes into oblivion, he could care less. “oh it’s just something wrong with the gang.” “oh my, a yakuza?” boring, yaku fake gasped handing over the bear to the angered man. “yeah!” he said pridefully with a chuckle, gulping the drink down and slamming it down. “something about bonten this and that and one of our men died.”

now that’s interesting. yaku felt like walking out to just go see sanzu, it felt like everything was reminding yakuro of him. hell even the purple lights were. but alas he was stuck eyeing the entrance while the man babbled on and on about this whole yakuza shin-dig he was in. he decided to slip off his shoes because the waitresses’ assured the man that they would handle getting drinks.

it felt like hours, drink after drink the world became more hazy. yakuro grew a high tolerance because of his job but he seemed to be losing himself while the client seemed more than sober. “you.. slipped somethin, huh?” the client beside him flinched, clenching onto his bag. “w-what? are you sure you don’t have a low tolerance m-mr. moonie?” the man stammered, through gritted teeth yaku managed to huff out a ‘whatever’.

“miss. ackerman set you up? thought so, the bitch never liked me because i have a bonten member for a partner. guess i’m finally leaving this hellhole. send her my best regards, yeah?” he asked with a agitated tone. his words were laced with threats, raising slowly. “mr. moonie?” “i’m leaving, i want to leave. i have to go see rindou.” he dug the acrylic nails that were done just recently into his thigh. fuck the shoes. 

whatever was in the drink didn’t seem strong but it had yakuro in and out of conscience. the man who was once his client seemed nowhere to be found, leaving a stumbling yaku to himself. sei noticed this and dropped her waiters plate, running over to the bunny who was just about to fall. “MOONIE!” 

          ާlocation, the bonten loft.             early morning, 3am.

blue eyes fluttered open, fighting the urge to close once more. “they’re awake! rindou, they’re all good!” a familiar voice echoed throughout yakuro’s head. his body felt numb, in an attempt to speak he noticed his voice was gone. every one of his senses felt like they were being drowned under water. his eyesight was the only thing that was significantly normal.

though his contacts seemed to be taken off, leaving the blue and purple hues of yaku’s true eye colour roaming free. rindou’s footsteps were heavy and had a quick pace, the vibrations went through the bed. “yaku?” his usual docile purple eyes were filled with worry and anger mixed together, forever burning until yakuro got better.

all the man managed to do was a weak smile, his eyes blinked slowly while he stared at rindou. the two conversed, rindou’s agitation growing as his jaw clenched harder with every muffled word sanzu spoke. “i am very upset sanzu, yakuro was drugged. AGAIN!” “we can’t do anything but sit it out! we don’t even know who it was. rindou you need to calm down.” sanzu too was frustrated beyong belief.

the whole loft was filled with tension that was denser than a brick wall. everyone considered yakuro a part of bonten after two years. he even got a bonten tattoo per mikey’s request. it lays on his right shoulder which he covers up during his job with makeup despite his hatred, it was the only condition ackerman gave him before he could work at bunny palace. ackerman and bonten hated each other, seeing a bonten tattoo at the ackermans would start a war. 

“he’s quitting that job and working at our club. this is the last time i’ll EVER see him like this again.” this wasn’t the first time rindou raised his voice when he was angered by the way yakuro looked in this condition. unable to move, speak, only look plainly at the wall with a weak smile here and there.

it tore him apart from the inside out each time, it did every member living in the loft. finally after whatever happened between those two. sanzu left, rindou left as well but returned with water and began to cuddle the numb and quiet yakuro.

[bibliocratic]

tread softly

S4 Canon Divergence + Mythological Creatures AU Mermaid!Sasha, Pheonix!Tim, Selkie!Martin

cws apply - see tags

Peter Lukas has always prided himself on the timing of his entrances.

He is not there, then he is. The ward slips colder, down into single digits. Martin gives a jerking shoulder-hunch motion when he notices his unexpected arrival, coupled with an intake of breath. No noise this time, no jumping, no explications of suddenness or surprise. Martin Blackwood takes well to both shock and silence with a delightful sufferance, and Peter is indulgently proud.

The lad is, as expected, by the Archivist’s bedside. Crone-backed, ringed with an satisfying corona of misery.  It’s after visiting hours, but Martin likely hasn’t even realised that the gaze of the ward staff and orderlies has simply grazed past him when he came up, when he took his traditional post, when they do their rounds. Martin has not wanted to be noticed, so he won’t be.

Peter idly watches the machinery and tubes threaded though the Archivist like mechanical embroidery. This one seems eminently more worse for wear than Gertrude ever was. Stronger, though. Peter watches Elias’ chosen as he lies still and sedate for all he stalks the landscape of dreamers, and wonders if he might see the Eye’s favoured come to fruition in a way Gertrude never did.

All the more reason to talk to Martin, it appears.

“What do you want?” Martin says. Dulled, thick-throated. He’s wiping his face free from damp with his baggy jacket sleeves, glowering at Peter with a delayed annoyance, as if he’s interrupted some no doubt tender petition for waking. The antiseptic stench of the hospital worsens the tension in his bones.

He is perfect for their God. Peter’s so pleased the Archivist wasn’t so careless to have lost this assistant like he nearly lost both of the others. Elias told him that the Corruption had already sought to burrow into the debris of this lost soul, that Martin has taken the mantle of archivist well, while Beholding’s chosen was indisposed. And it is true that Martin’s gaze is more assessing than he would like. But Peter knows that Forsaken has long laced Martin’s lining with mist and dew-damp cold, filled his stomach with fog far longer than those petty chancers have tried to have him in their maw. That his God’s touch has been settling like thronging, subdued snow in place of Martin’s sealskin.

“I wanted to see if you’d thought about my offer,” Peter replies genially. Pushing his hands in his pockets, ignoring Martin’s radiating desire to be left alone.

Martin has. Peter doesn’t need Elias’ pretty little parlour tricks to know that Martin has likely thought about little else.

“I’ve been a bit busy.”

“Oh right!” Peter says after a moment’s pause. It visibly annoys Martin that it didn’t come to mind faster. “That spot of bother with the Flesh. All sorted now, I’m sure!”

“Why didn’t you do something to stop them?”

Peter crinkles his face in a deliberate confusion. Casting out his line.

“Why, what should I have done?”

Martin takes the bait with ease.

“It’s your job, isn’t it?” His voice pitches with accusation. His hands ball into fists, and he moves to standing, the chair complaining as it’s pushed back. “It’s your responsibility! You’re in charge now Elias is gone.”

“Thanks to you,” Peter replies smoothly. “And your companions seemed to do a good enough job. A few bruises here and there, a few near misses. Nothing they won’t heal from.”

Peter slides closer. Just a step. It makes his skin sing discordant at the proximity, but Martin stiffens, an anxious intake of air despite himself, and Peter knows he’s paying attention.

“I could ask you the same question,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“Why didn’t you do something to stop them?” Peter doesn’t sound judgemental. He doesn’t have to, Martin will paint on layers of meaning without overdoing this particular nuance of his game. “It was very impressive, watching you all. They all held their own very well. Except you. You could argue I suppose, that it’s not the same. That you’re not like the mer or the firebird or the sphinx, no added little genetic extras, and you don’t get any boost from any old helpful Power like that police officer, or the angry one touched by the Slaughter. You’re just Martin. And that’s… that’s the problem, isn’t it? Just Martin. Nothing to offer in the fight, no way to protect them. Holding them back. They could have been hurt, and you wouldn’t have been able to do, well, anything at all.”

“I…” Martin says, and Peter takes another step.

“The Extinction is a pressing threat. There isn’t time for me to wait while you finish your grave-side widow routine. I need you to help me, and it would be only fair, in return, for me to help you.”

“Oh, what, you can fix me then?” Martin snaps.

“Not at all,” Peter says. Smiling, because he is so funny, with his rage sputtering in a fog that seeks to tamp it flameless, stumbling headlong and blinded into the conversational pitfalls Peter’s dug behind him. “No, no, I’m afraid you’re broken, Martin. I speak from experience when I say you’ll never grow your skin back.”

Martin freezes. He looks Peter up and down like he’s expecting to see something different, the scales fallen from his eyes, but this is the only skin Peter has worn for so long now, and he endures the slightly prickling gaze of Martin’s Eye-touched observation.

“You… You were – ?”

“A long time ago. Before the Lonely granted me a better shroud to cloak myself in. It is not a selfish God, Martin. It offers gifts, or payment, if you prefer that way of understanding it, to those who work in aid of its ends. Benefits that could protect your friends, should something as unfortunate as the Flesh’s assault occur again.”

“And what about Jon?”

“He’ll wake up. Or he won’t.” Peter replies cheerily. “Either way, you can’t do anything for any of them like this.”

Martin gives him a scowl. Peter lets it pass over him. He knows, before Martin even opens his mouth, that he’s won.

Sasha avoids the sea.

She does not know why. Its pull is no lesser through her absence. She has dreams of sinking and never coming up for air, and she does not know if it is serenity in the ceaseless drop or despairing surrender. She marks the high days and festivals of her people alone and unremarked upon, speaks to her landward kin infrequently and vaguely. She needs to be here, she tells herself harshly. She can’t go off when there’s so much to do, when she’s in the process of losing so much. One of her family cold and vanishing, one breathing through a machine, and one… he died, died properly, and although he came back purged of something poisonous, the shrapnel scarring of collapsed masonry on his skin and the reddest, warmest wings sprung from his back, this does not settle her terrors.

She cannot leave. Not when she could lose sight of her splintering shoal so easily. Not when she’s unsure the temptation to dive down and out, deeper, further away, wouldn’t ensnare her to cowardice.

She finds the first scales in the shower. It’s a myth that any water will have the skin of her legs go slick, then bumpy, fusing into one muscled tail with her scales folding outwards. She can have showers and baths without impact. It’s the sea, that is the essential component. The same for most deepwater kin. Not the sea, maybe, or exactly, but what it represents in the change. It’s something about floating out into endless space clad only in human skin and human lungs and trusting not to drown. The letting go of one form with the tide and permitting the waves to bring forth another.

Her scales are dimmed, like they’ve smudged. Their colour diminished.

It’s not a molt. Her people don’t. Tim does, normally annually. Before they travelled to Yarmouth, he’d been dropping feathers around the office almost continually with stress. Nesting, and growing in new and painful sections of wing, snapping with a yo-yoing temper.

Tim notices. Maybe because he’s the only one left. Basira is holed up somewhere of course, as is Melanie, but it’s not the same. They weren’t here before, they don’t have the context for how much their group is diminished, falling to pieces slowly like her own skin is.

They’ll be visiting Jon later. She hasn’t seen Martin in weeks.

Tim approaches slowly. Looks at the flakes of blue in her hand. Understand flowers gently in his eyes, and he reaches out and touches her arm, and she forgot the world could manifest in ways other than hurtful.

“You OK there, Sash?” Tim asks.

“I don’t know,” she replies. “I don’t… I just…  When did it all go so wrong?”

“I dunno,” Tim repeats, and he doesn’t move away and she doesn’t want him to. “God, I – I don’t know, Sash.”

Jon’s clothes are dirt-clotted, ripped up by the grind of rock, and holding him tarnishes Tim’s feathers grey, smudges the pattern on his t-shirt into obscurity. His teeth are chattering, goosebumps bobbling up his arms and making the dark hairs up his arms stand on end. Tim suspects it’s more shock than cold.

Sasha brought him a glass of water, holding her palm under it because Jon’s long-fingered grip is so shaky it’s sloshing the water up the sides.

“Told you the rib was a shit idea, huh?” Tim says. Played as a joke and deliberately shorn of any accusation. He breathes in-and-out and Jon follows the rise and fall, and it benefits both of them. Tim’s getting better at control. He’s had to. His anger grows in like pinfeathers but so does his grief these days, a full plumage of emotions he is learning to deal with.

Jon coughs up something that could be agreement, but is mostly dirt and grave soil over Tim’s shirt.

You should have waited for us, Tim thinks but does not say because there would be too much teeth in it, and Jon’s skin is already whittling down to skeletal. We asked you not to go, we wanted a better plan, why didn’t you wait.

You could have died, down there in the dark, and we wouldn’t have even had a body to mourn, he does not say.

We love you, you idiot. We love you and even that wasn’t enough to stop you leaving, he does not say.

We’re already losing Martin, he does not say.

A room full of looping, chattering, overlapping tape recorders. Neither Tim nor Sasha stacked them, and Jon would not have thought to.

It should be a reassurance, that Martin’s been here.

God, Tim hopes he knows what he’s doing.

Sasha rubs at Jon’s back, helps him sip another small trickle. Tim’s wings, voluminous and unwieldy, knock over recorders in a clattering collapse as he scoops them around to shield them both. Against the balmy heat Tim’s throwing out, Jon’s shivers gradually subside.

“Daisy?” Jon murmurs. His teeth are grimy with soil.

“She’s with Basira,” Tim replies.

Sasha’s picked up the rib that’s dropped out of Jon’s clenched palm. Wiping the grime off it and staring at it without clear expression.

“Why, Jon?” she asks.

“I wanted to help,” Jon says. His words small, like he’s embarrassed that he even thought of it. “Even if it was one person. I wanted to be able to do something good for a change.”

“You could have died,” Tim says.

Jon’s horrible flat chuckle scrapes over his lips.

“I’m not sure I can anymore.”

“Yeah…” Tim replies subdued. He glances at the red daggers of his feathers and thinks he understands that.

“I wonder what it would take,” Jon says idly, slurring with exhaustion, and Tim grips him closer and hopes he never finds out.

Martin doesn’t react when Sasha sits down near him. The breeze, a vicious snagging chill tussles his hair, some wisps twisting into nothingness like smoke from an extinguished candle. She is still getting used to this Martin, or perhaps the Martin he never let others see. The toned-down stillness of him, the undisturbed waters of his expression. His skin not quite solid, the patches that have returned pale, sickly-pallored in the softening dim of moonlight. The rest of him is a coalition of fog, a hazy motion to his image like he’s wave-rocked, smoked out.

Long minutes pass. Sasha sits down cross-legged. The waves ripple up the stones that make up the strip of beach surrounding the loch, and they’re hard and uncomfortable under her.

“I can’t swim, you know,” Martin says finally. The sea is louder than he is, and he can make himself so quiet these days.

“No?”

Sasha keeps her tone light, inquisitive without intensity. Martin shakes his head, and his image lags, skipping disjointed, like his connection is poor.

More silence. Sasha doesn’t know what she should say, where Martin’s thoughts are at. She scratches behind the base of her gills, rubs at the dorsal fins sitting mostly flat under her sleep shirt.

“I didn’t live too far from the sea,” Martin continues. Looking at the wavering mirage of his hands without comment. She doesn’t even know if he recognises her presence. “We had Liverpool about an hour away. Even Blackpool, I guess. My primary school had a swimming club, where they’d pack them off to the big leisure centre on a coach afterschool. Kids’d get these little medals for managing like five metres, or ten, fifteen. But there was a small fee, and Mum said…” He snorts out a dismissive breath and his face twists, and neither of these actions suit him. “Doesn’t matter. I never went, and I never learnt, and that was that.”

“You could always come swimming with me?” Sasha proposes slowly. Lost in the swell of this conversation, why Martin’s talking about the sea, what this has to do with anything. She wishes he’d look at her.

Martin doesn’t answer immediately. He might not have even heard her.

“I told Peter, and he said that made it even better. That it was a such a – ” he says the word with a sneer, the words sharp-toothed in his mouth “ – gift, that I’d never even had the opportunity to know what I would miss, not even a memory to embellish or to sour. That there was so much that could root in absence. He said I should be grateful.”

“Peter Lukas said a lot of shit,” Sasha says.

She shuffles closer to him. Puts her hand on his knee.

“Whatever he told you was bollocks, you know that right?”

Martin blinks. After a moment, his hand joins over hers. His image grows denser, less likely to be stolen by the midnight air.

His eyes, fixed out on a horizon point in the slick dark of the loch, are still distant.

“I just wish I understood why she did it,” Martin murmurs.

“Who?”

“I did some research. After Elias… after I found out. I couldn’t have been the only person, and it’s rare enough but there are – help groups… you know, therapists that specialise in that kind of stuff. But I didn’t… I couldn’t face going to one. I thought that… knowing what was so wrong with me would make it easier, but it didn’t. All my life, I…. I was stupid enough to think it might be something I could fix. If – if I changed myself enough, if I said the right things, loved the right people, then I might… that someone could fix me. But it can't be fixed. That’s what all the leaflets said. That it was best to think of it like a permanent injury. Like having a stroke, or some sort of brain damage or something like that. Something irreparable.”

“Martin, sweetheart…” Sasha starts. She doesn’t understand. The flotsam of Martin’s speech grows erratic and he’s started shivering, and it’s no wonder, dressed in a t-shirt, pyjama trousers and some thick socks.

“Do you know much about selkies, Sash?” Martin powers on. Chattering teeth and goosebumps and it’s like he’s drawing something out of himself, some infection long done its damage. “Not many of them left, and they don’t usually venture landward like some of the other deepwater species. They mate for life apparently. Staunchly social communities, and some of them can’t… can’t cope, if they lose their group, or their partner. They take off their pelt, and just swim off to drown. A-and those help groups and therapists, those people who had theirs stolen, or destroyed… they’re, god, they’re all terminal. They last six months, maximum. Because it kills them, losing it. They waste away and they die. And here’s me…” Martin’s face twists again, and it’s bitter and angry and despairing all at once, “and I just get to keep going.”

“Selkies…?” Sasha says. “Why are you….”

She trails off in a gradually dawning horror.

“Martin?”

“She burnt it,” Martin says, his tone stringing higher now, distress sweeping in like a squall to break up the unnatural apathy in his voice. “I don’t think she knew what it would… I mean, I don’t know, maybe she did, maybe she wanted me gone just like dad, I don’t know, and I’ll never know because I can’t ask her why. I didn’t even… it was so long ago. I was sick and then I got worse and it was awful and I didn’t understand why I was so ill, why everything hurt just so much… and after, when I was better, Mum said it was appendicitis. I believed her. Course I did, why wouldn’t I. I didn’t know… not until Elias, and I’ll never know what I’ve lost, or why it didn’t kill me, maybe it was because I was so young, or because it’s only from one side of the family, I don’t –  I don’t know! I’ll never know! It’s a whole part of me that she just… she just took a-a-and…”

Martin’s back bows like whalebone. He takes long shuddering breaths like his words are keelhauling across his lungs.

Sasha’s never heard of a selkie with only half their soul. She can’t imagine, what it would do to someone.

She moves in front of Martin and he moves forward against her like a wave crash. He’s taller and heavier than her, and the impact pushes her back momentarily before her arms catch him.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” she says, “You can do it, breathe.” She holds him so surely, and she always will. And he starts crying then, the first time since Jon was in hospital, and he won’t or can’t stop shivering, and it is horrible to hear every emotion inside him claw itself back from the brink.

She keeps telling him to breathe, and he keeps following that instruction through sniffling and sobbing and broken-voiced confusion,  and she counts it as a small victory nonetheless.

Jon’s mouth cannot scream.

Tim’s in the next room, the kitchen, drying plates and bowls and cutlery, within shouting distance, and he’d be here in a moment – he’d help if only Jon could speak a word other than his unbidden, unwanted recitation.

Jon’s mouth doles out its terrible missive, and he doesn’t not feel like a person as Elias rolls out the triumphant red carpet of his plotting and scheming, the self-satisfied weave of his grand finale. And no, he’s not a person, not for a long time now;  he’s a catalogue, a testimony, an archive, and he would never have chosen this.

His hands scrabble at his throat, and his eyes are blurred with tears, his vision obscured, but it does not seem to matter, for his skin ripples and sloshes like an inkwell and a hundred eyes swell and pop and inflate again like bubbles against his skin.

Someone else screams. And the multitude of Jon’s eyes are newborn, fractal-imaged, gummed up with a feast of far-reaching horror all witnessed by him, overseen and devoured in his sight, and it is hard to translate what his original set of open, weeping eyes see. There is motion. Commotion. There are apologies being spoken in his ears, fervent, petitionary, but he is hearing the rising insistent thrum of the summoning and it is as sickening as it is beautiful. Someone is holding a hand hard over his mouth, the grip painful and punishing but even then the words burble out through the cracks. Another hand clamps over his eyes, and he shrieks and thrashes as his words gather to a crescendo.

A hand tears the paper from his grip. There is an acrid whoosh of smoke. Jon drops like the rigging of a ship being torn down. The hands at his mouth and eyes lower quickly to loop around his waist, catch him and hold him up.

Jon sees Tim, wide-eyed and shimmering with terror even as his skin burns gold and his feathers shine and there are only sooty flakes left of Jonah’s statement, scattering down from his palms.

He thinks it’s Martin behind him. Jon folds further, all his weight pitching forward and Martin’s forced to come down with him as he retches the leftover words in his mouth; king of a ruined world, he vomits up with bile and ink, and it splashes with a disgusting slop over the living room floor.

Sasha’s partially webbed hands are holding back his hair as he hacks and gags, his lips stained black, his stomach heaving as he chokes on everything that comes up, his stomach roiling with an overwhelming nausea.  Conduit of fear, he brings up, dribbling from his lips like paper pulp.

After a long while, it’s over. Sasha carries him to the bathroom, and helps him clean up, although Jon has little memory of it.

He wakes, feeling like a shipwreck, and Tim is there. Sat nearby, his head in his hands. His fingertips stained with ink and soot. He can hear Martin and Sasha talking in low tones nearby.

They're still here. Even now, he’s surprised that they haven’t left him.

And Jon has no words remaining, so his body betrays him with airless, silent tears, at all he could have wrought upon this world, at all the suffering he could have brought to their door to still be granted forgiveness for.

It is not the end. It is an interlude, a reprieve. In some ways a kindness, and in others, waiting is its own cruelty.

They’ve bought blankets to the beach in order to cushion the hardness of the stones rounded by tide and time. It’s the first time they’ve gotten Jon to come outside for more than a few minutes.  The scratches up the column of his throat healing. His voice still damaged, scratchy and scraped from misuse.

They’ll have to be moving on soon. To make plans for whatever future they need to avoid.

She sits up, and stretches out from where she’s been lying against Tim’s thigh. Glances at Jon, barely four metres away on a separate towel. Grey-haired and tired-eyed. Martin’s holding his hand, the left one crinkled by burns, as they talk about something treasured for its meaningless. Despite everything, Jon’s face practises relearning its smiles, even as he touches tentative at the marks around his neck, the bruising at the edges of his mouth.

The tension has not faded from Tim’s shoulders. His plumage sharp and strange even now. Her own scales patchy and bare, whole sections that have not grown back.

She considers her battered but striving shoal, and wants to show them that their past is not all there will ever be. That there will be an after-this, whatever that looks like. She wishes they spoke her tongue, so she could gift them names, new names, for the things they have become, this things that they have survived, and all that has survived them.

“Martin!” she shouts over, a sudden inspiration seizing her. “Want to come in the water with me?”

Martin’s expression barrels through at least three iterations before it hovers between wary and uncomfortable.

“I – er… I might just be better off here, actually.”

“No pressure,” she tells him, and she means it, for all she remembers that he has never had the chance to know the sea as she has, to feel his whole weight held up by the water. “But I am a pretty spectacular swimming teacher. I promise I won’t let go.”

Martin, to his credit, thinks about it. Gnaws on his lip, stares away from her and at his knees. Next to her, she can feel Tim bite back an enthusiastic declaration of encouragement for fear of spooking him.

Martin stands gingerly, and she is so proud of him.

“I haven’t got a costume,” he says.

“Your boxers will be fine.”

“We want something pretty to look at, show us those legs, Martin!�� Tim says. He times the tone playful, the perfect balance of joking and complementing, and it works, with Martin’s blushing and ‘shut it Tim’ distracting him from the enormity of his decision as he neatly folds up his jeans, and takes off his shoes and socks. Sasha peels off her long skirt, rolls down her tights. She dislikes shoes on principle, and rarely wears them.

The rocks dig into the soles of Martin’s feet as they waddle down to the shore, slow going and interspersed with wincing.

She takes his hand as they stop, stand a foot from the border between land and sea.

“We’ll just go a little way out,” she promises. “The water’s fairly calm but for your first time…”

“I don’t think I can do this,” Martin whispers. He hesitates, and she waits for his decision.  And then, he creeps forward, and she follows. He swears vehement as the water hits his toes, and he almost balks to feel the frigid temperature, but he pushes forward, his swearing getting more and more creative the further he walks out against the tide.

From the headland, someone cheers, likely Tim.

“Don’t look at them,” Sasha says. “Come on, this is all you, ok?”

Her legs unfuse into her tail, and she shivers out a feeling like cramp, luxuriating in the sensation against her skin.

Martin tentatively wades out. He’s tall, but there’s a point where he stops, knowing to move forward means his feet won’t touch the ground.

“A little further, yeah?” Sasha encourages, and he nods jerkily, a frantic up-and-down, his expression petrified. “You can do this. Don’t look at the water. Look at me.”

Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she pulls him slowly into deeper waters. His fingers are pressing rounded marks into her forearms. His leg gestures are sloppy, thrashing, and at one point he dips below the surface with the disturbance he’s making, and he splutters as he resurfaces, surging up, eyes bulging in a betrayed panic. She continues to reassure him and doesn’t let go as they stop and simply float, the shoreline easily in sight.

“How does it feel?” she asks.

“Wet,” he grumbles. Clearly concentrating, he treads, kicking out in a motion that gradually finds rhythm.

For a long while, it is them and the sea. The waves rub up against the bare patches in her scales, but the reminder is not painful.

Martin’s breathing calms. His terror recedes, and he looks down at the obscured water under them.

“Can we go out a bit further?”

She’s not doing as much pulling now. She shows him how to use his arms to push himself through water, and stopping and starting, correcting his gestures and posture and breathing as they go, they drift further out before stopping again, hanging suspended above the depths.

Martin smiles at his own unexpected success. He lets out a long, satisfied sound like something’s loosened in him for the first time.

His eyes, completely black, reflect the dour and overcast midday sun.

“Martin, your eyes.”

“What’s wrong with them?” Martin says, but no – he doesn’t say, he barks, and then gasps, and then barks again, stunned, unsettled. He doesn’t look upset. He’s bitten his lip with his too-sharp teeth that now line his gums, and he touches the sharp pain it has caused with incredulity, his still human fingers marking out the sensation of the new.

“What’s happening?” he asks and Sasha grins, and says “I don’t know, Martin, I don’t know” and he’s splashing, a seal without skin, something entirely himself, shivering minutely in the cold shock even as his smile shows off his pointed teeth. He barks again, the sound almost jolted out of him as he figures out how it works, and she trills in delight, and it sets him off grinning and kicking. And for the moment, for this moment, the Lonely is banished entirely landbound, and there is only them treading water, surrounded by the endless sea and trusting they will not drown.

They have to go back to land eventually. The waves around them start to wash choppy, the sky colours grey with the surety of rain. They swim back, and sometimes Sasha lets go, bobbing near his elbow as he swims slowly but steadily on his own.

Martin’s teeth flatten when they crawl onto the shore, panting and burbling out the dregs of their laughter. Tim and Jon have come over to greet them, Jon holding the towels and garments like an overladen clothes tree. Tim chucks Sasha a towel to fold around herself into a makeshift skirt before her tail bisects back into legs.

“Tim, Tim, Tim!” Sasha says excitedly, waving her hands and gesticulating.  “Did you see, did you see?”

“See what…?” Tim starts, but he glances at Martin, whose eyes are slow to fade from black to blue, and Tim might not realise what exactly has happened, but he senses the tenor of the mood because he’s barrelling in, knocking into Martin, wrapping him in a hug and nearly smothering him with his wings. Once released, Jon approaches slowly, putting his burdens down. Martin glances up at him, almost anxious now that the initial buzz is wearing down, but Jon goes softly to his knees, and his smile spreads across his face like paint in water.

The grey of the sky feels far off as they allow themselves the momentarily uncomplicated gift of being happy.

[mockingjayne12]

Take Me Home - Chapter 3

(Jamie x Claire / Outlander Fic)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

CHAPTER THREE:

She can feel the spray of scalding hot drops hit her back, their rhythmic pounding against her flesh vibrate through her, seeping into her skin, the heat of water the only warmth she allows herself to feel.  Her brown hair becomes blacker still, creating a shield, shrouding her in darkness.

“What are you, stalking me?” She hears herself say, the shock of seeing the red haired actor staring up at her with his impossibly blue eyes.

Her music softly plays through the trickling of water, the kind Gillian refers to as “doom and gloom” but whose words touch her in a way she doesn’t permit others to attempt, making her feel that maybe she’s not so alone.  She pulls her knees closer to her body, collapsed into a ball.

He nearly chokes on his laughter, her face turning red with an almost blush at her assumption.

“I dinna think it’s stalking, as ye say, if I was asked,” he teases, that grin she can’t wipe from her eyes playing on his lips.

“Asked?” She balks, and he points at Gillian, who’s not so subtly eavesdropping from her table behind them.

“I’m going kill her,” Claire mutters under her breath.

As if noticing that she was letting on that he’d thrown her off, she straightens, her long neck peeking from its collar, the tips of her eyes covered by fringe, leaving a narrowing effect down upon this man.  She can feel her heart beating loudly against her ears.

“What can I get for you?”

“I dinna ken, what’s good?” He asks with a raise of his brow, and a grin that she can’t quite tell if he’s trying to be cute or just oblivious to her mood.

Her hands drop by her side, her pad hitting her apron with an exasperated sigh.

“I do have other tables to get to…” And she swears his grin falters a bit before perking back up with a shake of his head, his curls floating across his eyes, like fire threatening to be extinguished by the blue sea it hovers over.

“Two coffees,” he says, and she balks again, the thought of someone joining him having never crossed her mind.  And she silently kicks herself for believing this was anything other than a coincidence, him being here.  He certainly didn’t show up for her.  Of course not.  And she quickly turns to escape before her glass face gives away that she ever thought differently.

Heading to the back, she glances at the mirror that hangs above the employee sink, and sees her hair sticking out in all directions, her fringe curling at the ends, and she quickly sweeps them to the side.  The stain on her shirt has set, a ring of embarrassment displayed for all, tie crooked, and the black of smudged makeup creasing in the crinkles her eyes give way to when she smiles, which isn’t too often these days.  Turning on the faucet, she cups the water between her palms before splashing the liquid against her face, the droplets momentarily waking her, before she attempts to wipe away the black evidence of sadness with her finger.

Sitting in the bed of her tub, the shower pours down on her, and she looks up into the water, never quite drowning her in its wake, instead trickling against her, escaping from her presence the way she wishes she could do to herself.

“Here you go,” she says, placing one coffee in front of him, and the other on the other end of the table, likely for some blonde he’ll have meeting him.  “Would you like to wait until the rest of your party gets here…” but her question trails off, as she sees him laugh just a bit to himself.  “Is there something funny?”

“No,” he quickly says.  “I’ll wait,” his tongue comes to lick his lips, and she swears if she had still been holding the coffee mugs, she’d have spilled them right into his lap.  

“Hmph,” she says with a flick of her head, and nearly running right into Gillian carrying a tray of drinks.

“Careful, Sassenach,” she hears over her shoulder, tempted to turn towards him with her tongue stuck out like a two year old, as she slinks off to her other tables.

Claire shakes her head, sending water hitting the curtain, her hair refusing to relent, clinging to her, like soot against snow, polluting her mind with conversations she knows she needs to rid herself free of.

She finds herself peeking over at his table as the rush begins.  A flurry of people begging for her attention, demands that have her questioning if they were this picky in their every day life or just when it came to food.  Every time she’d head over to refill his coffee, which was beginning to become impressive he could consume so much (the second cup still sat full) she’d be beckoned over to one of her more demanding tables, which was okay by her, it gave her an excuse to avoid James.  But her eyes refused to get the memo, constantly travelling over, raking over his strong back, to the red curls that gathered on his neck, the glint from the sun coming in through the window he sat by, striking the scar that rested on his cheekbone, and not for the first time, she finds herself wondering what it would feel like to run her finger over the mar of imperfection.

The water puddles in the bend of her arm, caught between her connecting flesh, with one movement she lets it go, splashing into to where her feet rest, and her toes curl at the sudden deluge.

“Get back to work, Beauchamp,” her manager’s voice grating on her nerves, interrupting her daydream.  Gillian always claimed he had a crush on her, but Claire mostly found the man to be harmless.  As long as she kept her head down and showed up for her shifts, he wasn’t too hard on her.  But when he’d lean against the counter just a little too close, she’d find an excuse to be busy.

“Going, Christie,” her emphasis on his surname not unnoticed.  But the rush had died down at this point, only a few patrons remained, one being James.

Sidling up to his table, she almost feels badly for the man who’d clearly been stood up.  Almost.

“Hot date didn’t show up?” She asks with a raised brow, her finger idly tracing her own mar of imperfection.

“Verdict’s still out,” he says with a shrug.

“Maybe next time,” she offers, and then scrunches her face at the idea of acting hopeful for his love life.

“We’ll see,” he says with a glint in his eye, and then she hears the giggles from a few tables back.  Glancing over she sees two women having clearly spotted James.

“Never short on admirers, I see,” she says as he stands, and Claire nearly stumbles backwards to get out of his way, his hands shooting out to steady her, briefly, before quickly letting go, her mouth hanging open as he makes his way towards the door, a quick nod and smile sent towards the two women who’d sent him fleeing.

“Hey, you forgot to…” she’s about to say, when he turns, his hand running through his hair, and then he’s off.  “…pay.”  She huffs, moving to clear the mugs, when she finds a bill tucked underneath the second cup of coffee.

Momentarily breaking from her sitting position, she reaches for the drain, stopping the water’s escape, left with no choice but to gather around her.

“Bitch, what was that for?” Gillian screeches, Claire’s hand having slapped her shoulder.

“You told him to come here?” She practically growls, her anger having stewed enough to skip a meal on her break.

“Told who?” Gillian says, voice going high, acting innocent, twisting a piece of her own red hair between her fingers.

“Fuck off, you told him to come here as some sort of pity date,” she argues, flopping back in her chair out back, the sun beating down on her pale face.

“Honey, if you think that was a date…” Gillian starts, tilting her head in horror at the thought.

“You know what I mean,” Claire’s words tinged in defeat.

“I simply suggested that if he wanted to see you again, he should stop by…that’s all,” her shrug acting as if it really was nothing to get angry about.

“Yeah, well, he clearly felt sorry for me, as he left me this,” she yanks a hundred dollar bill from her apron.  “Like he can just…buy me off like that.  I swear, they’re all the same.”

“At least he didn’t try to shove it into your shirt,” her friend counters with a sheepish grin.

“Yeah, well, I’m going to bloody shove this up his arse if he shows up again,” taking the money and putting it into a separate pocket.

“I love it when you get all British on me,” Gillian teases, causing Claire to roll her eyes.

There’s a break in the music as the song changes, a soft instrumental piece begins to play, the keys of a piano almost twinkle her vision with its sound, causing a settling feeling to manifest in her stomach.  It’s a nostalgic piece, one she can’t place, but that builds within her, until she’s breathing heavily.  The water climbing up above her ankles, just deep enough that she can easily lay down now.

She’s not sure why she’s surprised then the next day, as she’s pulling her mess of curls into a top knot, when Gillian runs up behind her with a beaming smile on her face.

“He’s back,” she practically sings.

“You’re kidding,” Claire says with an annoyed tone, but she can’t help the way her heart begins to beat just a little faster, as she quickly looks down to see that at least today she’s managed not to spill anything on herself.  Yet.

Marching out onto the floor, she quickly arrives at his table, the same one he’d been at yesterday, and she nearly does a double take, the glasses he’s wearing today somehow making him even cuter than usual, but she shakes her head, her indignation back within a second, and slams the hundred dollar bill down on the table.

“I’m not a charity case, James,” she sneers, and his shocked face looks up at her as if she’d slapped him.

“Never thought ye were, Sassenach,” he tries, but she’s not buying it.

“Who gives this much for two cups of coffee?  Do you think I’m that desperate for money?”

“No, I—“

“Because I’m not,” she says with a crossing of her arms.

“Wait, why didn’t ye use it to pay for my coffee?”

Her face begins to heat, her arms awkwardly adjusting, as she looks anywhere but him.

“You saved it just to make a point…”

“Yeah, so…”

“Stubborn,” he laughs.

“Stop, it’s not funny.”

“It’s a wee bit funny,” he says, making his accent thicker to drive the point across.

She narrows her eyes at him.

“Fine, consider it a downpayment.”

“For what?” Her hands come to rest on her hips, her mouth pursing, and she can see he’s fighting back a comment.

“For all the coffee I’m going to order,” he says matter of factly, a curl slipping underneath his lenses, and she has to dig her nails into her palm not to reach out and move it out of his eyes.

“I’m never going to get rid of you, am I?” She sighs, her annoyance rising at the same rate as her hope.  He was persistent, she’d give him that.  But it was only a matter of time until he got bored of whatever game he was playing and left.

“Not so long as ye’ll have me,” and there’s no hint of a grin with this, and she feels a warmth spread over her.

“Yeah, well…” she fumbles for words.  “I’m not allowed to kick people out so…”

“So…I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other,” he says, pulling out a book, the cover having been removed, so she can’t see what it is he’s reading.

“Great,” her sarcasm out in full force with an obviously fake smile.  “I’ll go get your coffee.”

“Jamie,” he says, almost a whisper.

“What?”

“You called me James, but my friends and family call me, Jamie,” he explains, licking his lips.

“Well, I am neither, James.”

And she swears she hears him mutter something in Gaelic as she walks away.

The music makes its way further and further from her as the water rises up against her ears, every subtle movement sending a wave crashing against her, a euphoric sensation trickles through her as the spray of the water beats down, slowly taking over her body.

Their routine becomes the same, every day James shows up, is seated at the exact same table in her section all the way in the back of the restaurant, with the same book, the same order of coffee.  Some days he’ll come in with his glasses already on, other days, he’ll pull out the case he has tucked in his pocket before diving into his book, always pausing whenever she approaches the table.

He attempts to engage her in conversation, but she knows how this goes, it’s only a matter of time before he gets bored and moves on.  So she carefully avoids answering anything about herself, the walls around her built high and sturdy.

She lets her hands rest on the surface, a delicate balance between rising to the top and pressuring herself to the bottom.  Her eyelashes feel heavy against her, wet and clumped, she teeters on the verge of being fully submerged and choosing to let her lips peek just above the surface.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” She’d asked one day, and he’d laughed, claiming his film was still in pre-production. And for as much as she acted annoyed at his appearance every day, she found it oddly comforting to have something to look forward to, although she’d never admit as much to herself.  She found she didn’t dread coming into work as much, waking up before Adso clawed her, a “bounce in her step” as Gillian had noticed, only to be quickly denied by Claire.  The banter between her and James had become one of few interactions she had throughout the week that wasn’t with either a pet or a coworker.  He was careful not to cross the invisible line she’d set for them, but he’d notice when she came to work one day with her hair braided, rather than it’s usual top knot or the bandage on her finger (from her cat) to which he’d perked up at getting a piece of information about her, and ever since had made it a point to ask how the “wee cheetie” was doing.  She wasn’t used to people being interested in her life, and most of the time she found herself holding her breath when he’d ask, like she was being backed into a corner with questions, her first inclination to lie or shoot back a sarcastic remark, feeling he was getting too close.  But she couldn’t deny there was a thrill there.

Plunging her head down, she imagines the struggle, how easily she could let it all go, the tiny beads of water creating tiny bursts in her ears as they spray down on the full tub she’s created.  Her eyes wide awake, refusing to close, her body tempted to buoyantly make its way to life, but her will demanding she weightily suspend herself between the choice to sink or swim just a moment longer.

“Well, don’t you smell nice today,” Gillian teases Claire as she rushes to clock in.  

Pulling on a loose curl, her friend refuses to let up.

“So you two married yet or what?”

“He’s just a customer, G,” the blush crawling on up her face, reaching for the light sprinkling of freckles giving way to the feelings she refused to admit even to herself.

“Yeah, a customer that just happens to be rich, famous, hot as fuck, and did I say rich?”

Claire rolls her eyes reaching to tie her apron on.

“Like you said, I’m not his type,” she reiterates, tossing a look that begs for the subject to be dropped.

“Fine, fine,” she backs off, holding up her hands in surrender.  “But if you don’t make a move soon, I will,” she winks.

Making her way out onto the floor, she looks to see if James has been seated, only to find his table empty.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she attempts to distract herself with her other tables, her eyes always wandering over to where she’d become accustomed to him being,  nearly snapping when the hostess seats a group at the table that’s usually reserved for the bookish redhead.  She can feel the hurt rising in her chest as the hours tick by and he never shows, and with it, comes the anger at having let her feelings reach a point where she’s actually upset at his absence.  Her mind reeling at having thought, just for a second, that maybe he could like her.  Maybe someone could actually care.  But she’d been wrong.  They were all the same.

By the time her shift ends, she’s near tears.  Beating herself up with self-loathing foolishness that has her stripping off her clothes and crawling into the shower, flicking on her music, as she settles back to her old routine, washing away James Fraser from her life.

Bursting upright, she lets the water slide from her along with her anxiety, threatening to pour over the tub and flood her floor, and that first breath, the one she found she’d been holding longer than before she’d sunk underneath, feels all too familiar, the moment she has to accept that she’s still here.  Not clean, not healed, but still here.  Another day ahead of her.

A day that didn’t include James Fraser.

[baekberrie]

heal me - bbh

✨Genre: Romance, angst, fluff, hearing loss and outcast au (if that makes sense)

✨Pairing: Baekhyun x reader

Everything surrounding you started seeping into brighter colors the first time you saw him.

It wasn't a particular day. The sun was hiding behind fluffy clouds painted in streaks of gray, the breeze fluttering the curtains by the big windows felt colder than it should have been in the mid of May. While the adorable daisies were eagerly starting to pop in the grass, it was hard to grasp the spring with such unstable weather. Your gaze was lost in the immensity of the sky, it was one of those days. Those days who blended in with the rest, those who were blurry whenever you tried to recall them- and you- you just existed, sitting by the desk in the classroom while people walked past you, sat in their seats and acknowledged each other. You were there and yet it felt as if you were just invisible. A sigh pushed past your lips as you mentally encouraged yourself. It was going to be another of these unbearable days, treated like you were absolutely nothing more than dust, but you knew you were going to make it until the end of the day, like always. While the sun was up, you allowed yourself to show only one expression, only when you were in the safety of your home would you finally let the loneliness overwhelm you. You let it take your breath away from your lungs and spill from the edge of your eyes, into small but infinite tears.

The ringing bell was just a distant sound while you tried your best to swallow the growing lump in your throat. Thinking about how lonely you felt would always end up in you hurting your own feelings. But for the first time, you didn't have to calm your own frantic heart, for when the teacher entered with a new student next to him you totally forgot about what was going through your head. It had been a while since a new face had entered this class. In fact, you had memorized everyone's face and names on the very first day, while you were sure that no one even remembered yours. The boy looked tall next to the teacher although his height was just average. Your heart skipped a beat, there was something that struck you when gazing at him. It wasn't his incredibly intriguing droopy eyes, nor the way his brown hair fell so beautifully down his face. And although you were taking notice of all of these things, it was neither the way his smiley-like lips pronounced his name or how his voice was the most melodic sound you'd ever heard.

"I'm Byun Baekhyun, please take care of me." He introduced himself shortly and you found yourself slightly flinching when his orbs pierced right into yours as he spoke. That, that was what struck you. You had never seen this boy before, and yet- as no one had ever done in many years, he hadn't looked just past you, right through you as if you weren't there. Instead, he had held your gaze while his serious expression had shifted into a gentle smile that you had never had directed to you and you just could not comprehend it, nothing of it- that someone had just acknowledged you, although in the most minimal of ways. It might be something completely irrelevant for anyone, but you couldn't just help the swelling heart inside of your chest, how it trembled so eagerly that you felt it rub against your ribs.

As if a sheet of paper splashed with watercolor, you felt yourself absorb its colors and slowly but surely you became a part of the world you were living in, and no longer a mere wallflower.

The second time you shared contact with him was a good amount of days later. You had to admit, his mere presence had made your life so much more interesting, it felt as if you had discovered a new book that you just knew you were going to love, and perhaps, you had become more eager to live it. Every morning you would wake up with anticipation buzzing through every inch of your body. It was a feeling that you couldn't help, nor did you know how to handle it, the curiosity that bloomed within you as if flowers in the wild. Were you being odd? It wasn't like you followed him around or anything of the sort. You contented yourself with stealing glances at him in class, and little did you use the excuse that he was answering the teacher to stare at him a little more freely.

It was lunch break for everyone, and just like any other day you were wandering in the gardens of the school while taking tiny bites of your only sandwich, trying to make it last longer although that didn't sit too well with your hungry stomach that wanted all of it right away. It was when you saw him sitting in your usual spot that you completely forgot about your empty stomach and the half-eaten bread in your hand. Baekhyun who was sitting on the grass underneath a tree with his eyes squinted to his notebook and his hand scribbling away while surrounded by small daisies looked like a beautiful photograph, and you would've taken one if you didn't stand religiously by privacy rules.

You did feel extremely timid but still fought against the feeling and willed yourself to take a step into his direction, and one more, one more, until you were standing behind him. You were to be surprised when you saw that he had actually been drawing. His hand moved incredibly skillfully across the paper as he quickly drew lines here and there, picturing the small flowers proudly peeking from the grass. Only when he extended his index finger to smudge the coal on his drawing did you notice the pretty shape of his nails and fingers, and for a short moment, you felt slightly jealous of his unfair beauty. It was strange that he hadn't noticed your presence behind him yet, and to be frank, you would have never imagined that you could ever be capable of speaking to a stranger first, but there was an urge in your chest. You really wanted to know the reason behind your sudden eagerness toward someone that had simply graced you with a smile.

You swallowed before crouching down so that your heights were the same, for a moment, all you could do was chew nervously on your lip.

"Your drawing is very pretty," You finally managed to breathe out and all you could make out for a moment was how your heartbeat echoed like loud drums in your ears. But soon enough it was confusion taking over when the boy did not budge the slightest. You frowned as the confusion morphed into slight hurt and thousands of doubtful thoughts clouded your mind. Perhaps you had been too hopeful to believe that a little smile had been more than a mere coincidence. He probably meant nothing with that, he was not the least interested in what you had to say. Teeth drilled into your lip as you stood up to leave, the embarrassment washed over you like a bucket of ice-cold water, crawling into your chest and you had to squeeze your eyes shut to try and lessen the feeling.

"Did you say something?" You immediately spun around with your eyes widening when Baekhyun suddenly called out to you, only to see him plug something into his ears. Hesitantly, you nodded, taking small steps closer to him.

"I said that your drawing is very pretty." You repeated while desperately trying to hide the insecurity in your trembling voice, crying inwardly for how your it cracked in the middle of your sentence. Baekhyun's questioning expression had like that one time, softened into a smile that made his eyes disappear into small, twinkling crescents as he muttered a shy thanks and rubbed his neck.

"I'm sorry if it seemed as if I was ignoring you, actually I..." The boy trailed, reaching out to his ear and picked the hearing aid off it, mustering it to you. A loud gasp left your lips and you couldn't be more ashamed for having assumed so many things about him without even knowing better.

"I have an extreme hearing loss, and well," He chuckled, "sometimes these things get uncomfortable so I take them off." He owed you no explanation, and yet there he was, being extremely friendly at the same time as extremely oblivious to the fact that you had in head your dragged him to the same corner of toxic people that were in your class. Regretfully, you imagined yourself dragging him out of that corner and apologized.

"Uh, no, actually I am sorry- I..." To your surprise, he laughed without even letting you finish your sentence. You had no idea what he found so funny, but the warmth in his voice felt like the sweetest medicine for your wounded heart. His chuckles faded into thin air and as soon as it was over, you found yourself wanting to hear more of it.

"Sorry for what?" He shook his head, "It's okay, it happened a long time ago, it's not a sensitive topic." he explained calmly, fearlessly keeping the eye contact. Compared to you, he wasn't scared to hold other people's gaze as he spoke.

" Do you want to see my drawing?" Baekhyun offered a closer look at his masterpiece and somehow, even if your legs were by now jelly, they held your weight as you took the remaining steps towards him and squatted down to see his art.

It was beautiful, but you couldn't help but think that his expression full of joy as he showed you was too, and more.

✨✨✨

If your life had been interesting in the first days of his arrival, right now, you believed it had turned into the most magical film- for one meeting with Baekhyun had turned into two, into three, until it became every day. At this point, you were sure nothing could ruin the happiness making your heart beat louder at the sole thought of spending your day next to him.

Underneath that big tree in the school's garden, was the place where the two of you would be together at every opportunity. The spring was bringing such lovely warmth and gentle breezes that caressed your skin in the most comforting of ways, it was a must to take part in it by sitting outside. Not many words were exchanged during those moments, and although you had grown so addicted to the sound of Baekhyun's soft and low voice, you didn't mind the peacefulness in the shared silence. In the end, you couldn't be more thankful to his sole company, sitting next to him like this was enough to curl your lips into a smile you had never known you were able to muster.

Baekhyun's back leaned against the tree just like yours, and you couldn't help but feel extremely aware of the fact that his shoulder and arm were pressed lightly against yours. But that wasn't merely it, you might have been a loner for a long time but you knew what physical contact was. You just couldn't understand the tingles taking place in your body, the extreme heat forming in that one spot where your arms brushed each other. Your favorite book was now aimlessly open in your hands as you couldn't recall when it had become so completely uninteresting. Little did you know, it was a certain someone stealing every single spotlight there was to claim. Like a sun drawing every sunflower to its brightness, he was.

The wind was softly fluttering his hair that was now a bit too long and would sometimes cover his chocolate eyes. Since both of you had opted for no talking, the boy had removed the hearing aids from his ears and let all of his concentration go to the new sketch that he had started. That was how it would usually go, Baekhyun sketched while you read your book. But this time, there was nothing you could do to hold back the extreme urge to look at him that was crawling underneath your skin. It was like his figure was magnetic and your eyes would restlessly pull to him no matter how hard you attempted to get a hold of yourself and stop staring.

At one point, you found yourself completely defeated as you leaned your cheek into your palm and succumbed to part of you that didn't want to do anything but observe him and his features that you had seen a million times by now. Though, multiple times you had been proved wrong. Baekhyun was like a painting and every time you'd look at him there would be something new for you to discover. This time there was another tiny mole on the side of his nose that entered the small constellation he already had.

While you were in a daze, Baekhyun had eventually felt your intense stare on him and so he turned slightly around to meet your gaze. As his questioning puppy eyes suddenly came into your view, you flinched back like a deer caught in headlights. Great. Couldn't you have been a little more obvious?

The boy cocked his head to the side questioningly, curiosity swam in his orbs and you could only cower underneath the intensity of his gaze. Biting your lips, you avoided his eyes and shook your head frantically, trying to dismiss the fact that he had caught you staring. The heart was crashing nervously against your ribs while cold sweat was prickling under your clothes. Heat gathered on your cheeks which did not go unnoticed by Baekhyun whose lips curled into a fond smile while his pretty hand reached out for your warm cheek. His fingers and gave it a short caress, his fingertips soft as feathers tracing your skin, making your blush turn from pink to scarlet as you froze completely in your spot.

"Liar," He whispered playfully.

Oh, how your heart was running ahead of you without giving you the chance to catch up.

✨✨✨

Pain.

A dazing pain traveled from your spine up to the back of your head after that someone had accidentally pushed you into the metal lockers. It ached, to the point of black spots appearing before your eyes. Your lips twitched at the pulsating sensation of bruises forming onto your skin while a groan pushed past your lips. Normally, you would have fled from the scene as quickly as possible, only to suffer alone in the school's bathroom. Though not a single muscle in your body induced you to run away as all you felt was a fit of overwhelming anger that heated the blood in your veins. Eyes searching for whoever had done such an unfair thing to you, a yell made its way from your throat.

"Hey! What the hell was that!?" You breathed out, nostrils flaring, "Can't you see I was walking here?" Sure, you knew you blended in with the crowd, to this day, you had never blamed anyone for bumping into you. But you were tired. So tired of it, of pretending to be fine with it. The person merely shrugged their shoulders while muttering a meaningless apology underneath their laugh.

The lump in your throat grew and your teeth drew blood from your lips when you suppressed the loud sob that threatened to erupt. It wasn't the fact that they had physically hurt you, but the completely unfair treatment that you could just not comprehend. How someone could be so repugnant to hurt someone they didn't even know and act as if nothing happened.

Only when you reached your favorite spot in the school's garden did you let the tears fall freely, knowing it would feel better to let them out than to let them burn behind your eyelids. You sniffed quietly while the cool breeze cut against the trails of salty water on your cheeks. After meeting Baekhyun you had thought that you were never going to feel like that ever again, but you were once again proved wrong. You got reminded that for Baekhyun you might be someone, but that did not make you any different from before in the eyes of others. The sigh that left your lips trembled along the shivers covering your body as the wind swept your hair behind your shoulders. Head buried in your knees and shut your eyes close, trying to find some comfort in yourself- but found only coldness, loneliness. You chuckled humorlessly by yourself, in the end, you were bound to be the same insignificant particle of dust they had made you out to be.

Rigidness made its way through your body when the faint noise of nearing footsteps reached your ears.  A slender hand squeezing your shoulder made you look up from your previous position and your heart skipped a panicked beat at the sight of a concerned Baekhyun. You didn't know whether to feel relieved or uncomfortable that was witnessing you in such a state.

"B-baekhyun-" You stuttered while hurriedly drying your cheeks in a failed attempt to hide the fact that you had been crying. "What are you doing here?"

"I saw you in the corridors earlier but you weren't in class, so I came looking for you." The boy explained softly, sensing how you were in a sensitive state. He sat down on the grass in front of you.

"But- you'll miss class,"

"It doesn't really matter right now," Baekhyun dismissed without even thinking twice and ran a gentle finger down your cheek, making you shiver. "What's wrong?" Baekhyun murmured soothingly while in his orbs pooled concern. You hesitated at first, but the warmth in Baekhyun's gaze made you melt and heal all at the same time.

With your gaze cast downwards on your hands that were clamped together, you sighed, "Sometimes I just feel like I'm nothing. Like nobody sees me. And I just-" your voice broke in the middle of your sentence. "I just feel so lonely." Tears gathered on the edge of your eyes, rendering your view blurry as you intensely stared holes into your hands.

"Hey," Came Baekhyun's soft whisper, Baekhyun's soft caress as his incredibly delicate yet warm palm cupped the side of your face. "Please look at me," He pleaded, "Look at me," he repeated weakly.

His hand gently led you to meet his eyes that were frantically searching for yours.

"You're here, and I see you. I always will." Baekhyun led you to rest against his sturdy chest and for a moment you felt your breath disappear inside of your throat at the sudden action. His words echoed into your mind while you couldn't help but note how this closeness was something so unfamiliar to you and yet something that you had never known you'd needed.  

Slowly but surely, he was able to chase the reason for your tears away. It felt so surreal, how warm he was, all of him. His arms, his chest, his hands that rested on the back of your waist. They were all so scorching hot in the most inviting way possible and you felt yourself melt in his embrace. Your heart was beating wildly in your chest, desperately trying to crash out of your ribcage and you were sure Baekhyun could feel it, for he started rocking your bodies ever so slowly. Soon enough you were able to calm down- because Baekhyun's heartbeat was right next to yours and its melody lulled you into calmness.

He was like medicine, like everything you had ever needed. He was a blessing and his soft voice murmuring words of comfort resembled such noise as of angels singing.

Maybe, after all, you weren't completely lonely. A faint smile graced your lips as you snuggled deeper into his embrace, no, you really were not lonely. Baekhyun might be the only person you had.

But if you had him, you also had everything.

✨✨✨

Classes had ended hours ago and by now most students had already gone home. Well, except for you and Baekhyun who had stayed after class to get an assignment done. You couldn't describe the fulfilling happiness and thankfulness that overwhelmed you every time you'd even just look at him. Day by day you felt yourself become happier, brighter, the better version of yourself you would have never reached if not for him. Inside of you was no longer coldness, nor darkness, but wines, leaves and colorful flowers blooming within every inch of your body.

You were happy.

The wind was remarkably stronger in the evening, but it felt even colder when leaning against the rooftop's railing, having it sweep against the frame of your face and fluttering your hair away into every direction. While you had been at it, Baekhyun had insisted for the two of you to look at the sunset. The sky had turned into every shade of pink and violet and it amazed you how even small streaks of orange had found their way into melting in the immense painting that was the sky. It was incredibly beautiful, but what was it, even more, was Baekhyun whose fair skin reflected every color of the sunset as if a canvas itself,  whose twinkling eyes mirrored the melted clouds, and the crescent moon in the sky.

How your heart skipped every beat for him and him only.

Baekhyun's ears were free from the hearing aids, you noted, wondering if you were a coward for what you were about to do. Certain words were dancing on the tip of your tongue while your fingers nervously fidgeted with each other and heat gathered on your cheeks. Your lips parted and you mentally tried to calm your throbbing heart down. It was futile. It wasn't anything you could control, it was as if your voice had a mind of its own as your lips pronounced meaningful words. A part of you felt relieved because you didn't know if you were truly ready to have him hear these words. But what you did not know was that just like you had a while ago, Baekhyun had found you way more intriguing than the breathtaking scenery.

"I think I love you," You breathed out into the breeze, looking up to the sky once again. But your sightseeing did not last long when a pair of hands suddenly appeared on both sides of your face, making you gasp. Baekhyun's soft lips came eagerly crashing onto yours without any warning. You felt yourself almost suffocating, completely out of breath, and dazed by his incredibly sweet scent clouding your senses. The boy parted away from you for a few seconds, barely allowing you to process what had just happened before leaning in again, this time way gentler. Baekhyun gently guided your lips apart before settling his own between yours, locking them into a slow, lingering kiss. They were warm, soft but most of all, tasted like strawberries, and you found yourself melting completely.

His lips detached from yours with a fond grin resting upon his face while his mischievous puppy eyes crinkled into an adorable eye smile. Baekhyun's hand was absentmindedly playing with a few strands of your hair.

"I may have removed the hearing aids," he stated matter of factly, eyebrow quirking playfully, his hand that had been playing with your hair cupped your face again, the pad of his thumb brushed against your lips.

"But I can still read your lips."

✨✨✨✨✨✨

...hello everyone! Yep, so idk if you can tell, but this was a desperate and painful attempt of me trying to get comfortable with my writing again.

Do I want to delete this right away? Yes. Do I feel anxious about posting? Yes. Do I wanna cry? Also yes-

No, but I have no idea why I have been feeling this way. I haven't been able to write a single word without feeling awful and ew just bad about everything. I guess I'm just very afraid of being irrelevant and not being as good as I was before. sigh, I sound stupid don't I?

Well, I hope this wasn't a complete, boring failure and that at least you guys could enjoy it! Please do tell me what you think, give me feedback, where I'm lacking or even some advice to get back on track with the positive thoughts. It would be nice💕 Have the nicest day, lots of love and hope, P💕💖

sorry for errors!

[artificialqueens]

Different Names For the Same Thing (Trixya) - Chapter Two - Pilandok

 Katya has recurring dreams about a Trixie he never knew.

AN: Hello! This is an expansion of a drabble in my collection and I might be shooting myself on the foot by turning this into a multi-chap fic but *shrugs*. Thank you for reading! (The first chapter of this fic was posted in AQ with the title And Not One Speck Will Remain.)

Read fic in AO3.

            It takes a few weeks for Katya to realize what the hell he’s been dreaming about. He’s never been one to fixate on them and he usually just lets the fragments scramble away when the morning arrives. He has no interest in chasing them, what’s the point? They’re just afterimages. He loathes vague, half-hearted sensations. As soon as he wakes up, he becomes preoccupied with the scratchiness of his sheet-less mattress and the dryness of his throat— and more importantly, the craving for a cigarette.

            “I’ve been seeing the exact same thing in my sleep for like two weeks straight,” Katya tells Trixie over a laugh— a reaction to something funny Trixie said about wet dreams. They’re sitting on their stools in the basement, in front of a green screen and Katya knows that the camera is rolling but Pete hasn’t told them to start yet.

            “Like recurring dreams?” Trixie asks.

            “Recurring dreams,” Katya answers, “right, that’s what you call it.”

            “What have you been dreaming about?”

            “Uh. I don’t know, actually.”

            “Then how would you—“  Trixie sighs in faux-exasperation, “how would you know if you’re seeing the same thing?”

            “A feeling,” Katya shrugs. “But it’s all a blur. A recurring blur.”

            “Your entire life is a recurring blur,” Trixie replies without missing a beat.

            Katya howls and thinks, you better keep that in, Ron.

            Later, Katya realizes that he’s been dreaming about Trixie.

            Katya watches Trixie on the grass beside him, eyes closed, left arm tucked underneathe his head. He thinks he must be mirroring Trixie, lying down on their side in the grass. Trixie looks young, incredibly young. Too young to have even thought of make-up or drag or Trixie— anything that would suggest that he was headed down the path that would entwine him and Katya irreversibly. It doesn’t strike him as odd but dreams have always lent themselves to a suspension of disbelief. What does unnerve him is the silence. Trixie is quiet and the forest is, too, for Katya has the ears of a frequenter that has learned to tune out the white noise. It’s not exactly an out-of-body experience because he can feel the physicality of owning a body. It just doesn’t feel like it’s his.

            Trixie opens her eyes and looks back at him with an indecipherable look. He wants so badly to make joke, a dirty one that would make Trixie scream in laughter. Instead, he feels his hand reach out to touch Trixie’s face. His fingers trace the jawline. Katya recognizes the cheesiness of youth but he’s unable to shrink away from it, he can only feel his heart beating with an impossible vigor.

            “Brian, what’s wrong?” Katya hears his voice speak but it isn’t quite his voice. Trixie shakes his head, one hand clutching tightly on grass. Katya grits his teeth.

            “Tell me about the testaments again,” Trixie tells him with a horribly genuine smile, voice just broken into.

            “I can tell you about Luke” Katya says, and he has the urge to talk about how bizarre that book is. Did Brian know that it’s the only book that mentioned the idea of Mary’s immaculate conception? Instead, he asks, “If I take you out of here, where do you want to go?”

            Trixie looks surprised, but his smile gets wider. Katya imagines that Trixie’s feeling the same giddy whir in the chest that he is. He watches Trixie wrinkle his brows, taking his time to think. But when he does answer, it seems like the most obvious thing in the world.

            “Malibu.”

            Katya lurches forward catching Trixie’s lips with his. In the middle of the forest, with the after school setting on them both, kissing Brian on the mouth,  this is when Katya feels the most like himself.

Katya doesn’t think that it means anything, he’s had his fair share of odd visions of alternate realities. He’s just not one to pass on an opportunity to make-out with someone. If anything, he’s puzzled that he doesn’t wake up with a raging boner everytime.

            It’s not that he means to, but he brushes them off easily. Even after that night with Trixie when he cried unknown tears, even if he can feel the loaded stares from the boy in question, he thinks that it can’t mean anything. So when he kisses Trixie in the real world, whose mouth was open mid-smart-ass remark, in front of the grand total of four people in the waiting room of some random online publication, he has no idea what the fuck that was about.

            “Smoke break,” Katya says as soon as he pulls away, and walks out of the room, fleeing before the tension builds.

            Trixie finds him outside a few minutes later, sans cigarette (he’s an idiot, he forgot it), and all is unquestioned and forgiven, this isn’t the worst way you’ve walked out on me.

Katya notices that Trixie has already removed the red smudges and reapplied his own matte pink lipstick. Katya hates it, suddenly, Trixie is so fucking nice. No, not nice, because he’s not really nice. Just dumb. Who would care so much for an asshole like him? And he knows for sure that he’s an asshole because he probably kissed Trixie because of an inexplicable horny impulse and a skip in logic. And he’s an asshole cause he wants to do it again. Just so Trixie would stop looking at him like that. Like he knows what to do even though he doesn’t understand. Like he would keep forgiving him for whatever fuck up.

            Katya’s arms motions toward Trixie but Trixie catches him by the shoulder. He feels his stomach sink at Trixie’s purposeful gaze.

            “If you want to do it, don’t grab my face,” Trixie tells him, a hard edge in his voice. Still, he doesn’t move away and he drops his gaze to Katya’s lips.

            Katya can always tell how bad his ideas are before he does them, and this one feels particularly foreboding, like he’s betraying an old memory. But really, he isn’t one to pass on an opportunity to make-out.

[namjoonchronicles]

flower face • nj

↳ pairing namjoon, you

↳ genre drama, fluff

↳ words 1.6k

↳ warnings none

↳ notes this is a leisure writing, after awhile

Life is like riding a Ferris wheel. Sometimes you're up, close enough to touch the skies. Sometimes you're down, that your feet are glued to the ground. But it keeps spinning. The pacing is slow, and excruciating. If Namjoon could describe the life he shared with you, he would say something like "Roller coaster" or a walk through a haunted house. The fights are endless, the love is sometimes questionable, but there's one thing that rings true; the friendship.

After all, when the love is gone, the friendship stays. Most couples that last longer than 10 years says so.

There are many things you disagree on, and things you do. Being a closed off person you are, Namjoon took years to understand you and your aloofness. Heck, he actually thought he was doomed to fail. You were guarded and a private person to begin with. Was and always will be. It was a prohibited area, but Namjoon didn't care. He knows he will eventually scrape the surface close enough to know what kind of person you really are. In your point of view, he didn't just scrape the surface, he forced his way in.

His persistence and albeit, overall interest in you was overwhelming at first. Especially when you felt that you were nothing special to begin with. In your words, "if I were in a room full of people, you would look past me." Namjoon proved to you that in a carnival swarmed by faceless crowds, he will find you.

Faith didn't come easy at all. In fact, your first encounter almost made you both, sworn enemies.

Different walks of life, different aspirations, different opinions. You didn’t expect to be understood. Where the lines get hazy, between personal beliefs and fitting into the community—you didn’t expect them to understand why you had to do what they don’t.

“First come, first serve,” no smile, just straight out facts. Guttural voice just reverberates through your veins, and your heart fell to the ground at the thought of that one thing you needed.

“Namjoon, you know I needed that lab coat, I asked you to keep just one for me,” your voice was half-pleading, half stern, but he didn’t waver one bit as he collects his things from the bench where it lay a few white lab coats for sale, just in time for pharmaceutical lab experiment next week.

“—you don’t pay, you don’t get one, simple,” he slid one strap of his bag over his shoulder and was ready to leave but before he could, you turned away, shaking your head. No further conversation was needed.

That was the first and the last time you interacted with him. The second time was needless to say, hostile. He understood the hostility.

“We have a new batch of donuts if you’d like to wait another two minutes?” You squinted your eyes at the clock, beaming at the customer standing right in front of you. The customer politely declined, saying that he had to be in the class in 20. You nodded understandably. It can’t be help. Your loyal customer couldn’t get his favourite custard filled donuts, rubs off the wrong way, so you reminded him to come again tomorrow so he could get them.

The door chimes an entry.

And the shoe soles shuffle on the marble flooring of the bakery you worked for. But you’ve turned away and passed the baton to your co-worker, already untying your apron and disappear into the back.

Your hair looks different, tied up in a bun. In class, you would tie them loose in a ponytail and apart from that, Namjoon can’t remember other styles you’d don. He didn’t really pay attention. Until now that is.

“You’ll be alright on your own?” Your bun is gone and the girl, a few years younger perhaps, chirps and confidently nods. Namjoon pretend to look for the donuts he wanted.

“Sir, can I help you?” You tattled, it was when he looks up that you realised who it was, “Namjoon?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He blurted. And as soon as the words leave his mouth, he looked like he regrets it. But a split second later, he looked angry. Firm. Sure.

“What I do outside college is none of your business,” you thwarted, picking up your bags, “We have a class, I don’t want to be late. We can’t walk together because you have long legs and I don’t.”

Namjoon looks perplexed. It sounded like a joke but the way you said it, wasn’t. Did you really meant that?

Namjoon pulls his bag to the front and unzip them. He took out one new white coat, in a white packaging. Handing it to you as you walked out the bakery.

You stopped in your tracks. You gaze up to him and then to the packaging he held out.

“I know you borrowed labcoats from seniors that don’t have lab sessions the same day as us. I didn’t understand why you couldn’t pay on time then, but I do now. I forgot that we’re not all... able.”

Your eyes stings at the corners. Fearing that Namjoon might see, you took the white coat from him and let out a barely audible “Thanks,” sprinting away before he could say anything else.

Great. He felt even more crappy now. From that moment, he begins to look at you differently. What else are you hiding? What stories do you have? He tried to be closer. He apologizes any time he can. For walking past, for standing next to you, for being near you. Although you shrug it off like its nothing.

“How about we grab lunch today?” He suddenly asked.

“Sure. But I have my lunch upstairs,” you tell him. By upstairs, you meant in your dorm, where boys aren’t allowed.

“Oh,” failed. It’s halfway through the semester and he wasn’t able to properly apologize. Or he did, but he didn’t feel like it sufficed. He blames himself too much.

“I was so oblivious. So oblivious about her struggles,” Namjoon typed in his blog, “I wished I had seen sooner. I wish I wasn’t such a prick. This guilt is eating me.”

Things have changed now.

Coffee breathes. Crumpled sheets. Bare skin. A whiff of your perfume, whisked and stirred him awake long before you noticed. So he propped his head up to rest against the board, watching you get ready. You had your little makeup on already, careful not to smudge them. You weren't exactly silent, but he knows you didn't mean to wake him. He waits patiently until you noticed, but he didn't mind if you don't. His eyes shuts slowly, still feeling sleepy.

A mug of coffee sitting right by the corner of the dressing table, you are using your eye curler once more to get the curl you're satisfied with. Pastel pink flowy blouse on a black slack, you never really bothered to look extremely exquisite because appearance aren't everything. Back then, you used to get lashed out on by your roommates for not thriving for the beauty standards the community has set for you. Just like then, you don't give a fuck about what they think. What you have in mind, your integrity and credibility is far more important than impressing the eyes that saw you.

But Namjoon thinks you're beautiful even with just a decade old shirt on and simple sweats. Infatuation is the word.

"You're awake, g'mornin'," the tip of the eye caught him peeping through his bangs, the duvet pooled around his waist, covering what's underneath. Smiling cunningly at him as he curled to his side. He was pulling the blankets up to hide his cheeky face. You marched to the side of the bed and ran your fingers through his thick locks of hair, his hand snaking up around your waist as he sits to bury his face in your stomach now. You hugged his head and plant a kiss on the top of his hair.

"You're being cute today," you stated, pushing his face away gently, to tip his chin up and to the side where he love bites are, "Hmm, blossoming as planned." You squinted your eyes and pursed your lips to kiss his button nose. He is a bit under the weather since he returned from his trips. Even now, his skin felt warm to the touch, but much better than the night before. You've done everything in your power to bring those fevers down, and you felt slight accomplished with hope with the way he is feeling now, you hoped.

"All medications on the counter, and it's very important to take them on time..." you reminded him, peeling his arms off from you because you don't want to be late today.

Namjoon nodded. He hasn't said a word. He watches you leave the room to the kitchen and saw your reflections in the mirror, mug in hand and taking multiple sips of coffee as you read the morning news sent by the apartment staffs.

Funny how things took a turn in the wildest way possible. You surely weren't expecting the guy who ridiculed your financial ability be the one supporting your studies now.

"Good luck for your presentation today..." he groggily say, standing by the door, wearing your love bites confidently, holding the doors open as you pressed your hand over his chest to balance yourself while putting on your pumps. You gaze up with a big grin, pressing your lips on his chin, giggling, you say, "I think I'll manage."

He stares at your back walking down the hallway, thinking, if he could make someone who shied away from spotlight, become someone who stood on stage confidently, he could do literally anything. Namjoon could do anything except one; make you forget about that labcoat he paid for.

[blueandyellow1]

Witch Hunt Chapter 4: Seen

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21410965/chapters/51171457

||You still need to eat.||

There was a dark grey smudge next to the line labeled ‘eating’. Azurea didn’t think that Keltä noticed that no number was added.

And the blonde’s groan was confirmation of her thoughts.

“You’re right, I forgot to subtract money for food.”

Azurea had been watching Keltä, or Yellow, as her friends had called her, as she worked for almost an hour. She had already memorized the expenses scrawled across the paper. She didn’t normally like watching such boring things, but this woman seemed interesting. Certainly very dashing, but that was irrelevant.

Yellow seemed to speak aloud as she worked, so she could hear everything that was going through her head.

||Rent is 40 dollars too much.||

“Right again! And 40 dollars is more than enough for a month of food.”

She hasn’t noticed I’m speaking to her, Azurea thinks.

It wasn’t uncommon. Although not many people could hear her, those that did often thought her words were their own thoughts. She tried to be helpful most of the time, giving little reminders or small compliments. Watching the world for centuries had made her realize that some kind words went a long way in making someone’s day. And she had always been one for helping others.

“Wait, what? Is someone there?”

Hm, she does know it’s me. Azurea smiles, giving the blonde a thumbs up she couldn’t see. The phantom liked to use silly gestures she’d picked up from other tenants. And a little boy down the hall always used this particular hand signal.

Azurea watches as Yellow begins to clean up for the day. But this was rather boring, so she decides to check on the building’s other tenants.

She knew them all by heart. There was Ms. Matterson, the lady who owned four cats. She often complimented the older woman who was always delighted to hear her voice. Although, Azurea didn’t think that the elder lady knew it was her. Perhaps just a figment of her imagination.

Then there was the Peterson family. The mother was a doctor and the father was a lawyer, so they often had babysitters for the twin boys. They were always fun to watch. The two children were only 3, the perfect age for Azurea to speak to. Children seemed to be more perceptive of her presence than adults. One of the boys in particular was especially apt to talk to her. Tyler. He called her ‘the whispering lady’. A smile tugs on her long face. He was sweet.

She goes to the family’s door, walking along the carpeted rug, but her footsteps make no sound. They left no trace on the rug either. Since the night she denounced her body to the witch, she could no longer interact with the physical world. She was an observer. At first, it was fun to see the lives of those around her. In the village she grew up in, the people were very open and honest. Or so she thought. After just a week of floating in and out of huts, she discovered hidden secrets. Affairs, stashed food supplies, stolen items. Back then, it had made her want to scream. She wanted to go to the elders, tell them what was transpiring, right the numerous wrongs. But she couldn’t. Azurea wasn’t able to talk to anyone back then. Or maybe no one wanted to listen.

She shakes her head, causing her long hair to flow around her. There was no use dwelling on the past. Her village was long gone, taken out hundreds of years ago by a deadly plague. Huts stood empty for decades before brush overtook the grounds. Then, there was only green. Azurea had sat in the grass for years, just watching the animals and the plants grow and die.

The physical world eluded her, she could no longer touch the things around her than they could her. She liked to braid her hair, it was something she could touch, something with substance. Practicing intricate braids gave her something to do as she watched. Her once dark brown hair had lightened through the years, until it settled on a silvery white. When it was loose, it hung around her like a cloud, thick and long, past her waist. Azurea had decided she liked her new silvery hair. It made her look ghostly.

It also gave her an older appearance, contrasting the rest of her face, which was youthful from only 24 years of life. Most of the other ghosts she saw were older, having died of old age.

Just as with the living, she could not interact with the dead. They often spoke to each other, sometimes chatting among themselves about their deaths before disappearing. Azurea had always thought herself more dead than alive, but she was not dead, not really. Only caught between worlds, her body being used by the witch. She often found herself wondering what the old woman had used her body for. If it was still young, or if it too had succumbed to the poison of time.

Slowly, she comes to a stop before the door labeled “Peterson”. She walks through the door to an empty apartment. Sighing, she turns, going to find another one of the tenants. Hopefully one of them would be doing something interesting.

…

“Just...call them...text them...anything. Say...you’re bored...upset...lonely.” Yellow grunted, her words interrupted by hits to the punching bag before her.

Azurea was laying on the ground, on her stomach with her chin resting on her hands. She was watching the blonde before her training. After a while, she decided to say something.

||Just call them. I’m sure they’ll be happy to hear from you.||

Yellow halts as she calls across the room, her hands still raised for a punch. “Don’t you think they’ll think I’m lame?”

The spirit cocks her head. Yellow was speaking directly to her. She had even turned her head slightly so that her amber eyes seemed to stare right through her.

||No. Pearl said you could call anytime, remember?||

Yellow wipes her forehead with her arm, her normally spiky hair limp with sweat. Her face, red from exertion, grows a shade darker. “You’re right. I’m just ashamed. To be lonely.”

Azurea’s eyes widen. This she could understand. She had been lonely for centuries. Not that she could say as much to a living being that probably thought she was just a figment of her imagination. So, she stayed silent.

She watches Yellow sigh and begin to unwrap the tape from her hands. “I’m surprised you haven’t left yet. Normally ghosts are gone after a day or two. The afterlife and all that.”

Tears begin to drip down the phantom’s face. The young woman was addressing her. Directly to her, still looking at the corner where she lay. She pushes herself to a sitting position.

||You can hear me?||

She asks before cringing. Of course she can hear you, you idiot, she chastises herself.

Yellow’s words echo her thoughts. “Yes, I can,” she says flashing a grin towards her.

Azurea slowly gets to her feet, taking a few steps towards the blonde. Her mind races, trying to think of the right words. She hasn’t had a conversation in...centuries.

||Hello.||

This earns her a short laugh. “Hey,” Yellow says, “You got a name, ghost? I don’t want to keep calling you ‘ghost’. It feels rude, you know?”

||Azurea.||

Yellow’s eyes widen slightly. “That’s an interesting name. It sounds old timey. Well, it’s nice to meet you Azurea.”

The invisible girl stands, shocked. Her hands hang stiffly by her side, her gaze locked on Yellow’s face. Tears are falling faster and faster, and she has to choke back a sob. I haven’t heard my name since Rozalia...

“Not that it’s really the first time we’ve spoken,” Yellow continues, “You say funny things sometimes. Like that one time, when I was watching a dog video, and you said the owner looked just like his dog.”

Sobs take over Azurea’s body. Her chest heaves as she falls to the ground, her hands clutching her face in agony. She wants desperately to stop crying, to talk to this strange woman who could hear ghosts.

“Are you...crying? Are you okay? I’m really sorry, I’m just not used to ghosts talking back.” Yellow’s face was soft, her pale, angular features smoothing out in concern.

Azurea gets up, her footsteps quickening to carry her out of the room. She walks, her tears streaming through closed eyes, trailing behind her in droplets until they fade away. She walks towards Yellow, then through her. But just as she is able to phase through the closed door, she hears the blonde speak again.

“You have really pretty hair.”

She stiffens.

||What?||

Her voice comes out sharper than she intended, almost a hiss.

Yellow jerks back her tone, her hands instinctively thrown up in fists. She had only caught a fleeting glimpse of the Azurea before the phantom disappeared back into the air. Her head whips around to search for the girl, her flaxen hair bouncing with each turn.

“Your hair. It’s nice, silvery and long. I think...I think it suits you,” her voice is unsure as she delivers the compliment.

Azure eyes fly open, tears still making rivers down her cheeks. Azurea’s body begins to take on a blue glow, as if it were radiating from her heaving chest. Questions swirl around her head. Why did she talk back? Why is she still talking? How did she see me? And why my hair? Why does she think it’s pretty?

||I need to go.||

Her voice is whisper soft as she flees the room.

In her wake, Yellow stands, her hands still up, looking around the room. She stares at the door, where she assumes the spirit had fled through. A few minutes pass before she lowers her arms and turns away.

[imaginaryparisienne]

It was very dark November day. All the lights disappeared from the air. In the subway people squeezed me like half empty toothpaste tube and it was exactly how I felt that day – empty and unneeded.

“Hey, lady, just smile!” – somebody cried out for me when I walked into Starbucks, dreaming only about large coffee with lot of sugar to wake me up. Oh man, smiling never has been my keen. I’m from Eastern Europe. People don’t smile without reason there. Smiling is privilege, reserved to special occasion, right? I stuck to it. Working as a make-up artist I learned to talk to people. I discuss with myself because they can’t answer me back – having their faces blocked under layers of makeup, not letting to open their mouth or eyes. Mostly I just babble about nothing, but sometimes memories hit my brain and I opened my soul up, saying out loud the weirdest story from my childhood. Like funeral of guinea pig on the meadow. Me and my best friend Dominika holding hands in the circle of other kids standing around the small shoe box - the modest coffin. Dandelion crowns on our bright hair. Dominika’s pouty lips, teary eyes, skinny knees with several scabs. Our solemn look. Me, always so serious, so conscious, even as a child.

When I walked out on the street, holding my coffee, it was started to rain. Not having the umbrella I had to hide under the trees. “What a gloomy day” – I rumbled to myself, when unexpectedly my phone rang. It was Katie aka Katinka. She worked in local newspaper as an assistant of photographer, we met each other during our English classes for emigrants, couple years ago. Lonely, naive and despaired I struggled with reality, being an open aim to all these cruel guys who just used me and never called back. Katie was my only light in a dark when things went wrong here. Always ready to giving kudos. I could ring her in the middle of the night and she was there for me, listening carefully and bring my sanity back. Now it was her to ask for help.

“Hi, dear, I need to have makeup done immediately”, she said directly. I heard desperation in her voice. “Some famous actor will be here in couples of minutes and Meggie had problems again, fuck, I can’t with her, what am I supposed to do right now? You are my only hope. Please, take a cab and go here. I fought for this photoshoot so hard”. “Who is he actually? – I asked her, throwing the empty paper cup into the bin and hailing a cab. “The young movie celeb, a matinée”, Katie answered, “His name is Timothée Chalamet. Have you heard of him? He is rising star, year or two and he will be too expensive to having him. So the time is now. Are you already in the cab?” “Yeah”, I assured her. “Take it easy. I’ll be there soon”.

We arrived to the studio almost in the same time. Timothée was tall and skinny, with a tousled mop of curly hair and very pale skin. I instantly thought of warm it up, a tone or two. “Just Tim”, he said to me with a smile and shook my hand. Then he sank into the armchair with a sigh. “Need more sleep, sorry” – he murmured, yawning. After checked his deep eye bags I couldn’t agree more. Some work must be done on this delicate angel skin. I took a bobby pin and pin down his mischievous curls, to have forehead uncovered. It surprised me how silky his hair was, my fingers wandered way to long through it.

He closed his beautiful green eyes. Long eyelashes put a shadow on his cheeks. Before I arrived to the studio I googled him and found out that people Photoshopped his pictures into the classic art. I thought then it was funny, but now I was sure he IS just a real piece of art. How even a man can have such a rosy lips, I thought. I should use the applicator but I couldn’t help myself and decided to smooth the color by my fingertips. The sensation was overwhelming. It was like to touch a fresh opened marshmallow.

I dripped a drop of liquid make up on my hand palm, waited for a moment to warm it, then smudged it slowly on Tim's skin, in circled movements. I felt his strong bones structures under my fingers, contrasted with velvety skin. Holy fuck he was damn sexy. “You are such a perfect mix of masculine and feminine”. Words escaped me before I even could stop myself. But he just smiled back, so I asked, “Do you mind I put the makeup on you in more girlish way? I mean some color shadow and maybe shimmer lipstick”.

He agreed so I did this. My hands worked vigorously and soon Tim’s eyelids shone like moonlight and his perfectly curved lips become more pinky and glossy. So kissable, I thought and suddenly my mind went to Dominika’s childish lips. A sweltering summer’s afternoon many years ago. We lurked behind the garages, our sweaty bodies rubbing against each other, I tasted the salt on her skin, we licked each other lips not knowing what more we can do. It was like hot hurricane, like desert storm. When we at last felt apart I still had in my mouth a sweet pieces of bubble gum called Donald, which Dominika forgot to spit out before we started to kiss. Never again I felt that way, with any of men who fucked me, no matter how sophisticated things we did in bed. There were nights when I still dreamed about those childhood days of real closeness, tender and mild.

“So go for it.” Tim suddenly opened his eyes, looked directly into me. Have I said it aloud? Oh my God. I shook my head with a shame. “You described it so beautifully. You long for it. Why are you fooling yourself? Look at what you have done in my case.” He looked at the mirror, glancing his face. “You almost transform me into beautify gal, and I appreciate it, love it, because why not? But do you know what it means to you, what it show about you, hmm?

I gasped the air not being able to say a word. This beautiful creature sitting here said it out loud all my secret thoughts and call my childhood dreams. How this young guy could be so perceptive? “But how did you guess it so perfectly?” – I blurted out still astonished. Some shadow flitted across his face. It was a brief moment but I noticed. “Cause I feel the same?” – he murmured and closed his eyes again, lying back to the armchair.

We didn’t talk anymore. I worked quickly, giving my best. The photo session turned to success. Many other magazines commented it as another proof that Chalamet is brave new world softboi icon, who has courage to live up to whoever he want to be.

It has been almost a year since our met up. Sometimes, cuddling with Katinka in our bed, listening to the sound of raindrops pouring down the New York street I think about that rosy lips boy. No doubtfully he helped me find my own voice, but is he already find it for himself?

[willel]

The first chapter of the novel following Terry Ives pre-Stranger Things is available to read!

PROLOGUE

July 1969

Hawkins National Laboratory

Hawkins, Indiana

The man drove an immaculate black car along a flat Indiana road, slowing when he came to a chain link gate with a Restricted Area sign. The guard stationed there peered in the window for the briefest moment, then checked his license plate and waved him through.

The lab clearly anticipated his arrival. Maybe they’d even followed the directions and specifications he sent ahead about preparing his new domain.

When he reached the next guard booth, he cranked down the window to present his identification to the soldier serving as security officer. The soldier studied his license and avoided looking him in the eye. People often did.

He had nothing but attention for new people, at least at first—an assessment quick as a thought, cataloguing them: sex, height, weight, ethnicity, and from there a guess at intelligence, and then, most important, a guess at potential. Almost everyone was less interesting after the last. But he never gave up. Looking, assessing, was second nature, a crucial element of his work. Most people had nothing to interest him, but those who did… They were why he was here.

This soldier was easy to size up: male, 5’8”, 180 pounds, white, average intelligence, potential…fulfilled by sitting in a guard booth checking IDs with a sidearm he probably never used at his hip.

“Welcome, Mr. Martin Brenner,” the soldier said finally, squinting between the man and the plastic card.

Funny that his ID contained some of the information Brenner would have wanted if he were looking at himself: male, 6’1”, 195 pounds, white. The rest: genius IQ, potential…limitless.

“We were told to expect you,” the soldier added.

“Dr. Brenner,” he corrected the man, but gently.

The narrowing of a gaze that still didn’t quite look at Brenner but darted into the backseat where five-year-old subject Eight slept curled against the door. Her hands were balled into fists under her small chin. He’d preferred to oversee her transport to the new facility himself.

“Yes, Dr. Brenner,” the guard said. “Who’s the girl? Your daughter?”

The skepticism came through. Eight’s skin was a rich shade of brown in contrast to his own milky pale hue, which Brenner could have told the man meant nothing. But it was none of the man’s business, and besides he wasn’t wrong. Brenner was no one’s father. Father figure, yes.

That was as far as it went.

“I’m sure they’re waiting for me inside.” Brenner studied the man again. A soldier back home from a past war, a war they’d already won. Unlike Vietnam. Unlike the quiet escalation with the Soviets. They were already engaged in a war for the future, but this man didn’t know that. Brenner kept his tone friendly. “I wouldn’t ask questions when the other subjects arrive. Confidentiality.”

The guard’s jaw tightened, but he let it go. His eyes flicked to the sprawling multi-story complex beyond them. “Yes, they’re waiting for you inside. Park anywhere you like.”

Another thing that hadn’t needed saying. He drove on.

A boring part of the federal bureaucracy had paid for the construction and general maintenance of this facility, but more secretive arms of the government had paid for its outfitting to Brenner’s specifications. To be top secret, after all, the research couldn’t be advertised. The Agency understood greatness couldn’t always follow standard operating procedure. The Russians might be able to have their labs acknowledged by their government, but they were willing to suppress all the voices who would speak out in opposition. Somewhere right now the communists’ scientists were doing the same type of experiments this five-story brown complex and its basement levels had been created for. Brenner’s employers would be reminded of this whenever they forgot or had too many questions. So his work remained a top priority.

Eight continued to sleep as he got out and walked around to her door. He slowly opened it, pressing her back so she wouldn’t tumble out into the parking lot. He’d sedated her for safety while traveling. She was too important an asset to leave to other people. Thus far the other subjects’ abilities had proven…disappointing.

“Eight.” He crouched by the seat and gave her shoulder a gentle shake.

The girl shook her head, keeping her eyes shut. “Kali,” she mumbled.

Her real name. She insisted on it. Usually he didn’t humor her, but today was special.

“Kali, wake up,” he said. “You’re home.”

She blinked, a spark lighting in her eyes. She had misunderstood.

“Your new home,” he added.

The spark dimmed.

“You’ll like it here.” He helped her sit upright and coaxed her forward. He extended his hand. “Now Papa needs you to walk in like a big girl and then you can go back to sleep.”

At last, she reached out and slid her small hand into his.

As they approached the front doors, he put the most pleasant smile in his arsenal on his lips. He expected the current acting administrator to greet him, but instead found a long line of lab-coated men and one woman waiting. The professional staff of his group, he supposed, and all of them radiating a queasy case of nerves.

A tanned man with a lined face—too much time out of doors—stepped forward and offered his hand. He looked at Eight, then back at Dr. Brenner. His rimmed glasses were smudged. “Dr. Brenner, I’m Dr. Richard Moses, acting principal investigator. We’re so excited to have you here, someone of your caliber… We wanted you to meet the entire team right away. And this must be—”

“I’m Kali,” the girl said with drowsy effort.

“A very sleepy young lady who would like to see her new room.” Dr. Brenner sidestepped the man’s hand. “I believe I asked for one set apart? And then I’d like to meet the subjects you’ve brought on board.”

Brenner spotted the doors off the lobby that looked the most secure and headed in their direction with Eight. Silence trailed him for a long moment. His smile became almost real before disappearing.

Dr. Moses of the smudged glasses scrambled and caught up with him, the others a clattering rush right behind. Moses lunged ahead to buzz an intercom and gave his name.

There was an unsettled hum of conversation among the other doctors and lab associates who followed them.

“Of course, the subjects haven’t been prepared,” Dr. Moses said as the double doors swung open. He kept glancing at Kali, who was getting more alert by the second, taking in their surroundings. No time to waste getting her settled in.

Two armed soldiers stood matchstick straight just inside the doors, an optimistic sign that at least the security wasn’t subpar. They checked Dr. Moses’ badge and he waved them away from a similar check of Dr. Brenner. “He hasn’t gotten his ID yet,” he said.

The men moved as if they might challenge Dr. Moses, and Brenner’s approval raised another notch. “I’ll have it next time I come through,” he said. “And we’ll get you copies of the subjects’ paperwork.” He nodded discreetly to indicate Eight.

The soldier inclined his head and the entire group passed.

“I specified I wanted to meet the new subjects when I arrived,” Dr. Brenner said. “So it shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

“We thought you’d just be observing,” Dr. Moses said. “Should we set some parameters? Prepare them for your visit? It might disrupt the work we’ve been doing. The psychedelics make some of them paranoid.”

Dr. Brenner held up his free hand. “No, I don’t think that or I’d have said it. Now where are we going?”

Light fixtures dangled above the long hallway, emitting the ghastly glow that so often illuminated scientific discovery in this shadow world. For the first time that morning, Dr. Brenner felt like he could make this a home.

“This way,” Dr. Moses said. He found the lone woman on the professional staff in the herd and addressed her. “Dr. Parks, can you arrange for one of the orderlies to bring the girl some food?”

Her lips tightened at being sent to do the equivalent of woman’s work, but she nodded.

To his relief, Eight stayed quiet and they soon came to a small room with a child-sized bunk bed and drawing table. He’d asked for the bed to reassure Eight he wassearching for appropriate companions for her.

She spotted it immediately. “For a friend?”

“Sooner or later, yes,” he said. “Now, someone’s going to bring you some food. Can you wait here alone?”

She nodded. Whatever perkiness she’d gained from the excitement of arriving was fading—the sedative had been a strong dose—and she sank onto the edge of the bed.

Dr. Brenner turned to leave and ran into an orderly and the one female staffer. Dr. Moses raised his eyebrows. “She’ll be okay on her own?” he asked.

“For now,” Dr. Brenner said. And to the orderly, “I know she looks like a child, but follow your security protocols. She might surprise you.”

The orderly shifted uncertainly, but kept quiet.

“Take me to the first room,” Dr. Brenner said. “Everyone else can go wait with your subjects, but there’s no need to prep any of them.”

The rest of the assembled team waited for Dr. Moses to concur and he gave a pained shrug. “As Dr. Brenner says.”

They dispersed. They were learning.

The first room housed a subject ineligible for the draft due to a club foot. He had the permanently fried look of someone whose disengagement tool of choice was marijuana. Average in every way.

“Do you want us to dose the next patient?” Dr. Moses asked. He plainly didn’t understand Dr. Brenner’s methods.

“I will tell you when I need something.”

Dr. Moses nodded and they proceeded through five more rooms. It was as he expected. Two women, neither exceptional in any way, three more men, completely unexceptional. Except perhaps in their lackluster quality.

“Gather everyone in a room so we can talk,” Dr. Brenner said.

He was left to wait in a conference room, with a last nervous glance from Dr. Moses. Soon enough, the group from before entered and arranged themselves around the table. A couple of men tried to make conversation in order to pretend none of the morning’s events were unusual. Dr. Moses shushed them.

“That’s all of us,” he said.

Dr. Brenner gave his staff a closer look. They would need work, but there was potential in their quiet attention. Fear and authority went hand in hand.

“All the test subjects I met this morning can be dismissed.” He waved a hand. “Pay them whatever they were promised and ensure they remember their nondisclosure agreements.”

The room absorbed this. One of the conversationalists from before raised his hand. “Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Chad and I’m new to this, but… why? How will we do our experiments?”

“Why is always a question that moves science forward,” Dr. Brenner said. Chad the newbie nodded, and Brenner added, “Although one should be careful about asking it of your superiors. But I will tell you why. It’s important we all understand what we’re here to do. Does anyone have a guess?”

His treatment of Chad kept them quiet. He thought for a moment the woman might speak up, but she simply folded her hands in front of her.

“Good,” he said. “I don’t like guesswork. We’re here to advance the frontiers of human capability. I don’t want the common Mus musculus of humans. They are not going to give us extraordinary results.” He swept a gaze around the room. Everyone was intent. “I’m sure you’ve heard of some of the foibles elsewhere and your own lack of results are why I’m here. There have been embarrassments, and a great many of them can be sourced to inadequate subjects. Whoever thought prisoners and the asylum-bound would tell us anything we need to know were fooling themselves. Draft dodgers and potheads aren’t any better. I have a few more young patients transferring here for a related program, but I’d like a range of ages. There is every reason to believe that a combination of chemical psychedelics, people with high potential, and the right inducements can unlock the secrets we need. Think of the intelligence advantages alone if we can persuade our enemies to talk, if we can make them suggestible and exert control… But we can’t get the results we want without the right people, period. We need those with potential.”

“But…where will we get them?” Chad again.

Brenner made a mental note to have him dismissed at the end of the day. He leaned forward.

“I will set forth a new screening protocol for identification of better candidates from our feeder universities, and then select the subjects we use going forward myself. Soon, your real work here begins.”

No one objected. Yes, they were learning.

[echoes-of-realities]

Can I get some Santana/ Mercedes friendship fic, maybe after San’s outed?

Notes: I’ve definitely said this before, but Santana, Brittany, and Mercedes are like the only three (3) people I actually care about on Glee so thank you for the request!! 

the strangers in this town

they raise you up just to cut you down

Angela — The Lumineers

Mercedes used to be absolutely terrified of Santana, but for the life of her she can’t remember why.

Since joining glee, Santana had slowly gotten easier to be around, especially after their duet last year, but she still maintained an untouchable, bitchy persona; Mercedes has mostly seen through that for years though. Mercedes is really good at sitting back and watching, and she’s also really good at seeing things that others never do because they never even think to look for it. Mercedes was there on the party line back in sophomore year, and she never forgot Brittany blurting out that confession and the tense, almost scared silence that fell over the line until Santana stuttered out a diversion; Mercedes didn’t take that as a one off, we’re slutty and don’t care who we sleep with, because she had noticed how Santana melted around Brittany even before that, so she tucked that little bit of information away and kept watching.

She saw the pinky linking and the playing with hair and the shoulder massages and the fight during junior year and how damn sad Santana was whenever Brittany sat beside Artie and especially how soft they were with each other, and she put it together far before anyone else even had a chance to look. Mercedes admires the two of them, to be honest, because even through all their struggles and all their fear and their entire small, conservative town looking in, they still had one another no matter what; Mercedes admires them because no matter what, they still found ways to love each other.

It’s why, when everything about Santana and Brittany gets shoved carelessly out into the open, Mercedes isn’t the least bit surprised (unlike a lot of the glee club, who are, for some reason, shocked when the gossip spreads; though Mercedes supposes that they aren’t always, if ever, the best at noticing anything that doesn’t directly relate to them). She’s definitely not surprised to find out that Santana and Brittany are dating, but she’s furious about how everyone finds out about them — not just because she’s friends with them, but because she’s a decent human being with a sense of morality.

They aren’t exactly the most subtle people, and Mercedes and Sugar exchange knowing, affectionate eye rolls over Santana and Brittany’s flirting heads during Troubletones practices more often than not; they’re both adorable together, which is something freshman (or even sophomore) year Mercedes never would have believed.

Mercedes knows that Lima isn’t the best place for people like Brittany and Santana and Kurt and Blaine; she understands that they know to always check over their shoulders before they hold hands, that they know to hide in the pet-food aisle of the grocery store when they see Mrs. Tidd walk past, that they know to never walk past Kyle Eckenswile’s locker by themselves, that they know to stand a couple feet apart when picking up the Brittany’s little sister, that they know exactly which teachers will turn a blind eye when they’re cornered in the hallway and which teachers’ classroom to duck into when they see the hockey team walking down the hall.

It’s because she understands all of this that she hates when she’s not surprised to find Santana standing at the sink, covered in bright red and blue slushy and staring blankly into the mirror, when she walks into the washroom during second period. She’s hidden in the washroom by the library, the farthest you can get from the front doors without leaving the school, the one only used by those who desperately need to go during Mr. Wall’s history class and stoners before they skip the last period of the day — Mercedes is a part of the former statistic, and she’s thankful for that second bottle of water she chugged in first period today, because she’s pretty sure Santana would be cleaning herself up all alone if she didn’t walk into the washroom right now. Brittany would be here in a heartbeat, Mercedes knows, but she’s at a dentist appointment this morning; Mercedes also knows how much Santana hates to worry Brittany, because she wants to be brave and strong for her girlfriend.

Mercedes is pretty sure Santana is one of the bravest people she’s ever met, because she keeps her head high and a scowl on her face even when she’s terrified to walk down the hallway half the time.

Santana’s head snaps up at the sound of the door opening, a snarl already half formed on her face before she recognizes who it is through the slushy stinging her eyes, and she deflates instantly, turning back to scrubbing at her uniform top with a shredded piece of paper towel.

“Santana,” Mercedes whispers with wide eyes. Santana shrugs like she doesn’t care, but she keeps her head down and her eyes averted. Santana goes through her waking day with her head high and her eyes small, and the world thinks she’s big when she’s really just soft; she’s always fighting in a war no one ever sees.

Mercedes quickly flicks the deadbolt on the door and crosses the washroom. Santana stares resolutely down at the paper towel she’s using to furiously scrub the front of her Cheerios uniform clean; all it’s doing is leaving little balls of cheap paper towel on her shirt, but Santana barely seems to notice. Mercedes wonders if Santana has to keep herself focused on cleaning her uniform so she doesn’t fall apart.

“Who did this?” Mercedes demands.

Santana shrugs again and lets out a humourless laugh. “Does it even matter anymore?”

Mercedes chews on the inside of her bottom lip. “I suppose it doesn’t,” she mumbles with an angry shake of her head. After Santana got in trouble for slapping Finn (even though he totally deserved it, in Mercedes’ opinion), Mercedes couldn’t help but reflect on how much the school protects and praises its precious athletes and shoves everyone else under the carpet. It’s made her notice things she never had before, like how anyone on a team and sporting a letterman jacket its untouchable by other students and the teachers and the administration, and how if anyone else stepped out of line they’d get attacked sooner than not.

Though, Mercedes thinks absently, looking at the slushy staining the white background of the Cheerios emblem on Santana’s letterman jacket, she supposes you only get that protection as long as you keep your head down and don’t challenge what’s considered normal.

Mercedes plucks at the shoulder of Santana’s uniform. “You might as well take this off,” she suggests, “We can soak it in the lukewarm water here since the school’s water heater broke, like, fifteen years ago and they still can’t be bothered to fix it.”

Santana cracks a small smile and Mercedes’ insides twist with pride. Santana throws her useless paper towel in the garbage and quickly wiggles out of her uniform, wrinkling her nose as the cold air hits the sticky mess of red and blue drying on her skin. “These just gets worse every time,” she mutters, her nose wrinkled in disgust as she fingers the slushy that managed to soak down to her sports bra.

“Tell me about it,” Mercedes agrees as she runs the tap. Santana’s Cheerios top is a mess of sticky, ice-cold sugar, and Santana herself has fared no better. Her hair is drooping sadly with slushy, her ponytail making its own separate puddle of purplish liquid behind Santana, her skirt is splattered with dots of red and blue, and her torso is painted in sticky, half-melted ice. Santana’s face had obviously gotten the worst of it because, despite her best attempts at cleaning the slushies off, there’s still a smudge of red by her temple, and her cheeks still shine with stickiness, and her lips have just the slightest tinge of blue, and her eyes are bloodshot from the slushy that dripped into them (and probably from tears too, but Mercedes’ isn’t one to judge; those things are cold, and Mercedes knows intimately how they somehow still manage to make your heart feel colder than your numb nose).

Santana runs the tap beside Mercedes and splashes her face with the water, hissing at the cold and muttering something along the lines of her “dumb fucking shirt taking all the warmish water in the school.” Mercedes snorts out a laugh as she scrubs at said dumb fucking shirt and sees Santana send her a crooked grin out of the corner of her eye. It’s always good to know that, no matter what Santana goes through, her snark never, ever gets bruised.

After five minutes of quietly scrubbing Santana’s top and letting Santana attempt to wash away the rest of the slushy from her face and torso, Mercedes resigns herself to the fact that she’s going to need a dry-cleaner and probably, like, a lot of bleach, to get the quickly drying stain out. “We need help,” she finally says.

“Of course you do,” Santana snarks, “but I don’t think anyone in Lima offers the kind you need.”

“Ha, ha, Satan,” Mercedes drawls. Santana’s bark is far bigger than her bite, and once Mercedes figured that out she realized that Santana was actually pretty funny, especially when she genuinely likes you and never actually means half the things she says. “I meant, like, a dry-cleaners.”

Santana runs a hand through her hair, wincing when her fingers meet half-dried slushy. “Yeah, unfortunately you might be right. But that doesn’t solve the fact that I need to wear something other than a sports bra to walk through the school. It’d be just my luck to get dress coded too.”

“Honestly,” Mercedes agrees with an eye roll, squeezing out as much water as she can from the uniform. She leaves it in the sink and quickly drys her hands to give her a couple moments to think. “You can borrow my jacket for the day,” Mercedes offers; being cold today is a small price to pay for making her friend feel better

“Thanks,” Santana says quietly, which Mercedes knows translates to genuine sincerity, “But I can’t wear this all day. Sue will kill me for not wearing my uniform, and then probably the guys who slushied me for ruining Cheerios property, and then probably me again for letting myself get slushied.”

Mercedes briefly wonders when the Cheerios property is the uniform, or Santana, but quickly shakes her head so she doesn’t get angry. “Yeah, well Sue’s straight up insane.”

“Oh absolutely,” Santana agrees, “She definitely belongs in a psych ward.”

“And a straight jacket.” Santana snorts at that last one and Mercedes hides a grin by shrugging off her own jacket and offering it to Santana.

Santana hesitates for a split second before she nods in thanks and takes it, slipping her arms into it’s warmth and quickly zipping it up to her collarbone. “That solves the modesty problem, but what about the Sue problem?”

Mercedes barely even has to think about the consequences of skipping the rest of her morning classes. “I can run you home for a change of clothes,” she offers, “we can drop this uniform off at the laundromat for dry-cleaning after.”

Santana’s face closes and turns suspicious for a split second before she relaxes and gives Mercedes a small smile. “Sure,” she says.

Mercedes inwardly cheers at her successful attempts to make Santana smile again, but she knows to play it nonchalant. “Then maybe we can meet Brittany at the mall for lunch,” she adds, grabbing Santana’s letterman jacket and wrapping Santana’s wet shirt in it, “I’m sure watching her try to eat around her freezing will cheer you up.”

“Hey,” Santana complains, “I would never laugh at my girlfriend.” Mercedes sends Santana a droll look as she unlocks the deadbolt and holds the door open from them. “If I laugh it’s only because she’s adorable,” Santana continues to protest, but there’s amusement sparkling in her dark eyes.

“Sure,” Mercedes drawls, grinning in pride when Santana smacks her lightly in the arm but doesn’t have a retort beyond that.

“Really, Mercedes,” Santana suddenly murmurs as they walk down the empty halls, a shy, grateful smile playing across her lips, “Thank you.”

Mercedes shrugs and throws an arm around Santana. “Anytime, Satan,” she says easily, breaking the serious moment, giving Santana a quick smile because, in a lot of ways, she gets how Santana works, and she knows how uncomfortable she gets with emotions around anyone but Brittany. “Now c’mon, let’s go meet your girlfriend for lunch somewhere and get you a shirt, you nasty.”

Santana rolls her eyes but lets Mercedes drag her down the hall. “Watch it, Wheezy,” she threatens toothlessly, her sneer bellied by the grin she’s fighting, “Or I’ll make you wear the sticky jacket.”

Mercedes laughs loud enough for a couple teachers to poke their heads out of their classrooms with a reprimand on their tongues, but by then the two girls are already gone.

[lejeannedarysworld]

MASTERPIECE PT. 1 [Taehyung x Reader AU]

[TAEHYUNG POV]

I stared at the ruined canvas before me after I accidentally smudged the wrong color into it. It was a disaster, and I hated it. The lack of inspiration kept on haunting me for days, weeks even. I haven't sold a single painting in a month and it'll soon drain my savings if I don't get my sh^t together. I usually sell my paintings at a good price that could keep me sane and with three decent meals for a few months. But now that nothing's been going right ever since that night, I started panicking. I threw the paintbrush away and stomped towards my kitchen. I couldn't even go out because it was heavily raining outside so I opened myself a bottle of beer to calm my nerves when my doorbell suddenly rang.       Ddaeng!        

I opened the cam and checked who my untimely visitor was. I almost choked on the cold beer I was drinking when I recognized the doe eyes staring back at me on the screen.        I opened the door immediately without hesitation. Aside from her beautiful face that welcomed me, i notice the suitcase and a couple more bags with her. She was drenched in rain.          "Y/N..."   

   "Taehyung-ssi... c-can I come in? I have no w-where else to go." She was chilling.           "S-sure." I said and opened the door wide. I quickly placed the beer bottle i was drinking on my table and ran back to help her with her bags. I took off her jacket that was dripping wet on the floor. "What happened?" I asked. I lend her my extra slippers and went to my room to get a towel.             "I was kicked out of my apartment. I spent the last $2 in my pocket to take the bus and... your house was the only place that I could think of." She said. I stopped what I was doing for a while when i heard her voice. I quickly took out the purple towel folded inside my drawer and went back to the living room where she quietly sat.                We weren't really friends, in fact we only met once. Truthfully, we had an unforgettable encounter that was so good, we chose not to meet each other again.              She was my "first" and the best. That's why i couldn't forget her face. Irene worked at a diner as a waitress. I just saved her from a stupid ass customer who kept on asking for her just to refill his water when he could do it himself since the pitcher was right in front of him. I pretended I was her boyfriend and dragged her out of his sight. I didn't like how the guy was glaring at her always so I thought of waiting for her until she finishes her shift. She was thankful after that so we decided to grab a few drinks and before we know it, we were on each other's pants for a hot unforgettable night.        "Taehyung-ssi.. i know it's rude of me to just come here without-" she blurted out, breaking my trail of thoughts.        "It's alright. It's okay. You can stay as long as you want." I said right away, shaking my head to clear my mind from traveling back to the past. I handed her the towel, she uttered a silent thanks before she started drying her hair.           I went to the kitchen, grabbed a mug and was about to make some coffee when I saw her finish the whole bottle I was drinking earlier.        "I'm sorry. I was thirsty." She smiled. She's still the outspoken, carefree woman she was when I first met her. I put the mug back and opened my fridge to get two more bottles.       "...besides, I'm not the type of woman you'd really invite for coffee." She said bitterly before drawing the bottle up to her lips.       "What makes you say so?" I asked. I hope she's not thinking what I'm thinking. I've never really thought of her that way.     "Oh come on Taehyung-ssi, i know it well." She said before she purses her lips and gulps a good amount of the ice cold bitterness of the bottle she was holding.

    "Well then, you're wrong. I think you're amazing. You're beautiful and i'd probably ask you out many times every single day. The fact that you're only a waitress in a diner doesn't make me think you're any less than a woman who works in an office." I said, holding my bottle up for a toast.     I see that slight tinge of redness across her rosy white skin. "T-thanks...but..." she trailed off and joined me for a toast.        "So how are you?" I asked. Aside from her name and job, i don't really know much about her.       "I'm not working at that diner anymore Taehyung-ssi" she started. Why was she being so formal?     "I hope you don't mind, but I think we're in a stage where we can drop the formalities already Y/N ." i reminded.        "Fine. I'm working at a cake shop now Tae. I found this new love for sweets and desserts and I've just discovered a new talent for decorating cakes. And since i just started, I won't be getting my salary until i finish my training period of two weeks. My landlord is not that patient... That's why I'm here now." She shared as her smile faded, I'm guessing she's happy about her new job.     "Really? Well then tell me where it is so I can drop by to get some inspiration. I'm really stuck on something right now I couldn't draw anything." I confessed.          "Right, I remember. You're an artist. What's wrong? Why don't you go out to more public places like the park or beach so you'll have fresh new ideas for your new painting?" She said. She was starting to warm up, i could remember how good our conversation was the last time that I ended up inviting her here at my place since the bar was closing already. It was 3 in the morning when we ran out of beer, too drunk to continue talking but still wide awake to be sleeping. She was supposed to go to the bathroom when she tripped and landed on my chest instead. It was such a perfect timing on a perfect day, with the perfect girl. All the opportunities came knocking straight on my door, so I gladly opened and welcomed it. It was one of the best nights of my life, and it was not just about the sex. It was about how she made me feel during that night.          "I tried. But my mind was stuck on something for days, weeks that I couldn't think of anything better than that." I said, gazing at her and remembered how we were in the same position we were the last time. She was sitting on the couch with her legs crossed while I on the floor, leaning against my table facing her. She's grown utterly more beautiful than the last time I saw her.            "Stuck on what?" She asks.       "You." I said right away. We became quiet after that. We were both guilty at something, so we both decided it would be best to stay away from each other. It was a one night romance, and that should have been it but we were both guilty of feeling something after so... yeah. I couldn't stop thinking of her ever since that night, and here she comes, one month later telling me my house is the only place she could think of.     

Damn, I'm getting butterflies.           "Taehyung, you know it was nothing. We were both drunk." She brushed the topic away.            "Were we really? Look into my eyes and tell me it was really nothing. I thought we both felt the same thing." I said, not taking my gaze off of her.        "Well what do you expect me to do that time? Ask for your number? Can't you see what my customers see me as? I can't trust my feelings based on sex Tae. Don't tell me it's your first time hooking up. I know how the world works, and-"        "It was."      "Excuse me?" She asked, and it was my turn to blush now.         "It was my first time, Y/N . You were my first that's why I couldn't forget you. I didn't know what to do because I'm as inexperienced as-"       "What?! Oh sh*t. Sorry. Wait. You mean to say you... what the hell Taehyung!" She yelled and threw a pillow on my face.        "Hey stob it, What are you so upset about?" I asked as I got up and sat on the opposite side of the couch as well.        "I can't believe i had the best sex of my life with a newbie. You've got to be kidding me, how did you become so good?" She blurted out and her flustered expression made me chuckle.     "I'm an artist baby, of course I'm good with my hands. The rest are my hidden skills waiting to be-"     "Oh shut up will you. I can't believe it." She grunted. We both fell silent before we bursted laughing.         "Why do I find this revelation funny afterwards?" She said, laughing until she's out of breath.     "Admit it, I'm great in bed." I said and got up to get more beer.        While I was opening the bottles, i noticed her opening her bag. She took out a shirt and I mentally face palmed that I've forgotten to offer her some dry clothes to change into. She must have been feeling so cold already.        "Oh wait, I'm so sorry I forgot to-"      "No, it's fine. I mean, i came here without notice. Can I use your..."        "Sure...sure...go ahead." I said and she went straight to the bathroom. I went to my room to get an extra blanket. She can sleep on my untouched bed and I can just stay here on the couch.     When she came out, it's as if all the sparks i felt for her that night were ignited. She looked so hot dressed in a white plain shirt and short shorts that hugged her tiny curves.            "You can sleep in my room. I'll sleep here." I said to her before I could say anything else.         "Oh no, I don't want to trouble you that much... I can sleep here on the-"            "Stop being so stubborn and go to bed already." I said and she sighed defeatedly.         Thank you for coming back, I thought to myself.               It wasn't even 12 in the midnight when I heard my bedroom door open. I opened my eyes and was surprised to see Irene tiptoeing towards me.          "Did I wake you?" She asks. I shook my head and got up.       "Not at all. I can't sleep either. What's wrong? Is the AC too cold?" I asked.       "No... but i think i could help you with something in exchange of letting me stay here." She said. I rubbed my eyes as I tried to process her words. Her face was suggesting something and i didn't want to misinterpret it in any way.         "How?" I asked and turned the lamp on.     Her face brightens up with a smile that the light coming from the lamp became useless.              "Paint me."               "Really? You'd be my model?" I asked again. I've never thought about it but her beauty was perfection. It would be a masterpiece.       "Of course. If you want to... that is. I mean I'm not saying im picture worthy but-" She said.    

   " Are you kidding me? My hands have been lazy for months." I said and dragged her to my room. I set up a new canvas and sharpened my charcoal pencil quickly while she gets ready too.           "So how should I pose. Do you want it to be close up? A whole body portrait? I have no idea really.. " she chuckles after trying a few poses.           "Would you mind lying on my bed?" I asked.               "Sure." She says and hops on my bed enthusiastically. I guided her arm for a better position when she asked me one surprising question.             "Have you thought about nude painting?"

[necronomiconed]

She likes to think she’s doing well.

The clock is ticking. Both the one on the wall, and the one on the computer screen that illuminates the bedroom. She isn’t really looking at what’s in front of her; well, she kind of is, but she’s not really seeing it. It’s just words and pictures that blend together in some sort of colored blur. It’s probably because she hasn’t slept in a week, occupying herself with other things as she’s wont to do....the empty 1-Up bottle beside her keyboard speaks volumes.

Should she text somebody? Yusuke would be sleeping right now, and she wasn’t sure she’d want to wake him when he does so much already. While normally she wouldn’t hesitate, the fuzzy headspace she finds herself in prevents her fingers from reaching for the phone that sits innocently on her nightstand. 

...Goro? No, definitely not. She wouldn’t consider herself friends with him, and she’s not sure how she feels about venting to somebody like that, even though she feels somehow he wouldn’t really mind. Really, it’s kind of amazing to have him at a high spot on her contacts list to begin with....but he is somebody she knows, and....Yusuke trusts him. Not only that, but she can’t say she hates him or anything....she doesn’t mind talking to him, but now isn’t really ideal.

Robin? He seemed busy lately, too...even though he said he’d do anything for her. Heh, ‘do anything’ sounded kinda funny coming from some guy she had met here, so far from home, but she feels nothing but familial comfort whenever she thinks of his face. Like...a kind of big brother? What would the others think of him, if they knew she enjoyed hanging out with some rando guy she had met? What would —

Her fingers twitch.

She breathes in through her nose.

Again, she thinks about it. It makes her head hurt and her eyes water, which is why she tries not to. She’s been here for so long ( well, not here, but still ), that any normal person would begin to miss those they haven’t seen. She had done so well, tried so hard to not dwell on it, tried to occupy herself with everything fun, and working, and meeting with Robin and Yusuke and Makoto—

But it wasn’t enough.

Is he...worried?

Is he panicked?

Why does nothing seem quite the same without the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen every morning? She’s put him through enough already, with the days of locking herself up and the time he found the calling card in her room...not to mention everything else. The last thing she wanted was to know he was out there, no clue where she was, and knowing how it would eat him alive. Head slowly sinking into her knees, her nails leave slight indents in the exposed flesh of her legs as the plastic frame of her glasses bump into her forehead.

“Dad....” Man, he’d probably jump for joy if he heard that, too. Just imagining the look on his face puts a smile on hers, and fiddles with the frayed edges of her pants for a moment as the black words on screen seem to shuffle and shift into some sort of blackish blob. It’s hard...to not miss him. She loves him, she really does, there’s nobody else she’s want to call her dad! Not when Sojiro has given up so much for her, and done his best to make her happy through the worst, lowest point of her life. And...he wouldn’t want her to be unhappy, either.

Unhappy....her fingers halt in their fiddling as the word bounces around.

If he knew where she was, he’d just want her to be safe and happy, right? And if he ever showed up, he’d be a lot more at ease knowing that she was doing better. Even without the help of some she’d consider close to her, she couldn’t discount who she already had. If he saw her moping around, he’d likely be sad. It takes a moment for this thought to sink in, but it does eventually, pulling the hair she was absentmindedly chewing out of her mouth as she slowly pushes herself up.

The chair rattles as she shuffles, and the wire cupholder is knocked over, spilling pens and pencils and colorful erasers across the bare end of the computer desk as she tugs a notebook from a drawer. Opening up the bright cover and picking up a shade of green, Futaba sets to marring the lightly flower-dotted looseleaf with vigor, hunched over the book with a blazing look of determination set in bright hazel eyes.

That’s right. She’s already come this far, so what is she thinking, letting herself dragged into the dark again? It’s not her fault she’s stuck here, but damned if she isn’t going to make the best of it. Even if she lacks some key items, and even if she still gets scared from time to time, she isn’t going to let that stop her. 

Because not only would it let down those who’ve tried their hardest to help her all this time, but it would let down herself. What was the point in asking for help, in fighting tooth and nail for what they believed in, if she just let herself sink into another depressive state over this? All that’s left is to give it her all. 

While her first one was never truly completed, this one would be. She’d make sure of it.

The sun finally joins the luminescent computer screen in lighting up the dim bedroom. Normally, she’d tug the curtains shut airtight, but it seems she forgot in the midst of her frenzied writing.

Her cheek is most certainly going to red when she wakes up, having fallen asleep face-first on her desk. The green pen that had been in her grasp now sits isolated on the floor, having fallen from her dangling arm, but it’s fine, it had served it’s purpose. The ink may be a bit smudged from drool, but the words etched into the book underneath her head are still legible all the same

                       ✿  FUTABA’S BIG SPIRALE PROMISE LIST !!  ✿

1. Make more friends my age

2. Help out Inari with the money

3. Find the others 

4. Try more food I haven’t before

5. Go 6 places I haven’t before

6. Make it up to Robin for helping me

7. Help out more people

8. Learn as much as I can

9. Never lose hope

10. Make Sojiro proud!!!