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sukirichi · 4 years ago

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black magic [01]

REQUEST. arranged marriage + enemies to lovers (sukuna is a simp and lowkey a housewife)

CONTENT/WARNINGS. some suggestive scenes, but overall fluff and romance! slight crack fic, I guess? I was laughing when I wrote this lol

NOTES. I NEED A HUSBAND! SUKUNA I’M GOING TO CRY GOODBYE THIS HAS ME SOFT. also anon i’m not sure if you wanted something with more ~sexual tension~ since this is kind of just comedic, but I hope you like it anyway!

part one | part two (nsfw)

“This is new,” you comment with a glare, your ankle propped on Sukuna’s knee.

“Shut up,” he rolls his eyes, pushing your skirt aside to clean the wounds you attained through exorcising curses. You’ve taken a particularly strong curse today and you’re caught off guard, barely finishing the mission unscathed. Limping all the way back home isn’t easy especially since you live on top of the darned mountain, but if Sukuna’s going to kneel in front of you like this...maybe it wasn’t too tough a journey. “You should stop going to missions you’re not ready for. Look at you, all wounded and bloody.”

“You sound like you care.”

“You’re my wife,” he huffs while dropping the bloody towel on the floor. Sukuna wraps the bandage around your ankle and carries you bridal style even though you’re perfectly capable of walking, but he shoots you a silencing glare. You’d have knocked him in the face any other day, but he’s particularly warm and smells nice today – plus you’re beat – that you bury your face in his chest, ignoring that stupid fluttering in your stomach. “Of course I do.”

You snicker, mind tracing back to your earlier years of this dreaded marriage.

It definitely wasn’t the best – the memories blurring between strangling each other to making out as if breathing was never a thing – and it felt like forever ago when you first met him.

You’d never say it out loud, but... you don’t regret this arranged marriage. Not when Sukuna is tucking himself beside you on the bed, your head above his muscular chest a place similar to home. He covers both your bodies over with a blanket, pulling your body closer to him with a strong arm, his lips pressing onto the crown of your head.

Ugh, you think to yourself, giving in to the need to cuddle your husband after a long day of work. You still refuse to say it out loud, though, and you irk him further by muttering, “That’s not what you said two years ago.”

“I wasn’t in love with you then.”

“I refuse to be married to you!”

Sukuna fights back the urge to cover his ears. Ever since your clan decided to visit his land and started exorcising curses one by one, his life has been nothing but hell. Not only are your relatives the most arrogant people ever with a consistent god complex, they just had to let their little mortal child be in charge of taking on the stronger curses. Seriously, what were they thinking, sending you – who’s barely even out of their training bra years – to deal with curses like him?

Everyone knows Sukuna is a no bullshit man. He won’t hesitate to cut your head off the moment you came raging at him, but then he sees how young you are and decides to send you back to your family.

Expecting that everyone would just call it a day and he’d get offerings for his unexpected mercy, Sukuna is beyond stupefied when they send you back to his temple, all dressed pretty with a basket of fruits and flowers braided in your hair. He remembers growling because you look adorable, but that’s easily wiped away when you open your mouth, your voice scratchy against his ears as you stomp your feet like the young mortal you are.

Sukuna pushes a thumb to his forehead to ease the impending headache, and that’s just from your presence. Something inside him tells that you’re going to be a bigger pain than you look.

“You don’t have much of a choice. You should’ve thought of that before deciding to run rampage over my land,” he reminds, turning boredly to his lone servant from above his throne. Sukuna isn’t impressed, to say the least, especially with your clan’s audacious proposition to gain his favour just this once. “Is this really the woman you bring me – the one they insist to be my wife?”

“She is their best fighter, my Lord.”

Well, he can’t disagree to that. You did, after all, single-handedly give him a cut on the cheek. “She’s feisty indeed.”

“Don’t talk as if I’m not here!”

“Mouthy too,” he mumbles to himself, but your sorcerer senses are sharp and easily picks up on it. He sees you flush angry again, looking immensely adorable with your tiny fists clenched like that and he snorts, waving a hand in the air. “Whatever. Get the wedding over with,” he nods to his servant, his sigh loud and tired as he makes his way to you.

You don’t stiffen at each haunting step, his eyes only glimmering harder with entertainment. It’s rare to find a mortal that doesn’t quiver at the sight of him, the urge to break you only growing stronger.

Even as he cups your face, making sure to not let his claws dig into your precious skin, Sukuna smirks. You’ll be entertaining indeed.

So Sukuna makes a promise, four eyes surveying the way your body is starting to fill in curves at the right places, the swell of your flesh just perfect in his hands... He chuckles to himself, daunting you further as he leans down to your ear, taking pleasure in the slight way your breath hitches. “Maybe then I’ll get to teach you a lesson or two.”

You’re definitely something else, taking advantage of each presented opportunity and not wasting any time before you make your move. Right after the wedding and everyone’s left, leaving you alone with your new husband behind closed doors; you push him until he’s on the ground, legs straddling each side of his hips while you growl above him – the sound similar to a battle cry.

Sukuna merely smirks, barely moving a muscle as his large hands come up to rest on your hips to steady you. “I’ve imagined countless ways you’d be on top of me like this,” his eyes light up with humour upon feeling the cold blade on his skin, “None of them included a knife on my neck though.”

“Shut your mouth. I will kill you myself,” you warn, pressing your knife harder until it draws a slight tinge of blood.

You hardly look threatening above him like this, dolled up to look the best in your wedding with this cursed being. If anything, you look more divine than deadly, and Sukuna thinks that perhaps your beauty could be your best weapon. You are bewitching, after all.

“I refuse to be your Queen and sit next to your throne.”

“Then why didn’t you stop the wedding?”

“I—”

Sukuna’s teasing grin grows wider when you pull back, trying so hard to not trip over your words. It takes all of his self-restraint to not take you right then and there, but he does a good job of holding back, enjoying this view above him instead. “Could it be you’re attracted to me after all, hm, little one?”

“Do not test me, Curse. I’m more than capable of exorcising you myself.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. You’re the strongest in the Gojo clan, are you not?” he prompts to appease you, “I don’t even want to see what you’re capable of, but maybe, just maybe...” just as his eyes darken, the edges of his lips turning up into a smirk, Sukuna digs his claws into your thigh in a possessive show of ownership, a painful reminder that you’re his now. “...You could put on a little show for me?”

“I hate you!”

Experienced and strong as you are, you’re nothing compared to a thousand year old curse who’s killed a lot more people faster than you could blink. Sukuna immediately notices the animalistic way you draw your blade, arm swung back with rage written all over your face. Before you could so much as bat an eye, he easily switches the positions until you’re under him, using only one hand to pin your arms above your head, your blade effortlessly thrown to the other side of the room.

“As I thought, you’re a lot prettier under me like this,” he observes, roaming his eyes shamelessly over the fabric clinging prettily to your body. You’ve fallen silent at his unconcealed attention, your compliance enticing him to lean closer just to inhale your intoxicating scent.

“Not so feisty now, little one? Where’d all your hatred for me go?” Sukuna pulls back with widened eyes, “Oh? Am I hearing it wrong or is your pathetic human heart beating so loud right now?” You refuse to look at him, wriggling your hips in an attempt to leave, completely unaware that the mere movement is hypnotizing the curse above you. Sukuna grips your hips in warning, not wanting to destroy you – not now, anyway. “You know all you need to do is say it. I’d gladly take you right here and then.” His words spoken with that deep, throaty voice immediately sends a wave of heat down your core, but you turn away from him, breathing hard and nervously; something Sukuna picks up on in an instant. “Little one...have you never had a man hold you like this before?”

“N-no...”

“I see. Pure and innocent behind that ferocity, huh?” He surprises you by pulling away, smoothening his white robes down as he leaves you panting still on the floor. “Fine. I won’t touch you unless you ask me to.”

“I’d rather die before that ever comes out from my mouth.”

“We’ll see about that,” he smirks, winking at you before he shuts the door. “Little one.”

There’s a lot of weird – and utterly inconvenient things – about being Sukuna’s wife. The man eats everything, absolutely everything, and it doesn’t help that he sucks at hunting too. For a man so huge and burly, he sure is lazy, preferring to do the laundry in the riverside instead while you go out every day to prepare your meals.

You actually don’t mind, but it’s very fun to complain around him.

You’re on your way back to the temple when Sukuna grabs at you, making you drop the freshly caught birds onto the ground. Your brows furrow, about to scold him for being too eager again when Sukuna stares at your arm, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Following his line of sight, your lips form an ‘o’ shape. There’s blood trickling down your forearm from his claws accidentally cutting you, guilt written all over his face. Another weird thing about Sukuna is that he babbles a lot when he’s emotional, and you’re too tired to hear him beat himself over it that you just drag him inside your room, sitting his ass down before taking a clipper.

Sukuna scoffs when you start cutting his nails. It irks him that you don’t even bother wiping the blood off first and he tsks, eyes narrowed at you. “You should have thicker skin.”

You roll your eyes as you file his nails; you’ve been married to him long enough to know it’s his way of saying sorry. Not wanting to let him wallow in guilt any louder, you pad kisses over his knuckles before swiping the black ink off your desk, using a pen brush to colour your nails instead. Sukuna hovers behind you, head tilted to the side as he watched you. “Are you painting your nails black?” he utters in disbelief, trying to ignore the fact he feels...proud and even a little smug. “Not so fitting for the angelic sorcerer now, isn’t it?”

“I’m only doing this so you don’t feel left out.”

“Maybe I’ll add markings to your pretty face too,” he cups your jaw to make you turn to him, landing a solid kiss flat to your lips which makes you sigh, pretending to be annoyed but leaning over for another peck anyway. Sukuna laughs and pulls you onto his lap, kissing your neck this time around, a little annoyed that you don’t stop in brandishing your nails. “Wife, what do you think?”

“I have work, Sukuna. You flirting with me doesn’t change the fact I need to go.”

“Come home safe for me, at least?” he breathes down your neck, his touch sending shivers down your spine. You’ve definitely changed since the first time he’s met you, starting from a mean (although he stands strong that you are still mean to him sometimes) temperamental little one to a mature, stronger sorcerer who’s secretly weak for his wife.

Unable to resist him as always, you turn around once you’ve finished painting your nails, rubbing your nose over his until your strong, scary husband is turning into putty at your hands. “Of course I will,” you peck his lips one last time, Sukuna’s eyes closing as he dives in for a deeper kiss. “I’ll always come back home to my handsome husband.”

If anyone were to ask how it’s possible that the King of Curses is actually very soft for his sorcerer wife, everyone would claim it’s impossible and a heresy – but if you ask Sukuna, it’s probably just black magic doing its wonders.

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jinmukangwrites · 3 years ago

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Whumptober2021 - October 4th - Taken Hostage | Pushed

Gift fic to @fidothefinch <3

Fandom: Nightwing, Batman - All Media Types

AO3

Warnings: Near death experience, hostage situations, implies Bruce as a shitty dad but I don't go into detail on it.

---

If there’s anything in the world that Dick hates more than being restrained, it’s being held hostage. Especially if he’s being held hostage as a threat against Bruce or Batman. One thing they don’t tell you in the foster system is that if you’re adopted by a rich and famous to the Kardashian level man, is that you’re often the target of criminals who think snatching a kid on their way home from school is a surefire way to make a million bucks. It’s no better in the vigilante business either, because often any hero in Gotham is only seen as a stepping stool to getting to Batman.

Honestly, at this point Dick’s used to it. It doesn’t mean he enjoys it, though. Not so much because of the initial kidnapping part, but because he’s worked hard to become his own person, his own man with his own life. He moved to Blüdhaven to be anything other than the son of Bruce Wayne; to be his own hero that villains learn to fear. And then the second he sets foot back in Gotham, for whatever reason, suddenly it’s all about the reclusive eldest Wayne child returning home! Suddenly, when villains see him at night, it isn’t “Oh shit, it’s Nightwing!”, it’s “Shit, it’s a Sidekick! Where’s the Bat?!”

Anyway, long story short, Dick came back to Gotham for one weekend to visit family, and now he’s dressed as Nightwing, standing on a roof with duct-tape keeping his wrists together behind his back and a knife to his throat belonging to a shady businessman who’s finally caught the attention of Gotham’s heroes.

And it’s sorta pathetic how Dick ended up in this situation. It wasn’t like this was going to be a particularly difficult mission. Just sneak into the building, grab the evidence he needed to get this bastard behind bars, and then get out. Unfortunately, someone tipped the man off without Bruce knowing about it. When he went into the main office, he was met with a very strong guard hiding behind the doors, and after a hefty blow to the head and a few concerning minutes of blacking out, Dick opened his eyes—thankfully still masked—to find himself kneeling on the rough cement of a skyscraper’s roof, completely stripped of any of his useful tools. He has a small knife in one of his gauntlets, but it’s not exactly in an easy to reach position. It would take time to grab at it, and that’s not counting the high probability he’ll be spotted by Jerome McCoy--Gotham’s latest shady businessman--or any of his goons.

Besides, Tim is already up here listening to their demands to get Batman up here or Dick dies. It shouldn’t be long before Bruce gets here and kicks his ass. That’s not even accounting for the facts that Jason, Steph, Duke, Dami, and Cass are all in town.

These idiots have no clue how close they are with dealing with close to every single bat if something bad happens to Dick tonight.

And everything was going fine until Tim suddenly stopped mid sentence in reminding McCoy that Batman was on his way and brought his hand to his communicator in his ear. When Tim paled ever so slightly, Dick knew something had gone exactly NOT according to plan.

“What is it?!” McCoy demands, pressing the knife against Dick’s neck with worrying pressure. Dick leans his head back slightly to lessen the risk of his neck being cut and meets Tim in the eyes through their masks.

Tim swallows. “Batman is being held up-”

Dick resists sighing in both disappointment and lack-of-surprise as McCoy practically explodes.

“What?!

“Only for a few hours,” Tim rushes to explain. He’s lifted his hands in a placid manner and softened his voice, which can’t be good. “He’s… met an unexpected complication along the way that he cannot ignore. Please, just tell me what you want, and I can take my partner and be out of-”

“I don’t have a few hours,” McCoy practically screeches. “Either Batman makes it his priority to get here, or Nightwing gets it!” to make a point, McCoy lifts the knife from Dick’s neck and waves it in front of him. Dick slides his eyes over to the other goons on the roof; there’s only a few. Maybe… if Dick plays his cards right… “That was the deal!”

“I understand-”

“Tell Batman to get here now, or Nightwing’s blood is on his hands!”

“He’s busy- I can’t just-”

Dick slams his body back, pointing his elbow the furthest he can with the way his arms are bound and jamming it into McCoy’s stomach. McCoy lets out a startled, breathless gasp as Dick uses his surprise to escape from his grasp and jump to his feet.

“’Wing!” Tim yells at the same time McCoy wheezes “Get that fucker!”

Dick has just a second to notice Tim’s shock at Dick’s sudden attack before Dick’s having to defend himself with his hands literally tied behind his back. Sorry, kid, Dick thinks, ducking around a pair of beefy arms, but we’re out of options.

It was going well until it wasn’t. Tim was even about to step in. However, while waking up from his lovely whack to the head, Dick failed to assess just where he was on the roof.

All it took was for the back of his heel to tough nothing but air for his heart to jump to his throat. Instinctively, he tried to wave his arms to catch his balance, but was quickly reminded of his predicament when the tape tugged against his wrists. For a moment, pure panic filled his entire body, here, wobbling backwards off the edge of a roof dozens of stories above the ground. He could feel his heart pound, hands shake, breath catch, hair rustle in the wind, but he couldn’t do a thing to stop himself from falling backwards. He’s pretty sure he hears Tim scream his codename, but he’s not totally focused on anything other than his pending doom right now-

A heavy hand wraps around his upper-bicep, stopping his almost-promised journey to pancake town. Everything is silent on the roof for a solid moment, as Dick practically hangs over the ledge of the roof with his feet just barely still on solid ground, a goon holding him juuuuuust enough to make sure he doesn’t fall. Tim looks even paler than before, looking like he really did watch Dick go over the edge. McCoy looks a constipating mixture of smug and outraged while the other goons stand nearby like useless props.

Then, McCoy speaks with anger as heavy and level as stone. “Tell Batman I want him here in ten minutes.”

Tim meets Dick’s eyes, and Dick sees everything that he needs to. Whatever is holding Bruce up, it’s more important than Dick, and Tim knows it’s useless to even try.

“Please,” Tim says, voice wobbly. He’s a detective. He knows what’s about to happen. “Just give us more time-”

McCoy snaps a finger, and that’s that.

The hand on his arm pushes Dick away and opens it’s grasp. It doesn’t matter anymore that Dick had his feet on the roof, because the rest of his body is falling.

Falling.

Dick’s completely off the roof in a blink of an eye and he’s falling.

The air is rushing past his ears and through his hair, so loud he can barely think. That’s if he’s thinking at all, as story after story passes him by. He’s falling, and for the first time in a long time, he’s afraid of falling, because this time there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He doesn’t have any tools… he doesn’t even have his hands, nor enough time to even try and get his hands free. He’s falling, rushing to the ground. He can already see in vivid detail what his body will look like when it hits the pavement.

He’s falling. He’s standing at the top of a beam, watching his mama and papa fall. He’s falling. He’s screaming as the sound of their bodies landing and snapping reaches his ears. He’s falling and he’s going to die in the most Grayson way possible.

He’s going to die the same way his parents did, a way that he’s worked hard to not be afraid of ever since he first moved in with Bruce, but was always secretly terrified.

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to watch. He’s afraid, and Tim will watch from above and blame himself and he never wanted any of his siblings to blame themselves for his death like how he blamed himself for his parent’s for decades and-

And the wind is knocked out of him, but not from his body slamming on the ground. A strong arm wraps painfully around his stomach, and suddenly the world turns sideways and his eyes shoot open in shock.

“Fuck,” Jason grunts, holding Dick with one arm and the other wrapped tightly in a grappling line. “Fucking hell.”

And Dick… doesn’t know what to do. He feels muted, like a YouTube video playing at 144p and buffering still. The adrenaline is pumping so loudly through his entire body that the fact that Jason’s caught him doesn’t register until Jason’s landing roughly on the ground and lowering Dick to the asphalt.

“Started heading over the second that bastard said he wasn’t coming,” Jason explains. Dick nods numbly, his eyes locked on the oil covered road below him, his mind still trying to process. “Said he ran into some bastard working for Two-Face holding some rich family hostage. Said we could handle it. I can’t believe I got here just in time. Fucking fuck-face fucker.”

There’s a splash of two feet landing on the permanently puddled street beside them, and Dick can hardly contain his flinching at the sound, but thankfully Jason doesn’t notice. He just stands up and faces where Tim has landed quite suddenly from where he must have grappled down from the roof. Dick continues to look at the ground, wringing his knitting together in front of him. He… hasn’t noticed Jason undid the bindings.

“What happened to McCoy?” Jason demands, and Tim takes a gasping breath and shakes his head.

“They ran into the building while I… jumped after N.”

Jason growls, taking a step forward but Tim stops him. “Orphan said she’ll handle it, she sounded pissed.”

Jason backs off, but anger still curls in his stomach like an old friend. His fists clench to his side. “Once I see B, I’m gonna punch his teeth up to his brain.”

And it must be proof of how shaken Tim is, because he doesn’t argue.

Then, like a pin hitting tile, a small sound catches Jason’s ears. He looks down to where Dick is still sitting in the grime of Gotham’s street. His heart sinks to his gut.

“N?” he asks, and Dick doesn’t respond. “Nightwing, you’re… crying.”

That directs Tim’s attention down where tears are certainly streaming down Dick’s cheeks from under his mask. His lips are wobbling, and the second Jason kneels down to put his hand on Dick’s shoulder, a wounded sound escapes his lips.

“Dick?” Jason asks, his voice sounding shocked and unsure.

Dick looks up at Tim, looking one breath of the wind from falling apart. “You jumped after me?” His voice is small and brittle. When Tim nods slowly, Dick whimpers, dropping his head into his hands and letting out a sob. “You almost watched me die,” is all he says before he finally breaks down into mournful cries.

Jason looks up from where Dick’s now shaking and gasping into his hands and meets Tim’s eyes. Neither of them… has ever seen Dick get like this before. It feels wrong, like something in the world has shattered and can never be replaced.

“Lets… get him home,” Jason says, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” is all Tim can smartly bring to his lips while Jason scoops Dick into his arms and stands up.

Dick’s so out of it with his sobbing that he hardly reacts, just curls against Jason and continues to cry.

“You know,” Jason says quietly, “the scariest way to die, for me, is to overdose.”

And Tim understands.

“I… see.”

Jason nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah. So let’s just call it a night, get him some Alfred cookies, and just… let him take this at his own pace, okay?”

Tim nods, knowing that after years of Dick always going out of his way to help them with their trauma, their issues, and never asking for anything in return… it’s now their turn to return the favor. Dick looks so much smaller than Tim swears he’s ever seen him, curled up in Jason’s arms, trembling and sobbing. He silently promises to himself that he will do whatever it takes to make sure Dick gets through this, just like what he’d do for them, always. And Tim’s positive the rest of Dick’s siblings will do the same.

#dick grayson #nightwing #batman #whumptober2021 #no.4 #taken hostage #pushed #near death tw #fanfiction #jin writes

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fallingforunrealisticromance · 3 years ago

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Stay with me - tony stark x fem!reader

A/N: I've re entered my marvel phase once again and I'm not mad about it! I'm so desperate to see Black Widow it looks so good! Anyway enjoy this. The details about panic attacks are based on my personal experiences but they can effect different people in different ways.

Warnings: Panic attacks, swearing

***= Time Skip

Word Count: 2680

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

“Guys I’m going to be fine. I always am. It was a one-time thing, I promise” I sighed as Nat, Steve and Bruce followed me into the kitchen of the avengers compound.

“We just want you to be okay, it didn’t exactly look like you enjoyed the experience.” Nat said sitting opposite me.

“You almost passed out. That happening while your out is the last thing any of us want for you.” Bruce added. I sipped my drink, not wanting to continue this conversation. The team had becoming increasingly cautious around me since I had a really bad panic attack last week. The truth is I’ve been dealing with them since I was a kid, before I’d even met any of the avengers, I just learnt how to hide them. But last week, things got too much, and I lost control. I don’t remember much but evidently everyone found out. They thought this was a new thing to me and were now trying to wrap me up like some sort of fragile object.

“I’ll be fine. I’m going to be with Casey, and I’m literally just going to be sat in an office all day. The hardest thing I will have to do is battle her shitty coffee machine” I joked, trying to get them to drop the subject. My best friend Casey had asked me to come into work with her to sort through a bunch of files that her boss had dumped on her after she broke up with him. I have no clue what she actual does but she was apparently ‘up to her tits’ in paperwork so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to join her. Just then my phone rang.

“Hey Case, I’m just about to leave. Yeah I’ll meet you at the station. Okay cool. Bye” I hung up and grabbed my bag. “Well, this has been fun, but I have a train to catch so I’ll see you all later.” As I turned to leave I felt someone grab my arm, pulling me back.

“You’re not getting the train. Get happy to take you.” Steve said causing me to roll my eyes.

“Steve I’m not a child, I’m capable of getting a train. Plus, it’s not Happy’s job to chauffeur me around, he has tony for that.” I replied.

“Who has me for what?” Tony piped up walking in.

“Nothing, I have to go.” I said before once again turning to leave.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y call happy and tell him to get the car ready.” Tony said not looking up from his phone.

“Right away Mr Stark”

I groaned. “Are you kidding me?”

“Hey for once I agree with capsicle. We don’t need you dying on a train now do we?”

“I hate you.”

“Ouch my heart.”

It was starting to piss me off at how the were treating me. I get that they just wanted to look out for me, but it was just making me feel even more pathetic than I already did. I slumped down onto the sofa irritated. Suddenly I felt a light tap on my shoulder. Looking up I saw Nat leaning again the back of the sofa, looking down at me.

“I know it might feel like we’re being unfair or irrational, but we just want you to be safe. We need you.” I smiled slightly at her words.

“Thanks Nat.” She nodded at me before walking off.

“Miss Y/L/N. Happy is ready for you.”

“Thanks F.R.I.D.A.Y” I grabbed my stuff, yelling a quick goodbye to everyone before making my way downstairs and into the back of the black Mercedes parked outside the compound.

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

“Seriously did you have to dump him 2 weeks before you were due to leave? There’s so much crap here.” I groaned jokingly, sifting through the many papers laid out in front of me.

“It’s not my fault he was boring. I just couldn’t hack it anymore” Casey replied chuckling.

“Why did I agree to this?” I said leaning back in my chair.

“Because you love and care about me.” She said smiling at me

“Hmm that’s debatable.” I joked, causing her to swat my arm with the file she was holding. Thankfully, there was a small knock at the door that saved me from any further attacks.

“Excuse me Casey, boss man needs you in his office. He didn’t sound too happy.”

“Okay thanks, I’ll come now.” She replied. As she left the room she shot me an anxious look to which I responded a very supportive thumbs up. I know, I’m great.

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

I don’t know how long Casey had been gone but I’d suddenly began to feel a trickle of anxiety wash through my bones. I’d felt uneasy as soon as she’d left but I tried to push the feeling away and throw myself back into the paperwork. But every time I looked at the page, my eyes couldn’t focus. All the words were merging together in front of me.

“Please not now.” I mumbled to myself. I could feel my heart hammering a mile a minute against my ribcage as my hands began to shake uncontrollably. My throat felt as if it was collapsing in on itself as I tried my best to get oxygen into my lungs. I wanted to get up, to run outside, but I felt like if I moved I was going to be sick everywhere. So, I stayed there, trapped, with my head in my hands praying for this to be over. After what felt like a lifetime, the feeling began to dissipate – only to be replaced with an overwhelming sense of tiredness. Physically unable to hold myself up any longer, I let my head fall against the desk. I felt so drained, so weak I wasn’t sure how I would get home at this point. Where the hell was Casey?

---AT THE AVENGERS COMPOUND(third person pov)---

“Mr Stark. You told me to alert you when Miss Y/L/N’s heart rate began to climb. It has rapidly increased over the past few minutes and does not appear to be settling” F.R.I.D.A.Y said. Tony rushed over to the screen that was currently displaying Y/N’s heart rate.

“Oh shit.” He said to himself, running his fingers through his hair. A moment later, Steve entered the lab.

“Everything alright stark?” He asked leaning against one of the desks.

“Not at all. Y/N’s having another panic attack right now.” Tony explained, visibly stressed.

“What?” Steve said standing up straight.

“I have to go get her.” Tony said pulling his jacket on. Before Steve could even reply, Tony headed for the door.

---BACK AT THE OFFICE(first person pov)---

I’d been able to prop my head up in my hands once again, but I was barely able to keep my eyes open. All I wanted was to go home. Suddenly I heard the door open.

“Oh my god Y/N. What happened? Are you okay?” Casey said rushing to my side, clearly noticing my dilemma.

“N-no” I stuttered. My voice came out as a sort of broken whisper. I’d never felt more drained. I heard the door open once more.

“Casey?-“

“Not now, I’m busy”

“No seriously-“

“Did you not hear me? Go away john”

“But Tony stark is looking for you.” He spat out. Relief spread throughout me at the mention of his name. Casey jumped up and ran out, soon retuning with Tony.

“Thank god” I breathed. Tony knelt down beside me in an instant.

“Hey you.” He said softly. “Let’s get you home okay?” He smiled at me sympathetically. I nodded and went to reach for my stuff.

“I’ll get that, put your jacket on.”

“Didn’t bring one.” I mumbled.

“Of course, you didn’t” He said sarcastically as he pulled his off and wrapped it around my shoulders. I slipped my arms in and hugged it tight to me, enjoying the heat it was providing.

“Come on then.” I felt Tony slip his arm around my waist as he pulled me to my feet. I wrapped one of my arms around his shoulders as the other fell by my side. “You okay?” He asked.

“Just get me home.” I whispered.

“Why do you think I’m here?” He joked. We made our way down the hall, tony taking the most of my weight.

“Thank you for coming.” I said as we got into the elevator.

“Anytime gorgeous.” He replied with his signature grin.

“How come you are here though? How did you know I needed you?” I asked.

“I have a sixth sense. Like peter, expect I sense panic attacks” he said chuckling.

“Seriously tony. I didn’t even call you.” I pressed. He fidgeted uncomfortably next to me.

“Okay don’t be mad at me. Because if you think about it if I hadn’t done it I wouldn’t have known you were freaking out and you’d probably still be stuck there, and I know that that’s the last thing you would want so technically I-“

“Just spit it out stark”

“I tracked you.”

I starred at him. “You tracked me?” He nodded sheepishly. “Wha- How?” I stuttered.

“You know I gave you that new watch? Well, I may have changed some things” He said avoiding my eyes.

“What things?”

“Well, I just made sure it would be able to give me your location. A-and if your heartrate reached a certain point, F.R.I.D.A.Y would let me know.” He explained. I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t even mad, but I like the fact he thought I was. “Look before you have a go at me I just wanted to keep you safe.” I smiled at his words.

“I know. I’m not mad.”

“Oh, thank god.”

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

The journey home was harmless. The fresh air had done me the world of good. Even those I was still worn out; I was feeling a lot more human. When we pulled up to the compound, Tony rushed to my side to open the door and help me stand.

“I’m okay tony you can relax now” I chuckled.

“I just don’t need you passing out on my watch, Steve won’t let me hear the end of it” He joked.

“Nice to know you care about me.” I replied. As soon as we walked in, I saw Steve talking anxiously with Nat and Wanda.

“Y/N thank god.” Nat rushed over to me, pulling me in for a hug.

“I’m alive guys false alarm.” I said light-heartedly, letting her go.

“Do you know why this keeps happening to you all of a sudden?” Wanda asked. Before I could answer she gasped slightly. “Oh…” Shit. I forgot she could read minds. She’d figured it out.

“What is it Wanda?” Steve asked. Wanda starred at me for a moment. I really didn’t know if she was going to tell them so I cut her off before she could.

“Casey was having an affair with her boss.” I blurted out, causing them all to look at me. “That’s why I went in with her today, she broke up with him and to get back at her he’s been giving her a shit ton of paperwork for no reason. While I was there he called her into his office, leaving me alone. I guess I was just so stressed about what they were talking about I worked myself up.” I lied. Wanda nodded in agreement with me, but the look she gave me made me think that this conversation definitely wasn’t over.

“Okay well I’m going to get this one into bed, see you guys later” Tony said coming up behind me, placing his hand on my back. We made our way up to my room where I promptly flopped onto my bed, gladly expecting the comfort it provided.

“Nope come on get up.” Tony said tugging my leg.

“What? I thought we came up here so I could sleep? I’ve had a long day tony.” I groaned.

“Yes but you need to change. I’m not having you sleep in jeans. The thought of it alone is enough to give me nightmares.” He replied, pulling me so I was sitting upright. “You stay there, don’t fall asleep.” He said before quickly dashing out of the room. I sighed, leaning back on my elbows. Tony was my best friend, sure, but that didn’t stop him being a massive pain in the arse. He soon returned, holding what looked like pyjamas.

“Why have you brought those? I have my own clothes you know.” “No shit sherlock. But I know that you like to wear these when your ill so I figured you might want some comfort after what happened today.” He said setting them down beside me. His words caused me to stare at him for a second. The genuine care in his voice was enough to make my stomach flip. The fact that he’d even thought of something like that caused a few tears to come to the surface.

“Stop starring at me, it’s creepy” He said with a chuckle. When he looked over at me, his face dropped. “Y/N? Are you okay? Why are you crying?” He knelt down in front of me, taking my hand in his.

“I just- Thank you. For the clothes. The fact that you noticed that means the world to me.” I said softly, gazing at our hands.

“I always notice” He mumbled. I looked at him fondly, a strange feeling growing inside of me. We settled in a comfortable silence for a moment. For some reason, my view on tony shifted. That one gestured made my entire opinion of him change. I’d always known I cared for him deeply, more so than myself. And I won’t sit here and tell you I’ve been in love with him since I first met him, because that sure as hell isn’t the case. We’d been friends. Nothing more, nothing less. But now, seeing this side of him, maybe there was a possibility for us to be something more. Whatever that was we didn’t need to figure out right now. But I wanted him with me.

“I’ll leave you to get changed.” His voice snapped me from my thoughts as he dropped my hand from his.

“No, wait don’t go.” I said hurriedly going to pull him back.

“I’ll just be on the other side of the door.” He chuckled. I let him go and went about changing. He’d left me one of his old Metallica t shirts. It wasn’t too big for me, but big enough to be comfortable. I paired with a pair of basketball shorts I’d bought him a couple years ago for Christmas. Not that he actually played basketball, I just thought they were cool. I went over to the door and opened it, not expecting tony to fall back onto my feet. I laughed as he scrambled to stand up right.

“You could’ve knocked or something.” He said straightening his shirt.

“I didn’t expect you to be on the floor” I laughed.

“Whatever” He rolled his eyes, sitting at the edge of my bed. Once I’d calmed myself down, I sat down next to him and rested my head on his shoulder. He moved so his arm was round my shoulder, allowing me to move closer.

“I like this.” I said softly.

“Like what?” “

This. Being with you.”

“So do I” He whispered.

I closed my eyes, enjoying the silence.

“No, you’re not falling asleep like this. Lie down” Tony said shrugging me off his shoulder. I didn’t even have the effort to argue as I slid back and pulled the covers over me.

“You’re coming to.” I stated, looking expectantly at him. He rolled his eyes before climbing in beside me. I curled into him, placing my head on his chest as I wrapped my arms around him. I felt him place his arm around my waist, pulling me closer to him. After the shit show I’d been through earlier, this was the exact peace I’d been craving. No matter where things went from here, Tony would always be my rock. And I couldn’t ask for anyone better.

#tony stank #tony stark #iron man #the avengers #natasha romanoff #tony x y/n #steve rogers #wanda maximoff #tony x reader

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ttttaehyungie · 4 years ago

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sincerely, but no longer yours | chapter 4

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sincerely, but no longer yours | ex!kim namjoon x reader

genre | angst, exes au

summary | It started as a coping mechanism as getting the words out provided a form of catharsis. But now you can’t stop writing these love letters, even with the knowledge that they’ll never get sent. After all, who writes love letters to their ex?

word count | 4.2k

chapter rating | PG-13

warnings | none

a/n | IM SO SORRY this is late 😔😔 skldjflkj i was trying to get this out for namjoon’s bday butttt i failed HAHAH sighz life just threw consecutive curveballs my way ok but here we go!!!! part foouuuurrrr

If you thought things between you and Namjoon would be awkward, well, they were. Undeniably and unbearably awkward. The silence stretched long between you without Hoseok to fill the space. Maybe you should have reserved some topics of idle chatter instead of expending them all during last night’s dinner. Maybe you should have asked Namjoon to come over after Hoseok’s dance class. Maybe you shouldn’t have asked him to hang out at all.

Wistful regretting will get you nowhere. You know that. But you indulge in it all the same, stirring your straw and watching the ice cubes in your latte swirl and clink against the sides of the glass. Pointedly keeping your eyes trained on your half-full cup and off the man seated at your shared table in the cafe, his fingers thrumming nervously on said table, you feel a twinge of guilt. How long will you let this silence drag on?

It’s not for the lack of trying. You’re trying. You really are. And you know that Namjoon is too. Small talk just seems to evade you. And deeper issues are off the table, for now at least. Not until you’re sure that he’s not going to abruptly drop out of your life again. Although you’ve agreed to give him a second chance at friendship, the emotional shields were still difficult to lower.

Flicking your eyes to your watch for the thousandth time that afternoon, the unease only gnaws at you further when you realize that the minute hand has scarcely ticked forward by two minutes. Forty more minutes to go. It feels like it’ll be a lifetime before Hoseok is done.

As Hoseok’s weekend trip came to an end, you wondered if the hangouts with Namjoon would experience a similar fate.

But then again, it’s not Hoseok whose friendship he was looking to rebuild. That had never ended. It was just yours. So should you really have been surprised when he invited you out for lunch midweek when Hoseok was miles away back home and away from the city?

You had to give him credit. When he said that he would do anything he could to attempt to make reconciliation happen, the guy had really meant it.

The first couple of lunches together - lunches that you dragged yourself to because you had agreed to give him a second chance - were a total cringefest.

Namjoon was the one who pushed through it with unwavering perseverance. And that was what spurred you to continue trying.

It’s not like you don’t enjoy his company. You do. It’s hard not to, really. Not when his dimpled smile and rounded pleading eyes are as disarming as they are. Namjoon has always been a good listener, always making you feel valued for your ideas no matter the frivolity, but lately he’s picked up this habit of bending down to your height, tipping his chin down just so so he can peer up at you with the most puppy dog look ever and you just- you can’t handle it.

It’s devastating. It’s irresistible. It’s a bulldozer through all the walls you’ve put up over the years, smashing them to rubble in a matter of weeks.

And so the lunches you used to drag yourself to became lunches to be anticipated. The text conversations that began in stiff formality soon gave way to a barrage of emojis and typos left uncorrected, and you find your walls gradually giving way too. The two of you had always shared an easy chemistry, something that hasn’t faded with the years and unaffected by the breakup.

The breakup was the one thing that still remained taboo.

Well if he hadn’t wanted to speak about it in the time leading up to your breakup back then, why would he want to talk about it now?

You know you’ve chosen to forgive him. But the residual bitterness still sits much like the dredges at the bottom of your daily morning cup of coffee. Unprovoked, it would be fine. It lies dormant so long as nothing shakes it up.

And you’re not going to shake it up. Because you’re over Namjoon.

“Ke- ketchup?!” Namjoon sputters, jaw dropped and eyes wide. “I know it’s been five years, but damn…”

“What?” Your tone is defensive, but your facial expression is irrefutably sheepish as you drag a fry through the offensive red condiment you’d just squeezed onto your plate.

“What ever happened to the vendetta against ketchup?” he asks, still gaping at sight of you consuming the very thing you’d once condemned as unworthy of being ingested.

You shrug and answer simply, “Lots of things can change in five years.”

It was just meant to be a passing comment, nothing more. But Namjoon seems to take in the sight of you afresh, then nods emphatically.

“That, it can.”

The noise that escapes you is tiny, hopefully indiscernible, as he places an elbow on the table, suddenly leaning forward with his chin in hand, hovering over his half-eaten club sandwich. Determinedly refraining from shifting a little in your seat under his scrutinizing gaze, the words of protest sit heavy on your tongue as you keep a tight grip on them much in the same stubborn manner. You will not break. You’re over him.

“You’ve changed,” he says, gaze still roving over you. It’s not an accusation in the slightest, but more of an observation. “And it’s not just the ketchup.”

“Thank god. If the only character growth I’ve made in the past five years is learning to consume ketchup, then that’d be a real problem.”

He laughs - the staccato hah odd but familiar - and reclines back, elbow propped casually against the back of the chair now.

“But for real,” he says, gesturing with his sandwich-filled hand, the crumbs go flying all over the table. He takes a pause as he stuffs the entirety of it in his mouth, his cheeks bulging with the too-big-mouthful. It’s amazing how he doesn’t choke, but he manages, gulping it down so he can continue. “It’s like you’re more comfortable in your own skin now somehow.”

“Hm,” you ponder between your own bites of your burger, “what do you mean by that?”

“You just seem more sure of who you are lately.”

You purse your lips at that. After the breakup, you finally stopped chasing Joon’s shadow and embarked on your own journey of self-discovery. But you can’t tell him that.

“Maybe,” you offer instead. “I could say the same about you. About having changed, I mean.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” you emphasize, jabbing towards him with a fry. “It feels like -” same fry still in hand, you tap it against your lip as you think through your words, then point it at him again as it comes to you - “like you’re finally letting the words out. You’ve always had this really deep inner world - god knows how many times I’ve lost you mid-conversation to your daydreaming - but now you actually verbalize it.”

The poor fry that’s been waved all around as you gesticulated your thoughts finally gets popped into your mouth. “And it’s nice. It’s nice having a peek into the landscapes of your mind.”

“Maybe it comes with publishing,” he jokes, but his eyes shine with unsaid appreciation at your words.

Your heartbeat stutters a little at the sight of it, but you ignore it. Because you’re over him.

You’re over him. You’re over him, you’re over him, you’re over him.

That’s what you remind yourself, smacking your cheeks as if the sting of it would resonate the words into your stupid brain and make. it. stick.

Sighing out to yourself in the bathroom, you ready yourself to return to the living room. To return to Namjoon.

Yes, it’s pathetic, but you’re hiding in the bathroom away from Namjoon.

Steeling your nerves, you twist the lock and pad your way trepidly back to the sofa where Namjoon sits.

Feigning normalcy, you take a seat next to him and tap away at your phone for a distraction.

Underneath you, the cushions shift and jostle you lightly with the shift in Namjoon’s weight as he scoots closer to you. His warmth bleeds into you where his thigh presses against yours. At least he’s got his pants back on.

“____.”

You look up at him.

“Are you really ok?” His eyes are full of emotion - concern, repentance, sincerity - as they search yours.

“It’s fine, Joon.”

It’s not.

Maybe you were being too naive when you thought you could just be friends. That whatever existed between you two before all this would never get in the way. That the same memories that plague you don’t similarly affect Namjoon.

It had all been going well before this came in like a bucket of cold water dousing you in shock from head to toe.

Namjoon sat in your bed, blankets pooled around his waist to conceal his bottom half. His pantsless bottom half. Not that it took particular prominence in your mind, you dismiss, as you focus on pulling the thread through.

It seems Namjoon’s reputation as the god of destruction lives on. And neither his pants nor his ego are safe from it. What began as an afternoon of dorky fun, attempting to reproduce Hoseok’s latest choreography video (and poorly), peaked into hilarity when Namjoon’s pants spontaneously decided they would have no more of what can barely be termed as dancing. With a sharp ripping noise, his pants seam tore straight down the middle.

The way his eyes shot wide, his hands flying to shield his crotch, had you doubling over in laughter till your sides hurt and you had to gasp to catch your breath between peals of laughter. He whined for you to stop, but it only made it all that much funnier.

The occasional giggle still escaped you, but eventually you calmed down enough to offer to patch it up for him, brandishing the sewing kit you retrieved from the depths of your closet.

And that’s how he ended up hiding under the covers while you mended the rip in his berms.

A chuckle - this time not your own - breaks your concentration.

“What’s so funny?” you ask.

“No, it’s nothing.”

“Hey.” You elbow him lightly. “Share the joke.”

He bites his lip as he considers it for a second. Prodding him once more, it makes him relent.

“I mean, I imagined being undressed in your bed again, but I definitely didn’t think it would be like this.”

Oh.

It registers somewhere in the back of your mind that it is pretty funny. But your laugh sounds hollow, even in your ears. Dropping your gaze back to your stitching, to the sewing that you’ve completed, but you repeat the stitch on the same spot a couple more times. It’s unnecessary, but it’s all you have to hold on to right now in the midst of your shock.

But you can only do this for so long before it reveals itself for the irrationality it is. Knotting it up and snipping the thread hastily, you pass the article of clothing back to Namjoon as you rise from where you were perched on the edge of the bed, the action taking him by surprise.

“Here, I’ll give you some privacy to put them back on. I need to use the bathroom anyway.”

You’re speeding off before he can get a single word in.

“____,” the sound of your name pulls you out of your thoughts. His hand is warm where it grasps your arm, shaking you gently. He’s doing his head ducking thing again, stooped to your level so his eyes can bore straight into yours. “I crossed a line, didn’t I?”

“No, no.” You shake your head, and you fake a smile as you huff out an exhale. “It was a good joke, Joon.”

“But it made you uncomfortable.” His eyes never leave yours. “I made you uncomfortable.”

You don’t answer. What were you supposed to say?

“I’m really sorry, ____. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s fine, Joon. It’s fine.”

It’s not. It’s really not.

But it has to be. Because you’re over him.

It’d occurred to you once that the fates had a sense of humor, and now you’re quickly realizing that tormenting you is their favorite brand of humor.

It should be great that Namjoon blended into your friend group with little to no problem.

Ever since the first time you invited him over for lunch in the museum’s cafe - something that was meant to be a one-off, a compromise so you wouldn’t have to cancel your lunch appointment with Namjoon while also accommodating the deluge of urgent work that had cropped up without warning - his visits, both to the museum and its cafe, had become much more frequent. When asked about it, he’d explained that the artwork in the galleries became a great source of inspiration for his own work.

But you know the real reason. He’s lonely.

The city may be bustling with people, but it’s still a lonely place. At least with your job, you have regular coworkers you meet every day and have formed friendships with. But for Namjoon, being a novelist may grant him the luxury of flexibility in his work environment, but it also denies him the company of regular coworkers. His ready availability, no matter whether it was for morning coffee runs or lunch appointments or after-work dinner or drinks, made it easy to piece together that his way of life before this was quite a solitary one.

So it should fill you with selfless joy that your close friends have taken to him well.

In reality, a selfish jealousy simmers in the pit of your gut.

Watching as Yeri feeds Namjoon a piece of cupcake, your stomach turns at the blatant attempts at flirting. Unable to stand the sight, your gaze drops swiftly to the cupcake in your own hand. Chomping into it, you grind your teeth with a force that’s entirely unnecessary for such a moist cupcake.

You have no right to be upset with Yeri. Honestly, she’d done her due diligence. You’re the one to blame.

Having recognized Namjoon from the lecture, and noticing the number of times he’d walked you to work after your occasional morning coffee run, it wasn’t long before Yeri marched you to the pantry, arm hooked in yours. She steered you away from prying ears and towards where Soo-eun sat, waiting.

Yeri plucks the coffee cup out of your hand, ignoring your sputtered protests, and places it firmly on the counter with a solid thud, hot liquid sloshing about in the cup and rendering the poor barista’s efforts at latte art a complete waste.

“I’m sick of waiting for you to spill to us about your boyfriend, ____, so I’m taking things into my own hands! It’s been weeks. We need the juicy details!”

Soo-eun, who had been brewing her own cup of tea, nodded as she stuck her tea bag into her mug. “I have to admit, I’ve been waiting too.”

“Guys,” you say, waving your hand in dismissal. “It’s not like that. He’s just a really old friend.”

Well. It’s half true. They don’t need the messy details, you decide, as you recount how you met Namjoon all those years ago. It doesn’t matter anyway. You’re over him.

“Nooo,” Yeri whines, throwing her hands up in exasperation, “I thought something juicy was finally happening in your life, ____.”

Oh, if only she knew.

Jealousy bubbles up like an emotional acid reflux that you desperately try to keep down. With every flirtatious touch, you have to remind yourself that you’d never explicitly communicated that Namjoon was off-limits. Because he’s not.

You can’t lay a claim on him because he’s not yours. Not anymore.

But as you grapple with the jealousy that threatens to boil over, you’re forced to wonder - maybe you’re not that over him.

You put a finger to your lips, shushing your friends, then beckon them forward. Shooting them a thumbs-up, they return ones of their own.

Your knocks rap sharply on the wooden door. Heavy footsteps approach the door and the three of you ready yourselves.

The door cracks open and Namjoon peeks out, messy-haired and shirt all rumpled.

“____, wha-”

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!” your trio hollers more than sings.

As the song - if the cacophony can even be called that - carries on without care for neither the time (midnight) nor the neighbors (probably highly annoyed), Yeri shoves the cake into Namjoon’s unsuspecting hands, clearly unaware of his klutzy nature, and the cake very nearly ends up in a heap of strawberries and cream on the ground. But your hand shoots out to catch it, rebalancing the weight of it quickly, well-practiced after the years of growing up around Namjoon. The reflex action doesn’t go unnoticed by him and his lips quirk upwards as Soo-eun snaps a party hat - glittery and obnoxious just like the ones donning each one of your own heads - to Namjoon's head, hiding his bed hair.

"... happy birthday to yoooouuuu," the song drags out into a dissonant finale.

Namjoon's smile has always been captivating, but it's even more so with his features illuminated by the soft orange glow of the candlelight. The tenderness so evident in his eyes pulls you in, irresistible and unrelenting. And though the urge to avert your gaze usually plagues you inanely, it seems to have been entirely overrode by this strange new fixation on the sight of his dewy-eyed expression.

“Thank you so much,” he says, and the sincerity in his words isn’t diminished even with the way he half-whispers it out.

Quiet affection settles like a gentle hum in your heart. Before this, the exhaustion from the day had been eating at you, your eyes strained and dry from the unforgiving glare of your screen at work, your bones heavy with lethargy and craving nothing more than the plush welcoming hug of your mattress. But now, seeing him alight in jubilation, it’s enough that you feel the tiredness recede.

“But please.” He hurriedly jabs a thumb back to his apartment twice. “My neighbors’ hate for me is probably increasing at an exponential rate the longer we stand here.”

“Screw them!” Yeri whispers sharply, the irony of it lost on her. “Blow out your candles first, Joonie.”

Joonie.

Just a single word, but it yanks you right out of the pleasantry you’d been floating along in. Jealousy pulls you under, suddenly irrationally possessive over the simple nickname as you drown in the ebbing waves of the nasty emotion.

Turning back to Namjoon, you plaster on a polite smile. “Yeah, make a wish first.”

Looking between the three of you, it registers that none of you are going to be making any moves to enter his place until he submits to your bidding. Better to just you guys what you want. Relenting, the candles get extinguished in two puffs, and your cheers - hushed this time - fill the hallway.

“Alright!” Yeri claps her hands together, breaking out of a whisper with her exclamation. “Time to check out Namjoon’s abode!”

In typical devil-may-care Yeri fashion, she pushes past Namjoon and walks freely into the place, making herself comfortable. Used to her antics by now, Soo-eun laughs a little, but follows her lead, grabbing the cake from Namjoon on her way in.

“I’ll get this sliced.”

Your eyes trail after Soo-eun as she enters the apartment. When you turn back to Namjoon, you find him looking at you. There it is again, that look. It’s a look that you don’t want - don’t dare - to decipher, but it’s a look that seems to linger whenever he thinks you won’t notice.

You’ve noticed it for weeks now.

In feigned nonchalance, you brush past Namjoon to make a beeline for his couch. After the number of times you’ve hung out at each other’s places, Namjoon’s apartment is like a second home to you now.

“How’d you know I’d be home?” His voice is echoey where it carries over from the doorway as you plop yourself into the leather seat, letting your body get swallowed up in comfort. The front door clicks shut and Namjoon joins you in the living room soon after.

“Face it, Joonie,” Yeri calls from where she’s inspecting his bookshelf. “We’re your only friends in this city.”

“Ouch.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But touche.”

Slices of cake get distributed, courtesy of Soo-eun, and the couch gets crowded as all four of you squeeze onto the tiny thing that was definitely meant to seat two. But there’s no complaints. Not when there’s cake.

Squished between Namjoon and Soo-eun, your bodies pressed up side by side, you’re not sure if you’re imagining it when you feel Namjoon stiffen up momentarily, then hesitantly relax and lean into you. The feel of him is indulgently familiar, and you wonder if it’s the same for him.

The room settles into a contented quiet for a while. Clearly, consuming the dessert takes priority over conversation.

It’s Soo-eun who starts up the conversation again. “Didn’t you go to college here, Namjoon?” she asks. “Did you not keep in contact with anyone?”

You watch carefully as Namjoon fiddles with his fork as he clears his throat. “How do I put this?” he begins, the silver of the fork gleaming distractingly with the way it catches the light under his fidgeting. “I guess, I, um, wasn’t in the best space in college to be making friends.”

“Well,” Yeri interjects before the mood can dampen further, placing a hand on Namjoon’s thigh, “that’s fine, because you have us now!”

Namjoon eyes the hand on his thigh, but says nothing. Jealousy threatens to consume you. Teetering on the brink and frankly unsure which way it would swing, you jump up from the couch.

“I’m kind of thirsty from all the dessert.” It’s a blatant lie. You’ve only had two bites. “I’ll get water for everyone.”

Extricating yourself from the situation, you march into the kitchen. Concentrating on locating the drinking glasses helps to get your mind off of what just happened and the jealousy seeps away.

The drawer where most of Namjoon keeps most of his utensils opens to reveal three glasses. Looking around for a fourth, you finally spy one sitting on a high shelf to the left of the sink.

Rising onto your tiptoes to reach for the glass, you stubbornly maintain that you can reach it if you just stretch that last inch, but a tanned arm grabs it before you can.

The clink of the glass on the counter is barely audible with the way your ears feel like they’re completely stuffed up with cotton. The warmth emanating from the figure behind you causes warmth of your own to rise in your cheeks.

You whirl around.

“I could have gotten that,” you say, trying but failing to keep the bitterness out of your tone. “I didn’t need your help.”

“You seem a little off. Are you okay?” Namjoon asks, his brown eyes scanning you. Testament to the decades of friendship you two shared, of course he would know something was wrong.

“Sorry for being a party-pooper on your birthday, Joon. I’m just tired,” you say with a sigh. “It’s been a long day.”

His hand raises, as if meaning to touch you, but stills for a moment before it drops back to his side.

“I understand. Thank you, ____. You didn’t have to do all this for me, y’know. You should have just gone home to rest.”

“But I wanted to,” the admittance comes slipping out. You frown a little as you look him in the eye. “How did you celebrate your birthday last year, Namjoon?”

His jaw, slacked in surprise, fidgets as he formulates a response. Finally, he huffs out a sad laugh. “I didn’t.”

The hollow loneliness pangs through you and even if it’s only secondhand, it’s still enough that it wraps around and constricts your heart, the emotion welling up tightly in your chest.

Against all better judgment, against the boundary lines you’d carefully drawn up, against the promise of just friends, nothing more, you reach for Namjoon’s hand. As your thumb skims over his knuckles, you marvel at how familiar the sensation of his skin under yours feels, even after all this time.

The way he watches the tender strokes of your thumb - that same lingering look you didn’t want to confront - confirms your earlier thought. The indulgent familiarity of each other’s touch is one that is shared.

“Has it been really lonely?” you ask, compassion leaking through the crack in your voice.

The pause is answer enough. And you expected it. What you didn’t expect, though, was his reply, “I have you now.”

The sheer amount of cherishment in his eyes plunges you into an abyss you can’t fathom ever emerging from.

Everything seems to move in slow motion as you lean in close, catching the way his eyes widen in your peripheral vision.

“Happy birthday, Namjoon,” you whisper into his ear. And, fuck it, you snip the final cord of self-discipline, untethered and free-falling into the dizzying swirl of emotions as you press a chaste kiss to his cheek.

You’re definitely not over him.

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lambourngb · 4 years ago

Text

This Hard Journey

Fic prompt: “There’s something you should know…” Michael Guerin Day 2. This picks up after yesterday’s “This Hard Life” - a part of interconnected ficlets of an AU after the shed, where Alex doesn’t join the Air Force. Mentions of Malex and an Alex/Other here. Finished on ao3 here.

***

He finally got a dog, was all that Michael could think as he sat outside of the house that matched the address Max pulled from the DMV. They had always wanted to get a dog together, but with pet deposits and the tight budget for rent and food, that had always been a non-starter for them. Not anymore.

The quiet shaded street just off of the Buchanan Arts District was lined with old-style Craftsman homes among the peppered in new, renovated sprawling McMansions born of the house flipping obsession during the real estate boom. New construction sprouting between old, mature trees, juxtaposing progress with tradition.

Alex had chosen one of the older homes, untouched by the remodeling fad with a large fenced in yard filling the property footprint, and a dog house that mimicked the main house in style. Two solid years of song-writing had rewarded Alex with financial security, and of course, after three years living in cramped efficiency apartments and noisy neighbors with Michael, the first thing Alex would want again was a house. The roots of his upper middle class childhood were never far away.

Pressing his forehead against the steering wheel, Michael worked to gather the courage that kept him propelled down the over 1,100 miles from Roswell to Nashville. He had made it here, the least he could do was knock on the door instead of freaking out over the fact that Alex had a house with a mortgage while all Michael could muster in the two years since was buying a bank-possessed Airstream.

At least it was better than sleeping rough in his truck again, something he had done when he fell behind on the rent after Alex had left.

Michael took a deep steadying breath and pushed himself out of his truck. The spans of sidewalk suddenly seemed longer than I-40 through Oklahoma. Another deep breath, the irony of borrowing Alex’s self-soothing habit not lost on Michael at all, he tucked his left hand into a pocket to hide the old damage and knocked firmly on the front door.

There was a long silence extended, shoving anticipation into chagrin as Michael turned his head to peek at the tiny side-carport, confirming there was a car there. A loud, chorus of deep barks picked up from within the house. The dog sounded big, but none of that registered as he picked up Alex’s voice, muffled and indistinct.

“-calm down, buddy. Stay- no, stay- It’s probably Daddy’s new speakers arriving-”

After two and half days of driving, Michael had perfected his speech to Alex. It hit every open wound between them, from the fact he was sorry he hadn’t gone with him, to the weak but true explanation that he wasn’t ready then, but he was now. Then finally the big dice throw, the gamble of everything, that every city needed a good mechanic, Nashville was no different, it was no pressure- but maybe? Maybe they could start over?

The door swung open, and like a bag of spilled marbles, all of Michael’s words scattered away from him.

“Michael?” Alex’s polite smile for an expected delivery dropped into disbelieving shock. He did a comical double take, looking back into the house, then to Michael, then over Michael’s shoulder. The classic Chevy truck parked on the street chased away the shock. “Jesus Christ, it really is you.”

“Alex.” Michael swallowed, his eloquence gone. “You look good.”

They had had three years together, and during that time Michael had seen so many different versions of Alex Manes. He had seen Alex tired, dark circles shading his eyes more consistently than eyeliner with an off-kilter alien antennae from the Crashdown. He had seen Alex resolute, using his shoulders to impart a warning in his black clad Wild Pony shirt to any drunk who dared to give him a hard time. He had seen Alex awkward, as he helped Michael with his chores at the Foster’s ranch when it came to cleaning out a cow pen or pulling the twine efficiently off baled hay. He had seen Alex ashamed, as Michael patiently explained during their first grocery store visit that the EBT card only covered certain items.

This Alex was new. Clean, well-rested, skin clear and not tight on his cheekbones from lean meals or bloated from cheap food. An earring shined from his ear, he was dressed in a soft v-neck shirt and artfully cut frayed jeans. Good was an understatement.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here- I’m here because Isobel got married, and um, she wanted to invite you, but I talked her out of it. I’m sorry. I mean for that, but also for like, everything. Not following you here was something I regretted every day since, but I thought- I thought I had to stay back then, but I don’t anymore- and there’s something you should know-”

“Babe? Is that our new speakers at the door?” A new voice called out, cutting off the word vomit that was spilling from Michael’s mouth beyond his control.

A male voice.

The wince and apology on Alex’s face told Michael everything he needed to know. Well. He probably should have seen that coming. Only Alex’s reaching out quickly to grab his hand as he turned away stopped him from bolting from the house.

“No, not our speakers, but an old friend from back home is here-” Alex called back, before turning back to make deliberate eye contact with Michael. “He wanted to stop by to say hello.”

A tall well-built black man came into view, holding a squirming pit bull in his arms, walked toward them both with a bright welcoming smile, “A friend from Roswell? An actual flesh and blood human who knows you? I was starting to think you were an alien, Alex.”

“Just because you’re related to half of Nashville and went to school with the other half, Dennis, doesn’t mean I sprouted from a pod-” Alex shot back playfully, clearly picking up a well-worn argument.

Like a couple. A real couple. With a house and a dog. Michael licked his dry lips, forcing his muscles upward, they probably had retirement accounts. In two years Alex had built something more secure than he had in the three years in Roswell.

“Well any friend of yours, Alex, is one of mine,” Dennis greeted, turning his head to avoid an excited dog kiss before transferring the bundle of fur into Alex’s arms in a fluid movement of trust. “I’m Dennis, welcome to Nashville, um-?” he prompted, extending his left hand to Michael.

“Michael Guerin,” he answered politely, before Michael lifted his left hand awkwardly from his pocket and offered his right in return. His name didn’t alter the warm smile on Dennis’s face. Ah. So he must be a nameless ex for Alex then. Swallowing hard, Michael continued, this time a little meanly, “this hand doesn’t shake so well after I got on the wrong side of a hammer, sorry. But good to meet you.”

The stutter of the clumsy interaction hid Alex’s wince and flash of pain of the reminder.

Feeling no joy from that, Michael picked up the conversation lightly, “I’m a friend from high school. Been doing some transport work, and a job sent me here to pick up a car to drive back to Roswell, so I thought I might stop in and see what the famous Alex Manes is up to…”

“I’m not famous, I just write the words,” Alex protested quietly, before backing away from the doorway. “We were just about to have lunch, if you want to stay-”

“He’s famous, don’t listen to him,” Dennis interjected proudly. “Did you hear that new song from Paramore? Alex wrote that.”

“Oh I know, I have all the singles Alex wrote,” Michael smiled, looking around the house and at the couple with another deep breath. “I’m his biggest fan, I think. But um, thank you, I can’t stay, I gotta hit the road back to-” he started to say home, but that hadn’t been true for a long time. “Back to Roswell.”

***

Hours later with his heart heavy, Michael checked into his room at the Super 8. Normally the expense would have bothered him, but after his day, he figured he was entitled to a little bit of spoiling. And if it was sad that plain wrapped soaps and tiny shampoo bottles constituted spoiling, well, he was content with that.

The clunky black case of his small portable DVD player was propped open on the hotel bed. It was a hand-me-down as technology and electronic gadgets moved into smoother, more versatile means. For him, it was perfect to watch a borrowed DVD in his Airstream since he lacked cable.

With the entire contents of a motel conditioner in his hair, Michael started the paused video file. The shaky dark footage started playing, the sound crackling with amateur hands, before the clear, strong voice of Alex Manes filled the air.

It was probably pathetic to watch this cribbed footage from YouTube, but the romanticism that fueled his journey down 1-40 was also the same sentiment that preserved this moment in amber for Michael. Pulling open his old notebook from high school, he let Alex’s voice singing about love and loss carry him through the calculations of point atmospheric entry and the parallax distance of habitable stars.

It would be a hard journey, but Michael didn’t know any other kind at this point. Roswell wasn’t his home. Nashville wasn’t going to be home either, but the universe was ever-expanding, surely there was a place for Michael?

#mgweek20 #guerinweek20 #malex fic #the lost decade #au after the shed #michael guerin #alex manes #roswell new mexico #Malex #angst here but eventual happy ending #will it show up in the tags?#no one knows certainly not me

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raisedinerebor · 4 years ago

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Pull Me Out

Paring: Thorin x Reader

Song: Train wreck - James Arthur

Warnings: Angst. Fluff. Dealing with depression and mild swearing.

An: This is a request that I got over on Wattpad. I’ve been compiling these stories over there. So let me know if any of you want a link or anything like that!

Tags: @fizzyxcustard

My hands tremble along silken sheets. The color so long faded it's impossible to tell what it once was. Prehaps blue. Maybe a deep green? Did it even matter?

It's been days since i've left this bed. I no longer had the energy to move about. Something as simple as geting something to eat became the most difficult of tasks. Even more so than facing Smaug.

I turn beneath the sheets and breath in deeply. Smoke clung to these forgotten halls like a scholar to their books. I don't think I could begin to tell you where this hollow feeling began to come from. It could be any number of things. Traped beneath this blasted mountain that I once dreamed of seeing. That I had glorified so much in my own mind that it tore me apart to see what she is becoming. Maybe it was Thorins compleate and utter lack of faith within our burgler. Within Bilbo. Our friend. To think the he would try to kill the one who saved his life not that long ago.

But, as I think more on it. It's probably Thorin himself. The dwarf that I once sought safety and solace from now becoming my most feared foe. He's no longer the kind hearted King I knew. The man who put the well being of others above his own. Who promised me a life of plenty.

Who promised me a life of love.

What a joke.

Somebody knocks on my door. What's even the point of answering? The door swings open, rusted hinges squealing in protest. Somebody sighs and a plate scraps across the wooden desk on the other side of the room.

"Lass?" So they sent Dwalin this time. I don't answer. Instead choosing to roll over to my side and peer at him from beneath the covers. He shakes his head and walks over to the bed. "You have to eat lassie. Please. " I snort and cover my head. It quickly grows hot beneath the blankets. The bed dips as he sits down. A large hand rests on my shoulders. Heavy and warm even through the blankets. I want to scream at him to go away and to stay at the same time.

"You're worrying us girl." He breaths heavly and shakes my shoulder. "Please. Just. Just eat." The bed shifts as he gets up. His hand with it. I hear him leave and the door slamming shut.

Dwalin comes out from that room with a million and one worries. Each one worst than the last. A shuddering sigh comes from him as he runs his hand through his beard. Balin is quick to go to his side.

"Well, brother?" Dwalin shakes his head and begins to storm off.

"That poor girl is only getting worse with each passing day. For Mahal's sake! She hasn't ate in almost a week. She hasn't left that blasted room for longer." Balin is almost running to keep up with his brothers longer strides at this point. "She isn't even speaking! Y/n might as well be a dead woman walking." His voice softens as his anger leaves him. Fear filling him as he thinks about one of the few good things The Company has coming to an end.

She had compleatly changed from the happy go lucky thing that they picked up in Hobbiton. A smile for each and every one of them. A listening ear for those who needed to spill their woes. And a steady place to rest for any of them who felt themselves falling in the world. Always ready to make room in her day to make them happy.

Even if it ment giving hers away.

It's time they returned the favour. He knew exactly who to go to, and hopefully, he would be able to pull his own head out of his ass.

Balin looked to Dwalin as they stood before the ornate wooded door. Dwalins usually steady hand shaking as it laid upon it. Waiting to be pushed open.

"Are you sure?" Dwalin grunted and shook his head.

"No. But when has that ever stoped me." With that he pushed the door open and stepped into Thorins' own bed chambers.

The first thing he noticed was how dark it was. A few candles were lit here and there. The fire lit within the hearth. But other than that there was little light to be had. Thorin was sleeping. Not even properly. Still in gilded golden armour and crown. He lay in the center of the bed his feet still firmly planted on the floor.

"Damned fool." Dwalin muttered. So far gone in his own sickness he couldn't find the time to care for himself. He stood right in front of Thorin and after checking there was no sword that he could stick him with, grabbed him by the edge of his armour and pulled him upright. Thorin woke up with a startle yelp and stumbling from the abrubt change from laying to standing.

"What's the meaning of this!" Thorin stumbled backwards. Scowling at Dwalin. Dwalin reached out and grabed his armour once again. Jerking him closer as he all but growled at Thorin.

"You're a damned fool Thorin. A fucking idiot for not seeing what's going on around you." Was he a bit harsh on throwing all the blame on him? Prehaps. Did he care? No. Not really. Not if it ment getting the old Thorin back.

"For the love of Mahal!" Thorin pulled back pulling Dwalin with him as he does so. "What are you going on about Dwalin?" He spat out and grabbed Dwalins wrist. The tattooed dwarf shook his head. The blasted fool.

"Are you so blind in your own desires that you have forgotten the ones you cared so much about?" It was the throne room all over again. Dwalin searched Thorins face for any sense of familiarity. For any sign they would have their king back. And him, his oldest friend.

Thorin shook his head. "I am blinded by nothing. Dwalin." He pulled Dwalin's hand away from his arm with little to no effort. "Now. Go." That was the moment Dwalin pulled his arm back and swung straight at Thorin. Thorin stumbled backwards his hand on his face as he glared at Dwalin. "You-!" He barely even got the one word out.

"You're a daft fucking fool if ye think i'm going to let ye get away with that." His accent thickened in his anger. Calm as it seemed to be. He never raised his voice. Didn't raise another fist as he came to stand before Thorin once again. Foreheads touching one another as he muttered.

"Uzebade*. My brother. The lass is falling apart. Your nephews are terrified and more than half of the Company thinks you to be dying. We are preparing for war, Thorin. We need you. Our king. Our friend. Our family." He pulls away and lays his hand on Thorins shoulder. Eyes glancing over the dark bruise growing along his cheek bone. "More importently though, you have to go talk to y/n. She's pratically wasting away at watching you fall apart. She hasn't eaten in a week. Hasn't left her room for two. And she doesn't speak. Not anymore. After watching what happened with Bilbo. Which, by the way. I am still going to kick your ass for."

Thorin pulled away and looked around the room. Then down to his hands.

"What has become of me, Dwalin?" His eyes fill with tears as he looks up at Dwalin. "What have I done?" Dwalin comes up and takes off the heavy crown on Thorins head.

"Nothing. As long as you pull out of it." Silence.

"Where is the Y/n? Where is my Ghivashel?"

It's the silence that scared me the most. It felt as if I could get lost in it. Be smothered to death by it. I ball the silken sheets in my hand. Got i'm so pathetic. Why can't I get up and do anything? Why can't I do what I have always done and pave my own way in this world. Why can't I just get over this!

I jump when the door bursts open. Smacking against the wall and clattering back to close.

"Y/n." A deep voice breathes out. Wait. I bolt upright on the bed, Thorin standing at the end of it. Gone is the golden gilded armour I last saw him in. Gone is the jaring crown that seemed to weigh him down. He has his furs back along with the armour that he had worn through this long journey back home. "Oh lass." I could feel my chest growing tight. That all to familar lump forming in my throat as I tried to hold back tears. He rounds the side of the bed and reaches out to me. I jerk back and watch as his face falls. His hand falling uselessly in his lap. This close I could see the bruise cradeling his jaw.

"I know that no matter what I say, that it is up to you to forgive me. To decide if I deserve your forgivness." He gets down on his knees and props his arms up on the bed. "Yet here I am. A fool of a man to begging for it. To ask you to forgive me for what I have done. To you. To the others." I sit at the edge of the bed. Right next to him. Neither of us move for what seems like an enternity.

" I was scared. You know that?" My own voice surprises me. Hoarse from the lack of use. Thorin got up and sat next to me. Hand upon my knee. "I was terrified that you were actually going to kill Bilbo. Scared that I. That we would never get you back." The tears fall slowly. One by one. Falling from my lashes and onto my clasped hands on my lap. "Thorin." I look up at him. "I was petrified that I was going to lose you. I know that you were sick. Cursed by deep in your blood. " I bring my hand up to his face. Fingers sofly trailing along his bruised cheek before cradling his face in my hands. His beard scratched at the soft palms of my hands. He seemed to melt into it. Eyes closing as he brought his own hands up to engulf mine.

"But considering that you were not all there. I find it easier to find forgivness within me. For, it any one deserves it, it is you. Thorin. Son of Thrain, son of Thror. And king under the mountain." Tears betray the smile forming on his face.

"I do not deserve it." His voice is quiet. Soft. Scared. I could feel myself shaking as I got up to wrap my arms around him. One hand going to hair the other resting at his back. Despite his words he holds me tightly. Muscled arms circling around my waist as he burries his head into the crook of my neck. I shiver as his hot breathe fans over exposed skin.

"It is up to me, Thorin, to decide if you are worth such forgivness. And you do. So, I forgive you." I squeal as im suddenly thrown backwards. My head bounceing against the matress. Thorin hovers above me. His face just above mine.

"I don't deserve it. I don't think I ever will. I have done to much and said to little. There is blood on my hands that I don't think I can ever wash off. Amarlime." His lips touch mine for but a moment before peppering along my face. At the corners of my mouth and along my jaw. They trail down my neck and onto my shoulder.

"Then let me help you. Just as how you have helped me. And we can wash it off together." We both sit up. Embraced in one anothers arms. He gives me another kiss. This one deep and full of fire. Lighting something up deep inside of me.

"Come. Lets get you some food. And then I can show you the hot springs beneath Erebor." I snort.

"Are you saying I smell?" He laughs.

"No. I'm saying I do and we both need to take care of one another. Pull each other out before we fall in to deep." He kisses me once more. "We still have a sanctum. A home. And it's not to late to build it back."

#thorin x reader #Thorin Oakenshield #The hobbit x reader #the hobbit fanfiction

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choupichoups · 6 years ago

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Press F (Instagram/College AU) Ch.14

Eliott may be all that; rich, handsome, instagram famous— but the basic plebe inside comes out to play when his crush follows him from out of nowhere.

Or: Press F but Eliott’s POV

Parting is such sweet sorrow has gained a whole new meaning as Eliott stands in front of Lucas, bouncing back and forth on his heels in a bid to stall some more before he truly has to go.

“You really don’t want me to stay with you until Yann comes back?” He finally pushes out the question, brows furrowing in concern despite the reassuring smile Lucas gives him.

“I’ll be fine, Eliott.” Lucas picks Champ up from the ground when she starts spinning around in place, looking about ready to lay down and have a nap right at their feet. “Go see your mom.”

"I mean... she’ll probably survive one day without eating my dad’s cooking.” he reasons, pouting when Lucas gives him an exasperated look.

“Bring your mom her rightful lunch, just like you told your dad you would. I don’t want there to be any reason for them to hate me.”

“That’s impossible, they already love you.”

Lucas pauses, bottom lip caught behind his teeth as he looks up at Eliott uncertainly. “Really?”

Eliott softens, sighing out a quiet, “Really.” His hands move on their own accord, brushing against the line of Lucas’ jaw. He can’t imagine how a single person in this universe could ever be capable of hating Lucas.

“Really, really?”

“Really, really.”

“Cool. You really, really have to go now, though.” Lucas laughs, nuzzling into Eliott’s hands like that would help his case.

“Okay, but if you need me for anything at all, you’ve gotta promise to tell me.” The grip he has on Lucas tightens just a little, firm enough to have his boyfriend tipping his head back to see the resolve in Eliott’s eyes. “I mean it. Anything.”

Lucas can honestly ask him to do his grocery shopping right here right now and Eliott would undoubtedly agree. Hell, if Lucas tells him that the windows rattling from the wind bothers him, he’d drop everything and run back to him. Eliott has no qualms about the lengths he’d go to protect Lucas, to keep him feeling safe.

Champ yips, gazing happily up at Eliott as a comfortable silence embraces them otherwise, the sight of Lucas’ precious smile warming the crystallizing fear creeping up on him. The mere prospect of leaving his boyfriend alone for hours until Yann gets back is frankly a no go in Eliott’s books but he understands that Lucas might need some space, and Eliott has his own responsibilities to uphold.

Fuck if it doesn’t scare him, though. The atrocious start to their weekend has really done a number on him.

“I promise,” Lucas whispers eventually, leaning up to kiss the beginnings of a frown off of Eliott’s lips.

Eliott watches him carefully, running a thumb over the shadowed smudge under Lucas’ eyes. He’d waited until Lucas fell asleep first before slipping into dream land himself, but Lucas had already been awake by the time Eliott next opens his eyes— and Eliott is an early riser. He forces himself not to dwell on it, he had been privy to an offhanded comment about Lucas’ complicated relationship with sleep before so maybe this morning is nothing out of the ordinary.

“Alright, I’ll see you later.” Stooping down for another kiss, Eliott lets this one linger a little longer, breathing in once they pull away and brushing a final kiss to Lucas’ forehead. He peels his hands off of him, squishing Champ’s tiny head in between his palms to make up for how his mind is screaming for him to hold on. “You’ll take care of him for me, right tough girl?” She licks his hands in enthusiastic answer.

Lucas snorts out a laugh. “You take care, don’t miss your stop or you’ll get back too late.”

“Yes, sir.” Eliott playfully salutes as he walks backwards, stopping just out of reach before he gestures towards Lucas’ still closed door. “Well? I’m not leaving until you’re inside.”

He’s expecting the eye roll that comes— it’s sweet and fond, familiar. The exact kind Eliott craves to soothe his fraying edges.

Lucas turns around once he’s inside, grinning at Eliott and blowing an exaggerated kiss in his direction. It’s so ridiculous that Eliott’s laugh is ripped right out of him, loud and startled, echoing in the empty hallways, nipping at the sound of Lucas’ door shutting with a heavy bang.

All alone, he finds himself despondent, kicking imaginary dirt off the floor as he trudges on with a pathetic pout. There’s no proper way to explain this feeling— they’ve literally almost managed to hole themselves up in Eliott’s apartment the entire weekend. It’s not like Eliott can help it, though, he did just get Lucas back and his needy little melodramatic heart misses his boyfriend for every minute they aren’t together.

He drags himself out of Lucas’ apartment building with visible difficulty, feet shuffling against the rough gravel below his feet all the way through his journey to the bus stop.

It’s going to take him quite a while to get to his mother’s office without a car. Usually, his father has no problem dropping by himself, but he’d answered a favour for an old coworker out in Lyon and will probably be stuck there until the next morning.

In a not so shocking turn of events, his mother forgets to take her ready packed lunch to work without his father being present to remind her of it. And obviously that’s an abomination, she can’t go without a homemade lunch Eliott, she’d get so hungry and her brain won’t be as sharp as usual, her work ethic would suffer because of it. Eliott had cut off his papa’s rambling with a groan and a reluctant agreement to bring the goddamn sandwich to its rightful owner just so the guy would stop worrying already. Hopeless romantic runs thick in the blood of the Demauries apparently.

adam.fk plans today??

idrisomd sleep

abebkhellal oof yeah

emir.yous buncha boring old men

omarions says you?? didn’t you spend fall break last year learning how to play chess lmao

emir. yous we don’t talk about that

idrisomd shut up emir not everyone is a free bird like you I was editing some stuff and I realized I need that dumb triangle still lol eliott can I borrow yours pls

emir.yous maybe if you don’t procrastinate you’d have more free time I thought you were keeping that triangle??

idrisomd maybe if you shut up you’d get more dates I had to sacrifice it for the greater good

Eliott laughs under his breath, contemplating whether he should add his two cents into the conversation. In the end, he keeps to himself for now, reading through the childish banter that inevitably starts up.

The triangle, huh. He’s glad the bus is mostly empty at present, else the giggling he can’t quite suppress would’ve probably worried some people. Fucking unbelievable, really. It’s ridiculous how it all started, now that he thinks about it. It feels like a lifetime has gone by since then.

Eliott still remembers it, vividly. That moment he set his eyes on Lucas. It’s the week before their new semester officially starts— a Thursday to be specific. He and his friends are scrambling around frantically attempting to maximize their remaining days of freedom to get ahead on his and Idris’ new film project.

“Props.”

“Props?”

“Yeah, we’re missing some props.”

Eliott struggles with the cardboard boxes he’s dragging behind him— they’re saving all the money they can by building the set for filming themselves. The rest of the guys get pulled into the fray, as always, so it’s a bit of a disaster when they’re all going around picking up stray cardboard and styrofoam just in case they need it for later.

“What’s the thing you were talking about earlier?” Abe snaps his fingers, trying to recall everything they need before leaving campus.

Idris jumps. “The triangle!”

“What do we need a triangle for?” Adam asks, fumbling with the styrofoam cups he’s balancing in one hand.

“For that one scene in the forest.”

“There’s a scene in the forest?” Omar pipes up from behind their circle, returning from the storage room where he’d gone to dig out some black garbage bags they can borrow.

“Well, it’s Emir’s backyard but whatever.” Eliott mutters, scratching things off of their checklist. “Can’t we just fake the triangle sounds?”

“Too much effort for a little scene. Don’t you have one at yours?”

“Yeah, but my place is out of the way, it’ll take too much time going there and then to Emir’s.” He shrugs, tapping the pen against his chin. “We can take the one from the theatre.”

Emir gives him a look. “We are not stealing the orchestra’s triangle.”

“Nobody will miss it,” Abe dismisses, already walking off to load their things in his car.

“What if someone tells the director it’s missing?”

“Emir, who would notice a missing triangle?” Idris raises his hands as he talks, incredulous at the question. “When you watch your classic live shows, do you hear anyone go oh, yes, the triangle was on point today? No you don’t, cause nobody gives a fuck about the goddamn triangle, man. Eliott, can you please grab us the triangle so we can get outta here?”

“If we get in trouble, I get plausible deniability,” Emir mumbles defiantly. Eliott snorts, patting Emir on the shoulder on his way out.

The theatre is only a short jog away from the parking lot so Eliott slips through the doors in no time, rooting around backstage for the instrument. He finds the little thing buried underneath a broken flute and a... tambourine?

Single piano notes echo along the walls without warning, and Eliott jumps from his crouch, heart beating fast from shock. He doesn’t run, though, because whoever is out there is obviously not going to spot him if they’re preoccupied with playing the piano.

He’s just about to leave again, grab his stolen goods and sneak his way back out, when the aimless piano notes begin to blend together with effortless flow, a sudden transition tickling his ears so pleasantly that Eliott can’t bring his feet to move along more than two steps at a time. Transfixed, he walks closer to the curtain, curious as to who would play such a beautiful melody so delicately.

Eliott has always wished life would be as easy as the films he's grown up watching— with twists and turns that cause crushing moments, yes, but with the comfort of a happy ending to cushion against the pain through it all. He’s always dreamt of something cliche to happen to him once in his life. Maybe he could win the lottery and live the rest of his life as a billionaire. Maybe he could meet someone so inspiring he’d gain the courage to pack up and explore the world with nothing but a boat and backpack. Maybe he could fall in love at first sight

The boy on the piano is turned sideways but Eliott can clearly see him from where he’s hidden behind the curtain. The smile on his face is plain adorable and the way he’s swinging his feet under the piano (he’s not even using the piano pedals and it still sounds so good) goes straight to Eliott’s heart.

His feet carry him forward, as if entranced, so helplessly drawn into the boy’s gravity—

“Stop,” the boy says, laughing. Eliott stops, startled. “You’re gonna ruin it, Yann,” his angel continues, head swinging to the side where another person who Eliott has apparently not seen is sitting.

The other guy, Yann, laughs too, picking up a violin. “No I swear, I can do it. I took classes once, remember?”

“Yeah, like ten years ago and you quit after two days.”

The two boys giggle at each other and the angel stops playing, attention fully on Yann. There’s a profound affection in the way they interact together, which makes glum little stones fall heavy against the bottom of Eliott’s stomach.

Jesus, he needs to calm down. He doesn’t even know the boy’s name yet.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and Eliott’s glad he’s forgotten to put the ringer back on. He doesn’t know how he’d explain it if the two boys catch him skulking around backstage.

Eliott runs out of the theatre soon after, remembering how pressed for time he and the guys already are. He tries to put the thought of the boy behind him, making vague hand gestures in lieu of explaining what delayed his return when the guys question him.

He fails miserably.

The bus lurches and Eliott almost drops his phone, fingers grappling for a firm hold on the screen as it slips and slides from the abrupt movement. He still has the group chat with the guys open so the scrabble has him accidentally scrolling up, up, up around a month back.

When he looks down at the screen, he's taken right back to that delightful moment Lucas had unknowingly caused back then.

The doors open and close, one person exiting but a whole crowd entering right after. Eliott presses himself more comfortably into his back seat corner and settles a hand over his mouth, covering the widening grin stretching his lips as he reads through his own moronic words.

Good god, looking back on it now is hilarious, but Eliott will never forget the all consuming panic he’d felt at the time.

Eliott exits out of the chat, frantically scrolling down his barrage of notifications to stare reverently at the one that matters most.

lucallemant started following you

It’s almost two hours past midnight, with him having just finished up the sketch for the side project he’s working on by himself. He’s been looking forward to falling into bed ages ago but now he’s wide awake, brain swirling with jumbled thoughts and with no hope of falling asleep within the next second.

srodulv when should I? should I wait til later?

adam.fk maybe wait til its not 2 in the morning lmfao

srodulv what if I wait too long and he unfollows

abebkhellal god almighty 😂😂😂 sorry bro no one can help u now

srodulv help me

emir.yous why does it matter? just follow him now

idrisomd he’s probably sleeping so he won’t know you’re a nocturnal beast

srodulv he won’t think that’s lame?

omarions he’ll eventually figure out how lame you are so might as well run with it

srodulv fuck off

idrisomd yeah man you can’t hide lame

emir.yous sorry we can’t help with that

abebkhellal rip

srodulv has left the chat

A bunch of useless hooligans, those guys are. He needs better friends.

His phone pings with more notifications— Idris has added him back in the group chat but Eliott ignores the messages for now, knowing full well that there’d be nothing but more of them poking fun at his current dilemma.

He opens up Lucas’ profile, heart palpitating as his thumb hovers over the follow button. Looking at the boy’s feed brings him the same mix of apprehension and fondness, as always. The latter because he’s an idiot who apparently falls head over heels for snippy little piano players and the former because, well—

I’m sorry, bro. I saw something, I think they’re maybe together? I’m still not a hundred percent on it, though.

Eliott sighs, clicking on Lucas’ latest post, of that guy playing the guitar for him. He scoffs, he can play the guitar too. He can even do the Star Wars theme song. On the guitar and the piano. Lucas needs to see that he’s the better choice over here.

He lets his screen go dark, closing his eyes as he urges himself to relax. It is quite an ungodly hour to be awake so he drops his phone on the bed, turns over, and hopes that morning comes with a newfound game plan to get the love of his life to love him back.

The good news is that morning does come, but the bad news is that all the plans he comes up with throughout the day are steaming piles of shit.

“I think I’m in love,” he blurts out, sitting in the basement of Emir’s house. Idris is standing on the couch, trying to cover the ceiling spotlights with printer paper so as to ‘dull’ its luminosity. Adam and Omar are struggling to hold up some desk lamps while Abe holds coloured file folders over the bulb, changing the colour of the lights for the correct ‘ambiance’. Emir is elbow deep in crushed styrofoam pieces.

They all exchange looks of confusion before Abe goes for a hesitant, “Uh... just now?”

Eliott scowls, waving a hand as if they’re so stupid to be unable to read his mind. He gestures to his phone, still open to Lucas’ Instagram page.

"Oh yeah! Any progress on that front?” Idris hops down, eyes glued to the ceiling as he backs up, slowly as if one wrong move could shake the house so much that his pieces of paper would dislodge themselves.

“No.” Eliott pouts, flailing his legs in unashamed frustration.

“Okay, well, have you followed back?” Adam asks, twining some rope around the lamp once they’ve figured out the best angle to go with.

“No. Shit,” Eliott hisses, sitting upright and immediately hitting the follow button. He’s been so focused on figuring out how to start a conversation with his angel that he’s neglected to think of much else.

One of them sighs, but Eliott doesn’t bother to look up at the sound of it.

“So what are you gonna do next?” Emir abandons his crumbly work of art, now sitting cross legged across from Eliott.

“He’s vague posting.” Idris grins, scrolling through his phone. “Ooh, Polaris. When did you even sneak off to take this? That caption though. Much mystery, so cool.”

“Shut up, it’s an old picture.” Eliott throws a couch cushion at him, then proceeds to slide onto the floor, diving flat on his stomach closer to the guys, as he comes up with the most brilliant idea. “What if I’m not?”

“Huh?” Abe goes to sit on the floor as well.

“What if I’m not cool or mysterious? Would that get him to talk to me?” Eliott’s thumbs are working on overdrive before the words are fully out of his mouth, scrolling down each and every one of Lucas’ photos and hitting like on as many of them as he can manage.

He looks up just it time to see the dawning realization on Abe’s face. “No!” he screams in horror, reaching out to snatch the phone from Eliott’s hands. “No, you— oh man, you guys, he did a weird thing.”

“It’s not weird,” Eliott dismisses, trying to retrieve his phone back but every attempt is slapped away by the annoying people he unfortunately calls friends. “It’s called reaching out.”

Idris is cackling, bent over in half as Abe shakes his head in wonder. “That’s kinda genius, though? How very Eliott of you,” Idris gasps out once he’s done wheezing up a lung.

“He’s getting the Eliott experience way too early in the relationship.” Omar mumbles, curiously going through the rest of Lucas’ older posts. “Aw, cute.”

Eliott scrambles towards them, wanting to see which post Omar’s referring to despite the fact that he’s seen every single photo twice over.

His hand slowly creeps up above the phone and double taps on the post.

“Oh my god, someone restrain him.” Adam says, dragging a hand down his face. He sounds like he’s trying his hardest not to laugh which is more than what he can say for the rest of them so Eliott appreciates his effort.

“Come on, Eli monkey, time to break off from Insta for a bit, hm?” Idris walks forward, still chuckling as he tries to pull Eliott off the ground and away from his stolen phone.

Eliott wraps his arms around Idris’ ankles, almost making the latter fall on his face in the process. “But he’s so beautiful.”

“Yes, yes.”

“His eyelashes are the 8th wonder of the world.”

There’s a collective groan from everyone in the room and then Eliott feels a placating hand patting the top of his bowed head. “Yes, we get it. But you gotta get up now, lover boy. We‘ve got shit to film.”

By the time his stop comes up, Eliott has to squeeze himself past a godawful amount of passengers. He gets it’s break week for a lot of the students but considering it’s a Monday afternoon, Eliott is of the opinion that there really shouldn’t be this many people out and about.

His mother’s office is a towering structure of reflective glass and one way windows. Eliott pushes at the revolving doors, nods a smile towards the reception desk, and settles into one of the many armchairs in the lounge area. He shoots a message for his mama to come meet him downstairs and doesn’t wait for a response before switching tabs to pull up the film he’s been wanting to see all day. Initially, he’s planned on seeing it with Lucas, knowing that it’s just the right amount of lengthy and boring (for his boyfriend’s taste) to have Lucas cuddling for a nap on his shoulder instead.

But alas, his plans are impeded by none other than his loving parents. Again. He still hasn’t quite forgiven them for poking fun at him being grumpy at brunch after that first night he’d spent with Lucas.

About ten minutes in, someone walks towards him and sits directly across from Eliott’s armchair, never mind that the entire lounge area is devoid of any other person than the two of them.

Eliott doesn’t pay it much mind, unmuting his phone speakers just loud enough for him to hear the background music coming from the film— he wants to record the sound and see if that kind of music score would work well for the mini project he’s planning to put up in the future.

The stranger lets out a faint chuckle but Eliott ignores him, watching the minutes rise on the recording to make sure that he doesn’t miss a single note. Never let it be said that Eliott doesn’t take his films seriously.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Violence is never at the forefront of Eliott’s mind. In fact, he thinks it doesn’t solve much, and should be considered as the last resort. But as life would have it, there are always a few exceptions to the rule and unfortunately for his good mood, the sole exception he’s found in his twenty one years of existence has decided that today is the day that Eliott will commit murder.

Eliott’s eyes flick to where Raphael relaxes back in his seat, legs crossed and fingers delicately twined in his lap— to any outside viewer, he truly looks the perfect representation of an educated, well-bred gentleman. Eliott sees why people are drawn him.

“Fancy isn’t the right word,” he says, just as casual. He pauses the film, music cutting off just in time for him to hear another one of Raphael’s grating chuckles. “Why are you here?” The answer is obvious; pressed slacks and dark suit a dead give away. He remembers Lucas mentioning that Raphael works in a law firm but Eliott needs to hear it, to make sure that fate has really handed this opportunity over on a silver platter.

Raphael spreads his arms. “I work here,” he answers, smug. “What about you? Someone trying to pin murder on you?”

Funny how he’s asking that, but Eliott doesn’t answer his question. “New York too much for you, huh.”

Eliott watches the minute narrowing of Raphael’s eyes, taking pleasure in the fact that the guy hasn’t expected Lucas to divulge their story in such detail.

“New York was great, actually, they offered me a spot there as well but eh, I need to think about it.” Raphael leans forward, elbows on knees as he brings one hand up to rub across his lips, faux thoughtful. “I left a little something behind here.” He looks at Eliott, then, and the latter sees the fabricated warmth in his eyes freeze over, ice cold in barely restrained anger. “I want it back.”

Don’t mess this up, Eliott reminds himself, fists clenching and unclenching as he reigns in his temper. How he’d love to feel the crunch of Raphael’s nose under his fists right now, but it’s not that kind of battle. Eliott only has one shot to play his cards right.

“Cut the bullshit,” he responds, surprisingly calm. “Lucas isn’t yours to take back.”

Raphael laughs. “Why, he’s yours now?”

Yes. “Neither. I’d appreciate it if you stop talking like he’s something to pass around.”

“How chivalrous of you.”

“I’m surprised you know what that means.” Eliott wants to say more, but he grits them back. There are more important things for him to needle out. “What with all the shit you put him through.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Raphael falls back into the cushions once more, infuriatingly unaffected.

“Do you want an essay or a list?”

“So quick to believe everything you’re told, are you? Did he cry and look at you with those big blue eyes? He does that all the time to get what he wants.” There’s a strain at the corners of Raphael’s eyes, nonchalant facade slipping down the longer Eliott stares on without a word. “You know there’s no evidence for any of these, right?”

The quick dismissal of Lucas’ personal recounting almost does it for Eliott. But if Raphael is a master of manipulation then Eliott is of restraint— he won’t let Raphael win. “Yeah? You gonna tell that to the marks on his wrists?”

Raphael scoffs, “That was an accident. Friday was a big misunderstanding, trust me. It’s called tough love, he likes it.” He smiles, obviously waiting for a reaction from Eliott but the latter maintains an impassive exterior.

“It’s called assault.” He barely refrains from tagging on a spiteful fuckface at the end of that.

“Whoa there, that’s some heavy accusation you’re dropping!” Raphael laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Do you know who I am?”

“A sad excuse of a man who takes advantage of vulnerable minors?”

Raphael clicks his tongue. “You think you’re so perfect, huh?”

“Far from it.” Eliott shrugs. “But I don’t hurt the people I’m supposed to love.”

“Well aren’t you just the sweetest.” Sarcasm drips from Raphael’s words. “You think if we both stand here, right in front of Lucas, and make him choose.” He leans forward, a desperate glint in his eyes. “You’re positive he’d choose you? Cause let me tell you, Eliott, that boy is wired for my touch, for my voice, for my own to do as I please, and he will choose me no matter how much I hurt him. He will always come back to me and you can’t do shit about it.”

Victory feels good when taken by a landslide. Eliott grins, and he sees confusion, frustration, and wariness warp Raphael’s carefully constructed expression into that of something… human. Human, unlike the impenetrable monster Lucas has painted inside his head. Human, who, despite the cunning and intelligence, very much fucks up like everyone else. And oh, has Raphael fucked up big time.

“My turn,” Eliott says cheerfully, just to mess with the bastard even more. “Do you know who I am?” Slowly, so as to make sure that Raphael catches the movement, Eliott stops the recording on his phone.

Raphael shoots up from his seat, panic dousing his face red all over before seething rage takes prominence. He hisses out a quiet, “Get rid of that, right fucking now. You don’t want to mess with me.”

Eliott stands, huffing out a small laugh as he notices that they’re of equal height. None of Raphael’s tactics has worked, or will ever work on him. “Nah, it’s the other way around.”

“Eliott?”

Georgine Eloise Demaury, part time managing partner of the law firm, part time vicious criminal prosecutor, and full time doting mother, makes a tall, intimidating figure in her navy suit and sky high heels. Her eyes are steel blue as they land on Eliott and Raphael alternatively. The red on her lips is a sharp scowl, striking against the paleness of her skin.

Eliott presses his lips together, amused at the sight of what he fondly refers to as her working bitch face. She’s forbidden Eliott from visiting her at work too often just because he’s the only one capable of cracking her diabolical attorney persona. He keeps quiet, shrugging innocently when she raises a questioning eyebrow at him.

“Hi, mama.”

He hears Raphael’s sharp intake of breath and fuck, that feels good.

Her lips twitch the slightest bit. “You two know each other?”

“Just having a friendly chat,” Eliott says, looking over at Raphael with a tight smile. He relishes the startled loss he sees there.

“I’m waiting on a call from Mr. Schutt,” Raphael says, rearranging his face, posture straightening under Georgine’s gaze.

“And you?” She addresses Eliott this time.

“I brought lunch?” Eliott gestures at his bag on the chair. “Papa got worried you’d starve when you told him you forgot it.”

She rolls her eyes at her husband’s dramatics. “You didn’t have to come here.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to papa. You’re gonna have to eat it now, I ditched my boyfriend for this.”

“Ah, how’s Lucas? Come up to my office, you didn’t finish telling me how he’s doing last night,” she says, rigid frown compensating for the soft tone in her voice. Across from Eliott, Raphael flinches at the mention of Lucas’ name. “I need to grab something from IT and then I’ll be right there.”

“Will do.” Eliott smiles, throwing his backpack over one shoulder when his mother walks away. He waits until the click clacking of her heels fade off completely before he turns to face Raphael. “So anyway, I suggest you think very hard about that offer in New York.”

“You’re insane,” Raphael mutters behind clenched jaws.

Years ago, that might have stung. Coming from someone else, it might still hurt. But as it is, Eliott revels in it. “You have no idea,” he says, raising his hand for the most condescending pat on the back he’s ever delivered before heading off to the elevators.

Eliott ends up taking a long nap on his mother’s office couch, tired from interacting with Raphael and his stupid mind games. Sure, he’d come out on top of that one but lengthy confrontations are most definitely not Eliott’s cup of tea. He thinks if Raphael still has the audacity to show his face after that, Eliott will let loose of inhibitions and just start a proper fist fight.

Recording their conversation had been a gut reaction— he’s not even sure it would help much if push comes to shove. But his mother has quite the terrifying track record and judging from Raphael’s reaction, he knows that too. He almost wishes for Raphael to do something stupid, to trip up the wire on Eliott’s half baked, convoluted plan to take him down permanently. The idea of delving into it scares him a little. He knows shit all about the justice system and Raphael is literally part of the goddamn system.

Lucas wants to leave it to karma, and maybe he’s right.

But then Eliott remembers the tears streaming nonstop down Lucas’ face, the blank disconnect in his eyes throughout that night. His worn voice begging for Eliott not to let go. The hours spent in bed coaxing for an unresponsive Lucas to sleep just a little, I’m right here. The events of that night have taken permanent residence in his mind, painfully unwanted, but there to stay.

lucallemant Eliott, I know I said I’d give you all the time you need And I mean it, you can have more right after this But please, can you pick me up at work? I need you please Please

Call him dramatic all you want, but Eliott’s world comes apart when he reads Lucas’ pleading messages. His vision narrows, the path a blurred vignette, and time slows as if he’s thrown into the fucking matrix. Except there’s nothing exciting or amusing with this development, and his limbs work through honey as he turns and grabs a jacket, shoves his feet into mismatched shoes, and makes a run for it.

It’s not the messages itself that cost him his breath— though those do have him worried out of his mind, unable to even begin guessing as to what would scare Lucas enough to send them. It’s the timestamps that have his heart rattling with unease. The faint chanting of too late too late too late a mournful echo in his head.

He pays no mind to it when he begins panting, head pounding as the freezing wind bites at him with heavy force, unbothered that he hasn’t eaten much for the past however long. He’s not going to stop until he reaches his destination.

However, when he gets there, the cafe is dark and empty. You’re too late, the voice is screaming now. Eliott tells it to shut up, paces the area for a bit, and then checks inside the darkened alleyways. It’s empty. He walks the opposite direction, headed towards the parking lot— and there, that’s when he hears the hushed voice speaking.

Eliott swivels around, rushes towards the sound, and doesn’t allow himself to hesitate on the idea that it’s not Lucas trapped in between the wall and that man’s body.

“Get the fuck off of him.” When he’s close enough, he shoves them apart, fighting against the urge to take Lucas in his arms right away. He has to get rid of the man first. The visceral clutch of anger simmers inside of him, a heat of gargantuan proportions boiling his blood. Eliott imagines this is what one would feel like just before committing a heinous crime.

His interaction with the stranger barely sticks to Eliott’s mind, more focused on the way Lucas presses close to his back. His hands shake with barely constrained fury but he doesn’t move, afraid Lucas will fall if Eliott isn’t there to hold him up. “You can fuck right off or I swear to god.”

The man raises his hands, chuckles ringing malicious as he shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

Eliott doesn’t care for his cryptic bullshit. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

His smile is visible in the dark and Eliott’s been around enough of those with questionable morals to pinpoint the lack of kindness in it. “Fine.” He tilts his head as if to catch a final glimpse of Lucas but Eliott tucks Lucas in tight behind him— this guy doesn’t deserve to even look at him.

When the sound of a car engine fades out, Eliott turns around, engulfing Lucas as best as he can, hoping that his embrace would provide a temporary shelter from it all. He knows it’s impossible, knows he can’t do much on his end other than watch with powerless clarity as painful sobs wrack the small body in his arms. He repeats a litany of apologies into Lucas’ hair. “I have you, I have you.”

Their walk home is silence in its strangest form. Eliott realizes there’s something wrong, he can feel it at the tips of his fingers but he puts it down to Lucas gathering his thoughts and lets him be.

“Lucas,” he says as the apartment comes into view. “I know we haven’t… I don’t… listen, can I stay with you for the night? I’ll sleep on the couch, anything, I just want to be there.”

Silence.

Eliott bites his cheek, fidgeting nervously when Lucas continues to not say anything. He chances a glance at the boy beside him and sees him looking straight ahead, expression blank as if nothing’s been said.

“Thanks,” is all Lucas says once they reach the steps to the building, failing to acknowledge Eliott’s request.

“Lucas, wait!”

Unheard, just like the last time.

There’s something really, really wrong.

Eliott picks at his head, staring up at what he knows to be the window to Lucas’ apartment. He tells himself he’ll only wait until the lights flicker on, but seconds turn to minutes and the window remains dark. Chest tightening, Eliott changes his mind. He’ll wait until someone goes in or exits the building, will plant himself outside of Lucas’ door— he doesn’t care if Lucas or Yann don’t want to see his face right now, all he wants is to make sure that Lucas stays safe for the rest of the night.

Except the next person to exit the doors is Lucas himself, Champ cradled in his arms.

“Why are you not inside?” Eliott is familiar with the feeling of helplessness but it always pertains to his own mind, his own body. He’s rarely ever so taken off guard that he doesn’t know how to make it better for someone else. And yet here he stands, frozen with panic, speechless in the face of the one he loves most.

Yann isn’t home, Lucas is hard-pressed on buying extra locks for their door, and there’s no way Eliott is letting him back inside the apartment all alone.

“Lucas,” Eliott reaches out, wants nothing more than to cradle Lucas’ face in between his hands, but he’s afraid of what touching him would do. “Come back to me.” It sounds unsteady even to his own ears and maybe Eliott’s having a little trouble breathing, but he’s more desperate for Lucas to meet his eyes than worry about his next inhale.

Lucas doesn’t. Come back to Eliott, that is.

The entire walk up to his apartment, and then the walk back to Eliott’s are both filled with a strained distance that has nothing to do with physical proximity. Eliott’s no longer surprised when Lucas doesn’t answer any of his questions but he keeps firing off either way, hoping against all odds that something would click. But it doesn’t work that way, he knows. He, of all people, should know better.

He tries again once they’re inside the safety of Eliott’s home. “Lucas, are you with me?” Eliott asks and he’s not. He’s not.

Running out of options, Eliott’s hand hovers over his mom’s contact info, his dad’s, Idris’, Lucille’s— he just wants someone to tell him what to do.

In the end he doesn’t get to call anyone, as a loud thud comes from the bathroom where he’d left Lucas and Eliott trips over himself in his rush, crashing into the kitchen counter, banging his arms against the potted plant hanging in the living room.

But the pain from those clumsy little accidents is nothing compared to the sight of Lucas crying on the floor, blue eyes running red from the force of his tears. “Lucas?”

“Eliott.” His voice is so quiet, so broken that it takes Eliott down to his knees, colliding harshly against the tiled floors as he brings Lucas into the circle of his arms. Tears gather in the corners of Eliott’s eyes but he knows for certain that they’re not from the sting of his fall.

“Don’t let me go back,” Lucas pleads, breath caught between one word and the other.

“You’re never going back,” Eliott swears on his life.

Lucas quiets down after what feels like hours upon hours of tears and stuttering breaths. Eliott knows he isn’t asleep, though— his wet lashes brush softly against the skin of Eliott’s neck for every blink. Left without much option, Eliott detangles their legs and carefully lifts Lucas into his arms, a mustard seed of hope swelling in his chest when Lucas twitches at the movement. There’s a pause as Eliott waits for the boy to protest, grumble for Eliott to put him down, he can walk on his own.

It doesn’t come, so Eliott goes to tuck him into bed, receives no protest when he quietly dresses Lucas in the clothes he’s brought out. Lucas’ eyes remain downcast the entire time, immovable no matter how many times Eliott brushes a hand through his hair, wipes at the tear tracks smeared on his cheeks.

Lucas doesn’t sleep until well past two in the morning. Eliott doesn’t sleep at all.

“You okay, honey?”

His mama looks like a whole different person in private, Eliott’s always marvelled at her ability to switch off just like that. Her eyes are all clear skies and motherly affection, no trace of the savage G.E Demaury to be found as her hands card gently through his hair.

He wants to tell her so badly, but this is Lucas’ story to share. Involving his parents to ask for help with anything is a foreign concept to Lucas and would make this a bit more complicated, yes, so Eliott will just have to wear patience like it’s going out of style.

“Yeah,” he croaks out, still groggy from his nap.

“Do you wanna wait for me to finish up here and I can drive you back?”

“Uh…” Eliott rubs his eyes, forcing his brain to catch up with his mama’s words. He checks his phone before answering, blinking while his eyes adjust to the brightness of his screen.

lucallemant Do you wanna come over for tonight? I know we were just together but It’s fine if you’re gonna be back too late though

He thinks he’s actually physically melting just from reading those. “It’s okay, I have to get going now.”

srodulv If I didn’t fall asleep I’d be begging you to come over anyway

lucallemant You were asleep at your mom’s work??

srodulv 😂 See you soon ♥️♥️♥️ ♥️♥️♥️♥️ ♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️ ♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️ ☹️ ♥️

lucallemant ♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️ ♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️ ♥️♥️♥️♥️ ♥️♥️♥️ ♥️♥️ ♥️

srodulv 😊 ♥️

He stops to get some take out on the way, knowing Yann will be there and would most likely not be so chummy with Eliott after the whole thing from the past few weeks. He figures he can extend a truce through food— the way to a man’s heart and all.

When he knocks on Lucas’ door, he hears a couple of thuds, some rapid, illegible whispering, and then the door finally opens only for Lucas to catapult himself into Eliott’s arms. The door slams shut behind him and Eliott might just be seeing things but he’s pretty sure that’s a glimpse of Yann’s unimpressed form standing on the other side of the door.

“Hi,” Lucas breathes out, one arm slung around Eliott’s neck while the other is bent awkwardly behind him, holding onto the wriggling doorknob as if to keep a ravenous beast from escaping.

Uh oh.

“Hi,” Eliott greets back. “On a scale of Champ to Jurassic Park, how scared should I be of Yann right now?”

Lucas bites his lip and Eliott can’t help it— he kisses him before Lucas can respond. He means for it to be a chaste touch, but Lucas lets go of the knob (thankfully no longer rattling) and throws both arms around Eliott, pressing closer and opening his lips to deepen the kiss. Eliott lets himself indulge in it but is quickly brought back to reality when he tries to wrap both arms around Lucas only for the take out bag to hit Lucas’ ass with a dull thunk.

“Ow, what the fuck.” Lucas pulls away, spinning on the spot as he looks for the offender.

“Sorry,” Eliott laughs, lifting the bag. “I bought food. Peace offering.”

“Oh my god, you’re so smart,” Lucas says, sounding genuinely pleased. “I apologize in advance though, he thinks he’s my dad sometimes.”

“Damn right!” Yann shouts from behind the door.

“Jesus.” Lucas mutters under his breath. “You ready?”

Eliott nods, rehearsing the quick speech he’d made up in his head during the ride back to Lucas’ place. All that preparation’s for nothing, however, when all Yann does is look at him when the door finally opens. He looks at Eliott like he’d done weeks ago, when Eliott had taken Lucas home after the encounter with his father, unspoken understanding passing between the two of them as easy as that.

I technically have no right to be mad but I am, Yann’s usually kind eyes are hardened earth. There’ll be hell to pay if you pull that shit again, the look in them all but screams mistrust.

Eliott nods, hoping Yann also understands his most sincere but wordless response— never again.

The stare off probably only lasts a few seconds but to Eliott, it feels like an eternity before Yann’s eyes start to squint, one hand reaching for the take out bag that Eliott has stuck in the space between the two of them. Slowly, Yann takes a hold of it, snatches the bag from Eliott’s grip, and sniffs into it. He’s still squinting at Eliott as he walks backwards to take the food inside the kitchen.

“Okay, weird but blessedly silent. I’ll take it,” Lucas huffs, taking Eliott’s hand and dragging him past the living room and into the little hallway. Belatedly, Eliott realizes that they’re headed straight for the bedroom, Lucas marching them towards the door like a man on a mission.

“Don’t you wanna eat?” Eliott asks, pulling back to slow Lucas down. “I bought that for you too.”

“Later, I just,” Lucas pauses, his door already wide open once they reach it. “I have to ask you something.”

Well that doesn’t sound foreboding at all. Eliott clears his throat. “Okay.”

They arrange themselves on the foot of the bed, legs crossed and facing each other. When Lucas starts fidgeting, Eliott reaches over to intertwine their fingers together.

“I know we joked about it before… or more like just yesterday actually… but uh,” Lucas starts, looking around the room to avoid meeting Eliott’s eyes head on. “So Marie’s home now and I’m taking Champ back to her on Thursday.”

“Okay,” Eliott says, smiling when Lucas discreetly looks at him from the corner of his eyes.

“Okay, um.” Lucas takes a deep breath and spills the rest out on a long exhale. “My mom will be there too and I was wondering if you’d like to come?” He’s wincing by the time the question ends and Eliott, endeared, can only stare. “Maybe? You don’t have to. I understand if it’s too early or whatever—”

Eliott brings their tangled hands up to his lips and rains down kisses to the back of Lucas’ palms until he shuts up.

“I’ll come,” he says, and then after a short silence continues with, “I’d love to.”

Lucas’ relief is palpable.

“Okay. That’s… that’s good.”

“You’re cute when you’re all nervous like this,” Eliott teases, wanting to see Lucas’ smile. Sure, it’s only been a couple of minutes since he’s last seen it but Eliott’s one greedy motherfucker when comes to Lucas.

“What?” The corner of Lucas’ lips tilts up, but it’s not quite the smile Eliott’s looking for.

“You’re all nice and cute when you’re nervous. No room for snarking or swearing at me.”

“Shut up.”

“Ah, it was good while it lasted.”

“Shut up!” Lucas laughs, kicking at Eliott’s knee.

“Oh you’re kicking me now too, my god, such violence from a tiny human.”

“You’re so dumb.” Lucas pushes at his shoulder and Eliott goes down easily, but not before winding an arm around Lucas so that his boyfriend falls on top of him in their descent. “Such an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” Eliott retorts as cheesily as can be, grinning when Lucas laughs again, eyes scrunched and mouth open.

“God, do you ever shut up?”

“Yeah, there’s one way to shut me up.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, you’re really good at it.”

Lucas leans down and Eliott feels the smile on his lips. The kisses start off as innocent pecks, short and dry, until Lucas brushes their noses together and teases the tip of his tongue in between Eliott’s slightly parted lips.

Eliott surges up then, locking their lips together as he moves, sitting upright with his arms still secured around Lucas. His boyfriend goes along with it, easily shuffling around so that he’s sat comfortably on Eliott’s lap, hands slightly cold against the back of Eliott’s neck, but the latter doesn’t mind— Lucas’ mouth is scorching enough to make up for it.

His jacket gets tossed to the floor at some point and his hands wander inside Lucas’ hoodie, searching for the warmth of his skin under, encouraged by the way Lucas tightens his arms around Eliott’s shoulders when he runs a hand from the nape of Lucas’ neck down to the dip low on his back. The intensity reminds him of their first time— only slightly, because Eliott doesn’t think anything could come close to that night. But he recalls the warm weight of Lucas on his lap, against the wall, over him, under him. Recalls the way he’d jokingly asked Lucas how many fingers he’s holding up. How Lucas had very non jokingly slipped the two fingers in his mouth and licked around them until Eliott lost his mind.

The memory of it has heat rushing up and down Eliott’s body in frantic jolts, melting away his higher functions until he finally flips them over, gently laying Lucas down below him just like he’s always done. His fingers lightly dance along the line of Lucas' jeans and the latter lets him, Lucas’ hands exploring the wide expanse of Eliott’s back under his shirt.

And that’s something new— not Lucas touching him no, but rather the confidence he exudes in bed. Eliott doesn’t think he’d ever forget the shakiness of Lucas’ breath, the furious drumming of his pulse, the flinches he’s tried so hard to cover up. Eliott’s noticed every single one of them, often pausing to suggest for them to stop only for Lucas to hold him by the sides of his face and mutter a determined, keep going.

Back then he couldn’t figure out if there’s a story behind it, or if Lucas is only nervous about being intimate with someone else. Now that he knows, can extrapolate the details from what Lucas has told him so far, Eliott’s heart is close to bursting with the realization of how much trust Lucas has placed in his hands that very first time. Of how much trust he continues to have in Eliott despite all that’s happened.

I love you, his touch speaks, lingering and light over the smooth skin of Lucas’ waist.

I love you, his eyes repeat, insistent, hopeless, as they meet Lucas’ wide, adoring gaze.

I love you, his mouth whispers, soundless against the brush of Lucas’ lips, plush softness falling open under the gentle touch of Eliott’s tongue.

I love you, he wants to say, out loud, with all his anxious, fragile heart but what comes out instead is a nearly inaudible, “You’re so beautiful.”

Maybe someday, he’ll be able to speak as it is. Someday, he’ll work up the courage to stop hiding behind soft touches and pretty words. But as Eliott opens his eyes on a slow blink, he looks down at Lucas and catches the most tender of smiles directed up at him. Maybe words aren’t needed right now. For Lucas, in this moment, maybe Eliott is enough.

“No, you,” Lucas retorts childishly, arching up to press a giggle into Eliott’s amused smile.

“This is a losing battle, baby.” Eliott nuzzles his cheeks, nose instinctively wrinkling when Lucas kisses the tip of it. The sweltering heat has cooled between them, replaced by a softer kind of warmth.

“Yeah, your losing battle,” Lucas says, trying to shift from under Eliott’s weight. “Baby,” he adds in a whisper, smile cheeky when Eliott’s head snaps up to look at him. He sputters, unfairly flustered at hearing Lucas use that pet name, any pet name in fact, for the first time—

“Are you being a brat?” Eliott tries to keep his voice stern, but he’s pretty sure his eyes give it away as Lucas dissolves into helpless giggles. “Are you being a brat?” he repeats a little louder, hands splayed widely over Lucas’ sides, curling up where his boyfriend is most ticklish.

“No!” But it’s too late, Eliott’s already found his weakest spots and proceeds with the attack, relentless despite Lucas’ half formed begging in between his laughter. “Eliott, no! Wait!” he squeaks, turning red when one of Eliott’s hands slide up to tickle at his neck.

Eliott only stops when Lucas, breathless and teary-eyed, pouts pitifully up at him. Honestly, what human being with a heart could resist that? So he leans down and brings the jut of Lucas’ bottom lip in between his teeth, waiting until his boyfriend opens his mouth on a groan before diving in for a kiss. Lucas’ hands immediately tangle themselves into Eliott’s hair, legs pulling up to wrap around him as if Eliott has any batshit plans of leaving the bed any time soon. Eliott’s shirt is halfway off his back when Lucas’ door creaks open.

They barely let up, both expecting to see Yann coming to interrupt them for whatever reason but the entry way is empty.

“What—”

Soft, fast-paced panting is their answer and Eliott’s completely unprepared for when Lucas shoves him off the bed with all his might— Eliott hangs onto the sheets to keep from cracking his head open.

“Oh shit, sorry!” Lucas shouts, dragging Eliott back up to the center of the bed. “I just— Champ’s just a baby, she can’t see that!”

Eliott doesn’t know whether to agree or laugh. He figures responding with a deadpan she’s just a dog won’t go over too well with Lucas so he keeps that thought to himself. With a sigh, Eliott smooths down his shirt and walks over to where Champ is still panting happily up at them.

“Are you happy now?” He asks the dog, crouching closer to her level and tapping her tiny nose with a finger. He carries her in his arms on his way out to the living room, turning back to see Lucas attempting to fix his hair as if Yann doesn’t already know what they’ve been up to, alone in the room for at least half an hour. “Come on, baby, let’s keep Yann company before he decides to take back my rights.”

#skam france #elu fic #elu insta au #fictag #there are about 20 variations of this chapter #lays down #chapter warning: ch11 flashback #the eliott pov i've been hiding

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tardis-sapphics · 5 years ago

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so @doctorthasmin sent me a soft!prompt

@doctorthasmin: Okay, here’s the softest prompt I’ve got, proper detailed little head massage for the Doctor after a little whump. I want the description to give me a ASMR contact high it’s so tingly cute!

so, here, here’s a troubled navy ship crew from ~1700s and a well-deserved head massage, in ‘i wish you lived like you’re made of glass’ . the title is taken from 5am by amber run, which you might want to listen to whilst reading this piece. i’d personally suggest listening to hounds by ry x.

tw: mention of period-specific racism, period-specific sexism

Moments of violence are self-absorbed.

The present has no desire to listen to the quieter moments, unless they are already brimming with a horrible anticipation. Attention paid to these reminders of being alive become in some way detrimental to the very existence of them. Those reminders are refused agency, no longer allowed to exist as themselves. Everything must become a correlation, if not a cause, to the terrible tension; failing that, the present must attribute it to pathetic fallacy. Little things are no longer allowed to be themselves, but a whisper of what is to come. A warning, not in its intention, but prescribed to it, forbidden to anything else.

All of the quiet things, the little things: the creak of wood, fine wood from the docks of Liverpool but still pressured by the intensity of the sea. It forgot dryness as soon as it set off from land. The cough of a soldier, hurrying up to the imminent end of the moment; a hurrying up of the soldier’s moment. These are fake menances, ascribed by the desperation hanging in salty air as thick as the fog that stalks them.

Raindrops, in most other moments, arrive tender. Cool grace on cheeks; the splash perfectly round, perfectly crowned, in self-same puddles. The sound of it a sigh, a blessing on Mother Nature’s children. The clouds hum to them: we give you life. They have turned their backs on moderation, now, and their deluge is immovable and frightening. All fires blow out, all burning sensation eliminated – except for the one the moment needs. That terrible anticipation.

But then, all moments of violence are self-absorbed that way.

Cruelty thrives in atmospheres tended to by the cold of heart. Drowned by rain they no longer know the meaning of it, their uniforms ratty and falling apart, they have deserted human kindness for its inability to turn up. Decorum has been long hammered out of these men – but for the fear drilled into them by their officers, they would mutiny. All that exists to them now is the destination, to be reached across miles and miles of heavy emptiness.

Seagulls cry. Rats squeal in corridors and bite on gangrenous toes. Light stays elusive. Trapped in the roar of the storm, the exotic lands of tomorrow seems to never arrive. A dream faded, life narrows down to maintaining the functions of the ship; the groan and creak of every man and his job; the paltry, soggy food; and the persistent smell of dead shipmates. Every man is sick to death of sailing. Every man is sick to death of men. Every man is sick to death, eventually. For some, it cannot come quick enough.

The intrusion is welcome at first. Four people, arriving in the middle of a storm! Two men, one old – and sure to die quick – and one sturdy young black man. A good servant to the Captain, perhaps, and a boost of energy for the soldiers. But the bigger surprise – two women! An exotic delight, the headstrong nature of the woman untamed; and a strange, eccentric lady – a devil to catch. The challenge breathes new life into the boys, tired of themselves and each other; some of the soldiers thank God for the appearance of these beautiful creatures.

The runaways are strange, from distant lands with improper clothes yet recognisably English; out of place and out of time, and decidedly out of manners. Whatever their reason for boarding so impossibly, they are not at all what the Navy soldiers require.

Novelty wears off easily, like drying paint caught out in the rain. Obscure explanations and fiery tempers unbefitting to custom strike matches in the minds of despairing men plagued by tedium. Neither transience nor return are an option, not in such stormy waters – at least, by the strangers’ directive. On a strange ship in stormy seas, there is nowhere to go but down.

The last strike that ignites the bonfire is the devil-woman’s trespass into the Captain’s quarters. Charm and mystery are not enough to save her. Fire spreads in the hearts of angry men. These are traitors to the Crown, with the audacity to steal from the British Navy’s finest ships.

A standard punishment for a runaway thief would be too slow. But the men have not had fun in so long. What are a few kicks to a woman sentenced to die? Power soothes and satisfies more than the sharp lick of alcohol; it dizzies a man more soundly too. The others, to be afterwards put to work, must watch their friend plunge to the freezing below.

The rain soaks their foreign clothes to a limpness, rubbing at the rusty shackles clamped over their wrists. Their captors cough over the strangers’ shoulders – mouths open, rattling in rib cages where hearts once warmed their chests. The weak hacking becomes a drumbeat for the execution. No peace is given to the silence.

Everything devoured by a greedy anticipation. Hearts in throats, they watch on in terror – refusing to acknowledge finality. At the same time, they are scared of it. They are alive, but at what cost? Desperation and fear swirl in the wet fog, the lock of eyes wide, pleading with God not to murder the Doctor like this – not by the hand of heartless soldiers no better than pirates.

She goes under.

Too many moments later, the pulsing manifestation of the TARDIS around them. Soldiers scream witchcraft and desert their captives in order to escape, their footprints landing alternately on metal floor and sodden wooden planks. Safe in their world, they must watch on as the TARDIS retreats to the safety of the Time Vortex.

Horror and rage subside like calm waters at the sight of the Doctor propped up at the console, her sonic screwdriver in one hand and the treasure in another. She is beaten, a patchwork of blood colours, dripping wet – but faithfully alive.

She has preserved the last of her energy only to free them of their shackles. Then consciousness abandons her. She is taken to bed in Yaz’s arms.

Rain returns to itself, on planets far away, and the deep breaths of quiet moments do not tremble with the knowledge of inevitability. In amongst the knick-knacks of the Doctor’s bedroom, her coat hung up to dry on the back of the door, Yaz has situated herself at the foot of the bed. She is the sole overseer, having been the first to shower and warm up. Now she sits alone, watching the Doctor rest.

Her sight makes journeys on the Doctor’s physicality, coming back to the same cuts and bruises scattered along her body to see the tender skin lighter, stronger. The healing process happening in real time, right before Yaz’s eyes. With so much work happening, peaceful sleep must be an illusion. Yet the drama of the day is not marked by restlessness, either. It manifests in the image of her; and in the slight creases between the brows.

Yaz has moved closer to the Doctor’s head. Her palms have rested on the curve of her face for so long she has forgotten time itself. Her fingers have deigned to smooth the frown lines away, without success. But it doesn’t matter. The Doctor is here. Alive and healing and successful.

She wonders what they’re going to do with the alien quad-photon fuse-reactor.

An hour more, and the Doctor wakes. She looks gaunt; still, she has vastly improved. But for the yellow and deep pinks smattered across the canvas of her body, there would be no other evidence of their near-miss. It does not seep through in her countenance, though in Yaz’s it does; the hug she gives the Doctor is rushed into, and deep – but not tight.

‘We thought you’d drowned!’ Yaz gasps.

The Doctor chuckles. ‘Me? Nah, never.’

The moment manifests. A suppressed yawn and a reluctance to let go entirely are the first clues. Then there is the hum of air around them, no longer only itself. Breaths amplify themselves. Soft cotton moves against itself and hints its depths, warmed by the sleeping Doctor.

‘I should get the others,’ Yaz murmurs.

The Doctor keeps a grip on Yaz’s arm. The moment is a sweet comfort. ‘Not yet,’ she pleads. ‘Just for now, Yaz. It’s – it’s nice to have you alone.’

‘Okay,’ Yaz says, because it is nice to be alone with her.

The moment has manifested as a them moment, a time they glimpse only in snatches, and its prolonging brings their gravities to fold onto another, to situate and settle. The conversation starts calmly, and drifts between currents with no landing in mind. The air is warm and the flying slow. They wrap themselves up in it, the soaring known to them after their first conversation, the first tumble out of the nest. How smooth it sails now, on the streams of familiarity.

Mentions of the fuse-reactor are interspersed throughout, but never examined, never prodded. It is contentment enough to breathe the same spaces, occupy few worries. They can come later. They always come later.

Wrapped up in it, Yaz barely notices her arms move, doesn’t register the decision. But they move, despite no expressed permission. All she goes on is the imprint of a feeling, a possibility of existence formed in the same way a footprint is pressed into sand.

Words continue. Yaz’s fingers thread through fine blonde strands falling away from the back of the Doctor’s skull. Reaching further, where she knows blonde will fade into brown at the roots, they push forward until the soft round ends of her fingertips bump into solid scalp. A low sound emanates from somewhere in the Doctor’s throat. An amalgamation of instinctive emotions.

Yaz never once falters in the point she is trying to articulate out loud, even as she continues comforting the Doctor, slowly, slowly, with the head massage. Her fingertips are soft and flat on the Doctor’s head as they stretch out. The spaces between them widen, curling around the ears, then traverse to the dip of her slender neck. A shiver. Heat trapped amongst hair strands dissipates as her fingertips push forward, leaving trails of cool comfort in their wake.

Up close to the top of the Doctor’s skull, Yaz’s fingers bend in on themselves, scratching lightly in lieu of massaging. The Doctor hums again, and her head lolls back. She is melting under it, the remnant tension easing out of lightly bruised shoulders. Yaz smiles.

Her hands move round, reaching the temples and massaging there. If she looks close enough, she can see the minute hairs on the back of the Doctor’s neck stand up to attention. In synchronised circles, she brings her hands to the middle and round, working the same pattern, to the back of her head. They trail down to the slope of her neck once more, and the Doctor breaks out into a shiver again.

Yaz wants to laugh at that, but sound got lost in the descended quiet. She believes it best to leave it there. Her hands slide down from the back of the Doctor’s neck to her shoulders, then down again until they are close enough to her own body to return.

Deprived of touch, the Doctor mewls. But she is half-asleep already, her eyes closed, and still healing. So she settles back down onto her pillows, pulling the duvet up to her chin. Without thought, she grabs onto Yaz’s hand. In slumber, she slackens, and tender pink skin lashed on her cheek lightens into cream.

Yaz watches her, and thinks of sunbeams amongst thick clouds. Neither holy nor a sign, just beautiful in themselves.

And she is absorbed by it.

#thasmin #thasmin prompts #fic: more of the universe #doctor who #doctor who fanfiction #thasmin fanfiction #thirteenth doctor #yasmin khan #team tardis #ryan sinclair #graham o'brien #thasmin fanfic #whump #whumptober2019

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spookbusters · 6 years ago

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A Real Good Morning (18+)

Summary: Morning bang sesh with everyone’s fave Chief of Police :))

Pairing: Hopper x Reader // Word Count: 1.8k (and i’m not even sorry) // Warnings: Straight up smut. This is 18+, consider yourself warned; not a lot of dialogue; this is also my first posted smut ever (pls b nice)

A/N: THIS WASN’T EVEN REQUESTED, I JUST THINK HOPPER DESERVES NICE THINGS. Also I wanted to challenge myself to write as little dialogue as possible, if any at all. And I think I did pretty ok! Enjoy!!

How you loved waking up on Saturday morning. The way the world was ever still. Pale sunlight shone through the curtains that swayed softly from the fan's breeze. There was a nip to the air. The transition from Summer to Fall was in full swing, so it made your weekends even more pleasant than usual.

And there was one lone cherry on top of this absolute morning bliss: him. Your back was pressed to his chest, the warmth of his snoring breath cascading across your neck and the weight of his strong arm draped across your hip. Your eyes, still heavy with sleep, were not easily willed open and you eventually give up on your lack of desire to be fully awake. Thus, you decide to settle into the warmth of the man behind you and enjoy it while it lasts. It wasn't often you woke up and have him still be in bed. It was even more rare for you to wake up before Hopper. More often than not, he got wrapped up in the previous days' work, or a case would pop up to disturb the time you were able to spend together. You didn't mind entirely; you got into this relationship knowing how hard he worked.

But it was mornings like this that made it worthwhile. A soft groan left his parted lips as he finally stirred awake. You made a similar sound; partially genuine, partially a teasing mimicry. As you do, you roll over to face him and feel his hand splay across the small of your back. When you look at Jim, he's radiant.

His hair is rumpled from sleep. It's a absolute disaster, really. But his cerulean eyes are shining and the lazy smile beneath his facial hair is drawing you in. The first kiss of many is chaste, as they typically are. You hear him sigh in contentment and you mimic his sounds once again. Unfortunately, you begin to giggle at your own silliness halfway through.

When he pulls away, your cheeks sorely miss the warmth of his skin. A gentle moan bubbles from your throat, a cry for his return. Hop chuckles at your needy nature. It's a warm sound. Rich and deep in tonality, and with all the genuineness the universe could muster. The second time you kiss, it's like you're oxygen and he's never taken a breath in his lifetime. Your lips mold to his in synchronicity you thought to be divine, and you let out a sharp gasp as his tongue swipes across the bottom one. He reorients himself in a way that allows him to hover over you, propped up on one forearm. A second hand cradles your head and threads its fingers into your hair. Your hands run over and down his broad shoulders, bare and smooth to your touch. The gentleness of your fingers zips a chill down his back. And the following dig of your nails into his back at the feeling of his lips trailing to the hollow of your throat is a sharp contrast. Hopper's curved smirk at your whines and gentle pleas for more makes you huff. His name tumbles from your lips in a mutter and you squirm beneath him. The look on his face was nothing short of pure pride. Hop knew he drove you insane, and he had no problems admitting he loved it. You looked so lovely with your head thrown back, eyes screwed shut as his teeth left the gentlest marks across your clavicle. There was something special about how your looks transitioned before, during, and after these moments. Ordinarily, intimacy between the two of you was on the rougher and faster side. Putting aside the fact that the two of you very much enjoyed it that way, you were both busy people. Therefore, your sessions would be anywhere you could get some real privacy and for however long that could be managed. It didn't matter if it was his office or yours, a quickie in the bathroom before having to get Jane to school, or in the back of the cruiser. Wherever time could be made, it would be made. But times like these were some of your favorites. Your shared bed was cozy, the house was devoid of your daughter (as she was at a sleepover), and Hoppers hands and mouth were engulfing you. The t-shirt you'd stolen from one of his drawers clung to your slightly sweaty skin, one of his hands trailing up your side. The other swept over the outside of your thigh, causing a twitch to wrack your already frazzled frame. A second shudder made you seem to vibrate as skilled fingers rolled one of your nipples between them. Begging eyes shone up at him, the soft look of lust glazing over them. It was practically enough to have him cave right off the bat. God, you looked so good like this. He adored the way your rosy lips were full and flushed from his kisses. How your mouth hung open as he caressed you. The way you unconsciously arched into him, your body responding to each little movement. He wasn't exactly about to let up. Ache began to seep into every fiber of your body and the desire showed. The hand that had grazed your thigh was now ghosting a path toward your core. When that journey came to an end, you could feel the gentle pressure of Hopper's thumb swiping over the wet patch that had formed between your legs. You moan, the sheer volume and lewdness of it surprising the both of you. He made a comment about how lovely you looked all spread out and hot for him, and the deep decadence of his voice almost had you teetering on your orgasms edge. Your eyes flutter shut, the anticipation of having him surround you was growing to be too much. You let out an impatient groan, a signal to him that you were growing a bit tired of his teasing and were in need of more of him. With the way he was now straining against his sweatpants, he was in no mood to object to your wants. Two hurried shimmies from each of you later, he's lying heavy and thick on your bare heat. The satisfaction of the skin to skin contact made the wait worth it. You prop yourself up on an elbow, your fingers toying with the edge of the t-shirt you donned. The way Hopper stares you down, the silent ask of permission, is throwing you for a loop. The hair once messy from sleep was now disheveled from your fingers carding through it, the eyes once gently clouded from exhaustion were now darkened by desire. His lips were parted, short breaths expelled between them. Reaching between the two of you, your hand grips his cock and places the head just past your folds. The two of you maintain eye contact through it, and he relishes the way your brows tip upwards as he pushes his way through you. When his pelvis finally nudges against your clit, you feel a rush that tosses your head down onto the pillows. The way you beg him to start moving is borderline pathetic. It's barely coherent, muddled by the whine in your tone. One of your hands is fisted in the sheets beneath you, and the other is gripping one of your breasts, doing anything to get your body to the high it so desired. With an experimental rock of his hips, you feel the coil begin to wind. He towers over you, strong hands spreading your thighs and pinning them down nearly flat against the comforter. Hopper speaks words of praise and love as his pace slowly quickens. How good you could take him, how tight and wet your slick was, how there was no better feeling on earth than being buried inside you. He bends over you, punctuating his words with the gentlest of kisses to your lips. You could feel it now, the beginning of what was sure to be a massive wave on its way to crash over you and wash you ashore. He grunts out a response to the way you clench around him, but you're so focused on the orgasm on the distant horizon that you're barely paying attention. Another snap of his hips and Hopper is becoming a little more ruthless. It seemed to you that he himself was chasing that same high; begging to be washed ashore by your side. Your face is nothing short of erotic to him, and he's definitely using the sight for his own benefit. The way your mouth hung open in a silent sob, your eyes rolled back ever so slightly, blush on your cheeks and sweat on your forehead. You looked so fucked out already, he almost felt bad for having you so wanting earlier. Almost. The way he seems to swell inside you, making the fit even tighter, is the first sign that he's getting close. You move one of your hands to trace patterns on your clit. The reaction is instant. Your fingers are nearly vibrating against your skin, and you feel the familiar tension in your abdomen. You mumble under your breath, asking if he's as close as you. He's nodding. You're so close to the edge you want to cry. If he stopped now, you'd never forgive him. You want to cum. You want to feel your walls wrap around him as he spills between them. And you tell him so. And that's what does it. In an instant, he's buried to the hilt in your folds and coating your insides. The sensation kicks your senses into overdrive and you all but scream his name as your release slams into you like a ton of bricks. Your chest is tight, your skin on fire, and your head feels like it's buzzing. Coming down from that high was very similar to the sensation of getting off a drop tower fair ride. An odd calm after such a speeding climax. It left you giddy, but longing to maybe experience it again one more time. He slips out and collapses next to you, exhaustion once again prevalent in his features. You were certain you looked the exact same way and you giggle at the way he causes you to bounce on the mattress. Hopper pulls the blankets from their awkward position at your feet and covers the two of you, then beckons you to come lie in his arms. You gladly accept his invitation and lean your head in the space he made between his bicep and his chest. Love is in his eyes when he looks down into yours. It's tender, and you lift a hand to run over his facial hair. The kiss he places on your swollen lips is just as the first had been. It leaves both of you grinning like fools. "Good morning, baby." "Indeed, it is."

(Yes, the reader’s o-face is inspired by ahegao)

#jim hopper x reader #chief hopper x reader #hopper x reader #jim hopper smut #stranger things smut #hopper smut #chief of police jim hopper #fat ass indiana cop #i love the fat ass indiana cop

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clown-bait · 6 years ago

Text

Paranormal Journeys (Monster Roommate AU) Pt 9

WOW IM SORRY that took way too long to get out mostly because of work and trips and costume making Ive been so busy I've had barely any time to write. But anyway here it is the big reveal. Hope you enjoy all the violence.

Ch 16 Reunion

Leech continued to sing her song despite the look of annoyance from her captors and the run of her black syrupy blood falling from her nose into her mouth. The taste of it was revolting but she wanted them to know what was to come. They wont even get a chance to float now because there wasn't going to be anything left.

“Will someone please shut her up she's been singing ever since we cut off her finger.” Chris groaned and nosferatu flashed her moonlike eyes in his direction.

“Why don't you step a little closer and try yourself Chris!”

The group turned at Leech’s sudden mood change she seemed less playful and suddenly way more dangerous than her captors originally thought. Chris glared at Danielle who was rubbing Zander’s back as if she had done nothing wrong. The ghost hunter turned away from the scene. He hated this woman more than he disliked the fang filled chatter box bleeding on the wood floor. Leech flashed her teeth at him again and a too wide for comfort grin slowly grew on her face

“Psst let me go and I’ll promise I’ll leave you alive for awhile. Its her I want.”

“Is it me or did she suddenly get way more creepy?” the ghost hunter squinted.

“Well you did cut off her finger dude.” Zander grumbled.

“How long do you think it'll take before that thing shows up?” Rick asked wearily

“Is that a hint of fear I smell Ricky? Don't want that he likes fear.” Leech lolled her head to the side the loss of the ichor from her finger stump starting to make her delirious. Or maybe it was the hunger slowly rising from her belly. Either way her calm antagonistic composure was melting away into something much more dangerous.

“Shut up seriously!” Chris hissed at her as Ricks’ face turned to that of worry.

“But its not Penny you have to worry about, the only way he’ll be tasting you on my tongue after I get out of these chains.” the vampire flicked the long muscle out of her fang filled mouth like a snake dragging it over her lips in mock seduction.

“She’s got a point you cant show any fear.” Danielle said from her seat on a barrel.

“Rick bro you really got to get a hold of yourself that thing is dangerous and we can only stop it if we work together.” Zander placed his hand on his team mates shoulder while Chris glared at the woman behind him.

“He cant help it dude he's only human. Hell even I’ve been freaked out ever since I had that weird dream! And since when are we taking orders from her anyway”

“Oh! I smell a soap opera looks like I'm getting dinner and a show tonight!” Leech smirked and sat up criss-crossed with mock interest.

“Don’t you talk about Danni like that bro!”

“Oh we have nicknames for our one night stands now?”

“Chris what the fuck is your problem with the women I date? Why can’t you just back off dude?”

“Well well you found someones leg to hump Daneille? How interesting!” the vampire mused.

“Shut up Leech”

The nosferatu winked and continued to lazily smile at the group that was quickly coming apart. She could honestly care less about her food’s love triangle unfolding before her. Just as things were starting to heat up a knock came at the door of the barn the group went silent and the vampires long ears twitched upward.

Zander cautiously opened the door while rick picked up an old rifle taking aim just in case. A man stood alone in the snow in the dark winter night. He reeked of the sewer.

————————-

“So you found her what do you plan on doing now”

“Do you really want to ask that Mikey?”

“You-no you can’t!”

“Are you forgetting who I am human?”

“Please let me reason with them at least they’re innocent in this!”

“I’m already allowing you to live sheep boy, they took something from me, they will pay.”

“Just one chance clown please.”

The clowns frowned for a moment then its scowl began to soften into concentration. Mike stared at it as it eerily drooled and clicked low in its throat. Pennywise suddenly smiled and his eyes began to glow. Mike knew it couldn't be trusted it looked too excited, too hungry. it was planning something.

“I will allow you to try.” Penny’s nefarious grin grew. “Yes no harm will come to your fellow humans!” he let out a sickening chuckle towards the end.

“Why do I not believe you”

“Aww whats the matter Mikey? Don't trust your old friend Pennywise? We've been through so much together!”

“Its because of what we've been through I don't trust you.”

The clown let out a musical laugh.

“Try try try sheep boy all I want is to free my mate! Cross my heart and hope to die! Hahahahahahaha!”

“If only you would…” Mike grumbled “Im going to warn them, collect the girl and go.” he said turning his back to the creature for the first time. He could feel its hungry glowing eyes staring him down with pure hate as he walked away from his mortal enemy. Mike could at least try to get everyone out of this alive… even Pennywise much to his own self hatred at the thought. He needed the clown awake and happy and that wasn't going to happen unless they got the girl back. He had little choice but to try to reason with her captors for their own sake maybe if he was fast enough he could save everyone. Even with IT’s reassurance he knew the clown was up to something and mike had a feeling he only had minutes to stop it.

————————-

Leech shifted in her restraints as her captors went to answer the door. If it was penny he was walking into a trap and it was all because of her. She took the opportunity to try to pick the lock on the shackles around her wrists with her claws but gave up when she realized she had no idea what she was doing.

The man at the door continued to beg and plead with the group to leave saying they were all in terrible danger. Leech twisted in her shackles again. Penny was here. She could feel her own skin rubbing raw from the pathetic attempt to escape. The nosferatu shut her eyes and let out a long exhale. Instead choosing to try to determine who the lone stranger was. His voice was quite familiar and his scent was of dust old paper and a faint hint of smoke. The librarian? What was he doing here?

The vampire’s question went unanswered when she heard a click and felt a release of pressure from the taught chain attaching her to the wall and the shackles on her wrists. Her eyes flew open wide and feral and she began to chuckle. her laughter grew louder and louder as she got to her feet and metal crashed to the wood floor. A pair of yellow eyes faded into darkness behind her. Leech’s laughter started to grow manic as she cackled into the ceiling and her claws and fangs grew long and sharp. Mike stepped back in surprise at the sight before him taking note of the faint yellow glow of the two orbs in the darkness next to her. Leech began to full on scream laugh before snapping her head forward and lunging full speed straight at Danielle who was scrambling back behind the barrel she had only moments ago been sitting on.

“SHIT SHIT SHIT SHES LOOSE?! WHO THE FUCK WAS WATCHING HER?” the she-wolf screamed as leech leaped into the rafters above slashing out lanterns and blanketing the room in darkness save for a few flash lights held by Rick and Zander.

“wWhatever you do, DO NOT lose sight of her!”

Rick’s flashlight began to shake as he shined it on Zander who shot him and a terrified looking Chris a puzzled look. Two white gloves came out of the darkness and came to rest on the ghost hunters shoulders.

“Little Zander Mcpherson. My my my its been a looooonngg time hasn't it? Why I remember last we met you were but a little insignificant snack! Had to find something much bigger and much tastier than you.” a sing song voice rang out in the darkness Zander twisted around in the clowns grip to stare at it in both rage and horror.

“N-no no way bro don't you dare talk about my sister.”

“Tasty tasty little girl she was, you should have seen her face when I took it off.”

The clown chuckled to himself and backed away into the dark his voice becoming more distant

“Why don't I show you! How about a little family reunion!”

A young girl maybe 12 or 13 years old walked out of the dark her face horribly disfigured as if she had been mauled by a mad dog. Bits of flesh hung off her skull and a chunk of her cheek flapped free just below her missing eyes. Zander began to sob.

As the clown created a beautiful distraction a pale grey spindly form dropped from the barn rafters in front of Danielle. Who shined a lantern in the direction of the creature she could just barely make out the claws and long sharp teeth but her eerie reflective eyes lit up in the dim lamplight like a wild fox in the dark.

Leech began a horrific cackle as she approached her captor stalking towards her theatrically twitching her claws here and there in restraint.

“Ya wanna know what real torture is like Danielle? Ya wanna know how the professionals do it?”

The werewolf scrambled back with as much strength as she could muster but a taloned foot stabbed into her calf and yanked her back as the nosferatu slammed her claws into the wood floor by her face caging the she wolf in.

“Down below they don't just tear out your guts like savage beasts. Down there they do it my way dog. They go for what hurts. You ever have your nerves severed just so? Your tendons plucked at like guitar strings?” leech cooed at the girl trying to get away but each time she moved the talon in her leg pushed in deeper causing the alpha werewolf to howl in agony. “You know they played stairway to heaven on my right arm while I was down there? I gotta give those boys props they do good work, and after a few days being torn apart and stitched back together I got to try a little myself.” the vampire seemed to be swallowing something back as if teetering on the line of control. A little too far one direction and she’d be sure to fall into total beastial insanity. The other inhabitants in the room seemed to pause their scuffle and listen in on the exchange, even Pennywise cocked an eyebrow in her direction when he heard the cry of pain from the she-wolfs lips. Leech dug her foot talons in once more wiggling them a bit to add extra insult to injury. She caught the she-wolf’s arm and began to gently stretch it out positioning the razor tips her claws over Danielle’s writs pin pricking the skin just so. “First you slice open the skin and peel it back.” the vampire ghosted the long pointed talon of her hand down the werewolf’s forearm. “Then I’d get to play a little tune.” she placed her claws back into position lightly fingering out guitar chords over the sensitive soft under-skin of the girls wrist. Danielle struggled and squirmed earning her a dissatisfied hiss from the creature holding her down. Leech grabbed the wolf’s face and dragged her fangs across the skin of her ear. “Don't you dare move now unless you want me to do it for real. Oh, and don't. Fucking. Scream.”

As Danielle let out a terrified shriek, Leech screamed back in her face just before something cold and metal pushed against the side of her head and fired. Rick stood shaking holding the old smoking rifle as the vampire dropped limp to the floor with a horrible thud that made Pennywise quickly shift back to his preferred form and roar in agony. His charge ended as soon as it began when his mate began to float up the ichor leaking from her face reversed its direction and a bullet was caught in her fangs. As she drifted upright her head snapped to the side at Rick eyes abnormally wide glowing sickly yellow while her face remained horrible and skeletal. Too many teeth began to split at the wound in her cheek. When she shrieked it was unlike anything anyone had heard before. Her voice sounded like fifty beings at once all screaming over each other and it was very clear that the creature known as Leech was no longer present in the room. She lunged at rick with horrible unpredictable speed latching her long sharp fangs into the man’s neck and began to suck with an unrivaled hunger, the wound in her head slowly closing its self with each greedy gulp.

Pennywise watched with almost amazement as if he had just made a life changing discovery and his mind had been completely blown. mike called out to him from a nearby window breaking the creature from its awestruck state.

“WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING CLOWN?” the librarian shouted.

“I-I created something. For the first time.” he stuttered a bit still wide eyed and slightly quiet.

“Her? You created her?!” Mike asked frantically as he turned away from the horrifying scene of people he had just spoken to being ran through a living paper shredder.

“No.” Pennywise replied quietly “Not her…..them.”

“What the hell does that mean?!”

When the clown didn't answer Mike tried another question. “I thought you said no harm will come to them!” he shouted finally getting the clown’s attention.

“No harm will come from me Mikey, Leechie on the other hand isn't part of our little deal.” he grinned as a woman’s horrified screaming was being mixed with the sound of wet tearing and crunching bones.

“You sick bastard both of you!” the librarian turned his back to the window “Is she like you are there more of you?”

“Why are you still here?” the clown growled refusing to answer Mike’s question. Pennywise pushed off the wall and made his way into the bloody massacre picking up the loose chain still attached to the shackle on Leech’s neck. He gave it a harsh yank back as she began to descend upon a mortified sobbing Chris and Leech clattered to the floor backwards in a mess of razor tipped limbs. The vampires claws came up to her neck and scratched frantically at the shackle earning her another hard pull backwards till she was on her knees near the clowns feet. Penny quickly pushed her to the ground roaring so loud his face began to split and the walls creaked from the vibrations. The two began a screaming match of terrifying proportions until the struggling possessed creature below the clown calmed in the shining light now emerging from Pennywise’s throat. His grip on her chain grew slack moving to caress her shoulders and hold her in his arms as the yellow lights in her eyes began to dim. He gently placed a hand on her abdomen while creating a trill like churr in his throat until finally the lights in his mate’s eyes sunk down till nothing was left but dazed glossy blues. Leech mumbled something about kidneys as she slowly came back to reality, a theatrical voice she knew well brought her back to full consciousness.

“Its time to wake up little hunter.” he said as he pushed his nose and lips onto her temples.

“Snuggle muffin?” Leech shut her weary eyes tight and purred as Penny’s own eyes flew open dropping his mate immediately.

“PEACHY! Not in font of the food!” he snarled gesturing to Mike who had braced himself against the window pane both in nausea and laughter.

The vampire grinned wide and raised her eyebrows at him. Penny looked furious.

“Once again I get you out of trouble and this is the thanks I get?” he snarled pulling the chain and bringing the exhausted Leech up to his fangs.

“I got shot in the face and lost a finger for you I think were even.” she grinned at him unable to turn the relentless taunting off.

“Only because you never listen.” the clown grumbled

“Looks like someones a little tense hmmm Ruffle Wuffles?” Leech teased him boop-ing the eldritch horror right on the nose as Penny winced at the pet name.

“I shouldn't have saved you.”

“Like you would have lasted more than a week without me.” the vampire wheezed. Pennywise pulled on her chain again holding her inches away from his face.

“Little brat!” he snarled hot puffs of air washed over Leech’s face.

“Your little brat.” she whispered into his lips as her claws tangled into her clowns hair. Their lips reunited with fresh heated tension the clown letting out a soft groan into her mouth half in annoyance half in secret relief.

“well thats a sound ill never be able to un-hear”

Penny and Leech’s lips separated abruptly and leech glared at the librarian now standing in the doorway trying to light a hanging lantern to survey the damage. He knew the others were dead what he didn't not know was they offending team of ghost hunters were just piles of uneaten shredded flesh laying all around him.

“I wouldn't if I were you Mikey.”

“Unless you can stomach leftover hamburger.” Leech added with a chuckle and turned to her mate “Hey by the way I have like no memory of half that fight what the hells been going on?

“I also demand answers!” Mike yelled as he regained his composure the door slammed behind him locking from the outside. Pennywise placed his confused mate on the ground and a menacing grin grew across his face. “What are you doing let me out we had a deal!” Mike shouted tugging at the door.

“Hush Mikey I’ve changed my mind. Besides the other one got away and its rude to take someones meal before they're finished.” the clown was right Chris was nowhere to be seen even in the darkness of the barn.

“You bastard!” Mike hissed

“Just providing for my family Mikey. What kind of father would I be if I didn't bring my mate fresh meat for our growing brood?” Pennywise grinned beginning to step out of the light when a voice broke his assault. His favorite voice. Only this time he was in deep deep trouble.

“EXCUSE ME WHAT?!”

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

I think someones sleeping on the couch again tonight.

#pennywise #pennywise fanfiction #pennywise x oc #it fanfiction #mike hanlon #losers club #monster roommate au #nosferatu oc #vampire oc #slasher fanfiction #horror fanfiction

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serensama · 7 years ago

Text

To Mourn #2

Here is Zenny’s! I’m sorry, I know I promised Yoosung smut- but due to the current events in my life I can’t write smut. It would be the most awkward smut imaginable and I can't have that. So- here is Zen, hurting, a lot. This will include: 1) Some profanity 2) Angst, tragedy, character death 3) Mentions of mental illness/delusions

Hush-a-bye, dear Eponine You won’t feel any pain- A little fall of rain can hardly hurt you now I’m here… I will stay with you Till you are sleeping And rain- Will make the flowers- .... grow

“A little fall of rain”- Marius, Les Miserables.

He had her pressed against the dresser, the bottles of makeup falling and rolling off the table as he pushed her further along the surface. His hands marked at the mirror and flinched away reflexively as his fingers found one of the hot lightbulbs that framed it. MC laughed between his kisses as she took his hand and kissed and sucked at his sore fingers, making him chuckle as he nipped at her neck. Zen pulled back to look down at her, pushing her hair out of her face to see more of her beautiful face. She was radiant. The glow of the lights behind her giving her an almost ethereal halo around her hair, her cheeks flushed from their kisses and her smile as bright as any spotlight.

Zen bit down on his bottom lip, he wanted nothing more than to continue this little interlude of theirs but they had somewhere to be and they were already running late as it was. They had stayed back as all the other actors and crew filtered off to the club where their after party was being held but he and MC walked the stage, hand in hand. He let his hand trail over the set and props, sometimes picking one up and regaling her with a funny story behind it from one of their rehearsals. MC squeezed at his bicep when he took a particularly long look at the chairs and table he had sung his exceptionally heart wrenching solo upon.

This would be his final production, for a little while anyways, the couple agreeing that his career was stable enough for him to take a year long break from acting. That it would be a year for him and her. The year that they would finally make honest people out of each other and tie the knot; they were tired of waiting for his god forsaken family’s approval and… Zen really wanted to be husband… and a father. It crept up on him out of nowhere, seeing MC interact with the actors who played Gavroche, Cosette and Eponine whenever she visited him in between rehearsals- how they would run to her and jump up and down all excited as she would always have some sweet treat for them tucked away in her purse. He would love seeing them act out their scenes just for her and her expressions as she watched them- like an adoring mother watching her children play. It made his stomach flip and his heart race. He was ready. He, well they, had focused so much on his career… it was time for them to focus on them and their future. He wanted this.

Still they took their time to let him say farewells to the stage he had so happily acted upon for almost a year, the audience calling for encore after encore, his performance so well received he would get standing ovations upon his curtain call. He wasn’t going to lie and say he wasn’t going to miss it; but to say he wasn’t excited to spend an entire year with his, well, soon to be wife- that would be the lie. The idea of spending days in bed with her, able to take all the time he wanted with her, his fingers tracing over her body with his lips following suit; just to be able to worship her as she deserved… heaven. No more strict schedules or disciplined diets or workouts- just him and MC with all the time in the world. He had never looked forward to being an unemployed actor more in his entire career.

Taking a deep breath as he faced the empty chairs in the theatre, Zen grinned. Actually… he wasn’t going to miss it at all. “Come on Jagi, let’s get to that party.”

A loud crash of thunder boomed as they moved their way through the backstage hallways, the walls vibrating from the sheer strength of the sound. MC cursed her luck as she left her umbrella at home in her rush to get to the theatre to see Zen’s final show; she was grateful for the fact that the club would be dark and no one would be looking at her with Zen beside her. That boy looked amazing even coming in from a torrential downpour where should would look like a drowned rat with some seriously smeared eyeliner. Ah well.

Looking down at her, Zen laughed as he opened his trademark white coat and stretched it out and over the both of them as a makeshift cover as he nodded towards the door, silently asking MC to open for him. The moment she did, a roar louder than the thunder erupted- dozens upon dozens of Zen’s fans had waited for him in the cold and rain just to get a glimpse of the actor. MC looked up at Zen and gave him an impish smile and shrugged weakly, what could they do? They were his public. The ones who made all of this possible, he had to attend to them.

The actor watched as MC stepped dutifully to the side after giving the fans a quick wave, ready to let him do what he normally did; but he didn’t want to. Not today. This was the start of it being just him and MC and whilst he felt nothing but gratitude to those fans, he was tired of seeing the woman he loved always step aside as if something were more important than her. No more. Not this time. Zen stood forward slightly and raised his arm up in the air to wave and silence the crowd of screeching fans, the noisy din quieting down in a matter of seconds the moment they realized their idol wanted to address them. Collecting his thoughts so he didn’t sound like a blabbering mess, he clapped his hands together and began to speak from the heart.

“My dearest fans! Thank you for coming to watch my final performance and for braving such terrible weather to see me. You will never know what this means to me,” he said as his crimson eyes scanned the crowds in an attempt to look at them all in eyes. “I want to thank each and every one of you personally but as it is, we’re already really late for something and we need to go. I… I feel terrible that you were all here for so long only to leave you so soon- if I had known, I would have been out earlier.” The crowd deflated and sounds of disappointment and annoyance hissed through them, but still they understood that he was a busy man and it was a gamble to wait for him at all. “I’m so sorry guys- truly. I’ll find a way to make it all up to you, but we have to go and you guys need to get out of the rain and dry off! I can’t have my best fans sick! I’d feel absolutely horrible!” he said, flashing his most dazzling smile and cheesy thumbs up which had almost everyone eating from the palm of his hand. “Thank you every one! I love you all and I will see you all soon!”

The crowd cheered and offered their support to their favourite actor as the couple descended the stairs, Zen taking the jacket and covering them both again in an action which had almost all of his fans swooning at how chivalrous and romantic he was, a chorus of well wishes and goodbyes following them as they passed them on the way to their car. They were ten steps away from it when Zen felt a tug of his arm and a heard a high yelp of surprise. He spun around to see a woman pull MC back, her hands clamped tightly around her forearm as she screeched incoherently into her ear, MC wincing back with discomfort. Zen could feel his blood boil, no one touched MC like that, not a man, not a woman. No one hurt his girl.

“Hey!” he barked, loud enough for his voice to carry throughout the parking lot, silencing the cheering fans and startling the angry woman enough to turn towards him. “Let her go! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded as he gestured towards MC, his hand out ready to hold hers. The agitated fan turned back to MC, her eyes squinting until they were barely slits on her face, her mouth twisted into a hideous sneer as she pulled the woman down and back so she lost her footing on the slippery surface and fell hard on her coccyx. Zen was at her side so fast he almost lost his balance trying to get there, his hands patting at her body softly all the while asking if she was hurt, if she was okay. Which was apparently the wrong thing to do. “This woman! Zen! This woman is what is wrong in this picture!” she yelled, pointing at her with a shaking finger, her eyes burning with such ire that MC flinched into Zen’s protective grasp. Shaking his head as he helped her up, covering her head with his jacket, he simply chose to ignore the crazy woman and just continue on their journey. “She is holding you back Zen! If it wasn’t for her you wouldn’t be taking this year long hiatus! If it wasn’t for her you’d have been out here earlier! You’d be here with us instead of taking care of such a pathetic girl who isn’t even worthy of you! She’s disgusting! She’s ruining your life!”

He couldn’t let that pass. He was many things but he was never a liar. He would not let those fallacies remain unchecked.

Zen tightened his grip around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of her covered head, a silent plea for her not to listen to the mindless drivel this woman was spouting. Lies. Misconceptions. Delusions.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” he began quietly, his hand running up at down MC’s arm to help warm her up in the pouring rain, the cold droplets barely registering in his periphery, his body so fired up with rage it felt almost nice against his skin. “But you need to step away and leave. You know nothing. You talk about things you don’t have a damn clue about, mixing your own screwed up feelings into your own version of truth- you’re blind. You can’t see how much I love her and how much she has done for me. If you can’t see that- you are no true fan of mine.”

Zen placed another kiss on top of his lover’s head as he guided her back to the car, their footsteps slow and cautious. The actor could hear the hushed whispers of the other fans- and the ragged breathing and whimpering of the woman he had reprimanded, whether they agreed with the woman or with him he didn’t know- didn’t care. None of this matters, if MC stays in this weather for any longer she’s going to get sick, I can’t be the reason my girl suffers. “You… you don’t know who I am? I helped make you! I was there from the start! From your first play to this one- I was there in the front row twenty-two times!” she cried, pulling at her hair like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. That throughout his career not once had he noticed her, understood what she had done for him. The money she had sacrificed to see his shows, the relationships that ended because the men couldn’t understand that he came first for her- he always came first and he… he didn’t even know she existed. “I am your only true fan!” she wailed as her fingers clutched at her chest, her nails leaving angry red scratches at the skin of her décolletage.

Zen stopped and ground his teeth together, his quick temper getting the better of him. Turning around and tucking MC behind him, the loud chattering of her teeth a timer to remind him to keep it quick, to defuse the situation and get her warmed up. Fuck the party. They were going to go home where he could run her a hot bath and sit in the tub with her, pull small body against his, long limbs wrapped around her to keep her warm and safe. The candles he’d light beforehand dwindling down as they stayed in water just enjoying their time together. There would be a thousand parties in the future, why would missing one matter?

“T-True fan? True fan?!” he scoffed as he pushed his hair out of his face, the long strands sticking to his wet skin. “You are bat-shit crazy lady. I don’t know you. You didn’t do shit for me- but you are making me angry. You hurt my fiancé, you say horrible things to her- if you were a true fan you would know what she’s done to help my career. To help me. If you’re a true fan- I don’t want any part of it.”

The woman screamed as her whole world was torn to shreds by the man at the very centre of it. How could he say such things? How could turn his back on everything they had been through together? He had sung for her, looked at her all those times when he said those lines- he would say different names each time but she knew he was talking to her. What they meant to each other, it wasn’t all in her head, it wasn’t! He was so loyal to her all those years- more than five years he stayed alone to prove his devotion to her and to his career. Then overnight it seemed to change… why… why did it… Casting her gaze on the woman behind him, suddenly everything made sense. It was her. It was her fault. She did this- she tainted Zen, her Zen, shaped him into something she wanted and made sure that he only focused on her. Selfish. The bitch was selfish. Zen was hers. Zen was theirs. And she was trying to steal him from them. No, never! Zen was hers. Zen was hers.

Screams.

That was the first thing he recognized. So many screams. Was he… was he backstage? Was the crowd still begging for another song?... wait… no… no they’re not screaming for him… they were scared… Why?

-Why was he on the ground?

Zen looked up and there was MC, standing in front of him, shaking in the rain, his soaked through jacket askew, dangling off of one shoulder. Silly girl. She was going to get sick and she was a terror whenever she was ill. She would mope and beg for attention and love and… wait… perhaps a little sniffle wouldn’t be terrible. He could play knight in shining armor for her.

“Are… are you okay?” she asked him, not looking back, her eyes focused on what he remembered must have been the deranged fan. He nodded and made a noise of agreeance in the back of his throat as he clambered up to check if he was hurt anywhere. He wasn’t. “I’m fine, Jagi,” he added as he threw his arm over her shoulders again, not expecting the violent wince and cry of pain that came for her. Alarmed by her severely shaking frame, Zen finally looked further than her face and down her torso- her lovely white dress (“I wore it to match you tonight, Zenny!”) stained by a flourish of dark red against her middle. A mark that grew more vivid as she grew paler. Stealing a look at the woman before them… sure enough… there she stood, frozen, with a smoking gun in her hand. Shrieks could be heard as the mob of Zen’s fans rushed her, pinning her down and kicking away the weapon- not that he cared. Not when all he could truly focus on were the soft breaths that fell from her lips. “So… you’re not hurt?” she repeated as a weak smile formed across her face, her fingers finding the hem of his shirt and curling around the fabric. Zen shook his head, his throat constricting so tightly he couldn’t find his voice. “Oh… that’s good then.”

MC fell harshly to her knees and was almost about to fall forward onto her face before long, strong arms wrapped around her. Zen sat upon the ground with his fiancé shaking in his arms, her makeup falling in dark rivulets down her face, her tears camouflaged by the rain. He heard someone yelling for them to call an ambulance. To get help.

He didn’t recognize his own voice.

All he saw was his future smiling up at him, her lips moving, she was saying something but what? What? Zen focus! “… We’re going to be so damn late...” she laughed before grimacing a hiss of pain escaping between the gaps in her teeth. Zen looked back down to her stomach, with each word she said or with each laugh, more blood seemed to pour out of her. Ignoring the cry of anguish she made when he placed his hand to her wound, he pressed down firmly, desperate to keep every last drop he could inside of her where it belonged. “It’s okay, Zen-” she tried to say only to stop midsentence at the furious look he gave her. “It is not okay, MC!” he growled, there she was bleeding out and she was trying to comfort him. Nothing about their situation was right. They were supposed to be surrounded by their friends laughing the night away, getting drunk and having celebratory sex the moment they stepped back into their apartment. She was meant to be happy and healthy, not dying in a dark, cold parking lot surrounded by strangers. “But it will be. It will be. Someone’s getting help, so just, just stay with me okay? You listen to me and stay just a little bit longer. You’re going to fine baby.”

Her smile grew wider. Tinted with blood. It was still the most beautiful smile he had ever seen.

“Screw this, I’m getting you to the hospital- just hold on Jagi,” he spoke more to himself than to her, lifting her up as gingerly as he could. MC screamed, her cries gurgling in her throat wet with her own blood, small trails bubbling out of the sides of her mouth. Zen cursed under his breath as he resumed their previous position, wiping away the red, smearing the colour against her skin. Even in the rain, it wasn’t coming off. He tried to calm himself even as his heart banged away in his chest and his eyes stung, his lungs closing up as he choked on his own staggered breaths. Just a little longer, he would hear those sirens and the flashing lights of their saviours and everything would be just fine. He would sing to her in the hospital bed as she recovered and get yelled at by her for hovering like a worried mother. He just knew it. She was going to show off the scars from her wounds in no time at all. His Jagi was the strongest woman he had ever met. This was just a scratch. A scratch. She was even laughing through her tears. No one was stronger than her.

“Why are you laughing MC?” he asked a wry smile on his face, belying the way his heart clenched at the hollow sound of her once joyous laughter. A heavy and haunting sound that Zen knew would fill his nightmares for the rest of his life. MC looked up at him as she laid her hand on top of his, their interlaced fingers painted with her blood. “It’s… it’s almost funny, don’t you think? This is life imitating art…just like the scene in your… in your p-play… where Eponine and… and Mari-” “Don’t.” “Don’t you fret… Monsieur-” “Stop it!” he snapped, his hand putting more pressure on her wound than normal causing the woman to gasp, remorse flooding his system instantly. “I’m sorry! God- I’m so sorry! I just… please don’t…” he begged as he hung his head so their foreheads could touch. She was so cold. “I’m sorry,” she replied, her hand finding the back of his head, her fingers clumsily patting away at his ivory strands. “It’s not funny,” he wept, the dam finally breaking, his voice cracking as he held on to her; wishing against all hope his warmth would pass to her. To keep her with him that little bit longer. He could almost hear the sirens. “This isn’t funny MC! How can you be laughing at something like this?”

MC’s hand slid down to caress the side of his cheek, pushing him away slightly so she could peer into those crimson depths- eyes she had so completely fallen in love with. She wanted to see them, to be the last thing she saw before she left that life, she didn’t want to see them filled with tears… but to be crinkled in a smile. One last smile for her. “I’m sorry-” “Please stop apologizing-” “I’m… I just…” she trailed off as her particularly hard shake raked through her body, her eyes squeezed shut as she bit down on her lip to stop the coughs trying to burst from her chest. Zen looked down at where their hands were still linked, the blood was mixed with a dark green… that… that couldn’t have been good. “I… I don’t want to die crying Zen,” she said simply, a sad smile on her lips. She didn’t want to die crying… he didn’t want her to die. She wasn’t going to! This was a scratch! A fucking wound he would kiss away… she couldn’t die. She couldn’t leave him. Not now. They were so close. They were going to get married next month- everyone was invited. An elaborate extravaganza where the entire cast of the play were going to perform at the wedding ceremony and she would come down the aisle and-…. Just…

Zen snapped himself out of his heartbroken reverie and looked back down at MC, her eyes closed and her lips sweetly upturned, her chest still and her shivering completely stopped-

He shook her. Hard.

“A-ah!” she rattled through her startled breaths, her eyes wide and searching his face. It took a moment before her expression softened, her hand trying its best to reach his face once more. Zen took it within his and kissed her blood-soaked palm, the taste of it on his lips almost as bitter as the bile that lodged itself at the back of his throat. Her eyes could barely focus and her breathing so slow he was tempted to press his lips against hers to breathe for her. He would have. He wanted to. Anything, he wanted to do anything he could to keep her there with him… even for a minute longer. The sirens- he could hear them now. MC gave another smile as she willed her lips to form words, even as she barely clung to consciousness.

“A-are you… are you my angel?” she asked, her voice small and hoarse and perfect, her eyes watering as she took in the sight of him. He kissed her palm over and over again, her cheeks, her lips, her eyelids- soft and quick presses of his mouth against her which made her sigh happily. Zen smoothed away the hair from her face, his touch like fire against her skin, like sitting by the fireplace on a winter’s night huddled together, like home. Zen steadied himself, a smile, she said she wanted to smile. “No Jagi, I’m no angel,” he grinned, biting his tongue to stop from breaking down and sobbing like his heart dictated. A look of confusion brushed upon her features as his fingers soothed them away gently, fingertips longingly dragging across the surface of her face to memorise every dip and curve. “But you, oh Jagiya… you are my angel.”

The smile she offered him in response could have lit up the entire sky. “…I am?” she asked, the tears in her eyes welling up and falling, cleaning the blood away from her face that the rain had failed to. He nodded and smiled, his cheeks burning. “Then I’ll have to… to keep watch over you…” “Mhmm. For as long as you can so… so stay and watch and…”

Her hand slipped from his grasp. Her eyes staring up at him, filled with tears. His face frozen into the smile he held for her.

“… MC?”

He shook her. Again. Harder. He pressed her wound. Harder. Please. Please.

He couldn’t move. Not one single muscle. Her body so heavy in his arms and yet he refused to release her. This was his fault. If he had only kept his mouth shut, didn’t taunt that woman- MC would have been alive. If he didn’t insist on staying back to revel in his glory they would have all left together with everyone else and she would have been alive. If he had realized what the woman was planning and MC didn’t push him out of the way to save him… she would have been alive. If he could have traded places with her, taken that bullet, taken that pain she endured- he would have in a second. It was meant for him. She was aiming for him. It should have been him, MC’s death was on him. She was dead… and he was the reason she died. Zen could hear the cries of the people around him. The screams of the bitch who stole her from him. The rain as it pounded against the ground.

This is not okay. This is not okay. This is not okay.

He couldn’t hear the sirens anymore.

Not when the paramedics looked him over, not when they tried to explain what was happening, not when they asked to take MC away from him. Nothing. Everything was static and muffled and not quite real. Until they managed to pry her away from his arms.

He heard the crack of the bones in his hand as it connected with the jaw of the paramedic. He heard the scream of the fans as the man was easily toppled by one hit. He heard the groans of pain the poor man made as he rolled around clutching his face. He heard the cry of his heart.

And then- silence.

The RFA were at the hospital minutes after he had arrived; Jaehee saying something about his fans going crazy on his website. Jumin had wandered off to deal with the press that were starting to circle the building hoping to get a photo of the grief-stricken star, ordering his security detail to push the vultures back and insure safe passage for them all when they were ready to depart. Jaehee sat quietly and held his hand, patting the top of it like one would do to an elderly person to placate them. Yoosung had tried to be strong, he knew that, but he couldn’t keep up the act for very long- bursting out crying when V said he would take care of all the arrangements for MC. Saeyoung had merely placed a hand over his shoulder in a show of silent solidarity. He was grateful for their presence, he was. They helped fill the quiet in his head, the one voice in there reminding him repeatedly that this was it, he was all alone again. That he would return home and there wouldn’t be MC to remind him to eat more than a bottle (or two!) of beer and wouldn’t scream when he chased after her when he was all sweaty from a workout, begging for a hug. He couldn’t go back there, not yet.

“Is there… would anyone mind if I stayed… just for a few days-” “You can stay with me. For as long as you want.” Zen looked up at V, his dark glasses unable the hide the streaks of tears that fell from his eyes. “Thank you.”

Her funeral was a star-studded affair, all of the friends she had made along the way from being his manager- all offering their condolences and final respects. The cast of the play, tearfully singing the song they had planned to sing to her under very different circumstances, bringing Zen to tears, bent over upon himself in the pews. He could feel V and Yoosung’s hands on his back and shoulders offering support as his cries echoed around the church.

Zen had tried his best to get up, to say the words he had tearfully written and rewritten over the last week, but he found neither his legs or heart were strong enough. Jumin took pity on him and accepted the crumpled piece of paper from his hand and with a small nod, stood in his place to say the words he wanted to say to his beloved MC.

I’m so sorry my love. I can’t say goodbye to you, not then, not now… probably not ever. His words didn’t sound right coming from Jumin’s low baritone but it would have to do; his own voice never wanted to be found if it couldn’t be used to talk to her, to murmur sweet nothings in her ear, to sing to her whenever she woke up late at night until she fell back to sleep. He never wanted to speak again.

He didn’t even need to give his account, didn’t need to say a thing, with so many witnesses and some even recording the incident, there was too much evidence stacked up against the woman- he didn’t even want to know the name of the demon who stole MC away from him, wasn’t worth it- she was convicted and charged and he didn’t need to think about her ever again. He disregarded the way she called out to him, that she was glad that he was alive and now that MC was out of the way- she would continue writing to him. She couldn’t wait to hear back from him… like all the other times he had replied to her.

Zen wandered back to V’s house, dry eyed and disenchanted.

“Is it… is it all done then?” his old friend asked as he wiped his hands on the dish towel as Zen rummaged through the fridge. Finding the six pack he put there hidden behind packets of salad and some suspect looking takeout, Zen skulled one beer down and opened another, taking one long swig before turning to his friend and nodding once. Reaching back down, he picked up the pack of alcohol and made his way to the guest room he had stayed in since the night he lost her. It was larger than the bedroom they shared, both agreeing to stay in the same place and to save their money so they could afford to build the house of their dreams. They had it all planned out. A five-bedroom house next to a park so he could chase after their kids and the dogs (“Cats? Our children will only want dogs MC.”) … put some money aside for their education…some money for a great honeymoon… for their wedding … for the year they were going to spend not working and stay in each other’s arms… for the ring that he now wore around his neck -

He drank. He hated the room he stayed in. He hated everything.

He found the box of fan letters he had taken with him help boost his spirits and looked at them with nothing but disgust. One of them… so many of them… could have been from that monster- and he wrote back. Hundreds upon hundreds of letters. The words he wasted on that bitch. He wanted to be sick. He threw them all into the metal bin out of the balcony and threw in a lit match, the paper slowly catching fire- spreading from one letter to the next.

He drank again.

V watched him as he downed yet another can of beer, uncaring what it tasted like so long as it got the job done. It took more and more cans each time, but he was on a mission to get himself so blindly drunk that he didn’t have to feel anymore. It was his daily routine. Wake up have a shower, grab a beer and sit on the couch, just drinking the day away. That was it. Six months passed and all he did was drink. V had to fight with him, almost coming to blows a week after MC had passed, to get him to eat solid food. Although that was still rare and far between. He still hadn’t spoken.

There were times V was sure he wanted to, his jaw would clench or his mouth would open in such a way he could almost hear the words on his tongue- but then he would just shove a bottle or a can between his lips and drink himself into an oblivious stupor. It hurt him to see Zen this way, the once proud man now with long, scruffy hair and sallow skin and dark circles beneath his eyes that would easily pass for Halloween makeup. He stayed in pajamas or his sweat pants all day and rarely went out, the only reason he did was to get more alcohol. There was only so much that V could stand. It was like looking into a living mirror- but he would save Zen, even if he couldn’t save himself.

V sat down beside him, a glass of wine in one hand the bottle in the other, slouched and tired. Zen raised his beer in a half assed salutation and took a long swig of it, not even a third of his way through his drinking marathon. V figured it was okay if he didn’t talk, it would make it easier for him to say what he had to say uninterrupted. And he knew Zen was listening, he was always listening.

“I still miss her you know, Rika that is,” he began not missing the way Zen’s body had stiffened beside his. “I know that she hurt me, that she hurt… so many people. But I still miss who she was. Who we were at the start. Who I was at the start,” he filtered off as he took a sip of his wine, the tart flavours dancing across his palate. “I never dreamed that I would get over her. That one day I would be able to get up and not have a gaping hole inside my chest that I wanted to swallow me up, to get lost in that void and just… not be. Not feel. Not think. Just- quiet. But that quiet- it’s maddening Zen. I almost lost myself to it and when I see you- you’re so lost, you’re almost too far gone. Perhaps that’s my fault. Letting you do as you wanted and not reaching out sooner- but not anymore. I’m not letting you go any further. I’m not letting you stay in your silent torment anymore. Talk to me. Scream at me. Anything. Say something. Please.”

Another sip. Another swig. More silence. V closed his eyes as his fingers wound around the stem of the fine glass, just short of snapping it. “It was you. You, Yoosung, Jumin, Saeyoung and Jaehee… all of you… and yes, MC too… You all brought me back from the brink. It was probably MC who helped to wake me up and realise that I couldn’t just wallow anymore, that there were people who loved me, needed me- I couldn’t stay quiet any longer. So, for MC, for you, I am going to help you. I’m not going to give up, just like she didn’t- she ran to you and stayed with you until you were better. She’s not here now, but I am. For her, I will do the same. For her… please try.”

Another sip. Another swig. A sigh.

Long and heavy and condensed with such pain- such a familiar sound, a familiar feeling.

The beer fell from Zen’s shaking hands as he covered his face with his palms, his breathing slowly transforming into shuddering gasps until finally a wail of sorrow tore from his lungs, his body shaking from the force of his cries. V placed his wine down carefully beside the sofa and pulled at him, letting him lean against him for support; to know that he wasn’t alone in his agony, that he didn’t have to hide his pain from them- from himself.

The sound of his grief deafening.

He didn’t have to say a word, V understood everything he had to say. It was a start.

He… he was not the same Zen. He never could be again. Each time he tried to look over a script or watch a movie- all he could think of was MC. What she would think of each production and if she would approve of him being in it and how each set would feel wrong without her there hanging around the sidelines just out of reach. How every break without her bounding over to him to give him a kiss would be torture. That each time he returned to his trailer or dressing room she wouldn’t have a seat beside his, that he would never get to revel in their after-show shenanigans… she wouldn’t be there to run lines with him… to take photos of him on opening night… to give him flowers.

It was all too much.

So, the choice was easy, practically already made for him. He would never act again.

The outcry from his fans was unbelievable. They wrote and posted their pleas online- that they didn’t want him to leave and missed him and still supported him, but he had made his choice. His following soon dwindled, not that he minded, it was easier to have a nice quiet life without a hoard of fans watching every step he took. They were too busy ignoring all the pictures he put up of MC and him or of just his lost love on his social media accounts, no one noticed when he packed up his apartment and moved out, no one cared. It was… good.

He was surprised when he showed up to town a he’d randomly chosen to start over in and no one recognized him, or if they did, they kept their mouths shut. Perfect.

He still lived in pain, the ache in his chest never really leaving him or healing over as it should have- but- perhaps in time, perhaps. Zen picked up his tools and set down his dreams, he would try to find peace. Working with hands made sense to him, something that was tangible and real, putting things back together to see them work- it was cathartic. Maybe one day he could pull himself apart and fix himself… until then… he had engines to fix. It would have to do- to be enough.

Sitting alone on his simple couch in his humble apartment, Zen was relaxing after a long day at work. A beer in hand and the TV on, he sat and mindlessly flicked through the channels as he hummed and hawed over whether he should go to bed or not. A familiar chord played through his TV’s speakers and he paused instinctively to listen. No. God, please, no. Why.

“Do you hear the people sing… singing the songs of angry men…”

The emotions he had so carefully sorted through, tread through with bated breath and tipped toes, all exploded. Fell down from their spots off the shelves he had put them away on and just burst. Zen threw his beer, the glass smashing and the golden liquid running down his cream walls. He threw the remote control, smashing the screen of his TV, the cracks bleeding through. He was not okay. It was not enough. When would the pain stop? Did he want it to stop?

Zen sat amongst the wreckage of his upturned lounge and sighed, wiping away at tears he didn’t realise he was crying. No. He guessed he didn’t want it to end- because no more pain meant no more MC in his life. He still wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

It was a tap on the shoulder that unraveled him. Zen turned around from the bike he was fixing, squinting up to focus on the man before him, his face hard to see against the light of the mechanic shop. Zen wiped his hand and shook the hand he was offered not quite understanding why the man was there when his car seemed perfectly fine. “…I’m a big fan. I loved you in Les Mis… so strong… so vulnerable…” Ah. A fan. It had been years, it was alright, it hurt less, he could be gallant. “Uh thank you, that’s very kind- but you see I’m pretty busy right now-” “That’s fine Zen- I just wanted to be the first to tell you that I can’t wait to start work.”

He stopped in his tracks- what work? Was he working at the shop with him? The owner hadn’t mentioned hiring anyone new and the weaselly man in front of him looked like he barely knew how to drive let alone fix a car. “On the movie… your movie?”

His movie? He hadn’t accepted any scripts from his old agent. He didn’t even give his new number to anyone outside of the RFA- who was this guy again?

“My what?” he asked, turning back around hoping to clarify whatever misunderstanding they may have had. The man smiled again and handed him a thick script, Zen staring down at the title incredulously. Zen: The true story of how Romeo lost his Juliet.

He swallowed the bile that tried its best to climb up his throat and forced himself to open the pages, near the end, and prayed- he was never one to be religious but there he was praying- that he wouldn’t see what he feared he would.

Alas, he did.

“… I don’t want to die crying, Zenny.”

“… so, stay… stay a little bit longer...”

His fists were pummeling into the man’s face before he knew what he was doing. It felt good to hit him. It felt good to hurt him. He didn’t want to stop. How dare he? How dare they? Make a mockery of his life and her death- it was unforgivable. Who thought this was a good idea? What cruel, heartless bastard wanted to tell his story about losing the only thing that truly mattered in his life? He’d kill them. He’d make them all pay and-

His boss pulled him off the man before he managed to do anymore damage, the director laying on the ground bruised and battered and bloodied almost beyond recognition.

“I think… I think you best call a lawyer son, this won’t end pretty for you.”

Zen huffed as he wiped away the errant spatters of blood on his face with the back of his hand, his sweat smearing the red over his skin like war paint. “It never does Old Man, not for me.”

He couldn’t believe he was doing this, but he was desperate, he didn’t have enough money to stop it and he needed help. As much as this killed him to do it, he had to. The door swung open and there was a face he hadn’t thought of or seen for three years.

“Jumin, I need your help.”

The C&R director’s steel eyes widened at the open appeal; the lack of hostility and desperation the actor once exuded in his presence surprising him. Stepping aside, he let Zen inside his penthouse and asked him to start from the beginning. There was were no need for pleasantries or idle chit chat over how their lives had been- they were friends, no matter what they said, and they were there when the other needed them. “They have to be stopped. I don’t care how. They can’t be allowed to make a movie about her, not about that. Not how she died… not how I lost her. I won’t survive that Jumin. I can survive prison, I can stay there for the rest of my life- I don’t care what happens to me- but please help me stop them from making this film. From making any films, ever, about her.”

Jumin observed the man as he clenched the cup of tea in between his trembling hands, the liquid rippling inside the small cup. Sighing resolutely, Jumin leant forward and took the cup from Zen’s fingers and set it on the coffee table before sitting back in his chair and tenting his fingers. It was an easy choice, there wasn’t need to think about it. MC was his friend too. “Of course Zen. Of course I will help.”

Zen wasn’t ashamed to cry, even in front of Jumin. He had failed her before, but not this time. He could almost feel her smiling.

Zen finally understood why people were so in awe of Jumin Han. In less than a week he had managed to block all creative rights to create the movie, protect Zen and MC so nothing could be made about them or based loosely around them ever again and have the charges of assault dismissed- and he did this all without breaking a sweat or missing a day of work. He hated to admit it but he was impressive… and he was kind. He would have to make it up to him somehow, he didn’t know how but he had to make it even between them.

“Thank you Jumin, she’d be… she’d be so happy.” “I know. But that wasn’t why I did it-” “Then why-” “Because you deserve to be happy too.” “I… thank you.”

For the first time in years, he didn’t have a drink, and when he fell asleep that night- he could see her smiling back at him, not a tear in sight.

Zen rode further out, the small town quiet and asleep, his motorcycle and the hush of the night wind that caressed his skin the only noises that could be heard. He had taken to doing this, as regularly as he could and each time was special. He slowed down as he approached the field of stargazer lilies, a treasured find, they were her favourite flowers. Zen turned off the engine and kicked the stand up so he could simply sit there and breathe in their sweet scent, so similar to that of her skin, and looked up. The night sky was particularly beautiful there, the stars much brighter and more vivid than anywhere else in the city. It was worth taking the half hour trip to be there, it almost felt like she was there with him. She would have loved it there. It could have been the place they would have built their house, had their children and made a life together. In another time, another place, perhaps they could still.

Zen chuckled at his optimism, relieved that thoughts of possibility were finally running through his veins again (as crazy and implausible as they may have been). He would never be the same, that much he knew for certain, but he knew that he didn’t have to be in order to keep her within his heart. That she wouldn’t begrudge him the need to heal, the need to feel something other than pain. She would encourage it, just as she always encouraged him. He could feel the corners of his mouth twitch at the thought, she was just… the best. In life and after death. The best.

“Hey MC… sorry it’s been so long since I came down. The Old Man at the shop’s been sick so I’ve taken over for him… but you knew that, huh? You’re still up there looking out for me, right?” he smiled as a small tear rolled down the side of his eye. “It’s been forever without you, each day passing like the last… the pain- it’s still there. You not being here, it’ll always hurt. I accept that. But I can live with it, make it my own. Carry you with me and be okay- I can. I see that now… I just miss you so much-”

Don’t cry. Smile. It’s what she wanted.

“One day baby, we’ll be those stars up there, together, so just wait a little longer okay? Wait for me Jagi.”

#mystic messenger #mystic messenger fanfiction #zen x mc #zen #angst #tragedy #mysme #mysmes #angstfest #angstfest prompt 1 #hyun ryu

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peakyxshelby · 7 years ago

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Forbidden Flame

SO I finally decided to make a finish to a little series I started MONTHS ago. In Fact it was the first imagine I wrote with more than one part so if everyone could check it out i would very much appreciate it. Thank you to @i-am-a-lost-girl16 for inspiring me to write this part and i hope you enjoy!

Isaiah Jesus x reader (Shelby Sibling)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Eighteen years old. You were married off at only eighteen years old. You were just a kid, in fact you still feel like just a kid now and you’re it’s nearly your 24th birthday. The drive back to Birmingham was going to be a long and lonely journey. You decided not to travel back with your family even though they were also attending your late husband's funeral. You needed this time to think.

You got married on september 10th, to a man you later learned to love, James. You packed up and moved down to London and lived with him and his brother Alfie at first, but later moved into a place of your own. It was difficult at first, you hated not being near your family, hated not being able to know what was going on. But you soon became heavily involved in Alfie’s business, which was handy for Tommy. You knew you were loyal to the Solomons but you would always put your brothers before the rest of them. You helped out on both the legal and illegitimate side of the business just like at home. You were extremely dependant on your visits from your cousin Michael once a month, if he didn’t come you’d be easily distracted and irritable. Everytime he was down you would try to hold your tongue, to not ask about him but it was too difficult, you couldn't help it.

“How is he, Michael? Be honest,” you sigh, annoyed at yourself for giving in again and asking about him.

“It’s been six months (Y,N), he’s finally getting over it. Kind of anyway,” Michael leans back in his chair as he speaks to you. “He’s met a girl, she’s nice to him I guess but he doesn’t look at her the way he looked at you.” Your heart sunk to the bottom of your stomach as any words you tried to spout out got caught in your throat. Michael saw you struggling so interrupted your pathetic reaction. “You’re married now, you seem happy with james. You need to let him be happy too. It’s time to forget about Isaiah because let’s be honest that dream is dead.”

“Michael!” you scold shocked at his abruptness, this was something you and him had in common, you were both very much straight to the point.

“Well…” he said trying to hide his smirk.

“I guess you’re right,” you take a deep breath. It was still a dream though, he was always in your dreams.

Eventually you stopped asking, Isaiah rarely ever visited your dreams and if he did you would wake up hot and panicked. But it was OK because whenever you woke up from what you described as a “nightmare” James would always be there to stroke your hair and hold you in his arms, reminding you who you really loved. Eventually Isaiah Jesus was just a name you’d here in passing when you came home for family dinners. It hurt a little, not knowing what if, but your wound had healed, only leaving a small scar.

A year ago you gave birth to your first baby, a girl, Ivy-Jane Solomons. My god was this baby girl beautiful, the most perfect thing you had ever seen in your life. She looked exactly like her Uncle Arthur and was very much a daddy’s girl from the get-go. She had Tommy and your eyes though. Even though you were still young, you felt your life was complete, you were content with every detail of your life. A man you loved and who loved you with a perfect daughter.

Your six year wedding anniversary was just fifteen days away when James was shot, in a blink of an eye he was just… gone. Your entire world was changed in a matter of minutes. How were you meant to go on without a husband? How were you going to take care of Ivy-Jane without her father? Between james’ death and his funeral his brother alfie had made sure you and Ivy-Jane were well set up for life, you could live comfortably for a very long time without needing to work. He asked you to stay with the company but said he understood if i couldn’t, if i needed to go home. And before then I hadn’t even thought about going back. A lot was different now back home. Not everyone lived in watery lane anymore, my brothers had big country houses and Pol lived in a fancy house just on the outside of small heath. The business was in the centre of the place, with offices lots and lots of offices. You hadn’t thought about going back there because last time you lived there, there was no space to move or breathe. But there was now. And that’s when you decided you were going home. You rung up Arthur two days ago begging him if you could come and stay with him until you could find your own place. And of course he was more than happy to take you both in. he loved you still but he loved his niece even more.

And that brought you to now, minutes away from small heath riding in this car by yourself. Linda had taken Ivy-Jane and was going to put her down to sleep with your nephew so you could have some time to yourself. As the car pulled up outside a familiar street you thanked the driver and crawled out. You were wildly overdressed for the streets of small heath but honestly, the shelby’s always were. You wandered down the streets giving yourself time to take it all in. you had missed this, you had missed home. You finally made it to the front of the garrison, a small smile crept up onto your lips as you reminisced about all the times you’d spent in here. You hadn’t been here in about six years though. As you pushed the door open you immediately caught Harry’s eye.

“Mrs Solomons! I haven’t even seen you to celebrate that title! Oh i mean, miss, i… i am so sorry for your loss,” he starts to mumble as he remembers the tragedy.

“It’s Ok Harry!” you laugh easing the tension.

“Usual?” he asks smiling at you as he starts pouring a whiskey into a glass.

“Make it two.” You look around taking it all back in. soon you had Finn and Michael on either side of you knocking back whiskeys too.

“Well, it’s been a lifetime since the three of us were sat at this bar,” you sigh thinking about all the years that have flown past.

“It’s not been as wild since you left,” Finn laughed, teasing you like when you were kids pushing your arm slightly.

“Well isn’t that the understatement of the year!” Michael joined in joking around with the two of us. You laughed with them until you caught site of the door. The exact place Isaiah proposed six years ago. The boys had noticed your change of reaction and Finn ordered you another drink while Michael started to speak.

“He’s over there you know.”

“What?” you say snapping out of your day dream to realise that the garrison was bloody packed.

“Isaiah, he’s in that booth at the back.” you spun round on your chair so quick you almost went flying to the floor. Michael used both his hands to balance you slightly as your eyes adjusted. And there he was, staring right back at you. Your breathing became so heavy as you saw him nervously look around the room.

“Go talk to him,” Michael pushed a little but not hard enough that he’d loosen his grip on you.

“No, don’t be silly. Was a little crush when we were just kids he probably barely remembers who i am,” you fake a laugh downing the rest of your drink as you spun back around to face away from him.

“Now, we both know that one's a lie,” Michael sighed.

“Do you have any cigarettes?” you ask him knowing fine well he did. He pulled one out and gave you the lighter.

“I need some air,” you near choke as you make your way to the door.

You take the biggest breath ever when the cold air finally hits you. You used the wall to prop yourself up lighting the cigarette and taking a long drag. You closed your eyes for a moment resting your head against the wall, trying to think about absolutely nothing. When you were finally calm you opened your eyes to see isaiah making his way out the door. He froze when he caught sight of you even though you assumed the only reason he was out here was because he had followed you. You smiled a little and he relaxed slightly under your comforting stair. He was bigger now, a lot muscular and slightly taller than you recall. His hair was changed and his face had more structure a sharp cheekbone and jaw. But even though all of these small physical changes he still had those same eyes.

“(Y/N),” he began to say but you cut him off by walking over and wrapping your arms round his shoulders pulling him into a hug. He was tense at first not really knowing where to put his arms, you wondered if this was inappropriate, if he hated you or despised you. But after a few moments he melted into you squeezing hard round your back and sighing slightly.

“Well Isiah,” you clear your throat pulling back from him. “It is bloody good to see you.” you both were grinning at each other like you did when you were kids.

“I would say the same but i’m still healing from the wounds you left when you rejected my marriage proposal,” Isaiah joked clutching his heart faking an injury like he’s been shot. You laughed but internally you were confused at to why he was laughing about the situation.

“Yeah…” you start to mumble awkwardly, sorry about that.”

“No don’t be stupid (Y/N)!” he laughed again. "It’s fine. We were kids, it was stupid anyway we were far too young to know what love was. It wouldn’t have lasted.”

Ouch. your heart dropped to your stomach as you fought hard to hold back the lump that was forming in your throat. Every time isaiah laugh it chipped away at you a little more. Because the fact was that you did love Isaiah and you often wish you had stayed. You wish you married him, and you very much believed he was the one that got away. But he didn’t think like that at all. He thought it was a dumb mistake he made as a kid, and maybe it was. Your awkward fake laugh had drawn a stop to the conversation as you stood there uncomfortably in front of him all of a sudden very self conscious.

“Well would you lie to get a drink with me?” he asked placing one hand on the small of your back to guide you in and the other outstretched in front of him to lead the way.

You weren’t given much option but let him lead you to a table at the back while he grabbed drinks. He placed them down and took a seat in front of you.

“So tell me, what’s happened to you since I've been gone?”

“Well, it’s been 6 years so a lot. A lot of booze, girls and snow.” you roll your eyes at that comment which made him chuckle.

“Whilst I've been growing up you’ve been partying,” you say bluntly. You didn’t mean it to come out as harsh as it did but you could see Isaiah furrow his brow slightly.

“I partied to get over.” he shot back leaving a sting in your chest again. “But after i did, i had to grow up too. I became a bigger part in Shelby limited as you may know.”

“Ah yes i did hear some talk when i was up a few years back, congratulations,” you smiled softly at him really meaning what you said. He always wanted to become a part of it all.

“You were up a couple years back?” he asked looking very confused.

“Yeah, i come up for holidays, birthdays things like that.”

“Oh.. it’s… it doesn’t matter.”

“No what is it?”

“Was just that Michael said you didn’t come back, that you weren’t allowed or something. I just thought…” he was getting more awkward in front of you. “Well i thought that you didn’t see me because you couldn’t rather than you wouldn’t.” this comment made you get angrier and you decided to play defence.

“Well whenever i asked where you were Michael would say you were on business, you couldn’t come or you were with your girlfriend so I didn’t bother prying.”

“Guess he was trying to keep us apart then.”

“Was probably better that way,” you say sighing.

“Anyway,” he starts off again. “I met a girl i liked, i thought i could love her. but , the time never came and as hard as i tried i couldn’t. She was set to be my wife but we broke up a few months back.”

“Oh I'm so sorry Isaiah,” you say sympathetically reaching out and taking his hand in yours subconsciously.

“Don’t be silly (Y/N) I am the one who should be sorry, you lost your husband.” you looked down at your hands still holding one each other the memory of each other. After a few moment you finally mustered up the nerve to ask Isaiah what had been eating away at you for this hour-long chat.

“Do you really think proposing to me was a childish mistake?” he sighed leaning back into his chair and stroking his thumb on the back of your hand.

“No,” he laughed slightly. “I just wanted to seem unphased by you. but , if we are being honest. I don’t think it was a mistake at all, in fact i still think you probably would have been the love of my life. But yes proposing at 18 was childish. I did believe we were going to get married though, spend the rest of our lives together… and in a way i still do.”

“Me too,” you half sighed.

“Why don’t we try? Try this old thing again?”

“I… i can’t,” it killed you to say it, but it was true. His face dropped and he pulled his hand back onto his lap staring at the floor. “But maybe one day ok?” you grabbed his attention again. “My husband just died, earlier on i was literally burying the man i was meant to be with forever into the ground. I’ve just move home from working in a business in London with a notorious illegal gangster. I have a daughter now and she is my world i will always put her first. I can’t just now because i need time to process all this it won’t be as easy as when we were 18. But if you’re willing to wait then i’m willing to try.”

Isaiah was grinning from ear to ear as he took your hand giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Well (Y/N), you know where to find me.”

#peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinder imagine #isaiah jesus #isaiah jesus imagine #shelby reader

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sarcasmfics · 4 years ago

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L’Incendie de Mon Coeur: Chapter 2

Summary: After the Opera Populaire's fire, only ruins remain. Madeleine is one of the surviving ballerinas. When she is thrown into the opera house with her life at stake, she meets the infamous, Monsieur le Phantom, the unexpected hero.

Series masterslist Main Masterlist

Chapter 2:

There were no lights inside the small dormitory where the ballerinas used to sleep. The candles were all melted into pathetic pools of wax from the fire, and the beds were no better. Even the clock which sat high up on the wall had stopped working.

"Do not curse yourself," Madeleine thought to herself as she stood in the doorway of the dormitory. "Monsieur le Phantom has been kind enough, allowing you to stay here and allowing you to keep your life."

She sighed. As quiet as her bare feet would let her, she walked over to the bed that was three away from the end.

"Nineteen years of my life were spent here," she remembered, tracing her fingers along the metal bed frame. "Those nineteen years are over," she began, "and this is year twenty-one, and no decent twenty-one year-old walks around in her undershirt and petticoat, even if there is no one to see her."

She stood and looked around. It was still light outside, she had only been here an hour. What was she to do?

"Mon Dieu, Madeleine, qu'est que si passé?" Her voice echoed through the hollow dormitory. The costumes, she remembered, were a floor below her. There had to be some clothing there, even if it were a man's costume, it was something. She turned and began her journey down to the next floor.

"Mal-dit!" she cursed as she cut her foot on a piece of glass. Her head wound throbbed and she remembered her bleeding cut. "Maybe there is some leftover muslin downstairs too."

She began her journey down the dark stairs.

The stairs were darker than the dormitory, but still some sort of light emitted from somewhere… With her feet, she felt for each step. With her hands, she followed the wall. Her left foot touched something hard and metal with glass around it. Carefully, she picked the object up, and after a moment, found the switch. It was an old lantern. The dim glow it produced was enough to see a foot or two before her.

"Cava bien." She smiled as she finally found the women's costume room. It seemed as though the fire had only caught from the theatre and the floors above it; this room was in perfect order.

A few ballerina costumes were hanging on one wall with chorus costumes on the opposite wall. Inside a chest, were bloomers, petticoats, and undershirts, all for women. She would have to remember that for later.

She exited the room.

A few feet down was another room where all of the masks and props were made. There, sat a complete roll of muslin. Madeleine tore herself two strips and dusted them off, wrapping one beneath her hair to hold her wound, and one around her foot, to hold the cut.

She moved on to the next room.

The silence was pounding in her ears, giving her a slight ache. Subconsciously, she began humming a small tune that all of the ballerinas used to sing together. With her own voice keeping her company, she peaked inside the next few rooms. They were all full of materials for making the larger sets.

Quietly, she moved back to the women's costume room. She filled the chest with a few other items of clothing, and shut it, causing a cloud of dust to form near her face. She sneezed, falling backwards onto the floor. With a huff, she began to drag the chest up the stairs, balancing the lantern in her other hand. Halfway up the stairs, she stepped on an old piece of parchment, slipping her foot out from below her. The lantern flew out of her hand, clattering down the stairs next to the chest. Madeleine landed next to the lantern with a thud. Somewhere, a voice was quietly laughing.

"Monsieur?" she called as she sat up and looked around the dark stairwell. "Oh!" she gasped as a strong pair of arms lifted her up off the floor.

"Yes, it is me," Monsieur le Phantom answered, a smile spread across his face. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm alright, thank you," she answered nervously. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the white of his mask became more pronounced. Gently, he placed her on her fleet and picked up the chest as if it was light as a feather. Without another word, he climbed the stairs. "Oh! Merci, Monsieur!"

Quickly, she began to follow him up the stairs, slipping on the same piece of parchment. Once again, she tumbled down the stairs and landed flat on her stomach. Monsieur le Phantom paused at the top of the stairs and glanced nervously at Madeleine. With a groan, she sat up, holding her head.

"Are you sure you are a ballerina?" Monsieur asked, a dark humor in his voice. Quietly she laughed. They stood in silence for a moment until Monsieur turned and disappeared from sight.

The opera house fell silent.

She walked up the stairs, this time without falling, and found her way to the dormitory. At the end of the room sat the chest before her bed. He did he know, she thought. As she stepped closer, she noticed that he had laid out a clean set of blankets and a small pillow.

"The stories were wrong, Monsieur," she said, "You have a heart."

The ear straining silence was her only response. However, she could have sworn that she heard someone laughing, but it seemed as if it was from another world.

#phantom of the opera #erik x ofc #erik x oc

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the-desolated-quill · 7 years ago

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Star Wars: The Last Jedi - Quill’s Quickies (No Spoilers)

This year, Star Wars has been almost mired in controversy. From the loot box controversy in EA’s Star Wars Battlefront II to the noticeable lack of non-white characters in The Last Jedi’s marketing. Rian Johnson making a total prat of himself by claiming that Kylo Ren is a dual protagonist with Rey, and now the reviews are in it turns out Episode 8 is the most divisive movie in the whole franchise, with critics clambering over themselves to praise the movie for its ‘bold new direction’ while the fans decry it as the arse-raping of their collective childhood. On the whole, I’d say this has been a complete and total cock-up.

I had no idea what to expect going in. I’m sure you all know how lukewarm I was about The Force Awakens. It didn’t surprise me in the slightest that the critics were praising the hell out of The Last Jedi considering they were doing the same thing with the previous film, which in my opinion was mediocre at best. The fan reaction surprised me. After all the blind (and arguably undeserved) praise The Force Awakens got, if even the fans are struggling to find good things to say about this movie, something must have gone spectacularly wrong.

So what did I, diehard Star Wars fan and professional arsehole, think of The Last Jedi? Well honestly I’m disappointed I didn’t hate it more. Truthfully I liked this movie about as much as I liked The Force Awakens, which is to say not very much. Like The Force Awakens, it’s a competently made movie and it’s possible to derive some enjoyment from it if you switch your brain off for two and half hours, but otherwise it’s just yet another tired retread of the original Star Wars movies that brings absolutely nothing new to the table. Not for the first time, I feel a real disconnect from the rest of the Star Wars community here. I have no idea why the critics are praising this movie for being a game changer because there’s genuinely nothing very revolutionary or groundbreaking going on here, and I’m confused as to why the fans have chosen to fling their bile and venom at a movie that, in my opinion, is the very definition of average. I mean sure, The Last Jedi isn’t very good and there were some bits that did kind of annoy me, but there’s nothing about it that’s outrageously offensive as far as I can see.

Let’s start with the things I liked. The biggest, shiniest gold star has to go to Finn. He was quite possibly the only new character I was in any way invested in last time around, and he’s just as brilliant here. We see him slowly embrace his new role as a hero of the Resistance and we also see him get the chance to stick it to his First Order oppressors, which I thought was quite emotionally satisfying. He’s joined by Rose, played by Kelly Marie Tran, who I thought was a nice addition to the cast and who undergoes the traditional everyman turned hero journey. I really liked her relationship with Finn and their scenes together are by far the highlight of the film, which makes their subtle erasure from the Star Wars marketing campaign all the more offensive to me because, as far as I’m concerned, they’re the main characters. They were the most developed, the ones I was most invested in, the only ones that actually grow and develop over the course of the film and who pretty much drive the plot.

The other thing I liked (and I can’t believe I’m saying this) is Kylo Ren. I really wasn’t impressed with him in The Force Awakens because he was pretty much just a shitty rehash of Darth Vader, and I mentioned in my review at the time how it might have been better to embrace the more weaselly and slightly pathetic nature of the character to help better distinguish him and give him his own identity. So I’m extremely pleased to see that’s exactly what this film does and it’s great. There’s no pretence anymore. Kylo Ren is this spoilt, impotent man-child that desperately craves power and attention, but doesn’t really know what he wants to do with it, and that’s glorious. That’s just the burst of inspiration the character sorely needed and Adam Driver does a great job with this new material. I’m actually looking forward to seeing where he goes in the next film and if they handle it well, he should make for a very unique antagonist (that’s antagonist Rian Johnson. AN-TAG-GON-NIST).

It’s just a pity that in order to prop up Kylo Ren, Rian Johnson felt the need to completely warp Luke Skywalker’s character into something wholly unrecognisable.

Yes now we come to the bad stuff, and there’s quite a bit. My main gripe is with Luke’s characterisation. In order to justify a lot of the plot, they have to make Luke this cynical halfwit and there are loads of moments where he says or does something that just simply doesn’t ring true with what we already know about him. His reasons for his exile are utterly out of character for one thing and his reasons behind his provocative statement that ‘it’s time for the Jedi to end’ are even more ludicrous. What’s worse is that the majority of the movie is dedicated to Rey trying to persuade Luke to come out of exile and rejoin the fight. Remember the scene in The Empire Strikes Back when Luke tries to persuade Yoda to train him? Well imagine that dragged out for an hour and a half. That’s pretty much the movie in the nutshell. I think that’s part of the reason why I loved Finn and Rose so much. Because it was a blessed relief to get off that fucking island for a while. There were several moments where I came close to dozing off.

I’m sure it’s no secret to anyone by this point that Rian Johnson has played pretty fast and loose with the Star Wars canon. Luke’s odd characterisation is one example. There are a few others. None of them truly insulting in my opinion. But the most notorious is a scene involving Leia, which I will hereby refer to as ‘The Scene.’ This got a lot of Star Wars fans riled up, but I personally thought it was absolutely hysterical just because of how random and idiotically daft it was. I’m not going to tell you what happened in ‘The Scene’ because this is a non-spoiler review. All I can say is you’ll know it when you see it.

Of course this was Carrie Fisher’s last film before her untimely death and that’s incredibly sad. Does The Last Jedi offer a fitting tribute to Princess/General/Queen (she’s a a Queen in my eyes) Leia Organa? Not really. In fact, outside of ‘The Scene’, Leia doesn’t really do anything worthy of comment. Some say she was mischaracterised too, but I don’t think so. At a push, I could see Leia doing some of the things she does. I just wish Fisher could have been given something with actual substance.

My views on Poe and Rey remain virtually unchanged. Poe Dameron is still a one dimensional cardboard cutout and I’m still continuously baffled as to why people like him so much. He doesn’t have a character. We’re two movies in and we still haven’t learnt a single sodding thing about him. Frankly I’ve seen fossils with more life in them. Rey meanwhile is still quite possibly one of the blandest protagonists I’ve ever seen. I’m struggling to find any reason to actually give a shit about her. Why should I be invested in her Jedi training? Why does she even need Jedi training when she seems capable of pulling any random superpower out of her arse at the convenience of the plot? At no point have these films ever given me a reason to care about her. Maybe if they focused more on her looking for her missing parents, I might be slightly more invested. And that’s another thing. In The Force Awakens, her missing parents are basically used as sequel bait. Here (without giving too much away) they’re pretty much just swept under the carpet entirely, which begs the question why was JJ Abrams wasting our time with them in the first fucking place (yes I am blaming JJ Abrams instead of Rian Johnson because Abrams was the one that actually came up with this shit and it’s very much reminiscent of his bullshit ‘mystery box’. The principle where an audience are naturally drawn to some big unknown or mystery and that he frequently utilises in his projects, most notably the TV series Lost. What he often forgets however is that good mysteries tend to have a satisfying fucking answer at the end).

And that’s pretty much all I have to say really. No doubt some of you are disappointed I haven’t quite given The Last Jedi the vengeful pummelling you’ve come to expect from me, but honestly I can’t work up the energy to get properly angry at it, and that’s largely because I’m past caring about this sequel trilogy. I think I’ve made my views on the sequel trilogy quite clear by now (that they’re a soulless cash grab concocted by studio execs who wouldn’t recognise a decent script if one jumped up and bit them on the arse) and I think it’s my total lack of interest that kind of shields me from some of Rian Johnson’s ‘creative’ decisions. These movies don’t count as far as I’m concerned. I’m not especially bothered by Johnson’s ‘reimagining’ and there’s nothing truly terrible going on here. The only crime The Last Jedi is really guilty of in my opinion is that there’s large swathes of it that are just really, really boring. And the main reason for this (apart from the obscenely long running time and a plot that drags its feet) is because, like with The Force Awakens, a lot of this stuff has been done before and done better in the original trilogy. While The Force Awakens ripped off A New Hope and a few elements from The Empire Strikes Back, The Last Jedi rips off The Empire Strikes Back and a few elements from Return Of The Jedi. What makes it slightly more egregious here is that The Empire Strikes Back and Return Of The Jedi are both very emotionally charged stories that rely on three films’ worth of character development and buildup to make an impact, whereas The Last Jedi just blunders in, trying to replicate these emotional moments, but fails to recognise what made them so powerful to begin with and hasn’t done any of the legwork to make us feel truly invested in what’s going on, and thus it has all the impact of a feather duster.

So that’s The Last Jedi. A pointless and mediocre middle chapter to what has so far been a pointless and mediocre trilogy. The one bright side is that now it appears they’ve finally rehashed all they can from the original trilogy, there’s a chance we might finally get to see some original ideas in Episode 9. Unless they’re planning to ripoff the prequels next. In which case Disney must be more creatively bankrupt than I thought.

#star wars #the last jedi #quill's quickies #no spoilers

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