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basic-banshee · 6 years

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Mind Games (part 6)

tagging: @cactus---daddy @ughthatsprettygay @its-the-ultimate-fangirl-101 @alive-alive-alive @their-lego-hearts @cant-stop-shipping-people @katterpillar @thatbitchnora @emo-turkey @rachelaredhead @thestrawberrymusicnerd @mirkwoodelven @violetsummers23254 @nyx5683 @fucking-echo @its-okay-that-ur-not ** sorry if ive forgotten someone**

BAZ

In the fourth year I had this recurring dream — or fantasy, more accurately — that Simon and I would find some common ground to unite us, and we’d become friends. Allies. We’d work together for some greater goal and through that process we would, inevitably, become best friends. By the fifth year, I imagined we’d fall in love. By sixth year, I dreamt that we would tolerate each other.

I never thought my sixth year fantasy would come true.

I always assumed that the common cause would be fighting the Humdrum, or saving Watford, or solving a mystery. I never thought the thing that would bring us together would be being gay.

Or rather, “not straight,” as he repeatedly insists. Apparently thirty minutes of reflection is enough to make Simon realise he likes men, but not enough to make him comfortable with a queer label. I will never understand him.

But, despite telling him I’m gay, he’s still sticking by his theory that the hat’s selection was based entirely on sexual preference, and not because I’d jump him in a heartbeat.

“We can just say it was me that caused us to get paired,” he said on the way back to the room. “I don’t know if your family knows or if you want them to know, or if they’d be disappointed or something shitty.”

“They would have to acknowledge it in order to be disappointed,” I answered, but I didn’t argue with his offer. If he wants to be the openly bisexual Chosen One, I’m sure as shit not going to stop him.

“Sorry your family is weird about...you know,” he said when I got out of the shower the next morning. I stared. Apparently we were still discussing this.

“Is the Mage going to be bothered?” I asked him instead of answering. He paused in the middle of picking out a shirt. (He has four identical shirts. Why does he do this every day?)

“Why the fuck would the Mage care who I like?” he asked, surprised. I shrug (I’ve picked it up from him.) (I hate it.) (But it’s a gesture that says so much, while saying nothing.)

I didn’t have an answer.

Apparently Watford isn’t as fascinated by Simon’s sexuality as I am, because there wasn’t really any backlash. No one cared. No one said anything. And so I assumed it had blown over. This unfortunate occurrence had passed, we had both survived, and things could go back to the way they were.

Except they didn’t.

“How long have you known?” he asked as we walked down to breakfast one morning.

“Longer than you,” I responded.

“Right but like, how long?” he pushed as he got in line behind me for coffee.

“I’m going to rip your tongue out,” I responded.

I keep waiting for him to figure out I’m in love with him. I had thought this would become blindingly clear: the hat put us together, he knows I like men, and I called him fucking exceptional. I practically put a sign on my forehead screaming “I’m in love with Simon Snow, set me on fire and laugh” and yet somehow he’s completely missed it, and is still trying to take responsibility for it.

I don’t understand the mental leaps he had to do to convince himself that somehow my intense hatred for him fucked up the spell. But then again, I don’t understand anything about the way Simon thinks.

He’s so stupid, and yet, I love him.

SIMON

“Have you ever fancied anyone?” I ask Baz. I’m lying on my bed with my feet up on the wall, trying to study, but I can’t. It’s warm out, and we’ve got the window open, and it’s an afternoon that should not be spent trying to teach myself Greek. Honestly, if I don’t have it by now, I’m never going to.

“We’re not talking about this,” Baz snaps back from the other side of the room. He was working, but I saw him give up a few minutes ago, and he’s just been staring out the window ever since.

“So that’s a yes,” I say, throwing my book to the floor. “And considering how prickly you’re being, that means he goes to Watford.” It’s a shot in the dark, but I like to throw out wild theories sometimes to see how he reacts.

“This is not even remotely a subject that’s up for discussion,” he responds, putting in his headphones and turning back to his book. I hate when he does that.

Somehow he managed to bring in an illegal mobile. I was surprised last week when he used it in front of me — normally I would have jumped at the idea of finding something that could get him in trouble. But lately I’ve been focusing a lot less on trying to catch Baz doing something shifty — maybe because he’s now doing the shifty things in front of me — but maybe because I don’t think I care.

And I think… I think I know he’s not a monster. He’s just a boy. A shitty boy, who can be an extreme prick. But still, just a boy, who got outed in front of his classmates. Who listens to Radiohead and eats crisps at night. Who has siblings, and gets bored while doing his homework.

Lately it’s been hard to be in the room with him, because I’m hyper aware of his presence. I always am, always have been. I always have this list in my head about him. Usually it reads something like 1. What is he plotting? 2. Is he going to hurt someone? 3. Where is he going? 4. Does he know I’m following?

But right now the list is reading more like 1. Does he fancy anyone 2. Has he ever kissed a bloke before? 3. What does kissing a boy taste like? 4. I wonder what colour his eyes are right now.

Staring at the back of his head, as he bobs slightly in time to his music, I wonder what he’s listening to and what his hair feels like.

“My money is on Niall,” I say, even though he can’t hear me. “He’s kind of fit, isn’t he? Or maybe it’s Gareth. I’ve seen the way you stare at his belt buckle.”

“There’s literally no way to not stare at it when he’s shoving it in your face,” Baz snaps. I guess he can hear me. “Now shut up or I’m throwing you out the window.”

“Have you ever kissed a bloke?” I ask. Because I guess this is what I think about now. I don’t know when this started, or why. Part of me wonders if I’m only thinking about Baz like this because we both like blokes, and some part of me is reacting to that.

But then part of me thinks I’m only thinking about Baz like this because I’m finally getting to know him. He let down some walls — not many, but a few — and now...I guess he doesn’t seem that scary.

“Get up,” he snaps, slamming his book closed and advancing on me. He’s trying to look terrifying, but the edge of his mouth keeps turning up. I think it was always doing that, all the way back to first year, and I just always mistook his smiles for snarls.

“Why?” I ask calmly. I’m still lying on the bed with my head hanging over, and from this angle he’s upside down.

“Because I’m chucking you out the window.”

Normally I’d growl, and start to get worked up, and we’d end up in a fight on the stairs. But instead I just grin at him, and I see the smallest hint of a smile on his face in return.

And I think I want to kiss him.

And I think, possibly, he might want to kiss me.

The whole “exceptional” thing aside, there’s small things. Sometimes I catch him looking at me when he doesn’t think I can see him. He’s been a hell of a lot nicer to me since the psych lab, and he even helped me with homework once.

But the big sign was the time I walked out of the bathroom after my shower, and he had a full metal breakdown. I’d done it on a whim — I didn’t think through it all, just dashed out with my towel around my waist to grab my shirt — and he tensed up so much he broke his pencil in his hand, and then his face went about as red as it can get.

So yeah. I think there’s something there.

Neither of us is going to do anything about it though. He sure as shit isn’t, at least. But I guess I’m the brave one, of the two of us. So if it is going to happen…

I guess I’m going to have to nut up.

Crowely, we’re fucked.

BAZ

“We could pretend to be dead,” he says glumly, his feet dragging as we walk across the courtyard. For once, Simon might be on to a good idea. I think I’d rather be dead than go to the next Magickal Psychology lab tomorrow.

“It’s required. For a grade,” I snap. He looks so dejected that I want to throw my arm around his shoulder and spell him happy.

“I wish the Humdrum would attack,” he mutters. I sigh and hold open the door of Mummers House.

“It will be fine. We’ll just go in, find out what the control question is, and lie,” I tell him as we trudge up the stairs. He pauses on the middle landing and stares at me.

“Lie?”

“Yes, Snow, lie,” I snap when we enter the room. He throws his bag to the ground and collapses onto his bed in a dramatic heap, and a small contented sigh escapes him when he shoves his head into the pillow. “For example, I am neither allergic to cats nor colourblind. And yet I have successfully gotten out of those experiments by lying.”

“You’re not colourblind?” he sputters, turning his head to look at me. The stricken expression on his face makes it seem like I’ve just turned his world upside down. “I thought that’s why you always wear black,” he mutters, then turns his face back into his pillow.

It’s the makings of a lazy afternoon outside. It’s warm, we’re on the verge of a weekend, and somehow Snow and I have spent the entire day together thus far. We ate breakfast together, talked on the way to class, and actually got scolded by Miss Possibelf for laughing during her lecture. It’s been perfect.

So I sit on the floor between our beds with my back to the windowsill and tip my head back just a bit so it’s resting against the ledge, and close my eyes. I like this spot because it allows me to feel warm without being in direct sunlight, and it makes me feel like a bit of a sleepy cat. I never would have sat here before Snow and my’s strange gay truce.

“Put on music,” he mumbles sleepily from his bed.

That’s another thing we do now: we listen to my music. I’ve been using my mobile with him around — I only have to listen to music and text Fiona — and I figured he would just ignore it, consider it a casualty of our strange new tolerance of each other. But then one day I was doing work and he just came over and picked it up. I almost kicked him out of reflex, but he just squinted at the screen, put it down, and shrugged. “I want to see what you were listening to,” he said. He started doing that every time he walked by, picking up my mobile and running his stumpy freckled hands all over it (Crowley, I’d kill to be my mobile) and then one day he goes, “You can play it out loud.”

And now we listen to music.

I barely glance at the screen as I hit play on whatever I had up last, and pull out my wand. “Come Mr. DJ won’t you turn the music up!” I cast, and the speaker on my mobile grows louder, unleashing some Radiohead song on our room. I throw the mobile on my bed then close my eyes. Maybe I’ll give in to the cat metaphor and take a nap.

My head’s tipped back and I’m on the verge of truly falling asleep when I feel a small puff of air on my cheek and hear Simon whisper, impossibly close, “Baz.”

My eyes fly open and he’s there, he’s right there, his unexceptional blue eyes staring into mine, and I can’t look away, even though there’s no spell holding me here. Just him. Just Simon. His face is centimetres from mine and there’s no possible explanation for why he’s this close, except for —

“Do you remember that question from the experiment about dying that night and what you would regret not doing or saying?” he asks. I can feel his breath on my lips because he’s that fucking close, and the soft rumble of his voice is reverberating through me. I nod, slowly, because this feels like some kind of hazy spell and I think that quick or sharp movements will dislodge it.

“I said I’d regret not having killed you,” I whispered. His lips — fuck, his lips — quirk up and he smiles at me. It’s ruinous.

“I said I don’t really have regrets,” he whispers back. And then he tilts his head. “But that’s not true. I regret that I haven’t done something.”

Aleister fucking Crowley he’s being so cool. When did he get so cool? He’s going to, I know that’s what he’s doing. I know that’s why his head is tilted and he’s leaning even closer. This is going to be it. He’s going to kiss me or kill me, and I’m happy for either. I’ll take whatever he offers, just—

Why isn’t he doing it? His mouth is so close, I can see it, he’s closed his eyes, and he’s just…. Here. Is he waiting? He keeps dipping closer and closer, his mouth ghosting along mine, then he pulls away, and I’m going to explode. I’m going to scream.

“Simon,” I snarl, because I’m ready to fucking kill him, and his eyes pop open just as I grab the back of his neck and kiss him.

I hear — no, I feel — him hum against my lips, and then he’s doing something with his chin, and he captures my bottom lip in his, and it’s—

It’s sweet. It’s soft. It’s kind and gentle and everything that we aren’t. Everything that I never imagined we could be. He’s kissing me like I’m something precious, like I’m something sacred. No one has ever treated me like this before.

“Simon—” I start as our lips break away a bit, but he just makes a shushing noise and leans in to kiss me again. He’s on his knees in front of me, his hands planted to the ground on either side of my hip.

“I know, I’m exceptional,” he whispers, then kisses the corner of my mouth. I laugh — I can’t help it. This is the moment I’ve waited for my entire life, and I feel drunk off of him.

I want more.

“Let’s just—not overtalk this. Let’s just do this, yeah? I want to do this, all of this, the whole thing, us, let’s just do it,” he says, then flicks his tongue over my bottom lip. He could probably have asked me to set myself on fire after that and I would say yes. I have no idea what he’s talking about — snogging? Sex? Dating? I don’t know. I don’t care. I’ll do anything if he’s involved. I try not to think about what he’s suggesting, and instead I just turn off my mind, like he would. He’s gotten pretty far in life so far, there’s got to be a benefit to it, right?

“Absolutely,” I mutter, bringing my hands up to grasp his hips, and it’s like some kind of sign or permission to him, because suddenly his hands are in my hair and he’s gathering it up in chunks and pulling on it slightly, wrapping it around his fingers as his nails lightly scratch my scalp and it’s a sensory overload. I push him away, but his hands are still in my hair, he’s really got a strong fucking hold on it, and so we both go kareening backwards and he lands on his back and smiles up at me as he laughs breathlessly.

I go for the mole on his neck like a target.

“You’re exceptional too,” he whispers. He’s wriggling beneath me, his whole body tensing and relaxing as I kiss every mole and freckle I can find. There’s two hiding under his collar, I know, and so I’m focused on pulling his knotted tie off so I can get to them.

“Of course I am,” I snap back. His tie is really, truly, astonishing tangled. Does he just hang himself every morning in the process of getting dressed? I should just set it on fire. It would serve him right.

“I think that that stupid spell must have known that I—” he’s saying, breathless, as I work at the knot. This useless piece of clothing is keeping me from his Adam’s Apple and there is absolutely no bigger injustice in this world right now.

“Simon,” I snarl. I’m angry at his tie, and I’m taking it out on him, but I don’t care. Nothing matters. “Shut the fuck up. It paired us together because I’m obsessed with you, and I’m going to set you on fire if you don’t learn how to tie your tie like an adult.”

His smile blinds me. His eyes scrunch at the corners and he reveals all his teeth — not perfect and uniform, utterly unexceptional, just like his eyes, yet endlessly adorable — and it’s a smile full of joy and surprise and more than a little mischievousness.

“Just get my clothes off,” he says, and it comes out with magic even though it’s absolutely not a spell. It’s some kind of fucked up horny compulsion, and I feel myself pulled back to the tie, ripping it from his neck, my fingers running under the buttons of his collar and popping them. I feel out of control, ruled by a force that’s not me, and it’s terrifying.

But it’s giving me the courage to do what I’ve wanted to do for years.

“Sorry, sorry,” he gasps. He’s seen the panic in my eyes. “It does that sometimes, my magic. When I feel… a lot. Do what you want! You don’t have to!” he gasps out, and I feel the compulsion lift.

My fingers keep working at his shirt though, and I can’t stop myself from giggling. It’s not funny — he just forced me to do something with magic, I should be horrified — but this is surreal and I feel like I’m drinking in the galaxy everytime my lips meet his skin.

“I guess Greg’s fucked up experiment worked,” I say between laughs. His breath gets faster as I kiss at his collarbone, and he frowns at me.

“Don’t,” he stutters, then shakes his head. “What the fuck Baz? Don’t talk about Greg,” he pouts. “Greg can get stuffed for all I care.”

“But it worked, didn’t it?” I say, nuzzling at his neck. He growls, grabs my shoulders, and turns me forcefully, so that I’m on the ground he’s above me. This is a first — I’m always above him. By at least three inches.

But then he grins.

“He can never know,” Simon says, and I nod.

“Absolutely fucking not,” I agree, and lean up to meet his mouth again. He laughs against my lips and pushes back at the kiss. I can taste the smoke of his magic in my mouth. It’s going to be there for the rest of the day, I know. Not even brushing my teeth is going to get the taste of Simon out.

Maybe psychology isn’t the worst.

#carry on #carry on fic #my writing #mind games #snowbaz #snowbaz fanfic #gay boys being their best gay selves #listening to music #hating psychology

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stormecloudyy-blog · 7 years

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Amor Proibido [ii]

“You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else-” Albert Einstein.

What does being happy even mean to me anymore? This is supposed to be the start of writing stories which will shape my career, but this kid is getting under my skin. He tells me he just wants to be happy, and I realize I am not even sure what it means to myself.

My life is supposed to be the most fantastic thing in the world right now… but sometimes I just feel really fucking empty inside. I don’t have the right words to coherently express my unhappiness. However, this isn’t about me. I have to ask this pop star about his music, attend a concert, and write my story.

I don’t need to think about the way I would not mind tracing my fingers over the tattoo on his forearm and softly grasping those arm muscles. Because holy hell, this boy is built like a brick house. All these thoughts are racing through my mind, but my face remains impassive because this is just a job.

Shawn leans over placing his hand on the recording device and clicking it off. Just like that. He does it boldly, his eyes never leaving mine as though daring me to stop him. He acts like he can just get whatever he wants, and it kind of pisses me off.

I snatch the recorder from his hand, eyes glaring, “What the fuck is your problem? You should want me to interview you because a ton of girls will want to fuck you after reading this article. You’ll be even more famous. Isn’t that what you want?”

Hazel eyes bore into mine. “I want to fuck you.”

Preliminary interview complete. However, I still have two more days of dealing with this utter shitstorm I can I tell is just brewing. I keep playing the audio of the interview, trying to make it match with my notes. But I can’t fucking think straight. What the hell am I supposed to write about when all I keep returning to is the way he looked at me the whole time.

“…some of my musical inspirations include Ed Sheeran and Niall Horan…” his voice filters through my big, empty hotel room and I just really need to take a few hours to decompress. Then I can deal with this weird tension Shawn is causing between us, and I can just get this over with and return to my real life. It is just one article/ I don’t need to act like it is going to make or break the rest of my life.

Shutting off the recorder, I stand up and walk over to the window. I could probably just take some time to go out to eat so I am away from this place, but I don’t want to run the risk of seeing Shawn. Not that he would do anything when they were other people around, but I would just paranoid the whole time.

He told me he wanted to fuck me. I mean… I am not sure who the fuck this kid thinks he is. You don’t say those words to a person who is interviewing you for one of the most predominant music magazines in the world. It would be a surefire way to start a scandal and fuck up his own career. But kid is smart. He turned off the recorder and just said it to me. No one knows except the two of us. Shawn has plausible deniability because he is fucking pop star, and no one would believe me just because of my gender. What a fair world we reside in.

My phone starts to ring causing me my thoughts to pull back to the present. Alright. All I need to do is make it through the next few days, and I will never need to see him again. Simple.

Brice calling.

No. No. No. Fuck. Are you serious?

I have been here four hours, not even. And my boss is calling me. What the fuck. Okay, stay calm.

I can just say I was out having dinner and call him back later. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine. My life isn’t falling apart at all. Stay. Calm. My phone ceases to ring, anxiety loosening its grip in my chest. And then it starts once again when his name shows up on the display again. Fuck my whole life.

"Hello,“ I say, sounding false chipper and hoping he isn’t going to tell me I am fired. Oh, my god. I can’t breathe.

“I knew you would answer if I called a second time. You should probably not avoid the guy who makes sure you get paid,” he teases. “But I am calling for a reason. We need press release previews for the interview ASAP. So if you could just send those over tonight, that would be amazing.”

I let out a long groan because this is just my fucking luck. “What the fuck? I haven’t even been here long enough to unpack and you want like three pieces of writing by tonight?” I almost scream at him, feeling the anxiety start to settle heavy on my chest.

“This is a big interview. I told you that. You knew the deal when you agreed. I am not asking you to write the whole fucking thing tonight. We just need a few snippets to get everyone excited.” He pauses, adding, “Shawn’s manager asked us to do it since his concert is tomorrow night. He said Shawn was really impressed. You did well, you know.”

I rub the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger, trying to combat the mixed feelings I am dealing with right now. I am supposed to write a whole lot of bullshit to make some other people happy, but he just said Shawn was impressed with me. Why does this make my heart skip a beat? Ugh. “Great,” I retort dryly, “I will just take that great impression and use it to write some press releases when all I wanted to do was relax because I have been working non stop the past week.”

“You need to get these written as soon as you can. The press is already badgering us to find out what you are going to say. Shawn normally doesn’t give interviews as often as his fans want so this is a fucking huge deal for everyone involved. And he is just a kid, how difficult can he be?”

I hold back laughter because Brice has no idea at all. “Yeah, ha ha ha,” I say and let out a sigh. Pretty sure I am using up my sigh quota for the year today alone. “I will just get started on that right now.” I hang up the phone and throw it down on the couch, squelching the urge to let out a primal scream.

This whole fucking this is horrible. I was supposed to be able to just write the article and be on the way to having an awesome writing career. This is way more stress than I should have for a kid. Just a kid. Shawn Mendes is a fucking evil kid who knows how to get under your skin with those stupid eyes and those curls and that stupid voice.

I want to fuck you. Who the hell says that to someone they just met? This is not a fucking porno. This is my life and career. It must be nice he can do whatever the fuck he wants without any repercussions, but I actually have a real life to return to.

Fuck everything. I sit down on the couch, pulling my laptop over to me and trying to find the words everyone is going to want to hear about the apparently not difficult at all kid, Shawn Mendes.

Three hours later, I send off my pieces to Brice and shut my laptop. I am fucking exhausted, and I just want to crawl into bed. But I am also starving. Too lazy to leave to get food, I decide I am going to venture down the hall to the vending machines and have a junk food feast for one. It will help make this shitty day a little less so. I just need sugar and carbs galore.

Not caring I am wearing a faded tank top and kind of small pajama shorts, I grab my wallet and key card to make my trip. The hall is deserted, making it seem like I am the only person in the hotel. All the better because I don’t want anyone seeing how much of a mess I look after putting in more work tonight than I wanted to.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

I spin around and gasp, seeing Shawn poke his head out of his room and looking at me with a smirk. His eyes travel down my body, taking in my outfit and he looks me in the eyes a moment later.

“Fuck off,” I say with a sigh and stare longingly at the vending machines I am still so far away from.

He is shirtless, curls abound. He is wearing only a pair of faded grey sweatpants, low slung on his hips. I can see every muscle in his body and he even has one of those v cuts which leads down to… nowhere. Fuck. Why the fuck does a nineteen year old kid like him look so much older? Not that I am noticing that much, but it is hard to miss when it is right in my face.

He chuckles. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. “I am not interested in eating your dick if that is what you’re offering. Earlier was more than enough, thanks. I just want to get some junk food and then eat alone in my room. Thanks.”

His mouth opens and closes, like he is shocked by my comment. “I…no, I was asking because I ordered a pizza and I still have some left over. Plus the mini bar is stocked full of drinks so…” He shrugs. “You are welcome to come in if you feel like it.” He steps aside, creating a path for me to walk away.

I tilt my head, wondering if this is a trap. “I am not going to sleep with you.”

“I am asking if you want some pizza, that’s all.” He gestures for me to come inside.

Too tired to argue, I relent and find myself sitting next to Shawn on the couch with a pizza between us. He seems more relaxed now. There is a random movie playing in the background, but I notice he still keeps sneaking glances at me when he thinks I won’t notice. It is probably because he thinks I am a big nerd for wearing a Harry Potter shirt.

“You keep staring at me,” I tell him, finishing off my first slice of pizza and reaching for the bottled water on the table. Taking a sip, I notice he is smiling. And he has a nice smile. If you simply take into account how he looks, he is very pleasing to look at. He just lacks a good personality, I guess.

“I love Harry Potter,” he replies, softly tracing the decal on the tank top for a second. “Is that a problem?”

“I already said I am not going to sleep with you.” I smack his hand away, pointing to him with my water bottle. “You need to stop acting like I am going to fall for your charms just because I am a woman. That is a fucked up archaic notion all males need to stop. Just because you are a man doesn’t mean all women are going to be interested. I could be a lesbian for all you know.”

He just stares at me before he starts laughing really hard. I freeze, not sure what is going on. He laughs for a long moment before finally stopping and saying, “You should be the one who stops. You keep thinking every action on my part means I want to sleep with you. I know how to be nice as well. It is why I offered you pizza. If I wanted to truly sleep with you, I wouldn’t be offering you pizza. I would be showing up at your hotel room and making you mine.”

The way he looks at me when he says it. Oh, fuck. I can’t breathe and the tingling between my legs is more apparent. FUCK. My body is betraying me in the worst way possible. The way he said he would make me his actually turned me on, but I am not going to let it show. But oh, my god. Those words alone are ones I could touch myself to for days and never have a problem having an orgasm. It is just the way he speaks with conviction. Plus, his voice may be a little bit sexy when he lowers it and tries to be more fucking hot than he has a right to be.

“My boss said you were impressed with me,” I choke out. Trying to change the subject and crossing my legs subtly, I want to know what he said. “It’s funny how you could not even mention that to me at all before I left.”

He shrugs, picking up a piece of pizza and taking a bite. What the fuck. Even the way he eats is attractive. That is more fucked up than it should be.

I glare waiting for him to say something. I can’t understand how he can be so hot and cold with me. I mean, yeah I am doing the same thing. But this is my job. He should be wanting to stay on my good side since I am going to be writing about him. Instead he is getting further and further under my skin. Ugh.

“The last person who interviewed me worked for like MTV right?” he says, finishing up his pizza and wiping his face with a napkin. He chuckles sweetly. “And she was nice. We got along. But she had this idea in her head we were going to start dating. Don’t get me wrong, she was nice. But I was not interested. Nothing happened, I swear. But she told everyone we fucked like a whole lot of times and that she had to stop me from falling in love with her. When I was the one who said no to her. Still she told everyone how I was just madly in love with her, and I just… fucking drama is the last thing I need.”

I don’t reply because I am not sure what to say. This is Shawn just opening up to me as a person. It surprises me because most famous people know to keep their mouths shut around the press. Maybe he knows I won’t say anything since I kept his earlier comment to myself, and I am in my fucking pajamas. Plus, this kid seems like he is trying to be sincere so the last thing I want to do is betray his trust the way this woman did. Not that I care about him, but I do care about my career a lot.

“Don’t get me wrong. I fuck a lot of women on tour. Not like teenage fans or anything, but it is not like I am a saint. But it kind of pisses me off when someone thinks they can just use me to get what they want. I like you though because you don’t care what I think. You just want to do your job, and I get that because that is how I feel about my music…but there is just something about you that…”

He leans in, pushing a stray lock of hair away from my face. “You’re beautiful.”

I can’t breathe. His face is so close to mine if I just leaned my head the right way…

His eyes are looking into mine and neither of us are speaking.

This can’t fucking happen. It-

Shawn presses his lips against mine, and I almost relent. But I can’t. This is my career. I can’t just…

I tense up, placing a hand against his chest and pulling away. “I have to go,” i mumble, running out of the room without looking back.

When I get back to my own room, I fall down onto the bed and try not to lose my shit. That kid just fucking kissed me and I let him for the briefest moment. Fuck. I am going to ruin everything.

My phone vibrates, stopping my thoughts. Taking a deep breath, I answer.

The voice on the line says, “Hi, babe, how are you?”

It’s Landon, my fiance.

God, I am so fucked.

#shawn mendes #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes writing #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes smut #writing #mine #amor proibido

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stormecloudy-blog · 7 years

Text

Amor Proibido [ii]

“You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else-” Albert Einstein.

Hazel eyes bore into mine. “I want to fuck you.”

My phone starts to ring causing me my thoughts to pull back to the present. Alright. All I need to do is make it through the next few days, and I will never need to see him again. Simple.

Brice calling.

No. No. No. Fuck. Are you serious?

I have been here four hours, not even. And my boss is calling me. What the fuck. Okay, stay calm.

I can just say I was out having dinner and call him back later. It's fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine. My life isn't falling apart at all. Stay. Calm. My phone ceases to ring, anxiety loosening its grip in my chest. And then it starts once again when his name shows up on the display again. Fuck my whole life.

"Hello," I say, sounding false chipper and hoping he isn't going to tell me I am fired. Oh, my god. I can't breathe.

Fuck everything. I sit down on the couch, pulling my laptop over to me and trying to find the words everyone is going to want to hear about the apparently not difficult at all kid, Shawn Mendes.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

I spin around and gasp, seeing Shawn poke his head out of his room and looking at me with a smirk. His eyes travel down my body, taking in my outfit and he looks me in the eyes a moment later.

“Fuck off,” I say with a sigh and stare longingly at the vending machines I am still so far away from.

He is shirtless, curls abound. He is wearing only a pair of faded grey sweatpants, low slung on his hips. I can see every muscle in his body and he even has one of those v cuts which leads down to... nowhere. Fuck. Why the fuck does a nineteen year old kid like him look so much older? Not that I am noticing that much, but it is hard to miss when it is right in my face.

He chuckles. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

His mouth opens and closes, like he is shocked by my comment. “I...no, I was asking because I ordered a pizza and I still have some left over. Plus the mini bar is stocked full of drinks so...” He shrugs. “You are welcome to come in if you feel like it.” He steps aside, creating a path for me to walk away.

I tilt my head, wondering if this is a trap. “I am not going to sleep with you.”

“I am asking if you want some pizza, that’s all.” He gestures for me to come inside.

“I love Harry Potter,” he replies, softly tracing the decal on the tank top for a second. “Is that a problem?”

He shrugs, picking up a piece of pizza and taking a bite. What the fuck. Even the way he eats is attractive. That is more fucked up than it should be.

He leans in, pushing a stray lock of hair away from my face. “You’re beautiful.”

I can’t breathe. His face is so close to mine if I just leaned my head the right way...

His eyes are looking into mine and neither of us are speaking.

This can’t fucking happen. It-

Shawn presses his lips against mine, and I almost relent. But I can’t. This is my career. I can’t just...

I tense up, placing a hand against his chest and pulling away. “I have to go,” i mumble, running out of the room without looking back.

When I get back to my own room, I fall down onto the bed and try not to lose my shit. That kid just fucking kissed me and I let him for the briefest moment. Fuck. I am going to ruin everything.

My phone vibrates, stopping my thoughts. Taking a deep breath, I answer.

The voice on the line says, “Hi, babe, how are you?”

It’s Landon, my fiance.

God, I am so fucked.

#writing #mine #amor proibido #shawn mendes #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes fiction #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn peter raul mendes

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