#i need a bumper sticker of him on my car | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gyubakeries · 12 hours ago

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𝗴𝗹𝗶𝗺𝗽𝘀𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘂𝘀 | k.mg

a/n: trust mingyu to do something and completely throw my world off-kilter. i cried after listening to the cover because the song is that meaningful to me. mingyu if i ever meet you i will hug you. and cry. also, thank you skye ( @etherealyoungk ) for entertaining all my ramblings abt this fic <3 shoutout to kae ( @ylangelegy ) because i finished this just to torture u 🙂‍↕️

a BIGGGG thank you to cori ( @seoloquent ), ally ( @lovetaroandtaemin ), lou ( @tusswrites ), rae ( @nerdycheol ) and lexi ( @heechwe ) for beta-reading!! u guys helped me bring the fic together 🫂 ally ( @lovetaroandtaemin ) made this beautiful banner for this fic too!! thank u so much ally <33

and without further ado, glimpse of us gyu!

🏆 this fic is part of the angst olympics collab! check out the main masterlist here <3

word count: 8.1k contents: mingyu x f!reader , photographer!mingyu , heavy angst as u can tell , post break-up , grief , drinking , implied sexual content but nothing in detail , the tragic nature of relationships that crash and burn , mingyu is lowkey an ass , but he's making up for it , the narrative switches between the past and present , flashbacks are in italics , happy ending

it's all wrong.

when mingyu wakes up, a white ceiling presses down on him, the scent of oranges suffocates him, and skin that is brushing against his isn't warm.

he feels uneasy, his skin prickling at all these foreign sensations.

it's all wrong.

he should have been looking up at tattered glow-in-the-dark stickers on a pale blue ceiling. he should have been in the embrace of sweet roses that always managed to make him feel at home. he should have been touching skin that keeps him warm through the coldest winter nights.

he should have done a lot of other things too.

he didn't.

—

"y/n, i know you're in there," comes your best friend's voice. he's teetering on the edge of exasperation, but you can only laugh to yourself.

it's a pathetic sound, and you can only think of when it used to be much happier.

"you better be decent," seungkwan warns, before he's punching in the code to your apartment and letting himself in. the stench of alcohol hits him first, and then his eyes land on you—slumped against the couch, hand clutching an empty bottle of alcohol, and a hazy look in your red-rimmed eyes.

"you promised you wouldn't do this to yourself anymore," seungkwan whispers, biting back all the nagging and scolding when he sees your blank, regretful smile.

"promises aren't a real concept anymore, kwan," you croak out, voice hoarse from all the crying. "they're never real."

you repeat the words like a mantra, sometimes in your head, and sometimes out loud. seungkwan bites his tongue to stop himself from crying in front of you as he helps you get off the floor, drink some water, and sleep in your bed.

"i'll stay the night," seungkwan tells you, already pulling out the air mattress he bought for himself ever since you started drinking to the brink of alcohol poisoning. "tell me if you need anything."

him, you think. i need him. kim mingyu. he's all i’ve ever needed.

seungkwan can read your mind, and he stays silent after that.

you fall asleep without saying anything, and old glow-in-the-dark stars and real laughter haunt your dreams again.

—

it was the most beautiful thing you'd experienced in your life before it became the ugliest.

kim mingyu entered your life like a tornado when he crashed into your car on a sunday morning, four years ago. he left you with a wrecked rear bumper, a rapidly beating heart, his number scrawled across your palm, and a promise of taking you out on a date.

you forgot about the rear bumper quickly after that, and texted the number the second mingyu walked out of the car repair shop.

. . .

you (11:30 a.m.) :

ill be waiting on that date, kim mingyu

mingyu (11:31 a.m.) :

lets go grab brunch together

im still standing right outside

you (11:32 a.m.) :

see you there :)

. . .

it was no surprise that you fell for him as fast as you did.

it was difficult not to. especially when mingyu was the man of your dreams.

he'd hold your hand for every second of your dates, even after you told him your palms get sweaty. he'd remember all the tiny little details about you that only your best friend would know. he'd know exactly what food you dislike, and would never order it for himself either.

mingyu quickly fell for you too.

with every meal at random restaurants. with every movie night spent cuddling under a single blanket. with every touch of your hand, with every press of your lips, with every second he spends with you, he fell.

it took two months after the car crash for mingyu to ask you to be his girlfriend.

when you met seungkwan for your regular catch-up session, you told him about mingyu.

"he's perfect, seungkwan," you sighed dreamily. "i think he's the one."

seungkwan loves it when you're happy, but he hated that you were so blind in your love for mingyu to give all of yourself to him so quickly.

he gave you a silent smile. maybe, just maybe, if you'd taken a moment to reconsider taking things at a slower pace with mingyu, if you hadn't been so swept up in his charming eyes or your strong attraction to him, you would've read the look in seungkwan's eyes.

the look of caution.

—

it's the same look seungkwan is giving you now, as you down your fourth shot of.... something.

"slow down?" you tilt your head, the word feeling unfamiliar on your tongue. "when have i ever taken things slow?"

the night ends the way it ends every other time; seungkwan has to drag you back to your apartment, make sure you don't trip on the unopened boxes of furniture, give you water, and then sleep on the air mattress placed permanently next to your bed.

the next morning starts the way it usually does; you throw your guts up the second your eyes open, and all the wounds the alcohol helped close for you open up once again.

—

back then, despite all of seungkwan's kind warnings, you ignored him. you knew you loved mingyu, and mingyu loved you back. seungkwan never brought up the topic again. he convinced himself that you were an adult, and you knew what you were doing.

for the two years of happiness you spent with mingyu, you thought the same.

it was one of those whirlwind romances people see in the movies.

in month three of your relationship, you shared pieces of your heart with mingyu that you've never shared with other people. you'd fallen in deep.

in month five, you both said i love you to each other. some say it's too soon, but you could only think of how it wasn't soon enough. you fell in deeper.

by month eight, you moved in with him. mingyu started coming home to you cooking him dinner. you'd spend the night washing dishes and then slow dancing in the living room with all the lights turned down low. the two of you kept falling, hurtling downwards rapidly, without any care for when the end might come.

after a year with mingyu, you were already hearing wedding bells and looking up wedding dresses on pinterest.

it's too soon. it's too fast. slow down.

a seungkwan-like voice kept nagging you from the back of your head, but you tuned it out.

what mingyu and you have is true love. true love doesn't need to be taken slow.

—

he's at the club. there's a girl hanging off his arm, her hand splayed across his chest, and the strong scent of lavender makes him want to throw up.

for a second, mingyu almost says, i have a girlfriend, please leave.

but he realises that he doesn't. not anymore.

mingyu forces himself to look at the girl who's been chatting his ear off for an hour, and he feels sick to his stomach when he realises that she isn't you.

no one will ever be you.

still, mingyu finds himself pressed up against her on the dance floor. still, he lets her take him back to her apartment. still, he finds himself touching her.

and still, it's your face, your body, your voice, your presence that haunts him.

mingyu would give up all his senses if it meant that he wouldn't have the image of you burned into the back of his eyelids every time he closes them.

(mingyu’s also a liar, because giving up his senses means giving up the only way he'd be able to see you, now that you've left his life for good.)

—

"will you marry me?" mingyu asks, and the question knocks the air out of your lungs. you're tangled up under the sheets, mingyu's arm draped on your waist, and your leg swung across his hip.

"you're kidding me, right?" you laugh, going back to drawing random patterns on mingyu's skin.

mingyu wordlessly turns around, and you miss the absence of his touch for all of three seconds. you hear him rummaging through the drawer of the bedside table, and for a moment, mingyu's words feel real.

the realization sets in when mingyu turns back to you, a blue velvet box in his hands.

"open it up," he tells you, and with trembling hands, you take the box and open it.

inside, there's a beautiful diamond ring, and your breath hitches in your throat.

"mingyu-"

"i love you, y/n," he cuts you off, and you hear his voice go raspy and high like it does whenever he's on the verge of tears. "you're the only person i've ever felt this strongly for. i know that we've been together only for two years, and people might call me foolish for rushing into things so quickly, but i'm sure of this. this is—you are—all i've ever wanted.."

you feel mingyu shift in bed next to you, and you turn to see him sitting up. he takes your hands in his and pulls you up to sit next to him. he doesn't let go as he takes the ring out from the box and holds it in front of your ring finger.

"i've never been more serious about anything before, so don't think this is just a heat-of-the-moment thing," mingyu says, nervousness seeping into his tone. "y/n, will you marry me?"

think about it. it's only been two years. this is an important decision. take it sl-

"yes."

"yes?" mingyu asks in disbelief.

"yes, mingyu," you nod, tears flooding your eyes. "i will marry you."

the feeling of mingyu slipping the ring onto your finger, the feeling of mingyu pulling you in for a passionate kiss, the feeling of both your hearts intertwining because of this new shift in your relationship outweighs and drowns out the voice of caution in your head.

take it slow.

but it feels so right.

—

"seungkwan, you said you had a friend who asked for my number, right?"

it was a random thursday evening, and seungkwan was at your place, helping you clear out all the boxes in your living room from your shift to a new apartment.

"yeah, his name is wonwoo," seungkwan nods, looking at you with curiosity. "why do you wanna know?"

"you can give him my number," you say, eyes not meeting seungkwan's inquisitive gaze.

"y/n, are you sure?" seungkwan asks, standing up from his corner to go sit next to you. "it's only been five months-"

"you told me i should be moving on, right?" you cut him off. "that's what i'm doing."

"that quickly?" seungkwan questions. "y/n, i know you, so you don't have to pretend to be okay. you guys were engaged, and you expect me to believe that you're ready to see other people? it's not fair to you or wonwoo."

"i know what i'm doing," you sigh. "but fine, if you won't set me up with wonwoo, i can just go find another date. it's not that big of a deal-"

"you still love him," seungkwan states firmly.

you ignore him and continue talking. "i can't just mope around and sulk forever. i need to-"

"you're still in love with kim mingyu, don't even try to deny it, y/n," seungkwan stops you again. "i'm your best friend, and i can see it in your eyes. "

your shoulders droop, and you look at a picture frame you picked up from one of the boxes.

a girl was sitting next to a large window, an oversized hoodie draped over her figure. her face was turned away from the camera, and her long hair fell down her shoulders in messy waves.

it was just a picture, but anyone looking at it would feel warmth, and love. when you looked at it, the feelings once associated with it had gone cold a long time back.

your hands run through your hair, now cut short and barely reaching past your shoulders, and you toss the picture frame into the box labelled 'waste'.

—

click!

you whip your head around to see mingyu crouched on the floor, camera held up to his face, and the lens directed at you.

"gyu! my hair probably looks like a bird's nest now," you whine, realizing that he had taken a picture of you. you get up from the windowsill you were sitting on and go over to your boyfriend.

wanting a peek at his sneaky picture, you grab at his arms to steal a glance at his camera, but your attempts fail as he swiftly dodges all of your attacks. with his long arms, he's able to set the camera out of your reach. however, before you can protest, he picks you up in his arms and kisses you softly.

"good morning, love," he whispers against your lips, and you wrap your arms around his neck tighter.

"i wish you didn't have to go," you mumble, pressing kisses to all of mingyu's face.

"i'll be back before you know it," he assures you with a hint of sincerity in his eyes.

mingyu was leaving for a three-month photography tour he had been invited to. it was an important milestone for him, because it meant that he was finally getting acknowledged in the industry. and as his girlfriend, no, fiancée, you obviously had to support him.

but it didn't mean that you were going to miss him any less.

"you need to text me at least thrice a day, send me loads of pictures, and facetime whenever you're free, got it?" you remind him, and he laughs.

"what if you're asleep when i facetime you?"

"i'll wake up to talk to you," you nod resolutely. "i expect daily updates, kim mingyu."

"yes ma'am," he salutes, and you laugh too.

soon, it's time for mingyu to get into a cab that will take him to the airport, and all you can do is wave goodbye and kiss him deeply before he steps into the car.

"i love you," he tells you, and you mouth the words back to him as the window of the car rolls up.

the cab drives away, and you're left standing on the sidewalk, still wearing mingyu's hoodie.

the first two weeks pass smoothly, with mingyu's incessant texts and calls. aside from the fact that you were sleeping alone in your shared bed, and there wasn't anyone to have your meals with, it almost felt like mingyu had never left.

you get a package at the start of week three. it's from mingyu, and upon opening it, you see that it's a framed picture.

the photograph is black and white, and you recognize it as the picture he had secretly taken of you the morning he left.

a note in the package reads:

'this city is beautiful, but i miss the beauty of having you by my side the most. just a couple more months, and i'll be back. with love, mingyu.'

just two more months, you tell yourself, clutching the frame to your chest.

little did you know, two months was more than enough time for your relationship to come falling apart.

castles made out of sand don't last for long, after all; all it takes is one wave for it to be swept off.

—

"can i get another one of these?" you ask the bartender, gesturing to your empty glass, and he nods. you slump up against the bar again, the events of the evening replaying in your head.

you had finally gone out on a date with a guy from work. he had shown interest in you for a long time, but back then, you had a ring on your finger and the vague promise of a wedding looming over your head.

now, however, you were free to date whomever you wanted.

(if freedom meant living without the one person who your heart longs for the most, you wish you could give it up.)

the date had been a disaster.

the entire time, while the guy kept talking about his interests and his dog, all you could see in front of you was tan skin, pointy canines, a mole decorating the tip of the nose, and the warm smile you loved so dearly.

all you could see was mingyu.

no matter how much you tried, you couldn't get him out of your head. it got to the point where your brain tuned the guy out completely, and for a while, your senses stopped working.

all you could feel was mingyu, mingyu, mingyu.

"i have to go," you had choked out apologetically before rushing out of the restaurant and heading to the nearest bar to get shit-faced.

"why am i so pathetic?" you mutter to yourself, a few hours later, in the back of seungkwan's car. "why can't i stop loving him? even after he hurt me?"

"the heart wants what it wants" seungkwan sighs, glancing back at your limp figure in his car.

"you'll be okay, y/n," he tells you, but you're not sure if you ever will.

everywhere you look, all you see is mingyu.

—

by month two of his photography trip, mingyu had stopped texting as frequently, and that's exactly when everything began to fall apart.

your texts went unanswered for hours, and you would get only a few short replies from mingyu over the span of multiple days, so, eventually, you stopped texting him about your day in detail.

he never answered your calls, so, eventually, you stopped calling him whenever you missed him at night.

and then came the next change: mingyu called you, a week before he was set to come back home, only to tell you that the photographer he's idolized all his life wanted mingyu to join him in america for a month.

"it's the opportunity of a lifetime," mingyu said, voice brimming with excitement. "but if you don't want me to-"

"mingyu, you're going to america," you cut him off. "i'm so happy for you, love. and don't worry about me, i'll manage just fine for another month."

"thank god, i expected you to start crying over the phone," mingyu said with a laugh, and it was probably a joke, but the words stung a little more than they should have. "okay, i gotta go. talk to you later?"

"sure, gyu," you replied, trying to tamp down the momentary sadness you felt. "i love y-"

the line went dead before you could finish, and your heart sunk.

mingyu stops saying that he loves you, so, eventually, you stop saying it too.

—

ten months have passed since the breakup, and you're finally getting a hold on yourself. there are some bad days where you can't even get out of bed without crying your eyes out over the absence of him in your life. but on other days, you manage to shower, make yourself breakfast, go to work, and distract yourself from the fact that you're going home to an apartment that feels strange and unfamiliar; a far cry from the coziness of the home you shared with mingyu.

still, you keep pushing through. it's a new beginning, you tell yourself, even though all you want to do is go back to the past.

you tell seungkwan just as much, and all he says in response is, "remind yourself of why you left, y/n. yes, you loved each other, but maybe love isn't always enough."

so, on a particularly bad sunday morning, that marked five years since the day you had first met mingyu, you let yourself remember exactly why you left him.

you don't leave the bed till later that evening, when you have no more tears left to shed, and the scars of past memories have been etched into your skin all over again.

—

five months. it's been five months since mingyu left for his three-month photography trip, and he's set to come home today.

you spent all morning cleaning the house, calling his mother for his favorite recipes, and putting on his favorite dress, just to make everything perfect.

the last text you had sent him had gone unanswered since the previous night, hence you had no idea what time mingyu's flight would land. you wait the entire day for the apartment door to open, but afternoon shifts to evening, fresh food goes stale, and mingyu still isn't home.

it's close to 1 in the morning when you're awoken by another presence in the living room. you had fallen asleep on the couch after eating instant ramen for dinner, but when you open your eyes, all sleep leaves you in an instant.

"mingyu," you whisper, and your fiance sets down his suitcase and bags, opening his arms up for a hug. you rush to him and hug him tightly, burying your face in the crook of his neck, dirty airport clothes be damned.

"i missed you so much," you whisper, and mingyu only responds with a kiss to your shoulder. he pulls back first, and you see the exhaustion written all over his face.

"can we talk in the morning?" he asks, giving you a small smile. "i'm really tired now."

"of course," you nod. mingyu kisses your forehead as a small thank you before leaving to shower. you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel disappointed when he didn't even hold you in your sleep that night.

it's alright, he's just tired, you tell yourself. and that night, you still shiver in the cold bed, even though mingyu is back in it.

—

the talk never happens the next morning. mingyu leaves for a photoshoot right after breakfast, and you haven't even had the chance to kiss him properly ever since he came back home.

the talk never happens at all. you both move past it, as if the last four months of silence and distance hadn't affected your relationship at all.

it was wishful thinking on your part to think that you and mingyu could bounce back from the last four months unscathed. you tried so hard to not to overthink how mingyu wasn't the same anymore.

he'd work longer hours, and when you asked him about his day, he'd just give you short answers. he'd rarely say the words 'i love you' back to you. his smiles stopped reaching his eyes. his body stopped seeking your touch.

it felt like with every passing day, the chasm that had formed between you and mingyu grew wider, and you had no idea how to cross over it.

one year passes after mingyu proposed, and he never even brings up the wedding.

you delete the wedding pinterest board on your phone.

—

it's been a year since the breakup, and you're driving to meet seungkwan for sunday brunch, when a sudden push from the back jostles you, and you hear the loud crunch of metal.

shit.

you're immediately rushing out of the car to assess the situation. your rear bumper has been completely destroyed, and the owner of the car that bumped into yours is already apologizing frantically, when you realize—

"mingyu?" your voice is a strangled thing as you bring your eyes up to look at the man standing in front of you.

he seems just as shocked as you, his face immediately turning pale and his eyes widening almost comically.

"it's- it's you," the words fall from mingyu's lips, and you feel your eyes fill up with tears embarrassingly quickly. you bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crying in front of your ex, and keep your tone calm and composed as you say, "don't worry about the bumper, i'll take care of it. bye."

you're turning away to get back into the safety of your car to cry your heart out, but mingyu stops you.

"y/n, can we talk? please?" he pleads, and you shut your eyes tightly, not wanting to meet his. you're afraid of what you might do if you look into his eyes again.

"there's nothing to talk about, mingyu," you shake your head. "we- whatever was there between us is over now."

"so we don't have to talk about the fact that you packed your things up, put your ring on the kitchen counter, and left my life? without any explanation?" mingyu presses, and you gather the courage to face him.

you regret your decision to do so, because all you can think about when you look at him is that one day, a year ago, when you decided to leave.

—

it's a random tuesday morning — or maybe it's thursday, you're not sure. ever since your relationship with mingyu started feeling more like a connection shared by strangers rather than lovers, the days seemed to be bleeding together.

mingyu is all over the apartment, his formal shirt untucked and not fully buttoned, socks mismatched, and his movements rushed. he goes into the bedroom to get a tie, then goes into the closet to get his shoes, goes back into the bedroom because he forgot his watch, and the process continues.

you sit on the couch, scrolling through your emails and not paying attention to mingyu. maybe a year ago, you would have joined in on the chaotic mess, but right now, mingyu's groans of frustration are nothing but annoying to you.

"y/n, have you seen my watch? the new one?" mingyu asks, approaching your figure on the couch.

you simply shrug your shoulders, looking up at him for a moment and shaking your head. "you keep telling me not to touch your stuff, so i wouldn't know."

mingyu bristles at your response. "why do you sound so petty? the only reason i told you that is because you misplaced my memory card!"

"it was empty! it wasn't like you lost any of the photos on it," you bite back. "and it was a mistake, mingyu. i'm human.”

mingyu pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply to calm himself down. "fine, let's forget about that. could you please just tell me where the watch is?"

"i don't know where it is, mingyu," you repeat, going back to your phone.

"well, would it kill you to get off the fucking couch and help me find it?" mingyu snaps. "you know that i have an important event to attend. why are you being so difficult?"

"maybe i don't want to help!" you retort. "you just use me as some personal assistant who makes you meals, does the laundry and makes sure everything is in perfect condition for you. it's like i'm not your fiancée anymore!"

"you know what, i don't have time for this," mingyu fumes. "you're being unreasonable, and i don't know why-"

"you don't have time for me at all, anymore," you scoff. "it's always events, meetings, shoots. you're going ahead in your career but you're leaving me behind."

"that is so selfish of you!" mingyu lashes out. "do you expect me to drop my career and spend all my time with you?"

"i expect you to at least acknowledge my presence, mingyu!" your voice cracks with the weight of the past year suffocating you. "i've always supported your career. i've always wanted the best for you, but you just discarded me to the side! do you know how pathetic it feels?"

mingyu's expression falters, realization flickering in his eyes. "y/n, i didn't- i never wanted you to feel like that, i-"

"i've had enough of your excuses," you stop him. "i've had enough of this mingyu. just- just go attend your event, okay?"

mingyu gulps, the guilt flooding his body. "let's talk when i get home? please, y/n."

you don't give him an answer, and before mingyu can plead again, he gets a call from his assistant, who informs him that he needs to leave as soon as possible.

"i have to leave now, but i'll come back and we'll sort this out, yeah?" mingyu tells you, having calmed down significantly. "i'll see you later, y/n. i- i love you."

the last three words are like a knife twisting in your gut. you can only watch as mingyu hastily finishes getting ready and leaves the house. the second the door shuts behind him, you go into the bedroom and start packing all your clothes and shoes into suitcases.

you stuff in some other important things, like documents, pictures, jewellery, everything you brought with you when you moved into mingyu's house.

you leave behind the pink fuzzy slippers that had a matching blue pair. you leave behind the ugly paper mache statue you made with him. you leave behind the matching 'his' and 'hers' mugs you both drank coffee from.

you leave behind the engagement ring on the kitchen counter.

you walk out the door in two hours, both your ring finger and heart empty.

—

you snap back into the present, where mingyu's frame is still towering over you.

"i thought that argument was all the explanation you needed," you mutter indifferently, trying to tamp down the tears that were trying to escape.

"it wasn't, y/n. it just left me confused and-"

"then imagine how i felt," you let out a dry laugh. "imagine how i felt when you came back home from your photography trip and didn't say a word about all the missed calls and unanswered texts. when you never brought up our wedding and kept me waiting for some shitty happy ending i wanted with you. you left me in the dark, like i was nothing but some old childhood toy you shoved away in the attic to collect dust."

"that trip changed a lot of things for me too, y/n,” mingyu shoots back. “i was reaching the peak of my career, and it kept making me question whether i was ready to settle down then. i was scared and confused because i had never felt for someone the way i felt for you, but i also wasn’t sure if us getting married that quickly was going to be a good choice.”

"why didn’t you think about all this before you proposed?" you argue. "and why did you never talk to me about any of this? we would’ve figured out something that worked for the both of us."

"y/n, i-"

the loud honk of a car behind the both of you interrupted mingyu, and you take that as a cue to leave the conversation.

"look, we're past all the excuses now," you look away from mingyu. "what we had is in the past, and we both need to move on."

"i can't," mingyu says, and those two words knock the breath out of your lungs. you turn around to look at him again, hoping to find some ounce of a lie in his words, but the look in his eyes says it all.

he isn't lying.

"i've tried moving on, y/n. i've tried to forget you but it never works. i've tried so hard, but no one is you. i'll never love anyone as much as i love you, and that scares me," mingyu chokes out.

the car is still honking, but you can't seem to move from your spot.

"you'll- you'll move on someday," your voice is shaky and barely sounds convincing to even you. you don't know whether your heart is happy or broken at what mingyu just said.

"i know i won't, because what i feel for you is true love," he says with conviction. "y/n, our relationship may have been brief. we may have taken things too fast and fizzled out, but i know my feelings are real."

"how can you say that? we only hurt each other in the end," you shake your head. "it can't be true love if both of us ended up with broken hearts."

"my heart still hurts every day when i wake up and realize you're not there," mingyu sighs. "i still make two cups of coffee, and one goes down the drain because you're not there. i still call out your name when i can't find my goddamn keys, but you're not there. it still hurts so much, even after all this time has passed.'

"and i know i was the one at fault," mingyu continues. "i haven't stopped beating myself up about how stupid i was to ignore you and your needs like that. i wish i had admitted the truth to you, and i regret not doing that every day. god, y/n, i cry myself to sleep every night thinking about our wedding and how i was the one who went and ruined it all."

the tears finally spill, and by now the car has already turned around to take another route. your chest heaves with how much you're crying, and you realize that you should’ve reached out to mingyu too.

you waited and waited for mingyu to say something, but you never said anything either. you pretended that everything was okay when it really wasn't. maybe if you'd said something-

"stop, i know what you're doing in there," mingyu breaks your train of thought. "you- don't blame yourself. relationships end and hearts break, but that doesn't mean they don't deserve a second chance."

"mingyu, i- i don't know how i can trust you again," you speak, your voice hoarse. "you said it yourself. we- we crashed and burned. we hurt each other with our love, and i can't go through that heartbreak again."

"let me earn it back," mingyu pleads. "let me make up for my mistakes, y/n. i'd die regretting losing you without having a chance to tell you how sorry i am for doing that to you."

there's two voices in you.

one tells you to let down your walls and let mingyu in again.

the other one curls up in your lungs and it tastes like the bitter alcohol you drank almost every night to forget mingyu. it tells you that you're going to get your heart broken again.

a third voice breaks through the noise, and it's mingyu.

"please, y/n. let me make things right," his voice has dropped to a whisper, and the conflict in your mind stops.

"i'll consider it, if you pay to get the rear bumper fixed."

—

"what if we break up some day?" you ask mingyu when he brings up plans of growing old with you in the countryside of france.

"we've been dating for a year and you're already thinking of breaking up with me?" mingyu gasps, which makes you giggle. "i'm hurt, babe. i'd never do that to you."

"but what if you did? or if i hurt you?" you ask, the question not wanting to leave your mind. "everyone tells us we're going too fast. that we're going to crash. what happens then?"

mingyu exhales deeply before turning to face you. he cups your face with his hands and looks deep into your eyes.

"even if we end up crashing, even if we end up leaving each other, i promise to find you again," he says sincerely. "if it's my fault, i'll apologize till my last breath, till i know that you've forgiven me. and if it's your fault, well — as long as you show up in my life again, i'll forgive you."

"that's not fair to you," you laugh. "you shouldn't let me off the hook that easily."

"to be honest, i would," mingyu disagrees. "because i know that staying away from you would kill me. if you ever decide to come back into my life, i'll welcome you with open arms. i'd rather be hurt with you by my side than die a slow death without you."

"you're so sappy," you roll your eyes. "i hope you know that i won't forgive you that easily."

"i told you, i'd spend all my life making it up to you if i ever hurt you," he vows. "what we have is true love, y/n. it only comes around once. i'll be damned if i ever lose you."

in that moment, you hadn't thought much about mingyu's words. but little did you know, that somewhere down the line, mingyu would really keep his promise to win your trust back.

—

it's been eight months since mingyu crashed into your life all over again, and this time around, you've really taken things slow.

he's still working on gaining your trust back, which you appreciate, because it assures you that he truly means his apology and that he's here to stay.

this time around, you feel hopeful. maybe, if your heart heals, you'll try again. you love him too much not to at least try once more.

on a tuesday evening, just as you reach home from work, you get a text.

. . .

mingyu (7:15 p.m.) :

you free friday evening?

you (7:37 p.m.) :

yeah i am

why?

mingyu (7:38 p.m.) :

i have an exhibition for my photos on that day

it wouldnt feel right without you there

you (7:50 p.m.) :

i'll be there

mingyu (7:51 p.m.) :

thank you :)

. . .

—

the exhibition gallery is packed with people as you walk into it on friday evening. you feel a little overdressed in your wine red, knee-length dress amidst a crowd of people wearing sweatshirts and jeans.

still, you walk forward confidently, you find yourself getting captivated by the sheer magnitude of the exhibition.

there's large displays of streets in different cities bathed in the warm light of the moon, birds soaring in the sky, random people going about their daily lives, and so many small, unseen moments that mingyu always had the knack for capturing.

the composition of all the photographs makes you stare at them in awe. mingyu is extremely observant, which allows him to focus on the finer details others would skip over. paired with meticulous editing, the final photographs are nothing short of stunning.

you spend a lot of time with each frame, reading the captions mingyu has penned down for each of them. you're so engrossed in each picture that you don't even realize that the crowd in the gallery has come to a stop in front of one particular frame.

you try your best to crane your neck to catch a glimpse of the photo, but to no avail. finally, when some of the crowd clears out, you move closer, and then the world stops.

it's the picture you tried to throw out but ended up keeping it on your nightstand. it's the picture you had received in a package from mingyu when he was away.

it was the last picture he had taken of you.

tears pool in your eyes rather quickly, and you walk closer to the picture of you displayed on the wall. it's huge in size, bigger than all the photos, as if this is the one mingyu wanted everyone to see. the one mingyu loved the most.

and it's titled — her.

'the last photo of this exhibit is a picture i clicked of my muse. before her, photography never had an end goal for me. all i did was click pictures of whatever i saw. after her, i began looking for pieces of her in every sight i took in. i tried to capture the warmth of her smile, depth of her love, glow of her presence, and the special feeling she stirs in me. everywhere i go, i find a glimpse of her, and every picture i take till my last breath, she will be the inspiration behind it.'

there's the sound of a mic coming to life, and you whirl around to see a tall figure standing on stage.

he's dressed in a pressed black shirt and slacks, the sleeves rolled up, hair parted to perfection, and posture confident.

but only you can find a glimpse of fear in his eyes.

it melts away when they meet yours.

"good evening everyone, my name is kim mingyu, and i would like to thank all of you for attending my exhibition," he speaks into the mic, and the crowd bursts into loud applause.

"as you all know, photography is not only my career, but my passion. it's what i live for. last year, however, was a rough patch for me. i lost all interest in photography. i hadn't touched my camera in months. it was like the colors of the world had faded away," his voice, although confident, sounds a bit shaky. his eyes are still locked onto yours, almost as if every word’s meant only for you.

"people told me that it was normal to feel that way. maybe it was burnout, or maybe the reality that photography was just a hobby. but, only i knew the real reason all along. all artists have a muse, without which it becomes difficult to breathe life into their art. i too have a muse. she is the reason i'm here today and able to show you what i've done."

"last year, i went into a slump because she left my life. it was my fault; i was too caught up in the lens of my camera to notice that i was hurting her," mingyu's voice is strained and raspy, and you know that tone all too well. sure enough, his eyes are glassy with unshed tears, but he powers on.

"for that one year without her, i lost all my drive and creativity. i couldn't look for the details in nature because my vision felt blurry. it felt like she had taken a part of me with her when she left. by some stroke of luck, i found her again. and this may sound cliche, but, the second i saw her, it felt like the world existed in technicolor again."

"she's here tonight, even though i don't deserve it, even after everything i put her through, and this time, i want to show her that i've changed. that i don't care about all these pictures, not if i don't see her in them. that one day, if she'll ever forgive me, if she'll ever give me another chance, i won't let her down."

you're sure that your makeup is ruined by how much you're crying, and there's a few tears streaming down mingyu's face too. the crowd is muttering sadly, wondering who the girl could be, but no one in that room will ever know that it's you.

"my muse, this exhibition is my whole heart, and tonight, i give it to you. you can take your time to accept it, i'd wait a lifetime for you anyway. and to everyone who attended, thank you once again."

as mingyu steps off the stage, you can only hope he doesn’t notice you slipping out of the gallery and into the cold night.

—

when you hear the door to the terrace you snuck into open, you think that it’s a security guard telling you the location is off-limits.

you turn around to apologize, but your breath catches in your throat when you see mingyu standing there, tear tracks similar to yours glistening under the pale moonlight.

“mingyu, i-”

“i thought you left,” he chokes out, and your heart squeezes uncomfortably. “you were there the entire time i was speaking, but then you were gone, and i thought that it was done for good. i thought it was the last time i’d see you, and i felt so scared.”

you can see how his chest is heaving, and his shoulders are lined with tension. there’s this urge in you to close the gap between you two so that you can take that stress away.

“i’m sorry, i should’ve told you before i left,” you gulp nervously. “i just- i needed some air.”

“i’m sorry too, for springing all that on you,” mingyu says. “i just had to tell you everything, even if you wouldn’t forgive me at the end of it all.”

“did you mean everything you said tonight?” your voice is quiet, almost as if you're hoping mingyu won't hear you and your words will disappear into the air.

“of course i did,” mingyu replies without skipping a beat. “everything i did before you and after you has no meaning, because you weren't there. our love was what inspired me the most. it's the truth, y/n.”

you take a moment to process his words, letting the weight of them fully land on you. seeing you go silent, mingyu steps forward, his eyes searching yours.

“if i- if i asked for you to forgive me, for you to give me a second chance, would you say yes?”

you already know the answer, but you bite your tongue to stop yourself from blurting it out. you pretend to think about it, as if mingyu can't read your expression.

“i never stopped loving you,” is what you say. “even when we weren't talking for a whole year after the photography trip. even after we broke up. even now, after you came back into my life. i've never stopped loving you, mingyu, but you're still the person who broke my heart.”

you can sense mingyu about to apologize again, so you bring your hand up to stop him.

“you're the one who broke my heart, but you're also the one my heart wants. the only one,” letting these words out makes the burden on your shoulders feel lighter, but the tension of the moment still remains heavy. “and that's what scares me. because even if you break my heart again, i'll still love you. i don't think i know how not to.”

“i won't, y/n,” mingyu shakes his head. “i won't make that mistake again. i just want to earn your trust again and show you that i'll be better to you. we can take it slow and figure things out, but-”

“fuck taking things slow,” you cut him off. at some point during the whole conversation, your bodies have gravitated towards each other, and mingyu is close enough for you to reach out and cover his mouth with a hand.

“it doesn't matter if we go slow or fast, i just want you,” you tell him, looking into his eyes so he knows that you're speaking the truth. “i want us to work out this time.”

mingyu's eyes widen with surprise, and he gingerly lifts your hand off his mouth.

“do you really mean that?” his voice trembling.

“i forgave you a long time ago, mingyu,” you let out a laugh, eyes welling up with tears. “i forgave you when you paid for wrecking my rear bumper. again. i just needed time to know that this was real. that we wouldn't crash and burn again. and tonight really sealed it for me. i could see it in your pictures, mingyu. i could see how much love you look at the world with. back then, i thought that your love for photography was more than what you felt for me, but now i know that it's not true.”

“my love for you is what makes me love capturing the world in my lens,” mingyu completes. “i'm sorry i had made you feel otherwise.”

“we're done with the apologies now,” you shake your head. “let's leave the past in the past and start afresh. does that sound good?”

“i guess i'll have to crash your car one more time, then,” mingyu jokes, and you laugh. this time it's a loud, genuine sound; one mingyu had missed hearing. one you had missed hearing.

“maybe let's find a less destructive way?” you giggle, but it quickly turns into a gasp when mingyu cups your face with his hands.

“as long as it's with you, i don't mind anything,” mingyu says, and then you see it.

a look of sincerity and hope flashing across his face. you know it for sure, because you feel the exact same way.

mingyu's eyes flick down to look at your lips, still hesitating to make a move.

“just kiss me already,” you sigh, and mingyu doesn't waste another second. with one swift movement, he's swooping you in for a kiss. a kiss so soft, yet so deep, it makes you feel like you're floating amongst the stars in the night sky looking down at love blossoming again.

when mingyu pulls away, you're both breathless for a few minutes, the reality of the moment sinking in.

the moment doesn't need any more words or touches. you can see everything you need to know in his eyes, and you hope he can read yours too.

its unmistakable; the glimpse of love that you see in him.

you feel yourself falling all over again, hurtling towards an end that may catch you by surprise, but this time it doesn't feel daunting.

not when you know that mingyu will be there to catch you.

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

Text

Napoleonville [Chapter 2: The Jailhouse]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, historical topics including war and discrimination, smoking, blasphemy, kids, parenthood, alcoholism, y'all know exactly who is in jail come on now, Pizza Hut, a wild ex-husband appears!

Word Count: 7k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @eltherevir @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @aemonddtargaryen @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰🧁

Amir is sitting at the kitchen table and icing peach cobbler cupcakes; he has a single white flower from a dogwood tree poked through one of his cornrows. He wears a short sleeve button-up shirt with a kaleidoscopic geometric pattern, high-waisted khaki shorts, and eyeglasses with large rectangular, tortoiseshell frames. He has one leg crossed over the other and is kicking it absentmindedly as he works, a habit he’s had since long before you met him in your 9th grade English class. The microwave is humming. Walk This Way is blaring from the little pink boombox.

“Ho, I mean it this time, I gotta get the hell out of this town.” Amir uses a fork to place a small peach wedge—sauteed in butter, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla—atop the swirl of buttercream frosting, then sprinkles the cupcake with cinnamon before moving on to the next. “Guess what some inbred neanderthal swamp creature did last night. They busted a window out of my car again.”

“I told you to take that thing off it.” Amir has a homemade bumper sticker on his Ford Escort that reads, in holographic rainbow cursive: Fuck Ronald Reagan (not literally)!

“That war criminal can let 50,000 people die of AIDS but I belong on America’s Most Wanted for exercising my First Amendment rights?”

“I know you’re not wrong. You know you’re not wrong. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“To be afraid is to behave as if the truth were not true. Bayard Rustin said that.”

“And I’m sure he was a very smart man, but he didn’t have to live in Napoleonville.” The microwave beeps, and you remove the sweet potato inside with an oven mitt and place it on the counter alongside the others. This is a trick you’ve learned: they’re so much easier to peel and slice once they’ve been microwaved a bit, thirty seconds for a small potato, one minute for a larger one. “You want me to ask Willis to do a stakeout or something?”

“He might be the one committing vandalism.”

You frown down at the sweet potatoes as you peel them over the cutting board and toss the skins into a bowl so Cadi can feed them to the squirrels later. You doubt Willis is responsible, but one of his friends very well could be.

Amir sighs, acquiescing, wistful. “Six months from now I’ll be in San Francisco.” Yes, he will; he’s been saving up for years. The thought of him leaving is practically apocalyptic. You can’t envision a future without Amir. It’s like the very worst version of when you’re a kid and some event—Christmas, your birthday, summer break, prom—is so glimmeringly monumental that whatever life will exist beyond it is incomprehensible, a haze of other people’s dreams and warnings. Surely you won’t exist in that timeline; surely you will dissolve away once that fateful checkpoint is reached and become nothing but sun and sand.

You don’t tell Amir any of this. You don’t want to make him feel guilty. Instead you tease: “You sure you don’t want to stay and get a job on one of those shiny new oil rigs?”

He laughs as he pipes buttercream frosting onto the last peach cobbler cupcake. His artistic talents far surpass yours, but you bring the baking techniques and recipe ideas. Still, you have always split the bakery profits—however meager they might be—equally. “Yes, how could I possibly pass up the opportunity to lose half my skin in an explosion caused by company negligence? Or inhale toxic fumes, or have my limbs ripped off, or fracture my skull? Or fall off a platform in the middle of the night and be eaten by a gator before anyone bothers to fish me out? I will surely regret all my life choices when I’m lying on the beach in Pacifica next to my new boyfriend who looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

The front door opens. It’s Mr. Fontenot, the town pharmacist. You call out: “Hi there! Come right on in! We’ve got your cake ready. Blue velvet with marshmallow cream and topped with candied blueberries. We read up on how to make them just for you. So thank you kindly for the learning opportunity.”

Since you’re wrist-deep in sweet potatoes, Amir leaps up to retrieve the box. He opens it so Mr. Fontenot can inspect his order. “When you cut into it, you’ll see that it’s a dark royal blue on the inside. Cookie Monster blue, not robin egg blue, just like you wanted.”

“Will ya look at that,” Mr. Fontenot says, beaming down at the cake. Written across the marshmallow cream in blue icing is (in Amir’s most elegant script): Happy 8th Birthday, Corey! “My grandson is going to get such a kick out of a blue cake.”

“He sure is,” Amir agrees. “Now can I talk you into anything else for the party? Some peach cobbler cupcakes, perhaps? Praline brownies? A brown sugar pie? Homemade Fruity Pebbles Rice Krispie Treats? Kids love them…!”

You say once Mr. Fontenot has gone: “He works for the company, you know.”

“Huh? Who?”

“Aemond. He works for Jade Dragon. He’s an engineer.”

“Ho, you are obsessed with that man!” Amir says. “You’ve brought him up, like, four times already!”

“Yeah,” you confess, a humiliation that is futile to deny. Parts of you are still sore from what he did to you; other places are aching for more.

“And you didn’t even get to see the dick?!”

You shake your head as you cut the peeled sweet potatoes into haphazard chunks. Amir puts a pot of water on the stove so you can boil them until they’re soft enough to mash into filling for a sweet potato pie. “Didn’t see it, didn’t touch it…”

“Didn’t lick it, didn’t suck it?”

“Okay, that’s enough, Dr. Seuss. But no.”

“Secret dick, scar on his face, missing an eye…” Amir mutters. “Maybe he’s a veteran who lost his andouille in combat! Yes! That’s it! He was there when we invaded Lebanon or Grenada or Libya and now he’s horribly disfigured and can’t bear the prospect of your inevitable horror and rejection!”

“His andouille is definitely unchopped. I could…uh…tell. Through his jeans.”

Amir closes his eyes and presses his palms together. “Sweet baby Jesus, please send me a gainfully employed big-dicked blonde man too.” He looks at you again. “But he really wouldn’t use it?!”

“Aemond said he wanted me to trust him first.”

“Maybe he doesn’t trust you. Maybe he thinks you might be on the prowl for Shotgun Wedding #2. You should tell him he’s got nothing to worry about in that department. You’ve been on the pill practically since Cadi was born.”

You murmur: “And I will be forever.”

“I know,” Amir says gently, pausing to squeeze your shoulder before taking the sweet potato hunks you’ve sliced already and dropping them in the boiling water. “So! When are you going to call him?”

You startle. “I can’t call him! I called him the first time. Now it’s his turn to call me. I can’t call him again, that would be desperate. Right?” Right?!

“Does he even know your number?”

“He knows my name, and he knows about the bakery. The number is publicly listed, he can find me in the phone book.”

Amir groans. “Lord have mercy, just call him! Pick up that pink phone right there beside the refrigerator and press those cute little buttons and say, loud and proud: Come on over here, big boy, I want to see that traumatized war veteran dick.”

The phone rings. You trip over your own feet as you lunge for it.

Amir snickers. “Pathetic!” He takes over slicing the rest of the sweet potatoes.

“Hello?!”

You hear a deep, slothful drawl; Willis’ family have been bayou people for longer than the United States has been a country. “Hey sugar, you want to bring your favorite ex-husband some dessert?”

You sigh. “Hi, Willis.” From across the kitchen, Amir makes retching noises.

“So what’d ya say? I just had a late lunch and got to thinkin’ of you. Gave me a sweet tooth.”

“Um, I don’t know, we’re really busy right now.” Amir snorts; you’ve had three customers in the last hour. There’s usually a rush first thing each morning and then again around closing time.

“Ya ain’t got time for me? Well, alrighty then. Maybe I won’t have time for you when you need a wild hog chased off your porch or a flat tire changed out there on Route 401.”

This is the eternal dilemma, the balance you wrestle with like a boat in a storm: not making him angry, not letting him get too close. You and Willis don’t have a formal agreement for custody or child support. You’ve worked it out yourselves, and he typically doesn’t make it too difficult. You’ve always felt that appeasement is the wisest course of action. As the elected sheriff of Assumption Parish, Willis Boudreaux is responsible for all criminal investigations, court proceedings, and tax collecting. Even when he was just a deputy, he had plenty of friends at the little white courthouse in the heart of downtown Napoleonville. You’re better off working with him than against him. “Okay, fine, I guess I have a few minutes. What do you want?”

“Why don’t you make a professional recommendation?”

You glance irritably at the kitchen table. “We have brown sugar pie, peach cobbler cupcakes, praline brownies, lemon blueberry cookies, uh, I’ve got half a strawberries and cream cake left in the fridge…”

“Definitely the cake,” Willis says. “I love strawberries. Remember how you fed them to me on the beach when we went to Grand Isle?”

That was…what, eight years ago? Ugh. “Barely.” You like when Willis has a girlfriend; then he mostly leaves you alone. Tragically, he and his most recent fiancé Colleen broke up last month. “I’ll drive the cake over now.” You slam the phone receiver into the base before Willis can respond.

“Let’s kill him,” Amir says.

You laugh. “I’ll consider it.”

“We can feed him to that gator out in the tree row.”

You grab a flat white bakery box off the pile, fold it open, and fetch what remains of the strawberries and cream cake from the refrigerator. “You’ll get that sweet potato pie in the oven if I’m gone for a half hour?”

“Yup. Then I’ll start working on the brown butter oatmeal raisin cookies. Is the recipe…? Oh, I see it, it’s right here on the counter. Got it. Have fun with your awful ex-husband. You sure you don’t want to add a little something special to that cake? Windex? Rat poison? He sure looks like a rodent to me. That nose? Those eyebrows?!”

“Amir, he’s just French.”

“He should be exiled to Saint Helena.”

“I’m going to have to put my own ad in the Bayou Journal,” you say, smiling sadly. “Who’s going to run the shop with me when you’re in San Francisco?”

Amir winks. “Maybe your traumatized, half-blind, hung-like-a-horse war veteran knows how to bake.”

Outside, the gator is sunning herself by the gravel driveway. She’s only about five feet long and dozing with her muddy green eyes closed, jagged upper teeth on display, missing toes here and there, back scarred by boat motors. It’s 90 degrees and sunny, warmth flooding over your bare legs and arms: denim shorts, lime green tank top. You can hear cicadas, doves, chickadees, starlings, goldfinches, ospreys, the benign droning of bumble bees. You throw the white box in the passenger seat and start your Chevy Celebrity, yellow paint, wood paneling, brown velour upholstery. You crank down the windows—the air conditioning is broken, that’s one reason why Willis’ brother was willing to sell it to you so cheap—and turn on the radio: 867-5309 by Tommy Tutone. You pull out onto Route 401, headed northeast towards downtown Napoleonville.

You pass fields of sugarcane and soybeans, shacks and trailers, grass green like emeralds. The hot mid-May air, humid and stagnant, blows through your hair. If the ride was any longer than ten minutes, you’d have needed a cooler for the cake. You find a parking spot on the street outside the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office and grab the box containing half a strawberries and cream cake, probably just starting to get melty around the edges. Deputy Melancon is on his way out when you arrive. He holds the glass door open for you.

“Comment ca va, cherie? Is that for me? I hope so!”

“I think your boss would chew your arm off if you tried to get between him and this cake.”

Deputy Melancon guffaws as he ambles towards his police car. “Have fun in there! It’s a zoo today.”

“What…?” But now you can hear the noise coming from inside the building: howling, banging, Willis telling someone to sit down and shut up, his Cajun drawl lethargic and calm. Willis is not a yeller, and you’ve never witness him raise his hands in violence. The being a cop part of his job is the aspect he enjoys the least. But sitting around jawing with his deputies until long after midnight, regaling them with tales of supposed glory acquired while you were home with a screaming baby, scrubbing floors, fixing dinner, still bleeding eight weeks after birth, waiting—because it was all there was to look forward to—for him to walk through the door and shuffle to the couch and collapse there with an ice-cold can of Bud Light in his fist, dripping condensation down his sinewy forearm? That’s what Willis lives for.

Willis is at his desk and grudgingly plodding through an intake form. His sunglasses have been shoved up into his dark curly hair; his hat—which he loathes wearing—is resting atop a mountain of deserted paperwork. There’s a poster of Heather Locklear on the wall along with a dartboard with a cutout of Tommy Lee in the center. There’s a man in one of the three holding cells that you’ve hardly ever seen used. He has slicked-back blonde hair, an aristocratic wisp of a moustache, an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and tiny red shorts and thick foam rainbow-patterned flip flops. He’s the person responsible for the ruckus.

“I want my phone call!” the prisoner shouts as he beats his palms against the iron bars. “Hey! Hey, mullet boy! I want my fucking phone call!”

Oddly, the stranger has a British accent. Aemond? you think for a split second. But no; this man couldn’t possibly be related to Aemond. He is short, slouched, soft all over, uncoordinated and uncomposed, pathetic, petulant, innately pitiful. Willis ignores him. He speaks to you instead.

“Bienvenue, sugar. Ya got something sweet for me?”

Obediently—though not entirely willingly—you bring him the white box and set it on his disorganized desk. Willis produces a stack of Styrofoam plates and a Ziploc bag full of plastic eating utensils that he keeps stocked in a drawer specifically for such occasions. He opens the box and sighs euphorically, his eyes on the moist pink cake and layers of whipped cream frosting as if it’s the flesh of a naked woman.

“Hey!” the prisoner shouts, gripping the iron bars and pressing his flushed cheeks flat against them. “Hey! I like cake too!”

“Just what I needed,” Willis tells you, as if the man isn’t there. “Sit down, eat with me.”

“I really don’t have long.”

“Ya got five minutes, don’t you?”

I guess I do. You sit down but don’t take any cake. As Willis cuts himself a slice, you can’t help but watch the man in the holding cell. He stares back at you, a little ashamed, a little defiant, palpably weak. You ask Willis: “What did you book him for?”

“DWI,” Willis says with his mouth full of cake. “Driving While Intoxicated.”

“Huh. You don’t usually pick people up for that.”

Willis points at the prisoner with his fork for emphasis. “This one was very intoxicated.”

The man kicks the bars with his flip flops. “I want my fucking phone call!”

“Ya already used it,” Willis says pragmatically, and nods to something on the floor of the holding cell: an empty, grease-stained Pizza Hut box. The prisoner looks at it, regretful.

“I didn’t know I’d only get one,” he admits. “But also! You ate three slices of my pizza!”

Willis chuckles. “Consider it payin’ your taxes.” Then, to you: “It was tres bien. Meat Lover’s. Ya can’t argue with that.”

“Hey cake lady,” the prisoner says, his prominent eyes weepy, needful, a deep stormy blue. “Can I have a piece? Please? Please? I’m having a rough day here. My flip flops are giving me blisters and your redneck husband committed pizza theft. And I’m in jail.”

“Ex-husband,” you correct him.

“Good for you. Smart cake lady.”

Willis says: “You just settle down and I’ll drive you over to the parish jail as soon as I’m done with my dessert.” He shovels cake into his mouth; he eats like a gator, like a pig.

At last, you cut a portion of strawberries and cream cake—the whipped cream frosting turning thin and runny—and place it on a Styrofoam plate. Then you get up to take it to the prisoner. You have a soft spot for the freaks of the world. You and Amir, you know exactly what it’s like to be freaks.

“Don’t give him no fork or nothing,” Willis says around a mouthful of cake. “I can’t have him tryin’ to kill himself.”

“As if I’d give you the satisfaction, Sasquatch!” the prisoner flings back.

“It’s the Rougarou we got down here, son,” Willis replies, unbothered.

You set the plate on the beige linoleum floor close enough for the prisoner to reach out and drag it to his cell. When you step back, he retrieves the cake and eats it with his bare hands. “Oh, fuck, this is so good!”

You turn to Willis. “Cadi keeps mentioning some horseback riding camp that a bunch of her friends are going to this summer. Can we make that happen?”

“Are you kiddin’ me?! It’s over $300! That’s a new boat!”

“I think it would mean a lot to her.”

“Tell her if she grows her hair back out, maybe she can go next year.” Willis licks pink cake crumbs from his fork. “Why the hell’d she ever get it cut like that?”

You shrug, irritated. “Because she wanted to.”

“Never wears no skirts or dresses, doesn’t care about jewelry, always got dirt on her face…ain’t she gonna want a boyfriend in a few years? Who’s gonna take her out lookin’ like that? Who’s gonna marry her one day?”

“She’s ten years old, Willis.”

“She’s been spending too much time with your little friend, that’s the problem.”

You glare furiously at him, but are interrupted before you can say something unwise. The man in the holding cell has finished his slice of cake. He sucks frosting off his chubby fingers and then yanks on the iron bars in vain. “I gotta go home! I gotta feed my ferret!”

“Guess ya should have thought about that before driving 70 miles per hour in a school zone, Mr.…” Willis glances at the intake form to refresh his memory. “Targaryen. What the heck is that, Italian? Polish? It ain’t French, that’s for sure.”

“It’s Greek, you dumb hick.”

Willis jabs his plastic fork at him. “You oughta watch that, son, or you’ll catch yourself a nasty case of what the liberals call police brutality.”

“He’s a Targaryen?” you ask, stunned. The man in the cell peers back at you with large, ever-wounded, ocean-blue eyes, glassy but not entirely unintelligent.

“So what?” Willis says.

“Willis, those are the oil people. Jade Dragon, the new rigs on Lake Verret? The Targaryens own that company.”

“Well I’ll be damned!” he marvels. “Really? This bon a rien right here, his family are a bunch of millionaires?”

“Yes. And you should probably let him make another phone call.”

“Yeah!” the prisoner says excitedly. “Listen to the cake lady!”

“Alright, alright,” Willis grumbles. “Guess I don’t need no legal trouble.” He picks up the phone off his desk and walks it to the holding cell; the cord stretches just far enough. “Make your damn phone call, gros couillion.”

Mr. Targaryen snatches up the receiver, punches some buttons, and listens as it rings. “Hi. Okay, don’t yell at me. Here’s the deal. I’m at the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office and I need you to pick me up. Wait, I said don’t yell at me! Stop yelling!!”

“I really need to get back to the bakery,” you tell Willis as you make for the door. “I’ll see you around, okay—?”

“Hey, sugar.” You stop and wait for him to finish. He’s considering you in that way he does sometimes: mild, thoughtful, vaguely sad, how’d we end up like this? He should know, you’ve told him a hundred times, but that doesn’t mean he understands. “I’m supposed to be gettin’ a new deputy next week. When he shows, I’ll send him down your way, recruit ya another customer. Charge him a little extra if you want. He won’t know no better.”

“Thanks, Willis,” you say, and you mean it. Then you step outside into sun glare and the shrieking of cicadas.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s almost dinnertime when the phone rings. You’re heating up the turtle soup that Amir brought over earlier, stirring the pot as the sky outside turns from a crystalline blue—just like Aemond’s eye—to rust and amber and fool’s gold, as the twilight air breathes into the room warm and ancient. There’s a plump nutria nibbling on grass at the edge of the backyard. Wham’s Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go pipes from the boombox. At first you’re too startled to race for the phone—too terrified that it won’t be Aemond, too afraid to get your hopes up—and you hesitate just long enough for Cadi to answer instead.

“Hello?” she says, and then: “Yeah, school was good.”

Everything sinks in you, heart, spirit, the sweltering pressure of blood ebbing in your veins. Oh. It’s Willis.

Cadi continues chatting away obliviously. “Uh huh. Not really. We learned about robber barons and cannons of Italy. Yeah, captains of industry, that’s what I meant. Uh huh. Yup. It was okay, I guess. Yeah. Today it was pizza, but it’s always shaped like a rectangle. Exactly, no crust. It’s weird. Pepperoni. I always sit with Michelle and Erica. Erica has this totally tubular book about horses she showed us. Yup. I like the Appaloosas the most. Uh huh. Okay, I will. Yup. Bye.” Then she hands you the phone. “For you,” she says, then resumes setting the counter: cups, bowls, spoons, folded Bounty paper towels, dinner for two. You never eat at the kitchen table. The table is reserved for business.

You raise the pink phone receiver to your ear with some uncertainty. What does he want now? “Willis?”

“No,” Aemond says, amused. “Though we’ve been to some of the same places.”

You try not to let the smile fill up your face. You fail. “You were asking Cadi about her day?”

“Evidently.” You don’t know what this means; you don’t ask. “When are you free?”

“I usually have the house to myself on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.” It’s currently Monday.

“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow. What time?”

“I should be done in the bakery at around 5:00.”

“I’ll be there at 5:01.” Then Aemond hangs up. So do you, your skull suddenly abloom like springtime, colors and promise and warmth. He’s going to be here in less than 24 hours. I really am going to see him again.

You turn towards the counter. “Cadi, what are robber barons?”

“Rich people who are mean to their workers to get as much money as possible. They don’t care about others. They just want more and more and more. They’re very greedy and are never satisfied.”

“So like the Rockefellers and Standard Oil,” you say, thinking back to your high school American History class. It feels like a lifetime ago, it feels like trying to catch lightning bugs in your bare hands.

“Yeah.” Cadi pours herself a cup of Tang. She’s wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt and green corduroy pants; her father would not approve. “Or Jade Dragon Energy.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Tuesday, 5:03 p.m., rattling cicadas and golden light like the lit coil of a stove burner. You’re still scrubbing dishes, and Amir is icing the last of the orange creamsicle cupcakes for the next morning. Aemond opens the unlocked front door and strides purposefully into the kitchen: ripped jeans, red t-shirt, Converses to match, Marlboro jacket. He is carrying a neon teal duffle bag that he drops on the sloping wooden floor where the living room meets the kitchen. He is momentarily taken aback when he sees Amir, then recalls what you told him about your friend who helps run the bakery. Aemond pulls out one of the kitchen table chairs and sits. He lifts the glass lid from a cake plate, takes the last peach cobbler cupcake for himself, makes unflinching eye contact with you as he licks the frosting off it with long, slow, sensual drags of his tongue.

Amir says: “Hey Scarface, that’s $1.”

“Amir!” you scold, mortified. But Aemond doesn’t seem offended. He smirks, extracts his black leather wallet from the pocket his jeans, and fishes out four singles. He slides them across the table.

Amir sighs. “This bitch can’t even count.”

“I’m sure he can count,” you say, smiling. “He’s an engineer.”

“He’s mouth-fucking this cupcake right in front of me, he’s clearly unstable.”

Aemond looks to you. His voice is low, imposing. “I need to know what your limits are.”

“Oh my God!” Amir squeaks, bent over the table and icing as quickly as he can.

“Okay,” you tell Aemond. You rinse the pearlescent soap bubbles from your hands, wrists, forearms. Then you step out from behind the counter and watch him, remember him, imagine what will happen next.

He gives the peach cobbler cupcake another lap. Buttercream frosting coats his mischieviously curled lips and then is swiftly licked away. “Can I spank you?”

“Yes.”

Amir mutters to himself: “Grandma is never going to believe this.”

“Can I tie you up?”

“Yes.”

“Can I bite you hard enough to leave bruises?”

You pause. “Only places that will be covered by my clothes.”

“And what should you say if you ever don’t like what I’m doing?”

“I just tell you to stop.”

“Exactly.” Aemond grins. His right eye skates from your face to your chest to your hips to your thighs to your ankles, drinking you down like the earth swallows rain, like the vines and cypress trees and Sanish moss of the bayou thieve sunlight and never give it back. His left eye doesn’t move at all, though this is not something you would notice if you didn’t know to look for it. “Good girl.”

“Done!” Amir announces triumphantly, completing the swirl of frosting on the final orange creamsicle cupcake.

“Can I pull your hair?” Aemond asks you.

“Yeah, I think so. Not hard enough to yank it out though.”

Aemond scoffs. “Of course not. I don’t actually want to hurt you. That’s what some doms are after, but not me. Not here, not with you. You don’t want real pain, do you…?”

“No, definitely not,” you say, relieved.

“Brilliant. Then we’re on the same page.”

Amir could leave, but he doesn’t. His eyes dart between you and Aemond from behind his large rectangular glasses, fascinated, scandalized, too astonished to move.

Aemond continues: “Birth control?”

“I’m on the pill and have been for years. I can show you the pack if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you. I saw them in your bathroom last time I was here. I’m in the practice of using condoms regardless.” He tilts his head impishly. “Can I fuck your ass?”

“Um.” You hesitate. This is uncharted territory, though you cannot say that you are entirely unintrigued. “Maybe one day.”

“Noted. Some people find the sensation, the taboo, the fullness…quite pleasurable.”

“Do you?” Amir asks flirtatiously.

Aemond gives him a lazy, ludicrously charming smile. “Well I’ve never been on the receiving end, but I’m game to give it a try if you are.”

Amir bursts out laughing, then says to you: “He’s alright. He can commit abominable sins with you, I guess.” He stands and shakes Aemond’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Kind of.” Then he saunters off through the living room and out the front door. After a moment, you and Aemond listen to his blue Ford Escort rumble to life and then the crunching of gravel as it rolls out of the driveway. From the boombox drifts Just What I Needed by The Cars.

Aemond licks the last of the frosting from the peach cobbler cupcake and says: “Now you’re going to be the cupcake.” He crosses the kitchen, kneels down in front of you, roughly yanks down your denim shorts. He presses his face to your royal blue satin panties—hastily purchased this morning while Amir watched the shop and changed into just one hour ago in anticipation of Aemond’s arrival—and inhales deeply, desperately, like a drowning man gasping for air. Then, through the sheer fabric, he begins to tease you: nudges of his nose, nibbles of his lips.

Your fingers tangle in his short blonde hair. Blonde like the drunk man in the holding cell, you think randomly. “Aemond, why didn’t you want me last time?”

“I wanted you. I wanted you then and I want you now.”

“But I disappointed you. You didn’t finish.”

“Oh, I came,” he purrs. “Went home, got in the shower, thought of you. It didn’t take long. I would have disappointed you terribly. Woke up in the middle of the night thinking of you. Tried to miraculously get some work done yesterday while thinking of you. Crawled out of bed this morning thinking of you. Are you noticing a theme?”

You smile as his tongue presses forcefully against the satin. “I might be.”

“How many times in your life has a man treated his orgasm as essential and your own as an afterthought, if he considered it at all?”

Oh God. That’s the fucking truth. “A lot more than once.”

“So consider what we did on Sunday as one little notch in the other column. Just restoring a bit of much-needed balance to the universe.” He hooks his thumbs under your panties and tugs them off. “Open your thighs for me,” he orders as he pushes them apart with his palms: large, smooth, artful hands. You brace your own hands against the kitchen counter as he buries his face between your legs, not lapping in a tentative, exploratory sort of way but feasting on you, drowning in you, lips and tongue and then fingers that skate up the downy inside of your thigh to taunt you, enter you, fuck you expertly yet leave you wanting more of him, all of him. Your nerves are on fire, your blood is simmering. Outside the birds of prey are emerging from their liars and battle-scarred gators stalk boldly through the green prehistoric wildness of the Deep South.

What happened to his eye? you think through the lust-pink haze, knowing you cannot ask him. Aemond respects your rules. You must abide by his as well. How was he injured so gravely? Who hurt him? Did they atone for their misdeeds, did they pay the cost?

Suddenly, Aemond stands and pulls you against him by your waist, rips your yellow tank top over your head and unhooks your bra, kisses you fiercely. His mouth is dripping with you, clean mineral longing; his right eye is gleaming, famished, not just lustful but half-mad. No one else exists. No one ever has or ever will. “Go to the bed and wait for me there.”

“No.”

He spanks you once with his open palm; the sound is sharp and exquisite. “Go.” And this time you obey, counting the seconds in the dusk-lit splinter of time before he joins you.

In Aemond’s duffle bag—among other things, surely—are silk scarves the color of sapphires. First he fastens one over your eyes as a blindfold. Then he ties one around each of your wrists and binds both to the same bedpost, low enough that while your hands are kept up by your head, you still have some room to maneuver on the freshly-laundered, wildflower-patterned duvet. “Not different posts?” you ask Aemond.

“No. Tying your arms far apart like that can cause cramps in your back and your shoulders. It can even make it difficult to breathe. I want you to be comfortable. I want you to be focused entirely on what I’m doing to you.”

You moan as his fingers slip between your legs and circle over the place that makes your muscles yearn and twist and tighten until you feel they might snap, until you can imagine every string of you breaking and dissolving from the prison of flesh into water, air, gravity, the eternal silent progress of time. He bites and sucks at your nipples, flicking his tongue over them, admiring them, praising them, ravenous for them. You are enraptured by the weight of him on top of you. Without your sight, everything else is more noticeable, more real: his warmth, his sweat, his every brush of skin against yours, his smoke and cologne and gasps and sighs, the grinding of his bare cock against your thighs as he makes you ready for him. And you beg for it long before he gives it to you.

“Roll over,” he commands breathlessly, and then guides you: your fingers clutching the scarves that secure your wrists, your elbows propped on the mattress, your back arched and hips angled up towards him, his lips murmuring against your shoulder, your cheek, the side of your throat. He’s telling you so many things, perfect things, delicious things you’ll never hear enough of: how beautiful you are, how badly he wants you, how well you’re doing. There is the sound of Aemond opening a condom wrapper, and a strange sorrow ripples through you. I wish I could have him raw.

One of his hands reaches around to stroke you, keeping you soaked and supple for him. The other begins to guide his cock into your aching, starving wetness. You stretch for him, you accept him eagerly…and then there is resistance. He stills immediately and tries a slightly different angle. Nothing. He could force it, probably, but he won’t. He recedes from you, agonizing emptiness, dire unfulfillment. I’m disappointing him, he’s too big, I’m too tight, too nervous, too inexperienced at being dominated, I can’t please him. You whimper: “Aemond, I’m sorry—”

“No,” he says, more ferocious than any words you’ve ever heard from him. You are not allowed to criticize yourself. You are not allowed to give up so easily. He leans down and whispers into the shell of your ear, his ribs against your spine, his heat entombing you: “Relax. I’m in charge now. I’ll take care of you.”

You want him to. You need him to. His commandment rolls through your blood and bones like a wave, loosening those last vestiges of anxiety, shaking grim psychological heirlooms from the highest shelves. You can surrender yourself completely to Aemond. He is worthy, he is safe, he is euphoria made flesh. His fingertips are still stroking you. He pushes your thighs just a little farther apart and—slowly, cautiously—eases his cock into your throbbing warmth. He hisses in a breath, though he tries not to break character, to show you that he might just be a little bit at your mercy too.

You moan loudly and shamelessly, letting him know you’re alright, more than alright, in ecstasy, in bliss, in torment, on the edge. When Aemond thrusts, he finds a place that’s never been hit so directly or so well. The climax is on you before you are aware of it, one of those swells that rises out of nowhere, capsizes the boat, fades back into the endless blue of the ocean. It jolts through your pelvis, your spine, your skull, and then evaporates like steam from a bathroom mirror. And now Aemond is trying to finish too, but something is off. He tries a few different rhythms, can’t seem to get it right. You think you can feel him beginning to soften. No no no, I can’t leave him unsatisfied again.

You look back, though you cannot see him through the blindfold; instinctively, you want to be closer to him. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Nothing,” Aemond says. “Nothing, nothing, nothing is wrong. You’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.” He turns your face so he can kiss you deeply, his tongue in your mouth, swallowing you down, entangled in every way possible. And only then he is able to come: powerfully, trembling, crying out like he’s in the kind of pain that leaves scars for life.

He glides his cock out of you, and you can hear him snap off the condom. Then he unties your blindfold and your wrists. You reach for him, then stop yourself; he reaches for you—a reflex, surely—and then shakes the notion away and collapses beside you on the duvet. You both lie there panting, gazing dizzily up at the long shadows of centuries-old oak trees that cascade across the ceiling, minds drained, bodies spent.

After a moment, Aemond clambers off the bed to grab a lighter and a pack of Marlboro Reds out of his jeans pocket. Then he flops back down next to you, lights a cigarette, takes a deep, slow drag. “So, cupcake,” he says nonchalantly, exhaling smoke, hand shaking. “Where’d you get married?”

You laugh; this is ridiculous. “Why on earth would you want to know that?”

“I want to know things about you. Things other than your tits and your pussy. I mean, those are great. I enjoy them tremendously, and I plan to keep enjoying them. But I also enjoy you.”

You sigh. Aemond waits, puffing on his cigarette. “The parish courthouse.” Plain, boring, economical. “I wanted a wedding at Saint Honoratus, but…”

“Saint…who?”

“The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens,” you say. “It’s this gorgeous place in a town called Belle River on the other side of Lake Verret. Very small, very old, it’s a historic site or something, they can’t ever knock it down.”

“Why couldn’t you get married there?”

You shrug; how much could the details matter now? Someone needed to organize it, someone needed to decorate, someone needed to pay for food and drinks, someone needed to send out invitations, someone needed to care enough to make it happen, and that someone would have been you, just you, seventeen and broke and bedridden with morning sickness until noon every day. “It just didn’t work out.”

“Sounds like a lot of things didn’t work out for you.”

You raise your eyebrows. Aemond winces.

“Sorry. That was…not the way I meant to express that sentiment.”

You forgive him. You’d forgive him for anything right now, right here, in a bed stained with his sweat and your wetness and the seed you wish he could have spilled inside you. You taunt him: “Should we meet up at your house next time?”

He recoils, horrified. “No. Definitely not.”

“Why? What’s at your house? An abandoned wife and six tall, blonde, prominently-jawed children?”

He chuckles; he has collected himself again. “No. It’s just that…well…I have family in town currently. They’re staying with me while I get set up with the new job and everything. Quite a lot of people. And my family is…unorthodox.”

You wish he would stop using words you don’t know. That’s the hazard of affiliating with a highfalutin petroleum engineer, you suppose. “So they’re strange?”

“That’s a kind word for it.”

“I like strange people. I like you.”

Aemond smirks warily. “You wouldn’t like them. Just trust me on that.” He traces the border of your face with his fingertips, contemplating your secrets, tending his own like a nightscape garden. “Do you ever want to do something…not in your bedroom?”

You grin and he kisses you, nicotine and quelled desire; he can’t help it. You say when you break away: “What, like dinner or flowers or any of the other activities that were very clearly not a part of this arrangement?”

“Arrangements are flexible.”

“Are they?”

“This one is. Increasingly so.”

You ponder his proposition. “There’s this new restaurant I really want to go to. I’ve never been before, but it looks pretty rad in the commercials on tv. It’s up in Gonzales.”

“The same town as your illustrious Kmart engagement. How fortuitous. Pease continue.”

“It’s an Italian place,” you say.

“I love Italian.”

“It’s called Olive Garden.”

Aemond’s mouth falls open. He is bewildered, appalled. His cigarette smolders forgotten in the crook of his fingers. You might as well have told him you wanted to run over puppies with lawnmowers. “You want me to take you to Olive Garden? Seriously?”

You are wounded. “What’s wrong with Olive Garden?”

“Cupcake, Olive Garden is not real Italian food. That’s like saying Taco Bell is Mexican.”

“…Isn’t it?”

“Okay,” he capitulates. He smiles as he smooths your disheveled hair and touches his lips to your forehead. “It’s fine. We’ll go to Olive Garden.”

“Really?” you reply, beaming.

“Really. You’re free Thursday?”

“Unless Willis has to switch nights for some reason, yeah.”

“Then we’ll go Thursday.” Aemond rolls off the bed and finds a mug—Return Of The Jedi, Princess Leia and the Ewoks—left on your dresser to put his cigarette out in. He looks through the screen of your open bedroom window as the sky turns ever-darker, as the moon and stars begin to rise, and he breathes in the verdant, humid, ageless witchcraft of the bayou. “You have no idea what the last few days have been like for me,” Aemond says softly, his bare back turned to you, the ridge of his spine like a road cut through a swamp or a forest or a field of sugarcane. “You have no idea how badly I needed this.”

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 7 months ago

Text

All Things End 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of loss (death, miscarriage), and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Arvin Russell

Summary: Newly widowed, you take a job at the local grocer to make end’s meet.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Your shoulder only gets worse. When you tell your supervisor about it, he’s unfazed as he sends you to restock the cans of tuna. Those are small, he suggests. No matter, the repetitive motion only tweaks the knot firmly lodged beneath your shoulder blade.

When you finish your shift, you’re almost in tears. You still need to haul your own groceries home as you spend twenty minutes collecting the bare essentials. Even the light load feels like pushing a boulder up a hill as you leave through the front doors.

You wince as you cross the lot, searching out the beaten up Volkswagen. You stop as you see the bumper sticker, heart dropping at the reminder. You remember that road trip and how you rolled your eyes at Ben when he slapped the sticker onto the car. You tried but it wouldn’t peel off.

You stop and lean the bag against the hatch. Ugh, just the thought of driving makes your muscles roar. It’s not far.

You lift the bag again and a pang ripples up your neck. You cry out and drop your armful, the can clunking heavily as the brown paper splits and sends your groceries scattering. You slap a hand on the car and reach to shakily rub your neck.

You quiver out a gasp as you look down at the mess. You slide your hand down the metal and groan as you reach for the can of mixed beans. It’s scooped up before you can get your fingers around the dented tin.

“You alright?” Arvin asks as he gathers up the smattering of groceries.

“Yeah, I… tripped.”

“You know,” he stands, hugging the loose goods, “I told you to take it easy.”

You look at him in exasperation, he means well. Still, good advice isn't always practical. You have to work. You need the paycheck.

“I know, thanks,” you reach for his armful.

“Let me,” he insists as he steps closer, “pop the trunk.”

You groan and turn to shove the key into the slot, pulling up the hatch halfway until it opens all the way. You drag the empty box from the corner for him to put the groceries in. He puts them into the cardboard as you lean on the bumper and cradle your shoulder.

“You think you can drive like that?” He asks.

“Really, I’m fine,” you insist through gritted teeth.

“Is that true or just something you say?”

“Look, I appreciate it but you don’t need to worry that much. Enjoy not having to while you can,” you say.

“I see someone who needs help and I help,” he shrugs, “it’s what my ma taught me to do. If she was still around, I hope she’d be proud of that.”

You wince and look away. It can’t be easy losing a parent young. You regret being so defensive and over what? Your bum shoulder? If she were alive, his mother might be around your age. Maybe that’s why he’s so concerned.

“Thanks, Arvin, that’s considerate, I’m sure she would be,” you force a smile. “I can drive, I got another arm--”

“Isn’t safe like that,” he shakes his head, “please, I can give ya a lift. I’ll walk back into town--”

You open your mouth but stop yourself from repeating that mantra ‘it’s fine’. Your mouth slants and you tilt your head one way then the other. You sigh through your nose. You really just want to lay down with some ice.

“You’re not going to let me go, are you?” You ask.

He grins and shakes his head, hair flopping, “’fraid I can’t.”

You nod and hold out the keys, “shifter sticks, make sure you give it a wiggle.”

🌲

Arvin drives confidently up the country roads. Everyone knows where everyone lives around here, even as the roads wind into the thicker brush. He slows as he comes onto the gravel road that leads to your marital homestead. Each time you see the arch of branches that crest the clearing, you’re reminded of the day you moved in. With Ben.

There’s not much else left of him there. The pieces you did keep of your happiest years are all hidden away. More sore reminders of the lost. Aside from the stubborn rose bush. The petals are just as bright and pink as when Ben put it in. Your first year anniversary gift; it would be almost twenty if he was here.

Your shoulder tweaks and the pain stokes the tears behind your eyes. You wiggle your nose and shake off the grief. It’s just this damn knot. It’s got you all twisted up.

Arvin stops gently, the axle grinding loudly with the worn brakes, and he turns the engine off. You unbuckle your belt as he frees the keys and does the same. He’s quick but most people are quicker than you right now.

He comes around to open your door before you can. You thank him as you get out, your purse dropping off your lap. He bends to pick it up first

“Get yourself inside,” he hands you the keys, “I’ll get your things.”

“You really don’t--”

“I can hear it in your voice, just like those whiny brakes. I’ll have a look at those too,” he insists.

“Arvin,” you utter, awash with embarrassment.

“That shoulder won’t get any better if you keep being stubborn,” he grips the top of the car door.

“What would you know? You got some years before you gotta worry about all this?” You kid as you slump your injured shoulder and touch it daintily.

“I know pain when I see it and I know you’ve had enough of that,” he says, “go on. Let me get my good deed done for the day.”

You nod and can’t help the tug in your lips. Right. He sees an old lady in need. You’re under no illusions. You know your age, you know what you’ve lost, you know what other people think. They pity you. Somehow, you hoped he wouldn’t share that.

You sniff and step past him. You make your way up the front steps with tunnel vision. You try not to see the empty flowerboxes or the broken bench. The things Benny would have taken care of.

You let yourself in but aren’t fast enough to keep the screen door from clattering into your shoulder. You cry out and stumble, catching yourself against the bigger inner door. You drop the keys. You don’t even need them. No one in Hammer Ford locks their doors.

“Woah, hey,” Arvin’s footfalls rush up onto the porch, “everything okay? What happened?”

You cling to the door hand and shakily look back at him, “nothing,” your voice is brittle, “the door... hit me.”

“Ah gee,” he frowns, “come on,” he urges you in with his hand on your lower back, “you needa just relax, miss.”

#arvin russell #dark arvin russell #dark!arvin russell #arvin russell x reader #drabble #series #au #backwoods #the devil all the time #all things end

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vampirevatican · 1 year ago

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Hi, hope you're doing well!!

I love your Judd works and was wondering what your headcanons are for Judd having a sensitive girlfriend...

Like, they're polar opposites. She's quiet, sweet, and tender hearted. She keeps to herself for the most part and is good at self-regulating her emotions, but when she gets too overwhelmed, upset, mad, or stressed, she totally breaks and has a hard time cooling down. How would Judd handle her strong emotions?

I think Judd being super soft only for his sensitive girlfriend is such a cute concept 🥺

Thank you sm!! <333

omg thank you, that's so sweet!! also...

'oh my goodness i love this question!!! um, i think...'

a super soft gf for judd?? just what the doc ordered tbh

i think he'd handle her big emotions differently, mainly depending on the situation

like say she's really pissed and is about to get into a fight? i don't think he'd stop her unless it wouldn't be good for her in the long run. like if it risks her bright future or he could see her having to go to hospital

when it comes to work? be it a job or school then he'd definitely make sure she got breaks before she breaks down or burns out completely

he'd probably give her a rage room, like he'd build a cutesy shed and the inside of it is where she can scream, throw, punch, kick and break things as much as she wants

he's very much an actions over words, ya know? although if she just needed him to sit with her for a bit and repeat reassuring phrases he would

he'd hold her close and rub her back, or play with her hair, kiss her forehead and the top of her head

god forbid his family caused the break down, you're just consistently in his room as prisoner and if you have to use the bathroom he's a body guard at that point

some additionals bc gosh this is cute (and brainrot tings)

he will not do the soft sanrio cutesy things with her like matching outfits... UNLESS she found a way to make badtz maru, or another all black sanrio character, more punk

hear me out please... i can picture him 'tolerating' a lot of cute stuff for her, especially if she pulls puppy eyes

the raccoons? consider some of them dressed up with bows, silly outfits or even glitter

his van? there's holographic and cute stickers on it sometimes and yes he rides in her car sometimes and accepts that it's decked out in full girly uniform

actually his favorite sticker on her bumper is a cute bunny that says, 'i know i have a cute ass. can you stop riding it?' or it's baby baphomet stickers he picked out for her by the same artist (tiktok mention)

whenever he picks outfits for her? she has to hide whatever black she has, lest it looks more pastel goth/grunge

he loves her dearly. this is a sun and moon dynamic. this is one of those 'if anything happens to them id kill everyone in the room and then myself.'

#.⁠｡⁠*⁠dingdong💌━♡#i hope you're doing well to and yw!!!#judd birch #judd birch x reader

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sinful-mind-joyful-thoughts · 7 months ago

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hiiii!!! i’ve just now been really getting into ur fics (and to preface idk what you do and don’t write) and i actually love ur style sm! could you ever so possibly write a pedro pascal x fem reader except she isn’t famous, like at all, and is actually a cop? also with a bit of age gap in there..? thank you soo much!!!!

⤷ Credits: Pinterest

Summary: From giving him a ticket to him asking you out.

Warnings: Cops? its fluffy just

A/n: Just a simple oneshot of how you met Pedro Pascal, and I'll probably make a post about my dos and don'ts for asking. You are 100% okay though, there's nothing wrong with this question.

You were doing your usual rounds about the city, the brisk morning air a refreshing contrast to the monotony of your job. The streets were starting to bustle with the early risers, the aroma of fresh coffee and baked goods wafting from nearby cafes. As a parking enforcement officer, it was your duty to ensure that everyone followed the rules, even if it meant being the bad guy sometimes. Today, though, was just another ordinary day.

You walked along the row of parked cars, your eyes scanning for any infractions. Then you saw it—a car parked in a metered spot without any quarters in the meter. The car was fairly nondescript, an average sedan, but two bumper stickers caught your eye. One read "I love Baby Yoda," and the other proclaimed, "I'm a Cool Uncle." You chuckled softly to yourself, appreciating the stickers for a moment before pulling out your ticket book.

As you began writing the ticket, the door to the nearby Starbucks swung open. Out walked a man, coffee in hand, looking relaxed and content. You glanced up casually, ready to inform him about the parking violation. But as your eyes met his, your breath caught in your throat.

It was Pedro Pascal.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze. There he was, your celebrity crush, right in front of you, and all you could do was stare, wide-eyed and starstruck. He looked exactly as he did on screen—charismatic, charming, and effortlessly cool. The sunlight caught the edges of his hair, making him look almost ethereal.

You quickly snapped out of your reverie, reminding yourself of your duty. Even if it was Pedro Pascal, he still hadn't fed the meter. Taking a deep breath, you approached him, ticket in hand.

"Excuse me, sir," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "I'm afraid I have to give you a ticket. Your meter's expired."

Pedro looked down at the ticket in your hand and then back at you, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Ah, I knew I forgot something," he said, his voice as smooth and captivating as you'd imagined. "I got a bit distracted by my need for caffeine."

You couldn't help but smile at his candidness. "I understand, but rules are rules," you replied, handing him the ticket. "Even for someone with such great taste in stickers."

He glanced at the back of his car, then laughed. "Yeah, my nephews insisted on those. I couldn't say no."

The two of you stood there for a moment, an easy silence settling between you. It was surreal, having this casual conversation with a man you had admired from afar for so long. You noticed his eyes, warm and friendly, and you felt your cheeks heat up under his gaze.

"Thanks for being understanding," he said, taking the ticket from you. "I guess I’ll have to make sure I have some quarters next time."

"That would be a good idea," you said, trying to sound professional but feeling a flutter of excitement in your chest. "Enjoy your coffee."

The next day, you were doing rounds once again, the early morning light casting long shadows on the sidewalk. You and your coworker Jeff had decided to take a break and get breakfast. It was a rare treat to have some company during your rounds, and Jeff's jovial nature was a welcome distraction from the routine.

As you approached the same Starbucks where you'd met Pedro the day before, you felt a flutter of anticipation in your stomach. Jeff nudged you playfully.

"What's got you so excited today?" he teased.

"Nothing," you replied quickly, trying to hide your smile. "Just looking forward to some coffee."

The two of you entered the Starbucks, the familiar aroma of fresh coffee and pastries enveloping you. You got in line and scanned the room, half-hoping and half-expecting to see Pedro again. To your surprise and delight, there he was, sitting at a corner table, engrossed in his phone.

You nudged Jeff. "Look who it is," you whispered, nodding in Pedro's direction.

Jeff's eyes widened. "No way. Isn't that Pedro Pascal?"

"Yeah," you said, your heart pounding. "I met him yesterday. Gave him a ticket."

Jeff laughed. "No way! Did he freak out?"

"Not at all," you said, remembering the encounter with a smile. "He was really cool about it."

As you waited for your coffee, you couldn't help but steal glances at Pedro. He looked up from his phone, and his eyes met yours. A smile spread across his face, and he raised his coffee cup in a silent toast. You felt a blush creeping up your cheeks as you smiled back.

You and Jeff grabbed your drinks and headed for a table, but Pedro waved you over. "Hey, join me!" he called out.

Jeff raised an eyebrow at you. "Looks like you're in demand," he said with a grin. "Go on, I'll hold down the fort here."

You walked over to Pedro's table, trying to keep your composure. "Hey," you said, sitting down across from him. "Fancy seeing you here again."

"Yeah, what are the odds?" he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "How's the ticket-writing business treating you today?"

"Not bad," you replied, relaxing a little. "No major infractions so far."

"That's good to hear," he said. "I made sure to feed the meter this time."

You both laughed, and the conversation flowed easily from there. You talked about everything from the weather to your favorite movies. The more you talked, the more you realized how down-to-earth and genuine Pedro was. He had a way of making you feel comfortable and at ease, and before long, you were laughing and sharing stories like old friends.

"So," Pedro said after a while, leaning back in his chair. "What do you do when you're not writing tickets and keeping the streets safe?"

You hesitated for a moment, feeling a bit self-conscious. "I read a lot," you began, "and I watch TV shows and movies. I'm a big fan of... well, a lot of things."

Pedro's eyes twinkled with curiosity. "What kind of things?"

Before you could answer, Jeff, who had been eavesdropping from his nearby table, piped up. "Oh, she's a super fan of a bunch of stuff. She's got all the merch, too. Posters, figurines, the whole nine yards."

You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment. "Jeff!" you exclaimed, giving him a look that you hoped conveyed your exasperation.

"What? It's true," Jeff said with a grin. "Don't forget to tell him about the fan fiction."

Pedro raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Fan fiction, huh? What shows are you into?"

You took a deep breath, deciding to own it. "Mostly dark romance," you said. "I love exploring complex characters and intense emotions. Shows like 'Game of Thrones,' 'The Mandalorian,' and 'Narcos.'"

Pedro chuckled, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "Ah, so you're a fan of my work?"

You nodded, feeling a little shy. "Yeah, I am. You bring a lot of depth to your characters. It's inspiring."

"Thanks," he said, looking genuinely touched. "It means a lot to hear that."

Jeff, not missing an opportunity, added, "She even has a Pedro Pascal marathon every few months. It's like a tradition."

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands. "Jeff, you're killing me here."

Pedro laughed, a rich, warm sound that made your heart flutter. "No need to be embarrassed," he said. "I'm flattered. Really."

You looked up, meeting his gaze. His eyes were kind, and you could see he was genuinely amused and touched by your admiration. "Thanks," you said softly. "I just didn't expect to meet you like this, let alone have a conversation."

"Life's full of surprises," Pedro said with a wink. "And I'm glad we did meet. It's not every day I get to have coffee with someone as interesting as you."

You felt a rush of warmth at his words. "I could say the same," you replied.

Pedro seemed to hesitate for a moment, then asked, "If you don't mind me asking, how old are you?"

You smiled, a bit amused. "I'm twenty-six."

Pedro's eyes widened slightly. "Wow, you look younger. I would have guessed early twenties."

You laughed. "Well, thanks. I guess good genes run in the family."

Pedro leaned in a bit closer, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Good genes and a youthful spirit. You know, I should probably make sure you're over eighteen before I ask you out."

You felt your cheeks heat up, a mixture of excitement and embarrassment. "I promise, I'm well over eighteen."

Jeff, who had been listening in with a grin on his face, couldn't resist chiming in. "Yeah, she's definitely over eighteen. I've seen her ID."

Pedro laughed, turning to Jeff. "Good to know. Wouldn't want to get myself into trouble."

Jeff shook his head, still grinning. "You're safe, man. Just make sure you treat her right."

Pedro turned back to you, his expression softening. "So, how about it? Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?"

Your heart skipped a beat. "I'd love that."

Pedro's smile widened. "Great. How about tomorrow night? There's a nice little Italian place not too far from here. My treat."

You nodded, feeling a flutter of excitement. "Sounds perfect."

Pedro glanced at Jeff, a teasing glint in his eye. "See, she's an adult. We're good."

Jeff laughed, clapping Pedro on the shoulder. "Just remember, I'll be watching. I've got her back."

Pedro chuckled, turning his attention back to you. "I'll keep that in mind. So, how about I pick you up at seven?"

"Seven sounds great," you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite the excitement bubbling inside you.

As Pedro stood up, he held out his hand. "Looking forward to it."

You shook his hand, feeling that familiar spark of connection. "Me too."

As you and Jeff walked back to your patrol route, he nudged you playfully. "Look at you, making plans with a celebrity. You're living the dream."

You laughed, shaking your head. "I can't believe it either."

Jeff grinned. "Well, just remember us little people when you're famous."

"Yeah, yeah," you said, rolling your eyes. But you couldn't help but smile, thinking about the date tomorrow night. Your life had taken a surprising turn, and you were excited to see where it would lead.

#pedro pascal x y/n #pedrohub #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fluff #asks #sinfulmindjoyfulthoughts #fanfic

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stanofwar2 · 3 months ago

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Journal Entry 1, 2

Saw that my poll was tied between oc journal entries, and a mix of all three. So here's the start of Leon's Journal entries of his time in Gravity Falls. Hope y'all like it!

Transcript/clear text below

June 12th

I can’t believe I’m writing in this old thing after so long, but what the hell else am I gonna do after all the weird string of events that happened this afternoon.. I’m not even sure how to start all this, I feel like a 10 year old writing in her diary… Oh well, not like I’ve got anything better to do. This old beaten up journal my therapist gave me a while ago to “ Journal and process my feelings ” is finally serving a purpose while I’m stuck here.

So how did I get here? Simple, I was making my way through the back-roads in Roadkill County Oregon so I could cut down my travel time so I can get to my client Mrs.Vandersheisse quicker (I’m going to need to call her as soon as my phone is done charging)

But as I was cruising, enjoying the scenery of huge redwood’s expanding as far as the eye could see, I looked back to the road and crashed my car after a Gnome rode a deer into the middle of the road and startled me! Which caused me to panic and swerve out of the way and straight into a tree! Luckily my airbag deployed, only leaving me with a couple of bruises at the end. Once my head stopped spinning I dragged myself out to assess the damage only to see that the front of my car was wrapping around the trunk of the tree that didn’t even budge, almost mocking me. I was grumbling to myself as I leaned against a tree, practically fuming with anger when I heard a set of footsteps approaching, a rough, gravely voice following quickly as the stranger approached. He asked me if I was alright, saying he heard the crash from his house.

I told him I was, opening my eyes slowly and I.. I was a bit.. Caught off guard when I opened my eyes to look at the guy. He was, well. Not what I would have expected to see out here. To be honest I was expecting a redneck with the smell of patriotism thickly wrapped around him but Instead I was greeted by a somewhat heavy-set, but muscular, older guy with short gray hair wearing a tight red t-shirt and white pants, a gold chain that peaked out of the collar of his shirt, taunting me.. Drawing me in..

His eyes peered at me behind square glasses that framed his face well. From his accent he’s probably originally from a big city, I’m guessing Jersey.

He. Was. Hot. And I found myself stumbling over my words a bit, worrying if I had hit my head harder than I thought or if I was passed out. He didn’t seem to notice.. I think If he did he didn’t say anything, just continued to ask me if I was okay, how and why I crashed, and where I was heading. I told him a little before I felt dizzy and nearly fell over. I caught myself but this guy gently wrapped his arms around me and told me that it was probably best if I get my head checked out, so he walked me all the way to his place, keeping me steady, and finally telling me his name. Stan Pines. I told him mine and he told me how nice it was to meet me. He smelled like the ocean

I was a bit.. Surprised to see that his house was actually a tourist trap called the Mystery Shack. Which I swear I saw a bumper sticker for, though it didn’t have an address so how I or anyone would find it is a mystery to me (wonder if that’s intentional?) I awed at it, earning a good chuckle from the guy who asked me if I’d ever been, to which I said no. He smiled wide, going into a proposition speech about how it’s one of the best tourist traps in the Pacific Northwest, that he would know since he made the place. I chuckled, finding his spiel somewhat endearing. But eventually he got me inside and called out for someone named Ford and Soos (Or was it Zeus?)

Soos, the now apparently current owner of the Mystery Shack came out asking, “What is it dudes?” Stan filled him in about my car and told him to go into town and get a tow truck. Soos saluted and ran out, giving me his quick condolences for my car. Then, there was Ford. I shook my head when I saw him come in, asking Stan why he called him. I thought I was seeing double! Making me worry that maybe I’d hit my head harder than I thought. Turns out that he’s Stan twin and a big shot with 12 Phd’s so Stan wanted him to give me a check up. Stan caught him up, to which Ford gave me a concerning and serious look and quickly got to work, grabbing some stuff to give me a full check up. It was awkward as he prodded and asked me questions like my name, my birthday, who the current president was, and eventually asking what had happened, giving me a good look at him as well and noticing that he has six fingers, which caught my attention, but I didn’t comment on it, didn’t want him to feel like I was judging him, making me quite the hypocrite. I told him 90% of the truth, keeping out the Gnome part of it. He hummed, his mind whirling away, asking me about my last name and swearing that he’d heard it before somewhere in his research. I wonder if he knows my family?

I just chuckled and then finally met the other family members of the household. Mabel and Dipper Pines, 13 year old twins spending the summer at their “Grunkles” place. They were very sweet and friendly, practically interviewing me about who, why, and how I was here, to which I gave them all I was comfortable telling, leaving the more.. Weird parts out. Stan let us know that it would be a little bit before Soos told him how bad the damage on the car is. I was nervous as I sat there, people-watching the Pines family, their antics and general weirdness growing on me, easing my nerves. At least until Stan got the call from Soos.

So, Good news, I only had a minor concussion and would be fine shortly. Bad news, my car is pretty much completely fucked and it’s estimated it will take a whole month to get it running. A MONTH!! I was.. Well I was devastated. I am devastated still, wondering what gods damned me to be stuck here in the middle of nowhere!! And in a house so damn noisy and filled to the brim with spirits!! Ghostly lumberjacks meandering about, trying to get mine and others attention. Luckily, they all are pretty weak so as long as I ignore/tune them out, I’ll be fine. But it’s.. Not just them there’s a generally strange aura surrounding this place. I felt it in the woods, which is completely normal but for it to be this strong and consistent here? That’s the odd part, then again in general this whole area has felt.. Off. Not bad, just, off, different.

Anyway, I groaned, wondering what the hell I’m going to do now! Where I was gonna stay for a whole month! I heard some small whispering before Stan sat down next to me, cleared his throat and put his warm hand on my back, telling me he was “sorry that life had given such a nasty hand.” But he said that it wasn’t all bad news, that he and his brother had been talking and while they couldn’t help with the whole car issue, they could clear out a room in the Shack, giving me a place to stay until I can leave. I couldn’t believe it, why were they being so nice to me? I was.. Skeptical and Stan found that entertaining, letting me know that it was because there weren’t any good Motels in town and they could use an extra pair of hands to help around the house and to watch the kids. So basically they were giving me a place to stay in exchange for a free babysitter. Which, as annoying as that is, isn’t the worst offer I’ve had. So I agreed.

Mabel was all the happier to have another person to talk to. She gave me the ~Grand Tour~of the shack, eventually leading me to what would be my room, which was clearly a storage room that she and her brother had cleared out and tried to make look homey. Which was very sweet.

Eventually Soos returned, giving me my travel bags. Stan dragged a mattress into my “room”, gave me some sheets that he swore he “cleaned recently” before giving me another apology about my car. But it was different than before, it was.. Softer, genuine. But I didn’t pry, just thanked him, to which he gave me another confident, exaggerated smile and told me “Anytime buddy, welcome to Gravity Falls” (Guess that’s the town’s name) before walking off to do Gods knows what.

I’ve set up my bed, cleansed my room with some sage, and placed some warding crystals in the corners of the room, hiding them so the kids or anyone don’t mess with and or steal them. So now, here I am, sitting in my new room recounting the odd string of events that have led me here in a busted up journal that I don’t even remember packing.

I should stop here for now, Mabel peeked in to let me know that dinner is ready so I guess I’m off. Until next time.

Leon

#Gravity falls oc #oc #Gravity falls #oc x canon #Stan pines x oc #journaling #stan pines #ford pines #soos ramirez #dipper pines #mabel pines

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lkfarrout · 4 months ago

Text

What Happened Last Summer (18+) Chapter 1

My first fic guys! (I'm gonna throw up I'm so nervous)

Read Chapter 2 next!

This is the first chapter out of probaby 10 or more and I plan to post a chapter a day. Takes place the summer after the show does, and introduces an OC/love interest for Stan named Kathy :)))

There is some mild sexual content, so I will be marking the whole series as 18+. There is some light angst, arguments, etc. This series really could be titled "Stanley Pines is forced to actually talk about his feelings for once in his life"

Enjoy! Press 'keep reading' for the fic

“Welcome to the Mystery Shack,” the redhead at the counter was less than enthusiastic – she barely bothered to glance up from her magazine. Kathy lingered at the counter and studied the interior of the store. The walls were covered in shelves of bizarre amalgamations of animal parts, interspersed with hats and t-shirts and a few hand-painted signs that said “No Refunds”. A few customers browsed the items, including an older man in a light blue Hawaiian shirt eyeing a treat inside the vending machine.

“Could I talk to your boss, Soos, if he isn't busy?”

The girl looked at the clock, then back down at her reading, and said “He’s finishing a tour right now. What do you need?”

Kathy dug around in her bag. “I’m new in town, just reopened the motel. I was wondering if I could leave some business cards here?”

At that, the man at the vending machine spun around.

“Actually, I’m the owner of this fine establishment.” He leaned an elbow on the counter and proudly gestured around the room. Suddenly, she found her hand in his and he shook it firmly. “Stan Pines – original Mr. Mystery.” His rough, but confident voice echoed through the giftshop.

Kathy tried to meet his eyes but instead found herself staring at the open collar of his shirt. A gold chain poked through a bit of hair that matched the thick silver stands on his head.

“Sorry,” she began with a small laugh, “I thought you were a customer.”

“I guess you could say I’m retired,” he replied, gesturing to a $15 bobble-head of a man in a black suit and fez. Kathy could sort of see the resemblance, especially the nose. “But I’m not too old to recognize a good business opportunity!” He grabbed the cards from her other hand and studied them. Gravity Falls Twin Bed Motel - now under new management. Open Friday -Monday. He flipped it over to find a name and a phone number. Katherine Phillips, owner.

“Lovely to meet ya, Katherine. Welcome to town.” He shook her hand again.

“Thank you Stan, but you can call me Kathy,” she replied.

“I’ll strike a deal with you, Kathy. I’ll hand out your business cards if you take some of these,” he handed her a stack of bumper stickers, “and send a few people this way.”

“That’s exactly what I had in mind.” She threw the stickers in her bag. “I look forward to working with you. See you around, Stan” Then, Kathy did something stupid – she winked at him. She wasn’t entirely sure why, other than it seemed that this man’s charisma was rubbing off on her. As soon as she winked, however, every drop of charisma, every minute of sales experience, every cool, casual part of Stan instantly vaporized. A slight pink tinge flooded his cheeks and he cleared his throat into his fist.

“Yeah, I’ll see ya around.” He watched her walk out the door, then watched her get in her car, then watched her drive off. Before he knew it a hand was waving in front of his face.

“Mr. Pines?”

“Huh?” He shook himself out of it. “Oh, Soos.”

“I see you met Kathy.” Soos nudged Stan with his elbow.

“You know her?”

“She hired my grandma to clean motel rooms – real nice lady. And close to your age too, Mr. Pines.”

Stan considered this information, and started fiddling with the stack of business cards. “What are ya sayin’?”

“Well, you know, ever since I met Melody, I’m sort of like the expert on relationships. I’m sure if you don’t ask her out, Mabel will do it for you when she gets into town.”

“No, Soos, I couldn’t…” Stan began.

“Mr. Pines,” Wendy butted in, “she winked at you. C’mon, ask her out! Ask her out!” She pounded on the counter in rhythm, and Soos joined in the chanting.

“Ask her out! Ask her out!”

“Fine!” Stan grabbed a business card and shoved it in his pocket. “Just get back to work.”

_______

With a deep breath, Stan picked up the phone’s receiver and began dialing.

“Kathy? It’s Stan… yeah, from yesterday at the shack. Look if you’re not busy tonight, I thought ya might like a tour of the town. I’ve lived here thirty-one years, y’know.”

“A personal tour from Mr. Mystery himself? I couldn’t pass that up.” She teased him, “Will I get to see Bigfoot?”

Stan chuckled, “Nah that stuff's all for the tourists – if you’re gonna live here you need the real tour. Thought I’d take ya to the diner, we could drive around, and maybe go out to the lake.”

“Stan, this sounds more like a date than a tour to me.”

“Ah, ya got me! Guilty as charged.”

Kathy laughed, “Alright, Stan, I’ll see you tonight.”

#gravity falls #stanley pines #stan pines x oc #stanford pines #grunkle stan #fanfic #light angst #mabel pines #dipper pines #light smut

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kekaki-cupcakes · 1 year ago

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BONJOUR (〃^ω^〃)

if your requests are open and if you so feel like, I would LOVE (♥ω♥*) to hear your Connor Stoll HCS whether misc or x reader related I care very little, I just want more content of my fav.

Sincerely eternally yours - anon.

ciao! ヽ( 'ω' )ﾉ

Hey I know you requested this ages ago sorry about that. I've also decided to answer requests in order of which one I like the idea of the most instead of time because I feel like I'm stuck on a few old ones lol

Also this was so fun to write and I ended up writing a short story at one point or smthn.

Conner Stoll Headcanons

»»————-　★　————-««

-He sometimes forgets Travis isn’t really his twin.

-As do most people that know them.

-He’s so sick of the jokes about his last name he and Travis just pretend to not understand anymore.

-The poison sprayed T-shirt given to the Hunter Phoebe, stopping her from going on the quest to save Annabeth wasn’t just a prank on the stern girl. It was on purpose, so that Percy could go instead, but no one really realized that.

-Once he moved to New York years after the books ended, he rented a flat with a smashed in window and a leaky bathtub. He had to live off one dollar pizza slices for about a year [he loved them] until he saved up and stole enough to afford a better flat with three bedrooms. One was for him, one was for Cecil, and one was for Katie when she visited with Travis. He has a bunk bed that he shares with Travis, but he makes his brother sleep on the top bunk like they did at CHB.

-Unknown to him, Travis’s room at Camp Jupiter has a bunk bed too, and he sleeps on the top every night. He’s studying Law.

-Once Conner was able to pay rent by the deadlines and had steady shifts at work [and once his diet had gotten a bit better, although pizza slice Friday is a ritual] Chiron finally let Cecil move in.

-It was only really because Cecil wanted to go to highschool properly, and finish it this time instead of being chased from the year ten open day by feral harpy’s. He works at Starbucks part time and Conner drives him to every shift and then Iris messages CHB and talks to his friends in his car while he waits for Cecil to finish.

-He’s actually really disappointed when Cecil buys a motorbike and doesn’t need lifts to Starbucks anymore, but then his little brother needs someone to pick him up because he crashed into a phone box and he’s back to annoyed chauffeurTM again.

-He owns the shittiest car ever, like, one of those falling apart pickup trucks with fluffy dice and he actually keeps it pretty clean because he’s so proud of it. He calls it ‘Mater’, from the movie Cars, because it’s Cecil’s favorite movie. It’s also covered in bumper stickers. Like, nearly every part of it, and people just hand them to him sometimes to fill in a gap.

-He joined the local track team, and he’s actually pretty good.

-His guilty pleasure is Taylor Swift’s 1989 album and eating peanut butter MnM’s by the bag even though he hates real MnM’s.

-He never really wanted to go to University, and the strictness of Camp Jupiter would’ve killed him, so he got a job at the lolly store Sally used to work at, but was fired when he let too many little kids shoplift.

-Now he’s working at a backpackers lodge instead, and he actually really likes meeting all the traveling people that come through, even though he knows it’s because of his dad. His relationship with Hermes is questionable, mainly because of Luke.

-He loved his brother but after the Titan war and all the shame put on their cabin he hated Luke with a passion, as did most of his siblings, even if they sort of did understand why he did it all anyway. Conner wouldn’t have joined the Titan Army, but he knows that if the majority of Camp Halfblood was to stage something like that again he probably would. He’s loyal to his siblings and friends, not the gods.

-Chris Rodriguez agrees on that part. They’ve talked about it a lot.

-Chris stayed over on the fold out couch enough for him to get a toothbrush in the bathroom and his favorite cereal in the pantry, which is weet-bix bites with honey and blueberries [if someone went to the shops for something other than pink monster energy drinks and grain waves]. He stills lives at Camp Half-blood with Clarrise most of the time and he’s going to University online but has to come in once or twice a week for tests and practical classes. He wanted to be a paramedic but he knew that would be too much stress on him and so would being a therapist.

-Chris is studying nursing and catches a ride with Pollux [who is studying to be a paramedic] sometimes.

-Then Pollux began staying over sometimes as well.

-And of course there were times when Clarrise would come into the city with her boyfriend to find late night underground fight clubs and visit Coach Hedge [he was the satyr that brought her to CHB].

-Six months pass and Conner’s apartment is a mini Camp Halfblood stop by.

-This is confirmed when Lou Ellen bursts in at three am with a hellhound on her heels and the app Malcom Pace had invented that directed demigods to nearby safe havens when they were in danger. She explained that his flat had come up and she needed to talk to Austin [who was sleeping on the couch] about how somebody from his cabin had stolen her voodoo doll of Will that they liked to tickle while he was stitching someone up in the Infirmary.

-He’s accepted it now but sometimes when a random kid shows up covered in blood he sends them to Sally’s apartment [she’s on the app as well]. There’s only so many blow up mattresses and showers long enough to scrub monster grit off a twenty something year old can afford.

-He gets promoted at the traveler’s lodge, and ends up sending a lot of demigods, nymphs, and satyrs there as well.

-Chris’s nursing skills help out a lot more than they were hoping.

-So does having Pollux the paramedic on speed dial.

-He pirates anything he watches, and his favorites are The Last Of Us and Ferris Bueller's day off. He is obligated to watch Cars at least once a week with Cecil, but his favorite Disney movie is The BFG [it used to be the Lion King but then Luke happened and it hit too far home].

-He also really liked watching The Hunger Games but then he realized what it reminded him of and now he steers clear.

-That, and the fact the Castor and Pollux trope is used.

-Conner hates musicals.

»»————-　★　————-««

#pjo fandom #pjo #heroes of olympus #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #Connor stoll #travis stoll #pjo headcanons #pjo minor characters #Conner stoll headcanons #the Stoll twins #hermes cabin

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rrat-king · 13 days ago

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WIP wednesday

...or close enough. was tagged by my beloved @whatisamildopinion (i am absolutely eating your birthday fics they are killing me dead actually) so here is a snippet of the next chapter of Church Clothes cuz i promise i have been working on it:

Kristen was painfully aware that they were in Jawbone’s old station wagon as Sandra Lynn pulled into the church parking lot, remembering too late the collection of bumper stickers that adorned the back of the car. The McDonalds were walking up behind the car, and she could see in the mirror as Debby McDonald spotted the “ride me like you ride my bumper” sticker she knew was pasted on the trunk door, pressing a hand over her face as Debby did the same to her son, ushering him into the church as she glared at the car.

“Lemme know if you need a ride?”

“Yeah, sure,” Kristen said as she got out of the car, needing Sandra Lynn to drive away immediately before one of the congregation called the cops for indecency. It had happened before, she didn’t need it happening again the first time she was back at church in years.

Thankfully, Sandra Lynn seemed to take the hint, only giving her a little nod and a pointed look before driving off, leaving Kristen outside the church in a too small dress and a deep ache of nostalgia she refused to confront.

It wasn’t so much a choice as it was habit as she walked into the church, tracing long worn paths through the doors of the sanctuary, eyes unfocused as she made her way into lobby, veering towards the left hand side near the stain glass portrayal of Helio strung up on his post, the glass of the corn a little too orange.

She used to joke with her brothers that it looked like a field of corn dogs, making them giggle and snicker and get them in trouble with the Sunday school teacher as she pressed her lips together, the picture of innocence.

It was where her family always stood before making their way to their usual spot in the front pews, chatting and making nice and showing off their precious chosen. It was where they stood as Kristen made her way towards the stained glass without a second thought, only realizing she was looking straight at them as Bucky bound towards her.

i will tag @wlwinry @allthecastlesonclouds and @luvo27 if y'all have anything y'all are working on you want to share <33

#tag game #wip wednesday #my writing

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waltwhitmansbeard · 1 year ago

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this is literally all i could think about on my drive to work today so i present to you

what cars would vox machina drive?

keyleth: you know she's a subaru girlie, olive green and dented (bc lbr keyleth would not be the best driver) and covered in just ALLLL the bumper stickers, for state parks and liberal politicians from like two decades ago and charities she doesn't even remember donating to (she has three different "who saved who?" bumper stickers and she doesn't know how she got any of them). there's a rattle that starts whenever she gets over 40 mph but she's choosing to ignore it.

percy: this is an old money bitch so you know he has a bunch of cars, mercedes and aston martins and bentleys, but i think his go-to is a brick of a rolls royce, dark gray bc black is too obvious

vax: an olllllllld black thunderbird that is absolutely falling apart, just a complete hazard to have on the roads, but vax pours any excess dollar he has into keeping the piece of shit running bc he loves it so much

vex: a sensible, clean honda civic sport (blue) that has every single bell and whistle offered but that she negotiated down to $10k below the sticker price. she will drive this thing into the fucking ground before she gets a new one. the back seat has a special protector/sling thing for trinket.

pike: just the most absolute unit of a gargantuan pick-up truck you can imagine. something that no self-respecting construction professional would even drive, just so fucking mammoth that the TIRES are taller than pike. she has special electric stairs that descend so she can get in. she has this because a) she is a monster and she deserves it and b)

grog failed his driver's test (both written and practical) six times before just giving up, so he just goes wherever pike goes

scanlan: a tricked-out cadillac he had specially painted the most gnarly shade of purple with sparkling gold rims and LED lights along the undercarriage that are linked to his illegal stereo that he is always bumping way too loud with the windows down. just a fucking pimpmobile of a vehicle. leather seats that you do NOT want to look at under a black light and special hidden compartments for the contraband he insists he has but absolutely does not.

tary: this twunk drives a gold porsche 911, and he hates giving his friends rides when they need one but when he does, he makes them take their shoes off. do NOT ask him for the aux, it is a waste of your time. he is an insanely reckless driver, and once he finally wrecks the porsche for good, he's shocked to learn how much they cost (this one was a gift), so vex drags him kicking and screaming to honda to get him a civic of his own (not as nice as hers bc without daddy's money he definitely can't afford it).

#me #critical role #tlovm #vox machina #is this relevant to the modern au i'm writing?#actually probably no but i am obsessed w all of these #cr cars

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aceistheplace86 · 5 months ago

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Strawberry & Pine pt 3

//Y'all don't understand how badly I just want to make everything heartbreaking sad but I have to do somethin called "groundwork" or whatever... You guys are safe for now.

How on earth did she know his name? His real name!

“Look lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stan said quickly “I’m Stanford. Stanford Pines. Mister Mystery. Always have been.”

Julie held out her hand “Show me your hand” When the man made no sudden movement she nodded “I knew it”

Stan’s eyebrows furrowed together “I don’t understand what's happening right now.”

Julie glanced around the mostly empty diner and then back at him “I knew something was odd when I started seeing your face on bumper stickers for the “Mystery Shack”… his face” She said quietly. “Look. I have lived here in Gravity Falls for a long time. I knew your brother. I helped him with his studies” She paused “I was there when he…” she trails off.

“I don’t know what scam you’re pullin’ but I’m outta here” He stood up and walked out of the dinner quickly. He got in his car and slammed the door shut. He started his car and looked in his rearview mirror, that’s when he saw her sitting in the back seat “What the-!” He screamed.

“Please let me explain” Julie spoke softly but hurriedly.

“How did you get in my car!”

Julie sighed and in a blur had disappeared, a streak of red light trailing behind her before reappearing in the passenger seat.

“Gah! Stop doing that!’ Stan yelps.

“I am one of the many anomalies that lives in Gravity Falls” She starts “I ran into your brother, Ford, one day in the forest. He almost got himself killed by a creature he was unprepared for” She gathered her curly hair and pulled it into a ponytail feeling a bit overwhelmed with it in her face. “I taught him about some of the creatures here, how to stay safe. Even made him a contraption that he could use to keep the powers of the stronger creature at bay. I taught him about myself”

Stan just stared at her confused “What are you exactly”

“To put it simply, a witch,” she tells him

“Why are you here? What do you want from me?”

Julie opened her mouth and then stopped for a moment. “I thought you were him” She whispers softly. “I thought he came back, I thought he was okay” She looked out the window “So I went to the Mystery Shack and saw how different it looked. I tried to keep a positive mind until I saw you, shook your hand”

Stan looks down at his hand and sighs softly “Sorry to disappoint.” He mumbled.

“There is no disappointment Stanley,” She tells him “At least not because of who you are. I figured you were the only other one who could understand something like this.”

He looked up at her and gave her a weary smile “So you knew my brother then huh?”

Julie nodded “Brilliant guy. But so hard on himself” She mumbled.

Stan just nodded “So you were there that night when I… when he…” He couldn’t find it in himself to say the words about the portal.

“I was there before that” She starts

“Wait. Before? Well, why didn’t you try and stop him before he even made the damned thing!”

“I did!” She looks at him “I tried to bring him back down to reality, but he was too far gone” She rolled her shoulders back and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “We got in a fight. He didn’t trust me” she tells him. “He used my own contraption against me. I was powerless” She recalled the memory. “I freed myself with tools while he was distracted and teleported out of there. I needed to regain strength before I faced him again” She looked down at her hands “I wanted to have a plan on how to help him… But I was too late”

He watches her, remembering how scared his brother had been that day he had finally been reunited. “Why didn’t you come to see me earlier?”

“I left Gravity Falls in search of a solution to bring him back,” She says “I know he wrote everything in those journals but I was under the impression that he had gotten rid of them.”

“Yeah,” Stan mumbled. “It ain’t an easy fix”

Julie looks up at him “But, I think I can help”

#gravity falls #gravity falls stanley #grunkle stan #stanley pines #dipper pines #gravity falls fandom #gravity falls fanfiction #mabel pines #stanford pines #great uncle ford #ford pines #gravity falls ford

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gatheringfiki · 1 month ago

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The following ficlet was written by @metztlilua based on this photoset.

Britchell, T

You might also be able to read this story on AO3.

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a comment either in replies or on AO3.

Sparks in the Night

—

Anders huffs annoyed, shoving his suitcase harder than he needs to into the trunk of the ridiculous rental car he was given. It looked like something the dumb bimbos he often accompanied himself with would drive; barely a keychain of a car, cherry red and tiny that might as well could have had a “babe on board” bumper sticker; it was apparently the only vehicle left after the rental screwed up his request for an actual car and gave it to somebody else. Of course, that was just his luck; forced away to work in Bristol by Dawn to get back the clients he lost after Norway, stuck in a clown car in a snowy cold town and almost an hour late to his meeting with the actual hospital director.

He gets into the vehicle and slams the door, making the little wooden ornament hanging from the rear view mirror swing left and right then promptly come off of the little string and bonk him in the head

“Fucking great” he mutters to no one in particular, setting up his GPS for the hospital, then calling Dawn to let her know he’s arrived; his barely warm breath fogging up the inside of the small vehicle, snow falling outside, it’s frost adorning the sides of the windshield as Anders pulls out of the airport parking lot.

The dial tones finally end and before Dawn can even answer the blonde yells into the air

“I’m freezing my balls off, Dawn!”

“Hello, Anders….” She mutters annoyed; like regretting ever approaching his office when he posted that -help wanted- sign “how was your flight? Have you talked to the hospital director?”

The silence spreads thru the vehicle as Anders drives away from the parking lot, the landscape gray and ominous

“Anders?” Pushes Dawn

“Flight was fine, I… might be a little late”

There’s a sigh coming out of the other end of the phone but then nothing else; it’s almost as scary as the long line of frosted over trees and open fields, adorned with small houses every few miles “please don’t fuck this up for us, Anders. I don’t care how little you wanna do it, we need the money.”

She hangs up almost immediately after that; Anders pouts and sighs all the way to the hospital, he didn’t get to ask about his fish which was his main concern every time he travelled but the worst part of it all was having to plan a freaking Christmas charity; for a town in the middle of nowhere, England.

The assignment was less than exciting, the location unfortunate and the timing absolutely dreadful; the only good thing out of it, of course was the pay (almost three quarters of what he usually charges but good enough), after his business going almost broke since no one was taking care of it with Agnetha turned to a tree, he sent Dawn looking for clients and Bristol christmas-y charity was the first thing to pop up, it was easy and short enough, that’s how he ended up driving the almost empty road, freezing to death, Bragi rumbling at the back of his head making him far more alert than he maybe should be.

By the time he reaches the edge of Bristol where the hospital is, the sky is already darkening, casting long shadows over the streets and snow-dusted rooftops. The car’s heater finally warmed up, but Anders still felt chilled to the core as he rolled down the parking lot, glancing at the overly decorated outside of the building. It´s… charming, he supposes, in the way a child’s art is charming. But charm didn’t pay the bills, and it certainly didn’t make for a viral marketing campaign. He sighs getting ready to Bragi whoever he left hanging to take them back as clients after arriving two hours late to his meeting, giving himself a small pep talk in the mirror “you used to take cases like this fresh out of college, you got this”

He exits the vehicle with his jacket im one arm and a briefcase filled with essential paperwork on the other, promptly knocking the wind (and the drinks) out of what he figures is a male nurse he failed to see in the rearview mirror with the briefcase

“Ow!” He complains, holding his side where the edge of the case hit him, then peeling his soaked up shirt away from his body with the tip of his fingers

“Fuck, I’m so sorry!” Anders mumbles, looking up at the man, tan skin, glossy black curly hair down to his shoulders, squared sunglasses (at almost 6pm) and a cigarette trapped still between his lips “I…didn’t see you for some reason I usually…”

“It’s fine” he interrupts, putting a fingerless glove up to his face, then taking off his glasses and hanging them at the hem of his scrubs; offering up a shiny, dimpled smile that takes his breath away “happens more than you’d think”

and then a cheeky little wink before he’s off inside the hospital

“very aware of my surroundings…” he finishes his phrase for no one in particular, absolutely mesmerized by chocolate eyes before shaking his head and walking past the hospital door himself, pushing past a few people and into the nurses desk at the main office

“Hello I have an appointment with a…” Anders trails off, rifling through the pocket of his jacket for the crumpled note he’d scribbled the name on earlier. The receptionist raises an eyebrow, tired from a full day shift and not ready to take any crap

“Well? We’re all ears,” she says, gesturing to the empty waiting area.

He finds the note and smooths it out against his thigh. “Right, uh, Helena Rowe. She’s expecting me.”

The receptionist’s lips press into a thin line as her fingers fly across the keyboard. Her expression changes to annoyed as she glances at the screen. “You’re almost two hours late. She’s probably not expecting you anymore.”

Anders winces. “Look, I can explain, traffic was…”

“Not my problem,” she interrupts, folding her arms over her chest like she’s activating a gate of sorts. “Helena doesn’t like people wasting her time but you’re welcome to reschedule.”

He tightens his grip on his briefcase, weighing his options. Then, with a measured breath, he leans forward slightly placing his elbows on the desk to speak to the woman, his voice softening into something familiar to a lullaby

“I understand how inconvenient this is,” he begins, his words weaving an unseen thread into the air “But she is is expecting me, and it’s imperative that I see her tonight. I wouldn’t have made the journey otherwise. Surely, you can understand the importance of this meeting. So what you’re gonna do right now is tell her I’m here and let me through.”

The receptionist blinks, her frown faltering as if she’s struggling to remember why she was annoyed in the first place. Her gaze softens, and she sighs, her fingers tapping the desk.

“Yes,” she relents, sounding almost confused at her own response. “East wing. Take a left. Helena’s office is at the end of the hall.”

“Thank you, doll” Anders says smoothly, straightening.

As he turns to leave, a familiar voice, an Irish one, interrupts his walking away

“Never seen anyone change her mind before,” Mitchell says, leaning against the wall near the desk, arms crossed and wearing a mischievous little grin.

“God!” Anders starts, caught off guard by his sudden presence, not sure why can´t he OR bragi feel him “It’s you”

“Well I’m back for round two! I am ready this time so don’t think you’ll beat me that easy” he quips, chuckling as Anders’ cheeks flush bright red. “I mean it, tho…That was impressive. She usually guards Helena like a rabid dog.”

Anders shrugs, trying to play it off. “It’s all in the delivery.”

“Sure it is,” Mitchell says, his tone teasing as he adjusts the sunglasses perched atop his head. “Well, good luck there. she’s not exactly easy to charm.”

Anders tilts his head, narrowing his eyes slightly. “And how would you know?”

The black haired man smirks. “We go way back. Just don’t let her see you flinch, or she’ll eat you alive.”

Before he can respond, he turns and strolls down the hall, Mop in hand (so not a nurse? Anders doesn’t really know what they do) Shaking his head, the blond steels himself, adjusts his briefcase, and pushes open the door to Helena’s office; no one who’s met him after the age of twenty one has “seen him flinch” and he’s not about to let it happen. As he steps inside, he’s ready to tire Bragi and eat this woman’s ear off, but it doesn’t quite get to that point. Since the hospital is desperate for media coverage for its charity. Helena’s gaze softens as she regards him, her posture relaxed in a way that betrays her usual authority.

“There’s usually a man in the staff who helps me organize the charity events,” she begins, her tone direct but thoughtful. “We love the local charm, we do, but honestly, we need more. We want something bigger, something more professional to really bring attention to the cause. Dawn? Is her name? She really made it sound like”you” kind of a job!”

Anders makes a mental note to scold her for bringing him into such a stupid little thing as Helena continues

“I appreciate Mitchell of course! But I suppose it’s about time we bring in someone who knows how to get the job done.” She pauses “I hope you two get along…”

And with that she lets him off the hook for the day; suggests he get some rest and then come back the next morning to start setting up the job.

The next day comes, and Anders shows up actually on time, refreshed and still freezing but armed with a trusty (and admittedly little dusty from not taking jobs like this in a long time) binder. Inside are meticulously designed packages with different approaches to charity events, all of them proven winners (he’s done them before, thank you.).

When he pushes open the door to the conference room, two coffees in hand to play the caring guy card, Helena is already seated, obsessively checking her watch, but it’s not her that catches his attention.

It’s Mitchell

Leaning casually against the chair instead of sitting on it like a normal person, somehow managing to pull off GREEN fingerless gloves that drive anders INSANE. There is no sight of the mop but the faint scent of cigarette smoke still lingers, as does the confident tilt of his jaw. The white sleeves under his scrubs are rolled up, revealing muscled forearms Anders absolutely refuses to notice, and he’s chewing gum with just enough indifference to be infuriating.

For a beat, Anders falters. It’s barely perceptible, a stutter in the rhythm of his steps, but to him, it feels like tripping over his own ego. He recovers quickly, plastering on a neutral expression, but his thoughts churn. Why is he here? What does he even do? Why is he so fucking hot?

Mitchell catches his eye and smirks, a knowing, insufferable little thing that makes Anders want to throw his binder at him and simultaneously fix his tie.

Clearing his throat, Anders strides to the head of the table, offering the coffee in one hand to Helena with a charming smile. Then he sets his binder down with an audible thud, flipping it open with practiced flair to shove the distraction aside. He tries to make it past but Mitchell´s cherry, admittedly annoying presence burns inside his brain and he can’t resist. Gesturing vaguely in his direction “This room seems pretty clean to me, mop boy. Are you sure you’re in the right meeting?”

Mitchell’s smirk deepens, unbothered by the comment. “Well I am a multitasker,” he says smoothly, popping his gum and sitting down as if he owns the room.

“play nice, Mitchell” comes Helena´s retort and the blond finally understands his presence in the room, blinking and admittedly thrown for half a second by the sheer audacity. he continues on

“Right. Well.” He takes a breath, shaking it off and launching into his pitch. “Let’s talk about strategy. We need this event to be newsworthy so here are some options.”

He takes a sip before continuing, noticing she doesn’t grab the cup, pushing it slightly away from her instead

“Option one: an exclusive masquerade gala, we do fireworks and a local celebrity endorsement. Option two: a community carnival, elevated to festival status and interactive performances. And, if you’re feeling bold…” He flips to the last section with a mischievous grin. “Option three: the Sexiest Nurse Pageant or Date with Your Doctor Auction. Guaranteed to pack a house, I´ve seen the staff and you guys have material.”

Helena lifts a brow, amused by the idea and the commentary on her staff. Mitchell on the other hand? Not so much.

“This is a charity event, not some trashy reality show,” He says, arms crossed and eyes narrowing.

Anders smirks to avoid rolling his eyes back to his skull, leaning forward and turning on Bragi just to get the interruption over with. “What’s the point of charity if no one’s there to throw money at it? We’re trying to make waves here.”

Mitchell doesn’t budge. Its startling to say the least

“We’re trying to celebrate the community. Not humiliate it. This should be about the people who live here, who make this hospital what it is, not about putting on some over-the-top spectacle.”

Anders exhales, closing his binder with a definitive snap. Not wanting to make a scene, he folds “Fine. What’s your big idea, then? A bake sale? a craft table?”

“Actually,” Mitchell says, stepping forward “I don’t even understand why we need you here; you don’t belong in Bristol, you don’t know the people and it doesn’t seem like you care either. So why don’t you step back, hire your camera man and let us do this charity the way it always has been done

Anders rolls his eyes. “Oh yeah like that’s going viral.”

“That’s not the point,” Mitchell counters smoothly. “This festival is for them, not your Instagram feed.”

Before Anders can retort, Helena steps in, her sharp tone cutting through the tension.

“Enough of this, I have no time for you guys to fight each other on everything. We want modern so we can´t do things the same way we always have” Anders throws a smirk in the other man´s direction, being met by an eyeroll as Helena continues “ but Mitchell is right, this event is for our community we want it to be simple. I need you two to be working together. Ok?”

The smile on his face wipes away immediately, Mitchell smiles at him the same way he had except he´s smug and dimpled, a thing that only adds to Anders’ irritation.

“Look I have another meeting, please Micthell, show Anders the space for the event and get back to me with your plan alright?” She doesn’t wait for a response before leaving, the (kind of overpriced) cup of coffee abandoned in the middle of the table. He exhales desperately, letting himself fall back into the chair, his frustration visible staring daggers into the man, of course, he is unfazed, still wearing that stupidly goofy grin.

“you now…” he pauses swiftly walking closer to the table, taking the coffee cup in his hand “if you want to win Helena over you´ll have to do better than coffee, she hates it”

“Me on the other hand” he continues on, lifting the cup with a teasing grin, “I’m a sucker for a good overpriced brew. This one is burnt, tragic really” He sniffs the lid dramatically, effectively reading his mind before wrinkling his nose. “I´m still taking it, you knocked mine over yesterday”

Anders groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know, I didn’t come here to talk coffee with someone whose job description I still haven’t figured out.”

Mitchell leans casually against the table, his un-gloved fingers tapping lightly on the surface. Closer to Anders

“I already told you I multitask,” he says again, that infuriating smirk firmly in place. “Today tho. I’m more of a tour guide, we get to spend the whole day together. Lucky you.”

“Lucky isn’t the word I’d use.” He mumbles, narrowing his eyes. Bragi grumbles uncomfortably on the back of his head when a flash of a longer than normal canine tooth in Mitchell´s smile catches his eye.

“Oh, don’t worry. I´ll make sure you think you´re lucky by the end of today with my…” He trails off, deliberately leaving the thought unfinished, taking another sip of the coffee. The room seems quieter suddenly, the tension shifting as Mitchell meets blue eyes. There’s a flicker of mischief in those chocolate-brown depths, and it’s maddening.

Anders straightens in his seat, clasping his hands together atop the binder, ignoring the undeniable nervousness he feels around him then stands up abruptly, heading toward the door “lets just go I don’t have all day”

The lower level of the hospital holds a “convention” space, like a multipurpose room designed mainly for doctors to give lectures (it IS a teaching hospital after all), but it also hosts conferences, and conducts specialized training sessions. On paper, it sounds perfect for a charity gala; it’s spacious enough for a crowd and equipped with the necessary amenities. But the moment Anders steps inside, he feels real dismay.

It’s functional, no doubt about that, like any room inside a hospital should be but that’s exactly the problem. The walls are a dull beige color that Anders fears USED to be white, radiating all the charm of one of those long hospital rooms that are seen in war movies, and the faint scent of rubbing alcohol still lingers, like the ghosts of medical seminars past. The tables, stacked neatly to one side, are plain and honestly kind of flimsy. The gray-speckled carpet somehow sucks the entire life of the room. Anders didn’t even KNOW carpets could do such a thing

“It’s… a choice,” Anders says after a moment, setting his binder down on one of the folding tables. Hearing an annoyed huff come out of mitchell, he slaps himself mentally for not choosing his words more carefully, he’ll dwell on WHY does he care so much about mitchells feeling later “It’s… fitting, I guess”

“Fitting for a hospital,” Mitchell mumbles from the doorway, arms crossed, as he stares at his own fingernails. “It’s almost like they designed it that way.”

Anders ignores him, walking further into the room. “There’s potential here, I suppose. But the space feels… wrong. It’s cramped, clinical, and serious in all the wrong ways. This is supposed to be a gala, not a symposium on heart disease.”

Mitchell smirks.Sligtly amused by the way the blond talks and has walked into the middle of the room spinning in little circles around himself, like he’s trying to find something “Well, I hate to break it to you, but this is a hospital.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me,” Anders mutters, picturing the absolute horror it will be to hang anything from the high ceilings of the pleace “This place doesn’t inspire anything for me”

“What about gratitude for functioning kidneys or…blood inside your veins,” Mitchell offers, shrugging. “I mean, it’s a hospital, man. You’re not exactly working with a five-star venue here.”

Anders sighs, pacing toward one of the windows as Mitchell’s voice fades into background noise. His eyes wandering to the scene outside; a family gathered on the back patio, talking quietly, probably about a patient inside. The man in the middle, tall and broad-shouldered, catches Anders’s attention. He has the same sandy-brown hair as Mike.

The thought sends a shiver down his spine.

He doesn’t need to remember Mikkel at this specific moment. Or ever, Not him, not the rest of them either and something about seeing that other guy, standing there so calmly, smiling softly to a blonde girl, gnaws at him. For a second, he’s back in that familiar, uncomfortable place, his chest tight with resentment and unease.

Mitchell’s voice breaks through Anders’s thoughts. “You´re not planning to jump out the window are you?.”

“The patio” he says, pointing out the window, shaking off the feeling . “It ’s perfect.”

“Perfect for what ? A coffee break?” Mitchell walks over, closer to Anders, he can feel the accelerated palpitations of the blond´s heart but he opts for letting it go, leaning just enough to glance outside. His expression shifts, but only for a moment, before he schools it back into his usual smirk.

“For the gala,” Anders replies, his tone unwaveringly annoyed, but already pulling out his phone to make notes, like Mitchell’s skepticism is merely background noise to him. “It’s charming, it’s intimate, and with a little effort, it could be transformed into something amazing. String lights, elegant seating, maybe even some heaters for the weather, it’s exactly the kind of space that draws people in and makes them feel something.”

“It’s a bad idea, Anders, families use that space to get away from everything. So does the staff.” Mitchell exhales, shaking his head, trying to pull Anders´ attention to anything other than that spot HIS spot “It’s really not s…”

He cuts himself off, glancing out the window again. It’s his favorite spot in the hospital, probably the only place where he can come out and relax. Sometimes, when he feels like he will fail miserably and go back to drinking blood, to Herrick, he goes out there and breathes in the faint earthy smell. There’s something grounding about it, about the way the white flowers bloom against the cobblestone, even when everything else feels sterile and heavy. Two big trees frame the entrance and they´re foliage changes with the stations, their shadow allows Mitchell to be outside without sunglasses and he doesn’t understand WHY of all the places, has Anders chosen that one.

The blond ignores his ramble, Mitchell writes on his mind notes that that´s one of his abilities as they approach the window, standing closely to each other, far closer than it’s probably acceptable, Anders´heart has calmed down now and he glances out the window, lifting up his fingers in an L shape like he’s trying to measure out the space, writing down notes on his phone with the faintest smile that Mitchell makes sure to remember the look off, because who knows when he’ll see it again.

“Helena’s not gonna go for it.” He mumbles, not wanting to break the spell, swallowing hard when sea blue eyes look up at him, a twinkle worthy of actual christmas lights on them, paired with a sly little smirk

“Yeah she will” And with that he´s off for the day, immediately placing a call to whoever “Dawn” is, asking her about a place that ‘sells boho shit’ in Bristol “She just doesn’t know it yet!”

Helena effectively accepts the Patio idea when it’s pitched to her. Anders smiles warmly at her, leaning close to her chair in an almost suggestive manner, telling her how she´s “the heart of the hospital” and how lovely her smile is, how bright her eyes shine and how the hospital needs a place that conveys that sort of beauty but translated to a place. She’s down immediately after that, purring after Anders

It doesn’t make Mitchell jealous at all, whatever dreaded ball of lead forms in his stomach, breathing hot fire up to his unbeating heart it’s probably related to something else.

With the “all clear” from her, the blond gets to working almost immediately, the christmas charity gala is only two days away, the camera crew, accompanied by a small production team has been called to televise the event, and the decorations are already ordered and placed neatly into rows at the conference room, like Anders knew he’d get to do whatever he wanted all along. There isn’t time to complain when the patio needs to be sweeped and measured for the chair arrangement to happen. This task is left for Mitchell and George to do, after all, as much as they like to pretend they aren’t, they’re still the cleaning staff.

George is the first to complain when they have to haul boxes and sweep floors for an entire afternoon, he groans and moans and as they finish stacking boxes of decorations to put up the next day. The annoyance, tho doesn’t stop him from probing at his dense and unbelievably obvious best friend. “So, the patio, huh? Big win for Mr. Showtime.”

The vampire shrugs, keeping his attention on a stubborn patch of dirt near the cobblestone archway. “It’s fine… I suppose it IS better than that conference room.”

George smirks, leaning casually against the wall. “Fine? You’ve been defending this place like it’s your own house. Didn’t think you’d give it up so easily for a pair of blue eyes.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mitchell freezes for maybe half a second. Staring at George like he’s been discovered eating his things from the pantry again.

“Sure you don’t,” the brown haired man says, his grin widening. “I’m just saying, you can call him ‘interesting’ all you want, but I know you”

“You’re reading into things.” He exhales sharply, his grip tightening on the broom he has stopped using

“Am I?” The younger man asks innocently, tilting his head toward the patio entrance; enjoying not being the nervous, jumpy one that doesn’t know what to do with themselves around a love interest

Mitchell glances up just as Anders strides through the archway, one of those ridiculous clipboards in hand. His tie is slightly loosened, letting a peak of his neck show, specks of sweat forming after running around all day, his hair is tousled and pushed back and he looks tired but his focus is sharp as he enters the patio, mumbling something about chairs. Mitchell quickly looks back down, finally remembering he was actually sweeping.

“Hey! Showtime!” George calls him over with a low chuckle, brushing off Mitchell’s betrayed looking face before stepping aside to watch; swiftly (and probably too opportunistically, slipping away to have a good rest at the employees lounge).

Anders spots them, his gaze settling on Mitchell. “Oh, look. You´re ALSO broom boy!” he mumbles, setting his clipboard on a nearby chair.

“Ha!” Mitchell laughs dryly, half hoping for a jab that never comes “You´re back here for an inspection?”.

Anders smirks. Without another word, he places his phone and jacket on a chair, grabs the nearest broom, and starts sweeping with surprising efficiency. One would think you don’t need much to sweep correctly but the

Mitchell glances sideways at Anders, watching him sweep. “Didn’t think this was your thing,” he says carefully.

Anders glances back, arching an eyebrow. “What, you think you’re the only one who knows how to do this, mop boy? I wasn’t always a PR guy, you know.”

Mitchell blinks in mild surprise, caught off guard by the easy confidence in Anders’ tone; standing still for a few seconds with the broom still in hand; Anders huffs a laugh but doesn’t say anything else. Instead they work in comfortable silence until the patio is done, a few hours later, definitely later than Mitchell’s usual clock out hour

It’s about dinner time when they call it a day; the floor has been swept, the chairs have been unfolded and placed like Anders measured them out. Lastly they set up a quick mock up of the “stage”, where Anders will thank visitors from coming and encourage them to share stories of them and the hospital, he will have Helena talk and as much as he tried to have Mitchell do it, he refused adamantly, stating cameras make him nervous anyway.

The night is settling in and a soft breeze hits Anders in the face; the smell of coffee and something savory from the shop next door wafting into his nostrils and making his tummy grumble

“Ugh. I’m starving” he mumbles, half annoyed and half glad that they’re done “let’s call it a night and get something to eat?”

The offer is casual but carried with what Mitchell can only describe as pure suggestiveness. It’s cute

“Sure!” He takes the measuring tape from Anders’s outstretched hand and throws it somewhere in the garden; they’ll find it tomorrow. They walk to the lounge where Mitchell changes back into tight black jeans and an off white Bill Haley & His Comets (old and stretched out, like it belongs in the past half century )T -shirt, a red wool sweater Annie gave him before leaving hanging in his arm.

The second they step out of the hospital, the chill in the air cuts right through Anders’s thin dress shirt, cursing himself for forgetting to wear a jacket even tho it’s winter in Bristol as he folds his arms tightly over his chest. Mitchell chuckles at his demise, immediately pausing mid-step to hold out the sweater anyway.

“Here.”

The younger man arches a brow, glancing skeptically at the sweater. It looks…. Home-y, friendly and cozy. Like all the things he’s not “Won’t you freeze to death?”

Mitchell shrugs, almost letting out an honest to god laugh ‘to death’ is not a possibility for him of course. He shakes his head no anyway, his tone easy when he pushes the sweater to Anders´s face and says “Nah, I’m never cold anyway.”

The blond stares at him, puzzled as he reluctantly takes the sweater, pulling it on over his button up. It’s warmer than he expected, soft and it smells like cedar and cigarette smoke, very distinctly Mitchell. He tries not to dwell on it as they continue walking past and out of the mostly empty parking lot. Anders heads to the right, instinctively, looking for the savory smell he’d caught earlier, but Mitchell grabs his elbow.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Why? What’s wrong with that place? It smells fine!“ he groans dramatically

The vampire chuckles, shaking his head as he keeps walking in the other direction, gently pulling at Anders´ folded arm to tuck it under his "Just trust me, Showtime. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

Before Anders can object, Mitchell is already steering him toward a narrow side street, taking him to a small, tucked-away pizza joint he’s probably walked past a dozen times without noticing it. Inside, the staff greets Mitchell like an old friend,one of the waitresses calls out his usual order.

The pizza is, as promised, phenomenal, better than anything Ander´s has eaten in the two days and a half he’s been in Bristol. The conversation flows easily from the gala, to what exactly is Mitchell´s actual job and some of the things that have happened before in the gala, like the time they all light sparklers with the kids in the hospital, mitchell calls it his favorite day in a long time which calls for Anders´attention but he ignores it for the moment being, swiftly reciprocating the candid moment by sharing his own story that Anders has never told anyone before, confessing he used to be a broom boy himself, sweeping floors and washing dishes at a small restaurant near campus to help pay for his tuition.

“I can’t count the times I almost fell asleep on my feet, covered in grease and scrubbing pans like my life depended on it!” he says, shaking his head with a faint, self-deprecating laugh. Mitchell listens, leaning back with an amused smirk. He really is filled with surprises; and like this, with whatever power he pretends not to have over people tucked away, Mitchell realizes just how human Anders is; how lonely he seems.

When they leave, the warmth of the restaurant fades into the brisk night air, tho Aders is definitely not cold anymore. Mitchell, hands stuffed into his pockets, as they walks back to the little rental car “hey a lady with a car like yours needs someone to walk with her at night. It’s dangerous “"oh! And what would you do to protect me? Mop the floor under the attacker so they slip?” Mitchell hasn’t laughed quite like that in a while and when they’re right at the vehicle door he can’t help but to ask

“Hey, Anders?” his voice unusually quiet. “Why the patio?”

“I don’t know. It just… feels special. Like it means something. I can’t explain it.” He hesitates, his hand brushing against the door handle before he answers.

The black haired man hums softly, his gaze drifting toward the stars. “Must be a talent of yours,” he mumbles, there’s a flicker of something in his voice but Mitchell doesn’t let the moment linger. Instead, he opens the car door for Anders himself; their fingers brushing lightly as he takes the handle and opens the door in a dramatic move “your chariot m’lady”

Letting the younger slip past him and into the driver’s seat, his sweater still on him and an undeniably bright blush on his cheeks “Don’t let it go to your head, Showtime.”

The next day; the last before the actual Gala, the vessel should not HAVE to go to the hospital at all, the physical arrangements are made, the crew is called and the rest of the events have been planned for the day of the gala, so all that is left is hanging the lights and decorations up. The blond is no electrician and neither is he a fan of having to step on ladders so he’s got no reason to really show up, still. He does.

Helena is out for the day so he has no excuse to plant himself in the conference room all day; the truth is something pulls at him to GO, even if he´s admittedly lonely and feeling stupid the second he walks thru the door; mindlessly roaming the halls until it finally hits him

he’s looking for Mitchell. It’s only when he finally spots him, holding up a terribly made paper snowflake and that ridiculous grin, carefree laugh that harmonizes with George´s and some of the nurses as they try to hang streamers. One hand balances a cup of coffee from the place he bought last time, the other gestures exaggeratedly to accompany a story Anders can’t hear. He looks so relaxed, so natural.

Anders watches as Mitchell holds up one of the mangled snowflakes he’s made with the instructions the nurses gave him, turning it this way and that with an almost comically serious expression. “It’s not broken; it’s avant-garde,” He declares, placing it on the table. “Mitchell,” George says, with a deadpan. “You don’t even know what ‘avant-garde’ means.”

A few steps away, Anders watches the scene unfold with an inexplicable mix of irritation and…fondness. It’s infuriating how Mitchell can be such a mess and still make it work. He doesn’t just work in the hospital, he belongs there.

Of course he can’t just stand there waiting for the vampire to acknowledge him; or god forbid catch him staring, so as much as it for some reason pains the blond, he walks away, lingering around the pediatric ward where the wifi is the best and the nurses (young nurses with bright smiles and perky…well everything) are all kind to him and wearing several shades of pink and baby blue.

Anders dares to think he might make it an hour without thinking about the other man when he’s inevitable there again; as he turns a corner on the cancer ward. He’s using his mop as a crotch to lean on his right knee and left foot; hands busy tying a little girl´s shoelaces, her teddy bear clenched tightly in her arms as they chat, Mitchell ignores his task like she’s the most important person in the room. Her giggles ring through the hallway, and when the black haired man glances over his shoulder, Anders barely manages to hide behind the corner, its so simple, and unassuming, and annoyingly sweet.

The next time he sees him; Anders pauses just outside a quiet hallway, his curiosity piqued by the sound ofwhat he can now recognize is Mitchell’s voice (which he somehow KNOWS from the rest of the voices he´s heard)) low and conspiratorial. He peers around the corner to see the man standing beside George, who looks like he’d rather sink into the floor than be standing there, clutching a mop as if it’s a lifeline.

“…So you just go up and say, ‘Hi, Nina! You’ve been working hard all day. Can I grab you a coffee?’” Mitchell suggests, miming the easy confidence of someone who has never been rejected in his life.

George sputters, his face turning an impressive shade of red. “I-I can’t just—she’s a doctor, Mitch! She doesn’t have time for coffee, and even if she did—”

Mitchell pats him on the shoulder, grinning. “Trust me, women love it when a guy notices they’re working hard. Go on, say it with me… ‘Can I grab you a coffee?’ ”

George mumbles something incomprehensible.

“Confidence!” he prods, nudging him toward Nina, the woman smiling tiredly as she reads charts from her patients.

“Stop it!” George hisses, digging his heels in, but Anders watches as Mitchell doesn’t relent, grinning ear to ear.

“C’mon, man. You’ve got this. Worst-case scenario? She says no, and you’re stuck with coffee you can bring to me instead PLUS, you pulled that shit with Anders yesterday.” The mention of his name makes him snort quietly, shaking his head as he walks on and away from there. It’s ridiculous, sure, but there’s something undeniably charming about the way Mitchell tries to push George out of his shell, and maybe, he loves the idea of Mitchell being just as nervous as George was to talk to him.

It takes half a day at most, yet he sees it clearly as ever, Mitchell and his stupid gloves and his cigarette smoke and his sunglasses inside. they all belong in Bristol, next to George, in the middle of the nurses. It’s infuriating, how effortless it all seems for him. How he fits in everywhere in a way Anders never has

The thought digs deep, sharper than the vessel expects, twisting his heart painfully..

He’s spent years trying to find that feeling, pouring himself into his work, into his family, into looking for the frigg and then Yggdrasil, chasing success, blending into every background he’s lived in but it’s never clicked. No matter how much he tried, he always felt like a guest. Watching Mitchell now, he feels a pang of something unfamiliar, something uncomfortable and dirty.

Jealousy.

He takes a deep breath, turning in his heels toward the employees lounge; almost not being able to stop the need to run out of there. The least thing he wants it´s to start feeling weird around the older man, yet, there’s something about it that makes Anders feel…oddly at ease. For once, the thought doesn’t immediately bite. The sense of belonging in Bristol and the closeness of its people feels almost tangible, even if it’s admittedly not his. Not yet.

As he pours himself a cup of coffee, all he can think about is how Mitchell makes him feel so stupidly out of place.

And for some reason, stupidly at home. Glancing out the freshly clean window, he sees himself reflected, then his eyes drift toward the patio where staff is hanging up the lights. He makes a mental note to tell them to find those paper snowflakes that the hospital staff has made to hang them up too.

“Don’t think too hard, Showtime. You might start to like it here.”

The voice, Irish and smug, snaps Anders out of his thoughts. He turns sharply, only to find the black haired man leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, one bushy eyebrow raised

Anders rolls his eyes, masking the fact that he hadn’t even noticed Mitchell approach (or seen his reflection in the window) “Not a chance, mop boy”

“you seem to come back a lot,tho… ” Mitchell says, the teasing lilt in his voice unmistakable.

the blond scoffs, turning back to the coffee to avoid the knowing look he’s sure is on Mitchell’s face. “I was just returning your sweater,” he says, tugging at the hem of the red wool sweater he’s been wearing since yesterday. “You wouldn’t catch me dead wearing one of these”

Mitchell steps closer, leaning against the counter beside him, his grin as lazy as ever. “Keep it,” he says easily, the words tinged with something almost fond. “It looks better on you anyway.”

Anders freezes for half a second, a small hitch in his breath that he prays Mitchell doesn’t notice. Its a second at most, yet Anders starts to believe the words he said to him the night prior

“Must be a talent of yours”

The night of the festival comes; the place hums with actual energy for the first time since Anders set foot in it. The guests (all varying from families taking a break from visiting their loved ones, to possible investors the blond insisted on bringing so they could expand the pediatrics lounge, which both Helena and mitchell found uncharacteristic but decided not to comment on) arrive in a steady flow and are greeted by Anders, then Helena and then a few of the “star” doctors in the staff. Anders excuses himself to go check on the event itself; clutching his clipboard in one hand, coordinating the employees and cameraman with the other. The media crew he hired moves with ease through the crowd, cameras rolling left and right to capture the essence of the event, lingering on the main event, the hospital staff (or most of them, anyway.) Anders glances at his checklist and frowns.

“Where the hell is Mitchell?” he asks George, mutedly, annoyance creeping up his spine

“Probably inside the hospital, fighting with a vending machine or something just as ridiculously ‘Mitchell’.” He snorts while straightening his tie.

“Of course he is.” Anders rolls his eyes, muttering across the room to ‘get the locals in the shot’

“He’s probably still trying to figure out how to put on his tie” George adds with a smirk when he notices Anders genuine annoyance with his heightened sense of smell; there’s something about the blond that isn’t completely normal but George isn’t sure WHAT. The only thing he knows is its not evil, and also he can smell the pheromones wafting from him when he mentions the idea of the vampire on a tux, gross “I don’t think he’s ever worn one in his life”

The image of Mitchell, mister, yesterday’s poorly washed and wrinkled scrubs and disgusting fingerless gloves wearing an honest to god, form fitting, black tux feels strangely out of place. He definitely doesn’t seem like the tuxedo type, but the thought is…intriguing.

“I’ll send someone to find him, you guys are the only ones left to get a picture”

George shakes his head in his nervous nature, quick to try and discourage the blonds overpowering personality. “Nah, don’t bother. He’ll show up when he shows up. And while we’re at it, maybe skip the pictures of us cleaning staff types, yeah?”

“What? why? It’s supposed to be a ‘meet the team’ kind of thing, you´re part of the team aren’t you?” Anders points at him with the clipboard as he speaks, the tone in his voice is playful, yet there’s a small menace lingering. The phrase not something he thought he´d ever heard from someone who constantly called Mitchell a “mop-boy” but he couldn’t smell anything in anders that betrayed he was lying

“Just doesn’t seem right, does it? This is your big fancy gala. Nobody cares about a couple of guys with mops.” George looks uncomfortable for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck, he tries to get Anders to understand. There’s something off about the way it all sounds, but he has no time to worry about that, he lets himself believe it’s his own guilt betraying him, making sure he remembers he called mitchell “broom boy” in front of george. He doesn’t press. Instead, he files the thought away, already moving on to the next task. He notices the lights flicker faintly above him, just for a moment, but he’s too busy to worry; with a wave and a “let’s figure this out later” he moves on.

By the time the crowd gathers near the stage for the opening remarks, everything seems to be running smoothly. The decorations sparkle, the people from the pizza place agreed to cater so the food smells delicious and the atmosphere feels strangely warm despite the cold.

The lights flicker again.

Anders glances up but forces himself to shake off the unease. Everything is fine.

Then, just as he’s preparing to head backstage to start ushering people to their spots, he sees Mitchell.

The man finally steps out of the tunnel that connects the hospital to the unofficial break area, looking entirely too casual as he fiddles with the cuffs of his sleeves. The tux fits him nauseatingly well, contrasting with his pushed-back black hair and the five o’clock shadow he never seems to have time to shave, it would be perfect if not for the stupid gloves that the blond figures must be glued to his hands. He catches the faint sheen of cigarette smoke lingering by his hair.

Across the crowd, their eyes meet.

Mitchell pauses his fidgeting, his usual grin flickers into something…softer. It’s less than a second, but it strikes Anders with a force he’s not prepared for. The chatter and noise around him seem to fade, leaving only the weight of Mitchell’s gaze. His heart stumbles, his breath catching in his throat.

And then the lights go out.

Darkness swallows the patio and the people in it, broken only by the faint glow of a few phone screens. For a heartbeat, everything is still, like people are waiting for the lights to come back on their own. Then the murmurs start, rippling through the crowd like snakes in a nest.

Anders stands frozen, clipboard slipping from his grasp as panic claws its way up his chest. This can’t be happening, if only he had been supervising instead of looking for Mitchell like an idiot the prior day…

The failure and shame feel suffocating. He tries to focus on the things he sees, to move even if it’s a step, but his breath comes in short, shallow bursts and he can’t control it. His surroundings blur into shadows and noise, his chest tightening with each passing second.

And then, through the haze, he sees Mitchell again.

The man stands a few feet away, the glow of a flashlight casting his face in soft light, more people from maintenance look for him than they do for Anders. His expression is calm as he gives short instructions of the directions of switches, his posture unhurried, like he’s completely unbothered by the chaos unfolding around him.

For a moment, He focuses on that, on him. On the quiet steadiness he exudes, as if the blackout is nothing more than a minor inconvenience, as if life itself is nothing but a thing to breeze past.

Anders takes a breath. Then another.

His chest loosens, the frantic pounding of his heart slowing to a manageable rhythm. He doesn’t even realize he’s clutching the edge of a nearby table until his fingers relax enough to let go of it.

Mitchell turns, saying something to one of the camera-man that the blond can’t hear, and that trademark grin returns to his face. It’s ridiculous how one person can seem so unaffected, but somehow, it’s enough to steady him to go for a second round.

Get it together, he tells himself.

He straightens, scanning the crowd, and makes his way to the stage, with a breath he steps up to the microphone; he taps once, twice. Nothing, of course. The blackout had taken the energy of everything non essential to the hospital. The rising echo of anxious voices and a little fantasy of helena saying “i told you so” makes his chest tighten and for a second, to give himself some room to breath or maybe out of pure desperation, he lets Bragi take over; shouting louder than he’s ever done before

"Everyone listen and stay quiet"

He says, his tone commanding. The effect is instant: the crowd (minus Mitchell and a very startled looking George) stills, turning toward him. In the back of the room, he catches sight of the vampire. Arms crossed, his expression changes for just a second but it’s all it takes for the blond to notice, its disappointment.

The weight of it stings, sharp and immediate, but it’s just a second, just to get people to listen, he tries to convey that in his look when he takes a deep breath, releasing Bragi who in any other night would´be taken care of everything, convinced them it had gone perfectly . When he speaks again, it’s just him. No power, no shitty poetry, no persuasion. Just him

“I heard a story from someone here,” he begins, his words laced with unmistakable anxiousness as he clings onto the image of Mitchells face to ground him “about a winter night not so long ago, when nurses and staff and kids all played with sparklers that were donated to the hospital. Back then, it was not about what was missing but about what could be seen”

he doesn’t mention mitchells name yet they all recognize his trademark charm in it “ I think that the tradition of sparklers and playing around in the snow became quickly lost, probably we all forgot in the haze of adult life and the pressure of life.” He pulls out a sparkler from somewhere inside his jacket pocket “So, This was supposed to be a surprise but since the night calls for it; please come up to Jeremy and the rest of the team and take a sparkler! Help us light up the darkness a little while I work my best to fix this issue. Yeah?”

A part of Anders, the really insecure one who constantly got turned down no matter how he put things, fears that people might find his little speech stupid and tedious and too ridiculous, but he sees himself being surprised with genuine enthusiasm from the attendants, quickly falling into lines to get the little lights. The sparklers catch one by one, a chain reaction of flickering light spreading through the crowd. People laugh, some waving the sparklers like children, others holding them reverently. It’s enough to allow him to take a breath out, calmly leaving instructions to his crew to stagger the lights so everyone gets a chance to participate before heading toward the hospital.The cold bite of the air gives way to the dim, slightly antiseptic warmth of the corridors. He moves quickly, not entirely sure where exactly does he have to go to fix the lights or that is until he’s stopped dead in his tracks by a familiar, annoyingly chipper little voice

“That was cheesy as fuck…” he finds Mitchell leaning casually against the wall. Waiting.His voice is low, a small smirk curling at his lips.

“Cheesy?” Anders manages, his voice lower than usual, trying to find his footing. A part of him hopes he heard wrong

“yeah” The blond´s heart pounds, loud and insistent, Mitchell hears it as he speaks, softly, tilting his head. “The sparklers? The speech? All of it.

“Yeah, well…” He tries to play off the undeniable sadness he feels that the only person he even did the stupid sparklers for finds it ‘cheesy’, whatever bite his voice could have is overpowered by the shakiness in it “It fucking worked, didn’t it?”

He’s ready to walk past the man but with the way he’s leaning against the wall he doesn’t really allow him to go through that easily, still, Mitchell doesn’t move right away from his spot leaning against the stupid wall, like most of the time. His cuffs are slightly askew like he gave up doing them, his tie hanging loose. His black hair falls messily into his eyes, but he doesn’t bother fixing it; instead he focuses dark eyes on Anders. Then, with deliberate ease, he pushes off the wall, closing the distance between them. Anders takes an instinctive step back, but there’s nowhere to go; the black haired mans is quick to close the distance between them; merely a few centimeters away, he grabs anders by the arms with no intention of hurting him, just a soft (somehow not warm at all) grip that keeps him in his place; not able to turn his face away.

“Oh it definitely worked on all the people out there” The drop in his voice is evident, like a murmur, low and teasing and far more intimate than a hospital hall should ever be “but not as much as it did on me”

It takes Anders a full second to understand what he means and by then Mitchell is already kissing him. It’s not rushed or messy, but deliberate, steady, and somehow still entirely overwhelming. His lips are cold but soft against Anders’ own, and for a moment, the entire world narrows down to them. The blond freezes, caught between the instinct to push him away and the pull of wanting more. His hands hover uselessly by his sides until, without thinking, he reaches out, his hands gripping Mitchell’s jacket to anchor himself.

When he pulls back, their foreheads nearly touch, and Anders is left staring at him, breathless.

#submission #Gathering 12 Days 2024 #Mitchers #Britchell

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