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apatheticanvas91305 · 3 years ago

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Even When You Hide

Happy @starrynightdeancas celebration day to @firefly124! I got really busy over the last couple of weeks, so its not as good as I wanted it to be for you, but I hope you like it anyways. (also I had to abandon my sketches and normal art style today due to technical difficulties, so the art is a bit rubbish, sorry, if i get round to finishing the other one in my normal style when i get home to my computers, I will send it your way) BUT ANYWAYS I hope you love it (the fic not the art, hides) and I think Sophie is the dopest for putting this whole thing together.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Castiel

Tropes: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss

Based: Somewhere after 10.03, when Crowley give Cas grace and Dean is cured of Demon-ness, and 10.18, when Cas gets his grace back. I did not mention the Mark of Cain though.

Song: I See You - Missio

Word count: 2.2K

I see you when you're down And depressed, just a mess I see you when you cry When you're shy When you want to die I see you when you smile It takes a while At least you're here I see you

It had been 25 minutes since Dean had sent Cas to pick out the paint for his room. He put down all the sheets and lined the sockets and skirting boards with tape and was now sitting at the foot of the bed, tapping his foot to a silent beat.

Dean hadn’t known what to get the angel from the store so there were currently 12 pots of paint, all different colours, sitting on shelves in the garage. He chewed on the inside of his cheek absentmindedly, picturing the scrunch of Cas’ eyebrows and the tilt of Cas’ head as he scowled at the cans.

‘Dean. What does it matter if the room is winter blue or baby blue?’ Dean could almost hear him ask it - the gravel of Cas’ voice rumbled in the back of his mind. Dean shook his head, smiling, and headed to see what the hold-up was.

What he found was a mess.

“Fuck. Shit!” Pots of paint were scattered across the room. Most were broken open, stripes of paint led away from a large metal cabinet that had toppled over onto the Impala and cast the tins in all directions.

“Cas!”

Dean ran forward, holding his breath. The cabinet had smashed right through Baby’s windshield, fracture lines spanned what was left leaving chunks of glass suspended in the laminated frame. The bonnet had been completely crushed, practically folded in half, and the corners had torn into the paintwork. Dean would be seething except he couldn’t breathe. He threw his weight behind his shoulder, forcing it under the shelves and straining until black dots danced in his vision.

“Cas!” Dean collapsed, his efforts futile. “Cas! Where the hell are you?!”

And then he heard it – the quick and broken, but quiet sobs of an angel. Dean whirled around o fast his neck cracked and then he crawled, actually crawled on his hands and knees, towards the sound.

Behind the impala, Cas was perched on the balls of his feet with his trench coat pooling around him. Dean had never seen him cry before, not like this. There was a streak of paint that ran from just under his left eye to the corner of his mouth. Where his tear tracks converged with it, the drops turned blue and fell to the ground like grace. Dean watched, transfixed for a moment, before scrambling closer.

“Cas.” Dean’s voice louder than he meant it, startled Cas out of his fugue state. His hands, which had been moving, stilled instantly as he looked back at Dean with wide shiny eyes.

“I don’t want to go, Dean.” The cracks in Cas’ voice tugged at Dean’s soul. He didn’t understand.

Dean shook his head. “What?”

Cas’s eyes only grew larger as the hunter reached out, “Dean, please don’t make me go.” His arm hung in the air, terrified of doing the wrong thing. He knew Cas couldn’t fly anymore but it had never stopped feeling as though their conversations were timed, except Dean couldn’t see the numbers on the clock. He was always waiting for Cas to vanish. “I want to stay.”

Bile rose in the back of Dean’s throat and his hand dropped like dead weight between them as he realised what Cas was saying, what he was thinking. He thought back to months before. ‘You can’t stay.’ He’d said, the same bile rising in his throat as now. He looked at Cas in his human clothes, that goddamn hoodie., and watched as Cas’ heart broke. Watched as the hurt played openly on his features, defences down. And then, he’d looked away. Dean remembers looking anywhere but into his best friend’s eyes, knowing that if he did his resolve would surely crumble. Now, all he wanted was for Cas to look at him, but the angel had gone from a deer in the headlights to refusing to lift his head higher than his shoulders.

“I can fix it, I promise.” Cas’s hands started moving again. His fingers shook as he tried to slot several pieces of broken glass back together. Small cuts littered his palms, bleeding freely as Cas worked.

“Cas. Cas, why-” Dean swallowed around the lump of panic still tuck in his throat, “Why aren’t you healing? Is it the grace? Is it failing?” His hands had found there way between them again. They hovered uselessly over Cas’ own. Cas was shaking his head, but Dean wasn’t sure if it was in answer to his question.

“Cas?” Dean didn’t know what to do, until he did. Taking a shaky breath, he allowed his panic to consume him for one second more before he tabled it.

“Cas,” His voice was gentle but solid, “Cas, stop it. Please,” - Dean stilled Cas’ hands with his own. He turned them palm up and, careful not to catch any of the cuts, unfurled the angel’s trembling fingers with is thumb – “Just stop.”

Cas was still refusing to meet his eyes, but he’d stopped shaking his head. He stared down at the pieces of glass and Dean followed his gaze. He recognised them as the broken remains of a small glass statue of an angel. Sammy had presented the thing to a few years ago after he’d nabbed it from some rogue crossroad demon’s second-hand shop to bully Dean with. ‘A guardian angel to save me from your moping when Cas is away,’ Sam had said, and Dean had shoved it deep down inside Baby’s trunk. That was until they moved into the bunker and Dean had felt some strange compulsion to place the glass angel atop the recently toppled shelves. Cas had been there, tilting his head at him. ‘Present from Sam,’ He’d practically growled before running away.

“Hey,” One of Dean’s hands left Cas’ in favour of poking him gently in the cheek. Cas jerked backwards slightly, finally meeting Dean’s eyes. He was still crying but less so. Dean nodded, “I need you to listen to me. You. Are. Not. Going. Anywhere. Ever. Again.” He waved his free hand at the mess around him. “All this, none of it matters,” Dean moved his other thumb in circles, steeling himself. This moment is what all his years watching chick flicks in secrecy had been preparing him for. “You, Cas, are what matters. To me.”

Dean held his breath for one, two, three seconds. Cas hiccoughed, blinking one, two, three times as the last of his tears fell from his cheeks.

“Why aren’t you healing?” Dean whispered into the space between them, a little afraid of anything louder.

“I didn’t want to waste m…” Cas looked lost, “It.” Dean waited.

“When Metatron took my grace from me, he left me human. Except I’m not human. Jimmy though, Jimmy was human, fragile. Without my powers, I’m,” Cas struggled with his words, he looked away. “I’m a baby in a trench coat.” Fuck. “I am nothing. And I can’t go back to that. I can’t keep steeling my kin’s grace from them, reducing them as I have been reduced. I can’t.” He dropped his head to his chest once more. “But I also don’t want to die.

“Castiel.” Dean swerved back into Cas’ eyeline as he spoke, “You are not nothing,” Cas stared at him, not believing.

“You are not human. You’re not Jimmy. But you’re not your grace either.” Dean was going to make him understand how wrong he’d been sitting in Eve’s diner. “You’re not your vessel and you’re not your powers. When I look at you-” The hunter swallowed, “When I look at you, I just see… you. I see you, Cas.”

He looked down at their hands, feeling dizzy. He couldn’t believe how mushy he was being or how much he didn’t mind. He felt like Colin Firth. “As for the rest of it, we’ll figure it out. We always do. The grace situation… Well,” Dean smiled, small. “We’ll make it up as we go.” Dean lifted Cas’s hands to his lips and pressed a kiss into a single cut. After a moment, grace began to shine beneath the skin and the wounds pulled themselves closed. Beaming now, he leant back and ran his thumb over the soft new skin, turning their hands so their finger interlocked.

“Dean, I-”

“I made a mistake,” Dean interrupted, “I have made so many mistakes. But, kicking you out like has to be one of the worst. No explanation, no assistance, no nothing. It’s the wrongest I’ve ever been in my life. Gadreel gave me an ultimatum but that’s not an excuse. Doesn’t even come close to justifying what I did. I should’ve told you what was going on. Maybe if I had tried, for even a second, to communicate, we could have avoided a lot of pain. I should’ve – I should’ve done a lot. But I didn’t, and that wasn’t good enough.’

“Dean, it’s okay.”

“No, no it’s not.” Dean broke eye contact then.

“Okay, well” Cas squeezed his hands, “I forgive you then. How’s that?”

Dean huffed out half a laugh. His next words caught in throat as he looked back at Cas. He was so close to him. Dean supposed he always was. Dean’s eyes caught on Cas’ mouth where he had worried at his bottom lip. It was red and sore and wasn’t healing. Before Dean knew what he was doing, he was tipping forward, eye slipping shut. When they met in the middle, he barely felt it. He touched his lips to Cas’ like he had to his hands, his heart pounding against the inside of his ribcage. Dean didn’t realise he hadn’t been breathing until Cas’s lips moved against his own and he gasped for air. He leant against Cas’s forehead breathing far too heavily for such a chaste moment. They sat there just breathing in each other’s air for one, two, three seconds. Then Dean surged forwards, pushing of his feet so he was kneeling up over Cas. He dropped the angel’s hands in favour of holding his head in his own, pressing desperate kiss after desperate kiss to Cas’s mouth. Cas leant backwards under him as they kissed, moulding to fit the curve of his body. His dropped hands had twisted their way into Dean’s flannel, pulling him closer.

As Dean’s lungs screamed for breath, he pulled slowly away. Cas’ head dropped to rest against his sternum and Dean allowed himself to bury his face in his hair. His hands had settled at the base of Cas’ neck and began tracing nonsensical patterns into the skin there.

“C’mon,” He leant back and pulled Cas with him. Leading him by hand past the impala and a few scattered paint cans. He stopped by one - one of the only ones not broken open - and leant down to pick it up. ‘Dusty Cyan’. Perfect. He tucked it under his arm, and flashed Cas a smile.

I'm alone with you You're alone with me What a mess you've made of everything

I'm alone with you You're alone with me And I'm hoping that you will see yourself Like I see you

The next day found them huddled close together leaning over Baby as Dean taught Castiel how to hammer dents out metal without causing more damage and replace a windshield.

“D’you want to know something?” Dean cracked open his beer. Cas hummed from where he was bent over working a dent out of the open bonnet. He was wearing one of Dean’s ratty old Bon Jovi shirts, damp with sweat and motor oil and chewing on his lip distractedly – and distractingly. “Sammy got me that angel to tease me about you.”

Cas looked up then, “About me?”

“Yeah.” The hunter coughed, wondering what had possessed him to open his mouth and start yet another chick flick. Maybe he should be worried about how much of a sap he was becoming. It was Cas’ fault, obviously. “Cuz I always complain when you’re gone.”

Cas turned around and leant back on Baby, his shoulder brushed Dean’s. “You may want to begin coming up with some alternate topics of conversation.”

Dean laughed, “You think so?”

“I have been reliably informed that I’m not going anywhere.” Cas looked at him. “Ever. Again.”

Dean shoved his shoulder, smiling wide when Cas shoved back pressing him back into the Impala’s frame and leaning into his space.

“It’s why I put it up there in the first place instead of shoving in the back of some cupboard.” He poked Cas in the ribs. “Because it reminded me of you.”

“Me.” Cas echoed.

“You,” Dean smirked, “Dumbass.”

Cas growled and silenced him with a kiss for the ages. Dean let himself be taken over by the angel, surrendering the kiss to him and just basking in the feeling of Cas pressed up against him. He didn’t need some glass statue, he already had his guardian angel exactly where he wanted him, and he had proved to be far from fragile.

I see you in the dark At the dawn of something new I see you

#dean winchester #castiel #destiel #hurt/comfort #cas is hurting #dean is there #i hope this wasn't too angsty and had enough comfort in there for you #fanfic #kat scribbles #literally in this case #userstarry #writing challenge #mentions of death #feelings of worthlessness #baby is also there haha #fuck #not literally in this case #first kiss #starrynightdeancas gift exchange

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aurora-daily · 4 years ago

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Runaway with AURORA: we meet the songwriting sprite to talk about music old + new

'We simply have to survive. And that is enough'

Interview by Blossom Caldarone for gigwise (July 8th, 2021).

A textbook empath and considerate soul, Norway’s AURORA has an endearing air of childlike sensitivity. Comfortably seated in her mother’s French dress, we caught up over Zoom amid the frenzied #runawayaurora trend and the singer’s monumental TikTok rise.

AURORA’s 2016 single ‘Runaway’ is now the dainty accompaniament to millions of short videos on the increasingly influential TikTok. Predominantly featuring suburban teenagers, the trend has encouraged people to find the charm in their otherwise mundane corners of the world. “Seeing the beauty in the small things is something we all lost on the way” she says. Whether users film lakeside days out, pose elegantly or capture early morning sun beams, the trend's theme is strikingly on brand for AURORA: “It’s nice that people have created a wholesome vibe to it - you never know with the trends! I’m happy it’s not anything horrible.”

Momentarily gazing at the mountains outside her Bergen window, it’s clear to see AURORA isn’t fazed by the numbers that currently skirt her name. “It’s a very abstract thing for me and therefore I don’t spend time trying to understand it. I’ve just been home, doing my normal things, cooking my dinner, reading my books and being in the studio. I’m very grateful that people are letting my song into their hearts” she softly explains.

Written when she was only 11, the song platforms a prematurely advanced AURORA grapple with the concept of running away from the people we love when we are in pain. “Just like a dog that goes out and dies alone in the forest, we do the same. We struggle so much in talking about these very mutual, normal feelings but can’t deal with them when we are going through them ourselves.”

It’s a universal reality that stumps any age or decade, and her philosophy on the song’s ability to resonate is profound: “Music, unlike us, has no age. If it’s good or relatable, or if it has nerve, it will never die and it will always make sense to someone.”

She’s embarked on a week of interviews, and I’m her last before the weekend. Conscious she may not want to wax lyrical about Runaway any longer, I turn the discussion to the things that make AURORA tick. “My biggest muse is Mother Earth and nature. It always has been and always will be” she gushes. “It grounds me, it opens me up. It humbles and strengthens me.”

Her Nordic roots affording her the luxury of stunning outdoor access, she talks effusively of its importance, and how life’s increasingly high tempo is detrimental. Astutely describing being human as an “extreme sport”, she accredits success to ending up in her own bed at the end of the day. “The world is way too demanding in every area. It’s almost impossible” she laments. Her approach to living is one of simplicity; where surviving is the only necessity and anything else a mere plus. “It’s a matter of life or death, we simply have to survive. And that is enough.”

With last year’s lockdown allowing her to fully immerse herself in her artistry, AURORA found herself revelling in the desolate streets and empty shops, whilst finding ultimate inspiration in the silence. Her introverted intentions thrived whilst she empathised with the struggling extroverts in the world: “Silence is so rare and I love it. I try to be in silence as much as I can”. AURORA famously doesn’t listen to much music apart from fellow celestial Enya: “I’m afraid I’ll miss out on an idea if I’m listening to something else. And I don’t want to be effected by other melodies. It contaminates me” she explains. A theory shared with anything but pretence, AURORA evidently has an ability to hone in on the nuances within the quiet; a skill that requires patience and devotion to creative processes.

Her timely mid-pandemic single ‘Exist For Love’ is a song that prioritises the fundamental importance of love. A delicate step away from previous AURORA releases, its traditional tendencies embody the timeless essence of a '50s love song, a trait only enhanced by its cinematic Isabel Waller-Bridge arranged strings: “I just felt like we needed a divine love song. I truly believe that when we understand love - unselfish pure love - we understand why we exist” she plainly explains, again finding a way to strip down concepts that feel hard to define.

“When I write, I think a lot about what the world will need. I wish to make something that will be good for people.” Often writing selflessly, boundaries are key; being an empath can be exhausting. “I can’t really read the newspapers. I have to learn things through discussion, and then dive into matters if I want to educate myself more. I spend little time on social media because it makes us sad, but it also makes me sad to see so many sad people on social media.” Surrounding herself with others who also tend to give more than they receive, AURORA ensures her good intentions are not misplaced.

As for her fans, they are at the forefront: “I think a lot about them. It’s all for them.” But it will come as no surprise to learn that she doesn’t like the more vacuous side of the industry, and finds getting recognised slightly unsettling. “It’s good to know it’s all worth it. As long as you can say something that means something, you can use the music as a tool to support people out there” she justifies.

Her new single ‘Cure For Me’, out now, is another example of AURORA’s altruistic approach to songwriting. A playful tune that will surprise fans with its cheekiness, it debunks the idea that humans should ever need to be cured, and that anything other than who we are is abnormal. “People are very self-critical and it doesn’t take much for us to assume that something is wrong because we look different, or act different, instead of just accepting that we are different. We are all biologically designed to be unique” she explains. We go on to discuss how we’re led to believe that we’re crazy for being emotional or sensitive: “That’s what inspired me to make this song, as an anti-gaslighting song where you just celebrate that it’s fine, and you’re going to be fine, and I don’t need a ‘Cure For Me' because I’m perfectly ok as I am.”

The song’s juxtaposed setup is a peek into what’s to come: “It’s fun for me to be less serious about things. It’s very new for me. I am often very serious in all my music. I really feel like we need a bit of light right now, everything has been so intense.”

Heading into a newfound artistic side, AURORA is considering how the new sound should be consumed too. With her mystical ability to sonify nature and art, AURORA’s eclectic and ethereal world has always captured feeling in a visual way. “I love to be able to shape how people see my music, even if just a little bit. For many people, it’s easier to understand the whole thing when they can see it as well.” She is currently painting an “intimidating” canvas and studying Egyptian history, alongside Greek and Roman mythology. Finding inspiration in their bohemian attitudes towards female roles, AURORA is focussing on the old, the new and repeated behaviours in between: “Everything we’ve done in history, both good and horrible, has sometimes taught us to be better and sometimes not. Our patterns of behaviour are very interesting.”

So with ‘Cure For Me’ here and a well-researched new artistic process in full flow, AURORA is peacefully going about her business and prioritising the small things that make her feel truly content. Currently, she's filling her home with flowers: “It makes me more happy every day than I could ever imagine.” Her intentions are in the most authentic place; a space that prioritises connection and understanding, and one that prioritises the heart in a world where its complexities are so often dismissed. “As long as we remember to take care of the mind and the heart, we’ll have the capacity to care for others as well” she finally assures me.

#aurora #aurora aksnes #interviews #cure for me #new album

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writingthingsisdifficult · 4 years ago

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Saving the world (Double booking pt 2)

I was asked to write a second part, and as inspiration struck, well… here it is.

They've shared a room. Now what?

If you like it, let me know :D

Word count: 5655

Part 1

_______________________________________________________________________

The light is seeping under the curtains, dragging you back to the conscious world, but you're not ready to get up just yet. So you squeeze your eyes shut and stretch your back. It's stiff as a board, and your cheek has seemingly set in a permanently squished position. The room feels stuffy and warm, and there's a soft noise you don't recognise at first. But when you finally open your eyes, you can't help but smile.

Everything's a bit blurry without your glasses, but there's no mistaking the man sleeping in the bed next to yours. His arm, which you suddenly notice isn't gloved, but a prosthetic, is hanging over the edge of the bed, and if you strain your imagination, it's almost stretched towards you.

It looks like he hasn't moved at all during the night. Neither have you when you come to think of it. When you stretch again, your neck cracks as if you were eighty, and it's a struggle to lift one leg over the other, though that might just be that you're still half asleep.

As you fumble for your glasses, Bucky opens his eyes and gives you a sleepy smile. "Good morning."

Your heart skips a beat, and it's as if you've forgotten all suitable responses to such an innocent greeting. "Yeah." That's what comes out of your mouth, and you groan.

"You sleep good?" He yawns and props up on his elbow.

"Mhm. Like a baby."

"Me too."

You grin and roll over on your back just as the loudest growl erupts from your stomach. Heat creeps up your neck and ears, and you mutter a soft "Sorry."

Bucky laughs. "Don't apologise for being hungry. What do you say we go get some breakfast?"

"I could eat."

After a quick shower and a couple of frustrating minutes picking an outfit, you really don't want to look like a slob in front of Bucky, you're both seated in the restaurant, devouring the bacon and eggs like your lives depend on it.

The conversation is light. You're slowly getting to know each other. "I'm freelancing for the government," Bucky says and gulps down his orange juice. "It's all really boring, though."

You nod and stuff your mouth with bacon. "I'm sure it isn't. But paperwork, am I right?" you add with a chuckle.

Nodding, he wipes his mouth and takes another bite. "Mhm. How about you?"

"Oh, it's not very interesting. I freelance too, I guess. Right now I've been hired to design a calendar with paintings from the city. It's not well paid, but it's fun."

"So you're an artist? May I see some of your work?"

Suddenly you feel a bit self-conscious. That's weird. You haven't had doubts about your art in forever. "I've got some photos in my phone." You hesitate for a second, then fish it out and unlock it. Scrolling down, you find the series of paintings you did last spring. Green and lush, you get a pang of longing for the fresh air and colourful flowers. The contrast is vast from the grey city.

"Wow, these are good!" Bucky exclaims and starts gushing over your lines and colour and the composition, and you feel your ego inflating with every word. All you can do is sit there with a stupid grin on your face, and a pulsing heat in your cheeks, while he builds you up like he's a professional.

You've totally forgotten the time when the staff tells you that the restaurant, unfortunately, is closed now, but that you're welcome back for dinner later. With many an apology, the two of you get up and head to the lobby, where you stay, talking for almost an hour before you remember why you are here in the first place.

"Sorry," you say, and mean it. "I need to get some work done before the light goes. I was thinking of heading down to the harbour today. See if the water can inspire me."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess." Bucky looks down on his feet and gives you a small smile. Then he looks up again, his eyes shining, competing with the glorious smile that grows on his lips. "Do you mind if I come with you? I mean… you don't have to say yes, I just…"

"No, of course." You're relieved that he asked, letting you out of asking him yourself. "Some company would be lovely. Just gotta get my stuff. Meet you back here in ten minutes?"

He nods and sighs almost imperceptibly once you've turned away, watching as you almost skip towards the elevator. A tiny voice in the back of his head warns him that he has tripped and is going to fall hard if he doesn't get a grip soon, but he ignores it. The feeling is too pleasant to care just now.

The next few days you establish a routine of sorts. Bucky knocks on your door, asks to sleep next to you, you say yes, and you wake up, turned towards each other. After breakfast, you head out into the city, sometimes he's leading the way, sometimes you have a plan, and you spend the day drawing and talking and without realising it, falling hard for him. Every evening you have dinner in one of the restaurants near the hotel, and every evening you forget what is happening around you, and all you can focus on is Bucky.

_____________________________________________________________________

The sun is shining. A bird is singing in the tree behind you. You can barely hear the traffic from the road outside the park. Bucky is lounging on the grass, chewing on a straw, and you've been drawing him in secret for the past two hours, your original subject completely forgotten and rejected. When he looks up at you, his face is filled with happiness. "This is nice," he says, careful to mask his full joy.

"Yes, it is," you reply, quickly hiding the drawing under a sketch of the bridge and skyline.

He sits up and looks like he wants to say something, but he closes his mouth instead. After a small pause, he gets up and holds out his hand. "Let's go grab something to eat."

"Okay," you whisper, breathless from the feel of his hand in yours. "Lead the way."

He takes you to a small café at the edge of the park, explaining that it's famous for its fries, and they've got the bestdipping sauce, you just have to try it.

You're in the middle of the meal, laughing at a joke, when a shadow interrupts. Looking up, you hear Bucky mutter a curse under his breath, and you feel a pinprick of fear in your neck. He's glaring at the stranger, and the stranger surprisingly returns the look.

"Um…" You look between Bucky, sat at the table with a curly fry sticking out from the corner of his mouth, staring daggers, to the man who just interrupted your lunch. The truth smacks you in the head with force. Holy shit! That's Captain America. Captain freaking America! And it slowly dawns on you who Bucky really is.

The glass you just picked up slides back to the table, sprite sloshing over the sides as it hits, but you don't realise your hand is cold and wet. All you can focus on is that your roommate for the last week is… Bucky Barnes, AKA The Winter Soldier. Yeah. You try very hard to swallow the food in your mouth, but it's so dry, and forcing it makes your throat ache.

Said soldier quickly chews the curly fry and swallows thickly. "What do you want, Sam?"

Sam hands him a pad, and upon reading the contents, Bucky's frown deepens.

"It's very nice to meet you," Sam says, his shining smile lighting up the whole room. "I'm Sam, by the way."

"Y/N," you reply, still unaware that the hand you're using to shake Captain America's hand with is wet and slightly sticky. Actually, you're kinda unaware of your surroundings altogether.

Sam laughs, making Bucky look up from the message, scowls at Sam, then returns to his reading. "So you're the one who's keeping Bucky busy, huh?" He winks, and you feel that heat creeping up the back of your neck. "From the look on your face, I'd say you didn't know who you're having lunch with, right?"

You nod, squeaking a confirmation.

Sam laughs. "I thought after the whole Flag Smashers case, everybody knew who Bucky was."

Your ears burn, and you breathe a little faster now. Of course, you've been to the exhibit at the Smithsonian, and of course you know about Steve Rogers' best friend, it just never connected in your brain that this super sweet man is a WWII hero and assassin.

Your eyes flick from his prosthetic arm and up to his face. "Uh… I'm just not super into the whole celebrity thing?" you offer, blurting out the first thing that pops into your head.

Snickering, Sam turns to Bucky. "And you didn't tell her?" There's a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Bucky picks on a stain on the table before setting up a defiant face. "It didn't come up." And he wants to add And by the way, how do you go about saying Oh, and FYI I'm a former assassin and murderer, to a woman you really want to get to know better?

He looks so uncomfortable, you get a strong urge to hug him, but now you're uncertain of all this. What if the two of you are against the rules? Wait, what are you, really? Friends? Accidental roommates? You like Bucky. You really like Bucky, and you had kinda hoped it would grow into something… more, but now… Swallowing the lump in the back of your throat – that was an unexpected reaction – you smile flatly. "Are, are you allowed to, to… I mean, can you be friends with…" You swallow again. "Civilians?"

Sam's eyes widen for a split second, and somehow you feel as though he can see right through you. Then he laughs, and all the tension around the table dissipates. "Of course. We're human, Bucky's human, as difficult as that is to believe. Of course we're allowed to have friends, relationships, family. Wouldn't be much of a life without it, would it? But expect them to do a background check on you, hell, they probably already know what you ate for dinner on your twelfth birthday."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry, Y/N, but I'm afraid I have to whisk your boyfriend away for a while. There's a situation."

"We're… we're not…" You have to admit that thought feels good, but really, any hope you had has been well and truly smashed.

Bucky gets up and smacks the pad at Sam. "I'll see you later?"

"I'll be here," you reply with fake confidence. "Please be safe. Both of you," you add with a small smile.

"You too," Bucky says softly. "Be careful if you go out after dark. It's not as safe as you think here."

That makes you snort. "It's me. I don't even like people, what am I supposed to do outside after dark, huh? Don't worry. I'll probably stay in my room and paint all day anyway."

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "good", but it's hard to hear over Sam. "I'll take care of him," he laughs, ducking under Bucky's hand as he swats at his head. "Come on, Buck. Let's roll."

"Be safe," you mutter again, looking after them as they head to the black, unmarked car waiting by the flower shop on the corner. It's as if all colour drains from your vision.

_______________________________________________________________________

The first sip of coffee feels divine; just what you need to wake up after spending another night without Bucky. It has been another restless night. You tossed and turned and couldn't settle properly. And the dreams… You'd rather not think about them. Never before has your brain produced such chaotic absurdities, such eldritch horrors, but to be honest you're not really surprised. Sleeping next to Bucky; something just clicked. You smile into your cup, feeling calmer just thinking about it. It's weird how quickly you got used to his presence, and how wrong it feels when he isn't there.

But you don't get to enjoy your drink for long. Before you've even finished the second sip, someone shoves you hard from behind. The coffee spills over the sidewalk, painting the concrete and splashing all over your shoes. "Hey! Watch where you're going!" you bark, turning to confront whoever pushed you. But before you can even see them, they pull a bag over your head.

Panic rises in you, and you scream until your throat feels raw. Someone smacks you across the mouth, and the shock and pain shuts you up. Your lip thumps: it's split, you can taste the blood now. Tears stream down your cheeks, the soft fabric of the bag clings to your skin. Feeling the darkness caress your mind, the world starts folding in over itself. Still you possess enough awareness to kick the person holding you. They yelp and swear, resulting in a sharp rap over your ear. Your head is ringing.

A pair of strong arms pick you up as if you weigh nothing, and haul you along, struggling with your flailing arms and legs. There's a metallic clang, like a van door opening, then you're half lifted, half pulled up, all while screaming and cursing, hoping someone – anyone – will hear.

Someone speaks a language you don't recognise; your sleeve is pushed up and there's a sharp prick in your arm. Seconds later your brain starts spinning. The faint light that seeps through the weaving of the bag blinks like a starry sky.

You sway back and forth, feeling off kilter and fuzzy, as the voices around you grow all garbled and muted. Someone pushes you backwards, but before you hit the floor, you're out. As the world fades from your consciousness, you just wish you could have seen Bucky one more time.

When you come to, your head is pounding, your mouth is dry, and everything is dark. You try to move, but your hands are shackled, and your feet are bound to whatever you're sitting on. At least you're right side up, you think, before the situation dawns on you, and the contents of your stomach threatens to make an appearance. You swallow thickly. God, your mouth is so dry. Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, and there's not enough liquid to even wet your lips. All you can do is grimace, feeling how they crack and pop. It stings. The taste of metallic, rusty blood coats your tongue.

Your throat itches, so much so that you can't even speak, but you can cough. Hard, like explosions in your head, and it's enough for you to lose your breath.

Something floppy is shoved into your hands.

"It's upside down, you idiot!" someone shouts, and the paper is turned.

Panic surges through your body, and your throat constricts, increasing your coughing. Your heart is racing, but everything happens so fast you just can't process it. Someone removes the bag from your head. The light burns in your eyes, and the shock stops your coughing instantly. Everything is white. There's voices, and movement, but you can't see anything clearly, and for a moment you wonder if you've lost your contact lenses. Slowly your vision returns, but they all keep to the shadows, and they've covered their faces, so you can't make out any details. The buzzing in your ears almost drown out every sound in the room.

"Look straight ahead," they command, and by some miracle you actually manage to move your head. "Keep your eyes open. Ready!"

There's a bright flash, someone else yells "Got it!" and then, in a flurry of motions you're untied, dragged through a dark hallway and unceremoniously dropped on the floor. The door clangs ominously behind you, and you freeze, waiting for someone to grab you or hurt you. There's no one in the room, but you remain in the floor, rubbing your wrists and trying to calm your breathing.

It's cold in your cell, room, whatever people call it, but at least you've got a blanket, and they've fed you, so there's that. But no matter how many times you've asked, nobody tells you anything.

You're over the initial shock now, and the fear has begun to settle into anger, but you're too numb to react.

"Who are you? Why are you doing this to me? I'm no one, never been important in my whole life, hey, someone please say something." Silence. You bang on the door, not sure what you're hoping for. In the back of your mind you know it's risky, but you need to know. The silence is making the walls come closer. You lick your lip. It's bleeding again.

You figure your friendship with Bucky has something to do with your current predicament, but you're not sure exactly what they hope to achieve. It's not like you're best friends or anything, but maybe what you have is enough for him to come for you. That thought sends an electric jolt straight to the small of your back. For a moment you allow yourself to hope, to imagine him blasting through the door and marching in with murder in his eyes, angels singing, and the light surrounding him like a halo.

You laugh grimly. What are even the odds of him finding out where you are? Does he even care? He is the Winter Soldier, after all. He's probably got better things to do, he's busy saving the world, no doubt.

_______________________________________________________________________

Bucky smiles as he walks through the hallway, the ugly carpet muting the urgency in his steps. He can't wait to see you again. It's only been four days, but it feels like forever so the moment he got the all-clear after mission report, he made Sam drop him off at your hotel.

A short walk later he's standing outside your room, heart in his throat and arm outstretched, ready to knock. His stomach dances, pure happiness courses through him. It's been so long since he felt like this; he swears he can almost feel it in his metal arm.

A soft knock. No answer. He knocks again, harder this time. Still no answer. It's only a few minutes past eleven, you won't be asleep yet. You never fall asleep before midnight.

Suddenly it's like someone's poured a bucket of ice water over him. Putting an ear against the door, he listens like some kind of creep, but the room is silent. Maybe you're out. But that doesn't make sense either. It's too dark to get any proper work done, and you're not one for night clubs, or so you've said. Could you have checked out? Bucky's heart skips a beat. What if you're gone? But… wouldn't you at least have left him a message?

Turning on his heel, he marches back to the elevator as if he's got the devil on his tail. There's a really nasty feeling growing in his gut, something he just can't afford to think about now.

He presses the elevator button multiple times, but it takes its sweet time, so instead, he heads to the stairs, taking several steps at once, then skips the steps altogether and jumps over the railing, landing with a heavy thud on the ground floor.

There's a tenseness to his stride as he walks to the front desk, feeling more and more anxious with every breath. He never thought he'd feel this way again; that pit in his stomach and the growing stone in his chest. Last time, he was on a plane, heading for Italy in 1943, not knowing what was waiting for him.

"Excuse me," he says, rather gruffly, spooking the receptionist, though how she didn't hear him stomping through the lobby is a mystery. His own ears buzz loudly, and it's a miracle he can hear her at all.

"Good evening. How may I help you?" She smiles in that professional way people do when they're interrupted and don't really want to talk.

Bucky glances at the reflection in the glass wall behind her. Solitaire. He shakes his head to clear it a bit. "Um, yeah. Is there a message for me? For James Barnes or maybe Bucky."

She looks through the papers on the desk and shakes her head. "Sorry."

He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. "Okay. Don't suppose you could tell me if Y/N has checked out of room 508?" His brows furrow, but he tries to smile anyway.

Another head shake. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm not allowed to disclose that kind of information." She looks briefly at her screen, then back up at Bucky, fake smile plastered on her face.

Bucky bites his tongue and swallows the rage that's building in him. It's not the receptionist's fault. She doesn't understand. But then he gets an idea. "Right, of course," he says, making his voice sweeter. "But maybe you will allow me to leave her a message?"

"Certainly. Let me grab a pen and paper for you."

So you haven't checked out. From the look on her face, the receptionist doesn't realise she's confirmed his suspicions. Well, he'll leave a message just in case, but it's time for drastic measures.

Outside it's dark now. Low clouds are threatening with rain. No one sees the dark figure slipping around the corner and jumping to grab the lowest rung of the fire ladder. Bucky easily hoists himself up, and climbs to the fifth floor, keeping to the shadows and making as little noise as possible. He knows where the window to your room is, and in less than a minute he's standing on the tiny balcony, peering in.

The room looks untouched. The bed is made, your stuff is all there. There's an almost finished portrait on the sketch pad on the desk; a smiling, content picture of himself. Nothing is missing except you. Bucky is three seconds from losing it.

A cold raindrop hits the back of his neck, drawing him from his haze. Soon the sky has opened up, and he's blasted with icy water. It soaks through his jeans, and drips from his hair into his eyes. Without looking back, he slides down the fire ladder and lands in a puddle. He doesn't know what to do next. Maybe Sam knows, so he ducks back into the hotel to get out of the rain, but before he can make the call, he's interrupted by the receptionist.

"Mr Barnes, I apologise. I didn't see this before. Someone left this for you." The woman hands him a large, brown envelope. All of a sudden he's transported back in time; drowning in flashes of memories of past missions, but he shakes himself out of it. Leaning on the column by the door, he opens the envelope.

There's nothing in there but a photo. It makes his stomach turn, and for the first time since he's been free, he has to fight the rage of the Winter Soldier, expanding, threatening to explode and send him on a vengeance fuelled killing spree. "When? Do you know who delivered it?" His voice is darker than usual, and the woman steps back just from the sound.

"I'm sorry," she squeaks. "It's been here for a couple of days, I think. I wasn't here when it was delivered." She hurries back behind her counter, putting a safe distance between them.

Bucky adjusts his stance, and forces his voice to sound kinder. "Thank you. Is there somewhere I can make a phone call, undisturbed?"

She nods and points to a nook behind the oversized fern in the corner. There's a sliding glass door that will provide some privacy.

Turning the envelope over in his left hand, Bucky is careful to not leave any more fingerprints on it. It is unmarked, but he knows people who can read things that no one else can see.

Whipping out his phone, he dials the first number in the contact list. He doesn't realise it, but he's shaking. The four seconds it takes for Sam to pick up are an excruciating eternity, and Bucky grips the door handle to keep himself from running off without a plan.

Before he can even say hello, Bucky wheezes: "They've got her, Sam!"

"Who?"

"Y/N! They've taken her!" He closes his eyes. The photo has burned into his mind.

"I'm on my way."

Bucky relaxes his grip on the door. There's a dent in the metal, and that makes him even angrier. They've made him lose control. He curses as he exits the tiny room, pacing over the floor, waiting for the voice of reason to arrive.

Being Sam, being Captain America, opens a lot of doors, so when he shows up at the hotel, requesting to look through the surveillance tapes – though it really is a demand; he's got a way with words, Bucky muses, thinking back to when he realised that what he first took as being soft, really isn't soft at all. Anyway, they all fawn over each other, fighting to be the one to give Cap access. Bucky can hardly watch.

"Give us a few minutes," Sam says with a smile, settling in front of the computer.

"Of course." The manager bows and closes the door.

Then Sam turns to Bucky. "Okay. When did you see her last?"

"Four days ago, right before we left on that goddamn mission." He wants to beat himself that he exposed you to danger, and he resists the urge to take out his irritation by slapping Sam over the head. Instead he settles on a flat, emotionless that he hopes conveys all his frustration.

"Right, so somewhere after last Thursday, then." Sam pushes a button, selects the right floor and presses play. Nothing happens for a while, and he pushes a new button, making the footage speed up.

"There!" Bucky shouts, pointing at the screen. There you are. Leaving your room with a large bag over your shoulder. Bucky smiles in spite of his fear. A soft expression on your face and your trusty art supplies at your side. Everything looks normal.

Fast forwarding through the footage, nothing out of the ordinary happens. You return around seven, looking a little bit tired, but happy enough. Food is brought to your room an hour later, and you don't go out again that night.

"Sensible girl," Sam comments, drawing Bucky out of his thoughts.

"Yeah. But she didn't know how much danger she was in."

The night passes in a blur. A drunk couple stumbles through the hallway around two in the morning, but other than that it's quiet, until you leave again around 10am, again with your bag over your shoulder. You look tired, yawning and dragging your feet. The bounce in your step is gone, Bucky notices, and he wonders if it has anything to do with your abduction.

They keep fast forwarding, but when the time stamp shows 11.30pm, Bucky's chest plummets. He knows you're not coming back.

Sam looks at him. “Calm down, man. You look like you’re about to explode!” he hisses, putting his hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky shakes him off and glares. “Because I’m this close.”

“But that won’t do her any good, will it? We gotta keep our cool, don’t do anything rash.” Sam's voice is still calm. Bucky doesn't know how he does it.

"Fine." Bucky takes a deep breath, just how his therapist taught him. "Show me what direction she went."

Sam clicks and drags the front camera onto the screen. You stop outside for a few minutes, then head down the street towards the city centre. They follow you on the screen until you disappear from view.

There's a shoe shop on the corner where you turned, so after thanking the hotel manager for the help, they follow your moves through the city. The shoe shop doesn't have a quality video, but it's enough to recognise you. Tracking you through the streets feels like an endurance hunt, Bucky thinks, impatient to find out who took you and where you are. That's all he can focus on: to get you back. And god have mercy on your kidnappers if you're not okay. Eventually Sam and Bucky stop at a small restaurant, but they don't have surveillance at all.

"Okay. Let's head to that Starbucks," Bucky says, nodding across the road. "They're bound to have surveillance, right?"

Sam rolls his shoulders. "Let's go."

The video shows three large figures, lurking in the shadows in one of the side streets. They're watching as you enter the café, and when you exit with a large coffee in hand, the gang is ready. The footage jumps a bit, but it captures the terror in your face, and Bucky feels like throwing up. You're hauled into a waiting van, it's an unmarked, normal van, but as it speeds away, luck strikes. The camera got a clear shot of the number plate.

Bucky lets Sam handle the rest. He can't shake the guilt, the pit in his stomach that grows larger and larger. And his anger grows too. Why didn't anybody react, nobody can convince him that nobody heard or saw anything. He watches as Sam talks on the phone, already mentally punching your kidnappers to a pulp. The metal arm flexes involuntarily.

Sam puts down the phone and turns to Bucky. "Okay, so here's what they told me: The van isn't connected to anything, they didn't even have a name for me. It's probably a fake number plate. But they said it's been spotted driving to and from a warehouse not too far from here. Let's go suit up while we're waiting for the address."

Bucky exhales. They better hurry up with the address. You've been in captivity for far too long already.

_______________________________________________________________________

It's quiet in the building now. You don't know what time it is; they've taken all your stuff, but you know it's late. Your eyes sting, both from exhaustion and from wanting to cry, not to mention your contacts are getting dry, but you refuse to remove them – not being able to see would terrify you. But neither sleep nor tears come. Sitting on the cot, wrapped in the blanket they thankfully provided, you are too wound up to relax enough to sleep. What if someone comes in while you're out? There's not much chance to defend yourself, but at least if you're awake you can try to put up a fight.

How long have you been here? It's hard to tell. After the first shock they've pretty much left you alone. Except for the interrogation a few hours later. They kept asking you about where Bucky is, what he's doing, details on his mission, but you told them, truthfully, that you don't know anything. And they seem to believe you. But they still won't let you go. You sigh and pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders. Even if you knew everything you wouldn't have told them anything, but you didn't say that out loud.

Suddenly there's a loud bang reverberating through the walls. Instinctively you flinch, trying to make yourself smaller. Your blood roar in your ears, and it feels like your heart is trying to beat its way through your rib cage. There's a pause – the silence is deafening, then someone yells. You hear gunshots. Heavy boots rush past your door. It's torture just listening to the fight, not knowing what will happen. What if there's a fire? Or what if you're abandoned here? Is this how you're gonna die?

The fight is getting closer. You drag the blanket over your head, locking your arms around your neck. Unfortunately it doesn't mute the sounds, and you have to remind yourself to keep breathing. Slowly the fight dies down, and for a moment everything is calm. You feel woozy, grateful that you're already sitting down, and you steel yourself for what comes next.

The door opens. Heavy boots slaps against the hard floor. Someone blocks out the light, and you feel a gentle hand on your shoulder, making you flinch and whimper.

A soft voice whispers in your ear. "Y/N?"

You forget to breathe again.

"Y/N," the voice repeats, coaxing you out of your makeshift cocoon.

You look up, and into the eyes of the man you never thought you'd see again. His face is blood-spattered, and his expression is a murderous rage, but the moment your eyes meet, he softens. "Bucky," you breathe, folding yourself out, and reaching for him like a toddler.

He scoops you up, holding you close as you begin to sob into his neck, and he rocks you back and forth until you calm a bit. "Are you hurt?"

Shaking your head, you climb down from his lap and looks over at Sam, hovering by the door. There's a look in his eyes that you can't quite decipher.

"You're bleeding," Bucky says, touching your lip gingerly.

"Oh." You don't know what else to say, as he helps you up on your feet. His arm stays around your shoulders all the way out into open air, and you lean into his embrace. The building is littered with bodies, some are definitely dead, others are being detained by soldiers dressed in black. Your knees buckle from the sight.

"Hey, I've got you," Bucky murmurs into your hair.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For coming to get me."

"Of course," Sam says, offering you a reassuring smile. "Why shouldn't we?"

You exhale shakily through your nose. "I thought you were busy saving the world and all."

Bucky pulls you closer.

"Don't you know?" Sam asks quietly, so no one else can hear. "You are his world."

_______________________________________________________________________

@schwarzwaelder-kirschtorte

#bucky barnes x reader #marvel fan fiction #fanfic #female reader #fluff #angst #marvel

47 notes · View notes

oftenderweapons · 4 years ago

Text

Mold Me New (3) — Taehyung

A Small Town Swoons Story

Pairing: Taehyung x reader (nicknamed Frog — for now)

Wordcount: 3.7k

Genre: ceramic artist!Taehyung, divorced!reader, Strangers to Lovers, Fluff, Angst, Slice of Life

Rating: 18+ (for future smut and explicit thoughts)

Hello to my readers!!! Welcome to the Small Town Swoons Universe! 🥰✨

In this episode: Terry has given very generic instructions to Frog about how to retrieve her birthday gift. A more then welcome surprise follows.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: None. (Wow. I’m shocked.)

Once more let me thank potter supreme @joheunsaram (I’d be wandering in darkness and despair without you. Lob U)

Here is my complete masterlist and in case you need it, here’s the Spotify music companion.

Navi: Chapter 1 — Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 — Chapter 4 — Chapter 5 — Chapter 6 — Chapter 7

“Hello?”

You felt deeply embarrassed venturing into the backyard of a stranger.

“Excuse me? Hello?”

The heavy sound of something slamming against the floor of a garage had you slightly worried. You were ready to run away when the door opened. The neighbourhood wasn’t familiar to you and Terry’s refusal to tell you anything about the specific address she had given you scared you even more.

You feared you’d end up at one of Terry’s friends with benefit’s house.

You changed your mind, however, when you recognised the man standing out of the door.

“Frog? Is that you?”

“Taehyung?” You said, recalling the name of the man. You had met him only a couple days before, spending a good time with his friends while your own had ditched you.

“Hello Frog!” He exclaimed, incredibly happy to see you. “Are you here for a four pm meeting?”

“All I know is that Terry told me to be here by four. She gave me the address but,” you laughed, shaking your head and touching your hair nervously. “She didn’t mention it was you. She didn’t say anything. She only said it was a surprise.”

Taehyung’s laugh exploded suddenly, deep and loud. “That explains many, many things.” He nodded to himself, waiting for you to get closer. “Welcome to my studio,” he said, letting the door open a bit wider.

The space inside was bright and airy, with a wall that resembled a glasshouse, while the others were made of brick and lined with shelves. In a corner you noticed a strange contraption, like an iron cauldron, and an unfamiliar machine close to a basin. There was also a large table all along the glass wall, like it was waiting for plants to be hosted, but none were found.

“With me you’ll learn the humble, raw art of modelling clay.”

You turned to him with a furrowed brow, completely confused. “Clay?”

“Yes. Clay.”

“You model clay?” You asked, giving him an amused look.

“I am an artist,” he stated clearly. “I also model clay but that’s not all I do.”

“So that’s my gift? A clay lesson?”

“Ten clay lessons. I’ll make you an intermediate.” Taehyung reached a wooden cabinet, opening it and taking out a large block of clay, grabbing something from his apron and detaching a smaller part before putting the clay back in the cabinet. “But first, let me get you an apron.”

You felt your eyes blink in confusion. “You teach?”

“Art should answer anyone’s calls, in my opinion. I help people learn how to call.”

You were positively impressed. The quiet, if a bit Darcy-esque man, seemed relaxed and talkative in his natural habitat.

Taehyung reached a coat hook on the wall, giving a good look at you before choosing a garment suitable for your height. “This should do,” he said, offering it to you and letting you put it on.

You appreciated the independence he allowed you, allowing you to wear it yourself. You hung your tote on the now free hook and slipped your arms and head into the different loops before closing the tie around your waist in a cute ribbon.

“You'll want to fix your hair before your hands get messy,” Taehyung suggested, watching you carefully get it out of harm's way, since the last thing you wished for was dirt in your hair.

“You didn’t mention you teach art the other night.”

He smiled shyly. “The night you introduced yourself, I remembered I had gift lessons booked under your name. I wanted your birthday surprise to stay a surprise.”

You were entirely endeared at the thought. “That’s very sweet of you!” You exclaimed, watching him collect the piece of clay he had previously cut.

“It’s not a big deal,” he murmured, looking away as his cheeks blushed.

He was eager to watch you learn. He already felt like your hands could have so much potential. He had studied them all night after he met you, watching the sinewy fingers arch and straighten and hold and curve. “Okay, let’s start from a little bit of theory.”

He moved to the table by the window, “Would you mind grabbing a bowl with some water, there?” He pointed to a large utility sink in one of the corners, where you found a bowl and filled it halfway with water.

You made a careful work of walking to the table, placing down the bowl and sighing in relief once you realised you had caused no issues so far.

“Two questions. Have you ever used clay before?”

You snorted and shook your head. “Nope.”

“So you supposedly know nothing about it?”

“Exactly.”

He chuckled and bobbed his head. “That’s okay. All you need to know so far, is that clay is a mineral, and it can have different compositions which make it more or less difficult to model and to cook. I’ll have you use very generic clay, which is suitable for beginners, isn’t too picky about cooking and will look a bit plain, but is also pretty easy to shape. You’ll thank me later.”

You raised your eyebrows and smiled.

“It’s easy to work with, it cooks at low temperature and is also cheap, which will make it better if you ever choose to continue this hobby,” he explained. “It will take a fairly long time for you to master several techniques with this one, so no use spending money on fancy stuff. We’ll keep that for when you’re an upper intermediate. All cool?” He asked, checking in on you with his beautiful, dark eyes.

He had very pretty eyes, you noticed.

“Yes, got that.” You confirmed, startling when he slammed the clay against the table.

“Cool.” He replied with half a grin. “Let’s start from zero.”

Once more he extracted a tool from the pocket of his apron, showing it to you. “This is a wire. You’ll find one in your apron too.”

You rummaged in the pocket and found it. “This will help you with step one — Wait. Lemme start from very very zero.”

He walked back to the cabinet and dragged a block of clay out — the one he’d cut a piece from a few minutes ago. “This is called craft clay or potters’ clay. It’s ready-made and you can buy it in any diy shop. Some artists make their own mix, but let’s start with this since it’s specifically made for learners.”

“It looks very tough,” you commented, testing the small amount he’d cut before, prodding it with your finger.

“It just needs some love,” he explained, pouting sadly. “Clay is so misunderstood. It needs to be firm. But it’s pliable, as long as you treat it appropriately.”

You arched your eyebrows. “I just thought it was softer. Messier, somehow.”

“It is once you wedge it and moisturise it.” Taehyung acknowledged. “Clay contains platelets. Platelets make it solid, but also plastic as long as it’s not dry. Right now you have two enemies. Shape memory and air.”

Taehyung’s hands got on the piece instinctively. “Today I’ll only manage to explain wedging and centering. So be careful and pay attention. If you mess up wedging, your life will get ten times more impossible on the wheel. Let’s start.” He brought the main block back in the cabinet. “That one needs to stay fresh.”

Once at the table he settled beside you. “What’s wedging?” You asked, staring at your piece of clay.

“Wedging is your starting point. As you saw earlier, ready- made clay comes in blocks. Which means square. On the wheel, you’ll always start from a cute soft ball. Which means round.”

Taehyung’s hands massaged the clay for comfort. He felt somehow uneasy at the way he was going to interact with you. “Basically clay holds memory of the shape it was in. You want to erase it to make it more pliable. Like… When an introvert is in their comfort zone for too long and you need to get them back in society and you just… force them in several different social circumstances to warm them up, make them more versatile. More sociable.”

God, he felt ridiculous. He was using his inner turmoil to explain pottery.

He was going to defenestrate himself.

“Okay,” you laughed. “I got the introvert thing. I like the parallel.” You smiled and for a second you thought about all the years you’d been there, shaped like a block to fit inside someone’s life — or to fit them in yours.

You could use some wedging too.

“We usually wedge on plaster, or concrete or wood, because they get the extra water out of the clay. You want it to be a tiny bit humid. But not wet.” Taehyung spread his large hands over the small disk in front of him. “You want to make it more homogeneous. Uniform. For today let’s use the ram’s head method. It’s basically like kneading dough.”

His hair fell over his eyes as he bent down, leaning towards the table. “We have a small amount of clay, since you’re starting. You basically want it to become a thick block first.”

He bent the disk in two, turning it in a thicker, longer rectangle before placing his hands to the opposite sides and pressing, making the clay become more compact.

“Okay, try,” he invited you to do the same.

You mimicked his actions, focusing on the cold, solid feeling of the material under your fingertips.

“Use your palms. Don’t be afraid to get your whole hands on it. You’ll need all your strength.”

You nodded and followed his lead, the cold expanding to your palms, the feeling amplifying beautifully. It was somehow reinvigorating after the initial strangeness.

“Good. Now. Ram’s head.” He inhaled and regained his position. “These,” he said, wiggling his fingers, “and these,” he explained circling his hand around his shoulder. “That’s where you want to focus. All your strength resides there. You won’t feel it right now, but you will once you work with larger pieces.” He steadied himself and placed his palms on the sides of the piece. “Palms on the sides. Your wrists will do all the work. Your thumbs wrap around the top of the piece. The other fingers on the back of the piece. Focus on the wrists. You want to push the clay downwards first, then outwards, to the back of the piece. Okay. Position your hands.”

Taehyung stood straight up, allowing you to see his clay, on top of which he was previously bent over.

“I’m not…” You frowned and tried to feel the clay under your hands, trying to recognise the different sides.

“It’s okay. May I?” He asked, bringing his right hand close to yours.

You nodded, waiting for the contact.

It was chalky, somehow, almost dusty with the way the clay was already drying up, but it still held some cold dampness.

He corrected your fingers, staring at them and giving them a slight twist. “This way your wrists should reach just fine.”

He stood at your side, respecting your personal space even though his hand touched you. The smile on his face was the gentlest, most exciting thing you had felt in a while.

“Okay, mirror it with your left,” he told you as he stepped back, regaining his own space.

“This feels nice,” you admitted, giving the first twist of your wrist.

“Let’s see if you still think so after wedging for twenty minutes,” Taehyung chuckled.

“Twenty minutes!?” You said, already worried.

He giggled and shook his head, his curls brushing against his forehead, which you didn’t notice, because you were too busy focusing on the clay under your hands.

“Ten, usually. Twenty if you need very pliable clay. Like if you’re doing hand-building. But we can use something a bit rougher.” Taehyung helped you get out of the position your clay body was stuck in. “Help it with your fingers. Bring it back, yes,” he encouraged you once the position was right. “And now your wrists. Exactly. Look at you. You’re learning!”

He looked excited when you turned to look at him. He was literally shining with the meek sunlight coming from the window.

“I’m learning!” Your excitement mirrored his own.

“Okay, now, watch. This is why it’s called ram’s head.” Taehyung showed you the spiral on the sides, and the elongated triangle on the front.

“That looks fancy!” You said, feeling curious about the shape.

“Keep going and yours will be just like this!” He spurred you on, making you work harder and faster, which eventually led you to the ruthless burning that possessed your arms afterwards.

With his elbow, Taehyung pointed at your shoulder blade. “Just push your body weight into the clay. The whole motion should mimic a wave,” he showed you how. “If your hands are positioned right, you only need to lean in to wedge— Just. Like. That! Good job, Frog!”

You smiled and went on, paying attention to his corrections, and his gentle advice, enjoying the gentleness with which his pinkie finger pointed to a specific direction, or a finger that was in the wrong position, realigning it.

“Nice! Now, tuck the corners in in a cute fluffy ball. See how soft and warm and round it feels now?”

You nodded enthusiastically. There was something in menial tasks that always made you happy with yourself. Seeing the results of your efforts and hard work always made you feel accomplished, productive.

And it’s been a while since you felt that rush, except for seeing an organised shelf in your shop, with books neatly aligned and rated.

“Okay. I’ll show you how to work the wheel. We got little time left, so maybe I can show you the groundwork and then you can toy around with the body I centred, so you can get familiar with the feeling.”

You agreed.

Taehyung gave a few more twists to your clay body and brought it to the wheel. “Okay. Here we go. Forget Ghost, this thing is a lot more difficult than that. And forget all that water. Too messy. Bowl?” He asked.

Your forehead creased as he pointed to a small stand with a basin. It looked like a short version of a vintage stand for those porcelain bowls used in bedrooms.

You moved it closer to him.

“Thank you,” he smiled and caught the clay body, throwing it on the middle of the turning plate, currently still as he hadn’t yet activated the wheel.

“You can aim for the centre. There’s an indentation to show it. See,” he pointed to the plate. “There are all these circles to show you if you’re actually following the shape.”

He dipped a finger in the bowl, letting the extra water drip down, until it was just slightly damp. “You run around the base to seal it. That way you don’t need to slam it down and you don’t risk watching it unstick and mess around with you.”

“Okay. Great!”

“Now. Position is very important. With your legs you hold the holster and the wheel. Don’t worry about getting too close. Check three things. Knees around the wheel. Elbows braced on your thighs — that will stabilise you. And your torso leans forward. Not angled but perpendicular to the wheel. You need to be right on top of it, so your weight sinks down. Not across.” He showed you the correct position, his lean frame protecting the ball of clay like a hen defends her chicks.

Watching him become so tactile and connected with the material under his hands was endearing, but also fascinating, especially with the way his hands wrapped around the body.

“Okay, let me centre it for you, then you can try. It’s a procedure that can go back and forth, so I’ll have you doing this over and over for a few times. It will help you familiarise with it.”

“Thank you,” you replied, watching his fingers sink in the water. “Now, trick. You wet your hands. Let them drip down just a little, so you don’t drench your piece. If the piece is drenched, the platelets will loosen and the walls of your cup, bowl, vase, whatever will collapse. And we don’t want that, right?”

The way his head snapped towards you with an inquisitive look made you shake your head and reply readily, “nope.”

“Exactly. So, we sink our hands in, rest, and— one, two three, drip and—” he moved his hands over the clay body, letting a few tens of droplets fall onto the material. “Nice and wet. Not sodden, of course. We don’t want that, remember?”

You blinked and nodded as his hands started moving.

Taehyung grinned as he noticed your captivated gaze. You were learning. You were curious, interested, completely amazed. It was the most satisfying look he had ever seen. “This is your treasure now. You curl yourself around it and protect it. Like a dragon hoards its gold.”

He leaned down into the piece, his foot looking for the pedal and pressing it down very, very delicately.

“Your pinkies and ring fingers are doing all the work right now. They seal around the base, reinforcing the sealing we did before. Once you gave enough spins around the base — oh, feel the plate with the side of your pinkie and palm!” He reminded himself, showing you the part of his hand and securing it around the wheel once more. He corrected his position. “You will feel the clay push you up. That’s when your palms close in. You want to make sure it goes up.”

The wheel suddenly stopped and Taehyung showed you the result. “See. Cute mushroom shape. A two inch stem, and then the round hat.”

You bent down to check and studied the way the table started spinning slowly again, showing you the consistent shape.

“More water. Same technique.” He repeated the dip-drip process. “Now. Pinkies stay in. Lots of pressure. And your palms are going to push the hat of the mushroom up. You want it to turn into a cone. So once the hat disappears, you’re gonna keep your hands steady, with a lot of pressure, and drag them up, slowly. And bend them inwards slightly, into a tip.” He followed the process with his hands, his fingers steady and his veins thicker at the effort and the pressure. The way his elbows braced against his hands brought even more blood to the back of his palms.

Still, you didn’t let that cloud your focus. You stared at the process, especially once he stopped the wheel and took his hands off.

“Now we’re bringing it downwards with the thumbs. We’re helping it regain the center. This,” he prodded the ball of his thumb, the soft part where the finger could sink, “is the part that gains the centre. You push it down, while your fingers lean over. Like you’re projecting energy from your palms.” He finished showing the procedure, showing how the ball of clay was a perfectly round dome, placed in the exact middle of the wheel.

“Now you take the lead!” He turned to you with a grin.

With a shy blush you watched him stand up and gesture to the seat elegantly.

You settled down and fixed your position around the wheel, following the instructions he had given you previously.

“That’s nice. Closer.” He corrected you helping your seat closer to the holster of the wheel.

“Now we’re ready to go. Wet your hands—” he directed you, helping you count the dip and drip. “Steady.”

You placed your pinkies tightly around the base, feeling the dome a bit too large for your hands. That’s because it was shaped for his large hands.

“Yes. Steady,” he encouraged you. “Go.”

The taglist is open!

Navi: Chapter 1 — Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 — Chapter 4 — Chapter 5 — Chapter 6 — Chapter 7

#taehyung fluff #taehyung x reader #kim taehyung fanfiction #thetruthuntoldnet #thebtswritersclub #Taehyung strangers to lovers

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ggukcangetit · 5 years ago

Text

Dreamcatchers 4

Pairing: jungkook x oc

Synopsis: DI Jeon didn’t need a new partner. Unfortunately, his superiors felt otherwise; especially considering the extremely high-profile murder that had just taken place in the port city. Recent transfer, DI Choi Yuri finds herself confronted with a new cityscape, unfamiliar people, a hostile partner, and a homicide that is certain to bring back unpleasant memories.

Genre/AU: fluff/action/mystery | detective! au | police!jungkook, police!oc

Word Count: 4.4k

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: mentions of violence, alcohol, blood, drugs, death. Basically stuff you’d associate with a murder mystery/crime drama

Previous: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Acknowledgement: shoutout to @stutterfly for designing this beautiful banner which i am completely in love with and stare at for no particular reason throughout the day. also a big thank you to @kinktae for helping get through a really tricky bit in this chapter :*

A/N: reminding everyone that this story features a named oc because i’m still very unfamiliar with writing second person reader inserts. i’m not aiming for strict accuracy in this story, and all criminal investigation/forensics knowledge i have has been gathered by watching crime drama/procedural dramas! my knowledge of geography is also not totally accurate so apologies for that. once again, one thing right by @hobios prompted me to write a police inspector! jungkook story. would highly recommend reading that because it’s probably one of my most favorite pieces of writing!

Time: 4.37 am

Yuri had spent the entire night researching Park Jimin. Right from where he went to school up to all the scandalous newspaper articles recounting every aspect of his personal life. Priding herself on being able to maintain a professional outlook in her investigations, Yuri couldn’t help but feel appalled by what she had found. Park Jimin appeared to be arrogant, sleazy, manipulative, privileged, and everything that she despised in a person. Yoongi’s words rang in her head as she contemplated dropping the idea of acquiring a blood sample from the prodigal son of Park. No, this wasn’t because of her last case in Seoul. That was not why she was backing off. This was simply because she had no patience to deal with the self-absorbed antics of a privileged 20-something man.

Closing one of the last tabs, she caught sight of a familiar face. Not familiar in the way that you recognise an old friend, but familiar like a phrase you hear and cannot for the life of you remember where it was from. Park Jimin was seen exiting a famous restaurant in downtown Busan and beside him was another young man, so extraordinarily eye-catching in his loose trousers and green cardigan in a way that only an exquisite piece of art is.

An exquisite piece of art…

That was it. That was the phrase that made it click in her head.

“He’s literally a piece of art!”

“I mean, yes, he’s definitely conventionally attractive,” conceded Ahreum, a little annoyed that her photography was almost completely being ignored. “But what do you think of the pictures?”

“‘Conventionally attractive’? Is that the best you can do with your Literature & Creative Writing degree?”

Of course! This was Ahreum’s friend and Instagram muse.

Yuri snatched her phone from it’s charging spot and quickly scrolled through her friend’s Instagram. Sure enough, Park Jimin’s friend in loose trousers and green cardigan stared back at her from various parts of Busan, his expressions varying only slightly but creating completely different moods throughout Ahreum’s profile.

Kim Taehyung…

xxx

Yuri checked her phone for the fifth time in the last 3 minutes. Ahreum was supposed to pick her up at 8 am. It was currently 8.02 am. Not that it really made much of a difference, but she was raring to go ahead with her plan. A plan she had no doubt could easily blow up in her face, but weeks of fitful sleep coupled with shots of sugary coffee had given her a weird adrenaline rush which she didn’t want to lose.

A couple of minutes later, Ahreum pulled up outside her apartment, her large bike contrasting heavily with her petite person.

“Still don’t see why I couldn’t drive to the place,” muttered Yuri, putting on the large helmet with artistic paint splatters all over.

“The plan was to corner Jimin, and you can’t do that in your car which has a fucking police sticker right at the back.”

Yuri frowned. “Your plan was to corner Jimin. I just wanted to talk to him. And -” she fixed her bag across her body and put both hands on Ahreum’s shoulders - “I kept the sticker for parking privileges. I can take it off whenever.”

“Whatever. Just hold on tight,” said Ahreum, revving up the bike.

4.5 minutes later, they had reached their destination. Yuri knew that it had been 4.5 minutes because she had been fervently counting the seconds to distract herself from falling off the vehicle

“WHO drives like that? Are you totally insane?” she managed to get out, her hands fumbling on the straps of the helmet.

Ahreum gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry, timing is essential in this case. Tae had texted me that they had reached just before I left from my place. We don’t have a lot of time. So I ugh-”

“Whatever. Let’s just get on with it.” Yuri tucked the loose strands of hair behind her ear, and mentally rehearsed everything she was going to tell Jimin.

Unfortunately, fate had other things in mind, because as soon as they opened the door to the diner, a familiar face (which most definitely should not have been there) spotted them and came over.

“Fuck.” Ahreum pulled out her phone and frantically sent Taehyung a text before the entire plan went down the drain.

“Yuri? Ahreum? What are you two doing here?” asked Seulgi, her long brown hair looked freshly washed and smelt of flowers.

A: why didnt u warn me that s was here fuck fuck fuck

T: i didnt see her… look it wont be that big a problem will it

A: pls tae the last time she saw ur boy they almost set fire to the library

T: shit ur right… umm maybe she-

Ahreum paused her frantic texting as soon as Seulgi came over to them. She gave Yuri a quick nod and decided to wing the situation as best as she could.

“Seulgi! This is incredible! I can’t believe we ran into you like this!” Ahreum hugged the taller girl. “I wanted Yuri to try the breakfast here so we decided to drop by before she had to get to the station. This is really incredible, I was planning to call you today actually. It’s almost time for me to choose my specialization and I wanted to-”

Yuri took this chance to slip off, as Ahreum steered Seulgi outside the diner. She didn’t really know why Ahreum was so intent on Seulgi and Jimin not meeting, but she trusted her best friend’s reasons.

Looking around, she saw that the large table near the window was occupied by the people she had been looking for. Kim Taehyung and his best friend Park Jimin. The latter had his back towards her, and as she approached she saw Taehyung’s eyes fall on her. She gave him a small wave, gesturing towards her phone’s lockscreen - a picture of her and Ahreum.

His face lit up in recognition as he stood up to greet her. “Hello! I’m Kim Taehyung. I thought Ahreum would be with you.”

“She’s umm…” Yuri glanced towards the doors of the diner through which Ahreum had led Seulgi out. “She’ll be here in a bit.”

“DI Choi, that’s not really true,” Jimin turned towards her, his eyes cold and alert. “Taehyung, your friend is diverting dear Dr. Ahn before she could see us and sabotage their poorly constructed ambush of me.”

Taehyung’s mouth hung open slightly, not really sure what was going on. “DI Choi? As in Choi Yuri? As in Ahreum’s best friend from school?”

“Yes,” said Yuri, feeling extremely awkward. She had expected to get two words in before Jimin caught on, but it seemed like she had severely underestimated him. “I’m sorry Ahreum didn’t tell you what this meeting was about. These aren’t the most favorable circumstances for us to meet. Nonetheless, I’ve heard a lot about you and it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Taehyung bowed in response, but his expression was still uncertain.

“What brings you here, DI Choi?” asked Jimin. “I doubt it was because you were dying to see me again. But -” he stood up and leaned towards her ever so slightly - “I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea if that were really the case.”

Not for the first time, Yuri realized how powerful Park Jimin’s presence was. She could see him becoming a very successful CEO with how he commanded people’s attention. However, she couldn’t shake off the uncomfortable feeling his gaze elicited. It was like she couldn’t predict what he was going to do next, much less fathom what was going on inside his head.

“Mr. Park,” she said, sitting down on one of the sofas in the booth. Taehyung and Jimin followed suit, but this time, they were both seated on the same side. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call. I’ve come to talk to you about the ongoing investigation regarding the death of Kang Eunwoo.”

“I believe I answered all of your questions last time,” said Jimin, narrowing his eyes. “In fact, I believe I answered all of DI Jeon’s questions. You didn’t have much to say, as I recall.”

Taehyung’s head snapped towards his friend. "Jeongguk? You were at the station? Why didn’t you tell me, Jimin? What’s going on?”

“You and I both know that you didn’t provide much information. But that’s not what-”

"I don't think I was really required to answer any of your questions, DI Choi. Linking me to a rival company heir's death without a shred of evidence - " he leaned forward once again, his silver bangs falling over his forehead - "Some would consider that harassment. That would mean my lawyer would have to become involved. And neither of us want that, now do we?"

This is harassment. You really don't want to know how I deal with any kind of harassment, DI Choi.

Yuri took a deep breath, trying to ignore the words that kept her up almost every night.

"Your cooperation is highly appreciated, Mr Park," she continued, placing her hands on the table. "However, in order to save you from any further harassment, there is something you could help us out with."

Jimin did not respond immediately, giving Yuri the time to continue her, frankly, insane idea.

"We would require you to provide a blood sample. Which would help us eliminate you from the investigation. It shouldn't take up too much of your time - just a short visit to the station, and you'd be free of us."

Yuri waited for a response - anger, disbelief, frustration - anything really. What she didn't expect was laughter. Full on hysterical laughter. In fact, Taehyung was probably not expecting it either because he kept glancing at his friend worriedly.

"You are truly remarkable, DI Choi," said Jimin, once he had calmed down. He wiped a lone tear from his left eye, the many rings on his fingers glinting in the sunlight. "After everything that you've witnessed, you really thought you could somehow convince me to provide a blood sample? Sweetheart, I have 10 years worth of DNA that the police have been trying to get a hold off. Do you really think you'd be able to convince me when you weren't even able to get an alibi out of me?"

Yuri's face fell slightly, her mind grappling with ways in which the situation could be salvaged. It was at this point that Ahreum came over, looking distinctly more worn out than when they had arrived at the diner.

"Ahreum." Jimin turned his attention to the other girl. "You have such an interesting friend. Are you sure she's from Seoul? I didn't think such naivety could survive in the capital. Much less in law enforcement."

Ahreum frowned, snatching up the glass of water in front of Taehyung and gulping down the entire contents. "Stop being a dick for once in your life, Jimin."

"I love when you talk dirty to me." Jimin winked at her.

"Cool it, Jimin," said Taehyung, his expression no longer confused and worried. "Ahreum, what the fuck is going on?"

Ahreum looked at Yuri, not sure how she could help with the situation. Apparently, things hadn't gone well while she had been diverting Seulgi. "I'm sorry, Tae. I don't know anything other than Yuri wanting to meet Jimin."

"But you knew it had something to do with an investigation," said Taehyung, his handsome features creasing. "Why didn't you tell me that your best friend Yuri was a detective? That doesn't seem like information to just leave out."

Ahreum looked at him guiltily. In Taehyung's eyes, he was the only one who had no idea what was going on, and he felt both hurt and betrayed by her. This entire plan had been a train-wreck and to make matters worse, Seulgi had returned to the diner because she had dropped her keys inside.

"What the hell?" Seulgi stood at their table, her eyes narrowing disapprovingly. "What're you doing here, Park?"

"Hello to you too, darling," said Jimin, leaning back into the sofa lazily. "It's been so long since I've seen that beautiful face of yours."

"So." Seulgi turned towards Ahreum. "Are you really interested in going into forensics? Or was it just a way to distract me so that I wouldn't run into him?"

"Seulgi, I-"

"Darling, they were just trying to convince me to provide a blood sample," interrupted Jimin, his face curling into a smirk. "Was that your idea? You know I would've said yes in a heartbeat if you had asked nicely."

"Fuck you, Park!" spat Seulgi. She turned to Yuri and shook her head. "This isn't how I thought you'd get things done. I can't believe you're bargaining with a murder suspect!"

"Now that's a bit harsh, isn't it darling?" Jimin was enjoying the situation immensely.

"Jimin, don't." Taehyung warned his friend.

"Seulgi, please, this isn't what you think-" Ahreum ran out after the taller girl, the diner eerily quiet after the blowout.

"Jimin, you can find your way home yourself, right?" asked Taehyung, getting up to swipe his credit card at the counter. "I have to go."

Jimin nodded, his fingers lazily running through his silver hair. It was a wonder all the rings didn’t get caught in his hair.

"And Yuri - " Taehyung paused, his long fingers clenching around the plastic of the card - "It was nice meeting you, I guess."

"I think that went rather well, DI Choi" said Jimin, once they were the only two left at the table. "I was thoroughly entertained."

Yuri pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache coming on. "My apologies for wasting your time, Mr. Park. Have a good rest of the day."

Once outside, she realised that Ahreum had left. Her mode of transportation had left. Without letting her know. She sighed and unlocked her phone, trying to figure out if it would be easier to walk back home or to the station.

"Were you abandoned as well?"

Yuri took a deep breath, preparing herself before facing Jimin once again.

"Friends these days aren't what they used to be."

"I don't know you, Mr. Park." Yuri crossed her arms and tilted her head to one side. "I have no preconceived notions, and I have no affiliations in this place. I am merely doing my job - trying to find out how Kang Eunwoo died. I don't really understand why you're trying your damned best to make things difficult for us. But let me tell you one thing- I'm not going to stop until I get to the truth."

Jimin seemed at a loss for words for the first time since she had met him.

"If you didn't have anything to do with Eunwoo's death, providing the blood sample should be nothing more than a formality for you. But by declining to assist us, you're pushing us into thinking you do have something to hide. I don't know about you, Mr. Park, but if I were involved in a murder investigation, I'd like my name cleared as soon as possible. All personal conflicts aside."

xxx

Back at the station, Yuri felt her head was going to explode. She hadn't eaten anything the entire day, her morning coffee forgotten in the chaos of the diner mission. On top of that, her desk had a large pile of papers waiting to be read.

"Goh dropped these off when he came in," said Jeon, noticing how she was staring at the pile. "Just procedural stuff - it's pretty much the same everywhere in the country. But each station requires anyone who joins to read through them and sign."

"Oh, I see -" Yuri stopped abruptly, her head spinning towards her partner. He had never managed to go two words without snapping at her, much less initiate a civil conversation. Why was he suddenly behaving like this? Was this some kind of trap? Was he baiting her?

Jeon seemed completely unaware of Yuri's internal dilemma, and continued typing on his work laptop until his phone pinged with a message. He quickly closed the laptop and walked towards the exit, already speaking to someone on the phone.

Yuri glared at his desk, trying to figure out what he was playing at. Gradually, her eyes landed on that wretched file. The 2nd Nov case file. The file that seemed to be Jeon's purpose of existence.

The 2nd November case that Jeongguk’s been overseeing - I want you to go over it. You might be able to help

Yoongi's words rang in her head. She began reaching over the partition that divided her desk from Jeon's, her hand was just a few centimeters from the file-

"Need some help?"

Yuri jumped in astonishment, Jeon's voice startling her into knocking her knee into the desk. She ignored the throbbing sensation, and focused on trying to explain herself.

"Need a pen to sign the papers. Mine's out of ink."

Jeon seemed to buy this reason, and picked up a pen from the large stack sitting inside a pale red mug on his desk.

"Anything else?" he asked, when her eyes kept flitting back to his desk.

"N-no." Yuri sat down hurriedly, sifting through the papers she hadn't looked over even once.

The next hour went by without much incident. Yuri had managed to grab a dodgy looking sandwich from the break room, and somehow finished it off in between large gulps of water. Never again was she leaving the house without eating.

Her texts to Ahreum had gone unanswered so far, which was hardly surprising. Yuri was pretty sure she was trying to explain things to Taehyung. It was best to give her some space at this point - she'd call and check on her later at night.

Jeon's phone rang again causing him to rush out once more, and from the fragments that Yuri managed to catch, it was Chief Inspector Goh on the other line.

"DI Choi?"

Yuri was stunned to see Park Jimin standing by her desk.

"How can I help you, Mr. Park?" she asked, after a moment's pause.

"I'm here to... cooperate."

"You're agreeing to the blood sample?" she asked, incredulously.

"Yes."

Yuri cursed under her breath. It was lunchtime, which meant that Seulgi and most of her team would be off.

Suho happened to be passing by at just that moment. "DI Choi, can I speak to you for a moment?"

"S-sure. Mr. Park, please wait here for a moment."

"You managed to convince Jimin to provide a blood sample?" asked Suho, lowering his voice.

"I guess so..."

"The labs are closed for lunch right now."

"I know." Yuri bit her lip in frustration. "I don't know how long he'll be willing to wait. It's already a miracle that he's showed up."

"I think I saw one of the junior lab technicians come back early," Suho wondered out loud. "Let me call him and ask."

Yuri waited as Suho dialed the number on his phone. In the meantime, Jeon had returned, his eyes catching sight of Jimin and temporarily halting him in his tracks.

What followed next was one of the most stressful 3 minutes of Yuri's life. Jeon was speaking to Jimin, when Suho informed her that the junior technician was available to draw a blood sample but would not be able to stay long enough for the sample to be handed over to either his senior or Seulgi herself. This was a definite issue because according to the station's protocol, junior lab technicians were not allowed to officially check in anything related to an ongoing investigation. It seemed like Yuri would have to wait at the lab until Seulgi or a senior technician came back, so that the sample would not be left alone until it had been properly entered into the system. The only problem was, Jeon appeared to be packing his stuff and Yuri's window to grab the 2nd Nov file was closing. This would've been the perfect moment, given that he was slightly distracted due to his conversation with Jimin. Suho seemed to sense the conflict raging within her, and offered to wait at the lab instead.

"Are you sure?" asked Yuri, her attention fixed on the file still on Jeon's desk.

"Yes," said Suho. "But I think you should tell Jimin that I'll be taking him to the lab instead of you. He'll probably take it better if it’s coming from you."

Yuri nodded and walked over to where the two men were having a conversation.

"- a bit annoyed that he didn't know I had been down here." Jimin chuckled and ran a hand through his hair.

"Why didn't you tell him, then?" asked Jeon, frowning. Yuri took this opportunity to swipe the file from his desk.

"Ah! DI Choi, I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me," said Jimin, his eyes falling on Yuri.

"Sorry for making you wait. Unfortunately, I have some urgent matters to attend to. DS Lim will take you to the lab and make sure everything is alright." She hid the file under her coat, and beckoned for Suho to come over. "Thank you once again for your cooperation, Mr. Park."

Jeon raised his eyebrow questioningly, but Yuri was out of the station before he could get a word in. She didn't have much time before he realised his precious file was missing.

Once inside her car, Yuri opened the file and read through every single inch of it. It was a grim case no doubt - a single mother had been stabbed to death by a homeless drunk, who was assumed to be the father of her three year old daughter. The girl had been missing since then, while the man awaited his trial in jail.

The pictures were quite awful. The small nook where she had been living told a rather tragic, almost pathetic, story. A young woman without many choices. Her pale, lifeless body only added to the sense of despair. Yuri wondered why Jeon was so obsessed with this case. Sure, it was terribly sad, but not unlike many other drunken brawls resulting in an unfortunate death. She wondered who was in charge of looking for the girl at this point. According to the file, no body had turned up in over a month. Which meant that she was either alive or her body would probably never be found. If the former was true, there was a high probability that this was a kidnapping. It didn't make much sense. Maybe there was something she was missing...

Staring at the picture of the woman's corpse, her eyes caught sight of a small detail - a ring. A ring which looked very familiar.

Sifting through the pictures, she found a close up of the ring in question. It had been lying near the body and it was assumed that the ring had fallen from her person at some point during the struggle.

Only...

Yuri took out her phone and quickly snapped a shot of the picture of the ring. This was absolutely against protocol, but she was desperate at this point.

It had been 20 minutes since she had run out of the station, and after making sure that Jeon had left, she made her way back in and dropped the file at his desk.

xxx

"Did you clear things up with Taehyung?" asked Yuri, sitting down at the table.

Ahreum picked up some pasta with her tongs and placed it on Yuri's plate. Tonight's dinner was in honor of Namjoon making it home before the clock struck midnight.

"Yeah, he's not one to hold grudges. He was just a little upset that I had lied to him."

"He looked quite betrayed when he realised that we had set them up like that."

"Don't worry about it." Ahreum shrugged while pouring wine into the glasses. "He's fine now."

"Tae can't stay mad at Ahreum for too long." The deep voice sounded familiar yet strange to Yuri, who had barely interacted with Ahreum's older brother when they had all been living in the same city.

"Namjoon!" she stood up, giving him a hug. He was still awkward with any kind of physical affection, though he had grown into his limbs and no longer resembled a gangly teenager. "Took me 4 days but I finally managed to get a glimpse of you."

"Ah," he said, pushing his black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Sorry about that, Yuri. I had a major project due last night so I was basically living at the library doing research."

"Well, I hope it's not going to be as difficult to meet you from now on. You and Ahreum are the only people I know here."

"No new friends yet?" asked Namjoon, digging into the pasta. "Ahreum, this is delicious! We should've called Seokjin over. He always appreciates good food."

"Seokjin? As in the guy who runs The Moon's Post Office?" asked Yuri.

"The one and the same. How do you know him?" asked Namjoon.

"Happened to visit the bakery on my first day here. He's got quite a way with shortcrust pastry."

Namjoon laughed at this. "I'm sure he'll be happy to hear that. That place is Seokjin's pride."

"But back to the friends question," he continued, grabbing another helping of pasta. "Detective work not leaving you much time to socialize?"

"Sort of..."

"She's been having trouble with her new partner," piped up Ahreum, her eyes glinting mischievously. "Maybe you can help her out on that front."

"Oh? Who's your partner?"

"Jeon Jeongguk."

"You're not getting along with Jeongguk?!" Namjoon nearly spilled the wine on himself.

"Namjoon, please calm down. It's not that serious," said Ahreum, rolling her eyes.

"Sorry," her brother murmured, placing the glass back on the table. "It's just... I know you both. There's no reason for you to not get along."

"He's being a dick," supplied Ahreum, helpfully. "Not sure why. Doesn't sound like the guy you're always gushing about."

"I don't think 'gushing' is the right word... but I get your point. Has he said anything to you, Yuri?" asked Namjoon.

Yuri didn't hear what Namjoon had said. Her attention was fixed on her phone, specifically on an email from Seulgi. The blood on Eunwoo's sleeve was a match for the sample taken from Park Jimin earlier that day.

xxx

another chapter done!

#jungkook #jungkook fic #jungkook x oc #jimin #taehyung #seokjin #namjoon #hoseok #yoongi #bts fic #btsbookclub #c me write bangtan

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artificialqueens · 5 years ago

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She Plays Bass (Crygi) - Frankenvenus

Gigi Goode knew bassists were good with their hands, but her sister’s punk band’s bassist gave that thought an entire new meaning.

Read on Ao3

Expression of sibling love wasn’t really Gigi Goode’s strongest point, but she admired her sister Stevie eminently. Because of their mere one year age gap, they had grown up best friends. They’d bicker on-and-off, as most sisters did, but for the most part, they were two halves of a whole.

That was until high school happened.

Gigi remembered the exact day Stevie emerged from the bathroom with silver hair and a mullet. Her mother had to stifle a scream and her father was dead silent. Gigi thought it was the coolest thing in the world, but Stevie didn’t seem to want to talk to her about it.

“Hey Stevie, do you wanna go to the cinema with me? I got tickets to see that new Tim Burton movie with the big aliens…”

“No way. It looks shitty. I’m going to a party at Nicky’s place. If mom asks where I am, tell her I’m staying over at Jackie’s for the night.”

A door was slammed on her face and it felt like her dignity was crushed with it. Little did she know, that was only the first of many slammed doors. For the next year, she wouldn’t understand what had happened to Stevie, but then she reached high school herself and it all made sense.

Gigi was quite the outcast during middle school. Her dark brown hair was frizzy and her large braces gave her a slight lisp, but when her braces were removed and she bought herself keratin treatment over summer, she went from ugly duckling to swan. The minute she stepped into her new high school with hundreds of unfamiliar faces, she was pulled into the popular group and it stayed that way.

Now it was 1998 and she was in senior year, questioning if her friends - the popular girls - were truly her friends at all. They were insolent and loud, and Gigi was constantly riddled with guilt at her passive manner towards her friends’ behaviour. She was too afraid to defend anyone they picked on, so instead, she’d slip them a discreet compliment in the middle of the hallway - only when she knew no one else was around.

Her sister was at community college right now, though still living at home. She and Gigi didn’t talk often. Their high school experiences had been so different, it was difficult to relate to one another. Stevie mastered the art of giving no fucks, but Gigi still carried herself in an untouchable princess-like way.

One thing they could relate to was their mutual lack of interest in men. Gigi was the only person in her friend group without a boyfriend, and she didn’t see that changing anytime soon, despite the constant harassment from her friends Dahlia and Violet. She couldn’t help it - there was just something about the sweaty jocks that made her want to run in the opposite direction.

Stevie called herself a feminist and was very outspoken against sexism, much to their fathers dismay. The girl had recently formed a punk-rock band called ‘Lady Disciples’ with some girls from campus. Gigi hadn’t met most of them, but the group consisted of five girls; Stevie, Nicky, Crystal, Jaida and Widow.

The newly-formed band would usually practice in Nicky’s basement, however, for some reason, their usual location was out of bounds one day, and Stevie announced that they’d be temporarily moving their rehearsal spot to the Goode’s garage. Somehow, their relocation of rehearsal space prompted Stevie to believe that Gigi was now her personal servant. The older girl had requested that when the band arrived, Gigi was to bring them a bowl of chips and cans of beer. Of course, Gigi said yes, the main reason being that she was afraid to say no, but also, part of her wanted to meet Stevie’s friends that she had heard so little about.

The sudden crashing of drums from the room below indicated to Gigi that the band was now set up, which was when her sister had asked her to come downstairs and waitress. Stevie was the lead guitarist of the band, which is why when Gigi heard a complex drum solo, she knew that the other members had arrived.

For some reason, Gigi caught herself checking her own appearance before going downstairs. Her bangs were sitting just above her painted brows, shiny and perfect. Her wavy chestnut locks were thrown over each shoulder. She looked presentable - prepared to impress.

She skipped down the stairs and grabbed five beers from the freezer, wincing at the icy temperature against her warm skin. It felt slightly refreshing, though. The Missouri summer heatwave was getting to her, despite her wearing just a loose white button-up blouse tucked into brown corduroy trousers.

She placed the cans on the counter before reaching into a cupboard for a bowl and some hot Cheetos. She filled the bowl up so it was practically spilling over, before realising that she’d have to carry all five beers plus the overflowing bowl at one time. Somehow she succeeded, but as soon as she entered the busy garage, she dropped all the cans onto the couch.

“Sorry!” she squealed, before looking up at the five pairs of eyes staring at her.

A girl with short scarlet hair and piercing blue eyes - that was Nicky, a girl with a golden afro and a sparkling smile - Widow, a girl with beautiful black braids wrapped up in a bun who Gigi didn’t recognise, and then the final girl.

The final girl was perched on a stool, tuning what looked to be a bass guitar, but her eyes were fixated on Gigi. Her hair was a beautiful light shade of blue that reached just past her shoulders and her slightly large ears poked through the sides. Her skin was an olive tan, contrasting against her oversized red band tee which had been tucked into a sinfully tight pair of denim bell-bottoms.

Gigi must’ve stared at the girl for a little longer than she should have because the girl began smirking before shifting her focus back to her strings.

“This is my sister, some of you already know her,” Stevie said monotonously, handing a can of beer to each band member. “J, Crys; go ahead and introduce yourselves.”

The tall girl with the braids approached her with a warm smile, “I’m Jaida. Drummer. Genevive, right?”

“Gigi,” the brunette mumbled, shaking Jaida’s hand. The girl was threateningly beautiful, but not nearly as threatening as the blue-haired girl approaching her slowly, her high platform heels echoing across the garage.

That was until she flashed a smile, and everything about her softened. Her teeth were bright, her lips were a glittery red, and her eyes were a hypnotic umber. She took Gigi off guard by pulling her into a hug, nearly knocking all the air out of the frail brunette’s lungs.

“Gigi! I’ve heard so much about you, I’ve been dying to meet you,” she chuckled breathily, blessing Gigi with the softest voice she had ever heard, “My name is Crystal!”

The tanned girl pulled back and shook Gigi’s hand, and Gigi’s gaze remained fixated on her short, black-painted nails for a little too long.

“Uh, can we practice now?” Stevie asked, plugging her guitar into the amp and causing a slight screech noise to fill the room.

Much to Gigi’s surprise (despite everything surprising her because this insanely attractive girl had her breathless), Crystal turned to her sister with a pout.

“Can she watch us practice for a little bit?”

The brunette couldn’t understand why someone as cool as the girl in front of her would want to spend any time around her, but she was absolutely down for watching the band rehearse. Jaida positioned herself behind the large drum kit, Stevie and Widow grabbed their electric guitars, Crystal returned to her stool and strummed her bass, Nicky spoke ‘1, 2, 3’ into her microphone to assure it was working, and Gigi plopped herself onto the tatty garage couch, placing her hands in her lap and waiting for the performance to start.

And when Jaida began to play the intro beat to ‘You Oughtta Know’ by Alanis Morisette - Gigi’s secret favourite song - the brunette knew that the performance would blow her away.

Nicky’s voice was like silk, Widow’s electric guitar was remarkable and Jaida’s ability to maintain the rhythm with so much passion was insane, but Gigi couldn’t keep her eyes off Crystal. The way her lips would part as she riffed under Nicky’s vocals, gently rocking back and forth to the beat of the music made Gigi swoon. Her eyes would darken with concentration as she watched her own fingers move from string to string with such intricate movements.

When the chorus hit, Gigi felt euphoric. She wanted to get up and dance, but she was far too aware of her sister’s piercing gaze. She instead simply tapped her foot to the beat, but her beam was apparent. She hoped no one noticed the way her thighs were tightly pressed against one another as she watched Crystal flex her slender, tan fingers.

Then the second pre-chorus arrived. Everything was going great until Nicky sang the lines, “It was a slap in the face, how quickly I was replaced, and are you thinking of me when you fuck her,” because suddenly Crystal’s eyes were staring down at Gigi with a look that could only be described as lustful.

Boys had looked at Gigi in that way before - when she was dancing around on the football field in her skimpy cheerleader’s uniform - but this was so different. Sometimes Gigi questioned if, perhaps, she was attracted to girls, but that entire prospect was unknown territory to her.

But now she felt as if her entire mind was being read by the blue-haired girl’s hazel orbs, like she was reading her every racing thought. When the song ended, Gigi managed to get out a few compliments before quickly excusing herself to her bedroom.

Her head raced with many thoughts - none of which were any she’d like anyone to hear. She knew she looked at girls in a way that she had been told she shouldn’t, but she had never gone further than checking someone out. One time, in middle school, Stevie had a bunch of her friends round in the basement. Gigi spied on them, just like any curious middle schooler would, and saw two girls - Nicky and another girl she had never seen before - making out on the bean bag. The most prominent thought in her mind was ‘I want to do that,’ and she carried that thought with her to now, at age eighteen.

Now she was so uselessly pretending she didn’t like women. Whatever amount of discretion she had was now futile, considering she practically drooled over her sister’s bassist in front of four other people.

“God. I’m such a joke,” she muttered, staring at the chipped baby pink paint on her ceiling.

Part of her had just accepted that she’d have to live the rest of her life in the closet. She swore she was the only lesbian in Springfield - until she saw Crystal, that was. Crystal looked exactly like the ladies in the Blockbuster DVDs she secretly rented every so often. She had watched a lesbian movie called ‘Bound’ and often found her mind wandering back to the sexual scenarios in the film. She wanted someone to have their way with her whilst she lay back, whining uncontrollably, but she told herself that she’d take those dreams to her grave.

She was on the verge of horny tears when there was a knock at her door. She shot up and told whoever it was to come in, but not without a nervous voice crack. The door pushed open slowly, revealing her mom stood there with her usual warm smile.

“Hey, Genevive. Stevie was wondering if you could drive one of her bandmates home. One of the girls lives a couple of miles out of the city and she can’t drive herself home because she had a couple of beers. I’m really busy with a wedding dress so can you please do it? I’ll give you five dollars for it.”

Gigi thought for a second, before exhaling. A drive out of the city would be nice. She hadn’t been out all day, but the sun was bright and setting a golden hue across her street. She obliged and hopped off her bed, slipping her shoes into some scruffy Vans that were a hand-me-down from her sister - not unlike all her other clothes which she didn’t make herself.

She hopped downstairs, grabbing the car keys from the hallway table. She was about to turn around to go to the driveway when she clashed bodies with someone. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt her in any way, but it did cause her chest to erupt with embarrassment.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!” Gigi gasped, before nearly dropping the keys on the floor. She saw the cerulean hair, the tan skin, and the red-painted smile.

“Apparently you’re my chauffeur!” Crystal winked, her voice filled with what sounded like excitement. For her age, she had the voice of a mid-pubescent boy, but Gigi couldn’t think of anything cuter.

“I am?” the brunette raised a brow before realising that Crystal was the girl she had been asked to drive home, ”Oh, I am! How far out of Springfield are you?”

“I’m just a little closer to the country - near the zoo.”

Gigi nodded before making her way out the front door, towards the black Subaru in the driveway. Thanks to the colour of the car, she practically burnt herself on the handle. Not wanting Crystal to make the same mistake, she quickly rushed over to the passenger side of the car and opened it for her.

“Wow. What a gentleman,” Crystal chuckled. Her laugh almost sounded like a cry, all breathy and quiet. The brunette wanted it on tape. She stepped into the car, leaving Gigi confused at how in-control she was of her body despite wearing huge platforms.

Gigi returned to her own side, hoping the older girl would see her blush and assume it was a sunburn. She slumped down in the driver’s seat and exhaled before starting up the ignition.

“Your shirt. It’s slipped,” Crystal said abruptly, cutting through the silence. She pointed at Gigi’s baggy button-up, which was falling down her shoulder slightly, displaying her baby blue laced bra.

“Oh. Shit,” the brunette’s face flushed crimson again as she felt the older girl’s eyes burn into her display of skin. She tried to suppress her inappropriate thoughts by beginning to drive. “You can put some music on if you want. There are some CDs under the dashboard.”

Crystal hummed softly and reached down in front of her, pulling out a sleeve of about eight CDs. After scanning over them with a captivating look of indecisiveness, she slipped one into the stereo. ‘The Boy is Mine’ by Brandy began playing quietly through the speakers, and Crystal began singing with the most off-tune, ear-splitting singing voice Gigi had ever heard.

“I see why you’re the bassist, huh?” Gigi joked, surprising herself with how nasty she sounded. “Sorry… I didn’t mean for it to sound like that-”

“Relax, princesa. You’re right.”

That was it. Gigi was nothing more than a puddle. Hearing Crystal speak Spanish almost made Gigi crash the car.

“So. You speak Spanish?”

“Yeah, but not much. It’s just kind of what I picked up from my mom. She’s Mexican. Do you speak Dutch? Stevie said you’re better at it than her.”

“Ja.” Gigi showed-off, earning a few beautiful giggles from the other girl, “I don’t speak much, but I’m learning. I think I wanna live with my family in the Netherlands, cause I heard they’re trying to pass a bill that will legalise gay marria-” Gigi cut herself off, wanting nothing more than to drive herself off a cliff.

She slowed the car down ever so slightly and caught a glimpse of Crystal’s lips in the rear view mirror, noticing the way they began to curl up into a smirk. Perhaps she dreamt it, but she swore she also saw the blue-haired girl swiftly drag her tongue over her lower lip.

“You like girls?” questioned the older girl, her voice an octave deeper than before.

Gigi somehow managed to squeak out a timid ‘mhm.’

Crystal smacked her lips together and shuffled around in her seat before saying, “Me too.”

If the brunette were in her room at that moment, she would’ve screamed into her cushion out of excitement, but instead, she did so internally. Her mind was racing once again.

Heart-shaped pillowy lips.

The gentle mole under her eye.

Faint freckles dusted across her nose.

Gigi had never seen someone quite like Crystal, and she found herself feeling disappointed when the latter was telling her to take a left as they had reached her neighbourhood.

The brunette pulled up onto the lane behind Crystal’s house, as the girl had requested. When the car stopped, the music automatically stopped, and the silence caused thick tension to bleed through the air.

Crystal was looking at her, and Gigi was looking at her own pale hands clasped around the wheel.

“Do you wanna come in?” the older girl asked suddenly.

“Huh?” Gigi responded stupidly fast, raising her gaze to meet the other girl and noticing how close their faces were.

“My guitar is kinda heavy. A second pair of hands might be helpful…”

If Gigi wasn’t so uselessly oblivious, she would’ve known it was just an excuse to spend more time with her. Either way, she would’ve said yes.

The two of them exited the car and made their way to the trunk, where Gigi carefully assisted Crystal whilst the latter lifted her bass and amplifier out. The brunette didn’t plan on locking the car, but quickly decided to do so when she was stepping into Crystal’s backyard - just in case she was in there for longer than anticipated.

The blue-haired girl’s home was filled with art. On every wall, there was a painting or sketch of some kind. She had multi-coloured lamps, disco lights, and fairy lights scattered around the place. The interior was straight out of a movie.

“Wow, it’s so cute in here!” Gigi gawked, her eyes overwhelmed with the number of bright colours surrounding her.

“Thanks! I cleaned it before I left this morning. Usually it’s a complete mess.”

Crystal led her into her bedroom which was just as Gigi had imagined it to be. There were multi-coloured tapestries pinned to each wall and the king-sized bed in the middle of the room had a large rainbow-crochet blanket thrown across it. The room smelt like peaches and weed - an odd mixture that somehow brought a lot of comfort to the brunette.

“That’s a pretty big bed you have there,” Gigi blurted, placing the amplifier down in the corner of the room. “You have a special someone you share it with?”

Crystal placed her guitar on its stand before turning to Gigi, folding her arms casually and shaking her head, “No. I just like a large, comfy bed for all the ladies I take home. I like to give them the best treatment I can, so they’re filled with regret when they run back to their boyfriends.”

Gigi felt faint once more, her breath hitching as Crystal slowly approached her, looking in her eyes like the cat who caught the canary. She watched as Crystal kicked off her shoes, going from 6’2 to 5’10 - something that would be comical to Gigi if she wasn’t soaking her underwear through.

“I saw the way you were looking at me, Geege,” she whispered, her face mere inches apart from the brunette’s, knocking the air out of the younger girl’s lungs simply with the use of a damn nickname. “I want you to tell me you want me.”

The taller girl felt her eyes water with desire. Crystal was so close - her lips could be on Gigi’s with a single movement.

“Please,” she managed to get out. “I’ve wanted you since I first saw you. Please.”

“Tell me how you want me,” Crystal purred.

“I want your…” Gigi blinked back tears, “I want your fingers…”

The older girl hummed, lifting her hand up to Gigi’s lips and tapping on them gently with two fingers, “Can you suck on them for me?”

Gigi nodded, parting her lips and allowing Crystal’s digits in, sucking on them gently and seductively, her eyes not leaving the older girl’s.

“So pretty, baby. Such a good girl.”

After a few seconds, Crystal withdrew her fingers before cupping the side of Gigi’s face.

“Is this okay?” she asked, her voice returning to it’s higher pitch. Gigi’s heart almost couldn’t handle it - Crystal actually wanted to take care of her. It was clear that the older girl didn’t see her as an easy fuck.

“It’s perfect,” she replied, finding herself being guided towards Crystal’s bed. She leaned back, hitting the blankets with a soft thud. Soon enough, Crystal was swinging a leg over her lips, straddling her in a swift motion.

And then she was leaning down, and their lips met. The tips of Gigi’s fingers brushed against Crystal’s jaw tenderly as they found a rhythm with one another. Gigi’s eyes fluttered closed and, at that moment, there was nothing else in the world except Crystal. The older girl’s plump lips pressed and pulled at her own, eliciting moans from the back of her throat. Gigi slipped a hand onto the nape of the tanned girl’s neck, pulling her in closer. Any notion of gentleness was gone.

Crystal pulled back, looking down at the brunette from her spot on her torso. Her hair was messy and her mouth was covered in red lipstick prints from Crystal’s own lips, but she looked absolutely ethereal.

“Is it okay if I take off your shirt?” Crystal asked sweetly, and Gigi nodded frantically.

After many quick pecks of the lips as they manoeuvred the way out of both their clothes, they were both completely naked, Gigi’s back against Crystal’s headboard with the latter sat in front of her on her knees.

“You have the most gorgeous body…” the older girl praised, tracing her fingers from down Gigi’s sternum down to her hips, watching the girl beneath her writhe with desperation.

Before Gigi could respond, Crystal’s plump lips latched on to one of her nipples, drawing her tongue over it slowly, triggering an orchestra of whines to fall from the former’s lips.

“Fuck, Crystal. I need you.”

“Where do you need me, baby girl?”

“Please,” Gigi cried out, “I want you to fuck me…”

Crystal smiled and began to trail her lips down Gigi’s body, softly and gently. No teeth were involved and she was barely rough enough to leave any marks. She held Gigi like a porcelain doll. Fragile. Delicate.

As Crystal was caressing her thighs, Gigi sat up slightly.

“Crystal I-” she began, but found herself trailing off.

“What’s wrong, hermosa?” Crystal pouted, pressing a quick kiss to Gigi’s forehead.

“I’ve never- I’m a virgin. I’ve never done this before… with anyone,” she stumbled, but was quick to react when Crystal began to pull her hands away slowly, “But I want you… so bad… like, I’ve never been more sure of anything. You’re so hot.”

The older girl blushed and she pressed her lips back onto Gigi’s torso, “Mi cielito. So cute. Let me make this extra good for you.”

Crystal’s lips kissed every bit of skin surrounding the place Gigi wanted her most. She was a tease, and her eyes were dark. The brunette couldn’t form words anymore - just pleasurable sounds.

Then Crystal’s tongue was on her clit and she almost screamed.

In her dreams, she had imagined a moment like this, but she thought she would die with that fantasy. Never would she have believed that she would get to experience it, and never did she think it would feel this good.

Crystal ate pussy like it was her job, lapping her tongue and coaxing more whines out of the girl beneath her. Gigi was leaking so profoundly, and combined with how Crystal herself was salivating, she knew the sheets would need to be thoroughly cleaned afterwards. The brunette’s back was arched and she clenched her thighs whilst Crystal swirled her tongue over her opening and began to edge the tip in.

“Fuck… Crystal…” Gigi’s hand was now in Crystal’s hair, tugging on the blue locks like they were her lifeline. She thanked the heavens that the older woman lived alone and not in an apartment, because Gigi was loud - something which she had just learned about herself that day.

Suddenly, Crystal pulled back, and Gigi moaned at the loss of contact. She needed it. She was beginning to get closer to her climax - she could feel it in the bottom of her stomach.

“Why did you- fuck,” she couldn’t finish her sentence because Crystal had pushed a finger inside of her and began to thrust at a steady pace.

“You like that, huh?” Crystal grunted, leaning over Gigi and admiring the younger girl’s large brown eyes, plump lips, high cheekbones and perfect nose, “Look at you. So beautiful. Eres la chica más bonita con la que me he acostado. Eres perfecta.”

Something about Crystal’s foreign tongue drew Gigi even closer to orgasm. She begged for Crystal to go faster, and she did exactly that. Her fingers pounded into her, shaking her whole slender frame with the intensity of Crystal’s digits. Gigi feels like butter in the older girl’s hands.

“Crystal I- I’m gonna- I’m about to-” she choked out.

“Cum for me, mi niña.”

The brunette’s jaw went slack and her lips parted, a whine leaving her as Crystal pressed their lips together again. Crystal’s fingers flexed inside her, and she moaned, swearing she was able to see stars behind her eyelids as pleasure surged all over her body - like blissful electrocution. Her hips buckled below the tanned girl, and Crystal fucked her through her orgasm until she couldn’t take anymore.

“Holy fuck,” Gigi whispered, her eyes still shut as she collapsed down on Crystal’s bed.

Crystal swung her leg off her torso and lay down beside her, “Was that a satisfactory first time?”

“Mhm. Better than I ever could’ve imagined.”

The older girl hummed a response, and they both lay there, completely naked.

“I feel like an absolute state,” Gigi blushed, turning her head to look at Crystal with a soft smile.

“You wanna eat me out in the shower?” Crystal asked nonchalantly.

“Yes.”

TRANSLATIONS

princesa - princess hermosa - beautiful mi cielito - my sky eres la chica más bonita con la que me he acostado. eres perfecta. - you are the prettiest girl i’ve ever laid with (fucked.) you’re perfect. mi niña - my girl

#rpdr fanfiction #crygi #crystal methyd #gigi goode #smut #frankenvenus #concrit welcome

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armymaryoongi · 5 years ago

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Chapter One: Sakura Handkerchief

pairing: min yoongi x reader

genre: fluff, slightly mature, historical au; king au

warning: none (for cutie Yoongi, yes!)

words count: 1k+

Special appearance: Villager Jeon Jungkook and Kim Seokjin

Note: English is not my native language

(Names, places and incidents are just based on fiction)

masterlist // Ch.Two

Summary: Just like any other kids, King Min Yoongi also has his own childhood memories but his involved a mystery girl who he met once and was known as his love at the first sight. Will he gets any chance to meet her again? What will he does when he found her? Will the girl remember her too?

“Prince!! Where are you going?” the guards screamed while chasing the Crown Prince. A burst of snicker laughter escaped from his mouth, trying his best to run away from his personal guards. Abruptly, he stopped running. His black eyes wildly scanning the area of the palace. He fistful his baby blue hanbok as anxiety rushed inside him, he doesn’t know where to hide. The sounds of their footsteps are getting near and this boy looked so helpless but not until he found a magnificent spot to hide. He fastens his steps, afraid if the guards hear his footsteps if he runs.

Not long after that, he heard the guards complained, “Where is the Crown Prince going? The King will scold us.” Of course, they will be scolded soon because he ran away from his scholar, Kim. It’s not that his scholar is a bad guy but the Crown Prince feels like ditching his class for today. He wanted to sneak out of the palace as he wants to go to his favourite place, the market.

“Let’s split into three groups. One group at the main gate, one group at the garden and the other one at the throne hall. Let’s go!” the Head Personal Guard commanded, don’t want to give up their mission in tracking the lost Crown Prince. His eyes followed them as the fear of getting caught crept up to him again. At last, when he guaranteed the guards have disappeared from that place, he backed up slowly from his spot and ran to the wall. “Ah, it’s a piece of cake to run from them. I am the Crown Prince of Joseon! I am Min Yoongi! Nobody can read my movements.” he said proudly and chuckled left from his mouth while getting off the wall.

Min Yoongi is the only Crown Prince of the kingdom as the Queen couldn’t bear another child anymore because of health matter. The King is not like any other kings who have stunning concubines by his side. He doesn’t care about having another heir or any concubines because his Queen is the love of his life. For him, the Crown Prince Min is qualified enough to be the next heir and he doesn’t want to take any risk; Min Yoongi is an obedient child but he can be naughty sometimes, just like the current situation. Imagine if the Min couple has three to four children like the little Min, they will easily get a headache!

“It’s been a while since I came here. Nothing change?” the curious Min whispered to himself, afraid if the villagers recognise him. Once again, his sharp eyes went wild, cautiously observed his surrounding. “Of course, the genius Min needs to hide.” he adjusted the hat (Gat) he is wearing now, make sure it can cover his face a bit and his unique blonde hair.

The reason he always goes to the market is that he likes the environment, how the villagers running their errands; from selling those unique handcrafts to buying a basket of fishes from the fishmonger. It makes him feel happy as these remind him of how hard his father and the ministers have work in bringing a better and peaceful surrounding to the country and the villagers. Absolutely, he wants to be like his father, a role model of his, when he gets the throne in the future. With no hesitation, he took more steps that led him to one of his favourite shop, Jeon Arts and Crafts. The corner of his lips lifted as he excitedly looked at the variety of unique handcrafts displayed on the wood table.

“Sir, how can I assist you? Any specific handcrafts that you are looking for?” asked the young Jeon to the prince and flashed his bunny smile. In this town, everyone knows who is the Jeon. His family inherited the talents and the villagers know them for such an incredible and good quality item of arts. They could create such a unique item for the villagers to decorate their hut or house. Not forget to mention, this shop will always be swarmed with youthful girls and women since the Jeon also inherited the good looking in their blood.

Not to get caught again, the genius Min deepens his voice, “It’s okay, Mr Jeon. I’m just looking.” The young Jeon just nodded, understand his customer’s intention. All of a sudden, the prince heard those footsteps. He can easily recognise as he has been living with it since he was a little child. He sighed because he knows he needs to change his spot immediately. With a bundle of nerves, he went straight to the next two shops from the Jeon as he saw a group of adolescent girls. He thought he can blend in with them and perhaps the guards don’t see him.

To pay respect, the villagers quickly giving space to the guards to walk. However, they felt weird why the guards who belong to the palace came at the market. Did someone betray the country? There’s an illegal seller? They couldn’t make their mind.

Meanwhile, the prince pretended to be mesmerised with embroidery even though he was in bewilderment as he has stumbled upon the embroidery shop. ‘Please, please…Let me escape this time too.’ he quietly prays as his gaze set down at the sakura embroidery handkerchief. He couldn’t take his eyes off from it. Without he noticed, his hand slowly moved to that handkerchief, thinking to buy it. Howbeit, before his hand could reach it first, he saw a hand of a girl grabbed it. Even though he knows about it, his mind can’t process to pull back his hand and eventually, he touched that feminine hand.

Sudden heat flooded his body and tinged his pale cheeks with rosy colour as he looked up at the owner of the hand. His mind has plotted to apologise for his clumsiness but not his mouth. Not only him but the girl also looked at him, cheeks slightly blushed as she realised it was a hand of a boy. The son of the king looked so speechless, lips slightly parted, couldn’t take his eyes off from her just like the time he looked at the sakura handkerchief.

Her eyes are pretty as the lotus petals, her small button nose compliment her cute face and the red colour tinted her lips perfectly. Absolutely, giving her an innocent look as she is wearing her pink hanbok. The long-forgotten handkerchief fell from her grip but not Min’s hand still touched hers. The girl who was attracted to his black sharp eyes quickly pulled her hand from Min and walked away.

Min snapped from his fantasy as he realised the situation. Forgot about his personal guards who are tired of searching him, his slender legs slowly followed her footsteps and accidentally revealed himself to the public. “That’s our Crown Prince!” shouted an excited fishmonger, Kim Seokjin. Everyone bowed to him but the sad Min failed to realise about it. That girl was the only thing he could think of.

The guards were all aware of the sudden screaming and their surrounding. In the twinkling of an eye, the Head Personal Guard spotted the wanted Crown Prince and he plodded to the sad boy, to not wanting to scare the boy. “Your highness. Are you okay?” he noticed how the boy startled when he caught him. The Crown Prince let out a sudden sighed, frustrated with himself as he couldn’t spot the sight of that angelic girl.

Accompanied with a frown on his handsome face, he walked back at the embroidery shop and tried to find the handkerchief. As he found it, he pressed his lips into a thin smile and asked the owner to wrap it for him. The Head Personal Guard who everyone in the palace couldn’t deny has been the closest person to the Crown Prince felt curious about his sudden behaviour. “Let’s head back to the palace.” the last sentence he has listened from the gloomy Min that day.

#yoongi ff #bts #bts suga #bts jungkook #bts jin #bts imagines #bts fluff #yoongi fluff #king au yoongi #joseon au #yoongixreader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi x you #kim seokjin #jeon jungkook

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imaginebeatles · 7 years ago

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Poetry Nights | Chapter 4: In which Paul is not on a date

Pairing: John/Paul

Rating: PG-13

Set in: Modern AU

Summary: 21-year-old Paul McCartney, who has recovered from a breakdown due to stress and his mother’s unexpected death, has recently moved to London where he now rents a cheap flat with his friend George. Having needed to give up his medicine studies, he has decided to start over and go to art college instead where he meets the rude and troublesome John Lennon, a young poet, who, much to Paul’s dismay, also happens to be his neighbour.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Beatles and this is fictional. I do not make money off this.

Author’s note: Yeah, extremely long chapter! Enjoy ;) Also, the song Paul and John listen to in the park is Dearest by Buddy Holly, in case you were curious.

For the following week, Paul made sure to stay away from John as much as possible. He constantly kept an eye out for him, not wanting to run into him in the hallways on his way to class or in more public spaces such as the university cafeteria or the library, even though he doubted he’d be running into him there a second time. John didn’t seem like the type who would willingly spend his time there, unless he had an ulterior motive.

Even when leaving his flat, he made sure to check first to see if John wasn’t in the hallway before stepping outside, and when he got back, he’d glance around the corner as he walked up the stairs before heading to his flat. George, having caught him doing this twice, thought he was being ridiculous, but Paul didn’t care. He’d rather flunk one of his courses if that meant he would never run into John ever again after what had happened, and would gladly go through the rest of his life without ever seeing him again, no matter what it took.

So what if George thought he was acting silly? He hadn’t been the one who had drunkenly kissed the most handsome man he had seen in years before throwing up on him twice and needing to be carried home by him because he had passed out. Not to mention that John had most likely been the one who had stripped him of his clothes before laying him down on the bed and pulling the covers up over him. The thought alone was enough to make him want to go back in time and stop himself from ever going to that damn poetry evening.

Besides, it wasn’t like his strategy wasn’t working. There had been a few times when he had caught glimpses of the other man, either walking down the street or after a lecture in the hallway with a group of friends, and every time he had managed to avoid him. Once he had even forgotten to look before leaving his flat, and Paul could still vividly remember the moment and the fear he had felt when he had thought John had seen him.

He had been about to take out the trash - it being his turn this week - and, having been too deep in thought about Dot to realise what he had been doing, had opened the front door without looking first like he normally did. Taking a single step outside, he had caught sight of John from the corner of his eye, standing by his door and talking to a friend who Paul didn’t recognise. Paul had nearly dropped the trash at the sight of him.

He had been as handsome as Paul had remembered him, if not more. He had once again been bare-footed, and had worn a simple pair of tight-fitting blue jeans that made his thighs look great and a slightly wrinkled white shirt. His thick-rimmed glasses had been on his nose again as well, and his hair had looked ruffled and unkempt as if he had just stumbled out of bed despite it being 2.30 in the afternoon, which Paul thought was just unfair.

As soon as he had regained control over his body - having momentarily lost it as he had stared at the other man - Paul had swiftly slipped back inside and thrown the door shut again with the softest thud possible, before he had slid down unto the floor, hoping John hadn’t spotted him. His heart had been thumping in his chest and for a moment he had been certain John had seen or at least heard him and was going to knock on his door at any moment. But nothing happened.

He had sat there, on the floor, back resting against the door, bag of garbage between his spread legs, for about fifteen minutes before he had dared to have another quick glance outside. Taking a deep breath, he had put the garbage bag aside and crawled onto his hands and knees to have a sneaky look outside, pulling the door open just enough for him to look around the corner. To his luck, John hadn’t been there this time and Paul had slacked a sigh of relief as he had scrambled up and hurried past his flat and down the stairs, cursing himself for being so stupid, as well as forcing the sight of John out of his mind. He shouldn’t be thinking about him like that. He had a girlfriend. Not to mention that John was a smug bastard, and he wasn’t going to waste his time on those again. It didn’t matter how handsome he was, or how soft his lips had been, or how witty he was, or how caring and sweet when he had looked after him, or that he listened to Elvis, or wore horrendous and suggestive shirts that Paul was still thinking about- it didn’t bloody matter!

“Of course it bloody matters! You can’t shut up about him!” Jane cried, and Paul let out an exasperated groan as his head came down on the table with a painful thud. Jane smirked and took a sip from her bottle of water as she reached over to give him a couple of encouraging pats on the shoulder. They were in the library again, and had managed to procure themselves a study room to work in, seeing as they were going to be here for a while - George and Ringo were having another video game tournament as a rematch for the last one and Paul did not want to be there while that was going on, fearing he might witness a murder if he was. The privacy of the room allowed them to speak at a normal volume, and although Paul had been glad he had been able to talk about this with someone other than George, he now kinda wished he hadn’t said anything.

“Paulie… is that what you were doing when we came in? You were checking to see if he was around somewhere? Because Christ, Paul, you really are hopeless,” Jane said, and although her voice sounded emphatic, there was an amused glint in her eyes that gave her away. Paul shot her a look.

“I’m not hopeless, it’s called taking precautions,” he said matter-of-factly, but the grin on his friend’s face didn’t go away.

“Why? Because you may not be able to control yourself around him if you see him? Afraid you might kiss him again if he looks at you a certain way? Granted the guy is good-looking, but I had thought your taste in men would be slightly more refined.” Paul rolled his eyes in response and cursed himself for ever having brought the subject up. He should have known better than to share these thing with Jane; she was far too concerned with his love-life.

“I do not have a crush on John and my self-control is as impeccable as always, thank you, Jane. I just don’t want to deal with the embarrassment again. Throwing up on handsome guys wasn’t really part of the plan when I decided to come to London to study art history, you know. Handsome guys in general weren’t part of the plan. And they still aren’t.”

“Paul, dear… You kissed him. You kissed him. Which, combined with the fact that we are still talking about him a week after, makes it safe to say you do have a crush on him, don’t you think?”

“Oh, piss off…” Paul shot back and pouted down at his library book at his failure to come up with a better retort. “How do you know John anyway? He doesn’t seem like the type you’d usually hang out with.”

“Yeah, because we don’t. But Astrid and I are on the swim team together, which means Stuart is at the pool a lot during practise to support his girlfriend, which in turn means John is there because he gets bored and needs Stuart to entertain him.”

“And you don’t like him because…?”

Jane raised an eyebrow at his question and scoffed. “You’ve met him, haven’t you?”

“I meant why specifically,” Paul clarified with a smirk, glad to have moved the focus away from himself and to Jane, who took another sip of water before she started to explain.

“He was a prick to me the first time we met, as he is to everybody,” she said, shrugging. “He asked me how girls masturbated and then went on to make up some inappropriate poem about me being a beautiful water nymph who lures guys in and murders them.”

“You’ve got to admit that sounds pretty badass. And at least he said you were beautiful,” Paul said, chuckling, but Jane shook her head in return.

“Not if you heard what kind of language he used. It was humiliating, Paul. Not to mention he went on to suggest I was a lesbian too, and he gave some very colourful descriptions about that. At least Stuart thought it was funny.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I think you’d make a great man-murdering, lesbian water nymph,” Paul said with a wink and Jane laughed as she took another sip of water.

“Maybe I already am one,” she said mysteriously, “that’s why I have my water bottle with me. Need to stay hydrated while I’m on land.”

“I hope not. Because if you were, you’d be doing a piss-poor job at killing men, seeing I’m still very much alive and it’s been weeks since you met me.”

“Don’t worry, dear, I wouldn’t kill you. You’re part of my great plan. Every lesbian water nymph needs her hot bisexual male eye-candy besides her to assist her.”

“That’s all I am then, eh?” Paul said with a dramatic sigh, pressing the back of his left hand to his forehead as he pretended to swoon, “Nothing more than a fine piece of ass to be gawked at. Barely more than pretty face. A sexually-ambiguous sex object.”

“As if you’d mind.”

“I can’t say, can I? My body is all that matters now! When you’re hot, no one cares about what comes out of your mouth anymore. It’s a curse! All they care about is what goes into it,” Paul said and winked at Jane, who recoiled in disgust. Nonetheless she was laughing, and for a moment Paul had completely forgotten about John. That is, until Jane had caught her breath again and turned to him with an even wider smirk.

“I’m not sure John would mind either, you know,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes, but Paul waved away her remark.

“There is nothing going on between me and John and there never will be. Besides, I doubt he’s still into me after what happened, which I guess is the only good thing to come out of this.”

“Did you tell Dot what happened?”

Paul shook his head.

“No… And I wasn’t really planning on it either,” he said truthfully. “There’s not even much to say, is there? It was just a stupid drunken mistake. It didn’t mean anything. Telling her will only unnecessarily hurt her.”

“Paul, you did kiss another person…”

“So?”

“So, you ought to tell her!” Jane’s voice was forceful, as if she could not believe what Paul was saying. “It doesn’t matter if it didn’t mean anything or not! She will appreciate your honesty. Besides, you’ve been dating for over three years! You’re in a serious, long-term relationship, Paul. You can’t just keep these things from her. Not anymore.”

Paul was quiet for a while, letting her words sink in. He knew Dot wasn’t going to react positively if he were to tell her about what happened between him and John, and she had every right to. And if she wasn’t, then she would at the very least feel betrayed. They had been dating for over three years! And if that didn’t count for anything, the occurrences of the last two years certainly did. Things like kissing men while high or drunk just wasn’t supposed to happen anymore, especially seeing as Paul had known John had had an interest in him. He had broken her trust, intoxicated or not. But if he told her, he would hurt her, and she didn’t deserve that.

“What if she finds out from someone else, eh? You’ve already told me and George, and if George knows, then you can bet Ringo and Pattie know as well.”

“George swore on his Bob Dylan records he wouldn’t tell anyone. You know how much that man worships Dylan! He isn’t going to let me get anywhere near his records.”

“Yeah, but for George, Ringo doesn’t count. And he and Pattie are dating now, so he will have told her too, especially since she was there the night it happened and Dot kept interrupting them with her phone calls to ask about you. She would want to know what was going on and I’m certain George wouldn’t think twice about telling her. Not to mention that there is one other person who knows about what has happened between you and John, and who will definitely be talking about it with other people.”

Paul glanced up at her questioningly and waited for her to continue, having not a clue who else he could have told, which drew an annoyed groan from Jane.

“I’m talking about John, Paul! You can bet all of his friends have heard the story at least twice now! What if somehow Dot hears it from one of his friends, or friends of his friends? You know John’s from Liverpool too, right? Dot will be pissed if she hears about it from anyone but you.”

“Wait… John’s from Liverpool?”

“Paul!”

“Okay! Fine... I’ll call her this evening,” Paul said, holding up his hands in defeat before he reached for his phone and typed out a quick message to Dot, making sure to hit “send” before showing it to Jane. She smiled and nodded as her eyes skimmed the text, which essentially asked Dot if she had the evening off so they could talk and that he missed her. Already Paul felt he had made a mistake, but he knew Jane was right. He couldn’t risk it.

“Thanks, Paul,” she said, and he nodded in response, his throat too tight to talk at the prospect of actually having to speak to Dot. At least he had a little while to prepare, though he couldn’t help but hope she had something planned this evening and wouldn’t be able to make it.

Without another word, he went back to work, taking notes as he did his reading for later that week, while occasionally sharing a few words with Jane about unimportant things, as she revised the notes she had taken that day. At least one positive thing about getting kicked out of your own flat - albeit willingly - was the amount of work he could get done for university, being stuck in the library for a large part of his day. In the end it saved him a lot of time.

Or at least… it would have done if he had been able to keep his mind focused.

Instead, he found himself thinking about John again, although he blamed Jane for it this time, seeing as she had been the one to bring up John was from Liverpool as well. Had they ever met before? Or even just seen each other? Had they gone to the same school? John was older than him, so it could be a possibility… Maybe they had sat on the bus together once, neither of them knowing one day one of them would get sick all over the other and would need to be carried home. His life was a mess.

Once their allotted time for the study room was over, Paul and Jane began to gather their stuff and Paul decided he would skim the library a while longer for a particular book he needed for his upcoming essay, seeing as he doubted George and Ringo would have finished their gaming tournament yet, it being barely four o’clock. Jane, however, had other plans for the day, so they walked back downstairs together, talking to each other in hushed whispers as not to be of any nuisance. They had only just reached the second floor and turned a corner when they suddenly heard a familiar voice calling out for them, far louder than either of them were comfortable with in a library.

“Would you look who it is! Our very own good little student Paul, back here again!” the voice called and Paul tensed up as he swiftly looked around himself, judging whether he could still make a run for it for not. The stairs weren’t that far away - seeing as they had just come from there - and with all the running he had been doing in the mornings, he could easily make it, assuming John was as lazy and hateful of any kind of exercise as Paul had him pinned for. Jane, however, had a strong hold on his arm, keeping him from going anywhere and urging him to turn around. “And Miss Asher… it’s always a pleasure to see you again as well.”

Turning around, Paul swallowed thickly as his eyes landed on John, feeling how his chest tightened under the other man’s gaze as he looked him up and down, taking in every part of him. When John’s eyes landed on Jane’s hand which was still holding his arm, he quickly tugged himself free. He didn’t miss the way the corners of John’s mouth twitched at the sight.

“Is it not curious I only ever see you in the library? I’d almost begin to think you lived here,” the older man said, and although Paul now knew there was no cruel intent in his words, he still felt his cheeks heat up.

“Well, some of us need to study. And besides, you know where I live.” He said that last quietly, almost shyly, and mentally kicked himself for letting John get to him so easily. After all, they had had fun last week before he had started to feel sick. He had been able to keep up with him. He could do so again.

“Aye, that I do,” John replied with a wink and moved a little closer to them, taking a step into Paul’s personal space, eyes twinkling as Paul refused to step away. “What are you studying for then, eh?”

“Just working on an essay for art history.”

“Boring,” John replied with a smirk, and Paul rolled his eyes at him. He felt the urge to take a step back, but doing so would feel like John had the upper hand on him, which wasn’t the case, so he remained where he was, unmoving. At least he was half an inch taller than John, which he felt counted for something.

“Actually,” he said, eyes looking directly into John’s, “I find it rather interesting, so I’d better get back to work. Jane has other plans as well, so...”

“Oh well, in that case I won’t keep you, Jane,” John said, shooting Jane a sideways glance which couldn’t be mistaken as meaning anything other than “leave” - although a ruder variant would be more apt - before he turned his focus back onto Paul. Jane was more than happy to comply to that order, clearly uncomfortable baring witness to whatever it was that was going on. Paul hardly knew himself, so he couldn’t blame her. Still, he hated her for what she did next.

“Yeah… see you around, guys. I’ll er… I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Paul,” she said and before Paul could protest, she had turned on her heels and walked off with quick, long steps. Paul cursed her in his head for leaving him like that, before turning back to John, who, as he now saw, had stepped even closer to him, but had also pulled a very familiar-looking leather-bound notebook from his bag.

“As for you, doctor McCartney…” he said, his voice low and sultry, clearly trying to make Paul feel uncomfortable, “I just wanted to hand this back to you. You must’ve been missing it.” Paul stared at the notebook as he held out it out for him, and recognised it easily as his own. He had been searching for it, thinking he had misplaced it, but now he saw it in John's hand, he felt stupid for not having suspected him sooner. He tried grabbing it, but John was swift to pull it out of his reach, causing Paul to stumble forward slightly as he lost his balance, bringing the two men even closer, so that they were barely a two feet apart and Paul could feel John’s breath on his face.

“Ah-ah! Not so quick, darling,” John said, smirking as Paul made another unsuccessful reach for it.

“Don’t call me ‘darling’. And how did you get my notebook, anyway?”

“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re implying. You just left it at the cafe last week. Thought it’d be proper of me to hand it back to you is all.”

“Good. You can give it back now then,” Paul said, making another grab at the notebook, but John swiftly moved it behind his back and out of Paul’s reach.

“Patience, doll eyes,” he playfully scolded and Paul huffed in annoyance but kept silent, knowing John would just continue being a pain if he didn’t do what he said. Still, that didn’t stop him from hissing “asshole” under his breath, which, judging by the smirk on John’s lips, the other man had heard. Good, Paul thought.

“You know, there is no reason to be embarrassed. People do all sorts stupid things when they’re high and drunk. Trust me, I’ve been there.”

“For some reason I’m not surprised…” Paul muttered in reply, causing John to let out a little laugh. “And I’m not embarrassed. I just want my notebook back and get back to work.”

“Are you free now?” John asked, and Paul stared at him wide eyed.

“I-I just… I just told you-” Paul stammered but John easily silenced him.

“Look here, gorgeous,” he said, cocking his head at him in a manner Paul knew to be seductive, as he raised his free hand to motion him to be quiet, “I know there’s no way that essay is due any time soon, and truthfully I’m rather hungry and in a dire need for a good cup of coffee, so all I’m asking is whether you want to come with me or not.”

“Why would you possibly think I’d say ‘yes’? I don’t even like you!”

“Last time you told me that you ended up kissing me, so I’m taking my chances here. What do you say?” Paul felt his cheeks heat up again as the memory of John’s lips pressing against his own filled his mind, and by the way John was grinning at him, he assumed his blushing was very apparent. Still, Paul pulled himself together and narrowed his eyes at the other man as he folded his arms before his chest.

“I’m guessing you’re not going to give me my notebook back unless I say yes, are you?” he said. Much to his genuine surprise, however, John merely laughed and offered him his notebook back right away.

“Don’t be silly. I’m not going to blackmail you into having coffee with me. I just knew if I had given you this right away, you’d have ran away before I had the chance to ask.”

“I- I wouldn’t have ran away…” Paul said, flustered as he took his notebook from the other man and slipped it into his bag, pretending not to see the knowing look John gave him in response.

“So… what to do you say?” the man asked again and Paul looked him up and down for a moment, before he gave in with a sigh.

“Fine… but only because I could really go for some coffee right now. And this not a date, if that’s what you’re thinking!”

“Whatever you say, darling,” John said, and with that, he took Paul by his arm and started dragging him with him towards the exit.

The cafe John took him to was remarkably nice. Paul had suspected they would go somewhere simple, like a Costa or a Caffè Nero or even the university cafe, and had raised an eyebrow in surprise as they passed a number of them on their way. Instead, they had walked for about ten minutes before John had finally directed him into a small, but cosy cafe, to which Paul had been once before a few years ago. He had been visiting London for a holiday with his father and brother, and they had stumbled upon it by accident. Paul was more than happy to find himself back here again.

He welcomed the smell of freshly ground coffee as John opened the door for him and let him in first. Adele’s Crazy For You was playing, and like the time before, it was quiet, there being only a few people of around, most likely other students, sitting at small round wooden tables with their laptops or phones, either alone or with another person with whom they would occasionally converse. The place was bright, with large windows at the front, white tiled walls, and light wooden flooring with geometric patterned rugs for a more cosy atmosphere. The bar was large and square and took a prominent spot in the room, but if anything it made it more personal. He and John took a seat at a table by the window and they offered each other a small smile as they sat opposite each other. Paul took off his coat and hung it over the back of his chair, while John simply put his with his bag on the floor between the window and table.

“Any idea what you’d like, yet?” John asked as he had a quick glance over the menu that was placed on every table, twirling it around a few times in his hands, before handing it to Paul. It was obvious he already knew what it said, and Paul wondered if he came here often.

“Hmm… I might just get a simple black coffee. Although… if I remember well they have the best chocolate cake here. But I probably shouldn’t,” Paul said, frowning, as he took the menu from John and had a quick look at it his well, his eyes lingering on the cakes and pies section.

“What do you mean, you probably shouldn’t?” John asked, pulling the menu down so he could look Paul in the eye.

“Well,” Paul said, nervously shrugging his shoulders, “it’s not exactly good for you, is it?”

“So? It’s just one slice. You’re skinny enough, if that’s what you’re worried about,” John said, his tone firmer than what might have been expected in a situation like this. “And even if you weren’t, fuck the others, right?”

Paul smiled at the flattering words, but remained unsure, remembering how hard it had been to lose weight when he had been younger. He hadn’t liked the nicknames people had used for him, calling him chubby or baby or fatty, be it in jest or with the actual intention to hurt. He hadn’t liked the teasing, or the general unhappiness he had felt about his body, making him oddly aware of it all the time - he hadn’t liked any of it, and when he had decided to lose weight, he had struggled with it for a long time. It hadn’t been easy, and when his mum died… Well, it hadn’t helped.

The last thing he wanted was to return to that, to be fat again. But unfortunately he had always had a sweet tooth, and once he started eating, it was difficult for him to stop. It was easier to just never indulge himself. He allowed himself one bar of chocolate a week, which he mostly had on the weekends, because he simply could not survive without it, and Jane already got him plenty of cookies when they would meet up after class, and if it hadn’t been for his strict running schedule he would never have allowed for any of that. If he started having cake now with John as well… He wouldn’t stop at simply having that single slice of chocolate cake. He would be coming back again, telling himself it would be fine, and then it’d get worse and worse until he’d sit by George’s cupboard full of sweets and treats and other good stuff in the middle of the night, stuffing himself in secrecy.

He knew it probably wasn’t healthy to be this concerned with his eating habits, especially since one slice of chocolate cake wasn’t going to ruin his life, and he knew that, but Paul really wanted to stay in the shape he was in. It wasn’t that he wanted to lose weight or anything, or that he thought he was fat now - in fact he had never felt better about himself in that regard - but… he didn’t want to hear people call him “fatty” again, or look into the mirror and call himself that.

He shook his head.

“No, I shouldn’t… I’ll just have a cup of coffee and that’s it,” he said, but John wouldn’t have any of it and promptly took the menu away from him.

“Don’t be silly! You want chocolate cake, you’ll get that chocolate cake!” he said, looking at the menu himself to make sure the chocolate cake was still on there, and grabbed his wallet from his bag. Before Paul could object, he had got up and had hurried to the bar to order, not giving him a chance.

“John! No, I don’t-” Paul tried, but it was in vain. John had already gone. Groaning, he let his head fall onto the table, regretting his decision to accept the other man’s offer for coffee, knowing he should have expected things to not go according to plan when he was with him. Things never seemed to when John was around. What had gotten into him, saying yes?

He opened one of his eyes to glance at the counter to see John talking to a young female barista and watched in horror as the girl got him a slice of that deliciously sinful chocolate cake, home-made from organic and fair-trade ingredients, which made it only better in Paul’s opinion. His mouth watered at the mere sight of it, memories of the taste coming back to him, the way the chocolate had melted on his tongue and the taste had lingered in his mouth for hours after. Shaking his head in a poor attempt to rid himself of these thoughts, he hurriedly looked away and got out his phone, hoping it would take his mind of that chocolate cake, or rather that it would somehow magically disappear.

Unlocking his phone, he noticed Dot had send him a message back, telling him she was going out with a couple of friends that evening but could talk beforehand that if that was okay. Paul, knowing he did not have a good excuse to back out now, texted her back, saying it was fine before asking her what time would suit her best. Within ten seconds he got a reply back suggesting seven o’clock, to which Paul half-heartedly agreed, his heart thumping in his throat. As he looked back up and out of the window, silently freaking out about his coming talk with his girlfriend, he noticed the music had changed to Sam Cooke’s Bring It On Home To Me - the music the coffee shop played was even better than how Paul remembered it being, and he softly hummed along, feeling how the music calmed him, if only a little.

“Here you go, Princess,” Paul suddenly heard John say, and he turned his head to see John put down a large plate of chocolate cake in front of him along with both their coffees. He frowned when he saw John was holding two forks, but had no other piece of cake or pie or any other food with him. “I thought,” the man continued as he took his seat again, noticing Paul’s look of confusion, “we could share it, instead. That way you can feel a little better about not upholding your usual diet.”

Paul smiled at that, and chuckled as he gave in, just the sight of it and John’s strange way of compromising rendering him unable to refuse. It did look delicious, and when John smiled in that charming way of his as he handed Paul one of the forks, he knew he was going to regret it. His self-control only went so far.

“Fine,” he said, “but this isn’t a date thing.”

John grinned at him and rolled his eyes as Paul dug in and took his first bite of the chocolate cake, which just seemed to melt on his tongue. He didn’t even need to close his mouth and he moaned in pleasure as the bitter, yet sweet taste of chocolate invaded all corners of his mouth and began to drizzle down his throat - it really was the best cake he had ever had in his life. Opening his eyes - he hadn’t realised he had closed them - he saw John watching him, a smile on his lips that could not be interpreted as anything other than love-sick, and Paul smiled apologetically at him as he looked away, embarrassed. He frowned as his gaze landed on John’s drink.

“Huh,” he said, gesturing at it, “I didn’t pin you for a latte kind of guy.”

“There are multiple layers to all of us, Paul. Besides I like the little art they do with the milk,” John explained as he turned his cup around so Paul could see the little cat face the barista had managed to create, and for a moment Paul was taken aback by his answer, which was so unlike the rest of his rough exterior. It was really… kind of cute? He was only taken away from his thoughts as he phone began to buzz again.

“That your girlfriend?” John asked, and Paul nodded as he checked it swiftly.

“Something like that,” he said and texted Dot back with a kissing emoji, before turning it over so it was lying face-down on the table, hoping it wouldn’t disturb them again for at least a little while.

“Something like that?” John asked with a curious chuckle.

“It’s not important,” Paul said, sighing, and picked up his cup of coffee to take a careful sip, blowing into it first to cool it a little, not wanting to burn his tongue. John, however only sat up in interest at those words and leant forward on his elbows, as if afraid he were to miss anything if he didn’t.

“You sure? Come on, Paulie. Satisfy a guy’s burning curiosity,” he said with a wink, and Paul glanced at him doubtfully, but gave in anyway and put his (still too hot) coffee back down. He stared into it as he answered, preferring not to look at the other man.

“She erm… We were engaged, actually. Or for a while we were, anyway. But then… well, we had our issues and now we are here and I’m not sure either of us knows where that ‘here’ is right now. ‘Girlfriend’ just seems the most fitting label right now, though I don’t know what Dot calls me, her fiance or boyfriend. We never really talked about it.”

“Wow, engaged, eh?” John said and whistled lowly, “what did you do, Paul? You didn’t knock her up, did you? You know they have invented stuff for that now, right?” Paul started at that, but didn’t say anything and merely had another bite of his chocolate cake, preferring that to talking about him and Dot. Especially with John. While they were sitting in a cafe. He knew John didn’t mean bad, but it was exhausting thinking about her, about what had happened, to both of them at that. Thankfully, John didn’t press it and followed Paul’s example as he too took a bite out of the chocolate cake.

“So,” he continued after a moment of silence, catching Paul’s eyes again, “you studied medicine. What was that like?”

Hell, was the first word that came to mind, but he swallowed it down in favour of a shrug.

“As if you really care,” he said, taking a sip from his coffee, which was now finally the right temperature. He hummed contently as the warm liquid rushed from his mouth to his throat to his stomach, mixing with the chocolate and warming him throughout from the inside out. God, he had needed that.

John was looking at him again, enjoying the noises he was making, but unlike last time, Paul didn’t look away from him as their eyes met and bit his tongue to tell himself to not be this loud, which appeared harder than one might expect. John licked some cake crumbles from his lips before he spoke.

“Contrary to what some might think,” he said, smiling, “I like learning more about the people I kiss, and even if I didn’t, I still enjoy hearing them talk. You especially.” John shot him a flirtatious wink, and Paul lightly choked on his coffee at his forwardness, making him almost feel betrayed by one of the few good things he had in his life as it burned in his throat. He suppressed the tug at his lips at John’s remark and looked down at his mug as he placed in the saucer in front of him, wiping his mouth.

“Is that because you just like my voice or because you think I’m actually saying something interesting?” he asked and John smirked at him.

“Both,” he said without so much as a thought, and Paul chuckled despite himself, his chest feeling strange at John’s words, strange in a way he knew he shouldn’t feel, but he allowed himself to be indulged for a moment and enjoyed the flattery.

“In case you had forgotten, this is not a date, so you can stop flirting with me. It’s not gonna get you anywhere this time. And… well, there’s not much to say. It had good and bad moments. And if I had liked it, I wouldn’t be here right now, so… Make your own deductions,” he said, swallowing thickly and felt relieved when John didn’t go into it.

“Oh, but I think you rather like my flirting, even if you won’t admit it,” he said instead, and when Paul didn’t respond, he added, “you studied in Liverpool, you said?”

Paul nodded. “I’ve lived there all my life, and once I finished secondary school, it just made sense for me to stay, though I got me a student flat to live in. Jane told me you’re from there as well.”

“You two been talking about me?” John asked, smug grin on his lips, and Paul rolled his eyes at that. Putting on a thick scouse accent that would have been more fitting in the 60s than now, John said, “I’m a Liverpudlian through and through, darling. Think you can handle a tough old scouser like me?”

“I think I’ll do fine, thanks, John,” Paul replied in similar fashion, though his accent wasn’t as over-done, sounding instead more modern and genuine as opposed to John’s dramatic take on it.

“You don’t sound that scouse normally,” John remarked, and Paul laughed as he shrugged.

“Mum taught us to speak proper, you know. She hoped it would open up more chances for me and Mike. She always got upset about me g’s and would go on about me vowels being lazy. Dad never really cared, though. How ‘bout you?” Paul asked, keeping his pronunciation scouse, which seemed to amuse John.

“Learned it from the sailors down the docks. I grew up with me aunt, in the proper middle class way, so I would use it to piss her off when I was angry. I can do it pretty well, but it’s not natural like yours, I guess.” Paul nodded at that, wondering why John had grown up with his aunt, rather than his parents, but he didn’t dare ask, knowing how annoying it could be when you constantly needed to explain why your mother wasn’t at your first solo performance in the church choir, or why she wasn’t there for your graduation or why you were sad and depressed on mother’s day and didn’t stress about getting your mother a present like all the other kids. It was horrible to constantly be reminded of it, to constantly have to explain and to have to deal with the condolences and words and looks of pity afterwards. Paul was certain it hadn’t helped with his mental health to have to deal with that constantly all the time, and although he knew Dr Collins said it wasn’t good for him to keep those things hidden and to bottle all that pain up, he mostly found himself jumping around the subject, preferring not to talk about it, and he didn’t doubt John felt the same way. That is, assuming he had gone through something similar, which of course didn’t need to be the case, but just to be certain, he didn’t ask about it.

“I think you can do the accent better than I can,” he said instead.

“Well, yeah, but I’m not proper scouse now, am I? Not like you lot.”

“Think you can handle a tough old scouser like me, then, eh?” Paul repeated, joking, and he knew he had made a mistake when John’s eyes glazed over dark and the corners of his mouth curled up into a smirk.

“If you’re offering,” he said, and Paul casually flipped him the finger as he drank from his coffee again, though he could not deny the strange churn in his stomach.

They spoke for a while, their conversation getting easier and easier, and it was almost as if their minds had synced up by the end of it. They barely even finished their sentences anymore and would often come up with the same joke, which they would tell at the same time, after which they giggled into their cups like school boys talking about naughty stuff they had seen on the internet or on those magazines you could buy at gas stations. The atmosphere was relaxed and although John remained overtly flirtatious, it wasn’t anything Paul couldn’t handle, and by the end he had even grown to like it, that is, as long as John knew this wasn’t a date, of which Paul reminded him plenty.

The chocolate cake was easily shared between them, and when Paul had finished his coffee, John readily got him another one, for which Paul was grateful. He wasn’t sure how long they sat there, talking about Liverpool, university, friends, family, poetry and music, but the more Paul spoke with John the more likeable he became.

John, Paul learned, had gone to art school right next to where Paul had attended grammar school, and had lived only a short walk away from him, meaning they would have needed to take the same bus for the last leg of the way and that they had possibly seen each other before but just never got to meet. It was strange they would meet here now, so far away from Liverpool where they had lived their lives so near to each other.

“Do you think you’ve seen me before?” Paul asked, unsure which answer he would prefer, and John thought for a while before shaking his head.

“I would have remembered you, I think. You’re far too pretty to forget about,” he said and Paul slapped him on the arm in response as he told him off. John, however, reacted fast as caught Paul’s hand in his own for a brief moment, causing Paul to freeze as he stared at him, his fingers trembling where they touched John’s skin, which was surprisingly soft except for the callouses on his fingertips. When John pulled his hand away again, he sighed, though not necessarily from relief.

“Sorry,” John said, his voice soft and Paul blinked up at him in surprise, not having expected those words to drop from the man’s lips. Before he could say something in return, however, a bell sounded behind Paul, signalling the arrival of another customer, and immediately John pulled even further away from him. He called out to the man and Paul realised he could hear sound again that wasn’t John’s nasal yet attractive voice. It all came back to him suddenly and all at once: the music - it had changed to You’ve Really Got a Hold On Me by Smokey Robinson and The Miracles - the chatter of other people, and the sound of the coffee machine as more coffee beans were ground.

“Stu! What are you doing here, mate?” John called out as he looked up at the newly arrived customer. Turning his head, Paul saw the familiar small-bodied man standing by the door, sunglasses on his nose and a smile on his face as he looked from John to Paul and back again.

“Just grabbing a cup of coffee before heading out to my last lecture. How about you? On a date, I see?” he asked, smirking, and Paul flushed red.

“We are not on a date.”

“Right…”

“We’re not!”

“Which is why you are having coffee with the guy you made out with a week ago,” Stuart said with a grin and Paul groaned, resting his head in his hand as he suddenly remembered exactly why this had been a bad idea in the first place. Of course, John had told his friends all about it too. He hated it when Jane was right.

“Come on, Stu. Let the poor boy be,” John said, giggling and Paul mouthed a thank you back at him, causing John to smile at him warmly, as he reached out and gently touched Paul’s hand with his fingertips in a soothing manner, and Paul actually felt himself relax.

“Yeah… You two are totally on a date,” Stuart remarked at that and before either of the two men could object, he said, “Anyway, I shouldn’t stick around. Mr Cornell will have my head if I am late. God knows why. It’s not like he says anything interesting during his lectures.”

“It’s not on a date!” Paul muttered again, but now both men ignored him.

“Shit, Stu… You may want to hurry up then. It’s already past 5.30 and Mr Cornell is the absolute worst. I do not envy you at all. I don’t know what possessed you to take that course.”

“Tell me about it,” Stuart said and shot one more glance at Paul, who had shrunken into his chair like a little ball of embarrassment, silently hoping the other man would leave soon. “Anyway, enjoy the rest of your date. I have to go. John, I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah! See ya tomorrow, Stu,” John said and Paul muttered a soft, grumbling goodbye himself as Stuart began to make his way to the counter to get his coffee. Once he was out of earshot, John turned back to Paul, who was sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, pouting, and John chuckled at the sight of him. .

“We are not dating!” he hissed and John rolled his eyes.

“You know he is just teasing you, right?”

“I know…”

John studied him for a moment before he picked up Paul’s coffee cup to see he hadn’t finished it yet, and handed it to him as he told him to finish it.

“Let’s go for a walk together. I can bring you home.”

“If you want me gone, you can just say so. You don’t have to chaperone me. I’ll be fine this time, seeing as I neither drank nor smoked any pot,” Paul said as he did what John had asked and took a sip from his coffee. John smiled at his joke, but shook his head nonetheless.

“Don’t be silly. It’s a nice day out. And besides, I need to get home too. Now finish that coffee.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it,” Paul said, laughing and hastily complied, swallowing the rest down in one go as he reached into his bag for his wallet.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked once he had finished his coffee and put his cup back down. John, however, refused to let him pay. “You know, you don’t have to keep paying for me all the time. I can pay for myself no problem.”

“I know. See it as a gentlemanly gesture. Besides, I forced you to share that chocolate cake with me. It would be unfair to have you pay for it. And you can also see it as my way of making it up to you for that,” John said and Paul could not help but feel flattered, so he accepted.

“Fine, but I pay next time,” he said, causing John to grin at him.

“So, there’s going to be a next time?” he asked, as smug as ever, and Paul shot him another stern look as he got up and pulled on his coat again, not saying another word about it.

Back at home, the gaming tournament appeared to be over and the living room was in surprisingly good condition. A handwritten note lay on the coffee table, scribbled in the same style as the one he had found on his bedroom door a week ago, explaining that George and Ringo had gone out to get some fish and chips for dinner to celebrate George’s victory (which probably meant Ringo had won) and that they’d be at the usual place in their usual spot if he may wish to join them, which was a mere five minutes away. Paul, however, was glad to have the flat to himself for once. It was already a quarter past six, which meant he was going to have to call Dot soon, something which he really was not looking forward to. He hoped George and Ringo would be out till then at least, preferring not to have anyone around to hear the inevitable fight.

The walk back home with John had been quiet, neither of them having spoken much as John had urged them to take a small detour so they could walk quietly through the park where Paul would run every morning. It had been quiet there as well, and they had spoken in hushed voices about their favourite artists and songs as they walked, finding they had a very similar taste in music, while they took in the chilly autumn air as they still enjoyed the warmth the sun provided. Once they had gotten home, Paul had mumbled a quick goodbye and had thanked John once more for the coffee and his notebook before he had hurried into the flat.

It hadn’t been anything special, but still Paul found himself smiling as he remembered the way John had offered him his earphones to let him listen to a song he had recently discovered and was crazy about. Paul couldn’t remember the song now, though he knew he had liked it. He guessed it had been a Buddy Holly song, but he couldn’t be sure. Still, it had been nice to be able to talk to someone who had the same taste in music as him.

Throwing his things into his bedroom, Paul headed to the kitchen to heat up some canned soup for dinner and make some toast as he poured himself a large glass of water, feeling thirsty after all that coffee, and drank it all in one go while he waited for the soup to warm up. Once it was ready, he poured it into a bowl and got himself another glass of water, before he carried everything with him into his bedroom, sitting down at his desk by his laptop to eat. He put on a record - Pet Sounds by The Beach Boys, his favourite - and softly starting singing along to the music as he ate his dinner and checked his university email, scrolled through Instagram for a bit and checked his favourite twitter profiles. There didn’t seem to be much going on today that interested Paul, so, out of sheer boredom, he decided to google John instead for no reason at all.

He found his Facebook account immediately, but it was mostly empty, the last thing that had been posted being birthday greetings from… almost a year ago! October 9th. Glancing at the Elvis Presley wall calendar that hung on the wall above his desk, Paul noticed it was only two weeks away. John’s profile picture was nice though. It looked like it was an old one, perhaps taken about a year ago, maybe longer, and it was John, dressed up in 50s rocker style clothes, sunglasses on his nose, his hair slick and styled into a quiff, as he stood leaning against an old vintage car. He looked good and Paul felt to urge to press like, but decided not to, thinking that would be weird.

There was however a post a little further down of John’s telling people to check out his twitter, so that was what Paul did next, hoping to find more there. His jaw dropped and his spoon nearly fell from his fingers onto the floor as he saw the incredible amount of tweets on John’s twitter account, and to his horror saw a mention of himself a few tweets down where John warned people about kissing guys who had just thrown up on you, ‘cause they tasted disgusting, no matter how sweet they looked. Thankfully, he hadn’t mentioned any names, and Paul felt relieved, if not slightly surprised, not having thought John would care about that. The man however, appeared less and less horrible with every new thing he learned about him.

The rest of his twitter account was filled with rants about various topics, such as politics, social issues, news articles, celebrity gossip, books, music, television series and movies, most of which were long and at least eight tweets long - making Paul doubt just how much John meant the tweet about tweets were meant to be short for a reason and how annoying it was when people would use multiple to express one idea and write an entire essay, though he supposed it could have been meant ironically too. There were also tweets about more mundane things about his daily life, such as losing your keys, or people taking too long to make a choice when ordering food, or about the intense irritation of dropping your guitar pick between the strings and having it fall into your guitar, about which John had managed to rant for 28 tweets… At least it explained the callouses he had felt on John’s finger tips.

There were also a few pictures posted, some of which linked to what John claimed to be an horrendously inactive Instagram account, and Paul smiled as he saw a picture of a gorgeous, expensive Rickenbacker guitar with the caption “my true love” under it, remembering his own similar tweets.

He looked through John’s twitter for a while, reading various rants of his and being surprised at how well-thought out some of them were, whereas others seemed to have been typed drunk. Or high. Considering what Paul knew of the other man, he figured they probably were.

As the number of his digital clock came closer to 19.00, however, he found it becoming harder and harder to focus on the man’s tweets, and when it was four minutes to seven, he decided to just go for it and get it over with. It was best to keep it short, anyway, seeing as Jane would probably be waiting by the phone to hear about how it went.

Taking a deep breath, he dialled his girlfriend’s number and sat fumbling with the hem of his shirt as he waited for the tender sound of her voice. He only needed to wait a few seconds before someone answered, but instead of the sweet voice he was used to hearing, he was met with huffing and puffing and light curses as Paul could hear what sounded like stumbling and various things clattering onto the floor on the other end of the line.

“Dot?” he asked, and for a second all he got was a huff in return, after which more stumbling followed and finally she let out a curse loud enough for him to hear properly.

“Shit, sorry… Ow! Yeah… yeah, I’m here.”

“What is going on there?” Paul asked, laughing, and Dot huffed again, before she finally sat down on what was presumably her bed with a sigh and the noises stopped.

“Just… just getting dressed. I er… I tripped over the leg of my tights. I’m a little late, so it’s a bit chaotic here right now.”

“You want me to call back later? Cause that wouldn’t be an issue-”

“No! No, that’s fine. I still got plenty of time. The girls won’t get here for another forty minutes or so. It’s just… a mess, basically,” Dot said, chuckling and she led out a sigh as Paul heard her fall back on her bed. He pulled his legs up and hugged them close to his chest, picturing what she would look like now and smiling at the pretty sight she would make, a lock of short blond hair falling before her eyes like it always used to do, and which Paul always used to push away and behind her ear.

“What are you doing then? This evening?” he asked, reaching down between his legs to play with his toes.

“Oh, it’s Sandra’s birthday today, so we all decided to have a girl’s night out to celebrate. We’re going out for drinks first and then we’re going dancing. No boys allowed.”

“Can’t say I’m not relieved to hear that. Anything special you’re going to wear?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Dot remarked with a giggle and Paul smiled.

“You know I like my girl to look pretty,” he said and Dot hummed.

“Any special requests? I was planning on just wearing an army green skirt with an off the shoulder top… perhaps with that special set of underwear you gave me. If you’d like.”

Paul swallowed thickly as he remembered that particular present and could only hum in response as a tiny smirk pulled at his lips. She had looked wonderful in that, and the first time he had seen her in it, he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her for the entirety of the evening and long into the night. They had only fallen asleep from exhaustion at about four in the morning and hadn’t left the bed until late afternoon. Paul missed those days and for the first time in a while he wished she was here with him, or he was over there, back in Liverpool, and that they could have nights like that again. More guilt for his actions of the previous week gnawed at him, and he felt his throat dry out as he remembered why he had called her in the first place.

“You know how much I would like that,” he said, trying his best to sound casual. “I wish I could see you in it.”

For a moment it remained quiet on the other end of the line, and for a second Paul thought he had said something wrong or that she had noticed something was off, but then his phone began to buzz and he groaned as he realised what she had done.

“Don’t look at it now,” Dot said, a giggle in her voice, and Paul swallowed thickly, wishing she hadn’t done that, knowing how upset she was going to be when he would tell her he had kissed another guy, especially after having foolishly accused her of having done the same thing the next day. God, he was a crap boyfriend. Fiance. Whatever.

“So what did you want to talk to me about?” Dot asked and Paul shrugged as he began to spin circles in his chair.

“Just wanted to hear your voice again,” he lied, though he figured it was alright, seeing as there was some aspect of truth in there. “You’re not still mad at me for last week, are you?” Paul bit his lip and crossed his fingers as he hoped for the best, and sighed in relief as Dot chuckled.

“Don’t be silly. I was just worried. Is that why you called? You were afraid I despise you now?” she asked and Paul ran a hand through his hair as he gathered up courage, figuring he might as well do it now. When he tried to speak, however, the words got lost halfway, and in the end it was Dot who spoke again, asking him about university and George and his life in general, and Paul answered accordingly, occasionally trying to guide the conversation to John, but found it hard to say anything about him.

In the end, they just spoke for a while, and Paul made sure to ask about her as well, but with every good thing she told him about what was going on in her life, the more difficult it became for Paul to tell her the truth. It had been a while since he had last heard Dot this happy and carefree, and he didn’t want to ruin that with his stupid mistake, seeing it had already been his fault she hadn’t felt that way for so long in the first place. His kiss with John hadn’t meant anything, and Dot deserved the happiness she felt right now, seeing how hard the last two years had been on them. But at the same time, he knew Jane was right. He needed to tell her. She had to know… even if it would hurt her.

All too soon, though, Paul could hear the sound of a doorbell ringing on the other end of the line, signalling Dot’s friends had arrived and Paul groaned, knowing that if he was going to tell Dot today, he was going to do it now, possibly with them around. But he really didn’t want to hurt her. Not now… She was about to go out after all, he couldn’t just ruin her entire evening with his own stupid mistake, could he?

“Oh sorry, love. The girls are here. I have to go,” Dot said, and her voice turned suddenly serious and full of concern. “You are alright, right?”

Paul smiled weakly at that, wishing she wouldn’t ask, wishing they could just pretend the last two years hadn’t happened, but he knew she had every reason to. Dr Collins had told her to do so in the first place, and she had been doing it dutifully for months now. He hadn’t deserved Dot, and he still didn’t deserve her. She shouldn’t have to deal with this. With him. With his stupid issues.

“Dot,” he said and he knew he ought to say it now. Dot, I kissed someone. I am sorry. I was drunk and it was a mistake. He could say it now and have it over with, but the concern in Dot’s voice made it impossible to do so. She deserved to have fun this evening, to not have to worry, to not have to fight with him again, to not have him ruin her night for once, like he had done countless of times before. He knew he shouldn’t feel guilty about that, that it wasn’t his fault, but he could not agree to that. So he didn’t and forced himself to smile. “Have fun, yeah? Don’t worry about me. I’m more than alright.”

“Is George there if you need someone?”

“Yeah… Yeah, he is.”

“Okay good. Cause if you’re not, if you need to talk, and George isn’t there, you can always call me, okay? No matter what,” Dot said and Paul could hear her walk from room the room, doors shutting behind her, and he sighed.

“I know. But I’m fine. No need to worry. Just have fun and… I’ll talk to you again later, yeah?” he asked and he could hear Dot smile as she agreed.

“Yeah. Talk to you later, Paul! And don’t forget the picture I sent you. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” she said and with that they quickly said goodbye before she hung up on him, making Paul feel suddenly incredibly alone.

He simply sat there for a while, chin resting on his knees as he stared at his Elvis calendar, wondering if he had done the right thing. His phone went off twice, and both times Paul declined it as he saw it was Jane, probably wondering how the talk had gone. A talk they hadn’t had, even though Paul knew they should’ve. He just felt so guilty… not necessarily about what had happened with John, but about everything having to do with Dot. She didn’t deserve him. She deserved more, she deserved to be happy and to be with a guy she wouldn’t constantly have to worry about, and who was still eager to talk to her every day and missed her and wanted to see her. Not someone who kissed other guys and was afraid of even just calling her.

He glanced at the picture Dot had sent him, and it was exactly what he had expected and he felt a tingle in his crotch at the sight. Yet, he deleted it. It didn’t feel right, seeing her like that while she remained unaware of what he had done.

Sighing, he put his phone aside and got up from his desk to collapse on the bed instead, feeling emotionally and physically drained. He landed half on top of his school bag and kicked it aside to make room for himself. It fell off his bed with a loud thud and glancing down at it, he noticed a couple of books, a pen, and his notebook had fallen out. Sitting up, he picked up the latter and opened it on a random page and began to leaf through it as he picked up said pen with his toes, thinking that maybe writing something would help him. Dr Collins had always encouraged him to write whenever he was feeling down or simply strange, and Paul had to admit it worked. As he skimmed through it, however, he saw some scribbles here and there in another person’s hand. At first he barely noticed them, but then his eye caught one of them. It was a little note, written next to one of his better songs with a tiny arrow pointing towards it. The handwriting, messy but small, was unfamiliar to Paul, but as he read what it said, there was no doubt in his mind who had written in it.

“Not Bad, Mr Melody Man…”, the text read and Paul stared at it in disbelief, before he silently grumbled John’s name to himself. That fucker, he thought and with that he slammed his notebook shut and shot up from his bed, energy levels suddenly restored. Without so much as a thought, he stormed out of their flat and knocked onto John’s door, ready to confront him. John, however, didn’t answer, not even when Paul shouted at him to come out, and eventually he had to admit to himself that John simply wasn’t home.

Grumbling some more curses, he tore a piece of paper from his notebook and hastily wrote John a warning note, telling him to never read or write in his journal ever again as he called him a twat and couple more inventive insults, before he folded it up and shoved it under his door for him to find.

“Asshole,” he muttered, and kicked the offensive door in revenge before returning to his own flat, throwing the door shut behind him in frustration. He was going to get him back for this. Somehow. He threw himself onto his bed and cried until he heard George and Ringo come home.

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