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showrunnerihardlyknowher · 4 years ago

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today i astral project giant, curious merboy w/ frightened researcher into your mind. tomorrow? who knows

Tomorrow is when you get your request filled you babey boi

“E-easy now, l-let’s ju-woah! Hey!”

It was too late for Stella’s squirming to do her any good as long, clammy fingers tightened themselves around her already battered body to lift her much higher than she would have appreciated. She couldn’t help a small wince when she felt her arms be uncomfortably squeezed against her ribs, the left side of which was undoubtably bruised from her topple earlier. The grip only pressed more at her pathetic struggles, forcing out her exhale much rougher than intended.

“Pl-lease,” she gasped, practically immobile in the creature’s hold which seemed to be the desired affect, “y-you’re hur-hurting me...!”

And just like that, the pressure that had once been constricting her disappeared. Even more wonderfully, solid ground seemed to return under her shaky legs which she was grateful to collapse. Or so she thought. A couple inhales sucked in to clear the splotches that pulsed in the corner of her vision revealed she had merely been traded from one hand to the other, trapped high above in an open palm as opposed to a clenched fist. Best not to look a gift horse in the mouth, she supposed.

Or fish, she supposed again.

With a shaky sigh, Stella forced her eyes up (and up and up) until they met with wide ones, blinking down at its tiny capture. She couldn’t keep up the staring contest very long, however, not with how unnerving those black scleras were. Instead, she found her gaze shifting towards its mouth that could certainly fit her inside in one bite, perhaps even a rowboat if it tried. At that moment, it chirped at her, something loud and grating and immediately making her cover her ears for protection, but not without getting a glimpse of those jagged fangs.

From a scientific standpoint, this was one of the most stunning discoveries in her career, hell, in anyone’s career in the history of marine biology. A genuine mermaid...er, man, if she were to assume based purely on physical observation. A dozen questions ran through her mind focused on understand how on earth each component of his body functioned. Respiratory, circulatory, vision, hearing, homeostasis, smell, bone structure and density, muscle to fat ratio, everything and more!

Unfortunately, she doubted those inquiries would be answered anytime soon, if ever.

The monster chittered again much more quietly, practically a rumble in his throat as his other hand hovered closer. Try as she might to flinch away, there was really no where else to go besides down into the icy waters below. She watched the thick claws adorning each finger inch closer, bracing for the sensation of being flayed like some sort of sick vengeance for all his seafood brethren she had ever eaten. Actually, given his size and muscular build alone, there was no way this thing was a vegetarian, so there better not be any judgement on that front!

Surprisingly enough, the claws just missed nicking any part of her skin in favor for the pad of his finger to rub against the top of her head, slowly, hesitantly even. Stella grimaced at the action but let it be, holding still as best her trembling form was able to while his petting built up more confidence, now sliding from her crown to where the coils ended at her shoulders. She let out a yip when he yanked her hair in an attempt to rub the foreign texture between his thumb and forefinger, immediately releasing the frizzy locks at the sound of her distress.

His curiosity didn’t stop there, however. She was well aware of the irony of the situation--the researcher being studied by the subject and all that (at least, she hoped that’s what he was doing rather than sizing her up for a meal). Considering this was her first time ever encountering a merperson during one of her weekend escapades along the coastline, it wouldn’t be too hard to imagine this was his first time meeting a strangely sized hybrid species as well. Maybe those local legends about sea monsters and sirens held a little bit of truth after all, he was certainly as destructive as the stories foretold of these deadly creatures.

And, the scientist side of her couldn’t help but reason with the merman. She was, after all, encroaching on his natural territory in a foreign vessel, was it truly so unexpected for it to attack? ‘Attack’ was perhaps too strong of a word. Investigate was more like it, the way it grabbed and shook her tiny boat in an effort to see what was inside this weird, floating habitat until she came tumbling out on deck. On the bright side, at least Lorelei coming down with strep the night before saved her research partner from meeting the same fate as her right now. On the downside, she was going to meet said fate alone, her true ending forever a mystery outside of these waters.

The question was: what the hell was her fate meant to be? The way his fingers and touches roamed her body continued to reassure her that she probably wasn’t going to be a menu speciality for another few moments, but beyond eating her, what other uses could he have for her? He pinched her legs and arms to bend at the joints, especially fascinated at how articulate her lower half was in comparison to his own. It was almost like he was looking for a tail where one should obviously be, trying to piece together how these two split fins could work together as one. His fingers brushed against her waist and trailing up to her neck. Gill placement, maybe? From just how close his nails were coming to her jugular, Stella feared she might just get a few extra breathing slits if she so much as hiccuped.

It was all well and good until the fingers glided back down over her chest, pushing past the soaked lapels of her coat to the swell of her cleavage, his claw eagerly slipping under the buttons of her blouse to pop a few off. Stella turned bright red, her body heating up so much that she was sure he could feel it against the cool flesh of his palm where she sat. With an indignant shriek, she slapped the digit away from her body, quickly covering herself with her lab coat as best she could.

“No, thank you!” She scolded, leveling a glare with the creature. “Don’t do that!”

She didn’t even have time to register what consequences might befall her actions of threat displaying a massive sea predator, not with how his ear fins flattened against his head and he jerked his hand away as if she had burned him with her touch. In his defense, he did look rather guilty, rumbling again in his throat like he was offering an apology. He tilted his head at her, repeating the noise and it was then she realized he probably didn’t actually know what was wrong, rather he was asking why it was wrong. Oh, yeah. Different species, different cultures, different takes on reproductive accessories.

“You just, y-you don’t touch people like that, okay?” He grumbled something at her and though she didn’t understand it, she knew that tone well enough to roll her eyes. “Because I said so. Why d-”

Stella froze. The monster was still pouting at her reply, but her lengthy pause paired with her suddenly shocked expression made him chirp again in question. She searched his eyes, now well aware of the deep blue iris hidden within the inky abyss around it.

“You...c-can you understand me...?”

He furrowed his eyebrows before giving a single nod. Uh, yeah, duh? I’ve been responding to you this entire time, haven’t I? is what the expression conveyed.

“Holy shit...” she whispered. A smile was quick to tug at her cheeks, looking back at him with twinkling brown eyes. “Holy shit! You can understand me! Y-you’re...you’re intelligent!”

The creature narrowed his gaze and she quickly held up her hands in a placating motion. “I-I mean, obviously, you were always intelligent, just i-in terms of, like...you know, whatever, let’s just start over, um...” She ran a hand through her newly tangled mess of curls, shaking her head in disbelief. “Oh my god, I don’t even know where to begin!”

A quick look down at her capsized boat had her reconsider. Stella wondered how much of her research and equipment inside was totally trashed as a result of being broken or waterlogged. Oh well. Literally none of that mattered right now, not when filters could be replaced and notes reprinted and one of the greatest specimens of her lifetime was three inches in front of her.

Biting her lip, she glanced between the boat and the merman. “Actually, do you, um, think m-maybe you could fix...that? And maybe put m-me down while you’re at it...?”

For a moment, he only blinked at her, silently debating her request. It was long enough to make her start to shift nervously, wondering if she had managed to misread the entire situation and was foolish to make such demands when she was still considered a food source. Thankfully, he complied and righted her boat with ease, gently depositing her on the slick deck. The rocking of the sea still caused her to slip and fall ass first on the ground, though it mattered little to her with the way her legs still felt like jelly.

A shadow engulfed her, trilling ringing in her ears from above which made her groan. “I’m fine, just...give me a minute here.” Slowly, Stella sat back up and pulled her legs towards herself until she could sit criss-cross, digging her (thankfully) waterproof handheld from her pocket to pop out the stylus, tapping and scribbling on the screen. The creature lowered himself deeper into the water until only his shoulders and above were visible, swimming around to the edge of the boat to try and see what she was doing on the tiny device. He braced his hands on the side of the hull, nearly capsizing it again, which was probably what he did the first time when she had been down in the cabin, and only letting go when Stella cried out at being toppled for the umpteenth time.

When the boat ceased most of its swaying, she fixed another sharp glare at the creature who hunched a little further into the salty waters. “Okay, rule number one, no more touching this boat. Got it?” She was half tempted to add or me in there, but...well, they could cross that bridge if something came up about that later. Regardless, he nodded at her and she sighed, repositioning herself to lean against the cabin door for a little extra stability.

“So, ever play twenty questions?”

#g/t #g/t writing #g/t fluff #my writing #giant/tiny #gianttiny #macro/micro #ask #ratpaps #mermen babyyyyyyyyy #another story in which i name my characters after my favorite students lmaooooo #send more prompts this is fun :D #yes i specifcally called you baby to piss you off nerd #also yes i spelt specifically wrong but i dont feel like deleting and rewriting the tag

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 4 years ago

Text

In A Storm

Bree gets stranded in a storm and just needs to find someone to give her a helping hand.

Calum x Black!OC, Bree. Idk what happened. This post doesn’t actually exist.

CW: 18+ Content (Briefest mentions of sex. It’s an almost fade to black moment, but there’s a tiny teeny amount of details.)

Enjoy my masterlist

You can support me on kofi.

________________________________________

Bree wants to laugh. The light on her car came on twenty minutes ago. She thought then, maybe she should pull over, call her dad and see what she should do. She was so close to her friend, Drew’s house. And maybe it was stupid to negioate with herself that if it went out in another ten minutes she’d continue on and worry about it in the morning. Her lower back and ass was starting to hurt from the long drive though and if Bree was to stop she only wanted it to be at her final destination so she could stretch out and sleep.

Though in Bree’s defense, the light shouldn’t have gone out. If something was really wrong, then it would’ve stayed on. But it went out after a couple minutes. She was nearing her exit when it came back on. It was only another ten minutes according to the GPS. Just another ten minutes and then in the morning, she could get someone to look at the car. Now, not even two minutes from the new house, a whopping three blocks away, her car was slowly puttering to its end.

And breaking down two minutes from her new place wouldn’t be that bad. Things happened. But it was of course during her big move from her parents' place and in with Drew up in the Hills. This move is only temporary. She had a job starting in a week and after stacking up a few checks, Bree was going to put in an application to an apartment complex not too far from her job. But, of course, her car would break down in the middle of a downpour.

The rain was nice at first. Made her feel like she was in her own bubble down the winding roads of the highway. Though she was getting into heavier traffic closer to the city and folks were becoming a bit more impatient in their driving, the rain provided her a little bit of solace. It felt a renewal. Bree was flying the coupe and it felt right that even though it was exciting it was also a little sad. It felt right to have the rain hitting the roof of her car. It made her feel like she was shedding something--though she wasn’t sure what it was just yet.

But she did not need the rain and her car breaking down. Bree flicks on her emergency lights. Fat would have this for her. Fate would have this stored away just for her, at just the most inopportune time. Pulling the car off to the side of the road, Bree listens to the rain falling around her. She exhales, thinking what her next step should be. She’d have to call for a tow. And she’d have to let Drew know that she’d be delayed getting in and she should probably call her dad just to make sure she was handling the situation right.

Reaching for her phone, she taps to end the GPS’s route. She wouldn’t be needing that for a while. Her nails click over the glass screen and just as her fingers hover over her dad’s contact the screen goes back. Her phone started dying just as she got into the neighborhood and now without the car battery on, she was left with no charge. “Let this be a fucking lesson to charge your phone the night before your drive,” Bree tells herself.

Her portable charger box was somewhere in the mass of bags and boxes in her car. She told herself she’d put in her purse before leaving but due to late night last minute packing, Bree’s sure she dumped it somewhere into the depths of those boxes and there was no way she’d be able to unearth it now.

“At least you’re in a neighborhood,” she tells herself, looking for any signs of life behind curtains. “A light, a child, something,” she mutters, looking through the sheets of rain.

And right at the end of the block, a house down from where her car gave up the ghost, Bree spots two dogs in the windows. One fluffy and the other one with a pretty white coat. Normally, Bree wouldn’t be so inclined to just walk up to any old house. But a house with two dogs made her feel better. It felt like a sign. Throwing her phone into her purse, she took a deep breath.

She had just pressed her hair. And sure really it was not anything more than a blow out and a quick rod set, but still it meant that the second the rain touched her scalp her roots would revert, the curls would take back their natural form. Though, that would just have to be a fight for tomorrow. Right now she can’t be sitting in her broke down car with no phone or way to contact anymore.

“Do or die,” she sighs. Sliding the keys from the ignition, Bree leans into the door. “I just did my hair though. God,” she huffs, opening her door. The rain is cool. It’s almost a relief. The door is wet within seconds. Her jeans are no longer the light faded wash but dark denim blue.

It’s another moment before she fully pushes herself out of the car, locks it and then runs up the driveway, purse clutched tight to her side. The rain’s not a chill to her bones. But it’s like a refreshing sip of water. The jog’s stretched out her lower back a little. Under the refugee of this strangers porch, she shakes a little bit of the water from her hair and raps at the door. “Please don’t be a creep,” Bree whispers, biting the corner of her lip. “Also, not an axe murder. Would not be cool.”

______________________________________

Calum walks past the two dogs perched on his couch to the front door. Calum agreed to dog sit Moose for the day while Michael took South to the vet. The poor guy hadn’t quite been eating like before and Michael, the worrier that he is, decided not to wait to check him out. Crystal had gone out of town and rather than letting Michael have to fret over South and Moose, Calum happily offered to watch Moose while Michael took care of what he needed.

Calum’s not really sure what he expected to find on the other side of the door. It could’ve been anyone really--Michael, a mailperson, possibly a random kid asking if they could get access to his backyard to retrieve a rogue ball. But not someone, completely drenched, nervously running her teeth over her bottom lip. “Sorry to bother you. I just need to use your phone. My car broke down. I’m a genius who doesn’t charge her phone before driving 5 hours across the state.”

Calum looks past her, over her shoulder to see a car--he assumes it’s her--pulled over to the side of the road. He looks back to her. The college sweatshirt hanging heavily from her frame thanks to the pouring rain. Her hair sticks to her face a little. Whatever eye makeup she was wearing has started to run down her cheeks. “C’mon in,” he waves hurriedly for her to enter.

“Thanks,” she smiles, stepping inside but not going past the indoor welcome mat. Her shoes squish as she walks onto the hardwood floor.

“Is your car far?”

“Nah, just like a house down. I saw the dogs in the windows. Seemed like a safe bet.” She holds out a hand to the dog intrigued by her. The pure white pup happily sniffs away at her hand while the smaller husky colored dog watches from afar.

Calum turns any shoes suitable to go out into the rain. “I can help you push it closer to my house, that way none of my neighbors get pissy. That’s if you’re okay with getting wet again?”

The woman laughs. “I think I’m passed getting worried about wet. You’re the one that’s bone dry.”

“Not worried about it really. I’m just sick of my neighbors, at this point.”

“Don’t want the HOA on your ass?” she teases.

“God, not again.” Into some old tattered boots, Calum faces her. “I’m Calum by the way.”

“Bree,” she turns, slipping her purse over her head. “Is it okay if I set this inside? The phone’s dead but I don’t want it getting wet or anything.”

“Yeah sure,” he waves to the coffee table.

Both of them pause on the front porch. Bree’s already wet like she said, but now her hair’s truly fucked. There’s no denying that. “Really, I could foot the heat of your neighbors,” Bree offers, not really wanting to go back into the rain.

Calum chuckles beside her. “Let’s say me and the HOA are on thinner ice than before.”

“Thanks. Even though I’m getting you wet. Just want to say that now before we’re both drowning in this downpour.”

“No problem.”

The second her sopping wet shoes hit the first stair, Bree definitely notes the air is cooler now. And it could be because she was already wet once before. And somehow had managed to adapt in the two minutes she was inside Calum’s place to the warmth. Now in the rain again, the chill is definitely hitting her bones. She runs again to her car. Her keys are clicking between her fingers.

Her grip slips around her keyes and she curses before picking them up. Calum’s already positioned at the trunk, waiting on her. It’s a bit of embarrassment that heats her cheeks, sitting inside her car. She hadn’t meant to make anyone else do so much extra work or have anyone else subject themselves to the rain. With fingers gripping tight to the steering wheel, she leans out of the window just a little to let Calum know she’s ready.

Thankfully, she hadn’t coasted super far out from Calum’s driveway. Bree keeps an eye on the nose of her car. It’s slow of course with only one person behind to push. When they get just pass the mailbox, Bree gives a shout and puts the car into park. She throws her head into the steering wheel, exhaling.

Behind her closed lids, all she seems to see is the cut of Calum’s jaw. Why did he have to be hot? Why wouldn’t he have been just some decent guy with two dogs? But he had to be hot and willingly to subject himself to the rain for her. She still has to call a tow truck and Drew, and her dad. There’s not much time for wallowing in the misery life liked to hand her.

Throwing up her door, she finds Calum right at the driver side passenger door. “I can throw your clothes into the wash while you use my phone. Sound okay?”

The rain is clinging to the lines of his face, washing down his cheek and riding the line of his jaw. Bree tries to focus instead of his eyes. But even the rain there, on his lashes, is so goddamn beautiful. “Thanks again, Calum.”

“Don’t worry.” They walk back up his driveway. Calum lets her go ahead of him to get inside. But he leads her down to the bathroom, where Bree stands, still dripping water onto his floor.

The press that she worked so hard is gone. The roots have coiled around each other. The ends are curling and she knows soon, they’ll follow suit. It’s in the mirror that she sees the mascara’s run down her face. She can’t believe she has to look like this, showing up at a strangers door and that stranger being so attractive too.

“I’m literally a drowned rat,” Bree exhales.

“But a cute drowned rat,” Calum returns. In his hands, he holds a towel, washcloth, and a stack of dry clothes out to her. “Pardon that I lack any kind of underwear other than boxers, but I hope they suffice until your clothes are dry.”

Bree nods, heart thundering in her chest. Did he just call her cute? There’s no way her ears heard that. “Thanks. You’re like totally saving my ass right now. But also, like, I do have some clothes in my car. Just means going back outside.”

“Neither one of us is facing that hell storm again. You’ve braved it twice, Bree. By the way, the hot water’s a little fussy. I got it fixed recently but you still gotta talk sweet to it.”

“Noted, charm the hot water.”

Calum points out where to find other essentials in the bathroom and then backs out of the room with a tiny wave, lips lifting into a tiny smile. It feels nice under the warm run of the shower head. Bree definitely needed a little bit of patience with the hot water but once the temperature evened out it became well worth it. Just her luck to work out like this. But she’s immensely grateful Calum’s so understanding. If not, she’d most likely wind up stranded, or she’d be tied up in someone’s basement.

It’s not a thought Bree likes lingering on. But it’s just a reality for her. She hadn’t necessarily helped herself. When the light first came on, she could’ve found a car shop nearby. She could’ve waited there for a few hours, got it fixed and saved herself this trouble. Bree won’t be making anymore negotiations when it comes to her car anymore. That’s a lesson that really only needs to be learned once and she’s received the message loud and clear.

Outside the shower, she takes in the gray t-shirt with splotches of white on the lower torso and sweatpants offered up to her. It feels all too intimate, to be wearing someone else’s clothes. Bree doesn’t know anything besides his name. And well, he has dogs. And he’s cute. And he has a fucking nice house. Though she hasn’t seen a lot of it, Bree already feels how cozy it is. It’s lived in, with decent space. It’s full. Calum’s house feels full even if it’s just him in the house with two dogs.

Bree likes that feeling, walking into a house and feeling how bright and warm it is. It told her more about Calum, that he had this very embracing and calm energy about it. But that didn’t fully negate the fact that he was a stranger. And she was a stranger to him and she was still standing in a towel. Slipping into the clothes presented, she gathers her clothes into the towel, hopefully to keep from making an even bigger mess of her evening.

Outside the door of the bathroom, Bree’s immediately greeted by one of the dogs. She’d guess they’re a toy poodle, but she can’t tell for certain. “Hi,” Bree coos, bending down to scratch behind one of their ears. “What’s your name?” The pink collar and tag tap just a little in the excited pants. “Oh, you look ear scratches huh, girl?”

“That’s Moose. Old man’s Duke. He’s not a big of people. So I apologize in advance.” Calum’s comes from further in the house. His t-shirt and shorts now changed into sweatpants and a ribbed tank.

“So Moose and Duke, your partners in crimes?”

“Moose isn’t mine, as sad as I am to admit it. She’s a friend and I’m just dog sitting for a little bit. Duke’s my precious old man.”

Bree’s heart shouldn’t clench like it does. Precious old man, why not just stick a knife into her chest. There’s no way to tell how long Calum’s had Duke but it’s abundantly clear that Calum adores Duke. “We can say Moose is your partner in crime too. Even if it’s just for a day.”

Calum chuckles. “Yeah. And as you can see, she’s not afraid to get what she wants.”

Bree nods, turning her attention back to Moose for just a moment and pressing a soft kiss to the top of the dog’s head.

“I can take those, by the way.”

Calum’s hand is outstretched, ready to take the damp clothes from her. Bree shouldn’t be staring at the veins in his hands and forearm. Nor should she be wondering what the back of his knuckles feel like against her cheek. But Bree could absolutely wonder how to prove to Calum’s old man that she was trustworthy--and that is a much safer thought.

Bree hands over the makeshift sack. “Thanks, again.”

It’s a curt nod. The smile seems genuine though. “I’ll get this into the wash.”

Bree stays where she is for the moment, both hands scratching at Moose’s chin.It’s safer to say here. It’s safer to just give into Moose and give her all the affection because if Bree stands, she’s going to do something reckless, like peek through a room or try to find the laundry room just to steal another glance at Calum.

His departure doesn’t last long enough. Calum comes padding back down the hallway, the soft recessed light reflecting off his skin. The hum and rumble of the washer is clear as it echoes throughout the house. “If you’re calling for a tow,” Calum starts, holding out his phone. It’s unlocked and on the keypad. “You’re risking the rain again.”

Bree groans sliding to her butt and resting against the wall. “You’re right. I’m just moving in with a friend for this new job and I didn’t anticipate my car breaking down during my drive.”

Calum leans into the wall opposite from her. “How far away is it?”

“Literally it’s like two blocks from here. A light came on and I didn’t pay attention to it and I’m just a fucking idiot.”

“Hey, no, it’s alright. Shit happens all the time.” Calum sides down the wall, squatting. “You can spend the night here. I know it’s only two blocks, but the weather’s a fucking mess. I can help you move and you can get your car towed to a shop. It all works out.”

Bree wants to tell him to shut the fuck up. She wants him to take back everything he just said. There’s no way she can survive a night in this man’s home. “I don’t want to impose. Maybe the rain will let up.”

Calum shakes his head. “Really, just spend the night. We can transfer whatever you need into my truck in the morning and once the truck gets your car I can take you to your friend’s house.” Calum smiles softly when he spies Moose curling up into Bree’s lap. “Besides, Moose likes you. I think she’d be sad to see you go.”

“But your old man Duke, I might have to put some work in with him.”

“He’s gotten better. Just talk sweet to him.”

Their laughter is soft. Bree rests her head into the wall. She still has his phone and she’s reminded that she ought to call Drew. “You’re right. I don’t want to go back out into that rain.”

He motions with two fingers and Bree hands back the phone. The unlock is quick. “Make your calls. I got tea, coffee. I think there’s hot chocolate if you want that. If you haven’t eaten, we can figure that out too.”

“You do realize that I’m like practically a stranger. I showed up at your door like a fucking drowned rat. You didn’t even tell me my mascara had run.”

He knows all that. Calum doesn’t need to be told that. And sure it probably sounds dumb and definitely a little stupid. But there was something about Bree that makes him worry less. It helps that she hasn’t flipped, hasn’t given out any indication that she knows who he is. And maybe it’s not safe to assume that she doesn’t know. But he has a strong feeling that if she did, they wouldn’t be having such an easy conversation. His gut would tell him if something was suspicious.

“You looked pretty stressed out. I didn’t think you needed to know that your mascara was giving you raccoon eyes.”

With the phone to her ear, Bree glares at Calum. It’s playful and he laughs in returns, before pushing up off the wall. Moose sits with Bree but watches as Calum carries himself into the kitchen. He ought to be ashamed. He ought to feel more guilty at the way he wonders what she looks like beneath his clothes. And it doesn’t help, not at all, that she looks cuter, in his clothes than he ever did.

It’s comforting to know now at least Bree seemed to be less tress. When she first stood in front of him on his porch, her brown eyes were blown, shifting her weight. She looked somewhere between frustrated and almost amused. Like she had expected something like this to happen to her. Though, there was still an air of apprehension and worry.

“I’m safe,” Bree says. Her voice carries throughout the house. “Just some car trouble. I’ll get it seen in the morning. Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.”

The conversation soon ends but it’s only another minute before her voice picks up again. “Hey, Dad. Yeah, it’s me, Bree. Had to borrow another phone for like two seconds. Anyways, car went flatline on me. But I’m okay and safe for the night. Gonna get it checked out in the morning.”

There’s a pause. Calum pours a glass of water, figuring that’s the safest bet until Bree gets off the phone. “Yeah, Dad. Really I’m safe. In a..hotel...No the car’s not just out on some highway. Just--” Whatever Bree was about to say clearly doesn’t outrank her father’s statement. “I don’t have an estimate yet. Hopefully it’s not too much. I don’t know. I’ll worry about that tomorrow….Thanks. Love you too.”

Bree’s glad the house isn’t a maze. It makes finding Calum a lot easier. But as she settles onto the barstool, sliding his phone back to him, she does wish she had more time to mentally prepare for Calum’s gaze. His eyes are warm, and inviting. That’s not a thing she needs to be worried about right now. Right now, she’s got to worry about her car and moving, and paying to fix her car.

“Have you eaten yet?” Calum turns to the fridge, listing off the options he has, even offers ordering something for her if none of his options sound appealing. “Tea, coffee, hot chocolate. Which I’m like ninety percent sure I already offered, sorry.” It’s paired with a soft chuckle.

Bree did eat. She made sure to text her dad when she stopped and when she got back onto the road. But maybe it’s just the adrenaline, the stress of her car, and maybe it’s partially something to do so she doesn’t say something stupid, or completely left field. “Hot chocolate would be nice.”

Just as Calum sets the mug down, a buzzer sounds. Both dogs bark for a moment before quieting down. “I put a blanket in the dryer. Just in case you were cold,” Calum explains. “Did you want it or is that overkill?”

“You--you didn’t have to. But I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, no, of course.” He knows he’s staring. Her smile is bright and shows off all her teeth too. Like she’s not afraid of anything, or maybe she’s learned to put on a smile even when she’s terrified. His gaze lingers a little too long on her lips. The way she works her teeth over the skin, but they’re still full. Calum wonders if they’re soft too. “So,” he starts, spinning to face his cupboards, “you said you were moving? Just a couple blocks down?”

Bree nods, eyes trailing down his shoulders and back that flex as he grabs onto the blue box. “Yeah-yeah. Got a new job and a friend of mine agreed to let me crash with them until I got an apartment. Wanted to save up some more money before throwing myself into the woes of financially living alone.”

Calum hums, tearing open a packet. “Sounds like we’ll be neighbors. At least for a little bit.” Paws click on the floor. Too light to be Moose and when Calum glances down, he spies Duke lapping at his water bowl in the kitchen.

“I mean, it’s a couple blocks,” Bree insists. If she says that, if she puts more distance between them, she won’t be tempted to drive through his neighborhood and she won’t be tempted to make a joke about staying over more often. She won’t make any moves tonight either.

“Close enough,” Calum says. “A couple blocks, a couple minutes. I’m sure you’ll always remember this street though, after tonight.”

“Oh, definitely.”

Her drink finished, Calum hands over the mug. Their fingers brush, just a split second in time, hardly enough time to really know it’s happening, yet they know anyway. Bree tightens her hold around the warming ceramic. It’s still too hot to really take a drink. But Bree sips from it anyway, after a couple gentle blows onto the dark brown sweet drink. She prays, chants to herself, that she most definitely should not linger too long on the thought or the way her skin felt electric.

“You sure you’re not hungry? I really don’t mind ordering you something.” Calum clears his throat. There aren’t many times Calum’s glad that the bar seat has a counter at waist height, but this time in particular he’s grateful. His spine still tingles just a little.

“I ate already, thanks.”

“Any dessert? I’ve got ice cream and there’s a great place not too far that delivers cookies.”

Dessert. It’s not even the fact that Calum asks. It’s how he asks. His brows shooting up on his face, thumb pointing over his shoulder to his fridge and freezer. It’s the way he bites his own lip, leaning into the counter on his elbows. Bree’s not sure if it’s some secret language, if he’s asking more than just the tub of sugary confection in his freezer.

“Really, I’m okay. Thank you.”

Calum nods. “Yeah, okay. No problem. Well, I gotta check on that load of laundry. But feel free to watch TV, snuggle with Moose, see if you can champion Duke’s heart. You’re free to whatever’s in the kitchen.”

It’s a curt nod as Bree works down another sip of her drink before Calum leaves. Once she’s sure he’s gone down back into the depths of his place, she drops her head onto her neck. Fuck me, she mouths. She can text Drew, let them know the true details of what the hell is going on. Though Bree knows the response will be a swift, You better fuck him and I want deeds.

Her phone. It’s still dead. Turning on the stool, she spots her purse still on the coffee table and both dogs curled up on one end of the couch. They watch her with curious eyes as she walks over. Thankfully an outlet is nearby with a phone charger already snug into the outlet. Nothing was plugged into it. She hoped Calum wouldn’t mind for the time being.

Plugging in her phone, Bree settles onto the far end of the couch, letting Duke have his space. But Moose is not shy and walks over, head resting in Bree’s lap. “Help me win over Duke, Moose.”

Moose’s response is turning to her back, gazing expectedly. “Okay, sure, since you’re yanking my leg,” Bree laughs, rubbing her hand over Moose’s belly. Duke still doesn’t seem bothered by her presence. She can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Though she’s inclined to say good. He could be barking, and yet, he’s just watching, assessing Bree.

“I get it,” Bree states to Duke. “You’re thinking, sussing me out. I respect that.” Bree didn’t want to be the type to be nosey but staring at the living room and the house itself. What did Calum do? Drew had a decent break in the producing and DJing world and bought a house up here. Does Calum do something similar? And if so, why wasn’t he more worried about having some stranger in his house?

Bree’s phone buzzes. Text messages from Drew and her dad. Old alerts from various group chats and email alerts that were all muted all she drove. Just as she reaches back for it, a snout presses into her hand. “Moose, you’re literally getting snuggles right now,” Bree laughs.

“Oh, he’s not going to like that.”

Bree looks up to Calum who’s grinning and then down to the snout. She gasps at the sight of Duke resting his head against her hand, his body curled up next to her. “Oh my god, oh my god. Is this real life?” she whispers, looking up to Calum.

“Yeah, this is real life.”

“I would literally die for you and I just met you,” Bree chuckles mostly to herself, gently petting the top of Duke’s head.

Calum tries not to think about how Duke really isn’t all that fond of new people. And for him to curl up next to Bree is an amazing feat. Does Duke sense something Calum can’t? Or maybe they’re both sensing the same thing, that Bree’s striking and funny. And above all, she’s safe. It’s almost like Calum’s known her forever, but maybe Calum just wants to feel that, so it makes everything he’s feeling and on the verge of doing make sense.

“You do realize I literally don’t care if you want to change the channel,” Calum returns, settling on the opposite end of the couch.

“This is literally your house! I don’t want to be disrespectful.”

Bree is a puddle of dogs and is sinking into the cushions of his couch. Calum risks a glance from the movie. He thinks it’s one in the Batman franchise but he can’t be sure. The curls have become evident, even though she’s tried to tame them into a high bun. Her cheeks are full, much like his.

“So what brings you into town? I think you mentioned a new job? You don’t have to get too deep into it if you don’t want to.”

“Yeah, I interned remotely at this magazine for a while. Wrote articles, did some shoots for them. It was mostly music based, looking at underground and indie artists. They had to lay some folks off. But I was already looking to go elsewhere. Got hired and getting paid more so now I’m moving into the city since it’s not a remote position. My friend Drew’s letting crash with her. I got hired like last week so I hardly had any time to find a place or anything.”

“Drew? Like Drew with the dreads who’s literally DJing at almost every club in this fucking state Drew?”

“You know her?” Bree asks.

“Yes! I met her in the studio a couple times. I didn’t even realize she was in the neighborhood.”

“Studio?” Bree figured Calum had to be a creative type and very successful at that. She just hadn’t suspected that thought to be true.

“I dabble,” Calum returns, shrugging his shoulders. Dabble sounds betters, doesn’t put too much pressure or anything.

“Looks like dabbling is working out well for you.”

“So, do you shoot shows for certain bands or just whoever?”

“Just whoever. In some ways I want to be on the cutting edge. A few bands from the old magazine I covered caught a wave. I don’t want to say I’m the reason why, but,” the sentence trails off into a fit of giggles.

“But you’re the reason why,” Calum concludes with a laugh. The two of them talk for hours. Bree telling Calum about the embarrassing trip to the gas station when she realized she had pulled in the wrong way to fill up her tank today and how when she was a kid she’d constantly mix up her left and her right. She still does if she’s honest, so she’s the worst person to ask for direction.

Calum doesn’t share a lot, the occasional story about when he and his friends lived a house together and going a little too hard on the whiskey in coffee and how once he split his pants during a jig. Though mostly Calum just let’s Bree talk. He finds that she can go a mile a minute but she’s good about pulling at certain strings. When she brings up knowing Drew since they were kids, and Calum mentions his friends, she asks about them. Just what it was like growing up with them and what about living with them that he misses.

“Honestly, I’d rather talk to you than be interviewed by any other talk show hot for a decade at least.” Calum states it only after realizing it’s nearing midnight. Michael’s come and gone to pick up Moose. Bree’s hot chocolate has turned cold.

“It’s because I hate interviewing people. I like having conversations,” Bree returns. Duke’s settled between them, facing Calum now but doesn’t shy away when Bree scratches along his back.

“I’m not much of a talker, normally.”

“If that’s your way of saying I’m talking too much, you can just say it. I’m used to it.”

Calum shakes his head. “No, no, not at all. It’s just, you’re easy to talk to, that’s all.” Bree curls up, feet tucked under herself as she faces Calum. HIs t-shirt seems to swallow her up but also she wears it like she owns it, the front tucked into the band of the sweatpants just a little. “Like really easy to talk to,” Calum whispers, trying not to imagine the sight of her beneath him. He hasn’t had something like this--a conversation that could last hours and the ease to almost spill his guts-- in years outside of the guys.

“I know I’ve probably said this like a thousand times, but really thank you. For helping me out. It means a lot.” Bree looks up from her lashes. She knows that look that Calum’s giving her. It’s the eyes from when he questioned dessert. She didn’t want to believe that he was into her, not like that at least.

“You--Really, it’s nothing.”

His gaze hasn’t faltered, as if he’s reading every thought behind her skull. It’s intense and god, it’s not the thing she needs. Keep it together, she reprimands herself. “I’m just, I’m going to dump this.” Bree stands, taking her mug into the kitchen.

“No, no let me,” Calum rushes, pushing to his feet. “You’re the guest.”

Bree wishes Calum had stayed on the couch. She needed to get away, just to breath and think clearly for two seconds. But Calum’s right behind her and his hand reaches out behind her to take the mug. At the sink, they face each other. Close enough that she can feel just how warm he is, smell the Old Spice body wash she saw under the sink on his skin.

“Really, I don’t mind. You’re already doing a lot today.”

Calum didn’t realize just how tall Bree was until now. She stands just about eye to eye with him, only off by a few inches. Four or five, if Calum had to venture a guess. And it would be so easy to kiss her. Just drop his chin a hair and capture her full pouty lips. “Helping someone in need isn’t a lot.”

Bree exhales her laughter. “It’s not a lot when you’re a good person, that’s for sure.” She tugs at the mug just a little, pulling into her body just a hair. There’s not much space between them at it stands. “Please,” she whispers. She doesn’t even know what she’s saying please for. Is it please let me wash the damn mug and walk away? Or is please just kiss me already so there’s no more dancing around this tension?

Calum moves the mug, both of them moving along with his instrumentation. The mug settles into the basin of the sink with a soft thud, the spoon clicking against the sides. “Please what?”

And the words are falling from her lips before she can stop herself. “Kiss me.”

Calum exhales just a hair and cups her jaw into his palm. Bree meets him though, closes the already centimeters between them. Their lips touch for a brief moment. It feels like the first sip of ice cold water on a hot water. It’s satisfying, makes you exhale in relief and it’s only in that moment as the first slides down your throat that you realize how thirsty you’ve been. Calum secures a hold to her waist, pushing her into the counter. Their lips meet again, and again, slightly harsh exhales as hands pull at t-shirts and tanks.

Calum trails a hand under the hem of the t-shirt, running his palm over her stomach and side. Bree shudders at the touch, head falling back on her neck. Calum seizes the opportunity to lay a trail of kisses across her throat. Her sighs are like literal music to his ears. He sucks at the skin to hear it again. And he’s greeted with something much better. Bree moans, arms locking around his neck. Her fingers dance along his shoulder and back and when her head finally reconnects, she reconnects her mouth to Calum’s.

The kitchen turns into a bedroom. All Bree focuses on is the feel of Calum against her, as shirts are shed and pants too. Calum swallows down every sound she gives him. He drinks in the sight of her, head thrown back into his pillows, and legs wrapped around his waist. Bree kisses along his biceps, teeth grazing over the tattoos on his skin. Their senses fill with each other, the sighs, the moans, the pleas, the encouragement and even the awkward shuffle and giggles. Calum never wants to hear his name for another set of lips ever. Not with the way it falls so easily from Bree’s mouth. Bree hums when she hears the grunted curses Calum exhales as his hips rock into hers.

With Calum’s arm draped over her naked waist, he presses a kiss to her cheek. Bree turns to face him, a grin at her lips. “I’m washing that damn mug. Just so you know.”

Calum laughs, shoulders shaking and he squeezes at her waist. “Why am I not surprised at that fact?”

“I don’t care if I have to sneak out of the bed at 5 in the morning. I’ll do it.”

And true to her word, Bree does wash the morning. It’s helped of course when Calum’s alarm goes off and in the shuffle of him rousing awake and trying to turn if off, Bree slips out from the sheets. She throws on his t-shirt again and bolts to the kitchen. The morning is nice though, though she has to steal clothes from the trunk of her car before they can transfer all the boxes into Calum’s SUV.

Calum closes the trunk down, wearing the t-shirt she borrowed and in jeans. Sunglasses cover his face while a trucker hat hides away the curls. “Tow truck said what time again?”

“10 am. So another,” Bree checks her phone, “10 minutes, hopefully. Thanks, again.”

“Really, don’t worry about it. And you can stop saying thanking me. I know it’s a thing you’re probably going to do like a thousand more times.”

Bree swats at his arm. “Look here, I’m trying to be polite. You can be a sour puss elsewhere.”

Calum cackles. “Sour puss? That’s a new one. Also, you sure you don’t want any breakfast? I know a place nearby. Great pancakes.”

“Not much of a breakfast person.”

He nods. “Noted. What about lunch?”

“Yeah, I’m definitely a lunch person.”

��Good, because they have good sandwiches and fries too.”

“Was-Did you just ask me on a lunch date?”

The rumble of a truck cuts through the open air. Both of them turn to see the tow truck coming down the block. Once Bree gets the finalized details about which car shop they’re taking her car and giving said car shop the okay to call her once it’s ready, Bree turns to Calum. “You never answered my question and if it is a date, I’m paying.” Calum insisted on helping her out by paying for the tow.

Calum’s smile is bright. “I’m not a cheap date.”

“I’m sure you’re not.”

“Is Drew home? Do you have a key? We can drop your stuff off, eat, and then check up on your car?”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

“I know you said you’re bad with directions, but I need you to navigate.” It’s not hard or long before they reach Drew’s place. Not quite long enough for a full song to finish. Drew’s out on the porch when the two of them roll up.

She laughs, leaning onto the railing. “Bree when you told me you got stranded I thought you landed on the side of the road. Fancy meeting you again, Calum.”

“Hi, Drew. Turns out we’re neighbors.”

Drew arches her eyebrow, looking at back at Bree. Bree holds up her hands. “I’ll explain everything later. Over dinner.” Calum tries to bite back his grin, but glances over to Bree. The question dances across his eyebrows, everything everything? Bree rolls her eyes, going to the trunk.

____________________

When a knock sounds at Calum’s door, he almost doesn’t answer it. That laziness is helped by the fact that he was almost on the verge of sleep. But another knock immediately follows it. “Coming!” he calls out. He checks his phone first, but sees no text from Bree.

As the door cracks open, Calum’s greeted with a bright smile. Bree stands at his door. No rain this time, no mascara running down her face. Just her full cheeks and pouty lips and bright smile. “You said you’d text me.”

“I made cookies,” she returns, holding up the carrying tray. “As a thank you.”

Calum laughs, opening the door wider to let her in. Bree walks in and immediately spots Duke on the couch. “My precious boy!” she coos.

Calum takes the tray knowing that she’ll get distracted soon enough. It’s been a little over three weeks since Bree showed up at his doorstep. Most days they call, or text. Occasionally, Calum drags her out of the house to grab dinner with him or a couple drinks. There’s some unspoken rule, an energy between them. They keep it casual. But even still conversations on the phone can go until 2 in the morning. Calum just listening to the sound of her voice. He asks nearly any question under the sun just to keep her talking.

Bree asks more about the band, never crossing a line. Mostly to see how the other guys are doing, especially their dogs. Calum tells her a bit more about the music he’s making but work is mostly kept separate. Bree doesn’t want Calum to think she’s using him. Calum asks about projects but never makes her divulge more than she’s comfortable with.

Calum cracks open the tray and sees a mass of chocolate chip cookies displayed in front of him. He picks one off the top and the center practically melts in his mouth. He hums at the taste but knows there’s no way he can have that many cookies in his house. “This is too many cookies,” he calls out over the bite.

“That’s why it’s called sharing!” Bree returns, kissing the top of Duke’s head. She wonders into the kitchen, taking a cookie as well. “Did I interrupt a nap? I’m sorry.” His eyes are puffy and he keeps blinking.

“Was trying,” he admits, lower back resting into the edge of the counter.

“I’m sorry! I’ll go. Oh my god, really. I didn’t mean to intrude.” Bree is quick to push away from the counter and almost gets to the front door. Calum’s quick though and wraps her waist up in her arms.

“Nap with me?”

“I’m not sleepy. I just wanted to stuff my face with cookies and cuddle Duke.”

“You can do that, just stay with me please.” He buries his nose into her neck, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. He covers her neck in kisses between pleas. Bree giggles at the light scratch of Calum’s scruff. He’s started letting the bread grow out, even though it’s a slightly pitiful excuse of a beard.

“Fine, fine, fine. I’ll stay.”

With her head resting on his chest, she listens to the steady rhythm of his heart. His hold is warm, but not uncomfortable. Duke’s at their feet and Bree thinks maybe she could take a nap. It wouldn’t hurt at all. Especially not if it was a nap on Calum’s chest. It was crazy to her, to think that fate had stranded on the side of a street but also introduced her to a great friend. And maybe there was more. Maybe there’s more for them down the road. But for now, they had an understanding.

“Did you think when you showed up at my door like a drowned rat this is what would happened?” Calum’s voice is soft and a little mumbly.

“No, I was bracing for you to be a serial killer. And instead you’re a serial cuddler, so I’ll that that any day of the week, hands down.”

They laugh, chest shaking against each other. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

“It’s much appreciated,” Bree says in a whisper. She lifts her head just a little. His eyes are close, lashes practically brushing long his cheek. She lightly traces the moles around his mouth and cheek.

“That’s not napping, Missy.” Her response is a soft kiss and Bree rests her head against on his chest, arms squeezing at his waist. The moment is still and feels like it could never be broken.

______________ Tagging @5-secondsofcolor for your morning reads.

#calum hood #calum hood fanfic #calum hood fic #calum hood one-shot #calum hood blurb #calum hood imagine #calum hood x black OC #5sos #5sos fanfic #5sos fic #5sos imagine #5sos blurb #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer blurb #h writes

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tehyunqs · 5 years ago

Text

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐔𝐓 — 𝐶𝐻𝐴𝑃𝑇𝐸𝑅 𝑂𝑁𝐸

HEART OUT in which an angel is sent down to earth to change the reckless ways of the boy she was assigned to protect before his time runs out. ( a kim taehyung au )

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: foul language, toxic masculinity, mentions of hell, etc. . . .

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: hello! uh, wattpad sucks and people on there don’t give a shit about my work, so i thought that i’d come back to tumblr just to give it a second try! hope you enjoy this little series :’)))

the moment God told eden her last mission before finally becoming one with the archangels she knew it would be almost impossible to accomplish it. the person she'd been assigned to guard didn't quite turn out the way she hoped. the little boy who always talked about becoming a lawyer to help his single-mother out disappointed her greatly when he turned into everything she feared. sure, he became successful in the educational and career fields and was the youngest CEO of a very rich and famous enterprise. but he was very empty inside.

drugs, the never ending one-night stands, the selfishness, his egotistical, conceited mind and personality. eden felt ashamed of herself because it was as if like she wasn't any good at her job. sure she sometimes made sure that the right people crossed his path and twisted things around so they'd go his way, but no matter what she did, he always made the wrong decisions.

so the angel gave her father a determined nod and furrowed her brows, attempting to look as serious as ever, but ended up mimicking a cute bunny trying to be mad. "you got it, dad." he sent her down to the earth and within his heart, he knew eden would be able to complete her mission; change the boy's heart.

the girl landed face first on a large, rural area.

"ow." came a muffled groan from her lips.

eden placed her palms on the ground and lifted the top half of her body up to look around at her surroundings. "you could've been a little nicer on the landing!" she called out to the sky, knowing her father could hear her. eden stood up and softly sighed when she looked down and saw her white dress covered in dirt.

all of a sudden, as she occupied herself in patting the brown particles off, a loud, startling rumble was heard in the sky, causing the girl to shriek and jump in surprise.

she lifted her hands up in surrender and looked back up at the dark sky. "dang, okay, my bad."

the angel's eyes scanned her surroundings. she could make out a large farm house on the other side of the field with a strip of wind turbines behind it. there was a dirt road in front of it as well.

"follow the road, eden." she nodded her head and obliged as white combat boots lead their owner across the grass to the road.

kim taehyung was at his favorite bar with the bad influences he's proud to call friends. he was on his eighth glass of the strongest whiskey the bar had to offer as he and his buddies listened intently to steven jeong's absurd mentality.

"i'm leaving areum." he announced all of a sudden. as the two other men beside him raised their eyebrows in curiosity, tae, in his expensive black & white suit and tie, leaned back to stretch his glass out towards the bartender for another drink. once he was given what he asked for, he settled back into his seat with eyes glued onto the talking man.

"i don't know, man. she just got annoying. being around her makes me feel. . . ." steven's mildly drunken mind tried to search for the right word to describe his feelings, but shrugged his shoulders when he received nothing. "i don't even know anymore. . . . she got fat. doesn't look like she did when we first met."

"i mean she did give birth three times." park jimin tried to defend the woman. steven ignored jimin's justification, but mentally told him off.

"the other day i was sitting on the couch, right? just watching t.v. and she walks in, telling me to go wash the dishes and sweep the kitchen. i get home after a long day from work. i want to relax. and she expects me to do her job? that shit doesn't fly with me."

tae and another friend of theirs began mumbling in response, nodding their heads, except for jimin, who could only shake his.

"so, you're throwing away two years of marriage over cleaning and because she's not "hot" anymore?" jimin scoffed. steven clenched his jaw as he abruptly turned to face him.

steven stood up from his seat. "hey, stop making it sound like i'm the asshole, alright?"

"i'm not gonna cover it up." jimin declared with his arms raised defense. "how else am i supposed to make it sound like?"

"not make me sound like an asshole!"

"you're a fucking piece of shit." jimin grumbled under his breath.

"hey, taehyung, why'd you invite this bum, anyway? i've told you hundreds of time i don't like him." steven turned to look at tae with his hand pointed towards jimin and an accusatory expression.

it was a first jimin heard something like this from him. of course, he's always noticed how uneasy and annoyed steven feels when he's around but he never said anything to his face. the alcohol triggered something in him.

"let it go, steven." taehyung groaned in response.

"always such a fucking buzzkill, man!"

off to the side, a random man turned around and pleaded steven to take it outside. "my night isn't about to be ruined by some punks."

long story short, after a few more rude exchanges, a large brawl broke out between greg mendel, the other friend, the annoyed man, and his friends. not wanting to be a part of this, a small smile spread across tae's face when he managed to slip out unnoticed without a single scratch.

the man sat back down in the back of the bar, making sure to take a seat significantly far from the large fight—which was now slowly coming to an end as big security men began to pull them apart from each other. taehyung chuckled and looked down at the floor with a shake of his head, shaking his head. once he was finally looking up again, his eyes landed on a beautiful brunette woman who danced the night away. he instantly become intrigued by her. his eyes roamed her body and moves, feeling a small shiver run down his spine at the sight of her in a tight black dress that stopped at mid-thigh.

the girl suddenly locked eyes with him. her eyes followed his hand, and she watched as his fingers wrap around the transparent cup, the golden watch on his wrist impossible not to notice. she sent him a shy smile as she pulled a strand of her hair behind her ear, and in return the side of tae's lips curled upwards.

eden was currently sitting in taehyung's living room after four hours of nonstop walking. she would've used her wings to fly and it definitely would've taken much shorter to arrive, but God rid her of her angelic powers before sending her down for some unknown reason to eden.

her eyes roamed around his expensive penthouse and she couldn't help but shake her head in disappointment.

kim taehyung had everything, but not everything.

the sound of keys desperately trying to unlock the door caught eden's attention as she leaned back on the couch with her head turned towards the door. she then decided to rest her arm on the top of the couch.

the sight of a familiar man and an unknown woman entered the room with their hands and lips all over each other.

nothing unusual for taehyung.

it wasn't long before eden made herself present when her chirpy voice spoke up in the dark, "hey, sweetie, do you want this to go anywhere?"

the engaged pair quickly pulled apart in shock and looked down at the sitting girl with confused expressions on their faces—but taehyung's was much worse.

"who the hell are you?!" he questioned in a panic, but his tone was more demanding.

"look," eden began and stood from the couch. "i know you want to wake up tomorrow with him by your side, and i know that you want this to go somewhere, but that's not gonna happen. you'll wake up alone with nothing but a note on the nightstand that reads 'hey, i had a fun time. let's meet up some other time. call me'. because this sir here," eden pointed her finger at tae. "left for work and he doesn't care about you. he used you."

"you'll be calling, and calling, but he won't pick up. ever. trust me, it happens every single time a girl walks in through that door. so, unless you want to waste your time, i suggest you go on your merry way." eden concluded with a grin.

the girl looked between the beautiful angel and taehyung, who had an uneasy smile plastered onto his face with raised brows. "um...." the girl nervously began. ".... i'll go on my merry way."

"have a good life." she waved goodbye before walking out the door.

"wise choice!" eden grinned once the door slammed shut and raised her arms out in front of her a tiny bit. "proud of you!"

taehyung turned to look at the stranger with the same confused and horrified expression from before. "again, who the hell are you?! i'm—i'm calling the police if you—"

"i, eden, am your guardian angel." she introduced herself as she took a small bow, leaving the boy a hundred times more confused.

"are you—are you serious? you're being serious right now?!"

"uh, yeah, man, i've been watching over you since december 30th, 1995." the nervous boy reached into his pocket for his phone, and shook his head as his long fingers shakily pressed the green icon at the bottom of the screen.

"you're crazy!" he laughed. "i'm—" before taehyung had the chance to dial the police, the phone suddenly exploded and flew across the room. "wha—"

eden looked up at the roof of the house and pressed her hands on the side of her mouth, giving the impression of a megaphone. "thanks, dad! i really appreciate it!"

"okay, that was weird." he stated with furrowed brows, finger pointing at the shattered phone on the floor.

"here's the deal, tae. . . . your time is running out. you’re gonna die in a few years." taehyung's eyes widened at the words being thrown around like nothing.

"wait, wha—"

"and you exactly didn't turn out the way i expected you to turn out. you see, God created the Ten Commandments for you humans to follow, and go to heaven. you've broken every single one of them. even murder because although you didn't kill anyone physically, the things you say to others are not exactly the nicest."

"like the girl who asked you out a few weeks ago, and you laughed in her face, and said no because she looks like a cow...." taehyung's lips formed an o shaped when he realized she was telling the truth about being a guardian angel.

"yeah, you killed her self esteem. and that girl is now starving herself because of you."

an awkward silence followed soon after as tae's eyes fell to the ground in shame. he began to regret his words.

"also didn't expect you to commit adultry." eden inquired as she placed on her arms on either side of her waist. this made taehyung wish she'd stop rubbing his mistakes in his face already. "shame on you and that—at the time—married lady."

eden placed the palm of her hand on her forehead as she rested the other on her hip in disappointment. she sighed before looking up at the roof of the penthouse. "God, what did i do wrong?" she questioned helplessly.

"anyways," she waved her hand in front of taehyung, dismissively. "um, so you need to change before you die, because you're gonna go down...."

the girl stepped closer to the boy and placed a hand on his shoulder as the other occupied itself by pointing down at the ground. "there." she whispered, slowly nodding.

a lump formed in the back of tae's throat. he cautiously watched as eden took a few steps back and he couldn't help but feel a bit frightened when memories of a few of his sins began to linger into his mind.

"i've known you your whole life. it kills me to see you do all these things. the drugs, the one-night stands, how highly you think of yourself. you need to be humble. i don't know what i'm going to do with myself if i'm not able to help you save yourself from your possible fate."

eden once again walked up to tae and placed both of her hands on his shoulders, raising her head up a bit to meet eyes with the frightened boy.

she smiled up at him with the most humble eyes he'd ever seen. "i'm going to figure your heart out."

masterlist

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factoffictionwriter · 5 years ago

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Tiva Fic Amnesty #12

Okay - this has the potential to be a little controversial, but I’m gonna post some bits and pieces from unused work for Chaval Al Hazman (read actual fic here if you want). This isn’t me giving up on the fic, okay? I swear I’m going to go back to it one day. Once I figure out what I want to do with it. Plus, I’m only posting pieces that won’t be included when I eventually finish it (even if they are, they won’t be in the same form they are here). Mostly alternate scenes to things I already posted.

“How far is it from Tel Aviv?” He asked, reaching out for his own glass and mirroring her action.

“Maybe 3 hours on a bad day. Farther than Jerusalem.”

He nodded as he looked back down at the tiny screen in front of him, propped up precariously on the now almost empty bottle on wine between them, “Okay, so that leaves us with Akko and Be’er Sheva. Oh, right, and Jaffa.”

“Jaffa is right outside of Tel Aviv, so that will not be hard. Be’er Sheva, on the other hand, is more complicated.”

“Why? Is it a long drive?”

She shook her head as she pushed off the marble counter behind her and took the few steps across the kitchen. She leaned forward on the breakfast bar, propping herself on her elbows as she slowly swirled the liquid in her glass, “No. Not too long. There is just so much to see. It could take us weeks to get to everything.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” He tried to decipher the look in her eyes, to weed through all her typical layers of defense.

She looked up from her glass, “Generally, no. But you keep forgetting that we are operating on borrowed time here, Tony. Any day now we could get a call telling us that the issue with Gibbs has blown over and we can return to our jobs.”

His eyebrows shot up, and he gave her the most mischievous look he could manage, “Who says we have to go? You’re rich. We could hide out here indefinitely.”

She chuckled, “We? I would be paying for your lifestyle?”

“Between your mom’s family and what I’m sure is a fat inheritance from your father, I think you could manage it. Besides,” he set his glass down and slid a hand out, barely letting his fingertips brush the skin of her forearm where it sat on the counter between them, “I bet I could come up with a few ways to repay my debts. As long as you’re willing to accept alternative forms of payment.”

She shook her head at him, but couldn’t hold back the smile that spread across her face or the small laugh that accompanied it.

“As intriguing as I find your offer of alternative payments, I am pretty sure that we both know we won’t be going back to NCIS for the money.”

“Yeah, you’re right. We’ll go back for the guns.”

She laughed again, setting down her own wine glass this time and leaning a little farther over the bar, “We will go back for the family. Our family.”

He sighed, running his fingers up her arm one last time before resting his palm on the back of her elbow, “I guess that’s a pretty good reason to go back. Much better than what I thought you were going to say.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, “Which was?”

He smirked to himself as he gently tugged at her arm, prompting her to lean even farther over the bar until she must have been standing on her tip toes, “The dead bodies.”

---

“Borrowed time,” he said, drawing the words out as if testing the way they felt on his tongue before deciding to add, “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

Her hands faltered again, and he swore he heard her swallow before speaking, but her words still came out clear and calm, “It is just an expression, Tony.”

“Well, it’s a bad one. And not very accurate.”

She didn’t respond.

“And I’m not so sure how I feel about that being the one expression you get right on the first try.”

Still silent.

“Because I don’t see us as ‘operating on borrowed time’. I see us as… setting in motion the things that are going to shape the rest of our lives.”

No response.

“Like, take the Be’er Shiva thing. Someday, we will visit Be’er Shiva together, and you’ll show me all your favorite things about the place you were born. Whether that happens on this trip, or maybe over a christmas vacation next year, or even in 10 years, I still have this feeling that it will happen.”

He felt her breath on the back of his neck again as she slowly slid her arms round his waist, the massage seemingly forgotten, “Christmas in the Desert? That doesn’t sound very festive.”

“Oh, what do you care? You don’t even celebrate Christmas. The point is, we aren’t borrowing time from anyone. It’s ours. We earned it. And nobody else is going to tell us how to spend it.”

He finished his little speech by reaching up for her hands where they lay flat on his stomach and tangling their fingers together.

She was quiet for a moment until he felt her shoulders shaking with laughter behind him.

He turned his head to the side, trying to get a little glimpse of her behind him, and was relieved to find that the motion did not cause stabbing pain. She really was a miracle worker.

“What’s so funny?”

She shook her head a little before leaning forward to press her lips against his cheek where she could now reach it, “I just cannot believe that there are people out there, people we spend hours with each day and have worked alongside for years, who truly believe that Tony DiNozzo is a playboy.”

He sat up straight and turned to face her, regretting the movement when her fingers slid out of his and she let go of his waist, then feeling relieved when she casually dropped her hands to rest on his thighs, “You’re suggesting I’m not.”

She shook her head, “Absolutely not. You are the most hopelessly romantic man I have ever met.”

He let his hands crawl up her sides until they came to rest on her waist, “I would love to hear how you came to that conclusion.”

She smiled at him, leaning forward a little as if to emphasize her confidence, “You lost your mother young, and your father hasn’t been able to hold down a relationship since, which taught you that relationships can work, but only with the right people. You went on to date a woman considerably older than you who, in my humble opinion, manipulated you into believing you would be together forever. You proposed, she said yes, then she left you at the altar. Now you don’t trust your own instincts, at least not when it comes to relationships. So you date around, chasing skirts and hoping that one of them will turn out to be right for you, but also never giving them the chance to prove themselves. You love movies because of your mother, but also because you love the idea of a happy ending, especially one that falls into the lap of the main character. You’re terrified of getting hurt, but also of being alone. Which is why you talk so much. When you’re talking, you can’t hear the sound of your own discontent with your life.”

She gave him a level look, as if daring him to argue with her analysis.

He sighed, “Wow. Sounds like a catch.”

She smiled again, and one of her hands slid off his thigh and found its way to his face, gently brushing along his hairline and down to his jaw, “Evidently I thought so.”

“Any other life shattering observations that you’d like to share with me?”

Her smile morphed into a smirk as she brought her hand around to the back of his neck, “Depends. Are you aware of your tendency toward women who can kick your ass?”

---

“Now how the hell would you know that?”

“Because I know you, Tony,” she said as she ducked her head to press her lips to his neck sweetly, “And I pay attention when you talk.”

“Could have fooled me,” He mumbled against her collarbone.

She chuckled, “Must we revisit my previous analysis? Or continue on with our discussion of your infatuation with dangerous women?”

He shook his head, “Let’s not. I think we should dig up something deeply personal about you, huh? How about we discuss why it is you are attracted to men so much older than you?”

She laughed this time, “I am attracted to older men because older men are attractive. There is no deeper meaning.”

“Oh, really? So you mean to tell me that you’re here, making out with a guy who is more than 10 years older than you, and I’m supposed to believe that has nothing to do with your emotionally distant and borderline abusive father?”

“Believe me, Tony, my father is the farthest thing from my mind when I am in bed with a man, no matter his age. And you are not the oldest one I have been with.”

He scrunched up his face, “Nevermind. I would rather not talk about your sexual encounters of the geriatric kind.”

#chaval is the fic that haunts me at night #but some day i'll finish it #i just want to do it right #and i don't currently know how to do that #so i'll throw my discarded ideas here #so at least they get to see the sun #and maybe i'll get inspiration from going through my old outlines?#no promises #amnesty #factoffiction #factoffictionwriter #factoffiction amnesty week #tiva #tiva fanfiction #fanfic #mine

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haloud · 5 years ago

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let me take your hand

@andrea-lyn prompted: for prompts, I'd be giddy to get more mylex, potentially h/c with michael being the one getting the "c" (in so many ways)

Hope you enjoy, lovely!!

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

It stormed the night before. Kyle and Alex spend ten minutes stomping and scraping around the hatch of Michael’s bunker lab, hands shoved in their pockets, breath clouding out in front of them. Alex passes Kyle a bottle of water to defrost the hinge. Deliciously warm air blasts them from head to toe when it creaks open. Kyle goes down the ladder first, and Alex follows quick behind him.

Kyle would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited to see Guerin’s secret alien lair. Of all the hidden bunkers in this town, this one might just be the most intriguing. So he’s maybe just a little bit disappointed when he finally hits the ground and gets a look and around and it’s just kind of…normal. For an underground lab, that is. Empty beakers on top of stacks of notebooks and weighing down loose sheets of drafting paper covered in pristine diagrams and calculations in Guerin’s tiny engineer print. Tables on locking wheels let him rearrange the layout of the lab at will, and it looks like it’s been done recently. All around the perimeter of the room are odd-shaped objects covered neatly with tarp, and in the center is a cluster of surfaces littered with equipment Kyle knows to be Liz’s.

“Oh,” Alex says, more exhale than vocalization.

Guerin is slumped at one of the center tables, head in his hands. His back rises and falls rhythmically. From the lack of objects flying at Kyle’s face, he must be deeply asleep.

The low light of the hanging lamps drenches him in gold, picking out every flicker of gilt in his hair, leafing his skin. His eyes are so deeply shadowed they look bruised. To that point, the greening edge of a bruise splashes across one cheekbone. Even in sleep, he doesn’t look resting. His shoulders are tight around his ears, his head hunched defensively between them, his hands curled into loose fists. Empty bottles of nail polish remover are scattered here and there around him, interspersed every now and then with bottles of Liz’s preferred vice.

By God, it’s worse than I thought! Kyle wants to exclaim in his best melodramatic doctor voice, but somehow he’s lost his stomach for joking around.

Alex circles the room so he can approach Guerin from the front. Kyle hangs off to the side, knowing Michael isn’t going to be happy to see him. He even—he has to look away when Alex reaches out slow to touch his shoulder.

“Guerin,” he says softly.

Kyle studies the wall, the slow oscillation of the ventilation fans. The moment is fragile, intimate, and—he came here for moral support for everyone involved, but he didn’t count on this. On being here for that split second of waking up, his favorite part of being with someone, the reason he always stays the night. The settling into awareness with another person…

Guerin groans. “Not now, Liz, I told you it’d be twelve hours—”

“Guerin. It’s me.”

His head jerks up. In profile, even his eyelashes are edged in gold from the lamp directly above him. Even from feet away, Kyle sees Alex clench his fists in his pockets. Like he’s trying to physically hold himself back from reaching out to stroke the graven lines on his brow.

“Alex,” Guerin breathes. Then he glances to the side, catches sight of Kyle, and his eyes narrow, face shuttering. “Valenti.”

He stretches, but the way he holds himself after is sore and wrong. Kyle bites his tongue.

Michael looks between the two of them. “What do you want?”

Kyle says, “Well, we would have called, but you happened to be hanging out under fifteen feet of rock and lead…”

Alex shoots him a look, and Kyle holds his hands up in surrender. Michael fumbles with his phone, checks the screen and the complete lack of notifications and grumbles under his breath.

“I don’t need babysitting,” he snaps, shoving it back into his pocket and getting to his feet. He looks around, drags his hand down his face, kicks a couple acetone bottles under the table.

“And I’m not a babysitter. I wanted to see how your work was going. We did knock,” Alex adds, mouth curling into a little smile. It’s not a lie, per se, but Kyle also isn’t sure that stomping around kicking snow and ice away counts as knocking.

“Work, huh? That why you’ve got the Love Doctor over here riding sidecar?”

“Hey, I can contribute,” Kyle protests, but Michael just shoots him a rude smirk and doesn’t answer.

Alex says, “Sure, work. Why don’t we get out of here so you can tell us about it?”

Kyle adds, “Owner of Bean Me Up tells me I get free bagels for life. Buy you a coffee?”

“Sounds good.” Alex heads for the ladder; he stops beside Guerin, just a stutter-step, and squeezes his shoulder in a brief, jumping caress, then continues past him. Guerin sways in place for a second longer, but Alex doesn’t look back, eating up the space toward the outside in long strides. Kyle trails after him more slowly, not putting a foot on a rung until he hears Guerin’s footsteps behind him.

The whole way up the ladder, Guerin mumbles, “I get free bagels at the preppy coffee place, Alex. I’m so helpful and accommodating, Alex. I can sit, stay, and roll over, Alex…”

If he kicks a little snow down on Guerin’s face when he climbs out of the hatch, he’ll plead the fifth about it later.

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

Guerin looks worse out in the gray winter sunlight. The shadows under his eyes are less bruised and more gaunt; everything about him is thin and stiff and unsteady. Walking behind them, Kyle sees Alex’s hand come up and fall away a dozen times, hovering over Guerin’s lower back but never touching him. He hunches his shoulders against the icy breeze, and Kyle’s just glad he at least has a hat and scarf.

Bean Me Up is a welcome gush of hot air and the delicious, life-giving scent of coffee. Guerin wanders over to a corner table without saying anything, but Alex orders him a black coffee anyway with a set to his jaw that says he’ll get something warm in Guerin’s stomach if it’s the last thing he does. Like always, Mr. Gutierrez, the owner, comes out of the back to shake Kyle’s hand, and, like always, Kyle squeezes back and fights back an embarrassed flush at the man’s overwhelming gratitude. Eventually he’s left with a heated face and a bag full of fresh bagels and cream cheese and he weaves back through the tables to where Michael and Alex have their heads tilted together.

Guerin’s eyes are closed, but he nods every so often to something Alex says, and when he hears Kyle approach he opens them and sits up straighter, a funny little smile moving his lips but not his eyes.

“The mighty hero returns,” he says. His head tilts just slightly to the side as he says it, and something in the motion and in the sad little curl of his mouth takes the mockery out of his words.

Kyle clears his throat and plops the bagels down on the table, pulls out a chair, and peels his gloves off to feel the heat of his coffee cup against his chilled fingers.

“Mine better have cinnamon on it,” Guerin adds, but he’s just being difficult because he doesn’t even reach for the bag, and when Alex hands him one he doesn’t say a word about the flavor or wait to add butter or cream cheese before digging in.

Kyle’s phone buzzes, and he glances down. It’s a text from Alex: No progress. Don’t ask. Kyle’s eyes flick up to Guerin, who is slumped back in his chair again like he could be sleeping and eating at the same time, then over to Alex, who is staring out the window with tight lines at the corners of his mouth. This close to the light, his eyes are a warm maple-brown, and all Kyle can do is sigh twin sighs, half admiration, half sadness at the grim glassiness there. Alex eats his bagel by tearing it into tiny, bite-sized pieces and spreading each with a mathematically equal portion of cream cheese. Kyle takes his to go.

When they hit the street again, the wind has picked up. Instinctually, Kyle takes up position at Guerin’s other side this time, rudely monopolizing the sidewalk but needing to be there to bear his weight if his knees give out from under him. It’s impossible to tell if it’s some sort of latent alien influence or what, but the exhaustion sloughing off of him in waves has Kyle all on edge.

As they reach Alex’s car, snow starts falling, fat, wet flakes that land in Guerin’s limp curls and immediately start to melt. He shivers violently, and Kyle pulls in closer, so the three of them have their body heat all circled.

Alex goes to open the driver’s side door, but Kyle catches him on the elbow to pull him in.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and Alex raises a questioning eyebrow. “My place?”

Kyle’s house is closer by far than the junkyard or the cabin, and it has the added benefit of not being powered by a generator that takes ten minutes to heat up. Both of them glance at Michael, who sways dangerously in the next gust of wind, and Alex nods.

Kyle ushers Michael into the passenger seat where he can get the full blast of the heater. When he climbs into the back, he can’t help but grip the corner Michael’s seat like he’s gripping his shoulder. He wishes he was. He’s never seen Guerin look so…fragile. Insubstantial, when he’s usually a swaggering, aggravating force of nature.

Now, it’s like a piece of him has died or something.

Kyle sighs.

Alex drives with one hand, the other one gripping Michael’s knee. It’s a short drive from the center of town to Kyle’s house, but by the time Alex parks, Guerin is already fading fast. He can barely stand when he climbs out of the car, and—this can’t be normal, can it? Kyle swallows down a scream of frustration. He wants Guerin to sit still to get checked over. Wants to check him for dehydration, for severe exhaustion, for a dozen other things that come from overwork and neglect and acute, mind-altering grief. But he unlocks the door while Alex tugs Guerin’s arm over his shoulder, and they maneuver him onto Kyle’s couch, and even if it goes against everything, that’s just going to have to be enough.

“Where,” Michael mumbles, swinging his head back and forth like moving his eyes is too much work.

“Welcome to my humble abode.” Kyle opens the hall closet and goes onto his tiptoes to get his grandma’s quilt.

“Hate you.”

“I know.”

He comes back with his arms full of blankets, and over the top of them he sees Michael’s head pillowed on Alex’s thighs, and he smiles, glad he hadn’t grabbed a pillow yet. Dumping his armful right on top of Guerin, burying him in fabric, he laughs at the angry grumbling coming from the pile until Guerin manages to smack it away from his face. He turns to leave, to go to the kitchen and get some coffee or tea started or something—or maybe to stay out of the way he could start prepping something for them to eat later, a nice, light broth that would be warm and not too heavy on Guerin’s system—but before he gets more than a few steps away, he’s stopped by a hand grabbing his sweatshirt.

Kyle blinks.

“Valenti,” Guerin rasps, “Take a load off before you give me a complex.”

Laughing a bit breathlessly, Kyle responds, “Thought you hated me.”

“Just sit down, asshole. ‘M tired.”

Guerin’s yanking and shoving on Kyle’s clothes is feeble, but he goes along with it until he’s down at the other end of the couch from Alex, with Guerin’s calves resting in his lap. He tugs the quilt down over Guerin’s feet, and in response Guerin pulls his legs up so he can dig his toes into Kyle’s leg.

Kyle glances up and meets Alex’s eyes while Guerin wiggles a little more, rubbing his cheek cat-like on Alex’s thigh. It isn’t going to fix anything, the two of them holding him here, like this. But Alex gently, oh so gently, rests his hand on Michael’s curls, his thumb skimming along the delicate curve of his ear, and Kyle lays his hand heavy and pinning on Michael’s legs, and.

Maybe it will help. If nothing else, Michael needs a good night’s sleep. Even if it’s on a couch. Even if he wakes up tense from nightmares. Even if Kyle and Alex have to sit up all night anchoring him at either end. Maybe it’s just…worth it.

Kyle lays his arm across the back of the couch, and Alex slides his hand into his.

#mylex #kyle valenti #michael guerin #alex manes #andrea-lyn #my fic #cuddles!!! i love to write cuddling

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talltalesandbedtimestories · 5 years ago

Text

A View To A Winchester (Part 6)

Series Page

Summary: Julie’s starting a new life after divorce in a home with a very nice view.

A Dean X OFC story. No idea how long it will be, but I’ve got time on my hands. I got this idea staring out the view of my home office window and thinking how nice it would be to have Dean Winchester to ogle. I’m thinking it will go the fluffy route, with some angst, and maybe some smut down the line. Not sure yet.

Section Word Count: 3,787

Section Warnings: fluff, angst, R-rated language, drunk-dialing, Dean flirting/arousing/drinking

~~~~~

“I’m going to be a big tub of lard if this goes incredibly bad, really quickly.” Julie mumbled to herself in the kitchen bright and early the next morning. “I’ll eat my rejection in calories.”

She had not slept well, despite Dean wishing her a good night. And, it had been all his fault. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. And pie.

There had been numerous Pinterest searches late into the night for tips and tricks on how to make the perfect crust. The barely used pastry cutter had been dug out of her wedding gifts box in the basement at about four am. At what was now six am, she was using it to cut the cold fats - a not-yet-tried-by-Julie mix of shortening and butter recommended by one blogger - into the flour.

Next came the slow addition of ice water and another novel ingredient, cold vodka. She had to wait an hour before even starting the dough that morning, placing a bottle of vodka in the freezer to chill. The alcohol apparently inhibited gluten formation which should, in theory, promote a tender and flaky crust. She was not a chemistry gal but she did enjoy learning how to use it to her advantage when it came to food. Forget Bill Nye the Science Guy. She was an Alton Brown, Good Eats fan.

What the hell am I doing this all for? Desperation? Thy name is Julie. What happened to telling Mr. Winchester you had lots of time to get to know him? Hitting the accelerator, baking a pie because you know he loves pie? It’s like exposing Superman to kryptonite. But is Dean Superman, and pie is the kryptonite in this analogy? Or am I Superman and Dean is my kryptonite?

“Fuck. I need sleep.”

She turned the dough out onto the floured counter. The folding was always the part that made her nervous. Her mind wandered to Dean again. Focus, don’t overwork it. Dimpling the soft, crumbling dough with her fingers brought her back to the feeling of his, dancing over her skin.

A weird, tweaked out bliss washed over her. She understood the enjoyment mom got out of cooking for others, even if she wouldn’t admit it. For Julie, it came from baking up treats for co-workers that made their eyes double in size and the occasional dinner parties with friends that ended with a multitude of compliments and full bellies. The parties I use to throw with Steve.

A flour cloud billowed from her continued kneading. Her nose tickled at the dust entering her nostrils.

She’d lost a lot of their shared acquaintances over the past few months. Julie didn’t have it in her to compete for a mutual friend’s attention. Steve always needed the camaraderie more than she did anyway. She didn’t have the strength or inclination to work that hard for friendships that had already begun to dissolve or become distant over the last decade. The choice to not have children had put them both on a decidedly different path than all their married friends. In her honest opinion, the patriarchal society created a more obvious division between her and her female peers. It didn’t help that she was not one to offer to babysit. Let Steve be the fun uncle. Asshole.

Julie backed away when she realized the folding motion had gotten aggressive. There was no need to take her anger out on the innocent pastry. She separated the dough, formed two balls, covered them in cling wrap, and whacked them in the freezer to prepare for rolling out later. The Great British Baking Show is goddamn addicting.

But Dean. Dean’s lascivious, pornographic attitude toward food had set something off. If a cobbler or a cake could get the kind of a reaction she had witnessed from that man, she really wanted to see what a pie could do. She imagined those green eyes melting her with a gaze of adoration after her pie passed his lips.

I don’t think we’re talking about apples anymore. That mouth. Sweet Jesus. She had picked up on his affinity for lip licking and how his gaze lingered on her own mouth. Oral fixation. He has to be an amazing kisser. I bet he knows how to use that tongue. Everywhere.

Julie shivered. She poured her second cup of black coffee and strolled to the tiny foyer. The reflection in the hall mirror under unflattering light only magnified the suitcases replacing the bags under her eyes. Her two sizes too big tattered pajamas reminded her of a potato sack. Dean is certainly going to want to get all up in this. Inhaling the aroma first, she then blew in the mug and took a languid sip. So, pie would be a good deflection from your appearance. But the friggin’ pie won’t be ready for hours. And, anyway, it might turn out horrible.

She still had to peel, core, and chop up a ton of apples for the filling. Christ, the sun isn’t even up yet. A yawn overpowered her, despite the injection of caffeine. I should try and take a nap. Her body slipped into her favorite sofa corner. Just a quick one. The mug steamed on the side table. Her lids closed.

~~~~~

Julie’s eyes shot open. Sunlight filtered through the golden sheer curtains covering the sliding doors. The mug was no longer steaming. It was quiet outside.

“Shit.”

She unfolded out of her seat and rose to stand. Her body creaked in resistance. Discomfort in her muscles delayed their response with a stab of pins and needles. She cringed and cursed under her breath. A swish opened the curtains. Her mouth dropped open.

Lawn’s mowed. Her gaze shot up to Dean’s backyard. Impala’s gone.

“Shit.”

Phone. Julie flew to the kitchen. The phone had been used to look up the crust recipe. She swiped at the flour dusted screen. A groan. It was one o’clock in the afternoon. She groaned again at the notifications. Four messages. All from Dean.

“Shit.”

Knock, knock.

Anybody home?

Hey, Sleeping Beauty. All done with your scheduled lawn service. Was going to drop off your cake. Text me when you wake up so I can make a delivery.

Julie, I had to take care of some business. Be gone until tomorrow. I’m holding your cake hostage. In fact, I’m bringing a few slices with me for the road. Might not be much left. But, seriously, let me know you’re okay. Or I’m knocking your door DOWN when I get back.

“I missed him.” She whispered, in total dejection. She hit reply and began talking out her text. This new tick was happening every time she had a virtual conversation with Dean. “I’m so sorry I didn’t hear you. I teeter between an insomniac and coma patient lately. You can have ALL the cake.”

Her heart skipped a few beats when the phone rang, displaying Dean’s name.

She answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

“I was thinking you dropped the phone and ran away after your text message.” Exasperation threaded through the bass of his voice. He sighed, faraway, on what sounded like his phone’s speaker. “Are you trying to play hard to get?”

“I’m still waking up.” It wasn’t a total lie.

“Hm. Pretty impressive. You slept through me knocking on the front and back door.”

“I slept through an earthquake and two aftershocks once.” She offered.

“Bullshit.” Dean stated without hesitation.

“I did.” Her defenses were up. “I was in California.” She didn’t bother to say she had been on her honeymoon.

“You should get that checked.”

“I did. I’m good. Just a sound sleeper when I actually get some needed rest. I take it you’re a light sleeper?”

“Pretty much. I’m programmed to wake up at the slightest noise.”

“Work took you away again, huh?”

“Yep.”

She waited. “Is this where you tell me what you do?”

He chuckled. “It’s not as exciting as you’re probably imagining.”

“Try me.”

Without missing a beat, he responded, “Bail Enforcement Agent.”

“Wha-?”

“Bounty Hunter. Even though my colleagues don’t particularly care for the term, I’ve found.”

She gave it a few seconds to sink in. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Her mind replayed the conversation she overheard Dean have with his brother on the phone. He mentioned coming back from a hunting trip. “Is that the business you were in with your brother?”

“No.” He paused. “Let’s say it was bounty hunting adjacent.”

“That’s all I get, huh?”

Another chuckle. “Yep.”

“Now who’s playing hard to get?”

“Not I, sweetheart. You’ll never know what you would’ve been in for today... if you’d heard me knocking.”

She swallowed. A swooshing sound filled the absence of his voice on the line. He’s driving.

“Give me a hint?” A breathy whine escaped along with the question. She bit her lip at the accidental slip.

“Hell. I’ve got someone on the other line. Give me a minute and I’ll call you back.” He hung up abruptly.

She cringed at her reaction. Sexy. Ugh. You are so out of your league with this one. Well, no need to finish working on that pie now. She waved a hand and marched upstairs to change out of her pjs. The crust will keep.

Minutes ticked by. He got busy with work. Bounty hunting? She finished changing and pounced onto her bed, landing on her stomach. Her head shook. It’s an actual thing people do. But he could be lying, leading me on with some absurd and inflated story to see what he can get away with. She’d been that naive with men before, believing what they said at face value. Because, if she wouldn’t flat out lie, why would someone else? Life experience was a hell of a teacher. It turned her hard and cynical and untrusting.

Ten minutes turned into thirty. She browsed through social media apps on her phone. Every second increased her agitation. My window of opportunity has passed.

Over the next half hour, she applied some makeup and gave herself a pep talk in the mirror. “You are channeling all of your pent-up energy, attention, and sexual frustration into this one man. Not healthy. I mean, yeah, the sexual frustration part is totally understandable. But…” she trailed off and stared at her reflection.

Don’t want to get your mind off a messed-up relationship with a quick hop in the sheets. Take care of you. Remember? That was my mantra when I signed the divorce papers. Christ, the single hardest thing I’ve probably ever had to do. And, I added my name to that document like John Fucking Hancock.

She nodded.

“Go out. Get some air. Run some errands. Just be. And be okay with that.”

Julie attempted to make herself believe her words as she went about her day.

~~~~~

Her mom had called to check in while she was out. So had her brother. Kelly, her co-worker, had texted about a project due the next day, bright and early Monday morning. Julie had taken off that upcoming week and wouldn’t be in the office to help. Kelly needed a pep type. Julie didn’t have the strength for a talk.

Nothing major was planned for her staycation. The only thing she’d sort of been forced into by her old friend, Karen, was to host a mini belated housewarming that Friday night. Aside from the food prep and cleaning, nothing was on her to-do list for days. Now, she debated if she should just hop in the car and go somewhere. Anywhere, to get away from the temptation that was Dean Winchester. With her mother back home, she didn’t have anything keeping her tied to the house. Except the possibility of a very bad decision clad in plaid.

She returned home with a bottle of wine and a bottle of bourbon, the latter item she never drank. Wandering down the aisle of whiskeys in the liquor store made her think of Dean. He seemed like a bourbon guy, or a man that would appreciate the drink. The clerk had recommended the bottle with an unassuming label filled with a beautiful amber liquid.

Not depressing at all. It was six pm when she strolled up the steps to her bedroom. Her hands balanced an open wine bottle and foil wrapped hazelnut chocolates stuffed into her drinking glass. She tipped the glass and dumped the chocolates onto the bedspread. Let me not be that pathetic and put some clean pjs on at least. The plan was to settle in for an 80s comfort movie marathon. She’d started with “The Goonies”, then “The Dark Crystal”. She had polished off all the chocolates, wrappers littering the bed, and was almost through “Labyrinth” and the wine when the phone lit up.

U up?

Ten o’clock and Dean was messaging. The alcohol buzz and trippy Henson atmosphere contributed to her out of body feeling. She watched her fingers tap the phone icon and dial his number.

“Sorry about not calling you back earlier. Got a lead on my skip and had to jump on it.” His voice was super close, husky and low.

“Were you on a stakeout?” A throaty laugh in response to her question ignited a full body tingle. It started at the top of her head and worked its way down to the tips of her bare toes. She muted the television, sank into the pillows, and focused on the ceiling. And Dean’s voice.

“Not quite. I found out he was backtracking to visit his girlfriend. I beat him there, talked to her, explained his situation, and how bad it could really get if he kept running. She convinced him to turn himself in.”

Julie’s tracking was fuzzy on the details. “Is he handcuffed in your backseat now? Or, your trunk?”

“No. Already dropped him off at the police station.”

“Where?”

“Poconos.”

That was well over two hours from Pike Creek. “Long way for a fugitive.”

“Not really. Just another Sunday drive for me.”

It sounded too quiet on Dean’s end. “On your way back?”

“I was.” He sighed. “But then I decided to stop at a bar. Had a few too many. So, I’m crashing at a classy motel, stone’s throw away from said bar.”

“Hm. I should be crashing soon, too.” Julie slurred.

Another long pause. “Have you been drinking?”

“Yep.” She popped the “p” out of her mouth with pursed lips.

“Huh. Sounds like you’ve been at it for a while.”

“The almost empty wine bottle would agree.”

He tisked. “Drunk. And I’m missing it.”

The back of her hand pressed against the warmth of her cheek. “You’re partaking in this event virt-,” the train of thought left the station without her. “Not missing it. Did you take the drinking party back to your room?”

“I did. Always keep a bottle of Jack in my trunk.”

“We should toast, then, to drinking alone… but, not.” Julie sat up and took a swig, even if Dean wasn’t going to do the same.

She didn’t know how much time passed before he asked in an even, steady tone, “You wanted a hint, earlier, didn’t you?”

Silence.

“Julie?” His voice teased out her name, soft and slow.

She battled to focus. “Yes. A hint would be nice.”

“How about a confession?”

Electric currents pulsed under her skin. “A confession would be even better.”

“Okay. I should’ve told you this that first day. But... I’ve been watching you… spying on me… for a while.”

Her posture straightened, bolting upright from her reclined position, now stiff as a board. “I-I…”

“Don’t try to deny it.” Silence. “I noticed you one morning, a couple months back. I was in the kitchen, fixing some coffee. When I looked out the window, you were staring into my backyard, then over toward my house. I just chalked it up to you being a hot, nosy neighbor. And, honestly, I didn’t mind the view. Business casual looks very good on you.”

A distinct sip filled her ear, followed by a smack of his lips. Those perfect lips. Julie chose to focus on the fact that he used the word “hot” and not “creepy”.

“But then, you did it again the next morning. You were wearing that dark blue sweater. I was jealous of that sweater, the way it hugs those curves of yours.”

In the effort to stifle a swoon, her mouth let out, “I’d trade places with that red plaid flannel of yours any day.”

He cleared his throat after her admission. “Should I keep confessing?”

“Please. Go on.”

“I could tell you were looking for me, in particular, not just inspecting my property for things to complain about. Call it a hunter’s instinct. You’d seen me before, hadn’t you?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t exactly chuckle that time. It was a short, almost sweet little laugh. “So... every morning when I was home, I’d wait for you to do your search. I’d batted around the idea of coming out one day to say hi…”

“Why didn’t you?”

“What was I going to say? Hi, I’m Dean. I’m a low-rate bounty hunter with a couple hundred dollars to my name, a shitty little house, and a drinking problem?” He sighed into her ear. “You saw something that interested you. But I do better sticking to the surface level, remember? I know how to work with what I’ve been given. Not much beyond that.”

She wanted to berate him for talking about himself that way. But all she could manage was to ask, “So, you have been playing hide and seek with me?”

He chuckled. “I guess.”

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with all of that ridiculous behavior. I can usually keep my voyeuristic tendencies to a minimum.” Words tumbled out, sarcastic and apologetic.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable. My backyard view was made much nicer. And you gave me the opportunity to get to know you.”

Julie scoffed. “How could you get to know me that way?”

“This is where you’ll probably get irritated.”

She waited.

“I used my skills and resources to do a little digging on you.”

She laughed out loud. “Did you bounty hunt me?”

“Kinda.”

“Interesting. You’re lucky I’m drunk right now, because I find it highly amusing.” And pretty damn hot. She sipped. “What’d you find out?”

“Basic stuff. You’re an accounting manager at a bank in downtown Wilmington. No speeding tickets, pretty straight and narrow. You went to school at University of Delaware - nice GPA. Got married about ten years ago…” his voice trailed off.

“You found out all that stuff even before we met?”

“Yes. And I apologize. But I wanted to get to know my pretty Italian neighbor that liked me, too.”

Too. He could have just ended that sentence with “liked me.” “Those are just facts. You don’t get to know someone from a distance.”

“I’ve gotten to know some things. I know when you’re deep in concentration you bite the inside of your cheek. And, when you get frustrated, you scrunch up your nose. You do that a lot when you’re on a work call, heading into the house after a long day. I’ve even seen you skip, sometimes, when you come home on a Friday. Just a few feet or so, when you don’t think anyone’s looking. When you leave the house every morning, you test the handle of the sliding door twice to make sure it’s locked. Your hairstyle of choice is a ponytail. But, on the rare occasion when you let your hair down… well, I’m glad you wore it down last night. And, that I got the chance to touch a few strands. Soft as I imagined.”

He’s imagined that. She had no witty retort for his monologue. He’d knocked every ounce of air out of her lungs. Her entire body was hot and charged from his confession. He’d examined her, been allowed access to her quirks and habits in high definition, and this Adonis of a man sounded downright intrigued by all of it. Holy shit. The stalkee has become the stalker. And, I’m finding the table turning extremely hot right now.

“Julie, I know you’re not perfect. But whatever asshat of a man let you slip away… I don’t think he had any idea what he had to begin with.” He cursed under his breath. “I shouldn’t be saying all this. Making more of a mess of things.”

“No, you’re not.” She swallowed. “How ‘bout that hint?”

“About what I was going to do if you opened the door earlier today?”

“Yes.”

“Give you back half of your cake and ask you out on a proper date. Whatever the hell that is.” It almost sounded like a low, throaty growl escaped his lips. “But that was earlier today. If I had come home tonight and knocked on your door… I don’t know if I could’ve behaved myself. I would have slammed back too many shots when I got home to work up the nerve. Plus, the adrenaline from the hunt has me riled up.”

God. That voice. She crossed her legs to restrict the pulsing in her core. “What does misbehaving look like?”

The silence stretched out to an excruciating span. “We goin’ there?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her head was spinning. She didn’t really know where “there” was.

“Loose lips...” He mumbled. A noisy gulp of liquid followed. The faraway slam of a glass came next. “Well... my misbehaving hands would end up all over that rosy skin. Every inch.”

She bit her lip and held her breath.

“God.” He groaned, his voice not as close now. “I’d like to say I’d be able to take my time. But it might have ended up hard and fast on the floor.”

An instinctive, quite loud gasp escaped from Julie. She slapped a hand over her traitorous mouth.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Dean fumbled over his words. “I shouldn’t have… first, I’m telling you I’ve been investigating you… then, I’m talking about ways I’d… it’s just... it’s been a while.”

Julie exhaled a breath. “I pushed you into sharing. When you say ‘a while’...”

“Since I moved to Delaware. Two years.”

The statement woke her from the orgasmic lullaby. “Bullshit.

He laughed. “Not exactly something I’m proud to share.”

“What the hell are you saving yourself for?”

Without a beat missed, he responded, “You, apparently.”

He stunned her again.

“This has been… well, I don’t know what this has been… I’m going to let you go before the conversation crashes into the point of no return.”

“Dean…”

He sighed. “Yeah.”

“I’ll expect the rest of my cake returned… as soon as you get back.”

He laughed. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Part 7

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#dean winchester fanfiction #spn fanfic #dean x ofc #supernatural fanfiction #spnfanficpond #spn fanfic series #spn fanfiction #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester angst

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markswoman · 6 years ago

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yellow | hrj

grass is green but renjun paints it yellow.

pairing | artist!renjun x idol!reader | angst | 4.2k |

warning: mention of blood and injuries, description of graphic accident

an: you’re very mean for most of the fic be warned. inspired by mark calling us pretty grass :)))

You first meet during kindergarten. Renjun loves drawing. From finger paintings, pencil-scrawled stick figures, to crayon outlined houses, Renjun loves doing them all. He loves translating his thoughts and his dreams to paper. With deep concentration, his tiny hands grasp the fat crayon as he colors his artwork diligently. The grass portions are the only things left for him to color when he notices someone standing in front of his desk. “Um, hello. Can I help you with something?” he asks. You only sniffle and blink at Renjun for a moment, your arms clutching a box of crayons and a slightly crumpled sheet of paper, before nodding. “I was wonderin’ if you could help me with my drawing. I dunno how to draw airplanes. Ev’ryone says you draw the best,” you smile widely, two of your front teeth missing. Renjun blushes at the compliment but nods his head nonetheless. “S-Sure,” he says shyly. “I can help you color it too if you want.” “Great!” You immediately shuffle to sit down beside Renjun and places your crayons and drawing next to the boy. “What’s your name?” “Renjun.” You smile at each other before going back to your artworks. Renjun draws the airplane for you and you two spend time sharing your crayons and coloring your drawings. “What are you doing? Grass is s’pposed to be green!” You point at Renjun’s paper, where the grass is being colored yellow. Renjun briefly looks down at his drawing. “I know. But I like it this way.” “Why is that?” You ask, confused. Renjun thinks hard for a moment. “I don’t know,” he says slowly, as you’s tiny brows furrow. “I just like it.” “You’re weird,” you concludes. “But I guess s’okay.” Grass is green, but Renjun continues coloring his grass yellow. –

They are in grade school when Renjun loses in the regional poster-making contest. The announcement was made that afternoon, and as you sit at the back of the school bus after class, you wrap your arms comfortingly around the crying Renjun. “I-I don’t understand. I worked hard on that poster. I d-did my best,” Renjun says weakly in between sobs. You only shake your head as you hug the boy tighter. “I told you, you should have colored the grass green instead of yellow.” –

As the years pass, you become closer as you grow up together, evolving from childhood playmates to best friends. You’re both thirteen, and while you begin to show interest in dancing, Renjun still paints the grass yellow. “Renjun, that is ridiculous. Why do you keep coloring the grass yellow?” you say as you stand behind him, looking at the small-sized canvas Renjun is painting on. “Because I want to. It’s beautiful this way.” Renjun tells you patiently. You huff as you grab your bag, reminding Renjun to meet up at the school gates later before you exit the art room to head to the dance studio. Renjun only shakes his head and laughs lightly as he applies a fresh layer of paint on the canvas. The grass is still green, but Renjun draws and paints his grass yellow. You get into your first fight during your second year in high school. Your blazer sleeve is torn, your shirt is rumpled and dirty, and your tie is missing. You wince as you limp up the steps to the porch, raising your hand to ring the doorbell. But the door opens before your fingers even get to press the button. “You stupid, stupid idiot!” Renjun yells to your face with tears in his eyes. “I told you! I told to let it go, you! Why did you do it?!” He cries, covering his face with his hands, and you grit your teeth. “That bastard destroyed your paintings, Renjun. You can’t expect me to do nothing about it! You may let it slide, but I refuse to do the same. He hurt you, Renjun. The only thing I regret is that I haven’t beaten that worthless piece of shit enough.” Renjun only looks down, gripping your shoulders half-heartedly as tears roll down his cheeks. You bring Renjun’s hands to your cheek; pressing his palms against them and letting Renjun softly draw circles with his thumbs. Apparently, someone else found Renjun’s idea of coloring the grass yellow ridiculous, and unfortunately, that someone is one of the bullies in their school. The bully broke into the art room, ripped the canvases apart and vandalized Renjun’s paintings with yellow paint. You remembered feeling blind fury then. You cornered the bully behind one of the school buildings and that's where the fight began. Your face hurts. Your lip is split and you have an angry red scratch under your left eye. You scraped your knees from the fight and your arms have cuts, but somehow, the memory of Renjun’s devastated expression at the sight of his mutilated paintings hurt more than your physical injuries. And you’re afraid to ask yourself why. But still, you reach out a hand and brush your fingers against Renjun’s tears, and as he looks up, you pull him in for a tight hug. “Please tell me they look worse,” Renjun whispers as your neck gets drenched with his tears. “Of course they look worse,” you assure him, your tone slightly smug. You groan when Renjun lightly punches your arm, but when he pulls away, he’s smiling through his tears. He pulls you inside to get your wounds cleaned up, and sniffles slightly as he teases you for getting into a fight in defense of yellow grass, to which you only roll your eyes. Deep down though, you think if getting scratches on your face, just for defending the idea of yellow grass, is worth it. You look at Renjun’s teary-eyed smile and think that yes, it’s worth it. –

Renjun confesses to you when you are both in your final year in college. You major in dance, while Renjun takes up Fine Arts. The confession is messy. Renjun wants it to be romantic, but you choose the perfect time to be an idiot and one thing leads to another and eventually, you end up shouting each other down. The entire situation is all frustrating and overwhelming, when suddenly, you blurt out an “I love you, you idiot!” and he stares at you in disbelief. You blush profusely and before you could get a word out to explain, you hear him curse and then his lips are against yours, stealing your breath along with your first kiss. Your first instinct is to pull away, but he refuses to let you go as he wraps an arm around your waist and runs the fingers of his other hand through your hair as he deepens the kiss. You spend that night cuddling on the couch in Renjun’s apartment, feeding each other popcorn while watching movies, and when you happen to ask about his half finished painting propped up in the corner, Renjun tells you about his dream of living in a world where the sky is green and the sun is gray, and where black flowers bloom on yellow grass. You don’t think it's weird at all. You still think that grass is supposed to be green, but this time, you think you can get used to Renjun’s yellow version.

The grass is still green, but in their own world, it's yellow. –

Your first months together as a couple are happy. You frequently go out on dates, you shower each other with kisses, and bask in your love for each other. Real grass is still green, and Renjun still paints his grass yellow. you think it will remain that way forever, just as you’re happy and free now. You’re both right and wrong. Real grass is still green, and Renjun still paints his grass yellow. But Fate is cruel. And the time comes when happiness begins to crumble. An entertainment agency wants to recruit you and launch you as an idol, and you’re thrilled by the opportunity. You tell the news to your lover, but instead of happy smiles and loving kisses, Renjun worries. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you happy for me, Renjun?”

“It’s not that. I am happy for you, but I am just worried for us. The city is so far away, and I’ve already talked to sponsors who will be funding my art exhibits and help me start my own gallery here. I don’t know if we can make this work.” Renjun doesn’t know why, but for some reason, he feels that if you pursue your dream in the city, the relationship might fall apart. “We’ll make time for each other. We’ll make it work, Renjun,” you confidently soothe him. But Renjun is still worried. And afraid. The grass is still green, but Renjun hesitates to paint his grass yellow. –

The fights begin a month after you started working at the entertainment agency. As the months pass, the frequency and duration of their fights grow. The grass is still green, but Renjun starts to cry himself to sleep. –

Five months pass. It is all over the internet now. “Rising idol Y/N confirmed to be dating fellow idol Jaemin!” Renjun closes the article swiftly before walking stiffly back to his apartment. That night, while you are at a bar, your phone begins to ring. You fail to notice it at first, until one of your companions spots the flashing screen and points it out to you. You look at the caller ID and groan, earning a laugh from Jaemin. “Ah shit. I might need to take this one,” you shout over the music before excusing yourself. He heads outside, and manages to answer the call before the final ring. “What is it this time, Renjun?” You rub your fingers against the bridge of your nose, feeling the alcohol swim in your system. “H-How are you dear?” Renjun tries hard not to let you hear him sobbing, but deep down, he wishes for you to notice and ask him what’s wrong. Just so he can prove to himself that you still care about him. “I’m fine, okay? Look, do you have something important to say? I’m really busy right now.” you turn and sees your friends waving at you and motioning for you to follow them to the cars. “I-I,” Renjun stammers. He wants to cry even harder because of the situation right now. You used to be the only person to whom Renjun can fully express himself, but now your relationship has deteriorated so much that he feels unsure of himself around you. “What, Renjun?” You’re obviously irritated by now. “I-I finished one of my paintings today. I, I really think you would be happy to see it. It will be put on exhibit n-next week. My critics are looking forward to it. I painted the sky green. There’s a gray sun, and black flowers. A-And I painted the grass—” “yellow. Of fucking course,” you snap. “No matter how many times I tell you that grass is green, you still insist on coloring it yellow. You know what, Renjun? If you don’t want to paint it green, that’s fucking fine, but color it something else will you?” you sneer. The impact of your words fail to sink into you, and so, you plow on. “And can you just stop, stop telling me about your weird paintings? For once in your life, just make a normal painting will you? I am not in the mood for this, Renjun. I am busy. Now, bye.” “Wai—” Renjun breaks down as the line goes dead. The grass is still green, but Renjun does not paint that night.

–

You rarely talk now, with Renjun initiating all forms of communication. But Renjun is getting tired. He does not know where you stand anymore. Your popularity increases, making you busier. You’re blinded by fame, and you forget the people who were there for you at the very beginning. You travel to different countries and get involved with other people. You think that you have achieved happiness. You know that the grass is green. But you forget that someone out there paints the grass yellow. –

Then one day, Renjun reaches a decision. By some miracle, you are persuaded by Renjun to meet up the following week at a nearby art gallery. Renjun called you the night before and told you that he will be in the city as his paintings will be exhibited there. He asked if you knew what the occasion will be next week, to which you replied that you did not know. “Okay,” Renjun only said. He gave details for the meet up, and you ended the call immediately afterwards. –

The following night, as a drunk you finishes throwing up in the toilet in a bar, you turn and see yourself in the mirror. Eyes lined with smudged eyeliner stare back at you. Your clothes are stylish but rumpled, and suddenly, you face looks old to you, your body thinner, and your skin paler. When you go out, you look at the people you have called friends for nearly a year now, and find their smiles fake. You look around yourself and for the first time again after a long while, you start thinking if things are worth it. You’re not sure. That night, you wake up in the middle of the night. You begin to feel guilt as you remember the past, your childhood, your first fight, your happy life before achieving your fame. You begin to realize your mistakes. You realize that you still love Renjun. You remember the yellow grass. And you dream of Renjun that night. But again, you forget. The guilt is pushed away again as your conscience is drowned by busy schedules and promotions. Again, you revel in the fame. –

It is the day that you would meet. It almost slips from your mind until your manager reminds you of your “appointment” ten minutes before the agreed time. You check your phone and find several missed calls. A tug of guilt gnaws at your heart and you consider leaving to meet Renjun at once, but as you are about to text Renjun to tell him that you are on your way, you receive a message from one of your friends inviting you to go out to try out a new restaurant. You hesitate. You decide and finally type out a text message. To: Renjun [9:48 AM] I can’t go now. Let’s just meet at two. And when Renjun, who arrived half an hour before at the art gallery, reads the message, he bites his lip as his eyes water. Taking a deep breath, he gathers his courage and replies an affirmative, and then resumes preparing for his exhibit. He lifts his most prized painting, gazing at it before hanging it in the wall. The color of the grass is beautiful. You agreed to meet at two in the afternoon, and the agency’s service vehicle drops you off at the nearby café a few blocks across the street from the art gallery. You start making your way along the sidewalk, letting your eyes roam around. You look across the street and see a wide park with children playing, tumbling in the grass, and chasing each other around the thick trunks of the trees that lined the sidewalk. Smiling a little, you remember Renjun. Your heart begins to beat wildly in your chest as the knowledge that you would finally see each other again sinks into you. You know that you were a shitty excuse of a partner for the past months, but maybe, you and Renjun can talk things out. You find the courage to correct your mistakes, and you are determined to do better and not screw up again this time. You are about to cross the street when you notice a couple of people looking at you curiously. They begin whispering to each other and pointing at you. You know that you are seconds away from being recognized, and if that happens they might follow you and a mob of crazy fan would be at your face before you could blink. Renjun flashes in your mind, and suddenly, you turn on your heel and go back to the café. You cannot risk Renjun’s safety. You’ve had your fair share of rough handling by people before, and you know that if a mob gets out of hand, they tend to hurt the people around them. You would rather die than expose Renjun to that kind of danger. You enter the café and text Renjun to meet you there instead. You’ll talk things out, and you will beg Renjun’s forgiveness. You can start anew again.

You wait. Renjun never shows up. You run, carrying a big can of paint. Your breathing is rapid, and still, you run as fast as your legs could afford to, pushing yourself to the brink; not stopping until you reach your destination. The area is quiet, and you could feel your sanity slipping. You rip the lid off the can and dump the paint, spilling the liquid across the grass. “Huang Renjun!” you yell into the sunset. “There! Your grass is now yellow! Are you happy?! Huh?! You fucking should be!” Your shouts are absorbed by the silence, and you can feel the tears prickling your eyes. You bite your lips as they begin to tremble and you pant hard. And then, when you look down and stare at the spilled paint, your face crumples as the pain slams you hard and you break down. “R-Renjun…” Pressing your palms against your mouth, you fail to muffle your sobs as you collapse to the ground, staining your face and clothes bright yellow as your entire form shakes violently. “I loved you so, so much,” you bawl. “I still love you…Renjun!” You take deep, shaky breaths, ignoring the strong smell of wet paint as scalding tears roll down your paint-stained cheeks. “Come back to me. Please come back to me, my dearest. Please, please, Renjun. I will make you happy, I will make us happy. Please, please, please.” “Please…my love,” you whisper brokenly. And then you remember that the grass was red, and you scream hard until your voice breaks, tearing at the grass underneath you as you weep with agony. –

The night finds you lying face down on the now-dried paint. You turn your head to the side, eyes blank and glassy. For a brief moment, you see Renjun sleeping right beside you, but when you reach your hand out, the moment shatters. Because just when you finally agree to color the grass yellow, you remember that Renjun changed his mind that day and painted the grass red. You’re too late. Renjun’s phone beeps with the arrival of a new message. Hurriedly, he whips his phone out, praying for you not to postpone again. He lets out a choked sob as he reads the message. From: My One and Only [2:04 PM] I’m at the café a few blocks across the street. Café Verde. Meet me there, Renjun. I’ll wait for you. I’m not giving up on us. He immediately excuses himself to the exhibit organizers and heads out to meet you. They could make things work. Renjun is willing to forgive you and start again. You wait but Renjun does not show up. Telling yourself to be more patient, you think that maybe Renjun is on his way. But you couldn’t shake the bad feeling in your gut. You decide to go out and meet Renjun on the way instead. You hurry along the sidewalk and stop at the crosswalk when you spot Renjun. Your eyes lock and time stops. Renjun is more beautiful than you remembered. He is standing in front of the park, the afternoon sunlight illuminating him. He smiles, and you give a little wave as he begins to step forward to close the distance between them. Suddenly, the man beside you shouts, and you look at the man, distracted. When you turn your head again towards Renjun, you see it. The picture shows a tree with a car beside it. The background is filled with the vibrant hues of a beautiful sunset. The details are vivid, but all you notice is the grass that is painted red. It all happened fast, but for you, it seemed like the world was moving in slow motion as you registered Renjun's horrified expression when a speeding car lost control, skidded towards the sidewalk and slammed onto the petite male, crushing him against the trunk of the tree. The car bounced back a little and Renjun’s body fell to the grassy ground of the park. You’re running fast across the street now. No, no, no, please no, you think frantically. You reach the other side as the crowd begins to gather around the scene of the accident. You roughly push your way through, and your blood runs cold as you stop at the sight of your mouth Renjun, lying bloody in the ground. “Somebody, call an ambulance!” You scream at the bystanders. You rush forward and fall to your knees. You find it hard to breathe as you assess the damage inflicted on your beloved’s body. Your hands are shaking as you gently cup Renjun’s face. “No, no, no. Renjun, Renjun, wake up, love. I’m here. I’m here now, Renjun. Wake up please.” Your voice cracks as you cry and plead for Renjun to wake up. A sharp piece of glass from the windshield impales Renjun in the abdomen, and his head is bleeding. Renjun coughs, blood trickling down his chin, as his eyes flutter. “You…” There are tears in Renjun’s eyes as he looks up at the love of his life. “You…came” “Shh, Renjun, I’m here. You’ll be okay; help is on the way, j-just, just stay with me, okay? Please, Renjun, please?” you blink the tears away but they keep coming. Renjun tries to reach a hand up to touch your face, but his strength fails him and his hand falls. You catch it though, and press the palm against your cheek. “Renjun? Renjun, don’t leave yet, okay? Y-You’ll be okay, I promise. Stay with me.” A tear falls from Renjun’s eyes, and another follows it, then another. He presses his lips together. You are here. You’re together again. You’re both supposed to be happy, right? Wrong. Because Fate is cruel. And your time together is running out. Renjun shuts his eyes hard as his face contorts from the pain. He begins to sob as he opens his eyes again and gazes into your own. “I l-love you,” he cries as he coughs out more blood, the crimson liquid also spilling out from his back and drenching the grass underneath him. “I love you too, Renjun. J-Just rest a bit. Okay? The ambulance is coming. You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine, I promise.” You know you’re rambling now, but you don’t care. You grip hard at Renjun’s hand on your cheek, fearing that if you loosen your hold, Renjun will slip away from you. Renjun just cries harder and shakes his head. “I-I w-won’t make it,” he whispers. “NO! No, Renjun, don’t say that, you’ll make it. Please, please. S-Stay with me,” you’re crying so hard that you chokes on your tears. The warm sunlight falls on Renjun’s face, and he smiles sadly, tears flowing freely. He weakly tugs at your face, and you immediately crouch down, your faces close to each other. Renjun takes a deep breath, and exhales shakily. Memories of your briefly shared happiness and then months filled with loneliness and suffering flash in his addled mind. He struggles to open his mouth to say something. He tries to speak once, twice. “H-Happy anniversary, my l-love,” Renjun chokes out as you sob and your heart breaks as he remembers the day. “No. No,” you breathe, as you kiss Renjun hard. He kisses back as much as he could, trying to prolong the moment, to make it last, but he could feel his strength rapidly leaving his body. “I love you, Renjun,” you whisper against the other’s lips as your tears fall down on his pale face. Renjun gasps as he convulses, and you cup his cheek. “Renjun, no, stay with me, stay with me, Renjun,” you cry hysterically as you feel Renjun’s breath die against your lips. “Renjun? Renjun? No, no, NO!” An anguished scream rips its way out of your throat. The grass is still green, but now it’s stained red. And your world shatters. –

All of Renjun’s paintings are exhibited after his death, many of them earning various posthumous awards. His most prized work, The Dream, shows a landscape with a green sky, a gray sun, and black flowers growing from yellow grass. You believe that when the time comes, when the grass turns yellow, Renjun will come back to you. People around you told you otherwise, but you don’t believe them. You only believe Renjun. And so, you wait. You wait for the sun to turn gray, for the sky to turn green, for the flowers to turn black, and for the grass to turn yellow. Because then, Renjun will come back to you. You wait for months, years, and decades. Your hair turns gray, but still, the sun does not. After a lifetime of hollow achievements and empty smiles, you still wait for Renjun to come back to you. But it’s pointless. Because the grass is still green. And Renjun is still dead.

#nct imagines #nct scenarios #nct dream imagines #nct dream scenarios #renjun imagines #renjun scenarios #renjun x reader #renjun x you #renjun #huang renjun #nct dream fanfic #renjun fanfic #renjun angst

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beca-mitchell · 7 years ago

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like a stranger to impress

summary: Beca meets Chloe’s parents, formally. Well, as formal as possible, all things considered. Pre-PP3.

Angst-o-meter: high. You’ve been warned.

Song lyrics are from “Cain” by EXES.

word count: 2986

chapters: 1/1

Beca has never quite perfected her handshake. She spent more time in her youth fixated on her laptop and the way her fingers could fly across her keys in order to create music. She could feel the ebbs of anger and pain leave her body - even if it was temporary - with every measure and downbeat.

Growing up, Beca wants to avoid pain as much as she can, but it’s only because she recognizes that pain is only ever followed by the harsh reality and consequence of her own actions.

It’s why the pain she feels when her father leaves is so jarring because all she thinks is that she did something completely unforgivable. Something so heinous that the idea of unconditional love no longer exists in her world.

So, she never quite perfects her handshake because there aren’t many people that she needs to interact with closely anyway. She’s content with just her music, her laptop, and herself. And even then, she’s not sure that this particular trifecta is one hundred percent reliable.

In the room that we were almost lovers

Chloe jokes about Beca meeting her parents occasionally. It happens on and off while they’re at Barden - though Chloe mentions it more generally to their group at large. She mentions that her parents would love to house some Bellas for the summers if they’d like to travel to Portland with her.

They never take her up on it and Chloe always goes home for a few weeks during the summer. Beca recalls that she tried not to miss her too much, which proved difficult as the years trickled on.

Closer to present time, Beca can isolate pockets of time where they’re lying in their shared Brooklyn bed - the bed they picked out together - and Chloe will tease Beca about getting handsy. In Beca’s defense, she had only been cuddling into Chloe for warmth.

“I mean,” Chloe drawls on those evenings and mornings, “there are rules about this kind of stuff, you know?”

Beca huffs, but the smell of Chloe’s perfume and the heady fabric softener maker her less prickly. “And what rules are those?”

“Should I bring you home to meet my parents? We’re moving pretty fast here.”

(Beca, since third year, has remembered to send Chloe’s parents a quick message, detailing that she’d love to meet them one day. They always send a huge box of snacks and non-perishable foods to the Bella house under Chloe’s direction. Beca is grateful.

For the snacks.

And Chloe, of course.)

To quip back, Beca musters up a quick pass of her lizard-cold feet against Chloe’s shins and grins a little at the yelp. It’s not her fault the heating is on the fritz again and Chloe’s all Beca has.

It’s pretty permanent, this feeling. Chloe is Beca’s everything for about six and a half years.

I could feel, I could feel you there

Beca has always loved Chloe in some capacity. It’s nothing new, the loving part. It’s easy to love Chloe. Beca figures anybody could make the same assessment. Even Lilly would probably raise her voice to tell somebody how much she adores Chloe.

The slow transition from loving Chloe to additionally being in love with Chloe built up over time - perhaps too long of a time period. Beca welcomes it tentatively because those first ebbs of love kind of sneak up on her one day.

It’s seeing Chloe in their tiny kitchen, somehow wide awake at 7:30 a.m. and she’s already singing. Alternating between singing and humming and making sure the pancakes she’s churning out are evenly sized.

On that particular Saturday morning, Beca forgets why she doesn’t normally wake up early on weekends because seeing Chloe engulfed in sunshine and radiance is somehow the only thing she ever wants to see on every Saturday from then onwards.

So, loving Chloe is easy, even if Aubrey would probably point out that Beca resisted it so heavily the first time she met Chloe.

Conversely, Beca thinks that being in love with Chloe is her personal hell.

She tries not to think about the way Chloe’s hands flail when she’s excited. She tries not to think about the ridiculous short pyjama shorts Chloe wears to bed and the equally appealing button-up top she wears.

Beca tries to quell the unmistakable pride and sheer love she feels when Chloe dons her scrubs for a day at work. Or when Chloe hums while she prepares for her weekend volunteering at the soup kitchen.

Beca pretends that nothing has changed even though every passing day is just another missed opportunity, and another day that Beca tortures herself with dreams and ideal scenarios that she never brings to fruition because she’s scared that she might lose Chloe.

Despite it all, Beca will never complain aloud about being in love with Chloe. She lets Fat Amy rib her for letting her gaze linger. She lets Aubrey snort and cackle when she calls asking what Chloe’s favourite soup to drink is when she’s sick. She lets Chloe stare at her curiously when Beca pecks her on the cheek on the way out of the apartment. She lets Chloe stare at her contemplatively.

But neither of them crack, which is reflective of their entire time at Barden, Beca supposes.

Loving Chloe is easy. Being in love with Chloe is even easier.

Being in love with Chloe is the hardest thing she’s ever done.

“I somehow think my parents would love teasing you,” Chloe tells her through a mouthful of chips. Beca does her best not to stare at the crumbs adorning Chloe’s face and fingers. Beca does her best not to point out that the only person with something worth teasing at the moment would be Chloe and her messy, childlike way of eating.

“Really?” Beca says instead.

“Yes.” Chloe nods confidently. “You’re so...Beca.”

Beca loves these particular interactions. She selfishly hoards them and exaggerates her prickliness during these moments because Chloe’s eyes light up when she’s teasing Beca. She loves the way Chloe’s eyes catch whatever light passes through the room. She loves the way Chloe’s eyes are unforgivingly vibrant.

“I don’t even know what that means,” Beca mutters, turning back to her laptop. She’s been inspired recently by songs about being in love and songs about love in general.

Chloe laughs and brushes off her crumbs into the sink. She then wanders over to Beca and props her chin on top of her head, peaking over at her screen. “What are you working on?” she asks quietly.

“Just...something,” Beca answers evasively. “Some songs I heard on my Spotify recommendations.”

Chloe’s fingers dig into her shoulders before her arms drape over them lazily. “Anything good?” Chloe asks, genuinely curious and genuinely eager.

Beca huffs and tries to ignore the way her own heart pounds as she reaches up to touch Chloe’s hand. “I’ll forward them to you,” she promises, making a mental note of the playlist she’s going to send Chloe that night.

She’ll try not to be too obvious about her song selections.

Chloe hasn’t opened the email.

I could feel...

It’s dumb, really. Beca stares at her shaking hands because she’s about to meet Chloe’s parents for the first time.

She can almost hear Chloe’s voice right in her ear, reminding her that it’s her mother with the strong handshake and her father who’s the hugger. Then she sees in her mind a wink that kind of suggests she’s lying and is just setting Beca up for failure.

She fumbles with the snap on her purse, letting it fall back against her thigh uselessly. She resists calling Chloe’s phone again just to hear her voicemail message.

(”Hi! This is Chloe Beale and not Beca or Amy if you were around to hear my last voicemail message. If you’re hearing this, well I succeeded in changing my voicemail and you’ve just missed me! But don’t worry, I’ll call you back as soon as I can. We both win.”

Beca stares blankly at Chloe when she lowers the phone from her ear. “That’s ridiculous. Nobody is going to listen to that all the way through.”

Chloe grins. “But it’s cute, right? You think it’s cute. I can tell.”

Beca doesn’t lie to Chloe. She can’t. She grins back. “Yeah, it’s adorable.”)

Looking up, she contemplates which seat to take. Would it be presumptuous to sit beside either of Chloe’s parents? She’s not sure what protocol is, especially not when -

There isn’t even an opportunity for a hospital visit. There isn’t room for the dramatics of a long period in a waiting room, anxiously awaiting news.

There’s just…nothing. A house visit from a police officer notifying her that Chloe is goneand that the bag he’s holding contains her personal belongings.

Nothing.

Beca numbly recalls making it to the trashcan in their kitchen, but she thinks that there wasn’t even anything to throw up. There’s nothing left in her.

It feels like someone's taken a wrecking ball to Beca's chest. It hurts—physically hurts—when she empties the bag. Chloe’s things tumble out onto the table. A bracelet, her phone, her favourite thumb ring, her wallet, and identification pass for the clinic.

Beca feels like she’s been split in half. Beca feels like she’s been torn apart because Chloe has been as well.

There’s nothing. Not even the reassurance of a heartrate monitor or tearful confessions to Chloe’s lifeless body. Beca doesn’t get to hear the beeping of Chloe’s heart and she doesn’t get to think of it as the most beautiful sound she has ever heard.

She hears nothing.

She listens to music for the way the beats match up. She listens for potential.

But she can pinpoint the first time she heard music and felt it reverberate through her soul. Settling somewhere in her heart, she remembers the way she felt something akin to pain when Chloe sang to her for the first time.

Something akin to pain, and yet...

She feels light whenever she hears Chloe’s voice. Heard.

Had heard.

The first and last time she heard anything worth remembering was Chloe’s voice, like a soothing lullaby.

“Beca,” Aubrey’s voice sounds in her ear.

“I...yeah,” she mutters. She looks up and realizes she’s been standing just off to the side from the seats set up. Portland is quite beautiful, Beca thinks. Living in Seattle, she never quite managed to take the trip down with her parents.

(”Thinking of going back home for the summer before New York?” Beca asks.

“Hm, maybe,” Chloe says lightly. There’s something in her eyes as she watches Beca contemplatively. “Depends. What are your plans?”

“Just trying to figure some stuff out,” Beca manages to say, meeting Chloe’s eyes.

Chloe takes a breath at that and when she exhales, a smile sneaks onto her face. “Same, honestly.”)

She never quite managed to take the trip with Chloe.

Somewhere in her mind, Beca has pockets of scenarios where she meets Chloe’s parents for the first time. They usually all involve her and Chloe living and working in Los Angeles or somewhere else in California. These now-alternate timelines see Beca finally shaking Chloe’s parents’ hands with confidence and assuring them Chloe is being taken care of. That Chloe is happy. That Chloe will always be happy onwards.

Instead, she sees the black and white story laid out in front of her (it’s difficult to see in colour these days because light was so harshly ripped from her life): Chloe’s parents huddled in the front row, looking despondent and engulfed in despair.

None of this is how Beca envisions seeing them for the first time, let alone meeting them.

“Do you want to say anything to them?” Aubrey asks quietly.

“I...I don’t know,” Beca whispers. “I think so, but I don’t know if...”

“You know Chloe would want you to.”

It’s probably the first time Aubrey has said Chloe’s name aloud since she learned of the accident.

All Beca sees when she closes her eyes is a medley of blood-streaked skin, crushed metal, and the flashing of the ambulance, police car, and fire truck – all of which meant nothing then and mean nothing now.

It’s what she imagines, anyway, because she hadn’t been there.

She wasn’t there at exactly 4:35 p.m. on a sunny Tuesday in June. She hadn’t been at the Canal Street and Allen Street intersection.

She hadn’t been there.

She wonders briefly – only briefly because it makes her chest cave in if she lingers on the thought - if Chloe was conscious at all during or after the accident. The pain she imagines manifests in a physical, visceral reaction in Beca whenever she thinks about it. However, it’s all she has left. She absorbs it because it’s the only way she can feel anything anymore.

Selfishly – it’s only selfish because it brings her some peace, just the possibility – but –

She wonders if Chloe thought of her.

Beca doesn't sleep anymore.

Sitting on uncomfortable plastic seats, somehow being corralled into sitting next to Chloe’s mother, Beca listens to the minister reflect on the meaning of life, on the beauty of an individual person, and how short life really is. Despite it all being quite beautiful, Beca cries, mostly in shame, guilt, and anger. The feelings are not quite reflective of reality, but she cries because all she feels then is pain and it overwhelms her. It settles somewhere deep in her chest and spreads through her veins like poison.

She cries quietly and tries not to think of everything that he’s missing out on. He doesn’t talk about the way Chloe cared about everybody and everything, even apologizing to inanimate objects. She cries because he doesn’t talk about how Chloe hugged people like it would be the last time she ever saw them. He doesn’t talk about what it meant, being in love with Chloe Beale and realizing that she’d never get the opportunity to tell her because she let every single opportunity pass by.

She cries and tries to hide it because it feels embarrassing on some level, to cry in front of Chloe’s parents and everybody who has ever cared about Chloe in some capacity.

It’s stupid, she thinks, because Chloe would brush her tears aside - just once - and probably tell her that it’s okay to cry. It’s okay to feel pain. It’s okay to feel and -

Chloe’s mother gently places a hand on her forearm. Beca jolts, looking up in concern, but Chloe’s mother isn’t looking at her. She has the same devastated expression on her face, but she looks forward, determined. Her hand curls around Beca’s forearm before she’s sliding her hand down to hold her hand.

Pain explodes in Beca’s chest, then.

Beca considers hand-holding as an extremely intimate form of expressing oneself.

She has held hands with only five people in her life.

Her mother, father, Jesse, Chloe.

And now, Chloe’s mother.

On this particular Saturday afternoon, the sun shines brightly and the skies are clear. There’s a gentle glow around.

On this particular Saturday, Beca stands in front of Chloe’s parents and tries to look them in the eye.

“You’re Beca, right?” Chloe’s father, Scott, asks.

“Yeah. Yes,” she corrects, blushing. It feels trivial, exchanging names when her world has ended.

“She talked about you a lot, did you know that?” Chloe’s mother, Grace adds.

“That’s...” Beca nods, swallowing. “I’m...I’m sorry, I’m not sure h-how to-” And she breaks again, gesturing with her hands like she’s not sure if she should formally shake their hands.

Instead, they make the decision for her and engulf her in a hug. It’s a warm hug, filled with love. It’s not painful, not quite.

Beca sobs, feels an answering quiver from the shoulder she’s pressed against. Confessions spill from her lips then:

“I never told her. I should have told her. I was going to, I swear. I loved her, so much.”

Pulling back, Scott places a hand on Grace’s shoulder while Grace holds Beca firmly at arms length. “I know,” she says quietly with strength. “I know.”

“You know?” Beca parrots. The sun’s setting, casting a beautiful orange, pink glow now. “You-you-”

“Chloe knew. Or at least, on some level, she did. I promise,” Grace whispers. “Thank you for making her the happiest I have ever seen her.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Beca whimpers. Because she didn’t. She was too scared, too slow.

“You did everything. I promise.”

The pain her veins slows a little. Her heart seems to slowly piece itself back together. She doesn’t doubt the honesty in the eyes in front of her - Chloe’s eyes.

“Take care of yourself, Beca.”

And they turn – father and mother, husband and wife – away, out of Beca’s life for the first time and the last time. Beca feels her resolve slipping with every step, the resolve she holds on to so desperately every day that passes where she lives in a world without Chloe Beale. Every step that Chloe��s parents take, they carry a piece of Beca with them, so she is helpless and remiss to do anything else but watch them walk away with finality. It’s like watching her past and reality finally merge and everything leaves her at once. She doesn’t bother stumbling into a chair, instead chooses to lean heavily against the closest tree.

Heavy, heavy, heavy...

The woman and her parents are gone. Gone. Gone.

And Beca remains.

Twisting slightly, she can see the freshly placed dirt and the scattered flowers. There isn’t even a tombstone yet – nothing for Beca to trace physically with her fingers. Nothing physical for her to use as an anchor. She supposes waiting five to six months won’t even matter because the only thing that ever mattered is buried under layers of dirt.

Chloe’s gone.

Beca doesn’t plan on returning.

I...

...could feel you.

posted on ao3 as well.

#bechloe #mine #beca mitchell #chloe beale #angst #sorry #fanfiction #my fanfic #pitch perfect #pp3 #pre-pp3 #anna kendrick #brittany snow #like a stranger to impress #bechloe fanfiction

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vide0-nasties · 7 years ago

Text

whatever a moon has always meant

Pairings: Julian/MC, mentioned Asra/MC

Content Warnings: NSFW, mutual masturbation, vaginal fingering, mentions of past bodily harm, strong language, mood whiplash, butchering of a poet’s most famous work, Jeff Goldblum-isms, lethally high corn content

Word Count: 6.8k

Author’s Note: Post Book VIII: Strength, Julian and my apprentice get into their feelings then each other’s pants wink emoji. If you find the Seabiscuit (2003) reference, I’ll mail you a check for $5 that will bounce.

Two long bodies, all in black, devour a sea of tall grass by virtue of their immense strides, under a moon that’s turned their quiet night-world an eerie shade of blue.

Many of Eustacia’s nightmares have started out this way, but she’s never been one of the long bodies, and the other has certainly never been Julian Devorak. She’s not had any dreams about him, yet, though he looks like something out of one.

Weak light catches on his harsh features—turns the precipice of his cheekbone, the scalpel-sharp line of his jaw, and the sickle-slope of his nose into platinum slivers carved from the moon herself, making him phantasmal.

But, like a phantasm, he looks cold and bloodless. Like her—greenish veins under waxy skin, a body left to set too long with eyes bruised by a fight that hasn’t happened.

Eustacia imagines him wearing Portia’s freckled complexion—the veins on his eyelid less blue and more purple, color and warmth high on his harsh cheekbones.

She imagined that in Nopal, if only for a few moments when she hadn’t been rapt by and wrapped in Asra. Julian, bright as man’s red flower, dancing in the desert’s peyote-fugue dusk. Julian, setting sight on vistas impossible to capture in oil paint or chalk, barking awed laughter at land older than humanity.

(Julian, caught between a water-sick town waiting on a hero and the wailing ghost of locked-away history, mistaking beetles for flames, then checking himself for soot or scorch.)

Were he not so yoked by sleeplessness and a full stomach, his voice might’ve carried its natural bustling cadence and shattered the scenery as he asks, “Eustacia. Could I, ahm. Ask you something? Several something’s, actually.”

Their hands swing between them lazily, the six of her fingers laced protectively through his five. It is late, but not so late. They tromp through the fields outside the palace’s gardens, destined for her shop and a scant few hours’ respite before parting in opposite directions with plans to reunite and pursue his beetle-ended key’s lock.

She cannot remember the last time she slept a full night, but that is not so distressing. Better than her other days—days like lost dogs, unable to budge from bed more than minutes at a time.

“Three questions I will answer for you—no more.” It’s an old fall-back, a defense beaten in with closed fist and repetition. “Answers as honest as I can provide, with the hope they’ll sate that which fuels your seeking.”

“Three…” he hisses softly, staring into the middle distance, as if trying to pare down a two hundred verse southern eda into a limerick. “Enigmatic as a sphinx, aren’t you? Tell me, are you a fan of classical tragedies? Oh—damn, no, those weren’t—”

“I wasn’t going to count them,” she assures him, waving her hand in a mock trick of magic. “I know what a chatterer you are. Like one of those shitey morning-time birds, making noise just to make it. It endears me to you.”

He snorts, moves around like he wants to face her, but can’t quite accomplish the feat. “You just had to say something insightful and heartstopping, didn’t you? Right before I ask all these rude questions.”

“So long as you don’t ask whether my toes are webbed like my fingers. They are. Only slightly, makes a stronger swimmer of me.”

“Ah, good, good. I only have two questions now!”

That mopey-dopey grin he wears so well, so tragically self-deprecating and ingratiating, she can’t help but pitch her head back and laugh at the night. He laughs along, only a moment, and not so heartily, letting it peter out to a vexed sigh that captures her attention and forces her to draw the smoke back through the keyhole.

“Alright,” he begins, swallowing again and forcing himself to face her, bullying his voice into keeping from questioning, “I know that Asra lives with you…”

She gives a half-nod of confirmation, a tilt of the head and hand, so-so. “He travels constantly. When he returns to Vesuvia, he is a welcome guest in my home. He doesn’t live any one place, really.”

Less a lie than a half-truth. These days, he’s little more than a drifting stranger, mirror-backward-image to the beginning, when she can scarcely remember a moment that was not filled with his presence and help.

Julian clears his throat. “I’m—it’s not that I want to pry. Everyone is entitled to their secrets. Personal lives,” he corrects. Now his eye will not meet hers. “You and Asra, are you…you know…together?”

Yes. And no. She has loved Asra even before she’d known his name, when he was only soft hands, smoke scent, and a gentle voice she’d thought she’d known from dreams that promised they would be alright. But, these three short-long years and the revelations of the last several days have muddied the waters.

“This cannot be a satisfying answer, but I’ve none better to give: I am not entirely sure. He is…dear to me,” she admits, painstaking. Even at odds with him as she is, she loves him as if he is permanently moored to the center of her being, but there are rubs.

She cannot fucking stand the way he treats her as if she’s no more substantial than a blown glass flower. Actions, loving in nature, that are stained with fear and concern. And Julian—she does not wish for him to feel belittled, or insignificant, or used. He is not a diversion or dalliance. He is more.

“And I,” she continues, “as I believe you surely know, am dear to him.”

“I. Uh. Yes, I’ve noticed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look at someone the way he looked at you in the library.” There is a tint, there, that leans toward jealousy. Eustacia is not sure of its direction, toward her for being the object of Asra’s affection, or toward Asra, possibly standing as a competitor toward Julian’s keen little romantics.

There is a possibility that both are true, but she doesn’t know how to grapple that beast.

“Whatever we may be, he and I, he knows of the tender bruises I’ve come to nurse for you,” she tells him, filling her words with warmth and hoping he tastes sincerity. “They’re in the shape of your name, and I can’t stop digging my fingers into them. Like half of myself is broken apart, and I’m choice-spoiled with body aches.”

She finds him frowning, the shape of the word why forming and dying on his lips without ever being given life. He’s not asked, but she will give him the balm for that sore. “I have found something familiar in you, in this world of strangers. It’s precious to me.”

Julian’s eye goes wide and he shifts about the shoulders. Truthful sentiment might be a touch too heavy for him. But, there he goes, throwing off her balance in kind. Taking her hand, he brings it to his mouth and presses a lingering kiss to her busted knuckles. He chances a look at her from under his lashes, then demurely—almost shame-facedly—to the back of her wrist.

When the man that has something to say to everything chooses to forgo his voice, what is to be done?

She takes him to a safe place. She takes him home.

His second question comes when, from a different place in the city, a clock tower strikes eleven. Not quite time for the carriage to turn back into a pumpkin, nor the horses into mice, but well past time for sleepless skulls to lie down and make amends with their abandoned dreams, for good or ill.

Julian changes into a pair of her loose, silk buccaneer pants behind the frosted glass of the changing screen that separates the tub from the rest of her home above the shop. When offered trousers to borrow in any color he wanted, so long as the color was black, he’d scoffed no peach? but admitted that he looks wretched in the color at any rate.

They’re close enough in height, only two inches difference between them, that they could theoretically wear each other’s clothes whenever—had he had twice and a half the amounts of hips, and she a third wide slice of chest. But, for a few hours, he will make due cinching borrowed drawstrings tight as they’ll go.

Eustacia rids herself of boots and clothing, stripping down to cotton drawers and the flimsy camisole slip keeping her tiny tits from kissing the wind while she washes her makeup away. It feels heavy after three or four days without it in the middle of nowhere, but there is a wrongness to her without the ritual and the sleight. Even the blue bottle glass pendant dipping in the murky suds on its long, braided gold chain and needing a wash of its own is muscle memory.

She does look like the risen dead. Her skin’s got a sick pallor to it, pulled tight over her face with no muscle or fat for cushioning. All bone and teeth. The drooping of her left eyelid is obvious without the pitch makeup she smears around it, no matter how often Asra kindly assures her this is no truth she need consider. Corpse-blue lips, like kissing a drowned woman.

There was a time that this wasn’t the face she painted away every morning—the face of a half-finished thing, Asra’s project in media res. Like he’s still pulling her from the glowing-hot gut of a forge and beating out her bends with a hammer. Knocking off the accumulated slag and pig iron.

How burdensome a thing she is, for a thing that should not be here at all.

“Oh. You have tattoos.” Julian’s voice brings her out of the old thoughts and old ritual of oiling her earlobes for the gold-and-abalone discs she favors, and she tracks him carp-eyed, bewildered, and in a state of sweet undress near her kitchen table. “Lots of tattoos.”

He is divine, she thinks. Wearing her pants cinched tight and still exposing the sharp jut of his hipbones, the hair on his chest that truly begins to concentrate on the little, adorable paunch below his navel, traveling down. Broad shoulders, big arms. But it’s the simple sight of his pale, bare feet on her floorboards that unspools her.

She’s never welcomed a wounding such as this.

At least he’s staring, too. She’s not an isolated fool, just one on equal footing with another.

“More than these, even,” she mutters, exhaustion weighing down her shoulders. Of course, she’s seen her skin, but she has no names for the green-black symbols that cover her from face to foot. The woman she used to be had made a grimoire of herself, and the body’d turned into a necronomicon when that stranger passed it into her hands. “Did you think I was southern?”

“‘I was southern.’ Now that could be a very interesting tell, if you maybe sounded like you came from anywhere close to the south,” he laughs uneasily, taking a few circling steps in his immediate area. “No, I didn’t think you were from one of the tribes, but I—hah—I don’t know a fucking thing about you, do I?”

She gives no response, not wanting it to count against the two questions he has left. She goes to the bedroom, and he follows along in buzzing silence.

He sits on the edge of the mattress—cast half in the warm, pale gold of her witchlight, half in the eerie moon-blue that persists through the window, mired all else in the unbent dark of night—while she tries to divide the pillows into a more even ratio, pushing her rabbit pelt blanket to the wall-side. She intends to give him the door-side; freedom, should he require it. Hopefully, she tells herself, she will not wake up alone in a few hours.

“Eustacia…?”

Here it is, then. The second question.

Rocking onto her haunches, she hushes her hands and faces him with devout attention. His words come fast, rambling, like he’s chasing them out before he can change his mind and let them stay living in him, “That night we…talked—you said, you said something. That, you said that I’m not the only person that ever lived who has a—ah, ah, ah—a history. What, exactly, did you mean by that?”

“You’re not the only person that’s had tragedy bred into your bones,” she tries gently. “Or the only person that’s done bad things, or hurt people—meaning to, or not…”

The words are stuck behind his teeth. It’s a physical pain he endures before they crash out, “Have you ever killed someone?”

The third and final question, striking like a slap.

“Julian—I don’t…”

She could tell him everything—the crater of her past, the why of her dodging.

How often she wakes with smoke charring her lungs, and someone else’s tears on her face.

To speak and babble and open up for the vivisectionist, the way she does with Asra—

Did. The way she did with Asra. There are so many secrets there now, minuscule torments of her own making, things she can’t let go of.

Her hands want to tremor, but don’t.

She offers one, palm-up and waiting. He obliges, slipping against her, hooking his thumb with hers and squeezing slow. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s…” His other hand drifts like a ghost over her scars. Ones hidden under her tattoos, or cut into them. A crescent moon hugging her waist. The long gouge on her stomach, under her ribs. The blanched stripes on her shoulders.

He lingers over the necklace of scar tissue at her throat, the one that hides under her collars or chokers.

All she can think is, I’m so sorry I’m empty-handed. I’m so sorry for being built of blanched scars and hollow-eyed cackling.

“What would you do if I had? Would it really benefit you if I’d the stain of blood on my hands, never to be washed off?” she asks, soft as ash and not aiming for interrogation or accusation. “If I wore that mark, and you’re innocent of this murder that haunts you, you’d’ve made concessions to the sort of person I think you’d despise. If you are guilty, would you even find comfort from like attracting like?”

That is no answer at all, fluttering obfuscation and only. She lays out something plainer, more plausible, and truer-ringing, “I like barroom brawls. I’m angry, all the time; it builds up like venom. The way you enjoy your pain is not so much the way I enjoy mine, but there is a pleasure to bleeding.

“Beyond that, I am a stranger to my life before Vesuvia. It doesn’t matter that, in my heart, I still sleep with my boots or, or wake flinching as if I’m still there.”

An answer, but not much of one.

He pulls the misery and poison back in, draws ragged breath, and returns it a sigh, “I’m sorry for asking. I just thought…maybe you’d understand. If that makes any sense. I, uh. I don’t actually know. Maybe if you had, it wouldn’t be so…bad to have dragged you into this.”

He’d invited her to run with him on the aqueduct, turned at the end to make sure she was following when the guards were coming and that stretch of lemonstone might as well have been the edge at the end of fucking world.

He could’ve turned on his heel and sped away without a word. Rescued himself from depending on the kindness of a stranger. And she could’ve planted her feet and watched him disappear in the gloom.

But. He didn’t. And neither did she.

By cosmic coincidence or fuck-up, they’d found each other that night in the shop, and they kept finding each other.

Her hand reaches out, runs her thumb over his orbital bone. This, at least, she can own without apology or wondering. “My choices have always been mine to make. There is no action in my life where my hand has been forced. That I promise you.”

“If you say so.” He turns into her hand, heaves a heavy breath, and gives a drippy, dubious little half-smile.

With consideration, he pulls her lower lip down a little with his thumb, eyeing the chipped front tooth he’s so fond of, the one she’d given herself crashing into him at the Raven that night they traded names. The edge of the digit runs over the missing corner. “You’ll forgive me if I have trouble buying that bridge you’re trying to sell, right?”

“It is your nature,” she kindly agrees, kissing his finger and threading her lacquered-black, pointed nail through the end of his eyebrow, into his sideburn. “If you’re agreeable to it, I’d like to lie down a time and listen to one of your stories.”

She sleeps, she dreams, and she wakes with a jolt and Julian’s forehead in her armpit. He’s drooled, she can feel it following the curve of her ribs, and a silver string of spit connects his bottom lip to a tattoo of a lion grotesque’s head when he cracks his eye and croaks, “Bad dream?”

“Not sure,” she mumbles, absently patting his hair, blinking fish-eyed at the room. “…Storms at sea. I was beyond it.”

“Hm? It’s storming?”

“It’ll storm today, bad. Can’t you feel?” Without looking, she motions to the window. The glass jiggles in the pane against the steady wind. The air has an electric, earthy taste.

He wipes his mouth, then her ribs with an apology. “That’s ominous,” he laughs, rusty. “Ah, fuck it all. Now I’m awake.”

She doesn’t want to cast about looking for some indication of the time, so she doesn’t. She shifts around Julian, pulling him farther up the bed, close enough to kiss. He seems in better spirits after a few hours gone-dark under his belt. Maybe the questions of last night have left him, or perhaps weigh lighter. “Any idea the time? I can cook you breakfast before parting ways…I need to go to the palace and play pretend I’m at all in the Countess’ good graces.”

“Prooobably half-past three. Maybe four? It’s still dark out.” He smiles when she hunkers close and touches the tips of their noses together. “Are you sure you have to go back? We could just…hmm-hmm, get to know each other, play by ear from there.”

“If my name alone was holding up my reputation, I’d stay, but we both know that’s not the case.” Idly, she runs a finger over the shell of his ear. It makes him shudder. “We’ve some time, yet. I’m thinking we definitely could get to know one another a bit better.”

The look of disappointment doesn’t last long, and he is the one to draw first blood, as it were, teeth grazing her lip as he goes in for the kiss, responding in kind when she adds tongue to the party.

Something rises in her body when she presses close to his. The image of ships burning in the open ocean. The howl of wind over a barren blue desert. A sea of grass writhing under the gale hand of the bruise-colored thunderheads rolling over the land. Frothing red sea foam, boiling up into three hundred pounds of gold bullion.

All exultant, crackling with the feral notion of hard-bought freedom.

Beauty. Beauty. Beauty.

Syrup-slow, their bodies slide together. Her leg slots between his, his hips find a comfortable landing against hers. Their chests and bellies come together so neatly that every breath is noticeable.

His arm wraps around her, hand to the back of her head. If only she had more than stubble for him to find, but he travels to the crown of her head and kneads his fingers into the thick mass of black waves.

A tired smile against her matching mouth, his sigh so content and pleased, tinged with the ghost of his braying laughter, “There it is.”

“You can grab a handful,” she teases, reveling in the innuendo, “it won’t break me.”

“You? Doubtful—couldn’t knock you over with a pail of water. Me? Oh, my dear. They wouldn’t be able to pick up the pieces in a hundred years—maybe a thousand.” His eye pops open and he pulls her tighter to his body, absorbing her shocked cackle. “Don’t you—I know what you’re going to say, so don’t you dare. Don’t even think it!”

Oh, she’s thinking it. That big, bawdy bullshit—you are much more fragile than I—but he’s asked in a roundabout way that she not shove her hands into the barely-settled earth of their new history to dig it up and dangle in his face.

So, she mimics locking her mouth with a key, and tosses it carelessly over her shoulder with raised brows and an affable, closed-mouthed grin. There’s not much room betwixt the two of them for such a movement, but she manages, and his kiss, tender and tentative now, picks the lock.

“I’ve a proposal, if you’d like to hear it,” she mumbles against his mouth, tracing the line of his shoulder blade. She can test the waters, she thinks, feeling him half-hard against her hip, his skin against hers furnace-hot and flushed. She is long-past excited, drenched in her drawers and thumping. “I’ll warn you—it’s forward, and a little fresh besides. Very fresh, in fact. It might even offend.”

“Oh, please, please offend me,” he laughs, but it doesn’t sound many shades from whining. “I live to see the day I’m offended by something—it’s never happened before, and it looks quickening.”

“I’d very much enjoy touching myself while you watch,” she tells him, full aware her voice drops close to a growl. “And, heartsweet, I would love it if you touched yourself, too.”

This noise comes out of him, like his soul has left him. He gapes and gapes. “I died last night, didn’t I?”

“I’m hoping not, otherwise I’m taking necromancy to soaring new heights, and I will be paying for these crimes.”

Again, he laughs (HAH!), and he nods, eager as a puppy. “Yes. Please—that’s fantastic. It’s devastating.”

She smirks and unlaces the drawstring keeping her drawers up, shimmying them lower to make space for her hand. Not once do her eyes leave his face, his rapt attention on her fingers.

His hand drifts to the waistband of his borrowed trousers, touching the laces, fingers twitching. Even in the dark, for lack of the witchlight that died as they slept, she can see his erection against the fabric, and, fucking hell, if this doesn’t feel as natural to her as swimming.

“Mm—can I, uh, can I…?” He nods down toward himself, and she laughs—throws her head back and cackles so hard the bed quakes in the ebony frame.

“Heartsweet, I don’t know how to break this to you,” she wheezes, sitting up on her elbow and taking her hand away from her pants to tug the fabric on his thigh, “but you’ve already gotten yourself into my pants. You can do whatever you want.”

Before she returns attention to herself, she pats his chest and points toward the petrified wood stump that serves as her nightstand. A gift from Asra, gone red-faced and grunting, struggling it upstairs on his lonesome a memory burned into her (no, no, I got it this far, didn’t I? Don’t worry!). “There’s an amber-glass vial of mineral oil there. It’s for my skin, but it should slicken your stroke.”

She dips two fingers between her lips, settling back onto the pillows with space between them now, swirling her clit in alternating figures that make her head swim and heart race. He pulls double-duty, stretching himself long for the oil as he takes his cock out of the trousers, then gives himself a firm, oil-dripping squeeze-and-stroke that forces his face against her shoulder, leaving his leg jolting not moments after.

She can’t stop looking at him—not just his cock, as pretty as it is, thinking of taking it in her mouth with his body backed against a wall—but all of him. The color in his face, the hurricane of his hair, the spectacular lines of his limbs.

To hell with herself, she has never felt more covetous, has never wanted anything more. She wants to find a way to live under his skin.

Breath hot against her neck, he physically restrains himself, slowing to something hellish. A drop of pre-cum forms at the slit, and a swipe of his thumb disappears it, racking his body with a shudder. Already, there’s a thin glimmer of sweat on his shoulders, collarbones. The blankets and bedsheets grow too warm, and they kick them away.

Eustacia almost slips a finger into herself without thinking when the point of one of her nails almost catches her entrance, and the whine that emanates from her is pitiful. These damn things. So naked without them, and frustrated to howling when she needs them gone the most.

Julian pulls away, brow furrowed and lips swollen from his teeth, breathing from the bottom of his lungs. His eyepatch rides up, but not enough to show anything he’s not willing to share. His throat bobs again, and his eye boggles looking at the shape of her hand. “Oh…nails?” he asks, and when she nods, he offers very carefully, “what do you think about, er, trading?”

“Where the fuck have you been hiding my entire life?” she demands, but there is no heat to it, none at all. His fingers skim down her belly, over the sigil that halts her monthly bleeding, and teasingly between her labia, stealing the breath from her lungs in a shameless act of larceny.

“You are so wet,” he groans, adding two more fingers to spread her lips, running over her clit with his middle finger. “You’re soaked—that’s—oh, fuck me, that’s the sexiest thing…”

“More, please,” she urges him, wrapping a hand around the back of his arm, reaching between them with the other to take hold of his length, stroking it hotter and harder in her grip. He moans, deep and loud like a bellows-press, rattling in her throat. So vocal, so vocal, and, again, she asks for, “More, more.”

It takes pumping him tip-to-base to kick him into gait, passing all pleasantries and sliding his middle and ring finger into her to the third knuckle. It’s the perfect angle, the perfect feeling of fullness, and the heel of his hand sits where she can ride it, rocking against him and trying to match the rhythm.

That’s a failing endeavor the moment he arches his hand, rubbing his thumb over her clit with pressure that’s all liquid gold, brushing against the sweet spot in her that makes her hackles raise, her pupils blow out, her sex clench.

The hand on his cock loses rhyme and reason, and she throws her knee over his leg to keep from squeezing her thighs together to impede him. Her hands are suddenly very stupid, not knowing where to go or what to do when he curls inside her, watching the stunning lines of his superb hand, wet with her slick in the palm, almost to the wrist—so shamefully wet.

Knuckles bending, tendons flexing, the veins on the back of his hand and the underside of his forearm standing in harsh relief against his skin—vascularity and vitality, and, shit-shit-shit, that has always been so attractive to her. Parts that are supposed to work and do, a body built the right way.

Fuck, it’s all firecrackers, and the taste of gold rings, and muscle knots coming loose. It’s his breathing, and his fingers, and his tongue laving over her pulse point. It’s her eyes crossing under her clamped-closed lids, and his name clenched savage in her teeth like a coin to buy passage into the afterlife.

Her orgasm drags her deep like undertow, blotting out all light and thought and feeling apart from gold, liquid gold, and throws her mercilessly back to shore, where she breathlessly giggles a hyena’s bark, still twitching on the fingers inside her.

Her hand’s wrapped around his wrist and he gazes with a look of drunkenness. “Wow.”

“Sorry, oh, hell, apologies for all that noise.” Might not be a pretty sight, trying to catch her breath after that cracked cacophony, but Julian shakes his head and grazes his teeth over her shoulder, a burning look in his eye when he tells her, “No-no, it’s called a hysterical paroxysm for a reason.”

The mournful moment she is empty of his hand—though she was the one that gently pushed him away—she spares no time nudging him onto his back. His hands don’t so much guide her hips as follow the path they take when she straddles him and snatches the mineral oil from the floor in a fluid motion.

Let it never be fucking said that she is one for inaction over gratitude.

One pause draws between them, her hand dripping on his stomach, poised over his member between them. The other cradles the base of his throat, thumb over the space his sigil lives, feeling every swallow. She waits until he meets her eyes, then breathes, “Please, take what you need from this—what you want. Ask for it. Will you do that for me?”

He studies her face, prodding the words around his mouth like worrying a broken tooth. “Yes, I can do that—for you. Since you asked so nicely.”

Oil-slick, her hand wraps around him, and her mouth is just in time to catch his groan like passing smoke.

All his little noises and movements, she commits to memory. Sometimes she’s frightened she’ll forget again. That this thing that has only recently begun to feel like living and breathing once more would be stolen a second time.

This is not something she wants to forget. He is not someone she wants to be twice a stranger to.

Rising off his pelvis, she maneuvers her wrist between her legs and encourages the bucking of his hips to fuck her hand. Clenching on the upstroke, loose going down, working the head with the slick loop of an index finger and thumb with a flicking wrist that leaves him near to simpering.

He slides under her camisole, rolls one of her still-sensitive nipples between his fingers, and groans in tandem with her when he finds the ring piercing it. He bucks into her hand so that she feels her last knuckle thunk his pelvis.

“What do you think of this?” she asks him, hoarse from ragged lungs. Her legs burn with the effort of keeping herself hoisted, neck tight from her dropped head watching him. “Have you ever imagined this?”

It is a croak, it is a whine, it is a declaration, “Sometimes—sometimes I—mm-MM—hah, I’d try to sleep, and—there you are!—traipsing in my thoughts like you own them. In the tea house—or theater—whatever-the-fuck, when you bit me? That ruined me—that’ll haunt me forever. I dream about your teeth.”

Quickly, she resituates between his knees. Hooks an elbow under one, hitching his leg up and away when she looms over him. His hand locks around her wrist, squeezing with urgency.

“Tell me what you’ve imagined of us? How you pictured our bodies coming together?”

His eye drops half-open, same as his mouth, halting little gasps escaping him. So undone, so pretty and wondrous. So damnably charming is the color flaming his ears and face.

Red as poppies. Red as velvet. Red as his hair.

She wants to wrap herself in the color and get lost.

There are people she’s come across that looked as though they were ripped out of statuaries, from the pages of illuminated text, but never has she ever seen someone like him—like the gods chose to breathe life into stained-glass. Vibrant, lovely, where the sun could shine through him and make him brighter and brighter if he’d the chance.

“You—we’re…we’re some place we’re not supposed to be—faster, please, please. Could you—could you grind against me?” he rattles, tremulous, everywhere and nowhere all at once. She obeys, thrusting against his ass and amping up the speed of her hand, her reward a strangled noise and his hands locking around the back of her neck for want of anchor.

He grinds out, “We’re not supposed to be there, a-and you—you want me to fuck you up against a wall—tell me how to move. I do good—so good, you’re so happy and twisted up and wet. Pulling my hair, kissing me, and tell-telling me I’ve done good, you’ll use your f-fingers on me next time, and—god, Eustacia, please.”

What bodice-ripping bullshit, she won’t be able to stop herself from thinking of it every time she masturbates.

He cums with a shout, shooting hot over her hand and his belly, legs bunching fiercely around her elbow and hip. She almost pulls away from his twitching cock, but he catches her, wrapping around her hand and continuing to stroke the last drops of seed from his body, even when his eye screws shut and his jaw goes tight with clenched teeth and whining.

When he relents, it is with a wince, taking breaths like a run-hard animal that’s found safety in shelter. He loosens, jaw mulling, eyelids going slack, knees and the rest of him turning to putty. Then, he begins to laugh. A small chuckle deep in his chest, escalating.

His hands travel up her arms and he just keeps honking this gut-busting laughter, eye squinted and watery. It’s so infectious, so invitational, bright and bubbly as champagne. She worries, amusedly and only for a sweet second before she joins him, that he will dissolve if he continues and she’ll have to sop him out of the blankets with a rag, bring that to Mazelinka’s in a few hours.

Here’s Julian, he’s much more slippery now, I’m afraid.

“Thank you,” he manages, smile cut so wide she can see his molars, “thank you.”

Eustacia climbs from between his legs and into the lifted arm he offers, accepting his hold around her hip as drapes happily and lazily over his thorax. “Thank you. What’re a few hysterical paroxysms shared among friends, anyway?”

Arms folded over the breadth of his chest, she rests her cheek on her hands, and lets her eyes drift closed. She can feel his heartbeat in her arms—through her heartbeat, too. For a few bars, they answer each other, thump – thump, until they come very close to syncing up with his fingers curling a pattern on her nape, one she can’t decipher.

Why he touches that spot so often and tenderly, she does not know. Why spare the sweetness? It doesn’t matter, she droops like a dog and turns into the touch, wanting more of it, wanting it everywhere.

“Would you humor me wondering what you’re going to do after all of this?” The sighed question is almost lost in a hard gust of wind against the wall, rattling the glass fierce.

After all this—after the masquerade, implying that he will dead or out of the picture, she thinks he means. Humor him, what a crock of shit. Might as well, and why not jerk him about at the same time.

His fourth question, and she lets him get away with it.

“I’m going to go on a long journey. I will find a hopeless place, and there I will fall in love.”

“Don’t let this sway your impression of me, but I always did take you for a romantic.” Another sigh, not so sad this time, and he lolls his head until he can make eye contact with her. “Where’s hopeless place of yours, anyhow?”

Maybe it’s the air between the fingers he curls against her neck.

She’s not going to tell him this. Already, he’s had his three questions, and snuck in a fourth, besides.

Instead, she drums her fingers against his collarbone and chatters, “Did you realize you sleep like a bird? Tuck your face under your wing, or someone else’s. Kept your head on my shoulder, my arm ‘round your face like you’d like to smother, and woke in my armpit.”

“Okay, okay. I get the hint,” he snorts, shaking his head with a smile. “…Do I really?”

“I know what my last question is!” he calls from behind the changing screen, popping his head up over the edge. “It’s a real barn-burner, too. Oh, you’re just going to love it.”

Running her hands over two ceramic mugs glazed over gold leaf, warming them with minor magic so their coffee isn’t piss-warm when poured, she scoffs, “You’ve had your three tonight, don’t go turning into a greedy, promise-breaking little bampot.”

Come to think of it, she’s certainly let him get away with four questions. She’s slipping.

“Like hell, my dear, I very distinctly only remember the two.”

“You can ask,” she concedes, tacking on a silent but I may not answer to the end.

He comes slipping back out into the kitchen with one of her wrap-skirts around his hips, eyeing the coffee press and the mug she promptly passes to him. There’s no modesty to him, invading her personal space while humming a toneless little tune, pressing his back against her as he pours himself a coffee, neat. “Here we go,” he says, now leaning his hip against the counter, sipping and hissing, “oh, that’s good.”

“Are you a morning person?” she accuses, righting the shoulder of her black silk robe.

“Hardly. The nap helped, and that was one hell of a ‘how-do-you-do,’ but I’m still borderline delirious.” He sucks his teeth and lowers the mug. “Third question—”

“Fourth.” Fifth, actually.

He plows on regardless, shit-eating grin on full-blast. “Do you ever give straight answers?”

Oh. Oh, that’s not even a question at all! That’s a fucking forgone conclusion! “How can I be expected to give straight answers, when I am such a deeply crooked person?”

“Two of a kind, hm? Rrrr! That’s why we ended up crossing paths—moths to flame, and all. Our sort has to stick together. The deeply crooked, I mean.”

She’s smiling a pinched smile that’s all sarcastic accusation and sincere agreement, just looking at him and trying to think of any snappy little zinger when it happens.

A coolness, a stillness, a calmness—it all slides over her shoulders and down her back like water. At once, she is sleepy and warm and unworried. She wants to go back to bed, and she wants him to come with her, even though they cannot.

“Are you staring at me? You’re staring. Is there—oh, shit,” he mumbles, checking his eyepatch. It’s still in place, and that’s how he finds it. He looks back to her, almost frowning in perplexity, but he goes a little slack and catches on, mouth curling into a bashfully pleased, disbelieving little twist. He wears this smile peering down into his mug.

For a moment, she is crushed with an ache deeper than blood or bone, more powerful than the hammer-strike landfall of a tsunami. I wish we’d found each other young, she thinks, we might never have been lonely.

His hand has moved, and so has his body. Closer to her, the tips of his last two fingers crawling over her craggy, inked knuckles, the cautious legs of a wary spider on uncertain ground.

This is it—the image of him that will be summoned to her when her thoughts lift his name to the surface, from not until the jumping-off point. Whether it finds them gray and bedridden in another hundred years, or in a sudden outpouring of blood and pain tomorrow, she will think Julian, and her mind will show her this:

He is tall and pale, thin through the waist and broad through the shoulders. He is barefoot on her warped floorboards, and he wears nothing under her clothes. A soft blush colors his cheeks and ears, and his lips are the same hue because of her kisses. He smiles, sweetly-sadly-softly, and he holds her hand.

Then, she thinks it.

She thinks it so quickly the words don’t have a chance to form out of the ether, but she is doomed all the same: a fool girl with fool notions, ten hundred questions, and not a single answer, who would not cry near so much as she does if she did not have them.

She will carry him in her heart.

She will carry him forever.

#the arcana #the arcana fanfic #the arcana game #julian devorak #julian x mc #this huge fic tried to kill me but i killed it first #rip mobile users #rags wrote a thing

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dragonasheswrites-blog · 7 years ago

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The Heaven We Didn’t Choose, Chapter 12: In Which Leaves are Crunched

...And Sans starts to realize just how lost he is.

First: Chapter 1: In Which a Child Makes a Friend

Previous: Chapter 11: In Which Dinner is Delivered

Next: Chapter 13: In Which Nothing Good Lasts Forever

Click here for the story overview.

Saturdays, Sans decided, were breathtakingly beautiful when caring for Attie. Not quite as good as Sundays, but amazing all the same.

He was laying on his bare mattress, eye sockets barely open, looking at his phone.

“9:05,” said his phone screen.

Beautiful.

He didn’t have to go to his hot dog stand (or any of his other jobs) because he was watching Attie. Boss and Undyne did something with the Royal Guard on Saturday mornings, so they were both occupied. Attie hadn’t had a nightmare, so she was still asleep in Boss’s room. It was just Sans, his phone, and a lazy Saturday morning.

He quickly crushed the thought. He had too much bad karma for it to last-

Ding!

Aaaand there it was. He reluctantly tapped the message notification on his phone.

Bundle of Joy 9:06 AM Hello Mistr Sans!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You 9:07 AM Hey kid

Bundle of Joy 9:08 AM Are you awake?????

You 9:11 AM Nah

Bundle of Joy 9:12 AM Okay!!!!!!

There was a long pause. A few reckless birds that hadn’t flown south for the winter were making some kind of racket outside the window, but he decided to consider it a comforting reminder of being on the surface rather than an annoyance. His eye sockets had started to slide shut again when-

Tap tap tap tap taptapTAPTAP

He curled in on himself, willing away the sound of tiny approaching footsteps from the hallway.

The door to his room creaked open slowly. Painfully slowly. He could feel Attie’s eyes on him, but she insisted on opening the door one millimeter at a time. It was an amateur mistake; there was no way he could see the door in his current position so sudden movements weren’t a concern, and opening the door slowly made the squeaking long, loud, and obvious. She would’ve been better off opening it quickly, hiding, then sneaking in through the open door when his guard was down.

The urge to tell her all this faded after a moment. He just hoped she’d go away.

“I know you’re not really sleeping, Mr. Sans,” she whispered. She whispered like Boss did: loud enough to raise dust.

He stayed quiet.

“Okay. I’m gonna go make a peanut butter waffle like you showed me yesterday.”

“Yer not allowed t’use th’ toaster without a grown-up,” he grumbled.

“Then you should probably come and help me?”

“Not the way it works.”

He knew she was pouting.

“Hey. Why don’tcha give me...hmm...another five minutes, then we can make breakfast.”

She made a funny noise that sounded excited, but he wasn’t curious enough to figure out how she did it. “Okay! I’ll wait back in Mr. Papyrus’s room!”

The pitter-patter of little feet disappeared back down the hallway. Sans noticed that she’d left his bedroom door pointedly open.

Exactly four minutes and fifty-two seconds later, he rolled himself off the mattress. He landed on the floor next to it with a dull thump and a clatter of bones, and gingerly pushed himself upright. A beeping noise from down the hallway made him grin; he’d shown Attie how to use the timer function on her phone for cooking purposes, and she used it for everything she could now.

The kid herself appeared a moment later. “Are you awake?” she asked, cocking her head at him.

“Ugh, yeah.”

“Great!!” She bounced on her toes.

“...Let’s go make you peanut butter waffles.”

“Okay!”

Sans still felt half asleep, but he managed to get a pair of waffles out of the back of the freezer (where he’d hidden them from Boss) and into the toaster. Attie had perched herself on the counter with the peanut butter, eating it by the spoonful.

“Attie, I’m pretty sure your mom wouldn’t be happy about you doin’ that.”

“But you’re not my mom.”

“...Fair enough. But you hafta eat all your breakfast.”

“Okay!”

He started a pot of coffee. The human internet was a wonderful source of information: he’d been able to find clear instructions (with pictures!!) on how to operate and clean Boss’s fancy coffee machine within seconds of searching for it. Coffee went a long way towards improving Undyne’s mood, so he’d been getting up a few minutes early to start a pot before she showed up each morning. It was a self-defense measure. The idea of having a whole pot of coffee to himself, instead of sharing it with a fish-faced Royal Guard, was tantalizing.

“Can I try some coffee?” Attie asked. She’d started asking every morning after Undyne praised the benefits of caffeine once too many.

Sans responded as he always did: “Gotta ask your mom. Besides, I think you’re crazy enough as it is.”

“Okay!”

The waffles popped out of the toaster and Sans put them on plates. (He would have happily eaten his right out of the toaster, but Attie insisted on the plates.) His little helper spread peanut butter on each waffle, then handed one to Sans.

“Bone appetit,” she said, face solemn.

“And to you.” He saluted her with his waffle.

He finished his quickly and texted Frisk a picture of Attie, slightly melted peanut butter oozing through her fingers and onto her plate. A good four texts in, he remembered that Frisk was actually conscious now and reading her messages, and by then he’d already rambled on about peanut butter and waffles longer than any self-respecting monster would admit to.

The advantage of having the house to himself was that Attie could take her time getting dressed. He’d figured out last Saturday that she liked wearing strange color combinations that even he - a complete fashion heathen - knew looked bad together. He indulged her for most of the morning until she got tired of changing clothes and wound up in a red and blue striped shirt and jeans.

“How do you want your hair?” he asked, once she was dressed and bouncing around the living room.

Attie was prepared for this question. She pulled her phone out of the pocket of her jeans, opened a web page, and showed it to him. “I want this one! ...Please.”

“That looks a little complicated. Sure you wanna sit still that long?”

“Yyyyep!”

“Okay, but you asked for it.”

The hairstyle was the most intricate one she’d asked for yet. The picture showed a little girl’s hair braided along her hairline in a kind of circlet shape. ‘Crown braid,’ the instructions called it.

Sans gave a mental shrug. It didn’t look like any crown he’d ever seen, but humans were strange.

It took half an hour of pulled hair and false starts, but he managed to get Attie’s hair woven and pinned into the desired shape. “Done,” he said, collapsing back onto the couch.

“Thank you!” she yelled over her shoulder as she dashed down the hallway to the bathroom. A squeal told him that she’d seen herself in the bathroom mirror and either really liked his work...or was very upset. He was willing to bet on the former, but there had been that incident with the French braid...

The smile on her face when she finally reappeared was contagious. “Thank you, Mr. Sans!” she said. “I look really beautiful like a real princess!”

“Uh...aren’t you kinda a princess? I know your mom is, ‘cause her parents are the king ‘n queen.”

She tilted her head to the side. “I don’t know. I don’t get to go to the big parties and everything, and no one calls me ‘your highness’ or anything like Mommy. Do you really think I’m a princess?”

“You sure look like one today.”

“Yay!! Oh, should I wear a dress, then?”

“Woah, hey, didn’t you...uh...just get dressed? Yeah, you wouldn’t wanna get your pretty hair all messed up changing clothes again, right?”

“Okaaaaay. But will you at least take a picture and show Mommy?”

“Sure, kid. I do every day, don’t I?”

Once the picture and nothing else was sent to Frisk, they sat down on the couch with their phones. “Okay,” he said. “Same as last week. You pick a place and show it to me, and I’ll check with Undyne.”

Attie hummed happily in agreement and got to work. After a moment, she handed her phone over. “This one?”

The map app on her phone was displaying a huge wildlife refuge at the base of Mt. Ebott, winding between monster territory and the city itself like a fat slug. “That’s...I’m not sure that counts as a park?”

“Look at the name!”

He did. ‘Mt. Ebott National Park,’ the phone said. “Well. Huh. I’ll check. But you know there won’t be other kids at this “park,” right?”

She shrugged. “Most kids are weenies. The kids at the embassy are okay, but mostly other kids don’t want to play tag or wrestling or capture the human. And they cry if you push them over, and then parents get mad. The kids at the embassy don’t cry when they fall over; they just get back up and keep playing. ‘Cept the really little kids, but no one pushes them over on purpose because we’re s’pposed to look after the little kids.”

“...Welp, okay.”

He texted Undyne about going to the park Attie had picked. She texted back almost instantly with a slew of questions, but since she gave her approval he ignored those.

“Undie says we can go. She’s busy, but since there shouldn’t be anyone else there we don’t need an escort. We just can’t leave trash and stuff behind, okay?”

“Okay!”

“Now. What do you want for picnic lunch?”

Attie wanted peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. That was fine. What threw a wrench in the plan was her desire to make the sandwiches, and despite how much she practiced spreading peanut butter on bread it still seemed to get everywhere. Sans resigned himself to following her around with a wet dishcloth cleaning up as she splattered peanut butter and dripped jelly across the kitchen.

“Done!” she finally declared, brandishing two lopsided sandwiches at the skeleton hovering behind her.

“Woah-hey! Watch where you swing those!”

“Sorry!”

The sandwiches were wrapped and packed in Sans’s inventory, along with a bag of apple wedges (the easiest snack aside from popato chisps, which Boss didn’t allow in the house), a water bottle for Attie, and as many napkins as he could fit. By some cruel quirk of the inventory system, each napkin took up an entire inventory slot. He reluctantly removed his trombone and stashed it in his room to make space for the blanket Attie wanted to sit on. Hopefully they’d be back before Boss, anyways.

“Okay, kid. You ready to go?”

“Yyyyep!”

“A’ight, then. C’mere.” Once Attie was secure, Sans concentrated on the map he’d been shown of Mt. Ebott National Park and took a step forward.

Long-dead leaves crunched under his sneakers, and Attie wiggled almost out of his hold. He kept his fingers tangled in the kid’s jacket as he evaluated his surroundings. Only leafless trees, interspersed with the rare pine, surrounded their clearing. They were alone.

Seasonally-challenged birds aside, Sans considered the area he lived in to be pretty quiet. Sure, the neighbors and the traffic from the nearby highway made some noise, but it was a background hum he didn’t notice anymore.

He certainly noticed the lack of it, standing there in the middle of the wilderness. He could barely hear any sounds, actually. He was tempted to check his hearing, but the sound of Attie’s feet kicking up leaves confirmed that he wasn’t falling down just yet; it was just unnaturally silent. There were no birds or other animals that he could hear. The slight breeze ruffled no leaves. A few dry branches clattered somewhere in the distance, sounding a little like bones, but it was distant and gone in seconds.

“Can I make a leaf pile and jump in it?” Attie asked, wiggling harder.

“Eh, sure. But stay where I can see-”

She had already bounded off. Sans followed at a much lazier pace. He gave her about an hour - an hour and a half tops - before she wore herself out and needed to eat to refuel.

Eventually, Attie collapsed into her giant pile of leaves and declared herself hungry.

“Oh thank the stars,” Sans groaned from under the neighboring pile. She’d buried him - he checked his phone - an hour ago when he’d gotten tired of helping her gather handfuls of leaves into piles. It was surprisingly cozy…

...until little hands began shoving the leaf pile off him. “C’mon!” their owner said. “It’s lunchtime!”

He spread out the blanket and handed Attie her sandwich, the apple slices, and all the napkins. He wasn’t really an outdoors-y person, not like some monsters he could name, but he had to admit that there was something kinda pretty about this place she had picked. The trees were varied enough that it wasn't a copy of the pine forest near Snowdin, but the atmosphere reminded him a little of his old home. He’d hidden in that forest often enough to have an appreciation for trees in general.

“The trees are really pretty even without their leaves,” Attia said between bites. “Did you take pictures and send them to my mommy?”

“I took pictures, but I don’t have reception out here. Gotta get back to town to send them to your mom.”

“Okay.”

They sat in silence for a bit longer. Sans gathered up the trash in a bag and found - to his amusement - that once categorized in such a way, he was able to store all the leftover sandwich and apple bags and dirty napkins in a single inventory slot. Magic was weird.

“I wish we could stay out here forever and ever,” the little girl said, sounding half-asleep.

“Oh? Wouldn’t you miss your mom?”

“She could come out and live here with us too. She has to go to work, though.”

“What about, uh, school? And friends?”

“I do school from books, silly! And I could visit my friends. They all work at the embassy, at least sometimes, ‘cept you.”

It was a strange thing, that tingling that spread outwards from his soul at those words. When was the last time he’d had a friend? Had he ever? Sure, it was just a little human kid, but...well, it made him regret not being a little nicer to the kid’s mom a few years back. Had Frisk been this carefree and innocent once upon a time? Had monsters taken that from her?

Had he…?

“Mr. Sans?”

“Yeah, Attie?”

“Am I your friend too?”

He leaned back onto his leaf pile and closed his eye sockets. “Yeah, kid. You’re my friend too.”

She sighed and laid down beside him, her fingertips tapping on his in a strange rhythm. For once, he didn’t mind the contact. He knew with absolute clarity in that moment that he would willingly die for this obnoxious, precocious, brilliant little girl. Laughter bubbled in his empty chest at the thought. There was no reason to suspect that they would ever be in a situation where that would be necessary, or would actually do any good, but that was the first thing that came to mind.

She was going back to her mother as soon as Frisk was released from the hospital, probably in a few days. Granted, it could be a few weeks with how bad Frisk’s luck had been lately, but the fact remained that eventually Attie would go home. She would go home to her mother and move on with her life. Would she even remember him? She’d only known him for a week and a half. Sans himself couldn’t remember much from when he was seven years old, and considering what he’d gone through at that age it both relieved and frightened him.

Attie would forget him, someday.

“Mr. Sans?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re thinking too hard again.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s okay! I just don’t want you to be sad.”

“Uh, thanks.”

She hummed a little. “Mr. Sans?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we go back to your house now and call Mommy?”

“Sure, if she’s awake.”

He hauled himself upright and held out a hand. She took it without hesitation, smiling so wide her eyes squinted.

She...trusted him. It was almost inconceivable, after less than two weeks, but she did.

Sans knew with a sinking feeling that he’d betray that trust somehow. The thought made his shortcut a little more bumpy than usual, but instead of complaining Attie immediately demanded that he always make his shortcuts that “fun.”

“...No promises. Now don’t you have someone to call?”

She squealed and ran off to locate her phone.

You 2:14 PM *12 picture messages sent Picnic at mt ebott

There was no response. Was Frisk alright? He caught himself worrying that she hadn’t eaten anything since the mac ‘n cheese, but forced the thought away. She wasn’t his problem.

...But what if she had eaten something, and it had been poisoned? Humans were weirdly susceptible to poison. He curled his twitching fingers into a fist to keep them from drumming on the table. This kid and her mom were going to be the death of him.

“Mr. Sans?”

“Yeah, Attie?”

“I can’t call Mommy. She isn’t picking up her phone.”

“Yeah, she hasn’t texted me back, either. Whaddaya wanna do while we wait for her?”

She thought hard for a long moment. Sans braced himself for anything. “Friend” or not, this kid had a downright disturbing sense of humor sometimes.

“How about we play…TEA PARTY!”

Disturbing, indeed.

By the time Undyne vaulted dramatically into the apartment several hours later, Sans had resigned himself to his fate. He’d been forced to ‘dress up’ (in nice clothes, which meant he had to do laundry, which Attie - the little goblin - absolutely loved) and was wearing his single formal outfit: a button-down white shirt and black slacks. Attie had changed into a flowery skirt and top, and had insisted on finding an old bedsheet to use as a tablecloth for the skeleton brothers’ stained dining room table.

What made all that worth it was the look on Undyne’s face when she realized they had raided her ‘secret’ tea stash. Coffee may have been her one true love, but tea came in a close second. Boss kept some on hand for emergencies.

“WHAT THE EFF?!?” she screamed, waving a spear wildly. “SANS, WHY?!?”

“Attie wanted to play tea party.”

“Yeah!” the girl piped up, taking a tiny sip from her coffee mug. She’d been pretty upset to find that the skeleton household didn’t have any proper teacups.

Undyne looked more conflicted than Sans had ever seen her. On the one hand, she was known to be extremely protective over her property, which automatically included all caffeinated beverages within arm’s reach. (And she had a surprisingly long reach.) On the other...she had a proven fondness for Attie, and Attie was obviously happy.

To his surprise, fondness for the little human won out...this time.

“Well you’d better pour me a cup, nerd,” she said, dispelling her spear and throwing herself into the chair across from Sans.

Attie giggled and dashed into the kitchen for another mug.

“So,” the captain said, eyeing him, “You’re still alive.”

“You saw me literally yesterday morning. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s an ongoing surprise. I thought the kid’d run you ragged after a day or two, especially after you collapsed the first time you worked out with us.”

He shrugged. It was a fair assessment.

“You’re not half bad at this, y’know.”

“What, at tea parties? You know me, Cap’n; never one to pass up the pretty dresses.”

Undyne took a point of HP off him with her swat. “Don’t be cheeky with me. No; I mean you’re good with Attie. It’s downright weird.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” he drawled, winking.

Whatever she was going to say was interrupted by Attie prancing back into the dining room with another mug of tea balanced carefully between her hands. It was made more complicated by the fact that she was wearing oven mitts. Sans braced himself to mitigate the almost-inevitable splash of hot liquid, but she managed to get the mug onto the table in front of Undyne without incident.

“Thanks,” Undyne said after a gulp of piping hot tea. “You’re becoming a real chef. You’ll give Papyrus ‘n me a run for our money someday, huh?”

“Yyyup! I’ll beat you both, and then Mr. Papyrus will have to be nice!”

“He’s still gettin’ mad at you?”

“No, but he yells a lot. Mr. Sans usually sends me to a different room when it starts so it doesn’t hurt my ears.”

“...Well, as long as you’re both okay.”

All three sipped their tea in silence for a moment.

“WAIT!” Undyne slammed her mug down on the table with a firm thud. “I almost forgot! Attie! Your mom’s getting out of the hospital!”

“YAY! ...When?”

“Tomorrow or Monday, we think. We’re waiting on some tests; don’t think they’ll let her go tonight, someone’s being a real ass about things. It’s stupid. Now that she’s awake she can pretty much take care of herself.”

“Wow! That’s great! Then I can visit her at my house instead of the stinky hospital!” She hummed to herself a little.

Sans shared a glance with Undyne. “Hey, uh, kid...don’t you wanna go home?”

“Yep! But Mommy’s still sick, right? I always have a babysitter when Mommy’s sick or I’m sick, so we don’t get germs all over each other.”

“I don’t think germs are a big concern here. Appendicitis isn’t contagious.”

“...What?”

“Nevermind.” He turned back to Undyne. “So, uh, when’s the kid goin’ home?”

“We’ll see. Frisk might need some time to get settled. We’ll arrange something.” She sighed, downing the rest of her tea. “Well, it’s been great, nerds. Gotta go check on the Dogi; Dogaressa might be going into labor.”

She left in a whirlwind of color and sound only marginally less intense than the one she arrived in.

“Mr. Sans?”

“Yeah, kid?”

“What’s a labor?”

“Work. In this context, it means...uh, it means she’s having her puppies. Y’know how they’re inside her right now?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, they’ve gotta come out.”

“Oh.” She pondered this for a long moment. “Does that mean they’re getting born? Mrs. Dogaressa promised that I could pet them when they get born.”

“Uh, sure, kid.”

There was a blessed moment of silence, before:

“Mr. Sans?”

“...Yeah?”

“How did the puppies get inside Mrs. Dogaressa?”

“Just...finish your tea.”

#Dragonashes writes #Undertale #Underfell #The Heaven We Didn't Choose #Sans #Frisk #Undyne #Don't get between Undyne and her tea #You know that feeling when you're at a friend's house and you don't want to go home?#That's what Attie is feeling

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theclaravoyant · 7 years ago

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FitzSkimmons prompt where Daisy starts having nightmares so starts sleeping separate from the other two without telling them so she doesn't hurt them with her powers in her sleep

AN ~ hurt/comfort with a little bit of fluff / angst with a happy ending - hope you like it! I also through in some platonic DaisyMack. Rated G/T.

Read on AO3 (~1200wd).

Daisy’s bleary eyes blinked open, and her cheek peeled off the desk slowly as she lifted her aching head. Her computer whirred and flickered back to life, jumping into action, and she snorted softly at it.

“At least one of us is up.”

She stretched her back and arms and then snuck out of the room, beginning a routine that had become familiar over the last few days as she ducked and dodged people going about their business and made her way to the gym. There she had a bag of clothes stashed in a locker so she wouldn’t have to sneak back into FitzSimmons’ room and give herself away. She also had a stash of protein bars so that she could avoid the kitchen until they would be safely in the lab – but no, she’d forgotten to restock!

“Damn it,” she hissed, shoving her hand aggressively around the bottom of the bag.

“Trouble in paradise?”

Daisy spun around to see a flushed and sweaty Mack, smiling knowingly at her.

“Ran into Jemma this morning,” he continued. “She was on her way out. Said she didn’t see you last night – or the last few. Now Fitz is cooking up a storm and you’re choosing Power Cardboard 500 instead of the fluffiest scrambled eggs I’ve ever seen? Something’s up, man. Is it you or them?”

He held out a bottle of water. Resigned to her confession, Daisy sighed and accepted it; poured a little onto her hand and splashed her face.

“It’s me,” she explained. “I’ve been – not sleeping well. Didn’t want them to worry, so I ducked out for a little while.”

Mack frowned. “Do they know?”

Daisy shook her head.

“I know them. Fitz’ll be trying to figure out what’s wrong and Jemma will be researching sleep techniques as soon as I open my big fat mouth. Best just to let it pass on its own. I’ll be fine.”

She smiled as inspiringly as possible. Then Mack pursed his lips for a moment, and Daisy scowled. He disagreed. Which he should, really, because her plan was destructive but sometimes she preferred it that way. She shoved the bottle of water into her gym bag and back into her locker, eager to get away and get her head fixed on the day, to leave the bad night behind her. And to escape Mack’s kind eyes before she caved and begged for help.

Unfortunately for Daisy though, she didn’t get much time to ponder Mack’s advice, as on her way to sneaking back into work, she passed the kitchen and couldn’t help but stop to smell the bacon. Her mouth watered. She’d never even been much of a bacon person most of her life, but she knew it came with sausage and egg and fresh orange juice and roasted coffee. As roasted as it could get in this place, anyway. And most of all, it came with the whispered voices of Fitz and Simmons which – just like the bacon, perhaps – she hadn’t realised quite how much she’d missed.

“Oh, Daisy!” Fitz called, waving at her. Jemma turned around and grinned, though she was blushing a little – probably embarrassed at how worried she’d been and wondering if Mack had run into Daisy. Which, of course, he had. But Daisy shrugged it off.

“What’s going on in here?” she asked, making a show of being intrigued as if she’d only just noticed. Fitz plated up a scoop of scrambled eggs and with a pair of tongs, waved a sausage at her. Daisy put up two fingers and he put two short, fat sausages on the plate next to the eggs. No bacon. And beside it, a glass of orange juice from Jemma; shining and cool and beautiful.

Daisy’s stomach growled, and she felt so intensely hungry all of a sudden that it was like she wanted to cry. Desperate to avoid FitzSimmons these last few days she’d been living on bars and leftovers of mass-produced cafeteria food that stocked the fridges of various mess halls. It felt so empty. As did the realisation that she’d thought she was being strong when really she was just depriving herself. And the fact that, nightmares or no nightmares, sleeping alone at a desk or in med or on the Quinjet could never possibly be as good as a bed and the arms of the people that loved her.

Then again. They were exactly the reason she was going to all this trouble.

And they were staring.

“Daisy?” Jemma wondered. “Are you okay?”

Daisy flinched, jolting back to reality.

“Yeah,” she said with a shrug. “Yeah. Just tired, that’s all.”

Fitz and Jemma shared a concerned look. Daisy nudged the egg around her plate, a bitter taste in her mouth all of a sudden; had she wanted them to notice her choice of words?

“Are you sleeping okay?” Jemma asked. Not where are you sleeping but they must know. They must know by now. Strange, how easy it was to forget that she was wanted, not just monitored, by these people. So Daisy drew a deep breath.

“Honestly, no,” she confessed. “That’s why I’ve been out these past few nights. It’s just nightmares. Kid stuff. I’m fine.”

Fitz hummed in consternation. A smile twitched at Daisy’s lips. Knowing how eager they both were to jump to her aid, she was suddenly feeling a lot better about all this.

“It’s fine,” she insisted. “Honestly. My body has defense mechanisms, that’s all. It’d be just like you guys kicking when you’re trying to run. Stuff like that. Except I’m throwing people across the room.”

“So you were going to just avoid us until it stopped?” Jemma wondered.

“That was… kinda the plan, yeah.”

“Where’ve you been all this time then?”

“Around.”

Both of them gave her a fierce glare for that and Daisy elaborated:

“Med bay. The roof. Set up a bunk in my little office-y thing. Around.”

They scowled.

“Why not the Pod?” Fitz offered.

“I don’t have access,” Daisy pointed out. “Not out-of-hours anyway.”

Fitz and Jemma snorted in unison, and Fitz slapped his access card down on the table.

“You do now,” he said.

By the end of the day, Daisy was yelling furiously into a tiny microphone clipped to her ear and resisting the urge to throw her controller at the enormous screen set up in front of her bed. Unfortunately for her, she had to bow to the reigning champion, but she smiled as she did so and as Fitz switched her livestream from their game screen to the webcam. Fortunately though, Jemma climbed into bed next to Fitz before he could gloat too much, and demanded control of the television.

The three of them haggled over films for the next little while and eventually settled on Star Wars – theoretically in preparation for the upcoming new release, though it was not as if they didn’t know them all by heart already. At first, they commentated here and there, then more and different and on unrelated tangents, but eventually they fell silent as they began to drift off.

After a while, Jemma nudged Fitz and pointed to the little screen in the corner, where they could still see Daisy, sprawled across a nest of blankets and pillows and apparently, soundly asleep. It remained to be seen whether she’d stay that way of course, but for now at least, it felt good to have brought her peace.

Holding the image of Daisy’s smiling sleep in her mind, Jemma rolled over and turned the lights out.

#daisy johnson #daisyjohnsonfic #aosficnet2 #aospositivitynet #fitzskimmons #ot3: fitzskimmons #polyamory #daisymack #clara's fic tag #sepoctember #mocking-point

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akastarlords · 8 years ago

Text

home sweet home

3/?

so the writing bug bit me hard today and i got through a lot of my wips today, including this new chapter! i was hoping to round up this story in five parts but it’s looking like it miiiight be seven, and that’s cool. but good golly. i hope y'all enjoy this chapter, it was a pretty fun one to write!

“I don’t know if I should be surprised or not.” Karen remarked on the drive from the jailhouse.

Claire shifted slightly in the passenger seat, not wanting meet her sister’s gaze. It was probably the same one she got seven years ago, the night Claire up and left. Disappointed.

“What?” Claire questioned, crossing her arms defensively. “That I was here no longer than two hours and I wound up in jail.”

Karen snorted, she took a quick look to her younger sister. “More like the first place ya went off to was Owen’s.”

“Well, this is what I get.” Claire sighed. “Owen’s big fat mouth is what landed me in jail. Ass.” She hissed the last word.

The further the drove the more nostalgic and dread Claire began to felt as old, familiar houses blurred by. “Did you tell mama and dad?”

“What do you think?” Karen asked back, and it was a question that certainly needed no answer.

The car rolled to a slow stop in front of the tiny house Claire had once called home. It all looked the same, exactly how she left it. Even the overgrown lawn and weeds seemed to have not changed.

On the porch, a pacing woman came to a stop. Her hands planting on her hips. As if she zeroed in on Claire through the dark.

Janice Dearing. Claire’s mother and ever avid critic.

“Oh, hell.” Claire whispered, letting herself sink down in the seat, till she was sure she was out of her mother’s line of fire. “Did she see me?”

“Claire M’lynn Dearing. Ya walk that behind of yours over here this instant.” Janice’s sharp voice rung out.

Karen turned off the car. “She saw you.” She confirmed.

It was a very odd feeling, to feel like a stranger in her own childhood home. Claire kept herself small and out of the way as Hurricane Mama Janice flounced about. Ted Dearing, rolled his eyes to his youngest daughter and gave her a grin.

“She’s happy to see you.” He assured. Claire lifted her brows.

“Funny way of showing it.”

“She’s a funny woman.” He agreed, nodding. Janice paused in her bickering with Karen and glanced over Claire.

“Honeybunch, I know New York is all into fancy cuisines. But you’re practically skin and bones.”

“Missed ya too, mama.” Claire replied, sending her a stiff smile. “I’m sorry you had to find out I was here like this.”

Janice waved a hand. “Oh, darling. You know we’re use to gettin’ calls from the jailhouse at all sorta ungodly hours. C’mon, I’ll make you something to eat. Get some more on those bones of yours.”

Claire looked towards Karen. “I can’t stay, mama. I’m heading out with Karen-”

“Sorry.” Karen cut in, shaking her head. “Gray’s sick. It’s bad enough I left Zach alone with him. I wouldn’t want ya catchin’ anything.” She apologized. Claire watched in utter betrayal as Karen kissed her parents farewell and headed to the door. She gave Claire one last look. One that said

‘Good luck. You’ll need it.’

Claire willed her breakfast to remain in her stomach as she drove a near ancient pickup truck into town. The one her father got when he was 18, and now was going on 60.

The engine roared and sputtered obnoxiously, jolting now and then, Claire gripped the steering wheel tightly and screened to a halt in the first available parking spot.

“Damn it.” She swore to herself, swinging the door open. It was just another cherry topping to the longest morning ever. Last night Janice took on the role of questioning warden. Why didn’t she call? Where’s Owen? Why New York, of all places in this wonderful country? Where’s Owen? You’re getting married? But what about Owen?

Claire rubbed her head as she made her way into the bank. An elderly security guard nearly shot off his seat at the side of her.

“Eugene?” Claire asked, looking over him. “It’s nice to see you. How’s, um. Your leg.”

“Miss Dearing.” He nodded quickly “It’s just fine. Now. Uh, pardon I’ll be taking my lunch.” He excused himself, hurrying out.

A pang of guilt went through Claire. Her troublemaking reputation seemed like it’d never fade away. At least in New York-

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Claire looked towards the booth, a brunette woman stood there with a sly smile. “Oh my Lord.” Claire gasped “Vivianne?”

“Hey there, Claire.” Her old friend nodded. “It’s me. Haven’t seen you in a dog’s age.”

“I’ll say.” Claire smiled. “I noticed there’s no ATM’s.”

Vivianne hummed. “Mmhm, boss doesn’t want them. On’a counta we’d lose on personal contact with the clients. Conversations and all that.”

“Makes sense, I guess.”

Vivianne’s sly smile returned. “Lowery tells me you and Owen had quite a reunion yesterday.”

Claire snorted. “News travels fast in these parts.”

“More like pillow talk.” Vivianne corrected, flashing a wedding band before Claire proudly. “Goin’ on three years.” She beamed.

“Oh.” Claire looked to the ring surprised. “You and Lowery? Wow.”

“Mmhm. It’s no Tiffany’s. But still.”

Claire cleared her throat quickly. “I-I need to make a withdrawal…”

Vivianne nodded. “Joint account?”

The words made Claire pause in her search for her wallet. “What?”

“Your joint account.” Vivianne repeated. “With Owen.” She said as a matter of fact. “From what I hear, y'all are still married.”

Claire’s eyes widen as an idea that twisted itself into a scheme that would have Owen reeling formed in her mind. “Well, yes.” She replied with a smile. “Yes we are.”

The same feeling Owen had yesterday when Claire showed up out of the clear blue, demanding a divorce began to form in his stomach again.

Walking down from the docks, he caught a glimpse of the house. Oh, something was off alright. A neatly trimmed lawn. Lights shining from within.

Owen walked inside and found everything cleaned and replaced. It was a more softer and kitschy nightmare. Blue lounged on her back on a brand new sofa. “Some guard dog you are.” He grumbled, throwing his bag into the bedroom.

The smell of food cooking eased from the kitchen, Claire strolling out with a bright smile and a bottle of wine in her hand. “Hi, honey! Lookin’ good. How’s the family?”

Owen stared at her in disbelief. “Cut the shit. Where’s my stuff?” He demanded. Claire pouted, puckering out her lower lip just a tad.

“Aw, not what kinda wife would I be not pickin’ up after my husband?” She took his chin in her hand and pressed on his cheeks.

“The kind that don’t live here.” Owen grumbled, pulling his head beck. Claire shrugged and waltzed into the kitchen, continuing to cook.

“Claire, where is the hidin’ key?” Owen asked, scanning the house. His eyes stopped on a ceramic pineapple and picked it up. Unbelievable.

“I had the nicest talk with Lowery’s mama about the tractor.”

Owen snorted. “Nice to hear your accent come back.”

“I found out a few things today.” Claire said lightly, bringing out a plate of food.

“Holy shit!” Owen exclaimed, his eyes falling on the new appliances in the kitchen. “What happened to my stove? Aaw!” He groaned, seeing a new fridge. “What happened to my magnets I had here? Damn it, Claire!”

The worst of it all came when he swung the fridge open, and paused. “What in the hell is this?” He asked steadily as he could. “Chick food?”

“Light beer.” Claire corrected smoothly. Owen fumed, but snatched out a can never the less and cracked it open. “I’m still lookin’ for a new mattress though. That old one? Ugh, yuck. Might have to order somethin’.”

Owen rolled his eyes. “Whatever blows your dress up, darlin’” He replied. “It’s your money.” He tilted his head back and took a long drink

Claire looked towards him. “But honey, ya said to think of it as…our money.”

Owen seemed to turn into a statue. His fingers gripping the can tight as his eyes grew wide. Claire came by his side. “Are the words ‘joint checking account’ flashing in your head right now?” She asked.

The can crushed easily in his hand, Owen turned slowly and faced his wife. “How much did ya take?” He asked almost not wanting to hear the answer.

“All of it.” Claire replied.

“Son of!” Owen snapped, flinging the can away and turned from her, pushing his hands through his hair. Claire frowned, tugging off the apron she wore.

“You wanted a wife, you got a wife.” Claire snapped back. “And what’s with all that money, Owen? Why aren’t you investing it? Don’t you know anything?”

Owen pointed at her. “I know if you don’t get outta-”

“Sign the papers and I’ll give the money back. All of it.” Claire countered.

“Fine!” Owen agreed.

“Fine!” Claire echoed, snatching the divorce papers, shoving them at him. Owen fumbled as he took them.

“Gimme a pen.”

Claire plucked one from her bag, then pulled it back as another thought crossed her mind. “Just what in the world are you doing with all that money?”

“Claire, just gimme the-”

“And just when did ya quite the repair shop?” She continued, not pausing a second she asked “You’re not doing anything illegal, are you, Owen?”

“So what if I am?” Owen retorted. “I don’t ask about you galavanting around New York with your boyfriend so keep your nose outta my life. Deal?”

Claire froze, shock covering her face. Her eyes watched Owen as a stunned and heavy silence filled the room.

“Who…” She whispered. “Who told you?”

“Darlin’” Owen shook his head, leaning close to her. “Just cause I talk slow doesn’t mean I’m stupid.” He took the pen from her hand and dropped onto the couch, flipping through the pages.

Claire didn’t know what to say in that moment, watching the look in his eyes as Owen shook his head, talking quietly under his breath.

“Nobody finds their soulmate when they’re ten.”

Claire feels like she’s a kid again. Back on that stormy beach, Owen by her side as lightning cracks over their heads…

“Guess not.” Claire replied weakly. Owen looked at her with a tired grin.

“Yeah, where’s the fun in that?” His eyes moved back to the papers, tapping the pen on the coffee table. Claire tried distracting herself by looking around the room, seeing a sleek and elegant glass figure over the fireplace.

“Can’t believe ya kept this.” She sighed. “Most people don’t know what happens to sand when lightning hits it.”

Owen watched her for a moment, then to the clock. “Wow, Claire.” He remarked, gaining Claire’s attention. “I just actually remembered I have myself a hot date tonight.” He grinned, standing.

“What?” Claire asked in disbelief. Owen walked off, tossing the papers onto the dinner table.

“Mind of my lawyer checked that later?”

“Owen, what are you…” Claire shook her head. Owen tugged off his shirt. Seven years had done a job on him. A really nicely done job.

“Claire, I’m a simple country boy.” Owen remarked, tugging on a fresh Henley shirt. “There’s words in there that’s probably fly over my head. You’d probably take me to the cleaners.”

“The cleaners?” Claire deadpanned.

Owen leaned against the doorframe, and glanced around the house. “How much did all this set ya back?”

Now pure annoyance began to replace the sentimental feelings that had been building, and fast. “More than ya even make in a month! Just sign the papers!”

Owen tilted his head, and rubbed his chin. “…Nah.” He finally said, shaking his head. He picked up the papers and gave Claire a small wave, grinning. “But thanks for stoppin’ by. Always a pleasure.”

With that, he strolled out. Leaving Claire to stomp her foot and let out a frustrated growl. “Owen!”

Clearly, their game was far, far from over. Claire intended to finish it.

(tagging: @dinosaurswowenough )

#clawen #otp: for survival #claire x owen #everything i do is on mobile now even the writing aaaaugh #my fingers HURT #anyway i really hope it's good!

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