#in the au his god complex is on full display and he’s mostly just soft around his beloved

[yourlocalmissingtexture]

Staring daggers (lovingly) at my boyfriend for getting a song from a musical stuck in my head because it’s in his hypothetical AMV for the (even more) unhinged AU version of my mad scientist character

The song is “Alive” by Anthony Warlow from the Jekyll & Hyde musical btw

[charmingturkeysandwich]

fireworks (that went off too soon)

Hey there! This is a CS one shot. An AU in which Killian is the lead singer and songwriter in a band that sounds suspiciously like Fall Out Boy...

Summary: Emma and Killian were friends in college, but haven’t spoken in 9 years. Killian’s band’s new single changes everything.

Words: 4400ish

Rating: Teen? (Swearing, References to Sex)

Also on AO3

Big thanks to @awkwardnessandbaseball​ for reading this over, correcting all my dumbass mistakes, and helping me polish this up pretty :) (The title comes from my favorite Fall Out Boy song, Fourth of July. It’s heavily featured in the story sung by Killian’s band.)

---

It was 3pm on Friday the 13th – also a Full Moon – when Emma Swan finally had the meltdown she’d pressed “pause” on about nine years earlier.

(Nine years, three months, more accurately, but who was counting?)

The work week was winding down. The get this done today or be fired tasks had been completed and all the emails had been answered and it was about time to start doing the bare minimum to run down the clock to 5:01 when she could, without regret, run screaming from the building and put her god forsaken job out of her mind for two days of rest, relaxation, and rum.

(Definitely the rum. Or maybe it had been upgraded to a tequila weekend.)

It was Pandora’s fault, really. (A fitting name for opening up an emotional box inside her soul that had been sealed for quite a long time and with very good fucking reason.)

Usually Emma listened to wordless music – movie scores, Vitamin String Quartet and the like – so as to keep the creative juices flowing without breaking her train of concentration. But having reached the procrastination part of the afternoon, she thought, what harm could there be in listening to a little regular music?

Emma had always had a soft spot for pop/punk/emo music. It brought her joy even when it wasn’t joyful, which is either a sentiment only shared by lonely foster girls or perhaps all emo kids, but did it matter? It was her kind of music. Long before she met Killian Jones.

But then she met him. He was an insufferable ass at least 2/3 of the time, but for the other third of his life, he was sweet, funny, and musically a goddamn genius. His voice was smooth and warm, he could play guitar like it was in his DNA, and his lyrics were both relatable and completely original. She was half in love from the start, so of course she pushed him as far away as possible.

(Love is patient; love is kind. Love is slowly losing my mind)

He was aloof. At best. They were college kids who shared a dorm building and not much else, not until their roommates fell in love with each other. That’s around the time they started spending an inordinate amount of time together. He was fucking anything with brown eyes and tits and she absolutely did not care and everything was fine. They were friends, kind of. She was a fan of his band, but not in the groupie way. She had no intention of being just a notch in his bedpost or a line in his song.

(As it turned out, she ended up becoming both. Eventually.)

When he wasn’t playing shows in dive bars (or fucking freshmen girls in a shower stall of their dorm hall’s shared bathroom), he spent a lot of time in Emma’s room. Mostly to avoid Mary Margaret and David in his room who were, as he called it, “the most sickly sweet love story this side of the Atlantic” and “a complete buzzkill to complex song-writing.” And she was OK with it. She loved when he would compose while she read. And they had the best conversations. They challenged each other on everything from politics to pie flavors and she’d never been so stimulated by someone of the opposite sex in her life.

Intellectually stimulated. In the brain.

By junior year, the two pairs of roommates had moved off-campus, opting to share a three bedroom house while they finished up school. Killian’s band was starting to actually make something of themselves, but he vowed to get his degree (this pretty face won’t last forever), and Emma played tutor for him when he skipped class for weeks on end so he could play some gigs on the west coast.

They were friends. They were equals. They meant so much more to each other than “just” friends or study buddies or housemates or anything, because the past three years had been the most stable years in either of their lives and it was all because of the support they received from each other in the darkest nights and the brightest days and seriously.

Fuck Pandora.

It had distracted her when she was in the middle of perfectly pleasant procrastinating. Now she was getting off track. Frazzled. Fucking pissed.

With her work mostly finished, she had decided to listen to Panic! At the Disco’s station. It was a safe zone – the best of two different genres: emo and pop. She bopped along to Blink 182 and “the Ballad of Mona Lisa.” She swayed and swooned a little when “Secrets” by One Republic played. And she got a good laugh at “I’m Not OK (I Promise),” remembering the days she’d scream “I’m not o-fucking kay! [trust me]” every time she got into a fight with the foster mother she now loved so very much.

But then there was a dramatic twist and a cinematic sweep and that voice and before she could switch the station, some warning popped up at her, removing all the buttons and controls and displaying the error message of SOMETHING WENT WRONG and all she could think was no shit, Sherlock.

Killian’s band got big when they were 21. And stayed big. The band broke up once, briefly, but they’d been dancing around the American Top 40 for at least 6 of the last 9 years and as much as it hurt her to hear his voice through a radio and not through a wall of their shared house, at least the lyrics of the songs never stung her before.

Because they’d never been about her before.

It was the summer before senior year, late that June, and Killian had just returned from a little pop-punk festival in Seattle. She’d picked him up at the airport in Portland (Maine) and had been chatting his ear off about how much better “our” Portland was from “theirs” (Oregon), but Killian had been largely silent.

Which was out of character to the extreme, his little creative writing/song composer mind always racing and his far too pleasing voice always spilling from his stupidly attractive lips.

“What is up with you, Jones? I just said that they have better lobster in Oregon and you didn’t even react.”

From the passenger seat, he played with the window controller, the air whooshing in and stopping to the rhythm of Seven Nation Army AKA the world’s most overplayed song that wasn’t sung by Ed Sheeran or Taylor Swift.

“Hmm? Oh, it’s nothing, Swan. A problem for a different day, to be sure.”

His voice had been quiet, unsure. That wasn’t him either. This was the asshole who could start a trend with a typo and who claimed to have made a girl come with nothing but his voice. His level of confidence was infuriating, but unshakeable.

(He made forgetting the words to his own songs look attractive. And that was an eventual Buzzfeed headline, not Emma’s own assessment. Obviously.)

“Killian, what’s up? Did the festival not go as well as you wanted? From what I saw on YouTube, it seemed awfully successful.”

“Aye, love.” He perked up just a bit, finally turning toward her and smiling. “It was grand.”

“And you’re brooding because, what, you’re worried that feeling happy for too long will sap you of your emo energy or something?”

Her attempt to lighten the mood didn’t seem to take, though, and Killian turned back out the window like he was practicing for his very own music video.

When they got back to their house, Emma grabbed his clothes and Killian lugged the musical equipment and neither of them said a word.

Fog had rolled in, or maybe it was on its way out, and if it weren’t for the green leaves, it might have felt like October. But there was something about his expression that was a hell of a lot more December. Something ending.

They were lingering almost awkwardly in their kitchen, Emma trying to casually wrack her brain for how to pull Killian out of his little funk, when he interrupted her with an overdramatic clearing of his throat.

“Ahem! Fancy a drink, Swan?” Killian extended a shot glass to her, a dark liquid inside that couldn’t be anything but spiced rum.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked hesitantly.

“Perhaps… perhaps it’s a celebration.”

“…of?”

“Your business sense, of course!” He lifted his glass toward hers for a clink and then downed the shot faster than she could even raise hers to her lips.

“What kind of business are we talking here? I’m not sure if this is the setup for an idiot joke or a reference to lyrics you swear you told me you wrote but never actually did.”

“Ah, love, no. Not that, this time anyway. Actually – actually, it’s about the band. And ‘Grand Theft Autumn.’ They loved it like you said they would.”

“They being?”

“The record company. They loved it. And they want it. And us.”

Holy shit! She knew it. They were going to be famous. Killian deserved it so much and they were going to be huge and everyone was going to love him just like she did and –

Wait.

“When you say they want you… do you mean, like, deferred acceptance so you can finish college or…”

“No, love. The boys and I … we’re packing up and moving to LA.”

She was dumbfounded.

“LA?”

“Aye.”

“When?”

“Monday.”

That’s right about the time her stomach dropped to her heels and the rum threatened its way back up her throat and perhaps onto Killian’s perfectly rumpled white shirt.

She just – wasn’t ready to let him go.

She could hear his honey-smooth voice drift through her head, his own lyrics seeming oddly relevant to this dramatic turn in her life.

Maybe he won’t find out what I know; you were the last good thing about this part of town.

So they drank. And drank. And drank some more. They were more honest with each other than they’d been in three years. She told him how much she hated that he thought setting his clocks early would keep him from being late. And he told her that he didn’t truly think that… it just had fit as a song lyrics and he felt like he needed to “make it authentic by living it.”

She called him pretentious and he called her painfully adorable and neither were true and yet somehow they felt like the perfect identifiers for the characters they were trying to be when they weren’t with each other.

So of course she fell into bed with him that night. Her bed. The twinkly lights hung around her ceiling were flickering as he kissed a trail down her neck and she tugged off his way-too-tight jeans and dear fucking lord if she thought the only thing he could do with his tongue was sing, she was officially wrong.

But come morning she was officially gone. As the sun rose on a rainy June Sunday morning, she slipped out of her bed, slid into whatever clothes she could reach without making noise, and jogged all the way to David’s brother’s frat house to hide until Monday came and went and when exactly did her life turn into an emo song?

When I wake up I’m willing to take my chances on the hope I forget

September. Friday the 13th. Pandora malfunction. Her brain was reeling and her heart was shattering all over again, because the song pumping through her pathetic tinny Dell speakers was, on first blush, just another of his melodramatic fictions, a series of sentiments that sounded good together but that he’d never actually experienced (he’d admitted the best songs were much like Hey There Delilah… a lovely story and 0% real).  But she could hear something genuine in that still so attractive voice. And then… a few familiar thoughts.

I’ll be as honest as you let me

I miss your early morning company

If you get me

You are my favorite ‘what if’

You are my best ‘I’ll never know’

She’d turned off her phone the morning she’d left him in her bed. Kept it off until Tuesday. And blocked his number the minute she turned it back on.

Goodbyes were bad enough. To have been reduced to his very last college-one-night-stand? She couldn’t face it.

(Especially because she’d realized mid-fuck she’d kind of always wanted to be his forever, or whatever overly-romantic hyperbole he’d scoff at before writing it down in his notes.)

She hadn’t let herself think of him for longer than the span of one of his songs since that day. Even then, she’d usually change the channel. It was just too hard.

But could this one actually be about her? And if so, what the fuck was she supposed to do with that? Cry? Scream? Sue his sorry ass for slander?

(Not that one.)

She’d made a lot of mistakes in her life. He’d never been one of them, not until the end. Is it possible that didn’t need to be the end at all?

My 9 to 5 is cutting open old scars

Again and again til I’m stuck in your head

He’d probably had a lot of almosts. Maybe he’d just gotten better at faking genuine emotion in his songs. There’s no way he still thought about her. Even for lyrical dramatics.

I wish I’d known how much you loved me

I wish I’d cared enough to know

I’m sorry every song’s about you

The torture of small talk

With someone you used to love

Well there you had it. Small talk? They hadn’t talked in years. And she already knew every song was total bullshit, made up longing. Some of his best lovelorn pandering (that she admittedly loved) had been written when he claimed to be incapable of actual love. When he would only sleep with dark-haired, dark-eyed girls who didn’t want anything more than a good breakfast the next morning.

(I’m not looking for a soulmate, darling, just a beauty without a gag reflex, he’d repeated on many occasions. Sometimes literally to the women he was hitting on. And yes, they did usually blow him afterward and he would inexplicably tell her and she Did. Not. Care.)

(Until the day she realized she always had.)

A week after he’d moved to Los Angeles had been the 4th of July. It being summer and most of her friends working various jobs, she didn’t think there would be a huge party. James had insisted, though, that they needed to celebrate the fact that their friends were getting famous. David had pointed out the irony that the band – Killian, Will, Robin, and Graham – were all from outside of the USA. And yet they were being celebrated on America’s birthday.

“Stealing things from others is the American way. Now drink, little brother!” James had shouted just before his frat brothers lifted him into keg stand position and he chugged.

Emma wasn’t one for keg stands, so she’d opted for drinking straight liquor instead, and from what she could extrapolate from the massive headache the next morning (in addition to the vomit in her bedside garbage can), she had likely drank that bottle in its entirety.

After the opening of Pandora’s box that fateful Friday the 13th, Emma couldn’t think of much else but her almost-maybe-something Killian Jones. Suddenly his stupid band was everywhere and that stupid song was everywhere and she was feeling a deep longing to connect with that girl who had two whole albums by two different bands written about her to see how the fuck she coped with old wounds being opened every fucking visit to the grocery store.

(Then again, Brand New and Taking Back Sunday weren’t quite so mainstream. Maybe that’s how she survived.)

(Is that what you call a getaway? Tell me what you got away with, cause I’ve seen more spine in jellyfish; I’ve seen more guts in 11 year old kids.)

She’d taken to keeping the radio off at all times, and humming the Star Spangled Banner when she couldn’t escape Killian’s stupidly attractive and all-too-familiar voice gracing the airwaves.

Ruby asked her out for drinks, and alcohol was exactly the cure for her current tumult, so she agreed on the very specific request that they hit the country bar downtown instead of their usual Rabbit Hole escapades. Which worked out great for avoiding song-specific reminders, but sadly didn’t keep all Killian talk at bay.

“By the way, how have you been holding up?” Ruby asked, probably in response to Emma’s downing two shots – one of which that had been intended for Ruby – in the first minute or so at the table.

“What do you mean, holding up?” She wasn’t that transparent, right?

“Well the song… the one Killian wrote about you. It’s, like… huge. Weird how he waited this long. Did he warn you first or anything?”

… what? It wasn’t about her. Sure, it kind of, a little bit, had some moments that seemed like they could be inspired by her. But it had been nine fucking years and she hadn’t seen him since the morning she slinked away from their house and it’s not like he’d ever reached out or anything (or at least he didn’t try very hard, because blocking a cell phone number wasn’t like blocking a whole-ass person),  hence her nine years of denial and shoving down her feelings like the very opposite of the emo kid she once was.

She probably looked like that stupid meme of the lady thinking about math and her heart was beating nearly out of her chest, but somehow the only sound that made it out of her mouth was, “huh?”

Ruby, bless her heart, was much better at dealing with, you know, life than Emma was. And sorting through feelings and coping with unprecedented situations that Emma had so far only seen odd iterations of in Hallmark movies or … emo music videos, probably.

“The song. Fourth of July. It’s been a while since he wrote a song about you and I mean usually they were about pining for you, which is a little more tolerable, probably. But this one… I don’t know. I just figured you probably didn’t appreciate it, and that’s why you were drinking my shots.”

Another lame, dumbfounded response: “What? Killian’s never written a song about me.”

Ruby’s eyebrow shot up to her hairline (the way Killian’s always had when she said something silly). “So all that shit in college was…?”

“Made up! Ruby, he was a creative writing major. He just made up characters and then wrote songs as if he were them. He never actually wanted to date anyone. Just fuck anything that resembled Megan Fox.”

Ruby didn’t say a word. She stood, walked to the bar, ordered two drinks, and sat back down with Emma a few minutes later.

“Sweetheart. You sure are dumb for a smart girl.”

And that’s how Emma’s Enlightenment began.

As it turns out, Killian’s creative writing skills were great, but not quite as great as his love for his best friend.

Yep, love. Apparently he’d loved her.

There was a reason he’d really only fucked girls that looked nothing like Emma.

There was a reason he had valued her input so much in his music.

There was a reason he’d hung out with her so often and it had nothing to do with Mary Margaret and David’s grossness.

Keep quiet; nothing comes as easy as you. Can I lay in your bed all day?

Fuck.

“Why didn’t he tell me?!”

Ruby laughed at her, which was totally uncalled for, but also kind of made a lot of sense if she had the ability to think of any of this objectively.

“Oh, honey. He told you every goddamn day in those songs. And how he acted. You’d have to be blind to not realize how much that boy loved you. So he assumed it was a ‘no’ from your side. And then after you slept with him and then he poured his heart out to you and still nothing? That was kinda it for him. But I mean, it’s been so long. I can’t believe he released a song about that now.”

At that, Emma’s jaw dropped. Hard. There was an audible pop and damnit, she was going to have to ice that later, probably.

“How do you know I slept with him?!”

“… because you had a fight about it literally in front of every person you knew?”

HUH?

The buzz of the alcohol was nothing compared to the stinging behind her eyes and the pain in her gut and seriously had the past decade actually been a very different reality from what she’d been living?

And how had Mary Margaret, AKA the Secret Spiller, never told her that A) Killian loved her or B) that Emma had apparently had a blacked-out fight with him in front of everyone?

Emma’s Enlightment continued.

Apparently no one spilled the secret because no one knew it was a secret to start. Much like Killian had, everyone thought that Emma knew his feelings, but that she just wanted to be friends.

And after the blow up on the Fourth of July, they just assumed she didn’t want to talk about it.

While David and James and a bunch of their friends were playing beer pong and Mary Margaret and Regina were trying to find another pair to play cornhole, Emma had been nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels from the roof of the frat house. She’d crawled out of Jefferson’s window, much to his annoyance (he worked in the morning and needed to sleep), and she just watched. Everyone was having a good time. The best days of their lives were now or even tomorrow.

But hers were yesterday.

So she drank and she drank and she drank until the boys were lighting off fireworks and Belle had started a chant of USA! USA! And out of nowhere she saw the floppy brown hair and scuffed-up leather jacket she’d been wishing for every minute of the last week.

“Swan! I need to speak with you!” he’d called up at her, perched on the Lion statue at the front entrance.

But, of course, he’d been pulled in a thousand different directions as soon as everyone else saw their about-to-be-famous friend. So Emma drank and drank and drank some more, not prepared to actually have to say goodbye this time.

Ruby wasn’t sure how long it took until Killian made it onto the roof with her. She did know they’d only been talking a few minutes when Emma started screaming at the top of her lungs about thanks for the memories, even though they weren’t so great. That seemed to have really upset him, because then he started screaming about why the bloody hell did you sleep with me then and Emma had cried but ultimately said she didn’t mean to and he needed to just leave because that’s what he was going to do anyway and there was no reason to feel sorry for her.

There had been more screaming that wasn’t quite intelligible (thank goodness), but when all was said and done, Killian had told Ruby that he laid it all down on the line, how much he loved her, how he wanted her to go with him to LA, how he really would burn down the whole city just to show her the light, but she’d said no. Emphatically.

Before crying so hard in Jefferson’s closet that he threatened to take her to the ER.  When Emma passed out, Killian had carried her to his car (the only sober one) and carried her into her room when they got to his now-former house, leaving her with a kiss on the cheek and his later assurance to Ruby that at least he had tried.

And Emma didn’t remember.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Emma muttered to Ruby.

Was there anything worse than finding out something that could have changed your life nine fucking years too late? She had never loved anyone like she’d loved Killian. It had been the easiest relationship of her existence. She’d never felt more safe, more valued, more… loved. But she’d thought it was friend-love.

(Even after the amazing sex.)

What a fucking dumbass she was.

Ruby left her to gather her thoughts/sulk in the corner for at least three line dances before she came back over to their table, bringing Emma a nice tall water as she cleared the un-drunk Long Island Iced Tea from next to Emma’s slumped head.

“I don’t think I can ever un-fuck this up,” Emma whined into her elbow before sitting up to chug the glass of water.

“I do have his number,” Ruby offered.

Hey um Ruby gave me your number and apparently I have a lot to apologize for

Congratulations on the fame also by the way I loved you every minute of every day

This is Emma, remember me? Apparently your song about me is doing really well

Hey Killian, I was wondering if you ever made it to this side of the country any more

I don’t know what to say except I’m sorry

After about 15 failed attempts to send him a message that would convey the depth of her regret, she nearly gave up. Hands shaking, legs bouncing, lunch threatening to make an encore appearance, she pulled up the lyrics to his new song, took a screenshot,

And all my thoughts of you

They could heat or cool the room

And now don’t tell me you’re fine

Oh, honey, you don’t have to lie

And added:

I’m not fine.

It was a very painful 26 hours before she received a response, a screenshot with an addition as well.

I said I’d never miss you, but I guess you’ll never know

Where the bridges I have burned never really led home

Can I come home?

They met outside the old frat house (now shut down) a week later, staying awake until sunrise just catching up on all that had happened since they last saw each other (and a little bit of what happened when they did). She brought sparklers and he brought nine years of unreleased song lyrics.

And when his band’s next single was called Opening Pandora’s Box on Friday the Thirteenth, well, everyone but Emma just thought they were being their usual melodramatic selves.

Yeah, songs about her weren’t all that awful after all.

[thenamesseven]

Plot: While you're preparing yourself for your second year anniversary date with Hyunjin, memories of the night the two of you met come back to your mind.

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: Just a tiny bit of swearing!

Genre: Fluffy! Mafia au!

Hope you enjoy this anon!

As you sat down in front of your mirror, you watched your reflection making sure your makeup and hair were still as perfect as it was before. While putting on the pearls Hyunjin gave you as a present for your birthday, your eyes drifted to the picture of the both of you that you had glued to the mirror. It framed one of your dates with him, one of the first ones to be exact. The two of you went out for coffee when it had suddenly started snowing, Hyunjin wasn't a fan of taking cheesy pictures, specially if his men were around but that night he didn't complain and you convinced I.N. to take pictures of the two of you under the snow.

An unconscious smile made its way up to your lips when the memory replied in your mind also bringing up old moments from other dates. For you, the best one, was the first...Honestly, it wasn't even a date, it was the night the two of you met. No matter how much time passed, you wouldn't forget that night.

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

Two years before

You had come back to the city after studying abroad for a couple of years and even though the jetlag and the six hour flight you had to go through had drained all the energy from your body, your friends somehow convinced you to go out to a club that had opened recently, wanting to have a wild night together.

Tiredness made you grumpy and when you were in that mood you basically didn't feel like dressing to impress so while your friends showed up in tight dresses, high heels and extremely complex make up, you walked into the club wearing jeans, a nice blouse that was mostly covered by your newest hoodie and some nice shoes. You kept your make up simple though, using a bit to cover the dark bags under your eyes, some eyeliner and lipstick. It was a good thing for you though, because all the drunk guy’s attention was on the way the cloth of their dresses hugged your friend’s curves while you were only getting weird clothes, people could go and fuck themselves though...If you wanted to wear a hoodie in a club you were going to wear one.

“Let’s get some drinks!”

Fortunately, one of your friends wasn’t drunk enough to dive head first into the dance floor yet and she was the one who grabbed your hand and literally dragged you to the bar. There were lots of people, mostly groups of drunk people drinking shot after shot trying to see which one of them would pass out first, if you weren’t that tired you would be doing the same as them or even joining their group and making some new friends. Everything for free drinks, right?

“What can I get you ladies?”

The voice of, who you supposed was, the bartender dragged your eyes away from the drunk competition to his face. Now, you’ve always thought there were three types of people in this life:

Beautiful as fuck people

Beautiful with makeup people

Honey, don’t even try people

Bartender here belonged to group number one, he had delicate skin but sharp features and even when it was considerably dark inside the club you could see the glint of mischief in his eyes, the smirk his lips displayed set alarms in your mind and you instantly stopped yourself from imagining how good it would feel to just run your fingers through his chocolate hair, it looked so soft, so fluffy….His hands, god, he had those kind of hands that you would hold 24/7 with some of his veins being visible. His physique, or at least what you could see of it, was pretty good. Bartender seemed to work out enough to keep himself fit but not to get all into muscle monster form, he was your type, there was no way you could deny that but again, there was something about him that kept alarming you.

You, out of nowhere, were pushed forward against the bar and abandoned by your best friend, she knew you well enough to know bartender was eye candy for you and she hadn’t wanted to ruin the only chance you got to get yourself into a better mood tonight. She basically betrayed you right there and then “Actually! I am not that thirsty, go and get a little drunk before joining us in the dance floor”

“Yes mom” You groaned rolling your eyes, trying to ignore the way bartender’s smirk got even bigger when he saw the look of frustration and passive anger on your face. “What?”

“Since when mothers order their kids to get drunk? Am I too old to understand it or something? My mom always got too mad when I drank too much orange juice” Even though you were in a bad mood, his stupid comment stole a smile from your lips. You mentally scolded yourself, not wanting to be too weak and end up being another notch in his belt.

“Mhm? My babysitter is just out of control tonight” You replied rolling your eyes still smiling as you sat down on one of the stools “Give me something strong, will you? Vodka or something like that man”

“Ooof, that bad?”

“That bad…?” You didn’t finish your sentence, waiting for him to say his name. Since he really seemed to want to have a chat with you, you guessed talking back while your friends gave everything on the dance floor wasn’t that bad right?

“Hyunjin” He smiled brightly, looking into your eyes as he awaited for you to say your name in return

“(Y/N)”

“Well (Y/N), wait right here while I get your vodka shot, it’s on me don’t worry about it”

Needless to say, Hyunjin served you shot after shot, not surprised when you started feeling a little dizzy after your sixth one. Despite him working, Hyunjin joined you in your drinking adventure and after the two of you reached the tenth shot you ended up pressed against the wall of the bathrooms’ stall with his hands on your butt holding you up against the wall. You didn’t know if he could sneak out of work like this or if he would get fired as soon as the both of you got out of the bathroom, what you knew was that his lips tasted like Heaven and there was no way in this world you would stop kissing the hell out of him willingly.

Of course, you wouldn’t expect what was about to happen.

First it was the sound of somebody kicking the door of the stall what made you jump away from him but then, before you could realize what was going on, a stinging yet incredibly burning pain overwhelmed the zone of your neck. You heard Hyunjin hissing and when your eyes landed on him, you saw the blood on his skin.

“W-What was that?” You stuttered “Are you okay?”

“Fuck, you’re bleeding” Hyunjin groaned, quickly reaching up to cup your wound , he was speaking in a whisper although it was obvious that whoever was behind that door knew the both of you were in there “Can’t believe they had the fucking guts to shoot me”

"To shoot-?"

"Sh!" Hyunjin covered your mouth before you could say something "Stay quiet"

Your eyes widen at his words, was he an absolute idiot or was he being serious about this? With your heart pounding against your chest, you kicked open the door hitting whoever was hiding behind it on the face. The unknown male groaned in pain and fell on his knees as you ran out of the stall. Hyunjin, taking advantage of the situation stole the gun from the whining man's hands before he could shoot the both of you again.

"Motherfucker" He hit him with the back of the gun, leaving him unconscious on the floor. "Ah, somebody blew my cover, I swear to God these idiots…" Hyunjin pinched the bridge of his nose frustrated, letting out a deep breath.

"Who are you!?"

"Come here, you're still bleeding" He muttered calmly, ignoring the significant rise in your volume

"W-Who are you!?" You asked louder

"Somebody who is not deaf, at least, not for now" He smirked, placing the gun in the inside pocket of his jacket "I'm Hwang Hyunjin, I'm in a gang and I want a date with you"

That night, you obviously rejected him but after being followed by him for almost four days, you ended up giving Hyunjin a chance.

And that's exactly how two years later, you ended up living together, letting him spoil you with affection, love and random presents.

Shaking your head, still with a small smile on your face, you glanced down at your watch letting out a soft sigh. Hyunjin was late to your anniversary, you weren't surprised but a little disappointed. He better be preparing himself for a scolding when he gets home.

Suddenly, a pair of arms made its way around your body gently pulling you back until you were against his body. Recognizing his scent, you didn't even need to look up on the mirror to know it was your boyfriend.

"Hwang Hyunjin" He smirked when you said his full name, a clear sign of him being in deep trouble.

"Mhm?" He bent down, pressing his lips on your cheek before they started sliding down your neck, his eyes never leaving yours on the mirror "I'm sorry, I'm sorry...Let's go out already"

"Where are we going?" You asked smiling excitedly, Hyunjin had offered to prepare tonight's date by himself and you were quite excited to see what he had planned

"It's a surprise" He said smirking, turning you around in his arms so he could peck your lips "But it's pretty damn cheesy so I hope you like it"

"Cheesy? Who are you and what did you do with my boyfriend?"

Hyunjin smirked, resting his forehead against yours "I'm Hwang Hyunjin, I'm in a gang and I want a date with you"

[plastic--hearts]

memory lane

day twenty-five of ‘one day, one fic - september’ prompt: “have you honestly never tried instant noodles and bad pre-packaged snacks?? get your coat on, we’re going on a cheap food run” pairing: socky word count: 1102 note: september’s never over baby (jk I’m just late) okay the ending is awful but I promise I’ll write more of this bc I ended up loving this au

Minhyuk wasn’t sure how he and Sanha had become friends. All he knew was that, one day, Sanha entered his life and quickly became an integral part of it, despite their stark differences. Now, Minhyuk couldn’t imagine his life without Sanha’s presence.

Usually, their differences worked together quite well: Sanha would talk and Minhyuk would listen, or Minhyuk would drive and Sanha would give directions.

However, sometimes their differences shocked Minhyuk. Like the time when Sanha told Minhyuk he had never been on public transport because he had been driven around his whole life, and so Minhyuk had to hold his hand when they got on the bus because Sanha was terrified of not noticing when Minhyuk got off and being left on the bus. As if Minhyuk would let that happen.

This was another one of those moments.

“So, I don’t have much right now,” Minhyuk murmured as he sifted through his mostly empty kitchen shelves. “I do have cup ramen though, do you want some?”

“You have what?” Sanha asked, peering over his friend’s shoulder with curious eyes. “What are those?”

Minhyuk nearly dropped the red containers. “You’ve- You’ve never had these?” When Sanha shook his head, Minhyuk’s eyes widened. “Oh my god. I would never have gotten through university without these.”

“Can I try one?”

Minhyuk thought for a minute about the situation at hand, before saying, “Okay, I have an idea.” He put the two cups down on the counter before gesturing for Sanha to follow him. “Get your coat.”

Sanha padded behind him like a giant puppy, as he always did, and grabbed his coat off the hook beside Minhyuk’s, who was slipping on his ragged sneakers. Sanha, on multiple occasions, had offered to buy him new ones but the older boy would always refuse - he was too attached to his old sneakers to let them go. Sanha was secretly planning to get him new ones for his birthday anyways.

“Where are we going?” Sanha asked as they made their way down the stairs of Minhyuk’s apartment complex.

“To the corner store,” Minhyuk simply replied before shooting Sanha a grin. “I have the perfect meal in mind.”

They walked quickly down the sidewalk, Minhyuk’s hand shooting out to stop Sanha from walking onto the road as they came to a crosswalk. They didn’t talk much, half their faces buried into the collars of their coats to beat the stinging wind.

Minhyuk held the door to the store open for Sanha, then followed behind him and sighed happily as he unzipped the top of his coat. The store was warm, a little space heater whirring in beside the counter. Minhyuk nodded to the cashier in greeting before making his way down the familiar aisle, stopping in front of the chips display. He picked up a two bags of the cheapest ones, holding up both flavours for Sanha to pick from. When Sanha shrugged and asked Minhyuk to pick, he decided to stick with both. He then walked over to the wall lined with fridges, opened one and grabbed two familiar cans of iced tea before handing them off to Sanha.

“Min, what's all this for?” Sanha finally asked when the shorter boy gave him little boxes of candy to hold.

“I'll explain when we get back,” Minhyuk simply said before taking all the food to the counter to pay.

“I can pay, Min,” Sanha said, pulling out his wallet.

Minhyuk, however, was faster, and handed the cashier the money before Sanha could even open his wallet, causing him to pout. Minhyuk smiled and shook his head. “It's okay. It's my treat and you're at my apartment, I can afford to pay for this.”

Sanha just grumbled, causing Minhyuk to laugh. After taking the bags from the cashier with a thanks, the two friends zipped their coats back up and headed out to brave the cold once more.

They walked in relative silence again, the noises of the city enveloping them. Minhyuk peered up at Sanha: he was lost in thought, probably about what Minhyuk had planned, which made the older boy smile to himself.

Sanha made Minhyuk soft. There really was no other way to put it.

He didn't even have to try: Minhyuk would do anything for him if he did so much as look at him with those pleading eyes he had mastered years ago.

Minhyuk knew that the love he had for Sanha was a little too fond to be entirely platonic, a little too intense to be brotherly. He also knew that their friendship came above the love he had, and that was alright.

When they got back to the apartment and took their coats and shoes off, Minhyuk made his way to the kitchen with all the food, Sanha obviously trailing behind him.

“How can I help?” the younger boy asked, watching Minhyuk get the snacks out of the plastic bag.

“Uh… Could you put some water to boil?” he asked, nodding his head towards the saucepan on the dish rack beside the sink.

Sanha nodded and got to work clumsily. He nearly spilt the water as he carried the pan from the sink to the stove and pouted when Minhyuk chuckled at him. “This is all still new for me,” he murmured.

“I know,” Minhyuk laughed again, opening up a bag of chips. “Here, try these.”

With curious eyes, Sanha peeked into the bag before cautiously picking out one and popping it in his mouth. Minhyuk watched his expression go from curious to pleasantly surprised.

“These are good!” he then exclaimed, reaching for more.

Minhyuk laughed, taking some as well. “Yeah, I know,” he said, his mouth full. “I grew up eating these.”

Sanha then took the bag from Minhyuk, eyeing the packaging. “So cheap, too!” he pointed out before eating some more.

Minhyuk shrugged as Sanha handed the bag back to him. “On our way home from school, my friends and I would get these.” He then reached over and picked up a tall can of iced tea. “And this, too. Here, try.”

“Are we going down memory lane tonight, Minhyuk?” Sanha asked teasingly before busying himself with opening the can. After a momentary struggle, he popped it open with a satisfying click, and sipped it. He scrunched up his face and shook his head, handing it back to Minhyuk. “Now that I don’t like.”

Minhyuk pouted comically. “This is my favourite flavour.” He then shrugged, a grin replacing the pout. “More for me, then.”

Sanha just rolled his eyes before pointing to the other one. “Let me try that one.”