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jemshopes · 2 years ago

Text

Would You Wait For Me?

-namseok drabble

-bookshop owner namjoon

-worn out university student hoseok who often falls asleep in the bookshop (namjoon doesn't have the heart to wake him up, so he often keeps the shop open much longer than necessary)

***

I picture the shop being like the height of comfy bookish aesthetic. It has a little cafe area where you can order coffee, other drinks, and little snacks. It has little reading nooks with pillows and blankets and old armchairs. The bookshelves are old and worn. It has a table where all the books are wrapped in brown paper, so you don't know what you're buying. All that cute bookish shit. All the comfort. Literally anything any reader could want in a bookshop.

There's a section in the back of the shop, hidden away from prying eyes, where Hoseok always goes. The bookshop has a couple of shelves there that are full of worn secondhand books--novels, textbooks, etc. You can sit and read any of them for as long as you want. It doesn't really matter if they get damaged--spines creased, pages folded--just use them. Have fun.

It's where the shop puts books they can't sell, as well as books that've been donated, but Hoseok always feels guilty for only using that section. Because, let's be real, he's broke, he's a student working two part time jobs and trying to make it through uni. He just doesn't have the money to buy new books. So he does his best to hurry through the shop each day and stay out of sight of the staff.

Sometimes he buys coffee and a snack to make himself feel a bit better (and to keep himself from passing out), but even then, he really tries his best not to spend money on things he doesn't need. He doesn't need coffee, he can get through the day without it. It's an unnecessary expense. So most days he doesn't buy it. He just holes up in the little reading nook and tries to get some studying done.

He falls asleep studying a lot because... well, he doesn't drink coffee and his sleep schedule is a mess from all the late nights he spends trying to study more.

At first this was okay, him falling asleep in the shop, because no one seemed to notice. But one Saturday afternoon he falls asleep and wakes to find it's dark outside and his phone is dead. When he makes his way out of the reading nook, the shop is bright, but empty. not a customer in sight. But then he sees Namjoon sweeping the floor by the cafe counter.

He knows Namjoon by sight (and only by name because of the tag he wears on his shirt). He's not much older than Hoseok and he's always working at the bookshop. Hoseok had noticed awhile ago that namjoon was the one most customers went to when they were looking for recommendations. Or the one they got sent to if they asked another member of staff for recommendations. He's tall and sweet-looking, with an approachable smile. but tonight, all Hoseok can think when namjoon smiles at him is about how embarrassed he is to have to stumble over and ask namjoon what the time is.

"It's almost eleven," Namjoon tells him.

"E-eleven? But... doesn't the shop close at nine?"

Namjoon tells him it does, but don't worry about it.

At the time, Hoseok is too sleepy and confused to really take in what "dont worry about it" even means. So he just says goodnight and goes home. It's only when it happens again, and again he finds himself asking Namjoon for the time, that he realises what's happening. And then he just feels bad because he's being such an inconvenience. But Namjoon tells him not to worry about it. he doesn't mind. And, anyway, Hoseok's been falling asleep back there for months now. His body must be screaming to sleep all the time. If keeping the shop open a few extra hours is helping out a student, it's okay.

Hoseok gets flustered when Namjoon tells him he's known about the naps Hoseok takes during the day. He'd really thought no one noticed. And he shouldn't be using a bookshop as his bedroom, so now it's all the more humiliating.

He leaves as fast as possible.

The third time it happens, he doesn't ask Namjoon for the time.

He walks past him, but then he stops. And he turns around and, well, it's supposed to come out as an apology for falling asleep, but what he says really turns into more of a distressed mental breakdown about how he feels like he should spend more money here and he's sorry he can't. And he feels bad for staying so long and not even buying coffee or whatever else they sell at the cafe. He would absolutely spend more money here, but he's got rent to pay and student loans. And he barely has money to spare for anything. And when he's not studying here, he's working. And his body really is just screaming to sleep all the time.

At the end of this, Namjoon tells him to sit down. He makes Hoseok a hot chocolate on the house and he tells Hoseok, once again, not to worry about it. "Everything I've put into this shop was supposed to make it a comfortable, accessible space for students. When I went to university, I didn't have money for textbooks. I was stressed to the point of not eating because I was studying so hard, and I ended up dropping out. So I made this place. and I got secondhand textbooks for people to use--there's never enough, really, but it's the least I can do. You can get discounts on books here as a student, and, within reason, obviously, there's free drinks and food. You can stay as long as you like."

All of this new information overwhelms Hoseok a little bit, so the only thing he can get out of his mouth is, "You own this place?"

Namjoon sheepishly explains how he called the bookshop Namu's because namu sounds a bit like namjoon. And also books are made out of trees and stuff. It's a dumb name, but he likes it.

They talk for a long time that night, about Namjoon's university experiences and Hoseok's. Namjoon has a whole plethora of advice for him, resources to help with rent and other money related issues. It's all been available in the shop the entire time, pamphlets by the till that Hoseok never got close enough to look at.

It's midnight by the time Hoseok leaves, thanking Namjoon profusely, a weight off his shoulders.

The next time he goes into the bookshop, Namjoon brings him a drink and some food. And it kind of becomes their thing. Hoseok arrives, makes himself comfortable, and Namjoon finds him. Sometimes they talk a little. Hoseok still falls asleep. and when he wakes up to find it's dark, Namjoon is always sweeping the floor and ready to offer him hot chocolate and an hour or so of conversation.

Hoseok begins looking forward to seeing Namjoon, not just being in the bookshop. And he thinks Namjoon looks forward to seeing him too. They drop the formal honourifics. And not long after that, Hoseok decides to drop the fact he's gay into one of their conversations.

Namjoon doesn't react at all. And it scares Hoseok a little at first—he spends a night tossing and turning in bed wondering if Namjoon might not treat him the same way tomorrow.

It's impossible not to notice Namjoon's stiffness the next day. He seems twitchy and uncomfortable, and he can't look Hoseok in the eye. They talk that night, but Hoseok leaves early, freaking out and most of all just sad. He'd thought Namjoon wouldn't be bothered. And he wonders why Namjoon is as he trudges down the road, snow swirling in the air around him.

It's almost Christmas, and now it feels like everything's ruined. His friends are going back to see their families. He wouldn't go and spend Christmas with his family if he did have the money to travel there. Seokjin had offered to let Hoseok spend Christmas with him and his boyfriend, but they were insufferable when you were the third wheel. A couple of weeks ago, Namjoon had told him the shop stayed open on Christmas day for the students who couldn't go home for Christmas. “There are way more than you'd think. It sort of becomes a party.” He even got out a little karaoke machine so people could sing carols. Hoseok had been planning on spending Christmas in the shop with Namjoon, but now he's not sure he can. Or that there's any point.

Still, he ends up going because he's pathetic and spending Christmas day in the most unfestive dingy little apartment--his apartment--in the world is just depressing. He hasn't gone to the bookshop since the night Namjoon acted so shifty. It was kind of his way of mentally preparing for the worst. Distance would make it easier if Namjoon turned out to be homophobic. supposedly, anyway.

He tries not to spend an hour in front of the mirror, fiddling with his collar and his hair and wondering if his jeans really go with his shirt. Because what's the point of looking nice for Namjoon if Namjoon might be an asshole? But he does spend an hour there anyway because, honestly, he refuses to believe this day could get any more depressing. If Namjoon acts weird around him, he can go sit in his reading nook. It's not like they have to be around each other tonight.

It's a shock when he steps into the shop. The little book tables have been pushed to the side. It all feels so much more spacious than before. There's a Christmas tree in the window, tinsel and fairy lights draped on the shelves. It's the crowd that really surprises him, and the singing. Someone is belting a Christmas carol atop a stage that looks like it's been made out of a few pieces of wood and a cloth. People are singing along with them. There's talk and laughter. Alcohol. It's quaint and lovely. And he finds himself liking Namjoon even more just knowing he'd set all this up. There are even a few people tucked into the armchairs reading.

He hears Namjoon before he sees him. He's weaving through the crowd, talking here, nodding his head there, interacting with everyone like he knows everyone.

When their eyes meet, Hoseok lifts a hand tentatively, waving and mouthing a "hey".

Namjoon holds up two fingers--i'll be right with you, just a sec. And before Hoseok can get close enough to talk, he's disappearing between two girls towards the counter.

Ten minutes pass with Hoseok standing awkwardly at the edge of the crowd. Ten minutes isn't that long, he tells himself. Namjoon would be busy because he'd be short on staff because it's Christmas, so it's not weird that he hasn't come back yet.

It gets weird when ten minutes turns to forty, though. At some point, he makes his way over to the counter and got himself a drink. A girl serves him. Namjoon is nowhere in sight. He thinks about going to his reading nook, but that suddenly seems even more pathetic than not going to the party at all. It’s all pretty pathetic, to be honest. Standing on the sidelines of a party with no friends, dressed nice and waiting for someone who may or may not be uncomfortable with you just existing. And maybe he’s being paranoid about it, but it pays to count it as a possibility.

After an hour and half, Hoseok shrugs into his coat and lets himself out into the cold. Snow is piled on the pavements, still fluttering in the air. It crunches under his boots. Cars drone past, headlights too bright.

The shop bell tinkles. Someone else leaving. At least he's not the only one.

"Wait, you're leaving already?"

He turns to see Namjoon standing in the middle of the pavement, awkward and out of place in his apron, hands clasped behind his back. Snowflakes are already catching in his hair. He swallows the lump in his throat. "Body's screaming for sleep."

"Oh," Namjoon says bluntly, brow furrowing. "Yeah, the shop’s not really... good for sleeping in right now, is it? Sorry tonight's so busy."

Hoseok lifts one shoulder in what he hopes is a nonchalant shrug. "No, it's nice in there. I'm just not really in the mood tonight. I'll see you next year, uh, I suppose?"

Namjoon nods, the movement oddly jerky. "Yeah. Next year."

"See you." Hoseok bobs his head, turning away.

"Wait," Namjoon calls, footsteps muffled by the snow.

He stops in front of Hoseok, breath pluming in the air. "I... I have something for you. Two things, actually. You don't have to open them now. Merry Christmas." From behind his back, he produces a letter and what is unmistakably a book wrapped in newspaper. He shoves them into Hoseok's hands.

"For me?" Hoseok says faintly, flipping open the little card stuck on top of the newspaper. Scrawled inside is his name and below it is a small heart.

"Yeah. You,” Namjoon breathes. "I thought you might like to read something that's not a textbook for once. It's one of my favourites, so if you hate it, don't tell me."

Hoseok turns the package over, eyes prickling. "Thank you. I-I'll open it when I get home. I don't want it getting snowed on. I..." His smile fades, the swell of happiness in his chest quelled. "I didn't get you anything."

"And there's no obligation to get me anything," Namjoon says, bouncing on the balls of his feet nervously. "I got it because I wanted to give you a present."

He tucks the package into his coat pocket, hoping the heat in his cheeks will be mistaken as a reaction to the cold. He tears open the letter eagerly.

Namjoon winces, hands coming up, "Be careful. Don't rip what's inside."

Out slides two cinema tickets and a folded piece of notepaper.

"If the date doesn't work for you, we can change it. Or if you don't want to go at all, it's fine,” Namjoon says quickly. "I won't be offended, but I thought it was worth asking to see if you'd be interested."

"Interested?" Hoseok mumbles, unfolding the paper.

Namjoon snatches it, paper crumpling in his fist. "Actually, uhm, I may as well say it instead of you reading it. I am right here."

"Okay," Hoseok smiles shyly, trying not to hold his breath. "Sure."

"Well, this part isn't in the note, but you look really nice tonight. you look nice every time I see you, but..." Namjoon laughs awkwardly, face flushing red. He drops his gaze to Hoseok's boots. "Anyway..." he clears his throat.

"Anyway?" Hoseok prompts softly.

His fingers are going numb now they aren't in his pockets. He puts the tickets back in the envelope and stows it away beside the book.

Then he waits, watching Namjoon fidget with the bracelet on his left wrist.

"I... am... bisexual," he says slowly, each word punctuated with a nod of the head. "I should have said that two weeks ago when you said you were gay, but I was nervous. Because even other queer people sometimes... don't want me because of that... and I didn't want you to not want me. I really enjoy our talks. You're so funny and intelligent--you're going to have no trouble getting your degree. this isn't in the note either, but i feel like you're smarter than me, so that also made me nervous. I'd imagine you'd want to date someone on your level, but I've spent a lot of time not asking people I like out. I would have asked you out sooner, but you haven't visited in two weeks. My initial plan was to ask you out, go on a date, then you'd come to the party and I'd do something corny with mistletoe and we'd kiss, but that didn't happen, so here we are. Uhm... hang on." He frowns, un-crumpling the note and scanning it in the dim light from the shop's window. "Uh... hang on... I lost my place... Hang on..."

Hoseok tries to speak and realises he's grinning like an idiot. And that his eyes are wet. And that if he does speak he's going to cry more and that'll be really embarrassing. So he stays quiet, taking the opportunity to run his knuckles under his eyes while Namjoon isn't looking at him.

He stifles a sniffle in the back of his hand. His fingers are fucking freezing, but he doesn't care.

"Oh," Namjoon says, "yeah, here. You're funny and intelligent. I kind of feel like those two words aren't enough to convey how... well," he stumbles, lips trembling, "funny and intelligent you are. Two words aren't enough. They fall flat. They sound hollow, like I'm not being genuine, but I am. And you're so beautiful and kind."

Hoseok presses his fingers to his lips, holding back whatever the noise is that his body is fighting to let free. It feels like something between a laugh and a sob, but all of it so full of joy it hurts to breathe. It's good to breathe, even when the ice cold air burns his throat and lungs and his tears scorch his cheeks. Crap, he's crying. He isn't supposed to be crying and he's just glad Namjoon is still reading from the letter so he can't see.

"You just make me really happy," Namjoon mumbles. "I know going to the cinema together isn't that great of a first date. Like... everyone does it and really I'd have liked to come up with something better, but I'm playing it safe because I didn't want to pick something you'd hate and look stupid. It's kind of hard not to like the cinema. I booked the tickets for the evening showing so we can have dinner, um..." He lowers the letter suddenly, gripping the paper so hard his knuckles lose their colour. "This is stupid. I'm sorry."

"What?" Hoseok blurts, still smiling, his half sob half laugh coming out not a second later.

Namjoon isn't looking at him. He's as tall as Hoseok, if not taller, but he suddenly looks so small and defeated and conscious of every bone in his body that it breaks Hoseok's heart.

"Wait here," he tells him, a lightbulb going off in his head.

Namjoon lifts his head, eyes widening in alarm when he sees hoseok's tear streaked face. "Wh--"

"Just wait. I'll be back. Close your eyes and don't look until I say so. Promise?"

Dazed, Namjoon nods. "O-okay. Um..." He puts his hands over his eyes. "Like this?"

"Yeah. Perfect. I won't be a minute."

He leaves Namjoon on the street, feet slipping and sliding on the snow in his hurry. The bell on the shop door tinkles, noise and warmth engulfing him. It takes him thirty seconds to convince someone to lend him their chair so he can reach the ceiling.

A breathless, most definitely embarrassed moment of fumbling, then he's on the floor again, out the door, out of breath and in front of Namjoon again, who hasn't moved at all.

"I'm back. Open your eyes."

He giggles, the bright sound piercing the calm night. His heart is thumping wildly. There's no one on the street but them.

Namjoon lowers his hands.

Hoseok holds the bundle of plastic mistletoe high above their heads, a shock of doubt striking him. Namjoon had said he'd only planned on doing this after they'd been on a date. Was it too forward to expect this so soon?

"I--only if you want to," he stammers, dropping down from his tiptoes with a jolt. He'd been buzzing with so much pride and excitement at his idea that he doesn't remember beginning to stand on them. "No pressure, i--"

In one swift movement, Namjoon takes him by the collar and pulls. They meet in the middle of the space between them. A peck that doesn't last long enough for Hoseok to fully register the soft sensation of Namjoon's mouth on his.

Namjoon steps back slightly, pressing his lips together. His dimples pop out, cheeks tinted pink. He drops his head as he laughs, looking at Hoseok from beneath long, soft lashes. There's a snowflake caught on them.

"I-it's not stupid," Hoseok says, lowering his arm slowly. He fiddles with the mistletoe, twirling it between his fingers. "Everything you said was... all I've wanted to say to you for the last few months."

Namjoon's hands are still on his collar and he can feel how cold they are through the thin material. Still, there's something comforting about the touch that spurs him to keep speaking instead of attempting another kiss.

"Sorry people haven't wanted you. That's so stupid and ignorant... They didn't deserve you... Um, I was worried you wouldn't want me too. Not romantically, just… in any way…"

"What? Why?" Namjoon asks, pain flashing in his eyes. "Did I do something?"

Hoseok shakes his head quickly. "No. You just didn't say anything when I told you I was gay. It's not like I expected a fanfair, but... a 'that's cool' or something... just so I know you're okay with it. But you seemed kind of shifty... It freaked me out..."

"You thought I wasn't okay with it?" Namjoon's eyes shimmer.

Hoseok flushes, huffing a shaky laugh. "Well, it sounds stupid now."

"No," Namjoon says earnestly, grip tightening, "that makes sense. I'd have done the same. I'm sorry," he continues, brow wrinkling in distress. "I can't believe I didn't think that you'd feel that way. Feels like I failed at being gay."

His entire body feels wobbly after his small confession. It's embarrassing how exposed it makes him feel. How fragile, but Namjoon's words make him smile softly. "I don't know how to break it to you, but... it's hard to fail at being gay when you're kissing guys under mistletoe and writing them love letters for christmas."

He holds the mistletoe up between them. "Do we need this this time?"

"This time?" Namjoon laughs.

This time, Hoseok drops the mistletoe in the snow so he can take Namjoon's face in both hands to kiss him. And he does kiss him, softly, slowly. He soaks up the feeling of Namjoon's lips turning up in a smile, preserving it in his mind, framing it. Namjoon's skin smells faintly of the fresh coffee served at the bookshop. his hands are now in hoseok's hair.

It's perfect.

He's freezing.

But despite the happiness bursting in his chest, he thinks about the last year of university ahead of him and what might happen when he leaves. Namjoon has a life here, a business, a purpose. So does Hoseok, but the life he's mapped out for himself after university is so detached from Namjoon's cosy little world. Namjoon is settled. Hoseok is not. His plans have never been to stay here. And he's not about to try to drag Namjoon around the world with him. He can't ask that of Namjoon when Namjoon has so clearly found a calling in life. He's content with little things. He doesn't need the world like Hoseok does. He just needs to know he's making people's lives that little bit more bearable.

They have an expiration date. Namjoon must know it too. It isn't like they haven't talked about Hoseok's plans to travel. Does he think they'll do long distance? Is the unread part of Namjoon's letter asking Hoseok to stay?

The kiss ends, leaving Hoseok disoriented and twisted up inside. He smiles when Namjoon asks if he wants to go back inside, and decides maybe tonight isn't the time to think about a year from now. It's Christmas and he needs a few drinks to wash away the jitters of their talk. He doesn't want to ruin it just yet. He can ask Namjoon tomorrow where he thinks this is supposed to go. But for now, all he does is let Namjoon take his hand and squeeze gently, before they both head towards the bookshop.

As they step back into the shop, the familiar sense of home wraps around him, and he thinks he could spend a happy life here someday. He can see himself helping Namjoon behind the counter, pouring drinks, helping people find books. He's not thought too deeply about children before, but maybe they could have one. Namjoon seems like the kind of person who would want kids.

It all feels a bit absurd to picture them staying together forever, but he wants it to last. At least, at this moment in time.

They spend the next few hours apart for the most part, Namjoon run off his feet. Hoseok offers to help, but Namjoon won't hear of it. And when things quieten down, they find a corner to tuck themselves into, away from prying eyes.

By the time Namjoon walks him home, Hoseok only has one question, and it's one he's not sure he can ask just yet.

If I went away for awhile, would you wait for me?

#namseok drabble #namseok fanfic #bts fanfic #bts au #namseok au #namseok #christmas confessions #bookshop owner namjoon #namjoon #hoseok #hoseok x namjoon #jemshopesprompts

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moldisgoodforyou · 4 years ago

Text

homework can wait

wordcount: 2.3k

warnings: smut. that's it

______

“Soph, don’t you get tired of that?” Rafe asked as she pulled out leftovers of Kraft mac and cheese from the microwave, freshly reheated. She’d been eating that and ham sandwiches regularly for the past two weeks, unless they went out to eat - at first he assumed she was on her period, but he was starting to get concerned.

She shrugged, ducking her head to hide her blush. “It’s cheap.”

He frowned, sitting back in his chair. “I’ll buy you groceries. You need good food.”

“It’s not about that. I fucked up my budget this month, it’s fine.” She’d purchased a brand-new dress for his senior formal instead of buying it secondhand, without showing Rafe, and was deeply regretting it already. Her food budget was about $60 less that month in order to compensate and her diet was a mess when she wasn’t able to afford fresh produce.

“What’d you buy?”

“A dress.”

He frowned, crossing his arms. “I thought I told you I’d buy your formal dress.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to surprise you.” (She didn’t add that she’d also splurged a little on a lingerie set to wear underneath - stupid, seeing as she could literally wear a trash bag and Rafe would be all over her in a heartbeat.)

“Okay, so let me Venmo you for it or something so you’re not eating like a five-year-old.” When she opened her mouth to make a small noise of protest, he raised his eyebrows and gave her a cool stare. “How much.”

“Hm.”

“Sophie. How much.”

She relented under his gaze. “Fine. It was $120, but there’s extra so that’s why it was so expensive, and I’m going to pay you back next month when I get my next TA check -”

“Absolutely not, you’re not paying me back.”

Sophie glared at him when she saw her phone light up with the Venmo notification for $200. “Rafe. That’s way too much, this feels weird.”

“You only get paid once every month for being a TA, that’s ridiculous. Why’s it weird? You’ve paid for our coffee the last five times. It’s just repayment. With a tiny bit extra.”

“Feels like a weird sugar daddy situation.” She grumbled, shoving another forkful of mac and cheese in her mouth.

He snorted. “Julia’s getting in your head. I don’t think it’s a sugar daddy if we’re the same age.”

“Technically, you’re older.”

“Technically, you’re my girlfriend and I’m allowed to treat you if I want. What’s the extra with the dress? Shoes?”

She blushed bright red, never able to get away with anything. “Yeah. Shoes.”

A slow smirk spread across his face and he grabbed for her phone, unlocking it to go through her email, and she lunged for it across the table. “Rafe no!”

“I want to see -”

“You’ll see later!” She wrestled the phone out of his grasp, somehow having ended up in his lap, inches from his face. “Don’t spoil the surprise!”

“It’s lingerie. Isn’t it? What color is it? You know my favorite on you is black - wait, or pink -”

“You like anything I’m in, horndog.” She accused, moving to get off his lap but he grabbed her around the waist, holding her in place, and reached up her shirt. “What are you wearing now?”

Sophie rolled her eyes and leaned back just enough to flash him, quicker than he could process. “Nothing. I ran earlier, I wasn’t gonna wrestle a sports bra on.”

He just blinked at her for a moment. “You’re beautiful. You know that?”

“And you’re pathetic. All the thoughts just left your head.” She pointed out, laughing at his blank stare as she crawled off of him and returned to her seat.

“Well now that I know what’s under this, yes. Can we go upstairs? I’m not hungry. Well - I am - not for food, if you catch my drift -” He smirked.

She flipped him off and took another slow bite of her mac and cheese, taking her time. “No. Go take care of yourself, I’m still starving.”

“Okay, so let’s go get real dinner. This is shit food.” He argued, scrolling through Postmates. “Pizza? Wings?”

“You think my mac and cheese is shit food and then you offer that? Why are you on Postmates?”

“Because I want time to fuck you before dinner.” He answered without looking up from his phone, making her blush again and her whole body feel warm. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if they’d ever leave the honeymoon stage of the relationship.

“Rafe.” She whined, kicking his shin.

“Sophieee.” He mimicked. “Sushi? We haven’t had that in ages.”

“You can’t just run your mouth like that and get away with it.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re too much.”

“Says you, who texted me yesterday afternoon when I was in a meeting with my advisor that ‘your fingers don’t feel the same’ - honestly. What the fuck is up with that, Sophie, that’s a text you should have sent when we were apart for months, not when we’d literally slept together days before.” He shook his head, handing over his phone.

“It’s embarrassing to send when we’re apart. I didn’t wanna seem desperate.” She protested, typing in her sushi order, but paused when she saw a text from a contact saved as ‘BR’ pop up. The text read ‘are we still on for tomorrow?’

“You were desperate, though. Made me send nudes.” He teased, reaching for his phone. “You done?”

“Um. Yeah.” She shook her head and swiped away the text then finished her order, handing the phone back. She pulled her laptop out of her backpack, flicking it open and started typing.

Rafe stood and leaned over, sliding his arms around her from behind and kissed her neck. “They won’t be here for twenty minutes…”

“Good thing you can get yourself off in ten.” She replied, unfazed, but tilted her head to give him better access.

“Homework can wait, can’t it?” He asked, sucking at a spot along her neck until she flicked his forehead.

“Hey! Quit with the marks, Rafe, no one believes me that they’re curling iron burns.” She clamped her hand to her neck, scowling.

He leaned around and kissed the bridge of her nose. “Maybe you should come up with a better lie then, because you don’t ever curl your hair unless we’re getting dressed up. Let’s go upstairs. Possibly get naked too.”

“I’m working.” She replied lamely, though her eyes flicked down to his lips and she subconsciously licked her own. “I’m not turned on.”

“I can see your nipples through your t-shirt.” He raised his eyebrows, slowly closing her laptop. “I’ll eat you out before dinner.”

“It’s cold in here.” She huffed out the excuse, pretending to be annoyed although she wasn’t in the slightest, and pushed away from the table. Sophie got to the base of the stairs before turning around, eyebrows raised. “Well? Are you coming?”

“That’s what she said.” He replied with a grin, striding forward and scooping her up easily.

She squealed, lightly pounding on his chest. “Let me down!”

“No. I have a job to do.” He ignored her, going up the stairs with ease. “Is the lingerie already here?”

“Rafe, I swear to god if you don’t put me down you won’t get to see any of it -”

He pushed open her bedroom door and promptly dropped her onto the bed, then started toward her closet. “Right, where’d you hide this?”

“If you get out early I’m not putting it on. And that’s not nearly as exciting for you.” She argued, tugging off her t-shirt behind his back as she sat on the bed, then threw her shirt at his head.

He caught it easily even from behind, then whirled around with a grin. “Oh, hello. Is this an invitation?”

“Get your ass over here, Cameron.”

He wasted no time in striding over, tossing his shirt to the side as he went. He didn’t miss the way her eyes trailed over his body as she eagerly pulled his hips down to hers, kissing him hard. It didn’t take long for him to tug off her shorts and shove her up the bed as they fell into their familiar routine when they were just getting through a quickie, with him basically manhandling her and Sophie just letting him take control.

She sighed as he kissed down her neck, across her chest. Sophie tangled her fingers in his hair, completely content as he grazed his teeth across her nipples. “Rafe.”

“Mm.” He sucked her nipple into his mouth, making her squirm.

“We’re on a time limit,” she reminded him, tugging a little on his hair.

He laughed, lifting his head and pushed her further up the bed so he could tease two fingers across her clit. “You’re impatient.”

“I’m not, you’re the one that started all this - shit, okay -” She gasped when he slipped a finger inside her curling it toward himself.

He knew he could make her cum in ten minutes, easy - sometimes less if she was in the right mood already - but he loved the teasing game. “Hey, what grade did you get on that test?”

“I - what?” She mumbled, whining as he hit just the right spot inside of her, adding another finger.

“That test, you were worried about it. Art history or something?” He leaned closer and grazed his teeth over her nipple, laughing when she jerked her hips into his hand.

“I don’t remember.” She panted out, whining when he pressed his thumb hard against her clit.

“You don’t remember? We studied together, I quizzed you and everything. I’m pretty sure we even saw some of the art in Italy.” He smirked as she struggled to even think, let alone form a complete sentence.

“Rafe, can you shut the fuck up?” She pleaded, squirming under him.

“S’not very nice.” He raised his eyebrows, slowing his pace with his fingers.

She cursed under her breath, letting her head fall back to the pillow. “Baby, please.”

“Please what?”

“I’m not gonna say it.” She grabbed the front of his shirt, trying to pull him closer to kiss him - and convince him to shut up, goddamnit - and he easily nudged her away, now rubbing impossibly slow circles on her clit.

“I wanna hear your words, Soph.”

“Get me off first and then we can chat, if that’s what you really want.” She was glaring at him now, legs falling a little wider like an invitation.

“I can do this all day, baby.” He grinned, knowing he had the upper hand.

“You’re the worst.” She bit out, not wanting to do anything that’d make him stop.

“Aw, that’s no way to talk to your boyfriend.” He paused, thinking. “Your boyfriend that’s ordered you food...and come to think of it, they should be here soon. What are we gonna do with you?”

“Maybe I should go answer the door and see if the delivery guy will get me off instead.” She muttered, getting further and further away from any chance of an orgasm by the second.

Rafe frowned, his fingers stilling completely inside of her. “That’s mean.”

She had to laugh, a tiny bit - god, he was so sensitive sometimes. Sophie reached up and curled her hand around the back of his neck, bringing him down for a long, bruising kiss. “Finish the job then. You can make me come before they get here, can’t you?”

“You’re gonna make me sit through dinner completely hard?” He started picking up the pace with his fingers again, hitting the perfect spot inside her.

She shook her head, moaning - a little too ostentatiously, but whatever would do the trick. “This was your idea, but we could just fuck and we could both get the reward.” She leaned forward and palmed him through his shorts, squeezing just light enough to make him groan.

“Sophie.”

“Rafe, c’mon. Enough teasing.” She pleaded, gasping when he rubbed a little harder, a little faster.

He considered for a moment just stopping completely, making her sit through dinner with metaphorical blue balls, but knew there was a strong chance she wouldn’t end up having sex with him anyways. He picked up the pace, curling his fingers just so and leaning down to kiss her, something that always helped push her over the edge. He grinned against her lips as she whined, squirming underneath him as she came. Rafe loved the way her cheeks flushed pink and she breathed hard, like she’d just ran for miles.

The doorbell rang just as he pulled his fingers away from her and pressed them to her lips. “Help me out here.”

She accepted them easily, swirling her tongue around his fingers to make sure they were clean, and smirked up at him as he pulled them out and wiped them on his shorts. “Dinner’s here.”

“S’ just sushi. We can eat it cold.” He suggested, pulling on his shirt from the floor. “I can be quick.”

“Go get our food and then we can talk.” She leaned over, halfheartedly kicking at his hip to push him toward the door. “I have cash in my wallet downstairs if you need a tip.”

“I got it, I got it.” He jogged downstairs and paid the delivery driver, then came back up with the bag of food, pleased to see she was still sprawled out naked on the bed, just with a sheet tugged over her. “So…”

She stood, strolling into her bathroom. “I’m going to shower real quick, you’re free to join.”

He scrambled after her - their sushi ended up forgotten until a whole thirty minutes later.

taglist: @drewstarkey @lemur46 @jjmaybanksbaby @edgeofgr8 @quxxnxfhxll @obxtess @hoodpankow @vtgirl802 @outerbankies @messagesinthesky @nicolecarsley @svechnikolan @ilovejjmaybank @obxtess @abbyj1822 @oopsiedoopsie23 @g4bster @jjmaybankzz @freddymaybank @dontjinx-it @illbesafeforyou @moniamaybank @tovvaa @jailcalledlife @sunshineitsfine44 @randomficsandshit @outerbankspreferences @outerbanksbro @karsinner @kkmaybank @whoeveniskendall @lemur46 @outerbankies

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron smut #outer banks smut #outer banks #college rafe #frat rafe #outer banks fanfic #rafe x sophie #mine

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wellwornwornwell · 3 years ago

Note

Quite a while since you updated us on wardrobe pickups. Fall ‘21- anything new?

I have like fourteen versions of this question in my inbox, so I figure this is as good an opening as any to return to the written word. Hope my inaction hasn’t jaded too many of you. A friendly reminder that if the withdrawals are severe, you can find me on twitter @wwornwwell. Let’s make your questions on wedding attire and first dates public!

So, first thing is first: I’m totally gutting and renovating a house my wife and I bought last summer. In short, I am poor. But even more impactfully, I have a wife with a renewed zeal for scrutinizing my credit card practices. This is great news for the viability of a 9-foot floating marble vanity in our master bedroom. Not such great news for my contrived self-importance in the Wide World of Jawnz.

Of course, I am still a dreamer. Still unwilling to seek therapy. And so my mind naturally drifts to what would look nice hanging next to the 1,000 other garments I wear once a year. Which piece of the puzzle I can unconvincingly cram into a void of a vaguely similar shape. A man has his needs, after all.

So, let’s swing for the fences and discuss the stuff that I have been thinking a lot about over the past year and, though I will absolutely not buy any of it, makes for great #content in the try-hard world of the iGentry:

When I was a senior in high school I went on a “graduation cruise” (suburban much?!) with some of my friends and their parents. The trip was littered with congratulations and drunken hand jobs received in dark corners of the Teen Club. In all the excitement someone’s father decided he was going to buy a watch for his son as a graduation gift (gotta love those Caribbean tax havens). This triggered an immediate competition amongst dads, leading to some ill-advised spending. In the fog of compensating for missed baseball games, a buddy of mine came away with a Rolex Explorer II 16750 “Polar.”

It was an absolutely beautiful watch. A watch that I obsessed over and envied immediately. Unfortunately, my more well-adjusted, “loving” father wasn’t interested in buying my affection, and so I left the trip with a measly Baume & Mercier. You can’t imagine my struggles.

Flash forward to present day and I still think about and lust after this watch. While the IWC Mark XVI will always be my true love in the watch game, I’d quietly planned for the 16750 Polar to one day be my ruggedly beautiful mistress. And that’s exactly as gay as it sounds. Unfortunately, some guy named WM Brown or Matt or something decided he too has impeccable taste and now what was once a borderline affordable daily wearer has jumped in price to the point that it would cost me the equivalence of a real mistress. I’ll have her one day, but not any day soon.

Segueing out of homoerotic undertones with aplomb, over the summer I caught myself admiring a middle-aged rich guy at a poolside cocktail party. It was a beautiful sunny day, meaning that he paired his navy fleece Polistas vest with Nantucket red shorts and a white Lacoste polo. While we need to definitely talk about bringing Polistas back one day, what really caught my attention was his footwear – low-vamp, full-strap penny loafers in an espresso crocodile. They were beaten up exquisitely, with frothy frayed edges and delicately separating tiles. You could tell they wore like butter.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a good lead on where to even find these shoes. They had that blobby last that looks charmingly stodgy on the right guy and stolen from dad’s closet on the wrong guy. I presume they’d need to be bought secondhand on eBay (yikes) or commissioned (double yikes). Regardless, this is the peak old rich guy stuff of dreams.

And speaking of dreams, I had a fleeting moment over the summer where I was going to send all my custom shirts out to me hand monogrammed. My sister recently created a kick-ass monogram for me, and it immediately sent me into a vortex of creative expression. After my wife assured me it would look somewhat askew as a face tattoo (my bone structure is suboptimal), I begrudgingly began my research on where to send things for hand monograms. Spoiler alert: There’s one place in the United States that will do it and the juice likely ain’t worth the squeeze.

I’ll probably give the treatment to a few of my favorite shirts, so consider this at the top of my “Fall shopping list.” But it’s gonna be a hot minute before I go full-on Gatsby and repeatedly assault Daisy with my initials.

Alright, last one here: An overcoat. I live in Atlanta, a place that does not require much in the way of formal outerwear. But I am a recovering iGent with continued (if supervised) access to the internet and so I must justify owning something expensive that I will literally wear twice a year.

My initial instinct was to go Ralph Lauren Polo Coat (if you know you’re never wearing it you might was well lean all the way in), but I think I’d be better served with a lighter weight, darker, and more utilitarian option. The only thing I know is that I want sharp peak lapels and a cloth with some visual interest (large scale herringbone, boucle, Donegal, etc.) While I know I said the monograms were most likely, it’s all but certain I buy some version of this off a dead guy in the next few months. eBay has my number.

So there you have it: What I’m thinking about this fall. If you outbid me on eBay, I will find you.

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faraway-in-headspace · 4 years ago

Photo

I?? I searched Chicken Choice Judy on google out of curiosity because it sounds oddly familiar like there’s a similar-sounding name and I found 4 websites selling the shirt design. But the descriptions on these pages are BUCK WILD??

Written version of the descriptions under the cut (very long).

[Begin ID

First image states: Long ago, when I had hair, I was an undergrad living in a house with nine other men. Near as I can tell, three of them (not sure which three) never bought food, just lived off what they stole from the Chicken Choice Judy shirt But I will love this other seven. We had several house meetings about it, but nothing changed. One day, I came in from grocery shopping. By coincidence, all 10 of us were in the kitchen. I started putting my stuff away. 1st thing I pulled out of the bag was my half-gallon of milk. I opened the carton, took a couple of drinks from the carton, then gargled some of it, and spit it back in. I opened my tub of margarine and licked the whole surface. By now, the room chatter had stopped because the other nine jaws had dropped open.) To your original question, those specific topics would take several years to build, as they depend on several layers of pre-requisites, which would require either that more advanced topics such as algebraic topology to be taught in elementary school, or that the buildup process happened blazingly fast during high school – both of which probably stretch the biological limits of what pre-teens and teenagers can reasonably be expected to accomplish. I spit on all my veggies, took the bread out of the package, and licked and spit on it, then carefully put it all back in the plastic bag. Remind teenage daughters to look through them before going on date with the boyfriend, in case they want to use one. I labeled it all and put it away. None of it was stolen. I never said a word, but I made it a point to repeat the performance anytime anyone was around to see it. Others began to emulate my approach and food theft stopped. Even I found it revolting, but it solved the problem. Works even better if you are sick or can at least make your thieving roommates think you are. While some cities are starting to reopen in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, people around the country are continuing to wear masks in public and practice social distancing. Vogue is committed to staying safe, and offering hopeful, optimistic content that highlights moments of camaraderie and exceptional acts of heroism from around the world. We are all looking for a little comfort too—be it a soothing Instagram account or a stylish creator on TikTok. It reminds us of the power of little things.

Second image states: A couple of guests informed me my office was too minimalist and that they expected more things to be hanging on my wall the Chicken Choice Judy shirt besides I will buy this next time they visited my wife’s and my home. I kinda hope they held their breath while they were waiting for our next invitation. They both went on to backstab me and my wife pretty bad a few years later. Another set of guests tried to squat. I had driven them all the way from Florida to Massachusetts under the impression that they had jobs and a place to live lined up. They offered no money for gas, hotels on the three-day trip, or compensation for the inconvenience and effort. He even tried to weasel out of the dinner he offered as a thank you by forgetting his wallet. The dude got me off the streets years ago and I wanted to pay him back in some way, but my wife and I were in no position to have extra residents in our home. We just don’t have the room or money. I made all of this VERY clear and told my old buddy that we could only house them for a couple of days max. There are MANY other details, but the disrespectful thing my former friend said was wordless. As I was kicking them out and they were angrily loading stuff into my car to bring them anywhere but here, my buddy left his gigantic knife right in the center of my wife’s desk. Like that was supposed to make us change our minds and let them stay? In the days of dial-up, I had a family call and not be able to get through because we were online. They decided to show up unannounced. They literally caught me in my underwear as they were let into the apartment before I could even react to being rudely surprised. Some of my family members have a history of abuse, violence, and stalking, something at least one of the visitors, my mother, was quite aware of since she lived through it with me. Her tagalong friend decided to put in her two cents and tell me I should get a call waiting or a second line because they were trying to call me. That did it! I suddenly forgot I was just wearing underwear and angrily asked my mother’s friend if she was paying my phone bill. My mother-in-law, stepfather and mom’s friend beat a hasty retreat and NEVER did the pop-in ever again.

Third image states: That was why when we did get to reality shows, Etro and then Dolce & Gabbana plus Jacquemus later in France, it was wonderful. Clothes are all about contact: As a wearer, you feel them on your skin, and as a watcher, you process them with your eye. The watching part can be done secondhand, but the Chicken Choice Judy shirt in contrast I will get this impact will always be second to the real thing. I read some commentators in the U.S. saying, “Too soon” or “Wear a damn mask!” which I always did, but these opinions while valid enough lack perspective. Milan and its surrounding region Lombardy went through what New York did but earlier. Through sagacious governmental management much more effective than that of the U.S., Italy has managed dramatically to flatten the curve across the rest of its territory. These shows just like the reopening of flights, stores, factories, and restaurants were symptomatic of recovery that, far from being taken for granted, is being tended to with vigilance and cherished with gratitude. The digital Fashion Weeks were better than no Fashion Weeks at all, but as an upgrade on the real thing? Nah. Like everyone, I missed the shows in the experiential sense this season. But for the first time since I began covering the collections several years ago, I didn’t miss a single brand or designer’s contribution to Paris Fashion Week. Which is to say, thanks to the Fédération’s online platform, I was able to watch every name on the haute couture and men’s calendars. This brand on-demand convenience not to mention being spared the logistical headaches of zigzagging across the city was pretty great. Also, everything was on time, from the films to the manner in which we filed our reviews. While efficiency can be satisfying, it’s not necessarily exciting. Ultimately, we had to accept that the focus this season wasn’t going to be the clothes but rather the brands conveying some combination of identity, process, and values. And in the absence of standardized criteria as in, showing a minimum number of looks, specifying a time range, it was interesting to observe how heterogeneous these experiments proved to be quasi–ad campaigns versus short films, conceptual or fantastical visions versus raw and documentary style. A proper kimono takes nearly an hour to put on – I’m sure most Japanese girls would much rather spend a few seconds and slip on a dress. Get survey responses from targeted consumers today.

Fourth image states: Around a decade ago, not long after he started his own label, Massimo Alba made a great mistake. A batch of shirts and T-shirts he was working on that had already been garment-dyed one color were mistakenly exposed to another. Speaking at his showroom presentation this weekend, Alba said: “It’s very interesting to me that so many good things start out as mistakes like this.” That accident was to Alba what the Chicken Choice Judy shirt moreover I will buy this mold-infected petri dish was to Alexander Fleming: a stumbled-upon eureka that led to a career-defining course of the investigation. This collection featured a series of softly tailored jackets, corduroy pants, and shorts, plus light cashmere sweaters that were hand-overdyed two, and sometimes three colors. It’s a process that led to variations in tone that included acid-trip floods of purple on purple to subtle bleeding of magenta across mustard yellow. Like most of Alba’s garments, these dyed pieces appeared at first glance conventionally prosaic. The more attention you gave them, however, the more their exceptional qualities became evident. Take a pale blue jacket, for instance, which at that first glance seemed passingly related to a surgeon’s scrubs. To the hand it was light and almost textureless in its softness: The fabric was a cotton mousseline developed for Alba by Albini. Long-sleeved, in a delicately mottled finish of washed-out sky blue, it made for an ideal mid-summer shake in pink, sleeveless, it was an impactful shirting second skin. Other interesting developments this season included a cotton pant named the Myles with acutely kinking stitched gather at knee-level on both legs and another handsome pant, baggy in white poplin, with patch pockets. A blue tropical weight jacket named the Lenny, after Bernstein, was Alba’s interpretation of a bohemian creative’s ideal piece of workwear. Collarless shirts in ripstop linen and button-up short-sleeves in terry were further finely effective coups de théâtre. Alba is a self-deprecating yet dangerous designer: Try just one carefully chosen piece and that’s it, you’re spoiled for good because nobody else quite compares. The museum in Prague where this portrait is held describes the ring on her first finger as the ring given to her at her wedding. It’s not comfortable. Maybe a lot of girls think that a see-through blouse can attract the attention of boys or they think that it will make her look much smarter. Meghan has no dress sense: no knowledge of fabrics, fit, styles that flatter, proper tailoring, Her father raised her in L.A. Enough said. Her idea of dressing for an event is “dress up” like a little girl dressing up as a princess. Shiny! Tight! Celebrity “fashion” not elegant, just flashy.

/end ID]

#infinity train #chicken choice judy #mine

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words-writ-in-starlight · 5 years ago

Text

Some Trans!Danny Thoughts

When this hit its second page, I moved it to a new post. In no particular order of importance.

When Danny was a year old and learning to talk, he spent two hours getting in a power struggle with his then-three-year-old sister where she pointed to him and said “Danielle” and he said “Dannel” back, and then she told him “Jasmine” and he answered “Jassem”, and it ended with two kids in tears and Maddie having straight-up given up. This was not so much a gender thing as a “kids getting into a screaming match about nothing of import” thing. Instead of trying to fight the point, Maddie decided that her kids were now named Dani and Jazz, and that mostly resolved the issue. It was also extremely convenient later.

Maddie and Jack are not, shall we say, the most attentive parents in the world. Danny was in the third grade before he was required to attend a formal event of any kind (it was Jazz’s elementary school graduation), and while Maddie did manage to wrangle him into a dress, he scowled through the whole thing. Then Jazz bounced down to them, grinning and bright-eyed, and dropped her robe onto his head, because it was June and too warm for it. He spent the next hour running around like a wizard and destroyed the lower third of his dress and that was pretty much the ballgame on Danny and formal attire. He wore jeans to his elementary school graduation.

Jazz started being mostly in charge of making sure Danny had clothes that weren’t, A, full of holes, or B, contaminated around when she was twelve. She decided to do the big sister thing right and took him to Target, whereupon Jazz immediately got decision paralysis. This turned into Danny, ten, and Jazz, twelve, staring at each other in the baby clothes section like they had walked into a parallel dimension, until finally Danny very slowly lifted up a blue newborn onesie covered in elephants and said “I think we’re in the wrong section,” and then they had to sit down on the floor so as not to knock anything over while they lost it. It was a weird day for the Target employees. Jazz pulled it together enough to turn Danny loose and tell him that he needed three t-shirts, a jacket, a pair of pants, and underwear, but not enough to actually dictate anything about the clothes he found. If her sister wanted to run around in block colored t-shirts and a boy’s hoodie, that was between Danny and God.

The ONE dysphoria headcanon I will be including is that Danny was one of those people who went from completely flat chested to a C-cup more or less overnight when he was eleven and suddenly all the mild discomfort he’d ignored through most of his life crystallized. Jazz offhand said that they should go buy a couple bras, because she needed some more too, and Danny fully blue-screened out for five minutes before Jazz snapped her fingers in his face and went “Hey, Earth to Fenton, are you okay?”

“I don’t want to do that,” Danny said.

“What, go shopping? Listen, we haven’t gotten lost in a store since--”

“I don’t want to get--” Danny stopped there, because he was suddenly really not prepared to say any of the words that might go at the end of that sentence. “Can’t I just not?”

“Not—buy a bra?” Jazz asked carefully.

“Yeah.” And Jazz’s baby sister blinked at her from under the shaggy overgrown pixie cut she’d been getting since she was old enough to have preferences, and Jazz thought, a little idly, well, Dani won’t be able to look like a boy anymore, if she looks anything like me and Mom.

And then Jazz, budding psychologist, opened her mouth, shut it, and said, “Tell you what, how about we don’t worry about it right now.” So they didn’t, and watched a movie, and then after Dani went to bed, Jazz hauled one of her secondhand psychology textbooks off a bookshelf and started doing reading.

Three days of intensive research later, she sidled up to Danny and said, “Hey, I have a weird question. Do you even want to be a girl, or what?”

“Sure,” Danny said, distracted by frowning over his summer homework, in the universal tone of I’m really not listening but okay, yeah. “I—hang on, what?”

“Would you be a girl if you had the option?”

Danny blinked at her, again, and said, like Jazz was an idiot, “Would you?”

“Yeah,” Jazz said. “I like being a girl. But I was thinking that maybe you might want to start school as Daniel?”

And then it was Dani’s turn, Danny’s turn, to open his mouth, shut it, and say, “Is that—a thing?”

“Sure,” Jazz said with completely unwarranted confidence. “I’m sure I can figure it out.”

Danny went over to Tucker’s the same afternoon and said, in a tone of total shock, “Hey, did you know I was a boy?” And that was pretty much the end of that conversation. The conversation with Sam also featured Sam’s very earnest attempt to convert Danny to being goth, but that was because Sam was going through a Phase and tried to convert anyone who asked her anything about clothing.

Jazz helps Danny figure out how to explain to their parents. Since it doesn’t involve ghosts, Maddie and Jack could really give a fuck what pronouns their kid uses, and since it doesn’t really change anything except that Jack starts calling him “Danny-boy” instead of “Dani-girl,” it’s not…remarkable.

Later, Jazz is going to think about that conversation, and about the way their dad boomed a laugh and said, “From your face, I thought you were going to tell us something awful—like you were a ghost! Sure thing, Danny-boy, sounds good.” And she’s going to understand why Danny told them one secret and not the other.

Danny’s pediatrician is just relieved that, at Danny’s pre-school yearly physical, Jazz’s only weird question is “can you prescribe hormone blockers” rather than something like “hey if you eat something contaminated with ectoplasm do you think that’ll have effects or…?” (Someone please put this woman out of her misery.)

Danny’s wearing his binder during the accident, which is very convenient, don’t get him wrong, but also that was his favorite binder and he’s annoyed about it getting permanently removed from his wardrobe. It didn’t do that rolly thing at the base of the elastic, it’s hard to find binders that don’t do the rolly thing. Sam listens to him complain about it twice and then she tries to smother him with a pillow and accidentally slam dunks him through his bed.

Also, he initially has some concerns about whether he can take his binder…off as Phantom? You’re not supposed to wear a binder while you exercise, Jazz has drilled this into his head, and it’s not until after his first major dustup with a ghost that he remembers, huh, fighting ghosts probably counts. Some experimenting proves that, while Phantom is a lot more…structured than your average ghost and his suit does come off, it can’t really sustain itself without him for long. If he leaves a glove or torn clothing behind, eventually it’ll start to crumble, or, more alarmingly, melt. On the upside, the suit seems to repair itself, and can straight up regrow any pieces that he loses. A little more experimenting proves that Phantom doesn’t breathe except to talk, and even that seems to be mostly habit, so Operation: Fight Ghosts In A Binder is a go.

Real conversation:

“So…this is Dani,” Danny says, doing kind of a ta-da gesture at the long-haired ghost who, undeniably, looks exactly like him, if a little younger. “She’s my clone.”

“Hi,” Jazz says gamely, and the ghost waves back. “What are you two going to do about the name thing? If you’re both named Daniel it’ll get confusing.”

“My name is Danielle,” the girl says, bemused. “It’s Dani, with an I.”

“She’s not trans,” Danny says with a shrug. Jazz feels about four hundred questions hurl themselves at the back of her teeth, and she takes a deep breath, and Danny is already smirking by the time she wrestles down the impulse to never stop talking. “I told you it would kill her not to be able to write a paper on us,” Danny tells Dani. Then he turns back to Jazz and says, “So, Vlad gave me a free sister and she literally does not own clothes. I figured you could take her to Target and have a meltdown in the baby section.”

“Danny! God, you’re such a brat, that was one time,” Jazz says, flushing, and she grabs Dani by the hand and drags her off while Danny cackles at their back. “Congratulations on your jerk brother,” Jazz tells Dani. “He’s giving me grey hair.”

“Don’t worry about it too much,” Dani says. “You’ll match.” Jazz narrows her eyes and Dani grins, unapologetic.

It makes Danny grin like an idiot the first time the Amity Times publishes a (nominally complimentary, before shit hits the fan) headline about the ghost boy, and he keeps a copy of the article.

#danny phantom #danny fenton #danny fenton is TRANS and you cannot STOP ME #jazz fenton #these are almost as much about jazz if i'm being honest i REALLY love jazz #anyway these are borne on the tide of my dissatisfaction with how every single trans danny thing is about dysphoria #i knoooooow okay i know i get it i know i GOT THE CONCEPT #can we PLEASE get some jokes up in here. some affirming stuff about jazz using her hyperfixation to figure out how to support her brother.#some stuff about how sam's entire conversation with danny was 'so if you're a dude are you going to change your look?'#'because i think maybe an eyebrow piercing or some gauges--' 'i'm not changing my look i like my shirts sam' 'danNY YOUR SHIRTS ARE BORING'#PLEASE give me sam (a bisexual goth drama queen) dunking on her boyfriend for dressing like every boring straight boy ever #(in any universe tbh come on folks)#danny was always going to end up tall but since he goes on t when he's 16 he's VERY tall #and since he's doing ghost hunting 40 hrs/week when he goes on t he also ends up PRETTY BUFF #(remind me to write some stuff about the following: how relieved danny is when he turns 25 and really doesn't look much like dan at all)#(and how profoundly uncomfortable danny is when his voice drops and turns into something WAY too close to dan's for comfort)#also listen i know that not many trans folks actually do the whole 'this is basically just my name but gendered differently' thing #but i (a person with a feminine first name and a masculine middle name) did so just let me project in peace #at some point some kid makes a joke in phantom's earshot about 'do ghosts even come in trans or what' and he's like 'i'm RIGHT here'#i have...more of these #a queue we will keep and our honor someday avenge

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joopiterjoon · 5 years ago

Text

Piece of Peace- MiniMoni

Pairing: Namjoon x Jimin

Genre: +18, Strangers/enemies-kind-of to lovers?

Warnings/Tags: Kittygang!Jimin, Professor!Namjoon, swearing, mentions of gangs and gang violence, stealing motorcycles, anal sex, sex on a motorcycle, exhibitionism (of course), FYI I don’t know much (anything) about motorcycles

Wordcount: 1k

a/n: this is technically part 3 of Boys Meets Evil and Burning Up, but you can read it by itself! Also this was FOREVER ago but thank you @honeymoonjin and @ddaenggtan for reviewing this and telling me if it’s kitty gang worthy!

Part of ficswithluv’s #FWLBingo!

Everything about the Harley dealership is new. The pristine floors, the smell, the design. Even the echoes of engines, obviously a repeated sound bouncing around the fancy space, sound unique each time. Everything the place contains within is shiny and desirable.

It’s exactly where Namjoon wants to be. Surrounded by newness, he’ll craft a new him. One that isn’t clumsy, isn’t known for being nerdy.

One that befits his new boyfriend, Jimin Park.

But with a shake of his glasses, Namjoon thinks he may need a new bank account.

“What do you think?” the ever eager salesman asks. Namjoon stands, straightening his secondhand, jean jacket as he eyes the (probably new) suit of the man.

“Ah, it’s… it’s nice,” Namjoon smiles shyly. He’s not sure what words he should be using. He googled motorcycle terminology, but all that escapes him now.

“Would you like to take it for a spin?” the salesman presses with a little shake of his hips. His balanced persona of friendly and pushy is a bit terrifying. Namjoon laughs nervously. He doesn’t know if he should get on something he can’t afford, it might just hurt more when he has to say no.

A hand slides around his waist under his jacket. Naturally, Namjoon eases into the touch despite the public display. He jostles into his boyfriend’s side. “What do you think, babe? Gonna hop on?”

“Ah,” Namjoon clears his throat. He looks down at Jimin whose head rests on his shoulder. He immediately regrets it. Behind the shades, Namjoon can see the lazy look in his eye. Namjoon tries to distract himself by looking lower, only to see Jimin’s tongue wet his plush lips, only to then glance even lower and see how far Jimin’s thin, white shirt is dipping down his chest. Jimin’s undeterred by the price tags that surround him. Hell, Jimin looks more expensive than the thousands of dollars of metal littered around the stage room.

Namjoon decides to focus on the salesman instead. “It’s a bit out of my price range.”

Jimin’s tinkling laugh sends a chill up Namjoon’s spine. He bites down his smile. He still can’t believe he can make such a man laugh. That from the shadows he managed to capture the attention of a man who constantly danced in the spotlight.

Jimin always laughed when Namjoon marveled at him. He apparently felt the same way. As a reckless boy from the streets, he doesn’t understand how someone with a masters would be captivated by him.

They fit each other, filled in the cracks of where they were lacking, the yin to yang, in more ways than one.

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” Jimin tells the salesclerk, pinching Namjoon’s cheek.

“Yes, Mr. Park,” the salesclerk chimes, tucking his hands behind his back with a small bow.

Namjoon’s jaw drops. He shoots Jimin a questioning gaze, but Jimin just shrugs.

“Are you serious?” He hisses, straightening his glasses. “What did you do?”

“What?” Jimin asks, lowering his glasses so Namjoon can see the faux-innocence in his eyes. It’s one of those looks that reminds him when to keep his mouth closed. “I’m just cashing in a favor… literally.”

Jimin gives his side a squeeze before walking over to the bike, his boots clacking on the floor. The salesman’s shoulders tense a bit as Jimin runs a finger along the back of the bike.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Park.”

That. That’s why Namjoon wants a bike. Wants anything, anything that can put him on par with his boyfriend. No matter what Jimin says, Namjoon is still just a bookworm when it boils down to it. He knows Jimin’s much softer than he appears, too, but he wants that. Jimin’s ease, his natural ability to control a room and all that’s in it.

“I want to see what you look like on top,” Jimin winks. He leans over the back, head cocked, lightly shifting his hips towards the bike.

Namjoon’s brain short circuits at the insinuation. Unable to resist, he draws closer to the bike. His nervous hands tentatively stroke the handle, feeling the ridges of the rubber under his fingers.

“Please,” Namjoon folds his lips in, terrified he’d said that out loud. But he realizes it was the salesman, bowed with the key extended.

Jimin could make anyone beg.

When Namjoon takes the key, the salesman starts to wheel the bike towards the entrance. Jimin winds his arm back around Namjoon’s waist as they walk, rubbing circles into his back.

“You’re gonna look so hot, babe,” Jimin muses. He still watches Namjoon. Only him, nothing else in the store. None of the pretty toys, the other men, the passing cars. Whenever he’s with Namjoon, Jimin’s eyes are always on him. Namjoon shrinks under the attention, but he loves it.

Outside, Namjoon straddles the bike. He gives it a once over, trying to remember everything Jimin taught him. It’s different than his bike, but he can figure it out.

“Hot damn,” Jimin sighs. “You look like an 80’s heartthrob.”

Namjoon giggles. He appreciates that Jimin noticed he dressed for the part.Taking his glasses off and safely tucking them into his pocket, he pats it twice to make sure they won’t shake out.

“Oh my god,” Jimin giggles, tripping over to the bike. “Don’t. That was so cute.”

He comes round to the front of the bike. He puts his hands over Namjoon’s, straddling the front tire. Namjoon tries to sit straight under his boyfriend’s wandering gaze.

Jimin licks his lips again, fingers tightening over Joon’s as his other hand runs through his hot pink hair. His rings hurt a bit, but Namjoon would never tell Jimin to let go.

“This is a wet dream. I’m living a wet dream right now.”

Namjoon chokes. He should be saying the same thing. Jimin is about to buy him a motorcycle. Jimin is straddling said motorcycle, tight pants and loose shirt leaving little his imagination. Jimin is… Jimin.

“Wanna ride me?” Namjoon asks.

Jimin’s eyes darken, his lips parting a bit.

“W-WITH” Namjoon stutters. “Ride with? I meant do you want to-”

Jimin’s lips silence him. Soft, molding to his own. He brushes the stray strands of hair out of Namjoon’s face. He pulls back only to put the helmet on Namjoon’s head. Namjoon watches while Jimin pouts a bit, trying to find the strap under his chin.

Namjoon may be getting hard. Jimin pats the side of the helmet and all the thoughts in Namjoon’s head jumble.

“Let’s do both,” Jimin smiles. A large, boyish grin that lets Namjoon know he’s a goner.

“Wha-really?” Namjoon asks, trying to spin around as Jimin slings himself over the back of the bike. Namjoon yelps when Jimin’s hands accidentally dip a bit too low, grabbing at his crotch before drifting up to his waist.

“I’ll tell you where to go,” Jimin shouts. “Throttle it, baby.”

Namjoon nods, looking at the controls before him. He goes through the motions, missing how Jimin’s hands usually guide him. His favorite part about being with Jimin is he’s never in charge. Jimin watches over him, tells him what to do, what not to do, that he’s doing great. It’s such a contrast to Namjoon’s daily life where he’s constantly critiquing others and making decisions for his department. He craves Jimin even more after a long day.

And boy was today a long day. And he definitely, really craves Jimin when he nuzzles the plastic helmet into his back, all muscle pressed flush against him.

Namjoon never thought he’d like motorcycles. Until he met Jimin, he thought they were just accidents waiting to happen. But now, he sees the joy. Of course, it’s still incredibly dangerous, which is why Jimin directs him to the back roads. But the wind whipping by him feels like he’s flying. The loud roar of the motor cancels out all other thoughts. The metal horse beneath him answers to each of his movements.

And of course, he knows he looks fucking cool. Jimin’s friend Jungkook showed him photos of their nights together. Jimin was right, Namjoon looks hot on a bike.

Eventually, Namjoon figures out where they’re going. His heart rate picks up. There’s something different about driving Jimin to their spot, instead of him clinging to Jimin’s back as he guides them to the secluded spot.

He rounds the last corner up the hill, pausing before the road turns to dirt.

Jimin’s helmet knocks into his. Namjoon laughs. Jimin tried to tuck his chin over his shoulder as always, but the bulky helmets block him.

“Keep going!” Jimin shouts.

Namjoon rubs the handles nervously. “The bike will get dirty.”

He imagines Jimin’s eye roll, that accompanies his sassy, “Always such a good boy. Drive.”

Namjoon doesn’t need to be told twice. By now, he understands Jimin’s commands will always be obeyed, by will or force.

And he’s long from cursing how that makes his stomach stir with excitement.

The bike is harder to control offroad. Namjoon focuses hard. Each bump and shuffle reminds him how skilled Jimin and his friends are when they whip through the city streets, over curbs, and across sidewalks.

Jimin’s helmet is off before Namjoon’s brought the bike to a standstill at the top of the hill. The city lights are flickering on below them, but up here there’s nothing but trees. It reminds Namjoon of them. How Jimin sparkles and shines below, and Namjoon watches on from up here as a simple tree in a vast forest. It’s only a certain amount of time before Jimin consumes him, just like the city will someday reach this secluded space.

Jimin surprised him by not appreciating the implication that he would destroy the environment in some way. He’d wrestled Namjoon to the ground that day, demanding he creates a cuter metaphor before he declared it “their spot.”

But today, Jimin just jumps off the bike and jumps forward to twirl about a few times as he takes in the fresh air.

Namjoon stares on once his helmet’s off. The setting sun paints the sky a soft pink, the same as Jimin’s hair. His boyfriend looks so free out here, leather jacket filled with the breeze and his smile overtaking all his features.

Namjoon swings his leg over the bike and leans against it for support. He feels a bit like jelly, hands and legs still vibrating from the ride. Jimin continues to prance around, shouting and giggling and jumping. He is free, Namjoon reminds himself. And not even Namjoon can tame him. Everything about him oozes courage and unbridled happiness. Namjoon wants to be like that. He wants to set his own standard for happiness, just like he chooses to forge head off road.

“Joonie,” Jimin sings, running full-force at Namjoon. Namjoon braces against the attack, but Jimin just skids to a stop in front of him. He smiles up at him, a giggle shaking his shoulders.

“Mini,” Namjoon murmurs low. Jimin somehow smiles wider. Namjoon loves it. They don’t get it. The world. The way confessions and blockades all fade away for Jimin. For anyone with Jimin.

As though Jimin knows he’s considering fading, he grips the edges of Namjoon’s jean jacket and yanks him forward. Namjoon gasps, hands bracing on Jimin’s chest. He closes in, simultaneously trying to take in as much of Namjoon as he can. He noses at Namjoon’s jawline. He waits for a shudder to rock through Namjoon before he nips at his ear, giggling in response to Namjoon’s whine.

“So…” Jimin trails off. He pulls back so Namjoon can see the devilish mischief in his eyes.

“Yeah?” Namjoon breathes. He leans forward, focused on Jimin’s smirking lips, but Jimin tucks his chin. Namjoon whines in protest, which only makes Jimin throw his head back in laughter.

“I rode here with you,” Jimin teases. He presses a chaste kiss to Namjoon’s cheek.

“Did I do good?” Namjoon asks.

“Yes,” Jimin laughs again. Namjoon runs his palms over Jimin’s shoulders, under the jacket. To his surprise, Jimin drops his grip on the jacket, shrugging his own off his shoulders. Instead, he shoves his hips into Namjoon’s, the bike shaking a bit as Namjoon falls back into it. He reaches out to support himself in case the thing falls. Jimin’s hands fall over his own, caging him into the bike. He could care less if the bike falls over.

“What was your other question earlier?” Jimin teases. His eyes have that same lazy look like in the dealership. Namjoon’s cheeks warm.

“Did I do good?” Namjoon repeats. He gulps when Jimin leans a little closer, lips hovering before his own. He looks like an angel, soft features and pink hair framed by the twilight.

“To ride you,” Jimin corrects with a roll of his hips. He finally closes the space, only to kiss at the sensitive spot below his ear.

Okay, well, Namjoon did say looks like an angel. He’s well aware he’s far from it.

“Ah, that would be,” Namjoon clears his throat, sinking on to the seat to help his shaking legs. He reaches to adjust his glasses but forgets he isn’t wearing them. No mind, Jimin grabs his hand, kissing over his palm and wrist, watching him with syrupy sweet eyes. “That would be cool.”

“Cool,” Jimin giggles into his palm. He scrapes his teeth over his wrist. Namjoon whimpers. “You’re so cool these days, Joonie.”

“Stop teasing,” Namjoon whines.

Jimin’s eyes darken. He grabs Namjoon’s wrist and twists. With a yelp, Namjoon’s body involuntarily twists to avoid the impending pain. Jimin grabs his waist to have him turned flush against his hips as he kicks at Namjoon’s foot to have him straddled lower. His hand wanders to the button of Namjoon’s pants, easily undoing them. His tongue travels, slow, up the length of Namjoon’s neck.

“Okay,” Jimin murmurs into the shell of Namjoon’s ear. Namjoon tries to lace his fingers with Jimin’s over his zipper, but Jimin grabs his wrist. He guides Namjoon’s hands to rest on the handlebar and the back seat. “10 and 2, babe. I know how you like your rules.”

Namjoon nods. The bike is sturdy beneath his hands, unlike his mind that whirls in a hazy fog of Jimin. When he looks up, he’s reminded that they’re in the open, in their spot, the city down below just as capable of looking up.

Jimin’s undeterred, of course. After fixing the zipper, Jimin slips both his hands into Namjoon’s jeans, letting the push help Namjoon’s pants down his thighs as he smooths over the skin, rounding out to squeeze Namjoon’s ass.

“God, Joonie,” Jimin groans. “Fuck, there’s so much of you. Love it.”

Namjoon hums in response, eyes falling closed as Jimin’s hands wander over his skin. He can’t be nervous with Jimin here. Jimin’s invincible. He doesn’t care. And when Namjoon’s with him, he starts to feel the same, too.

“Should I-” Namjoon starts to take the jacket off, but Jimin wraps himself around him.

“Fuck no,” Jimin answers. When he’s sure Namjoon won’t move again, he gets back to work, kneading Namjoon’s ass cheeks, thumbs sneaking closer and closer. As his pinkies sweep lower, Namjoon jumps, then almost falls over the front of the bike. Jimin’s arm wraps around his waist to keep Namjoon from falling headfirst over the other side.

“This isn’t gonna work,” Jimin tuts.

Namjoon’s heart drops.

“What? No, please, please don’t, please fuck me, ride me, please,” he babbles. He turns quickly, a little panicked. He can’t bear when Jimin starts and leaves him hanging.

But when his gaze finally meets Jimin’s the man looks amused. He’s trying to bite back his smile. “Joonie, I meant the position.”

Namjoon’s blush deepens. Here he is, bent over (maybe?) his new bike begging his boyfriend to fuck him.

“Get on the bike backwards,” Jimin orders with a flip of his hand. He walks to the back of the bike, then straddles it til he’s in the seat like he’s about to go for a ride. He pats the rounded metal between the handlebars.“Come be my motorcycle, babe.”

Shit, how many times had Namjoon wished he was underneath Jimin, dreamed about being fucked on his bike? He almost trips trying to get out of his pants. Jimin offers his hand like a gentleman, helping Namjoon sit in front of him.

It’s not until he’s there, hands braced behind him on the extended handles, that he realizes how exposed he is. His pants are on the ground, his legs are tucked by his ass, hard cock dripping and on display.

And he can tell Jimin loves it. He runs his hands over Namjoon’s inner thighs before he takes his cock, stroking slowly. Namjoon shyly stares at Jimin’s own crotch, still clothed.

“Think you can handle this?” Jimin asks, reaching into his jacket pocket. Namjoon’s not even surprised when he pulls out a bottle of lube.

“Of course,” Namjoon mumbles.

“I mean the position, babe,” Jimin titters. Namjoon leans back onto his hands a bit more. He’s strong, despite his soft exterior. He nods.

“Good boy,” Jimin hums. He takes one of Namjoon’s feet, gently guiding it off the bike and into the air. Namjoon bites his lip, the cold breeze heightening his vulnerability.

Jimin kisses at Namjoon’s shin, undoing his own pants. Namjoon zeros in on the senses. Wet lips and gentle fingers, the sound of his zipper and the shuffle of fabric as he pulls out his cock, the scent of poplar and oak.

“You good?” Jimin asks. His voice is close. Namjoon didn’t realize he’s closed his eyes. Jimin’s eyes bore into his own, concern filtering through his pupils. Namjoon melts. It’s a look he’s only ever seen for him, and no one else.

He nods. “Please.”

Begging. He always gets here. Always more desperate for it. Always begging for Jimin’s cock. And Jimin always sits there like he does now, lathering lube over his cock, teasing fingers doing the same to Joon’s rim. No rush.

“I’m going to take your other leg now,” Jimin says. Namjoon opens his eyes again. Jimin has both his legs in either hand. He’s dressed beside his fat cock protruding from his leather pants. He’s a sinful mess, coming closer and stretching Joon’s legs higher until the head of his cock meets his rim.

“You ready?” Jimin asks.

“Mini,” Namjoon groans. Such a fucking tease.

It stings. The push, Jimin entering him slowly without any stretching. Namjoon loves it. Loves how his body accepts Jimin so easily, how Jimin could just take him, take and take like he does in the streets, but always treats Namjoon with such tenderness. At least, in the beginning.

As he bottoms out, the stretch in his thighs has Namjoon’s eyes stinging. Jimin’s head tucks into his collarbone, trying to hide his haggard breathing.

“Fuck, it’s so hot how you just fucking take it,” Jimin rasps, rolling his hips. Namjoon can’t talk, just digs his fingers into the rubber handles. “Fucking ruin me.”

Namjoon sighs. He loves the power. Jimin takes care of him constantly, but in these moments, Namjoon relishes the power he has over him. Jimin starts to pump and pick up pace and has Namjoon whimpering as the bike shifts beneath him. Once they start, Namjoon’s in control. He has the power to ruin Jimin. Every moan has Jimin answering back, each squeeze of his muscles makes Jimin’s hips stutter. When Namjoon begs for his mouth, Jimin’s kisses are sloppy and needy.

“God, love your skin,” Jimin croons, sucking at Namjoon’s neck. He tosses Namjoon’s legs onto his shoulders so his hands can wander over his tan skin, taking fistfuls of his ass and tweaking his nipples. Namjoon’s hard cock bounces between their bodies. Jimin takes notice, giving his hands a better task. His lube soaked fingers tug at Namjoon’s length, fisting him in time with his thrusts.

“Mini,” Namjoon whimpers, no other words coming to mind. Nothing’s in his mind besides his boyfriend completely consuming him. The metal of the bike bites into his ass as Jimin sinks his teeth into his neck. His arms stretch from the angle on the bike while his thighs flex on Jimin’s shoulders. It’s so much, so good, accompanied by the breeze and the setting sun, and Namjoon can’t handle it. The beauty of it, the perfectness, the contrast.

When Jimin finds his mouth again, soft lips and wet tongue meeting Namjoon’s, he cums. Jimin’s hips stutter, hand momentarily pausing before he makes sure he works Namjoon through it. He takes care of him every time, before he breaks free, breathing heavy before he leans back and pumps hard. His eyebrows furrow, mouth forming a perfect oh as the softest grunts catch in his throat. His nails dig into Namjoon’s thighs, but the pain means nothing as Namjoon watches Jimin’s euphoria chisel into his features.

As he comes down, he collapses forward onto Namjoon. Namjoon’s legs drop to the seat behind him. It’s uncomfortable, the headlight of the bike digging between his shoulders, but he won’t move. Jimin’s tousle of pink hair fans over his chest as his boyfriend catches his breath. Namjoon takes his chance to finally touch Jimin. He runs his hands through the damp hair, over his shoulders, under his chin.

“That was such a quad workout,” Jimin chuckles.

Namjoon chuckles back, both of them rumbling with it.

Jimin perks up, tucking his chin on Namjoon’s chest. “I didn’t know you were an exhibitionist.”

Namjoon strokes his cheek, a blushing pink. Namjoon still can’t believe he’s his. “I’d be anything for you.”

Jimin’s smile falters for a second. The sly look in his eyes flickers with something warmer, something vulnerable.

But then as always, he’s giggling. He shakes his head, sitting up to get off the bike so Joon can sit up, too. “You’re such a romantic.”

Namjoon wants to press it. Press the fact that Jimin slips up sometimes. Namjoon can see it. His calm and cool exterior breaks every now and then around Namjoon. But he doesn’t. He takes his glasses out of his pockets and puts them on. He picks up his pants and pulls them back up, yelping when Jimin gives him one last swat to the ass.

“Why the glasses?” Jimin teases booping Namjoon’s nose.

“There’s no way I’m driving back after that,” Namjoon mumbles, scuffing the dirt.

Jimin laughs, falling into Namjoon’s arms. “Okay, okay.”

To Namjoon’s horror (but no longer surprised), Jimin heads straight home, not even passing the dealership. What Jimin wants, Jimin takes. And Namjoon’s so glad Jimin chose to take him.

Imma craft this into a nice big oneshot soon, so look forward to it!

#minimoni #namjoon x jimin #namjoon smut #jimin smut #hyunglinenetwork #thekimlinenet #bangtanhq #ficswithluv #namjoon #jimin #piece of peace #kitty gang #namjoonie #kitty gang jimin #mxm #fwlbingo

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alice-beaumont-ravenclaw · 4 years ago

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A/N #1: So I got a request on my main blog to write a fic using “Fluff #12 and Misc #16 (or both!!)” from this list by @honeyboychangbin a week or two ago. Now, writing a regular fic takes time (way more time than a musical fic), and I obviously had to come up with something using one or both of those sentence starters. I went for both. This fic is actually actually part of my “A Week at Penny’s” series (Part 1 | Part 2). Also, two songs kinda inspired me while I was writing: “LDN” by Lily Allen and “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” by Cyndi Lauper.

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After the traumatic night they had experienced, Alice, Rowan, and Penny woke up with bags under their eyes. Ben and Tonks were already with the rest of Penny’s family eating breakfast.

“Took you long enough to wake up,” said Tonks between two bites of her toast.

“Wonder why,” replied Penny as she glared at Tonks along with the other two girls.

“Oh… Right…” replied Tonks, flustered, as she remembered what had happened the previous night.

“I had a very weird dream last night,” said Ben, eating his cereal, as the other girls took their seat around the table. “Filch had the body of a teenage girl…”

“Keep telling yourself it was a dream,” muttered Penny, still glaring at Tonks, who had taken a page from the newspaper to hide behind.

“What?” asked Ben, turning to Penny.

“Nothing, nothing,” said Alice before Penny could reply. “Anyway, what are the plans for today?”

“I don’t know… Maybe we could visit a neighbourhood in London?” suggested Penny.

“You don’t say! I thought we would visit a neighbourhood in Glasgow,” said Tonks, her mouth full of bread and jam.

“You could use the Floo powder if you want to,” offered Penny’s mother.

“It’s ok, Mum. Nymphadora was just being sarcastic,” said Penny, smirking as she noticed Tonks scowling.

“Ok, dear. Well, I’m off to do some shopping with Beatrice. See you this evening,” said Penny’s mother as she left the flat with Beatrice.

“So, where should we go?” asked Penny.

“What about the British Museum?” suggested Rowan. “I’ve always wanted to see the Rosetta Stone!”

“Oh, please, no! Not a stuffy museum. We do enough learning during our time at Hogwarts, I just want to have some fun during the summer!” exclaimed Tonks.

“Come on, Rowan, there’s gotta be a neighbourhood in London you want to see?” asked Alice to her best friend. “And don’t say the neighbourhood of the British Museum,” added Alice as she noticed Rowan was about to say something before closing her mouth again.

“What about Camden? I heard it’s really edgy and there are loads of vintage clothes available that are dirt cheap!” suggested Tonks.

“Camden? I don’t know… Not really the safest area in London,” replied Ben.

“Camden? The British Museum is in the Borough of Camden,” chimed in Rowan.

“Yeah, but I think Tonks meant Camden Town, not the entire borough. The British Museum is in Bloomsbury,” explained Alice. “I think Camden Town would be fun. It would give me a reason to wear the Doc Martens Andre gave me for my birthday. I can’t really see myself walking around Chelsea with them.”

“But I heard there are drug dealers hanging outside the station,” said Ben.

“Ben, they won’t force you to buy anything, if they approach you at all,” reassured Penny, patting his hand.

“Not to mention my pink hair will fit right in,” chimed in Tonks, tousling her hair.

“I don’t know…” said Rowan, rubbing her arm as she looked away, worried.

“Awww, come on, Rowan. There are second-hand bookstalls…” said Alice, wiggling her eyebrows.

Rowan’s eyes lit up at the mention of books. “Really? Why didn’t you say that sooner?”

Alice shrugged before looking at all her friends. “So, what do you guys say? Are you ready for a fun day in Camden Town?”

Everyone slowly turned to look at Ben, who looked defeated. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice…”

“That’s the spirit,” exclaimed Tonks, slapping Ben on the back.

Once they were done eating breakfast, the girls went back to Penny’s room to get ready while Ben headed to the bathroom. Rowan and Ben were the first two ready and they waited for the others in the living room.

“What is taking so long?” asked Ben, looking at his watch.

“Well, they were styling Alice’s hair into two buns at the top of her head before I came here, and I did hear Tonks say something about makeup, though Alice didn’t seem too keen…” started saying Rowan before being interrupted by a scream coming from Penny’s bedroom.

“YOU SAID TO BE HONEST! STOP HITTING ME!” they heard Tonks shouting.

Penny popped her head in the living room, her hair in a high half ponytail, looking slightly embarrassed. “Won’t be much longer now. Just need to remove the makeup from Alice’s face…” As she walked away, Rowan heard her mumbling under her breath: “Tonks will definitely not become a makeup artist…”

Ten minutes later, the three girls arrived in the living room, all dressed up for Camden. Penny was wearing a denim miniskirt, with an off-the-shoulder neon top, paired with loose leg warmers and white sneakers. Tonks’ look was going for punk. She was wearing a Queens t-shirt, ripped denim shorts, fishnet stockings, and heavy-duty boots. She was also sporting a heavy dose of dark eyeshadow and black eyeliner. As for Alice, she was wearing a Beatles t-shirt, a slightly ripped pair of denim shorts, her Doc Marten boots in which Minnie Mouse socks were peeking out of. She also had a black and blue oversized checked flannel shirt tied around her waist.

“What the… Tonks, are you going to a costume party?” asked Rowan, staring at her friend.

“What? No! I just want to look like someone who hangs out in Camden all the time.”

“You look more like a tourist trying to pass off as a local,” pointed out Alice.

“And you look like a Sloane Ranger trying to pass off as edgy,” retorted Tonks.

“Ok, you two, we don’t need another argument like with Mario and Cluedo. Let’s get a move on, otherwise, we’ll be in Camden next year,” said Penny as she pushed Alice and Tonks toward the door, followed by Rowan and Ben.

They headed toward Highgate Station. As they waited for the tube on the platform, Tonks took out a little mirror from her pocket and started to frown as she looked at her reflection.

“I think I overdid it on the eyeshadow,” said Tonks.

“You think?” replied Penny, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s not the only thing you overdid,” muttered Alice as she handed Tonks a tissue.

“Thanks,” grumbled Tonks, taking the tissue and trying to rub off the eyeshadow. Unfortunately, she handed up looking more like a raccoon than anything else. “Ugh! If only I could use Scourgify!”

“We are not allowed to use magic outside of school. Remember, we have the Trace,” reminded Rowan.

“More like the Curse if you ask me,” grumbled Tonks as Alice handed her a pair of sunglasses.

“I’m sure there’s a Boots in Camden where we can get our hands on some make-up remover,” said Alice as the train arrived.

“People keep make-up remover in their boots?” asked Tonks, but no one heard her due to the train.

They embarked on the train, and, four stations and some escalators later, found themselves outside Camden Town Station.

“So… Do I ask some random person wearing boots for some makeup remover?” asked Tonks looking around at the passersby.

“What? No! Boots is the name of a store! Really, Tonks, do you think Muggles keep various products in their boots,” said Penny, rolling her eyes.

“I don’t know! I literally just saw one take out a little bag of pills from his boots and handing it to someone,” said Tonks, pointing toward a shady looking man near the station’s entrance.

“Eeek! Drug dealer!” exclaimed Ben before running toward the Boots.

“Tonks! Don’t point!” whispered Alice as she pulled Tonks’ arm down. As she glanced behind her, she noticed the strange man staring at them. “Ok. Everyone, just act normal and let’s walk quickly to Boots.”

Once inside Boots, Alice went to buy makeup remover while Penny was busy reassuring Ben and admonishing Tonks for her behaviour.

“It’s not that it’s a particularly dangerous neighbourhood, but please don’t point at people doing strange stuff. They can be quite unpredictable.”

“I knew we should have gone to the British Museum,” grumbled Rowan.

“It would be much safer,” agreed Ben.

“Penny already said it. Camden isn’t dangerous, but, like anywhere else in London, there are some unsavoury characters that are better left unprovoked,” explained Alice as she was putting her wallet back in her bag. “Now, let’s go out and enjoy our day, okay?” she added as she poured some make-up remover on a tissue and started getting the makeup off of Tonks’ eyes.

Once Tonks didn’t look like a raccoon anymore, they made their way toward Camden Market. Rowan and Alice stopped at a secondhand bookstall, while Tonks made a beeline to a vintage clothing store. Penny looked at the various crafts being sold while Ben stayed close to her. Eventually, they all joined up at the store where Tonks was, as she was still busy trying on clothes. The store’s employee seemed vaguely annoyed by all the clothes piling up in front of her fitting room.

“He’s so gorgeous, I think I’m gonna faint,” whispered Penny to Alice as she looked at the employee with a smile.

“Really?” replied Alice, only briefly glancing at him as she kept looking at clothes flying out of Tonks’ fitting room.

“Too bad there aren’t any guys like that at Hogwarts,” whispered Penny with a gleam in her eyes.

“That’s because they graduated. That guy is old. He’s probably, like, 20?” said Alice before returning her attention to Tonks. “Tonks! Are you going to choose something or are you trying to try every piece of clothing in the store?”

“Oh! I already picked what I want to buy for myself. Now, I’m trying to find some clothes that will traumatize Andre. His reactions anytime someone wears something he considers unfashionable are priceless!” explained Tonks, popping her head from behind the curtain.

Alice looked at her for a moment, remembering all the times Andre had judged her outfits, including the time he threw the September issue of Vogue at her and it landed on her head. “Take your time.”

With that, Tonks took twenty more minutes of trying on clothes, before making her final selection and buying it. Alice and Penny also convinced Ben to buy a t-shirt that looked good on him and Rowan had gone and bought a bagful of books. They then headed off to eat lunch at a fish and chip shop.

After lunch, they explored a bit more of the market and walked down Chalk Farm Road. Alice had placed some of the books Rowan had bought in her Boots bag as it was getting a bit heavy for Rowan to carry everything she had bought. Penny kept an eye on Ben who was very far from his comfort zone. The people he saw in Camden were miles away from what he was used to seeing in his town. Hairs of multiple colours, clothes with holes in them, ostentatious makeup, piercings in places other than ears, tattoos. Tonks looked perfectly normal compared to everything he was seeing. To the local crowd of Camden, Tonks did look like a tourist trying to pass off as local, just like Alice had said. As for Alice, Tonks was right. She mostly looked like a well-to-do girl having a slightly rebellious phase. Unfortunately, said phase wasn’t rebellious enough to let Tonks get a tattoo, as Rowan witnessed Alice dragging Tonks out of a tattoo parlour while she waited for Penny outside a vintage store.

“Awww, come on! I would look so cool with a tattoo!” complained Tonks as Alice pulled her out by the collar.

“You are 14, Nymphadora!”

“Don’t call me that! And I’m sure Tulip would approve!”

“Yeah, because little Miss Dungbomb is a paragon of reasonability… Anyway, can’t you make a tattoo appear on yourself with your whole Metamorphmagus abilities?”

Tonks stopped dead in her tracks, staring at Alice, blinking. Alice stared back for a moment before her eyes widened just as a smile was spreading across Tonks’ face.

“Oh no…”

“Thanks, mate! I never thought of that!” exclaimed Tonks, as she stared at her arm and started to concentrate.

“Wait! Not here! Muggles could see you,” whispered Alice between her clenched teeth as she grabbed Tonks forearm and dragged her inside the vintage store where Penny was.

“Please don’t tell me she plans on buying more clothes,” said Penny as she saw Tonks enter.

“No, I had to get her away from prying eyes while she was trying to give herself a tattoo,” said Alice loud enough for the store clerk to hear. She stared at her. She stared back, suddenly realizing how odd it sounded. “With a Sharpie,” added Alice before letting out a nervous laugh.

The clerk just raised an eyebrow before returning to what she was doing.

“That was a closed one… But how did she get the idea?” whispered Penny.

“Well…” Alice started, looking away.

“Alice…” said Penny, pursing her lips.

“I might have pointed out she didn’t need to go to a tattoo parlour to get a tattoo, her being a Metamorphmagus and all,” whispered Alice.

“Oh, Alice…” started saying Penny, pinching the bridge of her nose, before being interrupted by Tonks who was proudly showing her right wrist.

“Look! I gave myself a tattoo!” she exclaimed, resulting in the store clerk to stare at them again.

“What the… A duck?!” said Alice, too startled to notice the clerk staring.

“Why would you give yourself a duck?” asked Penny, also staring.

“I don’t know… It’s the first thing that came to mind…” grumbled Tonks.

“Woah! You got mad skills with a Sharpie!” exclaimed the store clerk as she looked over Penny’s shoulder.

“GAH!” let out Alice, startled. Merlin, they would be sent to Azkaban for breaking the Statute of Secrecy just because Tonks gave herself a duck tattoo!

“A Sharpie?” asked Tonks, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh. Ummmm… You know, a permanent marker. Sorry, she’s really bad with brand names. Now, Alice, why don’t you take Tonks outside where Rowan is, while I pay for this shirt,” said Penny as she pushed her two friends towards the exit.

“Don’t forget your friend who’s hiding in the fitting room,” said the clerk, pointing at the closed fitting room from which you could see Ben’s sneakers peeking out from under the curtain.

A few moments later, Penny exited the store, holding a small bag as well as Ben’s arm.

“Ok, I think we can call it a day because I don’t think Ben can last any longer,” said Penny, glancing at Ben’s pale face.

“Sounds good to me,” said Alice, letting out a sigh of relief. Watching over Tonks in the Muggle world could be a handful.

They made their way back to Camden Town Station, where the drug dealer from earlier still was. As they passed him, they all avoided eye contact, except for Tonks, who waved at him, showing off her duck tattoo in the process. Once inside the station, they made their way to the platform but had to stop Ben from getting on a train heading in the wrong direction, as he was in such a hurry to leave Camden, he didn’t notice it was heading toward Edgware instead of High Barnet.

When they finally returned to Penny’s flat, Penny and Alice let themselves fall on the couch, looking tired. As Rowan went to drop her books in the bedroom, and Tonks and Ben settled down with Alice and Penny, Penny’s mother inquired about their day as she was preparing dinner in the kitchen. The two London natives looked at each other before saying: “It was… interesting.”

“I got a duck tattoo!” exclaimed Tonks.

Penny’s father looked up from his newspaper in astonishment, staring straight at the tattoo.

---------

A/N #2: First, here’s Alice’s outfit. Second, I feel like the quality of this fic is a bit of a rollercoaster. There were moments where I would be inspired and then, nothing, but the fic was far from being finished. Writing about wizards in the Muggle world is fun, but that story was coming to me in blurbs and music sequences. Oh, and this takes place in during the summer before their 4th year, hence why Ben is scared of everything.

#hphm fanfic #hogwarts mystery fanfic #hphm mc #hogwarts mystery mc #jacob’s sibling #alice beaumont #penny haywood #rowan khanna #nymphadora tonks #ben copper #beatrice haywood #request #camden #london

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heartofsnark · 5 years ago

Text

Black Market Wonderland (Chapter Ten): The Fire It Ignites

Notes: Holo, here’s some Tsuneko for y’all. This chapter is honestly one of my faves so far.

Word Count: 7290

Warnings: POV changes; men being perverts? that's about it.

Missed the last chapter? Link Here!

Another day over, another day closer to the end of the bet. Tomorrow is the auction. Her throat tightens and her stomach churns at the thought. She hasn’t seen Hachirou around since last night and with any luck he won’t be around anymore for a while. Especially, with the auction right around the corner, thoughts of Hachirou taking her place in that cage, nearly makes her puke when she’s making a bed. Her pager buzzes after she drops Anais off at her parent’s suite for lunch.

“Bring Kishi to the auction hall.”

“Huh?”

“Five Minutes.”

His voice cuts out and she pinches the bridge of her nose, of course he didn’t even tell her where Kishi is. Not that it’s a real mystery, he doesn’t exactly move a lot. He’s either up in the penthouse sleeping or smoking outside the hotel. She’s closer to the penthouse, so that’s her first choice. Her face falls the second she reaches the empty penthouse lounge. Literally, any other day he’d be napping on the couch. But, of course, not today.

“Kishi!”

Her voice echoes in the empty room, the only noise before she groans. If she looks out a window and he’s smoking by the dumpsters, she’s spitting on his head. He should know if they need to talk to him about something, he shouldn’t need a recovery team. Following her next guess, other than dumpster smoking, she makes her way to his suite.

The familiar heavy smell of cigarettes hits her when she steps into the room, he’s not sleeping in the living room. Given his penchant for passing out on the couch, she was hoping he’d be there. She has no desire to go into his bedroom, obviously she’s been in there multiple times to clean, without him present. There’s just something odd about being in someone’s bedroom with them, like she’s crossing a boundary. The idea of someone she doesn’t know well in her bedroom makes her prickly, so she figures that must go for everyone.

Tsuneko presses her ear to the bedroom door, she doesn’t expect to hear much through the wood, but there’s a steady snore. He’s sleeping, because of course he is. It’s the middle of the afternoon and he’s got somewhere to be, so, he’s sleeping. He calls her a child but pulls this kind of shit.

“Hey,” she knocks hard enough to shake the door, “get up!”

There’s nothing but the same steady snore when she listens closely. No muffled words, no rustle of movement, she might as well stay quiet for how much good it did. She’s going to kill him, who sleeps that heavily. He never seemed to be that deep of a sleeper when he was passed out in the lounge, he never even snored when he was in there. She pounds her fists against the door again.

“You got until the count of three to get your ass up or else!”

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She kicks the door in frustration, Ichinomiya sure likes making her do the nearly impossible. Waking Kishi up in five minutes is like trying to nail Jell-O to a tree.

“One! Two! Are you fucking serious? Three!”

She pushes the door open, letting it bang against the wall, hoping any noise might stir him. Kishi is sprawled out in his bed, tangled in half strewn sheets. Without the door filtering it, his snore is like a buzz saw going off in her skull. She’s half tempted to pinch his nose shut, to see if that’d stop it and wake him up. But there’s drool smeared down his chin and she’d rather die than risk touching his slobbers.

“Gross.”

She wrinkles her nose up at the sight of him, she’s never seen him out of his usual rumpled monochrome suits, now he’s in a baggy shirt and sweatpants. That looks stained. She kicks the side of his bed; his snoring cuts off for a moment as he flops around. His shirt rolling up to show his hairy stomach before his chainsaw snoring starts back up.

“Gross.”

There’s something even more weird about standing over him, while he’s sleeping. More reason for him to wake the fuck up. She really doesn’t want to touch him, at all.

“Wake up!” She screams, right near his nasty face. He’s not even almost fazed, this guy could sleep through a hurricane. Tsuneko chews her lip, contemplating what to do.

She’s in the kitchen of his suite within the next moment, yanking open the freezer. Ice buckets come standard with most rooms. Sure enough, the silver bucket is there, still piled high with ice. Kishi doesn’t strike her as a chilling wine sort of guy, so she's not shocked it’s never been used. But it ought to do the trick.

It takes both of her hands to pack it, the cold metal stinging and chilling her skin. She brings it into his room, sure enough; he’s still snoozing away. A grin pulls at her lips before she dumps the ice bucket onto him.

“Ah, fuck!” Kishi is up like a shot, smacking ice off as he flops off the bed.

“PFFFT,” she sputters and bursts out laughing, holding her stomach as she cracks up.

“What the hell is going on?!” He yells in a sleep leaden voice as he shakes ice out of his shirt.

“Ichinomiya,” she manages through her giggles, “told me to get you.”

“So, ya threw ice on me!?

“You wouldn’t wake up!”

He rubs a hand down his face, he’s shivering and there's a bit of water where the ice has melted against his skin. A groan leaves the back of his throat and he looks at the alarm clock on the bedside table, why does he even have that? That’s like buying a cat tower for a goldfish.

“It’s that damn auction meeting,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, that’s kind of important.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He grabs the back of his shirt and starts to yank it over his head.

“Hey! At least wait until I’m out of the room!”

She flusters to turn her back to him, not wanting to see Kishi without his clothes. It’s bad enough she was forced to endure Oh’s peepshow the first night.

“Pfff, no need to get your panties in a twist, not interested in kids,” he comments just as she starts to the door.

“Good, I’m not interested in seeing your nasty old man body!”

“Hey!” He yells after her as she leaves the room, shutting the bedroom door behind her.

She grimaces, even the idea that she’d want him to be interested in her or whatever he was suggesting is so gross. As far as the men who bought her goes, Kishi isn’t the worst of the bunch, but that’s a low bar. And he’s definitely not someone she’d be interested in.

Ichinomiya seemed to be implying he wants her there as well which makes sense, given she’s being forced to participate in this stupid auction. So, she waits outside the door for Kishi to finish changing, playing on her phone. She’s barely opened an app before he’s leaving the room in a wrinkled suit.

“You still here?”

“I’m pretty sure he wants me there too, besides I don’t trust you not to wander off and go nap somewhere.”

He gives a halfhearted shrug, halfheartedly admitting to his own incompetence. Tsuneko rolls her eyes before following him out of the suite, making a mental note that she’ll have to clean up the melted ice later. She leans against the elevator wall and pulls out her phone again, while Kishi punches in the floor they’re going to.

“I still have fucking water in my hair,” he grumbles and shoots her a glare.

“Then you should have dried it, dumbass.”

“You wanna hear more of Eisuke’s bitching about us being late?” Kishi pulls a cigarette out of his pack and starts to light it.

“What the,” she snatches it from his lips, “you are not smoking in this elevator!”

“Hey, what’s the big deal?!”

“It’s bad enough I get secondhand smoke just looking at you, you’re not trapping me in a cancer box, too.”

“Don’t boss adults around.”

“Then don’t act like a child.”

“I’m not the kid here.” He pokes his finger at her chubby cheek and she tries to bite him, just barely missing his finger as he pulls it away.

“At least I act like an adult, you look ninety but act like you’re twelve.”

“’Cause trying to bite me was real mature.”

“Shut up!” She kicks him in the shin, why is he such an asshole?!

“Ow, you little brat!”

The elevators comes to it’s stop just as he levels a glare at her, so she rushes out as soon as the doors open, trying not to laugh. It’s childish, stupid, and does nothing to convince anyone she’s a responsible adult, but he deserved that kick.

Ichinomiya said the auction hall, she knows where the stage and auction is, but that doesn’t seem like where they’d be meeting. Are they just loitering on the stage? Tsuneko is starting to look around the theater seats when there’s a sharp tug on the neck of her uniform, yanking her backwards.

“Eagh!” She chokes and sputters at the fabric pulled taught around her throat, craning her neck to see Kishi dragging her towards a flight of stairs.

“C’mon, ya fucking brat.”

She tries to cough out a response as she’s dragged by the scruff of the neck, but she can’t manage to. He drags her up a flight of stairs that goes up to balcony seating, where she sees the rest of the auction managers lounging around red velvet furniture. There are royal purple curtains pulled back to view the stage.

“That’s no way to handle a woman, Kishi,” Baba admonishes him with a look of concern as Tsuneko struggles.

“You’re late.”

“She threw ice on me,” Kishi lets her go with a slight shove, “and kicked me.”

“And I tried to bite you,” she adds in as she adjusts her uniform, making her way to the railing of the balcony.

There’s a wonderful view of the stage, she can almost envision how she looked in her cage from here, a chill creeps up her spine. She shakes it off and turns away, pulling herself up to sit on the railing while she listens in on their meeting.

“Wasting everyone’s time as usual.”

“What did you say?” Kishi narrows his eyes at Oh, it seems like they’re always picking a fight with each other.

“You heard me.”

“Knock it off!” Ichinomiya cuts off the bickering before it gets out of hand.

“We’re still waiting on Maddy anyway.”

Kisaki makes a scoff of disgust at the mention of the Hatter and Tsuneko imagines throwing him over the railing, what is his problem? As if on cue, the Mad Hatter makes his way in, bright painted smile stretched across his face.

“Hello, how are you all this lovely day?”

“Worse now that you’re here.”

“There you go with your jokes, again, Mr. Kisaki! Hehe~”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Maddy, haven’t you Tsuneko?”

Baba moves closer to her perch on the railing as he asks his question, his hand lingering close to her lower back, the heat there but no direct touch. It’s hard to discern if he’s trying to get closer to her ass or is preparing to catch her if she falls off the railing. Or both.

“Yeah.”

She shrugs her shoulders and scoots a little further over, careful to keep her balance. Baba’s eyes widen for a moment, incredulous, as if he can’t believe she would ever be able to stand a day with the Hatter. Imagine if they knew she’s spent a night in Wonderland, in the weirdly already prepared bedroom.

“About the item list,” Ichinomiya redirects everyone’s attention back to the business at hand.

“Ah, yes, I’ve inspected all the pieces for the auction.”

“I got some great pieces this time, didn’t I?” Baba says with a bright smile, pride sparkling in his brown eyes.

“Yes, quite I got goosebumps!”

“Your presentation determines how much they sell for, I’m counting on you.”

“Leave it to me, good sir.”

Tsuneko resists the urge to scoff at Baba being called good sir, while the Hatter bows dramatically with a hand to his chest. Is she going to be expected to act like that in the Alice costume? She doesn’t even want to think about it, everything about that ordeal makes her nauseous. Ichinomiya clears his throat, bringing the focus back on him.

“Of course, Mr. Ichinomiya. Item number one is a female mummy clad in traditional dress, she was discovered in the desert during the thirteenth century.”

“Sounds like a regular mummy, nothing rare about that.”

“Ah, but she’s not just a regular mummy, she’s the key to unlocking the mysteries of an ancient Egyptian civilization.”

Ichinomiya bites his lip and gears seem to be turning in his head, before the Hatter continues.

“She was poisoned to death after learning secrets about the royal family.”

“Fine, put it in the lineup,” Ichinomiya agrees, showing the first modicum of compromise since she’s met him.

“Wait,” her head shoots up and Baba presses a hand to her back to keep her from falling, “you haven’t even finalized the item list?!”

Ichinomiya's eyes land on her, sharp and cold, almost daring her to keep interrupting.

“Why the hell did Oh give me three thousand pages to memorize if some of the items might not even be sold!? Now, I have useless garbage in my head!”

“You should be used to that.” A smirk tugs at the corner of Oh’s lips, he was fucking with her!

“I swear to god, you son of a, ahh-” she starts to try to climb off the railing, but Baba has a hold of the back of her uniform, so she swings her leg out instead, “you’re lucky my legs are too short to kick your ass from here!”

Kishi and Kisaki are cackling, pissing her off even more. Baba is just trying to keep her from flailing off the balcony. Ichinomiya is smirking and the Hatter seems to be a second away from laughing himself, she’s not entertainment for these assholes.

“I’m terrified.” Oh rolls his eyes, not even bothering to look at her.

“I’m gonna put my foot up your ass, you fuck-”

“Enough.”

Ichinomiya stops the second fight of the meeting and Tsuneko bites down harsh on her lip as anger settles in her stomach. On the bright side, her anxiety over the auction and stage has been burned away by rage.

“Continue,” he prompts the Hatter.

“Ah yes, item number two is hair, footprints, and scale impressions of an undiscovered mythical creature.”

“There’s not anyone dumb enough to buy that, is there?” The moment the first word leaves her mouth, Ichinomiya is glaring at her.

“Actually, I’ve heard is that the leader of the Jade Thorns was interested.” Oh almost seems ashamed that someone from his world would want bigfoot ‘evidence.’

“It’s a very large creature, as it’s footprints measure twenty-two by five inches. It’s body length is nearly ten feet and the hair sample is six and a half feet long.”

“So, there’s a bigfoot hunting mobster out there?”

“He’d pay high dollar for it, it stays.”

Tsuneko shakes her head, they’re selling some mobster fake footprints and nasty long hair. It’s ridiculous, but if he’s dumb enough to buy it then there’s no cure for being a sucker. The Hatter continues prattling off each item and it’s details, letting Ichinomiya keep or veto each one mentioned. Sometimes the Hatter makes a case for them, usually ending with Ichinomiya agreeing, and other times he agrees with the rejection. By the end of the excruciatingly long list, there’s only a few items decided not to be kept. So, it probably wasn’t a complete waste to memorize the entire list.

“I’d like to start the auction with the painting ‘The Weaver’, you appraised it?” Ichinomiya eyes flicker towards Kisaki.

“Yeah it’s real, Baba managed not to grab any fakes this time.”

“That’s only happened a few times and, in my defense, they were really well done.”

“You’re going senile.”

“I’d like to then follow that with the Duchess’ Bracelet.”

“Yes…but what did you think of introducing the ‘Box of Five-Hundred Pearls’ in between those items? Like a sorbet to cleanse the palate between courses.”

Tsuneko is too poor to even begin to understand what that’s supposed to mean, but the slight nod of Ichinomiya’s head tells her it’s good.

“Not a bad idea.”

“Let’s move on to the second half of the auction.”

“Why don’t we change the theme entirely?”

“So, the mermaid and mummy, then?”

“Yes! No one will be predicting those two items, I’m sure the audience will be delighted. Also, I was thinking about the ‘Pharaoh’s Sarcophagus’ for our showcase item. What do you think?”

“Yes, let’s go with that.”

They continue to prattle and hash things out, figuring out the order of items. Tsuneko makes notes on her phone, something else to study later, fantastic.

“What about security?’

“My men didn’t see anything of concern when they were bringing the items in, I’ve made sure all my men’s full attention will be on the auction tomorrow,” Oh tells him.

“What about the police?”

“Just as clueless as they were last time,” Kishi grumbles, “everyone is caught up in some drug bust.”

“Well, if everything is decided then-”

“Wait, Maddy, I was wondering something.” Baba stops him from scurrying off, the Hatter tilts his head.

“What is it?”

“How have things been going with Tsuneko, next to boss you get to spend the most alone time with her.”

“Oh, it’s been going wonderfully, I love spending time with Alice.”

“Though, I did get to see her fresh out of the shower.”

“I’m gonna gut you.”

Tsuneko shoots a glare at the winking Baba then she notices the way the Hatter’s expression has deflated and frozen. What’s wrong? She worries her lip between her teeth, the only reason he’s been going weird around her lately is when he’s been scared about her seeing him under the makeup. He was just getting out of the shower that night.

“Haha…” A forced chuckle makes its way out of the Hatter’s throat, tension floods the room, pulled tight from the out of character behavior.

“You okay, Maddy?”

“Hahaha…”

“Huh, did we break the Hatter?”

“Hahahaha…”

Tsuneko pushes herself off the railing, Baba finally letting her, she can’t just watch him freak out. She could never bring herself to hit him, probably, so instead she snaps her fingers beside his ear. His eyes go wide and he jolts, eyes then darting around the room as he realizes the tension in the room.

“Ah! Uh….I need to go prepare.”

Then he’s gone, leaving a pit in Tsuneko’s stomach. Even with the Craigslist fiasco happening, things are still awkward, he’s so scared of her even mentioning she’s seen his real face or his friend as he claimed.

“I’m gonna head back to work.”

She darts off before any of the auction managers can bother her about whatever inane bullshit they’d make up. Tsuneko returns to her work, but she finds herself constantly checking the time, dreading every minute that passes. She tries to stay engaged with her conversations with Anais, but the time feels like it’s creeping up on her.

Tomorrow is the auction; she’ll have to be on that stage again. She hates it. Absolutely hates it. She drops Anais off a little earlier than necessary, not wanting the young girl to worry about the way the color keeps draining from Tsuneko’s face. Every thought of stepping onto that stage feels like she’s pushed right back into that cage. She finishes her shift by cleaning up the penthouse, thanking whatever gods may be listening that none of them are there to see the way her hands are shaking.

Her shift is over, the day nearing its end. She’s changed out of her uniform and is fiddling with the good luck talisman as she takes slow deliberate steps towards the auction hall. She has to push past this. If not, she’s going to have a full-scale meltdown in front of hundreds of people which is not an option.

She reaches the door that leads backstage, all she has to do is open the door and step through. Her fingers twitch and clench around the charm, yep, just has to open the door. She runs a hand through her hair, untangling a knot her fingers catch on. Just has to open the door…She kicks the door, like that will help.

“Shit!” A voice calls out from behind the door and she hears a rustling sound, what the fuck?

Tsuneko pushes open the door with a slam and rushes out onto into the backstage, seeing a glimmer of someone running out to the main stage. She runs after them, just catching them fumbling to jump off the stage. Her blood goes cold. Sprawled between the rows of velvet chairs, just a short distance from the stage is Hachirou, the familiar head of messy auburn hair and green gold eyes. He freezes looking up at her.

“What the hell are you doing?” She marches across the stage and hops down from it, landing herself in front of him.

“I was….uh, just…” He struggles to answer as he climbs to his feet.

“Why the hell are you even here?”

“I was just looking around… What is this place for?”

“None of your business.”

The double doors that the audiences use start to push open and Tsuneko tackles Hachirou to the ground between two rows of chairs, hiding them from immediate view. Oh’s men are providing security with the I.V.C and the auction, she figured they’d be patrolling the floors around the hall and storage where the items are. She has an actual reason to be here, Hachirou does not.

Tsuneko presses a hand tight over his mouth, not letting another noise escape his mouth. Her body is over top of his, her weight on him, their noses practically touching. His body is lean and thin under her, she wonders if she should shift, fearful she might be crushing his small frame.

“Is anything in there?” A rough voice echoes through the auditorium.

“Not that I see, but I definitely heard something.”

Footsteps click down the aisles, growing louder and louder, closer and closer.

“Eh, it’s a big room, when there’s no auction going on every little sound echoes.”

“You’re probably right, I don’t see anything.”

The footsteps halt then slowly fade as the men agree to leave the room be. She hears the doors shut again and counts to three before climbing off of Hachirou and pulling him up to his feet, there’s a faint flush to his cheeks.

“C’mon we gotta go, dumbass.”

She grabs a hold of his shirt sleeve and drags him from the auditorium. Her eyes dart back and forth as they cut a path to the back exit, speeding up every time she there’s a sign of one of Oh’s men. An echo of steps, the muttering of voices, every little thing sends her reeling. If they catch him, he could get seriously hurt, especially so close to the auction. They bought her and she made the bet, which created some sort of buffer in the end. But, Oh was going to kill her before that. She runs faster, she needs to get him out of here.

Mamoru lets out a puff of smoke from his cigarette, gray fumes fading into the night air. There’s the familiar little headrush and the taste of nicotine heavy on his tongue as he relaxes against the Tres Spades, the grimy dumpsters just a few feet away as he enjoys the quiet.

The back doors swing open suddenly, nearly smashing into him, before he sees two people rush out. One familiar and one new. There’s some red-haired guy he's never seen before and the maid Eisuke has the bet with, Tsuki…Tsuru…something…They’re both panting, and their faces are flushed red like they’ve run a marathon, her hand is pulling at the guy’s sleeve.

“What the hell were you thinking!?” She spins around to screech at the boy, she’s always yelling about something and being a pain in the ass.

“I was curious!” He tries to defend himself, why the hell was he in the hotel?

“That’s not a fucking excuse, do you have any idea how much trouble you could have gotten into?! If it,” she’s gesturing wildly and she seems to finally notice Mamoru is there, “are you fucking kidding me?! Of course, of fucking course you’re here right now, fucking hell!”

As usual, she doesn’t even have the decency to pretend she’s happy to see anyone. He heaves a sigh; he doesn’t want to be bothered with whatever this is. It’s bad enough one annoying kid has been dragged into his life, but if this new one is poking around the auctions and if something goes sideways, it’s just going to be a bigger headache

“What’s goin’ on?” He slurs his question out around a cigarette.

“Oh, uh, I-” The scrawny boy stutters and fumbles over what to say.

“Officer Kishi,” she emphasizes his title with a stern voice, “would you mind telling him how his ass can be thrown in jail for trespassing if he were caught sneaking around the hotel basement?”

The guy’s face goes stark white at the realization that technically Mamoru is a cop, but as long as it doesn’t bite him in the ass too hard, he can’t say he really cares.

“Ain’t got nothing to do with me.” He shrugs, taking another inhale of smoke and the maid’s face goes bright red. There’s practically a vein throbbing in her forehead.

“Are you fucking kidding me?! Would it have killed you to help me for five fucking seconds?!”

“Look, I’m sorry okay, I just-” A loud growling and gurgling noise comes from the boy’s stomach and his face flushes red again. The pair of them are really just kids.

Tension drains from the maid’s face, a sputter of a laugh and a soft smile pulling at her lips. Her smiles are few and far between, it’s not bad seeing them. She ought to relax more, kids should be happy…not that it’s any of his business.

“You hungry?” She asks, that smile directed at the stranger. He can’t think of a time that it’s ever been directed at him or any of the other auction managers.

“Uh, I mean, I’ve only really ate some instant ramen for the past, um, week.” He scratches the back of his head, face flushed.

“Christ,” she rubs a hand down her face, and he can already see the gears turning in her head, there’s nowhere open or that delivers at this hour, “is that why you’re rail thin? C’mon, dumbass, I’ll at least let you eat while I lecture you.”

She starts to pull the guy towards the employee dorms, she’s not seriously going to let this man into her apartment, is she? Even if he’s a runt, he’s still a guy and one she doesn’t know well. Naïve can’t even begin to describe it, all he can liken it to is a toddler shoving their hand on a burning stove, everyone else able to see the potential danger but they don’t get it.

“Y’know if you feed strays they’ll just keep comin’ back.”

“Haha, you’re hilarious.”

She rolls her eyes and the pair continue on their way, Mamoru’s following after them, feet moving before he knows it. They’ve reached the door before she realizes he’s tagging along, she narrows her eyes at him, no hint of the smile from earlier.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“You gonna invite him over in front of me and not invite me too? That’s kinda rude, don’t you think?”

“You’re not starving, piss off.”

She rolls her eyes and continues pulling the boy into the dorm, he follows them anyway. If something happens to her, it’s just going to be a bigger pain later. For whatever reason, Eisuke’s taken a shine to her and there’ll be hell to pay if she gets hurt. Besides, he’s not turning down a free meal. They reach her door and she lets the younger guy in before shooting Mamoru a dirty look.

“You really gonna tell me to buzz off?” She groans and rolls her eyes.

“Hurry up, before people think a homeless guy broke in.”

Stepping into her dorm, he regrets bothering with this, it’s no place for a man. He immediately catches soft fresh smells, like flowers or something soft and girly. Everything in the place seems to be white, pastel, or has some cartoon character on it making him feel gross and dirty in comparison. Like if he breathes the wrong way, he might stain something.

The dorms aren’t tiny, but they aren’t huge either. Bigger than Mamoru’s own cheap rinky dink apartment. She shuts the door behind him, her eyes dart for a minute past the partial wall that provides some separation between her bedroom and the rest of the dorm, despite the studio apartment layout. He can just see part of a dresser. Maybe, she’s weird about people being in her bedroom, the kid is strange.

“You can only get to the bathroom through my bedroom, so you better not have to go at any point,” she grumbles before rummaging through her fridge and pantry, “I have the stuff to make ginger pork, so that better be okay.”

Mamoru plops himself in one of the pink wooden chairs at a little glass table she has near the kitchenette, a pale imitation of a dining room. The young guy is trying to look unbothered, staring off into space, but his leg is bouncing anxiously. She’s thrown on an apron as she starts to prepare food, something about it makes her seem even softer, like a housewife.

“Sounds fine to me,” the younger man mutters.

“Don’t think me cooking, gets you off the hook, Hachirou. We need to have a serious talk.”

“What are you his mom?”

“You don’t even need to be here, old man.”

“She really does act like a nagging mom, doesn’t she?” Hachirou snickers along with Mamoru.

“Do you two really wanna piss me off when I have a knife!?” She yells over her shoulder, the steady sound of her knife hitting a cutting board fills the gaps between her words.

“Look, I’m sorry okay-”

“Sorry, did you even think? Not only could you have gotten yourself locked away, I could have gotten in trouble for helping you!”

“I didn’t ask you to help me.” The chopping stops with that comment, the maid whirling around to face them, brows furrowed and eye twitching. Mamoru can’t help snickering, as long as it’s not directed at him, her short fuse is pretty funny.

“And what if I didn’t, huh? What do you think would have happened?” She walks closer, eyes harsh.

“I don’t know-”

“You would have been caught by security and you, me, and the guy in the basement would have been screwed.”

Eisuke mentioned something about the Hatter inviting strangers to his room, for some insane reason or another. That must be how Hachirou got curious about the hotel, creating a headache for everyone.

“I just wanted to know what’s going on, I didn’t hurt anyone,” Hachirou grumbles as the maid takes a seat across from her, obviously talking while she cooks wasn’t having the desired impact.

“Look, you know there are a lot of rich people at the Tres Spades, right,” she waits for a small nod, “well sometimes, rich people are fucking weird. The Hatter is really nice, but he’s strange okay. He has the money to do whatever little whim pops into his head, so he does. But, sometimes those things are stupid and dangerous, like inviting randos from the internet over. I already told the owner that everything was taken care of with it, so if it turns out that someone is sneaking around it’s going to come back on me and the Hatter, do you get that?”

“I…guess…”

“Even if you don’t care about your own wellbeing, at least worry about others, alright?”

She puts a hand on Hachirou’s shoulder, and the guy finally gives a small nod, looking like a dog that’s just been scolded. Content she finds her way back over the makeshift kitchen and starts cooking again. The smell of ginger pork starts to spread through the dorm and Mamoru can feel his stomach growling.

He’s not a picky eater, not by any right, but home cooked traditional Japanese food is always better than the professional made stuff they serve at the hotel. The smell alone is enough to make him drool and think of days when his mom would cook the same dish, making the unfamiliar apartment feel cozier in a sense. He finds his eyes continuously drawn to the maid, Tsu…whatever.

Everything about her has screamed child to him, since he first saw her, she’s nothing short of a brat with the way she pouts, throws tantrums, and never seems to shut up. A kid in almost every single way he can think of, but right now… Mamoru isn’t blind, if it wasn’t for her personality, she’d be real cute. And right now, as she works over the stove, apron tied around her, with her hair in a messy ponytail, and her soft features screwed up in concentration…that brattiness doesn’t shine through quite as much.

She shuts off the shove and plates the food, untying her apron and putting it aside before she brings the food to the table to hand over to him and Hachirou then sits down herself.

“If anyone has any complaints, they know where the door is,” she tells them, her personality once again killing any attraction he might have had to her, not that he had any.

Then maybe the little sparks of attraction, that definitely isn’t there, ignites again when he tastes her cooking. It may be something simple but it reminds him so much of home, almost exactly how his mom would make the dish. Mamoru wouldn’t consider himself sentimental, he’s a grown man. But, it’s hard to deny the warm feeling when her food reminds him of home and better times. He’s not ashamed of the way he devours it, so good. Tsu-something would probably make a good wife, if she ever finds someone willing to put up with her attitude.

“Do either of you plan on breathing?” She asks, covering her mouth and stifling a laugh, he looks over to see Hachirou scarfing down the meal in the same way. She’s smiling again, her eyes on the runt.

“It’s a compliment,” Mamoru tells her through a mouthful and her eyes land on him, nearly making him choke.

“Appreciate it.”

She’s smiling at him for the very first time. That bright smile that crinkles her eyes and shows that little dimple in her cheek and he’s suddenly grateful she’s never smiled at him before. It’s too much, his face is warm like the sun’s shining on him and he can’t keep looking at her. In his panic to look elsewhere, his eyes drift below her neck.

The way she’s sitting, elbows on the table and leaning forward, her cleavage is on display. Not a bad place to look instead. Again, while she is a brat and a kid, she’s one with a pretty smile and a nice pair of tits. The latter of which has been the topic of a few conversations in the penthouse, guy talk that would no doubt earn each of them her wrath. She’s curvy, chubby, with a full chest that constantly seems to be on the verge of spilling out of her top when she bends over. A little freckle on her cleavage is half covered by her shirt and he wonders how many she has, then a piece of broccoli hits his cheek with a splat.

He tears his gaze away from her chest to see that megawatt smile replaced with gritted teeth and furrowed eyebrows, her cheeks flushed red with anger. Now that’s a face he’s used to her making at him. Her chopsticks are poised to throw more food at him.

“Can you not be gross for like five seconds?!” She yells at him, voice shrill with her anger. If she just lost the ability to talk, she really would be decent wife material.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says, knowing full well what he was just caught doing.

“Yeah right, you dirty old man, do me a favor and keep your eyes on your food!”

“I’m done,” he says, showing off his empty plate, maybe he can con her into giving him more.

“Then leave!”

“There’s not any left?”

“Not for you!”

Mamoru tries not to grumble or pout, he’s a grown man, he doesn’t pout. But, when Hachirou finishes his plate and she gives him the rest of her own, well, it’s just rude. Finally, he finishes the last of the food and Mamoru is entirely too grown up to glare at some kid for eating the rest of the food, he would never ever do that, nope. It’s Hachirou who speaks up once he’s done eating.

“Uh, I guess I should getting out of your hair.”

“Are there still trains running to your dorm at this time?”

She’s not going to offer for the guy to stay the night, even she isn’t that naïve, right?

“Yeah, there is, I should be able to get back no problem.” Hachirou is blushing from her kindness and Mamoru rolls his eyes, damn brats.

“If you’re sure, if not, you can crash here.”

He’s not sure Hachirou brushes off the offer because he genuinely doesn’t feel it’s needed or because Mamoru is maybe glaring a little harsher at him than needed. If something happened to her, Eisuke would throw a hissy fit and he’s not dealing with that shit.

“Nah, I really can’t impose.”

“Fine, but at least let me give you some food to take back.”

“You don’t have to.”

She’s already in the fridge, getting out containers of home cooking, leftovers, boxes of bakery goods, and whatever else she deems fit to put in Hachirou’s arms. By the time she’s done he has Tupperware stacked up to beneath his chin, enough food to set him for at least a couple weeks.

“That should make things a bit easier, when you’ve finished it all just bring the Tupperware back and I’ll give you some more, I know things are tight when you’re in college, but I don’t want you going without, alright?”

He nods as she ruffles through his hair, she really is babying him, the guy might be young but he’s not an actual child. She doesn’t need to be this nice.

“Got anything for me?” Mamoru asks, unable to resist trying to insert himself into the situation. The glare she levels at him as she crosses her arms just makes him grin, she’s too easy to annoy and rile up.

“I got a boot to put up your ass.”

“Eh, I’m good,” he relents, knowing too well how real her threats of violence are.

“Get out, Kishi. You can come back whenever you feel like, Hachirou, just stay clear of the hotel, alright?”

“Alright,” he agrees as he starts to head for the door, but has difficulty opening it with the pile of food in his arms.

“Go help him.”

“So, fucking bossy,” Mamoru groans, but does what she asks, getting the door for Hachirou before following him out of the dorm.

They walk down the hall in silence, Mamoru yawning as they reach the elevator, his stomach full of good food, he’s going to sleep well tonight. Though, he still wishes he could have grabbed some more. Maybe next time he does a favor or something for her, he can badger her into cooking for him.

“Y’know…” Hachirou speaks up as they get into the elevator and the glint in his eyes makes Mamoru completely uncomfortable, reminiscent of Ota when he’s about to say or do something awful.

“What?”

“I’m not one to give advice or anything.”

“Then don’t.”

“But, I gotta say, I think you gotta have some lower expectations, old man.”

“Whazzat supposed to mean?” Mamoru slurs his words, as he starts to light up a cigarette, not caring about whether the little shit next to him minds.

“I’m just saying, I mean, I get we all aim our sights a little high sometimes, but Tsuneko is sooooo out of your league, it’s ridiculous.”

Tsuneko, that’s her fucking name, that was going to drive him crazy. Wait…

“What the fuck is that suppose to mean!?”

The door of the elevator opens and Hachirou steps out with a smirk and Mamoru trailing after him.

“Oh come on, you’re not exactly subtle, you were eyeing her like a slab of meat.”

“I like tits, fuckin’ sue me!”

“Yeah, it wasn’t just when you could see her tits, I’m just saying. A crush never hurts, but if I was you I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

“I ain’t got any sort of crush on her, ‘cause unlike some people, I’m not a fuckin’ kid.”

“Well, that’s good,” Hachirou tells him as they leave the lobby, cold night air on their skin, “I’d hate to see you get hurt when she rejects your old ass.”

“Hey, what the hell makes you think she’s the one out of my league, huh? She’s nothing but a fuckin’ brat!”

Hachirou laughs, the little fucker actually laughs in Mamoru’s face. The older man’s fist twitches with the urge to deck the little shit, what the hell makes Tsuneko so out of his league? Sure, she’s young and cute, but her personality leaves a lot to be desired. And Mamoru, well he’s… He’s…got positive traits, probably somewhere, that would make him desirable to someone… Tsuneko isn’t perfect and that’s the point!

“Hey, if you don’t like her, then it’s not a problem. I’m just saying, I think if it came down between someone like you and someone who’s y’know younger, better looking, in college making something of themselves, that she’s already comfortable spending the night with, her choice would be kinda obvious, don’t you think?”

“Look here-”

“Ah, I gotta get to my train, see you around Kishi.”

Hachirou goes off towards the train station, vanishing off into the night lights and leaving Mamoru smoking between the dorms and hotel. His cigarette hangs from his lips, smoke swirling in the air. Something tight in his chest and he doesn’t know what.

He doesn’t like her. Not at all and not one little bit, the fact he’s just been practically challenged for the affection of a woman he doesn’t even want shouldn’t phase him. If Hachirou has a crush on Tsuneko, that’s his business. Hell, if the kid wants to talk down to his rivals, Mamoru can show him to some actual rivals for that brat, how even one let alone so many people like her is beyond him.. But it still pisses him off, just the suggestion that she was out of his league, the notion she’d never want him. Maybe, it’s just his ego, but something nags at the back of his mind, telling him to make that kid eat his words.

#kbtbb kissed by the baddest bidder #kbtbb #mamoru kishi #eisuke ichinomiya #soryu oh #ota kisaki #mitsunari baba #tsuneko tomori #black market wonderland #bmw

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simplyshelbs16xoxo · 5 years ago

Text

‘Drunk in an Elevator’ SAW 2020 Day 3

Post-TSoT. Sherlock and Molly. The lift gets stuck. A bottle of champagne is all they have to survive the night.

FFN | Ao3 | Buy Me a Coffee?

Despite everything, Molly had decided to come in to work that night. It was an odd shift since she was filling in for another fill-in who had gotten sick, but she didn’t mind. If anything, she hoped working would take her mind off the incident at the Watsons’ wedding reception. When she clocked in, Stamford had asked her about the wedding, and she responded in kind, but the entire thing was miserable for her. He handed her a bottle of champagne to be given to the newlyweds, but Molly wasn’t sure it would make it that far.

She made her way to the lift, stepping inside when it opened up. Just before she chose her destination, a familiar baritone voice called out to her.

“Hold the lift!” Sherlock Holmes practically ran toward her. “Molly, I didn’t realise you worked tonight.”

Pressing the button for the morgue, she replied, “I had tonight off, but the person filling in for me got sick, so now I’m filling in for the fill-in.”

“What about your fiancé?”

“What about him?” Molly scoffed.

Before Sherlock could reply, the lift lurched, tossing Molly into him. He caught her in his arms and didn’t let go until it shook one more time, screeching to a halt. “Are you alright?”

Molly wriggled her way out from his arms. “No,” she admitted, “but thank God this bottle of champagne survived.” She struggled with the cork, muttering to herself until ultimately giving up. “Damn it!”

Sherlock moved closer, his hand outstretched. “Here,” he spoke softly, “allow me.” He pulled the cork from the bottle with ease, and Molly screamed from the suddenness, but ended up laughing. “See? Nothing to it…Molly?” Her laughter had turned to cries, and she had backed to the left back corner of the lift.

She was aware of how pathetic she looked in this moment, but Molly couldn’t find it within herself to give a damn. Sherlock approached her cautiously, offering her the bottle. She gladly took it, taking a good long swig of it. Tears stained her reddened face and she slunk down to the floor, her knees pulled up to her chest. Sherlock joined her on the floor, his concern plain as the nose on his face. “Come to wallow in self-pity with me, then?” She offered him the bottle as a joke, surprising her when he took it.

“What happened, Molly? What did Tom do to you?” he asked.

It’s funny, she thought, he remembers names with ease when his friends are hurting.

When she didn’t answer, he pressed on. “Molly, I’m serious, if he laid a hand on you, I—“

“He didn’t do anything, Sherlock.” She looked up into his eyes, now a dark maelstrom due to the anger that had bubbled up inside him. Molly laid a hand on his arm, reassuring him. “I promise you it was nothing like that.” He appeared to have visibly calmed down after that.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Molly grabbed the bottle from him. “Maybe. Not yet. I need more champagne.”

Giving a soft chuckle, Sherlock realised there could be worse things than getting drunk in a broken down lift with the woman he secretly loved.

Molly was lying on the floor, her hair splayed out beneath her. A quarter of the bottle had already disappeared. She had her hands together, resting against her nose and lips in true Sherlock fashion. “Do you think humanity is well-equipped for handling tragic situations? Some die of literal heartbreak, you know.”

Sherlock turned toward her, scrunching his face at the pose she was making. “Are you mocking me?”

A short laugh escaped her. “Maybe a bit.” Her hands dropped to her stomach. “Seriously, though, in your professional opinion, do you think we’re meant to handle all these tragedies or are we meant to die from them whether they happen to us or someone else.”

“It’s a morbid topic,” he remarked. “I think—and this is very cliché—that only the strong survive. Only a person with an abundance of resilience and strength of mind can truly survive. Take you for example. I admire the strength you exhibit. To deal with me, you’d have to be resilient.”

This warmed her. “Plus, I dated a psychopath.”

Sherlock laughed. “And broke up with him.”

“He must’ve been so torn.”

A beat of silence passed and then they laughed at the notion of a heartbroken James Moriarty.

“And Tom,” Molly continued, “thinking the murder weapon was a meat dagger! Worst case of secondhand embarrassment I’ve ever felt in my life.” Though Sherlock was laughing, Molly noticed that his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Hey,” she spoke in a quiet, gentle voice, “you look sad.”

“Sad? Me? Nooo, I’m fine.”

Molly took his hand in hers, squeezing it affectionately. “You’re not, but that’s okay. You’ve got me.”

“Do I?” The words left his mouth before he had time to think. They tasted bitter on his tongue. He took another swig.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Molly questioned, sitting straight up.

“Well, you certainly never thought to wait for me to come back,” Sherlock told her. “Instead you went off and got yourself engaged to a man who’s my exact opposite.”

She scoffed in disbelief. “You told me you hoped I would be happy. Did you not wish that!?”

“Of course I want you to be happy, Molly!” Sherlock’s voice broke. “But I hoped you would have rather been happy with me. You broke my heart.”

Her voice softened. “You never even asked me to wait for you. I would have had I known.”

“I know.” Sherlock looked off, diverting his eyes from her. They sat in silence for a few moments, unmoving. He finally turned toward Molly, her head leaning against the wall of the lift. Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. He moved closer, filling in the space between them, and began wiping the drops off her face with the pad of his thumb. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start a fight.”

Molly closed her eyes, losing herself in the sound of his voice. “I fought with Tom tonight. About you, actually.” She took a moment to compose herself. “I was gonna see if you were okay when I noticed you leave the reception. I just wanted to check up on you, but I let Tom convince me to leave you be.” She sniffled. “I regretted it and I expressed how worried I was about you. He told me I had to choose between him and you, and that he was tired of me putting you first.”

“So you…left?” he asked.

“I left,” she confirmed, noticing his eyes drifting to the ring that remained on her finger. Molly twisted the offending jewelry off and threw it at the doors of the lift. “Only thing is, it appears it was all for naught.”

Sherlock offered a heartfelt smile. He stood, offering his hand to her. “Take my hand.”

“What are you—?”

“Just take my hand,” he told her, “please.”

Molly tipped the bottle back before doing as he asked. Her fingers landed delicately on his, and he pulled her up and into his arms. Sherlock placed one hand at the small of her back and laced his fingers with hers with the other. “Dance with me.”

“But—“

“Shhh,” he sounded. He then began humming softly a familiar tune.

Right there, in that moment, it was heaven. The warmth of his hand on her back, the comfort of his voice; her heart relaxed with him. Sure, in the beginning, your heart palpitates when you’re around a crush or just someone you find attractive, but you know it’s the real thing when the very presence of the person you love can calm the raging sea within you. A small gasp escaped her when she felt his lips pressed to her temple. He continued humming the final chorus of the song and dipped her at the end, pulling her back up and holding her.

“Sherlock,” she whispered. “Do you still love me?”

“I could never stop,” he admitted, pulling back to look in her warm brown eyes. “I have always loved you. And I still do.”

“Could I turn back the clock and accept your offer of extra portions of chips?” she asked.

Sherlock chuckled. “I’m afraid there’s no turning back time, Miss Hooper, but how about we go for chips tomorrow evening?”

“I’d like that,” she replied. And then her hands slid into his unruly curls, pulling him down far enough to reach him. Her lips brushed his, softly, delicately. Sherlock relished the feeling, inhaling her champagne-laced breath; the warmth of her supple mouth had him sighing softly against her.

“Molly,” he sighed her name as their lips met over and over. Sherlock took her waist, pulling her against him, caressing her curves.

“Mmm, love you,” she spoke softly as she broke away. She was now tracing his jawline, her tongue darting out to taste him. Sherlock felt helpless as she began to explore the crevices of his neck, locating his pulse point where her lips lingered for a moment, and how the velvet of her tongue filled the hollow of his throat. She worked her way back up, her mouth hovering over the sensitive spot just below his ear. “I’ve missed you.”

“My darling,” he breathed, “I’ve missed you too.” Sherlock took her hand in his and seated himself on the floor, guiding her to his lap. He grabbed the bottle, offering it to her. She smiled, taking it for another sip or two and Sherlock did the same when she handed it back. The bottle was just over halfway gone between the two of them.

Molly giggled happily, biting her lip as she held his face in her hands. “I love you, Sherlock.” She pressed a lingering, slow kiss to his lips. Her hands slipped from his face and she took a heavy breath. “It’s so warm in here.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have drunk John and Mary’s champagne,” he laughed. “Alcohol tends to bring an excessive volume of blood to the skin’s surface making—“ he stopped short as he watched Molly slip her t-shirt over her head and onto the floor, leaving only a lacy purple bra as a barrier between him and her soft breasts. He swallowed hard. “—the skin warm. So warm.”

“Problem?” she asked, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

His tried to catch his breath, but his erratic heartbeat had other plans. “You are so beautiful.” Sherlock returned her sweet smile before he buried his head against her neck, nudging her dark waves aside to access her clavicle. He traced the hollow just above the bone with his gentle mouth. Molly carded her fingers through his curls, a rush of warmth building up within her. She gasped as he placed warm, tender kisses upon the swell of her breasts. He lifted his head, meeting her eyes. “It is…quite warm in here.”

Molly helped him out of his coat and jacket, and Sherlock shoved the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows. He watched, completely besotted by this woman—his best friend and now lover—as she threw her hair up into a messy bun. “Ahh, that’s better,” she remarked with a smile. Sherlock considered taking another drink, but Molly beat him to the bottle now pressed to her lips as she drank from it, never taking her eyes off his. “I’ve always loved your eyes—sectoral heterochromia suits you well.”

“Only you would flirt with science whilst tipsy,” Sherlock laughed, his eyes crinkling.

“You look about ten years younger when you genuinely smile,” she told him. “Do I make you happy?”

“Oh, very much so,” he answered, unable to keep the smile off his face. “I’ve never felt happier.” Sherlock locked his arms around her, hugging her tight. He drew circles on the small of her back with the pad of his thumb. Molly laid her head in the crook of his neck, resting on his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin, even and relaxed. “Thank you, Molly.”

“For what?” she mumbled sleepily.

“For loving me.” He could feel her lips turn up into a smile, and soon, she was dead to the world. “Goodnight, Molly.” Sherlock pressed his lips into her hair before resting his own head atop of hers. He continued to rub circles against her skin until he, too, fell asleep.

“…both here last night…must have gotten stuck…”

Sherlock cracked open his eyes, his vision blurry. Molly was still in his arms, sleeping like a rock. She was absolutely exhausted.

“What the hell happened here?” Greg asked in amusement taking in Molly’s state of undress and the nearly empty bottle of champagne. “Looks like you two have had a long night.”

“Mm, Scotland Yard, why’re you here?” Sherlock mumbled.

“I came lookin’ for ya, and Stamford here just now got the guys to fix the lift. You’re free to go,” Greg explained. “So…your flat or hers?”

“Mine—it’s closer,” Sherlock replied. Then to Molly, he spoke softly, nudging her awake. “Molly, I need you to help me, darling.” She stirred in his arms, lifting her head from his shoulder, confusion written on her face. “The lift’s been fixed. We need to get your t-shirt back on.” He grabbed it from the pile that held his coat and jacket, and slipped it back over her head as she put her arms through.

“M’so tired,” she yawned. “My head is—Oh!” Sherlock had lifted her up into his arms, carrying her out of the lift.

“Graham, could you grab our things?” Sherlock asked.

The detective-inspector sighed. “It’s Greg.”

She opened her eyes slowly, woken by the sound of bow meeting violin. The tune was familiar, a favourite of hers. Molly slipped out of bed—his bed—and padded her way softly through the sitting room. Sherlock, adorned in his blue dressing gown, faced the window as he played. She approached him, wrapping her arms around his waist, hugging him from behind.

Her head rested against his shoulder blade. “Bach, Suite Number Three,” she noted. “You play it beautifully.” Molly reluctantly let him go, allowing him to store his violin and bow away.

“Thank you,” he replied with a quick smile. “How’s your head?”

“Much better,” she told him. “Look, I just—what happened in the lift—I’m giving you an out, you know, if you want it.”

He frowned, his worried eyes boring into hers. “Why do you think I’d want an out?”

“Because it was late, and we were exhausted…and tipsy,” she replied. “Don’t get me wrong, Sherlock, I want this. I want you, but I don’t want you to resent me. If I became a distraction from the work you love to do, you’d hate me for it, and I couldn’t bear knowing how you’d look at me if it came to that.”

Sherlock’s face fell. He could hear the tremble of her voice, worried that he would one day hate her. It damn near broke his heart. “Molly,” he uttered softly, knowing that the next words out of his mouth were going to be very important. “I was wrong before.”

These four words caught her attention and she encouraged him with her eyes to go on. Sherlock moved closer, taking her hands in his.

“I once refused to believe that the work took precedence over everything, and for a time, it did. It had been the most important part of my life until it introduced me to what was really important, or rather who,” Sherlock explained. “My work brought me to you, and that has been the most rewarding part of it. I was falling in love with you before I was fully aware of it, and I only knew for a fact how I felt when I approached you in my darkest hour. Molly Hooper, it is a privilege to love and be loved by you. If I were to ever resent anyone, it would be myself for not having told you sooner. You are the most important part of my life, Molly, and I am so deeply in love with you.”

Molly gave a watery smile, her eyes shining from the tears building up, threatening to spill. “Oh, Sherlock,” she cried, throwing her arms around him. The dam broke, and her tears spilled over, overcome with joy. “I’m so happy we got drunk in the lift,” she laughed. Sherlock pressed a fervent kiss to her lips, promising himself he would never let her go again.

#sherlolly #sherlollyweek2020 #my fanfiction

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