#my inventory was empty and now it's full of fish
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asleepinawell · 5 months ago
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"you can't accept the next fisher quest until you do main scenario quest [redacted]"
homophobia....
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acepalindrome · 8 months ago
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SDV QoL Mod Recommendations
(1.6 Edition!)
Some years ago I made a big list of some of my favorite Stardew Valley mods, because I am a mod gremlin and there are so many fun and cool things you can do with your game! Modding has changed a lot since then. Some of the old mods have been abandoned and aren’t compatible with 1.6, and lots of new ones are popping up all the time to help keep this 8 year old game fresh and interesting! So I’ve put together a list of mods that currently work with 1.6. Since there are so, SO many mods, I’m just going to list quality of life mods for now. Let me know if you guys are interested in recommendations for expansions, cosmetics and other fun stuff!
Firstly, if you’re new to Stardew modding and don’t know how to start, I highly recommend checking out Salmence’s How to Add Mods video on YouTube. He walks you through all the steps and makes it very easy to get the hang of it! And without further ado:
The Mods
UI Info Suite 2: I’m new to this mod, but now that I’ve got it, I’m not sure how I lived without it! It does so much! It shows your daily luck, any birthdays, if it’s going to rain tomorrow, when tools are ready with Clint, when the traveling cart is in town and more! It also shows the range of your sprinklers, scarecrows, bee houses and junimo huts, and if you mouse over your crops, it shows when they’re ready for harvest! Super useful, and the daily icons are small enough that they don’t feel intrusive. I usually get all my mods from Nexus because it’s easy and reliable, so I had put off trying this one since it’s only on GitHub. I absolutely should have tried it ages ago.
NPC Map Locations: Shows where everyone is on the map. No more running around trying to figure out where someone is to give them a birthday gift! This is an essential mod for me, it’s such a simple but good improvement!
Look Up Anything: This one basically eliminates the need to have the wiki open in another window. Virtually everything in the game can be clicked on to give you more information. Mouse over Shane and press a button to see his birthday, how many hearts he has and how many points to the next heart, and all loved and liked items (with items you have on hand highlighted!) Select the hardwood in your inventory to see how many you have total (including storage you don’t have on hand,) everything it can be used for and how many you need for each thing, so you know how many you need! Almost everything can be selected to give more information!
Visible Fish: Useful AND pretty! It shows all the fish currently available to catch swimming in the water, so you don’t spend ages trying to catch something that doesn’t spawn at a certain place or time! Also it just looks really nice. I love seeing the fish in the river when I’m just passing by!
FriendsForever: Eliminates friendship decay, so people don’t hate me if I forget to talk to them for half a year! Also works on animals, so I can ignore my pigs all winter and they still love me.
To-Dew: You can make a to-do list that will appear on the screen and can be marked off as you complete different tasks. No more will I take a trip to town for seeds and forget that I also wanted to donate to the museum and give Caroline a daffodil! You can also set items to be reoccurring on certain days of the week, if you want to remind yourself to look for forage on Saturday, or make Thursday your designated day to empty and refill your kegs. Very customizable! I also like to make lists of all the seeds I want to buy every season.
TreeTransplant: Robin can now move trees around your farm just like she moves buildings! I’m really bad at planning my tree placement, and it’s so frustrating to have to cut down full grown trees to change my farm layout. Now you can move trees anywhere!
Fishing Made Easy Suite/Combat Made Easy Suite: I love these mods over others that make fishing/combat easier because you can decide the exact degree you want to make things easier! You can make fishing anywhere from 5% easier to 99% easier, if you want to just take the edge off the difficulty, or make it impossible to fail a fish. You can take just a little less damage from monsters to make the Skull Cavern less daunting, or become unkillable and oneshot everything. They also have options to do fun things like put legendary fishing in fish ponds or craft magic rock candy. You can also make things harder, if that’s what you want!
Automate: Machines can pull items from chests, process them, spit them back out into the chest and pull in the next item automatically, without you having to do anything! It can be a little op early on, but it’s super handy when you have a million machines to keep track of. I especially like it for things that have shorter processing times. I can stick a chest of ore and coal next to some furnaces and let it do its thing! Or put a bait machine, recycle machine, crab pot and chest all together. The crab pots will empty and refill every day from the bait generated by the bait machine, deposit fish and trash into the chest, and any trash will be processed by the recycling machine! There are tons of fun ways to combine different machines!
TimeSpeed: Lets you stop, slow or speed up time! You can select time to freeze at certain locations (I like time to stop when I’m inside a building, like in old farming games,) set time to move slower or faster in general, or press a button to change it on the fly!
That’s all I have for now! Links will be coming in a reblog because tumblr is weird about posting links sometimes. Let me know if you’d like recommendations for other kinds of mods, like cosmetic mods, expansions, stuff that adds items or changes dialogue! I love to share the cool mods I find!
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cowgurrrl · 9 months ago
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Killer
Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader
Author's Note: FINALLY
Summary: “God is fucking with my oblivion. If he wants forgiveness, he shouldn’t have given us memory.” — Fish in Exile by Vi Khi Nao [2.7k]
Warnings: canonical type violence, PTSD symptoms, implied past violence, probably incorrect wound care, vague mention of Joel's sobriety, maybe love is enough to keep us alive
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She's still shaking when you manage to get her to sit down long enough to look at the blood on her face and hands. Most of it isn't hers, but you can tell by the disengaged look in her eyes that she still paid for it. It isn't until you get some food and water in her that she seems more present, more there. You somehow convince Joel to wait for you in the living room instead of standing menacingly in the doorway with the shotgun still slung over his shoulder. Besides, he definitely popped his stitches and got a few more injuries for his troubles and should not be standing longer than necessary. 
"I'm gonna clean you up and then see what I can do about your bumps and bruises. Is that okay?" You ask as you pull out the first aid kit you managed to save from the flames. She just nods, and her fingers flex against the lip of the tub she's sitting on when you raise your hands. 
You explain every movement as you swipe the cold washcloth across her sensitive skin. She flinches if you move too fast or unexpectedly, her body jerking in the direction of the door. You have to shush her and drop everything when she does to show her your nonthreatening hands. As if seeing the empty space in your palms will ease the tension in her shoulders and erase the memories from her head. You breathe deeply, and she copies you until she relaxes enough for you to continue. It takes a long time to get a full inventory of her injuries. 
The notch on her nose isn't deep enough to need stitches, but you can tell it's shattered. From what you can immediately see, she has a broken nose, a concussion, and signs of smoke inhalation. Most of her injuries seem internal, too far away, and come with weeks of recovery time. The only ones you can treat outright are the burns and cuts on her hands and forearms. Even those you can only bandage and wait.  
"Is anything hurting that I can't see?" You ask gently, and she nods. "Where?"
"My…" her voice is crackly and seemingly too deep to be hers. She has to clear her throat to continue. "My ribs."
"Is it okay if I feel around to see if any are broken?" You ask, and she nods hesitantly. Carefully, you put your hands on her sides and apply some pressure every time you feel a set of ribs. She hisses when you press on the seventh and nearly jumps away when you move down to the eighth. "Hey, you're okay. I'm not trying to hurt you," you soothe. "It feels like you've got at least two that are broken, okay? They'll heal on their own, but it's gonna hurt like hell for a few weeks."
"Hurts like hell now." She mumbles.
"I know." You say, wishing there was more you could do. Little by little, she tells you everything that hurts, and you can tell her what's wrong— or, at least, what you're pretty sure is wrong. Without access to X-rays or real tests, everything is a best-guess diagnosis. "It looks like I've got some ibuprofen in here. That'll help with your pain for a while. It's completely safe." You say as you dig through the first aid kit and put two tablets in her hand. She hesitates, her eyes flicking to the door, hiding the two of you in the bathroom. 
"What about Joel?" She asks.
"There's more than enough in here for the both of you," you say and pass her a half-empty water bottle. "Please, just take them." It takes her looking at your supplies and ensuring you have enough to take them. She winces when she swallows but doesn't complain as you search for bandaids to cover her nose and burn cream for her fingers.
"Is he okay?" She asks so quietly you almost missed it. She's really asking if he's gonna die. If something is going to go wrong again and pull him into the bottomless pit of unconsciousness. If you're going to lose him. You screamed at her the last time she asked you that, and the memory makes you sick. She's staring at you like a dog waiting to be kicked when you nod. 
"He's gonna be fine. Might've ripped a stitch or two, but it's nothing we can't handle." You say, but she doesn't look comforted by your report. 
"Are you okay?" 
"I'm okay." It's easier than talking about the burns on your arm from trying to get in the building. Or the painful creaking in your hand that's surely the result of breaking bones across men's faces. Or the devastating flashbacks you fought through when Ellie tried to tell you what happened. 
"I'm sorry." She mumbles. You press your elbows to your knees and lean forward so she can't avoid you. 
"Look at me," you urge, not daring to say another word until she does. "I'm not mad at you. Joel is not mad at you. None of this is your fault," she tries to open her mouth to argue, but you raise your hand to stop her. "I was too hard on you when Joel got hurt. I expected too much of you, and that's not fair. I'm the adult. I should've been shouldering the brunt of it, not you. I'm sorry." She doesn't say anything, and you shift uncomfortably as you think. 
"Y'know, there was a long time when I didn't travel with Joel. It was just me. I was trying to get to Boston, and I tried to do everything right. I didn't get too close to QZs. I didn't light fires. I didn't trust anyone else because I…" you stumble. "I know what men do to women who are alone with no one protecting them." The confession settles in the space separating you. You don't need to say anything more, and she doesn't need to hear more. Your eyes sting, and you take a shaky breath to compose yourself. "Nobody can blame you for doing what you did, is what I'm trying to say, I guess."
"I… I didn't know what else to do," she whispers, tears shining in her eyes. "I was so scared. He got in my head. He wouldn't stop talking. I just..." she trails off and shakes her head. "He said I was like him."
"Sweet girl, you are nothing like him." You say, but her jaw flexes in protest, a stray tear rolling down her cheek.
"I'm violent. And angry."
"So am I," you say. "I'm angry every day, and I don't handle it well. You've seen it. Am I like him, too?" You ask, reaching out to wipe a tear away before it can fall down her chin. She freezes for just a second before leaning into you, letting you take the weight of her head in your hand. You tuck her into your chest while she's still pliant and rub her back as her cries turn more into anguished sobs. "I know. I know," you tell her over and over again because you do know. "You're nothing like him, honey. Not even close."
She cries and bangs her fists against your chest angrily and spits every curse she knows. She will never get to be the little girl she was when she left Boston. He took that from her, and she has to learn to live with that. You can handle a few more bruises if it means she feels better for even half a second. You let her do whatever she needs to do until she wears herself out and her tears slow. When she's done, you give her more water and food before scooping her in your arms and carrying her out to where Joel is waiting.
He looks up from where he's anxiously pacing, his right foot taking more of his weight than his left, and glances between you and Ellie. Quickly, he sets up a makeshift bed for her on the old couch equipped with a sleeping bag and blankets, balling up his jacket as a pillow. You lay her body down as softly as possible, mindful of her broken ribs, and she curls up the second she touches the familiar material. You sit on the couch with her, playing with her hair and rubbing her back until she falls asleep. She smells like smoke and sweat, but you don't care. Joel acts as a quiet sentinel by bouncing his eyes from you two to the room around you like someone could come in at any point with weapons and ill intent. 
Your fingers linger on the side of her neck, feeling her pulse against your skin as if to affirm that she's real and alive and here before you look at Joel. He looks as shaken as you feel. It was close. Closer than you've been in a long time, but she's alive. All three of you are, but at what cost? You swallow thickly and hesitantly stand from your perch next to Ellie, and Joel reaches for you, but you put a finger to your lips and gesture toward the bathroom. If she wakes up, she'll never go back to sleep, and she desperately needs rest after the past few weeks. He obediently follows you into the bathroom, and you leave the door cracked enough to see Ellie sleeping on the couch and for her to see you if she wakes up. You can keep both of them safe from here.
"Your turn, cowboy," you say as you put on a clean pair of gloves. He settles against the sink, sighing and shakily lifting his shirt to show you his stitches. About half of them held, and there's a slow flow of blood from the cut. Nothing to worry about. "You want anything for the pain?" You ask, and he shakes his head, jaw flexing. 
"No, no. It's fine. There's probably some adrenaline left or somethin'." He grumbles. 
"I'm sure that's how science works," you tease to lighten the mood as you gather the suturing supplies. He watches you with weary eyes like he's waiting for you to inject him with something else. You show him your gloved hands, containing only the needle and thread, and he takes a deep breath as he looks at you.
"I trust you," he says quietly. You think about pushing him to take something— anything— if it means he won't suffer, but you know it's a battle you'll lose like you always do. You might as well save time and just work. 
He's mostly quiet during the whole procedure, only letting out little huffs and grunts when you get to particularly sensitive areas. You mumble apologies and updates as you maneuver the needle as seamlessly as possible. Before, you didn't have the brain power to count his stitches and were, honestly, too scared to. There were too many factors against you, too much blood, too much fear. This time, you count all twenty-seven of them. He bleeds a little more, but it clots quickly and doesn't happen again once there's a neat line of real sutures across his stomach. You tape the bandage to his skin and pull his shirt back to cover it. He'll need a new one soon or, at least, a wash. 
Ellie's breathing is the only sound as you look for newer injuries. Bruises here and there and more broken or fractured bones in his already half-healed hand, but that's it. You stand from your place on the closed toilet lid to check his pupils for any signs of a concussion, but the second your face is close to his, he leans in just enough to kiss you. It's a welcome shock. 
When was the last time you kissed him? Jackson? Boston? In some distant time before Ellie? You never thought he'd open his eyes ever again, let alone be standing in front of you and kissing you. His lips are cracked but firm and familiar. His beard scratches your skin, but you can't be bothered to care. There are much worse things than the sting. His hands hold your face, and you want to fall into his chest, but you don't, conscious of his fresh stitches. Ellie mumbles something in her sleep, and you immediately break away from each other to stare at her through the crack in the door. She shifts but doesn't say anything else or show any signs of distress. When you look at each other again, his shoulders fall slightly. His hand lingers on your chin and turns your head a little to the left. "You've got a black eye." He murmurs, and you shrug.
"Yeah, David's guys got a few good hits in." You say. He looks over you, silently searching for something, and all you can do is watch him. He must seen how sullen and dead your eyes have become in the past few weeks. You've lost weight, so Ellie wouldn't. Your face is still dirty, and your hands are weak. You're not much to look at, and yet, he can't stop staring. 
When Joel suddenly found strength after hearing you yell after Ellie as men surrounded the house, you didn't necessarily have time for a warm reunion. You only had time to hide and wait for them to descend the stairs to the basement, where you could knock them around until they hit the ground. Even once the wheezing lungs returned to normal breathing and silence filled the house, you didn't talk about much more than getting Ellie back. 
Then, just like you did in the QZ, you did what you do best. You hurt people to get what you needed and killed them when you did. Joel screamed in their faces and demanded answers while you wiped blood from your hands and packed up your stuff. He finished them off brutally and without hesitation. It's the meticulous strategy and killing that reminds you of the Joel Tommy and Maria were so worried about. The one who didn't give two shits about his own life, let alone somebody else's. The one who was motivated by his pre-Outbreak work ethic to keep the monsters away, even if he became one in the process. The one who you met and worked with until the lines blurred. That Joel.
But in the dim light of the bathroom, with the smell of blood tinging the air, you can't find any traces of him. You only have the Joel you've come to discover on this journey, the Joel that was always hiding under the surface, the Joel you love. You take a deep breath and stare at him like if you look away, something will happen and try to kill him again. 
There's so much you need to talk about and plan for. You all need to recover and make up for lost time. You need to apologize and take care of them until it feels like it's enough to heal the pit of guilt eating away at you. You need to figure out what's next. But you can't find it in yourself to recount the events that happened while Joel was unconscious on the basement floor. Not yet. The only thought you keep circling back to is the exact one you've spent years pushing away and berating in hopes it would stop invading your psyche. Now, it feels unavoidable.
"I love you," you say. You're not quiet or hoping that he's deaf enough to miss it. You say it with everything that you are because no part of you has gone untouched by him. He kisses your forehead and pulls you into him.
"I know," he says simply. Years of tension and unspoken thoughts release from your shoulders, and you bury your face in his neck. "I love you." The syllables sound sweet as they break over his southern accent, and you want to wrap them around you for the rest of your life. You want to try to make a life where you can do that. You want him. You want a soft, happy life with Ellie and Joel where you don't have to morph into old forms to stay alive. 
You want a soft future, and if you have to bite and kill and scream to get it, then that's what you'll do. Nobody will ever take them away from you again.
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gettingfrilly · 1 year ago
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Can't get you out of my Ed
Chapter one of... 39 chapters lmao. This fic will kill me and I'll be damned if I don't take some of you down with me. Read it here or on ao3. Super mega thanks to @fish-bowl-2 for betaing and also for giving feedback on my massive outline.
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“Ppbbbbbbththtbbbhththtthhhhh.”
“Dude.”
“Dude yourself.” Eddy mutters, not caring if Kevin objects to his bored mouth noises. What else is he supposed to do? It’s Wednesday, five pm, and raining. No one's been in the candy store for hours, and ain’t no one gonna show up before they close at six. So he stands here bored out of his skull, full weight propped against the counter with his face squished in his hands, elbows velcroed to the permanently sticky wooden surface. He keeps his eyes where they’ve been glued for the last hour, which is directly on the nostalgic kitsch wall clock with plastic lollipops for hands and pounded sheet metal with a scene from some 50’s style soda shop superimposed on it for a face. It goes well with the completely non-functional jukebox in the corner, the rows of dusty, empty, retro soda bottles lining the shelves on the wall opposite the front door, and the 40 year old ice cream machine behind the counter that’s been out of order since last summer. Eddy had felt giddy when Kevin first got him a job here his freshman year, tickled by his younger self’s hypothetical jealousy over how easily he could pocket a jawbreaker here and there. The garish clashing of the puke green tiles and pastel pink walls had filled him with bittersweet memories of childhood, familiar and welcoming for a first time job.
Now he just finds the whole store ugly. 
“You could, ya know. Work.” Kevin suggests. “Clean something. Stock something. Anything other than standing there with your thumb up your ass.”
“Oh? And you can’t?” He asks while side eyeing Kevin, who is also currently standing around with his thumb up his ass. More specifically, he’s leaning backwards against the displays behind the counter, wide shoulders slouched as his arms dangle at his sides. The clean hairline of his crew cut frames his wide, blocky face with sharp angles. He’s been made up of solid, sturdy shapes since he started playing for the varsity team in his junior year, and his workout regimen has further defined his muscles in the years since. Eddy wouldn’t exactly describe him as beefy, but his build is athletic for sure. He’s also classically handsome, Eddy begrudgingly admits to himself, though he’s not really his type. Too much of a normie for his tastes, with his basic sense of style and outfit compiled of store brand athletic wear. Guy shops at Old Navy for sure. Well, more like his mom shops for him there.
“I’m the boss. I’ve got underlings to do that kind of stuff for me.” An annoyingly smug smile graces his shovel shaped chin, and Eddy can’t help but grind his teeth.
“For your information, bossman, ” he hisses the title, “shelves: dusted. Floors: mopped. Inventory: stocked. Windows: windexed. Hell, I even ordered the lollipops by color out of fucking boredom. There is truly not a single thing left to do.”
Kevin hums and scratches his ten acre chin. “Oh. Well. Pbth.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
‘ Come now, with your cleaning skills, surely you left something amiss. Did you wipe down the floor trim? Deep clean the register? I see plenty of snack crumbs wedged between those sticky keys. And you didn’t even mention the employee bathroom, for heaven’s sake. ’
“Shut up.” He mumbles under his breath. “Huh?”
“Nothing. Hey, how’s Nazz doing?” Kevin’s and Nazz’s shaky relationship isn’t exactly his favorite can of worms to open, but he’s starting to get bored enough to peel his eyelids off of his face, so he better strike up some kind of conversation. 
“ Man- ” Yup, here we go, “I don’t get what’s up with her. Ever since she moved to Buffalo she’s been acting all different and weird. Dunno what happened to the Nazz we used to know.”
‘ She grew up. Which is something you may want to look into yourself, Kevin. 19 years old and no interest in pursuing a higher education or a greater calling like our dear Nazz has. Tut tut.’
“Yeah, it’s almost like she cares about shit now or something.”
“Exactly,” Kevin bemoans, completely missing Eddy’s sardonic tone. “I don’t get all the polisci stuff she talks about. I’m just not a political guy, ya know? Why can’t things just go back to being simple between us? College wrecks people, man.”
On one hand, even Eddy can tell Kevin’s being pig-headed about this. On the other hand, he can relate on a very painful, squishy, sore, and tender level.
‘Well you are quite pig-headed yourself.’
“She just outgrew this small town shit. We all should. I know I’m getting out of here as soon as I graduate.”
“Speak for yourself. I like it here.” Kevin mutters while crossing his arms petulantly.
“Of course you do, mister former high school quarterback nepo baby. You already got shit made here. Doesn’t your dad own the candy factory now?”
“Vice president. But yeah, he’ll own it soon. And he’s thinking of expanding. But what are you complaining about? Aren’t you all set up to inherit your old man’s dealership? That place makes decent dosh.”
“I’d rather eat nails.” The words come grinding out of his mouth as if it were already full of sharp, pointy metal.
“What? No way, man, you used to brag about that place all the time. Said it was your legacy and that you were gonna make it the hottest place in the county to get a used car.”
“Times change.” That’s the only explanation he’s willing to offer.
Kevin just shrugs, much to Eddy’s gratitude. That’s probably the best thing about being friends with Kevin; guy doesn’t ask questions. Makes him a solid person to vent to.
‘Especially if you’re allergic to discussing your feelings.’
With a long suffering groan, Eddy literally peels himself off of the old counter to do another useless perimeter search of the shop. He knows he still won’t find anything to do, but at least it’ll get his body moving. His sneakers squeak against the freshly mopped floors (so bored he even got out the mop, for chrissake…) as he eyes the displays, watching his reflection warp and transform from one glass container to the next, an endless hall of funhouse mirrors mocking him with his own boredom, irritation, and overall misery. His fault for scrubbing them all until they were spotless. The hole punched cardboard pallet that holds a variety of different brands of lollipops is just as hue spectrum oriented as he left it, so this time he goes for ordering them by size and shape instead. Well, that killed two minutes. Walk by the freezers, rearrange  some mismatched soda bottles he missed before. 30 seconds. Scrape a fleck of taffy off of one of the sliding door handles. 20 seconds. Stare at the wall for five seconds. Bang his head against it. Another second. Bang. Another second. Bang. Another second. Bang.
“I’m taking a smoke break!” He calls loudly over the shelves in the direction of the front counter, not waiting for Kevin to respond before frantically scrambling towards the backroom. He nearly trips over a broom as he bursts into the cramped space, swearing at it uselessly as he stumbles over to his locker. It gets jammed as usual, the damn thing, Eddy jiggling the handle with a growl before he finally tears it open. The hood of his windbreaker catches on one of the locker’s internal hooks, causing Eddy to shout obscenities until he finally shakes it loose and shoves his arms into the sleeves. He stomps towards the back door and bumps it open with his hip as he wrestles with the zipper, getting himself encased once he steps outside into the muggy July evening air.
The door slams shut behind him as he huddles under the small overhang of the dirty green awning adorned above the back door, fishing his pack of camel menthols out of the pocket of his windbreaker. The hush of rain against the pavement and rhythmic pounding of droplets plunking against the rusty metal of the awning harmonize well together, creating a nice soundscape to back up the click click click of his lighter. He mutters swears under his breath like a prayer, internally praising glory hallelujah once the cig balanced between his lips lights and he can breath in deep and slow, the mint flavoring tickling his nose hairs and soothing the burn of hot smoke in his windpipe. Smoke billows from his mouth and nose after he’s held in his lungful for as long as he can, his exhale audible and pointed heavenward, smoke catching and lingering on the underside of the sheet metal above. 
‘Those will kill you.’
“The sooner the better.” Eddy mumbles, letting gravity pull his loosening body down against the wooden door behind him, desperate for a paint job. He takes another grateful drag as he watches the rain bounce and slide off of trashbags, forming muddied puddles in the potholes below. The hit of nicotine puts a fuzzy blanket over the constantly firing nerve endings in his brain, making his eyes droop as he fights back a yawn. Double D doesn’t know what he’s talking about, calling nicotine a stimulant. Smokes practically put him to sleep. 
He sneers down at the ground. What’s he got to even do these days other than work, smoke, sleep, repeat? The only thing he has to look forward to are the occasional phone calls he makes to Ed at the military school his shithead mom shipped him off to last summer before they all started their junior year. Double D and Ed were inconsolable that day, clinging to each other and sobbing as Ed’s dad silently packed his red commodore with sparse necessities, the rest of Ed’s belongings in boxes marked for the salvation army. The memory still makes Eddy’s eyes burn, the same way they did that day as he blinked to hold back his tears, repeating to the other two that they’d call, they’d write, they’d visit, and once senior year was done in two years, the three of them would be out of here. Double D would definitely get accepted to some fancy shmancy school on a fancy shmancy scholarship, and the two of them would follow along, working whatever jobs available so that their combined income with Double D’s scholarship funds could net them a nice apartment in whatever fancy shmancy city Double D went to for school. They’d be free of this pimple on the map of America called Peach Creek, free from their families, free from public school, free to be themselves. There’d be a queer scene, he told Double D. They’d be accepted there, he told him. It wouldn’t be like it is out here in the boonies. They wouldn’t have to hide.
Well, his plan may have less people in it now, but he’s sticking to it. He can’t stand the boredom anymore, can’t stand the confinement. If he spends one more summer afternoon staring at his bedroom ceiling, has one more shift during the dead hours of the candy store, has to give his dad one more excuse as to why he’s not dating anyone now that he’s got a paycheck, he’s going to burst out of his own skin like some kind of insectoid, brain sucking monster from one of Ed’s B-rated black and white horror flicks and suck the noggins of everyone in a five mile radius. He’ll get out of this shithole come hell or high water. He has to get out.
‘And go where, exactly?’
‘Anywhere but here.’
‘To do what?’
‘Live. Breathe. Stretch out and run around and scream and cry and shout and kick and hit and go and go and go.’
‘With who?’
‘Ed. Or no one. Who cares.’
‘You’d be alone.’
‘I’ve always been alone.’
‘That’s not true. You know that’s not true.’
Water streams from the corners of the awning, creating a puddle dangerously close to his Air Force 1s. An errant raindrop lands right on top of the toe of his left sneaker, and he grumbles as he bends over to swipe it away, cursing himself for not looking at the weather report before putting these on. He curses louder when a chunk of ash falls from his cig and takes up residence where the water droplet just vacated, grabbing it from his mouth to hold it out to the side as he frantically brushes off his shoe.
‘Please, Eddy, be careful! Think of how much money your mother spent on such a frivolous purchase.’
Eddy snarls, sick to death of this incessant nagging. “Just shut uuUGHH!”
The smack of the wooden door against his ass throws him completely off balance, staring down at his shoes one second then catching himself on his hands and gazing at a puddle inches from his face the next. Adrenaline rushes through his body, making his lungs seize up and his eyes go wide, the rain falling on the back of his head feeling far colder than it should be on a warm July evening. He keeps himself propped up on one hand as he swivels around to identify his attacker, blinking owlishly when he sees Kevin standing in the lit doorway, giving Eddy the same, wide eyed look.
“Dude. You okay?”
Anger quickly intermingles with his gut-dropping fear, gritting his teeth as he pushes himself back onto his feet. “Watch where you’re going, shovel chin!”
Kevin places one hand on his hip while he holds the door open with the other, expression blasé. “Doors are for opening, man. Anyway, we’re closing up. Just wasting money at this point.”
He finally catches his breath, raising his cigarette to take another calming drag, only to feel something unpleasantly cold and soggy touching his lips. Damn it. His hand must have landed in a puddle. He groans and pushes his now wet hair out of his face.
“These ain’t fucking cheap.” He grumbles, flicking the unlit stub to the ground.
“Did you even hear me, man?”
“Huh? Oh.” Calmer and less distracted now, his brain finally catches up with what Kevin said. “Yeah, great idea, bossman!” The title is used in a much more jolly manner than before, giving Kevin a pat on the back and leaving a stubby, wet handprint behind as he pushes past him and back into the backroom to grab the rest of his stuff. He kicks off his nice sneakers to trade them for the ratty back ups he keeps in his locker, stepping into the worn pair as he puts his multi-colored Nikes into his water proof backpack for safe keeping.
Kevin sneers and murmurs something Eddy is sure was insulting as he looks behind himself and at the back of his shirt. “I’ve got to count money and lock up if you wanna stick around to help-”
Eddy’s locker slams abruptly, echoing loudly in the small space as he slings his drawstring bag over his shoulders and puts his hood up in quick, jerky motions. “Bye, seeya later, hasta la vista, sayonara, annyeong.” He half-jogs out of the back room before finishing his goodbyes, ignoring Kevin’s jeering as he slips through the door to the front room. He continues his half jog past the candy displays, snagging a jawbreaker and shoving it into his pocket next to his smokes before heading out the door and back out into the rain.
He breathes in a deep breath of freedom as he stretches his arms out to his sides and then over his head, making his way back to the cul de sac with a skip in his step. The world is his oyster now that he’s off of work. Now he can… he can… well.
The skip turns into a slow trudge as Eddy remembers he doesn’t actually have anything post work to look forward to, mood sinking further and further with each dark and empty store he passes by. Looks like Kevin wasn’t the only one who decided to close up early; all of downtown is dead. And it’s just not the cafe, the butcher shop, and the shoe store that are dark. It’s too early for the street lights to come on, but the sky is thick with heavy rain clouds, keeping the sunlight prisoner behind the bubbling veil of black and gray. His eyes turn down to the wet cement of the sidewalk with its divots and potholes, floating cigarette butts in the puddles that formed within them, scowling at his feet as they pointlessly move beneath him. What’s he even going home to? Another evening zoning out in front of the TV? Maybe lying upside down on his bed and listening to saccharine sweet slow dance songs? Then whatever he does will just be followed by chain smoking in the backyard until he’s tired enough to pass out as soon as his head hits the pillow, welcoming oblivion as an alternative to being left alone with his thoughts. It’s the same damn thing every day. And it’ll keep being the same damn thing every day until he gets out of here or dies. Dying may be the more convenient option at this point. It’d be a lot easier than having to finish high school before he beats it. All he has to do is wait for a car to come by and then jump out in front of it.
But no cars come. No one coming, no one leaving, a town stuck in stasis, the white noise enough to deafen him. His shoes are getting soaked. He’s gonna get cold feet.
Christ, he needs to quiet his fucking mind before he ends up as roadkill. He reaches into his pocket, fingertips brushing against the cool metal of his lighter before he finds his pack of camels, grasping onto it like a lifeline. He takes out the light with it, shaking a cig loose from the pack and into his waiting hand. He balances it between his pointer and middle finger, bringing it up to press it between his lips and under his hood so he can attempt to light it-
Only to immediately pull his hand away when he tastes blood on his tongue.
“The fuck?” He squeaks out, high pitched and startled. He looks at the cig and finds fresh red blood smeared on the paper and filter, but that’s not what’s most alarming; what has him wince and hiss under his breath is the sight of his hand, dark, slimy globules clotted together in the center with dried and flaky trails of blood running down between his fingers, some of it gathered under his nails, in his nail beds, and around the gold band on his ring finger. Rain splashes down into his open palm, the droplets saturating themselves with blood before they roll down the sides of Eddy’s hand and down his wrist, leaving trails of pink behind. He swipes his thumb gingerly over his palm and squints, scowl deepening when he discovers the cut beneath, small but deep. 
Damn it. Must have happened when he fell. Probably glass from a broken bottle. How did he not feel it? Stupid Kevin. Stupid door. He clicks his tongue and keeps walking, placing the cig back between his lips; he’s not gonna waste another one of these. It brings him minimal relief once it’s lit, his frayed nerves further agitated by the site, smell, and taste of his own blood. He’s had e-fucking-nough of that for one life time. Thankfully the shops start to become far and few between, with residential houses looming on the horizon. He’ll walk in through the back door to his room before his mom gets a chance to see his hand and starts freaking out. He’ll clean his hand, dry off his feet, and get out of this fucking rain. That’s something to sort of look forward to. Isn’t it?
When he turns the corner of rethink avenue several minutes later, all thoughts of the creature comforts of home disperse like a warren of rabbits intruded on by a fox. His cig, burned down to a stub at this point, dangles from his parted lips, eyes frozen on the looming portend of the past come to haunt him currently parked in his own fucking driveway. He’s freezing suddenly, all heat sapped out of him like someone pulled the plug, lungs becoming a vacuum as cosmic background radiation burns within them, singed by his only source of heat. It’s like he’s falling again, shoved from behind and just barely managing to protect his face from scraping the pavement. An unknown attacker from behind, the familiar sound of him breathing through his teeth.
He tastes blood on his tongue.
The cigarette butt falls from his lips as he turns away from the sight of the whale shaped trailer in front of his house, breaking out into a jog to the only other house he can think to go to, nestled right on the corner he just turned. His bedroom lights are on. His parents, as usual, aren’t home. He misses him with an ache deeper than anything else he’s felt in a long time.
He hopes Double D actually lets him in.
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tubbytarchia · 5 months ago
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juh
he logs on and hes been pranked. his doors now set off wind charges when u go over the pressure plates. its harmless and he thinks its funny (probably sausage) it scares him a couple times but within a few minutes he goes through it and goes woohoo :D! and its so cute
HE SHOWS OFF HIS BASE!!!! HES PROUD OF IT!!!!!!!! i was worried he would be like haha its nothing special haha BUT HE STILL LOVES IT!!!!!!! YAYYYYYYYYY
plans today are obsidian for an enchanting table and a nametag for his dog. his dog vvv
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(also he keeps getting distracted irl cuz hes watching football with a bunch of friends tonight. hes such a nerd i loev him)
hes also making a wall. the disc wall. a wall with discs. its hidden
hes talking about how he never does big fancy nether portals and he says "like the boring man i am"... :(( :( :(((((
hes now the disc stealer. i dont think anyone even has discs that they care that much about (then again i only watch jim). he goes around to sausage (and gets cat), fwhip, shelby, eloise, scott (13), mog (precipice), aimsey (otherside), guqqie, cpk (13 + precipice), sneeg (precipice + cat + wait + ward + far + mall + creator), and martyn (cat + precipice x2). the only reason he doesnt do bekyamon is cuz she is online
unrelated but scotts place gives r/malelivingspace and its very funny. its so empty??? didnt get any good screenshots though
sneeg has so many discs so jim takes them all and says hes gonna let him in on it.
his inventory is full of discs and he goes back to his secret room with the disc wall. he mines a block and wordlessly tries to pick it up 4 different times before remembering his inventory is full
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disc wall done. or as done as it can be for now since he has every disc on the server. he starts listening to one of the discs (mall) and then. yeah
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he fixes it quickly so all is well. he starts playing otherside and takes it out of the jukebox when its about to drop.
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he listens to it again (properly) and goes in 3rd person AND HE HIMSELF SAYS when you find bugs under a rock. he dances for a little bit
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he goes to answer the door and leaves his character like this and i feel like im watching someones kid. i dont mean to baby him but also look at his stupid face?!?!?!?!?!? the way hes just looking up
he goes obsidian mining for the enchanter which goes smoothly and he steals sugarcane from mog and now his enchanter is all set up. his house is so cute
he goes fishing for a nametag. same guy who was stealing from everyone earlier?? i support him. he does not fish one up :(
shorter stream than usual since hes busy tonight..... among us video on friday
JIMMY'S STILL PROUD OF HIS BASE YAYYYYYYYYYYYY and then that depracation swiftly returns with him calling himself boring. Grrr
"scotts place gives r/malelivingspace and its very funny" HELP CC Scott's IRL setup gives me the same vibe. Why did my man put a shelf in the middle of his fucking room that isn't that big to begin with. What's going on in his head when he makes these decisions.
Bug Jimmy recognition.. you're so right though that just looks like you've been left to watch over little Jimmy as he looks up at you expectantly wtf is this
I also love how he only steals selectively. I can respect it
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pirateshelby · 2 years ago
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The Forgotten Cove is empty, and that is partially by design: if anybody could just sail in, then people who know the truth could slip right under Shelby’s nose to kill her in the night. There are rocks placed strategically beneath the waves to stop people sailing straight in, the open inviting bays more of a deception than a welcome.
Stratos is empty in a different way: it is simply so big that no matter how many people you stuffed inside, it would never be full.
Shelby slips between glistening quartz structures and hops over holes in floating bridges, thoroughly unnerved by how quiet this place is. The quiet is good for one thing, at least, and that’s for the lack of people who will spot her mining the large pile of gold just sitting out in the open. Why does Jimmy even have this, anyway?
She’s about half way through the orb (is it the Stratoshemisphere, now?) when a voice calls out, “Um, and what do you think you’re doing?”
Shelby squeaks and drops her pickaxe. It goes tumbling over the edge of the floating island, down to the ground far below. Welp. She’s never getting that back. She turns around slowly, shoulders up by her ears, and grins at the god staring down at her with a disbelieving expression.
“What makes you think I’m doing anything?” she asks.
He gapes at her. “You’re stealing my gold! I caught you red-handed!” he accuses.
“Well—hey now—stealing is a strong word—it’s not what it looks like...?” 
“Okay, then.” He folds his arms. “What is it, then?”
Shelby opens and closes her mouth wordlessly. Like a fish. “I’m, uh, borrowing it?”
“Borrowing it,” Jimmy repeats dryly. “And what would you be borrowing it for?” 
“Enrichment?” she tries.
Jimmy’s expression turns dark. Wrong answer. “Put it back. Now,” he demands.
“I really can’t do that—look, listen!” she yelps, when Jimmy pulls out an axe. “I, uh, look, I really need this, okay? I’m, um, I’m trying to impress a princess!” she blurts. Jimmy stares at her blankly. She takes a breath and forges on. “Just let me take it for a little bit? I’ll bring it back!”
“You’ll bring it back,” he echoes flatly.
“Mhm! I’ll even do you a favour!” she offers brightly. “An IOU, just for you. Redeemable anytime. Just, y’know, let me take the gold for a couple days! I swear I’ll bring it back.” She crosses her fingers behind her back. “Pirate’s honour.”
“That does sound like a pretty good… No.” He shakes his head. “Put the gold back, Shelby.” 
“How about I just take half of it! You keep this half, and I take what I already have, and then I bring it back in a couple days?”
“Or, better idea, I kill you and then I get everything in your inventory.”
“I’d like to see you try,” she mutters, and then, louder, before he can call her out on it, says, “how about I leave you something? As, as insurance, you know? You keep something of mine, I keep something of yours, we swap.” 
“Yeah? Like what? I doubt you have anything as important as this gold.”
Shelby reaches up and fiddles with her amulet, glancing off to the side. “This is my good luck charm,” she says quietly. “It stops you from drowning at sea. It’s the only reason I’m around right now, so… It’s pretty important to me.” She bites the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smirking. “I don’t really want to part with it… But I will if it means I can borrow the gold.”
Jimmy’s eyebrows crease. “This is really that important to you?” he asks, sounding a little baffled by the notion.
Shelby nods, reaching up and pulling the cord that holds the necklace from around her neck. “It is,” she says, holding it out to him. “So. Do we have a deal?”
Several emotions flicker across his face too quickly for her to read them. He sighs. “Fine,” he says. He reaches out and takes the amulet from her hand. “You better bring it back, Shelby.”
Shelby nods quickly. “Oh, I will!” she says brightly. “Pleasure doing business with you, uhh… your holiness?” she tries.
“Yeah,” he loops the necklace over his own neck, pulling a face at the decimated orb of gold. “I’ll see you in a few days for the handover. Be there.”
“Right.” Shelby grins, crossing her fingers once more. “I’ll be there.”
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kkodzvken · 4 years ago
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take the dive - sugawara koushi x milf!reader
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tags/warnings: smut, 18+ ONLY! slight dubcon, infidelity, post timeskip (suga teaches reader’s kids). overstimulation and slight dumbification, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, semi-public (in an empty classroom)
a/n: this is my piece for @ultimate-astridwriting’s milf fuckers collab, which you can find here!! thank you for hosting this astrid, and thank u to everyone in the server for ur love and support as i worked on this <33. title cred: take the dive by jonghyun
wc: 3.9k
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Amidst a faculty full of stuffy old dinosaurs and suits, Sugawara Koushi is a breath of fresh air. He’s a welcome distraction, a pretty face to focus on at dull PTA meetings and assemblies. And you knew that you weren’t the only one making heart eyes at him. Everywhere that he went, heads turned, and moms whispered. At the bus stop, on the sidelines of sports matches, in the waiting rooms outside dance classes.
It was just that, though -- just whispers. Little knowing glances and nudged shoulders, dreamy sighs and brief sinful indulgences. Nothing more than a brief escape from the monotony of your everyday lives. You’d lose yourselves in the fantasy for a few seconds, and then pull your heads down from the clouds and plant your feet on solid ground. You enjoyed your gossip with the other moms, and then you returned home, to your husband and children. To your family.
You love them, of course. Your children are your world, and your husband is a good man. He’s a good man, and that’s what made it so hard. He treats you well, keeps his words soft and never once put his hands on you. 
He may be good, but, God, was he boring. You can’t remember the last time that he’d even kissed you, let alone fucked you. He came home later and later each night, too tired from work to do anything but silently scarf down his dinner and plant himself on the couch in front of the television. He dragged himself into bed hours after you did. He tried to be quiet, he really did, but he woke you up every single night with his stomping and shuffling. When you snuggled closer to him, he pushed you off. My back hurts too bad, he’d say, voice tinged with regret. Remind me to book another appointment with the chiropractor. 
It was always some excuse or another. 
So, really, you couldn’t blame yourself for your wandering eye. You weren’t going to act on it, of course -- you weren’t a cheater -- but the young teacher was something to occupy yourself with. A pretty face to fill your thoughts as you wrangled your horde of screaming kids from swim lessons to dance practice to art classes. A pretty, pretty body to imagine as you fucked yourself with your fingers, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to muffle your moans. You couldn’t help but imagine that it was him, lithe body leaning over yours. No complaints of aching backs and sore muscles, none of the complications that came with age. 
You’d leave your husband catatonic on the couch, put the kids to sleep, and then go dream of their hot teacher. You should’ve been more ashamed, but there was a part of you that loved the thrill of it. You flushed whenever you saw Mr. Sugawara the next morning, memories of your illicit thoughts filling your mind, but it also made your body feel electric. 
Of course there was a part of you that longed to throw caution to the wind and jump the young man, but your conscience was much stronger than your weak, lustful thoughts. You were happy with the way things were now. As dull as your husband was, and as insufferable as the children could sometimes be, you were happy. 
This was all you had ever wanted. A house in the suburbs, a husband with a well-paying job, three kids and a dog. You’re living the fucking dream. You’re happy, you tell yourself.
So why the fuck are you so unsatisfied?
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
With a deep breath, you stare down the heavy glass doors at the school’s entrance. You want nothing more than to find the idiot architect who designed this building, and strangle him for installing pull doors. Your arms are already sore from carrying the giant tray of brownies from your car to the front of the school, and you worry that if you put the treats down to open the door, you wouldn’t be able to lift them up again. A quick glance at your watch tells you that you have two minutes left to reach the gym where the bake sale is being held. The PTA president is notorious for hating latecomers, and you weren’t in the mood to get your head bit off.
You’re debating doing some gymnastics and using your foot to grab the handle, when you notice footsteps approaching from behind you. You open your mouth to ask for help, but they beat you to it. “Let me get the door,” says their syrupy, melodic voice.
Their familiar voice.
Your body practically freezes as a strong arm reaches over your shoulder. Long fingers – fingers that you’ve fantasized about too many times to count – twist the handle and push it open easily. You don’t know how you didn’t notice him approaching sooner, but now that he’s here, your senses are in overdrive. The sweet scent of his cologne, the sound of his breath, the warmth of his body – it’s all too much, and it makes your knees feel weak.
“Mr. Sugawara,” you say, voice coming out much breathier than you intended. This must be some kind of Pavlovian response from all your fantasizing, because there is no reason for your stomach to be twisting right now. “Thank you.”
He grins sheepishly and steps away, and you hate the way that your body screams at you to lean into him. “It’s no problem. Is that for the bake sale? Here, let me carry it for you.”
You try to protest, but there’s really no point. His long fingers are already pushing yours to the sides, and you swear you’ve been electrified as he pulls the tray out of your hands. It’s a shame, really, that he’s wearing a button-down. The sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, at least, but you would’ve loved to see his biceps flex as he carried that tray…
What am I doing? You dig your nails into your palm to snap yourself out of your thoughts, but it’s hard to stay lucid when he’s so beautiful. He carries the brownies with ease, using just one arm to support their weight as the other holds the door open for you. It should make you upset, that you’re so weak in comparison to him, but the thought just makes you feel even more breathless. He’s so strong, so young, and so unlike your husband.
“Thank you,” you say again as he steps into the building behind you. You reach for the tray, but he waves you off.
“Nonsense. I’ll walk you to the gym.”
“Oh, really, you don’t have to—”
“I insist. Anything for my favorite mom.”
His…favorite? His words leave you too stupefied to protest any further, and he takes your silence as compliance. Your body automatically follows in his footsteps as he paces down the hallways.
He looks over at you and smiles comfortingly. It lights up his entire face, but does little to ease your turbulent thoughts.
Your mind is still fixated on his words as you step onto the squeaky wood flooring of the gymnasium. Sugawara calmly walks over to the PTA president, who looks like she’s about to rip her hair out. She’s surrounded by a gaggle of other moms, all jabbering away with concern painted across their faces.
“Is something wrong, ladies?” he asks. His voice snaps them all out of their conversation, and their eyes widen as they take him in.
“Yes,” says the PTA president scornfully. “We were supposed to have the brownies here already! The sale starts in ten minutes, and if this keeps up, I won’t have enough time to inventory everything and make it presentable, and –”
“I have the brownies,” you cut in, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.
She blanches, and looks from you to the tray in Sugawara’s arms. An oh is all she can muster before grabbing the brownies and rushing off.
“Is everything okay?” one of the other moms asks, her voice laced with fake sweetness. “Oh, and you look so tired, dear. If you couldn’t manage your part, you should’ve just said so!”
“It would’ve been no trouble,” another woman says. “I’d have had no trouble whipping up a tray for you! Everyone always does love my baking.”
You grit your teeth and resist the urge to snap at them. It’s always like this – the other moms seem so in tune with their lives of domestic bliss, playing games of politics and constantly competing to be the best. Try as you might, you just can’t satisfy yourself with a life like theirs.
The material of Sugawara’s shirt brushes against you, and you start. He doesn’t pull away as you flinch, instead gently resting his hand on the small of your back. “Sorry to interrupt, but can I steal her away? Mrs. (L/N), I have your son’s science fair project sitting in my classroom. He keeps forgetting to bring it home. Would you like to go collect it now?”
You nod, relieved at the excuse to escape these women and their sickening artificial sweetness. Sugawara gently guides you with the hand on your back. You can’t help but internally smirk at the thinly-veiled jealousy on the faces of the other mothers.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.  
“This is why you’re my favorite,” Sugawara says, once you’re safely out of earshot. “All these PTA moms are so fake. But you’re not like that, are you?”
You nod, still a bit convinced that this is all a dream. He doesn’t remove his hand from your back as you walk down the hallways, and only pulls away when you reach the door to his classroom. He fishes through his pocket and pulls out a ring of keys, before insert one into the knob and pushing the door open. He gestures for you to enter first, and so you do, blinking at the harsh sudden brightness of the automatic lights.
You awkwardly glance around the room. You’ve been here plenty of times before, but that was all during the daytime, when it was packed full of energetic children. It feels…strange, to be alone in a classroom as an adult. Or, well, alone, except for the stupidly attractive teacher that you’ve been lusting over.
“Where’s the project?” you ask, trying to diffuse some of the tension building in your stomach. “I should head home soon.”
Sugawara leans his back against the door and cocks his head. “You know, I know what you say about me.”
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb.” His eyes rove across your body, lingering on your chest for far longer than they should. “I’m not deaf, you know. I hear all the things you say about me. You’re just like all the other moms.” He pushes off the door, stalking closer to you. You instinctively take a step back. “Only difference is, you might actually have the guts to do something about it.”
Your heart thuds in your chest, so hard that you think your ribs might bruise. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Sugawara. I-”
You take another step back, and another, and suddenly your back collides with concrete. Your body jolts, and you yelp at the sudden pain.
Sugawara leans closer. One of his hands braces against the board behind your head, and the other one comes up to cradle your face. His long fingers hook under your chin and press, forcing you to tilt your head up and meet his gaze. His thumb brushes against your lip, and you can’t deny how the sensation makes your body feel like jelly.
Every rational thought in your mind is screaming at you to run, to leave, to get away from him and go back to your husband, but God, it’s been so long since you’ve felt like this. It’s been so long since someone’s made your heart race and your breaths quicken, since someone’s made you blush like a schoolgirl over a simple touch.
“What was that you said?” he asks, his voice dripping with honey. “You don’t know what I’m talking about?”
You swallow and bite the inside of your cheek. The pain does nothing to clear the fog inside your mind. “I-I don’t, I-”
“You do,” he interrupts, his thumb still toying with your lip. “You’re so fucking obvious. I bet you’re wet already, aren’t you?”
“Mr. Sugawara!” His lewd words make you gasp, but more than anything, you hate the fact that he’s right. Your body has a mind of its own, and it wants nothing more than to wrap your lips around his thumb and pull him closer. It wants to feel his arms wrapped around you, feel his body towering over you.
But you can’t. As much as you want to, you can’t, because you have a husband at home who’s waiting for you. Sure, he isn’t home right now, because he’s putting in extra hours at the office. And sure, he hasn’t touched you or made you feel desired in weeks. Hell, you haven’t had a genuine conversation in weeks. But he’s still your husband! You try and remind yourself of that. You roll the thought around in your head, hoping that it’ll push your thoughts of Sugawara away.
But the young teacher is persistent, and there’s a glimmer in his eye that makes your chest tighten. “Call me Koushi, princess.”
“Don’t call me princess –”
“What, you’re going to pretend that it didn’t make you wetter? Going to pretend that you aren’t clenching your thighs together right now?” He leans in even closer, so that his breath brushes against your ear as he whispers. “Your body doesn’t lie, baby.”
A whine slips past your lips at his words, and then you gasp, mortified with yourself. But the grin that covers his face makes your transgression worth it, because God, he’s handsome. His hand squeezes your chin even tighter, and then trails down to your neck. Your breath catches in your chest. You’re hyperaware of his every movement, of his fingers trailing across your skin, his touch feather-light. It leaves you aching for more.
You instinctively whine again, and he lets out a noise of surprised delight. “Whining like this, and you’re still denying that you want me? What’s got you so embarrassed?”
“I have a husband,” you hiss – or, at least, you try to hiss. It comes out more like a whimper than anything else.
Sugawara looks at you for a beat – and then throws his head back and laughs. It catches you off guard, and you furrow your brow. “Why the fuck are you laughing?”
He collects himself, but his eyes are still gleaming when he looks back at you. “Sure, you have a husband. But that doesn’t stop you from thinking about me, does it? Tell me, when’s the last time that your husband took care of you? When’s the last time that he touched you, or fucked you, or made you feel good?”
“Mr. Sugawara, this is inappropriate–”
“Stop lying to yourself.” His voice suddenly drops, his stare forceful and deadly serious. “Say the word, and I’ll go. We can pretend this never happened. But anyone with eyes can tell that you’re unsatisfied.”
“I…I don’t…” Your thoughts feel like a wave, building higher and higher. They bounce around your head, reverberating against your skull, so loud that you can’t even think.
“Why are you settling?”
“Mr. Sugawara, please, I–”
“Why are you settling, when you know you want more?”
The wave crests.
You don’t know who moves first, but somehow, your fingers are tangled in his hair, and his lips are slotted against yours. It’s not soft, or sweet – it’s a mess of teeth and tongues and feverish breaths. His hands are everywhere. They trail over your skin, explore the curves of your chest and your stomach, grip tightly at your waist to pull you closer.
“Mr. Sugawara,” you pant against his lips. Your lungs scream for oxygen, but you can’t bear to drag yourself away from him for even a second. He kisses so well. It may be rushed, and messy, but there’s so much hunger behind his actions that it makes your head spin. It’s like his lips are a live wire, and every second that they touch yours, they send a thousand volts of electricity arcing through your body.
“Koushi,” he breathes. “Call me Koushi, please.” You nod, and then hurriedly undo the buttons of his shirt, popping a few off in the process. Neither of you care. His hands finally dip beneath the hem of your dress, and he wastes no time in unceremoniously tugging it off your body.
Your hands instinctively go to cover yourself. Age and childbirth have changed your body, and you know that Mr. Sugawara – no, Koushi – is probably used to beautiful young women. You still don’t understand why his eye landed on you. He surely has dozens of girls his age fawning over him, with flat stomachs and perky tits. Why you?
He grips your wrists and pries your hands away from your body. “Don’t do that,” he says, so gentle in contrast to the fire from just moments ago. “Don’t cover yourself up. You’re beautiful.”
Oh.
You can’t remember the last time that someone called you beautiful. You can’t remember the last time that you felt beautiful.
But right now, with Koushi staring at you, eyes blown out with lust… you feel it.
He sinks onto his knees, lips already pressing little kisses against your hips and upper thighs. You try and protest – really, Koushi, you don’t have to – but he shushes you instantly. He hooks one of your thighs over his shoulder and dives in without hesitation. Even through the fabric of your panties, you’re in fucking heaven. His tongue laves against your clit, focusing so much attention onto the swollen bead that you can’t help but let out a moan.
You slap your hand over your mouth to silence yourself. You’re in an elementary school, for God’s sake. The bake sale is at the other side of the large building, but you’re terrified of someone walking past and catching you. Guilt swirls around your heart, but it’s quick to dissipate when Koushi tugs your panties off and throws them over his shoulder. He buries himself into your cunt again, and it’s even better without the barrier. The coil in your stomach is tightening embarrassingly fast, but you can’t seem to find it in yourself to care. His tongue laps at your folds, slurping lewdly.
The pleasure is overwhelming. Your body moves of its own accord. Your hips grind against Koushi’s face, and he moans right into your cunt. His lips move up to your clit again, alternating between licking and sucking. You’re so focused on his mouth that you barely notice his fingers, so long and pretty, collecting your wetness.
You do notice when he fucks two of those pretty fingers into you. He immediately starts scissoring his fingers to stretch you out, before hooking them against that spot inside of you that makes your head spin. Your entire body is shaking with euphoria, so much that you can’t handle it.
“Close,” you cry out, trying to keep yourself upright. “Close, close, please, don’t stop!”
He moans into you again when you tug at his hair. It’s the push that you need to finally fall over the edge. You bite into your palm to keep from screaming as you gush all over him, chest heaving and eyes tearing up.
He keeps curling his fingers, keeps lapping at your clit, until you tug on his hair and cry that the overstimulation is too much. As he lets your leg down and stands up, he makes a show of licking your cum off his fingers, slurping on them loudly. It would make you embarrassed, but you’re too focused on his other hand as it dips down to his belt. The muscles of his stomach flex as he undoes the buckle. You take the opportunity to rake your eyes over his toned torso. He seems so slender when he’s dressed, but his shoulders are surprisingly broad.
He looks up at you with a little smirk. “Caught you staring,” he teases. You blush as he pulls his pants and boxers down in one go, freeing his cock. It’s already hard, and so pretty, just like him. His tip is red and dripping with precum. You want so badly to get a taste, but Koushi has other plans. He spins you by your shoulders, and then presses at the small of your back to make you lay across his desk.
You groan when you feel him slap his cock against your ass a few times, before running it through your folds to collect your wetness. “Please,” you gasp. “No teasing, please.”
“Just came, and you’re already needy?” he chuckles. “That husband of yours must really not be satisfying you.”
You’re spared from having to think of a retort by him sinking into you. A cry leaves your lips, but it’s too good for you to even care about the sound. He feels like heaven as he sinks into you. His cock stretches you out deliciously.
You’re already feeling delirious as he starts to shallowly thrust and work his way in. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you. “So – fuck…”
You can’t do anything but moan and scratch at the table as he starts to fuck into you in earnest. His cock is perfectly curved to hit your spot every time, and soon you’re reduced to a mess underneath him. His balls slap against your ass with every thrust. It hurts, it’s all too much, but it’s so fucking good. You don’t think you’ve ever felt pleasure like this – mind numbing and all consuming, so powerful that it makes your eyes roll back.
“Fuck,” he groans again, bending down so that he can loom over you and leave little bites all over your back and shoulders. “Not gonna last if you keep squeezing me like that, shit!”
“Faster, please,” you beg, and he obliges. He sets an absolutely brutal pace, somehow managing to fuck you hard, fast, and at the perfect angle all at once. Moans and cries spill freely out of your open mouth. When he reaches forward to toy with your clit, it’s all too much, and it sends you over the edge again. Your body practically spasms as he fucks you through your second orgasm. He shows you no mercy, gives you no time to come down. You don’t know if you’re coming again, or if you just never stopped. Your mind is hazy with pleasure and overstimulation.
You’re a twitching mess by the time that he pulls out, but you still whine at the loss. You’re far too fucked out to turn around and look at him, but in the corner of your consciousness, you can hear him panting and stroking himself furiously. His moans are so beautiful. Within a few short seconds, he’s coming all over your ass, painting your pretty skin white with his seed.
You don’t know how long you’re laying there before he taps your cheek to get your attention. “C’mon now,” he says, a tired smile on his face. “Let’s get you cleaned up. We wouldn’t want your husband finding out, would we?”
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lostinthewiind · 3 years ago
Text
Piss Off Your Parents - Part 8
Ukai Keishin - Haikyuu
Synopsis: freshly turned 18, you want to prove to your parents that you aren’t a child for them to push around anymore. First, get a job at the local corner store. Second, use the store owner’s 26-year-old son with piercings and a cigarette addiction to piss your parents off. Third, accidentally fall in love.
Rating: PG13
Warnings: none
Song → 18 by Anarbor
Previous → Part 7
Next → Part 9
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Feeling a body shift beside you, you slowly began to wake from your deep, dreamless sleep. With thin rays of sunlight shining through the crack between the curtains, you let a content, sleepy smile toy at the corners of your lips as you rolled over in Keishin's arms and came face to face with his sleeping form.
It had been over a week since you had started staying with Keishin and even though waking up beside someone every morning definitely took some getting used to, you were a little surprised by just how quickly it was beginning to feel normal. Not only that, but you never slept better than you did in Keishin's bed with his warm, calming presence beside you and strong, protective arm draped over your waist.
Eyes closed and lips slightly parted, Keishin was fast asleep. His chest rose and fell rhythmically and at some point during the night, just like every other night, his hair—which wasn't tamed by the headband while he slept—had gotten all messed up and a few strands had fallen into his face.
Whenever you woke up before him, you would always take the chance to just look at him. While he slept, he seemed completely and utterly at peace—no longer burdened by the stress of coaching volleyball, working at the store, and no doubt whatever extra problems you had brought into his life. You thought back to the time you had watched him sleeping on the couch in the back room and sighed happily; the thought of how much things had changed in such a short period of time truly putting things into perspective.
Unable to keep your hands to yourself any longer, you reached out slowly and brushed the loose strands of hair out of his face and tucked them behind his ear—the same way you had done when you two had first had sex and the same way you had done countless times since.
Keishin could sleep through a thunderstorm or the sound of you calling out his name, but as soon as he felt your fingertips graze against his cheek, his eyes fluttered open. Upon noticing he was awake, you made your touch more prominent and caressed his face.
"Good morning," you whispered, unwilling to raise your voice any more than that and ruin the soft ambiance of the early morning.
Keishin leaned into your touch and smiled softly. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," you answered as you ran your thumb along his bottom lip, internally debating if you should ambush him with kisses now or wait until he had woken up a little more first. Chuckling to yourself over your own thoughts, you caught yourself staring at his lips and directed your gaze back to his eyes. "I'm just looking at you."
Keishin scoffed as he pressed a gentle kiss to your thumb. "Why?"
"Because you look so beautiful when you're asleep," you told him matter-of-factly. "Not that you don't always look beautiful," you added quickly before he could make some sort of sarcastic comment.
Keishin rolled his eyes before pulling you flush against his chest and kissing you. "You're such a sap, you know that?"
You laughed. "First, I'm dramatic. Now I'm a sap. What's next?"
"I have no idea." Keishin shrugged the best he could while lying down. "What I do know, however," he glanced at the clock, "is that we need to get up and get ready."
Following Keishin's gaze to the time, you huffed sadly when you noticed there were only five minutes left until your alarm would go off, forcing you to get ready to open the store. "Can't we just stay in bed all day?" you asked, hoping you could convince him to stay under the covers with you.
"Not unless we want to go broke and end up living under a bridge together."
You chuckled as Keishin crawled out of bed, the temptation of slapping his ass gently when he stood up almost too much but you managed to control yourself. "Together?" You grinned. "You'd stay with me even if we were both dirt poor?"
Keishin rolled his eyes playfully at your takeaway from his statement. "Of course." He collected his clothes before making his way around to your side of the bed and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "But I think I like plumbing and heating too much to give them up, so let's shower and get ready."
Sitting up in bed, you cocked an eyebrow. "You want to shower together?"
Keishin flashed a devilish smirk as he headed for the bathroom. "Purely for the purpose of saving water." He disappeared into the bathroom and seconds later his boxers flew out and landed on the floor, indicating he was completely nude. "But if you hate the planet, then I guess that's on you."
Your cheeks flushed red but nevertheless, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and began removing your clothes as you approached the bathroom. "Sure," you laughed as you closed the bathroom door behind yourself and let your eyes wander over Keishin's wet, naked body as he stood under the steaming water. "If it's for the planet, how could I possibly say no?"
20 minutes of passionate kissing and soapy hands exploring every inch of each other's body later, the two of you towelled off and finished getting ready before sitting down for a quick breakfast together.
"So the volleyball team has a game today, right?" you asked Keishin as you poured milk into your bowl of cereal. Keishin nodded. "What time do you think you will be home?"
Keishin thought for a moment before answering. "Probably around six or seven tonight. The game is right after school so it shouldn't run too late."
"Okay." You sat down across from him at the table. "Should we get dinner after I close up the shop?"
Keishin nodded again. "Sounds like a plan."
With a few more bites of his breakfast, Keishin was setting his dishes in the sink, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head, and rushing down the stairs and out of the building to start his day.
As you listened to his footsteps stomp down the stairs, followed by the sound of the back door opening and closing to indicate that he had left, you sighed to yourself and sat back in your chair. It was then that you took a minute to think about everything; your job, your boyfriend, your living arrangements, your tattered relationship with your parents. In the span of a few months, your life had completely turned upside down, but that wasn't the part that freaked you out the most.
What really got you thinking was the fact that, even though your life had done a complete 180, you had never been happier; which led to the constant internal questioning about if you had ever really been happy before you had met Keishin at all, or if this was just a different kind of happy—a happy that only a stable, supportive significant other could provide.
Before you had the chance to get lost in your thoughts, you snapped out of it, finished your breakfast, and headed downstairs to open the shop and begin your day.
As usual, you dealt with the typical morning rush of people stopping in to grab a coffee or other various food items on their way to work or school. Once the mid-morning slump hit and the customer traffic went way down, you took the time to do some routine cleaning and inventory. By now, you were like a well-oiled machine when it came to the daily task of running the store.
Around noon, as you were finishing up stocking some shelves, the front door opened and a very well-dressed man strolled into the store. "Hello," you greeted him, standing from where you were kneeling in front of the shelves and dusting off your pants.
The man gave you a once over, eyeing you from head to toe. Without so much as an acknowledging nod, he brushed past you and toward the full-length fridges at the back.
Assuming the man just wasn't in a chatty mood, you took the empty boxes to the storage room. When you exited, the man was already standing at the front counter, impatiently tapping his foot while he held two bottles of water in his hands.
"Sorry for the wait," you apologized. "Just the waters today?"
The man just nodded and let out a grunt.
Trying not to take his dismissive attitude too seriously, you rang up his purchases and gave him the total. Instead of pulling out his wallet, however, he just gave you a dirty look.
"That's a little expensive for two bottles of water, don't you think?" he retorted.
You didn't know what to say to that, so you shrugged. "I'm sorry, I don't make the prices, sir," you told him. "I just work here."
Huffing loudly, the man fished his wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out some bills before tossing them haphazardly onto the counter. "Fine. Don't forget my change."
Before you could open the cash register, the front doors opened again and a woman dressed in a beautiful dress with her hair done up elegantly walked in and stopped beside the man before you. "Have you paid yet?" she asked the man, who was either her boyfriend or husband based on the way she was hanging off of his arm. "I just realized I'm out of cigarettes."
"I'm just paying now," he told her, his face softer than you had seen it yet before he turned back to you and asked for the brand of cigarettes that his partner smoked.
Spinning around, you felt your stomach twist at the sight of the empty dispenser of cigarettes, meaning that you were out of the brand he had requested. Of course, the delivery for that day hadn't come in yet, making your job even harder right now.
Plastering the warmest smile on your face that you could muster, you turned back to the couple. "I apologize, but we are all out of that brand. Can I get you something else?"
The woman rolled her eyes. "No, everything else tastes like garbage."
"I see." You stepped back up to the cash register. "So just the waters then?"
The man nodded. "I guess so if your shitty little store doesn't even stock up on popular brands of cigarettes." He watched you intently as you opened the register and counted his change. "I knew we should have stopped somewhere other than this hole in the wall."
As much as you so desperately wanted to rip this man and his spoiled girlfriend a new one, you bit your tongue instead and grinned as you handed him back his change. "Here you are." You dropped the coins into his outstretched hand. "Have a wonderful day."
Neither one of them said anything in response as they turned on their heels and marched out of the store, noses turned up at everything around them. As you watched them get into their fancy car and speed away, you wondered if they treated everyone like that or just lowly corner store workers like yourself.
Trying to let the incident slide off of you like water off of a duck's back, you returned to the remaining tasks on your to-do list and tried to forget all about being treated like a second-class citizen.
As the day turned to late afternoon and the after-school and after-work rush hit, you had found your way back into your groove again.
An hour or so before closing time, and roughly around the time Keishin would be returning, you heard a pair of heels clacking against the tile floor and stood up front behind the counter only to come face-to-face with your mother. Dressed in a pencil skirt and blouse, it was obvious she had just come from work, but your attention was more focused on the envelope she was holding out to you.
"This came for you the other day." She didn't even bother with a simple greeting even though it had been weeks since you had seen or spoken to her or your father.
"Oh, okay." You reached out and took the envelope from her. Turning it over, you felt your heart jump into your throat when you read that it was from the University of Tokyo.
You looked up at your mother expectantly but she waved you off. "Don't ask me what it says, I didn't open it," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "Why didn't you tell your father and me that you applied to the University of Tokyo? It's a very good school."
"Because I didn't do it for you," you said as you tucked the envelope into your back pocket. "And I certainly didn't do it to go to law school or anything you guys would approve of."
Your mother narrowed her eyes at you. "Then why did you do it?"
"To play soccer," you answered, your mind immediately going to the conversation you had had with Keishin while taking inventory together. "And because I told someone I would."
Your mother eyed you for a minute more, waiting to see if you would reach for the envelope again to open it. When you made no indication of sharing your application results with her, she hummed softly. "Well, whatever that letter says, you should take some time to seriously consider what your next step is going to be." She turned to leave but stopped halfway to the door and looked at you over her shoulder. "It's not too late to make the right choice. Think carefully before you throw your life away."
With that, your mother exited the store, leaving you with a mixed slurry of emotions and no clue how to deal with any of them.
Pulling the envelope out of your back pocket, you set it down on the counter in front of you and stared at it. Whatever was printed on the single piece of paper inside would set a course for your future . . . although you were unsure if you even still wanted the future that this piece of paper could give you.
All you wanted was to be happy, and all you knew was that Keishin gave you that.
Anything more felt like asking for too much.
Anything more felt like a gamble that wasn't worth the risk.
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chudleycanonficfest · 3 years ago
Text
The Switch
Day 10, Story #2 is by @adenei
Title: The Switch
Author: adenei
Pairing: George Weasley/Angelina Johnson
Prompt: First Date
Rating: T
TW: Mentions of character death
***********
The shop is quiet as George locks the door to his office. It’s been a month since the grand re-opening of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, and the steady thrum of customers has put the business back on track to where it was before the untimely closure due to the war. Things are different, of course, with Fred not being there, but George’s family and friends have stepped up and offered more support than George knows what to do with—not that he wanted it in the first place.
  In retrospect, he is thankful for his family and friends, Ron and Angelina in particular. They helped him put down the bottle and get his life back on track. 
  “Fred wouldn’t want this.” Angelina had told him late one night while she and Lee were staying over in his flat that smelled of days-old Firewhisky and hadn’t been cleaned since before they’d gone into hiding at Aunt Muriel’s.
  “How would Fred feel if you let everything the two of you worked for go to shit? How would you feel if the tables were turned and if it was—” Ron had yelled as he snatched the half-full bottle away from his brother and dumped it down the drain. The emotion was raw as the words caught in his throat, the end of the phrase hanging between them like the weight of a bludger pulling them down and grounding them.
  At first, he’d been pissed, but they were right. Fred wouldn’t have wanted George to resort to any of that. And even though he’d been begrudging in accepting help to begin with, George knew he wouldn’t have gotten the shop up and running as swiftly as he did without everyone’s help. The hole in his heart still ached, and not a moment went by where he didn’t miss his brother, but finding a new stride in this post-war life is exactly the push George needed to not only move on but also honor and make Fred proud.
  As George makes his way onto the main floor of the shop, a figure standing behind the counter makes him pause. He’d recognize that silhouette anywhere, the unrequited crush from his Hogwarts days now thrust back in his life, as if to taunt him of just another thing he’ll never have.
  “You’re still here?” The exhaustion is apparent in George’s voice after a ten-hour day.
  “Yeah, I wanted to make sure you didn’t stay on and try to do all the inventory yourself again like last week.” Angelina runs her fingers over the various displays of fireworks that are locked away behind the checkout area as she lightly teases George.
  “Nah, I learned from that mistake. Besides, don’t you have your regular job that you need to get back to? Now that things are running smoothly again, we’ll be able to manage without the extra help. Especially once things die down after the first.”
  “I don’t mind spending a few hours here after work, you know that. Things’ll start to pick up again soon once the Quidditch season gets underway, I’m sure, but right now, my corresponding duties are light. Call me crazy, but I’ve enjoyed spending more time with you lately. Almost makes me feel like we’re back in Hogwarts, you know? When real life and responsibilities seemed so far away.”
  A chuckle escapes George’s lips. It was true, all this time they’d been spending together, especially with Lee and sometimes Alicia, almost made everything feel right again.
  “Well, we can hang out in other places, too. I swear I don’t live at Wheeze’s.”
  “George, you live upstairs.”
“Ah, bugger off.”
  “I’m only teasing.”
  “And all I’m saying is if you want to do something outside these walls, all you have to do is ask.”
  “Are you hungry, then?”
  A genuine laugh bubbles up into George’s throat at Angelina’s brazenness. “Bloody hell, woman! Impatient much?”
  His outburst brings a smile to Angelina’s face, brightening the dark circles under her eyes from the extra hours spent helping out. 
  “You’re the one who said to ask. So, what do you say? Fancy a drink and a meal down the street? It’s late enough that the Leaky shouldn’t be too busy.”
  “I s’pose it couldn’t hurt. Beats making something for myself, that’s for sure.”
  “Great, let’s go.” 
  Angelina walks around the counter and reaches out to take George’s hand in hers. An electric shock shoots up his arm from the point of contact, and George has to stop himself from pulling away from the surprise of it all. A memory flashes through his mind of twinkling lights amongst a silver backdrop in the Great Hall all those years ago. He sees two figures dancing and twirling to the music of the Weird Sisters, one with flaming red hair much like his own and the other whose sapphire gown swished against the travertine floor. The memory brings a reminiscent smile to his lips as Angelina tugs him out the door.
  When they reach the Leaky, the pair settles into a quiet booth in the back of the establishment, away from curious eyes. It’s late in the evening for a meal, which is made evident by the empty tables and chairs scattered throughout the pub. Only a handful of patrons litter the bar, allowing Tom to be attentive to their needs. 
  George takes a large swig when the barkeep returns with Butterbeers, and they place their orders.
  “No shot of Firewhisky tonight then?” 
  George shakes his head. “I told you, Ange, I was serious about stopping. I can’t use the bottle as a crutch for grief anymore.”
  Angelina nods as she observes him intently. George can feel the heat of her gaze trailing over him as he takes another sip from his drink. 
  “You’re staring.”
  “Sorry, I was just thinking.”
  “Oh? And here I was thinking I was mesmerizing you with my dashing good looks,” George quips. 
  Angelina smiles, and for a moment, George thinks he sees a blush on her cheeks before she recovers.  For all the time they spent together during Hogwarts, and more recently in the months following the war, George finds it odd that they’re struggling with conversation now.
  “Knut for your thoughts?” asks George.
  “Just that it’s been nice reconnecting with you. And Lee. Circumstances are shit, of course, but with my hectic schedule during Quidditch season, I don’t get much time for socializing and friends. I even had to drop my registration for the semi-pro league I was hoping to play for.”
  George nods, and his stomach twists as he processes her words. That would mean she’d be leaving soon once things got busy. He’s overcome with the urge to see if her job is something she’s passionate about.
  “Do you love it? Your job, I mean.”
  “Well, yeah, if I can’t play professionally, the next best thing is writing and commentating. Plus, I’ve gotten to see the world all on the Ministry’s dime. Can’t complain there…”
  “But is it something you see yourself doing for a long time?” George presses. He doesn’t mean to sound judgmental, but he needs to know if it’s even worth it to pursue.
  “Well, after graduation, it seemed like the right fit. The opening was there, my parents were encouraging me to see the world, and I didn’t have anything tying me down. Honestly, I think my parents thought it was safer for me to travel, especially with the war on...”
  And what about now? 
  George is nodding his head up and down while the question ricochets in his mind. He opens his mouth, gathering the courage to allow the four words to escape his mouth when Angelina interrupts him.
  “Well, there are some openings that would allow me to stay in London that have just come up. They’re looking for commentators and stats writers for the matches played in the Kensington stadium. So, if you needed an extra hand at the shop, I could stay—”
  “—I don’t want you to stay for the shop. If you want to travel the world, you should. I doubt you’ve seen all the world has to offer in two seasons.”
  No! What are you thinking! 
  George can almost hear Fred chastising him for his rash response. It doesn’t come out the way he meant it to sound, and he knows he messed up given the crestfallen look on Ange’s face.
  “I only meant—”
  “I-I’ve actually already put in for the London job, George. And I promise it’s not because of the shop. Lee promised to help me with commentating, and this way I can play again. I start training next week. You know how much I missed playing Quidditch, and now that England is safer, I can stay and have the best of both worlds.” 
  The longer she goes on, it feels like she’s rambling and going on with a laundry list of pre-prepared reasons, which doesn’t sound like the Angelina he knows. It’s almost like she’s trying to convince herself that those are the reasons she’s staying, and not for anything else.
  “Oh.”
  Ange rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry, I know you and Fred always used to think you two were the center of the universe, but I promise I didn’t choose to stay just for you.”
  Her voice is light, and she’s smiling, but George can’t help but sense something else lingering beneath the surface. Disappointment, perhaps? Or maybe he’s just reading into things too much. Hoping something might be between them that really isn’t. He forces himself to stop overthinking and simply enjoy her company instead.
  “Well, I, for one, am happy you’re staying. We’ll be able to get together more often, and it’ll almost feel like our Hogwarts days. Maybe I’ll even be able to convince you and Alicia to test new products again.”
  Angelina nearly spits out her Butterbeer at George’s joke as Tom approaches with their meal. He knows he’s not fooling either of them; the irony is that the girls were always two steps ahead of him and his brother. They were the only two in their year who managed to avoid becoming test subjects to all of their prototypes.
  The two fall into more reminiscing as they tuck into their fish and chips. George doesn’t realize how ravenous he is until he starts eating, and he’s even more grateful for Ange’s suggestion now.
  As they are polishing off the remainder of their baskets, the topic of conversation falls on the Yule Ball, as Ange remembers how Fred had tossed the wad of paper at her.
  “It was romantic, wasn’t it?” George jokes as he remembers his brother’s ridiculous attempt at asking a girl out. “Still don’t know why you said yes to that tosser.”
  To this day, he’d always resented his brother for drawing his wand first and asking Ange to the ball. Of course, George knew it was all meant to be a bluff. It was Fred’s attempt to get his brother to buck up the courage and ask Angelina for himself. 
  George remembers it vividly. “Just ask her. What’s the worst she’ll say? No? Fine, if you won’t do it, I will.”
  When Fred had gotten Ange’s attention, George had no idea what to expect. They were usually well in tune with each other, and George could anticipate Fred’s moves, but when his brother had asked Angelina himself, it took George by surprise.
  “We were getting down to the wire, weren’t we?” Angelina interrupts George’s thoughts. “No one else had asked me, so I figured it was better to go with one twin than none at all.”
  George chooses the wrong moment to polish off the last of his chips. The fried potato catches in his throat, and he coughs it up, all while reaching for the last dredges of his Butterbeer to clear things out.
  Did she just say it was better to go with one twin than none at all? But then that would mean… 
  “Ange, don’t tell me you were waiting for me to ask you.”
  She shrugs and averts her eyes from his gaze. “I mean, I wouldn’t have been disappointed if you’d asked, let’s put it that way.”
  After this revelation, George burst into laughter. To anyone else in the near vicinity, it probably sounded like he should be admitted to the Janus Thickney Ward. He hasn’t laughed this hard since he and Fred were able to pull off a prank on Muriel shortly after arriving at her Manor at the end of March.
  “You—Fred—I—me—” He can’t seem to formulate a coherent string of thoughts until Angelina goes from amused to offended.
  “Honestly, George, I didn’t realize it was that funny. Forget I said anything.” She checks her watch and gathers her bag. “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all. It’s getting late, and clearly the thought of the two of us together appalls—”
  She’s in the process of standing up when George sobers from the onslaught of irony and reaches out to grab her wrist.
  “Ange, wait. I’m not laughing at that. Just—just give me a chance to explain, yeah?” He pulls her into the bench beside him, where she lands on her bottom harder than she needed to as she lets out a loud huff of indignation.
  “Fred never intended to go with you when he asked.”
  “Excuse me?” Her eyebrows have raised so high on her face that George is surprised they haven’t gotten lost in her braids.
  “No, what I mean is, he’d been pestering me to ask you since the ball was announced. He knew I had a thing for you—obviously—and was being supportive.”
  It felt weird for George to admit that he fancied Angelina in school now, after so many years of keeping it close to his chest. Fred and Lee were the only two who ever knew.
  “So, what are you trying to say, then?”
  “When Fred asked you...I was shocked, too. I didn’t realize he’d already devised a plan that I didn’t cotton on to right away.”
  The look on Angelina’s face transformed from defensive to shock to comprehension, all in the span of a few seconds. “Don’t tell me…”
  “Being an identical twin has—er, had—its benefits.”
  “So.. are you trying to tell me that I didn’t go to the ball with Fred?”
  “Nope.”
  “And at the end of the night, when I kissed Fred in an attempt to make you jealous, I was actually kissing you all along?”
  “Sorry if it was disappointing.” The wisecrack escapes George’s lips before he can stop it.
  Half of him is expecting Angelina to slap him for the ‘switcheroo’ that he and Fred pulled, and in fairness, they deserved it. What if Ange actually had fancied Fred, and they’d pulled one over on her?
  But to his surprise, Angelina does the opposite. She leans in and kisses George right then and there. The same shock he felt when holding her hand earlier ignites within him once more as he lets his body take control. He allows himself to get lost in the feel of her lips, realizing that it’s the first time he’s truly felt like himself since Fred’s passing. He even dares to let himself think he’s found happiness again.
  Eventually, George pulls away as his lungs begin to burn from the lack of oxygen. They remain close, foreheads touching as he offers a weak smile. 
  “Y’know, I was going to tell you it was me at the end of the night, but how could I when I thought I was going to break your heart when you thought you’d kissed Fred?”
  “You’re insufferable, you know that?” 
  “Yeah, but you can’t argue with sixteen-year-old George’s logic, can you?”
  Ange rolls her eyes and leans back. George misses the contact as soon as it’s gone.
  “What do you say we get out of here?” Ange raises her eyebrows in question as if tempting him to follow when she scoots out from the bench a second time.
  George pulls enough money to cover their meals out of his wallet and leaves it on the table before scooching out behind her. He pays no mind to the remaining customers as he pulls Angelina back into him and whispers in her ear,
  “I’d say we’ve wasted five years of pointless pining to wait any longer.”
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itsthemoofacewriting · 4 years ago
Text
Amongst the trees
So. I’ve been having horrible writers block, the worst I’ve ever had, but then I saw b00giewara’s art on twitter. It’s so soft and pretty that finally, my mind and fingers ran. (Also, just the thought of post time skip Sanji in Water 7 outfit has me foaming at the mouth).
This sits in the same universe as Potato Peeling, for no reason other than I want it to.
Summary: On a lazy afternoon, there was nothing Sanji would rather be doing than helping Nami with her trees. Rating: T. Slightly suggestive. 
This can also be found on AO3 and FFN. 
Enjoy!
Sanji had been in the kitchen for a few hours already. Everyone had been fed for breakfast and lunch (Luffy a few more times since between then) and he’d used the lulls in-between to do his weekly inventory. He’d made more progress after lunch, only pausing to serve drinks.
The pantry was done, which took the most amount of time, and he was just about to wrap up with the fridge. As much as he didn’t mind doing the inventory, sometimes it was a nice quiet task, today he felt a bit restless. It was a beautiful day, sunny with the occasional soft breeze that took the edge off from the heat and he’d much rather be out there for once than in the kitchen counting supplies. It was his own fault really; he’d decided to do this.
However he quickly found a good reason to leave when he noticed the mikans were starting to look a bit low.
And thinking about mikans, naturally his mind drifted over to Nami. Which then lead to him thinking about how he hadn’t seen or heard Nami for a few hours either. It wasn’t overly unusual, during the day they both had things that had to be done but considering the lull- it was strange.
Poking his head out of the kitchen door and looking out onto the deck, there was no sign of her. Luffy, Chopper and Usopp were fishing, Franky was tinkering with something, Brook was down for his afternoon nap, he could hear Mosshead’s obnoxiously loud weights from the crow’s nest and Robin was sunbathing. But the sun lounger next to her was empty.
Nami’d mentioned in the morning that she’d wanted to catch up on her maps. Perhaps she was using the quiet afternoon to do that. He’d give her a tiny bit longer so that he didn’t distract her from her maps, but if she hadn’t appeared by the time he was finished, he would take a drink to her and coax her into a break.
With that in mind, he grabbed an empty wicker basket from the pantry and climbed up the ladder to the upper deck.
It was peaceful up there, only the soft wind and distant sound of the crew from the lawn deck could be heard. At first, he’d thought the humming sound was from the crew, it sounded far away, but the closer he got to the mikan trees, the louder it got, and he was starting to piece together where Nami actually was.
It was confirmed when he reached the trees and turned to see Nami bent over and doing something with the soil on the furthest tree from him. She hadn’t seen him yet, too engrossed, and angled away from him. He may have used the opportunity to gawk at her a bit. He may have also taken a few quiet steps to the side so he could get a good view of her behind. But they were together now, so it was acceptable.
“Taking in the view?” She asked, glancing over her shoulder at him and belatedly he realised the humming had stopped. Of course he couldn’t sneak up on the cat thief herself.
“It’d be rude not to.” And even though he’d been caught red handed, he still tilted his head like he hadn’t.
She shook her head at his antics, and his view was cruelly taken away from him as she stood to walk over to him. He could hardly sulk when it was replaced with her sunny smile.
“What brings you into my neck of the woods then?” She asked, taking off a gardening glove to brush a piece of hair out of the way. He wasn’t quite sure why she ever bothered with gloves, she always ended up covered in soil, something that was proven now with the stains on her dungarees.
“We’re getting low on mikans, so I thought I’d take advantage of the good weather to come pick some.” He caught her bare hand in his to press a kiss on the back in greeting, lingering for a second being letting her hand go.
Her cheeks pinked. “Great minds think alike. The weather’s perfect for taking a bit of time out for the trees,” she explained fondly. It was no secret amongst any of them how much they meant to her or how much she enjoyed doing this.
“What are you doing right now?”
“Well, Usopp gave me some compost for the soil, so with that done I’m moving onto pruning.” She’d turned to face the trees, already pinpointing branches and leaves that needed to be taken off. “Want to help? I think I saw Usopp’s shears somewhere around here.”
That was the last thing he’d expected her to ask him, and he was a bit stunned by it, so all he could muster up was a nod as he went in search for the shears.
It wasn’t entirely new territory. He’d helped her with her tress countless times. Held the basket, pointed out fruit she may have missed or perhaps a bad twig that needed to go; it was always assistant work.
Having his own set of shears was a whole new playing field.  
As far as he was aware, no one helped with cutting her trees, not even Usopp or Robin and they were the other green thumbs on board. He’d never been bitter or offended by it, it was no secret how much these trees meant to her and he’d respected that.
But this. This new ground made him a bit giddy, how far they’d come since knowing each other and especially since they’d got together. How much she was trusting him. He was more than aware of how big this was.
He quickly found the extra set of shears from where she’d said they’d be and joined her back at the trees, his basket long forgotten.
“Show me what to do, I don’t want to mess this up.” Whilst he was still giddy, he was gradually getting more and more nervous. This was important and he didn’t want to screw it up. He felt like he was keeping his cool on the outside though as he stood next to her, even if he felt like he was about to have a meltdown internally.
Perhaps he wasn’t being that smooth with the knowing look Nami gave him, but she soon eyed his jacket instead. “Firstly, I think you need to look more the part. Let’s lose the jacket, you don’t want to mess that up.”
He followed her command, taking off his jacket and draping it across the railing. It was a pleasant enough day that he wasn’t worried about it being lost to the sea.
“Let’s leave the waistcoat on,” she said, trying to look innocent but he saw straight through it, although he was more than happy to let her have her way. “And the tie, it might come in handy later. But we could roll up the sleeves.”
Before he could do that himself, her hands were at his wrists, nimbly undoing the button and rolling the fabric up to his elbows. Despite the warm weather, goosebumps erupted along his forearms as her fingers grazed along the skin. They’d been together for a few months now, so touch was nothing new between them, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to the casual touches he shared with her now. Don’t get him wrong, everything about their relationship was exciting to him, but it was the simplest touches and how comfortable she was around him that pleased him the most.
“That’s better.” She nodded to herself, hands lingering on his arms before pulling away and taking the shears out from one of her pockets.
“Thank you.” He smiled down at her tenderly and the flush she’d just managed to get rid of bloomed across her cheeks again. He found it adorable how the softest gestures flustered her the most.
“Right,” Nami said, clearing her throat and focusing back on the trees, “it’s quite simple actually. Cut any branches that are damaged, unhealthy or crossing over one another.”
“Like this one?” He pointed out a withered branch.
“Yes!” She confirmed brightly. “If in doubt, it probably needs to go, otherwise you wouldn’t have noticed it.”
He nodded in understanding and with that, they both started pruning. Nami had left him to have a tree all to himself as she worked on the one beside his. She moved confidently, barely batting an eyelid as she snipped away. He, on the other hand, moved more cautiously, considering each branch before cutting it off. She said not to overthink it, but he couldn’t not. He wanted to do a good job; he’d been entrusted with a whole tree.  
A few branches in and his free hand was becoming full of branches he’d cut off. He glanced to the side, wondering where Nami was putting hers. She must have read his mind, because she met his curious gaze, smiled, and moved a basket between the trees they were both working on.
“Throw anything you chop off into the basket. Usopp likes them so he can add it to the compost he makes,” she informed him.  
Sanji snorted at that, of course Usopp did. He wondered if the three green thumbs on board traded tips.
“Which, by the way, I’m pretty sure he’s sneaking coffee out of the pantry to use for his plants and to add to the compost,” she breezily informed him, already knowing what reaction she’d get from him.
“I knew it!” He said, outraged. His inventory checks had been off for ages and he’d been trying to figure out where the extra coffee had been going. “Now I have to fight Luffy off from the fridge and Usopp from the pantry. The one place I thought was safe.”
Nami laughed at his turmoil. “I’ll adjust the budget.”
He smiled at her gratefully for that.
They descended back into silence after that, and it was nice. It was just as relaxing as some of his tasks in the kitchen, but with the added bonus of fresh air and the sun warming his skin. He’d also say the company, but she spent a fair amount of time in there with him now anyway. But it was a nice change of pace to partake in one of her activities together for a change.
Nami’s hands didn’t falter as she softly broke the silence, “The first few weeks after leaving Cocoyasi village, I thought I was going to lose the trees, the constant change in weather made it hard to look after them.”
Sanji was silent as he let the information wash over him, it’d never crossed him mind before, but now he thought about it, it made perfect sense. “I never thought of that,” he said in awe.  
Nami hummed in agreement and shook her head. “Me either! Normally in the winter they need more care and, in the summer, less, but with the fluctuating weather they were all over the place.”
He cut away another branch, throwing it into the basket before moving around the tree. He tilted his head to indicate he was still listening.
Nami continued, “It took a bit of figuring out and by the time I could get a book on it, I’d already figured it out. They’re like temperamental children, I just had to keep my eye on them a bit more than normal.”
Of course she’d figured it out, she was one of the smartest people he knew. “I’m glad you worked it out, the ship would look empty without them.”
“Me too, I don’t think I would’ve dealt with it very well back then if I’d lost them. Everything’d changed so suddenly back then but they were a constant for me, it helped having them.”
He frowned at that; he could only imagine how stressful that must’ve been, but she’d never said anything.
“Not to worry though, it resolved itself and now look at us,” she said, trying to ease the look of concern on his face and changed the topic swiftly, “You’ve done a good job.” She looked at the tree critically but nodded to herself.
She stepped forward and cut off a few additional branches that he’d hesitated over. “Maybe a bit overly cautious, but I knew you would be, that’s why I let you have the shears.”
He beamed at her praise and they moved onto the final tree, working on opposite sides until whatever they could reach was done. They both stepped back, proudly taking in the much neater trees, until they looked up.
“Any chance you’re tall enough to reach the top?”
He wanted to say yes so badly but as he eyed the height, he knew he wouldn’t be able to without actually scaling the tree. “Sorry Nami-san, I don’t think so.”
“Don’t worry, I knew it was a stretch.” She put her hand on his arm in understanding and looked up at the trees. “Bell-mère used to stand us on her shoulders to reach the higher branches she wanted to prune or pick off the fruit. She said it was good for us to learn, but I’m convinced she just didn’t want to haul the stool around with her.”
He laughed with her at that and briefly imagined how adorable the sight would have been until an idea came to mind. He crouched down in front of her and when all she did was blink at him, confusion written all over her face, he elaborated, “I can’t offer to stand you on my shoulders, but I can do this.” He patted a shoulder, trying to encourage her.
She was silent for a moment, stunned at the offer. “As much as I trust you and don’t doubt your strength whatsoever, are you sure you’re up for this?” She asked cautiously.
“Huh?” He blinked at her.
“My thighs are about to be either side of your head. I don’t want to brain myself on the deck when you go down like a sack of potatoes,” she deadpanned, eyebrow raised as she looked down at him.
“It wouldn’t be the first time my head’s been there,” he quipped, leering up at her, eyebrows wiggling suggestively.
She barked a laugh, hand slapping his shoulder half-heartedly in retribution but overall, she was too amused to be angry.
It took a bit of more reassurance to convince her, but as soon as he’d convinced her, he positioned himself and helped her get onto his shoulders. He smoothly rose to his feet, barely wobbling.
Hands down it was the best decision he’d never made. If he could assure Nami’s safety, he could die happily right now. There was so much of her everywhere. Her thighs snuggly sat either side of his head, he could feel the slightest brush of her breasts against the top of his head and her hands were in his hair whilst she adjusted to the new position.
“You okay down there?” She asked, half amused and half cautious, testing the waters to make sure he was okay.
“More than okay,” he replied happily, tilting his head to the side to pillow into her thigh. She was so soft; he was in heaven.
Nami snorted above him, shaking her head and tentatively removed her hands from his hair. When he stood solid, she reclaimed the shears from her pocket and started to snip again.
Before they could dip into silence, he asked, “How often did you tend to the trees together when you were younger?” He loved hearing about her childhood with Bell-mère and took any opportunity to ask about it.
Nami was more than happy to share. “We had a big orchard, so it was almost daily. It could be pruning, picking fruit, or tending to the soil. Although, me and Nojiko spent more time running through it playing games, not so much helping.”
His hand stroked up and down her calf absently, encouraging her to continue whilst he listened. He moved to the side after noticing she’d finished with a section before she had to ask.
“We definitely over pruned when we did help, but she never scolded us,” she continued, throwing a branch down into the basket at Sanji’s feet. “After that she just kept a sharper eye on us.
“Sounds nice.”
“It was,” Nami agreed, “I always ended up covered in dust and dirt. Kind of like now actually, not a lot has changed it seems.”
“It suits you.” And it was the truth. Whether she was in skimpy bikinis or dirtied dungarees, she was the most attractive person he’d ever laid eyes on.
They moved onto the last tree and by now the bucket was almost overflowing with branches and leaves. Usopp would be thrilled, no doubt.
“She sounded like an amazing woman,” he said after a moment, letting the stories Nami had told him of her Mum play in a loop in his head. In a different world, he wished he could’ve met her, to see how similar they both were and see that part of her life.
She didn’t need any prompting to understand what he was talking about. “She was,” Nami agreed, voice filled with warmth. “She’d have loved you -little to the left-” and he took a step to the left, “-she would’ve seen your smooth talk coming a mile away, mind you, but she’d have found it amusing.”
“Like Mother like daughter,” he quipped, squeezing her calf teasingly. Nami gave a snort above him and muttered something he didn’t catch, but continued, “I’d have loved to cook with her.”
“She never would’ve let you leave.”
“I have no complaints about that.” Her home sounded like it held so much warmth, Sanji thought to himself.  
“What about you?” She asked, trying to sound confident but there was a waver in her voice. Sanji found it sweet, after all this time she didn’t want to bring up that part of his life. He didn’t mind, especially with her.
“Well, Zeff you’ll win over easily. He tries to deny it, but he has a soft spot for women too. He’ll just spend his time trying to embarrass me instead.” The day would come, he knew it, but for now he was safe. “I don’t remember a great deal of my Mum; I was too young. But I have no doubt that she would’ve loved you too. She was kind like you.”
“See, it’s that smooth talk that would’ve won you brownie points.”
“Even with you?”
“How do you think we got here?”
He couldn’t see her, but he knew she had that smart look on her face that he adored, and he rested his head back on her stomach. If she hadn’t been on his shoulders right now, he definitely would’ve pulled her into a hug.
“Okay, I’m done.” Her hands were back in his hair, shears stowed away in her pocket.
In a similar fashion to convincing her to get on his shoulders, it also took some persuasion on how to get her back down. They went back and forth, until Nami finally agreed (“If you drop me” “Never, Nami-san”) and then she was sliding over his one shoulder, wrapping her arms around his neck, and falling into his outstretched arms. To his credit, he stood solid.
“Reminds you of old times, huh?” He cheeked, beaming down at her in his arms.
“At least I didn’t have to fall through the air this time.”
He let her down onto her feet and he expected her to move away, onto the next task but she didn’t move. Instead, her hands dusted over his shoulders, trying to take off any soil that had transferred from her dungarees.
“It’s been a while since you’ve worn this shirt. I like it.” Her hands smoothed across his shoulders, feeling the texture of his orange pinstripe shirt and the way it fit him snugly. He’d filled out in the crew’s two-year gap, so where it used to fit loosely, it sat tighter across his shoulders. He would throw it away, because really, he knew he was pushing his luck getting into it, but when she reacted like that, he was more tempted to never take it off.
“I like your dungarees,” he said softly, his hand fingered the denim straps as hers rested at his waist. There were dirt stains littered across them, but there was something quite charming about that. Although that might just be because of the person wearing them more than anything.
His hand moved from the strap of her dungaree and swept an errant lock away from her neck, his hand filling the empty space, thumb soothing across her pale skin. The quiet, the rustling of the trees and their afternoon spent together all added to the atmosphere until it had them leaning in closer.
They’d done this so many times before that they read each other like a well-oiled machine. Her hands tightened on his waistcoat and he was going left as she went right until their lips met in the middle. It was slow, unhurried, like they had all the time in the world and really, they did. It felt like they did anyway as they embraced, with only the gentle breeze accompanying them on the upper deck.
They parted slowly, and in his case reluctantly, but the feeling soon passed when he opened his eyes to the sight before him. Nami looked truly relaxed, face nothing but content, half lidded eyes looking back at him and wind playing with her orange hair.
That soon changed when he leaned back into kiss her and was promptly denied. Gone was the serene expression, in its place were alluring, teasing eyes. The sudden shift would give anyone else whiplash, but Sanji knew what that look meant- it would only end well for him.
Her hand was on his tie, taking a step out of his embrace and promptly turning on her heel. She pulled him after her, which she didn’t really need to do because he was glued to her back in an instead, but he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a turn on.
They didn’t go very far, only walking around the trees to occupy the gap between the trees and the main mast. In all honestly, Sanji had never really taken notice of it before, but he was glad for its existence when she pressed him up against the mast and heavily leaned into him. His body pinned between it and hers.
It was intimate and if anybody wondered up there, they’d be hard to spot. She positioned herself between his legs, something he more than encouraged as he made more space for her there.
If Sanji thought she looked breath-taking before, it was nothing compared to the angelic beauty before him now. The sun filtering through the trees casted her in a golden halo and her hair looked like molten gold, oozing around her, and making her look otherworldly. She was surrounded by orange blossoms and it was the perfect backdrop to encapsulate her, she belonged there.
Sanji wanted to burn the moment into his brain but Nami had other ideas.
Their next kiss was anything but slow, it was full of purpose. It was the kind of kiss they usually shared in private, not for someone to stumble upon by accident, but he definitely wasn’t going to complain. He matched her enthusiasm, lips sliding against each other’s and his hands found themselves in the back pocket of her dungarees as hers burrowed themselves into his hair.
“Good spot, right?” She murmured, not waiting for a response before reconnecting their lips.
If he’d had the chance the response, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to actually verbalize his agreement. He was dazed, head spinning, trying to keep up, and although they’d done this a million times before and more, he didn’t think he’d ever be over it.
Although they couldn’t start anything out here, his body didn’t seem to know that as he shifted, ready to roll his hips into hers and hopefully progress to the bedroom if they could make it there undetected, until he felt something press into thigh.
“Is that shears in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
It was a stupid joke, and it ruined the mood, but it was worth is when Nami broke into peeling laughter. Instead of throwing her head back, she burrowed into the crease of his neck, smothering her laughter so they didn’t attract attention. His arms left her back pockets, winding around her waist, pulling her into a hug instead. It wasn’t what he wanted, but they wind this down.  
“That was such a stupid joke,” she said as she started to calm down.
“Yeah, it was,” he said fondly, still soaking in the warmth of her laugh.
“Although I suppose we should stop, otherwise you’ll be in a similar predicament and I still have things to do.”
“Me too.” He looked up at the sky and from the way it was starting to descend, he knew he should really start thinking about dinner. Except neither of them moved, but Nami did rest her hands more causally around his shoulders, matching his hold on her.  
“Didn’t pick much fruit in the end, huh?” She joked, looking off to the side at the empty, abandoned basket.
He’d completely forgotten why he’d gone up there in the first place. “This is much better than what I’d expected.”
“Because you had your head between my legs?”
His eyes lit up and his grip tightened on her hips. “One of the perks, of course.”
“Maybe we could do something similar in my room later,” she suggested, in a provocative whisper, leaning closer.  
This woman. She was everything he ever wanted. He didn’t give a verbal answer, he was pretty sure he couldn’t without wheezing a few times, but his enthusiastic nodding got the point across well enough, and it made her grin.
She rewarded him for his candour with a slow kiss that was over far too quickly for his liking.
“You free tomorrow? I can probably pencil you in for some fruit picking.”
“You’re too kind, Nami-san. Making time for lowly me in your busy schedule.”
“I’m nothing if not kind, Sanju-kun,” she agreed, winking at him. “Right, I really do have to go, see you after dinner?”
She was out of his arms and walking away before he could reply, grabbing the basket full of branches to sit at her hip as she went.
She knew the answer anyway- it was potato peeling night after all.
----------------------------------------
Urrrrrrrrrgh. I am so soft for these two, they’re so much fun to write being all soft and in love. This was so self-indulgent, and the story doubled in length because of it.
Usopp, Robin and Nami definitely get together to talk about plants/flowers.
I based my research on orange trees, so if there’s some differences, don’t come at me.
For some reason, my writers block has really exaggerated my imposters syndrome, so if this wasn’t your cup of tea, please keep it to yourself. Not sure I could handle it right now.
Also, just to tease because I’m definitely going to finish them, I had two other pieces planned for SaNami week before the writer’s block, they’ll be on the way.
As always, please excuse any errors.
Thanks for reading.
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hobidreams · 5 years ago
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The Early Shift | Last Cup {M}
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the last sip of coffee is always the most bittersweet.
pairing: barista!yoongi x reader genre: smut, angst, sprinkling of fluff words: 9.5k contains: coffee shop au, enemies to lovers, jealous/awkward yoongi, condomless sex, softness (ish), dirty talk, spanking, oral (f), hair pulling, the truth index: first sip - second taste - last cup
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“H-Hyung?” The word is foreign on your tongue as you swivel, catch sight of Yoongi’s face. He’s gone ashen, stony as he barrels towards you two, abandoning the inventory checklist with a clatter onto the counter.
Yoongi’s hands dig into your wrist as he forces you behind him, taking your place instead right in front of Jiwon’s still smiling face. Except the grin is now somewhat plastered in place on his handsome lips. “Jiwon.”  Yoongi drops the familiar term, his eyes more combative than you’ve ever seen them. Combative, yet not with the fires of passion he usually turns on you. Instead, a chill so cold, so empty you hardly recognize it.
“Ahhh...” Jiwon exhales, covering his mouth with a broad palm, scratching the skin just beneath his lips with a groomed fingernail. “It’s been a while… I’m still your hyung, you know.”
“Bullshit.” Yoongi whips the word at him, but Jiwon doesn’t back away.
“I thought you hated the night shift.”
Yoongi scoffs. “Is that why you’re here then? To ruin something else for me behind my back?”
The tension is so weighty it settles in the pit of your stomach as you look from man to man, neither one offering any explanation. Deadlocked in a standoff of stares or glares depending on the man. Their only weapons are their words, which could cut just as deeply as any blade.
This isn’t good. Especially because there’s still a customer left in the store.
So you throw yourself into the fray. “Yoongi, what’s wrong?” You ask in what you hope is a calm voice. “How do you know Jiwon?”
The second Jiwon’s name comes out of your mouth, Yoongi jerks towards you. “I don’t. Nothing’s happening. He’s just leaving.”
“Yoongi, you can’t just kick out a customer.” You feel bad – Jiwon is starting to look like a kicked puppy with his lips drawn down, somber.
“Can and will.”
“Yoongi…” Jiwon clenches his coffee. “Listen—”
He’s cut off when a blare of familiar song whips through the café. “I KNOW, we don’t talk together!” Volume turned up to the max, the music reverberates off the walls themselves.
“Sorry!” The only customer squeaks, the ringtone obviously hers as she answers the call. “Hello?” She hurries out the door, leaving awkward silence in her wake.
You didn’t think it was possible, but Yoongi’s scowl deepens further. It just had to be this song, the damn reminder of what he’s lost. The lines carved into his face are so hardened and painful you wish you could offer relief. Instead, you swallow that look and all its implications. Then something clicks in your brain.
“Wait, Yoongi...” You gesture to Jiwon, hands slightly shaking, “is he…”
Yoongi grunts, irritated that he can’t hide it any longer. “It’s your lucky day. Meet DJ Alex.” His voice is deadpan. “Or should I say, Do Jiwon.”
“Do… Jiwon.” You repeat in a whisper. “DJ.”
“Yup.”
Another silence, but this time it covers you in its heavy grasp. This Jiwon. This charming, handsome Jiwon that you almost asked out, imagined yourself possibly dating. This Jiwon that’s actually nothing but a thief.
Said man rakes a hand through his dark hair. “Yoongi, let me explain myself, please.”
With another scoff, Yoongi breaks the stare-off. He turns. His eyes find yours of all things and he just exhales as if it’s all too much. “Jiwon. Just… Just go.” He steps away from the counter, tensed fingers finding your wrist. He means to drag you both into the backroom. Running away from this mess like he always has.
But you’re not done yet.
Your mind is exploding with questions, with emotions bolstered by the absolute fatigue in Yoongi’s eyes. Why isn’t he defending himself? He so eagerly goes head to head with you but here? Here is where he loses his nerve? He’s just going to let Jiwon get away with it all without so much as a scolding? When Jiwon took his best chance away from him and his inspiration with it?
No. No damn way are you going to stand there and take that.
You jerk your hand free. Before Yoongi can grab you again, you storm back to the counter. “What the fuck, Jiwon?”
Some carnal part of you relishes the shock in Jiwon’s eyes when your voice whips at him, respectful honorifics dropped.
“What the actual fuck? You just come back here just to offer excuses about what you did?” Your finger jabs at the air over his chest. “If you want to call yourself his hyung, then you should make yourself fucking deserving of that name!” Your volume raises with every word you sucker punch at him. “But no, instead, you betrayed him! Just abandoned him!”
Jiwon’s mouth flaps but nothing comes out.
“How dare you come back into his life and remind him of all that? Of the shitty thing you did and are still enjoying now?” You’re on a roll, apparently. You didn’t even know you had it in you to defend Yoongi so vehemently when you usually spend your time doing the exact opposite. But the resignation in the way he bites his lip scrapes at your heart.
“Yoongi trusted you. You were his partner!” Jiwon shrivels with every syllable. “The only thing worse than a coward, which you are for dodging him, is a goddamn liar.”
You’re left slightly breathless at the end of your tirade, tense hands splayed across the bar You glare at Jiwon, but he refuses to meet your expression, your anger. Instead, he burns a hole in the counter for half a minute before he dares to looks up. Then his eyes flicker to Yoongi. You stiffen, ready for an explosion.
“…You’re right.” When Jiwon finally speaks, his voice has lost all flirtatious flair. It sounds small, pathetic. “I did a shitty thing. A shitty, selfish thing.”
What an ass—
Wait.
Wait, what?
“Y-Yeah!” You can’t quite hold on to the full amount of anger in your tone when he’s not feeding your fire. But having Yoongi in your peripheral vision keeps you from moving an inch. “Damn right it was shitty!”
“The producers, they just. Fuck.” Jiwon sighs, gritting his teeth. “Fuck, I know I can’t take back what I did. But. But Yoongi…” Your hands clench into fists, ready to counter whatever excuse he comes up with. Or his anger, which would be apt considering the venom you’ve thrown his way. “Yoongi, I’m sorry.”
You actually take a step back.
“I’m sorry. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
This is… Not what you were expecting. And judging by the way Yoongi’s mouth just falls open, he hadn’t predicted it either. He just keeps blinking as if he figures he’ll wake up at any minute.
Jiwon stutters something unintelligible as he fishes in his jacket for a wallet. It’s much fumbling before he drops a white card onto the table, his name embossed on the front. “I-If you want, I can introduce you to some connections and we can get your music out there, Yoongi. Let me help you! Please.” He pushes the card across the counter. “Call me. Let me make up for this.”
Oh, hell no.
You take one look at the flimsy card stock and snatch it up. “He doesn’t need your pity!” You scrunch it up in your fist. Whip the paper ball towards the door. “Just get out!”
Finally, Jiwon gets the point. He gives Yoongi one last look (regret? sorrow? who the hell cares) before he whirls around. Even leaves his coffee behind in his haste. The chime goes off and now, you are left alone together.
You both stare out the door for a long minute, neither of you sure how to proceed. Eventually, your fingers stitch together, oddly flustered as you slowly turn to fully face Yoongi. He seems to have recovered from the initial jolt. He’s closed his flabbergasted mouth, opting for a thin-lipped glower instead. Except this one seems directed at you.
You feel like you should say something, but what? The tension nips at your mind, begging to be shattered. Needs to be, if you are going to move forward.
“Yoongi—”
He beats you to it. “You know what? I don’t need your pity either.” Then he disappears into the backroom, door slamming decisively shut.
He just leaves you standing there like a fish caught on a deadly hook, stuck with bleeding thoughts, hands numb, trembling. You weren’t expecting gratitude, no. Still, you didn’t think he would react like… this, either. Not when the other option was to let Jiwon go.
But you don’t see Yoongi again until an hour has passed. Those two lines, spat like poison, become the last words Yoongi says to you for the rest of the night as he stalks, still mute, to the OPEN sign. He whips it CLOSED precisely one second after the proper time and begins the mopping duties without even so much as a glance your way.
You can’t muster the courage to even try knocking on the wall he’s suddenly re-erected between you; all you can do is look down at the change you’re counting and try to not let it get to you.
You finish the evening in this same solitude. The cleaning gets done. The store is locked, shuttered. Eventually, you go your separate ways in the darkness without so much as a wave of acknowledge. Yoongi’s hands remain stuck in his pockets, closed off, while you pick at your nails in nervous habit as you walk away from him.
Tomorrow, Yoongi is back on his regular shift. Meanwhile, you still have two weeks of your night shift trade left to go. That means your paths don’t have any opportunity to cross.
And so, they simply don’t.
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To your credit, you try your best not to think about Yoongi. But your mind just keeps playing that scene over and over again, determined to force you to analyze every word, every gesture. And that song is making a comeback on the radio, if only to serve no other purpose than to antagonize you.
Perfect. Just freakin’ perfect.
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You make it all of a week.
“Hey Jungkook… Can I ask you something?”
“Always! Shoot.” Jungkook leans against the bar, letting his adorable, earnest smile shine through.
Here goes nothing. “H-Have you spoken to Yoongi at all?” You’re trying your best to keep your voice casual, not wanting to betray the hours of contemplation spent pondering whether or not you should be asking this question in the first place. Clearly, you’ve been real productive these past seven days.
Jungkook doesn’t look surprised at your query. Or maybe he just hides it well. Either way, he nods. “Not much. Just a little bit when our shifts overlap.” His huge eyes may look innocent, but there’s a gleam of mischief as he deliberately refuses to elaborate any further than that.
Brat. He’s not going to make this easy on you. “Is he… Is he okay?”
Jungkook shrugs. “No injuries. He hasn’t gotten into any fistfights.”
“Yah, you know what I mean.” You smack him on the arm.
He laughs, infuriatingly carefree. “Sorry, sorry. But seriously, he just looks normal, maybe a little tired. Then again, I only see him for like half an hour. Not a lot of time to have deep, soul-searching conversations.”
You don’t know what answer you were hoping for, but it still leaves you disappointed. “Hm.”
Hm, indeed. He looks fine, while you’ve been replaying last week over and over again in your mind like a broken record. Cool. That’s totally cool.
“So he hasn’t… talked or asked about me or anything?”
Hoseok, coming up from behind Jungkook, is the one to answer instead. “Well, actually.” It’s comical how your heart soars at that, leaping bounds and valleys from just two words. But you come crashing down when he ultimately ends up shaking his head. “Wait. Sorry, shit. I… can’t tell you.”
Your eyes narrow. “You can’t? So he has said something?”
Hoseok casts his gaze downward. “It’s really not for me to say.” He purposefully smooths out non-existent wrinkles on his apron.
Jungkook’s doe eyes turn on you. “Noona, have you tried just asking him yourself?”
…Kind of. The text you sent a few days, the careful ‘Hey, Yoongi, are you there?’ had gone woefully unanswered. You eventually had to archive the conversation altogether, to prevent your obsessive checking over whether or not he had replied. Altogether, a disaster.
“It’s… It’s fine. It’s whatever,” you end up muttering. Thankfully, the door sounds and you vehemently turn towards the new customer that’s just entered the shop, grateful for the distraction.
You know your coworkers are much too clever to believe your stammered words. But at least they’re kind enough not to probe any further.
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It is on a Friday, the last night of your month-long shift swap, that reality smacks you in the face.
Reality is this: you will be forced to face Yoongi in three days, and things remain extremely awkward between you. He is still ignoring you. Not that you can really blame him, after these two weeks to contemplate that decisive moment. While you don’t regret what you said to Jiwon, you probably shouldn’t have stuck your nose into Yoongi’s issue and taken over for him. Should have respected his decision to back off, no matter how unjust.
Which means you should probably apologize.
Just one problem. You hate doing that. Especially to Yoongi.
But you were the one who committed the wrong, so you have to be the one to extend the olive branch. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, nothing like the lattes you prefer but more like a dark roast: rich, full, and awful. That’s how Yoongi had tasted too, his tongue sliding against yours so feverishly like a man possessed. You hadn’t minded the flavor then.
“Hobi, how do you apologize to someone?” You rest your hands on the top of the mop, then your cheek on top of that.
Hoseok tilts his head to the side, a cute “hm?” coming out of his heart-shaped mouth. “Depends on how bad the situation is, I think!”
“Pretty bad, I guess?”
He hums, as if he knows exactly what this is in reference to. Then he raises a finger in triumph, like he’s just discovered the secret to the universe. “Go with a gift! You can never go wrong with a present!”
Hm! You nod approvingly. That’s a perfect idea.
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Thus, your Saturday becomes dedicated to making a gift for Yoongi.
Yes, making, because you can’t exactly afford expensive music equipment. You don’t think Yoongi would appreciate a bag of coffee beans from his place of employment. Somehow, a stuffed animal doesn’t seem to fit his aesthetic either; you also really don’t want to add to the clutter of his place. So, your genius mind has settled on creating a mixtape. A playlist full of songs you hope can express how sorry you are, and how you hope to move on from this.
There’s one surprise at the very end of the CD: a piece that’s self produced. It’s just two minutes of you, a shitty phone microphone, and some heartfelt rambling. Look, apologizing is hard, okay? You don’t think you have the gall to do it in person, so this is the next best thing.
The sun is just beginning to set when you reach Yoongi’s apartment, finished present in hand. You’re contemplating whether to knock or just leave the tiny bag you have on the handle. One of these options is easier than the other. But maybe you owe it to him to at least ensure it gets to him.
Your knocks go unanswered.
Eventually, you have to accept that he’s out, a fact that has relief pouring over you. You loop the bag straps around the door. He’ll get it whenever he reaches home, you suppose. And if he chooses to snap it in half without listening to it, well, that’s his prerogative too. You’ve done your part. You’ve been the bigger person.
You manage to get all the way back to your apartment without thinking of the package, blasting music from your headphones to drown out your thoughts. You eat your dinner, watch an episode of the latest KBS drama, water your plants. Hell, you even start actually doing the research for your paper due in three weeks. But throughout it all, you can’t shake the listlessness that sits beneath your skin like an unwanted visitor, ever so often poking you with a sharp stick.
You know too well why it’s there: your damn curiosity that won’t leave you alone.
You want desperately to know if your gift has been received, and how. Will he understand what you’re trying to say? Maybe you should have put your apology at the beginning instead of the end. Maybe you shouldn’t have gone with Super Junior’s Sorry Sorry, even though you needed something in the middle to break up the torrent of sappy songs. Oh god. The what ifs threaten to drive you stark wild for the utter lack of answers. (Though judging by your current state, perhaps they already have.)
“Uggggh, that’s it!” You announce to your succulent, desk chair clattering as you shove viciously to your feet. “I’m going to bed!”
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With great, groaning creaks, the elevator doors open on the floor of Yoongi’s apartment. Yoongi drags his exhausted body through them, reeking of smoke, stale cologne, and alcohol, courtesy of the bar he just left. His head is still a little fuzzy, but it’s not too bad. A nice haze. The walk here in the cool night air has already sobered him up some. He just needed to get out of the house. Needed to stop thinking for a while.
But the pressure lingering in his system had refused to budge even after the second shot, fifth drink in total, which was what finally prompted him to get his sorry ass back home. He’s desperate for something to relieve what’s been pent-up, the ugliness building and bubbling uncontrollably inside him these past weeks. Sex distracts him, usually. But a meaningless hookup… that would erase the memories of your pretty mouth on him, the heat of your body tangled up with his. He can’t bring himself to do that. Not that he can admit this, even in his own mind. So, he resigns himself to another night of his fist wrapped around his own length and a mediocre climax.
Yoongi sighs as he rounds the corner, digging in his pocket for his keys. Just as he pulls the ring out, he spots the conspicuous bag tied to his door. Who would be sending gifts like this? Jimin? No, his friend from college is currently out of town, he remembers. But nobody else would leave—he peers inside—a CD of all things, with his name scribbled upon it. This handwriting is familiar, but he can’t quite place it.
He grabs the bag and enters the darkness of his place. He drops his jacket on the couch, then makes his way to his computer. Slides the CD inside the console. Waits.
The first song is something indie, something sorrowful. Yoongi doesn’t recognize it but he gives it a listen. It’s not bad. But the next song is even slower, even sadder. Most definitely not his usual type of music, and for good reason. He cringes at the third piece.
The songs just keep coming, all playing off the same apologetic theme. Whoever put together this playlist has no idea what they’re doing, he thinks. The genres are all over the place, with no coherent flow like a proper mixtape should. They all just happen to contain the word ‘sorry’ in the title or lyrics. “The hell is this,” Yoongi mutters, laughing at the absurdity as he stands up halfway through, deciding to take a shower without even bothering to turn the music off.
Yoongi takes his time beneath the hot water – lets it wash away the grime of the night. It helps remove some of the buzz from his mind. By the time he steps out of the bathroom, he feels almost completely sober. He’s distracted with towelling off his hair; he doesn’t even notice that music is no longer playing until he hears speech.
“...eah, so, I guess what I’m trying to say...”
He freezes.
But that’s your voice.
The voice he hasn’t heard in weeks but could pick out of a crowd in a second. The voice that once hammered on his brain on a daily basis but now douses it in undeniable relief, comfort.
Yoongi is glad no one is around to witness him rushing to the desktop, hurriedly replaying the track that’s currently on. He plugs in his headphones, dragging them over his head even though his hair drips with water.
“Hey, Yoongi.” You sound so uncharacteristically quiet it makes his chest tight. “I-I know you’re trying to avoid me, and I don’t blame you.” He gnaws at his bottom lip as he listens to you explain your thoughts. Even though your tone wavers at certain moments, you just keep pressing on. It makes his chest feel inexplicably tight.
“Yeah, so, I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m sorry. I won’t interfere with your business again. And I won’t cross the professional lines between us anymore. I hope we can still work together. Okay. That’s, uh, all from me. Goodnight.”
Yoongi sits in the silence for all of three seconds before he hits the back button. Plays it again. Then again.
“God damn it!” He rips off the headphones, surges to his feet. “You’re so damn silly. It’s not your fault! How could any of this be your fault?”
But then whose is it?
Jiwon is the easiest culprit. But he’s apologized. He’s trying to move on, even trying to help Yoongi, even though that’s just salt in the wound. The only person still mired inside this self-made prison is Yoongi. He made his home in these concrete walls, punishing himself, thinking it was the easiest way out. Still bitter and trying to pretend like he can just stay angry forever because the only person it fucked up was himself.
But now it’s affecting you.
Hearing your voice like this, it’s all laid out for him. Reality and truth stab him in the gut, forcing him to finally acknowledge how he’s hurt you, the one person who has nothing to gain from helping him, yet continues to do so again and again.
Yoongi rubs at his temples, regret radiating through him in waves. He should have realized it earlier, if only he could have pulled his head out of his ass. Hearing this, hearing your voice with that undercurrent of worry is like a punch to the gut and to his mind, blasting out any residual hesitancy.
You don’t deserve to sit in this uncertainty and pain of misunderstanding any longer.
A text isn’t enough. Nor is a call. He needs to see you. He needs to see you right now and tell you face to face just how sorry he is. How grateful. And maybe he just wants to see your face, because he kind of misses the way you scold him.
Haphazardly dressed, Yoongi rushes out the door, almost forgetting his keys in his haste. His slides slap against the floor as he frantically dials Namjoon, hoping he’s awake to get the address he so desperately needs. He jams his finger into the elevator call button, silently willing it to come faster.
No more, Yoongi thinks. No more running away from the hard shit, from his feelings. This time, he’s running right towards his future.
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The clock blinks 1:00AM when you check it next, still as wide awake as when you shuffled beneath your covers two whole hours ago.
Damn it. It’s a good thing you have tomorrow off, because there’s no way in hell you could wake up at the crack of dawn otherwise. Counting sheep has proven to be useless, especially after you get up to Sheep #482 (it’s a cute one. Okay. They’re all cute.) Doing math equations in your head usually gets you conked out pretty quickly from sheer monotony, but it’s also futile tonight. Your mind is much too alive, active, overactive to let you doze off.
Then you hear the knocking.
Well, it’s more like a clatter. The sound of something hard slamming against your door, followed by a few wimpy taps. Yikes. Are you going to get murdered?
You slip out of bed, pick up your baseball bat. Weapon in hand, you creep towards the entrance, forgetting you’re not even wearing any bottoms. You press silently to the thick wood, maneuver your eye over the peephole to see what crazy bastard is here at this hour.
What you see has you yanking the door open, the bat clattering uselessly to the ground.
“Y-Yoongi?!”
It feels like a lifetime since you’ve last seen him. You didn’t know how much you missed that stupid, irritating, attractive face until it’s in front of you. Doubled over and breathless, hair a wind-blown mess.
“How the hell did you get my address?”
“Namjoon.” Yoongi is panting so hard he can hardly breathe. You swear he’ll keel over in the next minute. You don’t look forward to cleaning his body off your carpet. “Namjoongaveittome.” That’s all he can get out before he takes another gulp of air, face red with strain.
“Jeez, come in so you don’t bother my neighbours with your dying.” You usher him in, watch him stumble to your couch as you flick on a lamp to cast a glow over the room. He’s wearing a plain tee and sweatpants, but it’s the slides on his feet that probably explain his current discomfort. In his hands, he clutches the same bag you left on his doorstep. You try not to think about the implications of that. “Why didn’t you drive or take the bus or something?”
“Bus broke down… halfway. Had to run…”
You shove a glass of water into his hands and he gulps at it. A few droplets leak from his mouth. He wipes it away with the back of his hand. Classy.
“Thanks,” he finally says as his heart seems to stop threatening to jump out of his chest from fatigue, then speeds up again for another reason entirely.
You stare at each other wordlessly for a few beats.
“What’re you doing here, Yoongi?” It comes out in a harsher tone than you’d intended but your heart beats a drum in your chest, a rude rhythm that is mirrored in the trembling of your fingers.
“I should be saying that to you!” Yoongi reacts to the perceived animosity in your voice, lifting the bag and shaking it. “What is this supposed to be, huh?”
You force yourself to focus on fiddling with a loose thread on your shirt. Quelling the unease in your veins. “…Did you listen to it?”
“Yeah, I did.” Yoongi sets the cup on the coffee table with a smack. “First of all, you have awful taste. Secondly, this CD is completely unnecessary.”
“Oh.”
This squeak of a noise is accompanied by the sudden skydive of your heart, right towards the floor. At least that you can hide. But, against your will, disappointment and exhaustion create a cocktail of tears that prick at the corner of your eyes, threatening to spill over by the next second. No, no, no, you scold yourself but the lump swelling in your throat refuses to be swallowed down. You hate that more than anything, hate that it makes you look wimpy and weak.
When you turn your head, Yoongi catches sight of the glimmer of wet tears. “Oh, shit.” He throws the bag behind him. Scooting towards you, he puts a warm hand on your shoulder and his voice is right beside your ear and god damn it, why is he getting closer? But even you can hear the panic in his voice when he says, “no, no, oh god. I didn’t mean it like that.” He brushes your hair back to expose your downturned face. “Shit. Please don’t cry. Please.”
“I don’t want to cry either, Yoongi!” Your words sound waterlogged, but you force them out. Hope it’ll make him back off.
Instead his thumb comes beneath your eye to catch the stray tear that leaks out. He wipes it away as he murmurs your name so softly you can scarcely believe the noise came from his lips. “Look at me. Please.”
What can you do but obey? Min Yoongi will be the death of you, you swear it. That sentiment is doubled when you find his eyes and see nothing but sincerity in their darkness. He’s never studied you this way. It steals your breath, renders you in silent anticipation for what comes next.
“Look, I’m a fucking idiot.”
That actually makes you laugh, though it’s somewhat strangled as you wipe away the last of the tears. “Well, we both knew that. But why this time?”
“I… I shouldn’t have ignored you.” He drops his hand from your cheek. It sits against your bare thigh, the skin growing hot where you’re connected. “But I was scared. I felt ashamed and more than a little pissed off that you stood up to Jiwon when I couldn’t.” You say nothing. But that seems to make him even more jittery as he bursts out with, “E-Especially since you’re so god damn perfect all the time!”
“Perfect?” You repeat, bewildered as it couldn’t be further from the truth. “What the hell are you going on about?”
“You know… You just. You have your shit perfectly figured out! It just reminds me that I’m a mess.”
“No, I really don’t. Trust me.” Is that what he’s thought of you this whole time? No wonder he was so irritable. It’s almost laughable. “But Yoongi, why didn’t you confront Jiwon?”
He sighs at that, long and deep. “Just… After the whole incident, I had trouble writing. I had all this anger inside me. I didn’t know what to do with it. I wrote diss tracks but they all sounded unoriginal, whiny. Pop songs were the same. Generic and boring. I kept trying to write something better than ‘We Don’t Talk Together’. I was obsessed.” Yoongi is babbling faster, like a dam finally broken and flooding. You’re not afraid of the waters.
“It was easier for me. Easy to just blame everything on Jiwon, say it’s his fault the songs weren’t coming to me. So when he apologized…” He gives a laugh, but it’s a self-deprecating one. “I’ve spent the past weeks getting to this point, I guess. Of accepting that this shitty thing happened. I think I’m finally ready to move the fuck on. I hated that you made me confront that at the time, though.”
“You’re welcome,” you whisper, unable to resist the opportunity to poke at him. Hey, he made you cry. He deserves it.
“Uh huh.” Yoongi reaches behind his back to find the bag he threw momentarily aside. “So that’s why this CD is unnecessary. You don’t need to apologize to me.” He hands it to you. “Thank you. For helping me out. Even though I don’t deserve it.”
You set the bag on the table. “Of course, Yoongi. I wouldn’t just abandon you.”
“I know.” He actually smiles, eyes waning as your heart gives an extra loud thud.
The conversation peters out. You sit soaked in tension, unsure what the hell to do now. Especially because you’re hyperaware that his knee is right against yours and it feels like a million degrees, but neither of you are moving away. Your eyes are still locked to his, unfathomable and unyielding as you awkwardly hold wimpy grins. Even in this situation, your mind won’t stop running to inappropriate places, urging you to lean forward and kiss those pink lips.
But how does Yoongi feel?
“I, uh...” Yoongi gives a start as if he’s read your mind, but he doesn’t finish his thought.
“Anyway...” He hangs his head, cuts himself off again. “I was going to say...” Another trailing, unfinished sentence.
“You okay?” You murmur, his apparent nerves soothing your own.
“Agh, damn it. Okay. Here. Just – listen to this, okay?”
Yoongi whips out his phone, taps on the screen a few times before he places it on the table. Seconds later, music starts to play, a song you’ve never heard before. You tap your foot along to the opening synth, feeling the jazzy beat. Then a familiar voice comes on.
“Yoongi, is this you?!” You cry out, immediately reaching for the phone to turn the volume up.
Yoongi nods, saying nothing but his grin grows at how excited you are. You see the flash of gums, recognize it as the smile usually only reserved for customers. God, how your heart continues to flipflop at the sight.
You lean forward, trying to catch the fast-flowing rap. It’s poetic, weaves a story of a couple around the metaphor of a seesaw. A constant back and forth that ends in heartbreak, a dissolving that’s ultimately better for both parties in the end. When it ends, you instantly want to listen to it again – it’s that addicting.
“This is the song I wrote for the competition. I wanted to show you, since… Yeah.”
“Wow, it’s so good, Yoongi. I swear, you’re going to win.” You want to put this song in your music library and play it on repeat until you know every line. You play it again, listen silently as you really absorb the piece. “I really love the lyrics. And how it progresses. Also, how the singer leaves in the end, alone. I think too many songs out there promote the exact opposite message, even if it’s a shitty relationship, ya know?”
Yoongi nods, cheeks slightly flushed, but he looks so pleased. “Actually, this song,” his breath hitches, “I wrote it about you.”
“Me?”
At first, you’re flattered, beaming even. Then you remember the song’s contents.
“Umm... Wait...” You frown. He’s not saying... “You want to ‘put an end’ to us?” Hell, you didn’t even know there was an ‘us’ to be had!
“Ah, no!” Yoongi’s sleepy eyes blow wide, almost comically so with panic. “No. Definitely not.” His hands clench his knees tightly, as if to stop them from shaking. “I... wanna stop this ambiguous back and forth. This seesaw that we’re on. Of not being just coworkers but not really being anything more than that either.”
“...You want to be more?” Your voice comes out in a whisper as if you can scarcely believe it.
“Yes.” He exhales. “I want more. I want to be with you. Try things out with you. See where they go.” He drums his fingers against his leg. “You make me a better person. And I want to be there for you too.” His lips quirk up, not sure what expression to land on in his nervousness. “That is, uh, if you’ll have me.”
He’s adorable. So freaking cute. You never thought you would see Yoongi like this, and it’s just about the most endearing thing you’ve ever seen.
You lean forward and press your lips to his in answer.
Yoongi is soft.
You feel him hesitate for all of a second before he’s kissing you back, really kissing you back with all of his might. It’s sloppy and your rhythm is all off, but the passion that radiates from him pours the sweetest honey into your system to douse you in heat. He scarcely breaks away to breathe as he tilts his head, searching for a better angle to move against your mouth, to reaffirm this is truly happening and not just some fever dream.
His arms wind around your frame, tugging you closer as if he can’t bear to have any space between you while his tongue traces the outline of your lips. You open for him instinctively, unable to refuse any of his silent requests to taste. You’ve both been denied for too long, but time has not made you forget the curve of his mouth, the nibbles he loves to inflict. His breath tickles your skin as you finally find your pace together. A wild beat you thought you’d lost forever but now roars back to life.
That’s why you’re practically scrambling into his lap, shoving him backwards on the couch in your urgency. Having him against you, tongue flicking against yours, wipes away all thoughts save for him and how incredible this feels, how he feels. It makes you greedy for more, especially more of the muted groans of need that you coax from his throat and swallow.
It’s only when you scrunch your fingers around the back of his neck and come away slightly damp that you finally pause. “Ew, you’re all sweaty,” you tease with a cheeky grin.
He rolls his eyes. “Shut up and kiss me, damn it.” There’s the Yoongi you know so well.
“Rude.”
“You like me rude.” Just to prove his point, he shifts his hips, grinds his bulge against your needy core. Separated only by thin layers of fabric, you can feel him so well you can’t help but get wetter from the mere promise of him.
“T-That’s a damn lie.” But you’re flustered, distracted by the desire surging through your veins at the danger in his tone. It’s all too easy for you two to bring out the sass in each other, but now it keeps you on your toes, thrill in your system.
“Oh? So you don’t want me to throw you onto the bed and spank you until you come?” He accents his filthy words with hot, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your jaw, down your neck. This feels right. So fucking right, he wouldn’t stop for the world. He guides your loose top away, sucking wetly at the skin he exposes. Promising much more in the way of dark violet marks, but not giving it just yet.
“Well, I-I’m not saying that...”
That makes him laugh as he digs both hands beneath your ass and hauls you into the air. “That’s what I thought.” Your legs wrap around his hips, arms around his back. Hold him like he’s yours.
Though it’s a short few steps from the couch to bed, Yoongi keeps his mouth on your skin as if he’s mapping – every bit as desperate to know your body as you do his. He runs his tongue along the curve of your shoulder, obeying his instinctual desire to test your tolerance with the occasional bite. He grins at your yelps. You repay him by tugging at his scruff of hair, nails scraping the skin.
When his leg knocks against the bedframe, you expect him to fling you onto the sheets as promised. Instead he bends, lets you tumble down softly before joining you on the mattress with one knee. Yoongi glows in the dim lamplight, fair skin glistening with lingering sweat as he tugs off his shirt. You’ve never seen anything sexier in your life as he crawls between your legs, forcing them to spread with the hands that slide up your thighs.
“You look like you want something,” he utters in a low tone, toying with the seam of your panties. They are unfortunately plain, but he drinks them in as if they’re made of gold. Touches them with none of that delicacy though, as he hooks fingers under the band and threatens to rip.
You shift your hips, needing friction but he just teases you, lets the cotton drag across your skin only for him to pull it infuriatingly back into place. “Are you going to give it to me if I say yes?”
“Maybe, if you’re a good girl.”
Oh god. You’ve never been called that in your life but when he growls it out in that languid, devil-may-care way, you think you might just be whipped. You’d thought Yoongi devastating before, but that was nothing compared to the intimacy dripping from his fingertips as he removes them from your panties, begins the torturous ascent up your waist. Your whines of protest melt into moans when he eases your top over your head, exposing your naked body to him for the first time.
“Oh, fuck.” Yoongi goes blank. He swears every ounce of blood in him rushes to his swollen cock at the sight of you laid out like this, ready and wanting for him. The fantasies he’s conjured in his mind are nothing, crude sketches of the masterpiece that is your body, your smile, you. “Fuck, you’re so gorgeous.”
The honesty in those whispered, reverent words bolsters the flush creeping beneath your skin. It’s with a smile that you arch into his mouth when he wraps his lips around your nipple in a perfect fit. He sucks hard, noisy and lewd, forcing gasps that make you glad your apartment walls are somewhat thick. But when his tongue swivels amidst the bites he lavishes on your peak, you are reduced to whimpers in his hands. He’s an expert at combining pain with absolute pleasure until your mind is in utter shambles. Shattered even more so when his fingers find your neglected breast, his remaining free hand cupping greedy handfuls of your behind.
When you shift your knee to rub against the pronounced bulge in his sweats, he smacks his palm against your asscheek to a satisfying crack. “Patience is a virtue,” he warns, trailing his tongue to the valley between your breasts. Slathers wet heat on your skin, the curves of your chest even though you’re already burning up from his touch.
But you’re more than willing to play his game. You prove so when you grope his fabric-swaddled cock, massage until you hear the music of his hitched breaths. “I’m not trying to be virtuous.” Then you steal his smirk for your own use while you run fingers along the side of his shaft. His frenulum is sensitive as ever beneath your persistent hand; he bucks when you grind your thumb into the nerves.
“A-Ah!” You yelp when you feel the fresh sting, looking down to find that Yoongi has left his first love bite at the swell of your breast. It blooms in deep, sinful red. Damn if you don’t want him to leave five, ten, twenty more. You want that damnable mouth on you anywhere he can reach until you ache with the reminder of him.
“Thought I told you to be good.” He stares down his nose at you. The act is not nearly as intimidating as it had been in the backroom of the café, but still every bit as arousing. Especially when he pairs it with a sly finger trailing down your slit, the sensation frustratingly dulled by your soaked underwear.
It’s a miracle you can summon the strength to talk back. “Oops. My bad,” you reply in a voice that tells him you’re not sorry in the slightest. Goading Yoongi is a form of art that you have perfected.
Amused and more than a little turned on by your disobedience, he rocks back onto his knees. “On your stomach. Now.”
Oh, yes please. You obey without hesitation, pressing your chest to the warm sheets. You shiver when you feel his hands fit along your waist, as if testing his grip for later use. How hard would he squeeze as he fucks you? As he feeds you every hot inch of his erection, the skin taut and hard for want of your cunt? You tense your thighs in longing, not wanting to wait a second longer to feel him inside you.
But you don’t have a choice.
You lunge forward when the first smack lands on your ass. You cry out, face half-buried in the pillow as pleasure radiates from your burning cheek. Yet you’re still raising your hips for more. You love the pain, addicted to the visceral reaction it beckons from your body.
But your squeal gives Yoongi pause. “Is that too hard?” He asks, breath brushing across your skin.
You throw a coy glance backwards. “Never.”
Your answer is accepted with a second slap, a punishment that makes your body shudder further into your mattress. “My little slut,” Yoongi snarls, enjoying the way the possessive words feel on his tongue. “Bet you’re ruining those panties of yours.”
Smack. Fuck, you swear he’s leaving imprints of his palm behind. You wish you could see.
“Totally soaked.” You rock onto your elbows, push your sore ass into his palm. Hope you can convince him to lose control and just fill you up. “So ready for your cock, Yoongi...”
You don’t see how he squeezes his eyes together, biting back the surge of hormones; they bid him to throw all restraint away to sink into your heat. “Not just yet.” Your undies are tugged down, rendered useless and tossed somewhere onto the floor. Chills run through your spine as you’re bared for the second time tonight. He forces your hips up and before you can even breathe, licks a long stripe across your cunt.
“Oh, fuck.”
You cannot stand Min Yoongi and that devil’s tongue he curls around your clit. He drags the tip across your sensitive bead, understanding where you’re too sensitive and then deliberately stimulating that very spot to make your knees buck. Pleasure floods your body, makes your every limb white hot and weak, a mess for one man. You knew he was dangerous from the very start, but that never could have stopped you. Your body reflects just how hopelessly you’ve fallen, pushed to the brink of climax faster than you’ve ever been before.
“So fucking sweet.” His fingers dig dimples into your ass, spreading you wide so he can have his fill. His tongue glides along your curves, taking his time instead of being so focused on chasing climax as he had that first time. Now he’s hungry for knowledge, for intimacy he can only find with you as his landscape. And if he makes you cum a thousand times in the process of that quest, well. You’ll survive somehow.
When his tongue slips into your heat, you almost lose it. He thrusts it like he fucks: ruthlessly, flawlessly. As if you’re the only thing that matters right now, and his only desire in the world is to have you quivering on his lips. A wish he’s getting twofold.
“Close, so close, Yoongi, ah—”
“Yeah, I can feel it.” He sounds utterly entranced, the drawled words thick with longing. “Want you to cum around my tongue. Can you do that for me?” He poses the question as if you have a choice. As if you can do anything against the onslaught of bliss tangling themselves in your veins, demanding that you release.
All because of that accursed mouth that has you at its mercy, whether between the sheets or out. Too compelling for your weary nerves to resist when his hand whips across your skin and without warning, you’re cumming. Tears prick, rolling down your face as he spanks you again, this time even harder, and your climax becomes unbearable in bliss. You were not prepared for the tsunami it is, crashing onto you, sweeping you away.
“Yoongi!” The name is muffled by the pillow you stuff your face in, muscles screaming at you to stop tensing but you can’t, you goddamn can’t. Crest after crest of sensation radiate through you in time with the throbs of your sodden walls. You swear he grins against your pussy as you rock your hips like you’re in heat. Your skin is so sensitive it almost hurts but you couldn’t care less.
“Fuck me, Yoongi, please, god, I need your cock in me right fucking now.” Your voice is desperate and begging and any other time, you would be mortified but all you can think of now is how you need to be filled. To have every crevice of your throbbing pussy stuffed with Yoongi’s cock so he understands just what he’s done to you. Wrecked you, ruined you for anyone else.
“Oh fuck.” He was not expecting you to turn the tables but here you are, fucked out and still so needy for more. His sweatpants join your panties, cock springing free, the deep-red tip leaking from all it’s been denied. God, how he wants to fuck that pretty whine in your voice into moans.
“All of you, Yoongi. Wanna feel the stretch.” He’s taking too long; you’ve always been impatient.
Yoongi will never forget the sight of you spreading your own cheeks to show him, seduce him with how your cunt drips from anticipation. But it’s the look in your eyes, the affection mingled with the heat that has him plunging half of his cock into you in one stroke.
“So tight for me, h-huh? What a good girl,” Yoongi growls, trying his best not to cum instantly from the way you take him. Just swallow him with such ease, yet still squeeze him like a vice. He’s missed this pussy so much, hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since that night. He’s finished himself countless nights to the memory but now you’re really here; now you cry for him in that tremulous tone that drives him wild.
One of Yoongi’s hands goes as promised on your waist, but the other weaves into your hair to grip at the roots. He doesn’t tug yet, testing your limits, careful to respect them. He’s rewarded with a moan as he bottoms out at the same time he gives his first light tug. Now every thick inch of cock is finally swathed in you, and you are filled to the brim, just like you craved.
“This okay?” He asks, massaging the crook of your perspiration-dotted back with his thumb.
“Mhm...” You slur it like you’re drunk but it’s just the moment, the pleasure forcing you into submission. You love the juxtaposition only Yoongi brings out for you, how he instinctually knows exactly what you seek.
“More?”
You rut into him, feel that friction kindle something indescribable, deeply carnal in your core. “Always.”
It is here that Yoongi realizes how gone he is for you.
You’re incredible. Fucking incredible. He tries to tell you this with every pump he sends into you. So damn hungry but still careful not to pull too hard on your locks even though he thinks you might like that, minx that you are. The gasps just continue to fall from his mouth as he just feels himself drown in you. You fit around him like you were made to take his cock and then some. He wants to give you everything. But first he’ll start with pleasure. Pleasure so intense you’ll forget even your own name.
You’re closer to that goal than he knows. You’re falling into the rough staccato rhythm he sets, bodies slamming together again and again until your mouth feels dry for all the moans you can’t staunch. It sends you soaring: the ache of his fist in your hair, the burn of the stretch that you know will stay with you for hours after. It’s all in service of the inevitable crash that will ruin you.
Yoongi’s thighs have started to burn with strain but he doesn’t dare stop, doesn’t think he could. Not when you’re both teetering on the cusp; ready to fall, not apart, but finally together.
“Y-Yoongi...!” On one particularly hard thrust, you rear up, back pressed firmly against his sweaty chest. He lets go of your hair to curl his arms around you, clutching you as he thrusts upwards to hit your core. You focus on the sole task of breathing. But you fail even that when his fingers find your clit, rough and imprecise in his animalistic movements. It’s still enough.
This is how you cum – speared and full and deliriously sated.
He can’t hold out any longer when you find your peak. His teeth scrape your shoulder, but you can only register pleasure as he grinds out his own orgasm against your ass. You feel him spill deeply inside; it feeds some innate need you didn’t even know you had. Reaching behind, you hold him close as he does you, heartbeats pulsing to the same beat as you let the noises speak for you.
When the high relents, you collapse onto your palms, practically faceplant into your pillow as the aftershocks shudder their way through you. It’s a good few moments before you can roll onto your side, to face Yoongi who has done the same on your right. You feel like a mess, but he looks at you as if he’s never seen anything more stunning in his life.
“I... Wow.”
“Yeah...”
For a minute, all you can do is grin at each other, silly smiles stretched wide across your kiss-bitten lips.
Eventually, Yoongi flips onto his back, chest still heaving. “That was actually meant to be gentler,” he mumbles, staring pointedly at the ceiling. “Since our first time was me getting carried away. And the second.”
“Looks like you just can’t help yourself around me, huh?” You tease, hoping you’ll make him blush, or hit you back with something equally sarcastic.
“Yeah. I really can’t.” He says it so honestly, you melt a little into the sheets.
You shuffle closer to him; he automatically raises his arm to let you in. “Stay over tonight, okay?” You say, kissing his bare chest as you cuddle in. Relish the fact you can just reach out and he’s there. Solid, warm, there. “Not like you have work tomorrow, right?”
“I’ll stay as long as you want.”
He kicks the light covers up with a foot, pulls it over your body so you don’t feel the chill even though his body keeps you running hot. You hum as he runs his fingers down your back, rubbing at that sore spot just right. You fall into cozy silence, tracing the contours of his damp torso, running over the curves you couldn’t before.
“On Monday, I’m going to give Mina my two weeks notice.”
Whoa.
You shove up from Yoongi. Turning with utter surprise on your face, you cry, “What?” You unintentionally crush blankets in your fists. “Why?” When you’ve finally worked things out between you?
“As much as I want to stay, I’m… I’m going to try to produce full time.” His eyebrows furrow together. He sucks in a breath. “Being at the café took up all my spare time and while it was a good distraction after the whole thing, I... I don’t need it anymore. I’m going to chase after what I really want to do.” The relief that soaks his voice tells you he’s finally figured it out. “And I’m going to do it on my own. Without Jiwon. Without his help.”
“Oh, Yoongi...” Your heart floods with nervous excitement. You are not really a fan of change, but this is different. This is a step in the direction he was always too afraid to take. You flop back beside him, let him eagerly draw you back into his arms. “I’ll support you as much as I can. I know you can do it, babe.”
“Babe?” He raises his eyebrows.
“Don’t like it?”
“Mmn. Like it... more than I thought I would.” His voice is practically a mumble by the end as he hides embarrassment with a nuzzle into your head.
You’re grinning as the most welcome thought strikes. “Hey, maybe whoever replaces you will finally be on time!”
Yoongi smirks. “Unfortunately, your boyfriend may sometimes still be a little late.”
You tap his cute nose, his squishy cheeks. “Oh, is that what you are now?”
“Yup.” He proceeds to bury his face into your hair, pressing kisses and inhaling the scent he doesn’t think he’ll ever get his fill of. “You’re stuck with me.”
You chuckle as you snuggle further into his warm embrace. it just feels right to be here somehow. Ironic, that ‘here’ is pressed up against the man who can get under your skin like no other. Maybe you’re a masochist, but you can’t think of anywhere else you’d rather be.
Lying here, listening to him slip into slumber, the apprehensive energy in you just melts away despite the feeling that you’re about to embark on a journey that you’re sure will be anything but easy. But as long as you’re with him... You smile. Then you let the anxious thoughts go, finally surrendering to the sleep that his steady rise-and-fall brings.
Turns out, Min Yoongi isn’t the absolute worst after all.
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a/n: yeah, i know, who still makes CDs in 2019? :p but sending over a Spotify playlist isn’t nearly as romantic. hehe. thank you for sticking with me until the end of my first series. i learnt so much through writing it and had a ton of fun! please let me know what you think of the ending, yeah? ;) i hope you all enjoyed TES ♡
huge, enourmous thank you to my betas: @hoseoksdior, @sweetlyseokjin, @jiminspjm, @mypurplelamp, @bigtiddiejoon! 💖 this fic would not have come through without their efforts!!
special shoutout to MISS ARI @flowerymoonlight who hyped me TF up & had to survive the snippets i sent her at 2 in the morning. ily babe, you have a special place in my heart ALWAYS.
p.s. you can find more minis of this couple on my masterlist!
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aphroditestummyrolls · 4 years ago
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Tagged by: @rhubarbdreams @cactusdragon517 @morallygreywaren and @ceraunos (I’m so sorry this took so long! Thank you for thinking of me, it is so flattering <3)
Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!
This was SO FUN. It was so nice to go through my old stories... I’m really proud of my writing. That’s something I never thought I’d say, and it’s something I’ve decided I’m going to do unabashedly from now on. <3 Happy almost April, everyone! 
Gaining Heart (Spartacus) 
The days following the defeat of Glaber had been a flurry of activity.
Agron found himself not only leading on field of battle, but leading organization and defensive strategy. Those fucking Romans had moved into the temple as if it was their own home, claiming all that they saw— but they had also brought much of their own. Food, wine, supplies— it was a gift from the fucking gods, and needed proper inventory.
Agron knew not how to do that. Nasir and Naevia were invaluable, cleaning each chamber of any evidence of battle, cataloguing lists and categorizing everything from barrels of grain to rolls of bandages.
Tangles and Roots (The Old Guard)
He was covering Andy.
The hangar was dark, shadowed by the last of the night while dawn crept up over the skyline outside. The plane was set to land any minute now, and Nicky’s eyes flicked from corner to corner, finger on the trigger of his gun and his jaw grinding hard. He could swear he saw shapes moving along the roof— the banks of high windows above them left eerie patches of weak blue light, flickering with little flashes of darkness.
It was probably just birds. He was out of practice— they had done nothing but sit around in the six months since Merrick, trying to heal the deep wounds left in their minds… and bodies, in Andy’s case.
Nicky swallowed, stepping that much closer to his friend’s side as they took their places in the shadows.
Still Awake? (The Old Guard)
He pretended to sleep. His eyes were closed, and his muscles were stiff, tying themselves into knots where he laid in his cot between Andy’s empty bedroll and Joe and Nicky’s snuggled up bodies. Booker refused to be comfortable— he refused to rest. The day had been rough, and the fighting had left a bone deep ache inside him, even while the physical wounds had healed.
All the Time in the World (The Old Guard) 
The first time Nicolo and Yusuf bathed together, it was by the river— he wasn’t sure which river. It had probably changed names and countries a hundred times by now. All he remembered was that, by the time they heard the steady rush of water and cleared the brush and trees to the bank, he was half mad with annoyance.
If that man made one more grumbled complaint— one more clearly telegraphed grimace— about the supposed smell of him, Nicoló might have to break their truce and run the bastard through.
Kissed by an Angel (The Old Guard)
Nicky felt his lips flicker into a private smile, setting the pot on the stove to simmer and turning to look out the window into the garden. Joe’s garden.
He was humming to himself— Nicky couldn’t quite hear it, but he could tell by the set of the other man’s jaw under his beard and the purse of his lips as he concentrated. The weeds wouldn’t rip themselves, the overgrown shrubs wouldn’t miraculously be already pruned and waiting for them.
They were finally back in Valletta. Finally home.
Patron Saint of Satisfaction (The Old Guard)
It had been a long, long few weeks.
Joe’s shoulders were tense and knotted, and his whole body still ached from the train ride he and Nicky had taken all that day. There was a stifling, choked sensation in his gut that would rise in waves, up his throat to the tip of his tongue until he was ready to scream. The whole way to their safehouse, he brushed shoulders with his lover— practically leaning on him— and let himself take refuge in the feeling of Nicky’s warm hand entwining their fingers.
Waking Dreams (The Old Guard)
At first, they could’ve been anywhere for all Joe knew.
There was nothing in the world but Nicky— his scent, his body, his quiet sleeping breaths. Joe felt himself hover on the edge of sleep and wakefulness, the familiar thrum of pleasure making up the backdrop of his thoughts.
He nuzzled into his Nico’s neck, pressing sloppy, half asleep kisses to the back of his neck.
Here There Be Monsters (The Old Guard) 
The morning had been blustery and hot. The scent of ozone made the sea air thick as it blew through his hair where they all stood, crowded around the lower deck. They all squinted against the bright sunshine, but Joe knew better than to trust the blue sky.
”If I’m getting in, I’ve gotta do it soon—“ he spoke up, cutting into some conversation that he hadn’t been listening to, “There’s a storm coming in from the East.”
Nile— still so young, so far from the American Midwest, and in her first field season— raised an eyebrow at him from behind her sunglasses.
He smiled at her bemused look, shooting his gaze over to Andy. Andy smirked, huffing a laugh. “If anybody knows, Joe knows.”
In Loving Memory (The Old Guard)
The wind whipped up off the water, cold and salty despite the way the sun beat down on them. It was alright, honestly— refreshing after all those stuffy hours in the car.
These immortals were highly resistant to normal modes of transport. Like a plane— a real passenger plane, not a Russian cargo plane full of drugs. It was all cars and boats and trains, low to the ground, literally under the radar.
Nile understood why. She didn’t want to end up strapped down to a lab table like the one they escaped all those months ago. She’d just rather take a nice plane from the closest airport to Provence and get to Valletta in a matter of hours, rather than drive through three countries and all the way down the Italian boot, just to bribe a fishing boat.
Feed My Soul (The Old Guard) 
Malta looked good on Nicolò.
Joe leaned on the railing of their balcony, looking down into their old, old walled garden where his Nico shuffled around in the herbs. He was looking for something particular, the bridge of his nose scrunching as he peered at the mess of overgrown pots.
Joe beamed, the familiar, all-encompassing warmth of loving that man filling him up and making him feel expansive and bright. There was a cathedral ceiling in his chest, airy and golden with the light of dawn through its tall, jeweled windows. There was a house of worship where his heart should be, and he traced the lines of the other man’s body like he was devoting a painting to him.
Sono Qui (The Old Guard)
Andy left Booker on the beach.
She felt his gaze follow her, but couldn’t bring herself to look back.
It wasn’t as if they had never separated before— as if the four of them had been constantly attached from the time they finally found the Frenchman, even after months and months of dreaming and searching. There were plenty of times where they spent months, or sometimes years apart. They took breaks from each other, they traveled. Just a year ago, Andy had declared that she needed a break— was that last year of being alone the thing that led Booker to betray them? Maybe they should’ve stayed together. She never should have left him. She understood how it felt to be alone in the world… to lose someone so precious that life loses its color.
Andy had left Booker plenty of times. It wasn’t something she liked to think about now, but she had… She had assumed he was handling it like her. Somber and drunk, wishing for some type of release. They’d talked about it enough times. But not like this.
Brother of My Heart  (The Old Guard)
Joe clenched his hands on the steering wheel, flexing his fingers to feel the stretch in the tendons, even though any injuries from the fighting had long since healed.
While driving away from the ruins of Merrick’s car, the adrenaline was still rushing in his veins, and all his self control was devoted to staying reasonably within the speed limit. The last thing they needed was to get stopped by some bobby cop while covered in blood and dust, with a bullet through Andy’s stomach.
Right now, they needed to blend in. So, Joe didn’t press the gas pedal into the floor.
Care and Feeding (The Old Guard) 
Nile couldn’t ever remember liking the cold.
Even at home in Chicago. Sure, her memories of warm Christmas masses, bright lights on the tree, and gently falling snow outside the kitchen window made her throat dry with that familiar, wistful grief. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to seeing pine trees or twinkle lights without thinking of her mom’s mac n cheese, or how early her brother would wake her up on Christmas morning.
But loving Christmas, and loving snow? Those were two completely different things.
Going Underground (Star Wars) 
Poe wasn’t sure what it was like when they broke through the atmosphere into Yavin IV. He didn’t watch through the Falcon’s wide front window as the familiar jungles passed by in a blur of green underneath them, and he couldn’t pick out the roof of home from the surrounding grasses as they came in for a landing.
The first thing he saw as he came to, bleary and aching, was Finn. They’d fallen asleep right where they were, pressed shoulder to shoulder at the holochess table, Poe’s head on Finn’s shoulder. It took him a sluggish moment to recall why his hand had its own throbbing pulse, and why Finn’s soft, dark skin was pockmarked with strange cuts, glistening with bacta.
The second thing he saw, swallowing against the rush of memories filling his fuzzy mind, must have been a hallucination.
STAR WARS VIII: The Battle of the Force (Star Wars) 
“General, I don’t know how much longer we can hold ‘em off—”
Poe’s voice crackled from the shoddy reception, nearly engulfed by the constant bombardment in the background.
“Commander, the Resistance depends on taking down this dreadnought.” Leia kept her voice steady and strong “Stand your ground.”
Beyond What We Can See (Star Wars) 
If he was being honest with himself, he supposed that he’d been feeling the Force his whole life. He’d always just brushed it off as basic intuition— he thought everybody felt this way. It wasn’t until he started seeing the way the Force was treated in the First Order—as a myth, a fearful, distant thing—that he realized how much he needed to keep his head down. Even though he only felt it in small ways, he was different. He buried the feelings, tried to ignore the nagging dread that said that he didn’t belong there in his platoon. That none of them did.
But that wasn’t something he was allowed to feel. The Force wasn’t supposed to be something any of the troops knew firsthand.
Like She Always Did (Star Wars) 
The first time she left was barely a memory. More of a dream. He didn’t remember the fight they had, but he knew in hindsight that they must’ve had it for much longer than the tail end that he saw. Maybe it was what got his little feet out of bed in the first place. Daddy’s eyes were rimmed with red and Mama was pacing out her anger into the sitting room rug. Poe’s eyes were wide as he watched from the threshold to the hall, his little hand gripping onto the pillow that he’d tugged along with him from his room.
Love Will Help You Heal (Star Wars) 
Every inch of him throbbed, the last dregs of whatever the interrogation droid had injected him with still pumping through his bloodstream. He was so tired. How long had it even been? Getting captured on Jakku felt like a hazy dream, as if it was weeks ago.
No one was coming for him. He knew that much—he’d probably be mad if they endangered the resources to try—but he couldn’t help but wish anyway. Death seemed so close, like a cold hand on his shoulder, by his side in the recirculated air of the Star Destroyer.
He wished they’d just hurry up. His drug-addled, sleep deprived mind didn’t know if he was asking for rescue or death. Maybe they were the same thing now.
Dying a martyr. At least it suited the image—Poe Dameron, Poster Boy of the Resistance.
Ghosts of Future and Past (MCU/Captain America) 
His head was throbbing. His back ached. Everything in him pulsed with agony like he’d been hit by a train.
A train. Bucky.
“Bucky is alive.” 
He could feel the winter cold at the memory, his eyes snapping open as the past few moments came flooding back to him.
There had been another Steve. Even without the mask, he’d looked just like him. It must have been Loki playing tricks again, it had to be.
Sweet as Honey, Gold Like the Sun (Stranger Things) 
Steve was drifting after high school graduation. He drifted right out of the halls of Hawkins High and into a desk job at his dad’s office. If he was being honest, he’d been drifting since the Gate closed— maybe even since Nancy broke it off.
He wasn’t mad. She was his best friend. He and Jonathan were even friends now. No, he hadn’t been mad for a long time— but he was lost. The kids were going to high school. Dustin would be getting his license one of these days, and Steve’s last function to his little gaggle of brats would become all but useless.
The idea of not serving a purpose left the bitter tang of anxiety in his throat. Once the kids didn’t need him— and Joyce and Hopper and even Nancy— Steve would be left behind. Again.
Okay... Some of these may have been more than just what is considered “Opening Lines”, but I can’t just leave something feeling unfinished, and I’m a little tipsy, which means I am bending the rules <3
**EDIT** i forgot to look for patterns and pick my favorite! I mean, I think all storytelling/creative expression (anything from developing a recipe to composing a painting to writing a story) follows a distinct formula. And the best way to establish the story is by starting it with the most important element front and center— I almost always start with my main character. A thought or a feeling, a situation or a sensation. They’re the focal point from which everything ripples out. Those first ripples (the 2nd, 3rd or 4th lines) are usually about building the setting. It’s an equation that works so well for me, and though I sometimes shake it up by adding immediate dialogue or flipping the positions of setting and main character, it has served me well ❤️ i think my favorite has to be Brother of My Heart. It’s the first really, immediately big story Ive ever had. So many comments, so much warmth, so many kind people— it grew my confidence and helped me make friends. It reminds me of how truly wonderful fandom can be, even just with the first few lines.
I’m going to continue to bend the rules by not tagging anyone immediately-- it’s giving me weird anxiety levels, so I’m gonna wait and do it later maybe. If, in the meantime, you see this and want to do it, write me down as the one who tagged you! <3 Feel frrrreeeeeeee! 
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teriwrites · 4 years ago
Text
Swindler of Fortune
The coin wells were empty.
I stared dumbly into the cash register. They’d been full that morning, that much I was certain of. I myself had blindly emptied several rolls in my mad dash to open the store on time. 
What can I say? Even wizards sleep in sometimes.
But business had been slow, and even on heavy days, we usually didn’t get enough cash transactions to clear out the whole register. 
“Natalie?” I called, hoping she hadn’t left for the night.
I didn’t suspect her of stealing, of course, but she usually handled the front during weekdays. Thankfully, she was still in the back. I watched the doors swing open, and her bun bobbed just over the tops of shelves as she made her way over. 
“What’s up?” she asked as she reached the front, leaning down onto the counter to meet me at eye level. I rolled my eyes at the gesture.
“Did somebody exchange a large bill for coins?” I motioned towards the empty wells. “Because we’re all out.”
Natalie frowned as she pushed herself upright. “No. I actually had to empty a roll of quarters about an hour before closing. Why, have we been robbed?”
“If we were, it was by the dumbest thief alive.” As Natalie cocked an eyebrow, I went on. “All the bills are accounted for.”
For several moments, we puzzled over it, but it was late, and I think we both knew no questions were going to be answered without effort. And that wasn’t happening after closing. This was a problem for another day.
So I dumped a couple new rolls into the register and decided to call it a night.
The next day was a Friday, which meant more business. After a quick check to confirm that the coins were still in their place, I flipped the sign on the door to ‘Open’ and welcomed the start of a new day. 
Natalie was working inventory, so she hung in the back while I held down the front of the store. Rolling up the sleeves of my cardigan, I took in a deep breath and channeled my Manager alter ego - a mix of Customer Service feigned cheer with enough of an edge to hold some of the more entitled customers at bay. 
Our first customer rolled in around 9:30. My back was turned as the bell rang out, but the excitement emanating from Nathaniel as he ran laps around my back clued me into their identity.
I spun on my heel to see an old man wrapped up in dark furs and a matching cap step over the threshold. A green parrot sat on his shoulder, wearing its own tiny hat.
“Mike!” My Customer Service smile eased into a genuine grin as I greeted one of my favorite regulars.
“Ms. Kim, hello!” When Mike spoke, it was with his familiar, thick Russian accent. I wasn’t sure exactly when he had immigrated to Canada, but he’d been coming into the store as long as I could remember, back when I was just a kid helping my dad restock shelves. Even back then, he’d struck me as remarkably old. 
“I haven’t heard from you in awhile. I was beginning to fear the worst.” It was a half-joke, but before the mood could darken, I shook my head dramatically. “I thought you might’ve decided to turn to one of our competitors.”
Mike chuckled as he pulled his hat from his head, but his parrot cut in before he could protest. “Enough with the pleasantries! We’re here on business!”
Nathaniel had run down the length of my sleeve and was tugging it down my arm to press closer to the bird. I leaned forward onto the counter, and the parrot eyed my embroidered dragon cautiously.
“That’s a cute hat you got there, Charon.” I shot the parrot a wink and pushed myself back up. “What is it I can get for you today, Mike?”
“Do you have any tongue of frog in stock?” he asked as he brushed snow from his hat. 
I wasn’t sure, but I promised to check in with Natalie. As I made my way back to the storage room, I found her crouched in one of the aisles, gathering some nonalcoholic liquid courage to restock.
“Hey, do you have any tongue of frog marked up on there?”
The face Natalie made answered my question. “You actually stock frog tongues?”
“Spells, enchanted items, charms - ”
“Whatever your wandering, wayfaring wizard may need, I know,” she finished, nodding along dramatically. “But frog tongues?”
“If you heard all of the ingredients that go into those bottles” - I nudged my chin towards the liquid courage - “it’d make your hair curl. Not that it needs the help.”
Natalie smacked me with her clipboard before jutting her hand out for some help up. 
I had been working alongside Natalie for a few months now, but there were still areas of the store that I hadn’t acquainted her with. Some wizards would’ve scrunched up their noses at my more repellent products, so I was not keen to show them off to an unprepared Typic. 
Most potion ingredients sat in a medicine cabinet towards the front of the store, but it could hardly fit everything. The rest was tucked away into a side room - a pantry, really - hiding in the back corner. Pulling my keyring from my pocket, I shuffled through several before I landed on the right one.
Dust had collected on most of the shelves in the pantry. I had no excuse for its state; there simply wasn’t enough of a reason to come back here unless someone requested it. A single, flickering lightbulb hanging from the ceiling dimly lit the small space. 
I turned away from Natalie to fetch the jar labeled ‘tongue of frog’. After I’d snatched it up, I looked back to see her curiously scanning the shelves. Before I could say anything, her hand darted out and grabbed something. 
Holding it out to me, I could barely make out its label: newt eyes.
“Other friends of yours?” she joked.
I brushed past her as she replaced the jar on the shelf. “Of yours, actually.”
Carrying the jar back to the front, I watched as Mike perused some of the inventory up front with vague amusement. Charon was whispering something in his ear. Evidently it was something rude; Mike reprimanded the bird harshly in Russian.
“One tongue of frog,” I announced as I stepped behind the counter. 
“You have new merchandise, Ms. Kim,” Mike pointed out as he dug through his pockets. “I didn’t even know there were spells for maintaining battery life.”
“Yeah, well, some companies intentionally provide weak batteries to make you replace your phone after a couple years. This cheat seems the lesser of the two evils.” I rested my elbows on the top of the register as I watched Mike stack the contents of his pocket onto the countertop. Books, empty potion bottles, a pair of gloves. After withdrawing a black notebook with an engraved monogram and a full-sized human skull, he finally pulled out his wallet.
I had to ask him what spell he used to get that kind of pocket space. 
“Working another case?” I nodded at the notebook as I rang up his order. “I thought you’d retired, Mike.”
“I owed an old colleague a favor,” Mike admitted gruffly. “The police asked him for assistance on a case, and he referred them to me.”
He sounded none too happy about it. 
Mike passed me cash, and I opened the register. As soon as the drawer sprung open, I realized with a jolt that the change was missing again. Surely, nobody could’ve snatched it up without being seen. I could’ve trusted Mike with the entire store while I was in the back, and Natalie had been with me the entire time. 
“Is there a problem?” Mike asked, straightening up to peer over the counter.
I unlocked the cupboard with extra change and fished out a roll of loonies. “No problem, just ran out of change.”
I handed over his change and the jar without a bag, knowing he wouldn’t need one. When he’d taken both from me, he simply slid them into his pockets. With a quick nod and a small lift of his cap, Mike stepped back out into the cold. 
Only after Mike had left did I notice Natalie crouching by the first row of shelves. She clutched her clipboard to her chest, staring in horror at the door the old man had just left through.
“Was that man carrying a human skull?”
I dismissed her concern with a wave of my hand. “Mike’s a necromancer. That’s pretty normal for him.”
My reassurance might’ve eased Natalie’s nerves, but they simply shifted from fear into disgust. “Aren’t those people supposed to raise the dead and all that? Gross.”
“It’s a little more delicate than that. There’s a whole structure of ethical guidelines in that field. Full revival is prohibited, so usually it’s just gathering details on how the person died. I don’t know the ins and outs of it, though. I’ve never had the stomach for that stuff.”
“So you’re telling me there’s a whole slew of magical careers out there, and I got stuck working for the shopkeep?” 
I rolled my eyes as I walked away, leaving Natalie laughing on the floor. 
Saturday morning, I arrived extra early at the store. I told myself it was to make up for the fact that Natalie only worked weekdays and I would be running everything myself. But really, the first thing I did when I arrived was beeline for the cash register.
Everything had been in place the night before. After Mike’s incident, nothing had gone missing, and the rest of the day ran smoothly. I was secretly hoping that the problem would go away on its own if I just refused to acknowledge it. But I could only lose so many more rolls before making another trip to the bank, and I’m pretty sure the teller I always ran into was a vampire. Either that or there was some other reason he always stared at my neck when I was making deposits. 
Either way, not an experience I was eager to have again.
My key slid into the lock for the register, and I made a silent wish as I twisted it open.
The coin wells were empty.
I let out a frustrated shout as I tore the key out of the lock. This couldn’t keep happening. My store did well - my spot in downtown Trelis earned me good foot traffic, and our regulars were loyal - but I couldn’t afford the constant losses. 
There was only one answer. I would have to investigate. If I kept a careful eye on the full register, the thief would have to reveal themselves eventually. 
To refill the coins, I opened up the cupboard, only to find that it, too, had been ransacked. Every roll of coins had been torn to shreds, with scraps of paper left littering the cabinet. 
I felt bad for texting Natalie on her day off, but I had no other choice. I couldn’t both look into a robbery and ring up transactions. So, whipping out my phone, I shot her a text asking if she’d be able to make it down the store, preferably before it opened.
Fifteen minutes later, Natalie was at the front door, rapping against the glass. I unlocked it for her.
“More was taken?” she asked, pulling her mittens from her hands.
“Both the register and the cupboard are empty.” I groaned, draping myself over the front counter. “I’m at a loss.”
What kind of thief was this, who would ignore the higher-value bills and waste time tearing through paper to get at the coins? Who could somehow get around the store without being seen? Were we dealing with an advanced invisibility spell? Some pocket portal that could reach directly into the register? A clever magpie?
I dragged myself over the counter, nearly hitting my head against the back cabinet as I clambered ungracefully down. Landing in a heap on the ground, I found myself staring closeup at a pencil shaving. I frowned; the only pencils we kept in the front were mechanical. 
Sitting up, I pinched the tiny shaving from the ground and ran it between my fingers. It was then that I realized my mistake. The scrap wasn’t a pencil shaving, it was one of the shreds of torn paper from the cabinet. 
Natalie yelped as I threw myself back to the ground, eyes close to the floor. A moment passed in silence as I scanned for more shreds of paper. Though Natalie kept quiet, I could feel her piecing together what I’d found. 
She found the next scrap, pointing to it with her foot. As we began to follow a small trail of torn paper, I scurried along at a crawl. Less inclined to make a fool of herself, Natalie chose to walk.
The paper led to the back of the store, into a small hole in the wall that I’d never noticed, half-hidden behind a shelf. I didn’t dare reach into it, but shining the flashlight from my phone revealed only a long tunnel. Something glinted from a distance, but it was too far to make anything out. Whatever was back there was hidden somewhere in the wall of the potion pantry. 
It took a minute to find the key for the pantry, and another several to scan along the wall. But I finally found what I was looking for. Really, I shouldn’t take the credit. Natalie found it, helping me push aside a cabinet to reveal the door to a crawl space I’d never seen before. 
It was easy to overlook, a tiny door tucked away into the back corner of a room I rarely entered. But I immediately recognized with some satisfaction that its lock seemed to match a key on my keyring. The only key I’d never found a use for. It had always been there, since my father had wielded the ring, but I’d never thought to ask him what it was for. 
Now, with certainty, I tugged the key loose and shoved it into the lock.
Sure enough, the key turned, and, with Natalie flashing her phone towards the crawl space, I tugged the door open.
Sitting inside, on a veritable mountain of spare change, was a dragon the size of a coffee mug. 
I froze, not exactly sure how to react. Behind me, Natalie dropped her phone, and the dim lighting in the room was only enough to catch a glimpse of its sleek scales. After a second to recover from the shock, I began to move.
I’ve faced my fair share of house pests, and this was no different. Throwing my arm behind me, I latched onto the handle of a broom that had collected more dust sitting in its corner than it had ever swept in its life. Keeping my eyes trained on the dragon, I brought it forwards and prodded lightly at the small reptile.
The dragon snapped at the broom, as I’d expected. Natalie was apparently less prepared; I could hear the jars clinking lightly as she backed into a cabinet. As the little pest’s jaw clenched down, I carefully lifted it from its hoard. 
“Get me an empty jar,” I whispered over my shoulder.
Natalie fetched one, and hurried out of the room as soon as I’d taken it. The jug was large enough to fit the dragon snugly, but it would hold the thing until I could find a place to let it loose.
Out in the light of the store, I inspected the little pest. He had dark, reddish-brown scales and golden eyes that shone with what I could’ve mistaken for intelligence. As I studied him, he seemed to be sizing me up as well.
Natalie, having overcome her shock and seeing that the dragon was contained, ran over. With wide eyes, she reached out and tapped a finger against the glass. The dragon turned to her, staring up with what I swear was feigned innocence.
“We should keep him!” 
It was just about the last thing I expected to come out of her mouth.
“You want to keep a dragon?” I needed to get my hearing checked. Wasn’t this the woman that had nearly screamed on spotting the little guy only a minute ago?
“He’s adorable!” she insisted, reaching out to take the jar from me. “I’ve never seen a real dragon before. I was always told they don’t exist.”
What else didn’t Typics know existed? Did they think pigeons were fake, too?
“We could keep him in the shop, and he could help guard the door!” Natalie suggested, beaming like she was holding a newborn puppy. She was already tenderly cradling the jar. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
“Guard us from what?” I demanded. “The only thief I’ve had since I took over this store is him.”
But I knew from Natalie’s enraptured expression that she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
I had heard of dragons being domesticated before. They were said to make excellent pets, given proper care. But there was no telling which breed this one was. Knowing my luck, he’d grow into a five-meter beast that’d fill up a whole aisle. 
“I’m calling him Midas,” Natalie announced.
And I knew any arguing was hopeless.
We now had a guard dragon.
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writing-the-end · 4 years ago
Text
LoL Chapter 38- Potions
Masterpost
A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)
Redland, the capitol city of magic, where the hermits hope to gather the supplies they need if they hope to survive the Hangman’s Playground. While Etho and Stress are gathering potions, they meet unlikely allies- with closer ties than they expect.
______________________________
Redland stretches to the sky, the quirky nature of magic on full show even in the architecture of the city. Towers peaked with rotund pinnacles, painted bright and distinctive colors. All levels of the city are full of the bright, baubled roofs. The main street and busy sections of the city are perfectly manicured, hedges with vibrant flowers and verdant greens, but when the hermits look down calm alleys and quiet streets, nature has settled against the brickwork and grown between the cobble, nature filling in with it’s own eccentric accents. 
The hermits wander through the city, an eclectic town full of wandering walkways, silent speakeasies, and unique universities. The schools of magic sit across from each other, students of offensive magic having lunch with students studying performance arcana. Bright banners wave in the breeze. Shops are full of any and every kind of item, a bazaar of the magic and mundane. Some shops boast large inventories, enchantments made enmasse and sold to large crowds- glamors were a favorite. Others host the antique and unique. No rhyme or reason what they hold, useless lamps next to powerful staffs.
TFC turns to Xisuma. “Can you divvy up the gold? We can cover more ground finding supplies for our mission if we separate.” 
“What I wouldn’t give for that sky kid’s magic right now.” Xisuma sighs, digging out the gold and handing it off to various groups of hermits. 
Stress and Etho glance at one another. “I think we’re gonna look for some potions firstly. If we go to the alchemy academy, I’m absolutely positive we’ll find somethin’.” 
“And if not, we can… convince a student to help us get what we want.” Etho pats his back, feeling his kusarigama tucked in his light, silent material. 
“Don’t forget to ask about the ingredients!” BDubs shouts as the two walk away, towards the bright green and yellow tower that holds the school of potion brewing. “Silvershade is not the same as Shadesilver!” 
Stress shakes her head, and challenges Etho to a footrace through the city. He accepts with a grin, and they take off down the main avenue. She laughs, feeling a sense of freedom in how strong the magic is in the city. Redland embodies everything magic is. It’s natural, it's eclectic, it’s bright, it’s unique. And every flower blooming in between the cobblestones, every shop full of mysterious wares and magical amulets, is full of that spirit. 
She turns her head, calling back to Etho from over her shoulder. “I’m gonna win, try an’ catch me!” 
From beneath the midnight blue mask that covers Etho’s nose and lips, a coy grin appears. He’s given Stress the lead, only to shock his friend when he wins. His mismatched eyes glimmer with mischief, and he turns. Running straight into a tree. 
Straight into a tree’s shadow. He leaves the plane of existence, and skids on his feet as he enters the shadow realm. Grey, calming mist dances through shadows, and his feet tapping through puddles of water across the floor. In all the time he’s spent in this realm, he can never truly understand it. He doesn’t know why it’s so misty, impossible to see more than a few meters in front of him. Or where the mist comes from, dancing in the darkness. Why it’s damp, like a rain had just occurred. He’s never seen it rain here. He also has no clue why it smells funky in here. Like a wayward explosion matched with rotten fish. Is there even anything more than a puddle around here? 
No matter. Etho’s winning this race. He takes off in the direction he and Stress were running, feeling himself pass through buildings, hedges, even people in the other realm. It’s a tingly feeling in his belly. Once he’s sure he’s made it to the alchemy school, he casts his magic, tossing it in front of him to reenter the mortal realm. 
He passes right through it. He stumbles and crashes to the floor, not so ninja-like. “Dammit, no not now!” 
There’s no discernable shadows for him to jump through. The sun must be tucked behind a cloud. Too big a swath of darkness for him to use, too general. He paces, tossing a circle with every turn of his heels, running through each time. He did this to beat Stress, being a badass and a bastard. He specializes in that delicate balance of the two.  But instead, he’s stuck in the stinky shadow realm, and worse he lost the footrace. 
His spell casts again, but when he walks through this time, he’s met by the blinding bright light of the sun. And Stress’s gleeful cackle. “You cheated! None of that magical stuff!” 
“What does it matter, it didn’t work.” He states, but he’s smiling all the same. Etho runs his hand over his white hair, tugging it away from his face so he can see the alchemy tower in full. “Should we check the shops first? What are we even looking for?” 
“Queen Erlea said we’re gonna need some healing potions and deterrents for the forest. I can assume mental and emotional potions are in that category.” Stress counts along the street full of potion shops, before spinning around and letting fate decide where they search first. A bright green shop, the window filled with potted plants and chaotic cats. Stress squeals at the sight of the kittens and bolts to the shop. Etho follows behind, grabbing the door before it can slam back to it’s jamb, without disturbing the sunbathing felines. 
They peruse this store. And the next. And the next. Finding healing potions was easy, and with Etho’s aggressive bartering they’re even discounted. Bottles of bright pink liquid, bundles of travel sized form- gummy chews easy to pop into one’s mouth-, and tiny tinctures full of potent life saving potions. 
But no matter what store they enter, how many times they ask or persuade, no one sells mental potions. Some say they’re pseudomagic, others that they’re too hard to create. And after being kicked out of another alchemy shop, Stress and Etho are sitting on the sidewalk, bouncing ideas across each other. 
“Maybe we don’t need them? Maybe the others will find supplies that can do the job?” Etho offers. 
“Or perhaps we can search Joe’s library to find something else.” Stress flops back, ignoring how she blocks the sidewalk as she stares up at the sky. “Where can we get mental barrier potions but Redland?” 
“Why not try making them ourselves?” Etho looks over, gazing at the Alchemy tower. “I bet that school has every book, ingredient, and setup ever invented. We’re clever and smart, we’re hermits after all. If no one makes them, we’ll make them ourselves.” 
Stress reclines up to her elbows, squinting her eyes. “Yer right, Etho. Think you can get us into one of them potion rooms of the school?” 
“Do I think I can? I know I can.” Etho snickers. They walk through the open doors of the school, bustling past students young and old, human or kipling or insectia or even bacca, boy or girl or otherwise. Etho pulls down his mask to fit in with the crowd, though his hair always sticks out. Stress keeps close to him, glancing around the halls. For a second, she swears she sees someone looking at her, but she ducks her head and keeps moving. They turn a cornerl, following the signs for potion labs. Listening for one room to be empty. Etho stops at the doorway of one. Closes his eyes, and walks through a shadow. 
But he returns from where he entered. “No, no it’s all dark in there! Why don’t they have anything boiling, any lamps or anything! What kind of lab is this?” 
“My lab, and what do you plan to do with my laboratory?” A strong, clear voice cuts through both hermits like a knife, and they both freeze. Maybe if they don’t move, the voice will move on. But instead, another voice rises up. 
“You’re hermits, are you not?” A younger, sharp voice drawls. “I was told about you. Didn’t expect two of you bitches to be sneakin’ into my professor’s lab.” 
Etho makes a bolt for the nearest shadow, but he passes right through the shadow and back into light. Stumbling down the hall, he’s dragged back to the professor and student combo, while Stress is turned around to face them. Etho taps his fingers. “We were just… looking around! Trying to find the bathrooms.” 
The student looks up at the professor, eyebrows rising from a serious face. He nods, clasping his hands behind his back. The student grins, tucks a lock of black hair behind an elongated ear, and snaps her fingers. 
“We’re sneakin’ inta the lab to make potions!” Stress claps her hand over her mouth. She didn’t mean to say that. Why did she say that? “No one makes what we need to enter the Forest of Memories!” 
“The Forest of Memories? Red said you were batshit crazy, but that…” Etho picks up his head, vaguely recognizing the name. 
“Well, you could have just asked for my keys.” Sylaeus shrugs, producing a ring full of mismatched keys and dangling chains. “Selene, be a dear and get these two my Encyclopedia of Potions. I’ll start up the burners.” 
Shock registers on both hermits faces, but Selene dutifully saunters down the hall, turning and entering a large door in the passage. Stress walks into the lab, admiring the collection of jars, half finished potions, and ingredients kept in the room. But Etho no longer has the inclination to enter. “Why are you helping us? We just tried to break into your lab.” 
“If you need a potion that badly that you would try to break into my office, you must need it for good reason. Adventuring into the Forest of Memories is one hell of a reason at that.” Sylaeus ignites a flame beneath a long, complicated series of funnels, tubes, and flasks. He tempers the flame, fire glimmering of his intense gaze. “Besides, it means I get to teach more about potions.” 
Selene returns with the book, hefting a tome as large as her torso and twice as thick. “So what the hell kind of potions are you guys going to make?” 
“Potions that will negate our fears and dampen the effects of the forest?” Stress tries her best to repeat what Queen Erlea suggested. “Maybe some repel potions as well?” 
The long eared mage hauls open the book, flipping through the pages with intense, glaring eyes. She stops, turning it around for Etho and Stress to see. “You had to request the most difficult potions to fucking make. It’s a damn good thing I spent the past month gathering more than enough supplies for you to use.” 
And with the guidance of Sylaeus and his student, Etho and Stress get to work. The careful art of alchemy came naturally to both hermits- Stress’s attention to detail let her see exactly when the right shade of amber for the potion appeared, while Etho’s perceptive training and patience guide him through finding just the right mixture of Silvershade and shadesilver. Even Sylaeus complimented his new students on their fine work. 
“While we’re waiting for the mixture to cool, would either of you like a drink?” She waves her hand, and four cups appear before them. The professor grins, swiping a drink and guzzling the never ending cup down. 
“My student’s finest mixture.” Sylaeus grins, patting his apprentice on the top of her fluffy, long mane of hair. 
“Is it a healing potion?” Etho questions. “Or maybe a stamina potion?” 
“Lemonade. Sip sip bitch.” Selene retorts, deadpanned. 
“Miss Selene, are you a multi-mage? You used telekinesis to drag Etho back before, but now you used summoning magic.” Stress takes a drink, shocked to watch that her cup is never ending. “A-and some kind of spatial magic?” 
“Selene here is my best student for more reasons than one. Not only can she brew better potions than even master alchemists, but she also spent years studying magic until she gained power of her own.” Sylaeus sees the confusion on the two’s face, and lets Selene fill them in. 
“I was born without magic.” She states. “It’s rare, but it happens. I wasn’t ready to give up on myself yet. I spent days and nights, studying every book I could get my hands on, watching the other kids use their magic. With enough time and dedication, I found the power within myself. Whatever magic I study, I can create.” 
Stress has tears welling in her eyes by the time the story is over. “What a lovely tale, an’ look at you now! All that persistence and never givin’ up paid off!” 
“I’m sure Selene could have lived her life without magic, or have chosen a darker route to gain power. But it’s her own magic, and she’s a proud S-Class wizard!” Sylaeus beams like a father, a teacher proud of his student.
The potion behind them starts to rapidly shift colors, and all four descend upon it to add the last ingredient- prismarine shards shed from a guardian. Etho wonders where Selene got such a prized ingredient, something most kiplings aren’t willing to part with.
 In a puff of smoke, the potion stabilizes. Selene corks the bottle, writing in scrawling handwriting of it’s intention, and hands it off to Stress. She also guides them out, an orb of soft white light guiding them down the halls of the academy. 
Etho’s reminded of one other person who had seemingly unlimited types of magic. “You know… Magistrate Dolios claims to be a multi-mage, but his magic is a lot like yours.” 
“Watch it, asshole.” Selene growls, opening the door and letting them out of the Alchemy tower. “I think we both know that the magistrate lies about everything. Perhaps that includes how he got his magic.”
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kelyon · 4 years ago
Text
Golden Rings 17: A Name
The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs
Mrs. Gold revisits her past
Read on AO3
Mrs. Gold looked on in mute horror as Hunter Duke dumped more hot sauce on his triple bacon hamburger. He’d asked Ruby to give him three meat patties with no bun and steamed broccoli instead of fries. When Mrs. Gold had questioned that lunch choice, he had explained his new diet to her.
At length.
Hunter had always been the kind of boy who thought meat and spicy food were substitutes for a personality. He’d been the star athlete at Storybrooke High, taking home championships in football and wrestling. He’d been popular with everyone--except for the one girl he’d arbitrarily decided was the hottest girl in school. That girl, the valedictorian, hadn’t given the quarterback the time of day. Not until she lost her scholarship and suddenly dating the son of a lawyer sounded like the way to the best future she would ever get.
“They do the burgers way too overdone here,” Hunter said with his mouth full. “You don’t get enough protein if it isn’t bloody.”
Mrs. Gold shrugged and took a bite of her own burger. It needed more pickles, but it was still amazing. Toasted bun, crisp lettuce, a patty that was juicy but not messy. She hadn’t had a Granny’s burger in forever. When she was a kid, her parents had taken her out for burgers every Friday night after their shop closed. Mom would bring her own supply of extra-zesty mustard and Dad…
She set her bun on her plate. On those idyllic, bygone Friday nights, her father would spend the whole meal grumbling about money and expenses and couldn’t they have eaten at home? Mom had always told him to stop worrying and enjoy the moment. It was the end of another week and they were together, happy and healthy. She’d calmed him down and kept him focused, every time there was a crisis.
Until they faced the biggest crisis of their lives.
Mrs. Gold blinked out of her thoughts. For some reason, Hunter was still talking. Maybe it looked like she was listening. She’d gotten good at that when they had dated. Now that she was listening for real, she tried to catch up.
“I keep telling my dad he needs to just change the sign. ‘Duke & Duke & Duke’ has a great ring to it, right? Or he could for ‘Duke & Sons.’ I don’t mind sharing the spotlight with Steven. Or he could leave the sign as it is and retire! ‘Duke & Duke’ is classic, everyone knows we’re the best bankruptcy lawyers in town. Just let my brother be the first Duke and I’ll be second Duke and we’ll take this firm into the future! But Dad keeps brushing me off for some reason.”
Mrs. Gold took a sip of iced tea and desperately wished it was something stronger. “Did you… go to law school?”
She had the oddest feeling that she couldn’t remember how long they had been out of high school. All she knew for sure was that Hunter had enrolled at Storybrooke Community College--and she hadn’t. It was possible that he had gotten his bachelor’s. As Hunter was fond of saying, “Cs get degrees.” But SCC didn’t have a graduate program. Had he taken more classes on the internet? Or correspondence courses? It boggled her mind to think of Hunter of all people had gotten a law degree during the years she’d been Mr. Gold’s stupid slut.
“Well actually,” he explained, “you don’t need to go to law school to take the bar exam. I’ve got a bachelor’s in poli-sci and I’ve been around lawyers all my life. My dad knows everyone at the state bar. He’ll pull some strings and I’ll be all set.”
Mrs. Gold stabbed her straw at the ice cubes in her glass. It was so fucking unfair. Hunter was an idiot child who had never worked for anything in his life. His father--Richard “Big Dick” Duke--had bought him a Humvee when he turned sixteen, a speedboat when he graduated high school, and a college education just because no son of his wasn’t going to go to college. Now he would give his son the bar exam and a ready job and everything he would need for a future, without Hunter ever having to grow up past the maturity level of a toddler.
She’d lost her virginity to this boy. One summer night after senior year, in the back seat of that gas-guzzling monstrosity. They’d been dating for a while and Hunter had been perfectly content with her amateurish attempts at blowing him. But for her, the novelty had begun to wear off. So she’d suggested that he “put it in” instead. It was mostly a way for him to get his rocks off while she could just lie back and think of something more interesting.
Her memories of that night were dark and cramped and disappointing. She kept her shoes and her bra on the whole time. When Hunter was done, she had been more confused than anything else. This is what people made such a big deal about? Wasn’t sex supposed to be better than that?
It wasn’t until later, with Mr. Gold, that she had understood what people were talking about in romance novels.
But now that things were so strained with her husband, she found herself thinking back to the only other sexual partner she’d ever had. Looking at Hunter now, she had to remind herself of how bad things had been that summer, when he had been a welcome distraction. Hunter hadn’t wanted to talk about doctors’ appointments or shop inventory or arguing with financial aid departments--every fight a losing battle. All he wanted to do was drink, screw around, and have fun, and he welcomed her along for the ride.
I thought he would help us. I was wrong. He wasn’t what I needed.
Mrs. Gold shook the thought out of her head. The thought was true, but she recognized it as not being her own, so she talked over it.
“Have you been hanging out with any of the old gang? Sean or Jesse or anyone?”
It had been exciting to be included with the rich kids, to feel like she belonged in the world of the young and the reckless--people who didn’t have to worry about things because their parents would always be around to bail them out. They could do whatever they wanted because the world belonged to them.
Hunter shrugged. “Jesse’s an idiot, so no change there. But Sean’s been such a pussy ever since Ashley had her baby.”
Ashely Boyd had been in that group with her. Rich boys liked running around with poor girls because they were easier to impress than the rich girls. New Town young ladies also had parents who bought them cars for their sixteenth birthdays. They didn’t need to rely on spoiled boys to pay their way every time they went out, so they didn’t have to go along with whatever stupidity the boys came up with. Mrs. Gold had taken a lot of risks just so Hunter would keep thinking she was interesting.
But Ashley had loved Sean for more than his money and toys. All she ever wanted was for him to love her back and stay with her. Once, Mrs. Gold had thought Ashley was stupid for pining so hard after a boy who would never commit. But now she had a little more sympathy.
“What happened with Sean?”
“Mr. Herman kicked him out, cut him off. Now he’s living at Ashley’s place, working his ass off at the fish factory.”
“The cannery,” Mrs. Gold corrected quietly. Fish King Canned Foods was always hiring. It was always looking for people who could stand waist-deep in ice and fish guts for twelve hour shifts, operating machinery that could cut through a human hand as easily as it did a whole herring. Her cousin Andrew had gotten a job right out of high school. Her Uncle Peter had worked there for twenty years before he died.
“Like I said, he’s a total pussy now. All he does is work and hang out with Ashley, work and take care of the baby, work and sleep. You know he asked her to marry him a couple days ago? Utterly whipped.”
“Wow,” she said.
She had never respected Sean Herman, so it was weird to think of him actually growing up. People didn’t usually change around Storybrooke. But now the spoiled party boy was taking responsibility for his child and the woman who loved him. He had given up his own wealth and family status because he loved a penniless girl from Old Town.
It was impressive.
She finished her burger while Hunter started another monologue, this time about all the fat, lazy, poor people who came to his father’s office to declare bankruptcy. Forget being a lawyer, he should go into talk radio.
“I did ask you to lunch for a reason.” She grabbed her chance to talk while he was taking a breath.
“Oh yeah?” Hunter wiped hot sauce off his face with the back of his hand. “What’s up?”
“You know a lot of people,” Mrs. Gold said. “I was wondering if you might know somebody that I don’t.”
He slurped up the dregs of his diet soda. “Yeah? Who?”
Mrs. Gold gripped the edge of the table and desperately hoped he wouldn’t notice how hard it was for her to say this. The gold of her wedding ring was dull on this cloudy afternoon. “I… just have a name right now. I think it’s a woman named Belle.”
She could see the wheels in his head turning as he thought. “Belle? Hmm. I don’t know.”
“She’s probably young. Maybe our age. Maybe younger. Or older? Maybe she’s one of your mom’s friends or something?”
A woman as old as Karen Duke would still be younger than Mr. Gold. Maybe he was looking for more maturity now. In the days since she found out about Belle, Mrs. Gold had been racking her brain to try to imagine what kind of person she was. She was only moderately sure that Belle even was a woman. If Mr. Gold wanted this Belle person more than he wanted his own wife, she was probably the opposite of her in some crucial way.
Hunter made a face and scratched the back of his head. “Nah, I got nothing. Sorry.”
“Yeah,” Mrs. Gold looked down at her empty plate. “I’m not surprised.”
Seeing that they were both done with their food, Ruby came up to the table. “Now is this gonna be one check or two?”
It was almost funny how quickly Hunter looked to Mrs. Gold. He panicked at the thought of paying for his own lunch. Daddy must not be giving him an allowance anymore.
“You invited me,” he said, almost chiding her with the reminder of how things worked.
“Yeah, that was my first mistake.” Mrs. Gold took the check from Ruby and pulled out her purse.
A fifty would be enough to pay for two hamburgers and Ruby’s discretion. Not that Mrs. Gold was being particularly sneaky, arranging lunch with her ex-boyfriend at the most popular restaurant in town. But that didn’t matter either. She could take Hunter to the pawn shop and bang him in front of the cash register and Mr. Gold wouldn’t give a fuck.
And neither would she.
****
Wandering listlessly up and down Main Street, Mrs. Gold tried to keep warm. The clouds were dark and heavy with more snow. The sidewalks were shoveled, but there was always a residue of dirty slush. It was the time of year when trash kept showing up in the streets, no matter how many anti-littering signs Mayor Mills put up.
Mrs. Gold’s suede boots were more fashionable than sturdy. The same could be said for her coat, scarf, and hat. The cold seeped through her flimsy layers, until she was nothing but numb and damp, until it was hard to breathe, until she was so desperate to be warm again she resolved to go into the next open store, no matter which one it was.
Sugar’n’Spice was always warm and it always smelled good. Mara Trudine burned a different scented candle every day the shop was open. Today the candle was cinnamon and cloves. The whole place smelled like cider.
Mrs. Gold entered as quietly as she could. She hadn’t been in the store since before Christmas. And she had never walked through that door without strutting proudly, loudly announcing her intentions to buy whatever lingerie it would take to drive Mr. Gold wild.
Was Mr. Gold even capable of going wild for her anymore? Or did the sight of her just turn his stomach? He thought she was trash, she disgusted him, he didn’t want her and he never would again.
Ducking behind a rack of silky robes, Mrs. Gold took a breath to calm herself down. It was a bad habit she’d developed lately, thinking of the worst-case scenario just to make herself feel something. Her mind kept poking and prodding at her pain, pulling out her darkest fears and putting them front and center. She could push it away if she concentrated. If she tried to act normal, she could almost feel normal. Sometimes.
“Oh hey.” Mara had spotted her from the sales counter in the back of the shop. “Mrs. Gold, I didn’t see you come in.”
Steeling herself, Mrs. Gold walked out from behind the robes. “That’s me.” She tried to smile.
Mara stayed where she was. Bits of fabric were spread out over the counter. It looked like she was sewing something.
Mrs. Gold’s heart skipped a beat. The fabric was a shiny yellow-gold. Sometimes, when Mr. Gold was really pleased with her, he liked her to wear that color. Without thinking about what she was doing, she began to walk towards the counter.
“What are you working on?”
Mara looked up from her needle. Even after all these years, she had the same face she’d had as a kid--sharp brown eyes, adorably crooked smile, freckles all over her round cheeks. She looked so innocent. You’d never think she made a living off of unmentionables.
“Custom order,” she said proudly. “I’ve been trying to get tailor-made lingerie off the ground for as long as I can remember. Got my first order in October and more have been coming in.” She held up the fabric and Mrs. Gold saw a pair of panties that would go up to a person’s rib cage.
“Somebody wants that?”
Mara’s excitement dimmed in the face of Mrs. Gold’s skepticism, but she did her best to explain. “It’s shapewear,” she said. “See the reinforced panels? The idea is to smooth out tummy rolls and make a more flattering silhouette.”
Mrs. Gold looked over at the rack of Spanx. “Don’t you already sell that?”
“Yeah, but the stuff I make is sturdier than the mass-produced product. Better for people with non-standard bodies. And prettier too. Nothing over there comes in straw yellow.”
It was true. Most of the stuff in that section was nude or black. Mrs. Gold knew a thing or two about wearing corsets, but she had never actually needed one. She had thought Mr. Gold liked her to be skinny.
“That is a pretty color,” she said. “Who’s it for?”
Mara looked at her dubiously. “I can’t talk about a client, it’s confidential.”
“How are you planning on getting more orders without word of mouth?”
“Well, normally word of mouth comes from customers talking about the product, not a creator talking about their customers.”
Falling into old habits, Mrs. Gold tilted her head back as her voice went up an octave. “I know, but it’s just such a pretty shade of gold, I was wondering if someone special might have ordered it...?”
She let the question hang. Mara just frowned and shook her head.
“Come on, you’re smarter than that.” She held up the garment again. “This is for a plus-sized woman. Two of you could fit in here without straining the elastic. Mr. Gold didn’t order this for you.”
Without thinking, she leaned over the counter and got in her friend’s face. “Did he order it for someone else?”
Mara’s eyes went wide. Her mouth transformed into a tiny little O of surprise. Mrs. Gold pulled away and kept her eyes on the ground.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Gold said. “That was out of line.”
“Wow,” Mara said softly. “I, uh, I’d heard that something had happened. But I didn’t know it was that bad. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.” She turned around, pretended to look at something lacy until the urge to scream had passed. When she glanced at Mara, her brown eyes were trained on her.
“It’s not from him,” she said simply. “I’ll even tell you that my client paid with a credit card, so it was definitely her own money.”
Or maybe Mr. Gold was just covering his tracks. But at least he hadn’t called in the order himself. At least he wasn’t flaunting his disregard for her.
“Does he… Have you ever heard from him? Is he buying anybody lingerie?”
Mara shook her head. “I only see him on Rent Day.”
With nothing left to lose, she asked her old friend the same question she’d asked her ex-boyfriend. “Do you know anybody named Belle?”
Mara blinked. “I don’t… think so. The name sounds familiar, but I’m probably thinking of a character from a book or a movie. It’s not the sort of name you hear around Storybrooke.”
“No,” Mrs. Gold agreed.
“But I’ll keep my ears open, if you want.”
Mrs. Gold raised her eyebrows. “What about client confidentiality?”
“Well, whoever Belle is, she’s definitely not a client. And until Mr. Gold pays me himself, neither is he.”
You’re a good friend.
This time, Mrs. Gold didn’t swat at the thought that intruded into her head. She let it rest over her brain like a blanket. She let the thought warm her up.
She leaned against the counter and watched Mara work. The shapewear was fully constructed, and she was embroidering stalks of straw in a pattern along the sides. It was really pretty. The sort of thing that would give a girl a boost in confidence and excitement about her own body, her own clothes. Mrs. Gold remembered how fancy she’d felt the first time she wore something as simple as a bra and panties that were the same color. That sort of energy could get people through interviews or contract negotiations, any time you needed to feel powerful. Mara was helping people here, she was good at it, and it seemed to make her happy.
“So, business is good?”
“Yeah, it’s picking up. Valentine’s Day was a madhouse, but you know how that goes.”
Mrs. Gold nodded. Lingerie could be as popular as flowers when it came to last-minute gifts that men always thought would be cheaper than they were.
“Did you spend the day with anyone?”
Mara scrunched her nose. “I’m working too hard for that. Besides, I don’t meet a lot of single men in this business.”
She was able to snicker at the joke, and she was able to mean it. “Yeah, I guess not.”
They were quiet together for a minute, then Mrs. Gold asked a more personal question: “How’s your mom?”
Mara looked up from her embroidery for a second, but then went back to work. “She’s fine. I think she’s bored, now that the preschool is only open for half-days. She keeps asking me to move in with her.”
“I take it you don’t want to?”
A halfhearted shrug. “I don’t have a good reason not to. It would make sense, we could split the bills and keep each other company. But there is also something really nice about living by yourself. Even if it’s just a one bedroom apartment on top of your store.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Mrs. Gold drummed her fingers against the counter. She had gone from living with her father to living with Mr. Gold. The night after their anniversary had been the first time she had slept in any building by herself.
But she understood what Mara meant. When you lived with your parents, it was hard to feel like an adult. To make matters worse, Irma Trudine--Mara’s mother--had been a preschool teacher for as long as anyone could remember. She tended to treat everyone she talked to like they were a four-year-old whining for more juice and crackers.
Mama’s closest friend.
Now the voice was annoying her again. It was true that Irma and Mom had been good friends. That was why she had grown up with Mara as much as she had grown up with her cousin Janine. The three girls were inseparable, just like their mothers had been.
Until…
Mrs. Gold sighed. She was warmer now. She should probably buy something before she moved along.
“Do you have anything comfy around here?”
“What, like no underwire?”
“No, like pajamas, I guess. Or loungewear? I think I need to get a pair of sweatpants.”
Mara grinned. “The last time I saw you wear sweatpants, they had dinosaurs on them.”
“And they were fucking awesome.”
She had gotten those pants for her eighth birthday and worn them until the knees gave out. Even after that, Mom had cut them up for shorts and she’d worn them for another six months. If she could find sweatpants that had dinosaurs on them now, she wouldn’t think the mere act of wearing sweatpants was a sign of the end of her life.
But Sugar’n’Spice only had pajama sets with flowers on them--or hearts, but Mrs. Gold couldn’t bring herself to buy anything that looked like love. It was enough to buy comfort, something that would make it a little easier to be in her own skin.
Mara rang her up and gracefully accepted the extra fifty Mrs. Gold handed her.
“How about I call this a down payment on a custom order for you?”
Taking her bag, Mrs. Gold shrugged. “I don’t think Mr. Gold will want me in lingerie for a long time.”
“I didn’t say it was for Mr. Gold, I said it was for you.” Mara looked her steadily in the eye. “Come back some time and we can talk about what you need. Okay?”
She opened her mouth, and then closed it. “Yeah,” she said at last. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
“Good.”
****
The day wasn’t over. Mr. Gold was still in his shop. She could go there for a few hours of awkward silence. Or she could go back to the house, for a few hours of lonely silence. Then he would come home and make dinner. They would eat together and make stilted small talk. And then she would go to her bedroom, and he would go to his.
That was their life now.
He said he wanted her to stay. He said he wanted to take care of her. He said he loved somebody else.
It didn’t make sense. It was wrong. They were supposed to be together. Being near him, but not being with him, trying to act like everything was fine, trying to act like he didn’t matter to her as much as she obviously didn’t matter to him…
It was tearing her apart.
So she walked. Like a circling shark, she kept moving so she wouldn’t drown. She was trapped. Storybrooke was a small town, there were only so many places you could go in one day. And she had lots of days ahead of her. Mrs. Gold had the image of the rest of her life, stretching out to the horizon. She would have to keep walking, she would never be able to rest. She would never have a home again.
She was in Old Town now. The flower shop was behind her. Aunt Teri’s yellow and purple house was on this street. How many times had she walked the route between those two places? Her whole childhood, her whole life until she married Mr. Gold and moved into his house. She used to belong in this neighborhood.
Was there a way she could belong here again?
Turning at the plastic sign that said Hair Today! she went to the side door of the yellow house and knocked. Then she stepped away from the door and waited for an answer. She held herself against the cold.
Janine came up from the basement salon. Her mouth opened when she saw Mrs. Gold.
“Oh hi,” she said. “Mrs. Gold, you don’t… usually knock.”
“Yeah, I’m usually a bitch to you and I’m sorry.” She hadn’t meant to start that way, but she couldn’t avoid the truth anymore.
Janine’s eyebrows raised and her sky-blue eyes--a family trait--went wide. “O...kay,” she said slowly. Stepping outside, she shut the door behind her. The cold made her keep her arms crossed over her chest. “What’s going on?”
“I…” She didn’t know what to say. She had started, but what was the next step? “Things suck, right now, for me. And I kind of suck too. And I realized…”
What had she realized? That no one in her family would help her in an emergency? That she had built her whole identity around one relationship and without that she had nothing? That she had spent years intentionally, maliciously, pushing away all the people that had loved her in exchange for a man who only paid her? That all of those things were really fucking shitty? None of that was a realization. Mrs. Gold had always known what her life was. But she was just now starting to care.
“I realized I’m sorry,” she said. “For as long as I’ve been with Mr. Gold, I’ve been so caught up in him and it made me a worse person. And I want to be better.” She looked at Janine. “You deserve a better cousin.”
Janine sighed, her breath visible in the twilight. “So the honeymoon is finally over, huh? Are you tired of him or is he tired of you?”
Mrs. Gold pressed her lips together. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. At the same time, she didn’t begrudge her cousin the snark.
“He’s tired of me,” she admitted softly. “And I’m kind of tired of me too.”
Now Janine looked more sympathetic. “What happened?”
“You didn’t hear? I thought everyone in Storybrooke knew by now.”
“Yeah, no, I’ve heard a lot of rumors. But I’m asking you what happened. What’s the truth?”
“He loves someone else.” The words slipped from her mouth like a burden off her shoulders. “Some Belle person. And like, like he loves her, Janine. More than he ever loved me.”
“Oof,” Janine let out a long breath. “Oh honey, that’s terrible. I’m sorry.”
Until now, Janine had been standing in the doorway, and Mrs. Gold had been in the driveway, with about five feet between them. Janine stepped out first, one arm open in invitation. The two cousins met in the middle. They didn’t hug, exactly, but they huddled together for warmth and comfort.
“Do you need to stay with us?” Janine asked. “We never did anything with Andrew’s room after--”
“No,” she shook her head. Mr. Gold asked her to stay with him, and even that had to be better than sleeping in her dead cousin’s bedroom. “I’m fine, I… He’s taking care of me.”
“What, like alimony?”
“No, we’re not… I’m not leaving him.”
Janine pulled away. “But you said he loved someone else.”
She nodded. “He does, but he doesn’t want the marriage to be over.”
There was a moment of silence while Janine’s face twisted in anger and disbelief. Then she burst out: “Oh screw him! Does he really get to decide that? That man is cheating on you and you don’t even get the satisfaction of walking away? Come on!”
Mrs. Gold couldn’t look her in the face. “It’s not as simple as that,” she said. “I--I married him, I need him, I…” The next words were small and soft: “I don’t want the marriage to be over either.”
Closing her eyes, Janine pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead. “I don’t know what to say,” she said. “I mean, the sanctity of marriage is great and all, but Mr. Gold has been nothing but bad to you for so long. And now you have a reason to get out, but you’re not taking it? Why?”
“Because this is different,” she said the words before she knew what they meant. “He’s different than he was when we got married. There’s something… good about him now. Something kind and gentle. Something that wasn’t there before.”
Janine rolled her eyes. “So now you have feelings for the monster?”
“He’s not a monster now. Maybe he was before--I can see that more clearly now. But now the only thing he’s doing wrong is… not wanting me. And it hurts, but it’s not an evil thing.”
He’s my husband and I love him. Can you understand that?
Shifting her weight back and forth, Janine kept her arms over her chest. “And he’s not… hurting you anymore?”
She shook her head. “Not even in a way I like.”
“Gross,” Janine said, matter-of-factly. “I mean, good for you that it used to be something you liked, but it is very gross for me to think about. Too much information is a very real thing.”
Both of them snickered at that. The years of lingering tension eased a little more.
“Can you at least stay for dinner? We’re having Spaghetti-Os a la Chloe.”
“Chloe’s cooking?” How old was she now?
“It was her idea. Under careful supervision, she is going to dump a can of Spaghetti-Os into a pot and warm it up. Mom might even let her into the spice cabinet for some basil.”
“Oh, that sounds like fun.” She shuffled her feet. “But I should get going. I still eat with Mr. Gold. It’s… weird.”
“I bet.” Janine put her hands in the pockets of her work smock. “Listen, I… I’m sorry. All this time… I could have been a better cousin too. We--I think the general idea was that… we were waiting for you to meet us halfway.”
“I get that,” she said. “And I never came close to halfway. Not with anybody.”
“Well, you did today. And I’m glad. We missed you.”
Nodding, she tried to keep the tears out of her eyes. All this time, she could have had her family. If she had just eased up on being Mrs. Gold, she could have been the same girl everyone had loved.
“I’m trying to make things better now, you know?”
Janine nodded. “I know.” They were quiet for a minute, then she asked. “Have you talked to your dad lately?”
“Not yet,” she shook her head. “Not him or Uncle Manny. I… I kinda thought I’d start easy.”
Janine half-smiled, half-winced. “Manny will be happy to see you. You’re the only niece he’s got.”
She snorted. “I’m the only daughter my dad has and that didn’t make anything any easier.”
“He loves you, Lacey,” Janine said. It was the first time Mrs. Gold had heard her first name in as long as she could remember. “We all do.”
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latenightsleuth · 4 years ago
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The Loxahatchee Horror – Could It Happen to Your Aviary?
© Howard Voren. Click here to use this content.
If everyone in your household should suddenly disappear, would anyone notice? If they did notice, would they have the initiative or the authority to break into your house to rescue your birds from starvation? In the case of Moses Lall, the well-known bird importer, the answer was no–at least not in time to save the lives of most of the approximately 1,000 birds whose cages lined the open field behind his rented house. On June 15, l994, after the continued urging of several concerned parties, local authorities entered the property. The gruesome sight that they beheld was something that should appear only in ones’ worst nightmare.
What Happened
Moses Lall and his aunt, Lila Buerattan, both natives of Guyana, South America, had lived on a rented 5-acre ranch in Loxahatchee, Florida, since December of 1992. They had moved to the rural community with the idea of starting a large bird-breeding farm. They spoke with no one in the local avicultural community, nor did they interact with anyone at any of the surrounding ranches. They lived extremely private lives, and no one, except their veterinarian, was ever permitted to see their birds. In fact, they even refused to purchase a license that would have allowed them to legally breed and sell birds within the state of Florida. When approached by Florida Fish and Game officers the previous year and urged to purchase a permit and undergo the minimal inspection procedures, they declined. They claimed that the birds were not for sale or breeding, and were being maintained for their personal pleasure. Most of us locals who knew of them never saw them, and were aware of their existence only because we all used the same feed company. In fact, it was the feed company that began sounding the alarm that something was wrong.
On June 9th, the driver for Bird Haven Feed Company arrived to deliver the weekly supply of primate biscuits, sunflower seeds and dried corn to Lall’s farm. No one was there to let him in. Finding no one at the gate to receive the feed was highly unusual. Realizing that they never purchased reserve supplies, and not wanting the birds to go hungry, he piled the feed up in front of the gates. They tried to reach Lall by phone to make sure all was well, but no one answered. Feeling uncomfortable about the situation, they returned the next day. The feed was still piled up outside the gate and had been ruined by the rain. At this point, they called several local aviculturists, as well as Lall’s veterinarian. The questions put to all of them were the same: Do you know where Moses and Lila are? Do you now them well enough to jump the fence, walk through the pack of dogs and go around to the rear of the property to see if someone has been feeding the birds? They all gave the same negative answer.
Between the 11th and the 15th of June, several concerned parties, including the seed company and the veterinarian, began calling the authorities and demanding that action be taken. As birds were starving to death, the concerned parties were sent in a circular motion from one agency to the next. The Palm Beach County Sheriffs’ Department, upon hearing the story, said that animal abuse was the jurisdiction of the Palm Beach County Animal Control. When Animal Control heard the words macaws and parrots, they explained that jurisdiction over exotic birds had been taken way from them and given to Florida Fish and Game. Florida Fish and Game explained that since the facility was not permitted by them, they had no right to enter. They added that if, in fact, birds were starving, a misdemeanor had been committed and that was the jurisdiction of the Sheriffs’ Department.
On June 15th, the feed company contacted Bob and Liz Johnson, who rescue abused, mistreated and crippled birds through a branch of their nonprofit organization, Life Awareness Inc. At that point, Liz contacted me and Dr. Susan Clubb to get a full update on what avenues had been pursued. Upon discovering that pleas for action had been thwarted by “red tape,” she called the Sheriffs’ Office and made demands. After “much insistence,” they reluctantly agreed to send out someone to investigate. The deputy immediately called the Johnsons and reported that our worst fears had been realized. The Johnsons, Dr. Clubb, I and my daughter Stacie raced to the scene to offer assistance in the feeding and care of the birds. By that time, all three of the previously contacted agencies were present.
We were totally unprepared for the sight that we encountered. It was a horror beyond belief: row after row of cages with either dead or dying green-winged and blue-and-gold macaws. Literally every pair of macaws had at least one dead member. Several had succumbed to starvation and dehydration, with their heads in their empty food bowls–a final desperate move with the hope that food would arrive before their last breath was drawn. Although the collection was made up predominately of large macaws, there were also hundreds of smaller parrots and toucans. These included Amazons, hawk heads, African greys, Jardine’s, Pionus and mini macaws. Most of these had succumbed. There were several cages with 25 to 30 birds in them that had either one or no survivors. It was a miracle that any of the birds were alive.
The feed company had told us what the farm’s approximate weekly consumption was. By taking inventory of the feed that was left in the garage, we were able to determine that the birds had not been fed in at least 10 days.
Inside the house awaited another horror. Incubators, still operating, contained dead babies that had hatched but were never fed. Aquarium brooders that were lined up against the wall all had one or two dead baby blue-and-gold macaws. All had starved to death, sitting on clean bedding, while waiting for their next meal. An open bucket of handfeeding formula was on the kitchen counter with a bowl and spoon next to it. It appeared as if someone had changed the bedding in the brooders and was ready to mix up some formula when he or she was interrupted. With our assistance, Dr. Clubb was able to tube-feed those that were too weak to eat or drink. One died in Bob Johnson’s hands while it was waiting to be tube fed. Another 60 birds that were too far gone died the following day. In all, there were only 335 birds left alive from the flock of almost 1,000. The following morning, the birds were taken to the Palm Beach Animal Control facility. Food donations, as well as volunteer labor from all the local bird clubs and organizations, began pouring in. When Lall’s family from Guyana tried to claim the birds as family property, they were presented with a bill for $130,000. The majority of this bill was Animal Control’s standard charge of $10 per animal per day for the care of confiscated animals. Ten dollars per day multiplied by 335 birds adds up very quickly. As the Lalls fought to regain the birds at a more reasonable price, the bill rose to approximately $180,000. On August 22, a judge ordered that the birds be auctioned off individually to the general public in order to raise the most money. Exactly what happened to Moses and Lila is still officially a mystery. Those who knew them said that they truly loved their birds and would never have deserted them. Moses and Lila are now considered dead. The murder investigation cannot proceed any further until their bodies are found. There were also two other people staying at the farm that were originally considered missing. They were Daljeet “Harry” Gobin, a fellow Guyanese, and Felix Eyuom, a reptile dealer from Africa. Harry Gobin is being sought for questioning.
The purpose of this article is not to try to solve an unsolved crime. It is to make everyone aware that such things can and do happen. Although this situation may be unique due to its magnitude, it is not unheard of on a smaller scale. It is not uncommon to read about animals dying from lack of care due to the undiscovered death or incapacitation of those responsible for their care.
What You Can Do
To prevent such a calamity from happening again, each and every one of you should have a plan. This plan should ensure that, should anything happen to you, it will be discovered without delay and your animals will be cared for. This can be as simple as a regularly expected phone call to a friend, a relative or someone’s answering machine. A simple statement like “I’m okay” is all that is necessary. The receiver of the regular call must be ready to notify someone who has been given written authority by you to break into your house and aviaries to care for your birds if you cannot be located. It must also be specifically stated, in a notarized document, who will hold and care for your birds until your whereabouts are discovered, or until your estate is settled. Your birds must never be allowed to be considered legally abandoned.
Lall’s birds were considered abandoned. They suffered the ultimate fate of being sold to the highest bidder without regard to the bidder’s expertise. Two thousand people converged at the auction on September 10th. Most were there to buy a cheap bird for their kids. Most bought bronco wild breeder macaws with the intention of turning them into pets.
Luckily, due to some generous monetary donations, the Johnsons were able to purchase the birds that were blind or crippled. These were purchased to be retired to the parrot sanctuary that they maintain.
All the birds were sold in small temporary holding cages with no doors and with two tiny metal cups. The idea behind no doors was to keep the public from opening the cages at the auction site after the purchase. It was explained to the buyers that the birds should be transferred to suitable housing after they were removed. Unfortunately, two weeks later buyers were still showing up at local vets with their purchases still in the temporary cages with no doors and nothing but the two tiny cups for food and water. As time went on, a large percentage of the birds were diagnosed with papilloma infections.
All proceeds from the publication of this article will go to support the parrot sanctuary run by the Johnsons. Private donations are also appreciated. Their address is Life Awareness Bird Sanctuary, P.O. Box 641032, Miami, FL 33164.
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