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cinnaminsvga · 5 years ago

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A Boy Like You | Yoongi

→ summary: for whenever you are feeling low, always remember that there is a boy you know who would lift the sky for you.

{or alternatively: Min Yoongi loves you, though he never says it. He’s always been a firm believer in that actions speak louder than any words ever could.}

→ genre: coworker!au, f2l, fluff → warnings: an overabundance of shy!yoongi to the point where you’ll want to squish his cheeks; kinda ooc but it is what it is → words: 11.5K → a/n: whaddup kids it’s ya girl... back from the dead after months of not writing shit, and what’s this owo... it’s a fluff fic?? miracles do happen... anyway i wrote this bc i just thot “man, wouldn’t it be super epic if i wrote a super self-indulgent fic where yoongi fulfills every single one of my deepest desires?” well... here is THIS!! pls feel free to scream into a pillow bc i certainly did!! enjoy!!

There is a boy you know who likes to show his kindness quietly. It would go something like this:

The air is thick with static; your hair stands up on end: a warning. The scent of raindrops hitting hot pavement graces your nostrils as a waterfall drops from the sky. You see the sea of heads begin to disappear under a canopy of multi-colored umbrellas. You, the lone ranger, rush back into the building from whence you came, dragging puddles and annoyance with you.

You should have anticipated it, should have thought to check the weather app before scrolling through dull social media posts when you left your house that morning. Instead, your fingers are left cold and umbrella-less.

You tilt your head upwards, watching as gallon upon gallon fell from the sky in an endless cycle. The watch on your wrist reads 5 PM, but the sky says it is 9 PM. The dark, swirling mass of clouds above you will continue on its thunderous parade, pausing for no one, especially not for you.

Your work bag is practically weightless, devoid of anything that might protect you from the onslaught of rain. The only thing inside is a small wallet that holds nothing more than dust and a loose promise of a paycheck. There is no way you can call a taxi like this, and the nearest bus stop is at least two blocks away. You are starting to think that your childhood dreams of becoming a mermaid hadn’t been so ridiculous after all.

Then comes the hand of God. It touches your shoulder gently, hesitantly. You turn around to face a stranger, a boy with shaggy black hair and pale moonlight skin. It is not God, but he comes close.

In his other hand is your salvation wrapped in Kumamon print nylon. It is proffered to you with a silent nod, his gaze fixed somewhere behind you as he waits for you to take it. The tips of his ears begin to redden the longer it takes for you to respond. Eventually, your brain connects with your muscles as you robotically pluck the umbrella from his grasp, a stuttered “thanks” leaving your lips.

He nods stiffly once more, removing his palm from your shoulder as though he had been burned. He shuffles for a moment, mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find the words to say. You wait, patience never waning for the strange boy that you have come to know as your salvation.

He doesn’t find the words after all. You aren’t too offended by his silence, but he appears to be mortified. And so, he leaves just as quickly as he had appeared, like a whirlwind dressed in an oversized blazer flapping behind him like wings. He runs through the rain without another thought, an arm raised above his head in a futile attempt to avoid getting wet.

You try calling out to him, wanting to thank him once more and maybe to ask how you can return his umbrella, but he is long gone. A speck of black dashing through the gray.

You clutch the umbrella closer to you, a feeling of something new growing inside of you. It is too small to call anything, but it is warm.

x x x x x

Umbrella boy has a name, and he happens to work on the same floor as you. You know this because he is standing right in front of you in all his bespectacled glory.

He ducks out of view the moment your eyes meet his. There is a stack of folders in his arms, and he bows his head until his nose touches manila. It’s too late––he knows you caught him staring. He scurries behind walls of filing cabinets and desk cubicles, desperate to get back to his desk where he hopes you’ll never find him.

The office floor is large, but it is not large enough to hide in. It takes only a few minutes until you find him hunched over his desk, every inch of space taken by enough towers of paper to cover a forest. It is no wonder that you never encountered your mysterious umbrella boy; he does a wonderful job of blending in.

Your eyes trail his form, not out of any perverse intent, but just out of curiosity. You never would have guessed from his unassuming and meek nature, but the boy is devastatingly beautiful. The devil is in the details: you admire the soft slope of his nose to the adorable pout of his lips. His eyelids are charmingly mismatched and his cheeks are begging to be pinched. It takes a year’s worth of self-restraint to keep your hands at your sides, if only so you don’t scare him away before you can even introduce yourself.

(You can already imagine your HR department contacting you about nonconsensual manhandling… You admit that you tend to get overzealous with your affection, especially when confronted with cute things. This boy would definitely need to watch out for you if he knows what’s best for him.)

((Also note to self: Stop having these psychopathic conversations with yourself. Being stuck inside the cage which is your brain is torture enough, so let’s not encourage it to get worse.))

There is a lanyard laced around his neck, the gaudy orange color of your company’s logo emblazoned across the thin material. And just out of your line of sight, you catch a glimpse of his ID. His name is––

“Y-Y/N?” He stutters out–no–he squeaks. Ah, so he’s noticed you. The folder in his hand slips out of his grasp, an avalanche of white tumbling all over his lap. He curses loudly, frantically sweeping away the mess under his desk, as if he could somehow magically make them disappear if he just kicked them hard enough. Unfortunately, the papers stay stubbornly tangible, and he is left with a halo of accounting reports around his workspace as a result.

“Are you… umm…” You hesitate with your words, fearing that any sudden movement on your part might cause umbrella boy to combust on the spot. “Do you need help… picking those up?”

“I–Well, no–Yes, but–” His sentences are stilted, his brain struggling to catch up with his tongue. He clamps his mouth shut, then shakes his head like he’s trying to reboot himself. Finally, after a few more deep breaths, he goes, “No. I’m fine. Thank you for offering.” He says that, but he appears awfully content with staring holes into the keyboard of his laptop when he is speaking to you though.

“Still… I’m terribly sorry for startling you,” you say, lips tugging downwards into a frown. You should have guessed he was skittish from how he had acted yesterday, but it’s quite a surprise to see one man so… disastrous, for lack of a better term. It’s awfully cute. “I just wanted to properly introduce myself and thank you for lending me your umbrella yesterday, but it seems like you already knew who I was.”

His face does a weird thing then and there. It almost appears like he was caught in a time loop, like someone was manually reversing and replaying his facial expressions like a video. It takes a few minutes for his little stroke to settle down, but even then, his cheeks remain a rosy pink. “I–I just… remembered your name during the company retreat the other month. I’m not weird or anything, I swear!”

“Well luckily, I was never going to accuse you of being weird anyway!” You laugh, trying to ease the perpetual look of anxiety on his face. However, it only seems to worsen his nerves with how quickly his skin starts to redden. “In fact, I should be apologizing for not remembering your name, Mister..?”

“Min Yoongi,” he replies, pausing for a second too long. He must have realized his delay because he coughs awkwardly into his forearm, averting his gaze away from you in a futile attempt to become nothing more than an abstract thought.

He must be equipped with some sort of superpower, because you’re starting to feel his secondhand embarrassment flood through you like a tsunami. Are you that difficult to converse with? Does he want to be left alone so badly that he’s trying to subtlely tell you to fuck off?

You’re about to start apologizing and scurry off back to your desk in barely concealed mortification when Yoongi clears his throat, his gaze fixed somewhere to your right. Whatever caught his attention must have been revolutionary with how large his eyes are, although last you remember is that the wall behind you is the same dull jailcell gray that you have come to know and hate.

“I just… I’m sorry if I’m acting odd right now. I just wasn’t expecting you to come to my cubicle and I would’ve… I don’t know, tidied up? If I knew you were coming,” he mutters, propping his glasses back up when they start sliding down his nose. They make their slow descent back down immediately after, forever on an endless cycle of up and down his face.

“You don’t have to clean up just for me! I’m not your manager or anything,” you say, surveying the absolute disaster zone that is his workspace. For his benefit, you sure hope that he has a map of his desk and filing cabinets, as it would have been a miracle otherwise if he memorized where anything was located in his personal office sty. “Though, it would be nice if you could see the bottom of your desk every once in a while.”

To your immense surprise, Yoongi lets out a resounding laugh at your quip. Though Yoongi isn’t a mute by any means, it isn’t like he spoke with much volume either. You hadn’t even thought your joke was funny enough to deserve a strained Caucasian™️ smile, so you appreciate that he had considered that you were even slightly funny. You love the pleasant tinkling of his laughter, so genuinely joyous that you can’t help but want to make a fool of yourself just so you can hear it again and again.

When Yoongi stops, the familiar reddish hue that has made a home on his cheeks resurfaces, though it’s less from embarrassment now. His shoulders are more relaxed, and he doesn’t look like he wants to crawl out of his skin as much. He still has eyes averted away from you, however. “Sorry. I don’t know why I laughed too hard at that. I’m normally not this weird… I think it’s just the nerves.”

You cock your head to the side. “Nerves? From what?”

Yoongi freezes, mouth gaping open slightly. “I, umm…” He coughs into his white button-up sleeve, pupils shaking as he formulates a response. “Just from… work. Yeah, I just have a lot of paperwork to do this week and I’ve been, er, having difficulty relaxing.”

Yoongi visibly breathes a sigh of relief when you accept his flimsy excuse, not really lingering on the validity of his statement. “Oh, sure! Don’t overwork yourself too much, okay?” you say, smiling sweetly back at him. He stares, wide-eyed, not really sure how to go on with his life after he’d been blasted by the full force of your grin.

God, you hope you remembered to use a toothpick during lunch. Was there spinach in your teeth? Oh fuck.

“Gah,” he intones, his brain not fully cooperating with his mouth just yet. If you were any more socially inept, you’d probably be doing the same. Eventually, he clears his throat and tries again. “Uh. Yes. I’ll try to do better next time.”

Feeling like you’ve overstayed your visit, you decide that it might be best for you to leave him be before either of you do or say anything more awkward and stupid. Before you turn to leave however, you decide to extend your hand forward, hoping to erase all the previous awkwardness between the both of you and hopefully start afresh. Even though you’ve only just met, you can’t help but feel drawn to him, wanting to see him again and somehow gain his friendship. “Hey, no sweat. It was really nice meeting you, Yoongi-ssi.”

“Just Yoongi is fine,” he says, almost like an afterthought. He’s so busy staring at your proffered hand that you are afraid that you might have offended him unknowingly or something. Does he think you don’t wash your hands? Given by the fact that your office’s manager refuses to restock the soap dispensers at the washrooms, that isn’t that much of a stretch. Or maybe he was weirded out by your random handshake? Have handshakes become antiquated these days? Are the kids no longer doing it? Are you supposed to do those awful brohugs like the fresh-out-of-college interns do in the breakroom? Oh God, does Yoongi think you’re old?!

While you were in the midst of your mental breakdown, you soon begin to realize why Yoongi had contemplated returning your handshake for so long. Instead of taking your hand immediately, Yoongi rubs his own two palms together first, much like how one would when warming their hands in front of a fire. He takes care to blow on them slightly before grasping your hand firmly in his, finally bestowing you with your much awaited handshake.

“Umm..?” You stare at your intertwined hands, a little confused about the previous series of events that just happened five seconds ago. Yoongi, in all his adorable and flustered glory, releases your hand much too quickly like he’s been shocked, most likely realizing (belatedly) that what he had done might not be as clear to an observer as it is to himself.

“Oh, I – I’m so sorry about that, again.” Yoongi stutters, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “It’s just – my hands are really cold so I was trying to warm them up before I held your hands. I’m – I only just realized how odd that must have looked. Sorry.”

A rush of endearment and warmth surges through you as you behold this high strung boy, your heart flooded with a mix of emotions that make you feel gooey and blissful in one perfect package. No, this boy is the perfect package, all soft edges and blushy cheeks. It’s going to take a mountain and a room of vengeful deities to stop you from walking past his desk to catch a glimpse of him at this rate.

Oh God, you’re whipped already and it’s only been a few minutes since you said hello. He warmed his hand for you for heaven’s sake! Surely your enthusiasm can be excused in this one instance.

“That’s, uhh…” Now it seems that it is your turn to be at a loss of words, your throat clogged with a clump of newly discovered feelings that you don’t have enough time to sort through at the moment. The hamster running circles inside your brain has long since ground to a halt, and if Yoongi is going to keep staring at you with those charming cat eyes for any longer, you aren’t sure you’ll be able to convince the little vermin inside your skull to puppet your body again. “That’s… really sweet. Thank you.”

Thank you? Really, Y/N?

“It’s, uh, no problem. Really.” And with that, Yoongi presents to you his most deadly smile to date: blinding whites coupled his prominent pink gums, with his cheeks stretched like proofed dough that make his dark eyes disappear. Is there a pencil wedged inside your chest cavity, or were you just spontaneously having a heart attack? It’s hard to say; all you know is that your organs have turned to slush, and you make a mental note to send the imminent hospital bill to a certain Min Yoongi.

Cause of hemorrhage: being too fucking cute.

With your daily dose of embarrassment fulfilled, you turn to leave with short stilted steps, as if you have to force yourself away from him like those stubborn souvenir shop magnets that never come off the fridge. “I guess I’ll see you around?” you say more like a question, unsure if he’ll even want to ever see you after that disaster of an interaction. Kim Namjoon from Accounting would be entirely too delighted if he ever found out that he wasn’t the most awkward human being in the office.

“Sure? I’ll just be here. As always,” Yoongi replies kindly, same gummy grin on his face, albeit a little more hesitant. “It was nice speaking to you, Y/N.”

When he returns his attention to his workspace, it serves as a signal to you that you really should be going. Before you leave, you take note of the subtle red tint of his ears that reaches the back of his neck, the gentle tremor of his hands as he reorganizes the files that he had previously dropped. It makes you feel odd for relishing in the fact that you hadn’t been the only one feeling the tension between the two of you, though that doesn’t help lessen the confusion that soon follows anyway.

Why are you so drawn to him? You have never felt so strongly for someone this quickly, and frankly it sort of frightened you. You’re too afraid to confront that blossoming curiosity inside of you. No, it’s much too soon for that. For now, however…

“Oh shit. I totally forgot to give him back his umbrella,” you curse yourself once you return to your desk. The smiling face of Kumamon looks at you knowingly, as if this had been planned all along.

Well. Now you have an excuse to see him again tomorrow, at least.

x x x x x

There is a boy you know who likes to show his tenderness quietly. It would go something like this:

Company dinners shouldn’t feel like as much as a punishment as it does, but that’s just how social gatherings with semi-professional coworkers are like. No one here really wants to be there, but the carefully worded e-mail sent to the entire company clearly suggests that this was more of a “go to the party or risk getting fired” type of deal than anything remotely enjoyable. As much as free food and booze are often harbingers of a good time, it hardly makes any difference when your inebriated boss spends the entire time chatting you up in front of the presence of a dozen or so indifferent associates.

“Oh, Y/N! Good job securing that deal with Mister Park the other day. It’s all thanks to my valuable tutelage, is it not?” your manager guffaws, slapping your back with misplaced camaraderie. He leaves his warm, sweaty palm there, feeling it slide an inch lower than you were comfortable with anyone being. The smell of cheap wine on his breath is making you feel nauseous, and the tacky black and white tiled flooring isn’t doing anything to lessen the incoming migraine.

“Right,” you say with a tight-lipped smile, unable to say anything else lest you lose your job over something silly like establishing boundaries. It’s no wonder that the number of female employees on your floor has significantly dropped over the years, especially with rumors attaching themselves like maggots all over your stupid manager’s name. You wouldn’t be surprised if his stomach exploded ala Alien (1979) style with how much bullshit resides in his body and soul.

You’ve long since given up on anyone saving you, not when everyone was either too busy taking advantage of the free food or too scared to confront your shitty boss. You resign to your fate, ready to scrub yourself clean with a brick once you get home in a futile attempt to rid yourself of the feeling of his hands on you.

That is, until someone clears their throat from behind you.

Salvation comes to you wrapped in a crisp white button-up, thick-rimmed glasses, and cat-like eyes. You almost want to start breaking into Gregorian chant just then to fully express your gratitude to the deities of above for sending an angel in your time of tribulation.

“Excuse me,” the (welcome) intruder says, voice quiet but clear even amidst the cacophonous music and chatter. Min Yoongi steps forward until he is to your right, and you don’t miss the way his shoulder “accidentally” bumps your manager hard enough for him to drop his hand from your back. When Yoongi smiles at your manager, it is all teeth and no mirth, his eyes carefully blank.

Thankfully, your manager isn’t quite as fortunate in his brains department as he is in his stomach. “Oh, Yoongi! It is so nice to finally see you attend one of our social functions. You are enjoying yourself, I hope?” your manager asks, guffawing loudly despite no joke being said. You never did quite understand how some men think they are the most hilarious thing to ever exist since clowns, though you suppose your manager was only missing the red nose to complete the look.

“Thrilled, Mister Lee. Absolutely thrilled,” Yoongi says in a dead monotone voice. You can’t help but giggle at his sarcasm, and Yoongi points a wicked grin back at you before returning to his neutral and passive “work” face.

The sarcasm flies over your managers head like you expected, though you can hardly blame the alcohol for his lack of cognizance. You wouldn’t be half surprised if you knocked lightly on his head, only to hear a resounding echo following thereafter.

“I have never seen you at any of our parties before, Yoongi. What’s with the sudden change of heart?” your manager asks.

“Sir, I’ve attended every single social gathering since I was hired,” Yoongi says plainly, his composure never faltering. He must have better control than you, because you’re sure you would’ve barely held yourself back from smacking your manager had it been you. Though in fairness, you aren’t sure if you’ve ever noticed Yoongi at any of the other parties before this one either.

“Oh really? Well then, you mustn’t have said hello before then!” your manager laughs, patting Yoongi on the shoulder. “Always so enigmatic, our dear Yoongi! Well, keep up the good work.” When your manager turns his attention to speak to another one of your poor coworkers, Yoongi visibly gags from behind your manager’s back, grimacing as he pats away all traces of that foul man’s hand germs away from his dress shirt.

“Gross. Now my sleeve is damp,” he mutters, just audible enough so that only you could hear. You laugh out loud at that, nodding in understanding.

“Same here. There’s probably a gross sweaty handprint on my back now,” you say, wincing when you do feel a noticeable damp spot near the small of your back. “Ugh, what a pig.”

“Tell me about it,” Yoongi shakes his head, making a move to get away from your awful manager. He gestures for you to follow him, and you are more than happy to oblige.

“Thanks for saving me, by the way,” you add, keeping in step with him. He leads you out of the disorienting ballroom, though he doesn’t head towards the exit like you had expected. He appears to know the building much more than you do, given by how assuredly he walks. Either that, or he could be leading you to a deadend, but confidently.

“No problem. You honestly looked like you were about to punt him across the room, though I doubt anyone would be opposed to that magnificent spectacle,” Yoongi jokes, same mischievous grin from before decorating his face. He is so different from the taciturn man you had met two weeks ago, back when he had half-hidden behind his desk like an animal being cornered. Though, that might not be the best analogy to think of, as it only painted you as some sort of predator who came after meek and soft-looking men. Which you aren’t. Hopefully.

“Oh, I would’ve done more than just that, so really he should be thanking you for saving him,” you snort, and Yoongi chuckles lightly in response. Like before, his laughter is just as pleasant as you remember. Your greedy heart yearns to elicit the same sound from him once more, for as many times as you can muster before the night ends.

You had been so immersed in trying to keep up with his quick strides that you don’t notice where exactly he has taken you. The two of you haven’t gone too far away from the ballroom before he stops right in front of a metal double door, the neon green exit sign about it glowing conspicuously in the otherwise dimly lit corridor. He pushes it open, allowing the cool evening air to blow across you and your hand-me-down dress.

“Are we… at the balcony?” you ask, though the view that greets you is answer enough. How Yoongi could have known where the balcony is, you can’t say for certain. But any sort of question dies on your lips when you see how beautiful the skyline is: the stars and city lights twinkling indiscriminately, the sound of nightlife and traffic sounding loud despite the streets being so far away, the smell of ozone signalling an oncoming storm.

This, of course, is what you imagine the view to be like. You know, if the ever reliable Seoul smog wasn’t there to obstruct any sort of magical, romantic view that you should have been privy to.

“Oh damn. I forgot the smog forecast today was especially bad,” Yoongi groans from beside you, quickly shuffling through his pant pockets for a face mask. He procurs two black masks, still in their plastic packaging, and hands one of them to you. “Jesus. Sorry about this. Didn’t expect the smog to be so bad… We can just go back inside, if you want?”

Then, you are reminded of your manager, who is basically pollution incarnate with how terrible his breath is. So, you accept Yoongi’s proffered mask and promptly put it on. “Yeah, no thanks,” you say, voice muffled slightly by the fabric. The implication of your acceptance makes Yoongi grin cheekily back at you (or so you think, guessing by how his eyes crinkle cutely above his mask.)

Now properly equipped to not inhale disgusting air matter into your lungs, you step out farther across the balcony, enjoying the way the cool night breeze feels against your alcohol flushed face. (Though, if you were being honest, the heat on your cheeks has less to do with the meager flute of champagne you had earlier and more to do with the company you currently find yourself with.)

“I fucking hate these company dinners,” you whine a little bit too petulantly, complete with the jutted lip of a child who has been forced to wait as her mother engages in an eternity long conversation with an acquaintance. You lean against the railings near the edge of the building, watching idly as Yoongi does the same. “Don’t you think that if they wanted us to get ‘closer’ with one another, they’d first want to address the fact that some of our coworkers happen to be pigs dressed in white collared shirts?”

Yoongi snorts at that, his right hand immediately coming up to his mouth to silence the unflattering sound. Not that it wasn’t completely charming to you, but you do enjoy the slight abashment that blooms across his face shortly thereafter. “Sorry, didn’t mean to laugh like that. But, I do agree with you… I can’t say that anyone in our department is especially fond of that Habsburg motherfucker.”

Maybe it was the little bit of alcohol in your system, or perhaps it was the sudden rush of realizing that Yoongi is strangely attractive when he swears, but the laugh that exits your mouth sounds a touch too crazed for your liking. Either that, or perhaps you’re finally dying from the pollution.

Luckily for the both of you, it seems that Yoongi likes your weird laugh just as much as you like his. He tries to hide a smile before continuing, “Like, come on! I’m sorry for saying that because attacks on physical appearance is always a low blow, but why the fuck does that dude look like he’s been compressed and flattened on Photoshop? He’s got perpetual flat-face syndrome. You could - you could land a damn plane on his face or some shit.”

The cork inside of your bursts, and you let out the most ungodly guffaw in your life. You don’t even have the time to be embarrassed by how loud your howls are, not when every word he says hits the mark a little bit too close to home. There’s nothing quite as pleasing than sharing mutual dislike for the same person, and it fills you with the utmost glee that Yoongi is no exception to that rule.

“Oh god… You’re right. You are absolutely right. I seriously can’t believe anyone can put up with him. I mean, the damned bastard couldn’t even remember my name until two weeks ago,” you say, shaking your head in disgust. The first few times he had forgotten, you had been gracious enough to laugh away his mistakes as little more than that: mistakes. But when five years pass and peanuts-for-a-brain still hasn’t deemed that remembering your name to be as important as when the “next big Game™” is, then it’s easy to understand the depth of your resentment towards your manager.

“Are you for real?” Yoongi asks, brows raised in shock. “How could anyone ever forget you – I mean, shit, uh,” Yoongi coughs suddenly, red-faced. You tilt your head in confusion, waiting for him to finish. He’s still kind of spluttering when he continues, “What I meant to say is… H-how could anyone forget their employees name after working here for so long?”

You shrug your shoulders. “I have no idea. Honestly, I think he’s trying to purposefully forget everything I tell him. One time, he had asked me what plans I had for Christmas, and I mentioned to him how I was going to be visiting my parents back home, and he has the gall to ask what country I’m from. Like???” Your face contorts as if you had eaten an entire lemon, so wracked with disbelief that Yoongi can see the hypothetical question marks floating above your head. “Bitch, do I look foreign to that bastard? I’ve lived here all my life!”

Yoongi hums, thoughtful. “Your parents live just an hour away from here, right?”

“I… Yeah, they do,” you reply. You eye Yoongi curiously, watching his all-too familiar flush resurfacing on his neck once more. “Wait… How do you know that?”

“You… You were talking about them, once. To Seulgi? Yea, you were, um…” Yoongi coughs unassuredly, rubbing the back of his neck. A nervous tick of his, you suppose. “It was a year ago? Something about visiting them during the weekend… Not that I was eavesdropping on purpose! I would never, er, do that…”

You don’t even register his embarrassment as you are mostly shell shocked that he had even remembered that little tidbit from over a year ago. Hell, you didn’t even remember going to your parent’s house until he mentioned it. “No it’s fine, I get it. I’m just surprised that you even bothered to remember that.”

Now it’s his turn to look at you strangely. “Of course I remember. Why wouldn’t I?”

You stare at him in disbelief. Fluttering of wings begin to erupt in your stomach, but you hardly have the peace of mind to fully grasp why you were even feeling so flustered in the first place. It was just that he had said it so… matter-of-fact, like there was no possible way he could’ve forgotten even if he tried. It was kind of disconcerting, but flattering all the same. But more importantly--

“Wait, you’ve been working at the company since last year? How have I never seen you before this month?!”

“Oh,” Yoongi coughs out a laugh, scratching the end of his nose. He turns his gaze away, looking anywhere but you. “I was just, umm… Really quiet? I don’t really talk to anyone unless I need to. I’m more of a listener.”

“Oh my God, now I feel even more terrible for not knowing your name! I must look like an egotistic bitch to you,” you despair lowly, cupping your face into your hands in shame. You feel another pair of cold hands clasp your wrists, and you watch in shock as he pulls your palms away with a determined expression.

“What? Of course not. You are definitely not an egotistic bitch, Y/N. In fact, you’re the complete opposite,” Yoongi whispers, so quiet that you might have imagined it. He grasps your hands tightly, like he’s desperate for you to believe him.

You stammer in embarrassment, staring wide-eyed at Yoongi as you try to regrasp your comprehension skills. It’s especially hard to concentrate with how close Yoongi is to you, the latter unaware of his own proximity. He had stepped closer towards you to hold your hand, and normally you hated it when people touched you without permission, but somehow… This was alright.

(Unbeknownst to you, this will not be the first time that Yoongi becomes your secret little exception. It’s only the first of many.)

“I-I don’t really know what to say?” Your gaze is locked on his firm grip on your hands, the only thing flitting through your mind: damn, this dude’s hands really are fucking freezing!

It takes another few seconds for Yoongi to calm down, and you know when it happens because the realization of what he had said makes itself apparent on his expression. He turns beet red in a second, stepping away from you with his arms flying off of you like those inflatable tube men outside car dealerships.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, taking two steps away from you. You almost take two steps forward to keep the distance closer, but you have a feeling that he would keep walking away from you until you both inevitably fall off the balcony, so you smartly choose to stay away (even if it pains you to do so). You wait for his breathing to settle, all the while still reeling from his blatant confession just moments ago.

Could you even consider it a confession? Were you being delulu, or is there some sort of connection that you and Yoongi were both feeling?

“Yoongi, it’s fine! Really,” you smile wryly, raising your hands towards him open-faced, much like how you would do when approaching an agitated animal. Like a nervous kitty, you think privately to yourself. “I’m really flattered that you feel so… strongly?”

“I’m… I’m really not like this normally. Honest,” Yoongi says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I… I never… do that. Whatever that was. Umm.”

Because you’re a freak of nature and enjoy exacerbating awkward social interactions, you decide to respond to him like this: “No worries, I’m flattered, honest! But hey, maybe next time you try to give me a compliment, you could look me in the eye?” You know, like an asshole. Who points out people’s social anxieties like that? You bitch!

On cue, Yoongi’s cheeks bloom into cherry blossoms once more. “I––I, I didn’t mean to––uh!” he stammers.

“No, no, I’m sorry for even saying that!” You apologize profusely, bowing so low that he could probably see the top of your spine. “I didn’t mean to tease you like that! I’m sorry! That was seriously out of line!”

What a pair the two of you were… Like two trains crashing into each other at mach speed, continuously and eternally. A constant and ongoing catastrophe!

(The little gremlin living inside your brain is knocking at your empty skull, whispering deviously, “But doesn’t that make the two of you the perfect pair?”)

When he doesn’t respond back immediately, you have to wrack up enough courage to look back at him. You gasp audibly when you do, and you have to forcibly grip the insides of your bicep to keep yourself from squealing in pure anguish.

Because there, right before your very eyes, is a blushing Min Yoongi looking you straight in the eye with his face squished between his hands, as if he’s forcibly keeping his head locked in place. His pupils are noticeably shaking and his brows are furrowed in concentration, but he’s looking at you. Like you asked.

He’s… He’s too…

“Okay, let me try this again.” Yoongi takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what may be the most embarrassing thing he has ever done in his life. “Y… You’re a great person, Y/N. I hope you know that,” he whispers, voice trailing off by the end of his sentence.

He’s dry heaving like he’s just finished a marathon, but he hasn’t taken his eyes off of you. You’re worried if he even remembers how to blink with how intensely he’s staring you down, but you can’t bring yourself to ask him when your heart is quite literally beating out of your chest like a cartoon character from the 80’s.

“I…” You’re at a loss of words. If Min Yoongi can capture you like this with just a look, then think of how much more powerful he would be if he just learned how to use it. You’re slipping into real dangerous waters, and you don’t know if you’re just a frog in boiling water or if this is where you were meant to be all along.

“Yoongi, I didn’t mean for you to… force yourself like that, really…”

The moment breaks, finally, when Yoongi begins to cry.

“Shit!” you both exclaim, but for two different reasons. “Are you okay? Oh my god!” you reach out for him, not even thinking when you cup his cheeks in your hands. He gently pushes you away with one hand, while the other goes to scrub at his tears.

“Yes, I’m fine! A piece of dust got caught in my eye and I was too slow to blink it away,” he explains, still wiping at his cheeks. He pulls his mask down to his chin, pouting cutely at you. “Sorry. I’m not used to looking people in the eye yet. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Oh my god. At this point, you’d be surprised if your heart was located anywhere near your body. You were running purely on autopilot, so enamored by the boy in front of you that you could almost faint. He was entirely too unreal, unbelievably so. Perhaps, if you tried hard enough, you’d be able to find your heart again, and you know the first place where you’d look.

“Give it back,” you mumble, and Yoongi tilts his head at you in confusion.

“Sorry? Did you say something?”

“Nothing,” you reply, reaching over him and snapping his mask back on his face. You laugh as he splutters in surprise, floundering about overdramatically as if the elastic on the mask had done any damage to him at all. “Oh, stop it. You’re just being silly now.”

“Hey, I have delicate skin! You never know,” he jokes, but stops when you give him an unimpressed look.

“Sorry,” he laughs again. “And well, since I keep saying sorry today, and you look like you could use a little warming up, do you wanna leave this place and get some coffee? My treat.”

And really, who were you to say no to that?

And really, who were you to say no to Min Yoongi?

x x x x x

There is a boy you know who likes to show his thoughtfulness quietly. It would go something like this:

A steaming hot coffee cup from the nearby cafe manifests itself on your desk one Monday morning. In your sleep-deprived haze, you had originally failed to realize that there was a hand connected to that cup and that it hadn’t actually just materialized from thin air like you had thought. After much blinking and staring, you crane your head up to see Jesus standing in front of you, his glasses still fogged from the outside chill.

“I got you a drink. I hope I remembered your order right,” Yoongi says in lieu of a greeting, a small smile gracing his lips as he watches you lethargically reach over for the cup to lift the lid open. His grin widens when he sees your eyes light up at the sight of little marshmallows bobbing up and down in your hot chocolate, bits of whipped cream already melting away from the heat. When you take a sip, you breathe a content sigh, your eyelids fluttering shut.

“Yoongi, I’m going to kiss your feet right now and you can’t stop me,” you say, upper lip lined with cream and sugar. Yoongi’s hand twitches by his side, but he doesn’t move.

“Even if I have toe fungus?”

“Especially if you have toe fungus,” you say, downing as much hot chocolate down your throat without choking and barfing all over him.

From the rim of your cup, you can see that Yoongi still has his parka on, his signature black mask pulled down his chin indicating that he’s only just arrived at the office. It makes your heart jump a little, knowing that he went straight to you first before anyone else that day.

“I still don’t understand how you hate coffee. Like, I don’t think I’d be able to be conversing with you right now if I didn’t have caffeine running through my veins,” he says, staring at you(r lips) as you chew a marshmallow thoughtfully.

You want to tell him that Yoongi doesn’t talk a lot anyway in the first place, though you have begun to notice that he’s becoming more talkative the more you hang out with him. However, you aren’t quite sure if you’re imagining it, but it seems like Yoongi’s change in personality doesn’t really apply when he’s with anyone else. On the days where you’d pass by his cubicle on the way to the water coolers, he’d still have his usual stoic expression on his face as he goes through his paperwork with the grace of a robot. When he’s with you, however…

“Says the guy who’s started drinking frappes after I suggested them to you. Don’t lie to me, Min Yoongi.” You’re giggling softly, and you can tell Yoongi’s seams are already breaking. Pink gums and straight teeth are seconds away from peaking through. You wink cheekily at him. “You’re just as sweet as your personality is.”

“Stop, that’s so embarrassing!” he exclaims, hiding behind his hands. He’s already smiling. “I’m not as sweet as you think! I’m a mean guy!”

“Yoongi, you literally just bought me hot chocolate with marshmallows because you remembered what I like. I don’t think there’s a mean bone in your body,” you retort, rolling your eyes at the prominent pout on his face.

“Not true! I stole an extra coupon booklet when I was at the grocery store the other day.”

“Ooooh, I do love a bad boy,” you say, but the two of you are already laughing hysterically. “Seriously, thanks. I really needed this today.”

“Dang, bad morning already?” he winces, having noticed the purple moons under your eyes when he had approached you. He didn’t want to mention it without you bringing it up first, but he had been worried about you since last Friday when you had left the workplace with a slammed door.

“Try bad weekend. Mr. Lee has been pushing my buttons for months now, but I seriously didn’t think he thought it was a challenge. He’s been giving me shitty filing jobs to complete like I’m some overworked intern!”

Yoongi cocks his head, confused. “Aren’t you, like… In the advertising department? Why would he make you file things?”

“Exactly!” You’re all but roaring now, but Yoongi can’t help smirking at the stray dollop of whipped cream that had somehow found its way on your nose. He pulls his sleeve over his wrist, swiping it away with the fabric as nonchalantly as possible (which is to say, he’s as red as a spanked ass when he does it.)

You don’t even notice his actions, still deep in the abyss of your rage. “And also! My shitty phone ran out of storage space the other day so I’ve had to delete all the songs on my library and I can’t find any good playlists on Spotify to help me dissociate on the train!”

“Wow, that’s a mood,” Yoongi says, chuckling. He clears his throat, an idea popping into his head. He turns bashful all of a sudden, gaze diverting upwards as he musters the courage to say, “I-I mean, I think I can help you with that last problem, if you want…”

You stop huffing and puffing long enough to appear intrigued. “Oh? Are you gonna send me a playlist?”

Yoongi splutters. “I mean! If you want it, I do have some songs that I like listening to.”

Yoongi squeaks when you smile at that, radiant and all-encompassing. He wonders how he’s not dead right now.

“Oh god, that would be great actually! Text me the link, would you?” you say, already making grabby hands for his phone. “Here, lemme put my phone number in your phone.”

Yoongi almost drops his phone as he takes it out of his pocket, staring in awe as he watches you type in your number into his phone. He has to keep himself from outright howling when he sees you place a sunflower emoji beside your name. How fitting, he thinks to himself.

When you return the phone back to him, he immediately texts you the link to his playlist. You have to keep yourself from screaming to the heavens when you see the very Yoongi-esque title, “Songs for the Sleepless,” complete with the grainy-noir-film-type playlist art to complete the look. It was just so… personal, so Yoongi, and it’s making you clench organs that you didn’t know were clenchable.

You whistle at the sheer number of songs on the playlist, with the first song being—“Didn’t peg you as a Lana Del Rey fan,” you pipe up, scrolling through his playlist with acute interest. “Kendrick Lamar and Epik High, I understand. But Lana?”

To his credit, the playlist did seem like it had a narrative of sorts, despite the eclectic range of artists and genres. You only recognize maybe ten of the songs from his five hundred song playlist, and you’re very curious to see what type of songs he connects to.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he shrugs his shoulders, though a little bit embarrassed. “Lana Del Rey could sing my obituary and I’d jump out of my grave in an instant.”

“Bit morbid but okay,” you laugh, finger ready to close your music player app when you catch sight of a song with an artist you didn’t expect to see. You reach over to tug on his sleeve, your sly smile already causing Yoongi to break out in hives. “Hey… I didn’t know you shared your name with a singer, unless, of course…”

Yoongi doesn’t even let you finish your sentence when he yelps in surprise, snatching your phone out of your grip as his eyes bug out of his sockets. His ears redden, words tumbling out of his mouth like a waterfall as he tries to explain himself despite your raucous giggling.

“I––You weren’t supposed to––I forgot about! That was––I was just––Ugh,” he groans despairingly, smacking himself in the forehead with your phone. You’re still giggling madly, enjoying the spectacle before you as Yoongi’s ears are practically shooting out steam.

“You’re so cute.” It slips out of your mouth with such ease that you almost don’t notice saying it at all; you’re still smiling dreamily at Yoongi as he stares at you in shock, mouth still agape from his earlier rambling. You gasp loudly when your brain cells finally catch up, but by then it’s already too late. Now, the two of you were a matching pair, with your fire engine red ears standing at attention.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I just said that,” you mutter into your hands. You wish the earth would swallow you whole right now.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you just said that,” Yoongi wails beside you, but you don’t notice the small satisfied smile he’s sporting on his reddened face. “Y-You can’t just say things and not expect me to…”

You look up, wondering why he’d suddenly trailed off at the end. “Expect you to what?”

Yoongi, once again, defies the laws of the universe by somehow turning even redder than humanly possible. “N-nothing. Ignore me. Let’s just admit we’re both embarrassing and carry on, can we?”

“Sure,” you agree, nodding enthusiastically. “But, does that mean I can listen to your songs, Mister Min ‘I’m-a-superstar-singer-in-my-spare-time’ Yoongi?”

“I’m not a superstar! I just record songs in my free time, that’s all,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Says the guy who apparently raps as a hobby! Seriously, I can tell I’m gonna love it already.”

His gaze is turned upwards, cheeks puffed up in embarrassment. He looks like he wants to say something else, however, and you wait for him as he tries to gather the courage to say what else is on his mind. “S-say, I was wondering… Since I’m already here and all, do you want to maybe go out wi—”

“Yo! Hyung!”

A deep voice from across the office floor snaps the two of you out of your little bubble in an instant. It doesn’t take a genius to tell who it is, not when there’s only one person in the entire company who would dare wear a sushi-print tie to work at one of the most lucrative companies in the country.

Kim Namjoon hobbles over to your little cubicle space in all his sushi-print tie glory, knocking over a coworker’s potted plant in the process. Between you and Yoongi, you had been more surprised by Namjoon’s sudden exclamation, mostly because you’d never been particularly close with the eccentric man. Yoongi probably can’t say the same since he had briefly mentioned that he and Namjoon go way back, though you’re starting to have some doubts about that due to the dirty glare Yoongi was currently pointing at the sentient noodles-for-legs.

Namjoon waves cheerily at you before cutting to the chase as he envelops Yoongi in a not-too-gentle hug. “Hyung! I’ve been looking for you. You weren’t at your desk this morning so I was wondering where you’d wandered off, but of course I’d find you here at Y/N’s de––”

Yoongi promptly stomps on Namjoon’s feet, causing the younger to yelp out in pain. “Namjoon. I told you I’d talk to you later.” Yoongi smiles sweetly, but you can see the aura of danger radiating off of him in waves. “Emphasis on later.”

Namjoon pouts petulantly, but he doesn’t look all that offended. “I was just gonna remind you to ask Y/N if she wanted to join us for lunch la––OUCH! WILL YOU STOP STEPPING ON MY FEET!”

Yoongi appears unbothered, not even looking back at Namjoon’s shouts of betrayal. All the while, he still has his gaze trained on you, never wavering for one second.

“Please ignore my colleague. He can a bit… Unnecessarily loud,” Yoongi says, accompanied by Namjoon’s splutters of indignation.

“Umm?? I’m right here?? Your actual best friend?? Geez!” Namjoon huffs, looking at the both of you incredulously. You just shrug your shoulders, completely dumbfounded by the last five minutes of human interaction.

“As Namjoon was saying before we were so rudely interrupted… I was going to ask if you wanted to have lunch with me? Namjoon can join too, but only if he behaves,” Yoongi jokes, smirking at Namjoon’s ireful glares.

You giggle quietly at the unlikely pair, amused beyond belief at this new side of Yoongi that you hadn’t been aware of. So this is how he is with his friends… Cocky Yoongi is definitely someone you wouldn’t mind talking to occasionally, you admit.

“Sure, I’d love to. Just let me finish all this filing crap for Mr. Lee, then I’ll head over to your desk at around 12?” If you work at a breakneck pace, then you could probably finish sooner if you didn’t let anything else distract you. “Oh! And I should probably return your umbrella before you leave. I keep forgetting to give it back to you.”

“No worries,” Yoongi says. “You should keep the umbrella. I’ve got a spare anyway.”

Namjoon’s head whips toward Yoongi at that, staring at him skeptically. “Dude. Ain’t that your favorite Kumamon umbrella though? Didn’t you almost murder me that one time I forgot it at the McDonald’s last mo––WILL YOU STOP STEPPING ON MY FEET! I’M GONNA GET FLATFOOT SYNDROME!”

“Not my problem,” Yoongi replies, pinching Namjoon’s nose for good measure. He turns to you, waving goodbye. “See you in a few?”

You stretch your back, psyching yourself up to get back to work. “Right. I’ll text you when I’m done okay? See you at 12-ish!”

The boys make their leave, bickering all the while. You catch wind of a bit of their conversation as they turn the corner, their voices echoing down the hall.

“Hey, I noticed that you were looking Y/N in the eye when you were speaking. Why don’t you ever look me in the eye when we talk!”

Yoongi snorts, flipping him off. “It’s because you’re not as nice to look at. Simple as that.”

In your seat, you smile secretly to yourself, butterflies erupting in your chest. Filled with newly found fervor, you chip away at the pile of work on your desk until it starts to vanish from view.

Before you know it, you’re off to see Yoongi once more.

x x x x x

There is a boy you know who likes to show his vulnerability quietly. It would go something like this:

x x x x x

There is a boy you know who likes to show his love quietly. It would go something like this:

Your day begins with a phone call: a warning. Your boss tells you to come into work as soon as possible, not a note of enthusiasm or friendliness in his tone. He ends the call just as abruptly as it had come, the silence following soon after deafening your ears. Your heart races marathons in your chest, and your brain goes to the worst place it can go.

Your hands are sweating gallons upon gallons as you shrug your coat on, fumbling with your keys as you struggle to place them in your pocket. For a brief moment, you think about calling Yoongi for moral support, but think better of it. You don’t want to bother anyone, especially not him.

You, the lone ranger, walk out of your apartment and into the murky urban outdoors, the first pitter-patters of rain making their descent the moment your foot meets the pavement. You don’t have quite the energy to go back inside to grab your umbrella, not when you’re unsure if you’ll be courageous enough to leave your bedroom once more if you did.

You’d always been a coward, a soft-hearted fool. Content with shouldering the consequences of your actions without another word: a sufferer in silence. For the past few weeks, you thought you might have changed. You’d been smiling a lot more, laughing a lot more. Your cheeks were often more red than any other color these days, and it was all thanks to a boy you know.

He was shy, but brave. Quiet, but talkative. Mysterious, but vulnerable.

He made you realize that there was no need to settle for one side of a coin, not when you could have both. The longer you stuck around him, the stronger your desire was to become… more.

You wanted to be open; you wanted to be known. You wanted to be able to ask for what you want, and never feel the crushing sense of guilt that usually came afterwards. You wanted to be unapologetic, wanted to keep your hands open, waiting for good things to come your way. To never cower in the face of a gift being handed to you. You wanted to have all that life has to offer––

(Him. Him. Him.)

But there is something pitiful about being unable to keep your own promises. The embarrassment of returning to the state where you once were, of turning meek at the first sign of adversity. The dreams of a happier life drifts away from you like mist under the morning sun, and the pressing weight of the world once again makes its home on your shoulders.

And so, you do not cry when your boss tells you to pack up your things within the hour.

You do not cry when you cut your finger on the corner of your desk that had never been replaced during your five-year stay at this company.

You do not cry when one of your potted plants smash to the floor when you try to carry too many things at once.

You do not cry when co-workers you’d only barely spoken to come over to your desk with showers of condolences, as if you’d already died.

You do not cry when Kim Namjoon walks over to you, quietly bending down to help you carry your boxes down to the lobby.

And when all is said and done, you most especially do not cry when Min Yoongi runs to you with his lungs burning in his chest, glasses still fogged up from the morning cold outside. His hair is in disarray and his shirt is on backwards, as if he’d jumped out of bed the moment he knew something was wrong. When he skids to a halt right in front of you, the pain etched on his face is as plain as day.

Wordlessly, he takes the last box out of your hands, placing his car keys on top when he can’t hold onto them both. His eyes flit towards your clenched fists for a second, but looks away the moment you notice. Instead, he walks out to the elevator, and you follow soon after.

You do not cry when Min Yoongi helps you load his car with your things. You do not cry when he takes a first-aid kit out of his glovebox and puts a band-aid on your finger. You do not cry when he offers to pass by the local home depot to pick up a new plant when he notices yours is gone. You do not cry when he doesn’t treat you like your life has ended.

(But you feel it. Pricking along your eyes like a dam about to break. He is doing this to you. He’s making you feel again, and it fucking hurts.)

And so, he drives you home.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Yoongi starts after a while, tapping a rhythm away on his steering wheel as he waits for the morning rush traffic to subside. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, worried when you don’t respond. You keep your head pressed against the cool car window, staring blankly at the gray skyline.

“I… I hope you don’t mind if I play you something. Just… Just listen to it, okay?”

You don’t see him, but you hear his fingers switch their tapping to his phone as he unlocks it, searching for the song he wants you to hear. It takes a moment or two for him to find it, soft curses tumbling from his lips as he goes through his Google Drive for the unfinished draft that he hadn’t meant to show you until it was complete, but well––

You were always an exception to him, weren’t you?

The first notes come creeping up from behind you, and it reminds you of the way Yoongi would speak to you. All soft whispers and gummy smiles, like he’s restraining himself. Slowly but surely, the music grows louder, more confident with its sound. You can picture Yoongi standing upright, hand outstretched towards you as he asks you to follow him.

The song is unfamiliar, but there’s something about it that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand at attention. You’re trying to go through your memories, sorting through the hundreds of songs that Yoongi has made you listen to but none of them seem to ring a bell. You’re still trying to figure out if you’d heard this before when the lyrics finally start.

“Lost in the sea of my regrets, you became my polaris.”

Yoongi’s voice comes from the radio speaker, jolting you from your seat. Your spine straightens, and you stare bullets at Yoongi’s phone as the song continues to play. When you look towards him, Yoongi’s face is a statue; the only thing giving away the fact that he was with you at all was the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“The shadows, which had been my haven, no longer feel as good as they once did. You, my light, have changed all of that.”

You gasp, and Yoongi’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. It seems like the two of you stop moving at that moment, neither of you daring to breathe. Even the outside traffic sounds muted compared to the sound of your hearts hammering inside your chests.

“I’ve long since forgotten to pray, but I will remember for you. I only dream of happiness for you, my morning light, my northern star. And I’d give it all up for you.”

Yoongi notices your tears fall before you even do; he’s quick to fluster, scrambling through his car side door for a tissue to hand to you, but he stops the moment he feels your hand fist the elbow of his sleeve. He turns to look at you, all blotchy and tear-stained, but beautiful all the same. And even through your tears, you smile just as radiantly as when he had first seen you.

“Thank you,” you mouth, fingers trembling as you fight to keep more tears from falling, but nothing can stop a dam from breaking. Not when you’re sitting beside the hurricane who broke it in the first place; it was the boy with feelings that never did quite fit in his body the way other people’s did.

Luckily, they fit right in with you.

When the song comes to the end, you’re sniffling up a storm, but you still haven’t let go of him. When you’re only a few minutes away from your apartment, Yoongi parks a little bit far off from your doorstep, so you have to walk the rest of the way home. But you’re still unwilling to let go, not yet.

Gently, Yoongi pries your hand away from his sleeve and you’re about to protest, but the words die on your lips the moment they form when Yoongi rubs his hands along the side of his slacks before placing them in yours. His hands are still cold, but comforting all the same.

“Let me walk you home?” he whispers.

You nod. Of course, you want to say. But he knows what you mean, anyway.

When he goes to unpack your things from the trunk, you shake your head, stopping him from moving any further. “I… I don’t feel like sorting through those things right now. Is it fine with you if I just… Go home for now? Please?” Your brain feels like lead in your skull after all the bottled up tears had finally escaped from years of constant pressure, and you don’t think you’re quite ready to go through all those emotions again. You feel deflated, but better. He always makes you feel better.

Yoongi closes the trunk, locking his car before stretching out his hands for you. You stare at the proffered hand for a moment.

“Oh, right.” Yoongi goes to rub his hands to warm them, but you stop him once more in his ministrations. He looks at you, confused, as you grab his hand from him. You rub circles into his palm, staring at the ground in embarrassment.

“You’re always warming your hands for me… So this time, I’ll warm them for you, okay?”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything in response to that. Instead, he tugs you along towards the sidewalk and keeps you close to him. As he walks with you, you notice the way he leans slightly to the left, like he’s drawn to you––like he can’t help be more than an inch further from you.

You keep glancing back down at your linked hands; he’s shaking, but then again, that could also be you.

You arrive at the gate of your apartment quicker than you would have liked. Neither of you move to separate; when you look back at Yoongi, you see that his eyes are trained on you. He doesn’t even flinch away like he used to. His lips are pursed, like he wants to say something but he’s still too afraid to.

So you say it for him instead.

“Do you have… somewhere to be?” Unlike you, he still has a job. He still has commitments. He still has a life outside of you. You’re hit with fear, once again, at the sudden change in your circumstances.

You might never get to see him again. Is this where your paths cross, never to intersect again? Your stomach drops at the thought, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

“No, I don’t. I could…” Yoongi trails off, glancing at your apartment with soft hesitance. “If… If you want me to…”

Yes. Please. I’d love it. I love yo–– ”Yes. Stay with me?” you mumble.

“Always,” he promises.

The pair of you trudge up to your apartment, passing by the prying eyes of housewives with your heads bowed in embarrassment. They don’t miss your pinkies linked behind your backs, nor the subtle blushes on the apples of your cheeks. Thankfully, they don’t comment when Yoongi enters your apartment after you, but they do giggle when his coat gets caught on the door handle in his rush.

When the two of you are finally alone, the air isn’t as awkward as you had feared. You work like two cogs in a machine; he readies your TV and scrolls through your Netflix for a movie, while you go to your kitchen and have a small mental breakdown (while also microwaving some popcorn). Soon, the two of you are snuggled into your small couch, elbows barely brushing against each other.

You’re only half paying attention to the generic action movie that Yoongi had put on; you were still deep in your thoughts. You’re picking away at your hangnail, worrying your lip as you try to enjoy what might be the last time you’ll ever get to hang out with Yoongi again. You’re so deep in your musings that you don’t immediately feel when Yoongi wraps his arms around your shoulder, nestling your head into his chest.

“W… What?” You crane your head and stare at Yoongi in shock, but he’s already returned his attention back to the movie. His cheeks are burning.

You’re still stiff with tension despite his comforting caresses against your hair, so he changes tactics and brings your hand up to his.

You think he’s just going to hold your hand, but he keeps bringing your hand up until it gently caresses his face. Just as you’re about to ask him what he’s doing, he curls your fingers until only your pointer is left unfurled, and casually uses it to poke himself in the cheek.

He leaves it there for a second or two, and when you finally turn to face him, he’s smiling so sweetly at you that you almost feel compelled to cry again. His eyes and nose are all scrunched up, rose petal gums on full display. Your finger is still pressed gently into his soft cheeks.

“You said you liked to dream about poking my bread cheeks. Well, here’s your chance,” he says, like it’s nothing at all. As if what he has done was as simple as breathing.

Yoongi’s smile brightens when he feels your form relax against him, giggling softly when you go to pinch his cheek for good measure.

“Bread cheekies,” you say, like you’re in a trance.

Yoongi nods. “Bread cheekies,” he repeats. “And it’s all yours.”

There’s a promise in there, you know. Somehow, he had sensed your worry and had thought of the perfect way to calm you. Like always, he never has to say it. He’s never needed words, anyway.

The two of you stay like that for hours. The sun sets as surely as the moon rises, and Min Yoongi stays with you through the night. When your mind drifts off and only your steady breathing fills the room, Min Yoongi brushes a small kiss against your forehead.

“Dream of happiness, my love,” he whispers into your skin, just when he thinks you’re asleep, “I’ll dream of you, too.”

It’s a promise that he keeps.

There is a boy you know who never learned how to say he loves you, but it never mattered all that much to you––not when he’s willing to show you over and over again. It goes something like this––

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goose-books · 3 years ago

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& while i am posting things today. some more maxwriting, specifically two mini-fanfictions for yves. @yvesdot ’s WIP the one and only universe of kay rainier (would recommend! arguments to lovers! he/him wlw! interdimensional (?) shenanigans!) one of which also features an OC i've mentioned a few times on this blog but done historically very little with.

it’s occurred to me in my moment of posting that neither of these pieces have titles. oh well.

THE FIRST ONE

you ought to send yves. some bingo prompts. anyway, i sent them kay + daemons, and then immediately realized i had ideas and thoughts about that, too. so i wrote my own version. unlike theirs, this is vaguely set in the HDM universe, which is funny because i haven’t read HDM and learned everything i know from waya vivji, a single war and peace fanfiction, and also wikipedia just before i wrote it. the notable context here is that daemons are usually the “opposite sex” of their humans, and if i got that wrong do not tell me because i am embarrassed.

Kay is a precocious child; she is twelve years old when her daemon settles. Chesire is a sleek dark mahogany, a ferruginous hawk with a wickedly curved beak and eyes that glitter like beads. He is also male. This, for the Rainiers, is not done; even the absent Ariel, despite his eccentricities, had a properly gendered daemon. It unsettles Kay in a way she will not place for many years; still, as soon as she registers her disappointment (for it must be disappointment, surely; nothing more), she’s awash in guilt.

“How lovely,” she tells him, stroking his glossy new feathers, keeping her voice low less to keep out her father and more because it is only polite. Cheshire bobs his head and flutters his wings and seems, very slightly, to preen. He must be able to sense her uncertainty, the subdued flatness to her voice, but he is a Rainier as well; the polite thing is to ignore it, and he does.

“How curious,” Father says, stroking Fauntleroy’s velvet ears.

“Not unheard of,” the dormouse says from her seat in his breast pocket. Constantine inclines his head slightly; he does not deign to offer more.

When the Neighborly enters the house the jackal stalks at his heel, ears pricked at attention, wet black nose gleaming, mouth crooked open in a canine grin. With it comes a distinct smell — not unpleasant so much as it is unbalancing, an earthy scent, filling the foyer as its claws click on the floor. Like his clothes, it is black, head to toe. They aren’t usually. Kay wonders if it’s coincidence, if perhaps he dyes its fur so it will match.

She thinks of it as such — it — because to be frank she is not sure what to make of Atlas, and what to assume about his daemon. During the customary introductions, Cheshire perches atop Kay’s shoulder, and Fauntleroy emerges from her pocket to whisk up to Father’s collar and cling to the fabric to study the Neighborly. He can’t stay quite still. His hands twitch at his sides. He shifts his weight. The jackal paces maddening circles around the room, eyeing the dark walls and the fine wooden furniture, too dignified to lower its head and sniff but not too good to cast judgment without speaking. Every time it passes Kay in its slow inexorable orbit, Cheshire’s claws tighten on her coat.

“It’s a pleasure, Atlas,” Constantine says stiffly, extending a hand to shake with an expression that suggests he’d rather have it removed.

Atlas shakes, grinning easily, a looseness to his motions, and then he tilts his head and says, “Anubis.” In a moment the jackal’s at his side, curling around the backs of his legs to turn its wet smile on Kay’s father. It’s too large; that’s what she decides. How does he take it anywhere? Why hasn’t it learned to behave? Unless this is his goal: to part rooms, to announce his presence as soon as he steps through the threshold.

“Anubis,” she says, the first time she and Atlas are alone. “Like the god?” Atlas and Anubis; it is the sort of half-joke she can appreciate.

Anubis looks up at its name. Atlas looks at it. “I don’t know,” he says. “It was my sister’s idea.” He looks to Cheshire, who has settled near Kay’s inkwell to reorganize her pens. “And this is…”

“Cheshire.”

“Cheshire,” Atlas repeats, piercing glinting as his eyebrow quirks.

“When I was younger, I thought he would be a cat.”

“I thought she’d be a crow. Probably better this way. Crows are poser birds.” Anubis snorts at that, a sound both doggish and human.

“She is… she, then,” Kay says carefully.

“Oh, yeah. Apparently that’s weird.” Atlas leans back in Kay’s chair until the front legs leave the ground.

“Is it,” Kay says.

Atlas’s eyes flit around her face, like he knows what she’s asking; his smirk doesn’t lessen. “Well, women have male daemons, right? Ask Cheshire.”

Kay and Cheshire look at each other. Cheshire fluffs his feathers and says, “This is dull.”

Kay is less certain. She does not smile at Atlas, but some of the edge has smoothed from her voice. “I should like to watch you explain it to my father.”

“If he could take it,” Atlas says. “What’s the mouse’s fucking name again?”

Cheshire steps back and forth, feathers ruffling, until Kay sets a hand out to still him, gentle, comforting. “Fauntleroy.”

“Christ,” Atlas says. “Bless you.” When he catches Kay stiffening, he relents a little, letting the chair clatter back to the floor. “Fits the vibe, I guess.”

“As yours fits you,” says Kay, making it as uncomplimentary as she can.

“Guess my soul’s black,” Atlas says cheerily. He balls up a piece of paper and tosses it to Anubis, who, flopped across the floor, doesn’t move. “Not the weirdest thing about us.”

“Well,” Kay says, “I think it would be rather unfair for me to talk about oddities,” and she takes a small victory in the look they share: not friendship, not fondness, but something like an understanding, reached in the quiet moment before Cheshire hands her another pen and she resumes her work.

THE SECOND ONE

this one’s a bit older but i never posted it until now, at yves.’s urging! i think i was doing... camp nano last year? or something. and couldn’t think of what to write. or maybe i couldn’t focus on my project because i was thinking about my other project, the butch4butch hamlet retelling i still haven’t written. to which yves. said, “write kay x your lesbian hamlet character,” to which i said, “you don’t think i will, but i will,” and i did. so really this is yvesmax crossover fic.

It is annoying, Holden’s habit of dropping by whenever she likes. This can probably be attributed to the fact that Holden, herself, is annoying. Kay can only adjust the items on her desk (pens, mainly) so many times; she is caught up in an aggravating state of waiting but also not waiting, and she does not care for that.

Just as she thinks so, there’s a knock at the front door.

Holden doesn’t ring the doorbell anymore. She did that the first time and Kay came down the stairs a few seconds too late to find Father staring at the creature in his front hall, looking like he didn’t know whether he should be put out or concerned. “I think the earrings got him,” Holden said later, on Kay’s bed, tapping the crosses hanging inverted from her ears. Kay’s opinion was that it was all of her, from the messy post-buzz hair to the propensity for suits to the Doc Martens to the way Holden leans on any available surface.

She opens the door and Holden is leaning against the doorframe. Which looks a little more awkward coupled with whatever she’s carrying under her arm.

“Hi,” she says.

Kay blinks slowly.

“It is late,” she says, spinning on her heel and heading for the stairs. Behind her, she hears the quiet click of Holden closing the door. The grandfather clock in the front hall is ticking toward eleven.

“I never get over how weird this place is.” When she glances back, Holden is peering into the nearest glass cabinet. “Like a little dollhouse.”

“Thank you,” Kay says stiffly. She cannot decide whether she is irritable.

“And this is coming from someone whose parents were devoted to taxidermy.” Holden follows her up the stairs, hands shoved into the pockets of her suit jacket, looking entirely too comfortable here, and Kay decides that she is irritable after all.

“I do not know what you suppose your business is here,” she says. “Especially as it is almost an hour past ten.”

Holden shrugs.

“Do not shrug at me.”

Holden opens her mouth as if to speak, then casts a glance behind her. There’s no one in the darkened hallway; Father is in his office. Still, Holden waits for Kay to shut her bedroom door.

“I know I’m late,” she says, slouching back against it. “Sorry. I lost track of time in the bookstore.”

Kay blinks. “You are late to see me because you went to the bookstore,” she intones.

She says nothing as Holden withdraws the books from under her arm and extends them. “I really wanted to find Carmilla for you,” she says. “Like, the oldest print version I could find.”

It certainly looks old. Kay purses her lips. “I own Carmilla.”

“I know. But, like… it’s vintage.” Holden attempts one-handed jazz hands. “I have a sentence in my notes app from six months ago that just says carmilla but like the old edition.” She shuffles the stack of books. “And then I sat down for — look, I swear I was trying to be timely about it. Trying to be punctual.” She pops the P. “But time isn’t real and I read two chapters of Pride and Prejudice and I don’t know if you own that but it feels like the kind of thing you’d find sexy.” Her smile glitters. “And then — I know The Catcher in the Rye isn’t your thing. But I wrote in this one, so.”

Kay reaches out, very carefully, to take the books. She does own Pride and Prejudice, actually, but she still feels a pang. She flips through The Catcher in the Rye and is met with scrawls of black-ink handwriting, filling up the margins and underlining passages.

“Thank you,” she says, very softly, and moves to set the books on her desk. “You didn’t have to… get me anything.”

“I like knowing that my parents’ money is fueling homosexual agendas,” Holden says pleasantly. When Kay turns around, Holden catches her hand and steps in closer, showing her teeth in a smile. “But I’ll try to be on time from now on.”

“As you should,” Kay says, pulling Holden a few inches closer.

Holden raises a hand to caress Kay’s cheek. “That said,” she says in a low voice, “now that I’ve — what did you say. Now that I’ve fulfilled my business here, I can think of a few things we could do. Unless it’s too late.”

Against her will, Kay smiles.

“I suppose we can extend your stay a little longer,” she says, and their lips meet.

#max.txt #max actually writes #yves tag #love h tag #holden hemlock #apparently i only write kaypov. i'll admit atlas's pov intimidates me a little bit.#but i do maintain my choice of holden/kay versus holden/atlas because holden and atlas are like... the same. doubles #well not really doubles but like... i think the furthest they would get would be holden asking atlas to swap clothing items.#in a nonsexual very literal way.#anyway! enjoy.

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tifaria · 5 years ago

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Good Omen fan fic recommendations?

This has been unanswered in my notes for far too long!

Whoo boy, where do I start?? Let me just pull up my AO3 bookmarks… okay. This is gonna be a long post because I have a Lot of Thoughts about fic in this fandom. I’ll separate by types of fic.

Series/stories with a plot:

Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach by Nnm

As soon as Aubrey Thyme, psychotherapist, had opened her office door and seen her new client, Anthony J. Crowley, sitting in her waiting area, she was observing and assessing him. At first glance, she paid attention to the following:

–His clothing was expensive and stylish;–He wore very strange but noticeable cologne;–His relationship to the seat he occupied could only, very loosely, be described as “sitting;”–He looked angry;–He was wearing sunglasses.

What Aubrey Thyme, a professional, thought, upon first seeing her new client was: you’re going to be a fun one, aren’t you?

Okay, so some warnings: discussion of suicide, PTSD, implied alcohol abuse and implied child abuse. That said…. this is an excellent fic and I was thinking about it for days after it ended. It’s about Crowley dealing with trauma from the bookshop fire, and it has an outsider POV that I ended up caring deeply about, and the ending had me in (happy) tears. Just. It’s a miracle that this fic exists.

A Curious Case of Miracles on Marlborough Street by @nihilnovisubsole

After stopping the apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale finally take the next step in their six-thousand-year friendship. But when a spate of miracles sweeps across Soho and Mayfair, they realize their amorous escapades may have an unintended side effect. As they scramble to restore balance and an archangel arrives to investigate, Heaven and Hell’s messengers learn that you can never have too much of a good thing.

At the very least, you need to go look at the art on this fic, because it is magnificent. But you should really read the story, because it’s absurd and weird but in a way that makes it feel like it could plausibly take place in the TV-verse. Implied sexual content, nothing explicit. Plenty of humor. It’s crackfic that’s taken seriously, but it works and I love it.

The Sandford Flower Show by Musimm

Crowley had waited six thousand years, kept it all in check. But this was the slipperiest slope he’d ever set foot on and as soon as he’d indulged in a few discretionary acts of kindness he was falling face first into pining, tumbling into flirting, about to dislocate his knees on the sharp rocks of intimacy.

Was this really it? What he had waited six thousand years for? A stupid flower show? Aziraphale wasn’t pulling away from him. Maybe… maybe this time he wouldn’t? Maybe they’d hold hands again. Maybe tonight with a bottle of merlot in them he’d finally work up the courage and just kiss him and he wouldn’t pull away.

The very moment he’d thought it he spotted the problem at the flower show.

Chapter 7 is explicit, so if that’s not your jam, skip to the next chapter after they go to bed. I really enjoyed this one! There’s angst, pining, miscommunication, idiots acting like idiots, but with a happy ending. The plot is interesting and the original characters were engaging and felt like they’d fit right into the TV-verse. I re-read this immediately after finishing it, that’s how much I liked it.

I Will Get Up Now and Go About the City by @drawlight

This is the story of six-thousand years and a borrowed jacket. (A tale told in vignettes.)

Look, if you haven’t gone and read every single thing that @drawlight has written by now, I don’t know what to tell you. This is my favorite fic of his. It is, quite simply, poetry. I’m due for a re-read, in fact.

Fluff/Sweetness:

Divine Intervention (AKA God Ships It) by @theladyzephyr

There’s a battle strategy devised by humans many millennia ago that’s designed to overcome an adversary who is particularly well entrenched. Some walls are too tall and thick for a frontal assault, and must instead be bested through sheer dogged stubbornness.

Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t know it, but they were about to be put under siege.

Fed up with an angel and a demon who are still avoiding any talk of Feelings, God starts to interfere. When it comes to the ineffable plan, sometimes things need a bit of a push.

Listen. This is my favorite fluffy Good Omens fic ever. It’s silly, it’s romantic, it’s completely heartfelt, and it’s joyous and happy. I grinned so hard while reading it, and re-reading it, and re-reading it again. I go to this fic when I’ve had a bad day. I go to this fic when I’ve had a good day. It’s wonderful and sweet and it fills my heart with warmth.

Sunny Picnic with the Southern Pansy by @almaasi

As the one-year mark of the Unpocalypse approaches, Aziraphale pointedly mentions to Crowley that he’d like to spend the anniversary doing “something lovely” with “somebody special”. Thus, Crowley secretly plans a surprise picnic in Tadfield with Anathema and the Them. Of course, this comes served with a plateful of misunderstandings, a side of moping, and a seasoning of mischief… eventually followed by a deliciously pleasant afternoon.

I love when authors can work in the ensemble cast in a way that works. This fic is fluffy, warm, and fuzzy. I loved every time The Them were in a scene because the author wrote them so well.

Saturday (Wouldn’t It Be Nice) by Sir_Bedevere

It’s a Saturday in the little cottage on the South Downs, where a demon and an angel are spending their retirement, and there’s nothing - nothing - that they can’t face together.

It’s a Saturday, and this is how Saturdays tend to go.

This is a gentle and soft fic that soothes my soul when I read it. There’s plenty of cuddling, sweetness, and fluff. This fic is like a comforting, warm blanket when you’ve had a hard day.

Love Like Fools by @animeangelriku

One minute, Aziraphale is cataloguing some of his first editions, and the next one, he’s leaning against the bookshelf with one hand because he feels like the breath he doesn’t necessarily need (but is nonetheless used to taking) has just been knocked out of him.

He does not need to hold back his feelings for Crowley anymore. He does not need to hide his feelings for Crowley anymore. They’re on their own side now.

Soft romance with hand-holding and plenty of kissing? Sign me up. I live for Aziraphale showering Crowley with affection, and Crowley being overwhelmed by it.

An Honest Surrender by @kedreeva

“For six thousand years,” Crowley said, voice cracking, “I have wanted something I couldn’t have, because I asked the wrong questions. But I’m asking the right one now. The only one that matters.”

In which Aziraphale follows Crowley home after the nonpocalypse.

I never get tired of what-happened-at-Crowley’s-flat-that-night fics. Never. Give me all of them. This one depicts the boys as asexual and includes some intense soul-bonding that I find really lovely and that I think is achingly beautiful.

It’s Getting Hard, This Holding Back by ZehWulf

6,000-odd years is a long time to evolve a romantic relationship, but as a near-immortal being, Crowley had patience. True, they had lost momentum right around reaching the Speaking Looks and Meaningful Gestures stage, but at the time Crowley had been more or less content to let things idle.

Now, he was determined to shift things back into gear, and that gear was Explicitly Romantic Physical Expressions of Affection.

Crowley comes up with a plot for easing into physical affection with Aziraphale, and it goes about like you’d expect. Cute, sweet, and fluffy asexual relationship.

Smut/Explicit:

Lie Back And Think Of Dinner by jessthereckless

“Crowley, this is a disaster. This is everything I ever wanted. We’re in love. And there’s a picnic. And we don’t seem to be able to get…amorous without causing earthquakes.”

Aziraphale attempts subterfuge. Crowley sees right through him.

This fic is so cute, with just a bit of smut. I don’t always enjoy smut, because sometimes I feel it strays too much from their characterization, but this fic gets it right. It’s funny and charming and the dialogue is spot on. When you’re finished, read the sequel, which has more explicit smut but still manages to be believable for me while also being very sweet.

The First Week of the Rest of their Lives by @deputychairman

“Port gives the worst hangovers in the world, did you know that?” Crowley slurred when the bottle was all gone. “Don’t know who got credit for that one. Nice drink, lovely drink, shame it makes you want to die in the morning.”

“Such a shame,” Aziraphale agreed sadly, watching Crowley stretch out on his sofa. He did like port. He liked Crowley stretched out on his sofa, too.

After a week of lunch dates, Aziraphale is finally ready to face his feelings. This is sexy and just smutty enough and the banter between them in the bedroom is cute but also hot.

Overboard by Laura Shapiro

Asking Crowley to move here with him is, Aziraphale thinks, the bravest thing he has ever done.

Aziraphale tries and fails to deal with his anxiety, and eventually the pining and angst lead to an understanding. I enjoyed the depiction of Aziraphale’s anxiety over he and Crowley’s relationship, and the sex is very well done and you can sense the love in it.

Alternate Universe (AU):

Here’s the thing about AUs: I don’t usually enjoy them. I find that often the characters don’t resemble the ones I know at all, and it prevents me from getting interested in the story. However, I have come across some that I’ve loved, and while the characterizations aren’t necessary recognizable as Aziraphale and Crowley, the stories are compelling and well-written. I tend to think of it as the actors from the TV series playing other parts, and it works for me.

Acts of Service by seekwill

After receiving direct instruction from God, village reverend Aziraphale leaves his countryside congregation to serve the underserved and in-need at an urban church in London, a transition made all the more complicated by the mysterious and handsome Crowley, who always seems to appear when Aziraphale least expects him.

I was thinking about this fic for a while after I finished it. Is it a bit soap operatic? Yes. Is it also compelling and romantic and sexy? Hell yes. Just go read it and decide for yourself. The only reason I didn’t finish the entire fic in one evening is because I read until 1am and then had to wake up four hours later. Otherwise I’d have binged it all in one go.

Only Love (Can Bring the Rain) by soft_october

There were all these little hopes and musings Crowley buried so deep in his heart it ached to bring them out into the light to catalogue their faults and flaws, and each time Aziraphale sought him out, or asked his opinion on some weighty manner that was hanging on him, or even just smiled, those little wishings grew bigger and bigger, pressing in on him until he felt as if he was being crushed.

“Princes do not fall in love with gardener boys,” he told himself one night, staring into the shard of looking glass he kept on a shelf, hoping it would help, hoping that hearing it out loud would make him believe it, would help him put all these ridiculous notions behind him.

It didn’t work.

Crowley and Aziraphale, the gardener’s boy and the prince, meet as children and develop an unlikely friendship.

By the time they’re twenty, everything has changed.

Crowley is a gardener, Aziraphale is a prince, and this reads like a gentle fairy tale. I adore everything about it.

With All Your Delights by @weatheredlaw

Crowley laughed. “I thought you’d have realized by now. I am no ordinary king.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “You certainly are not.”

or: aziraphale is sent as a gift to the southern king to smooth over trade negotiations. they both find themselves in over their heads.

Good Lord, this fic. This fic is so sexy, so romantic, so immersive. The world-building is vague, but somehow that worked for me because I was able to imagine and fill in the gaps as I pleased. Do they 100% resemble any Crowley and Aziraphale that we know? No. But is it a well-written romance that checks off a lot of boxes I enjoy? Yes. There’s angst, but with a happy ending. I think I’ve read this one 3 or 4 times now, which is unheard of for me with an AU.

Slow Show by @mia-ugly

Listen. This. This fic. It’s done something to me. I live for updates on this fic.

Crowley and Aziraphale are co-stars on a Game of Thrones-esque TV show. There’s pining, angst, explicit sex, mentions of past addiction, and somehow, it all comes together in a beautiful story that has me rushing to me computer on Mondays to check and see if it’s been updated. It has wrecked me. The last chapter was a wham and I am desperate for more. I have the utmost admiration for the author because it’s a beautiful, sexy, romantic story and I have never been so eager to read an AU before.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens fic #good omens fic rec #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfic rec #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfiction rec

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consumedkings-archive · 4 years ago

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WITCHING HOUR, a john seed/deputy fic.

chapter ten: the kind of love we gather

word count: 7.5k

rating: m for mature

warnings: there is an interaction with an abusive ex-husband that eludes to physical/domestic violence. also, i think it's fair to warn against joseph himself--whatever argument there is to be had about the sincerity of his feelings, there's a few times where it feels like there's definitely some emotional manipulation happening.

notes: this is an interlude chapter, a little flashback/prelude going through isolde and joseph's relationship--or, at least, a significant part of it (still some secrets to be discovered!). i've had this chapter drawn up for a while and i thought this would be a great cliffhanger/changing point in the story to give their relationship and their dynamic a little more context, so i hope that's alright with y'all!

some of you folks who follow me here on tumblr may recognize a part of this chapter as a smut oneshot i wrote for them; that was the alternate universe to this instance in time, which is firmly rooted in their canon. lmao

it should go without saying that i have yeeted canon out the window for all of ancient names and witching hour, and the way that the seed brothers were pre-reaping and hope county is subject to much the same.

—Before—

The first time that Isolde saw Joseph, she knew she was in for it.

If he had been any other man, she thought, it wouldn’t have been so clearly a disaster waiting to happen. She would have been able to crash and burn with him as she pleased: but he wasn’t just any other man. He was John’s man, his older brother, the one that he tried so hard to live up to and impress. She had only heard of him in passing, but that was all it had taken. Isolde knew exactly how John felt about him.

“Who is that?” she asked, when she spotted the cleanly dressed man across the room. The office was dimly lit with the lights lowered; people mingled and chatted, drinks in hand, as everyone celebrated that they’d been able to move into a nice, new office downtown, with a whole floor to themselves.

John’s gaze followed hers. His expression flattened. “Stop it.”

No fun. Isolde feigned innocence. “Stop what?”

“That’s my brother Joseph, Sol,” he hissed. “Do not try to fuck my brother.”

“You have a couple, don’t you?” she asked. “What’s the one?”

“Fuck off.”

She sighed, taking a sip of her drink. Just her luck. A Seed boy, and yet, so fine. What a waste. “Fine, Johnny,” she said, patting his shoulder. Across the room, she saw Joseph’s gaze land on hers as he politely smiled at one of the other partygoers, and then stay locked, right on her. “I won’t fuck your very hot brother, who is very plainly making eyes at me from across the room.”

“He’s never had great taste in women.” John grimaced. “Off-limits, Isolde, I mean it.”

“Scout’s honor.”

So much for that, anyway, she thought later, when Joseph crossed the party and made his way up to her. He was even more handsome up close, and though long hair wasn’t typically her type, it looked good on him, pulled back and slick. Just enough to look polished.

“You’re Isolde?” Joseph asked, and his eyes swept over her. “That doesn’t seem right.”

“Are you the authority on Isoldes?” she replied. She arched a brow loftily at him. “I didn’t realize I was in the presence of an expert.”

“Well, it’s just that John rarely complains about beautiful women,” he countered easily, the flirtation slipping so seamlessly from his mouth that she might have missed it. “They’re his greatest vice. Yet, he complains incessantly about you.” He paused. “I’m Joseph, his brother.”

That did sound like John. Isolde wrangled a smile, leaned comfortably back against the wall as Joseph sidled over to her. With him in front of her, he almost completely eclipsed out the rest of the party, like he’d suddenly bubbled her and it was just the two of them in the entire room. He was so very good at that—with his eyes on her, it felt as though nobody else in the entire world existed.

“I’m flattered,” she murmured, “that I’ve managed to break John of his greatest vice.”

“I did come to thank you for that.” Joseph’s mouth ticked up into a smile, almost playful, if the rich timbre of his voice wasn’t so soothing. “And for taking good care of John. He’s a...”

Isolde watched Joseph through her lashes. He had no alcohol in his hands, but kept them tucked easily into the pockets of his slacks; he held himself without the easy arrogance that John carried himself. It was more like Joseph knew, exactly, his place in the world, and so didn’t feel the need to assert it. It simply was.

“Handful,” Isolde supplied.

“That’s a good way to put that,” he agreed. A quiet moment stretched between them—an easy silence, and she got the impression that it was going to be like this with him; no pressure to fill the silences—before she shifted on her feet.

“So, how are you going to do it?” she asked him, taking a sip of her drink. Joseph’s gaze, which had drifted to where John was chatting with Jacob and another guest, flickered back to her. The inquisitive tilt of his head followed after, and when she didn’t supply further questioning, he didn’t bother smothering the amused little smile on his face.

“Do what?” he asked.

“Thank me.”

The smile didn’t quite leave his face yet. “Didn’t John give you the same speech about how off-limits we are to each other?”

“Well,” Isolde relented, “whatever is he going to complain about if his brother doesn’t take me out for dinner? I’d be failing him as his vice breaker if I didn’t keep my game fresh.”

“Is that what I’m doing to thank you, then?”

Joseph’s voice was a low, rich sound, rumbling straight through her, vibrating in the cavity of her chest. She thought, instantly, that she’d like to know what it felt like to have him say her name into her skin. Isolde’s lashes fluttered; she hummed thoughtfully and polished off the last of her wine.

Dinner isn’t sex, she reasoned. So technically, I’m not really breaking John’s little agreement.

“It’s an option,” she offered after a moment. And then, in an act of what John would surely describe later as pure spite for his well-being and mental health: “Though you’re welcome to do more, if you feel inclined.”

This finally (finally, a part of her said) elicited a laugh out of Joseph. His eyes slipped from hers, lingering on her mouth before pulling away to the rest of the party, almost reluctantly.

“Tomorrow,” he said after a moment. “Are you free?”

“Technically I’m working,” Isolde drawled, “but lucky for you, I’m the boss and I can make my own hours.”

“Lucky, indeed,” Joseph replied amusedly. “Six, then.”

“And don’t tell John,” Isolde said, as though making a pact. The man inclined his head a little, reaching up and sweeping a loose strand of hair behind her ear and made a low noise of agreement.

“And don’t tell John,” he reiterated. “Yet.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“I asked you for one thing, Isolde!”

John was, as to be expected, upset.

“That’s not true,” Isolde defended, busying her hands with gathering up a few files and tucking them into her bag. “You ask me for a million things, every day. Namely, tolerating your ego. Not to mention keeping your head from exploding every time someone pays you a compliment, and—”

“You know what I mean.” John exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers to his temples as though Isolde had inspired in him the greatest of headaches. She hoped that she had. It would be the least he could suffer, after all of the brainpower she had to expend on the daily to keep him in check.

Leaning back in her chair, Isolde said, “It was just dinner, John.”

“Do not pretend to be stupid all of a sudden,” John snapped. “Joseph does not date around. He doesn’t ever do something that’s just dinner."

"Funny," she mused, "it feels like that's exactly what it was. Eating food together, at a restaurant, during the evening."

John’s head cocked to the side. He leveled her with a singular pointed look and said, “Oh, yeah?”

She squinted at him. “Yeah.”

“Is that so? Then what did you do after dinner, Isolde?” He crossed his arms over his chest, leaned against the wall as he waited for her answer. She kept her face wiped clear of emotions even though John’s question instantly inspired in her a flurry of memories; Joseph, snagging her hand on their way out of the restaurant, leaning in and kissing her; and kissing her, and kissing her, keeping her pulled close against him until she thought she was going to go dizzy from it all.

And then, well—

“We’re two consenting adults, John,” she said at last, and he threw up his hands.

“I explicitly said not to!”

“Yeah, well!” There was no good excuse; she knew that. The excuse was that Joseph was incredibly attractive, and Isolde had wanted him, and so that had been the beginning and the end of it. Still, she kept her eyes on the paper in front of her. “I made that agreement before I got a good look at him. John, I’m actually trying to get some work done, so if you could—”

John scoffed. “One, Joseph is related to me, so of course he’s hot, and two—you’ve got the impulse control of a toddler. I hope you know that.”

He pushed off from the wall and started collecting his things to leave her office; a blissful departure, to be sure, but there was something sitting and stinging in the pit of her stomach that wouldn’t let her leave it to rest.

“Rich,” Isolde said demurely, “coming from the man who can’t stop an endless chain of making-up-breaking-up.”

His movements paused. He stared at her for a long moment, before he said. “Hey, Isolde?”

“Yes, John?”

“Fuck you.” John’s movements resumed to the door. “Fuck you, and see you in the conference room in twenty.” Another pause, and then thrown over his shoulder: “If you’re not too busy letting my brother—”

“Alright, point made!” she exclaimed, exasperated. “It’s really not anything serious. Okay? It was just dinner and a date, that’s all.”

This had him stopping again, paused in the doorway with a bit of frustration welling up in his voice when he said, “You don’t know my brother, Isolde.”

“But I know me. Alright?”

He sighed. “Yes, alright. Twenty minutes, then.”

For a moment, it felt like things had been settled between them. John was still young, she thought; younger than her, and the baby of his brothers, which she knew meant he held on tighter to things that maybe he needed to all the time. Too tight, or too loose, to make it hurt less when something didn’t work out.

But the peace only lasted for a moment, because a few minutes after John had settled back in behind his desk across the hall from her, their secretary came around the corner, her arms filled with a fragrant bouquet of lilies.

“Ms. Khan, you have an admirer!” she exclaimed delightedly. Isolde met John’s eyes across the hall, staring at her with an expression that could only have been described with the phrase I told you so. “It looks like they’re from a gentleman named Joseph S—”

“Thank you, Laura,” Isolde interrupted, clearing her throat. “You can set them on the table there, I’ll find them a vase.”

Laura nodded and smiled, laying the bouquet delicately on the coffee table and then making her way out of the office. Isolde left the flowers untouched for about an hour, unable to stand the thought of John catching her keeping them alive (because she would never hear an end to it), but it was killing her a little bit. She had mentioned once, in an off-hand comment, that she didn’t like the typical flower bouquets like red roses or carnations; lilies were her favorite. One tiny comment, and this was the result?

There was only a note with the flowers. It said, Hoping John isn’t giving you too much trouble. Be by at six for you.

It felt a little treacherous; just enough to make it a bit harder to look at John with a serious face and not burst out laughing at the absurdity of their situation. Thankfully, close to the end of the day John made the dramatic announcement that he thought he was going to kill himself if he had to spend even another second sitting across from the elaborate bouquet.

“I’m going to go home,” he said, shrugging into his coat, “and try to retain at least half of my brain cells.”

Isolde hmm’d. “So just the one, then?

“Ha-ha. Goodnight, Sol.”

“Have a good night.”

It seemed like there were only a few moments of quiet between John’s departure and Joseph’s arrival, though in reality it had been a few hours; focusing felt like a chore, like it took a little extra work to get through the depositions she had to prepare and the emails she had to answer.

Just dinner, she thought. Just dinner and a date, and whatever happened after. And just one more date tonight. Not a big deal; adults go on dates all the time. I’m an adult. It’s fine.

But it wasn’t just that, because she was sure her heart rate had plateaued at a solid one hundred and ten since Joseph’s I’ll pick you up from work text. Because Isolde wasn’t the kind of woman who took a man back to her place on the first date, and yet.

By the time Joseph did swing by to pick her up, John had been gone for a few hours and she’d gotten almost no work done, instead completely consumed by the predicament she’d planted herself in. It did break the rules to date Joseph. No business and pleasure, first and foremost. Normally, Isolde would have considered herself a woman of incredible discipline, able to turn down temptations of varying degrees—but when Joseph rolled through her office door with those stupid, hot yellow aviators on his face, she thought maybe she had overestimated herself.

“You look tired,” Joseph said lightly, brushing some snow out of his hair. Isolde’s expression flattened.

“Thanks, Romeo. ‘Hi, Isolde, how was your day?’ ‘Oh, just fine, except for your brother throwing a baby temper tantrum every five minutes’. ‘You poor thing, Isolde, but you have to tell me how you manage to be so exceptionally beautiful still’.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t look beautiful still,” he replied. His eyes followed her as she walked around her desk, having slid her coat on and collected her purse; they stayed trained on her all the way up to when there was no space left between them, until he was gazing at her with amusement dragging his mouth into a smile.

She said, lightly, “You didn’t say I was beautiful at all, actually.”

Joseph reached up. Though the room was empty of everyone except the two of them, somehow it still felt special when he looked at her—it still felt like nothing else in the entire world mattered to Joseph in that moment except for her. The pad of his thumb brushed her lower lip, his gaze drinking her in, admiring and hungry in equal amounts.

“You are,” he said, his voice low, the timbre of it rattling something animal inside of her. “Beautiful.”

Kiss me, she wanted to say, because he was so close and yet seemed to refuse to actually finish the job. She didn’t think she could have mustered the words even if she wanted to; Joseph was a wildfire, eating up all the oxygen around her, sucking it right out of the air until there was nothing left but for her to feel swallowed by it.

“I wasn’t entirely truthful with you, the other night,” Joseph continued, dragging his thumb from her lip down to her jawline, “when I said that John’s greatest vice was beautiful women.” He paused, his head tilting. “They’re mine.”

Isolde’s lashes fluttered. She glanced up at him, and she said, “Well, that’s not the greatest sales pitch for yourself. How many red flags should I be looking for?”

He laughed and brushed his lips against her temple. “I get the feeling you won’t miss a single one.”

It shouldn’t have been quite so endearing, his casual reference to any red flags that he might have. Even his confidence that she’d pick them out (she would; if finding red flags was an Olympic sport, Isolde would have been a gold medalist) didn’t inspire the greatest feeling in her, though if she was playing devil’s advocate she knew that there were things about herself that didn’t make her so very well acquainted with healthy relationships.

“I’m glad I was able to come and pick you up today,” Joseph continued casually as they left her office and headed down the stairs. “It’s been snowing all afternoon. I’d hate for you to have to drive in this weather.”

And then he did things like that—uncharacteristically gentlemanly of him, to not want her to drive herself home in adverse weather. “I think I would have been fine,” Isolde replied. His fingers brushed hers at her side, snagging them and bringing them up to his mouth to kiss.

“Undoubtedly.”

It hadn’t been a lie, his remark about the snow. By the time they were pushing the doors to the lobby open, bidding the security officer goodnight, at least a solid foot of snow had collected and was pushed up against the lip of the sidewalk.

She grimaced. Winter was her least favorite season. Holiday cheer and Isolde Khan were not two concepts that melded well—not that she was a scrooge, per se, but with her only family halfway across the world and, on top, a tenuous relationship at best, it didn’t make Christmas very fun.

As they walked down the sidewalk, passing Joseph’s car in favor of pursuing a nearby restaurant, the blonde kept their fingers tangled together. The gesture was light, and didn’t demand anything, but it was enough to say something: I want you close to me.

“Does your family come here for the holidays?” Joseph asked lightly, disentangling their hands in favor of giving her hip a squeeze, keeping his hand there as they drifted into a warmly-lit wine bar. “I remember you saying they live in Turkey.”

So Joseph did just have that good of a memory. She’d have to be more careful about the things she said to him. “No,” Isolde replied, desperate to steer the conversation elsewhere. “It’s too far. And I don’t go there.”

“Then what do you do on Christmas?” he prompted. He tugged a seat out for her at a spot farthest away from the door and then planted himself across from her, absently reading over the list of wines.

“This,” she said, gesturing vaguely. And then, in an effort to redirect, again: “You, if you’re around.”

Joseph’s gaze flickered up to hers from across the table. She could tell he was trying to stifle a smile. “You’d have to come all the way to Hope County if you had that penciled into your planner, Miss Khan.”

“Oh, Miss Khan, am I? We’re suddenly very formal with each other.” Isolde grinned. “And what does Joseph Seed, in Hope County, do on Christmas?”

“We haven’t spent many holidays together, but this year I’d like have a big family dinner on Christmas Eve, the handful of us.” He settled back in his chair a little, like he was getting ready to be there for a while. “Since John’s moved out here for work, Jacob’s been out of the country, and we only recently found each other again, we don’t get a lot of time together.” He shrugged. “And you, of course. If you’re around.”

Before she had an opportunity to respond, caught off guard by how easily he wielded her own flirtation against her, she felt a few bodies brush past their table and then pause, only to be followed by a dreadfully familiar voice: “Isolde?”

Something sharp and hot brought her pulse to a grinding stop—or it felt like it, anyway, like all of the breath had been sucked right out of her and she had ceased to be alive anymore, a cadaver sat up to play pretend like in those old photos. No, she thought when she felt a hand touch her shoulder, nausea welling up inside of her. No, I don’t want this, not right now.

“It is you,” Alec said, his voice blooming with warmth. “I thought I recognized you. I know you like this spot.” His hand slid from her shoulder and she felt, without even looking at him, the way he turned his eyes to Joseph. “Who’s your friend?”

“Date,” Isolde bit out. “He’s my date.”

Her ex-husband let out what she could only describe as a comical exhale of breath. Joseph was watching her, inquisitive but ever-so-composed, before he turned his gaze politely to Alec and offered his hand.

“Joseph,” the blonde said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The sight of the two men shaking hands made her want to puke. Everything Alec touched in her life was rotten, putrid—brimming with bile and spoiled, forever. She didn’t want it to be like that with Joseph, too.

Alec began, “I’m—”

“Alec is my ex-husband,” Isolde interrupted, her voice hard, punctuating each consonant of the words that came out of her mouth with violent intent.

Joseph settled back in his seat. Suddenly, Isolde was reminded that he had a penchant for remembering even the smallest throwaway details, and that she’d probably let him in on more than she would have liked about how her relationship had been with Alec without even saying anything. Yes, Isolde thought absently, her brain careening like a plane on fire as she watched Joseph fix his eyes on Alec, yes, he can tell.

“Fresh on the dating scene, and only six months divorced,” Alec remarked lightly, his infuriatingly handsome face the only thing filling up her peripheral. “I’m happy for you, Isolde.”

“So leave,” Isolde snapped. She finally looked at him, really looked at him, and naturally he looked perfect; dark curls, stubble neatly trimmed, eyes bright and amused. There were a few thin, gossamer scars on his face from the last time they were together— but he must have paid quite a bit of money to smooth those out.

He lifted his hands in a show of surrender, his gaze sweeping over her. Just that one gesture felt like a violation—she wanted to smash his face into the table and tell him he didn’t get to even look at her anymore.

“Good luck with this one, Joe,” Alec said, his overly-familiar use of a nickname that Isolde had never heard anyone use with Joseph sticking to her ribs like a heavy dinner. “She’s a wicked little thing.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” Joseph replied serenely.

Alec paused; his gaze lingered on her neck and suddenly he was grinning. Isolde knew what it was he was looking at—a bruise, a remnant of the night before, left by Joseph.

“Yeah,” Alec agreed, “it looks like you’ve already figured out how to handle her.”

Who’s going to pity you? If you were me, you would have seen that you were begging for it. You fucking asked for it.

Isolde stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the wooden paneling of the floor. Sick, she thought, her stomach rolling. I’m going to be sick. “Leaving,” she managed out, only vaguely aware of Joseph also coming to a stand across from her, albeit more composed. “We’re leaving.”

I’m your husband, Isolde. It means it’s my job to keep you in line.

“Not on my account, I hope,” Alec sighed. “You’ve always been so dramatic. Anyway, Joseph—a pleasure to meet you, and—you know, call me if you need help with her. I’m always happy to lend my expertise.”

Everyone knows what it takes to get you under control, and I’ll tell anyone who asks.

She pushed past him, stepping around the table and clutching her coat and purse in her hands. There wasn’t time to put them on; there would never be enough time to get as much space between herself and Alec as she wanted.

I should have killed him, she thought viciously, taking in lungfuls of frigid air, snow dappling her face and sticking to her eyelashes. Right then, I should have bashed his fucking skull in.

Fingers brushed her arm. On instinct she startled, whirling to face the impending threat, half-expecting Alec to have chased her out into the street in an attempt to corner her—a thing that he had taken great joy in before, sweeping things off of the counter to grab and pull and rip—but it was Joseph. He waited two heartbeats before he reached again, his fingertips cradling the crook of her elbow.

It was a question: can I? Will you let me?

“I wish he would die,” she said, without thinking, the words spilling out of her like a poison she just couldn’t hold in anymore. Whatever information Joseph had gleaned about her tumultuous marriage with Alec made him unbothered by this statement; he tugged her closer to him, the hand not holding her arm reaching up to brush the pads of his fingers across her pulse point.

He said, “I know.”

“Joseph—”

“Isolde.” His voice was low, the words murmured against her forehead. “Don’t explain.” Because I already know, is what he meant. Because I already understand what’s going on here.

He tugged her coat out of her hands and pulled it around her shoulders. Bent like he was, leaned into her with something that she thought might be adoration, Joseph brushed their noses together. She felt tension flood her body; she was afraid that he might try to kiss her right then, of what she might do if he did while her body was brutalized by adrenaline, but he didn’t.

He just held her.

“Here,” Joseph said, taking her hand and bringing it to his neck until she could feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his pulse under her fingers. “I’ve got you.”

It should have frightened her. Joseph’s intensity was an intimidating kind, but in these moments, the intensity was required to cut through the panic. It overwhelmed her fried senses, the neurons firing rapidly stifled and swallowed up by the looming responsibility to recognize his closeness. The smell of his cologne, the bump of their noses, the feeling of his stubble under her fingertips, his hands closing the jacket around her shoulders. All of it meant that her brain could no longer panic, and had, instead, something to occupy itself with.

“Can you take me home?” Her voice felt small coming out of her, like it belonged to someone else. A different Isolde, at a different place and time. The girl she might have been or perhaps was before Alec.

Low, Joseph murmured, “Of course. Whatever you need.”

A sick, macabre part of her wanted to look back behind Joseph at the wine bar. It wanted to see Alec again—the way that you couldn’t stop yourself from peeking through your hands at the monster in a horror movie, the way that you couldn’t look away from a brutal car crash on the highway. Sick, she thought dizzily. He made me sick.

“Take me home,” she said, more firmly this time.

“I’m trying,” Joseph replied. His voice was so soft that she almost had to strain to hear it over the pounding of her heart. His hands came to her face, cradling. “You have to let me.”

Isolde nodded, swallowing back what adrenaline insisted on leaking into her brain. She hadn’t realized that she was bolting her feet to the floor, gritting her teeth against the gentle pressure of Joseph’s hands, until he said, you have to let me.

“Okay,” she murmured. He nodded and brushed the hair from her face. This time, his guiding pressure actually registered in her brain; when he nudged her away from the bar and down the street to his car, she moved, instead of digging her heels in.

When they reached the vehicle, he opened the passenger door for her and waited for her to climb in before he leaned down.

“I’m—” Isolde started, the words shredding in her mouth before they got out of her. I’m sorry, she wanted to say. “About—the bar, I—”

“I told you, don’t explain yourself,” Joseph insisted, tucking her hair behind her ear. There was something almost earnest about his gaze now as he watched her, her heart thrumming violently in her chest with a different mantra now. Same, it said, when Joseph’s fingers grazed her cheek, tilted her chin up. Same as us. Ours, too. He’s our kind.

“There’s plenty of people I wish were dead, too.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Shoes, clothes, charger, phone. No phone?

“Where did he put my phone?” Isolde muttered, searching through the suitcase on the bed. An array of clothing was laid out, but not yet folded; in fact, the only things that were packed yet were all work things that she’d have to take with her. Joseph would probably be furious—he had, in fact, specifically insisted that no work come on the vacation—but better than anyone he knew what it was like to rely on John for things. Which was that, if you liked things done to the standard that Joseph and Isolde wanted them done to, you didn’t rely on anyone else. Least of all John.

“Soli…” It was Joseph’s voice coming from the bottom of the stairs, not questioning but asking. Beckoning. You’re taking too long. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

“Where’s my phone?” she called back, pacing around the other side of the bedroom. “I’m trying to pack it up for tomorrow so that I don’t have to worry about it.”

A beat, where Joseph was likely collecting his patience, passed. “It’s down here. You left it on the counter.” And then: “Come eat, won’t you?”

He was doing that thing where he phrased it as a question and meant it as a statement. Joseph had learned, in a very short period of time, that she didn’t like when someone told her what to do; as petulant as it was, she’d buck against something like that desperately until it felt like her idea all along.

Isolde sighed. “Yes, I’m coming, Joseph.” One more up-and-down the stairs, ten more minutes of packing, and then she’d be content enough to sit down and eat.

“Full first name?” came the leisurely reply from downstairs. “My, you are in a mood tonight.”

Isolde busied herself with folding clothes, a smile fighting its way onto her face in spite of Joseph’s insistence that she was “in a mood”. She wasn’t; if he wanted to believe that, he was certainly welcome to, but she wasn’t in a mood. She was thinking.

So she put folded clothes over the work files and said, “Joseph, light of my life; the sun which my planet orbits; the fabric by which the stars are made…”

“This sounds more like the Isolde I’m used to.” His voice was closer now, coming from the doorway, and when she looked over her shoulder at him he said, “And definitely not coming to eat.”

“Do you go by Joe?” she asked lightly, dropping the last of her clothes in the suitcase.

Joseph wandered across the master bedroom until there wasn’t any space left between them; his hand came up to her face, trailing the slope of her cheekbone. “I certainly do not.”

“So, definitely call you that, then.”

“You are testing my greatest virtue,” Joseph replied, leaning down and kissing her. Just the once, though; long enough for her to want to lean into it, and not long enough to be satisfying. He pulled back just so far as to let their lips brush when he said, “Come sit down.”

Skimming her fingers along his chest, she asked playfully, “What are you going to do if I say no?”

The blonde eyed her amusedly. “John was right. You really don’t like being bossed around, do you?”

“How dare you say those words, in that order, in my presence,” Isolde murmured without heat. “You know I can’t stand to have someone stroking his ego by admitting he’s right about something.” A low laugh slipped out of Joseph and he carded his fingers through her hair, letting the pads of his fingers skim the back of her scalp as he kissed her temple.

She loved it. She loved when he did this; Joseph was so tactile, taking every opportunity to connect them through touch, like she grounded him. Like she was something precious that he wanted to enjoy every chance he got.

“You are the only one I’ll say something to more than once,” he said, his voice pleasantly low. “But luckily for you, I find your obstinance endearing.”

“If it helps,” she countered, “I don’t mind if you boss me around. Mostly. Why don’t you give it another try?” That wasn’t true. She did. But she liked the way it made Joseph’s ego inflate the second he did, even if it was for something stupid.

“Sweet girl.” His voice was a pleasant purr against her skin. “Always threatening me with a good time.”

This made her laugh. Joseph kissed the slope of her cheekbone, and then the corner of her mouth, his fingers sliding through her hair affectionately. She finally relented and allowed him to nudge her out through the bedroom door, making her way down the stairs. It wasn’t her first time going on a vacation with a… Friend of the romantic persuasion, but it was her first time going on vacation with a friend of the romantic persuasion back home. She’d never introduced her parents to any man that she’d dated—not only because they were eleven hours away by flight, but because there just hadn’t ever been anyone.

Joseph was—different. But she had always known that; she had always known that he was an exception to a lot of people’s rules, not just her own, and she was violating cardinal rule number one of her own personal regiment, which was “don’t mix business and pleasure”. Pursuing a romantic relationship with your business partner’s older brother didn’t exactly adhere to that, did it?

“It’s going to be hot,” Isolde said, “and the flight is long, and the traffic is going to be… Well, insane. But my parents will definitely insist on feeding us the second we get there—”

“That’s fine.”

“—so what I’m saying is, if I blink at you five times in rapid succession, we need to make up an emergency to leave. What’s the emergency? We have to have one ready and on hand, otherwise my dad will see straight…”

Her voice trailed off. The kitchen was not as she’d left it, a little over an hour ago, to pack. In fact, it was dimly lit by candles, the dining table sporting a bouquet—not roses, like someone might have expected out of a scene like this, but calla lilies. Her favorite.

“What—” She stopped in the doorway, but Joseph sidled up behind her, hands on her hips and nudging her forward. “Joseph, what…?”

“I told you.” He kissed just below her ear, reaching for her left hand and bringing it up to kiss her knuckles there, too. “You’re the only person that I’ll say something to more than once—”

Isolde felt something—something both hot and cold, sharp and too soft—whip through her immediately at the leading tone. “You’re not making any sense,” she managed out, trying to dig her heels in, but Joseph wasn’t trying to push her in any further so it didn’t matter.

“I want you to marry me.” Joseph said against her skin, and he slid something cool and metal along her finger. “I want you to be my wife, Soli.”

A ring, her brain said, the alarm bells ringing immediately. That’s a ring. Holy shit, that’s a really big fucking ring. On your finger. Holy shit.

“Isolde.” Joseph turned her around to look at him fully now, brows furrowing at what was surely a look of panic on her face. What she thought had to be the assumption that they were only nerves, he continued, “I know that—”

“No.” The word came out of her mouth before she could stop it, the single-word-statement fleeing her mouth in her panic. She thought she’d feel regret about it, but she didn’t; only about the way Joseph looked at her when she said it.

He seemed to be gathering himself for a moment, like maybe he didn’t think that she meant it, that she was playing some kind of joke on him.

Joseph began, “If this is your idea of—”

“I mean it,” Isolde interjected. “I won’t marry you, Joseph. So—no. Take this—” She fumbled the engagement ring off of her finger and put it into his hand like it was a cursed item, like she couldn’t get it off of her finger any fucking quicker. “Take this back. And—that’s it, I just don’t want it.”

His eyes were fixed on her, no longer soft in their romanticism, but hard, steely. “And why not?”

She swallowed up a sound that probably would have been close to agony. It was agony, having to explain to him; her mind vibrating at an entirely different frequency than his, the panic settling into her bones. She needed to say, I’ve been married before you and I know what it’s like to give yourself over to someone, she needed to say, I won’t fucking let someone own me, Joseph Seed, she needed to say, I told you two months ago I never wanted to get married again, and you just apparently didn’t listen, which is reason enough.

“I don’t need to justify myself to you,” is what she said instead, going to step around him. But his hand caught her wrist, the carefully manicured and polished exterior fading into something that hit an edge of tension, pulling pulling pulling until she thought she was going to watch him finally snap.

But he said, “You do.”

“Fuck. You,” Sol bit out. The anger flared hot in her chest. It was, at last, a familiar emotion; anger and not panic, filling her up. Drowning out the sadness that tried to rip through her like a wildfire. “I told you. I told you I wasn’t doing it again.”

“I’m different.” Now it was his turn to sound almost petulant, his grip on her wrist like iron. “You said that yourself. That we’re—”

“Not different enough,” she snapped. “Apparently, anyway, since you couldn’t wait longer than two months to try and put your name on me, could you?” Trying to pull her wrist out of his grip proved futile, and she managed out with the timbre of her voice vibrating with poison, “And get your fucking hand off of me, Joseph.”

He stared at her for a long moment before he finally loosened his hold on her wrist. Enough to let her pull away if she wanted to. She didn’t. Isolde stayed firmly put, willing her legs to carry her somewhere else—back home would probably be the best thing, driving the hours it takes between Hope County and the nearest lick of civilization.

You said that yourself. I’m different.

He was. She wanted to say, you are, Joseph, but she didn’t, because she knew that it would only start them in another circle again, a snake swallowing its own tail in an endless cycle.

So they stood there for a moment: neither of them saying anything, her last threat hanging, jolts of anger fizzing and popping in the air between them. Isolde’s hand slid just enough to catch at the wrist in Joseph’s grip, and he took her hand instead, then, tugging lightly to draw her close to him.

Testing her out. Feeling her boundaries. She’d basically said I’ll tear your hand off if you don’t listen to me, but he didn’t think she would. And now he was going to slam those buttons—slide his fingers under her edges until he found the exact farthest he could push her.

“I won’t,” Joseph said, very low and quiet, “let you do this to me, Isolde.”

She had been expecting something else. Something sweet, maybe—Joseph liked to do that. Sweet girl, he’d say to her, and if anyone else had tried to call her girl they would’ve gotten dumped, but with this viper it was different. It didn’t feel condescending when Joseph said it to her. It just felt covetous.

And that’s what he was best at: bite, and then soothe. It made his sharp edges more tolerable. It made them nice. But now he was all sharp edges, only hard lines, catching on her and tearing every time the two of them made contact. It had always been this way; John had said that he thought they were poorly matched, and at the time, she’d written it off as John not liking to share even his business partner with his older brother.

Now more than ever, she thought that he was right. They were both too unwieldy, too wretched, to let someone else sway them from their opinions.

“You are so fucking dramatic,” Isolde said, pulling her hand out of his grip at last and turning on her heel. “We don’t need to be married to be together. And your antiquated notion—”

“There are things I want to accomplish, and they’re best done with a wife—”

“I’m sorry, did you hear a period punctuating the end of my sentence? Don’t fucking talk over me, Joseph,” she snapped. For one split second, she saw something vicious flicker over Joseph’s face—just for that one, tiny second—and then he cleared his face.

After a second of silence, of waiting for Joseph to try and get the last word in, she finished, “You don’t know me well enough to want to marry me. And—marriage is a scam, anyway. I would know, I handle nasty divorces every day at work.” I’ve handled my own nasty divorce. “If you’re looking for a pretty housewife to sit around statuesque and have dinner ready for you when you come home, then—well, then you really don’t fucking know me.”

Joseph was silent. His jaw worked, his eyes sweeping over her, tension radiating off of her until he said, “I guess I don’t.”

“I guess so,” Isolde agreed. Another moment of silence, where it felt like they were circling each other like wounded dogs, and she said, “I’m going to go—”

“Fine,” he interrupted, the thing that he knew she hated. “When you’ve calmed down, we can discuss this like adults.”

“There isn’t anything to discuss,” she said, gathering up her coat and keys and walking up the stairs. “I’m not going to change my mind, Joseph.”

From the kitchen, she heard him agree, “Not yet.”

“Shut up,” Isolde snapped. “You make me so fucking mad.”

He didn’t respond to that; she heard him moving around in the kitchen, gathering things and putting them away as she hauled her suitcase down to the front door. He met her at the door, opening it for her—which pissed her off half as much as him putting an engagement ring on her finger.

It shouldn’t have, but it did. It was like he was saying, I know you’ll be back, so go on. Feel free to leave whenever you’d like.

Like the gentleman he was, he carried her suitcase out and loaded it into the car, lingering around the driver’s side as she threw her coat inside. And then she was the one waiting, unsure of what to do; the muscle memory of her body said, kiss him goodbye, the fury in her brain screaming to get in the car and leave.

“When you change your mind,” he reiterated calmly, reaching up and brushing the hair from her face, “you know how to get in touch with me.”

Isolde’s gaze flickered at the touch, Joseph’s warm, heady cologne washing over her as the space between them vanished. She said, the amber and vetiver of him welling up inside of her and filling her like a wineskin, “I won’t.”

His lips grazed her temple, fingers brushing her jaw. “I love you, Isolde.”

Fucking narcissist, she thought, venomously, pulling away from him. Her gaze drifted over his face, trying to find something familiar, something that reminded her of the man she had thought she had loved—but who had clearly proven he was incapable of thinking of anyone but himself.

So finally, she bit out, “This is what you think love is?”

She wanted the words to sting. She wanted them to wipe the tranquility off of his face. He had always been so composed; the wretchedness in her wanted to shake it out of him, making him squirm like he was so good at doing to her.

But he didn’t; his mouth ticked upward in a serene smile, eyes fixed on her as he stepped back from the car. He seemed confident in himself—that it was love, that she would see it was. One day.

I won’t let you do this to me, he’d said.

“Have a safe drive,” he called, when she slammed the door. It was an hour to the airport; an hour, and then however long of a flight, however long she’d have to wait for the next flight heading out to Georgia.

Joseph turned and walked back inside as she pulled out of the driveway, as carefully as she could through the snow; in her rearview mirror, she saw him stop at the door and turn to look, eyes fixed on her.

There are plenty of people I wish were dead, too.

#fic: witching hour #otp: i could sleep inside the cold of you #witching hour interlude #joseph seed x ofc #joseph seed/ofc #ch: isolde khan #ch: joseph seed #this felt important to include #a lot of it is polished from my pre-cult canon but it feels!!!!!#necessary to give them a bit more context esp for folks who only see my content on ao3 #thank u everyone for being patient w me <3 #my writing #far cry 5 fic #fc5 fic

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suchdan-veryphil · 5 years ago

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You Need To Back Up-Domestic!Kylo Ren Imagine

Me: Why is my fic not getting any notes?

Also me: *Didn’t upload, just saved as a draft*

Request:

Anonymous said: “Wouldn’t you like to know” was pure perfection and the way you wrote kylo *chef kisses* I need more dramatic puppy ren please I’m begging you 🥺 can I request kylo x reader bickering throughout the day? If that makes sense? Like couples squabbling?

Word Count: 1,539

Trigger Warnings: Swearing possibly? Sexual innuendos.

A/N: First of all, thank you for your chef kisses. That’s the best compliment I have ever gotten on a piece of my writing bhahah. Here you go, anon. I hope you like reading it as much as I liked writing it. I wish I could write this forever. I had more things in mind for them to squabble over. I might make a babble out of it.

-------

I woke up knowing that he was home for the day. It was a nice change for once, having him there.

We made breakfast together, took a shower together, had a clean laundry fight, and eventually started a movie. I set it up as he made the snacks. I laughed while I watched the large man carry in two bowls of popcorn, multiple bags of chips, and a bag of loose sweets into the living room.

“Bring anything for me?” I teased, pausing the movie so that he wouldn’t miss anything.

“Nope, and I am not sharing,” he went along with the joke as he placed the snacks on the table and gently pulled me into his side to cuddle comfortably as we took a moment to get comfortable. Once settled, I turned the movie on and rested my head against his chest.

“Can I see the remote?” Kylo reached his arm over in the direction of the remote control in a failed attempt to grab it. I leaned over and held it up for him to take before he paused the movie and turned the subtitles off.

“Woah, what are you doing?”

“Turning off the subtitles. I can’t concentrate on the movie,”

“I like the subtitles, they help me understand the content better,”

“You can’t hear it?”

“That’s not what I said,” I reached for the remote and grunted as he stretched his arm up so that I couldn’t reach it.

“If you can’t hear, we’ll turn it up,” Kylo turned the TV up and pressed play.

“No, now it’s too loud!”

“You really need the subtitles?”

“Yes! How do you not know this already?” I spun my body in a way that allowed me to grab the remote and turn the TV down.

“We never really have time to watch movies together, I guess. Fine, turn them on,”

His voice never raised, his tone remained clear and concise, and he didn’t say anything in a way that made me feel badly.

“Thank you,” I turned the subtitles back on and got comfortable once more to watch the movie.

Kylo ran his hands through my hair and I rubbed mindless circles on his stomach. We didn’t get days like this very often, in fact, the last time he and I had a day to do nothing was before he killed Snoke.

His hands continued to run though my hair and I could feel the heaviness of my eyelids getting stronger. Before I knew it, I woke up tucked into the blanket on the couch with Kylo watching a new movie, sans subtitles.

I stretched a little bit and looked up to him. “Hey, sorry I fell asleep..” I yawned and stood up to see all of the wrappers from the candies and the crumbs from the snacks. I laughed a little and grabbed them by the handful.

“You’re a mess,” I teased as I walked into the kitchen to empty the contents of my hands.

“I was going to clean those up, I didn’t want to wake you-”

“No it’s fine. I was up.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I was joking when I called you a mess, I’m sorry if you took it personally,” I turned to look at him and tilted my head a little.

“No, I don’t take it personally I just - I don’t want you to think that you have to clean up after me,”

“Kylo, my sweet sweet Supreme Leader, I’ve been picking up after you for two years.” I smiled a little, but he didn’t find it very funny. He looked away before turning off the TV and sitting back on the couch.

“I’m not that big of a burden-” I cut him off before his temper rose and he began to jump to extreme conclusions.

“You are not a burden, I was just joking, I’m sorry if it was insensitive.” I walked back over to behind the couch where he was sitting and rubbed his shoulders a bit before kissing the top of his head.

“It’s fine, let’s just drop it.” He put his hand over mine and looked up so that we were looking at one another.

“What do you wanna do? It’s your first time having a day off in, goodness I don’t know how long,”

Kylo shrugged his shoulders. “I just wanna stay in, even the thought of going out right now is making my head hurt.”

I smirked a little and nodded, knowing that he would never voluntarily go out into public only to be surrounded by people. Kylo’s patience was thinner than anyone’s I’d ever met. To test it was to set yourself up for a long night.

“I like the sound of that.”

“Why don’t we get some organizing done? I honestly think I’ll lose my mind if I just sit here all day and do nothing,” Kylo stood up slowly and picked up some of his snacks and drinks to bring to the kitchen. I shrugged and looked around the home. It looked pretty organized to me, but who was I to oppose to the idea of mindless housework with my favorite being in the galaxy?

We started in the bedroom. We cleaned up after our clean laundry fight from that morning, organized our closet, changed our sheets, and went through our clothes that we haven’t worn in months. It didn’t take long before moved into the bathroom and then the kitchen. I sat on the ground while I browsed through the contents of our pantry.

“When is the last time we went through this stuff?” Kylo asked as he went through the fridge and freezer.

“The last time I went to the market...” I paused a moment and looked at the pantry’s contents and started to group them into different categories of foods. Cans of vegetables, chips, granola, pasta, cans of sauce, and things along those lines.

“When was that?” His voice was a little sharp, poking me in the side slightly.

“Like, last week. Why what’s wrong?”

“Half of these things are about to expire, Y/N.” He was placing frozen foods on the counter top, not even looking at me.

“Okay? That’s why we cook them before they expire,”

“We surely can’t cook all of this before the end of this week.”

“End of this week? What gave you that idea?” I put down the can of beans as I stood up and walked over to inspect the unworthy food items on the counter.

“That’s when you’ll be shopping next, no?”

“Yes, but we can still cook these things before they go bad, Kylo. Why are you putting these on the counter? They’re fine. They haven’t even been opened yet.” I grabbed the bags of frozen fruit we used for breakfasts and desserts.

“We can’t use them, we have to throw them away.”

“That isn’t how that works, oh my Force.” I gathered the bags on the counter and went to place them in the freezer.

“What- stop that. What are you doing?”

“I’m putting them back! They will go bad if we let them thaw out,” I shoved the items back on the shelf as I squeezed myself between Kylo and the fridge.

“Y/N, I love you but you need to back up.” Kylo took them back out of the freezer, ticking me off a little bit. “Are you seriously getting upset?”

I locked my jaw to contain myself before I shook my head. “No...” I lied.

“I sense it. You’re getting angry. I just want us to have fresh food, Y/N.”

I took a deep breath and sighed. “I know that, but there’s no need to throw out food that is frozen and is absolutely fine to consume.

We faced each other, each of us holding up our frozen food item. The staring contest lasted all of a minute before I watched him slowly put the food back in the freezer.

“Thank you.” I set the contents of my hand onto the counter beside the rest of the poor unwanted food before I walked over to the pantry again and finished up my project. I soon heard the freezer door shut and Kylo speak.

“I’m done organizing.”

I took a look around the pantry and moved a few things around before replying, “Me too.”

“No, I mean forever,” Kylo then sat in his usual spot at the dinner table.

I closed the door to the pantry and turned to face him. “Forever?”

He replied with a nod, not looking at me. I held in my giggle as I walked over to him and sat on his lap, wrapping my arms around him.

“Well, we got through three rooms...” I paused as I rested my head on his shoulder.

“Yea.. but we can never do that ever again,”

I looked up at him and smirked, “well, not together at least.”

The chuckle that escaped him let me know that he was over any kind of tension there may have been over the frozen fruit.

“I can think of something else that we can do together,” he said softly, somehow not losing any depth to his voice, as he kissed the side of my face.

“Lead the way, Supreme Leader...”

#kylo ren #kylo x reader #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren imagines #kylo ren fluff #requested #star wars #Star Wars Fic #star wars imagine #ben solo #ben solo imagine #ben solo one shot #ben solo x reader #ben solo deserved better #domestic!kylo ren

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noocturnalchild · 4 years ago

Text

Of Thieves and Poets

Warning : Mention of abuse, light depiction of wounds, hurt

Well, that was a hard chapter to write, mainly cause I’m still strugling with my English, and sometimes, ideas are here but I find no words to describe them as I want to !

Many thanks to a great friend who’s always been there to beta read my fics and correct the MANY language mistakes I’m still making,it’s a shame that I can’t tag her here !

Sara maybe you’ll never read this but I LOVE YOU ( this is me talking to myself lol)

Also many thanks to all who are sharing and liking my fics, I love you guys, you are the best !

All the poetry in this chapter is William Carlos Williams’ !

Chapter one here !

Chapter 2

Give me something to eat! Let me take you to the hospital, I said and after you are well you can do as you please. She smiled, Yes you do what you please first then I can do what I please

“Who’s she?”

The day Laura died, he wrote his most accomplished poem. It rested between her cold fingers, folded in a small sheet of damp paper and he briefly wondered if the dead could read. Heavy rain washed the sleepy city that day, and everyone said that they’d never seen so many white peonies in the same place before. He buried all his other poem books with her, tucked between her curls and the black and white satin.

He never made a copy.

Paterson didn’t write love poems anymore. But never were his fingers as ink stained, bruised and abused by so many hours spent writing as they were now, and never was his desk inundated by so many notebooks. They piled up in complete disorder, competing with books and tools, making the old wood squeak uncomfortably.

“Who’s she”

Only now he saw her fiddling with the framed photo he kept on his living room table, so that it was always the first thing he saw as he woke up.

“Wife?”

Paterson didn’t answer.

Mina had her back turned to him. She couldn’t see the man’s eyes watering, or the frown of his brows, nor could she feel his struggle with his breath, repressing the tides of anguish that menaced to crash on him again.

“Gorgeous, dude! bet she gives great head” She turned to look at him over her shoulder, winked suggestively.

Beaming and smug at the same time, Mina looked like one who’s sure just dropped something so smart and funny, completely oblivious of the hands clutching on the cold marble of the kitchen counter. White knuckles, white pain…

“No complaints.“

Paterson’s reply of choice. Life was going on for everybody, for him too. Doc got a TV in his bar after all. Marie went to New York and Everett to LA. And he was still a bus driver, eating cereals every morning, writing in his yellow pages and sitting on the wet benches of Paterson’s waterfalls, so why would he complain?

“Go and freshen up, bathroom first door to the left”

“You’re no fun” She stuck out her tongue and left. Paterson couldn’t be mad.

Laura was laughing, straddling the arm of the sofa and eyeing him with mischief in her eyes. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Won’t ya help me with my clothes?”

“I can’t do much with a broken wrist”

“It hurts”

(…)

“Dude, come on, so prudish!”

Laura had a hand on her mouth now, in mock shock, her eyes were still laughing, and Paterson was confused, a pretty blush rising to his cheeks. He remembered now that the only clothes he had that might fit Mina were Laura’s, and even those were big for the bony creature waiting for his help in his bathroom.

“Hold… hold on a second”

Paterson drew in a shaky breath, fetched one of his sleep shirts from his bed drawers, strode to open the bathroom door and… oh God.

A trembling dry leaf stood before him. Only in her white crop top and equally white panties; Paterson imagined her cracking under the passers-by’s soles, giving in under their rough stumpings, each one leaving a stain on her weak frame. Paterson’s eyes descended to her bare thighs, and she kept her eyes on the floor.

“Jesus… Who… who did this to you?”

Her thighs were a hideous map, little red and yellowish scabbed dots and circles on tarnished, discolored skin.

She shrugged, eyes avoiding his. Why would he care, why was he so insistent, why couldn’t he just be like the others, why won’t he try something with her, on her, like she deserves… she would let him, this one, she would.

“Just help me with my top” a wobbly voice replied, but Paterson was already looking for something in his medicine cabinet.

“Sit on the stool there” His hands were shaking as he put the ointment and the bandages on the side and proceeded to wet a washcloth.

“Can… I?” He kneeled, and their eyes met. She kept silent and nodded and he thought the sparkle in her eyes was gratitude.

With infinite gentle touches, Paterson washed her thighs and legs, dried them carefully, applied the ointment and wrapped them in clean bandages.

Laura was watching in reverence. The scene exuded something religious; the saint washing the sinner’s faults. And none spoke a word.

Afterwards, Mina laid in white clean sheets, but for all the comfort she had, she couldn’t sleep the few hours separating the night from dawn. She counted the hours, watching the bus driver as he slept peaceful and soft; not so far from her spot on the sofa.

The domestic rituals, the warm clothes, the vanilla soap smell lingering, the nice buzzing of the fridge in a quiet space, and the dim light he kept on just for her… His… his kindness coiled her like sticky ropes. Mina was suffocating.

She got up, slid in her dirty jeans, but kept his shirt on, and with a final brush of his hair, she took his watch and slipped out of the quiet house, and the monsters took her in their arms again.

***

Recycled air and synthetic notes, shopping carts rolling and low, lustful giggles.

With his favorite brand of cereal in hand, Paterson’s food shopping was almost done for the day. He was just strolling, verses starting to form in the fog of his mind as he saw two forms melting in each other, just against one of the snack vending machines. A smile began to tug on his lips. Life was simple, young lovers making out in malls and supermarkets, in the streets and gardens; the boy handsy, in baggy jeans and a loose jumper, fake golden chains around black collar, the girl…the girl.

Paterson’s mind went blank, and verses fled away like frightened pigeons.

“Oi man, whatcha lookin’ at!”

The guy addressed a dazed Paterson, and the girl turned her head from off her lover’s chest.

In all the scenarios she imagined at night, curled up in the corners of the streets and between the brushwood of the parks , meeting him again while in the arms of another man was never on the list. It shouldn’t be like that, it wasn’t supposed to be like that. He shouldn’t think that she… but what was she anyway? She was everything he might think of her now.

He was so beautiful she wanted to bury her pain in his chest, between the threads of his regal hair. Curl all the hurt in a bundle and he would take it, in his large warm palm. He would know how to make it disappear, like by magic, vanish in thin air. With a touch of his finger pads, he could wash away scars; wipe away the purples and the blues and the burns. He was so clean she feared to touch him. He was so wholesome and she felt so queasy, so sickening she wanted to puke. Her hand skimmed the hidden pocket in her rat nibbled jean vest; the watch was still there, burning a hole in its worn fabric. She didn’t pass it on to Ian. It earned her new cigarette burns and a slap that made her nose bleed a little, but she had survived worse treatments.

“Who’s that, you know that guy? You do boring now?”

Carlos giggled, showcasing many missed teeth. He pinched her sides playfully, slapped her cheek playfully, squeezed her tits playfully, and she wished to die.

“Yo dude, wanna suck my dick? Ow no? Maybe a threesome? My chick here gives amazing head”

Oh, that again.

“See, not interested”

Carlos giggles sounded like gallows bells.

“I’m not your chick, for fuck’s sake!”

Mina screamed in frustration, pushed a stunned Carlos away, wriggled free from his sloppy hold, hand reaching out for salvation.

“I’m… I’m sorry!”

What she meant to be loud and clear, came out as a choked whisper.

But Paterson was already turning his back to her. This time he didn’t wait for her, not even a hum or a discarding hand, his long silhouette drawing away, swallowed by the light.

Life was going on, no complaints.

***

Mina was out, really out.

Even when she told him she wouldn’t play “pretend” with him anymore, Carlos still hung around for some time, and the money she could get from him she saved with scrutiny, starving herself to death. She never came back to the “pack”; her steps always took her to the quiet small house at the end of the stairs. She lurked there, watching when the lights went on, and stayed hunched behind shrubs and bushes, clutching the watch to her heart, listening to their combined tic tic tic… the mechanics soothed her, and she slept there every night.

Whatever happens, never sell the watch.

She started doing windshield scrubbing too, helped some nice grocery shop owners with their crates for some dollars, and by the end of the month she could buy a dozen cigarette packs and tissue boxes to sell in the streets. She was always hungry, but at least she could picture him in the back of her mind smiling, not disappointed in her anymore. He might not know, for now, but the thought was comforting. The thought was like a pier, supporting the bridge she was building towards him and she was sure she would reach him again, one day.

***

Sun benches at the curb bespeak another season, truncated poplars that having served for shade served also later for the fire.

It was Saturday morning. The rainy clouds of the day before blew over for a shiny crystal sun to come out. Excitement and expectations wired the air with buzzing electricity around Hinchliff Stadium. Kids and teens, middle aged and old people formed noisy groups, stomping on empty chips bags and placing bets.

Mina thought herself lucky when she laid hands on second hand baseball game tickets. Her wrist completely healed now, she roamed the area around the stadium, surfed the crowd, hands full, voice rusty from a cold she was nursing, over exploited vocal chords, yelling, trying to convince hurried passers-by to buy, by means of jokes and charms.

That’s when she saw him.

“Fuckin’ Carlos” a livid Mina stumbled a few steps backward, eyes seeking a gap between the crowds, quickly calculating her way out.

Fuck!

She could recognize Ian’s red sneakers anywhere. She thanked the heavens for his poor cover-up skills, giving her the high ground for a moment. She knew he could see her, but she took her chance. One group blocked his vision for a moment, and Mina took off her oversized leather jacket, let her hair down and started to walk slowly in the opposite direction.

She mentally counted to ten, chewing furiously on an overused gum, her hands started sweating. She knew that if caught this time, it wouldn’t just be cigarette burns on her thighs.

So Mina ran.

She ran aimlessly, not looking back, eyes closed and breath shagged. She could feel the adrenaline rush shot through her bones, just like every time she plunged her skillful hands inside the pockets of an oblivious passer-by, but this time there would be no euphoria of the gain waiting at the end of the road, just a sliced head.

Five minutes of sprinting and she couldn’t take it anymore, were her lungs that damaged? Fuck you Carlos, couldn’t keep his trap shut! Fuck! She was losing speed, she could hear Ian’s red sneakers batting the asphalt, tap tap tap, just behind. It was common belief that, at moments like these, the film of your whole life would flash back before your eyes, that the spool of all your wrongs would unfurl the threads that would wind around your legs and throat, choke you to death, drag you to hell. But Mina only saw two amber gems, Mina saw warmth and large, strong arms wrapping her in endless depths of comfort, and she felt peace descend upon her, Mina saw the future so she ran faster, and this time, with one destination in mind.

#paterson #adam driver #paterson x original female character #paterson 2016 #adam driver fanfics #fanfics #hurt #she's a mess #forgive her #he's wholesome #pat needs a hug #paterson fan fics

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polandspringz · 4 years ago

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Director’s Cut of My Fic “I’d Rather Be Dry” Part 2 (Chapter 3)

Chapter 3 was probably the most painful chapter of a fic I’ve ever had to write, and not because I was sad writing the sad scenes. No, this fic was physically painful to write because it took 3 days and I was struggling to sit down and write it the entire time because even though I had the whole thing planned out, I just felt like I was dragging through it and eventually had to change some things to speed it up a bit. Still, it ended up being the longest chapter because I had to tie up so many loose ends! Luckily for me, my beta-reader @primal-shitposts read it through for me again, so I didn’t have to suffer again!!! If you want to support not only me but my beta-reader who makes sure my fic lacks grammar errors (and also gives you this great commentary on these types of posts), please go to their art blog @primal-interstellar and give their artwork some love!!! They deserve it after slogging through this mess of a fic for a game they don’t even play.

Since there are a lot of funny quotes from this proof-read, I’ll post them all under read more. Beta-reader (Primal) is in pink. If you see blue text, that’s me typing stuff in frantically before she skipped to the next line:

I actually originally wrote the opening scene with Satan in a lot more detail. It dropped us in the present where he was in the office, and Diavolo and everyone was just looking on as he slowly ran out of energy. But, I got about 3 pages in and realized it was dragging and so I cut it and swapped it for a flashback on the walk home.

While I intended for this to be a much more dramatic anime scene of Satan just silent as he ran out of steam and could barely move his arms save for slapping the guy, I love this interpretation.

I CAN’T EXPLAIN WHY BUT THIS WAS THE FUNNIEST COMMENT IN THE DOCUMENT. NOTHING TOPPED THIS. I DON’T UNDERSTAND BUT IT’S SO OUT OF LEFT FIELD IT HAD ME DYING

Primal knows about Lucifer birthing Satan because the moment I started playing the game I made her watch a crack video with me that mentioned it. Although I know she likes Leviathan cause sea monsters, I’m convinced Satan might be one of her favorites. On a side note, writing dialogue for Satan is very hard because he is very proper but when he snaps, I always feel unsure of whether it sounds believable or just like a string of curses that a twelve year old would think sounds cool. 😎 I do like the father/son dynamic Lucifer and Satan hint at though (and from what I hear the new lessons might be adding on to that? oWO)

I honestly don’t know how the demons who attacked MC aren’t dead yet. They’re basically disfigured and then Satan just doubled the damage and then tripled it in the council room this chapter. Somehow they’re not dead though! I wonder what MC will have to say about their punishment...

QUICK, SOMEONE DRAW SATAN WITH THE CRAFTING TABLE STARING AT THE DOOR WHILE THE EQUATIONS FLY BY HIS HEAD

I did choose the “yes” option when Beel asked to eat me in the animal event. It was not because of vore though, but I do make many vore jokes. I could imagine MC being forced to explain vore to Lucifer (or all the brothers) after making a joke and them being confused. Writing Beel’s breakdown this chapter wasn’t initially planned, and it was sort of what really started to make writing this fic slow down because as you might notice throughout the fic, I suddenly felt the need to give every brother an equal amount of screen time which sort of led to me RUNNING OUT OF VERBS for how to make each breakdown unique.

Okay, so the next part. I was actively seeing the comments as they popped up, but there was a delay with the comment box on the side appearing before the actual comments in the text. So, I saw this:

And had two seconds to go “Oh no” before this was added:

From here on it was chaos.

Listen, the boys are idiots. They’re all concerned, Mammon just doesn’t want MC to get upset again. In reality, this sort of dialogue stemmed more from me still lingering on the original idea of the fic. The original concept of this fic (when it was just a one-shot) was MC still getting attacked by a demon in the locker-room showers (for their soul) but because I was originally thinking about a female reader, I knew that it could have more of an undertone for sexual assault. I actually first discussed the fic idea with Primal months back when I first got into Obey Me, because I wanted to write a snippet of each brother helping MC after the event (it wasn’t going to be extreme, I was thinking more accidental scratches during the scuffle closer to the chest and such and maybe the assailants having more dialogue demeaning MC for being around the 7 brothers all the time) but I realized I didn’t have much experience with that and it would make writing scenes that I thought about (such as Asmo wanting to give MC a bath as aftercare) difficult as I could see someone after an attack like that not wanting to be in a bathroom with someone else or be vulnerable to them. I ended up playing with that idea in my previous Mammon fic with more different comfort aspects and touching on that kind of assault briefly, so this fic ended up just being focused on the brothers’ being upset over what happened to MC.

As much as writing Satan’s angry dialogue is a pain, I have fun making him talk with a more formal tone, it’s closer to how I normally talk, and prefer to write my characters talking. I have no problem writing contractions or more casual speech, but for one of my fantasy stories, where I’m writing in English but trying to differentiate different languages through italics or just whether they use certain contractions or not, I tend to really stress the characters that use absolutely zero and more complicated synonyms.

I DON’T KNOW WHY BUT IT WOULD BE HILARIOUS IF MC JUST ASKED FOR SOUP OUT OF THE BLUE I’M IMAGINING ASMO BEING LIKE “BITCH I TOOK ALL THIS TIME DEBATING OVER HOT OR COLD TEA AND NOW YOU’RE SAYING YOU’RE FINE WITH HOT SOUP???”

I know the shower idea may have been really corny or cringey. I know a lot of people write things like the water in Devildom as being much hotter (cause their near hell and their demons! It makes sense, also I think Asmo might have mentioned in a text chat he would make the water cooler for MC? But I could be wrong) but I imagine their is some demons who aren’t powerful enough to handle a lot of the settings. Of course though, our demon bros are 7 of the highest demons in Devildom, so they’re immune.

*Slaps this comment* Congrats, Primal. You just summarized the entire chapter.

I find Leviachan to be such a funny nickname, mainly because writing any dialogue for Levi makes me cringe because while I was a VERY big weeaboo in elementary and middle school, I was so lucky I never hit his stage of acting like an otaku. While it’s charming, having to type him in more modern fic is even more painful because it’s like “oh god he actually goes into the real world and talks like this). Sidenote, I always mispronounce Levi’s name when I’m talking about him, mainly because I have to remember so many anime characters where their name is pronounced Lee-Vai or I just think of the brand of jeans (fashion major brain). So, whenever I’m talking out loud about him to someone, I have to stop and be like, “Levi... Leviachan...Leviathan...” because that “a” sound corrects my brain to how it’s supposed to be.

*throws confetti again* Believe I felt the pain of this fic dragging through every boy going back on their character development I had given them but I felt it was only fair that each of them got time with MC. As the tag on archive says, “everybody gets time to shine with MC”. (I really just want to write Barbatos’ scene for chapter 4 though)

This scene was hard to write because I wanted Levi to get closure on the scene with MC, but I couldn’t have him straight up kabedon them because then he would be cornering them and I thought that would be too much like what MC went through in the shower. Although I didn’t write anyone in explicitly summarizing what happened to MC, and Levi saw the least of it, I think he’s seen enough series depicting it to know that cornering them would be bad, but he still wants to show that he loves them and cares about them. Also, when I was writing this, I remember just going through a counter of who got the most smooches in chapter 3. Originally only Mammon was going to get 2, putting him in the lead above everyone who got 1, but then I felt back for giving Levi the least screen time and just gave him 3.

Honestly, chapter 3 really took a turn for a more intimate chapter??? Especially with Asmo’s one-on-one scene with MC, it was all downhill from there. I have noticed with quarantine, my writing has become more focused on touch (if you read any of my Balance:Unlimited fics or even my Mammon fic, you would definitely die if you tried to do a drinking game with the number of times someone TOUCHES the other gently). It’s just an unfortunate projection issue that comes with writing.

And here is complete chaos. I had blocked this game from my memory and then I was forced to remember it right here.

Removing these meme images from the fic text will be tedious, and painful. But, I am preserving them here. (I type up these directors’ cuts before publishing the final version of the fic, so I don’t lose the comments)

I’m not even at lesson 16 yet, but based on all the spoilers I read, watched, and scene for research purposes, I’m pretty sure it was more of a-

This is what writing 11k+ words for one chapter worth it. The final read through I get to enjoy things like this.

I wish Belphie was 7′2″. 😳 I like Beel but Belphie is one of my favs. Ironically enough he was the one who skipped this fic. (I’ll make it up to you one day, Belphie fans.... will we ever know what they talked about and what made Belphie cry? Personally, I think it’s like the iceberg effect Hemingway talked about, and says more under the surface... it’s totally not because I got burned out, lolololol.... 🤭)

I WAS ACCIDENTALLY FEEDING DIALUCI STANS but again, if you’ve read my Mammon fic, you probably know my true thoughts on Diavolo and Lucifer’s relationship. This fic is so MC focused, I wasn’t intending to write it in so much, Diavolo was just supposed to order Lucifer to go home, that’s it. But, I got rejuvenated when I hit Lucifer’s scene, because I knew it was the homestretch for the chapter! I really played up a Hamilton reference accidentally, having the “Go home” line repeated, because it just felt like the vibe the scene was getting at. I am hoping to explore Diavolo and Lucifer’s relationship more in my modern au fic, Siberia.

I hate tumblr because if I attach a link in the initial post, this won’t appear in the tag, but Primal’s comment here made me think of this art I saw of Lucifer and Satan the other day by ObsessiveAlice (I don’t want to tag them because they’ll be so confused by this long unrelated post! But I’ll put the link to their art in the notes/replies on this post, so check them out!!!)

I know it wasn’t the most romantic kiss but again I WAS RUNNING OUT OF WAYS TO MAKE THE BROTHERS HAVE UNIQUE SCENES SO I GOT DESPERATE.

And that’s the end!!! Again, if you liked the fic, more than giving me a like or reblog, please go check out Primal’s wonderful artwork @primal-interstellar !!! She does a lot of great oc work and it needs more recognition!!! Almost all of my fics would never get posted without her help, so please, please, please show her support! (She has an animatic she just made which I will also link in the replies!!! Please give that love too!!!)

Anyway, if you made it to the end, I don’t know if you got a laugh out of this, but I hope you enjoyed the fic commentary somewhat! I was going to post chapter 3+4 at the same time like I did the prior chapters, but chapter 3 took so long I had to just lay on my floor for 3 hours earlier today to take a break from it, lol. Luckily, I’m very excited for chapter 4, so it shouldn’t take as long!!!

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me mc #obey me masters #writing #my writing #fanfic #fic #obey me fic #directors cut

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lovely-van · 4 years ago

Text

emily (part one)

Of course she had feelings for him. How could she not? Van was fucking perfect. But she didn’t want to tell him that. Emily was so used to being alone mostly, only casually dating guys, cutting things off if it seemed like too much. And she really, really didn’t want to let him in. But Van was doing his best to work his way into her life.

word count: 11k+

warnings: language, some smut, drug use etc

notes: i am so so sorry that it took me this long to post!!! i’ve honestly been just kind of relaxing since finals ended and it took me a while to edit but here is part one! also this isn’t a song fic i just didn’t know what else to name it hahaha and this is def not my fav story but it was the first piece i wrote so here ya go :)

Emily always loved parties. She loved them in high school and even more so now that she was a few years into college. Although she didn’t prefer to be the life of the party per se - she wasn’t quite outgoing enough - she just loved the atmosphere. All of the people drinking too much, dancing, making mistakes and living out their youth. Her mother always gave her the same disappointed look when she went out on a Saturday night in high school. Emily would roll her eyes, grab her jacket, and groan, “Mom, don’t look at me like that.” Emily’s mom would just shake her head and mutter something about how at least she had good grades.

Tonight was no different. It was the last Saturday before fall semester started, the last chance to let loose before classes and endless schoolwork began. Emily sat in front of her bathroom mirror, applying mascara while her friend Mary fumbled around with the speaker. “Mary, I’m dying in this silence. What the fuck are you doing with that thing?”

Mary let out a frustrated groan. “The bluetooth isn’t working. I swear I’m gonna fucking break it!” Suddenly rap music started blasting from the small speaker. Mary let out a little scream which drew a chuckle from Emily. “Finally,” Mary muttered. She slid into the bathroom behind Emily, plugging in her curling iron.

“I can’t believe summer’s over already,” Emily said, finishing up her highlighter. She gave herself one last glance in the mirror and figured she looked good enough. It was still so hot being early September she couldn’t even think about wearing a jacket, especially knowing how hot the frat houses would be.

“Ugh, I know. And we only have one year left after this!” Mary whined. Both Mary and Emily were juniors at their college while their other roommates were all sophomores. This led to them feeling really old and nostalgic often, even though they were really only halfway through their college career. Carson, one of their younger roommates, always teased them about being old women. Mary and Emily would object to this immediately, of course, putting up a fight about how they couldn’t even legally drink yet.

Emily nodded sadly in agreement, spraying on a little perfume. She left the bathroom and ran down the stairs, tightening the little pigtails she had put in for the half-up look she was digging lately.

Carson and Spencer, the other roommates, were all downstairs drinking already. They were playing some video game and occasionally shouting at it. Just as Emily passed the door at the bottom of the steps, it opened. Emily jumped, laughing when she saw it was Spencer’s girlfriend, Sarah. “You scared the shit out of me!” Emily said as Sarah giggled too.

“My bad,” Sarah said. She walked in, taking a seat right next to Spencer who wrapped an arm around her waist, leaning over to kiss her. The two were high school sweethearts and very much in love, which disgusted pretty much everyone else in the apartment. But they were cute and so happy together that the rest of their friends put up with them.

“Hi babe,” Spencer said, kissing her one more time before going back to playing. Emily fixed herself a drink and hoped to get a little buzzed by the time they left.

---

The party was in full force by the time the five of them arrived. Emily did manage to get a decent buzz going which helped when she looked around at the disgusting scene of the party. Frat parties were like no other, people grinding throughout the whole dance floor, couples making out wherever they wanted, and the floor was always sticky. Emily and Mary snagged a couple drinks from the makeshift bar in the kitchen that was really just the island and made their way into the dance floor. The DJ was playing very questionable music which was annoying to Emily since her favorite thing about parties was dancing.

Despite the shitty music that consisted of mostly shitty remixes, Emily and Mary danced hard to every song. After a few minutes, they bumped into a few people they knew who were complaining about the summer ending. They chatted for a bit, trying to discuss their upcoming schedules for the school year when they were interrupted by someone on a microphone. “Alright so clearly, Dylan here sucks as a DJ. This was his tryout and he failed. So my boy Max is gonna take over!” The crowd cheered and Emily almost felt bad for poor Dylan until the new DJ started playing some really good throwback songs. Immediately, Emily and Mary felt much better, dancing way harder and sweating even more. The other thing about frat parties is they were always so fucking hot.

Emily noticed that Carson seemed to be interested in this really short girl near them, which was pretty funny because Carson was 6’5. She was happy to see him lean down and start talking to her, and within a few minutes she was standing in front of him somehow managing to dance despite the height difference. Looking around, there were definitely a few attractive guys but none that particularly stuck out to Emily. Oh well, the night’s early.

After a few minutes, Emily’s hair started sticking to the side of her face and she knew she needed a break. “Do you wanna take a shot?” Emily shouted at Mary who nodded eagerly. The two trekked through the crowd, weaving their way through all the sweaty people. They reached the bar, passing Spencer and Sarah in the corner, giggling to themselves. “Do you guys have tequila?” Emily shouted at the bartender who nodded. She put up two fingers and smiled, “thanks!” He poured some tequila into two dixie cups and shoved them over.

“Tequila? You’ve got to be out of your mind, love.” Emily nearly choked on the shot in surprise. Love? She managed to swallow again and looked to her right. Leaning against the wall was a tall, almost ridiculously attractive man. His large hand engulfed the red solo cup that he took a sip out of. He pushed his hair back with the other hand, leaving it annoyingly perfectly tousled. He smirked at Emily.

“What’s wrong with tequila?” she questioned, leaning on the bar with one hand.

The guy wrinkled his nose. “Can’t stand the stuff. Got real fucked off it one night and well, y’know.”

“Yeah, that’ll happen. One of my friends took a shot of it once and then threw up all over the dude next to her,” Emily laughed.

The guy chuckled and took another sip. “Glad you didn’t do that to me.” Emily couldn’t help but marvel over his accent. Definitely British - plus the whole ‘love’ thing. She also wondered how the hell he was wearing a button down shirt and jeans with how hot it was in the house.

“Yeah that’d be fucking disgusting,” Emily snorted. More people were trying to come into the kitchen for drinks plus it was obnoxiously loud, which meant she had to move a little closer to the random guy. She realized she could have just left the crowded area but for some reason she didn’t want to.

“I’m gonna go back,” Mary stepped over to say. She had been talking to the bartender but she just shot Emily a smile and headed out.

“So what’s your name then?” The guy asked, bringing Emily’s attention back. She leaned up against the wall next to him.

“Emily.”

“I’m Van,” he stated with a grin. Van? Emily thought, weird name.

“Like Van Morrison or what?” she shot back. He chuckled and nodded.

“Exactly.” Emily wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or if this guy really was that attractive but she knew she didn’t want to leave him yet. His eyes were so mischievous and his smile was so cute she just felt she had to get to know him better.

Van just sipped his drink again and Emily wondered why he’d even been standing here alone in the first place. “Sooo... you wanna take a shot with me?” Emily smirked.

Van scoffed in response. “Oh, of tequila I suppose?” Emily nodded. “Alright then, I guess so. Hey, Ryan could we get two shots of tequila?” he directed at the bartender who nodded.

“Yeah, I got you.” Van pushed off his place from the wall and Emily followed, moving right next to him on the bar. Ryan poured the shots and pushed them across the counter.

“Thanks, mate,” Van said before letting out a sigh. “Why am I doing this again?” he laughed.

Emily shrugged. “For me, I guess?” Van debated this and then nodded.

“Yeah, guess so. Alright, cheers,” he muttered before he and Emily downed their shots. Van cringed, making a nauseated face. “Fucking disgustin’.”

Emily laughed, feeling pleased with herself for being able to drink it so easily. “What’s your drink of choice, then?”

“I dunno, probably just a beer. Or maybe vodka,” Van replied. He caught the bartender’s attention again and motioned for two regular drinks. More people were trying to come into the kitchen, nearly shoving the two out of the way. Emily quickly grabbed the drinks from the bartender. “Shit,” Van mumbled when a guy bumped into him, bringing his hand to the small of Emily’s back and gently pushing her back to the wall so they could lean again.

“So you’re British, right?” Emily questioned, handing him his drink.

“Yeah, I’m from Wales, moved here for school though.” He nodded his head along to the song which was actually quite good. Max was doing much better as the DJ.

“And why’d you come here?”

Van shrugged. “I dunno, I really always wanted to come to the states, I suppose. Actually one of my good mates from back home was close with a guy who came here for uni and he made it sound so amazing I thought, fuck it why not try it out? And course I love it ‘ere,” he rambled then looked down at Emily who was smiling softly up at him. Was it the tequila? Or did he somehow even hotter? Emily wanted to jump him right there. “What about you, where are you from?” Wow, his eyes are so fucking blue. And those eyelashes… Emily felt all squirmy as he stared down at her.

Emily laughed. “You’ll never guess.”

“Oh, bet I will. You’re from… New York.” Was he leaning closer to her?

“Nope.” He definitely was.

“Texas?” Was he?

“Nope.” He smelled so good. How did he smell that good in a grimy, nasty frat party?

“Okay, I give in. Tell me,” Van grinned.

“Minnesota,” Emily replied, letting out a laugh at his raised eyebrows.

“Wow, I never would’ve guessed that. I can’t say I’ve ever met someone from Minnesota, don’t think. The place with all the snow, yeah?”

Emily continued sipping on her drink. “Exactly.” Van shook his head, probably in disbelief.

“And what are you doing in California?” he mused.

Emily couldn’t help but just stare at him. God, he was fucking hot. He kept pushing back his hair or tucking a little bit behind his ear, which of course was golden brown and a little longer like she loved, curling up at the bottom of his neck. “This is a really good school. Plus, it’s always warm and the beaches are just,” she leaned her head back thinking about them, “amazing. And the parties, come on.”

Van chuckled, nodding in agreement. “Makes sense. So what year are you then?”

“I’m a junior. You?”

“Ah, well I’m actually on exchange here. I’m in my second year here, so what a sophomore? And I’ll go back and finish the other two years back in the UK.” So he was younger than her? Surprising.

“Ah so you’re young still,” Emily smiled.

“Yeah, but I love an older woman,” Van smirked and took a drink. Jesus.

The two continued to talk for quite a while, bantering back and forth and refilling their drinks a few times as well. They continued to move closer to each other as well, nearly pressed up against one another until Van shot out the age old question: “Do you wanna dance?” Emily nodded and grabbed his hand, leading him through the kitchen back out to the dance floor which was still lively. By now, even more people were making out and things were somehow even messier.

Emily was solidly drunk by now so she really didn’t care what was going on around her. She shot Van a small smile before turning around and pressing up against him. His hands immediately dropped to her waist, bringing her in closer. He was so warm and so much taller than her and Emily loved it. The alcohol definitely helped as she grinded on Van, him gripping her hips tightly. They danced together so well and they had a lot of fun too, singing along to the music. At one point, Emily felt Van’s breath on her neck and she almost couldn’t take it. She was about to turn around and kiss him, honestly, when he whispered in her ear, “Do you wanna come outside with me?” She nodded and he slipped his hand down to hers, interlocking their fingers and leading her around the kitchen and up the flight of stairs - she didn’t even know there was another floor in this house - past a few stray couples to a balcony. Van pushed open the door. “After you,” he gestured.

Emily stepped out into the balcony, glad to finally be away from the hot, sticky air inside the house. She tilted her head back and breathed, leaning her arms on the edge of the balcony. She heard the door shut and then turned to see Van fishing through his back pocket. She was surprised to see him pull out a pack of cigarettes. He put one in his mouth and then dug around more in the pocket of his black jeans for a lighter. Emily watched him light it so carefully, putting one hand near the end so the wind wouldn’t blow it out. He took a long inhale, his cheekbones sucking in and Emily couldn’t help but look at his lips wrapped around the end. Van kept the cigarette in his mouth, exhaling while he spoke. “Want one?” He asked Emily.

She shook her head. “No, I’m good. I’m kinda surprised you smoke,” she stated, continuing to watch him without really caring. Van looked exponentially hotter while smoking a cigarette, she decided.

He took another long inhale before finally pulling it from his mouth. He blew out a long stream of smoke, making sure it was away from Emily. “I know, it’s a nasty habit. But everyone back home smokes and I just couldn’t bring myself to stop.” Van laughed, looking over at Emily. They were standing really close, sides pressed up against each other. Tingles ran through Emily’s body at every place they touched.

Emily bit her lip. “Could I just actually take a hit of yours?” Nothing wrong with a little drunk cigarette right? Plus, when someone of his caliber was offering… Van nodded, taking one more long drag and to Emily’s surprise, bringing the cigarette right up to her lips. She couldn’t inhale nearly as long as Van so she didn’t try to. She figured if she hadn’t been as drunk as she was, she probably would’ve coughed too. Vans finger grazed her bottom lip as he pulled it away, smirking. Emily felt like her skin was melting off.

He put it back in between his lips and gave it a few more long pulls before finishing it. There was even a spot for cigarette butts and the ends of joints on the balcony so Van tossed it in there. The two looked out on the balcony which had a pretty spectacular view. A few blocks away, they could see the ocean. Some people on the street below were stumbling out of the party and laughing or screaming. It was like something out of a movie. The music could still be heard, though it was muffled. Van sang along to an old Fall Out Boy song quitely, nodding his head to the beat and Emily couldn’t help but be impressed. “You’re like, good,” she mumbled, turning to look at him, resting her head onto one of her hands.

Van chuckled. “Eh, not really but thanks.”

He looked down at her and Emily’s stomach jumped. Without even thinking about it twice, Emily leaned up and kissed him. Van kissed her back immediately, dropping his hands to her waist. Emily wrapped her hands around his neck, curling her fingers into the ends of his hair. She felt a little bit of stubble scratch her face and she wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol or just how attractive he was but fuck, Van was a really good kisser. He tasted like tequila and smoke and bad decisions. Emily nearly melted in his touch as he pulled her even closer. She felt so small as he pressed her against the edge of the balcony, towering over her, his hips digging into her stomach. Emily gently bit his bottom lip and a little noise emerged from Van’s throat, which caused Emily to let out a little giggle.

“What?” Van whispered, pulling away and resting his forehead against hers. She stared up at him, unable to hide her grin. She leaned in and just kissed him again lightly, for a few seconds. His hands moved up to cup her face, moving her hair behind her ear. Their lips moved slowly before Emily pulled away and leaned her head onto his chest. She breathed in - maybe a little too deep - but Van didn’t say anything, just wrapped his arms around her waist. “You wanna go somewhere?”

Emily leaned back and gazed up at him. Her vision was a little clouded but she was mesmerized by the way his eyelashes framed his eyes that were so light blue it wasn’t even fair to the rest of the world. “Yeah,” she replied, biting back a smile. Van shot her a small smile back, revealing the tiniest dimple. He reached down and intertwined their fingers, pulling Emily behind him. He led her down the stairs, through the house, nodding ‘hi’ to a few people all while keeping their hands tight to his back. At one point, someone cut in front of Van causing him to abruptly stop, which meant Emily ran right into his back. “Oof”, she muttered as Van chuckled, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand. They finally reached the back door, a cloud of smoke coming along with them.

“Fuck, think I just got stoned too,” Van laughed as he and Emily stumbled onto the street. Emily giggled, agreeing with him.

“So where are we going?” she questioned, holding his arm and leaning on him. Van slung an arm around Emily’s shoulders, keeping her close as they walked down the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding crying girls and guys who looked like they were about to vomit in the street. Van reached into his pocket and squinted at his phone, then slid it back and exchanged it for another cigarette. He lit it with one hand, keeping the other around Emily.

“You hungry or anything, love?”

Emily debated this. Of course she was hungry. There was nothing better than some drunk food plus she hadn’t eaten in many, many hours. But usually when you leave with a guy he just wants to take you straight to his place, not stop for food. “Yeah, I kinda am. Is that okay?”

Van chuckled, “‘Course, I’m quite hungry as well. Where do ya reckon we should go?”

And that’s how the pair ended up in a McDonalds at 1 AM, stuffing their faces with french fries and chicken nuggets. They were probably too drunk to be in public but honestly, so was everyone else. This McDonalds was notorious for being the place students went to after parties or bars because it was open 24 hours and in the perfect location.

“So ya were pretty hungry then,” Van laughed, nudging Emily’s foot and causing her to giggle. She had barely even spoken to him since she got her Happy Meal.

“Yeah, I guess so. I realize I didn’t eat dinner,” Emily paused and thought about it, “or lunch.”

“That’s terrible.” Van shook his head. He leaned back stretching an arm out on the back of the booth. Emily just shrugged and sipped on her Sprite.

He finished his food almost right away and Emily was kind of impressed. “You know, you don’t really look like a frat boy or anything,” Emily blurted out, leaning forward on her hand.

Van smirked. “Oh you don’t think so do ya?” Emily furrowed her eyebrows and shook her head. “Nah, I’m not in one. My roommate last year pledged and then I became quite close to ‘em all, they’re all pretty good lads. Only thing that sucks is I couldn’t live in the house with ‘em.”

“So where do you live?”

Van motioned his head backwards. “A couple blocks that way, I got one roommate and he’s alright, not real close to him or anything but he stays out of my shit which I like. Plus he’s always willing to share his weed so can’t really go wrong there I s’pose,” Van rambled on, waving his hands around. He was so animated when he spoke. Emily was trying to figure out of it was the alcohol or if he always babbled like this. Either way, she loved listening to him talk, loved the way his account sounded so thick when forming certain words.

“Mhmm. So do you think I should just go back home or…?” Emily was still pretty drunk and so was Van, meaning if one of them didn’t make a move soon they’d probably just pass out in the booth.

“Uh, if you want but I was gonna offer you to come to mine, if you wanted,” Van said seriously, his voice seeming to lower a bit.

Emily nodded, “Yeah, sure.” So the two continued to roam the streets, hand in hand and laughing with each other until Van brought them to an apartment building. He dug around in his pockets to grab his key and once they reached the elevator, Emily couldn’t help but lean up and kiss him. He was slightly surprised but he kissed her back eagerly, only pulling away once the elevator doors opened to reveal an angry looking older guy. Emily and Van tried to stifle their giggles as he rolled his eyes and pushed past them. “Oops, he looked fucking pissed.”

Van fumbled with his keys, trying to unlock the apartment door for a good few seconds. “Christ,” Van mumbled, finally pushing it open and letting Emily go in. His hand rested on her lower back, leading her into the living room first. It was small and a little messy but considering only two college guys were living there, the apartment wasn’t terrible. “Want any water or anything, love?” Van asked, walking into the kitchen and flicking on the light as Emily plopped down on the couch.

“I’m okay, thanks.” She couldn’t help but pull the soft blanket that was on the back of the couch over herself as she stretched out, leaning her head back. She heard some banging in the kitchen and wondered what Van could be doing.

After a few minutes, Van turned the kitchen light off and came back into the living room, chuckling. “You look comfy,” Van mumbled, sitting on the end of the couch a few inches from Emily, his right ankle resting on his left knee. Emily set her phone down and held back a yawn. She nodded, looking at him and waiting to see what he was going to do. Van almost seemed to be avoiding eye contact, picking at his nails. He was nervous. Emily found it adorable.

Emily pondered the situation for a few minutes. She knew she was going to lose her buzz soon - the opposite of what she wanted in this moment. Yeah, she was tired and comfortable under the fuzzy blanket but she was also inside a hot British guy’s apartment, alone with him on the couch. She would be insane to not make a move.

“Come here,” she mumbled, reaching her hands out and motioning for Van. The corners of his mouth lifted up as he scooted closer, Emily moving her legs slightly so he could fit right next to her. Emily bit her bottom lip slightly, smiling.

Van finally leaned in and pressed his lips against hers, ever so slowly. She reached up and put her arms around his neck, tugging at his hair. Van moved the blanket over a little and started rubbing the inside of her thigh gently, his other hand on her waist. Emily tried kissing him faster but Van seemed insistent on keeping it agonizingly slow, his tongue moving into her mouth teasingly. Emily let out a little whine which made him chuckle against her lips. “Hm?”

Emily decided to take matters into her own hands, pulling back and lifting Van’s hands off her, then pushed him back so he was laying on the couch. It wasn’t the easiest thing to do since he was clearly a lot bigger than her but he seemed to like it when she straddled him, putting her hands on his chest. “You’re killing me,” she whispered, leaning down and pressing a kiss on his neck. Van’s eyes fluttered shut, bringing his hands to her waist, rubbing her sides up and down gently. She leaned to the other side, hair brushing along Van’s nose but he didn’t seem bothered as he let out the smallest moan. Emily started kissing down Van’s neck, not hard enough to leave a mark but hard enough to make him squirm. She pressed kisses up his neck and across his jaw and then was about to switch back to the other side when Van leaned forward, pushing her back again and kissing her hard. Fucking finally. Van’s hands were moving everywhere and Emily could tell he was worked up, meaning her plan was successful.

“Should we go to my-”

“Yes,” Emily cut him off immediately. She climbed off him and let Van lead her to his bedroom. He shut the door and quickly pulled some clothes off the bed, tossing them in the corner. Other than that, his bed was made nicely and he even had some cute fairy lights plugged in. Emily wasted no time crawling onto the bed and pulling Van on top of her, pressing her lips to his immediately. Eventually, Emily brought her fingers to the buttons on Van’s shirt, slowly undoing them. Van started edging his hands up Emily’s shirt slowly, nearly leaving burn marks on her skin and she pulled away, tugging her shirt over her head immediately. This drew a slight chuckle from Van as he looked down at her, biting his lip.

“Christ,” Van muttered, leaning back down to kiss Emily again.

---

“Oh my god, Mary turn that fucking thing off,” Emily mumbled, curling up tighter in bed. Of course her alarm would be going off so early even though it was the weekend.

“Sorry, love, forgot to turn it off. ‘M not Mary, though.” Emily opened her eyes and had to think for a second before she remembered where she was. That’s embarrassing. She was currently lying underneath Van, her arms wrapped around his neck as he leaned carefully over her to turn the alarm off on his phone. He shut it off and then laid back on Emily’s shoulder. “But that is me mum’s name.”

Emily snorted, rubbing her eyes carefully. “I must’ve slept like, really hard,” she muttered. Van buried his head closer to her neck, sighing softly. He mumbled something, probably in agreement.

Emily closed her eyes again and replayed the events back in her head. They didn’t end up having sex, which definitely surprised her. There was some hand stuff and whatnot but that was about it before they went to bed - except Van was being exceptionally cuddly and touchy. “What time is it?” She asked.

“‘Round nine,” Van replied, “you have a cute morning voice, y’know. All scratchy.”

“Mm, thanks,” Emily smiled. “I think I have to get going though.”

Van shifted a little bit so he was laying on his side next to her, putting an arm across her stomach and pulling her a little closer. “Why’s that?”

“I work at 11.” He looked almost disappointed.

“Oh, alright. Too bad.” Emily laid next to him for a bit, trying to not make it seem like she was ditching him right away but she felt like she probably should get up soon.

She cleared her throat, “Yeah, I gotta get going.” She snuck out from under Van’s arm and sat on the end of the bed, reaching for her shirt. She slipped it on and scanned for her jeans too. She spotted them hanging off the corner of the bed, so she grabbed them and slipped them on, then grabbed her phone off the bedside table and looked at a few of the notifications. Emily could feel Van’s eyes on her but she tried to play it off. She sighed, shoving her phone in her pocket.

Van moved to sit on the edge of the bed, still only wearing his underwear. He reached forward and grabbed Emily’s hand, tugging her down close to kiss him. She pulled away after a few seconds and looked down, “Well, thanks for the fun night but I really don’t wanna be late,” she said, glancing up into Van’s eyes. His eyebrows were furrowed and he still looked sleepy and cute, which was making this more difficult.

“Um, yeah I had a really nice night with ya. Could I get your phone number or somethin’ then?”

“Oh yeah, here,” Emily murmured, handing him her phone with her Snapchat open so he could type in his username. Van handed it back and stood up, bringing his hand to her lower back.

“I’ll walk you out, love.” Van guided her to his front door before resting an arm against it and leaning down to kiss her. “See you soon, then, Emily.” He gave her a sleepy smile, hair messy and cheeks flushed.

“Bye,” Emily replied, staring at his eyes for a second before slipping out the door.

---

Emily nearly threw up when she walked outside and looked up at the sun. It was way too bright and too nice out for how she was feeling. She realized Van’s apartment was actually really close to hers, so she just decided to walk home rather than pay for an Uber.

She pulled out her phone and ignored the many texts she had missed, instead immediately calling Mary. “Pick up,” she mumbled.

After it rang a few times, Mary’s morning voice came through the speaker. “Oh my god, hey,” she mumbled.

“Hi,” Emily laughed, crossing the street. “I’m on my way home now.”

“Already? I kinda thought you were really into this guy so I thought maybe there’d be a little morning action,” Mary chuckled.

Emily bit her lip. “Yeah, he was cool but I didn’t wanna stay there forever, you know. I told him I had to work at 11.”

“Ah, okay. Well, I’m in bed so just come cuddle with me and you can tell me about it,” Mary replied with a yawn.

Sure enough, about ten minutes later, Emily was climbing the stairs and hopping into Mary’s bed. The shades were still drawn and it was nice and dark. “So what happened to you last night?” Emily started.

Mary buried her head in her pillow. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Mary, you didn’t.”

“I did,” she sighed. Mary had a habit of almost always hooking up with her ex, JJ when she was drunk. Well, and when she was sober too. It always went like this: JJ would text Mary about how he missed her, she’d go to his place, and then he’d text her the next day that he was glad they got to see each other one last time. This had happened probably ten times, at least.

“Why do you do this? He treated you so bad,” Emily replied. Which was true. JJ and Mary met freshman year and dated until about halfway through sophomore year until she found out he had been cheating on her with multiple girls in the sister sorority to his fraternity.

Mary groaned. “I don’t know, I can’t help it. Whatever, let’s stop talking about me and talk about you and this hot British guy.”

Emily tried to hold back a smile. “Um, yeah. So his name is Van, he’s like, an exchange student here. Very nice, funny. And he was hot.” Mary looked so eager to hear more about him. “What?” Emily laughed.

“What, that’s it? Give me details.”

“Okay, okay. So basically last night we ended up dancing and then he took me out on the balcony at the house, we like made out there and then we left and stopped at McDonalds,” Emily laughed, “and then he invited me to his place which is like very close to here.”

“And?”

“And that was pretty much it. We didn’t have sex, just like other stuff you know.”

Mary raised her eyebrows. “Oh, really? Why not?”

Emily debated this. She wasn’t even sure herself. “Um, I don’t know, he seemed like he didn’t really want to, honestly. Like he was… really into doing other stuff and like never brought it up and I just kind of went with it.”

“Do you think he was a virgin or-”

“No, definitely not,” Emily cut Mary off. “He was way too good at everything. It’s hard to say, I guess.”

“So are you gonna keep talking to him or what?”

Emily shrugged. “Um, I don’t know. I would probably hook up with him again, y’know, but I don’t know. I’m not gonna reach out to him first. He’s cool, but like, you know.”

Mary nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that makes sense. Do you think he’ll message you?”

“Honestly, probably. He was like, very cuddly and stuff which was just weird. Guys are usually so not like that.”

“Yeah, definitely. Well, I’m probably gonna go back to bed for a little bit honestly, I feel like shit,” Mary chuckled, pulling her blankets up to her chin.

Emily laughed, “Yeah, I’m gonna shower and then go back to bed too.”

A few hours later, Emily was still lying in bed when her phone buzzed. She had just woken up from a nap and by now it was around 1 PM. She grabbed her phone off the night stand and almost dropped it when she saw the notification that read “van is typing”. “Shit,” she muttered to herself. After a minute or two, she got a message from Van. Emily tried to ignore it, going and checking her other social media for a while. She eventually decided to text Mary and have her come into her room and help, depending on what Van had said.

“Okay, open it.”

Mary sat next to Emily on her bed, waiting. “It’s a chat,” Emily said.

hi emily just wanted to let you know i had a really good time last night. glad to have met you and i hope i can see you again soon xx

“Oh shit,” Emily murmured.

Mary nearly snorted. “So he’s definitely into you. I don’t even know what you say back to that.” Emily groaned, flopping back on her bed.

“I don’t know either. The thing is I don’t wanna, like date him, obviously but maybe I should just talk to him a little bit and we could hang out in the future.”

“Yeah, so true.”

Emily began typing her response.

yeah i had a good time too :)

“I’m just gonna leave it at that.” Mary nodded, approving.

A few minutes later, Van replied, asking how work was. Of course, Emily had almost forgotten that she told him she was working, so she had to come up with a fake reply about it being boring. Van continued to respond fairly quickly, asking her questions about her job and then about school, and other things like that. Emily would reply, albeit not super enthusiastically, keeping the conversation going at least.

This went on for a few days. Classes started but Van continued to message Emily, switching over to pictures. Emily would open his Snapchats and bite her lip, because of course he always looked really good in them without even trying. He was really, really attractive. And he was so funny, too. He often made jokes that made Emily giggle while she was alone in bed at night. But she tried not to let this affect her.

It wasn’t until Thursday afternoon that Van hinted he wanted to hang out again. Emily was just about to start getting ready to go out with some friends.

what are you up to tonight? x

Van always ended his messages with an x. Must be a British thing.

i’m going to bars w some friends. are u going out?

Emily bumped her head along to the music Mary was playing as she slipped on her jeans.

think so. where ya heading? x

Emily responded with the names of a few bars she and her friends had discussed they were going to stop at. At around nine o’clock, Van responded with an adorable picture of him smiling, beer in hand.

Emily looked at it for a few moments before replying with a picture of herself drinking her own mixed drink. She wondered if she’d see him out.

---

About two hours later, she didn’t have to wonder anymore. Emily, Mary, and Carson finally got into their favorite bar after having to wait outside a while. The place was packed, so Emily didn’t see Van right away.

“Thought I might see ya here.” Emily was leaning on the bar, credit card in hand and waiting to order. She looked up to see Van next to her, looking ridiculously attractive, of course. His hair was pushed back, looking perfectly messy and he was wearing all black, just like her but he just had on a crew neck sweatshirt with his black jeans. He had a nearly empty cup in his hand and his eye was nearly twinkling as well.

“Yeah, me too,” Emily replied. She was a little drunk by now, already having pregamed and been to one other bar for a few drinks.

“Let me get you a drink, love,” Van said, setting his cup down and reaching into his pocket for his wallet.

“Oh, no you don’t have to.”

Van shook his head immediately. “What are you drinking?”

So Emily was caught in a bit of a tough situation. She had to stand by the bar waiting for the drink which meant she had to talk to Van. It was a little weird, after only texting back and forth for the past week. But she was still extremely attracted to him, of course. After the drinks arrived and they cheersed, Emily said, “I should probably get back to my friends,” she gestured to Mary and Carson who were laughing across the bar, “but I’ll see you later?”

Van looked a little disappointed, his eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah, yeah, sure. I’m probably staying here for a while, so.” Emily smiled and walked away.

“Wait, is that the British guy?” Carson questioned as soon as Emily was near them. She nodded. “Actually, my buddies in Theta Chi have mentioned a dude from England. Bet that’s him.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Now that I’m thinking about it, Lenny and Miller are like, really tight with him. They said he’s like, super funny and a really good guy.”

Emily leaned her head back and groaned. “Don’t say that shit to me.” Carson just laughed, knowing how she was. Emily was never one to get feelings involved with the guys she saw. It was too messy.

“I think he’s slightly attached already,” Mary pointed out. Emily shrugged, trying not to think about him.

But of course, an hour later, Van was all she could think about. Funny what alcohol will do to you. It was after midnight now, and Emily was scanning through the bar for his tall, lanky figure but she couldn’t see him. “I wonder if he left,” she mumbled.

“Who?” Carson mused, smirking.

Emily rolled her eyes. “Van, duh.” Mary and Carson exchanged a look, eyebrows raised.

“Thought you weren’t really into him?” Carson questioned.

Emily shrugged. “I’m not but I’m drunk and he’s hot, so y’know. I’ll just message him.”

She pulled out her phone and squinted at it.

hey you still at jordan’s?

Emily double checked it for spelling errors before she hit send. She responded to a few other messages before she saw he replied.

bathroom. you? xx

Emily messaged him back quickly, describing where she was in the bar and waited for him to show up. Which he did, only a couple minutes later.

“Hey,” Van said as he slid in to stand next to Emily at the table she was at.

“Hi,” she smiled.

“Hello,” Van said with a grin, directing it at Carson and Mary who were almost laughing to themselves.

“Oh yeah, this is Mary and Carson. Two of my roommates.”

Within a few minutes, Van and Carson were nearly best friends. They apparently had a lot in common. They were talking about soccer at the moment, which Emily had little to no interest in. She leaned on the table, sipping her Vodka soda as Mary chattered on about what JJ was texting her. “God, he’s such a dick,” Mary muttered, angrily typing a response. Emily snorted to herself, knowing that she would probably be going to his place later. Emily dragged her gaze over to Van and Carson who were watching some highlight video that Carson had brought up on his phone. Emily debated about what to do in this situation.

She decided to reach out and rub Van’s back gently, making him turn quickly and look at her. He had been laughing at something Carson said so he was still smiling at her, eyes shining bright.

“Another drink?” Emily asked, biting her lip as she touched his arm just for a second.

Van’s whole expression changed. “Yeah, let me get ya one, love,” he said in a low voice, giving her a small smile. Van turned and scooted away towards the bar to order.

“Dude, he’s so funny. I think I’m in love with the guy. I don’t know how you aren’t,” Carson laughed. Emily rolled her eyes but she wasn’t really listening, instead just watching Van as he talked to the bartender and laughed, his charm coming out. He was so good with people. Van returned with two drinks but within twenty minutes, he, Emily, and Carson were heading back to their apartment.

Mary was going over to JJ’s of course, and Emily was walking down the street, hand intertwined with Van’s. Carson was telling the story of how he had just gotten rejected by this girl at the bar he had apparently liked since last year and how he’d be spending the night with a bottle of lotion. “Carson, ew.” Emily laughed, nearly tripping over a curb. Van kept a tight grip on her hand, making sure she wouldn’t fall.

When they got inside the apartment, Emily slipped off her shoes and led Van up the stairs right away. Carson saluted them and headed into his own room for the night, to do God knows what. Emily quickly plugged in her fairy lights and flopped down on her bed, slipping her shoes off.

Van had his hands shoved in his front pockets, looking around at her pictures on the wall and other things. He looked particularly interested in her old record player. “This is class,” he said, carefully inspecting her records.

“Oh, it was my Grandpa’s,” she said, leaning her weight back on her hands. Van was smiling, apparently enjoying the music she had.

“Can I play somethin’?” Emily nodded. He fiddled with the record player for a second and then Emily’s eyes widened when she heard a song by one of her favorite bands ever, Turnover, start playing.

“Holy shit,” she whispered as Van came and sat next to her.

“What’s that?”

“You like Turnover?” Emily questioned, staring at him as he slipped his boots off.

“Oh yeah. Absolutely class. This album is unbelievable,” Van replied, turning to look at her.

At this moment, it was safe to say Emily was mesmerized. Yes, she was drunk again and yes, he clearly felt a lot more for her than she felt for him, but she didn’t care about any of that as she stared at him.

“What?” He whispered, eyebrows furrowing. Emily just leaned forward, grabbed his face with one hand and started kissing him. Van responded immediately, kissing back gently. He put one hand on her waist, sighing into the kiss. The music played quietly in the background but it somehow made everything better. Emily felt even more drunk off the taste of his lips as she shifted, pushing him to move back on the bed and he took the hint, lying down. Emily broke the kiss and straddled him, his hands rubbing along her legs and up to her waist.

Van looked nearly entranced in this moment but honestly, Emily felt the same way. She couldn’t stop staring at him, his eyes were hooded but still sparkling and he kept licking his lips. Eventually, Van leaned up and pressed his lips against hers, cupping her face in his hands. Emily shifted a little, which drew the softest groan from Van. Emily thought she had never heard something so beautiful in her life.

After a few minutes, Emily flipped the two over so Van was hovering over her. He seemed to be intoxicated by her as he leaned down and started kissing down her neck. He switched to the other side, running his hands along her body while biting her neck ever so gently.

“Fuck,” Emily moaned out quietly. Van stopped, biting his lip and then stared at her eyes. He kept staring as his fingers reached down to graze the hem of her shirt, which she helped to pull off right away. He kept staring as his fingers worked down, gripping onto her belt and slowly unbuckling it. Emily felt like she was about to explode as he tugged her pants off. He just kept staring at her while he slipped her underwear off, too. She had both of her hands on the side of his head, running through his hair. Emily almost squeezed her eyes shut but she felt like she had to keep them open, staring at him.

After a few minutes, Emily was a mess. She was sweating and so unbelievably turned on. “Van,” she mumbled, pulling his head up to look at her.

“Hm?” He licked his lips.

“Do you wanna fuck?”

Van shifted, leaning forward to kiss her then pulled away and started, “Love, I...” he let out a small sigh, “Emily,” he whispered. Emily’s eyes had so much want in them, it was driving Van insane. “I, ah, want to, of course I do. But I think maybe we should just wait.”

Emily bit her lip, feeling a little rejected almost. “Oh. We can stop, then.” She started to sit up.

Van gently pushed her back down on the bed. “No, no, I want to keep doing this. Emily, ah, well I fancy you a lot. Really, you’re just fucking...Christ, somethin’ else. Please, don’t think I don’t want this,” he muttered. “Just wanna wait for the whole sex part, yeah?” Emily just nodded, leaning up to kiss him again.

After about an hour, Emily was laying on Van’s chest, his arm around her, thumb rubbing up and down her arm. “Mm, I need a smoke,” Van mumbled, rubbing his eye with his other hand.

Emily’s eyes were closed, her fingers gently tracing across the lines on his stomach. “If you want, you can just open my window and smoke in here,” she murmured.

“You sure?” She nodded. Van slid out from underneath her, carefully. He reached down to slide his underwear back on and then grabbed a cigarette and a lighter out of his pocket. Emily laid on her side, watching as he pulled open the blinds and cracked open the window and lit the end of his cigarette carefully. The window didn’t have a screen so Van just flicked the ashes right outside. Emily stared at him, admiring the way the orange glow from the cigarette highlighted the details of his face. Her eyes trailed over the curve of his shoulder blades, the bend of his elbow, the little dimples at the bottom of his back. Fuck.

Van blew smoke out the window carefully, his eyes focused on something outside. He finished off the cigarette and looked around, clearly unsure of what to do with the butt. “Put it in there,” Emily whispered, gesturing to a cup on her bedside table. Van nodded, dropping it in. He leaned over to the record player and flipped the record over, as it had stopped a while ago. He turned the music down a bit and Emily held the blankets up so Van could slide in next to her. She immediately snuggled up to him, feeling how warm he was and trying to ignore the spark of his skin against hers. Van leaned down and dropped a kiss on her forehead and Emily closed her eyes, needing to remain unaffected by it all.

“Night, love,” Van mumbled, reaching his hands up to stroke her hair slowly. Emily fell asleep within a minute of this.

---

The same thing happened on Friday night. Emily was at a party with Carson - Mary at work, sadly - dancing and enjoying herself when Carson lightly hit her arm. “Hey, there’s Miller. Oh, and Van!” Carson immediately turned and walked over, grinning as they did that weird handshake thing every guy does, the three of them laughing. Emily’s eyes were drawn to Van, him wearing all black once again but she was surprised to see he was wearing a short sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up a little. He was rather skinny, and quite pale, honestly, but his arms did have a little outline of muscle.

Emily decided to make her way over to the three, greeting Van with a ‘hi’, who wrapped an arm around her shoulder, bringing her in for a small hug. They ended up all talking, dancing, and drinking for a while. Emily was honestly having a really fun time. Van, Miller, and Carson got along so well but Emily felt like she fit in too.

“Alright, I gotta head out. My girl’s texting me, so,” Miller said, slapping hands again with Van and Carson, nodding at Emily.

“See ya, mate,” Van said as Miller made his way out of the party. Emily realized that Van had probably come with Miller, and now here he was with Carson and Emily only.

So it was down to three. Until Carson started dancing with a girl who was quite tall, way taller than Emily but still shorter than him.

“Oh shit,” Van laughed as Carson and the girl started kissing right next to them a few minutes later. Emily laughed along with him, feeling a little grossed out by the sight. Van shook his head and turned away from the couple, then leaned down by Emily’s ear. “Dance?” he asked quietly. Emily nodded, turning around and standing right in front of Van. His hands slid down her sides, holding her hips tightly. They danced like this for a while, a little slowly, Emily leaning her head back a little onto Van’s chest. At one point, she turned around and reached up to kiss him. Van didn’t even hesitate to kiss her back, bringing his hands from her waist down to her ass. Emily pulled away after a few moments, totally breathless. Van’s hair was sticking to the sides of his face and a little sweat dripped down his neck because of how ridiculously hot the basement was. But Van still looked so good.

A while later, Van, Emily, Carson, and the girl whose name Emily hadn’t learned yet were walking home. Carson was absolutely hammered, stumbling down the street and laughing about something. The girl was trying to hold his hand but he was weaving around aimlessly, and he tripped slightly over the curb. “C’mon, mate,” Van chuckled, letting go of Emily’s hand to put an arm around Carson, helping him stay upright. They eventually made it inside Emily and Carson’s apartment, Carson heading straight to the bathroom. The girl sat awkwardly on the couch in the living room as Van asked Emily where their glasses were to get Carson some water.

“That cupboard, yeah,” Emily murmured, leaning against the counter. Van filled the glass with water from the sink.

“He’ll probably be needing this, yeah? But he’s fine, I think,” Van said with a little smile. Emily watched as he turned and headed up the stairs to take care of Carson who from the sound of it was puking his guts out. It was pretty sweet to see him acting like this, taking care of one of Emily’s friends when he really didn’t have to.

Emily made a disgusted face as she went to sit by the girl on the couch. “Carson’s not usually like this,” Emily said with a laugh.

The girl just smiled, looking a little unsure of herself. Emily heard Van laughing upstairs. “Your boyfriend’s a good guy.”

Emily looked up from her phone, “Oh, no, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s uh, yeah, no,” she laughed awkwardly.

“Oh, really? You guys seem so cute together,” the girl replied.

Emily bit back a smile. “Thanks but no, we’re definitely not together.” She stood up and climbed the stairs as Carson came bursting out the bathroom.

“Is Lauren still here?” he asked, Van standing behind him, trying to hide his laughter. Emily nodded and Carson pushed past her.

“Carson, did you brush your teeth at least?” She whisper-yelled at him as he ran down the stairs.

“He did,” Van said with a chuckle. He flicked off the light and walked out of the bathroom, grabbing Emily’s arm and pulling her close to him. He brought his hands up to her face and just stared at her for a second. “You’re quite beautiful, y’know,” he murmured. His eyes were a little squinty as his cheeks flushed from the alcohol. He was glowing.

Emily smiled, looking away. “Stop.”

Van ran his thumb across her cheek, then tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “No, I’m serious. Absolutely class.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, then leaned up and kissed him.

---

It went on like this for a while. Van got Emily’s actual phone number and started texting her everyday. Almost every weekend, the two met up at a party or bar and then spent a night together, unless they had an exam or work or something else going on. Van tried making other plans quite often, asking Emily if she wanted to go for coffee or dinner or something, but Emily always came up with an excuse. There was a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, growing worse each day. She attempted to get rid of it by ignoring Van’s requests for dates and keeping it strictly sex between them. But it wasn’t easy.

“Emily, you totally like him. Why won’t you just admit it?” Mary questioned Emily on one Saturday night that they actually decided to stay in. All of the roommates were home, watching movies and just relaxing.

They were on the topic of Van and how great he was. This happened quite often. Mary and Spencer had taken a liking to him, almost as much as Carson had. Ever since Van had taken care of him when he was throwing up, Carson basically worshipped the ground Van walked on.

“Yeah, for real. I’m telling you, I have feelings for him. And I don’t even like dudes,” Carson said, shoving popcorn into his mouth.

Emily rolled her eyes. “Guys, stop. I’ve told all of you this. Yeah, he’s cool and whatever but I just like hooking up with him. I don’t like him like that.”

Carson, Mary, and Spencer let out a collective snort. “Yeah, sure,” Spencer said under his breath. Emily shot him a dirty look.

“I’ve never even hung out with him unless we were drinking first so I don’t know where you guys are even getting this from.”

“Oh my God, Emily. Van tells me all the time that he wants to take you out on a real date but you always avoid it. He also told me you haven’t even had sex, so I know that’s not why you keep hanging out with him.”

“Carson!” Emily shouted, feeling a little blood rush to her cheeks. Carson just shrugged, eating more popcorn. “Look, I know he likes me, okay? He’s told me. And yes, he asks me all the time to get dinner and stuff, but I don't know. I just don’t date people, okay? I don’t like the idea of being with just one person. And I don’t believe in relationships.” Spencer rolled his eyes at this, most likely thinking of how much he loved his girlfriend Sarah.

Mary scoffed. “Dude, have you even hooked up with anyone else since you met Van?” Emily didn’t respond. “No. And I know that guys are still hitting you up and wanting to hang out. So what the hell?”

Emily just shook her head. “Stop trying to make me like him! It’s not gonna happen. I haven’t even really been around him when we were sober.”

Carson and Mary exchanged a look. “Okay, so invite him over,” Carson replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’m not gonna invite him over, we’re having roommate bonding.”

“Jesus Christ, Emily. We’re watching fucking Cars right now. Invite him over, I swear to God, before I get pissed off,” Spencer shouted from the kitchen, grabbing himself a beer.

“Fine. I’ll see what he’s doing. But I’m not inviting him over til later.” Emily rolled her eyes and opened the last text she had gotten from Van.

From: van

what you up to x

From: emily :)

not much, just watching some movies with my friends. hbu?

From: van

i’m at home, just bought some weed off my roommate. you interested?

About an hour later, Emily was in the bathroom, brushing her hair out when she heard a short knock and then the door to her apartment open. She could tell it was Van, him laughing loudly along with her other roommates right away. He could really draw anyone in with that laugh. It was contagious. She sprayed a little more perfume on before shutting the light off and jogging down the stairs.

Van was sitting next to Carson on the couch, who was updating him on what was going on with Lauren, who he seemed to be catching feelings for. Van turned and looked at Emily when she reached the bottom of the stairs. His face lit up and Emily tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach it gave her.

“Hi, love,” he said with a grin, patting the spot next to him on the couch.

“Hey,” Emily replied, sitting next to him. Van squeezed her thigh gently and then kept his hand there as he turned to keep talking to Carson.

“Yeah, we went out to dinner last night. I dunno, I think I do actually like her,” Carson said, shaking his head. “And she’s a freshman! What the hell is wrong with me?”

Van chuckled. “Nothing, mate. Can’t help who ya want.” Emily bit her lip, looking down at Van’s large hand on her leg still, his thumb gently stroking across it.

“So you guys wanna smoke?” Van asked a few minutes later. There was a chorus of ‘yes’s’ and Van smiled, standing up to get his jacket. He pulled out a bag of weed, a few wraps, and his favorite lighter. “Mind if I do it here?” He asked Emily, gesturing to the coffee table.

“That’s fine,” she responded, getting up and heading to the kitchen. She grabbed a piece of paper towel, bringing it to Van.

“Oh, thanks, love.” He got to work, emptying the wraps and sprinkling the bud inside, then rolling. Emily pretended to not watch as he brought each of the blunts up to his lips, licking them to seal them. That’s... hot, she thought to herself. After a few minutes, the windows were cranked open and Van handed a blunt to Emily. “Wanna start it?” Emily nodded, putting it in her mouth and grabbing the lighter off the table. She lit it carefully, sucking in and making sure the end stayed lit. She exhaled and then brought it up to her mouth again, hitting it one more time before passing the blunt over to Van. Emily tried not to stare as he inhaled it for a long time, then blew a couple of o’s. He licked his lip and passed it to Carson.

When the first blunt was finished, Van immediately lit up the second one. By the time the five of them had all finished it, they all seemed decently high. They all had pretty distinct high personalities. Carson and Spencer were laughing so hard no sound was coming out of them. Mary had been staring at the TV for so long, entranced by some dumb show she always liked to watch while high, hand shoved in a bag of Cheetos.

And Van, well, Van was just a more lowkey version of himself while high. He was a little quieter, but he was really, really touchy, and his words a little drawn out, his voice raspier. He was laying on the couch while Emily was getting a drink. When she came back, he held open his arms and made grabby hands. Emily smiled at him, setting her cup down and sitting on the couch by him. They had to adjust a little, Van sitting up more and Emily leaning back on him. Vans eyes were barely open, but that had happened almost immediately after he had started smoking. “Hi,” he said quietly as Emily laid her head on his shoulder.

“Hi, Van.” Van wrapped his arms around her waist, grabbing one of her hands and intertwining their fingers. He stretched his fingers out, highlighting how long they were compared to Emily’s.

“Like when you say my name,” he mumbled.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm. But I just like you.” Emily shut her eyes. She could see faint designs dancing behind her closed eyelids. It had been a few weeks since she had smoked, so she was feeling a little different than usual.

“I’m so fucking tired.” Emily opened her eyes to see both Carson and Spencer standing up. “Like, I’m about to sleep so good,” Spencer said.

“Well, goodnight then,” Carson said, yawning. They both headed upstairs leaving only Mary, Emily, and Van downstairs.

“You wanna go up?” Van asked, rubbing Emily’s arm softly. She nodded, not one to speak much while under the influence.

So they got up, hands locked together, said goodnight to Mary, and ended up lying in Emily’s bed. The window was cracked open so sounds of the traffic below filled the room, along with a record Van had put on. Emily was lying on Van’s chest, eyes closed as he sang along to The Killers.

“I don’t mind if you don’t, I don’t shine if you don’t,” he sang quietly. Emily was so impressed.

“You’re so fucking good,” she mumbled against his chest. “You should be in a band or something.”

Van chuckled. “I am in a band, love.”

Emily’s eyes opened wide. She sat up, staring at Van. “Wait, what? You’re in a band?”

Van reached his hand out, tracing his thumb along Emily’s arm. “Mhmm. Didn’t I tell ya that?” Emily shook her head vigorously, clearly in shock. “Yeah, well. We’re not real big or anything. Played at a couple bars, done a couple competitions, that type ‘o thing. I was in one back home too, but obviously that’s kinda on hold.”

Emily’s mouth was still wide open. “I can’t believe this. That’s literally so hot, Van,” she groaned, lying back down on his chest. Van chuckled, pulling her in tight.

“If I would’ve known you’d react like this, I’d ‘ave defo told ya sooner.”

“What’s your band’s name?”

“Catfish and the Bottlemen,” Van replied, his voice so raspy.

“Hmm, cool name. I wanna see you perform sometime,” Emily said.

“Yeah, I’d love that, honestly. How ya feeling?”

Emily shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Starting to come down so I’m getting a little tired.”

“You wanna go to sleep?” Van asked.

She shook her head. “Mm, no not yet.” She leaned her head back to look at Van who was already staring down at her. His eyes flicked down to her lips then back to her eyes, searching them.

“Em?” He asked, licking his lips.

“Hm?”

“How come you never want to do anything normal with me? I, you know, ask you to dinner and stuff but you always say you’re busy. But then I see you every weekend, usually only when we’re drinking or somethin.’” Emily turned her head, laying back on Van’s chest. She let out a small sigh.

“Van, I... uh, I don’t really know.”

“I like you a lot, Emily. I really do. We met, what a month ago? But I think about ya all the time. And I’d really, really like to take ya out sometime on a proper date. I wanna spend more time with you.”

Emily was quiet for a moment. She sat up again, biting her lip. Van sat up a little too, staring at her. “Van, I just… don’t know what to say,” she whispered. She looked into his eyes, which were full of expectation. She could feel her own eyes starting to water just a little so she started blinking quickly, looking at her hands. Van ran his hand up her arm, around to the back of her neck. She shivered slightly at his touch.

“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. Emily chewed on her lip for a second before looking back at him.

“Okay,” she whispered. She felt so vulnerable and she knew why. Of course she had feelings for him. How could she not? Van was fucking perfect. But she didn’t want to tell him that. Emily was so used to being alone mostly, only casually dating guys, cutting things off if it seemed like too much. And she really, really didn’t want to let him in. But Van was doing his best to work his way into her life. He knew she was closed off. He knew that she had slept with a lot more people than he had. He knew that she liked to party maybe a little too much. But he didn’t care. “I’m sorry. I wish I wasn’t like this,” she muttered, quickly wiping a single tear away.

“Come here, love.” Emily crawled up closer to Van so they were only about an inch apart. “‘S okay, honest,” he mumbled before pressing his lips against hers softly. Emily’s eyes fluttered shut, kissing him back. She fell apart under his touch, Van’s hands roaming up and down her body slowly, his fingers finding their way underneath her sweatshirt. Emily was straddling Van now, but letting him be totally in control. He pulled away to tug her sweatshirt over her head. Van stared at her body for a moment, eyes wide in awe, just like he did every time she removed her clothes. It made Emily’s stomach flutter every time, too. “Flip over, hm?”

The two switched positions and Van leaned in to kiss her neck, then down her body slowly. His lips brushed against her stomach and Emily squirmed a little. He looked up at her, eyes hooded, full of want. He tugged her leggings off, tossing them onto the floor, then moved down to press kisses against the inside of her thighs. Emily was shaking as he brought his hands up to tug off her underwear, then pressed her hips down against the bed.

A few minutes later, the two had swapped positions again. Van had just let out a groan that made Emily’s eyes almost roll back into her head. “Love, do you... Should I grab a-” Emily looked up at Van, his lips swollen and hair messy from running his own hands through it.

She nodded. “If you want to, Van.” They hadn’t talked about sex since Emily had asked him the second time they hooked up. Emily never wanted to push anything and she was fine without it. But she would be lying if she said her heart wasn’t pounding right now, her stomach jumping at the possibility.

“I do, yeah.”

A few hours later, they were still awake. The record player had stopped a long time ago but neither of them seemed ready to sleep. Emily was lying on her back, Van on top of her, one arm wrapped around her waist and her arms around his neck, every part of their bodies intertwined. She was running her hands through his hair, him letting out a hum every so often. “I really like ya, Em. I really, really do,” Van mumbled against Emily’s skin. Emily smiled to herself but didn’t say anything back.

#vanfic #van mccann fanfic #catb fanfic #van mccann #my fic #lmk what y'all think #i'll post part two soon

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nataliedanovelist · 5 years ago

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GF + OH - Fallen Owls pt.2

Summary: What happens when the milf of The Owl House meets the dilf of Gravity Falls? Find out in this multi-chapter crossover fic.

pt.1

~~~~~~~~~~

Episode Placement: GF = after finale (S3?) OH = between S1E7 and E8 Mabel giggled at a funny meme Luz had texted her. Who doesn’t love pics of an angry-looking kitty and a toad sipping coffee? She texted Luz a bunch of laughing emojis and scratched Waddles. Luz, meanwhile, was sitting on the couch in the living room with King sleeping by his side. Or at least trying to. He was in the perfect spot, but Luz’s giggling was disturbing his slumber. Luz texted back: It’s so good to have someone appreciate these! Eda thinks their stupid and King never gets them. M: Memes are a rare language only teenagers and creepy forty-year-olds understand.

Luz texted a gif of a guy pointing and saying “you got me there” and she scratched King’s back. He rolled over in his sleep and Luz scratched his tummy. L: So whatcha doin’ today? M: Dipper wants to go investigate some new anomaly. L: Cool! What is it? M: … You know, why don’t I get him to tell you? Are you up for visitors today? L: YES! Yes, yes, YES! I’ll ask Eda! Luz hurried off the couch and ran up outside to find Eda drinking out of her 30 & Flirty mug in the warm sun. “Eda! Can Mabel come over and bring her brother Dipper?” “That human girl you met last week?” Eda asked and shrugged. “Sure, okay. Just make sure her uncle won’t be after my blood.” “Thanks Eda, you’re the best!” And Luz hurriedly texted Mabel back. ~~~~~~~~~~ Mabel’s phone made a dazzling noise, like sparkles, meaning she got a text. She squealed and Dipper then entered the bedroom, having been blackmailed into a shower by his own twin. He was shaking his hair dry, fully dressed, when Mabel said, “Dip-Dip, cancel your plans for today!” “What, but we were gonna investigate the graveyard for loose zombies, remember?” “Not anymore! You’re gonna see the Boiling Isles!” Dipper gasped and dropped his towel. “Are you serious?! The Boiling Isles! I’ve been wanting a chance to see it for myself and record it in my journal!” “Well, now you've got one.” Mabel hopped off the bed and said, “We just gotta make sure it’s okay with Grunkle Stan first.” Dipper slammed on his pinetree hat and hurried with Mabel downstairs. They found both of their great-uncles in front of the TV, Stan trying to explain some new show to Ford, but the old-school scientist just couldn’t see the appeal in a show about a bird and a raccoon terrorizing an amusement park. “Can we go see Luz at the Boiling Isles today, please please please?!” Mabel begged, using her cuteness as a weapon against her temporary-guardians. ‘You expect me to allow my kids into a dangerous world full of monsters and demons and some creepy witch?” Stan asked with a raised eyebrow, but then smiled. “Sounds like fun! Have at it.” Mabel and Dipper cheered and high-fived, then the hyperactive girl gave her Grunkle Stan a quick hug before running off into the kitchen with the sweaty teenage boy to text Luz. “Are you sure that is a good idea, Stanley?” Ford asked. The younger twin shrugged. “I trust her.” “Who? Mabel or Eda?” “Yes.” Ford snorted and gave his brother a sly look. Stan narrowed his eyes at him and grunted, “What?” “You like her, don’t you?” Ford asked. “Who? My niece or some creepy owl lady?” “Yes.” Stan laughed and punched Ford’s shoulder. “Yeah, right. Eda’s just a fun story to tell and a cool chick. She’s not my type.” “Right, because your type is gigantic man-eating spiders and deadly sirens.” Ford said sarcastically. “I saw the way you looked at her. I haven’t seen you smile quite like that since Carla McCorkle.” “That’s ancient history.” Stan said dryly. “I’m way over her. Besides, Eda and I’ve got our own lives. Sure, what we had was great back in the day, and yeah I’ll admit it, it was love at first sight, but love dies off, you know.” He didn’t at all sound a little bit bitter or hurt. Ford shrugged and stood up for another cup of coffee. “Maybe whatever you two had will come back. Look, I may have twelve PhDs, but I know next to nothing about girls and dating or whatever, but I do know my own brother, and I saw a side of you I haven’t seen in a long time: you looked truly, genuinely happy.” Stan stood so he could punch his twin’s shoulder softly. “I am happy, Sixer. I’ve got you and the kids. I don’t need anything else.” Ford smiled. “I can understand that logic. Still, try to keep an open mind, Knucklehead.” And he walked off to the kitchen for some more caffeine. ~~~~~~~~~~ Eda unlocked the door and soon a pair of Caucasian twins with brown hair and matching eyes ran through. The girl grinned at the sight of Luz and the boy smiled politely. Mabel ran up to Luz and the girls hugged and squealed in delight. “This’ll be so much fun!” Luz cheered. “I have so many things to show you! Tons of books filled with monsters, a real-life demon, I can even show you my light spell!” “Thanks for having us!” Mabel said to both Luz and Eda. “This is my brother, Dipper.” “Nice to meet you, kid.” Eda said with a wink. “The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Eda.” Dipper admired and immediately pulled out his notebook from his vest and was ready to take notes. “Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions about your kind and what it means to be a witch?” “Maybe later, kid.” Eda said casually. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to take a nap.” She walked behind her dresser and snapped her fingers, magically changing into her pajamas. She yawned into her hand and made her way up the stairs. “Stay as long as you want and just don’t make a mess and don’t wake me up unless you wanna die a slow and painful death. Oh. Luz.” Eda tossed her the key from the top of the stairs and the human caught it. “So you don’t have to wake me up to send the other humans home.” “Thanks, Eda.” Luz called and the door closed. “So, Dipper, Mabel says you two do a lot of exploring?” She asked. “Oh yeah,” Dipper acknowledged. “Gravity Falls is filled with tons of anomalies and weird stuff. We’ve faced eyebats, gremloblins, zombies, ghosts, an army of angry gnomes…” “Wow! That’s so cool!” Luz said and opened the front door. “You’ll definitely like it here! I’ll give you guys a quick tour.” “YES!” The twins cheered and hurried out the door, but were frozen with shock when the door spoke. “Finally! Company! I’ve been waiting for someone to hear my stories! Okay, so one time a bug crawled into my eye and… OW!” Hooty was interrupted by Dipper using his journal to smack the talking owl head on the - well, on the head. “Geez! Ow! Hoot!” “Sorry,” Dipper winced. “Aw!” Mabel squealed and reached up to scratch the top of her head. “He’s so cute! Who’s a good door, who’s a good door?” “I dunno, is it me?” Hooty cooed, putty in Mabel’s hands as she scratched him lovingly. “Alright, come on guys. Hooty’s gotta guard the house while Eda and King are napping.” Luz said and led the way into town. Dipper and Mabel grinned as one walked beside Luz to talk and the other wrote in his journal diligently. ~~~~~~~~~~ Gus was squealing where he stood with Willow by his side. She smiled and rolled her eyes affectionately at her close friend and said, “Gus, if you don’t calm down you’re going to faint again.” “I haven’t fainted in two years.” Gus defended. “I’m fine. I just wanna know what Luz’s surprise is!” “I wonder if it’s a new spell she learned, Or a gift from the human world.” Gus gasped loudly and shouted, “What if it’s a tiny clock for your wrist?! What if it’s a ball that can float on it’s own?! WHAT IF IT’S A SMALL ENTERTAINMENT RECTANGLE?!” “Look, there she is!” Willow pointed the human out and waved. Meanwhile, Luz was talking to the twins as she walked with them. “Now remember that it’s rude to stare, never trust a man in sandals, and always measure twice, cut once.” “Measure… twice… cut… once…” Dipper muttered as he wrote Luz’s tips in his journal. “Got it.” “Now, I want you two to meet… oh hey! There they are! Willow! Gus!” Luz called and approached her friends quickly with her visitors. Gus gasped loudly and was then speechless, completely stone-still with his mouth hanging open. Luz smiled at his reaction while Willow grinned happily. “Hey guys! This is Dipper and Mabel, humans from the human realm! Guys, this is Willow and Gus, they’re my best friends.” “Wow! Elves!” Mabel squealed, at once catching the pointy ears and holding out a hand to shake. “Hi! I’m Mabel! It’s so nice to meet you.” Willow giggled and shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you too, but we’re not elves; we’re witches. See,” And Willow made a circle at the dirt, making a pretty pink flower sprout and bloom. She plucked it and held it out to Mabel and said, “Welcome to the Boiling Isles.” “Oh, wowie zowie.” The human breathed and pinned the flower by her ear. “Thank you!” “Are you two really humans?” Willow asked. Dipper smiled as he pocketed his journal and pen in his vest; he knew these witches were probably just as excited to meet humans as these humans were excited to meet witches. “Yup. I gotta admit, I’ve seen lots of weird stuff but this place is even more weird and mysterious than anything I’ve ever saw.” “I’m glad you like it here.” Willow then noticed how little Gus was speaking and gently elbowed him. “Gus, say something.” She whispered softly. “Ack… ah…” The young witch gasped, the nerd in him overtaking his logic, his brain slower than a snail on a turtle’s back to the overwhelming fantasy coming true. “Ears... wire… teeth… round…” “Uh, is he okay?” Mabel asked. “He’s fine.” Luz said calmly. “He’s the president of the Human Appreciation Society at school.” “Oh, cool.” Dipper said. “So this would be like me meeting the author for him.” He added to his sister, who giggled, and then she asked, “So, what do you guys like to do for fun?” Luz, Willow, and Gus all grinned excitedly as they exchanged looks and they happily grabbed the twins’ hands and took them on an adventure into the unknown. ~~~~~~~~~~ Vexing off some frustrations and hoping to forget her worries for a moment with a successful evening of winning bets and making money, Eda counted her bills one more time. It was enough to slap a man like it was a glove. With her flaming orange hair everywhere, her shiny gold tooth sparkling alongside her excited eyes, and comfortable in casual human attire, it felt good to leave behind the Boiling Isles for a while and be somewhere new. Not that she intended to stay; she didn’t quite belong here. Eda reached for a slot machine handle and pulled. One strawberry, two strawberries, and a banana. The hidden witch frowned and growled in her throat, determined to outwit this thing. She decided to give it one more try before incorporating some magic. She reached for the handle only to have her hand touch someone else’s hand. Her golden eyes landed on a buff man around her age. He wore a red Hawaiian shirt, his buttons a little low to showcase a gold chain and a bit of chest hair. Scars littered his knuckles and he had a five o’clock shadow on his square chin, his shaggy brown hair nearly long enough to be a mullet. His brown eyes sparked with excitement and he immediately put on a sly grin that made Eda smirk in return. Instantly she knew this guy was going to give her a good time. He let go of the slot machine, shrugged and gestured to the machine, and said, “Good luck.” Eda smiled, pulled the lever, and decided to perform a small spell behind her back with her free hand. One strawberry, two strawberries, three strawberries. Blinking lights and spitting money clarified Eda’s victory and she punched the air several times. “Yes yes yes yes yes!” She scooped up her loot into her bag and challenged, “Let’s see if you can do any better, Muscles.” The guy smiled cockily and gave it a shot, rubbing his hands together and popping his knuckles. To Eda’s pleasant surprise, the guy got three bananas, earning four times the amount the witch won, and he gave a barking laugh that Eda found pleasant and full-hearted. “Eat it, toots!” Stan bragged as he pocketed the winnings and pulled out a big stack of cash to flaunt. “Sorry to break it to you, sweetheart, but looks like Lady Luck’s on my side tonight.” “You wish,” Eda snorted. “Tell you what, buster, let’s make this night even more interesting.” The guy raised an eyebrow at her. “Oh?” “You and I play against each other for the rest of the evening. Whoever wins the most from this point forward… I don’t know, the winner lives in glory and the loser wallows in eternal shame.” The guy leaned across the machine, still as cocky as ever with a smile as sly as a fox. “How about loser treats winner out to breakfast?” Eda crackled a laugh and held out a hand to shake. “You've got a deal.” The guy took her hand, shook it, and said, “Name’s Stan by the way.” Eda said the first back-up name that came to mind. “Marilyn.” She would be an idiot to give away her real name in a dodgy place like Las Vegas. And so the competitive game of betting at the club began. From poker to blackjack to straight-up dice rolling and slot machines, the two spirited and care-free adults roamed the casino with one goal: to kick the other’s butt. All the while they talked like they were old friends. It was crazy ridiculous how easy their talks were. Everything just worked. Between cocktails and anything with a buzz, the two were foul cheaters, one brilliantly street-smart and the other crafty and gifted with a certain set of skills. One time Stan tried to leave a table and fell on his face to find his shoelaces tied, even though he could have sworn Eda never had a chance to prank him. Eda quickly liked this guy a lot; he was fun! She could poke fun at him without worrying about hurting his wittle feewings, rather he would poke back and make her laugh. Even as she threw dice at his head once in order to swipe his winnings, he grabbed her wrist, tickled her ribs, and swiped some of her gold; Eda retaliated by pouncing on him like a bird after her prey and they wrestled for a moment before Stan threw her down and laughed. Eda grinned, impressed he could fight, and they high-fived before moving on. It was a close call, but by three in the morning Stan was richer by five bucks, so Eda shrugged and said she was only passing through and wondered if he knew a place with edible food. Stan, who had been living in town for about a month, took her in the Stanmobile and drove her to a cheap 24-hour diner by the interstate. The whole time they chatted pleasantly, making fun of the other and telling stories and generally having a good time. As Stan drove and his hair became a wild mess, Eda smiled at him; she had never felt this way about anyone. No one challenged her or made her feel this important. And so Eda found herself eating pancakes with tons of strawberries and strawberry syrup, sipping a mug of black coffee. Stan was telling another story in between bites of pancake with eggs and plenty of bacon, his coffee also as black as the night. Eda listened, entertained, and held her mug with both of her pale hands to keep them warm. “... so I said to the bouncer, ‘where’s your idea, ugly?’ And that’s how I got this scar.” And Stan rolled back his sleeve to show off the proof of his story. Eda laughed and tilted her head up to show a tiny scar under her chin. “I got this one from playing with my sister. She tricked me and I ran after her and tripped over a tree root and landed on a rock. Blood was everywhere, Mother was furious at her, which was all the payback I needed; she almost never got into trouble.” “Ah, got a goody-two-shoes sibling, huh?” Stan asked, leaned back in his booth as he ate another piece of bacon. “Can you relate?” Stan laughed. “Yeah, my older brother Shermie’s a total square. He’s an okay guy, though. Made me an uncle.” “That’s nice.” Eda said. “Lily will never make me an aunt; she’s already married to the law.” She groaned, adding a gagging noise for comedic effect, and she sipped her coffee. “Ugh, are you related to a cop?” Stan groaned and held his forehead as he smiled. “More like a detective.” “Hey, I had an uncle who was a detective.” Stan remembered. “Cool guy; smoked a pack a day, but he had this bachelor's apartment in New York City and cracked tons of cases. He wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, good ole Uncle Jack. So, do you still talk to your sister, or…” Eda shrugged. “Not really. She decided I wasn’t good enough for her and I decided she wasn’t worth it, so we kinda went our separate ways.” Stan nodded solemnly, his eyes elsewhere. “It happens. I don’t really talk to my family anymore.” “Sorry.” She said sympathetically, her eyes anywhere but her date. “Meh. I’m not.” Stan lied easily. “If the guy wants to go to some smarty-pants school and live a boring life, always knowing what’s gonna happen, that’s his mistake.” Eda smiled and chuckled under her throat. “My thoughts exactly. Life isn’t proper; it’s wild and unpredictable, but that’s what makes it so beautiful.” Stan smiled and pointed at her. “I like your philosophy, babe.” “Your’s isn’t so bad, handsome.” Eda replied in her mug. “Could use some polishing, but hey what do I know?” Stan smiled and the conversation shifted. That drunken state a lack of sleep will give you, but neither were willing to turn in just yet. Eda still had a goal she wanted to reach before leaving town; if she wanted to more than double her winnings, she would have to be slippery, but she couldn’t help but have an amazing time and actually feel something beyond an excitement for trouble. About an hour later, now only snacking on coffee and water and probably pissing off their waiter, Eda asked, “Hey Stan, wanna marry me?” Stan stared at her, breathing in water, and needing a minute to clear his windpipes before answering. “I don’t think you wanna do that, Marilyn. You hardly know me.” He said darkly, leaning forward and looking down. Eda took the hand that was lying on the table and squeezed it gently. “I know enough.” She stood, leaned over the table, and kissed Stan. It was actually really nice. Like, really nice. Sure she could do without the taste of coffee and the sticky syrup on his lips, but when he kissed back and had a hand in her wild hair Eda’s heart was pounding faster, excitement and adrenaline being the witch’s favorite drug. When they parted and Eda had a knee on the table, Stan nodded. “Okay. I’ll marry you.” Half an hour later, they both stood in front of Cupid with brush hair and teeth and Eda had a bundle of roses Stan had shoplifted for her. After a quick exchange of “I do”s and speeding back to Stan’s motel room, they both quickly undressed and reaped from the benefits of being a couple. ~~~~~~~~~~ Hungover and tired from an all-nighter, Eda slept in Stan’s arms nearly all day, finally waking up around three in the afternoon with Stan still asleep. She laid there and smiled, eyes closed and enjoying having such warm and strong arms wrapped around her. After spending so many years alone, it was nice to sleep with someone she loved. Heck, she may love him but he didn’t need a witch criminal in her life. And Eda’s life was too unpredictable to risk being tied down. So she went over her plan and was confident it would work. It might hurt for a minute, but soon Stan would look back on this and laugh. He was just that kind of guy. After coffee and some bananas to help with the headaches, Stan got in the shower, leaving Eda alone. Perfect. Even all of their winnings from last night were on the table. Quickly re-dressing with a snap of her fingers, the cunning witch quietly scooped up the cash into her bag and hung it over her shoulder. She looked around the room and considered taking a souvenir, a human artifact to sell, but while Stan had many things she liked (many things others saw as garbage), Eda decided to go easy on her husband; she owed him that. In her neon pink shirt, blue-jean skirt, and heeled boots, Eda quietly opened the door and tip-toed out of the room. But then she suddenly heard the sounds of the shower being turned off and the curtains being drawn back. Right, males took shorter showers. Eda quickly left and let the door make a loud-ish click noise. Let’s give Stan a warning. Let him fight for it, maybe. The red Diablo was right in front of her, giving her an idea. Rather than running away to then later duck through a door, Eda changed her plan; she was going to give Stan one hell of an adventure. She made circles on the door and it unlocked, then used circles on the engine and the cluttered car roared to life. She grinned, her golden tooth sparkling and her eyes ablaze like her hair, and just as Stan stood at the motel’s door in a maroon bathrobe and a towel held by his wet hair, Eda stepped on the gas and happily let the tires screech her farewell. “HEY!” Eda cackled and snorted all the way out of the motel’s parking lot and down the street. She relaxed and even rolled down the window to lean out and enjoy some fresh air. Not the same as flying, but close enough. Eda was going over her escape plan in her head when she noticed something behind her. She even turned her head back surprisingly far and saw Stan - still in his bathrobe - chasing after her in a stolen motorcycle. Eda grinned. “I knew I married that guy for more than one reason.” She sped up and happily dodged traffic and pedestrians. In fact, one or two things in her way may or may not have floated above her and then safely come back down, but who knows? First the lights, then the sirens. The witch knew what that meant: the guards of the human realm. She glanced back at her mirror and saw Stan being followed by three cop-cars. One cop even called to her on the radio, but she ignored it and headed for the interstate out of Las Vegas. Time to make history. Just as she merged, Stan did the same, but the cops were forced to wait for an opening. Stan somehow managed to speed up next to Eda. “What the hell, Marilyn?!” He yelled. “Sorry, handsome, gotta keep you on your toes.” Eda said coolly, leaning on her elbow on the window. “Gotta keep life unpredictable, y’know?” She added with a wink and sped up, leaving Stan behind. He sped up a bit, slowly catching up, and Eda could see that the cops were on the interstate. Time for the grand escape. The Stanmobile was brought off the busy road and down into the sandy desert. Down into the mouth of a canyon Eda sped, with the bike still closely behind her. Eda grinned, swerved behind a sharp rock, and jumped out with her bag on her shoulder. She dug through the pocket of her skirt for her key and pressed the eye. Just as Stan swerved around the sharp rock, she blew him a kiss with a foxy wink and disappeared. Stan stared, red-faced and still in his bathrobe, as the doorway disappeared. The cops finally caught up as Stan tried to wrap his head around whatever happened, and the one in charge asked him, ”Where did she go?!” The conman quickly collected his thoughts. “Dunno, car was like this when I caught up. She’s probably somewhere in this canyon.” While the police searched the canyon for a runaway newlywed, Stan smiled, impressed with her work, and checked his still-running car. It looked like she had hot-wired his baby and hadn’t taken any of his junk, but what was really weird was there was a feather in the driver’s seat. Huh. ~~~~~~~~~~ Episode Placement: GF = after finale (S3?) OH = between S1E9 and E10 After finally being accepted into Hexside, not only did Luz become more invested in learning about the historical wizarding school, she became even more invested in learning about her mentor. Those permanent records giving tid-bits of Eda’s childhood really made Luz more curious about her, and she figured a good place to keep on searching was the old boxes in a storage closet. Luz had come across it when she had put away the not-witchy broom after completing a chore. Her eyes landed on a box on a top shelf and she grinned, wondering if old photos were in it. She grabbed it and sat in on the floor, on her knees as she rubbed her hands together and took off the lid to reveal a mix-match of assorted items. There were some pictures and photographs, but it was mostly filled with old clothes. Luz picked up an old “Over 30 and Very Flirty” t-shirt and giggled at it. Something fell out from the folds of the shirt and Luz picked it up. She squinted at the old picture and gasped loudly when she realized what she was looking at. “Is that…?”

#GF #OH #Owl House #gravity falls #crossover #fanfiction #fallen owls #shipping #damn it I ship it #eda the owl lady #luz noceda #stan pines #mabel pines #dipper pines #willow and gus #las vegas #my ex wife still misses me... but her aim is betting better!!!#and hell yes I'm leaving it on a cliffhanger #see y'all in two months!

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poptod · 5 years ago

Text

What Plagues My Thoughts (Kenny x Reader)

Description: In the span of a year you went from nobody to arguably one of the most well known kids at your school, but there’s one kid that won’t pay attention to you, and his attention is the only one that matters.

Notes: back at it again with my boy Kenny. again this is a ‘gender neutral’ fic with HEAVILY implied male/mlm reader. Quick warning, I do write ‘fag’ in this. I think that, as a bisexual man, it’s probably okay.

No AO3 link this time. A tumblr special I guess lol. anyway i’m sorry, this one is really not great, wrote it while high.

Words before editing: 6.827k

Words after editing: 6.872k (thought this was funny)

You’ve lived a very simple life - a very common, orthodox, and casually stereotypical life. In fact, you were so barren of any type of hobby or distinction from others that you had hardly any friends, up until you were picked random by a group of teenagers a year older than you.

Looking bedraggled and dressed in dark, grunge-esque clothes, they asked you to join their band, Acid Tears, or Hopeless Thought. They hadn’t decided on a name.

“I don’t play any instruments,” you told them curtly, in your usual soft and polite tone. They still pushed for you to join them, and despite your resistance, you reluctantly did. A year later and you were playing bass in a very punk rock band while not being at all punk rock yourself. In that time you grew into yourself - became a real person, achieved a sense of who you were and what your morals were, as well as several hobbies you enjoyed. Even so you were quiet, and the band didn’t exactly boost your popularity considering they didn’t play massive venues, and the venues they did play, you stayed at the back of the stage.

Your drummer was a nice fellow, tall, with red hair and pale skin - his name was Jakob, and he was fine with sharing the back space of the stage with you. ‘It gives the best seat in the show,’ he always said, and in many ways he was right. There were only two other people in the band, both guitarists and both singers, and they were certainly the most energetic. Jane was the exact opposite of her name, and the opposite of the identity her parents gave her. Naturally, she was a blonde, with blue eyes - typically pretty, with Christian parents who were very orthodox. She changed herself into something else over her years in high school, till she had electrifying blue hair, several tattoos, and usually wore colored contacts instead of her prescribed glasses. Her main job was singing and rhythm guitar, though she usually copied John Lennon’s response when asked what she did. Frankie played guitar, sung backup vocals, had short, black hair, and was the object of many peoples’ affections.

After winter break, you scored big - something had changed, either in your band or in the hearts of your listeners, because suddenly more people were showing up. Ticket prices began to go up, till videos of your original music started popping up online. This continued, up until the point where getting a Grammy award wasn’t something all too ridiculous a thought; the thought of which alone terrified you. The biggest jump of this popularity occurred over spring break, so, your band, officially titled Radio Waste, decided to get together to decide what to do if people recognized you.

Frankie had very little trouble with the popularity, always being the most crass and excitable. Jane expressed her own excitement in the situation, while you and Jakob made a pact on how to deal with panic attacks, should they arrive.

The four of you entered your school at once, you dressed in the most normal clothes you could find, and the other three dressed in their usual, full on punk outfits. Students gawked, whispering amongst themselves, and once one asked to get a picture with you, it started. Jane agreed, then came the uproar of ‘if he can have a photo, why can’t we?’

All in all, very horrid. You managed to escape by crawling on your hands and knees, heading to the cafeteria to wait out the crowd. Sitting alone you kept your hand in your hands, glancing up every now and then, till you spotted someone you’d nearly forgotten about, sitting in the corner with his best friend: Kenny.

He’d never noticed you before. Not that he was more popular than you, no - he was on the same level of forgotten nerd that you were, though he actually had interests. Since the sixth grade you’d had a massive, horrible crush on him that you’d done everything in your effort to hide, which wasn’t actually that hard, considering he never spoke to you. How a crush persists that long is beyond you, and beyond Jakob (once you tell him about it an hour later), but it’s there, and it disrupts all your thoughts.

To your luck, he isn’t in any of your classes, which are now heavily disrupted by your presence. Ms. Denvers pulls you out of the classroom halfway through the period and asks what exactly happened to attract all this attention -

“- it’s not like people were like this before the break,” she says, and though it’s a little insulting, her tone indicates she means the best for you.

“I joined an emo band and it got kind of popular,” you mumble, trying to hide behind your barely-there bangs. A recent haircut made sure your eyes were visible in the most uncomfortable way possible.

“I see. Is there anything I can do that might help alleviate this problem?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll do my best to ignore it,” you say, and she smiles, pats your shoulder, and leads you back into the classroom. Free seating is given up pretty quickly, and the people who don’t know who you are are seated all around you so as to avoid any serious collision.

It’s like a miracle has struck you and the school - everyone’s so nice to you when lunch comes around, warming up to you and trying to gain your favor. Some are a bit more subtle, just asking for photos, or saying hi. You appreciate that a bit more, it’s an honest approach you can respect. Besides your bandmates you don’t have many friends, if any at all, so you sit with them, and stare at the back of Kenny’s head through the growing crowd.

Someone taps your shoulder, pulling you from your trance, and she asks for a photo with you.

“Me?” You ask, mostly because everyone had ignored you in favor of your more eccentric friends during the lunch period.

“Yeah! You’re, like, my favorite member,” she explains bashfully, and a little dumbstruck you agree, helping her hold the phone steady for a selfie. For the rest of the period, you stare at Kenny when you can, who doesn’t so much as flick a hand in your direction.

You come to the (very wrong) conclusion over the course of the next couple weeks that Kenny doesn’t like guys. That’s fair, you tell yourself, but it still hurts a lot, just as much as if a girl wasn’t interested in your gender. For the most part you’ve got your own sexuality figured out, and you’re very loose with it considering how anxious you usually are with other subjects. Your conclusion doesn’t stop you from dreaming about him, and it doesn’t stop your staring either.

It’s junior year, you think to yourself, still staring at the back of his head through the crowd around you and your band, which still hasn’t worn off. There’s still time, you think, even if there really isn’t that much left, especially contrasted with what you started with.

“So you’ve been doing this since sixth grade?” Jakob asks, eating his home-brought lunch of spaghetti.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. I guess so. Never got the courage t’ really do anything about it I guess,” you mumble distantly, forking at the food on your plate.

“You should go online sometime, see the type of stuff people post about you,” he informs with a chuckle, shaking his head.

“What do you mean?”

“(Y/N), you’re really popular. I mean, not as popular as Jane, cause she’s the lead singer n’ all that, but people really like you. Apparently, bassists are pretty hot,” Frankie informs you, delighted as she shoves her own food in her mouth, also from Jakob’s home - the two of them have been friends since they were babies, and they routinely share their home food, something you didn’t really understand.

“I don’t know. I don’t think he’s into that,” you sigh, forlorn and dreamy as your gaze stays direct on Kenny and his friend who you’re pretty sure is named Jerry.

“Couldn’t hurt to say hi anyway, become friends? Ever thought of that?” Jane adds sarcastically, never one for drawn-out romance.

You can’t think of a reply, but you know she’s right. They all are. At some point you need to say hello to him, say something, even if you don’t tell him your true feelings. Fears gnaw at the back of your mind constantly, whispering their honey words and promising his hatred with such a sweet voice you can’t help but believe. Again you sigh, and your world seems utterly, irrevocably small.

Even with school going on, Radio Waste finds time to perform at smaller gigs, and Jakob makes the mistake of advertising your evening at a local club. It leads to a massive crowd trying to file its’ way in, pushing and shoving, even though you’re sure most of the people don’t even like your music. A lot of girls (and some boys) keep to your side of the stage, which is Jakob’s as well technically, and they cheer incessantly for you, till you have to turn around to avoid your face blushing bright red.

Before your popularity you weren’t ever bullied. Maybe the passing comment about being gay or a pussy, but you weren’t important or interesting enough to be a popular outlet for bullies. Still, many of the older guys who had or definitely would have called you a fag were there, and they’re cheering, their cameras and phones held up to record your music.

Jane comes up to you and Jakob during a quick interlude, and mutters to the both of you, “posers. Bunch of posers.”

“Clout chasers,” Jakob helpfully adds, and Jane agrees with a quick nod and swig from her water bottle.

The event continues normally, and you scan the crowd trying to find any familiar face, even if you didn’t like them. It’s not until the very end of the night that you see Kenny, shocking you from movement as he exits the crowded club, Jerry-or-whatever-his-name-is at his side. Until Jane closes your mouth you don’t even realize it’s open and, blushing profusely, you head offstage with your friends.

During the weekend you congregate at Jakob’s house. It’s more of a ‘settle’, when it comes to the location - Jane has a practical mansion with a pool and hot tub, but her parents are terribly conservative to the point that even you’re a suspicion since you aren’t dressed like them. Frankie, on the other hand, has incredibly nice parents who deal with pretty much anything, but their house isn’t the greatest. Your own house isn’t in the picture - your parents aren’t even aware of your band involvement, and you’d rather keep it that way.

Over a late breakfast (the group arrived at 8 AM, bright and early, and it’d taken you several hours to organize breakfast) you tell them what you’d seen that night, and explained you were too tired to tell them the whole story the previous night.

“Well, that’s good, right? He knows who you are, that’s a start,” Jakob says, leaning over his cereal to make more direct eye contact with you, a habit of his you dislike greatly. Only then, contemplating his words, do you realize how thankful you are for your friends, who hadn’t even questioned you when you said you had a crush on Kenny. No judgement from any angle - no gay jokes, no popularity jokes, and no jokes about you being a miserable romantic.

“Yeah, I guess so,” you say, feeling rather dumbstruck.

“You always guess. You gotta take what’s yours!” Frankie exclaims, having already had two cups of coffee and feeling her high pretty hard. You chuckle, but it sounds heartless.

“I think… I need a motivation to talk to him. Like, you guys gotta say ‘talk to him or else we’re gonna’…” you trail off there, hoping for some suggestions.

“We’re gonna kick you out of the band,” Jane says, gaining gasps from both you and Jakob.

“Not realistic enough, we could never lose our little baby bassist,” Frankie laughs, ruffling your hair. You mumble your displeasure, waving her hands away and straightening your hair out.

“What about… you have to talk to him or else we’ll expose you as gay to the presses,” Jakob says, and he’s instantly met by the slaps of you, Jane, and Frankie.

“Or we could do the realistic action: you talk to him or we will,” Frankie says, sounding incredibly threatening, a wicked smile coming across her face. You pale - that’s a realistic and very dangerous threat. You didn’t trust yourself all that much, but you certainly didn’t trust Frankie when it came to someone as… skittish? is that the right word? as Kenny.

“Okay! Got it, I’ll talk to him Monday,” you breathe out in a rush, your voice strained as you stare wide eyed at your own breakfast. “Will do.”

Your friends laugh in good nature, patting you on the back and congratulating you on ‘building a spine on fear’. Throughout the rest of the weekend, your deal doesn’t feel so bad - it can’t be that hard, right? Come Monday, you’re feeling sick enough to stay home, and your mother is legitimately worried for your health when you wake up swaying, and your face lands on the plate she sets out on you.

“I need to go t’ school today. I’ll be okay,” you insist, knowing that your absence would give your friends permission to approach Kenny.

Eventually, you make it - albeit a little late - and by lunch period you’re feeling even worse.

“You don’t look so good,” a boy next to you comments, his conversation with Jane interrupted by him noting your sick expression.

“Yeah,” Jakob agrees, his brow furrowing. “You sure you wanna do this?”

The boy has no idea what Jakob is talking about, and resumes his conversation with Jane, while Jakob assures you that ‘if you feel this bad, maybe you shouldn’t do it.’ You shake your head - if you don’t do it now, you’re going to brush off the future threats with your excuse of being sick. Which, you actually are sick, though you know it’s entirely psychosomatic.

Slowly you stand, getting your bearings when the world spins at the change. The crowd makes a small part, and you escape the groupies gathered at your table, trying not to stare at Kenny too much. Frankie noted it to be pretty unsettling, which you had no basis to disagree with.

Time stops, and your heart beats in time with every step you take (which you take very, very slowly) - or maybe it’s beating a hundred times a step. It’s hard to tell, what with the noise level and the other students and the fact that Jerry is now pointing at you, and Kenny’s turning his head and now they’re both looking at you - fuck, they’re looking at you - and you pray to any God that’ll listen that you don’t look creepy.

Swallowing, and trying to get a grasp on the concept of breathing, you make your way over, several students’ eyes watching you as you stand at the head of their small table. Jerry - or whatever his name is - is staring at you, eyes wide and mouth open as he tries to figure out if what’s happening is really happening.

He must be a fan or something, you think nervously to yourself, eyes darting from Kenny to Jerry.

it feels like so long has passed and you’ve said nothing, and you’re just standing there, but only a second of time has actually passed.

“Hi,” you finally get out, sounding surprisingly normal. “I’m.. I’m (Y/N).”

Oh. That went well - no slip ups, no wrong names. You smile to yourself, but the smile ends up on your face, and it’s a charming smile; friendly and warm, and to Kenny and Jerry, they think you’re completely calm, if not relaxed. Your mind blips when you realize you don’t have any excuse for introducing yourself - Jerry saves you.

“I - I’m Larry!” He says, and you internally grimace that you’re going to have to relearn his name, but outside you just shake his hand and sit next to him.

“I’m Kenny,” he says, his voice quieter than you expected, almost dream-like.

“It’s sort of crowded up there,” are the words that come out of your mouth, and you realize your tongue and lips are making decisions you didn’t get to okay. “I prefer the quiet, so I hope it’s alright if I sit with you?”

You look back and forth from Jer - Larry to Kenny, and they look at each other, then you, then agree profusely.

“Yes! Yeah, of course, anything you want,” Larry says, grinning far too cheerily for someone with an American school lunch in front of them.

“We, um,” Kenny shifts in his seat, leaning closer to you, “we saw you this weekend, you were really good.” You smile at him, readying a bashful thank you, before noticing Larry’s glare at him.

“He didn’t like you guys and didn’t wanna listen to your music, so I dragged him to your guys’ show, and now he likes you,” Larry says, and Kenny looks affronted as the truth comes out. But you just laugh, shaking your head.

“That’s alright. I know their songs aren’t for everyone,” you agree, considering you were much like that when you joined. It took a lot of compromises and ear plugs before you began to enjoy the music.

“So, do you, uh, write music? With them? It’s just that you said their songs, and y’know, if -“

“No, no… nothing publishable,” you interrupt him. “My songs aren’t really like theirs,” you admit, gauging Kenny’s reaction while simultaneously trying not to stare at him. He’s fucking gorgeous, shining like a setting sun, like a beauty so long unappreciated that he no longer knows how pretty he is. Considering what he wears and the fashion he carries himself in, he probably doesn’t.

“Not the same genre?” Larry asks.

“Actually, yeah. I uh… I have a hard time writing face paced songs, let’s just say that,” you chuckle, and with the conversation Larry carries, it feels more like an interview rather than the result of an intervention.

“I would love to see some of your songs on an album or two,” Kenny says, his lips in a soft pout as his brow knits together, resting his chin on his palm.

“Maybe in the future,” you mumble with a shy laugh, and you’ve suddenly taken Kenny’s world by storm, though you’d never know, and he wouldn’t ever remember exactly when it was he fell in love with you; but it was just then. A flip switched in both your minds - your dreams realized, his just found, and your thoughts and all your world is surrounded in a hazy golden glow, a loving shade of red emanating from the both of you so strongly that even Larry senses something is up.

It’s not till your fifth house party that semester that he gets to ask your friends what exactly is up.

Over the past couple months you’d gotten to know Kenny a lot better - his passions, hobbies, his personality, his morals, and several of his best stories, many with Larry. Even if he never loved you, you’d be happy with his friendship; being in his presence was a gift previously so rare that you’d forever cherish it. The house party isn’t much different. Kenny is reluctant to go, but you’d asked him, so he went regardless of his own fears. It took some negotiations with his parents, but considering you looked much like a normal teenager, they relented their own worries.

Keeping close to each other you navigated around, him waiting patiently in the corner when fame swept you up and required you play a song on the makeshift stage. The entire time you keep looking for him in the crowd, till you spot him in one of the hardest spots in the song. Nearly missing a note, you don’t even have to look back at your fingers to get back on the right track, your eyes still on Kenny, assuring him you haven’t forgotten him. He waves and smiles giddily at you, and you return a softer version of your own smile.

Eventually you drag yourself off the stage, drifting nearly obstruction-less through the crowd till you reach Kenny again. Talking about the performance and your own energy level, you head over to the drinks, and that’s when Larry makes his move to your band and asks his question.

“Hey uh, guys? I, uh, don’t know if you remember me, um… I’m (Y/N)’s friend?” He introduces himself once the crowd has finally died down a little.

“Oh, yeah!” Jane says, laughing and patting him on the back. “We didn’t forget you, don’t worry.”

“Oh, good. I just, um, I wanted to ask you something? If that’s alright?” He gets nods from the group, so he continues. “Is… there’s no easy way of putting this, but is (Y/N) trying to steal my best friend? Cause Kenny’s spending, like, all his time with (Y/N) and it’s annoying because he’s my only friend, and (Y/N) already has a bunch of friends.”

The band shares looks with each other, several rather sarcastic, before bursting out in laughter.

“No, no,” Jakob says through near tears. “That’s not it at all. (Y/N) is trying to come onto your friend, so no love lost there, if ya know what I mean?” He adds a sucking sound at the end, nudging Larry with his elbow. In turn, Larry scrunches up his face, disgusted.

“Kenny’s not gay, though,” Larry says, thoroughly confused and horrified.

“Huh,” Jane says, and the group goes quiet.

“Yeah, okay,” Frankie says after the long silence, and they break into crude laughter again.

Upstairs, you lead him through the house, hoping to find the room just above the living room. Lucky you know your way around - the girl who owns this house (and the party) is a big fan, and had shown you around the place. The room belongs to her parents, found when you open the door. Much grander than the girls’ room, with a massive bed and closets that go on forever.

“Should we really be here?” Kenny asks, marveling at the wood carved ceiling.

“Can’t hurt more than what they’re all doing to this house,” you say with a shrug, feeling a new sense of comfort in his private presence, something you adored in its’ entirety -alone time with him wasn’t given easily.

“That’s… true. Wanna watch TV?” He asks, jumping up on the giant bed and patting the space beside him. Grinning you run and jump, landing beside him, your legs neatly folded in front of you along side his own legs. A large television sits on the wall opposite the headboard, the remote at Kenny’s side. With a press of a button it’s on, and you’re flicking through channels, deciding which one would be best to watch.

You decide on a sitcom that you’ve seen parts of, clicking through the expansive list of channels, though you don’t know the name or any of the characters. It makes you laugh, at least for the night, till the moon shines bright outside and you’re falling asleep on Kenny’s shoulder.

“You wanna go?” He asks meekly, his voice cracking. You don’t notice, too sleepy to see anything. Instead of responding you hum indistinguishably, mumbling incoherently as you turn and rest more of your weight on him and the pillows behind you. Somewhere in there he hears a small ‘no,’ so he obeys, and turns the volume back up. Not enough to keep you awake, but enough to hear it over the music continuously playing downstairs. A minute passes and you’re snoring softly.

He glances to you, the show forgotten as the topic changes, all his concentration on you. A stray piece of hair falls in front of your eyes, so he pushes it back, admiring the plush of your cheeks, blushing strawberry and squished against his shoulder. For a while, he lets you sleep - the music downstairs is playing a little quieter, a little sweeter, and the fuzzing of the TV is going down. It takes a good hour of him sitting there, too anxious to sleep, before he jostles you awake. From there, you leave, and part ways.

In the morning you show up at Jakob’s house (a Saturday tradition) and they all congratulate you.

“Hmm?” You hum sleepily, still rubbing your eyes awake. “What happened?”

“You scored last night!” Jakob says with a joyous laugh, patting you on the back as he leads you to another bowl of brand name cereal.

“You and Kenny got lucky last night, huh?” Frankie says with a smirk, nodding her head slowly.

“What? No, I fell asleep next to him then he woke me up and we both went home. To our separate homes,” you quickly clear the situation up, all too ready to rid of a lie you wish wasn’t false. They groan, clearly disappointed, and go back to their own seats at the table.

“Aren’t you ever gonna do it? It’s been, like, a million years,” Jane groans, resting her cheek on her palm.

“We’re just friends right now. I don’t think he’s into me,” you mumble with a shrug, starting on your cereal. Frankie pretends to fall asleep and snore. The other two just stare, dumbfounded at you, wondering how much denser you could be before dying of brain inactivity.

“Right. Whatever you tell yourself at night,” Frankie sighs, rolling her eyes. You frown, but don’t correct her, and the subject moves onto other topics. Jane tried to hook up with someone last night, but it turned out he was just trying to get pictures of her naked, and Jakob came home with a mild concussion than no one can explain. Frankie had a surprisingly mild evening, only punching one black eye into a guys’ face, and doing only seven shots of expensive vodka that definitely didn’t belong to her.

At lunch one spring-verging-on-summer day Kenny asks you something strange, something he never asked of you before. He asks you to meet him, at midnight, at an address you don’t know. If it were anyone else you would’ve been suspicious, but he looks so innocently nervous, you trust him with a quick nod and a smile. He looks relieved, and takes a seat next to you - Larry sits across from you both, and conversation ensues as normal.

That evening you find a note in your backpack, from Kenny.

For this adventure, you will need: . 1 Guitar . 1 Songbook Good luck on your quest. By the way here’s the address.

Except for the last line, it’s modeled after a shitty video game from the 90’s that the two of you found on the street. The storyline, animation, and overall execution was so horrid the two of you loved it, and you giggled softly at the memory as your fingers ran down the page. Caseless, you swung your guitar strap round your shoulders and set it against your back, wondering what he could be planning as you grabbed your songbook. You hadn’t ever shown him any of your songs, despite his insistence that he’d love them. But, when Kenny asks you to do something, you nearly always do it.

Climbing out your window, you crawl into a nearby tree, shutting the window back up and making your way down. You know the town better than anything else, and you know where the road is - but you’ve never been to the specific address. As you reach the street you grab at your pocket for the number, but Kenny’s standing outside, giving you a small wave. Letting out a breath and a smile, you jog to where he stands, and wait for his answer to what was happening.

“I, uh,” he pulls his hand from behind his back, holding a journal you’ve never seen. “I thought we could show each other some stuff.”

“You write songs?” You ask, gaping. You hadn’t ever learned this about him, and if anything it excited you.

“Yes! Well, no, actually, not really, I uh, I write poems,” he clarifies, clearing his throat and nodding awkwardly.

“That’s amazing. I didn’t know that… are you any good?” You ask, wondering how he could still look as beautiful as he does in the yellow glow of a cheap streetlight.

“I dunno, I’d like to think so, but I’ve… I’ve never really shown anyone before,” he says, his voice suddenly small and hard to hear. In the distance, the creek almost grows louder.

“Like I’ve never shown my songs?” You chuckle softly. “Wanna trade?” You hold up your book, and he nods excitedly.

You walk down to the creek and share in the delights in the only thing unknown about the other. It’s something ceaselessly private and terribly close to the soul, but you make do in the dim starlight, laughing away your insecurities with care. Bugs occasionally buzz around you but mainly keep in the light of the streets, and the peace of the running water fills your heart with an unfamiliar warmth. The only thing you dislike in any fashion is the fact that it’s a little harder to see him, even if he isn’t any less handsome, you like to note the color of his eyes.

It’s a little hard to pinpoint the color, especially in the dark - but you have the memory of them shining a brilliant green in the sunlight, and turning a cold grey when he cries. You match it to each of his emotions, each sparkle, every turn of the lip that you’ve memorized in such a tender way you’d never forget them, never misplaced for a second. When he lets out a breathy laugh your words catch in your throat, and you barely play it off as your own laughter when he looks right back at you with the same recognition of the features on your own face that you’d never bothered to care about.

“It’s amazing,” you note, when the sharing has finished. “Your poetry is.. fantastic. Really.”

“Oh, thanks,” he replies nervously, quietly, and he presses the journal tight to his chest and hugs it. Your notebook isn’t nearly as nice looking as his, but both are worn with the same amount of care. “Your songs are really good too.”

“Thanks,” you say, unsure of what to do next. You didn’t want to part - it was too perfect a night to just leave so suddenly.

He shuffles nervously, so subtly that you don’t notice he’s scooting closer to you till the cold of your bare arm begins to wash away with his warmth.

“W- d- Larry keeps making fun of my hand size,” he fumbles out, looking directly at you while simultaneously looking like he’d rather be looking anywhere else.

“What? Do you have small hands or something?” You ask, looking down at his hands. They look perfectly normal sized, actually. Then you turn to your own - you could even have the same sized hands, you decide, but it’s something you test. You hold up your hand, palm facing him, and he holds up his own. Your fingers touch and you try to ignore every flare in your heart, every spark in your nerves, and you look at the sizes;

You’re barely bigger than him.

“Ha, look at your tiny hands,” you laugh, even if it’s not that amusing, teasing is a wonderful way to get close to someone.

“Hey! You’re barely over my fingertips!” He says, but he joins in your laughter, still looking insulted.

“Kenny,” you chuckle, trying to calm yourself down with slow breaths, “what time is it?”

“Oh, um,” he grabs your wrist, the only one with a watch on it, and reads, “4:57 AM.”

“Shit, that’s so late,” you say, your mood switching to worried mother, and you gather up your guitar and songbook.

“Or early,” Kenny helpfully adds, earning a playful glare from you. He chuckles, holding his own journal in his arms, and the two of you make it as close as you can to your own houses without having to part.

“So, um, I’ll see you tomorrow? At school?” He asks at the crossroads separating the paths to your homes.

“Yeah, of course.”

You’re reluctant to part but you force yourself to with a small wave. When you have to turn down a different road you look back, finding he’s looking back too, and the two of you smile and wave, and truly part for the evening.

I should’ve kissed him, you think to yourself on the way home, groaning. The entirety of the story is spilled the next lunch period, and your friends agree profusely with you

“You’re a fucking idiot, (Y/N),” Jakob tells you. “Can he do literally anything gayer to make you realize he likes you???”

“I know, I know, I know!” You hiss, gripping tight at your hair. Jane untangles the knots round your fingers and takes your hands away from your head, setting them down on the table with a weary sigh.

“I’m worried about you,” she says.

“So am I,” you grumble back.

Still, your little dance goes on till the end of the year, and by then you’re thoroughly sick of it, and Kenny has gotten a lot more free with his affection since coming out. Jane hosts a party while her parents are away (cliche, but she swears she’s the luckiest girl, and she’s right), and the massive house is perfect. The pool out back lends for a sneaky showing of far too much skin on girls and boys alike, and you feel a little anxious standing in the shaded corner.

Kenny comes round the bend of the house with Larry, and they both look far more like they belong. Larry’s talking about something, his hands moving animatedly around as he laughs. Kenny listens intently, till he sees you, and Larry gets easily distracted by the parts of girls he’s never seen before.

“You okay?” He asks, grasping your upper arm. You shrug - probably, you’re fine.

“I’ll be better once the whole pool thing is done,” you tell him, and he doesn’t really understand your insecurity, but he stays with you as a source of comfort. You appreciate him dearly, and for the next several hours you think of how to show that appreciation.

Night swings around, everyone gets into their other clothes, and the party moves inside. Music pounds throughout the house, and deafly you search for a drink to numb yourself for the next several hours before it’d be appropriate to go home. Frankie catches you before anyone else, and convinces you to try your first shots - you’re feeling terribly woozy by three, and she calls you a lightweight.

“I’m light as hell, cause I’ve never gone light, dark…” you mumble to yourself, trying to sort out your jumbled thoughts. “I don’t drunk because I can’t drink, you know?” She laughs, ruffles your hair, and sends you in the direction of Kenny, who she comments on looking very lonely in the kitchen corner. Stumbling through the dancing crowd you make it to him, feeling the wave of drunkenness passing very slowly away.

“Hey, whatcha doin’ alone?” You ask, holding a cup of water in your hand, a precaution Frankie insisted on.

“Oh, Larry’s dancing, I don’t really feel like it,” he says, shrugging and pointing to Larry, who’s caught the eye of some girl who’s probably too drunk to see, but Larry looks just about as drunk as her.

“Whoof. He’s not coming home tonight,” you say, your verbal filter terribly weakened.

“What? What does - ohhh… good for him,” Kenny replies awkwardly, and the two of you stay in the corner watching the crowd.

“Hey, hey… Kenny?” You say, turning to him. Stumbling slightly you loose your balance, and catch the counter, now looking up at him. “Kenny…”

“Yeah?” He asks, his heart beating fast against your hand, which you just realized is pressed to his chest.

“Come here, come… come here,” you say, grabbing his hand and dragging him along till you make it to some sort of broom closet - you’re not sure where you are, but it’s private, and the dull thudding of the music barely reaches you here.

“What’s - what’s wrong?” His voice has tightened even further, the small space forcing your bodies together.

“I… this might just be.. the liquor, or whatever I drank… but fuck I wanna kiss you,” you admit with a numb tongue, not even realizing your confession, and certainly not sober enough to remember it. Kenny freezes - he hasn’t had a drop of alcohol and he’s perfectly coherent in every way, and it’s not helping him at all in this moment. Instead it’s forcing so many possibilities into his mind he can’t keep track of them, only able to focus on your heat and his thumping heart.

“You’re drunk,” is what comes out of his mouth when he can’t speak.

“Doesn’t mean I haven’t loved you since fucking sixth grade,” you sigh, wrapping your arms listlessly round his waist and leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Sixth grade?” He hisses, trying to help you stand, desperately wishing you’d just sober up and tell him straight out what you thought of him.

“Please kiss me,” you murmur, lifting your head and nuzzling up into his jawline. He chokes on his own breath, his hands going numb as he loses coherent thought.

“It’s not right,” he says, tight and high. “Just… let’s get you home, okay?”

“No, no, no! I can’t, I’ve loved you for so long, I can’t wait any longer, just - please, I can’t draw this out anymore, tell me you fuckin’ hate me or something, I don’t care, just… please,” you beg him, sounding on the verge of tears even though they’re not really there. Tired, he sighs, and helps you to look at him. His palm holds your cheek, and it’s the most comforting thing that you might fall asleep in his hold.

“I like you,” he admits. “But you won’t remember this in the morning.”

“Then help me. Ask any of my friends, I’ve been raving about you for ages, I adore you,” you murmur, your lips pressing against the sensitive skin of his neck. He stutters, trying to find a response, before your hand comes up to his cheek. In blurred thought your fingers trace from his cheekbone to his jaw, reaching his lips and tracing their outline with as delicate a touch as you can manage. You straighten yourself out, no longer leaning on his shoulder, and in a trance he follows where you guide him, till your lips move against his. Neither of you can define when you touch, when it starts, or when you begin kissing fierce - you don’t even realize it till he grasps at your hair and you pull at his shirt.

Breathing heavy you pull yourself away, realizing in a sudden sobriety that you’d just kissed him. Kenny, the guy you’d liked for nearly five and a half years, and he’s moving back into you, his chest tight against yours as he kisses the life out of your mind, until you feel so full you could explode with your affection for this one boy.

“I adore you,” you mumble against his lips, playing with his hair as you kiss him over and over again.

“I think I love you,” Kenny practically whimpers, and you return the sentiment so deeply you can’t help but moan his name, your body begging to be closer to him.

In the morning you recall in crystal clear memory the events of the night before. Frankie is the most surprised at this - not just because you got the nerve that you finally kissed him, but also because you remembered it at all. She makes another joke at your expense, but it brings laughter to both you and your friends.

“You know,” Frankie says, stuffing her face with leftover croissants from Jane’s party, which she’d brought from her house to Jakob’s, “I knew it’d end well.”

“How’d you know?” You ask.

“It’s as I said. Bassists are pretty hot.”

You wave her off, chuckling. When you kiss Kenny at the back of the school during lunch, you think on it - maybe she’s right, you think, considering Kenny is way out of my league. But he holds your cheeks in his hands and pulls you closer, holding you tight, out of view of every other person, and you lose all thought of anything but him again - an emotion you can never get enough of, and one you’re lucky to get the rest of your life.

#kenny al bahir x reader #kenny al bahir #war at home #rami malek

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willow-salix · 4 years ago

Note

F, Y and Z please from the writer ask list

You're getting me back for mine, aren't you? Lol

F- How long have you been writing fan fiction? Since around 2009, I wrote one mega fic which was around 60k long and was a complete book re-write of a true blood book. Then role play fan fiction for years until I got brave enough (or stupid enough) to do TAG.

Y- What is your favourite genre to write?

Paranormal romantic comedy is my genre. Mostly funny fluff with a dash of angst sprinkled in now and then to shock people into remembering that I can be serious now and then.

I guess for me writing is escapism so I like it to be mostly happy so I'm happy writing it. I tend to take on my characters feelings while writing it and writing too much drama and whump can make me depressed and it's harder for me to write, I get bogged down. The whumpy, emotional chapters are the hardest for me and take longer because I have to pace myself and do then bit by bit so I don't get too sad or low.

Z: Post an excerpt from your first fic or your last. Well you've just read my last, so let's see if I can dig out any of my first... Its gonna be awful...

OK, backstory of the book is that some witches came to cause trouble and put a spell on the local head vampire, Eric. In the original book it was Sookie that found him, but obviously I changed it so that a witch could be involved, that and I totally love Eric (I obviously have a bit of a thing for blondes that I didn't realise). This is from chapter 4, it's first person, I hate it, but I think we can kinda see where Selene got her sarcasm.

I was driving along at a good pace when a new song came on the stereo, I smiled as it was one of my favourites ‘Somebody’s out there’ by Triumph. I was singing along when my eyes caught a flash of movement in the distance.

I slowed the car down a little and looked more closely, waiting for the animal or whatever it was, to jump out into the road in front of me.

What I didn’t expect to see was the sight of a half naked, very tall man, running like crazy down the side of the road. I stopped the car as quickly as possible and jumped out.

I called out to the running figure, noting that he had long blonde hair and was very pale.

‘Hey there mate, are you ok?’ He whirled around and faced me, standing in a crouched position. He had huge white fangs glistening in the moonlight. I gasped in shock. It was Eric.

‘Hey Eric, calm down sweetie, it’s just me. It’s Tansi.’

I opened myself up and tried to feel what he was thinking. I was shocked to pick up confusion, fright and nervousness. Why the hell was Eric scared of me?

‘Are you ok darling?’ I took a step closer to him with my hand outstretched to him.

He seemed to think for a second and then stood up out of the crouch; his fangs withdrew a little but not quite.

‘Do I know you?’ He asked quietly.

‘Of course you know me, you doughnut.’

‘Who am I?’ Oh Goddess I though, is he for real? Does he not know me? Did that explain the confusion?

‘Eric, sweetie, what happened to you?’ I stepped closer still and he didn’t move away this time.

‘Who is Eric?’

Oh lordi, what was going on?

I was shivering in the cold and realised that Eric must be colder than I was; he wasn’t wearing a shirt or coat and didn’t appear to have any shoes either.

I sighed making up my mind in that one instant; I would have to take him home with me.

‘Come on babe, you are coming home with me, I can’t leave you out here on your own, you’ll freeze and you don’t seem to know who you are, let alone how to get back home’. I closed the distance between us and took his hand, he gripped my hand like it was a lifeline and allowed me to lead him to my car.

His hand was very cold and he had goose bumps on his arms and chest, his nipples were very erect and seemed to be watching me. I shook my head to clear my, slightly naughty, thoughts and took off my cape and draped it around his shoulders and wrapped it around him as close as possible. It was way too small on him but would do.

I got him in the car and did up his belt. He looked me straight in the eyes.

‘Do I really know you, do you really know me?’ He looked so lost, the

poor lamb. I impulsively gave him a half hug as I finished doing up his seatbelt.

‘Yes I really know you, and you really know me’. I shut his door and went round to my side and started the car. While I was getting myself sorted out he was staring at me very intently.

‘Did you call me Eric?’

‘Yes that’s your name’

‘And yours was Tansi?’ He frowned a little at the strange sound of my name.

‘Yes Tansi, its short for Tanzanite’.

‘It is a very beautiful and unusual name’. He gave me a small smile, so

I gave him a very big one in return.

‘Well Thank you, I don’t like it much, but it can grow on you’.

We drove in silence for a bit longer before I gave into my curiosity.

‘Eric, what were you doing out here, and why don’t you remember me?’

Eric seemed to shrink into the seat a little.

‘I don’t know, I don’t even know who I am’. Oh shit, I thought, this is very bad indeed.

‘Well try not to worry too much babe, I’ll look after you’. We were pulling up to my house now. I parked and came round to open his door. I held out my hand and was relieved when, after a moment’s hesitation, he put his hand in mine. I curled my fingers around his and gave a little pull to get him out of the car. I kept his hand in mine as I lead him into my house. He hesitated but I pulled a little more firmly.

‘Come on. Eric, I want you to come in with me and be safe and warm.’

My words had the desired effect and he followed me into my living room.

I flipped on the lights and finally got a good look at him. I didn’t like what I saw. He was wrapped in my too small cloak, and appeared to be only wearing a pair of filthy jeans. His hair was dirty and matted with Goddess knows what. I sighed and held out my hand to him again.

Come with me’ I lead him to my bathroom and started the shower.

‘You get undressed and get in while I get you some towels, I wont be long’ I turned to give him some privacy when he grabbed my hand.

‘Don’t go, stay with me’ Eric looked so lost that I melted.

‘Ok stay there for just a minute I’ll be right back, I promise’ I patted his hand and extracted myself slowly from his death grip on my arm.

Thankfully he let me go.

I ran to my bedroom and grabbed some towels from the linen closet, an old pair of sweats and an oversized t-shirt I used as a nightdress and as an after thought, rummaged in my bottom draw for last years bikini, just in case.

I ran back and found him in exactly the same place he was when I had left. I was a little worried at how much he seemed to cheer up when I stepped back into the room.

‘Come on now babe, slip out of those dirty jeans and jump in the shower, I want to get you clean’. I eeped and quickly span round to face the door as he took me literally and dropped his trousers onto the floor.

‘Come in with me’ he pleaded. I sighed.

‘Ok get in and I’ll be right back’. I stepped out the door and quickly shucked my dress and pulled on the bikini. This was not the way I had thought I would be getting Eric in my shower with me, but there was no way

I was going to take advantage of this troubled man in the room behind me.

I stepped back into the bathroom. He was in the shower just standing under the spray, he looked up as I got into the shower behind him. I was pleased to note that he looked a little disappointed that I wasn’t as naked as him.

‘Now no funny stuff’ I warned him as I reached for the soap and began to wash him all over. My fingers seemed to sink into the thick muscles of his back and I had to tell myself very firmly to keep my mind on the job as I fought the urge to lick his back.

He sighed as I worked the soap over his shoulders.

When his back was as clean as it was going to be and I had managed, with a lot of prayers for prizes for good behaviour, to carefully avoid looking at his fabulous butt to closely (a quick glance was all I did, I promise), I turned him around and began to work on his chest. The air left my lungs in one big whoosh as my hands slid over his nipples and down over his stomach. I took my hands away, afraid that I would lose my self control in one feel swoop in about 10 seconds time.

‘You can finish off while I have a wash’ I handed him the soap and turned my back and concentrated on washing off the smell of the bar from my skin. I gave him a few minutes more and then turned round to face him.

I risked a quick glance down and almost felt my knees collapse when I saw just how happy he was to be in the shower with me. My girl pride picked up a notch but I squashed any thoughts of reaching out and feeling just how happy, and grabbed the shampoo from the shelf.

‘Turn around’ I commanded and when he did I reached up and applied a generous amount onto his hair. I rubbed it in gently, taking my time working it through the tangles and getting all the dirt out, until it was squeaky clean.

I helped him rinse the soap out and then set to work on my own. He reached out to help me, but I pushed him gently away. I love having my hair played with and I knew that if he turned those big, sexy hand loose on me, I would never be able to leave him alone, and he would find himself on the floor with a pair of very long legs, attached to one very horny woman, wrapped firmly around his waist. He looked a little put out but allowed me to finish on my own.

I turned off the water and got out, wrapping myself in a big fluffy towel. I handed one to Eric and watched as he wrapped it around his waist, leaving his chest bare, wet and very inviting. I had to take a deep breath. I have a thing about bare, wet men that was not helping my resolve.

I grabbed the clothes I had picked up for him and practically shoved them into his arms.

‘You get dressed and I’ll meet you in the kitchen’ I squeaked out, my voice a little high. I turned away and scuttled out the door to my bedroom to get dressed into the frumpiest pyjamas I owned.

Gahhhhh I cringe! I cringe so much! This is awful, Wills! What have you done? Do you want some crackers with that cheese? Fucks sake.

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ohblackdiamond · 5 years ago

Text

little t&a (paul/gene, nc-17) (part 1 of 29)

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13 part 14 part 15 part 16 part 17 part 18 part 19 part 20 part 21 part 22 part 23 part 24 part 25 part 26 part 27 part 28 part 29 Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort level, and Gene’s libido, this situation must be rectified. Sexswap fic.

Notes: This has been on the backburner pretty much since the quarantine started. I really wrestled with posting it at all since it’s a weird premise, and most of my fics have a more realistic bent, but I decided that if it perked me up while working remotely, eating ramen, and feeling like I was back in uni in all the worst ways (when was I in uni? why, during the Great Recession!)-- then maybe it’d perk someone else up, too. So here we are.

Gene really didn’t think too much of it at first when Paul vanished just after the tour. He didn’t take it personally, the way Peter did, and he didn’t get too quizzical about it like Ace did. The whole band was burnt-out on each other. The days where they had to share hotel rooms were gone, and the days where they wanted to share vacations were gone, too. Gene couldn’t pinpoint when it had gotten like that, and it made him a little regretful, sure, but it was just another inevitability. The Beatles had made it ten years before imploding, all those hurt egos just smushing together and screwing everything up. KISS had four years under its belt now, and already he could feel things faltering.

So maybe Paul was trying to ease all that via his disappearing act. Spend his tour break at home, probably with a bevy of girls lining up at his front porch, and come back refreshed and ready for another nine-month stretch with only a wall between him and his bandmates, assuming Ace and Peter didn’t tear a hole in it on a drunken whim. It made sense. The first time Paul didn’t return his phone call (the tinny sound of his $400 answering machine the only response), Gene wasn’t concerned. The second time, Gene assumed Paul had gone to a disco, or was spending the night at some chick’s house. The third time, Gene immediately called up Bill, who said he hadn’t heard from Paul, either.

That was cause for concern. Paul could, and did, blow off anybody but their manager. Still, Gene figured he’d give it one more day, and one more lay, before he started to investigate.

That was the plan, until he got his mail late one morning. There was always a fat stack of it. The actual sackfuls of fan mail would end up at some office, where a poor secretary was stuck stuffing envelopes with their pictures and a canned response. Sometimes a real sleuth would find his address, and he’d open those out of sheer novelty, when he had the chance, only to be disappointed when the writer turned out to be a twelve-year-old who’d spent his paper route money on several books of stamps, and mailed the same letter out to every Gene Simmons in the greater New York phone book. Every so often he’d get the good stuff, like a saucy letter from a college girl, with photos and pubic hair taped inside. “See you next time in Sacramento.” He never wrote them back, but he’d put the photos in a separate album from his conquests. Almost a hope chest of photos, there.

Gene thumbed through the newsletters and errant bills so quickly he nearly missed it. A glossy postcard, with Buckingham Palace on the front. It couldn’t have been a piece of fan mail, but he didn’t know anyone who’d bother writing him, either. He flipped it over out of curiosity. Weird.

He recognized the scratchy longhand before he got to the signature. Not that it took long. Thee address was almost lengthier than the postcard message.

“Gene—Do you know anything about curses? Write me back soon. Thanks, Paul.”

He called up Peter about it that afternoon, still baffled. He didn’t really think Peter would have any insight on it—Paul and Peter hadn’t been as close as they used to be, though that went for everyone—but he surprised him.

“I haven’t heard from him. I figured you had.” Peter was chewing gum as he spoke. Gene could hear the smacks through the receiver. “Why the fuck would he send you a postcard? You live closer to him than I do.”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Talking about curses…” Peter trailed. “Shit, I went over there last week. Didn’t call him up first, just thought I’d go over like I used to. I banged on the door and some chick came out and screamed at me to go away. I told her who I was and she just stared at me.”

“Paul doesn’t pick girls for brains.”

“It was kinda weird, though. Picky bastard usually gets blondes.”

“What, was she a brunette?”

“Yeah, real dark, curly hair—you don’t think he’s shacked up with her, do you? Some New Age type, turning him on to something funny? ’Cause he doesn’t usually want ’em sticking around, either, and I stopped by after lunch…”

Evidently, Peter paid more attention to Paul’s habits with girls than Gene ever had.

“I don’t know. Was she cute?”

“Yeah. She had nice tits.”

Of course she did. Gene rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.

“I’m gonna look into this. I’ll let you know if I can’t get in touch with him.”

“Sure.” There was a slight hesitation. “Hey, thanks for calling me. I thought he was pissed at me or some shit. But I guess he’s pissed at everybody.”

Gene privately feared it was worse than that. If Paul had gotten a girlfriend, one serious enough he was ignoring everyone and everything else, even the looming tour, for her sake… well, that didn’t make sense, not unless she’d conned him into something. There were still plenty of cults and communes all over the place, the leftover remnants of disillusioned hippies. They’d join fringe churches or create their own religions and live in tents on the side of the road. He didn’t think Paul would have fallen into something like that, unless the girl had spruced it up with a bunch of psychobabble and talk therapy. Paul dug astrology and self-help, but it wasn’t something he’d trade his lifestyle for. Was it?

“I’ll find out. I’ll see you, Pete.”

He hung up, then dialed his chauffeur. An hour or so later, he was pulling up to Paul’s.

He told the chauffeur not to wait on him. If Paul was at his house, he’d make him drive him back. It turned out they weren’t Paul’s only visitors. Ahead of them, walking up the driveway, was a kid carrying two grocery bags, his bicycle parked in the grass.

Gene didn’t normally have an issue making his presence known. But he held back, curious. He wanted to see who would open the door—that supposed live-in girlfriend, some other chick, or Paul himself. As the chauffeur drove away, he hung back a bit, tucking himself behind a tree at the edge of the front of the house, near the front porch. The kid didn’t seem to notice.

He watched the kid—he was probably about eleven—ring the doorbell with his elbow. After a couple seconds, the door opened, a girl in a blue bathrobe walking out, shutting the door behind her. Gene recognized the bathrobe as one of Paul’s, though she filled it out better than he ever had. She wasn’t even wearing anything beneath it that he could tell, cleavage obvious, the loosely-tied bathrobe hiding none of it. Curly, dark hair—Gene wondered if this was the girlfriend, or bedmate, that Peter had seen earlier. No telling.

“How much was it?” she asked the kid.

“Eight twenty-five.”

“You have the receipt?”

The kid pulled out the receipt. The girl looked at it, nodded, then took a wallet from the pocket of Paul’s bathrobe, tugging out a couple bills.

“Here’s nine. Keep the change.”

“Thanks.” The kid paused. “I thought somebody famous was supposed to live here.”

“You thought wrong.” The girl took the two bags of groceries and turned back towards the door, trying to use her elbow to turn the knob. The kid was already back on his bicycle. As he kicked the stand up, he called back out to her over his shoulder.

“Hey, you gonna need groceries next week, too?”

“I hope not.” She set both bags on the front porch. The kid nodded, waving as he started down the driveway. The girl didn’t wave back, busy opening the door.

Now was Gene’s chance. He stepped out from behind the tree and walked to the front porch as the girl picked up one of the grocery bags again.

“Hey.”

She turned around immediately. Her eyes got big.

“Shit—Gene!”

She recognized him. That didn’t narrow it down. She looked familiar, somehow—she wasn’t a Playmate, Gene always recognized those—maybe a model, or a groupie? But Paul didn’t bring those home. Gene raised a finger to his mouth.

“Shh. Look, I’m here to see Paul. Is he in?”

“Wh—no. No, sorry.” A tense, quick smile. Definitely not a model. Only Ali MacGraw could manage to make it with crooked teeth.

“Can you tell me when he’ll be back?”

“I have no idea. I don’t know where he is.”

“So he just left you over here?”

The girl set the bag down, folding her arms. Something about the mannerism made an eerie feeling prickle down the back of Gene’s spine.

“Are you telling me I can’t be here?”

“No!” Gene pursed his lips. “Look, I don’t care who he’s with. But we’re supposed to go back on tour in a couple weeks and—”

“I know!”

“That’s great. So maybe it might be nice to know where he is beforehand.”

The girl bristled.

“I told you, I have no idea! I just—can’t you leave me alone?”

“You’re living in his house, wearing his bathrobe—that wasn’t even your wallet, was it?”

“Hey!”

Gene scrambled for it. The girl was fairly tall; he probably only had about five or six inches on her, but she wasn’t quick. He grabbed her shoulder with one hand, then jammed his other hand into the bathrobe’s pocket, starting to tug the wallet out. She clenched his arm, nails digging in roughly, not nearly hard enough for him to drop the wallet.

“Stop it! Let go of me, you goddamn idiot!”

She shoved forward, stomping on his foot. Gene couldn’t feel that much of an impact, given the thickness of his boots. He kept a grip on her shoulder as he got the wallet fully in hand, opening it up as she screamed at him.

“You don’t understand, Gene! It’s not what you’re thinking!”

Unsurprisingly, Paul’s driver’s license photo was the first thing staring back at him from the see-through plastic card slot. Eisen, Stanley B. (God, the guy still hadn’t legally gotten his name changed) printed across it. Beyond the license was a handful of credit and business cards, as if Gene really needed to thumb through them for any further confirmation.

“You stole his wallet.”

“I didn’t steal it!”

She had a lisp, Gene noticed out of nowhere.

“Like hell you didn’t. Where is he?”

“I told you, I don’t—”

She jerked back abruptly, digging her nails deeper into his arm. He didn’t let go, but his hand shifted, accidentally yanking the bathrobe down at the shoulder. The girl’s eyes got huge. One of her breasts was exposed, which would’ve been plenty distracting enough, under normal circumstances, but for once, Gene’s eyes went to her bare shoulder first.

More specifically, the rose tattoo on her bare shoulder.

It wasn’t possible. It had to be a coincidence. He only saw the tattoo for a second at best, before she smacked his hand away and yanked the bathrobe back into place, covering her shoulder.

It didn’t prove anything. But in a nice, W.A.S.P.y neighborhood like Paul’s, how many chicks had tattoos? And how many would have one like that, a Lyle Tuttle tattoo, when Lyle’s shop was clear across the country?

She looked pissed-off. Scared, too. Something about the tight, sour way her lips were pressed together seemed weirdly familiar. The way she was acting didn’t add up. She’d called him by his first name on automatic. No deference or starry-eyed behavior. This girl didn’t give a damn about him being a rockstar. Those caustic responses made it come off like—like she really knew him.

That prickly feeling down his spine was only getting worse, even as he tried to dismiss it as impossible. If Gene was right, what he was about to do was incredibly cruel. If he was wrong, he’d just owe Paul Stanley’s latest chick a sincere apology. He wasn’t sure which option was worse.

But he had to know. He let go of the bathrobe and quickly shoved his hand through the girl’s tangled, curly hair, starting just at the temple, lifting it up to fully expose the right side of her face. The abject horror in her dark brown eyes might have been confirmation all on its own, but the damage was already done. He’d already pushed back enough of her hair to see what he’d only ever been told about before.

“Gene, y-you fucking asshole!”

Not an inch past one wispy sideburn was a stub of cartilage where her right ear should have been.

He wasn’t dealing with Paul’s girl of the duration. He was dealing with Paul.

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #paul stanley #gene simmons #gene simmons x paul stanley #ace frehley #peter criss

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dear-yunho · 5 years ago

Text

Date Night

Pairing : Kim Hongjoong (ATEEZ) x Female!Reader Genre : Mostly Fluff/Comfort Word Count : 2,310 Author’s Note : This is the first Joongie fic I wrote that I was happy with!

The smell of popcorn seemed to stick physically to you as you and Hongjoong left the theatre, and pieces of it were actually literally stuck on parts of Hongjoong where an overexcited child had thrown the remainder of their card box box of buttery kernels at him. You couldn’t help letting loose a tiny giggle at the memory of his stunned expression as the mother hurried her child away, throwing a rushed apology over her shoulder. “What?” Hongjoong looked at you, completely unaware that there were still pieces left on him, “Hold still.” You told him, reaching out to pluck the offending food from him and showing him the small pile in your hands before dumping it into the nearest bin. He pouted, hands patting the rest of him to ensure there were none left. “It’s not funny, stop laughing at me!” He exclaimed, pout growing the longer you continued to struggle to hold in giggles. You bit down hard on your lip, filling your eyes with an apology to ease his lost puppy look. “It’s a little funny.” You choked out when he finally smiled back at you and he glared for a moment before grabbing you around the waist and crushing you in a one armed hug while his free hand danced against your sides. “Is it still funny?” He questioned gloatingly as you gasped against him, trying not to laugh at the tickling he was torturing you with. “Hongjoong!” You whined, slapping his arm gently until he stopped, grinning widely down at you now. “Sorry princess.” He chuckled, kissing you quickly and softly before pulling away and inspecting you with adoration in his eyes that made your knees weak. This was the first time in weeks that you’d been able to see him, his schedule had been so crazy and you’d wanted to give him space to deal with that without worrying about you, but you hadn’t realised just how much you’d missed him. You stood on your toes, mouth seeking his in a kiss that lasted only a few seconds longer than the last. He held your waist, smiling against your lips. He’d missed you too. After a few more kisses that you were sure would probably have people gagging at the sight of if they were wandering past, you realised the time. It was getting dark, and you had things to get done at home, because although it was Hongjoong’s day off, it wasn’t yours. And you’d already left it too late, you’d be up well into the early morning struggling to meet your deadline for a work assignment that was due in tomorrow. “Mm I need to go.” You told Hongjoong, squeezing his hands and stepping away from him. His face fell in dismay and he followed your steps back, hands catching yours. “Let me walk you home at least?” He begged, mouth twisting sadly when you began to shake your head before he was even done speaking. You tugged your hands from his, catching his face gently between them and kissing him one last time. “If you walk me home, I’ll let you come in and spend the night and I won’t get any work done.” You pointed out, giving him a small smile that he half heartedly returned. Being the leader of his group, you knew that he understood what you were saying. But that didn’t make it any easier for him, or for you. “I could help you.” He offered, already knowing your response even as the words left his lips. “You helping would be a distraction in itself.” You giggled, running your fingers through his hair, amazed that it felt so soft and silky still, even though it had just recently been dyed red. The colour suited him, bringing out the delicate features of his face and accentuating the natural blush that often sported his face when he was with you. “Okay, Okay.” He agreed finally, pulling you into a bone crushing hug, his chin pressed to the top of your head as it rested against his shoulder. You sunk into him, allowing yourself a moment to be encased in his arms, in the warmth of his body against yours. “Go now because if you don’t then I’m not letting you go.” He mumbled into your hair, squeezing you somehow tighter. You buried your head deeper against his shoulder for a moment, sighing softly against him. If it were possible to freeze a moment forever, this would be the perfect one to keep in your heart. With a lot of willpower you managed to force yourself out of his arms, chewing your lip as you weighed the cost of putting off your work further.

As much as you loved Hongjoong, and you did, even the night with him wasn’t worth the outcome that you’d suffer for not getting the assignment done. “I’m going now.” You informed him, smiling when he chuckled at you, his eyes shimmering in the moonlight that was beaming down on you. “Be safe, go straight home.” He told you, lifting his hand in a tiny wave that nearly had you running back into his arms. Instead you nodded, as if you’d be going anywhere but straight home. The hardest thing you’d ever had to do was turn around and start walking in the direction of your apartment. Every step felt like you were dragging a bag full of bricks behind you and you refused to turn and check behind you until you knew you’d walked far enough that you couldn’t possibly still see Hongjoong with the romantically lit up theatre entrance behind him. Suddenly the air seemed colder without his bubbly presence beside you and you shoved your hands deep into your pockets, seeking the warmth, and focused on hurrying your steps up. You ached to be at home, bundled up in bed with your laptop in front of you working on your assignment and occasionally messaging Hongjoong with updates. You were halfway there when you noticed the sounds of footsteps echoing softly between yours.

Immediately your heart sped up and the hair on the back of your neck stood up as you resisted the desire to take off at a run. Every cautionary lesson ever on being followed in the middle of the night on an empty street the victim gave in to their flight desire, only encouraging the pursuer into the chase. But things were much easier discussed in a safe classroom in the middle of daylight hours than they were acted out. After a few minutes the footsteps got heavier and closer, and faster and you swallowed heavily, fingers wrapping around your phone in your pocket. Really you should have pulled it out long ago to call someone, but a part of you figured that the moment whoever was behind you saw the phone they’d pounce. It could just be someone else walking home. You tried to convince yourself, fingers clenching and unclenching around your phone. It would be so much easier to believe that, but if you were wrong then believing that for too long was what could get you attacked. The decision was made for you when a hard grip captured your elbow, spinning you forcefully around to face a man that had to be at least twice your age, and definitely highly intoxicated. Terror trilled through you and you scrambled to loosen his grip, bringing your phone out and attempting to unlock it one handed. “Come on love, no need to struggle.” The man drawled, smirking in a way that made your skin crawl and your heart race in the complete opposite way that Hongjoong made it race. Hongjoong, you’d give anything to go back and ask him to walk you home now. “Let me go, you asshole.” You hissed at the drunk, trying your best to ignore how painful his grip on you was becoming as you twisted desperately in an effort to escape. If you could free yourself you figured you’d easily outrun him, hell even fast walking would probably throw him off, but he was twice your height and even drunk much stronger than you would ever be. “Nawh come on, there’s no need to struggle.” He repeated, eyes sweeping hungrily over your body as you struggled, bringing the urge to vomit to you. You didn’t bother to respond, still holding on to the hope that you could somehow manage to worm your way out of his grip, which was surely going to leave bruises. Idiot, bruises are the least of your concerns right now. You inwardly screeched at yourself. “Let her go.” A familiar, and yet completely unrecognisable, voice rang out quietly from behind the man, whose shoulder shielded you from being able to physically see who it was. But you knew. You’d recognise Hongjoong’s beautiful voice anywhere, although you’d never heard it quite so dangerously low and angry until this moment. The man scoffed, turning abruptly to face his interrupter, incidentally dragging you along with him thanks to his tight grip around you. Hongjoong was glowering, his hands curled in tight fists as he stared first at the man then at you, his eyes sweeping over you to check you were uninjured. “Joong.” You whispered, tears clouding your eyes. You made a mental note to thank him for following you after you berated him for the same thing. “Hey princess.” He said quietly, expression softening for a moment before it returned to your captor, hardening once again. If you were anyone but his girlfriend, you’d be terrified of him right now. “I’m not going to ask you again, let my girlfriend go.” Hongjoong directed his words to the man who spitefully gripped tighter to you, earning a reluctant whimper of pain from you. You could swear that the bones below his hand were close to snapping under the pressure of his hold. Hongjoong’s expression grew, somehow, darker and he stepped closer warningly. “What are you gonna do?” The drunk crowed, stumbling back and taking you with him, your eyes fixed desperately on Hongjoong. A part of you ached for him to close the distance and retrieve you, but another part was terrified of what would happen to the disgusting human holding you if Hongjoong got his hands on him. As much as you couldn’t care less for his life in this moment, you cared about Hongjoong’s, which would be ruined if he were arrested for beating a man to a pulp, even under the circumstances. “Honestly? I don’t think you want to find out.” Hongjoong told the guy, frowning in a way that made him look like Satan himself. Your body shook and you tried once more to tug yourself out of the vice like grip on your arm, resulting only in causing yourself more pain. Tears slid down your cheeks. “Ah,” The drunk rolled his eyes, glaring first at Hongjoong then you. “Stupid bitch isn’t worth it.” With that he flung your arm out of his grip, sending you tumbling to the ground at the sudden change and scraping your hands against the rough ground. Hongjoong was beside you in a heartbeat, arms encasing you and cradling you to him as an overwhelmed sob ripped out of your chest. You clung to him, shaking in his arms. “It’s okay Y/n, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” He whispered, kissing your forehead over and over, hands rubbing your back soothingly until you stopped shaking and the tears stopped trailing down your face. “It’s okay.” He repeated when you lifted your face to stare up at him with watery eyes, his thumb reaching out to sweep away the remaining tears clinging to your cheeks. “Let’s get you home.” He said softly, lifting you carefully to lean against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around your waist and taking almost all of your weight. Your legs weren’t injured, you wanted to point out, but you didn’t have the heart to and nor did you want to walk any further away from him than you already were. You held your injured arm to your chest, letting him continue to whisper soothingly to you as you both walked the rest of the way to your apartment. “I can go in alone.” You mumbled when you were standing outside the apartment door and Hongjoong was reaching into your pockets to retrieve your keys. He paused and looked at you with raised eyebrows. “If you think I’m going to leave you by yourself tonight after what just happened then you’re crazy.” He finally got the keys and slotted them into the lock, twisting it and pushing the door open. A rush of warm air indicated that you’d accidentally left the heater on before rushing out to meet Hongjoong, something that was now a blessing on your freezing skin as you both stepped into the small apartment. “My work-” You mumbled, eyes landing on your laptop, discarded in the middle of the kitchen counter. “Can wait. I’ll talk to your boss.” Hongjoong reassured you, closing the door and ensuring it was locked behind you before guiding you to your bed and gently sitting you down on the edge of it. He’d been in your apartment enough times to know where everything was without a light and soon he’d gathered your most comfortable clothes and dumped them on your lap, leaving you to change with a kiss and a gentle reminder that he would be in the kitchen calling your boss while you changed. When you’d finally managed to do it you slipped out to wrap yourself around him where he waited, sinking into the warmth of his body as he held you tightly. “Thankyou for following me.” You whispered against his chest, feeling him tense slightly at the words. Probably thinking, like you, about what would have, could have, happened if he hadn’t.

#kim hongjoong #ateez #atiny #hongjoong x reader #fluff #fanfic #imagine #hongjoong fluff #y/n #ateez imagines

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