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imagining-in-the-margins · 4 years ago

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The Birds & The Bees (S.R. | Pt. 4)

Summary: Reader has a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, which her Professor is hellbent on making a little bit better. A/N: If y’all thought you hated Kyle (bathroom bitch boy), just wait until you meet the new antagonist (of the female variety) here... I hope you all enjoy! 😚 Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Sexual themes/fantasies Word Count: 6.3k

MASTERLIST | Series Masterlist

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Einstein once attributed his genius to his childlike sense of humor. Studies performed since then have largely proven his point — funny people tend to have higher IQs, which makes sense when you consider the cognitive and emotional intelligence required to produce humor.

Spencer Reid was no exception. The only problem was that his humor was so remarkably niche and impossibly specific that barely anyone could understand the punchline. He insisted to me that he’d gotten better over the years, which I only barely believed… until he told me a joke that hadn’t left my mind since. A joke that he described as ‘just crude enough to make it palatable to the layman.’

"Caffeine and Viagra are both phosphodiesterase inhibitors,” he’d said — a slow start if there had ever been such a thing. But I held on to hope, hanging on the ecstatic, guileless smile he wore. And boy, was I glad I did, because what he’d said next broke me into a frankly embarrassing fit of giggles that returned with the memory every time.

“Which explains why both of these drugs keep you up all night."

The poor barista stuck working the busy early morning shift eyed me like I’d grown two heads when I once again devolved into laughter for no apparent reason. I almost felt embarrassed about it, but then I reassured myself that if she’d heard Dr. Spencer Reid tell a drug-induced-boner joke, she would also laugh about it forever.

I’d been thinking about him a lot lately. Not in a perverse way, either, despite his increasing comfort in breaching such topics in my presence. It was more like I’d started to infuse him into my every day, finding him in whatever way my brain would allow. While I made my way to his office, I breathed in the soothing scent drifting from the cups that were precariously perched in flimsy cardboard.

The smell took me back to quiet moments in his office. The kind of simple serenity that accompanied silence between two people who need not speak to share ideas. Where the second you looked away, you felt their eyes follow you, like the universe couldn’t maintain its structural integrity without one of you looking at the other.

It was intoxicating and alluring; so easy to lose myself in. Something I knew was dangerous for a number of reasons.

For example, when I am not paying the utmost attention to my surroundings, I have a tendency to lose track of where I am and what I’m doing. I also tend to… drop things. Especially hot and otherwise dangerous things.

Things like the two cups of coffee that finally became too much for shallow, defective cardboard.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I screeched as I became acutely aware of every place where scorching hot, drenched clothing hung on angry skin. Normally, I would at least try to sound more dignified while on my way to work, but it hardly seemed like it mattered anymore.

I was too busy hurriedly tearing at my shirt and dropping everything else I was holding. I’d gotten three whole buttons on my shirt popped by the time I remembered it wasn’t technically necessary. I dropped my bag immediately at the thought, tugging on the hem of the shirt and trying to bring it over my head.

Unfortunately, I still hadn’t regained my grace, and in the muddled mess of fabric, I’d also grabbed hold of my undershirt. Which meant that whoever was walking through the empty halls of the early morning in academia would find me, with my stomach exposed and clothing dripping while unintelligible curses flowed freely from my lips.

I expected most people would probably just turn around and leave. I probably would’ve. The giant splatter of coffee and the absolute idiot slipping in it were beyond saving.

But there was at least one person who saw the mess and stayed.

I smelled his cologne before I felt his hand was pressed over the bare skin of my lower back. Despite the fact my skin was burning, it welcomed the warmth of his touch. My body stopped at his command, waiting for him to break me free of the paradoxically frozen state I was in.

He pulled the shirt back down, just enough that I could see him when he wrapped his cardigan around my shoulders and started guiding me into his office, which I’d somehow managed to almost walk straight past in my daze. I wished that I could go back there, to the imaginary world where he hadn’t just seen me half disrobed and cursing while covered in the coffee that I’d meant to give to him.

Spencer’s hands left me once the door was shut, probably trusting, or at least hoping, that I could figure out the mess on my own. Oddly enough, I didn’t notice any signs of him staring at me. Like he only felt comfortable looking when I was clothed.

I tried not to think about it. Once I did manage to free myself of one of the shirts — without further flashing my boss — the anxiety brewing inside of me burst out in the form of frantic shouting.

“Hi Professor! I’m so sorry, I spilled the coffee!”

“Yeah, I... saw the puddle,” he mumbled, throwing a cursory glance back at the hallway before his eyes met mine with a terrifying level of compassion, “Are you alright?”

“Besides the boiling liquid on my skin and the horrid embarrassment? I guess,” I mumbled back before shouting, “Shit! This is why that woman sued McDonald’s! Why do stores serve coffee like that?!”

Spencer didn’t really say anything. In fact, he kind of just stood as frozen as I had been, staring at everything around me rather than meeting my eyes again. But while he seemed somewhat cool and composed, I continued to tug at my clothes to try and avoid the friction. It was then that he cleared his throat, covering his face just like he’d done when he saw me in an arguably more provocative position the week before.

Arguably, I said. I should have known that Spencer would win any argument. I should have considered why he was making such a point of not looking at me while I clawed at the white undershirt turned beige. But I didn’t. Not until I looked down to inspect the state of my skin.

I realized then that Spencer had been trying to figure out a way to inform me that not only had the coffee turned my shirt a different shade — it had also eliminated the opacity.

He could see my bra. Spencer Reid, my boss, was trying not to stare at my very clearly visible bra.

“God, this is the worst Monday of all Mondays!” I whined between half-sobs, “and Mondays are already bad, Professor!”

There must have been something else in that cry, too. Something akin to permission. Enough for him to step closer, managing to avoid looking at my chest in the process. I’d entirely forgotten that he’d wrapped me in his cardigan until he pulled it tighter around my shoulders like his own version of an embrace.

“That they are, Bunny.”

If my skin had been heated before, it turned to flames at the use of the nickname. It was honestly a pure work of magic that the liquid on me didn’t turn vaporize the second I’d heard the word.

Bunny?

I pushed the thought away as quick as humanly possible, focusing instead on the way my clothes were going from uncomfortably hot to frigid as a result of the usually refreshing air conditioning. But when I was once again reminded of the obvious undergarment, I sighed.

“I can probably ask a friend to bring me a replacement shirt, or just go to class like this,” I thought aloud, “No one really looks at me, anyway...”

Spencer’s response came immediately, his hands flying up in protest as he shouted, “No!”

I wasn’t quite sure how to reply to that, or even which part of the statement he was objecting to, so he was met with a wide-eyed, slow blinking stare.

“I-I mean, I have a shirt you can borrow. I don’t want to subject you to any further embarrassment,” he explained at a significantly more appropriate volume, “You can just wear my extra shirt.”

He turned away from me before I could respond, shuffling through something hidden beneath his desk that created more questions than answers for me.

“Why do you have an extra shirt?”

“Go bag,” he said in the most nondescript manner. It wasn’t necessarily abnormal, either. The question I’d asked didn’t spark any concerns in his mind, but it also wasn’t the question that I felt needed to be asked.

What I really wanted to say was caught in my throat. My hands clamped together in front of me tighter than my jaw that resisted opening to make way for the thoughts that felt more scandalous than they should’ve been.

“U-Um, Professor don’t you think—“

“Here you go,” he offered with a smile. I took the large, plain black shirt with a hefty dose of caution, my hands shaking along with my broken voice that still couldn’t finish the sentence from before.

Spencer finally noticed the struggle on my face, and I watched his body move from comfortable to defensive in a matter of seconds. Like he was worried he’d done something wrong in trying to be kind.

He hadn’t, but I felt like I had.

“Won’t people... you know?” I mumbled, motioning a hand between the two of us, “I’m showing up to your class at 8AM wearing your clothes…”

I thought that the words alone would be enough. I thought that the gesture was overkill. But Spencer was still staring at me with his head cocked to the side and his eyes narrowed in thought.

I was going to have to say it.

Won’t they think we’re having sex?

There was no way I was going to be able to say it.

“Aren’t you concerned about people getting… the wrong idea?” I blurted out, instead.

The confusion on his face shifted to a clever little self-assured smirk so fast that I almost missed the transition. My stomach flipped from the sight, but then he spoke again, and what had felt like it was filled with butterflies turned to rocks.

“I’d much rather them gossip about something that’s not happening than watch the young boys ogle you instead of paying attention.”

It wasn’t the words, but the way that he’d said them. Like they were silly, like the idea of us being together was so preposterous it could only be entertained by people he perceived to be children.

I was foolish, too.

“Don’t worry about them,” he said with a wave, “Just worry about making this Monday a little bit better.”

“O-okay. Thanks,” I whispered, turning and running from the room only to be reminded of the mess I’d made. But the pool of tawny liquid on the floor wasn’t the most disastrous thing anymore. That honor was reserved for the state of my heart, begrudgingly continuing to beat despite being broken.

Scooping up my bag that I’d abandoned before, I tried to allow myself to be happy about the little things. For instance, the fact that the shirt Spencer had handed me was probably the softest thing I’d ever felt in my life. It made sense, considering the sensory issues he always described.

Still, I waited until I was in the safety of a bathroom stall before I buried my face in the fabric. It smelled just like him, a mixture of freshly done laundry and vanilla. Much better than the cheap, burnt coffee that covered me. Funny enough, that sort of smelled like him, too.

By the time I slipped into his clothes, I had almost forgotten his joke entirely. I was too lost in the joy of sweater paws from his cardigan and fabric that felt like a hug. Or at least, what I’d imagined a hug from him would be like.

The energy it provided me was a better pick-me-up than any cup of coffee had ever been. I kept my squealing as quietly as I could, bouncing in place just like the nickname he’d chosen to let stick. But before I returned to him, I felt something. A small, noticeable weight in one of the cardigan pockets.

If I’d thought about it for longer than five seconds, if I’d reminded myself that they were his clothes and not mine, I would’ve let it be. I wouldn’t have pulled the little object from its safe hiding spot. It would have stayed locked away, leaving me none the wiser of its presence.

But I didn’t think about it, and then there I was, holding onto the sobriety token I should’ve seen coming.

Not that it was a bad thing; I already knew Spencer had a history with drugs. He’d mentioned it in passing in class and was deeply involved with a number of volunteer programs around the area. At one point, I’d even taken it upon myself to research his history.

That research, while I regretted it now, feeling that it violated his privacy some way or another, led me to a second conclusion. As my thumb ghosted over the embossed number five, I realized that Spencer had been sober since he was released from prison.

My heart swelled with pride and relief that felt shameful. I didn’t want the token to have such a profound effect on the image of him I’d already crafted in my mind. Lord knew I didn’t need any more reasons to idolize him. And, at the end of the day, I’d only discovered this information by happenstance.

Part of respect, I decided, meant ignoring the way that fate seemed to push us together. If Spencer ever wanted my opinion on his sobriety or strength, surely, he would just ask. So, I slipped the chip back into the pocket and made my way back to him without worry for what it meant.

While I had no worries, Spencer was another story. I’d barely even made it through the door when he saw me. All of the papers he’d been holding immediately fell from his hands the same way the coffee had fallen from mine.

“Oh no! My clumsiness was contagious!” I laughed, bolting over to help him only to find his face an unhealthy shade of red. He chuckled back but said nothing else as he scrambled to pick up the loose-leaf that had splayed itself all over the floor.

Once we were back on our feet and as collected as we could be considering the circumstances of the morning thus far, his eyes met mine again. His cheeks were still flushed, unable to focus on anything specific and choosing to traverse my body the same way his hands had on Halloween.

“Sorry,” he mumbled in a way that made me wonder if he knew I could hear him, “I was distracted by how unfair it is that you look better in my clothes than I do.”

It was my turn to be flustered, but Spencer didn’t let the moment drag on. He tore himself away from me in every sense of the word, marching past me and halfway exiting the room before he found the courage to look at me again.

“Are you ready to head to class?” he asked as if it were an option.

I suppose to him, it was. For a second I imagined what the future would hold for us if I’d said no. What would he have done if I begged him to stay with me, instead? What if we rebelled against expectation and remained locked away in his office until we grew tired of one another? What if we never did?

My mind filled with fantasies of Spencer’s hands freely feeling my skin the way his clothes could. I could hear soft, breathy sounds of desire shaped like my name. For all of my inexperience, he would still find me intoxicating. He would grow drunk on me the same way a child finds endless joy in sweets that really ought to make them sick.

Then again, maybe he had grown used to the sugar. Maybe he wanted something more mature, a bitterness like molasses that was only earned from years I hadn’t had yet.

Regardless, I couldn’t really get into any of that. Instead, I just flashed a very awkward thumbs up to the man fifteen years my elder when I droned, “Sure am, Professor man.”

As stupid as it felt to do something so juvenile, the smile he gave was worth it.

“Alright then, Bunny,” he answered with his own little peace sign, “Let’s hop along.”

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It hadn’t even been a week since I saw her, scantily clad in the plush, socially acceptable equivalent of lingerie. It’d been even less time since I admitted my own weakness to her. I’d replayed the memories of her visceral responses to my touch enough times that I should be sick of it. But there was no tiring of her.

I considered deleting the photos she’d sent me, convinced that it was cruel to keep them when she’d only sent them while inebriated and undoubtedly exhausted beyond belief.

But when I woke up in the morning, my stomach still reeling from the knowledge of what I’d done, all that she’d sent was a curious collection of emotes and a very brief note.

“Oops!” she’d written, “Bad bunny?”

I put that phrase out of my mind immediately, unable to handle the way it incited the desire for destruction in my veins.

“I’m always glad to hear that you are safe.”

That was the end of the conversation, and I was grateful for that much. Even the few words we’d exchanged would haunt me until I saw her again. Of course, the torture ended there, but only for a few seconds before it was replaced with other images and words.

It’d been hours since I’d found her flailing about half-naked in the hall while uttering rushed curses that sounded too crude for her lips. It’d been hours since I felt the soft skin of her lower back and became lost in an entirely different set of fantasies.

It’d been even less time since I saw her standing at my door, pulling on the sleeves of my sweater and staring at me with nervous, shifty glances. Completely unaware of just how beautiful she was in her simplicity. How much more torturous it was to see her wearing my clothes than any lustful suffering that lingerie or nudity could elicit.

I thought that it would get better throughout the day, but it didn’t. It only got worse.

I’d stepped out of my office for barely half an hour, but I returned to find her curled up on the plush chair. Her shoes were slipped off, revealing colorful socks that clashed with every other neutral color she wore. It somehow made me want her even more.

I stayed stuck for a few seconds longer, watching her with bated breath and shameless admiration. She was so caught up in the papers on her lap that she didn’t even notice my presence until the door clicked shut. It was then that she turned to see me, allowing a smile to blossom across her face despite eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“What’s all of this?” she asked, gesturing to the collection of bags hanging from my wrists.

“Did you know…” I started before my heart stopped at how she always leaned forward with excitement whenever I started a sentence that way, “that food is one of the best ways to solve a terrible Monday?”

“Which scientific study did you get that from?”

I paused again, debating telling her the many studies that would support such a theory, but then decided against it. Instead, I sought out her laughter and childlike joy that always brought out the best of her.

“Garfield,” I answered.

Sure enough, the office filled with the melodious sound of her happiness. I moved as quietly as I could, thinking back to when I was younger and thought of how powerful bottled laughter would be if I could capture it. Hers would surely right so many wrongs.

“You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to, but I figure it’s the least I could do.”

She approached me to assist before I’d even made it to my desk, and although I thought her hands were far too soft to be bothered with something like this, I allowed her to help.

“You could do nothing, you know. It was my own fault.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to.”

She laughed again, shier and shrinking into the sweater as she tried to find her place in such a domestic activity as sharing a meal with me in private. I thought of how it was a taste of my dreams.

Because as often as I did fantasize about her, undone, bare-skinned, and defenseless to my desires, I just as often envisioned her just like this. In fact, I found those fantasies more dangerous. They couldn’t be written off as mere lust. They were another, scarier thing.

“Well, lucky you I am an exhausted, broke grad student, so free food will always win me over,” she muttered, half-sarcastically but just sad enough to bother me.

“Duly noted,” I said.

I hid away the promises I wanted to make. That if she were mine, she would want for nothing. That I would give her everything she needed to bloom. That I would prune away any neighboring flower that dared get in her way or block the sunlight. There would be no need to worry of predators or pollinators intruding, because she would belong to me and only me.

I would be her earth, her rain, and her sun. I would be surely and shamelessly selfish.

Her shoulders rose with a cheeky, excited little giggle once she had collected her food. I wanted nothing more than to let her enjoy it to her heart’s content… but there was a problem.

“Nuh-uh, no way,” I chuckled before she had a chance to return to the chair with her precarious paper plate, “Get in the other chair.”

Her face scrunched up, bouncing back and forth between the two seats in the room like she’d heard something so strange that it must have been a mistake.

“Wh— your chair?”

“I will not have you ruining another shirt today,” I explained. It caused the confusion to quickly shift to an embarrassed frustration within seconds. Just as she opened her mouth to protest my teasing, I continued with something I knew would tie her tongue until she could no longer argue.

“If you’re so worried about what they’ll say when you show up in my shirt, just think of how they’ll talk if they catch you wearing nothing.”

That stubborn little thing still tried. Her mouth floundered, strange sounds of protest starting but never finishing until she gave up. She sulked over to the seat with an odd amount of self-satisfaction. She settled into my space as comfortably as she always did. With an ease that was almost unsettling to my tired, tortured heart.

Swapping places with her for that little bit of time was a good idea. I hadn’t expected that it would bring me as much serenity as it did. My usually busy lips kept their focus on the food, opting to listen to her ramble about any and everything that came to mind.

It wasn’t until she was fifteen minutes into an explanation on her paper that I realized how little I’d tried to learn about her life outside of me. Whether it was self-preservation or narcissism, I’d never decided. But what I was certain of was that it had been a brutal form of self-sabotage.

Because as I sat there, watching her clumsily, excitedly swinging her fork and proving my point that it had been a good decision to give her the desk, I saw her for in a different light than before.

She was not just a beautiful, mysterious flower peeking through the concrete. She was the trembling giant, the clonal colony of thousands of quaking aspen trees. An extravagant network of roots that flowed far beyond the seed that started them.

This sprout might be new, but her soul was ancient and celestial, wise and immortal.

“Who knows?” she sighed, coming to a natural conclusion of a story I had almost missed while lost in daydreams and metaphors, “Maybe one day I’ll be a professor, too.”

“You’d be good at it.”

For once, it felt like she accepted the compliment without a fight. I considered it progress all the way up until she shot back a thinly veiled taunt.

“Thanks. Means a lot from someone who has 4 stars on rate my professor!”

“Don’t forget the chili pepper,” I jokingly returned.

“Not sure I’d get one of those.”

I knew that my disagreement wouldn’t amount to much in the grand scheme of things, so I opted for a slightly-self-centered flattery instead.

“Just show up in that outfit,” I said with a nod that barely hid my actual intention of focusing my eyes on the rest of her, “you’ll be golden.”

“You gonna let me borrow it in ten years?” she hummed.

It was a dangerous proposition, an implication that made the pitter-pattering in my chest unbearable. Rather than chasing her down the rabbit hole of fantasies, I just chuckled before I answered, “You know how to find me.”

Then it happened again. Her face slowly changed, growing from a cautious optimism to a yearning. A subtle hint of words left unsaid. And although she wet her lips and set down her fork, the words never came out. They stayed stalled in her throat, and there was no discernible way for me to drag them out of her without hurting the both of us.

When a loud knock resounded through the room, the thought ended altogether.

“Come in,” I grimly announced, recognizing the intrusive sound as the death rattle for whatever might have been said.

As the door opened, I realized the same time (y/n) did that we had forgotten that the rest of the outside world wasn’t familiar with our dynamic. They didn’t have the backstory of how she’d perched herself on my chair with her shoes off and wearing my clothes.

Torn between scrambling to take more socially acceptable positions and the knowledge that our hurry would make us look even more suspicious, we both opted to remain frozen in place like deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming train.

When the door opened, however, I was somewhat relieved to see someone I found completely unthreatening. My closest colleague, a woman that should really terrify me all things considered, seemed mostly perplexed when she found a young girl in my seat.

She quickly turned to me, drawing out her words as she asked, “Oh. I’m sorry, am I... interrupting something?”

“No, what can I help you with, Candy?”

“I was hoping we could talk about my current paper proposal.”

She paused, and I took the moment to follow her glower to the flower still stationary behind my desk. (Y/n) stared back, seemingly frightened by the presence of the other Professor.

“If you’re busy with... office hours…” Candy muttered before turning back to me, “we can always set up a meeting for a better time.”

Before I could address the possible tension or implication, the girl at my desk sprung to action, clearing off any sign of her presence as she spoke.

“You know, I actually need to get going.”

“Are you sure?”

She didn’t look at me when she answered, “Yeah, I’m sure your papers are more important.”

If I’d turned back to Candy, I might have seen the condescending scowl that was driving her away. If I’ve had any inclination or desire to look at Candy, I would have realized that (y/n) wasn’t trying to escape from her connection to me. She was just trying to get out of my way.

It didn’t make it any harder to watch her leave. I took solace in the fact that she held tighter to my cardigan, trusting me to keep her warm by proxy as she ventured back into the real world. The world where we couldn’t be in peace.

“Thanks for the advice, Professor,” she said before she left, “You were right. As usual.”

One last smile was shared, somber but sobering. A necessary break from the intimacy of the moment.

“See you in class.”

The office felt so much duller without her radiance, but my disappointment would have to wait. As much as I actually didn’t mind the world knowing how my heart hurt from her absence, I knew that it was best I didn’t let it impact her academic career.

“Sorry again for the intrusion,” my colleague said in a much happier voice.

“It’s not a problem at all.”

She must have noticed the way it sounded like a lie, because her tone quickly shifted back to a slightly disgruntled confusion.

“I didn’t realize she was your student, too. What class is she in?”

It was juvenile, really, the way my heart fluttered so ridiculously at the mere mention of her existence. The excuse to discuss her again.

“Oh, did she not tell you?”

Candy just shook her head with a blatantly false smile.

“Unsurprisingly modest,” I laughed, making my way back over to my seat and running my fingers over the wooden armrests like it would be the same as touching her ghost, “She’s my TA.”

“Oh… I see.”

“She was the only one who would put up with me,” I offered with a chuckle. Self-deprecating humor was the only reliable personality trait I had. It was also, unfortunately, one that most women in my life despised and refused to let sit.

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

It sounded less sweet coming from her. I wrote it off as a product of the differences in their species. While the hummingbird of a girl who’d just flittered away was used to only drinking the sweetest, purest nectar, the bird of prey who’d entered relied on the work of others to gather the sweetness before they were devoured.

That wasn’t to say she was cruel; hawks are as much a miracle of nature as hummingbirds. I simply related to one more than the other. I understood one while the other remained a mystery. And I loved mysteries more than myself.

“So, you wanted to talk about your paper?”

“Oh! Yes,” she chirped, passing the packet over to me now that I’d found my way back to what she probably deemed my rightful place. “The conference is coming up so much faster than I anticipated, and I would love to hear your opinions on my first draft.”

I’d already started to read the first page when she spoke again, uncharacteristically bashful and anxious, “Since we’ll be presenting together, I figured...”

“Yeah, no problem at all,” I interrupted, not wanting her to dwell nor expand on the thought of us doing anything together any more than necessary, “I can send you mine.”

It felt curt, blunt, and off putting when I said it, but she didn’t take it as such.

“Wonderful. You have such a unique voice when you’re writing. It’s very refreshing.”

Immediately, a memory appeared at the forefront of my mind and led to a laugh that I couldn’t contain. Candy seemed pleased at the sound, and I felt the need to explain.

“Thanks. (Y/n) likened it to Ray Bradbury at one point, although in different and less flattering words.”

I could hear her clear as day, quoting my words with an overdramatized effect before laughing, ‘Pack it up, Bradbury, you’ve got more science stuff to explain.’

Of course, we both found her laughter-ridden explanation of the ‘meme’ far funnier than the original joke. She was probably the only person in the world who never seemed bothered by explaining everything to me ad nauseam.

“She is... certainly a choice as a TA,” Candy strained upon scrutinizing the smile that had returned to my face for the first time since (y/n)’s departure, “Will she be joining us at the conference?”

But then the guilt returned, wiping the smile from my face and replacing happy memories with deviant thoughts and fears.

“Oh... you know, I haven’t asked her.”

“That’s perfectly alright! I think we’ll do just fine without her.”

“Right...” I whispered, glancing back down at the stack of papers in my hand before setting it in the tray designated for (y/n). “I’ll have her look at your paper just in case.”

A lull in the conversation stretched past the point of comfort for both of us, and I glanced up at the woman I actually felt guilty for ignoring in place of fantasies that would probably never come to be. She hadn’t even done anything to warrant my disregard. She was an attractive woman — as beautiful as she was brilliant, really — she had worked very hard to garner my trust and academic collaboration. At one point, I had considered her one of the few potential candidates for something more than a purely academic partner.

But there was something about the way she looked at the honeyed girl that made my hair stand on end. A defensiveness and instinct that couldn’t be ignored.

“Is there anything else you need?”

“No, that was all,” she said as she broke from what I presumed to be her own daydream, “I hope your semester keeps going well.”

“Thanks, I hope yours does, too.”

I meant it, despite the aforementioned concern. I wished her well in the semester for both selfless and selfish reasons. I wished her well because she deserved it, certainly. But the other reason, the larger one, was that I hoped she would remain distracted. I hoped that she didn’t notice the way I would slip away from her affections to chase those from a more interesting challenge. One that remained mysterious, with hair covered in pollen and lips sweet with ambrosia.

“I’ll talk to you soon, Dr. Reid.”

I failed to respond to her again before the door shut because my hands were already busy with rekindling contact with another.

“I have a proposition for you, Bunny.”

“Sounds ominous. I’m in.”

The fact that the response came before I could even shut off the display was so characteristic of her that I had to laugh.

“You haven’t even heard it yet,” I observed, to which she once again immediately responded, “Your point being?”

“I’m afraid this is an obligation that does require some expansion before agreement.”

Her response was slower, then, and I could almost see her with a slight panic and overwhelming curiosity that grew stronger by the second.

“Ominous and vaguely unsettling,” she said.

I considered drawing it out further, letting her imagination truly run wild with the possibilities. But then I realized that if she thought hard enough about it, she might reach the same place that had immediately come to my mind.

“Would you like to attend the upcoming conference with me?” I relented, almost stopping there but then frantically tagging on the conditions I knew would be most likely to cause hesitation. “You’d have your own room, of course. The department and I will help with funds.”

But, as it turned out, I didn’t need to be worried.

“A cheap weekend away from school where I get to be a nerd with you?” she sent with another set of small, smiling faces I was only just starting to understand, “Of course I’m going to say yes, Professor!”

“Perfect. I’ll arrange it.”

“I can’t wait!”

Although I felt the same, I forced myself to end contact again. I put my phone out of reach to prevent myself from spoiling any more of my fantasies than I already had. I didn’t need her to second-guess the possibilities of a weekend away together now that she’d already agreed to it.

The thought alone sparked guilt anew. Through the entire interaction, I’d infused each word with a charge that shouldn’t have been. Each line was far more provocative than it needed to be.

It was just an academic conference. Most people found them terribly dull, not to mention physically exhausting. It would not be a time away like most couples dreamed of because we were not a couple in any sense of the word.

Yet… I couldn’t help but feel that perhaps there weren’t as many differences as one might think. Because while yes, most people would be bored, I didn’t think Bunny would be. Clandestine meetings made between conference meetings sounded exactly like the kind of dreams we would share.

I believed it so strongly that my mind had already drafted several narratives that would suit her. I pictured her and I sharing company in public, unafraid of public displays of affection — innocent, childish kinds, of course — because we were miles away from those who might care.

That drunken, lust-inducing, half-lidded gaze from the week before would return. Except this time, I would taste the wine on her tongue, my hands sliding not over fluffy fabric, but the same skin that I’d felt for the first time that morning.

Behind our door, I would teach her so many things. Things that she would have begged me for. Things that others would see written on her skin in the shape of my fingers and mouth. Things that she would carry with a straighter back and dripping down her legs.

I didn’t just want to destroy her. I wanted to break her so that I could build her back with gold-laced lacquer. She would be my kintsugi creation full of sugar and honey, just imperfect enough that the sticky residue of her sweetness would slip through the cracks to coat everything she touched.

And then she would touch me, and I might finally feel like I deserved anything at all.

——————————————————

| Part Five |

1K notes · View notes

cinnaminsvga · 5 years ago

Text

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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dweetwise · 4 years ago

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yes hello, i’m back on my riconti bullshit again, this time with a cute prompt fill from @dailyau by @hcpelesshcney about fire alarms and sharing a blanket ❤️

i’m also trying something new with splitting a fic into chapters!

ship: felix x ace warnings: briefly mentioned internalized homophobia word count: 3700

[next]

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire (part 1)

It's surprising just how scattered the human brain becomes during a crisis.

When Felix was woken from his restless sleep in the hotel bed by a blaring fire alarm, he'd bolted out of the bed and scrambled out into the hallway without second thought. He'd probably even left the door to his room wide open, with his wallet, passport, phone and laptop all neatly arranged on the desk for anyone to walk by and steal.

And now he's standing in the parking lot in the chilly late summer night, dressed in nothing but his pajama pants and a t-shirt. His socks were drenched as soon as he stepped outside, running straight into a puddle while hurrying to get away from the potential fire.

At least he's not alone in the stressful predicament. There's plenty of other people around, looking just as lost and dazed as him, having been forced to evacuate the hotel in the middle of the night. Most have been sensible enough to bring their jackets and shoes, a couple of kids even huddling beneath a hotel duvet.

And since there's no sign of a fire or even any smoke, Felix feels like an idiot for not having the foresight to bring something to warm him up.

The firefighters have just arrived at the scene and are preparing to search the building for the source of the alarm. Felix tries not to shiver even more as he relents to the fact that they're still going to be stuck out there for quite some time.

The crowd in the parking lot is loud, families and partners gossiping amongst themselves, some people even arguing with the staff members about ruining their vacation. Felix wishes they'd just shut up, more than happy to forget this ever happened if he'd just get to curl back under the warm covers of his bed instead of freezing out here.

This trip just kept getting worse. Not only had he been forced to come on only a day's notice, taking over Lauren's business trip across the Atlantic when she'd unexpectedly caught a cold. He’d also had to take a shitty flight route with two extra stops, and his last flight had been no less than six hours late.

When he’d finally arrived at the hotel and started trying to sleep off the massive jet lag after barely getting any sleep on the plane, he'd been rudely awakened by an emergency. And now, to add insult to injury, he’s gone from the threat of burning to death to freezing to death.

“Hey,” a voice says from right beside him, making Felix jolt in surprise over being distracted from his internal pity party.

He sees a man standing next to him, wrapped in a hotel-issued blanket, looking up at him with curious brown eyes and a pleasant smile.

Felix racks his brain for if he knows this man or not, but draws up a blank, the tiredness and cold making his thoughts feel sluggish. The man is shorter than Felix and looks a little older, if the laugh lines and grey hair are anything to go by.

“You look cold,” the man says. “Wanna share my blanket?”

As the man lifts the fabric just the slightest bit in invitation, mortification hits Felix. Not only is his shivering noticeable enough to warrant someone taking pity on him, he's being offered physical contact from a stranger.

Isn't it a weird thing to offer, especially to another man? Does he somehow know that Felix is gay? Is he making fun of him? Or is it just an American thing? Wouldn't it be weirder for Felix not to accept, since the man has noticed how much he’s freezing?

“Alright,” the man says when Felix isn't replying, lowering the bedding in surrender. “My bad, I just thought—"”

“Yes,” Felix says, interrupting him.

“Uh…” the man says, understandably confused by Felix's social awkwardness.

“Yes, I want to sh-share,” Felix says, another full-body shiver wracking his body.

“Oh! Sure,” the man grins happily, and then he's suddenly very close, shoulder bumping against Felix's chest, and a corner of the blanket is thrown haphazardously over Felix's shoulder.

“T-thank you,” Felix stammers, both from the nerves and the cold, grabbing the soft cotton fabric and pulling it tighter against himself.

And causing the stranger to stumble even closer from the momentum.

“Sure, don't mention it,” the man grins, like he's not now pressed against a stranger's side from shoulder to hip.

Embarrassed as Felix feels, both the blanket and the person attached to it are warm. Felix has to stop himself from sighing blissfully as the other's body heat starts to warm him up, slowly working away at the chill in his bones.

“Well, since we're gonna be stuck here for a while,” the man muses. “My name's Ace.”

“F-F-Felix,” Felix manages through clattering teeth.

“I'd shake your hand, but I think we're past that stage already,” Ace jokes, and then offers a pleased grin as Felix huffs out a surprised laugh through his nose. “In any case, it’s nice to meet you, Felix,” the man looks up at him and smiles, and Felix's poor, gay heart skips a beat.

Yeah, this is definitely preferable to freezing to death.

“I wonder how long they'll take to find the cause this time,” Ace starts conversationally, while pulling out his phone from the nest of blankets. He sets to what looks like writing a text to someone, not seeming the least bit bothered by their predicament.

“You don't seem very nervous,” Felix observes.

“Not my first rodeo,” Ace looks up and grins. “Probably someone just smoked inside and tripped the alarm. Happens a lot in hotels.”

“D-d-do you travel? A lot?” Felix asks, partly do distract himself from the cold while he gets his body heat up, partly to divert Ace’s attention from his phone.

“You could say that,” Ace says. “What about you? Here on business?”

“Yes,” Felix says, with no small amount of annoyance over being reminded he still has work tomorrow. “Thankfully my meeting isn't until the afternoon.”

“Glad you can get your beauty sleep,” Ace says.

“And hopefully get rid of the jet lag,” Felix comments with a tired sigh.

Ace hums in acknowledgement before going back to his phone message. Felix tries not to take it personally; he knows he's not that interesting to talk to.

Ace is so warm, and it's a little awkward being pressed this close, but embarrassingly enough, Felix finds himself drifting even closer. Ace smells like whiskey and cheap cologne, but somehow, it's oddly comforting. He'd probably been drinking last night—well, technically tonight. Thankfully, he doesn't seem drunk, as Felix doubts he would have had the patience to deal with alcohol-induced rambling.

“Whiskey man, I see,” Felix comments. When Ace looks up from his phone in surprise, Felix realize how weird it is for him to admit to smelling the man.

“I reek that bad, huh?” Ace grins, taking the comment in stride.

“I didn't mean—” Felix flounders to explain.

Damnit, he should just give up on trying to make conversation.

“Wow, lighten up,” Ace says and elbows him playfully under the blanket, adding even more physical contact to their already borderline inappropriate situation.

Felix tries to ignore the fluttering in his gut when he feels Ace's hairy forearm brush against his own. This is more physical contact than he's gotten from another man… probably ever.

“Yeah, I had a few drinks earlier. I'm more of a wine man, but…” Ace seems to ponder. “Sometimes, you've got to try new things.”

Like huddling under a blanket with an attractive stranger, Felix considers.

Suddenly, he almost regrets the blanket blocking his view from seeing more of the man. His body feels firm against Felix's, and his shoulders look defined, though that could just be an illusion from the thick fabric covering them.

“What’s your poison?” Ace asks, following Felix's awkward silence.

“I don't drink much,” Felix lies, like he hasn’t been going through his father’s old liquor collection at an alarming rate for the past year or so. “Uhm… whiskey, I guess. And bourbon.”

He could really, really go for either one right now. Not only would the drinks warm him up, they'd also make him act like an actual human being instead of the stiff robot impression he's currently doing.

“Huh,” Ace comments.

“What?” Felix asks, trying not to get defensive.

“Nothing! I would have pegged you as a beer guy, is all,” Ace muses. “Maybe that's just the accent, though.”

“Sorry,” Felix apologizes. Now hyperaware of his bad pronunciation and extremely German accent, he tries to bury his face deeper into the blanket in embarrassment.

“Naw, hey, come on,” Ace turns toward him as much as the cramped space allows him to. “Your English is amazing! The accent only adds charm.”

Felix looks at Ace's encouraging smile and tries not to think too much about their thighs now pressing together. Ace is clearly waiting for him to say something, but all Felix can focus on is his warm body and striking features.

“Where are you from?” Felix asks instead, trying to place the hint of an accent he thinks he hears.

“Huh. Good catch,” Ace smiles, seeming surprised. “Guess!”

Felix flushes and looks at Ace's eagerly grinning face. It's nighttime, but Ace's skin seems darker than his own, and his features look Mediterranean, reminding Felix of countless business trips to Spain. But the accent…

“Italy?” Felix suggests, and Ace's smile somehow widens even further.

“Close!” Ace says. “Argentina.”

“Ehm…” Felix furrows his brow in confusion, thinking that surely, being a whole continent and world sea off doesn't exactly count as "close".

“My family hails from Italy, and it's my native language,” Ace explains. “So it was a really good guess!”

“Thank you…?” Felix says awkwardly.

“I'd ask what you were doing when the alarm went off, but…” Ace pauses, glancing up at his disheveled hair. “From your outfit choice and the bedhead, I'd put 50 bucks on 'sleeping'."

“You'd be correct,” Felix murmurs, self-consciously poking his hand out from under the blanket to run through his tousled hair. “I'm not very interesting.”

“I think I'll be the judge of that," Ace grins. “If, uh… you don't mind chatting to pass the time?”

“Not at all,” Felix says, hoping he doesn't sound too eager, happy Ace deems him interesting enough to talk to instead of whoever he was texting earlier.

They spend some twenty minutes chatting about mostly insignificant things. But as much as Felix usually hates small talk, he now welcomes it, because Ace is asking him interesting questions instead of just talking about the weather. He appears to genuinely care about Felix's story, and Felix might end up sharing a little too much, from the work stress and business trip he didn't even want to come to, all the way to his relationship that ended a few weeks ago.

Ace seems friendly and pleasant, taking Felix's awkward pauses and nervousness in stride, filling in the silences with stories of his own. Felix hears a lot about the different places he's traveled to, along with some hotel horror stories that make him feel much better about the current fire alarm situation. He manages a few laughs, some merely polite, but some genuinely amused at Ace's over-the-top storytelling.

Eventually, Ace's phone beeps again and he excuses himself and engrosses himself momentarily in the screen, and this time, Felix welcomes the brief break in socializing.

He realizes just how nice this is. It feels like a stroke of luck that only a few short weeks after ending his relationship with his ex-girlfriend and coming out in the process, he'd meet a handsome stranger this eager to cuddle up to him.

Not cuddle up—share a blanket, Felix mentally berates himself.

He glances at Ace out of the corner of his eye, seeing his side profile illuminated by the dim glow from the phone screen. Felix never really considered what his type would be, apart from the all-encompassing "men" that he'd only recently come to accept about himself. But taking in Ace's defined features and the smile that seems to be a permanent part of his face, he's starting to get an idea.

Quickly looking away before Ace catches him staring, Felix suddenly feels almost too warm. He shouldn't get ahead of himself; even though It feels like Ace is being a little too friendly, he hasn't actually made a move, seeming happy just with chatting to kill time.

Felix briefly toys with the idea of placing his hand on Ace's hip in a loose embrace, just to test the waters. He'd never be that brave, but if he was, he'd at least know for sure, even if it would probably end in Ace being disgusted and kicking him out of the blanket cocoon.

But… maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d smile even wider and return the gesture, just as eager as Felix to get even closer. Felix would wrap his arms around him, and they'd stand there cuddling and sharing even more body heat, maybe even kissing—

Shit. This is exactly what his therapist said he shouldn't do, the term "excessive daydreaming" flashing in his mind.

“Sorry,” Ace is saying, turning back to face him and pocketing the phone, completely oblivious to Felix's internal dilemma. “Where were we?”

“I, uh,” Felix stammers.

Was just thinking about kissing you.

“Did I tell you about the time a bunch of college kids decided to set off fireworks in the hotel room next to mine?” Ace offers, saving Felix from floundering for a topic.

“What—why would they…?” Felix asks.

“Well, I'd just gotten back from this extravagant New Years party—” Ace excitedly starts telling yet another story, and Felix keenly starts listening in.

Ace seems to be completely in his element, getting lost in talking about just how fancy the party was, followed by a dramatic retelling of some very incredulously sounding explosions that turned out to be fireworks. Felix keeps listening raptly, not entirely sure about the accuracy of the story, but enjoying seeing the other so happy. The blanket occasionally shifts as Ace tries to gesture with his hands to add to the narration, only to remember that he can't, looking sheepish every time.

Felix has never met someone with such effortless charisma. Ace's voice is rich and pleasant, and Felix briefly zones out while he imagines it talking him to sleep.

It's stupid, and he knows it. He's only known the man for half an hour, and even "knowing" him is pushing it. Felix is only in the country for two more days, and he’s very aware that pursuing anything would be pointless.

But he also knows that given the chance, he wouldn't say no to seeing Ace again. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, the narrowly averted emergency, or simply being far away from home and realizing nobody would ever find out. Either way, he’s feeling more adventurous than usual, the adrenaline in his veins and butterflies in his gut keeping his tired body on high alert.

Too bad he's deathly afraid of rejection and would never dare to ask if the other is interested.

Suddenly, there's the screech of a PA system, and Ace stops mid-sentence, both of them turning to look at a firefighter speaking into a megaphone.

“The fire has been extinguished and the building is now safe. Please return to your rooms,” the fireman announces.

The horde of people immediately start flocking towards the hotel entrance at the same time, creating an annoyed crowd of freezing, grumpy people and managing to clog the entryway immediately.

“I wonder what the cause was,” Felix ponders out loud, not making an effort to move toward the commotion and get stuck between the shoving, complaining people.

“Who cares? We get to not freeze our asses off anymore!” Ace exclaims gleefully.

And Felix realizes they no longer have a reason to stay huddled up together. Reluctantly slipping away from under the blanket, he feels a disappointed pang in his chest over how happy Ace sounds to get rid of him.

“Thank you for lending your blanket,” Felix says, handing his side of the fabric back over to Ace and trying not to shiver as the cold of the night hits his warm skin.

“My pleasure! Thanks for keeping me warm!” Ace quips cheerfully, wrapping the item tighter around himself.

“Ehm… you as well,” Felix says, looking away so Ace doesn't see his face heating up.

“Come on, let's get you inside!” Ace prompts, and then he leans into Felix and shoves him lightly with a blanket-clad shoulder.

It's clearly in an intent to encourage Felix to move, but it still makes newfound hope blossom in his chest. They’re no longer forced to tolerate each other if they don't want to freeze, but Ace still seems far from repulsed by him.

“Right,” Felix says, starting the short trek to the hotel entrance that has thankfully cleared up from people.

“So…” Ace drawls, easily falling into step next to him. “Can I have your number?”

Felix glances at him and blinks in confusion. Is… is Ace asking him out? Or just being polite? Is he going to ask to be added on Facebook too, like all the weird colleagues Felix has met on business trips once and then never heard from again?

“For...?” Felix manages to ask when they arrive at the entrance, reaching for the door and holding it open for the man.

“Just wondering if you wanted to grab some drinks while you're still in town,” Ace says when he slips past Felix into the building. “I wouldn't mind getting to know you better,” Ace adds, looking him up and down with a smile that is definitely not just friendly.

Heat rises up Felix's neck from more than just the warm air of the hotel lobby. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one sensing the tension between them.

“Maybe,” Felix says, trying and probably failing to not seem way too enthusiastic.

“Oh?” Ace says, quirking an eyebrow. And then he's shrugging off the blanket, revealing a rolled-up, button-up shirt and—

Fuck. Broad shoulders and a lean build, that sure as hell doesn't make Felix's predicament any easier.

Felix definitely stares longer than appropriate while they continue walking to the elevator, Ace thankfully too busy with bunching up the blanket to notice his ogling.

“What…" Felix starts, making Ace look at him, cocking his head. "Uhm. What's with the sudden interest?”

“I mean,” Ace says, shooting him pointed look. “I was interested ever since I saw you there, shivering in your ridiculously tight T-shirt,” he winks.

Felix realizes that the shirt probably leaves a lot less to the imagination than the suits and blazers he always wears. He lifts a hand to his arm in a self-conscious manner, making an attempt to cover himself.

“But I didn't wanna freak you out,” Ace adds, giving a one-shoulder shrug. “Would have been pretty awkward if you said no, considering you were kinda stuck with me for a bit.”

That's… oddly sweet, and very much appreciated. Felix would probably have imploded on himself from embarrassment if Ace would have been this forward from the start.

“Thank you,” Felix says.

“No worries,” Ace grins, pushing the button to order the elevator. “So? Are you freaked out?”

Felix considers the question for a moment, only arriving at variations of "no", "I'm leaving in two days" and "help you're really hot but I've never been with a guy and don't know what to do".

“I think the word is…” Felix pauses in thought, trying to ignore his brain screaming insecurities at him. “'Intrigued'.”

Proud of managing to be smooth for once in his life, the ding of the elevator arriving is almost lost on Felix, because he's so focused on Ace's now downright lecherous grin.

But he obediently steps into the elevator, not wanting to keep the few hotel customers still lingering behind them.

“What's you floor, gorgeous?” Ace asks with a flirtatious smile, after pressing the number four.

Wow. How the hell did Felix ever manage to think he was just being friendly?

“Three,” Felix says.

“Looks like you're under me,” Ace flirts while pushing the button for him, making Felix choke on his own spit from the suggestive comment, embarrassed yet curious.

And then Ace clears his throat and averts his eyes as a woman and her daughter walk into the elevator with them.

They stand awkwardly next to each other as the elevator doors slide close. Felix’s thoughts are a mess of excitement, nervousness and embarrassment, not sure what to do in this situation.

He discreetly glances at Ace—

And the other catches him looking.

Felix's heart skips a beat as Ace's lips spread into a lazy grin, eyes shimmering with unspoken promise.

He wonders what it would be like to wipe that grin off the smug man's face. Felix imagines pushing Ace up against the elevator wall, picturing how the other’s eyes would go wide, maybe he'd even gasp, taken off guard at Felix's sudden boldness. Maybe he wouldn't have time to say anything, because Felix would capture his lips in a passionate kiss, and Ace would groan and drop the blanket to tangle his hands in Felix's hair—

DING!

Felix is rudely snapped out of his daydream by the elevator arriving on his floor. He realizes he's been spacing out while staring at Ace's face, and the smirk is gone from the man's lips, but his eyes are somehow even more intense.

“Good night,” Felix offers stiffly, forcing himself to break the eye contact before he gets lost in his own head again.

He takes a step out of the elevator, mentally scolding himself when he notices his racing heart and heavy breathing, getting himself worked up over a dumb fantasy.

Tomorrow, he promises himself when the elevator doors start sliding shut behind him. Tomorrow, he’d go out with Ace and could maybe, hopefully psyche himself up enough to make a move. He'd just text the man in the morning—

Except they never exchanged numbers.

Shit!

#riconti #felix richter #ace visconti #dbd fanfic #dweetwrites #dbd #dead by daylight #prompt #felix x ace

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mysterioh · 5 years ago

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The Ignorant Beauty and The Beast of New York - Ch. 7

PAIRING: MOB!STEVE ROGERS X READER

SYNOPSIS: Y/N is an exhausted bio major. Steve is danger with a capital DANGER. She thinks he’s a sarcastic prick with an impressive knowledge of art history. He thinks she’s cute even if she’s only running on one brain cell. All he wants is a single date, but she’s adamant upon denying.

Masterlist

How to Keep Meeting Your Beloved Stalker

"I'm coming," Nat hollered from the kitchen, turning down the heat of her stove. She walked towards the door and opened it to find Steve standing, a sopping wet mess.

His clothes were drenched from the rain. His hair a disheveled mess and face flushed as if he'd been crying. He had a bouquet of soggy red roses hanging in his hand with water dripping off the petals, making a puddle on her carpet.

"Stevie, what the hell?" Nat asked. "Are you okay?"

Without a word, Steve slammed into Nat almost knocking the wind out of her. His wet coat arms wrapped tightly around her and he sniffles in her shoulder.

"She left, Nat," his voice dripping with pain. "Peggy left me in the rain," he choked out.

"Oh, Stevie," was all she could say as she rubbed his back, not even caring about getting wet.

"She told me that she'd never leave but she did," he said. "I loved her, Nat. I really loved her."

His words stung her heart and even the hardened black widow couldn't help but shed a tear. She had never seen him so broken.

He pulls away and digs his hand into his pocket. He takes out a velvet box and opens it to reveal a shining diamond ring.

Her lips parted in shock. "Steve…"

"I was gonna ask her to marry me," he sniffled. "But she told me that she'd never marry a devil like me."

Nat's lips twisted into a scowl. Her hands cup his cold face. A sort of warm respite for him.

"You're not a devil, you hear me?" Nat stated. "And she's a damn fool for leaving you."

She pulls him into another hug and it's quiet besides the slow humming of a steaming pot. With a slowly boiling anger within her, all she could think of was how much she'd love to beat the shit out of that bitch.

His eyes held a gaze more fearsome than a tiger. A thin paper cigarette hung from his bottom lip, a small trail of smoke escaping from the corner of his mouth and dancing upwards towards the ceiling. The air around him was majestic like a king on a throne. But he was far from his kingdom.

"So," Steve started, getting comfortable in a leather tufted seat. "A little bird told me you guys have been sneaking behind my back," Steve stated, looking up at the two brothers in front of him.

The tan-skinned brunette smiles at him puzzled, but the way he shifted in his office chair uncomfortably was enough to answer Steve's conjecture.

"Don't know what you're talkin' about," Lucky shakes his head.

Lucky Gambino. Age 32. Italian. Head of the Gambino Crime Family presiding over Staten Island.

"C'mon Rogers," his younger brother Sunny drawled. "You think we'd be sneaking behind your back?"

"I've got eyes everywhere, Sunny," Steve stated calmly, setting a sinister air to the room. "Hard for anything to pass by me."

Sunny chuckles with his hands in his pockets and leaning against his brother's desk. The room was dimly lit despite it being well into the afternoon. Sunbeams filtered through the half-lidded blinds, acting as a sort of spotlight for the fumes that escaped their cigarettes.

"Stevie, y' know us well," Lucky spoke with his hands. It's just an Italian thing. "We went to Saint Anselm's together. Played ball in that rundown field between Gino's Pizza. You remember those days?"

Steve nods with a small smile. "Yeah, I do."

"Our pop's worked with yours' for years. We've got a bond. You're like family, man," Sunny said.

Steve smirked. Good thing he wasn't so sentimental when it came to the business.

"Then what's this news about you and Hydra working together?"

"Hydra?" Lucky guffawed. "You think we'd be working with those no-names?"Sunny laughed along.

"We aren't the Brooklyn Mob, but we're sure as hell not some third-rate gang like Hydra. We're the Gambinos, we'd never stoop that low."

Steve chuckled along. "Right," Steve said while getting up. "I guess there's nothing I need to worry about here."

"Not a damn thing," Sunny assured. "We're on your side, big boss."

Steve chortles as he turns to leave. He gives them a nod as he exits the room.

"Have a good day, Mr. Rogers," the receptionist said with a smile as he walked by.

"You too, Miss Hill," he grinned with the corners of his eyes and a wave of his hand. He pressed the button of the elevator and entered it, listening to something rustling behind him.

He turns to see Maria getting up from her desk, her heels clicking as she walked towards the office. A gun complete with silencer resting snug between her fingers.

"Maria," he called and she turned to look at him.

"Don't make a mess," he gave her a half-smile.

She snorts with a sly smirk as the doors of the elevator begin to close.

"You know I never do."

Nat plopped herself on top of Bucky's desk.

Bucky smiles at her, slightly peeved by the way she carelessly sits on the manifest for the next delivery.

"May I help you?"

"In fact, you can," she replied devilishly.

Bucky sits back in his chair as she hooks her leg over the other giving him a nice view of the outline of her salacious legs in a tight-fitting pencil skirt.

If he was any other man he would've been drooling a river by now, but after years of working together, Nat was just one of the guys. Nothing she did ever fazed him. Not like she was trying to or anything.

"How can I help you, Miss Romanoff?"

She bites her lip and he can tell something was bothering. "I'm worried."

"About?"

"About Steve," she said.

"I second that," Sam piped up from the other side of the room. "He's been kinda out of it, lately."

"It's because of the girl," Nat informed.

Bucky groaned while sinking in his chair. "I know."

"So what're we gonna do about it?" Sam asked.

"I don't know," Bucky shrugged. "Just let him be. He'll get over it."

"It's been a week," Nat pointed out.

"And your point is?"

"Steve's made thirteen horrible decisions in the past week and he went to see the Gambinos today and I know for a fucking fact that it didn't end well." She sighed, crossing her arms. "I'm just worried about him," she confessed. "I mean after Peggy he's never really been the same and this girl just made it worse."

The two fell silent at the mention of Peggy. She was just one of those people that they didn't talk about, especially when Steve was around.

"I know that you are," Bucky said. "We all are, but you know Steve. He doesn't want help until he asks for it."

"We can't just sit here and ignore it!" Nat bent forwards and into him. He shrinks underneath her. "If he keeps this up, he's gonna die!"

"Don't you think that's a bit dramatic," Sam stated.

"Okay maybe not die but the direction he's going in it's only going to get worse," Nat said. "He still remembers her," Bucky's eyes shot up to look at her. "He still has that ring," she told them in a hushed voice.

She looks down to her hands in her lap. Her emotions were not easily hidden. She could've been the toughest in the mob but Bucky knew she was a softie at heart. Her worry was evident in the crease of her lovely brows and the down-curve of her full lips.

"Hey," Bucky called softly, placing his hand on top of hers. She looks up at him through red locks to find him smiling sweetly.

"It's gonna be fine, okay?"

"How do you know?" Nat question with a pout.

"Cause this is Stevie we're talking about," Bucky said. "No matter how far he falls, he always gets back on top."

One look into his steel-blue eyes, gleaming with a hidden affection, was all Nat needed to know that maybe everything really was going to be okay.

He glided along the white floors of the museum. Walking past bundles of children led by their teachers and casual visitors like a specter.

Steve had been to the Metropolitan more times than he could count on both hands. Art was his faithful lover and the galleries filled with masterpieces were his solace. But today, he didn't pay attention to the swirling brushstrokes of Van Gogh or the painstakingly pointillistic style of Seurat.

Today was a day for his thoughts. A day to reflect on his past. How was it that just a thought could bring back long-buried emotions and stir what was settled? Maybe that was why his mother said to leave things be, to not go walking into the past so blindly.

But what else is there to do when the way forward is the way back?

He finds himself in front of the old painting where he first met her. It could have been over three hundred years but Marie's lively youthfulness was eternal. He observes her, the way she teased him with her coy smile, hiding her letter from his eyes while sitting at her desk.

For some reason, he feels like she's taunting him.

You fool, you overdid it. You fall too fast.

"Yeah, I know," he huffed.

He hears your dull voice in his ears.

It's just an average painting.

He chuckled. He didn't understand how you took the everlasting masterpieces that were lauded through time so lightly. How you didn't see them the way he did.

Maybe, you were more different from him than he had initially thought. Maybe it was never meant to be.

He clicks his tongue at himself. Meant to be? He hardly even knew you.

"Steve, you fucking meatball," he groaned at himself, rubbing his face and gaining strange looks from others. "I hate my life," he moaned.

He peeks through his fingers to find Marie still smiling at him as if she had nothing else to do.

"Don't look at me like that," he pointed at her. "Yeah, I screwed up. I know I'm stupid. Don't rub it in my face."

"Are you okay?" He turned to find an old lady giving him a judging smile.

"Yeah," he chuckles sheepishly. "I-uh. I have to go. Sorry about that," he dashed.

He groans with a sigh. What was it with women and torturing him? Inanimate or animate. They just loved to hate him.

His shoulders drooped as he walked. He kept his eyes strictly on the ground to mask his embarrassment. So mortified by his own stupidity, he didn't dare to look anywhere but at the ground. A rather foolish thing to do when in public.

Oddly enough, you walked down the same hall, tasked with yet another horrible project. With your nose stuck in a map, you walked without caution and right onto the wet floor. Your foot slipped and the next thing you knew, your arms were in the air and a small yelp escaped you.

Steve caught you right before you fell. His big hands covered the small of your back with your arms wrapped around his neck.

Heat rushes to your cheeks and so does his as he keeps you suspended in his arms. For a moment in time, the world stills and all that's left is you and him.

His heartbeat was off its pacemaker, his breathing was heavy and deep as he looked into your eyes. They twinkled like the stars. His eyes traveled down towards plump red lips, parted slightly, inches away from his.

dammit dammit dammit

Just like him, you're caught in a daze. Lost in the ocean blue of his eyes. You never knew a pair of eyes could be this soft. And just like that day in the cafe you're trapped under him again. There was just something about his gaze that you'd never find in another person. Only in him. Even if you wanted to let go, you just couldn't find it in yourself to part from him.

Not too far off, Madame Boucher gazes at the two with her mischievous smile, still hiding the secret message in the letter from her lover.

In all the world, there isn't another like you, or me for that matter. We are two souls who feel like once upon a reality we were soulmates, eternal flames.

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #mob!steve rogers x you #mob!steve rogers x reader #mobster!steve rogers #mob!steve #mob au #mobster steve rogers x reader #mafia steve rogers x reader #mafia steve rogers x y/n

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joaquinfeed · 5 years ago

Text

I Think I Want to Marry You (Arthur Fleck x Reader)

Prompt: You and Arthur are getting married. Angsty-ish with a happy ending. For @rise-like-the-phoenix. Sorry there’s not many wedding feels. I don’t know what’s going on with me, but this is not my best work. It felt forced in areas, and I apologize.

A/N: The reader is a female because I mention “wife” twice or so, but can be gender neutral otherwise. Warnings: Thoughts on forced relationships, descriptions and mentions of Arthur’s thoughts as well as coping mechanisms. __

Clothes? Check. Vows? Check. Ring? Check.

You went over the list a few more times because surely you forgot something. Today was such an important day, one you thought may never come—your wedding.

Before you met Arthur, you weren’t sure what to think about the man. You had heard rumors floating around his apartment complex, and through the city of Gotham, but when you had asked a few people, many denied they even knew him.

It took a while for you both to develop a friendship, and even longer for it to move to the next level. The more you learned about Arthur, the less you wanted to overwhelm him with your feelings. Little did you know, he was already falling too.

There were times in the relationship where you questioned if you were right for one another. Although you loved him deeply, so profoundly it threatened to swallow you at times, you occasionally worried that your love was not enough to overcome the affliction of society.

This was the one time when you were grateful to be wrong.

As soon as Arthur proposed, and by ‘proposed,’ you mean he accidentally said, 'if you were my wife’ in a conversation. You both had a long and grueling talk that consisted of rambling, nervous laughter, and repetitions of 'you don’t ever have to be my wife.’ An hour of reassurance, a declaration of love, and a cuddling session later, you were engaged to Arthur Fleck.

You both agreed that it was best to 'get it over with’ per-say—not that you would ever actually mean that. With money being tight, and Arthur’s mother needing treatment for her deteriorating health, it just wasn’t practical for you to go all out for a wedding party. When Arthur timidly suggested a courthouse 'elopement’ so-to-speak, you were all on board as long as you got to spend the rest of your life with him.

After checking the list of items—clothes, vows, ring—once again for good measure, you make your way to the courthouse. You and Arthur agreed to meet there instead of arriving together because you wanted to follow the traditional rule of not seeing each other before the wedding.

The skies of Gotham are sunny, and the residents are unusually adherent to your body pushing through them on the sidewalk. You definitely miss the annoyed glances and scowls as you nearly run to the courthouse, excited to see the man who’s about to be your husband.

When you get to city hall, you meet with a judge who brings you into the courtroom. It looks no different than a room in which you’d be convicted for a crime, but it was perfect for you and Arthur to make your partnership official.

“Y/N, I have the marriage licenses here,” the judge tells you. “When your fiancé gets here, we will start the ceremony. If both of you have prepared vows, you may read them after I’m done speaking. Then, we’ll present the rings, and you’ll be hitched in no time.”

Your heart beats wildly in your chest at that notion. Married. You and Arthur were going to get married. You still couldn’t believe it. You glance at the clock above the entranceway and frown.

“Arthur should have been here by now,” you say more to yourself than anyone else.

“I’m sure he will be,” the judge replies, startling you out of your thoughts. “It’s normal for people to run late on their wedding days; most people are just trying to work up the courage. It can be a lot of pressure.”

You shake your head absentmindedly. “He wouldn’t be late to something like this for no reason. That’s not- he’s not like that.”

The room falls silent as you chew on your bottom lip, worriedly. There’s no need to panic over nothing, you tell yourself. He will be here.

You’re not sure how much time passes—an hour, maybe two— before you feel a small touch on your skin. You jump slightly at the brush, turning to see the older judge place—what you assume is supposed to be a comforting hand—on your shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you look back up at the clock, the hands moving slowly as if to taunt you with Arthur’s absence.

“No,” you mutter, trying to fight the urge to cry that’s building up behind your eyelids. “He’s not here.”

“He could still come,” the judge tries to reassure you, but his words fall flat. You know Arthur. You have spent the last year of your life trying to learn every detail about the man you’re so desperately in love with. His life fascinates you; he fascinates you. Getting to know him was like reading a really good, but challenging book. You never quite catch every detail, so you just want to keep reading and reading until you understand it better.

Arthur never misses a chance to tell you that he loves you, so it always felt quite apparent to you that he felt the same way. But did he?

You think back over your year together, trying to pinpoint a moment when you may have upset him—any reason to explain his absence—but you can’t find one.

“He’s not going to come,” you finally let the tears fall down your cheeks. You hope that you’re wrong, but you know you’re not. You’re not sure why he’s not here, but it had to be real—final. Arthur would never leave you waiting for no reason. He either had trouble getting here, or he realized proposing to you was a mistake.

That’s when it hit you. Arthur hadn’t actually proposed to you, not really. He slipped up; he made a mistake. You had been the one to initiate the conversation afterward. Did you trick him into marrying you? You couldn’t remember him ever once telling you that he wanted to get married; you only assumed after he called you his wife.

Panic and guilt arose in you at the idea of pushing Arthur into this. Your brain started to run a mile a minute as you tried to recall the events leading up to this moment. Did Arthur even want to be with you in the first place? Surely, he would have said something if he didn’t. At the same time, you knew he was often shy and reserved about certain emotions, especially in the beginning. It’s possible he didn’t want to upset you with rejection. Or because he lacked experience in dating, maybe he believed you were the best choice for him, even if it wasn’t true.

“Here,” the judge says, holding out a tissue. Your eyebrows scrunch up before he nods towards your wet cheeks. You take the tissue, drying the tears that you failed to realize were still spilling down your face.

“I guess I’ll go,” you chuckle humorlessly. You turn away quickly, not wanting to see the pity in the judges’ eyes. He still proceeds to follow you out, trying to console you with empty promises, and 'it’s his loss’ bullshit.

You push open the door of city hall, only to be met with hard raindrops hitting you like a punch in the face. You watch as Gotham’s people rush to cover, and umbrellas are flung open as the puddles grow increasingly heavy.

“Fucking great,” you scoff, not bothering to run for cover yourself. Instead, you put one foot in front of the other, only hoping to make it home before the lighting removes you from this godforsaken day. “Sunny earlier, and raining now. How ironic.”

This time, you let people hit into you as they push their way through the city streets. When you arrive at the apartment, you can’t tell if the lines running down your face are drops of rain or your own reminder of this evening.

You slowly trudge up the stairs, avoiding the elevator to make time. You’re not sure what you expect to find at the home you share with Arthur. You halfway anticipate a note explaining his whereabouts and why he has decided to leave you. On the other hand, you briefly consider the idea that he may still be there. 'I got caught up at work,’ he’ll say, apologizing profusely. You’ll cry tears of joy, and he’ll kiss you so passionately your heart will threaten to burst.

But as your hand wraps around the doorknob, and you walk into the apartment, you’re not met with either of those options. Your eyes float around the room, landing on Arthur’s items that are carelessly tossed on the floor. Remnants of his Carnival makeup lay splattered on the table, along with a sweater, his medication, and an old cigarette butt.

You make your way across the room and drop yourself onto the couch with a sigh. “Arthur, what is going on?”

A world without the man you love is a world you can’t conceive of. If he has left—vanished without so much as a word—you genuinely don’t believe your heart could mend from such a devastating blow. The emptiness settling in your stomach already was enough to drag you down; you couldn’t imagine having to carry out the rest of your life like this.

Your head shoots up when you hear a small knocking sound coming from the kitchen. You almost stay put, fearing it’s a figment of your imagination due to overstimulated emotions. When the knocking gets louder, you pull yourself off the couch and walk towards the disturbance.

“Arthur?”

You swing around the corner, only to find the kitchen empty. Probably the stupid rats, you think to yourself. As soon as you turn to exit the room, a small whimper comes from behind you, one loud enough to echo through the quiet room.

You follow the noise, dreading the worst once you find the source of it—the refrigerator. You can recall the many times you’ve found your fiancé (ex-fiancé?) in the colder appliance. When you both decided the relationship between you was serious, he had confessed to you the strain his mental illnesses put him under, and you, in turn, had been willing to listen to every word.

You tug open the refrigerator door, hoping to find the rats you were previously expecting. But just as the day has shown you, you don’t always get what you predict. Arthur sat inside, knees bunched up to his body, and still wearing his wedding suit.

“Arthur, sweetheart. Can you hear me?”

You didn’t know how long he had been in there, and that made worry bubble up in your chest. Arthur didn’t move from his position or acknowledge your presence; he just continued to knock his head slightly against the refrigerator back.

The knocking sound was amplified in the otherwise noiseless room. You could hear the faint tick of the clock on the wall, but it did nothing to soothe your increasing heart rate.

“Arthur,” you repeated. “Can I touch you?”

Another minute goes by with no response, but you keep your eyes trained on the man you love, hoping to see any sign that means he’s come back to the material world. The tension in his shoulders was obvious, and his nose twitched slightly with every shift in his body.

You raked your eyes over his suit jacket and down to his dress pants. The thoughts from earlier forced themselves back into your head as you took in his tormented state. If he was in his wedding attire, chances are he was planning on meeting you there like planned. Was it possible he was experiencing this episode because he felt obligated to 'tie the knot’ today?

The rattling of the fridge fell on deaf ears as you thought about the likelihood of that being the case. You reached out with a trembling hand and placed it on Arthur’s arm, careful not to startle the man. At the small touch, he finally seems to notice you beside him. He blinks his eyes slowly as if he’s awakening from a dream. Probably a nightmare, you think to yourself.

His eyes focus on your hand, and his next words are uttered so softly, you had to lean in to hear them.

“I’m sorry.”

You’re not sure what he is apologizing for—missing the wedding, his current state, or both. Either way, you can’t find it in you to be upset. You only want to know why this is all happening.

“Why?”

He doesn’t ask what you’re referring to, and you don’t have to tell him. He finally meets your eyes, and the wholly destroyed look in his irises nearly forces a sob to escape your lips.

“I couldn’t do it to you,” he says, not moving from his spot.

“You mean, marry me?”

He shakes his head. “No, I- I mean, I couldn’t keep you here.”

“What are you talking about, baby?”

“Gotham. You- you said you wanted to move last week, but we were getting married.”

You exhale, moving your other hand into the small fridge to place on his knee.

“Sure, I want to move. But Arthur, I want to move with you. If we never have enough money, then so be it. We’ll stay here. I want to get out of Gotham, but I want to take my husband with me.”

“But if we never leave, you’ll be held back because of me. You want a home somewhere else.”

“No, I want a house somewhere else,” you say before moving your finger to his heart and pointing. “My home’s right here.”

A few chuckles escape his mouth, and you tense up, prepared to comfort him if he’s pushed into an attack. Instead, he falls quiet, presumably thinking over your words.

“What about Ma’? She can’t move, and- and we have to stay with her. People who are married don’t live with their parents.”

“Arthur,” you start, but he continues on.

“If you only stay here because of me, you will end up regretting it later.”

“Arthur,” you say again.

“If you regret marrying me later, then—”

His words halt when he sees you stand up and walk out of the room. He nearly jumps up in a rush to stop you, but his body won’t let him move from his position in the fridge. Within seconds, you are back in front of him with a crumbled piece of paper in your hands. You don’t wait for Arthur to ask you what it is. Instead, you just start reading.

“I wish I could explain to you the depth of my feelings. I wish even more that you would believe me if I could. It would be easy to tell you that I get butterflies in my stomach, or my heart nearly bursts from my chest, but it’s not so easy to explain all the other ways I feel you. Ever since I met you, it’s like your soul has been intertwined with mine. I fear that I can never express to you the love I feel for you because words aren’t enough. For so long, you’ve been my biggest supporter. You’re not afraid to tell me when I’m mistreating myself, and you’re even more willing to acknowledge my strengths.”

You take a shaky breath in before continuing. “It feels like you celebrate me every day, and today I want to celebrate you. You’re so kind, so funny, and so beautiful Artie. I love you, and I love Penny. I am honored to spend the rest of my life with a man who’s willing to care for his mother. You are my home, and you will always be the person my soul seeks out. I vow to choose you every single day because I can’t imagine choosing anybody else.”

By the time you’re finished, your cheeks are stained with tears, and Arthur is no better. His lips are pursed together tightly, and you can see the emotions playing out in his eyes.

"Was- was that your vows?”

“It was,” you say. “I know we’re not at the courthouse, but I figured you could use to hear them.”

He nodded. “Beautiful.”

“Thank you. I was just speaking the truth, though.”

“I meant you.”

You ducked your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Oh.”

You glance back up when you feel him nudging you to stand. You follow his lead, and he moves to exit his spot in the refrigerator.

“I’m sorry I left you there today,” he says while pulling you into a hug. You bury your head into his cold chest, breathing in the cologne he must have applied just after putting on the suit.

“It’s okay. I was just worried,” you mumble. “I thought maybe I forced you into this too quickly. Then, of course, I wondered if you ever actually wanted to date me at all—which I know is silly.”

“You wondered if I wanted to date you? Do you need to hear my vows too?“

You chuckle. "Let me just hear them at the city hall, Art.”

You stand there in his arms, allowing the feeling of his body pushed against yours to comfort you. Seconds later, you pull away, cursing yourself over what you just said to him.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I keep assuming you want to get married. There I go again.”

“Stop saying that,” he says, pulling you in to kiss your forehead. “You have never made me do anything that I didn’t want to do.”

“So, you still want to get married?”

“I do,” he emphasizes, letting out a small snicker at his own joke.

You shake your head, smiling. “Let’s get down to the courthouse then. We should still have the time slot reserved.”

You link your left hand with his and keep your vows tucked away in your other one. “Arthur?”

He looks over at you. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay? After,” you nod towards the refrigerator. “Seeing you like that is always—”

“I’m okay. I was in my head, but I got back home,” he offers you a smile, and you return it immediately. It seems you’re Arthur’s home, just as much as he is yours.

On your way to the courtroom, you run through the streets, trying to dodge the ongoing rain like they’re bullets coming from the sky. Of course, neither of you succeed in doing so, and by the time you sprint into city hall, your dress clothes are soaked from head to toe.

The same judge from before shuffles you into the same mundane room, but this time it’s full of new beginnings. As you both stand up in from of the older man, and he reads the typical wedding discourse, you can’t help but be struck with the realization that loving Arthur is nothing like being in this dull, ordinary setting. This morning, when the skies of Gotham were sunny and bright, it wasn’t the city at all that made it the case. It was Arthur.

The courtroom you were in surely wasn’t magical. But as you gazed into Arthur’s emerald eyes, his dripping hair stuck around his face, and his suit making puddles on the floor, you thought the world around you has never felt so perfect.

“Arthur, do you have vows prepared?”

He nods and pulls out a wrinkly sheet of paper from his jacket pocket—one that most likely was ripped from his journal.

“Y/N, I am not always good with words, but I will do my best for you. I promise to try and be the best husband I can be. I- I want to make you as happy as you make me. I will always save up extra money, so I can buy you flowers because you deserve them. You’re so strong, and you work really hard. I’m sorry my vows aren’t as good as yours, but I want to say one thing. All my life, I was nervous about doing my stand-up routine in front of people; I know how awful they can be. But you have never laughed at me, only with me. You’re the one I want to tell jokes to forever. Thank you for loving me.”

You suddenly feel his hand on your cheek, wiping away the tears you didn’t even know were falling. You fight the urge to pull him into a kiss right then and there because you know that is coming shortly.

“Your vows were perfect,” you speak softly, hoping he believes you. “You’re perfect.”

He blushes, and your heart swells at the notion of him still getting flustered by you. Before Arthur can reply, the judge is speaking out again.

“Y/N, do you have vows prepared?”

“I already read them,” you chuckle, but Arthur asks you to say them once more. You don’t want to deprive your soon-to-be husband of a single wish, so you comply and read them again.

As you fly through the words scribbled on the sheet of paper, Arthur’s smile is enough to make it seem like he’s hearing them for the first time. When you utter the last words about ‘choosing him always,’ he brings your hands to his lips, placing a kiss on each one.

“Rings will now be exchanged.”

You both pull out the individual rings, ready to gift them to the other. Neither band was spectacular, considering you both had bigger things to worry about than spending money on jewelry. However, you know Arthur spent a lot of time picking out a ring he felt you deserved, and you did the same for him.

“Arthur, if you wish to take Y/N to be your life partner in sickness and in health, you may present the ring and say 'I do,’” the judge says.

Arthur delicately slides the ring onto your finger, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. His lips curve upwards into a brighter smile as he holds your eyes. “I do.”

“Y/N, if you wish to take Arthur to be your life partner in sickness and in health, you may present the ring and say 'I do.’”

You mirror Arthur’s actions, sliding the ring you picked out onto his finger. “I do.”

Arthur stares at the ring in awe, almost like he doesn’t believe this is happening. Which, very well could be true. So you reach out and cup his face before pulling him into a kiss.

“I didn’t say you could kiss yet,” the judge says, chuckling. “Okay, okay. I now pronounce you—”

He doesn’t get to finish before your pulling away from Arthur, laughing.

“So, hubby, want to go make this marriage official?”

You wink at Arthur, and his cheeks heat up again as he nods rapidly. “I would very much like that.”

You pull him by the hand down the aisle towards the entrance, ignoring the judge’s calls through his laughter.

“I’ll just mail you the marriage certificate,” the judge shouts as you push through the city hall doors.

“Do you think we can get your mom out of the apartment for a while?”

“Actually, I was thinking we could get out of the apartment for a while,” he says, holding up his last paycheck from HaHa’s. “To Gotham’s finest motel, we go.”

Your eyes widen, and you latch onto him as you both stumble down the wet sidewalk. “Motel? Am I going to get breakfast in bed too?”

Arthur glances at you with a playful glint in his eyes. “Is it too late to get a refund on the marriage?”

“Oh, ha-ha. You’re such a comedian,” you gently hit him on the shoulder. “Now, you owe me.”

“I’m sure I can make it up to you.”

“I’m sure you can.”

#joaquin phoenix #joaquin phoenix joker #arthur fleck #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x you

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milknette · 4 years ago

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day 01 - cafe

i'll make a cup of coffee, with the right amount of sugar.

tumblr month: @auyeahaugust

links: ao3 | ff.net

MARINETTE doesn't exactly know what makes her answer yes.

Maybe it's from all the overnight shifts she's been taking, or the coffee fumes she's been inhaling daily finally taking a toll on her brain— or maybe it's because he's the most handsome man she's ever seen walk into her cafe (fact: it's most definitely the third reason), but Marinette can't bring herself to say no to him.

And as things always come with her, a well-intentioned yes easily snowballs into a mess of epically huge proportions. (Though in her defense, she doesn't know that yet.)

Marinette plasters on a smile directed at the customer. "Of course we do!" She replies, noticing a little too late that her voice is a notch higher than usual. "It's just that we don't— uh, have it now! Out of stock, haha, y'know how restaurants go… well, maybe you don't, but there's this thing called supply and demand, and… I mean, I don't want to assume you're dumb or anything— in fact, you're probably a lot smarter than me I went to a fashion university, can you believe that? Like, I went abroad and everything. I learned a lot then, but—"

Horrified that she was tripping over her words, Marinette inhales deeply, then wills herself to stop talking. "— so, anyway! We'll probably have it in stock some time soon, so come back then, okay? I'll have a piping hot coffee ready for you to drink with those pretty lips of y— I mean! Maybe I could call you when you can stop by?"

Marinette only has a moment to reflect on how suggestive that may sound before the customer laughs, effectively breaking her thoughts from spiralling any deeper than they already were.

"Sure," he says, and Marinette briefly wonders if love at first sight has more truth to it than others may believe. "Can I have your phone? I'll put in my number."

His voice is smooth and confident, and Marinette feels the burning need to disappear into a puddle. She hands over her phone gingerly, and takes a moment to appreciate his arms as they type away at the screen.

He returns her phone and smiles. "I'm really lucky I stopped by your cafe. I didn't think there was any place in Paris that had it available," the stranger explains. "Even when I was in America, it was already hard to get a hold of. So thank you…"

The stranger pauses, then looks down at her nametag. "Marinette." He nods his head toward her as a gesture of appreciation, then disappears out the door.

The moment he steps out of her cafe, Marinette feels her knees give out and falls to the floor.

And as she always does when she makes a mess of things, she calls her business partner.

"Alya, I may have messed up… again."

ii.

"What the hell is Kopi Luwak coffee?"

It's a valid question, and Marinette has no idea how to answer. After all, she doesn't actually know what it is either. "His order?" She answers back (completely unhelpfully).

Alya sighs, then pinches her forehead. She's the more level-headed one from the two of them, and therefore the one who always has to fix whatever mess Marinette had gotten into at the time. They're at her office— Alya usually handles the more managerial parts of running the business, whereas Marinette is more on the production of food and drinks side — as she inputs the term into the search bar.

The results are quick to show up:

KOPI LUWAK: THE MOST EXPENSIVE COFFEE IN THE WORLD!

Their faces consequently morph into ones of expectant horror. Alya clicks on the link, and has to visibly stop the sudden gasp that escapes her throat. The cost of one cup of coffee ranges from $35 to $100, with a single kilogram of beans worth almost $700.

Marinette almost snatches the mouse from her hand as she quickly scrolls through the article, clinging onto the (very likely futile) hope that it's probably someone's terrible idea for a joke.

Unfortunately, it isn't.

Alya's the first to speak up, and it's a simple question. "Was our customer a millionaire or something?!"

"I don't know!" Marinette responds, panicked. "I mean, if he were it'd make sense why he's so attractive but he never said anything!"

"Why did you say we provided this?! We can't serve hundred-dollar coffee, we're barely paying rent as it is!"

"I know, I know!" Marinette repeats, pulling at her hairs in stress. "I just thought it was some other kind of regular coffee! How was I supposed to know he wanted that?!" She extends both her arms to point at the computer screen, then shakes her head. "Only an insane person would pay that much for a drink!"

Then, a pause. And in a quieter tone: "Why can't I meet normal guys? Is a cute boy too much to ask for?"

Alya rolls her eyes, then suddenly puts her hands on the table. One returns to massaging her forehead. "Okay, Marinette. We can't serve this to him. You'll just have to tell him the truth."

"But I can't do that!" Marinette frowns, as if the very notion of telling the truth is impossible. "He'll find out that I lied to him and he'll hate me and start going to another cafe instead!"

"— then you shouldn't have lied in the first place!" Alya points out, wagging her finger. "It's better to tell him now before he comes here again and finds out for himself!"

Marinette shifts in place, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. "Maybe we can find cheaper alternatives somewhere else?" She asks. "I bet if we ask our suppliers, someone's bound to grow those beans—"

"Afraid not, girl," Alya says, turning to look at the computer. "These aren't regular beans. Apparently they're made by—," she suddenly pauses, as her face contorts into one of pure disgust. "Ew!"

"What?" Marinette walks toward the computer and leans over, only to feel the need to gag upon reading what came next: Coffee beans are digested by a civet cat. Their excretions are sold as the rare Kopi Luwak.

"So you mean…" Marinette begins, shivering. "That this coffee is basically… cat poop?"

Alya looks at her solemnly, then nods. "Yup."

At that, they finally burst into laughter— though whether it's from entertainment, the absurdity of the situation, or the realization that she's helpless in securing a date with the stranger, or all of the above, Marinette can't tell at all.

iii.

They agree that Marinette tell the truth to the Cute (And Apparently Rich) Coffee Stranger even though it'll very likely ruin all her chances with him. Nothing is, as Alya says, worth spending hundreds of dollars on cat poop for.

Except that Marinette Dupain-Cheng cannot follow directions.

Instead, she contacts a special supplier internationally and pays almost a thousand dollars total to have a kilogram of the beans at her doorstep not more than a week later. (Marinette finds comfort in knowing that the coffee doesn't smell like actual feces.)

She messages the stranger, who left his contact name as a single coffee emoji:

hey we restocked and are ready to serve tomorrow! can you drop by? :)

The reply is almost instantaneous:

That's great! I'll stop by in the morning. Thank you so much!

Marinette reads and rereads that message until she finally falls asleep.

iv.

For the first time since the history of her business, Marinette doesn't arrive to work late.

She doesn't know exactly what time the Coffee Stranger will arrive, but she knows that she doesn't want to miss when he does. Marinette takes the morning shift (something that all her co-workers were understandably surprised by), and she waits.

Coffee Stranger arrives an hour later.

He greets her good morning, and Marinette short-circuits. She reaches out her hand. “Hi! I'm Marinette!"

He laughs. "I know," he says. "Maybe you don't remember me? I gave you my number. I'm the one who asked for the Kopi Luwak?"

"Sorry. Of course I remember! I could never forget you," she replies— blurting it out, to her complete horror.

Coffee Stranger, thankfully, doesn't look all that bothered. In fact, he looks entertained, more so than anything else. "Great," he responds, the smile still on his face. "Then I'll have that."

Marinette nods, and she gets to work on his coffee. She gets it done quickly (Marinette had practiced making it at home; pleasantly surprised to find that it tasted wonderful), and hands him a perfectly hot cup of coffee. "That'll be… eighty dollars."

She cringes at the cost, but the Coffee Stranger pulls out a hundred dollar bill without hesitance. "Keep the change," he tells her, as he takes a sip. "This is even better than what I've had before! Definitely worth more."

The barista blinks in disbelief. "You really think so?" She asks, to which the stranger enthusiastically nods. Marinette feels her body buzz with joy from the sudden compliment, then she points at the macarons on the counter. "Here," she begins. "It's on the house."

The stranger looks up in surprise. "Are you sure?"

Marinette smiles. "It goes great with the coffee," she explains. "I think you'll like the passionfruit flavor. It mixes well with the cat po— the Kopi Luwak."

"Perfect," the stranger responds. "Passionfruit's my favourite flavor!" He grins, then pauses. "And… it's Adrien."

"What?"

Coffee Stranger's eyes go up to meet hers. Green. A forest of green she wouldn't mind getting lost in forever. "My name's Adrien," he says, reaching out his hand to hers. "Nice to meet you.."

Marinette suddenly feels her throat dry. She suddenly forgets that she spent a thousand dollars just to make him happy. It feels worth it.

"Nice to meet you too."

Adrien quickly becomes a regular.

He makes it a point to stop by whenever she's working, sometimes having his coffee to go, and other times staying in to do his work at the cafe. Marinette likes those times the most— and she almost always sneaks in a little macaron or some other snack to help him get through the day. It's small and short exchanges, but they learn more about each other and that's more than enough to make her happy.

She finds out a lot about him. He's kind. He has a sweet tooth. He lives with his best friend, a DJ. He owns a cat. (He clarified, however, that all he does with Plagg's feces is throw it away.) He's rich, but it mostly came as savings from his younger years. He was a teenage model, but nowadays he prefers being the one behind it. (A waste, Marinette thinks, but she respects his decision.) His mom's gone, and he doesn't speak much with his dad. He treasures his friendships more than anything.

Adrien tells her that he treasures their friendship. Marinette's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes when she thinks about how that's all they'll probably be.

She willfully ignores Alya's unimpressed looks and how her bank funds steadily drain into the danger zone.

vi.

At some point, Marinette can't ignore it.

The bank tells her that she can't withdraw anymore, because her funds are almost completely depleted. She paces back and forth her room, visibly stressed. Her current bag of coffee beans would likely last her a few more days— but afterwards, it'll no longer be an option.

Alya says that it's easier to tell the truth.

As per usual, she's right. Marinette promises to herself to talk to Adrien when the coffee's gone completely.

vii.

"I was lying to you."

Marinette decides to be upfront, delivering the statement along with his final cup of coffee.

"What do you mean?" His look is serious, and it's a complete change of pace from how he usually is. It makes her stomach so uncomfortable turns and her knees buckle together in fear.

She sighs. "I was… lying about the coffee." She says it quickly and in one breath, and Adrien's eyebrows knitting together makes it clear that he understood none of it.

"About what?"

"The coffee!" Marinette basically shouts, then pulls him aside as they notice the customers pile in line. Another co-worker takes over, and throws them a concerned glance before focusing on their task completely.

Marinette brings Adrien to one of the empty storerooms, and when they settle, he speaks up. "What do you mean you lied about the coffee?"

"We never sold Kopi Luwak," she explains.

"No," Adrien argues. "That's definitely what I've been drinking, though?"

"Yeah," she replies, shaking her head. "But the cafe doesn't officially sell it. I was taking from my savings to buy the coffee abroad and make it for you." As Marinette says the words aloud, she begins to realise how outlandish the very idea was.

"What did you do that for?"

Marinette frowns to herself. "I guess I just didn't want to disappoint you… or something." Her cheeks redden, and she looks down. "I wanted to see you again too… I didn't want our only meeting to be that one time."

Marinette thinks she hears a hint of laughter, but it disappears so quickly she may have imagined it. "You know," Adrien begins. "If you wanted to see me again, you could've just asked." He smiles at her, but it looks almost sheepish. Adrien scratches his head. "I mean, I was really only ordering coffee so I could keep meeting up with you."

What?

Marinette fumbles over her words. "You… me… meet up?"

Adrien laughs, full-blown now. "Yeah. I thought you were cute. And when I got to know you better, it was just… I couldn't stop myself. I might have caffeine overdose, but I think it's worth it." He turns toward her and wraps his arms around her waist, and Marinette finds a laugh escaping her throat.

"Been having trouble sleeping, then?”

"Haven't slept since the day I met you," he replies. "But I don't mind, because you're a dream come true."

Marinette rolls her eyes at how silly it all is. "That's corny."

"I like to think of myself as a corny jokes and puns connoisseur," he explains teasingly. "Maybe you'll let me tell you more over dinner?"

"How forward of you," Marinette laughs, but nods all the same. "I just have to warn you, I'm broke from all the coffee beans you made me buy."

He smiles. "Then I guess I'll have to pay for all our dates from now on?"

Marinette hums, then grins lightly. "I wouldn't be against that."

"Then it's a deal." He replies, suddenly looking at her directly. "Want to seal it?"

She has a vague idea of where he's going with this, and the smile practically blooms on her face. "Yes."

It doesn't take anymore waiting until he kisses her.

(And she's glad to say that he tastes like roasted coffee beans and a warm fire; not at all like cats or feces or anything of that sort.)

#auyeah2020 #mlauyeahaugust2020 #auyeahaugust #auyeah august #adrinette #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #ml #miraculous ladybug #milk writes #ml fic #ml fanfic

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theobxhummingbird · 4 years ago

Text

Unreachable (Chapter 1)

(GIF credits to owner) (A JJ Maybank and Nova Fleming love story)

Life is a precious present. And the ones who live, in the supposedly called, paradise on Earth; a place named Outer Banks in North Carolina, tend to understand it as either being lucky of inheriting the privilege of living a wealthy Kook life, which contained of many families who dealt with business and yacht owning, or putting up with the circumstances of belonging to the working-class of Kildare Island, the Pogues.

And while ones who lived on the Cut (the Pogues), the others in Figure Eight (the Kooks), were aware of their envy, Nova Fleming was absolutely clueless. With her happily built life, surrounded by books, flowers, animals, studies and cooking, she’d always state that: In life, every person is a present, and they’ll get to see it, when happiness and money separate two ways in their heads. But no Pogue would ever accept her thesis, convincing her of the real life of a Pogue; they have nothing to lose.

Again, she lived in her view of the world, where every person was only parted in two groups; bad and good. Her grandma would always say, that a person like her, could never find happiness in the Outer Banks, if she doesn’t choose the realistic grouping of people there. Luckily, she found her own, paradise on Earth, by just spending time at her grandma’s little flower garden, named after a flowering plant in their home garden, called “Wisteria”.

While her life was “Wisteria”, her dreams and future were misteria Doubting the continuation of her marine biology studies, she got her head out of it by making a small stain for herself, that’ll be left in people’s lives, even for a split second.

-The spray bottles have arrived! -Maida, her grandma, yelled from the front door of “Wisteria”. It was now blocked with boxes, as the people delivered them to the door; stacking the one on top of the other. Nova jogged her way and stood still as they placed the last one. Her grandma took out her vintage wallet, to pay them; Nova stopping her and giving them her own money.

-I see, we’ve earned some money from the Wreck. -said Maida, opening a box to check in case they’ve delivered something else.

-Oh no! -said Nova, putting her hands on her mouth, -I’m going to be late!

-Careful Nova, -yelled Maida after the running girl, -you’ll fall.

Taking whatever she had brought to “Wisteria” and rushing out the door, she ran through the streets of the Cut, hoping to get to work on time. Unlike the other days, who were boiling hot, this one had taken a turn, and it was raining, almost even pouring. Nova ran as fast as possible, her feet getting muddy and wet from the splashing in the puddles.

-Nova! -yelled Mr. Carrera, -You’re late!

-I deeply apologize Mr. Carerra, with the wish of never happening again! -she said, starting with lifting the boxes that had to be taken inside of the restaurant. Nova worked whatever they told her; from being a waitress, to errand girl.

-It’s raining Pogue, faster, faster! -yelled Mr. Carrera. The boxes were insanley heavy for a teenage girl to carry into the Wreck, and as if deliberately, the guys who took down the boxes, put them afar from the Wreck, just for Nova to carry them a long way inside. No one came to her help, and it started to rain heavier.

Everything interfered together; pain, no more strength and desperate need of a small break. There was no time for thinking of giving up, nor any kind of wish of giving up. Her hands swiftly moved the easier, to heavier boxes, so her work could get a bit less tiring at the end.

And, since life is not only a precious present, but one big surprise and disappoint, for Nova everything had a positive side...most of the times. The boiling kettle in her head, let out it’s piercing sound, as her whole body was now covered in mud, and not from the rain or constant running through the medium sized muddy puddles, but from the splash of the big puddle along the sidewalk, where a Volkswagen camping van parked. With her mouth partly opened in shock, and a single box in her hand, she stood in front of it. The door swung open fast, to reveal a blonde boy. His grey, dirty sleeveless shirt got littered with raindrops easily, as soon as he stepped out.

A heatwave of anger roamed around her head; on top of all getting a text message from her grandma, that she’ll have to go and clean a house after her work finishes at the Wreck. The blonde stepped on the sidewalk, and stopped in his tracks to look at the fierce glare on Nova’s face.

-Are you going to say something? -he said, blinking at the constant raindrops that flickered in front of his eyes.

-Is it that hard for you people who own a car, to drive carefully while it’s raining? -she started to walk forward, leaving the box on a ledge.

-I did nothing wrong; just parked the van. Also ma’am, I’m getting soaked, so if you have any objections hurry up. -he spoke harshly; blonde strands of hair framing his tanned face and sticking out the beauty of his blue eyes. With the look of confusion in his eyes, Nova was supposed to soften, but she stepped back, opening her arms.

-The state I’m in, is because of your careless driving. Sometimes, on rainy days, people are careful of their driving and when parking, they make sure they see ahead of their road, in case they shower somebody.

-Oh I know what you are; you’re one of the girls who’re attention seekers. And let me tell you, -he got closer to her, -they come to me a lot and never succeed.

-What are you, presumptuous thing, to assume that I’ll ever put myself into a state of having any kind of interaction with a guy who’s only analyzing a girl, by her ability to intimidate him? You showered me and didn’t even say a sorry; I’ve wasted my time here by arguing with you, instead of taking these boxes in on a rainy day. I just needed to tell you my objection as a citizen in the OBX who has to deal with constant, nut cased driving on a rainy day.

-Let me answer you; I’m the guy who’s not in your life and doesn’t know the struggles you put up with. So if you’re going to blame a stranger for your inability to work, I advice you on analyzing your actions first. -he spat the words at her face and quickly made his way inside the Wreck. Her whole body shook, not only from the coldness, but also from the stress that had built up during his rough sentences. With only, ever so slightly, letting anger take over her, just like this moment, she took out the firefly hair pin from her hair, inflating one of his tires.

Finishing up with the boxes, she walked in the restaurant, brushing against the blonde, who was exiting it.

-Did you bring in all of them? -said Mr. Carrera.

-Yes, I did, they’re all at the door. -Nova said; Mr. Carrera taking out his wallet and giving her the money she earned for the day.

-I took away some of it; being late should never become a habit.

Nova looked at the money; some of it, meaning half of the money. She didn’t go against her rights as a worker, just placed them in her pocket.

-Goodbye, Mr. Carrera. -she said, taking her belongings and exiting the restaurant. After all, she was convinced the day had gone nowhere near good.

-Huh, -he said, standing from his leaned position, -I was waiting for you.

-What is it? -she said, knowing exactly what he means.

-Was it necessary? I mean, I don’t know what nut case you are, but I’ll get to the point of taking you to the police.

-Okay, come on, -said Nova approaching him, -take me to the police and let them decide what nut case I am. After all, it’s their job to close cases.

-I will, because this was unnecessary. -he said, taking the keys and locking the car. -You’ll get to put up with the police and I’ll leave with the thrill of winning after all.

-Are you even kidding with me? A person like you would never even step at a police station; since that is the last place they’ll ever want to be present at. -she said, scanning his bruised face and the cut on his bottom lip.

-You...are crazy, really. Whatever brain there’s inside, should be analyzed, detail by detail. -he said, -With the wish of never seeing each other again, ever.

-Same wish here. -she yelled after him. The Volkswagen drove away, together with the unknown blonde.

Nova still couldn’t proceed, what made her intensively lash out at the clueless guy, but sometimes, particular people didn’t know about careful driving and never went with the rules of safe and slow. But her issue was definitely the fear of causing any road accident, making it even worse if mud and rain are involved.

On her way home, all she was thinking about, was the slight slipping of the Volkswagen wheels as it hit the puddle. What if it caused the driver’s and her life, since she was stood way to close to it?

-It’s another job at Figure Eight. -she said, replying to her grandma’s information on the house she’s cleaning.

-Please keep distance with the Cameron kids; they’re way too Kooky to handle. -said Maida, her old hands stirring the soup.

-I will, you know I will. Job’s a job. -she said, packing the bag with the supplies she needs.

-Did something happen today at work? -said her grandma, lifting her piece to piece fallen place.

-I will tell you later, but you know no word could crash this heart. -said Nova, pointing to the left side of her chest.

-I know by fact, a word could crash that heart. -she said. Nova’s fake smile fell out of her lips; her muscles relaxing from the pushed through smile. -And I know it can destroy you in a split second, but you’re so smart and strong, that you’ll put up with it in the moment.

-I’ll be late again gran, see you when I get home. -she gave her cheek a kiss and rushed out the door, making her way to Figure Eight, where a lot of cleaning was waiting for her.

#outer banks #outer banks fan fiction #jjmaybank #obx jj maybank #obx jj #outer banks imagines #jj and nova #paradise on earth #obx imagines #housekeeping

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maluminspace · 5 years ago

Note

This is all because of you! and you make me feel so small with Calum please.

A37 “This is all because of you!”

A22 “you make me feel so small”

You’d always promised yourself you’d never let anyone reduce you to this. Somehow, though, Calum fucking Hood had managed it.

No one had ever meant enough to you, before, that a simple jealous argument would cause you to try and drown your sorrows in a bottle of cheap vodka.

Calum had stormed out hours ago. He hadn’t called or text you since he’d sped off in his beloved sports car. You know he’s probably just crying to Michael or Ashton about what a nightmare you are but it infuriates you nonetheless.

The last swig of vodka you down burns your throat, making you wince but your pour another measure anyway. Some of the alcohol sloshes onto the coffee table as your aim becomes clumsy. It’s a clear sign that you shouldn’t drink anymore but you’re hoping it’ll help you pass out soon so you don’t have to sit here crying over Calum for the rest of the night.

Wanting your boyfriend to come home has barely resurfaced at the front of your mind when the sound of crunching gravel on driveway draws your attention. A few seconds later a car door slams and footsteps make their way towards your front door.

As much as part of you wants to jump on Calum and apologise while he wraps you in a tight hug, the rest of you kind of wishes you’d put the chain on the front door so he can’t get back in.

When your boyfriend slopes into the hallway closing the door behind him, he immediately turns towards you. Calum must have noticed that the lights were still on in the living area when he’d pulled into the driveway.

“Didn’t expect to see you back here tonight.” You slur, scoffing in an attempt to seem uncaring.

“Yeah?” He asks, looking far too tired to be mad anymore. “Well I didn’t fancy sleeping on Ashton’s sofa so...”

You let out a humourless laugh. “I knew you’d you go crying to your boyfriend about this.”

Calum shakes his head, toeing off his converse before padding across the living room towards you. His eyes linger for a moment on the half empty bottle sitting on the coffee table. When his usually soft brown eyes finally meet yours they betray the anger still simmering beneath the surface.

“Are you drunk?” He asks incredulously.

You shrug as you down the glass of vodka you’d poured just a few moments ago. It doesn’t sting your throat as much as the last time. “What do you care?”

Calum rolls his eyes, an angry blush rising in his cheeks. “Of course I fucking care!” He replies, the effort he’s using to keep his voice steady is painfully evident in his tone. “If I didn’t care I wouldn’t have come back in the first place.”

“Whatever...” you scoff, picking up the bottle again.

“Seriously?” Calum asks, the exhaustion written all over his face as well seeping into his voice. “Are you gonna just keep drinking until you throw up everywhere? Is that your plan?”

There’s still a part of you that wants to resolve this argument and just go to bed. It’s tiny voice is given strength by the pleading in Calum’s eyes as he watches you slosh more vodka into the glass in your hand and into your lap. “‘M not planing on the puking part...” you reply, trying to keep the fire of your anger alive over the desire to just apologise.

“Well that’s where your heading!” Calum insists, “and I’ll end up having to clean that mess up too, like everything else you fucking touch!”

You drain your glass and slam it down on the table along with the bottle. “I’ve never asked you to clean up my messes!” You retort, “I’m a fucking adult, capable of sorting out my own shit!”

Calum rolls his eyes impatiently. “Yeah, it looks like it.” He snaps back, gesturing sarcastically at the items you’d just returned to the table. “You’re really acting like someone who has their fucking shit together, aren’t you? I leave for a few hours and come back to this...”

Your irritated boyfriend gestures a little too hard and knocks the half empty bottle of alcohol onto the floor. It smashes into several pieces, its contents seeping over the wooden flooring.

“Well done, Calum!” You snap, “you’re such a fucking idiot.”

Instead of sniping back at you as you expect, Calum simply leaves the room. He returns a moment later with with a roll of paper towels and a bin bag. Without so much as a glance in your direction, he drops to his knees next to the puddle of vodka and broken glass.

Your drunken brain finds it hard to comprehend why Calum’s suddenly gone all quiet. For some reason it makes you angrier as you drop down next to him. “Don’t ignore me, Calum!” You command, keeping your bleary eyes on him as he carefully wraps the broken glass on a few layers of the paper towels. “You’ve already done that enough, tonight!”

You can tell that Calum is annoyed by your words but he continues to concentrate on wrapping up the dangerous shards of the broken bottle.

“Do I really mean that fucking little to you?” You demand, your tone of voice betraying just how disgruntled you are by Calum’s lack of communication.

Your words seem to strike a nerve with your boyfriend as he snaps his face towards you, his brown eyes filled with the sad sort of anger that would usually break your heart.

Unable to tear your gaze away from Calum’s, you’re fully expecting a barrage of vexed words but all that escapes him is a pained yelp.

You glance down to see a trickle of blood running down from the pad of one of his fingers. For a split second you forget your anger, feeling only concern for the love of your life. You instinctively reach out to him but he immediately shies away. “Leave me alone.” He mutters, struggling to his feet. “This is all because of you!”

And just like that your anger is back. You watch through narrowed eyes as Calum strides off towards the kitchen.

It takes you much longer than it should to struggle to your feet. That’s probably unsurprising, given your inebriated state, but it’s still frustrating. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask, stumbling after your boyfriend.

Calum doesn’t reply. He simply turns on the cold water tap and holds his bloody finger under it. The way he winces in pain kind of makes you want to hug him but your drunken brain reminds you that your still pretty angry with him. “Are you ever going to answer me?”

Your boyfriend finally turns to face you. There are tears brimming in his beautiful eyes, you’re not sure if they’re a result of his pain or frustration but either way it hurts to see him like this.

“I can’t do this with you now.” Calum concedes. “Please can we just talk in the morning?”

You shake your head, stepping a little closer to your boyfriend. “I didn’t wait up all night just to go bed without resolving it anyway.”

Calum scoffs impatiently. “Yeah getting shit-faced was a great way of showing me you want to work this out.”

Even in your drunken state, you know Calum has a point and you feel the shadow of something like embarrassment or shame. “Well I had to do something when you just ran out on me!”

Calum turns off the tap and steps over to the draw where you keep your little first aid kit. “I left because you hurt my feelings.” He confesses. “I know I’ve been distant lately, but you didn’t have to say the things you said.”

Sober you would have agreed with him in an instant. Perhaps you had actually been a little harsh earlier. Drunk you is still angry, though. “I don’t know what I’m meant to think, Calum!” You argue. “You’ve been sneaking around, acting shifty and nervous all the time...”

Calum grimaces again as he places a plaster over the cut on his finger. You’re not entirely sure it’s the tiny injury that causes the physical reaction, though. “I’m not cheating on you.” He sighs, exhausted and obviously just done with this whole argument. “I could never...”

The sincerity of Calum’s words almost seeps through your inebriated brain... Almost. “Then give me an explanation, Calum!” Bursts from your mouth as you sway on the spot.

“Not now.” Calum replies, his voice quiet. “Not when you’re drunk.” He insists. “Not when you make me feel so small, like this!”

Your boyfriend’s last sentence kind of hurts but you manage to stop yourself from uttering a venomous reply by literally biting your tongue between your back teeth.

Calum doesn’t say anything else as he returns the little first aid kit to its drawer before heading back into the living room.

You follow him, but only to the doorway. Your brain is slow to think of a reply other than ‘I’m sorry’ and you’re not quite ready for that yet.

As Calum cleans up the rest of the broken bottle and mops up the spilt vodka, you find yourself absently watching him. Just as you open your mouth to demand an answer, something falls out of the pocket of Calum’s leather jacket. The tiny item turns out to be a black velvet box. Initially you’re a bit confused. It’s only when Calum opens the little lid, that you realise there’s an engagement ring hidden inside.

Suddenly everything makes perfect sense, even in your alcohol soaked brain. Calum’s been distant and shifty lately because he’s been nervous to ask you marry him.

All of your anger and suspicion suddenly melt away, leaving a knot of guilt in its place. You want to run over to Calum and apologise for being so oblivious and tell him how stupid you feel for ever thinking he could be unfaithful.

Before you can do any of that, though, your boyfriend closes the box and shoves it back into his pocket. He wipes a tear from his face as he throws the last vodka-soaked paper towels into the bin bag and carries it outside.

As much as you want to tell Calum that you know the real reason why he’s been acting so strange, you know that he was completely right about now being entirely the wrong time to talk about ‘the truth’.

Instead of giving things away, you decide that you’ll act surprised when he finally asks you. He at least deserves that moment of knowing that he’s chosen the exact right way and moment to ask you.

In the mean time, you’ll stop being so paranoid and start making him feel like the amazing person he is. Starting with an apology as soon as he walks back into the house.

Masterlist

#calum hood #calum hood imagine #calum hood burb #calum hood fic #5sos #5sos imagine #5sos blurb #5sos fic #calum imagine #calum blurb #calum fic #angsty!calum #my writing #200 dialogue quotes #tw: alcohol

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certifiedskywalker · 5 years ago

Text

Academic Misgivings (Part Ten) - Peter Parker

You and Peter Parker aren’t friends, but you’re not entirely enemies either. You don’t like him but he always tries to be nice to you. He has everything you’ve ever wanted and you’ll do anything to show him that you can make it on your own. But can you?

Things are looking up! The truth is out there and Y/N and Peter finally know where they stand with each other. But will this relationship last? Or will outside forces bring it crumbling down?

/ PART ONE / PART TWO / PART THREE / PART FOUR/PART FIVE / PART SIX / PART SEVEN / PART EIGHT / PART NINE

It felt like there was pure electricity in your veins. Every inch of you buzzed and hummed with a new sense of life. After Saturday, after you told Peter how you felt about him, your whole body thrummed in some Spring-like symphony. You barely registered Sunday when the Sun knocked on your windowsill.

You only got out of bed when your phone chirped with a text alert. In a flash, your covers were thrown to the side and your cold feet hit the floor in a matter of seconds. Your phone was charging on your dresser, it’s screen illuminated and reflected in the small mirror of your vanity. The sight of yourself, oddly, made you smile. Your lips were stuck in a smile, as they had been the moment Peter grabbed your hand. Silently you hoped that you would see yourself smile more.

Your phone chimed once more, ever impatient when it came to your attention. Although, you the alert that greeted you sent a flurry of all sorts of insects a buzz inside your stomach.

PETER: mornin :)

YOU: good morning

PETER: i told May about shopping

PETER: but she has a shift tonight so she cant

YOU: Oh, okay.

PETER: she can do Monday after school but we dont have to wait

You bit the inside of your cheek in a poor attempt at suppressing a grin. Eager to reply, your thumbs hovered over the keyboard of the texting app as you thought of your answer. Peter added to his last message both you could reply.

PETER: i mean it we would be getting to it late so the dresses and stuff might not be cool

PETER: but you would make any dress look cool

PETER: pretty, i mean.

PETER: sorry

PETER: i’m screwing this up

You beamed at the series of texts and shook your head. As you typed out a reply, you rocked back on forth on the heels, too happy to keep still.

YOU: You’re not screwing anything up, Pete. You’re being endearing

You waited for a beat and when Peter didn’t reply you wrote out another message.

YOU: It’s sweet and very cute

PETER: cute?

YOU: Yes, cute. :)

PETER: your cute too

YOU: You mean *you’re and thanks Pete

A laugh slipped past your lips. Loud giggling was a sound so foreign to you it sounded fake as your laugh echoed within the walls of your room.

PETER: wow ok i see how it is

PETER: call me cute then insult my grammar

YOU: Maybe…. :) and I don’t mind waiting until Monday. I could use May’s help with finding a dress.

PETER: your mom still isn’t home?

You felt your smile fall flat, but not entirely give into a frown. You had been so consumed with what had happened the night before you hadn’t been paying attention. During the night, you thought you heard a door slam but your mind was so lost in some fantasy you felt you had imagined it. Even if your mother was home, dress shopping would not be on top of her to-do list.

YOU: No. But May is more fashionable anyway.

PETER: ok, she’ll be happy to hear that

PETER: i gotta run, see you tomorrow?

YOU: Yes, you’ll see me tomorrow. We have school.

PETER: oh yeah :)

YOU: Go you goof

You set your phone back on the top of the dresser and left it to charge as you padded out of your bedroom. The apartment held a chill trapped in the air. One so strong you shivered and wished you had snagged your sweatshirt for the trip to the kitchen. Dirty dishes piled up in the sink, some bowls tucked in on the top looked freshly used. The next step you took creaked and a shuffling sound to your left made you jump.

On the couch, the crumpled form of your father laid on his side. One arm was completely extended, flailing off the edge of the cushions entirely. His mouth was pressed in a line and even in sleep, his jaw moved, tensed, working through some stress that haunted his dreams. Your mother was nowhere in sight. She hadn’t been for three years.

The euphoria that Peter’s texts had given curved down, off the high. You had been pitched off a cliff and back into reality. A reality where brilliant boys like Peter Parker did not mix with girls like you. Bravely, with Peter’s words repeated in your mind like a mantra, you pushed the doubt away. He wouldn’t care about your family, about their flaws; Peter accepted everyone, helped everyone. He would stick by you.

Quietly, you back over to the couch and plucked the blanket from off the back of it. With a tenderness you remembered from your childhood, you rested the thick blanket over your father's sleeping form.

“Sorr-ry…” he whispered, his body shuddering as he spoke. You pressed your lips together to keep from making a sound. Whatever dream he was having was not a good one. It felt more and more like worst fears and nightmares ran in the family.

You remembered times of his smiling face. Trips to the zoo to marvel at dozing lions and laugh at funny the penguins looked when they waddled. His smile had faded, alongside his presence after aliens fell from the sky and destroyed the home he had built for you and your mother. Now he worked day in and day out, with Sunday and Monday mornings off every other month to make sure you both had enough to eat. When you mother had left, he barely spoke. He wouldn’t smile anymore, ask you how your day was and that was all. It was like living with a ghost sometimes, a haunted, weary soul.

Tiptoeing, you crept back down the hall and into your room. It was best to leave him to rest. Plus, you had studying to do. Your books laid on your small oak desk with book covers taunting you as you took a seat in your rickety desk chair. A sigh passed over your lips as you grabbed The Great Gatsby. Hopefully, you could stay focused and keep your thoughts about Monday at the side.

As you ducked into the books’ pages you realized, that would simply be impossible.

Sunday had dragged with little excitement. You had spent the day studying or trying to study at the very least. Too many ideas and hypothetical scenarios about Monday swirled about you, pestered you as you moved through the day. Your father had left for work soon after you had seen him. An all-day shift at a grocery store outside of Queens took him away and left you to your own devices. Although your mind was too lost in thought too much of anything productive.

Even as you eagerly tucked yourself into bed as the Sunday sunset, your brain still worked. You thought of Peter as you and May studied fictitious dresses. His lazy smile when he would see you in a dress for the first time. Would May be able to tell that you were both something more? Had Peter already told her?

The steady flow of worrying questions turned into a somewhat tumultuous lullaby as you drifted in and out of sleep. A hybrid of dream and nightmare gave you what you wanted only to take it away. Peter’s face with a smile then a frown as his figure faded from your sleep-vision. Needless to say, sleep did not come easy. If it did, it didn’t stay long as you woke up a few times during the night.

When you woke for the last time, with the sound of your alarm ringing in your ears. Like a ghost, the shrill haunted you as you got ready for the day. Your walk to school was one of belly aching excitements. You were going to see Peter after you told him that you liked him. He liked you too. It all felt like a dream, some horrible trick; but it was real.

It was as real as Peter as he leaned against the lockers near your own. His lips were pressed in a line, brown eyes searching the faces of all who passed by. Peter was looking for you. The smile that spread across your features must have acted as some sort of beacon or maybe your heart was hammering louder than you thought because Peter met your gaze in an instant. A soft smile and the scent of Peter’s cologne greeted you as you walked to your locker.

“Hi,” he breathed out as if the word had been waiting for its appearance as well as your own. You felt heat rush up your neck and curl like wisps of smoke in your cheeks.

“Hi,” you returned, “you waited?” Peter’s expression shifted from relaxed to shuffling and stuttering. His arms crossed and uncrossed in record time.

“I did but I...if you don’t like it...I thought it would be nice.” Pink kissed the tips of his ears and you smiled at the sight.

“It is nice.” You lifted a hand and brushed it against his arm. The touch shocked you, literally and metaphorically. A zap of static zipped up your fingers and you felt your heart melted into a puddle of a surprise when Peter leaned into the touch.

“Ok, I’ll do it again then,” Peter said with a calm smile on his face. You nodded before you turned your attention to the lock. As you entered your combination, Peter pressed the side of his head against the neighboring locker. When you snuck a glance at him, you saw that he was already staring at you.

“Hi,” you murmured again in the hopes of deterring your growing bashfulness

“Hi,” he repeated and you let out a shy giggle. “Oh, and should we meet here after school?”

“We can, yeah,” you said as you opened your locker. You plucked your math textbook from the dark depths before you shut the metal door with a clang. Peter’s brown eyes studied your face and you gave him a soft smile. “What?”

“Is it weird now?”

“What is it?”

“Us,” Peter admitted. “I mean, I like you and you like me so it’s not weird but it kind of feels that way, right? Maybe it’s just ‘cause I haven’t-”

“Pete,” you rested a hand on his cheek, something you had wanted to do since you realized you had feelings for him. “It’s not weird, you’re being weird.”

He let out a laugh and you grinned at the sound. “Am I?”

“No, but I get what you’re saying,” you let your hand fall from his cheek. While the action was new, it felt right; it felt natural. “But the circumstances were weird. It’s not every day a tutor and a tutee gets together.”

“Tutee?” Peter raised a brow at you with a grin splayed out on his features.

“The person being tutored,” you explained. You paused before sighing, “you think it’s a funny word.”

“I don’t think it is a word,” Peter said through a laugh.

“Well...it is now,” you took a step away from your locker and out into the current of the hallway. Students marched to and fro, getting ready for first period as the clock ticked down the seconds.

“Y/N, what about proper grammar conventions?” Peter teased as he fell into step at your side. You let out a huff but your amusement was clear on your face.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” you pondered aloud and you heard Peter stifle a laugh.

“Our mistake, though. A good mistake.” As Peter spoke, his knuckles brushed against yours. The entire world melted away until all that remained was you and Peter. Your fingers splayed and reached for his. When you pinkie knocked against his, you curled yours around it.

You heard Peter hum something but you were too lost in this new reality to totally hear it. Mindlessly, your feet carried you through the hall with Peter at your side. He spoke up again but your world was still so fuzzy. You kept walking until you saw a figure sulking towards you and Peter, headed straight towards you.

“Y/N? Why is MJ looking at you like that?” Peter’s questions finally broke through as the rose-colored lenses lifted from your eyes. MJ’s dark eyes were glued on you as she pushed her way through the hallway. It didn’t look as if she were angry but slightly panicked. The mild annoyance in her face was always there.

“I-I-”

“Y/N,” MJ stopped right in front of you and Peter.

“Hi, MJ,” Peter chirped. She sent a look his way, something entirely unreadable.

“Peter,” she turned her gaze back to you, “I ran into Flash.”

“Oh?” You furrowed your brows in confusion. However, your befuddlement did nothing to quell the sudden and furious storm of dread brewing in your stomach. Flash.

“He asked if I had seen you or if we had a class together.” You untangled Peter’s pinkie from your own and you felt the air drop around you.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I just told him to shut up and he told me he had a surprise for you.”

“What does that mean?” Peter asked, cutting through the conversation. You looked at him and saw his jaw was tensed. Was he jealous? He turned his gaze to you and, instead of anger, you saw concern. “What does he mean?”

“I don’t kno-”

A high pitched whine pierced through the air, out from the intercoms that lines the walls of the hallway. Students stopped shuffling at the sound, waiting for whatever early-morning announcement couldn’t wait until school had actually begun. Crackling on the end of the microphone broke the whine and someone cleared their throat.

“Midtown High, I have a special announcement from our very own Y/N L/N. You may think that aliens are the true villains or maybe that Spiderman is the true menace, but it seems Y/N has been the darkness in our midst all along.”

“Who is that?” Someone asked but you knew. It was Flash. Whatever voice modulator he was using could not hide the goblin quality of his voice from you. You glanced in the direction of the voice that asked the question and saw a few people from your history class. With widened eyes, they stared at you, waiting for whatever villainous message Flash had planned to share.

“What does that mean?” Peter’s voice pulled you back to yourself. You grabbed his hand and his brown eyes met your gaze. It hit you all at once. Flash was going to tell them about Peter, about how you both had schemed to ruin him.

“Peter, I have to tell you something,” you gushed. You had to beat Flash to it, tell your side of the story before he got the chance. “Before this, before I got to-”

“I..want Peter off the team ...I'm...using Peter. ...leave me alone...Peter ...entitled piece of shit.” Your voice with gravel quality rang out over the speaker, but it wasn’t your voice. It was too low, too edited and pieced together. It almost sounded mechanic but the words spoken were your own. Your stomach dropped. The phone call on Saturday, Flash’s threat….

A profound silence filled the hallway as the speaker cut off. An echo, your own heartbeat pounded in your ears. With a simple audio trick, Flash had ripped a hole in the hope you had built for yourself. You felt your limbs grow cold and numb with the realization. The whole school had heard.

“Y/N, “Why didn’t you tell me?” Peter’s voice broke the glass that had gathered around you and the vacuum of silence stopped whirring in your ears. The happiness you had held, in the shape of Peter’s hand, slipped from your grasp. His brown eyes were squinted but it didn’t stop the welling tears as they threatened to spill over. “Y/N?”

“I…” You took a step back away from Peter. His brows were knitted together in confusion and you felt bile rise up in your throat.

“Y/N, is this...did you...a lie?”

“N-No, Peter, it’s not...it’s not like that.”

“But it was? This whole time?” His voice cracked and you imagined it was nothing compared to the shattered pieces of his heart.

“No…” you whimpered, your voice failing you. “No, Pete it…” Eyes. All the eyes in the vicinity were glued on you and Peter. The Shakespearean drama unfolding in the middle of the hallway had captured everyone’s attention. Your throat was closing with panic, making so you could only choke out the next few words. “I-I’m sorry.”

You turned around and ran down the hall, as far away as you could from Peter Parker.

Your feet carried you out of the school, wove through the crowd amassing at the entrance as the bell rang. By the time you made it down the block, your chest was heaving. You hadn’t run that fast in a long time and it didn’t help that a series of silent sobs racked your form. To catch your breath, you slumped against a brick wall of a storefront for support. People, much too busy to wonder what you were doing out of school, passed you by with cups of coffee clutched tightly in their hands.

You looked up from the passersby and across the street. The slightly yellowed lights of the coffee shop’s interior shown through the front window. The tables lining the windowsill were empty, letting the glow shine out in the still brightening sky. Golden edges of the horizon stood out against the dark blue of morning.

A sudden hunger overwhelmed with sharp stomach pain. You hadn’t eaten breakfast, too eager to see Peter to spend a minute longer in your apartment. Now, you felt too nauseous to eat despite the pang of hunger. What you wanted was a place to be alone.

You crossed the way, barely caring to look either way down the street. A car honked as you darted along the road but you were too consumed with wiping the evidence of tears off of your face. When you felt satisfied with your effort, you pulled open the door of the coffee shop. The heat of brewing javas and the smell of freshly baked cookies welcomed you with a warmth that, in the present moment, you felt you didn’t deserve.

“Hey, you! My favorite customer!” A soft voice greeted you from behind the counter although, at first glance, you didn’t recognize the face accompanying it. At least not the hair. “Oh, yeah, changed it up a little,” the perky barista explained as she pinched a few strands of her now blue hair between her fingers. “Got tired of the pink.”

“It looks nice,” you sniffle as you speak, eyes glancing over the menu. “Any new teas?”

“We have a cinnamon apple tea,” she said with a smile, “it’s like apple cider but not as tart, ya know.” You nodded and gave her a half-hearted smile. She returned the expression, mirrored the sadness that you knew was much too readable in your red-rimmed eyes.

“I’ll take one of those then.” You sniffled again as you pulled out a few dollar bills to pay. The brightly colored barista hit a few buttons on the cash register and recited the order.

“So one apple cinnamon tea and one fresh snickerdoodle cookie,” she said pleased. She looked up at you with a smile, even as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“I didn’t order a-”

“You look like you need one,” she said and tipped her head at your eyes. She handed you a tissue from the counter, “and it’s on the house. Don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you, I don’t know what to say,” you gushed, overwhelmed by the kindness. You were only used to Peter being so kind. When the rest of your life had been lonely it felt like every good thing someone did for you was a treasure.

“You don’t have to say a thing. It’ll be right out.”

It felt like a mere few minutes had passed before a warm cup of tea and baked cookie were in your hands. With another series of ‘thank yous’ said to the barista, you made your way to the table tucked in the far corner. As you waited for your tea to cool down enough to drink, you picked at the snickerdoodle. You broke off pieces of it to eat, weary that if you ate it too fast it might not stay down.

When you had worked through half of the delicious snack, you looked up. The empty seat across from you seemed to echo. If you listened hard enough, strained your ears to the point of lightheadedness, you could almost hear Peter’s laugh. It was the same laugh that he showed whenever you made an inadvertent joke or mocked the sentence structure of a decathlon practice question. That laugh was not the same as the little chuckle Peter gave you when you teased him.

Part of you cringed at the thought. There had been a point where you had meant the words you teased him with. At some point, you had told yourself you hated Peter. How could you have done that without knowing him? Had you jealousy been that deep?

Obviously it had been, you thought to yourself bitterly. You had willing teamed up with Flash, that was how deeply your envy had been. Now, through some twisted sense of fate and Peter’s charm, all you felt was shame. Shame and sadness seemed to come hand-in-hand. With the regret came tears, tears that cascaded down your cheeks and on the napkin placed before you.

You wanted to blame it all on Flash. He had turned green with envy whereas you had grown. Grown to like Peter, more than you ever thought was possible. Flash had ruined it, manipulated words, the only tool you had and made sure he was right in the end: Peter wouldn’t sick with you now. Only the pain in his face as your voice, but not truly yourself, spoke over the speakers and told a stale truth.

Your heart began to pound as reality set in fully. Nothing would be the same now. Whatever you and Peter had started, shared with each other, would flatline. There was no longer a pulse left in that relationship and it was your fault. All you could do was apologize, try to tell him how things had changed when you got to know him better.

Deep in your heart, you felt like you need Peter. Through him, through learning about him you learned more about yourself. Through liking him, you learned to like yourself. Now it felt like you were free-falling. The foothold Peter had made for you both had broken under the weight of past mistakes. You couldn’t fix it, so you would have to learn to be okay on your own.

And the coffee shop didn’t feel like the right place to start. Too many memories of Peter haunted the place, times when you felt like the best person you could be. You needed to tap into that person, that version of you, without the ghost of Peter helping you. You needed to be with yourself.

So, after you finished your cookie and tea, you thanked the barista one last time. It was noon by the time you had felt, time seemed to have sped up in your panicked state. With traffic somewhat calmed, you were able to cross the street without cars honking in distress this time. The path your house was peppered with browned leaves carried in on the breeze. Autumn’s end was near, sharp and sudden as the end of bare branches.

It would have surprised you if snow were to fall as you unlocked the gate to your apartment building. Instead of thinking about how you and Peter had said a heartfelt ‘goodbye’ in the spot you stood in just a few days ago, you thought about the impending Winter. Maybe you could convince your parents to go to your cousin’s place for the holiday season so you weren’t locked away in your room like last Winter break. It would be an unexpected trip but you couldn’t stand the thought of being home alone for two weeks.

What was also unexpected was the sight of your father when you opened the door to the apartment. He looked just as tired as he did Sunday, but he was cleaning the kitchen. Cleared plates and shining utensils were sat out on the drying rack. When you the door closed behind you, your father looked up.

“School?”

“I-I…” your stomach twisted, “I wasn’t feeling well. Can you...you call me in sick?” Your father’s brows scrunched together but he nodded nonetheless.

“Y-Yeah, you...you alright?” There was a softness in his voice, the type of concern a father should have for his daughter. How long had it been since you had heard him speak like that? He had been gone off on work trips, struggling to make ends meet and all the while hoping that your mother would come back. Yet, it seemed, he had a bit of softness saved for you. And that broke your heart.

“N-No….” Tears fell from your eyes before you had the chance to stop them. They blurred your vision until the home you had known for the past seven years was turned into muddled shapes. You relied solely on sound. So when, instead of asking about what had happened, you heard the footsteps of your father’s work boots against the floorboards, you were shocked. More so when two warm arms wrapped around you and your backpack to pull you to his chest.

Sobs racked your frame, so loud that your cries seemed to echo through the apartment. Despite the sound, you heard your father’s voice. “I wish I could fix it.”

“Y-you can’t,” you hiccuped. You felt his arms tighten around you as if holding you together was all he could do. In that moment, it was all you needed.

You didn’t remember falling asleep or how you got in bed in the first place. The note on your nightstand scrawled out in rough script from your father told you what you needed to know.

Called into the school. You should get some rest, honey. Feel better.

-Dad

You set the note back down and sat back up against your headboard. Fresh from sleep, your eyes were still clouded lost in the haze of slumber that called out to you to return. The moment the darkness behind your eyelids welcomed you back, an image of Peter smiling entered your mind’s eye. Crinkles by his eyes and the wide grin made your heartache.

Your eyes flew open and you scrambled to your nightstand again. In a mad, groggy search, you looked for your phone. Your fingertips traced the smoothed wood of the side table and found no trace of it. With a sudden rush of mild panic, you got up from your bed. The fabric of your worn, blue backpack poked out from under your desk chair.

With the knowledge it was the last place you had it and pure hope, you kneeled in front of your bag and rummaged through the pockets. Your hands brushed against folders and paper in your quest. The familiar feeling of earbud wires tangled between your fingers gave you a rush of relief. Pulling gently on the wires, you lifted it out of your backpack. Still plugged into the port, your earbuds suspended your phone before your eyes.

“Shit,” you whispered to yourself as you unplugged your earbuds. The screen of your phone illuminated with text notifications. One from MJ asked where you had gone while the message from her gave you details on what you missed during English class. You had even received a message from Ned who, after telling you that it was him, told you that he hadn’t seen Peter and that he had heard about what had happened. There was nothing from Peter himself.

You finally unlocked your phone and scrolled through your contacts. It didn’t take long until you found Peter’s name littered among those of people you no longer spoke to. His contact picture was an open book, a picture you had taken during a tutoring session instead of asking for one from him. Now, looking at it, you wished you had.

Without wasting another moment on regret you hit the dial button and pressed your phone to your ear. The dull, repetitive ringing had you biting on the inside of your cheek nervously. Pick up, please, please pick up.

“Hi, it’s Peter….” His voice, animated, almost happy, answered a twisted sense of happiness flooded through you, even if it was short-lived. You had to tell him you were sorry.

“Pete, it’s me. I-I-”

“And I can’t get to the phone right now because uh...I’m busy? I guess? You can leave a message though. I don’t really know what else to-” A loud ‘beep’ stopped the automated message. Tears welled in your eyes at the sound before you found the courage to speak up.

“I know I’m the last person you want to hear from but I need to talk to you. I need to explain so you don’t think…” you paused and sighed. You should have written it down, planned out what you were going to say. It was too late now. “I’m sorry, Pete. You know I’m not...I’m not the best person, I sure wasn’t before we started talking. But with you, I feel like I can be a better person. I hope...I hope you can see that. I’m sorry.”

Your phone fell away from your ear as you pressed the ‘hang up’ button displayed on the screen. As you did, another text alert popped up. The number matched Ned’s and you tapped the notification.

NED: um, I don’t want to worry you or stress you out more than you probably already are but I still can’t find Peter.

NED: he normally tells me when he’s gonna go out but he didn’t and May doesn’t know where he is either. have you heard from him?

YOU: I gave him a call. He didn’t answer.

NED: okay, thanks.

NED: and, Y/N, don’t worry, he’ll come around.

You didn’t have the strength to thank Ned or ask how he even got your number. Instead, you peeked into your backpack again to find a notebook and a pen. Peter was gone, probably angry and upset. The thought filled you with worry.

Your eyelids grew heavy at you wrote out four simple words. On shaking legs, you stood from your spot and strode over to the window of your bedroom. Carefully, you leaned the notebook against the glass so it could easily be seen:

Spiderman, I need you.

Bitterly pleased with your handy work, you strode over to you bed and collapsed once more.

The light tapping of rain against your window slowly coaxed you from your slumber. Slowly, you sat up from your bed and hit the button on your phone to catch the time. It was ten o'clock at night meaning the dance tomorrow was merely sixteen hours away. The calculations in your head made you feel sick with dread and sleep.

The steady tap against your window pulled you out of your own mind. In the small second of peace, you let your thoughts drift again. That was, until, the pattering at your wind intensified. You shot up from your bed and you feet hit the floor. Blindly, you swung your hand towards the lamp on your nightstand and flicked it on.

Two white eyes of a familiar red mask came into the light. A gloved hand waved on the other side of the glass as you threw yourself off of your bed. Your bare feet padded against the carpet of your bedroom floor as you neared the window. You weren’t entirely sure if your lack of pure shock was from the lingering haze of sleep or the fact you had seen Spiderman before. There wasn’t much thought to give it before you opened the window.

“You got my message,” you whisper as you poke you head out of your window. Your teeth clattered as a gust of night air swirled into your room. “Are you cold?”

“I, no, I’m okay. You’re lucky I was swinging around.” He said, his voice not as low as the last time you saw him. Something about the pitch was familiar, so familiar in fact it gave you goosebumps. Or was that just the cold?

Now was not the time to dwell. “I….I need help...”

The blank eyes of the mask stared at you in wait. Quiet oozed between you and you remember Spiderman being more talkative before. More confident, even. Perhaps it had been an off day for him too.

“His name is Peter, Peter Parker, you might know him. He works with Iron Man and he...I messed up. I don’t know where he is he won’t answer his calls and his friends can’t reach him either. Can you...do you find people?”

“That’s more of a Jessica Jones’ thing.” Your brows furrowed at the snappy tone and you opened your mouth slightly in shock.

“But can you help?”

“Why do you want to find him?”

“Because he’s missing!” You yell in a whisper. You threw your arms up in the air but Spiderman only cocked his head to the side like a confused puppy. Or perhaps a dog too wise for his own good.

“Just because of that?” Angry bubbled up inside you, spread flames from your stomach up to your chest; but your resolve turned to ash in your mouth. All you wanted was to know Peter was okay.

“I...I need to tell him that I’m sorry, that I-I...” The words got caught in your throat. Why were you telling a total stranger about this? A masked stranger at that. You were desperate...that was why.

“Tell him what?”

“That what I did, what I wanted, it’s different now.” Spiderman fell quiet and you felt it was due to the lack of context. But you were too tired to explain so you continued. “ I need to tell him that...well the voicemail I left him already covers most of it…”

“So he’ll call you back when he’s ready.” The superhero’s curtness was not something you had expected. Yet, despite the tone, you knew he was right. Peter would speak up when he was ready. There was no point in worrying until then. If he truly went missing, you were sure you would have felt it. With all that had happened, Peter probably ran off as you had.

“Yeah, sorry for bothering you. You’re probably busy.” Spiderman only nodded in reply and got up from his crouched position. As quiet as a shadow, you watched as he leaped on the fire escape railing and readied to jump off. When he lingered, you quirked a brow at him. Almost as if he sensed your change in expression, he craned his neck to look back at you.

“Do you...do you care about him?”

“Yes,” you said without missing a beat. “More than anything. He’s my closest friend and I….” The words teetered on the tip of your tongue but you bit them back. If you went too far you could never make it back. Spiderman nodded; sometimes there was no need for words to explain the most complex of feelings. All you had to do was look at someone’s face and just know.

“Then you can trust him to come around, Y/N.” With that, Spiderman lept and webbed away in a matter of a few seconds. You watched as the bright reds and blues of his suit faded into the haze of the light-polluted city. With your chin balanced on your elbow, you rested your head against the frame of the window. The white paint of its surface was chipped and had flaked off due to weathering over the years.

You too had lost parts of yourself as you had gotten older. Childhood memories felt more like an old movie now, one that you used to know the lines to but had since forgotten. When Peter asked you to tutor him, unknowingly, he had given you a chance at a starring role in a movie that promised a happy ending. So why did it feel like the reel had been cut short?

184 notes · View notes

nat-roman0ff · 5 years ago

Text

the rest is history

requested

---

word count: 2,390

warnings: banter, terrible memory and uncontrollable fluff.

---

Shawn remembers the day you first met quite fondly. You, however have always remembered it a little differently. Shawn swears it was his charming nervousness that swept you off your feet immediately. Meanwhile, you were convinced for the first half hour you were talking to him that he was a serial killer; all awkwardly charming, never taking his eyes off of you. Not to mention the glasses that looked like they were decades too old for him to be wearing.

It was something the two of you could never agree on exactly how it happened. And now, at your engagement party in front of all your friends and family, you were about to share the story of how the two of you first met.

“That is not how it happened, Shawn,” you roll your eyes.

You can’t stop staring at the shiny engagement ring on your finger. Shawn’s cheeks are pink from champagne, and he gulps down the last bit in the flute before turning back to the crowd of people sitting before you.

“No, no, no,” he waves his hand, “I wrote a song about it! Of course I remember what happened.”

Your friends and family laugh around you, and you grab the microphone from Shawn’s hand, “he really does think that he knows everything. For inquiring minds; this is how it all went down.”

---

Of course it had to be raining today. The one day you had off from work, the one day you had to get all your errands done, the one day you had to yourself. It’s Sunday, mid summer, and it’s hot and humid as Hell outside. The rain is probably a much needed break in the unbearable weather, but it was just so goddamn inconvenient.

You’re already running late, this was of course after the hot water in your apartment stopped working halfway through your shower, getting shampoo in your eyes, stepping in cat puke, and burning your thumb while making breakfast.

It was barely noon and you already wanted this day to be over.

You luckily leave the apartment in one piece, your umbrella barely keeping up with the pouring rain around you. You skip through and over puddles and thank yourself for wearing rain boots today. The first stop of the day was the local book store and coffee shop. It was your favorite place to go, especially when you were feeling a way about life and wanted to unwind.

Really, you were just avoiding your responsibilities for the day.

It’s crowded when you get in. There’s some type of poetry reading happening that has everyone’s attention. You step to the cafe side and wait in line, trying to catch up in the group chat between your friends. Someone’s someone broke up with them and they were ranting about the reasons why. You lock your phone and slide it in the back pocket of your jeans, not bothering to even start with all that drama.

“Next,” the drone barista says.

You approach the counter, “hi! Medium iced coffee with almond milk, please.”

“It’s a grande,” they reply.

You raise an eyebrow, “huh?”

She points to the board behind her, “it’s not a medium, it’s a grande.”

“It’s a whatever I want to fucking call it because I’m the one paying,” you retort.

The person behind you in line snorts. You look back and he’s covering his mouth to stifle a laugh, a bemused expression across his face.

The barista rolls her eyes, “whatever, that’ll be $4.”

“It’s normally $3.50.”

She squints her eyes, “there’s an upcharge for almond milk.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s supposed to be $3.50.”

She groans, “ma’am, if you’re so pressed about fifty cents then you probably shouldn’t be in a coffee shop.”

“I am not hard pressed for fifty cents,” you plant your hands on your hips, “and I don’t appreciate your attitude. But fine, it’s four dollars,” you mimic in a snotty voice.

You reach for your wallet in your purse - only to realize it’s not there.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, “forget it, I must have left my wallet at home -”

“I’ve got it,” the guy behind you places his card on the counter, “I’ll take a medium black hot coffee.”

The barista rolls her eyes, “it’s a grande.”

The guy smiles, “I know.”

She turns to make the drinks and you take a step to the side, “thanks,” you mutter, “I’ll have to Venmo it to you or something.”

He shrugs, “don’t worry about it.”

You’re both silent as you wait together at the end of the counter for your drinks. He adjusts the glasses on his face and you can’t help but feel like you’ve seen him somewhere before but can’t make the connection where. There’s an S-shaped curl that hangs in front of his face, like it’s meant to be there but really isn’t.

The barista practically slams the drinks on the counter before muttering, “have a nice day,” in her droll voice.

“It must be exhausting to be that miserable,” You mutter under your breath.

He hears you and chuckles, blowing on the little hole in the top of his coffee cup.

“Sorry, I’m not usually like this, I swear,” you apologize, “it’s just been a day.”

“It’s eleven thirty in the morning,” he deadpans.

Your eyes narrow, “it’s been a rough morning.”

You slide into the seat of the small bistro table beside you and take a sip of your coffee, “oh course this has fucking cream in it. Stupid Bitch -”

“What are you doing here this fine Sunday morning?” He asks, grinning across the table from you.

You glare at him, “honestly? Nothing. Avoiding life probably. What about you? Frequent the bookstore often? I feel like I’ve seen you before.”

“Probably have,” he says, “I’m Shawn,” he reaches over the table to shake your hand.

“Charmed, I’m y/n.” you return the handshake, “why are you drinking hot coffee on a ninety degree day, are you a serial killer?”

Shawn bobs his head from side to side, “surprisingly no, although I do share many of the same qualities as most.”

“That’s unsettling.”

He leans forward, “I’m also really bad at flirting.”

You grit your teeth, “oh ouch, that’s what that was? Oh honey…”, you place your hand over your heart.

Shawn bows his head, “that bad, huh?”

“The serial killer vibes were high, I thought you were going to stab me in the neck with a spork or something.”

“You’re funny,” Shawn replies.

“It’s mostly a defense mechanism,” you pip.

He raises an eyebrow, “from what?”

You take a sip of your drink, “guys in bookstore coffee shops that act like serial killers. Those glasses are straight up Jeffrey Dahmer style, my friend.”

“Are you always like this?” He asks.

Your brows scrunch together, “like what?”

“You just...I don’t know. It’s like you have an answer for everything. You always have to be the one that has the better last word.”

You scoff, “okay, Weirdo. You’ve known me for five minutes.”

“Maybe I’ve known you your whole like and you’re now just meeting me.”

You lean forward and he follows, “you see, that is some shit a serial killer would say,” you reach for your bag and stand, “have a nice day, Weirdo. Thanks for the coffee.”

You’ve almost reached the other side of the bookstore when you pass the magazine rack. A familiar face graces one of the covers; it’s Shawn. That little aha! moment happens in your head and you pick up the magazine, holding it in your sightline to compare to Shawn who is still sitting in the coffee shop section of the store.

You look back and forth a few times before deciding to go back over. It doesn’t take long for you to cross the length of the store back to him and return to your seat.

“I know who you are,” you say, plopping your coffee and purse on the table.

“Now who’s the serial killer?” Shawn quips.

“You’re the Shawn Mendes,” you wiggle your fingers for extra emphasis.

Shawn gulps, “you didn’t have to use the spirit fingers.”

“I’ve been to one of your concerts. My sister got so excited when you came on stage that she threw up all over herself and we had to go home. I want my seventy-five bucks back,” you jab sarcastically.

“Only roughly eighteen more coffees to go,” Shawn winks.

You fold your arms across your chest and lean back, staring at him, testing him. You have so many questions and you’d never met anyone famous before but he just seemed too goddamn normal to be a celebrity. Maybe that’s why people liked him so much.

“Now that that’s over with,” he starts, “what do you want to do next?”

You purse your lips together, “sometimes when I need a good pick me up, I head to the Health and Wellness section to find the sex books and laugh at them.”

Shawn snorts, “what are you, five?”

“Are you in or not?”

“I was going to be in regardless of what you said I just didn’t want to be the one that made the plans,” he confesses.

You stand and roll your eyes, “c’mon!”

A half hour later you’re in the stacks of the Sex Health section and trying to stifle your laughter with your hands. It’s childish, and ridiculous but you can’t remember the last time you laughed this hard. You also can’t remember the last time you heard a book title as hilarious as Penis Genius.

“I want that tattooed on my forehead,” you giggle.

Shawn covers his mouth with his hand, “I’d pay you so much money to do that.”

It’s then that you notice how close together your bodies are, your knee is resting against his thigh and his shoulder brushes yours every time he takes a deep breath. You feel oddly relaxed around him, like you’re spending time with an old friend instead of someone you’ve barely known an hour.

The laughter dies down and you catch him looking at you. It’s not an uncomfortable glare, it’s not like he’s staring to try and figure out what you look like under your clothes. He’s watching to mark your tics, to memorize the wrinkles in your face and searches his brain to try and find a way to describe the color of your eyes.

Or, at least years later that’s what he’ll claim he was doing.

It doesn’t make you uneasy, and you find yourself drifting closer to him despite the already limited space between the two of you. Your faces are so close you can feel his breath fan your skin, his eyes closing as he draws nearer.

“Do you always wear these glasses?” You ask, plucking them off his face.

Shawn’s left stunned as you lean away from him and put on the frames, “dude they’re fake?! Worst disguise ever, Mendes.”

“Oh so now we’re on a last name basis?” He asks.

You nod your head and push the glasses up the bridge of your nose, “guess so. Why do you wear them?”

“A defense mechanism,” he deadpans, but can’t hide a creeping smirk.

“From what?”

“Folks tend to stay away from people who look like they’ll axe murder their whole family.”

You suck the last of your coffee from the straw, “that’s very true.”

“I’m glad it didn’t work on you though,” he smiles.

Your heart is still fluttering from the almost-kiss. You can see the red in Shawn’s cheeks deepen, like he was embarrassed at what almost happened. You’re not usually this flighty - to meet a stranger in a bookstore and decide to try and make out with them within the same hour. It just felt, different with Shawn. It was a type of comfort with another human being you didn’t know existed.

Soulmates, is what he would end up telling you on your first anniversary.

“Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?” Shawn asks, pulling the glasses off of your face and putting them back on his own.

“I did.”

Shawn raises an eyebrow, “and now what?”

“Want to come over?” You blurt out, “and like...I don’t know watch a movie or something? It’s a shitty day out,” your eyes avoid everything but him, “sorry you probably already have plans-”

“I’d love to.”

You look up and he’s grinning wide at you, his honey brown eyes sparkling and that stupid little S-curl that you’ll eventually grow to love handing in his face, “really?”

He nods, “of course. Only if we get to watch shitty scary movies though. Truly the best thing to watch on a rainy Sunday afternoon.”

You clutch your chest, “be still my cold beating heart, I wouldn’t have suggested anything less.”

Shawn chuckles and stands, offering you his hand. He pulls a little too hard and you crash into him, causing him to stumble backwards into the bookshelf. Once he steadies himself he wraps an arm around you.

Neither of you speak on your way out. Ever the gentleman, he holds the door open for you when you leave. It’s raining harder now, and the two of you do your best to huddle under your small umbrella. You walk the couple blocks to your apartment not really saying much. There’s a weird anticipation in the air and you keep catching him taking fleeting glances at you when you aren’t paying attention. His pinky hooks with yours a couple times. It’s not quite to hold your hand, but more so to say hey, I’m here.

When the two of you reach your building, Shawn stops you before you take the first step onto the stoop.

“What?” You turn, he has his hand on your arm.

He takes a step closer, the step helping the height difference between the two of you now at face level. Shawn lets the umbrella drop but you’re too focused on the intensity in his eyes to care about getting soaking wet. His hand is gentle as it holds your face.

“I’ve never met someone like you before,” he says, the rain causing his hair to stick to the sides of his face.

“Ditto.” Is all you can manage.

Shawn leans forward, capturing your lips in a kiss, and the rest is history.

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes x reader

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cinnaminsvga · 5 years ago

Text

A Boy Like You Preview | 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 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 don’t murder me!!! → words: anticipated 15k (?) → a/n: it’s like so fucking late rn and i have a midterm to study for but you know what....... you know what....... sometimes you gotta write blushy yoongi to make yourself forget that you are a poor college student whose boss just cut your work hours in half, so yea!!!!!! here’s whatever this is

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

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.

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 the rain.

You try calling out to him, wanting to thank him once more and maybe to ask how you could 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.

———

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.

(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.))

“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?”

“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 face away from you in a futile attempt to become nothing more than an abstract thought.

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

Yoongi visibly relaxes 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.

#my wips #bts scenarios #bts fanfiction #bts imagines #bts reader insert #yoongi scenarios #yoongi fanfiction #yoongi imagines #LISTEN I KNOW I SAID I'D POST FOX RAIN 4.5 AND I WILL #I JUST..... OVERESTIMATED MYSELF AND I THOT I'D FINISH EARLIER THAN EXPECTED #WELL!!!!!!! JUST ANOTHER DAY OF ZEE FUCKING UP AND WRITING SOME OTHER BULLSHIT INSTEAD LOL

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firehedgehog · 5 years ago

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Retconned: Chapter Fourteen: Connections

The first thing that they saw was darkness, above the purple lightning arcs of the retcons slithered over the sky.

Where was the building the meting had taken place, he’d aimed for it.

Doubt gnawed at him in this inky void with shattered rubble beneath his boots, maybe he had missed.

“Over there!” Palette cried, pointing a few hundred feet away.

Goth felt relief as he spotter his parent, Error, Ink and Dream.

He pushed back his tears, knowing that everyone else must have been Retconned already.

“Goth,” Geno cried spotting him, grabbing the smaller monster into a hug.

“Escaped the end again brat, try not to do that again,” Error said.

“Who’s this?” Dream asked, eyes sorrowful as Goth knew that Dreams’s Palette was gone.

“This is Shatter,” Goth said.

“Shatter huh?” Palette asked.

“Its the name embedded for your Multiverse codes,” Goth explained.

“That’s cool,” he replied, and it made sense.

“Please don’t do that again Goth,” Geno said unhappily “This is yours,” he said passing him his save lantern.

“Thanks, strangely with the retcons around me I’m not vanishing,” Goth said in relief, feeling the cool touch of the lantern in his hands.

“Why can’t you just stop existing!” a voice screamed in rage.

“Who’s that?” Shatter asked.

“The one causing the Retcons I bet,” Error snarled.

“If I can’t erase you, then I’ll erase you here!” the voice snarled full of wroth.

Darkness surrounded them.

OoOoO

Error came to feeling a noxious migraine, if skeletons had stomachs he would probably have been sick.

They were in a huge room of black stoned walls and floor, the only light a blazier blazing high with purple flames.

Like the retcon lightning.

He was not happy.

How was he suppose to keep the fragging balance, if there was nothing to balance.

There was relief, Goth was still alive somehow beat the odds again.

He hadn’t even known beings from other multiverses could cross over to there own.

If they survived, he would have to add more firewalls in hope to prevent such things again.

Slowly the others came to, getting to there feet.

Geno was somehow still having Goth in his clutches.

“Welcome, to your end,” a voice hissed, the same voice that had screamed earlier.

OoOoO

Reaper was a very unhappy death god.

His multiverse was vanishing as they stood there.

And he had no clue, on how to restore it or his eldest child.

He held his scythe tightly, ready to leap forward and dust whoever this was.

“To think you all escaped your fate,” the voice snarled, Reaper almost didn’t notice Error flinch at the word Fate.

“He feels horrible,” Dream said his bones almost grey, the retcon of his son and twin was too much... Reaper knew the Guardian of Positivity wouldn’t last long. One twin would always follow the other. “Such Rage... such sorrow.” OoOoO

“The end, isn’t it beautiful. Everything wile cease to exist, just like he did,” the voice laughed followed by a raspy cough.

“Show yourself,” Error said, and his voice didn’t glitch for once.

Shatter or one could say Palette wanted to scream, to cry.. to run away.

But he couldn’t, if he ran..

How many other multiverses would just vanish as if they never existed.

He would never forgive himself.

A figure slowly separated itself from the shadows, he summoned his roller.

Tall in ratty dirty robes, then they pulled there hood off there face.

A Skeleton was revealed, there bones were yellowed from lack of care with maddened eye lights,

Chipped, broken and missing in some spot.

In fact, bone rot had set in there body.

They reminded him of the walking dead, from a horror movie he’d accidentally seen once.

There was a shocked gasp, as they realized who thsi monster was.

A Papyrus.

The cause of this was a Papyrus.

“You may call me Lich, in the end nothing matters,” The Papyrus rasped.

With that, the survivors leapt forward.

OoOoO

Between on step and another, Goth switched to his Fel version as it was a better fighter for fights like this. His scythe sliced and diced a part of Lich’s robes, he skid back as the monster actually threw retcon lightning at him.

He actually had to toss his lantern to his mother after a bit, needing both hands and Geno could fight easily with one hand. That didn’t make him happy, he needed that to survive so eh hoped that once everything was fixed the lantern would still be in one piece.

Yet...

They were loosing badly...

Lich was too fast, even with the bad condition his body was in.

“Ink for brains!” Error shouted.

“What!” Ink called back from where he was.

“Remember that thing, I told you we’d never ever mention or do again when we did it by accident?” Error said, he was using his strings to stop himself from landing too far away.

“Of Course! It was fun!” Ink said, far more cheerful then he should be.. you know trying to stop the end of there multiverse.

“Lets do it here, this guys outclasses even us,” Error growled.

“Yeah!” Ink said and bounced over somehow avoiding attacks as he did.

‘And this lady and gents, is the creator god’ Goth thought sarcastically with a sigh.

Error summoned his strings, but instead of blue they were devoid of color. Ink smirked and grabbed the strings with his hands.

The world seemed to ring in his head as astral chains of paint seem to burst into the world from where the two concentrated.

Lich didn’t have time to dodge this time, as this was the power of the two gods power combined.

It... was actually kinda pretty.

In seconds Lich was tangled by the astral paint chains, unable to move or attack.

“Lets... hope.. we.. never do that again,” Error gasped out, boned grey from extreme magical exhaustion and Inks Bones were also grey.

“My head hurt,” Ink said.

“Nimrod,” Error said walking slowly towards Lich.

OoOoO

To think it would all end.

His great work.

To erase it all.

Papyrus smiled as he finished making spaghetti, he could hear Sans sleepily getting himself up.

“Morning Papyrus..” Sans yawned.

“Good morning Sans, your ready for another day on the glorious surface!” he said happily.

“For you bro, anything,” Sans said with a true smile.

The day went swimmingly, Sans was active and they both had fun.

This was there happy ending, as Frisk no longer had the ability to reset and Chara had moved on.

Of course...

He forgot...

Happy endings were just for children.

A monster hater struck his more fragile brother, Sans hadn’t even had a chance to dodge.

Papyrus screamed as his brother dust spread like a white puddle on the ground.

To him the world ended.

There would be no more magical resets to bring back the lost.

Sans, his Sans was gone.

The one being that had loved him no matter what, the one being who called him cool and meant it.

He broke.

He left a trail or broken bodies and blood behind, he even killed Frisk when he tried to force there reset ability to return.

There was no return now.

This world didn’t have the right to exist if his brother was gone.

He vanished from the public that hunted him, they wanted him in jail for his deeds.

Ten years later he discovered it.

Retcons.

If Sans couldn’t exist.

Then no one else should either.

“How do we reverse the Retcons,” Ink said unhappily.

“There is no way for you to reverse the many Retcons, the way is lost,’ he laughed seeing there faces.

“There is always a way,” Dream said softly.

“You would have to have data from the multiverse from before the retcons, which doesn’t exist,” Lich laughed, it was a grand joke.

“There has to be a way,” the stupid bug Palette from the last multiverse protested.

OoOoO

Goth was exhausted and sore, and wanted to be anywhere but there.

This... utter moron was the cause of all his woes, but in a strange way the reason this version of himself existed.

“From before...” he said, going utterly still at what said.

“Ha ha ha, none of that data exists now,” Lich laughed.

“I was the very first thing retconned,” Goth whispered, he had known it from the very instant he woke up for real in the anti-void.

“Goth..” Error said in a strange tone of voice.

“Your a bane of existence,” Lich snarled.

“I contain all the codes from before, I never lost anything other then my place in this multiverse,” Goth said, he closed his eyes and felt tears gather,

“Gothy, whatever your thinking don’t,” Shatter begged.

Goth felt a calmness come over him, what was one compared to restoring to the lost.

Geno made a startled sound as Goth suddenly pulled the save lantern from his hand.

“Goth Stop!” Error shouted, but it was too late as Goth shattered the glass of the save lantern the glowing save star in his hands.

“Sorry, thank you,” Goth said with a smile.

The save Star Shattered.

The world exploded into light.

...

Goth blinked.

Shouldn’t he have stopped existing.

He seemed to be laying down, looking at a golden glowing sky.

“Time to get up sleepy,” a voice said, Goth quickly sat up and gaped.

For as far as one could see were Goths, Goths of every type.

In fact he could feel them, the Goths from his multiverse, from Shatters.. he could fell all of them.

He understood now, what would happen now.

He laughed as a button appeared in front of him.

Smiling he pressed the button, which was ‘Save and Reload.’

OoOoO

Everything was gone, they were floating in an endless sea of light.

“What’s going on?” Geno asked, as the flash of light faded.

“Everything is saving and reloading all the new timelines and those lost for all multiverses effected,” Goth said quietly.

“This will reverse time you realize,” Error said quietly. “You as you won’t exist.”

“This is goodbye... You probably won’t remember this reload. Shatter and Error will probably, but you won’t,” Goth whispered.

“No.. this isn’t right,” Geno cried.

“Retconned, this isn’t goodbye,” Shatter said, Goth.. no Retconned smiled.

“Its never goodbye, just a new hello,” Retconned laughed.

Then faded.

“Goth!” Geno screamed.

The multiverse shattered.

OoOoO

Shatter came to with a gasp, sand under his hands and broken stone.

Tears slipped down his face.

It had worked...

Everything was back.

Then he sobbed.

For he had lost a friend very few would remember.

Slowly he got up, he had time now with the reload winding things back. He had to warn the others of Nightmare Palette.

“Thank you Retconned,” he whispered.

OoOoO

Error ‘woke’ in the anti-void.

“Damn it kid,” he swore as his memories set in.

He knew it was real, not just the memories.

Because in the distance, Goth’s house still stood.

His soul hurt, after all he had just lost the nearest thing he had to his own kid.

#Retconned #goth #undertale #@afterdeath #goth @Nekophy #fanfic

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vanchlo · 5 years ago

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The Assistant / Chapter Twenty Two, “Don’t Let Me Go”

Hi!!!! Wow, long time no see. Somehow the writing bug bit me again and I finished up this chapter. I hope to post some another one for you guys soon, but (as you know) unfortunately I don’t know. Life has just been so busy the last few years and writing hasn’t been interesting to me or it’s just dropped as a priority. There are no words for how sorry I am to leave you guys hanging with this story.... I hope I can keep posting chapters for you guys, even if it’s off and on. I hope that some of you are still around and will see this chapter, and that you’ll like it. I’d love to hear what you think :)

“Y-you did all of this?” I ask, pointing at the food, the streamers hanging from the ceiling, my favorite music falling from the speakers, my favorite foods donning the tables in the corner, and so on and so forth.

“Who d’ya think did it?” he laughs, giving me a fake glare. I barely have time to laugh with him when people start clinking their solo cups with plastic spoons and shouting “speech, speech, speech” over and over with their eyes on Harry.

I find myself chanting along with them as his cheeks fill with the color of roses. “Alright, alright, calm down ya crazy lot,” he shouts, dimples drilling into his cheeks as he uses his arms to tell them to quiet down. “I didn’ really prepare a speech, but fine, I guess you lot will get one. Fuck, where do I even start?” he titters, and so does everybody else at his choice of words.

Briiiiiiing!

“Styles and Lawson, this is Rebecca,” I chime, finding it hard to hold in a sigh as I play the fake cheerful card. And boy do I try to believe it, too.

"Hi yes, I’m calling about . . . ,” the shrill voice belonging to an old granny spills into my ears. I grudgingly reply and transfer them to the right department that they should have called in the first place. Sigh.

My fingers return to the keyboard of my laptop and glide across the keys. I pick up where I left off from the middle of the sentence. The sentence I was interrupted in the middle of.

“I need copies o’ these,” a voice rasps, before I hear a definite clud. I look up to find a pair of tired green eyes belonging to Harry. They disappear in a flash when he turns his back, walking away without another word. With a huff, I reach over to grab the small stack of law books and documents, post-its spanning the color of the rainbow sticking out to mark pages.

Beep.

I tap my finger along the screen, first entering Harry’s code. Welcome, Harry, it reads. I press OK and ignore the many options, and instead select Copy. After selecting what I need, I tap the green button and wait for the whirring of the printer.

Ten minutes and many copies later, I plant the last post it on a stack of copies of Chapter 10 from Law’s Empire. After rearranging the stacks in alternating directions in one big stack, I settle the hefty pile in my arms before turning around.

I nearly lose it when I turn around. Harry stands mere inches in front of me, floating into the room unannounced like a ghost. And in my fright, my arms do a weird thing out of my control. In staggering slow motion, dozens upon dozens of papers jump into the air.

Suddenly, my vision speeds up to the present. I groan loudly at the mess of papers lying on our feet all over the floor.

“‘m sorry, didn’ mean t’ scare ya, love,” Harry comments softly. He falls to his knees as he gathers a handful of paper. “Here, lemme help you.”

“I’m fine, I got it,” I reply, grabbing a piece of paper with an orange post-it. “Did you need something?”

“What?”

“Well, you were standing two inches away from my face when I turned around. It kind of implies that you need something,” I say, starting to recognize some similar papers. I begin to make stacks of the familiar pages.

Law’s Empire. A History of British Law. Pages from a file on somebody named Harrows.

The reason is fleeting me, but I look up briefly to find his head bent down as he gathers papers together in a uniform stack. The pause rouses him and he looks up too. I tear my eyes away after only a few seconds of eye contact. A chilling silence fills the space between us, often interrupted by the sound of shuffling paper and the almost quiet ticking of the clock.

Maybe minutes later, my five stacks are growing higher along with his. I start to see the tile floor that I had forgotten was there.

“I wanted t’ talk t’ you.”

“Of course,” I almost retort in a mutter, setting aside a copy of page 489 from The Infamous Case.

A syllable falls from his lips, but it stops there and I try to ignore it.

The stack for Dallow vs. Emprise Inc. has nearly doubled in size by the time he speaks again.

“Why can’ we talk ‘bout what happened?”

“Because, Harry, there’s nothing for us to talk about,” I answer, picking up copies from the Harrows stack and clinking them against my thighs to straighten them out.

“Becks,” he almost pleads by the sound of it, and it catches my attention. I’m coming to hate that name, with how much it’s been battered and abused.

“It’s over, Harry, just drop it. Please.”

“No, I don’ wanna drop it, Becks. ‘s not over.”

After sorting through a good two dozen papers I pick up another, leaving only a handful or so left. Thank God, then maybe I can get out of here.

“Yes, it is, Harry. Stop it.”

“Why?” he retorts through gritted teeth.

He pushes his stacks into the middle.

“Because it was over the second you didn’t try to give me the benefit of the doubt,” I say curtly, staring down at his messy stacks that I combine with mine. Throwing caution out the window, I put them all into one stack that I hug to my chest as I get to my feet.

Finally, I meet his eyes as our shoes squeak against the tiles. He stands between me and my way out. A synonym to sadness tugs at his eyes. His red rose lips pout out of the corner of my eye.

The door clicks behind me with a definite thud as I make my escape.

I have to push away my disappointment when I don’t hear the clud of his footsteps coming after me.

It pains me to wrap my fingers around that handle. I feel a pang seeing his desk and all of his familiar furniture and books. It hurts, even more, to look at his leather couch and see where we sat at each end on late nights. Boxes of takeaway and empty beer bottles would sit on the carpet nearby. Our laughs floating around the room and filling the empty cracks in the walls. And the empty parts of my heart. Maybe even his.

My feet hardly budge from his doorway. I drag them across the room and over to his desk. My eyes land on the scattered mess atop it. Papers. Empty mugs. Forgotten pens. Hastily written notes. I juggle the stack of papers back and forth, trying to find an empty space for them where they won’t get lost. My eyes catch the dark wooden frame beside his phone. His dimpled cheeks and sparkling eyes smile at me from a picture. Next to the excited smile and fake blonde head of hair called his girlfriend. Amber.

“I coulda taken those,” a voice speaks from behind me. I jump at the sound of his voice. Once again, it’s as if he floated into the room without a squeak.

Gulp.

I pick a spot and drop the papers there. Turning around, her perfect smile and perfect face stare at me out of the corner of my vision. Touching my hair nervously, I find him standing in his doorway looking lost. Nervous. A question sits on his face. The way he looks at me is as if he wishes for me to answer it. I look down quickly as thoughts storm through my brain. I strive for the calm after the storm, and I know the only way that’ll happen.

I lift my head, and it finally feels clear for a moment. I meet his eyes and nervously lock gazes.

“Consider this my two week’s notice. I’ll help you find a replacement for me. I’ll train them in and I’ll finish up what I’m doing, but then I’m gone,” I announce suddenly. I wish for my voice to sound balanced and confident, but I’m almost sure it’s the polar opposite.

His eyebrows raise as if controlled by a puppeteer, and his jaw drops nearly in sync. No words fall from his mouth, but I see question after question blossoming behind his big eyes.

The storm behind mine rages and howls as I walk past him. Now it’s my turn to float away like a ghost. If only I could turn invisible, too. And maybe haunt a person or two, like a certain somebody’s girlfriend.

The rest of the week drags on slowly. Rain plagues the city and puddles litter the sidewalks everywhere I go. I count the days until I can leave and call this time in my life a stupid mistake of the past. But the days can’t go fast enough, and with the incessant rain, they only seem to go by slower. The jumbled mess in my head only grows worse, too. The dread. The slight excitement. The relief. The confliction. The sadness. The feeling of being lost. The wondering of what the hell I’ll do next.

Another storm rumbles overhead amidst the beeps and whirring of the elevator. Finally, the red number reaches 17 and the silver doors part. I’m bombarded by the sounds of the seventeenth floor. Chatter. Typing. Phones ringing. It’s not long before it blends into the background, just like any other day.

One week down, one left to go. My Monday is slow and I’m quickly reminded of my restless sleep from the night before.

Caffeine is my saving grace throughout the day that seems like it’ll never end. First, the copier won’t work. Then I get an earful from some stranger on the phone. Next, I realized I forgot my lunch at home. To top it all off, Harry is in a disastrous mood. This last one is by far the worst as if the others weren’t bad enough.

“Wha’s this I hear ‘bout you hangin’ up on people?” a voice rasps from behind me. The four numbers unique to me show on the screen of the kiosk before I hit enter.

“I’m on my lunch break, I’m not working right now,” I reply, walking away and towards the fridge with the hopes I’ll find something forgiving there.

“I don’ care if yer on yer lunch break, or if yer off for tha day. I wann’ talk t’ you,” Harry retorts. I resist rolling my eyes at his remark as my eyes search the shelves of the fridge. The barren shelves.

“Then what do you want?” I huff, turning to face him as the refrigerator door closes with a soft thud.

“First, yer hangin’ up on people, then sumbody called t’ tell me that ya messed up their appointment with me, and lastly I still haven’ gotten tha copies I asked for at nine this morning?” he continues, holding out his ringed fingers and using them to count. He holds up three of his fingers and waves them in the air. As if I don’t know how to count, too. “What, are ya tryin’ to make yer last two weeks hell for tha both of us?”

“No.”

“Well, it sure fookin’ seems like it. What, have ya just given up halfway in? Ya still got anotha week left ya know, a week that still requires you t’ do yer job. And train yer replacement in, but ya seemed t’ forget that part haven’t ya, considerin’ ya’ve still failed t’ find one?” Harry goes on, poking at the ticking time bomb inside of my chest. The anger pumping through my veins goes a little quicker with every word that falls from his lips.

“Fuck off,” I tell him, pronouncing every syllable clearly and slowly.

His green eyes expand in a second flat and instantly regret fills me with a sick feeling. But then the anger returns and my heart starts racing.

“Excuse me? What makes ya think ya can talk t’ me like that? ‘m still yer boss, don’ bloody forget that,” Harry says, his voice rising as he wags a finger at me. Annoyance and anger knits his eyebrows together.

Fear surges into my veins and suddenly I’m tired. My stomach growls, yelling at me to feed it so it won’t be empty anymore. But I couldn’t find five minutes this morning to order something, and I’ve had enough of the rain that the last thing I want to do is step back into it before I absolutely have to.

“Please, just stop. I’m sorry, okay?” I sigh, my voice threatening to break on the last syllable. Suddenly, his features soften and the real Harry peaks out at me from the cracks.

“Becks, I’m sorry, too. I know ‘s not an excuse, but ‘ve been having a hard time lately. ‘s been so hard t’ try and find a replacement tha’s even half as good as you. I jus’ wish we could talk ‘bout this more, and that you could stay. Please, Becks, ‘ll do anything,” Harry says quietly. His voice leaks of pleading and honesty - two things I haven’t seen in a long time.

My shoulders threaten to fall with a loose shrug, but I stop them before they can. I gulp past the knot in my throat and force myself not to give in. A flicker of movement behind him catches my eye, and I look over briefly to see what it was. The door opens and in walks Asher with two brown paper bags clutched in his hands and a question painting his face.

“No, Harry. My mind is made up, I’m leaving. I spoke with somebody who sounds like they’d be a good fit - she’s coming in tomorrow,” I say softly, defeat tugging at the corners of my voice but the edge sticks. And so does my decision.

I walk away after the last word hits the air before he can say anything else. The smell of greasy fish and chips tempts my taste buds as I near Asher.

He flashes me a small smile before whispering, “are you okay?” as he turns to follow me out the door. I nod ‘yes’ and take the bag he holds out towards me.

“You’re a lifesaver.”

A microwavable cup of oatmeal. Picking titles off Harry’s bookshelves and making copies at his request, over and over. Then putting them back where they were, in alphabetical order by title. Picking up his newest dry cleaning. Taking care of his shopping lists. The next mornings consisted of this. Oh, and ordering take away because guess who was too busy again to make herself lunch?

“Hello, is anybody home in there?” somebody says. I jump a few inches off of my seat and jerk my head up to see who’s talking to me. Harry. With his large hands resting on the edge of my desk. Wrinkling papers and pushing things around. “You okay, love? You look a little down, and tired, and-.”

“Okay, I get it. I don’t look the best. Noted,” I reply, looking away from him and to my computer.

“I-I didn’ mean it that way . . Really, are you sure yer okay, Becks? Is everything alright?”

“Yes, everything is fine, thanks.”

“Okay, if you insist,” he replies. He finally lifts his hands from my desk and makes it look like he’s going to leave. But he doesn’t. He continues to stand there and look at me, awkwardly.

“Um, can I help you with something?” I ask him, holding my hand out before I rest my chin in my palm.

It takes him a short moment to collect his thoughts. But then after looking around mindlessly his eyes return to me. “Ya know if ya need a letter of recommendation or something, I’d be glad t’ write one for ya. Unless ya’ve already found a job and ‘m saying this kind late . . I mean if yer looking for another personal assistant job which whoever that’s for they’re tha luckiest in tha world,” Harry goes on. He talks like he’s never going to stop, but I wouldn’t put it past him. “Have ya already found a new job?”

“No, I uh haven’t. But I’m working on it,” I reply. I awkwardly meet his eyes that gently look back into mine. An unwelcome thought creeps in through a crack in my reserve, and there I am feeling the weight of its words.

If only things could always be easy like this and he could be easy like this then I wouldn’t be looking for another job. But they’re not.

“Good. ‘m sure you’ll find something great, whatever it is ya choose. Anybody will be lucky t’ have you,” he rambles on quietly. The tension in the air grows and I suddenly wish this conversation was over minutes ago. “Ya wouldn’ ever go and work for Tomlinson or the bloody Scotts-.”

“No no, of course not. I’d never do that to you,” I reply quickly. A quick smile flashes across his face and a blush pinches his cheeks.

“Yeah yeah, I know. I didn’ want it t’ seem like I thought you would, but-.”

“I know, Harry. It’s ok,” I tell him softly. Now it’s my turn to smile, or the best I can try.

“Y-you’ll be ok?” Harry says slowly, thumbing at his bottom lip. The question catches me off guard, and I look away from the feeling in his eyes. I can’t handle it. This is already hard enough, and the two weeks isn’t even up.

I clear my throat and pull my head back up to look at him. I nod at his question and his head moves a little too. He bites at his bottom lip and turns his eyes away.

“You have an appointment later with Judge O’Connell at 3, and then the new prospect, Amelia Jones, should be here in fifteen to interview,” I say quickly so as to avoid any more sappy talk. But I quickly regret it, because knowing Harry it’ll be another few days until another moment like this.

And I only have six left, counting today. Six days to figure everything out, and to let him go. As if I could do that.

“So. . ,” he rasps as the hum of the heating fills my ears after the previously incessant chatter.

“What?” I ask softly, tearing my gaze from the wall to Harry’s inquisitive eyes that search for mine.

“What did ya think of her?” he continues, speaking with his expressive eyebrows that climb up his forehead. The pen in his hand ventures out towards me in question before it returns to its stay between his teeth.

“She was good, probably the best one yet,” I admit hesitantly, looking down at my clipboard holding an interview sheet similar to the one in his lap. She checked nearly all of the boxes, and the one’s she missed were miniscule. Insignificant. She’s damn near perfect. I hate it.

“She was better than good, she was bloody great,” he nearly sings with a giddy smile, and I find it tugging at my heart. I shouldn’t feel resentment and jealousy when I’m the one choosing to leave, but this whole situation is wrong and nontraditional so what’s one more thing then? “I think ‘ll hire her. What d’ya think?”

“Go ahead, you’re the boss,” I reply, standing from my chair and stretching my arms above my head. Images of her flame-like curls pop into my head along with her piercing jade eyes and beautiful laugh that put a spark in Harry’s eyes.

“Becks,” Harry begins as I shake my head with the hopes the motion will break up the unpleasant thoughts enough to make them turn into dust and blow away. And maybe to get him to stop calling me that, too. If only it were that easy. “I want yer opinion. If ya don’ think she’s good enuff, tell me.”

“She’s great, Harry, she’s more than good enough. She said so herself that she’s willing to learn and has some similar job experience. I’ll give her a call and tell her she can start training tomorrow,” I respond, turning my head to meet his eyes briefly before I head for the door and out of this painful moment.

“Ya know, you can still change yer mind . . ,” he blurts, his words rooting me to the spot but persuading me to do the opposite.

“Harry, please don’t. What’s done is done.”

“We can still talk ‘bout this,” he starts, but I don’t let him finish.

“No, we can’t,” I retort, whipping around to meet his eyes begging for mine. “And you know exactly why, Harry. It was your choice, not mine.”

If he said something, I didn’t hear it. I’m passing the threshold and out the door before he has the chance to speak and before I have the chance to. There’s so much I want to say, but I don’t know if I’ll ever know how to.

Beep.

The elevator climbs another floor and when I look up I’ve arrived at floor 17, for the last time. My first time being just a few short months ago, although it’s felt far longer. Nothing has really changed besides the newness of the place fading away, and the redhead standing at my desk that’s almost her’s.

I walk to the break room to clock in for the last time. I hear voices spilling out of the cracked door before I even enter.

“I think she’s the longest one he’s kept around,” a man’s voice remarks.

“I’m glad he got rid of her, or whatever happened, ‘cuz this new one’s much better looking. I wouldn’t blame him if he slept with this assistant for real this time, heck maybe I will even,” his friend snickers beside him, their backs to me as they drop sugar cubes into their cups of tea with laughs.

“What, ya mean he didn’t sleep with this one already?” the first bloke asks with a soft laugh. The stirring of their spoons fills the short silences between their gossiping.

“No, he didn’t,” I announce loudly, and I watch one of their teas fall over and begin to coat the counter they stand at. They both face me with a “deer in the headlights” look before moving their feet as fast as they can to leave the scene of the crime.

“Ignore them,” a voice says behind me, and who I find to belong to my nearly only friend here.

“Easier said than done,” I reply, following him to the kiosk to clock in.

“How ya holdin’ up?” Asher asks, looking behind me after he puts his code in.

“I couldn’t even tell ya,” I confess as I punch my number in for one of the last times. I bring my eyes to meet his and I feel my lip wobble when our eyes connect.

He reaches out and wraps an arm around me, pulling me into his side.

“Come on now, don’t start crying because you’ll miss me too much,” he jokes as I nuzzle my head into his chest, my arms winding around his taut middle. I laugh with him as I swipe at a tear on my cheek.

“You’re the only one I’ll miss,” I tell him, looking up to find his eyes that are somewhere up there at the top of his lanky body.

“We both know that’s not true,” he whispers with a flick of his brow. I nod and return my cheek to his chest and give him a squeeze. “Go get ‘em, Tiger,” are the last words I hear from him with a wink and a toothy grin. Oh, Ash, what would I do without you?

“Good morning, Ms. Holte,” somebody says as my fingers leave the handle of the break room door.

“Oh hi, Amelia. How many times do I have to tell you to call me Becky?” I reply casually as I meet the eyes of Amelia Jones.

“Yes yes, of course, I’m sorry uh, Becky,” she says nervously, stumbling over her words and nearly her feet as we walk to my desk.

“It’s okay. How are you this morning? Do you think you’re almost ready to take over for me on Monday?” I ask her with a teasing tone, even though it’s the plain truth and a hard one to swallow.

“I think so, I just hope I can do as good of a job as you, Becky,” she replies with a sugary sweet smile.

I thank her before we start our day with her sitting at the desk and me sitting at the side now because this is how it’s going to be from now. I still can’t get used to it, even if all but a few of my personal effects are now replaced with her own. I gulp before forcing a smile and letting her begin.

“Lookin’ great this morning, ladies,” a familiar raspy voice chirps and I look up to see Harry coasting on by with a wink. I hope Amelia can get over her little crush before Monday because God knows that isn’t going to bode well. I should know.

Mid morning I take a tea break as well as an Amelia break, because God, how can somebody be that happy all of the time? I drop a couple of sugar cubes into my tea and stir the spoon around, hearing its clinking and scraping as another sound interrupts my thoughts.

“Are you actually getting sad about leaving this job finally? I thought this was something you’ve wanted for a long time,” Asher’s sunshine voice mumbles from the doorway as he closes the door behind him.

“Yes and yes,” I reply with a small laugh and return my eyes to my cup of light brown tea.

“Ah, I knew it,” he responds, pointing a finger at me. He stops in front of me and leans against the countertop, looking around and behind him nervously. Asher wrings his hands together and nibbles his lip, things I’ve only seen him do when he has something on his mind.

“God, can’t anybody around here act normally today?” I huff before taking a cautionary sip, but it’s still too hot to drink quite yet. “I swear, Amelia is acting even more weird than usual. She kept having me help her with copies and scans, even though she nailed that the first day here, and then was talking secretively to Harry a lot. Then there’s Harry and Myles acting weird, I mean even Jennings is being nice to me today, and then there’s you acting like you’re being watched by the cops.”

“I am not acting weird!” he protests with a funny look, but I think we both know I don’t believe him for a second.

“Whatever, I’ll find out why soon enough,” I say, taking my cup of tea and leaving the breakroom to continue supervising Amelia even though she’s nailing every part of the job and she hasn’t even officially started. I’m not even gone from this job yet and I’m being shown up by my replacement. Ugh.

“Hey, Becky? . . Becky?” a voice speaks, interrupting my daydreaming.

“Uh yeah?” I say, spinning around to find Amelia standing in front of the desk. Now her desk. Her bangs crowd her eyes as she tightens the bow on her waist tying her wrap around violet dress that hugs her in all of the right places. She even has a better body than me, what the fuck.

“I uh t-told the client coming at noon that we’ll go a-and wait for them in the conference room, so um if you’re ready . . ,” she trails off, not knowing what to say next because she can hardly get out a full sentence as it is.

“Uh yeah, sure let’s go,” I say, getting to my feet. “There should be some notepads and pens in there. We’ll just do a preliminary consultation with them to see what kind of representation they would need from Harry, and also if their case would be up his alley,” I explain, and she nods fast as if I’ve already explained this before.

As she leads me away from the desk and down the hallway towards the conference room and the offices, I rack my brain wondering if I’ve already told her this. I’ve done this annoying repeating thing before already, and it’s embarrassing enough when she tells me that she knows because I’ve gone over it already. I don’t want it to happen again, especially in front of a client. I don’t know why I’m worrying about it anyways when it’s my last day here, I mean-

Amelia interrupts my inner monologue when she opens the door to the dark conference room and suddenly the lights turn on as the rest of my senses are bombarded.

“Surprise!” a mix of voices shout at me, freezing me in place. “Happy going away party, Becky!” my coworkers continue as they throw their arms in the air, confetti blowers popping, kazoos kazooing, and party hats atop their heads.

My mouth opens as if to speak, but the words run away from me as my cheeks pinch with a smile. “Oh my- I don’t know what to say. Um, wow thanks, everybody!” I beam with excitement and am suddenly overwhelmed with hugs from everybody and anybody from the firm - people I don’t think I’ve ever seen and others who I didn’t like and who didn’t like me, including “deer in the headlights” guys from this morning.

“I’m sorry, I hated to keep it from you, but I promised,” Asher says, finally coming to my rescue with a drink he shoves into my hand as he wraps me up in a warm hug.

“It’s okay, Ash, I guess I can let you off the hook,” I laugh as I hug him back.

“I’m really gonna miss you, ya know. I don’t know how I’m going to survive this shithole without you,” he continues, giving me a kiss on the head.

“Awww, Ash, don’t make me start crying again.”

“I know, I’m just so good at it,” he giggles with a wobbly voice, and I laugh too.

“Go have something to eat, but not that Jello salad Bitchy Trishie from IT brought. It’s probably poisoned with her spit or something,” he teases, and I smack his arm playfully as he walks away sticking his tongue out at me.

I laugh softly to myself before taking a drink from my cup of fruit punch, looking around at everybody milling around. Eating free food. Hugging one another. Laughing with each other. Talking with people they say they hate. And signing the poster board on the table by the food, writing fake messages to me that I’ll most likely read only once or never. I tsk when I see one of the most gossipy girls signing it, but as I turn my head to look away my vision is blessed with that of something else.

My lips spark with an instant smile that outdoes my surprise of just a few minutes ago. He sees me just a few seconds later, and a smile tugs his lips upwards effortlessly.

“What d’ya think, did I do a good job?” Harry asks as he stops in front of me, holding his arms out and my jaw drops in astonishment.

“Who d’ya think did it?” he laughs, giving me a fake glare. I barely have time to laugh with him when people start clinking their solo cups with plastic spoons - it’s an even more annoying sound than you would think - and shouting “speech, speech, speech” over and over with their eyes on Harry.

Harry thumbs at his bottom lip as he stares off into the distance before his eyes float over to me and glue themselves there. “Becky, or as I like to fondly call her, Becks, I dunno where to even begin with you, love . . Never have I had a personal assistant like you. No offense to you, Amelia darling, but there’s never been one like you, Becks. Yer one of a kind and nobody could ever replace you. Once again, no offense,” Harry continues, occasionally pointing at Amelia laughing and making her blush up, but nonetheless, she waves him away in response. “There aren’t even words that exist to describe you and how amazing you’ve been t’ me and tha firm, and I know because I went to uni and fucking law school so I know a lotta big words,” insert here a throaty laugh of Harry’s echoed by those of the room’s. “Yer a bloody angel with all the shit you put up with from me, from several coffee runs a day, to grocery runs, to dry cleaning runs, to going down to the creepy ass files room and wading through spider webs to find what I needed for my cases. You were my lucky charm, Becks, you were tha reason I won so many cases, ‘cuz if I didn’t have ya there checking me notes or making sure I did it all right, I dunno where Ida been without you. And ‘s safe t’ say I dunno where ‘ll be without you afta t’day, or tha firm for that matter. So thank you, thank you, and thank you a billion for all that ya did in yer short time here and I wish you tha best in tha future. I know yer gonna do bloody amazing things out in the world, I can’ wait t’ hear all ‘bout ‘em. I hope we��ll see you back out there in our li’l law world soon, I know you’d kill it,” Harry says, his voice cracking in places that pull tears from my eyes and down my cheeks. “I don’t care what any o’ these idiots say, ‘cuz nobody’s gonna miss you as much as ‘ll miss you,” he ends with tears threading through his words, jolting his voice to a stop.

The tears welling in his glassy eyes finally topple over and land on his cheeks, just as he steps forward to embrace me in a warm hug. My face goes into his chest and his chin rests atop my head, fitting together perfectly like a puzzle piece as our arms wind around one another. “I meant every word I said, Becks. I hope and pray ya’ll finish up school and fight our fight, cuz I know you’d kill the hell out of it . . If ya do, yer welcome back here, we’d be bloody lucky t’ have ya again. Anytime yer welcome, Becks . . . I really dunno what ‘ll do without ya here, I dunno ‘bout that Amelia . . ‘m so sorry about everything, Becks, you have no idea how sorry I am; it kills me every day,” Harry speaks into my hair, tears strangling his voice every few words. I sniffle against his chest, spilling tears there and he sniffles above me where he too spills them.

“I’m going to miss you more than I’d like to admit,” I confess into the collar of his silky mustard button down. “I won’t miss the midnight texts or 4 coffee runs a day,” I laugh and he does it with me. “Thank you, that all truly means a lot to me, Harry. I wish things didn’t have to end this way either . . but they do,” I finish, pulling away from him and looking him in the teary eyes briefly before severing the pain and wiping away the same from my cheeks.

I wish it didn’t have to be this way, either, but it has to be. But that’s your fault, Harry, not mine.

45 notes · View notes

justkeeptrekkin · 6 years ago

Note

Okay if you're still taking prompts how about this: Aizawa finds it very, very attractive when his friend Mic speaks in other languages. And since Mic does so all the time, it's starting to get difficult for Aizawa to keep his secret.

Ah, my favourite customer! Good day to you! Ah, some pining Aizawa you say? Mic speaking foreign languages, you ask? Ho ho, I certainly have some of that up my sleeve! But how about… some ADDED ANGST…

“I call bullshit.”

Shouta watches as Nemuri points an accusatory finger at Hizashi. He leans away from it, back into his seat, but his expression is clearly doing its best not to appear threatened. The chatter of the pub drifts around them but the world seems like its shrunk to their table, and their table alone.

“What, you don’t believe me? What’s there not to believe!”

“You do not speak eight languages.”

Hizashi bats Nemuri’s hand away from his face, leans over his half finished pint of Ichiban with a challenging grin. “Do, too.”

“You can swear in eight languages. You speak two fluently, one semi-fluently, the others-”

“Yo, what? What do you take me for, an amateur? Come on man!”

“Prove it,” Kan demands, slamming down his glass on the table. He doesn’t usually join post work drinks, and neither does All Might- especially after the mess that was last time. Now, however, the five of them are supposedly ‘enjoying’ a drink to start the weekend.

Shouta may be the only one not enjoying himself.

“How can he prove it, you won’t know what he’s saying,” Nemuri says a little belligerently, leaning across the table towards Kan and almost knocking over her and All Might’s drinks. She’s already quite a bit drunker than the rest of them.

“Puedo probártelo, solo dame algo que decir,” Hizashi announces.

Shouta sighs and stares into the top of his beer. He swirls it round and watches it foam up.

“What did you say?”“I said ‘I can prove it, just give me something to say’.” He’s cradling the back of his head with his hands and leaning back of his seat with a smug, beaming smile.

“But how can you prove that’s what you said, if none of us speak…” Nemuri trails off.

“Spanish.”

“Right!”

“You can’t, you’ll just have to trust that I’m a genius, multi-lingual sex god.” Nemuri bursts into unforgiving laughter, smacking the table. Hizashi glares at her, spluttering when no one comes to his defence. “Wh- It’s not that unbelievable!”

“I’m not sure about the last bit,” All Might says uneasily- Yagi. He should really consider him Yagi, here, but that’s still too strange. “But I can certainly believe that you can speak multiple languages. Your English is perfect, and I can at least attest to that.”

Shouta maintains his attention on his beer, drumming his fingers along the glass. His knee bounces up and down under the table.

“What else you got?” Nemuri leers, and Shouta isn’t sure whether she’s trying to give everyone a clear view down her cleavage, but it’s certainly managed to fluster All Might- Yagi- who pointedly and unsubtly turns away and goes red in the face. But then, Yagi gets flustered by most things.

“Well, there’s no point proving that I can speak English,” he starts, in English, as he leans across the table to meet Nemuri, narrowing her eyes at her. Then, in a language Shouta doesn’t recognise, “но, может быть, если я буду говорить по-русски, это произведет на вас впечатление.”

Shouta’s leg continues to bounce up and down, and his nail click more noisily against his frosted beer glass.

“Was that Russian?” Yagi asks.

“Sure was-”

“I think that deserves some of my magic cocktail-” Nemuri croons, forcing the drink in Hizashi’s direction- who, by habit has learnt to duck this way and that to avoid it.

“Japanese, Russian, English, Spanish,” Kan counts on his fingers. “You’re a goddamn show off, Mic.”

“Well, I mean-” and then Hizashi begins to rattle something off in Mandarin. The others respond with equal measures of awe, Nemuri teasing him for being a nerd, as she usually does. Shouta remains quiet and stares at the rings of condensation on the table left from his glass.

It’s not that he doesn’t find it interesting to hear Hizashi speak other languages. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. He finds it altogether too interesting. It’s stupid really; since high school, he’s been able to keep his inconvenient feelings for Hizashi under wraps. But the moment he starts speaking confidently in another language, the moment he reminds Shouta just how smart he is and how good he sounds speaking-

“You speak Italian, too, right?” Nemuri prompts, apparently forgetting her previous disbelief and poking him in the forehead. “Come on then, lover-boy let’s hear it.”

Shouta sinks lower in his seat. He feels sixteen all over again.

And then he looks up at Hizashi, and he really shouldn’t have done. Because he’s looking straight back at him. With an intensity in his eyes that only Shouta can see, behind all the amusement.

“Non direi che sono un amante. Sono innamorato del mio migliore amico e non riesco a convincerlo ad amarmi.”

Shouta’s fists clench at his sides and his throat goes dry. His knee stops bouncing up and down but his heart is certainly racing. It doesn’t matter what he just said, it never does, because Shouta doesn’t need to understand.

Enough of this. Enough.

His chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he abruptly removes himself from the table. He’s distantly aware of his beer sloshing over the edge and spilling over the table, can hear Nemuri call after him, but he ignores it. He storms towards the exit, through the curtain door, and steps outside. It’s horribly cold, but blissfully cooler than the overwhelming heat inside the pub. His breath clouds in front of his face. It smells like cigarettes out here. There are a couple of people chatting in the quiet alley, the power-line cables overhead dripping with the afternoon’s rain. Restaurant signs shine neon in the puddles.

He collapses against the wall and squeezes his eyes shut. Immediately, the regret and embarrassment of storming out settles over him. Even after all these years, he struggles to keep his cool. Even now, at the ripe old age of thirty one, he wants to storm out and slam his bedroom door like a teenager.

As if Hizashi had purposefully made him do that.

Shouta sighs, rubs his face with his hands. He can hear the drip-drip-drip of the edge of the pub’s shelter. There’s a strip of dry ground for about half a meter, before it stops and the ground glistens with moisture. He stares at the floor.

A few weeks ago, he’d stood up in front of hundreds of reporters, on national television, and he’d managed to keep his feelings under control then. So why not now? Why was it that all Hizashi had to do was-

The familiar, towering presence of Yagi appears beside him, a great head poking comically out of the pub curtain.

“Ah. I thought you might have gone home.”

Shouta looks at him, rolls his head lazily back to its original position, staring ahead at the passers by. Friday night in Mustafu can be rowdy, but this part of town is quiet. It’s why the Yuuei teachers prefer it. He ignores the way Yagi takes a spot beside him, leaning against the wall.

He knows Yagi wants to be his friend. He reckons he could be a bit more accommodating, but he’s never given anyone that kind of allowance. The people closest to him appreciate that and see beyond the small talk. They don’t see a reserved hero with a resting bitch-face that needs to be loosened up.

He doesn’t look at Yagi, but he can tell he’s staring. It’s getting pretty irritating.

“I was in love with my best friend for a few years.”

Shouta doesn’t move, feels that any kind of movement would someone confirm Yagi’s words. He goes very still, teeth clenching.

“In America. Looking back, I wouldn’t have changed any of it. He ended up having a beautiful family who I care for a lot. My only regret was I never told him. Now it’s too late.”

Shouta only listens silently, pretending that this is just some unexpected confession from a colleague after a few drinks. Even if Yagi doesn’t drink. Even if Shouta’s the one who’s had a few and can feel the light-headedness lift his inhibitions from his mind.

There’s a deep sigh a foot above him. Yagi’s head turns down to look at him again. “Aizawa, I know it’s not my place-”

“It’s not,” he interrupts, and he wishes he could control himself for one goddamn second. “And I really don’t want to talk about this.”

“Hm.” Yagi nods once, looks in the same direction as Shouta, neither of them really seeing anything. “Alright. But don’t forget what I said, Aizawa.”

Shouta feels a sudden flush of irritation at the tone. There’s something in his words that his brain can’t help but interpret that as patronising. He looks away from Yagi when he says, “We’re not friends. You don’t need to dole out advice for something you don’t know about.”

A quiet settles, and the sound of the drip-drip-drip and pub clamour fills in the gap that gapes between them.

Shouta closes his eyes. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t-”

Surprisingly, Yagi chuckles. “It’s fine. If I were offended by the things you say and do, I wouldn’t be trying to hard to be your friend.”

Shouta feels his chest pinch slightly at that. Manipulative bastard. He looks up at him with a wan glare, and Yagi laughs again. The laughter quickly dwindles to a sigh.

“I’ll keep my nose out of your business, I’m sorry for overstepping. It’s hard not to when you recognise a situation like that from your own experiences.”

“Sure,” Shouta replies, dully. And suddenly, the image of him slouching against the wall, sulking, communicating monosyllabically, reminds him an awful lot of his newly enrolled hero-course student. The realisation makes him rub his face wearily, the urge to laugh rising within him. “Shit. I’m drunk.”

“Says the man who boldly claims that he never gets drunk.”

“Don’t listen to anything he says when he’s drunk, he never knows what’s going on.”

Shouta and Yagi turn to see Hizashi leaning out of the doorway. He steps fully outside, gaze fixed on Shouta. He looks away. The conversation meets an abrupt halt, and Yagi pushes himself off from the wall, awkwardly lingering between the two of them.

“I suppose since you’re out here, I should make sure Kayama isn’t trying to drown Kan in alcohol.”Hizashi looks up in acknowledgement and laughs, the corresponding smile a bit too strained for Shouta’s liking. “Yeah, man, you should do that. No one wants death by vodka cranberry.”

Yagi nods, looks between the two of them for a long, uncomfortable moment. Shouta has to reason with himself not to kick him in the shins. And then, he disappears inside the pub, leaving Hizashi to look at him a few feet away. Those eyes are wide and alarmingly… alarmed. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, perhaps against the cold, perhaps in defence. Maybe Shouta’s looking a lot stormier than he realised.

“Yo.”

“Hey.”

Hizashi shuffles awkwardly. “You OK? You kind of disappeared suddenly. I’d ask if it was something I said, but I know you don’t speak Russian or Italian.” He pauses, eyes widening impossibly more. “Right?”

Shouta looks away, stares at his feet. “Right.”

He knows that Hizashi is waiting for some kind of explanation, but he has no idea how to provide it.

“It’s hard to explain,” is what he ends up, uselessly, opting for.

Hizashi nods slowly, and the disappointment in his face is both confusing and terrible. It’s half lit up with the light from inside the pub. There’s a burst of incongruous laughter from within, and it sets Shouta on edge.

“Ask me what I said,” Hizashi whispers.

Shouta looks at him, blinking dumbly. He wishes he hadn’t started drinking tonight. “What?”

Hizashi’s gaze is so intense that Shouta almost wants to back away. “Ask me what it was I said in there. That last bit.”

Shouta doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t bother trying to ask him to elaborate. He doesn’t know why Hizashi’s asking him to play this game, and it’s annoying, and he’s tired, and he asks anyway because he finds it damn near impossible to deny him.

“Go on. What did you say.”

Hizashi doesn’t reply. He just stares at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes shining, lips pressed together nervously- in a way Shouta hasn’t seen in a while. And that concerns him. He tries to find the words to ask what’s wrong, to figure out what this is all about.

But Hizashi stops those thoughts in their tracks when he takes two brisk steps towards Shouta and kisses him.

His immediate reaction is to tense up, shoulders rising to his ears and mouth pursing in defence. And maybe it’s because he’s wondered what this would be like for years, maybe it’s because he’s been in love with Hizashi for just as long, or maybe it’s because he trusts him implicitly- probably all of the above. Whatever the reason, a moment later, Shouta finds himself kissing back. Hand shakily, hesitantly holding Hizashi’s arm to keep him there, for as long as possible.

Hizashi breaks away, takes a sharp intake of breath. Expression frantic and eyes searching for his attention.

“That’s what I was saying. Back inside.”

“Huh,” Shouta says lamely.

For all the languages that Hizashi can speak, he seems speechless now. And Shouta has no problem with that as he kisses him once more.

#bnha #mha #maizawa #erasermic #yamada hizashi #aizawa shouta #yagi toshinori #all might #eraserhead #present mic #kayama nemuri #midnight #vlad king #fan fic #fic prompt #my wriitng #ill-go-with-that-then

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