#thanks to doodle. sorry i hit you with that all at once at 10 pm man
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Frankenstein War Hawk Lover
#clayhoun#thanks to doodle. sorry i hit you with that all at once at 10 pm man#idk renfaire mead got me acting unwise#john c calhoun#shhhh. its FINE!#clay spending his life chasing after someone who doesnt exist anymore and probably never did. L
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Unknown (A Sterek Wrong Number/Celebrity AU)
11.09 PM Unknown Number
>I’m writing songs about you again.
11.20 PM Unknown Number
>its stiles btw.
>in case you deleted my number
>I did.
>I mean I deleted yours.
>but I still remember it apparently
11:41 PM Unknown Number
>I only have 2 lines so far
11:57 PM Unknown Number
>I bleed you from my veins.
>I grieve you like I love you.
>alone.
>its better with the chords.
>u were always better at writing lyrics than me
12:34 AM Unknown Number
>u were better everything than me
2:00 AM Unknown Number
>I hate that I miss you
2:07 AM Unknown Number
>do u want to hook up?
>I promise not to propose again
2:15 AM Unknown Number
>im sorry.
>ignore me.
>im drinking
Derek blinked bleary eyes. His phone screen was the only source of light in his room, as he read through the flurry text messages.
What the hell is a Stiles?
2:17 AM Unknown Number
<I think you have the wrong number
>Lydia?
<no
>oh thank fuck
>I mean
>I’m sorry
>for disturbing ur sleep
>but im just glad I didn’t drunk text my ex all of this
>bullet dodged right?
>is this what near death experiences feel like?
<I wouldn’t know.
>of course
>hey
>seeming as I have you here can I ask you a quick q?
>all my friends are asleep
<probably because its 3am
<everyone’s asleep
>2.39
>and ur not
>asleep that is
>so?
>I’ll take your silence as a go ahead
>what do you think?
>of the lyrics
<im the wrong person to ask
>never experienced heartbreak?
<no
<all song lyrics just look like bad poetry to me
>oh
>yeah I guess it does
>not everyone can be Rupi Kaur tho right?
<do you want to be rupi kaur?
>sure
>not to be dramatic or anything
>but
>I want to be anyone but me
>think id rather be someone like regina spektor tho
<regina spektor?
>singer/song writer
>shes my fucking inspiration
>her lyrics are like poetry to me
>you should listen to her music
<I dont really listen to music
>what the fuck?
>are you an alien?
<no?
>nice fucking try ET
>thats exactly what an alien would say
<…you got me there
>akdjfen
>is this you admitting I was right?
<no
<but this is me going to bed
<because its now 4AM
>already?
>fuck
>ive got an early start tomorrow
>good night random stranger
>and thanks
>for listening
>or reading ig
<good night
//
“You’re late.” Laura frowned, arms crossed.
“Are you going to let me in?” Derek grumbled, still feeling the affects of having stayed up until 4AM the previous night.
Laura didn’t argue she just stepped aside to let him through into her flat. “You’re grumpier than usual.” She noted.
“Didn’t sleep well.”
Derek hated the look she gave him then.
The look that said he was broken. The look that said she wanted to fix him.
“Is…Is it the nightmares again?” Laura’s voice dipped to a whisper, like the question alone would be enough to send him over the edge.
“No.”
An awkward silence defended over the two of them, neither knowing what to say.
Derek clung to the silence like a blanket, wishing things could go back to how they used to be. Back to when they knew how to speak to one another.
But this was enough.
It was enough to know that they were both trying. Failing. But trying.
//
2:40 PM Laura
>I’m here if you need to talk.
//
Derek isn’t good at art, but sometimes it’s the only way he can express himself. Words had never been his forte.
So instead he doodles.
Shitty toddler level doodles that he never shows anyone.
Sometimes he thinks if he could bring himself to show Laura she would like it. Maybe she would even understand it.
But there was a bigger chance that she wouldn’t, and he would feel even more like a stranger to his own sister than he already was.
//
10:18 PM Unknown Number
>I don’t remember it anymore
<You have the wrong number again
>No
>This is ‘not Lydia’ right?
<right
>So here’s the thing.
>I always thought if I needed to text her I could
>And I thought maybe I got her number wrong because I was drunk
>But I can’t remember it anymore
<Oh.
>I have some of her things still
>I don’t think I’ll ever get to return it now
>Unless she messages me first
<When did you two break up?
>Last year
>and I know what you’re thinking
>’it’s October’
>and I should be over her by now
>Trust me I know
>So you don’t need to lecture me
<I wasn’t going to
>Oh
<Stiles?
>That’s weird
<what is?
>I forgot I told you my name
<You should throw away the stuff she left behind.
>you’re right
>I don’t like it.
>but you’re right
>…thanks
<What for?
>for listening
>reading**
>my friends are pretty sick of hearing me complain
>so this is nice
<sure
<anytime
>dope
>no take backsies
<am I going to regret this?
>for definite
>you’re stuck with me now
//
That night Derek saves Stiles’ number as ‘Bad Poet’.
//
Stiles keeps messaging after that.
Stiles messages like they’ve been friends for years, and Derek very determinedly does not analyse why it is he always responds.
Even when there are messages dated from Laura from three days ago that he hasn’t even been able to bring himself to open yet.
He also ignores how when he’s messaging Stiles the gaping pit that had made residence in his chest feels just a little less inescapable.
//
Derek can’t bring himself to tell Stiles his name. He can’t bring himself open up, even though there’s a large part of him that wants to.
He’s not above admitting he’s scared.
//
Derek draws Stiles sometimes.
More accurately he draws a vague pair hands texting on a phone, because he has no idea what Stiles actually looks like.
Derek refuses to let himself dwell on that though, because they are happy drawings.
The pictures of Stiles are pretty much his only happy drawings right now.
//
They don’t always talk about Lydia.
Sometimes Stiles messages Derek song lyrics he’s working on.
Other times it’s memes, or just a bunch of emojis.
Once Stiles had just messaged him what Derek could only assume was a list of everything he had eaten that day.
Sometimes Stiles messages in rambles - and Derek can’t always keep up with the boy’s run away thoughts, but even then he never feels lost the way he does when he’s trying to interact with literally anyone else.
And sometimes it’s 2AM. Those are simultaneously Derek’s favourite and least favourite texts.
//
2:02 AM Bad Poet
>sometimes I feel like too much
>and too little
>at the same time
>u ever feel like that ET?
<not really
>its like I’m infinite, and meaningless
>like a never ending echo
>or a recurring decimal
>I just stretch on and on forever but theres no point to it
>I have no depth
<youre not meaningless
<you’re a rhythm.
<like breathing
>…
>was that a regina spektor reference?
<it might have been
>I thought you didn’t listen to music?
<well someone said her lyrics were like poetry
<so I thought I would check out a few songs
>well fuck
>what did you think?
<she’s good
>you spelt ‘amazing’ wrong
<I still prefer poetry
>of course you do
Derek stared at the texts an ache filling his chest.
Derek was the opposite of infinite. Everything he touched turned to flames.
//
10:30AM Bad Poet
<my sister bought me flower seeds
>I didn’t know you had a sister?
<she’s everything I have
>oh
<and I think she’s trying to trick me into therapy somehow
>…with flower seeds?
<yes
>you sound extremely paranoid
>maybe therapy wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for you?
<shut up
>noted.
>keep me posted on how your gardening goes
>also
>as a side note
>you know you have me too right?
>if you ever need to talk or anything, I’m right here for you
<thanks
>anytime
//
On Derek’s birthday Laura insists the two of them spend the day together, and Derek knows better than to argue.
She buys him a cake and they spend hours sat next to one another silently. Two strangers desperately trying to keep hold of one another but with an ocean dividing them.
Once their family had been so alive.
And it was all Derek’s fault that was gone.
They both knew it.
Sometimes Derek wondered if Laura hated him as much as he did.
He was too scared to ask.
//
That night Derek chased the ache in his chest away with a drink.
And then several more followed.
//
1:14 AM Bad Poet
<seh haars me
>sorry bud, you’re going to have to try again
>try spell checking before hitting send
<she.hates mee
>who?
<larn
>are you drunk?
<yeh
<tyongs ndrf
*Out Going Call: Bad Poet*
The phone rings twice before being picked up. “Sorry. Stupid keyboard is so small. Impossible to type.” Derek mumbled, his words slightly muffled by his cheek being pressed into the sofa cushion.
“Wow. You’re really sloshed huh?”
“No.” Derek denied. “Just tipsy.”
“Right. So what was it you were trying to tell me? Someone hates you?”
“Laura.”
“Who’s Laura?”
“My sister.”
“Oh.”
“She looks at me like she wishes she could fix me.”
“That doesn’t sound like she hates you, bud.”
“She should. I can’t be fixed.”
“You’re right, because you’re not broken.”
Hearing Stiles say that Derek could almost believe it to be true.
“I mean it. You’re not broken. You’re just a different shape than you used to be. But the shape you are now is beautiful.”
Derek closes his eyes and lets the words wash over him. “Do you sing?” He finds himself asking.
“What?”
“I know you write songs, but do you ever sing?”
“Oh…” Stiles sounds uncomfortable. “I guess… Yeah. I do.”
Derek hummed in the back of his throat. “I bet you have a nice voice.”
“Th-thanks.”
Derek tried to say something else, but all that comes out is a yawn, which makes Stiles let out a jittery laugh.
Derek tries to memorise the sound of It, but it’s so fleeting, it’s already slipping away from him.
“I think you need to go sleep, ET.”
“Yeah.” Derek agrees.
“Goodnight bud.”
“Wait.”
“Yeah?”
“Could you stay on the phone? Just for a bit longer.” Derek clutched on to the phone like if he could grip tightly enough it would make Stiles stay.
I don’t want to be alone. The words die on Derek’s tongue.
“Sure.” Stiles didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
“Thank you.”
Sleep pulled at Derek’s consciousness, unravelling his grip on reality.
“Stiles?”
Stiles hummed in answer.
“Your shape is beautiful too.”
A small whimper came from the other end of the phone. “Thanks.”
//
7:50 AM Bad Poet
>how are you feeling today?
<better
>good <3
Derek holds his phone tightly and wishes that he had more to say. Just to keep the conversation going.
He also wishes (not for the first time) that Stiles was more than a faceless entity on the other end of the phone.
But it’s the first time he feels the want like a physical ache in his chest.
Derek had never been good with words, but if Stiles was here in front of him Derek would probably give him a hug.
But everything Derek touches eventually dies, and a larger part of him is relieved for the distance.
//
Derek plants the seeds his sister got him that day.
//
9:48 PM Bad Poet
>would it totally weird you out if I wanted to do another phone call?
>don’t feel like you need to say yes
>I just enjoyed talking to you
>and hearing your voice
>ugh.
>why are words so hard?
<I wouldn’t be opposed to a phone call
*Incoming Call: Bad Poet*
“Hey.” Derek feels breathless as he answers the phone, anxious excitement clawing it’s way up his throat.
“Hey.” Stiles sounds equally out of breath, and that helps.
Derek chews on his lip, scrambling for something to say. “What did you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know.” Stiles admitted. “Anything.”
“Helpful.” Derek said sarcastically.
“I mean. There’s one thing. I didn’t want to ask when you were drunk because it felt a little like taking advantage. And I don’t want you to think you have to answer-”
“Stiles.” Derek interrupts before Stiles could break into a full blown ramble.
“Tell me your name.” Stiles breaks. “Please.”
Anxiety grips his heart. But… he couldn’t stay scared forever.
“It’s Derek.”
“Derek.” Stiles repeats his name in a reverent whisper, as if committing it to memory.
And hearing Stiles say his name makes everything worth it.
//
Phone calls become a regular thing between the two of them over the next month. Always between late in the evening and the early hours of the day.
//
The next time Derek spirals he doesn’t drink before he calls Stiles, but he does cry on the phone.
The next morning he wakes up to a text from Stiles.
6:42 AM Bad Poet
>you need to talk to your sister
And Derek knows he’s right.
//
It’s not easy confronting Laura. He has two separate anxiety attacks on the walk to her apartment alone.
But he forces himself to take the dive.
“It’s okay if you hate me.” He tells her, even though it’s not okay. Laura’s hate might be the only thing in the world that could break him beyond repair.
Laura looks horrified as she stares at him. “I don’t- Obviously I don’t hate you Derek.”
“It’s my fault that they’re gone.” Derek addresses the elephant in the room.
If he hadn’t fallen in love with Kate.
If he hadn’t broken up with her, just to try and prove a point when she refused to say ‘I love you’ back…
There never would have been a fire.
Their family would still be here if it wasn’t for him.
“Fuck that!” Laura let out a harsh noise. “Derek, none of this was ever your fault. You were a kid, and even if you weren’t… You never set the fire.”
“I might as well have.”
“No. If anyone… I was your big sister- am your big sister. But I was so fucking wrapped up in myself. I didn’t even know about Kate.”
The last time Derek had seen Laura cry it had been at the funeral, so it took a second to fully sink in what he was seeing.
He found himself crying to.
“I’m so sorry, Der.”
Derek stumbled forwards pulling Laura into a crushing hug. Laura hugs him back just as tight.
They spend hours refusing to let go of one another.
//
He realises he fell asleep on Laura’s sofa when he woke up to the sound of his phone ringing. But he had no idea where it was, and he was too tired to move.
He feels Laura moving and the sound of the phone ringing gets louder before cutting off abruptly.
“Hello?”
“No - Derek’s asleep.”
“Maybe call at a more reasonable time?”
“Who is this?”
“Your voice sounds familiar.”
“Right.”
“Okay. Bye.”
Derek let sleep over take him once more.
//
2:29 AM Bad Poet
>sorry for calling so late
>you’re asleep so I’ll just take to you tomorrow
//
9:07 AM Bad Poet
<sorry, I was really tried
>no worries man
>you’re allowed to have a life outside of me
<was something wrong?
>no I was just bored, and didn’t realise how late it had gotten
>im fine
>how are you?
<im good actually
<I spoke to Laura
>yeah?
>I’m proud of you
>how’d that go?
<we both cried
<a lot
<and I ended up falling asleep on her couch
>look at you, opening up and shit.
>think I might cry now
<shut up
>literally never
>better men have tried and failed to silence me
//
2:40 PM Laura
>Want to see a movie on Friday?
<sure
//
One night Stiles calls Derek just to say his name in stupid ways, and laugh himself stupid after each one.
“Duhreek.”
“Doreck.”
“Fuck. I’m getting a stitch from laughing.”
“You’re so fucking dumb.” Derek is smiling as he said it.
“Deeruk.” Stiles wheezes out.
Derek just closes hie eyes and listens.
“I’m so fucking glad I know you, Stiles.” The words fall out of Derek’s mouth without much thought.
He only realises the weight of his words when Stile’s laughter pulls to a stop.
“I uh-” Stiles stammered. “Me too. Fuck. You’re the best thing to happen to me in…so fucking long. I’m glad I know you too Derek.”
//
Derek finally admits to himself that night that he’d fallen at least a little in love with the stranger from the unknown number.
//
He keeps trying to draw Stiles, but he can’t. Vague shapes just don’t cut it anymore.
He wants to map Stiles out with his eyes and translate it onto the page.
He wants to be able to see the smile behind the laughter.
He wants.
//
1:58 AM Bad Poet
>do you think you day we’ll actually meet?
>maybe not intentionally
>maybe one day we’d pass each other in the streets and not even know
>maybe we already have
Derek couldn’t imagine a scenario where he wouldn’t notice Stiles.
<is there ever a moment when you’re not talking?
<I think id recognise your voice and know it was you
>maybe your face would make me speechless ;)
<I think id still know
<but if you want to be sure… I could send you a picture?
<of me
>dkfajd
>for reals?
>you would do that?
>you?
<well…not for free
>there’s always a catch
>what do you want?
>my soul?
>a blood debt?
>you can have whatever it is
<I meant you’d have to send me a picture too
<geez stiles
The next text takes an unnervingly long time to come through.
>I could do that
>a photo for a photo
>I kind of look like shit rn
>so no judging me
Derek spends the next two minutes fussing and fidgeting to take a good photo. No matter what angle he took it from the bags under his eyes were noticeable, and so was the week’s worth of stubble he had yet to shave off.
And maybe this was a terrible, awful, idea.
But Derek would send one hundred bad pictures if it meant getting to see one of Stiles.
He forced himself to press send on the last picture he took.
As he pressed send another photo came in.
Derek’s fingers shook as he hit the button to download the image.
His heart stopped.
Stiles was beautiful in every sense of the word, and Derek found himself unable to look away. Even when he heard the small dings of incoming messages.
But he couldn’t ignore them for long, because it was Stiles. And when ever Stiles messaged Derek had to answer.
>Fucking hell
>are you for real?
>you gave me a heart attack
>am I being catfished right now?
>when do you think you were going to tell me you’re the most fucking beautiful man to exist ever?
>how the hell to you look like that as 2AM!?
>Derek
>oh my god
>you gotta respond my dude because I’m freaking out a little bit
>still there?
>did my selfie scare you away?
>I would have tried harder for a nice photo if I knew I was talking to an adonis
>Derek?
<still here
>of thank fuck
>so…
<so?
>come on
>your going to give me a complex
>the selfie…was it okay?
>I know it’s not much
>but we can’t all be greek gods
<its beautiful
<you’re beautiful, stiles
>oh
>thanks
//
Derek is so far gone that he makes the picture of Stiles the home screen on his phone.
//
9:49 AM Bad Poet
<Laura wants me to meet her boyfriend
<this is all your fault
>how is this my fault?
<because she never wanted to introduce us before
<and then you got me to talk to my sister
<and now she wants me to meet him
>…and this is a bad thing?
<yes
>because?
<I don’t make good first impressions
<it’s going to be awkward
>yeah probably
<you’re not helpful
>I wasn’t trying to be ;)
>have fun, Derek!
//
Meeting Laura’s boyfriend wasn’t as awkward as Derek thought it was going to be. But it was strange.
Derek hadn’t been expecting to meet someone so soft and kind. He was nothing like any one that Laura had dated before.
But he also wasn’t used to seeing Laura smile as much as she did around him.
Maybe not all change was bad.
//
Derek tells Laura about Stiles by accident. Or more accurately he mentions Stiles once by accident (not even by name) and Laura had badgered him until he admitted that he had made a friend through a wrong number.
“There’s a lot of weirdos out there.”
“I know.”
God did Derek ever know.
But Stiles is different.
“Just…be careful.”
“I am being. I promise.”
Laura reluctantly lets it go after that. “So…what’s he like?”
“He’s…he’s like bad poetry.”
“Oh god. You’re in love with him aren’t you?”
Derek can’t bring himself to deny it, but he does tell Laura to shut up.
//
Derek fully embraces being in love with Stiles on the day he tells Stiles about his drawings. He’d never told anyone about them before - not even Laura. But telling Stiles had been easy.
‘It reminds me of line art’ Stiles had said when Derek had sent him a photo of the doodle he had been working on. “I love it’.
A warmth flutters through Derek’s veins.
//
It all goes sideways on the day Laura goes on Derek’s phone to check the time.
She’d raised one eyebrow at him looking amused.
“I thought you didn’t listen to music?” She said, a teasing note to her voice.
“I don’t.” Derek shrugged.
“A huh. So why do you have a picture of Stiles Stilinski as your wallpaper?” She asks.
It’s so startling to hear Stiles name coming out of Laura’s mouth that Derek’s brain refuses to function properly. “How do you know Stiles?” He asks weakly.
Laura laughs. “He’s not exactly a niche celebrity Der. He was a really famous YouTuber before he started selling albums.”
Derek doesn’t know what to say to that. He blinks as his world slowly unravels before him.
No.
She had to be wrong, because Derek couldn’t be in love with a celebrity. Stiles couldn’t be…
“Hey are you okay? You look really sick?”
“He’s famous?” His throat is dry.
“Yes? Are you okay? What’s wrong? You’ve got to speak to me Der. Use your words.”
Derek just shakes his head because he can’t.
“It’s him.” He manages to get out.
“What are you talking about?”
“Laura. It’s him.”
It takes a moment to click but Derek knows when it does because a look of thunderous wrath takes over Laura’s face.
“I’ll kill him.” She seethes, shaking with anger. “What kind of fucking punk thinks that this is a good prank to play?”
“What?”
“No one is getting away with catfishing you, Der. I’m going to hunt this fucker down, and then I’ll rip him so many new ones that he going to look like SpongeBob when I’m done with him.”
And god, Derek hadn’t even considered the thought that Stiles might not even be Stiles. The thought of Stiles being a liar…
The gape in his heart grows a little bit bigger.
And it all falls apart.
//
It takes hours before Derek can convince himself to confront Stiles.
11:08 PM Bad Poet
<you’re stiles stilinki
>fuck
(And yeah, it was really him).
>how did you find out?
<Laura
>I was going to tell you
<Were you?
>Yes
>I’ve wanted to for ages
>It just never felt like the right time to bring it up
<I wish you had decided on the right time was sooner
>Me too
>I’m sorry
>Please don’t hate me
Derek did not think it was possible for him to hate any part of Stiles.
<I don’t
>Thank fuck
>seriously
>can I call you?
<sure
Derek closed his eyes after sending the text and waited for Stiles to ring. A heartbeat later his ringtone sounded off.
“Hey.”
“You believe me right?” And Stiles sounds more frantic than Derek had ever heard him before.
“I believe you, Stiles.”
“Are you sure, because I can prove it if you want? I can do a video call? Or I can tweet literally anythi-”
“Stiles.”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
Stiles lets out a small whine, that reaches through the phone line and yanks at Derek’s already tattered heart, unraveling him just a little more.
“Meet me.” Stiles said, taking Derek by surprise.
“What?”
“Please. I meant to throw a please in there, I’m just really fucking nervous right now. Meet me please. In real life. I uh- I was going to ask when I finally told you about the whole being a celebrity thing. It’s still weird to say that out loud. That’s part of why it was so hard to tell you. But the point was you beat me to the punch with the whole reveal thing, but I still wanted to ask.”
“Stiles…”
“And it’s not that I was trying to use my influence or fame to pressure you into meeting me. I just wanted to be in a space where we were one hundred per cent honest with one another before I asked you. You can still say no. Of course you can, I don’t know why I’m- my point is I hope you don’t say no.”
Derek feels his heart break in two.
“Stiles…I can’t.”
“Oh.”
He hadn’t fully realised just how many worlds apart the two of them were when he had fallen in love with Stiles. It felt even more impossible than it had before.
“I’m sorry.” The words leave him feeling hollow.
“No. Don’t apologise. This is just me getting carried away. It’s okay.”
I love you. The words never leave Derek. They can’t leave him.
There was no way this could work, and he was far too scared of breaking the tentative connection they had with his useless words.
It was better for him to just… fall out of love.
//
6:17AM Laura
<it’s really him
>are you sure
<I’m sure
>what are you going to do?
<nothing
>Derek you’re in love with him
<I’m aware
<it doesn’t matter
<it wouldn’t ever work
>I’m sorry
<don’t be
<I’m going to be fine
>Im coming over with wine
//
That night Derek fills pages and pages of his notebook with drawings of Stiles.
When he gets a message from Stiles at 11PM- for the first time since they started messaging- Derek leaves it unopened.
//
He never ignores a message again after that, and life moves on. Stiles still messages him all the time, but he never asks to call anymore.
Derek misses his voice so much that he goes onto youtube and listens to his music.
He buys all three albums Stiles released and it still doesn’t feel like enough.
//
He fills an entire notebook with doodles of Stiles.
It’s still not enough.
//
1:11 PM Bad Poet
>I wrote you a song
>I know you don’t listen to music
>but it felt weird to not a least send you a link
>bad poetry at 2:00am
The link leads Derek to a youtube video of Stiles holding a ukulele and staring with a soft smile at the camera.
“Hey guys. It’s been a while, huh? But I guess I finally found inspiration. So here we go.”
The song is beautiful, but even more beautiful than that was Stiles.
When the song reached the end Derek doesn’t hesitate to hit replay.
He listens to the song ten times before he realises he’s crying - and he knows that he’s never going to ‘get over’ Stiles because he doesn’t want to.
//
3:00 PM Laura
>have you seen the video?
<he sent me a link
<he wrote a song for me Laura
<I love him so fucking much and he wrote a song for me
>fuck
<what do I do?
>what do you want to do?
<I don’t know
>I think you should look at his twitter
<?
>I wasn’t going to say anything because you said you wanted to get over him
>but I think you need to see it
>@stilesstilinki
//
@stilesstilinski
I want to hug him
@stilesstilinski
Get you a guy that will stay up with you until 4AM talking about literally anything
@stilesstilinski
Why do I alway fall for people so far out of my league? rip me I guess.
@stilesstilinski
He makes me want to write poetry
Derek spends hours scrolling through Stiles’ twitter.
He scrolls far enough back that he gets to the part of his timeline where his twitter is littered with pictures of Lydia, which causes the ache in Derek’s chest to grow. But he can’t stop looking because Stiles looks so happy.
And Derek falls impossibly more in love.
He lets himself acknowledge for the first time that Stiles might love him back.
And everything else?
It’s worth it.
Because Stiles is worth everything to Derek.
//
2:00 AM Bad Poet
<so I looked at your twitter
>fuck.
>how much did you see?
<all of it
>tight
>please excuse me while I go die now
>bye
<don’t leave yet
<I had something I wanted to ask you
>did you want me to delete the tweets?
>I can do that
>I’ll just delete the whole account
>I am my own worst enemy so this won’t be a problem
>actually Jackson Whittemore is my worst enemy
>but I’m a close second
<stiles?
>yup?
<Will you go on a date with me?
>alkdjf
>yes?
>Ofc yes?
>are you being serious?
>because this would be a cruel prank if you’re not serious
<I’m serious
>yes.
>yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes.
>holy shit
>theres no fucking universe where I say ‘no’ to that question from you
>im so fucking in love with you
>is it too soon to say that?
>I don’t even care
>I’m speaking my truth
>you obviously don’t have to say it back
>im going to woo you so hard Derek
>you’ll have to love me back eventually
>I’m going to write you poetry
>hell I’ll even read poetry for you
>ill give the whole fucking moon to you
<why would I want the moon?
<im not gru?
>despicable me
>that was a despicable me reference.
>you don’t listen to music, but you watch despicable me?
>you’re such an enigma to me Derek
>god I love you so much
<stiles?
>too much?
<no
<I don’t think I could ever have too much of you
<I love you too stiles
<so much
<I just don’t want you to get your hopes up
<I might not be able to live up to it in real life
>impossible
<seriously stiles
>I am being serious
>I’m already in love with you Der
>you don’t have to do anything more than you’ve already done
>you could wear a potato sack, and spend the whole night not saying anything at all
>and I would still be in love with you
>all you have to do now is show up
<…I can do that
>perfect
//
TWO YEARS LATER
@stilesstilinski
Hey @JacksonWhittemore, remember when you told me I would die alone? Well I just got engaged to the love of my life. So checkmate fucker.
#sterek#eternal sterek#what am i even doing?#i just spent the last two days writing this and banging my head against the wall and nothing else#should i write this into a full fic one day?#i probably wont#hope you guys enjoy#sterek drabble#5k words of them being idiots#i cut so much out how is this still 5k?#stiles stilinki#derek hale#laura is the only other character that makes an appearance#im supposed to be sleeping#but here we are ig#texting#wrong number#celebrity stiles
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Summary: You have had a crush on Jungkook since forever ago, but he’s changed and so have you. But when you get closer to him-in a different way than expected-feelings start to come out of the dark.
What’s in this bitch: swearing, SMUT, and a lil but of spice✨✨
Side note: this is my first fanfic, so plz be nice and enjoy!! She’s a long one so get comfy and get somethin to eat and get your playlist ready ✌🏼and there will be typing errors so ignore dem por favor
WITHOUT FURTHER ADUE::::
The echoes of your footsteps drilled into your head at an annoying volume. It didn't help that your heart was incessantly pounding either. You sweep by the empty classrooms, books laying on the floor, sprawled out in a hurry. The paper in your hand was nearly as wrinkled as your shirt, picked straight out of your hamper due to the lack of time and lack of any better ideas. The bell rings and kids start to spill out of every classroom, almost taking you off your track. the bell left an annoying buzz in your ears that kept you charging forward. No one has ever given you a note, not in the four years of highschool. The note was battered and slightly torn from your fidgety hands toying with the edges all day. You'd only read it once, out of fear that if you read it again, it wouldn't say the same thing;
Go to the main entrance after last period.
I'll be waiting.
j.k.
your heart couldn't help but flutter when you first opened the tightly folded note. you couldn't help but think of who sent it to you. He was always on your radar, but not in the romantic sense. You knew it was Jeon Jungkook because of the way the words were scribbled on the paper and obviously, how he closed the short note with his long lived nickname, ¨jk. He was always quiet and reserved in middle school, which would be his defining trait until sophomore year rolled around. rumors upon rumors built up about him, almost taking you off your feet when you first heard them. Jungkook, the quiet and sweet kid you basically grew up with through school, caught with a girl in a school bathroom? for some reason, the rumors were never proven but something about how he swayed when he walked and looked at girls for a split millisecond had them planning baby names. He had silently nudged you toward the conclusion that they were undoubtedly true. The hardest part about seeing his personality take a 180 was the fact that your secret but not so secret crush on him in middle school had quite nearly been strangled to death by the man that stood waiting for you, at the main entrance.
As your pace slowed, your ears and lungs caught up. you knew you were near the main entrance, but you couldn't see over the rushing flow of students going to and fro. you catch a glimpse of the top of his head, and miraculously, he notices you too.
You'd be lying if you said you didn't still have a little thing for him.
you couldn't help it. Maybe it was more of an instinctual hormonal pull, but he was easy on the eyes and in a rugged way, almost dreamy.
His longer dark brown hair, pulled into a small bun, perched on top of his head. his loose black v neck hanging dangerously against his strict collarbones. his baggy grey joggers molded to all the right places but still looking stylishly comfy.
you stride closer to him, and see that he was making small talk with a fragile blonde girl. He erupts into laughter, showcasing his devilish smile. which was always accompanied by his cute dimples. one of the reasons you became so hopelessly in love with him in middle school was that sweet and sour smile of his. You couldn't help but look for it every once and a while in class. You slowly approach him, giving him enough time to wrap up his previous conversation.
"Oh, hey Y/N. Sorry to leave a mysterious note like that" he smiled with his eyes, making the apology that much harder to not accept (although it was a pain in the ass)
"It's really okay. Why'd you want to meet here though? I haven't talked to you for a while"
"That's not true I talk to you everyday in class" he smiled, but it was obvious he was poking fun at you and your nervousness about being there with him. He had to admit, it was a little suspicious.
"Well, what is it then?" you were starting to get impatient, letting your temper mixed with your short attention span to get ahold of you. which of course, didn't go unnoticed by Jungkook.
"Iwas absent yesterday for that chem quiz. can you tell me what's on it? I know you’re smart and you understood the material really well."
You were definitely infuriated, knowing this could've been sent by text or even asked in the fleeting moments after class. you see him at least 5 seperate times a day, why a stupid fucking note to some clandestine meeting?
"Jeon, couldn't you have just texted me? But yeah, Iremember a few questions it wasn't that hard." You were dying for an explanation, but the way his face went blank and uninviting, was enough to gather the realization that you weren't getting one.
"Im taking the makeup test in 10 minutes. Do you think I could cram the answers in time?"
Of course he could. He was insanely and almost annoyingly smart. but just like his soft nature, that disappeared over summer break before sophomore year.
He sent you off with a quick thanks and then casually turned his heels to walk to the chem classroom. Once he left, you started to realize the strangeness of it all. He could've asked anyone in Chem 2, but he asked YOU? With a note to meet nonetheless. thinking about it gave you a headache, so once you turned on your car to go home, you started to think about what songs to play and what dinner will be instead. The car ride home was uneventfully blissful, the usual weird seat dancing and emotional signing to your favorite car songs.
You walk in the door with an exaggerated "humphf" when setting down your backpack to go look in the fridge to look for a snack you knew wasn't there. Your phone vibrates on your kitchen table and slightly annoyed you at how it proceeded to rumble loudly against the flat surface. You pick it up only to see that Jungkook had sent you a post on instagram with another message that read;
jungkook:Thanks for helping today, here's this to show my thanks
it was a distorted meme that you'd seen hundreds of times before, but its humor ran out after the second time it beamed on your screen. It surprised you that he sent a meme, but it surprised you even more to get another taste of the old Jungkook you knew. The one who would thank you for helping him out, and seem genuinely thankful. Sometimes you’d catch yourself stealing fleeting glimpses of him in class. you'd often try to pick up on his new tendencies and see some of his old, but comforting ones. He would also space out in middle school, leaving his notebooks riddled with doodles and scribbles to keep himself awake. Just two days ago, he was in a lab with you and you couldn't help but glance at his notebook for a split second; graffitied with little faces and tiny but strategic and pleasing scribbles. You're still looking blankly at the screen, sure that he noticed the "seen" under his texts a while ago.
you: Of course j.k. Ibet you aced it anyways
All of this weird and sudden contact had your head in a whirl. Too many questions and literally no answers. you thought it best to leave it alone for now. But he didn't.
_______________________________________________
You don't remember when you dozed off exactly, but you knew it was a good night's sleep when you woke up with a dry mouth and a full bladder. You groan and reach for one of the countless half filled water bottles on your nightstand. Huh? a sock?
"Whatever, Ihave to pee" you mutter to yourself. for a moment you didn't realize your deep and groggy voice.
"Wait, what" There it is again! you've never sounded this dead in the morning, even when you were hungover after your wildest night out. You finally flicker your eyes open only to be met by an unfamiliar ceiling fan and light grey walls. You rush to sit up. Something wasn't right. you look down and almost scream.
"Where are my boobs?!" your hands shoot reflexively to your chest, where they always are and are met with a dull smack as your hands hit complete flatness. You scurry out of the unfamiliar, but disgustingly messy bed and dart your eyes to find a mirror. It was weirdly easy to get up and dash to the mirror in the small bathroom to your right considering it wasn't your body you were in.
You stood panting in front of the mirror to see Jungkooks face staring back.
"What in the FUC-"
_______________________________________________
Jungkook sorta remembers when he went to bed. By sorta he means he knew it was between 8 PM and 1 AM. He's not good at remembering things, besides, he's already up now. He cracks his neck and instinctively reaches his hand down his boxer shorts.
"Where is my-" he suddenly feels his arm push against something warm on his chest while he extended his arm to find what was there just last night. He grabs the foriegn object on his chest, anxious to grab something since his usual apparently isn't there right now. Is this a boob? It was a boob. he reached up to mimic his other hand. and there's TWO? of course there he knew that. He'd seen plenty of them, but feeling them on himself? Hell no. THAT'S never happened before. He sat up, hands still clenched around the annoyingly loose bra that covered-well-HIS tits. His face went tense as he looked for a mirror. He slowly approached the mirror hanging on the door, hoping to not be met with one of his drunken hookups that could've been a witch for all he knows. He slowly opened his eyes.
"Y/N?! Damn. well, she has nice tits, I have to give her that."
——————————————————————————
You both immediately shot a text to each other, hoping it wasn't a dream, because if it was, you'd both look like idiots. But after telling eachother what happened when they woke up, (Jungkook left out the whole boob ordeal) and you decided to skip school today and sneak out of the house to meet and try to figure out what happened last night.
After throwing on something Jungkook might wear, you couldn't help but notice his figure staring back at you. He really was handsome. You flashed a beefy smile at the mirror and stayed smiling after seeing his signature but memorable smile. You finally talked his mom into letting you stay home just 30 minutes ago, with jungkook in an earbud listening and telling you the best way to make his mom cave. You were slightly annoyed when he said that all he had to do was say he felt sick and your mom was already convinced. It was still uncomfortable hearing your voice through the phone. you sounded really stupid on the phone. you decided to meet at a park close to both your house and his to figure it all out and how to undo it. You had a hard time figuring out how to drive his car but ended up to the park in one piece. well, Jungkook arrived in one piece. there was still no sign of your body yet. Your car comes screeching to a halt next to you before you see your body get out of the car in rage and slam the car door shut.
"Be careful with her she's old" you whine, referring to your beaten up and chipped car.
"Shut up and follow me. We gotta be alone." He grabs your arm and pulls you farther into the park and only loosened his grip when there were less than 5 people around.
"What the fuck happened, Y/N? This is freaking me out. How does this shit even happen? And why me and yo-"
"No, you shut up you're making me dizzy. I don't know my answer for all of those questions. oh god, what do we do at school? AT HOME? WHEN I HAVE TO PEE?" You almost choke on your breath thinking about going to the bathroom with a whole different set of tools.
"I don't know Y/N... I mean I could help you practice..." He reaches down toward your crotch-no- HIS crotch and you flick him away with wide eyes and a blazing stare back at him.
"This isn't a joke, Jungkook. What do we do?" you swallow heavily and look back at your body through his eyes.
"Ew. If I'd known that's what I look like I would just wear baggy sweats everyday..." you whisper it to yourself but since you were both so quiet and focused in thought, he heard it.
"Oh shut up you have a great body, Y/N."
"Did you LOOK? I didn't look, I thought it would be rude. wait-DID YOU LOOK YES OR NO?" you did look. He just doesn't need to know and wouldn't help your case any.
"Of course I did. nice tits by the way." he winked and cracked his neck again. you were too much in a daze thinking about how someone else had seen you naked. JUNGKOOK has seen you naked. Did he just say; nice tits? That doesn't matter, we need to figure this out before you cut off his dick for looking at you.
"We need to figure this out right now." you weren't kidding. if he touched your boobs that would be enough to commit manslaughter. it didn't matter if it was actually you that you were killing.
"We can go to my place now. Let's get something to eat. My mom wont think twice about me having a girl over anyways. She won't bat an eye and she'll leave us alone. Just tell her that we are both sick and want to study to catch up since its convenient. Its our best option." He cracked you a smirk, sending shivers down your spine. it was him alright, just in your body. You get up and start walking towards your beat up car out of habit to leave until he grabs your arm, almost jerking you so hard you would've fallen on your ass.
"Damn Y/N, your body is pretty strong. Stronger than you were in middle school. But lets take my car. I'll drive."
You couldn't help but blush at him mentioning middle school. I guess he really did pay attention to you back then. Your thoughts immediately hone in on memories of gym class when you'd be the best playing any activity and you embarrassed the boys in front of their respective crushes. you couldn't help but let out a little giggle, sounding even better when it came out as Jungkook's grisly and low voice. You settle in the car, and fidget with the seatbelts and keep your head glued on the dashboard to avoid any eye contact just in case you were still blushing. jungkook lets out an audible sigh before turning the keys in the ignition and putting the car in reverse. You couldn't help but look at him, sitting in your body, as he put an arm out behind your headrest to backout. He flickers his eyes between you and behind the car.
"Its so weird seeing my body like this, like from another perspective," you could resonate with what he said, especially since he's manhandling a car with legs wide open, but he looks like you at the same time. "I wonder what I look like during sex..." he mutters the last part under his breath and chuckles, part of him hoping that you would hear.
"Just ask one of your many lady friends, Jungkook. I'm sure they'd love to tell you all about it." You scoff. How could he change so much from the boy you were infatuated with? He was the same in small ways, but barely. It made you sad and frustrated when you realized that you secretly hoped he'd be the same around you after all these years.
"I could. But right now, I'm not exactly myself." You both reach to turn on the radio to drown out the awkward tension that seemed to have seeped in the car. You back off since it technically is his car anyways. He puts on one of his playlists and the first song starts to play. Its not rap and you're almost surprised. But you've known since middle school that he likes more indie and classic rock than anything else. You put your window down and look out with an elbow grasing the bottom of the window, and your hand finding its way to your hair. Well, Jungkook’s hair. Soft. You turn to look at the song name and realize jungkook is glaring at you. You never knew your face could look so scary.
"Don't feel pressured to act any different. Just be you and act normal, even if you want to touch my hair." He snickered and shot his eyes back on the road, making a smooth right turn at the light you'd been stopped at.
"Its a habit. Besides, you've seen me naked Jungkook, who cares if Iaccidentally touch your hair?" you had started to become more and more angry at his annoyingly hot voice. Just by hearing it in classes, you felt a tinge of wetness down under. But you're sure its just because of his voice, right?
"Am I wet right now? Is this what it feels like?" He chuckled so hard and loud you almost see your soul shoot out of the car and get run over. What the fuck do you even say to that? You had an idea as to why it happened but what do you say to jungkook?
He's still laughing a little when he shoots up straight in his seat.
"I know what it is Y/N, you think I'm SEXY."
you gulp. you decide that staying quiet is your best option, the one that will make you look less flustered and more cool about him calling you out.
"You know, Ihad a huge crush on you in middle school. It was almost embarrassing. I think I wrote you a love letter one time but I never gave it to you. You were such a player back then." He chuckles again, but softer this time. He confessed something embarrassing to get the conversation away from the obvious pool of wetness between his legs. YOUR legs.
"I did too." you mumble still looking out the window, trying to hide your excitement at his confession. you were happy but, that was a long time ago anyways. It didn't really matter now.
"Would you look at that, maybe we found out why we switched bodies." His facial expression was flat, almost bored looking. you both sat in silence until he pulled the car into the unfamiliar driveway you left this morning. You get out of the car and he reaches for the door and tells you to make yourself at home, as a joke, of course. To anyone else looking at you two, you were Jungkook, and this in fact, was your house.
"Maybe if we confess our past feelings, we will switch back. That’s the only thing I can think of anyways. You cool with that?" He was pouring himself a glass of apple juice and he set it down on the counter to get another glass for you.
"Yeah why not." you sipped slowly on the cold drink as he led you up the stairs to his room. You settle down on his bed facing each other, almost looking like two young girls at a sleepover talking about their celebrity crushes. you were both sitting with your legs folded and leaning in toward each other, a weirdly comfortable position for the both of you.
"You first." he grumbles with a cheesy smirk.
"Okay," you take a deep breath to collect your thoughts, "I liked you from 5th to 8th grade."
"That's it? I think we need a little more since we are still staring at our own bodies across from us." he was rocking side to side trying to conjure up any thoughts on how to fix your strange situation.
"Maybe we should kiss." He leans forward, which you dodge at the speed of light.
"What are you doing Jungkook?!" Your eyes wide open and stomach fluttering.
"Maybe this is how the spell thingy breaks, it makes sense."
He's right, If the reason you were stuck looking at yourself from this perspective was that you needed to confess and makeout, then so be it. You'd try anything at this point. You missed your own bed. He charges in closer to you slower this time and grabs your face. the way he was using your lips made it impossible to notice how quickly you'd shut your eyes. You opened them to see Jungkook staring at you with wide puppy dog eyes.
"Hell yes I'm back bitche-" He quickly silenced you with another kiss. I worked? You were sure you’d live out your days in another body. But you weren’t mad that his first idea worked out. But you weren’t about to keep your mind on the subject, Jungkook was millimeters away from you with his taunting lips. This kiss was more passionate and more eager. Your legs went limp, and your face set ablaze at Jungkook's fluid and sexy motions against you. He pokes his tongue at your lips, asking if he could enter. You quickly let him roam around your mouth, leaving you breathless and seeing stars. He slides his hands down from your face and traces the outer line of your figure, leaving goosebumps in their wake. you could feel the pool between your legs as your thighs began to quiver under his careful and strategic touch. He shifts you down, so that you're on your back and he is using an arm to support himself above you. you let out a needy whimper and you finally move your arms down his chest to trace his undoubtedly hot body. he flinched when you stopped at his waistband, and you were left just toying with the elastic until he forcefully pulled your shirt off your body, only leaving mere seconds between the deepening kiss. Neither of you were ready to stop. You could feel your body start to heat up against his and he slowly moved his waist into yours at a steady rhythm. you could feel his apparent erection glide across your thighs with every motion. You could feel the heat escape your core when you opened your legs farther, hoping he'd get the hint to touch you where you wanted him the most. You wanted his hands everywhere, but your arousal was too hot and strong to ignore for much longer. He slowly navigated his kiss downward, taking extra care of your neck, sure to leave a couple marks in his wake. once he reached your chest, with your bra still clinging on with the sheen of sweat you both worked up. As he moves his hands to hold you still, they rest on your hips with a tender but strong grip, willing you not to squirm under his touch. He started to kiss along the edge of your bra, frequently nibbling at the tender skin that lay beneath. He was taking his time of course, he'd been wondering what touching you and making you all worked up like this felt. He'd often steal glances at you in class, never letting go of his childish middle school crush. He'd accepted that he'd always feel something toward you, what that was he was unsure. But having you under him, and your back arching your chest towards him made him hungry. He knew he would never get you out of his head after this.
You take your arms behind your back and unclasp your bra hoping he would fasten up and make your horniness subside. He immediately grabs onto one and closes in on the other with tender kisses, licking around your nipple just to hear your sighs that turned into moans between his needy lips.
"Please Jung-" you whine trying to push yourself into him closer. you wanted to be swallowed into this moment. The tension was released, and god did it feel good. He cut you off with a strong and lasting rub against your core, just making you want to whine for more. He was rock hard, so the only thing he accomplished was making you shut up and making you kiss harder and your grip on his hips tighter. He finally slid his hands slowly up the inside of your thigh and his slender but strong fingers snaked their way under the thin cloth that was sticking to your folds. He took a deep and exaggerated swipe across your center, making you shiver with pleasure.
"Don't worry, I'll take care of that," he said, flashing a smile smile in between kisses on your neck.
"Just put it in already I'm dying here..."
With your words, he swiped off his shirt and pulled his pants down, showcasing the famous bounce as his erection springs out of his loose pants. his fingers wrapped around the fabric of your shorts, playing and twisting at them with want. He pulled them down slowly, propping your leg on the bed before throwing the soaking shorts somewhere on the floor. He pushed your thigh open with his now faster motions of his thigh, trying to get more friction against you. You whimper and reach for his erection. before you could fully palm it, he suddenly stopped and stared down at you, trying to catch his breath that had been sucked up by your deep kiss. He slid his thumb across your lower lip.
"Not yet Y/N. Let me do this first. I promise I’ll get to that in a minute." you watch him utter his words in a growl as he slowly drags his soft lips downwards between your breasts and then your stomach before his messy black hair is level with your core.
"I'll be gentle. Tell me if you want to stop at any time, Y/N."
You weren't expecting him to be gentle, or even offer an out for you. All the rumors of him being a brute and rough when it comes to sex and intimacy. You could see the old parts of Jungkook shining through. before you could think about it anything else he pressed his lips against you, lips pursed around your clit. a shake engulfed you, sending shivers up your spine and out of your mouth as a long moan. his tongue grazed over every inch of your center at least 3 times before he started to slow down and suck on your clit, leaving you able to feel every vibration of his ruffled moans against you. before you could recognize that you were almost at the peak of gushing-
"Are you still okay, baby?"
"Y-Yes. Oh GOD!" he had pushed two fingers into you, making you buck your hips into him. He grabbed your thigh with his other hand, silently telling you to stop letting your reactions distract him from the task at hand. Literally. He curls his fingers upward and moves slowly, applying just enough pressure to make your eyes roll back into your head, but gentle enough to keep you just below the line that would make it hurt. He was taking care of you, just like he said. You couldn't help but let your mind wander to his various conquests as he quite literally lapped at you like a starved man. Did he treat them like this? Was he this sweet but seductive with everyone? Are you the first to be thinking about this? His nibble at your folds broke you out of your daze. It doesn't matter now anyways, he was with you and he was good at making you feel good. Just keep going, you thought. It only took another nibble and his tongue in your heat to make you start to see a light.
"Jung- I'm-" you squealed. He just kept going, knowing that what he was doing was the ticket to your long anticipated orgasm. You quickly find yourself grabbing at his head of hair, just to help yourself ride out your climax. You feel the wet drip out of you, and Jungkook's tongue licking it up with lustful motions. Once he cleaned you up to his liking he lifted his head to look at you. Your eyes closed, chest heaving, and sweat making your face gleam. You really were beautiful, he thought to himself. But he wasn't done with you yet. He leaned over you and moved the baby hairs stuck on your face to the side. His doe eyes were searing into you, making you shift under him. You brought your hands up to rest on his chest. He really was beautiful, you thought to yourself. But you weren't done with him yet.
"Let me get a condom. Or are you on the pill? Its up to you, whatever you're comfortable with, baby." His term of endearment took you by surprise, but it didn't feel weird coming from his mouth, almost natural to him. You liked it, it even made your stomach hollow with excitement, but you'd never tell him that.
"I'm on the pill. I don't mind at all jungkook." His grin leaked into a smile, that adorable, sexy smile of his. it practically taunted you, knowing that his now stretched out lips were pressed up against you just mere minutes ago. You watched as he finally pulled down his boxers, allowing his painfully hard erection bounce out. The head, red and angry with understimulation, with beads of precum trickling down his length. He was big, just like the rumors had said, but you weren't expecting that he'd have the perfect length and girth. You knew after you felt him, it would be hard to go back. Especially since just his lips and tongue made you feel something you'd never felt before, something you'd think about at night while you played with yourself.
"Are you ready? I'll be careful with you if you're worried that it might hurt." He sat next to you on the bed, looking for any sign of regret in your eyes. Instead, he found your hungry eyes looking him up and down, completely naked in front of you.
"Don't hold back Jungkook, if we are going to do this I want to feel everything." You could barely focus on anything other than him. His abs, and the way they flexed when he let out a guttural laugh. His Adam's apple, that bobbed up and down when he would talk to you. His long, messy black hair, and how it framed his face. His rosy lips and how they pouted when he wasn't talking. Everything about the man sitting next to you was perfect. His features were just the same as they were back in middle school, but they became more mature and more sexy than cute.
"I'm excited to feel you around me Y/N. I've been thinking about what it would be like, and now you're here, and you're all mine." he uttered before leaning in for a soft kiss, making it easier to hide your face that was obviously blushing at his words.
"If you don't want me to hold back, Iwont" he whispers into your ear, making you wet all over again. His hand found your thigh amid deep kisses, and pushed it farther so he could fit himself between your thighs, allowing his erection to slowly graze over your dripping center with every motion. After Jungkook gathered enough of your arousal on himself, he decided it was enough to allow him to easily slip into you and lose himself in you. You grabbed his hip, angling him parallel to your body, begging him to ease himself into you.
"Please Jungkook..." you whine again.
before you could finish your sentence you felt his tip graze your entrance, teasing you with the heat. He was STILL teasing you? You grip your arms around his torso and force him closer, automatically pushing his length into you, but still not bottomed out yet. He was big and you wondered if you could realistically fit all of him in you. As soon as you pull him closer, Jungkook loudly grunts and shoots his head back at how well you fit around him.
"You feel so good Y/N." He breathes, starting to pump in and out of your heat. He didn't hesitate to throw your leg over his shoulder, allowing him further access into you. Within seconds he finds your g-spot, (he figured it was there since you let out ungodly moans when he hit it) and continues to hit it with each thrust. Each thrust was greeted with a slapping noise and the sounds of your arousal being moved around by Jungkook. His thrusts became more slowed, but deeper, grazing your cervix. The stretch that once felt uncomfortable started to feel pleasurable.
"Right there Jungkook, please don't-" you were too out of breath to even finish your sentence.
Jungkooks heavy breathing would've sent you over the edge right then and there, but he somehow kept you from coming to elongate the feeling of you around him, filling up his senses. His thrusts started to get sloppier, but still had a lustful drive in them. He shot his arm up to the wall, giving him support against his fastened pace. He grunts and shoots the other hand to use his thumb to circle around your clit, making you arch towards his touch.
"I'm gonna-" he spits out, clenching his jaw.
Not long after he warned you, you felt him throb against your insides, a warm pool filling you up. Just the sounds of Jungkook as he released into you was enough to make you follow suit not long after him since he rode his high within you.
"Sorry Ijust-" you put your finger up to his plumped lips to make him shut up.
"Don't say sorry Jungkook, It was perfect. Maybe too perfect..." you look to the side to avoid his taunting gaze. But he grabs your chin and demands for eye contact.
"I've had my eye on you since middle school, Y/N. And Iintend to keep it that way," He kisses your forehead before he gets up and throws you a hoodie that smelled like him.
"Get up butthead, we are getting icecream." he says through his stupid little grin.
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Laundry Day
Summary: It’s laundry day for a certain pair of half ghosts. But when Vlad digs deeper than he should, he finds more than dirty laundry, testing the bonds between father and son.
OR
A shameless fluff fic in which Vlad is too hard on himself (as usual), Daniel does his best to reassure him, and Vlad proves he is father of the year material.
Featuring: accidental naps, hugs galore, and rambling internal monologues.
Characters: Vlad Masters, Daniel Masters
Tags and Warnings: Father/son relationships, Backstory, Emotional fluff/pain, Really Long Flashbacks, invasion of privacy, miscommunication, allusions to suicide, hopelessness, fake science, grey ethics, fake medical jargon, dehumanization, Vlad’s special brand of angst, mild body horror, clichéd tropes, happy ending, cuteness
If you’re concerned, feel free to PM me and I will be more than happy to provide a detailed summary or tell you what parts to avoid. All of the iffy ones, save for the emotional hurt/comfort, only last for a few paragraphs. Most of them are contained in the flashbacks, which are in italics. But on a whole, it’s father/son fluff and feels. Be safe!
Word Count: ~10,500
I’ll also make this available on AO3 for your viewing pleasure, since I know some people (myself included) prefer that format better. But tumblr makes it easier to share, so that won’t be linked for awhile; I’m thinking a week?
Some notes before we dive in, since this is the first fic I’ve written in this particular universe, so there are a few (read: a lot) of things I need to cover. Explanation and story under the cut!
Update: This isn’t posting right, so I’m going to remove the links for now. If this works, I’ll make a separate post with the links.
This fic takes place in what I’ve nicknamed the “Perfect Son AU,” an alternate universe to Danny Phantom where Vlad successfully created a clone, which he named Daniel. It’s a working title, and someone else might have already come up with something better, but I’m running with it for now.
I did not create Daniel; he was originally introduced as an unnamed character along with a possible future version of Vlad in Butch Hartman’s second “Danny Phantom: 10 Years Later video.” All we’re told is that he’s a mixed clone of Danny and Vlad.
Of course, this premise has tons of potential, and several artists have created content for him. I fell head over heels for @schnivel‘s interpretation; the designs and characterization are just incredible, and gave me that creative itch. I live for that cute picture of Vlad and Daniel at a Packer’s game. There are also a bunch of doodles, and the tags provide fun details, hinting at character dynamics and firmly establishing Daniel’s presence in-universe. The rest of his art is awesome, too; it’s incredibly expressive (facial expressions and body language are always SPOT ON), and he has some really neat OCs, so be sure to check him out!
Schnivel also took the time to chat with me, and answered many of my questions regarding Daniel’s characterization. Thank you so much!
I discovered that other artists loved this version of the character as well, and during one of schnivel’s discussions with prom during one of @promsien‘s streams, she had the fun idea that Vlad knits Daniel sweaters, and heaven help anyone who ruins one of those.
Needless to say, this (and other details surrounding the fallout) gave me…ideas. This incident is only hinted at in this fic, which started out as a cute 1500 word fluff piece I thought up on the bus back to school after Thanksgiving break. But then plot and angst snuck in, and the characters just weren’t quite right, so four rewrites, 9000 words, and about two months later, here we are; the longest piece I’ve ever written.
Keep in mind that this is just my interpretation of schnivel’s canon, based on details from several sources, so the events described here may or may not have occurred; essentially, it’s a fanfic of schnivel’s AU.
This story takes place after about a year after Daniel’s creation, in the transition period between schnivel’s 16 y/o and post puberty designs. While not necessary to enjoy the story, I strongly recommend taking a look at these before you begin reading; you won’t be sorry. Some other quick details to keep in mind:
1. Daniel is still in high school, and is enrolled in Casper High.
2. Daniel =/= Danny
3. Yes, Daniel knows Danny and they do not get along.
4. Vlad and Daniel live together, and share a healthy (and frequently adorable) father/son relationship. They get along incredibly well most of the time, and genuinely care about each other. Vlad is finally happy (mostly), and it’s my favorite thing ever. Do me a favor and do not tag this as ship, please and thank you.
5. Danny is not in this fic, but he is referenced a couple of times; once, confusingly, as Daniel. (I’m sorry; blame Vlad.) It’s not mentioned in this fic, but he doesn’t call Danny “Daniel” anymore, for obvious reasons.
Alright, enough notes! I’ve rambled long enough! Kudos to you for reading this far; I do think the context is necessary to fully appreciate this story, so if you skimmed, I completely understand, but I urge you to check out the five-point list and links [sorry guys, removed these to see if they were the problem] above. And remember to check out @schnivel and @promsien. Thanks, guys! So, without further ado, enjoy!
“Daniel, laundry!”
The amiable call echoed off the interior walls of a luxurious but tasteful mansion overlooking Amity Park; walls that had changed extensively in the past year. Previously, the nondescript barriers existed out of necessity, stabilizing the considerable load of the structure and dividing too much space into too many cold, empty rooms.
One wall in particular, located between the entry and the main staircase, changed dramatically, and now proudly announced to visitors that two shared the space, and quite happily at that.
An eclectic selection of frames housing amateur photographs were mounted artfully in a quantity bordering on excessive. From this, an outsider could reasonably assume that the curator was either an overly-enthusiastic hobbyist or a new parent.
In this case, both assumptions would be correct. Indeed, most of the photos focused on a single boy, specifically, a teenager, sporting unique, striped locks and a smile.
But this wasn’t your average, awkward, get-me-out-of-here, oh-my-god-are-we-still-not-done-taking-pictures-yet kind of smile that most teenagers plastered on instinctively to escape the camera: No, this was a genuine, candid expression of happiness that would make any photographer worth their salt dissolve into blissful tears. It would have been hard to believe the boy was truly a teenager, if not for the distinctive, almost puppy-like proportions that suggested there was still growing left to do.
He was occasionally joined by an older gentleman wearing a smile of his own; more guarded, but no less genuine. In these photos, the boy veritably beamed at the camera or the man himself, expression all the brighter in his company, leaving no doubt just who was responsible for cultivating such joy. Likewise, the boy coaxed the man out of his shell, steadily transforming a shyly quirked corner of the mouth into a joyful grin as the series progressed.
The gentleman in question was currently strolling around the house, dressed casually in socks, slacks, and a button-down. His sleeves were neatly rolled above the elbows, exposing muscular forearms that strained to maintain an awkward hold on the large basket of casual wear. His burden couldn’t have been too cumbersome, however, as he took a moment to admire the photo wall, as he always did.
He shifted the basket, clamping it against his left hip with the same arm, freeing his right to compulsively straighten an already perfectly-aligned portrait of the boy, providing an excuse to linger.
It was one of his favorites; a candid shot he had snagged during one of their first snows together. He was quite proud of it. Daniel kneeled on the plush window seat, dwarfed by the dual floor-to-ceiling windows. His features were alight with childlike wonder and the soft, winter sun, breath fogging the glass as he peered out of the pane, entranced by dancing flakes. Vlad’s eyes grew misty, recalling cold, damp clothes, laughter, and hot chocolate His shoulders softened a touch, mouth pulling upward fondly.
The reverie was broken by an uncomfortable burn in his forearms as the basket slipped slowly downwards under gravity’s influence, prompting him to readjust his hold and resume his search.
It was that time of year again; the relentless heatwave had broken at last. Residents of Amity Park gave a collective sigh of relief, enjoying cool days and brisk evenings just shy of uncomfortable as summer gave way to autumn. Full suits were no longer suffocating. And football season was in full swing.
In short, life couldn’t be better. There was something invigorating about the crisp, cool air that accompanied the changing seasons, putting Vlad in the rare mood to do some tidying. Housework was a small pleasure he had rediscovered recently; busy hands left the mind free for reflection, something that Vlad wasn’t as eager to avoid these days. The reason for this? Well��
“Daniel!” he called again, perplexed by the continued lack of response from his young charge. No, his son, he reminded himself, distracted for a moment by the thrill of excitement and anxiety that still shot through him at that thought. Against all odds, he was a father.
He savored the feeling as he searched, peeking around the corner to the living room on a whim, and bit back another call. Warm affection swelled in his chest at the rare and, admittedly, adorable sight.
His son, Daniel, was sprawled lengthwise across the couch, out like a light. Sleep had hit him hard and fast; the awkward position of his limbs was telling, and looked anything but comfortable.
A socked foot was braced on the floor while its twin was slung over the couch’s far arm, still trapped in a sneaker, laces tangled from an abandoned attempt at removal. One arm hung limply to the side, while the other was likely going numb, trapped against the back and beneath the Maddies, who were taking full advantage of their human’s compromised position.
The opportunistic felines were curled up on the half-ghost’s broad chest, passive-aggressively close to one another, soaking up the warmth. Like many cats, they managed to radiate smug bliss even from the depths of slumber, much to Vlad’s amusement.
He really couldn’t blame them. Naps for Daniel were a rare occurrence, after all; the boy rarely slowed down long enough.
But Vlad had almost forgotten what else autumn meant; school was once again in full swing. A ridiculous amount of coursework accompanied Daniel’s ambitious class load, pushing the limits of an already-taxing daily schedule.
In addition to coursework, he participated in several extracurricular activities, made time for friends, and dedicated himself to a rigorous training and tutoring regimen of Vlad’s own design. No wonder the boy was exhausted.
Not that he had so much as hinted at fatigue, eager to prove himself.
Vlad mentally shook his head, pride mixing with fond exasperation. He had, admittedly, forgotten just how difficult it was to be a teenager (though he thinks he can be excused for this oversight given that it’s been over twenty years since then; twenty long years). He vaguely recalled expectations to tackle a workload any self-respecting, paid employee would strike over.
Daniel, like many teenagers, did that and more with only a fraction of useable energy at his disposal at any given time, resources diverted to accommodate the emotional and physical stress the body underwent as it matured. Puberty had hit Daniel late and with a vengeance. The boy had been shooting up like a weed lately, the gap between his cuff and ankle widening at an alarming rate (not surprising given the state of the pantry at the end of any given week; the teen had to be burning through massive amounts of energy in the process).
As his coach, Vlad had noticed he was struggling physically; his center of balance shifted so rapidly he just couldn’t keep up. Daniel’s frustration was all but tangible at times, face heating with anger and humiliation when he fumbled through warm-ups and drills that had once been simple. Recently, more often than not, he left their practice sessions drained and irritable, shower doing little to dispel a dark mood that carried over into their evening lessons.
Vlad wondered if he was sleeping enough.
Judging from his current state alone, the poor boy needed all the rest he could get. Vlad quelled a rush of remorse for pushing him so hard, reminding himself that Daniel had set the pace.
Insisted, really. He was normally eager, almost desperate, to improve, diving into training with a single-minded intensity that rivaled Vlad’s own. Daniel had protested furiously when Vlad had suggested they take it a bit easier during the school year, pushing himself even harder.
Vlad chuckled fondly; Daniel was his son, after all. But perhaps he could persuade him to revise their schedule to an every other day kind of thing; in hindsight, it was a bit ambitious to have lessons and physical training on the same day…
Musing about schedules, he set the basket aside and approached, debating whether the merits of repositioning gangly limbs into a more comfortable position outweighed the risk of waking the boy.
No, better to let him rest. He was young, after all; he probably wouldn’t suffer from the stiff neck Vlad wouldn’t admit to getting if he slept at the demonstrated awkward though, admittedly, impressive angle. (His neck definitely did not twinge in sympathy. He wasn’t old.)
He settled for carefully prying off the remaining shoe before unfurling a fuzzy throw that hung over the back of the couch, settling it gently over long legs, careful not to disturb the felines. They, of course, would have no such qualms about waking Daniel in their subsequent bid for freedom should they be trapped beneath the heavy fabric.
His fond gaze migrated upward upon completion of his task, settling on Daniel’s face, relaxed in slumber. It was a rare treat to observe his son in such a peaceful state, and he was somewhat tempted to take a picture (too bad his camera was in his room).
Daniel looked so young this way. The man’s eyebrows bunched, oddly nostalgic as he took in the boy’s strengthening features, an early sign that he wouldn’t be one for much longer. Soon, soft lines would vanish completely, giving way to the strong jaw and defined cheeks that were already taking shape.
He would miss these days. Vlad felt an irrational surge of longing and loss, feeling absurdly cheated out of the early years, of a tiny Daniel smiling at him, of endless questions and childlike wonder (which was absolutely insane, considering he didn’t even like children. There was a reason he’d decided to create a teenaged clone). But if that was the case, Vlad supposed he wouldn’t be the Daniel he knew now. It was probably for the best.
He sighed, and ran a gentle hand through thick stripped locks, marveling at the silky softness as it slid through his fingers. It really was getting long, Vlad thought idly, scratching lightly across the scalp, delighted when the crease between Daniel’s eyes smoothed, and he sunk deeper into sleep with a content sigh.
Vlad lingered for a moment before withdrawing reluctantly, gathering up the basket again with a sigh of his own. A nap would do the boy good, he reminded himself, so he’d best leave Daniel to it.
Of course, this meant he was back to square one with the laundry. He was looking for Daniel in the first place to gather his dirty clothes so Vlad could start a load or two before dinner.
Well, perhaps he could still do that. He could always take a detour into the boy’s room himself. He was certain Daniel wouldn’t mind the intrusion; after all, he was simply retrieving laundry, so he wouldn’t be there long.
Decision made, he turned back, pausing to empty his basket in the laundry room before ascending the stairs once again to the wing that housed their personal quarters, hesitating for a moment before cracking open the door and entering Daniel’s room.
It was strange, being here without the room’s main occupant. He felt a bit like an intruder. The space was shockingly well-kempt for belonging to a teenager, not that he was surprised; Daniel was hardly your average teenager.
As expected, his dirty laundry was in the hamper, and Vlad wasted no time in sorting through it.
Something was off, though. Vlad lived with his son, so of course he noticed that Daniel had started sweater season as soon as he no longer ran the risk of suffering heat stroke. That meant there should be about two weeks’ worth of ripening knitwear, as none had been sent out recently. But there were none to be found in the hamper, and, despite the fibers’ natural resistance to sweat and grime, it was certainly time for a wash.
Most, if not all, of Daniel’s sweaters were handmade, knitted by Vlad himself, so required special care. He supposed Daniel could be keeping such garments separate in a display of caution. Conscientious, as always.
Not that it was necessary; Vlad only hired the best, and, of course, always ran a brief inspection of the sorted garments before they were taken to the proper cleaning facilities. Details meant everything in his line of work, and his appearance was one of many he monitored personally. Sure, he was a billionaire, and could afford purchase a new wardrobe any time he wished, but it hadn’t always been this way. He was taught to take pride in his possessions, and waste was unthinkable; far be it for him to neglect his roots.
Shaking himself out of his musings (he certainly was distracted today), he got back to the task at hand; finding the sweaters. He supposed he could simply wait and ask Daniel during their evening session, but leaving the job half-done would bother him.
Vlad was a completionist to a fault, and knew that if he put this off, he ran the risk of losing his productive mood. Not to mention the thought of the laundry sitting half-finished would torture him all evening; it would have been better to have not started at all. And he wouldn’t wake the boy. But this also toed the line of invasion of privacy.
He weighed his options, and decided that a taking a brief look couldn’t hurt; he was already here, after all. In such a neat space, there weren’t exactly an abundance of hiding places.
He checked the walk-in closet first. A thorough search left him baffled by the complete lack of sweaters, dirty or otherwise. He had checked the drawers (meticulously folded), hangers (formal wear was sorted by degree of formality then color), and even the floor (his shoes were lined up so perfectly he put showrooms to shame).
Daniel clearly treasured his possessions, and Vlad felt a rush of pride. His son kept his space in perfect order, and everything had a logical place. Except for the sweaters, it would seem. Which didn’t make any sense.
His frustration grew as he continued to pace the room and failed to find a single one. He was running out of ideas, and was uncomfortable at the thought of exploring much further. On a whim, he ducked his head under the bed, admittedly feeling a bit foolish; this was one of the oldest clichés in the book.
But his eyes were immediately drawn to a large cedar chest, a copy of the one he himself used for keepsakes. He had forgotten the boy had one as well; Daniel had been delighted with the gift, especially when Vlad had shown him the contents of its twin in his private study.
Vlad slid the heavy container out, running a hand across the sanded, weighty lid, hesitating for only a moment before giving in to his curiosity and lifting it before he could change his mind.
Sure enough, here were Daniel’s sweaters. He let out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. Mystery solved. The quantity bordered on insane, way more than he remembered making, Vlad observed somewhat sheepishly. What could he say? He was a stress knitter.
But he was particularly fascinated with the way the garments were packed. Despite the large quantity, each sweater was folded with a degree of precision that spoke wordless volumes of care. Handmade garments often had quirks; small flaws that made each piece unique, making it nearly impossible to pack them away neatly. Daniel had somehow managed it by treating each sweater as an individual, modifying his folding technique slightly to ensure optimal fit. Even the dirty ones were carefully folded, and placed on the smaller, right-hand side of the central divider. It made his closet look sloppy in comparison.
Reluctant to ruin what was clearly several hours of work, Vlad carefully flipped through layers of sweaters, separated with tissue paper, the garments growing smaller as he descended. He was sure most of these didn’t have a hope of fitting Daniel any longer.
One stood out from the others, though. It rested at the very bottom of the heavy chest, and was individually wrapped, obscured by many layers of delicate tissue and tied loosely with string. This deviation from the established system sparked Vlad’s curiosity further, overriding common sense, and before he knew it, he was carefully removing the wrappings.
He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this.
He drew in a sharp breath, unnerved, and delicately traced the ragged edge of a black-rimmed tear with shaking fingers, transfixed. It extended downward from right shoulder to sternum in a great slice, like it had been severed with a hot knife.
Bafflingly, someone had also gone to great lengths to attempt repair; the edges were joined with neat, if pointless, stitches. Only the lack of patching material revealed that this was a rush job. Admirable effort, but an exercise in futility nonetheless; nothing could hope to fix the charred edges.
The garment was utterly ruined. No wonder Daniel kept this one covered so well; it likely brought back unpleasant memories, but the boy clearly didn’t have the heart to get rid of it.
Upon closer inspection, Vlad realized he recognized this sweater. The vague unease grew into a feeling far more unpleasant.
It was the first one he’d ever made for Daniel, not that he’d known that at the time. It had been started with his own dimensions in mind, but modified on a whim; gold and green, stitched together with hands bathed in the eerie green glow of the incubation chamber.
He had been a different person then, twisted by hatred and blinded by his obsession with the Fentons.
Each stitch had been formed in bitter anger, to keep him grounded, patient. Clicking needles helped to cover up the maddening hiss of the central air system and the relentless beep of monitoring equipment.
He knew at his core that this would be the last plot, his last attempt to take what was rightfully his; should he fail yet again, the fallout would be devastating. He would be unable to stop himself from giving up, from descending irrevocably into madness. Because at the end of the day, hate was all he had, his only constant along with his pride. But hatred took energy, and he was tired. So tired.
Lips curled in disgust as he ran the clumsily-constructed fabric sitting in his lap through his fingers, reliving the turmoil through the record of amateurish mistakes that littered the garment. Each pucker and twist, invisible to the untrained eye, glared at him accusingly, reminding him of sins he could never atone for. Made him sick with guilt as they whispered to him, reminded him of a time when Daniel had been merely an “it” and “the clone,” a tool he had every intention to use for revenge.
He was practically living in the dim, sterile, underground room, on standby to respond in a moment should the clone destabilize again. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept in his own bed (he kept a cot down here), gotten more than two consecutive hours of sleep, or eaten something more substantial than the occasional protein bar. He carefully refrained from imagining the state of the companies he was neglecting.
But this stage of the project was too unpredictable to leave unattended, the clone’s outline in the cloudy fluid filling the tube bobbing peacefully up and down, blissfully unaware that its existence could end in an instant. But he wouldn’t let that happen. He would have his prize. With a completely obedient half ghost by his side, he would rule. He had taken no chances, had combined a stolen sample of the Fenton boy’s DNA with his own. It was his ultimate weapon. No one would be able to stop him. No one could keep him from his rightful place.
But throughout human history, it is in moments like these that astounding things can happen. Picture a person building a perfect pyramid, finally reaching the absolute top, standing on that tiny, sharp pinnacle, at the very highest they can go.
It is when we are at this peak, feel the most unstoppable, have the firmest foundation, are the most confident in our convictions, that the smallest breeze can topple us over and force us to rethink the foundations of our self-constructed realities as we fall, force us to shift our reality; rebuild, or cease to exist.
It is the small things that shake us to the core, that have the power to change us forever.
Be it stroke of luck, fate, divine intervention or pure coincidence, one such moment occurred in that sterile lab when a rare set of circumstances coincided. The fluid ensconcing the clone ran clear for several minutes, reflex prompted new eyes to flutter open, and Vlad happened to look up.
And looked into a familiar set of blue eyes that he hadn’t seen anywhere other than a mirror since his mother had passed away all those years ago (he had searched for her desperately after he learned the nature of his transformation, to no avail). They may have been obscured by fluid, but the shape and shade were unmistakable; they were her eyes. His eyes. Staring unseeingly back at him.
It was…disturbing, to say the least. Blame it on sleep deprivation if you will, but he felt his mother’s eyes cut right through him, accusingly, judging him for his behavior in her absence. Forcing himself to do something he had done his very best to avoid, in a way only she ever could.
So Vlad Masters took an honest look at himself for the first time in several decades.
And he wept, because he knew that she didn’t like what she saw, was disappointed in him. He had known this, on some level; it was why he had been putting off this realization for years. But, he was surprised to find that she wasn’t disappointed he had fallen so far; no, because she knew and he knew now, too, that he had fallen. Which meant that he was capable of picking himself back up and hadn’t. He had chosen not to, had chosen temporary comfort over the harder but healthier path. But he could do better. He would do better. If not for her than for himself.
And on that paradigm shift, he rebuilt his world. The eyes closed.
And Vlad, with fresh eyes, truly looked into the face of the being he created for the first time. But dread overtook him when he realized he wasn’t seeing the face of a clone. No, instead, he was looking into the face of a child.
It took him back to the first time he had met young Daniel at the college reunion, blindsided by an irrational rush of paternal pride and unspeakable longing to get to know this boy, realizing that he wasn’t, didn’t have to be alone anymore. (How wrong he was).
That familiar, fierce longing again surged to the surface, become part of his world once again. A desire he had buried long ago when the hopelessness simply became too much to bear.
All he had ever wanted was someone to love.
He thanked everything he could think of that he hadn’t started the programming, that is, the brainwashing, yet. And he wouldn’t. He’d keep the basic learning protocols, so the boy could communicate, have basic knowledge about the world, but nothing else. If he wanted a son, he’d earn his trust and affection the old-fashioned way. The right way.
But he was forgetting something. New hope warred with sick dread. But why? What threatened his happiness now? Because this being he created wasn’t a tool, this was a child. His child. So still. So fragile.
The realization opened the floodgates, and he fought to keep the rush of panic at bay. What had he done!?
Once again, in a display of arrogance and ignorance, he had put someone at risk. He already cared too much about the boy, was once again on the verge of losing everything. Because the child, Daniel, was dangerously unstable. He could die.
Vlad couldn’t let that happen.
For the first time in years, he was truly terrified of the consequences of failure. Because he wasn’t used to consequences. In an instant, the project had evolved into a horrible tightrope walk between life and death. He hoped the anxiety wouldn’t kill him first.
It was touch and go for a small eternity. Vlad lost sleep, hair, and his lunch to far more close calls than he cared to recall. He was certain he aged about twenty years that month, trapped in a micro-hell of his own design; he still had nightmares about that innocent face devolving into ectoplasm, but awake, screaming in agony from the confines of the tube at a pitch that made his hair stand on end…
Vlad mentally shook himself. No. He thought about this quite enough at night, no sense in dwelling on it during waking hours as well.
Preoccupied with the stressful task of keeping Daniel alive, sleeping in the lab even after the boy had stabilized out of sheer paranoia, he realized he was woefully unprepared to care for a child; embarrassingly so. He panicked when Daniel emerged from the tube, realizing he hadn’t given a thought about basic needs. Like clothing, for example.
His “newborn” was freezing; his small frame shook uncontrollably in the thin sterile gown as he was propped upright on a cot so Vlad could monitor his vitals, a pile of medical blankets doing little to combat the chill. The boy was in tears; uncomfortable and confused, agoraphobic and overwhelmed by this strange new world, so Vlad had grabbed the completed sweater instinctively and helped the boy into it, hoping the warm weight would ground him, rambling about inconsequential things to distract from the alarming machines as he worked to reattach feeds and wires.
He cringed; in hindsight, he had risked further overstimulation that way, and the outcome could have been disastrous. His palms still grew slick with cold sweat, and his blood pressure skyrocketed whenever he thought about everything that could have gone wrong, all the mistakes he had made in those early days. He cursed his stupidity.
Vlad shook off his self-disgust in favor of gathering up the old sweaters, having forgotten his original task, otherwise occupied with the chaos of his memories. They didn’t fit Daniel any longer, so there really wasn’t any sense in keeping them.
It was embarrassing how amateurish they looked now. They were an unwelcome reminder of a time when he was at an absolute low. He just wanted them gone. Especially that first one. The marred fabric seemed to mock him. Yes, better to dispose of it, and bury the anxiety and fear that came with it.
He gathered his legs under him with mild difficulty, surprised to discover he was a bit stiff—he had been kneeling on the floor longer than he thought—and glanced up at the doorway.
Only to lock eyes with Daniel, who stood, gaping, in the doorway, hand frozen in an abandoned attempt to straighten tousled locks. Tension radiated from his too-still frame, and wide eyes flickered from confusion to shock to panic.
Vlad froze as well, uneasy; he had never seen this look in the boy’s eyes before, and never cared to again. Sick dread pooled heavily in his stomach as all other thoughts evaporated; he knew without a doubt that something was very wrong.
“Dad,” Daniel whispered, hand dropping abruptly. “What are you doing with those?”
His gaze lowered, fixed on the pile of sweaters in Vlad’s arms. Vlad looked down as well, and blinked, bemused by the sudden lack of sweaters there.
Daniel hugged the garments to his chest tenderly, like a young child would cuddle a favorite stuffed toy for reassurance after a scare. In moments like these, Vlad was reminded of how new to the world the boy really was; it was too easy to forget when he wore the skin of a teenager.
A familiar, irrational stab of loss joined the budding guilt and self-loathing; that strange yearning for early years that never occurred.
Nostalgia must be a theme today, he thought idly.
Reason returned as he watched Daniel drop carefully to his knees a deliberate distance away to begin refolding the stack. Vlad’s inquisitive and concerned gaze was studiously avoided as the boy focused entirely on the task at hand.
Careful hands guided handmade fabric into precise creases reverently, deep blue eyes gleaming with a look of concentration so intense, it might have been comical under different circumstances. If he didn’t recognize the carefully constructed front for what it was.
Upset was an understatement; and despite an admirable effort, Daniel was unable to conceal the slight tremble that made his hands clumsy and slow, an obvious tell that only intensified the harder he tried to hide it.
Overall, he gave the impression of one who had survived a close shave. As the shock slowly abated, Vlad’s mental alarm bells became more insistent. This reaction was a bit extreme, even for someone experiencing the emotional fragility that was part and parcel of an unplanned nap. Something wasn’t quite right; he was missing some crucial detail.
“Daniel, what…” Vlad trailed off, at a loss, hands reaching toward the boy helplessly, then falling short, uncertain. “What did I—”
“You were going to get rid of them, weren’t you.”
It wasn’t a question. The words were tight, clipped. His eyes remained fixed studiously downward, even though it was obvious that he wasn’t truly looking at the abandoned sweater in front of him, fists clenched in an a futile attempt to suppress trembling fingers.
Daniel abruptly rocked back on his heels and wiped roughly at his face, shattering the invisible barrier between them, allowing Vlad to finally take action. He scrambled in his haste to close the gap.
He gathered the boy clumsily into his arms, and Daniel practically melted into the firm embrace before returning it fiercely, clinging to him in turn. A striped head filled his peripheral vision, resting its comfortable weight on his shoulder, and soaked the light fabric covering it in warm wetness.
It was unclear how long they remained that way, respecting an unspoken agreement to set aside the circumstances for awhile in favor of comforting another; indulging in the unique security that came from holding a kindred spirit close.
After a while, Daniel pulled away reluctantly, sniffling wetly and wiping halfheartedly at his nose. Vlad produced a fresh handkerchief and settled into a cross-legged position, facing the teen, waiting patiently for him to collect himself while he gathered his own thoughts.
“I apologize, Daniel,” he began, slowly, when the sniffles had eased, and the boy settled into a similar position, rolling edges of soft fabric anxiously between his fingers as he met Vlad’s gaze.
“I didn’t mean to upset you. I know that I am at fault here, but I do admit that I’m not entirely sure what exactly I did to cause you this much distress. Regardless, I should not have been in your room or searched through your things without your express permission. I knew better, but I did it anyway. I invaded your privacy, and for that, I am sorry.”
Daniel maintained eye contact, reddened and puffy appearance doing nothing to diminish the sincerity evident in their depths.
“I forgive you.”
There was no hesitation. The honest declaration mowed through Vlad’s emotional barriers, and his vision blurred as identical blue eyes prickled with tears of their own.
He bit his lip. His mistakes had long entrapped him, clinging fast and weighing him down. Experience taught him that, once made, he would never be rid of them. This knowledge, this fear, were iron shackles. It was his curse. But this boy…
Never before had he known such forgiveness.
Daniel absolutely hated to see his dad cry. There was just something fundamentally wrong about seeing someone you cared about in distress. So he was quick to reassure, hoping to fend off the flood and the inevitable interrogation.
“There’s really no harm done. They’re all here, they’re safe.”
Honestly, this assurance was just as much for himself. Of course, he would have forgiven Vlad regardless of the outcome; his dad was way more important to him than keepsakes, but this had come completely out of left field.
He had always been so careful, and seeing his collection spread across the floor had been the last thing he had expected after trudging upstairs to finish his homework before training, cursing himself bitterly for falling asleep.
He had really only meant to rest his eyes for a second or two, having gone distractingly cross-eyed while undoing his laces, falling instead into the deep kind of sleep that left one feeling fuzzy-headed and irritable upon waking instead of rested.
Daniel looked over at his favorite sweater, the one he had taken the most care to preserve. As always, fury at the damage was tempered with fond warmth. He flushed lightly, briefly recalling the circumstances of its repair.
His dad, who had since pulled himself together, followed his line of sight, brows drawing together in confusion, focused on the blackened article.
“Why keep these? Most are much too small, and this one,” he pulled the garment closer, “is damaged beyond repair.”
Daniel’s hands twitched instinctively, ready to come to the rescue at any moment.
Honestly? The thought of getting rid of them had never even crossed his mind, so he hadn’t. And he felt much too strongly about the garments to ever consider it.
But his dad was looking at him expectantly, obviously waiting for an answer. He had no idea how to put his jumbled thoughts and feelings on the matter into words, so he called upon the time-tested art of stalling.
“But you made them for me,” he settled on a basic truth, trying to buy a bit of time as he scrambled, struggling to string his thoughts into a pattern his dad would accept.
“I can make more, you know,” Vlad pointed out reasonably. “There’s no sense holding on to something that’s outlived its usefulness. At this point, they’re just clutter—”
“They’re important to me!” Daniel snapped, and Vlad blanched, drawing back in shock.
Daniel’s eyes widened, immediately regretting his outburst.
He didn’t mean to yell at his father! But that statement hit distressingly close to home. It was like Vlad wasn’t talking about the sweaters at all. For a moment, his nightmares were playing out before his eyes…
He forcefully shoved his insecurities to the back of his mind in favor of running damage control; he had hurt his dad, and he looked on guiltily as his father struggled to school his features into a neutral position.
“I’m sorry, Dad!” Daniel rushed to explain, mentally kicking himself for his tone.
“I would never get rid of these. I just can’t. You spent so much time on them, and it makes me feel cared for, kind of important, you know?”
He traced the hem of the special one, eyes softening as his face heated up, but he was determined to get this out before he could talk himself out of it. “Not to mention they’re basically portable hugs. You’re with me all day this way.”
He hadn’t exactly wanted to give quite that much away. But if he had to choose between his pride and his dad, his dad would win every time. It was the truth, after all, and he knew he had made the right choice when his dad’s eyes softened, and he was swallowed in his embrace once again.
Daniel had learned a long time ago that his father’s hugs went beyond the physical; they were part of an extensive nonverbal language, expressing what words simply could not.
Because he maintained a stern public image, a necessity in his line of work, most people didn’t realize that his father was a very emotional man. Daniel had seen how often he was misunderstood and slighted by his peers (to Daniel’s fury) because they never experienced this.
For someone who claimed to have little experience in the area of affection, he sure didn’t act like it. Daniel still had no idea how he managed it, how exactly he coordinated the variations of timing and pressure into such clear but complex expressions. This time, Vlad was conveying relief, awe, gratitude, and as always, more than anything, love.
The guilt intensified, sitting heavy and low in his stomach. He didn’t deserve this. He’s such a hypocrite, furious when others fail to appreciate his father, but hasn’t he done the same thing? Vlad cared so much, almost too much, about other people; he would do anything for the ones he loved, for Daniel. Anything. And yet, Daniel was upset because he had tried to declutter.
Of course, Daniel is fully aware that this isn’t exactly the reason he’s upset, but he’s very careful to avoid the thought. Now is not the time to think about this. It’s much easier to tell himself he’s simply sentimental. Nothing else.
Vlad’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly, seeking reassurance, and Daniel pushed aside the painful train of thought, eager to provide it.
He returned the embrace fiercely; he loves his dad more than anything, and he was determined to convey this. He knows he can’t hold a candle to Vlad’s raw skill in this area, but that doesn’t stop him from trying.
He must have succeeded to some degree, because he feels his dad relax a bit. Daniel sighed, settling his head once again onto a broad shoulder, still a bit damp from earlier, and takes the opportunity to burn this moment into his memory, to add it to his collection.
He savored the slight tickle of grey locks on his upper check, sprung loose from their ties; the pleasant burn of cologne mixed with a scent that was simply Vlad drying his sinuses and coating the back of his tongue; the unnatural heat radiating through his silky shirt, warm and comfortable. For a small eternity, he knows nothing but safety, comfort, and love, and basks in the feeling.
They eventually break apart and, once again, take a moment to collect themselves before Vlad looks again to Daniel’s favorite sweater.
“What happened?” he ventured, concerned by the implication that someone had attacked his son in human form (and rightfully so), but reluctant to upset Daniel further.
Daniel gathered it up with a sigh, reluctant to delve into complicated memories again. He began to refold the garment, grateful for the excuse to avoid eye contact as he, fumbled for an answer that would satisfy his father, struck with an annoying sense of déjà vu.
“I took care of it. Doesn’t exactly fix this, though.”
Vlad sighed; he knew that truth all too well.
They kneeled there awkwardly for a moment, neither entirely what to do, caught in that strange limbo that followed any major argument; that period where you tell yourself everything’s okay now, but you know deep down that it’s a lie. Because the cycle of injury, apology, and forgiveness isn’t some magic fix, and no relationship pops back to how it was before even though the issue has been resolved. Things weren’t really okay yet, and they probably wouldn’t be for a little while.
Honestly, the invasion of privacy didn’t sting nearly as much as his own insecurities; he’d move on. But would Vlad?
Daniel glanced surreptitiously his father. Vlad was an expert at the practiced neutral face, but Daniel knew better; his poor father would be beating himself up about this for days.
Sure, he was still a bit shaken, but nothing had happened. Vlad was just too hard on himself. He had been a mess for weeks that time he had broken Daniel’s nose after opening a door too quickly, despite the fact it had healed without a scare in a matter of days. He had hated the way his father had tiptoed around him, hated that tortured look in his eyes as the incident no doubt looped in his mind, on repeat; over and over again.
If only there was a way to reassure his dad that he still had Daniel’s trust, a way to break through his uncertainly. He played with a loose hem pensively, cursing the circumstances that had led Vlad to rummage through his sweater box in the first place…
Sweaters. It was so obvious.
He gathered up the unwearable sweaters into a neat pile again. He was embarrassed by how reluctant he was to go through with this, but if he had to choose between his dad’s happiness and sweaters that didn’t even fit anymore, well…
There really wasn’t a choice at all.
He got to his feet, and hefted the pile (there really were a lot of them), depositing them in his father’s arms. He smiled wryly as his dad looked down at the pile, bewildered, before raising his gaze and quirking an eyebrow inquisitively.
“Take them.”
Vlad blinked, lips parted slightly to respond, before they shut again. He glanced to the side, brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to reconcile the large volume of mixed messages he had received that afternoon.
“What?” he asked, settling on the explanation that, somehow, he had simply misheard.
“Take them.” Daniel maintained firm eye contact, staring into blue pools identical to his own. “You were right, they don’t even fit me anymore.”
“But, Daniel, those are yours,” Vlad sputtered, intelligently.
Daniel smiled softly.
“They were. But now I want you to have them.”
Vlad looked helplessly at the pile, as if it held the answer to the puzzle that was currently throwing him for a loop.
“But why, Daniel? You told me you love those sweaters.”
He left his father on the floor and walked to the door, grabbing his backpack on the way. He’d do some homework at the kitchen table for a while, give his dad some time alone to process. He paused in the doorway, a melancholy smile pulling at his lips as he gave his answer over his shoulder.
“I do. But I love you more.”
><><
This particular project normally would have taken months; Vlad had it done in one. But not because he had rushed; no, he made absolutely certain it was perfect. Nothing less for Daniel. He didn’t sleep much anyways.
Daniel’s demonstration had the intended effect; knowing he still had his son’s trust even after his mistake meant the world to him.
It had been a shock, at first. He hadn’t known what to think when the boy handed his treasured pile of clothing over with barely an explanation. It had been more difficult than he’d like to admit, allowing his son to walk away after sharing such a sentiment, leaving him on the floor to collect his thoughts. But after the shock (finally) wore off, the implications of the gesture warmed him to the core.
(He also was trying his best not to dwell on the implication that someone attacked Daniel. His son. In human form, no less. Because if he thought about that for too long, it took him to a dark place. He trusted Daniel. He did. But surely it hadn’t been out of line to investigate the incident himself, not that he found anything, to his frustration.)
By the time training had begun that evening, Daniel appeared to have forgotten all about the incident. To the untrained eye, that is. Vlad had to give credit where credit was due; he had admirable focus during training and finished all his homework, but he’d caught a glimpse of him with the cedar chest out again later that evening on his way to bed; reorganizing.
Vlad truly had no idea the boy was so fond of the sweaters. He could have kicked himself. He thought he knew his son so well; how had he missed something so important to him? Sure, he always beamed and hugged him whenever Vlad presented him with a new one (which may have contributed to the vast number now that he thinks about it, hmm…) but then again, Daniel always thanked him for gifts, equally delighted be it a motorbike or a new toothbrush.
In hindsight, though, the favoritism for knitwear was obvious, in the way his eyes would light up just that much brighter, how he’d wear it the very next day. And his words…
They’re basically portable hugs. You’re with me all day this way.
He had replayed this exchange countless times over the past month, the warmth in his chest just as strong as day one. Never before had he known such happiness. Such love.
His eyes prickled a bit. It was strange kind of responsibility, to have such a significant role in the happiness of someone else. He both cherished and feared it in equal measure, terrified he would wake up one day, and he’d realize he’d imagined this whole thing. Or worse, that he would drive Daniel away himself one day, just like every other important person in his life. He’d be alone again.
For years, he chased a mirage of this feeling, feeding his obsession with a woman who would never return his affections, and later, her son. At some point, he had given up, resigned himself to a lifetime of loneliness and swore revenge instead. He had cursed his failures, then.
Now, he thanked whatever power was responsible for those failures; any “victory” he may have achieved during that time, which now felt like lifetimes ago, would have been a mockery of the affection he craved, a mere taste that would have eventually driven him mad with longing. Daniel had freely given him what he’d never dreamed could exist. And it meant the world to him.
He didn’t deserve Daniel. But for some unknown reason, he had decided to stay. He was the first person who had chosen Vlad above all others, and Vlad longed to show him how much he meant to him.
He would continue to make the boy sweaters. Socks. Hats. Scarves. Heck, he’d learn how to sew properly and make all his clothes, if it meant this much to him. But one step at a time.
On that note, Vlad put the finishing touches on the piece, feeling the strange mixture of melancholy and satisfaction he experienced whenever he completed a long-term project.
And to his delight, it turned out much better than he had hoped. He had conducted extensive research regarding design and technique; it was pretty far out of his comfort zone, and he only had one chance to get it right. But it was worth it. Anything for Daniel.
He took a moment to appreciate the fruits of his labor before packing it away with the utmost care.
Everything had to be perfect.
><><
Something was up. Daniel’s eyes narrowed as he watched his dad make breakfast. The change was subtle. Only someone who saw the man on a daily basis would notice the difference; he was almost twitchy, movements sharp and almost harried as he fixed Daniel’s plate.
His Dad placed the food in front of him with a quiet “good morning” and a tired smile. Daniel noted the bruises under his eyes were darker than usual. Daniel thanked him before focusing on his plate, inhaling sharply at its contents.
Pancakes. In fun shapes.
Oh no. It was worse than he thought.
He kept stealing glances at his dad as he ate, watched him worry at the handle of his coffee mug and pick at his own pancakes. Daniel hated to leave him like this, but really, there wasn’t anything to be done when Vlad was in one of these moods. And his dad wouldn’t want him to miss school.
If he lingered a bit during his goodbye hug, his dad didn’t comment. Just bid him to have a good day, like usual.
Daniel tried to go about his day as he normally did, but was unable to shake the concern for his father. They texted as per their habit during his lunch break, in between laughing with his friends, but Vlad seemed a bit…distracted, he supposed.
(His friends could have told him that Vlad wasn’t the only one, but, like all good friends, they didn’t comment, opting instead to respect his privacy, confident that he would talk when and if he wanted to.)
Needless to say, Daniel wasn’t entirely sure what to expect when he crossed the Masters’ threshold that afternoon, hanging his jacket on the rack and shouldering his backpack, anxious to check on his father.
“Dad, I’m home!”
No answer.
He deposited his keys in the dish, and moved through the entryway, calling twice more, trying not to worry when he was met with silence.
While uncommon, it wasn’t unheard of for Daniel to get home before Vlad. But with the mood his dad was in that day, he was on edge. Normally, he would text Daniel when he was working late.
Daniel sighed, running his fingers lightly along the wall of pictures as he made his way down the hall and up the staircase, deciding to distract himself with a bit of schoolwork while he waited for his dad to get back. He hoped he was alright.
Daniel deposited his backpack beside his desk, taking a moment to kick off his shoes before pulling out his phone to text his dad, making his way over to sit on his bed, glancing up to check the height (his muscle memory wasn’t the most reliable these days; he was running into furniture and walls so often that his dad often joked about childproofing) only to stop short. There was already something sitting there.
It was a box of medium size, just short of being too large to hold comfortably with two hands, wrapped simply but neatly in white paper. Resting on top was a light green envelope, with his name inked in gold in a familiar hand.
He furrowed his brows, perplexed, and set aside his phone to pick up the envelope. Unless he was very much mistaken, this was a present from his dad. Strange.
Not that surprise presents were an unusual occurrence; on the contrary, his dad loved giving him gifts, much more than Daniel enjoyed receiving them. The quantity had been truly ridiculous at first. It took a while for him to convince his father to relax, admitting that while he appreciated the thought and attention, he felt guilty that he was unable to reciprocate. So they had compromised, agreeing to save gifting for special occasions.
Of course, Vlad pushed the boundaries of this rule, but it made him so happy to do nice things for Daniel that the teenager didn’t have the heart to call him out. As long as he didn’t go overboard, Daniel had decided he could live with the occasional surprise.
He picked at the flap of the heavy paper envelope.
But, unlike any other time his dad gave him a gift, he wasn’t here. Daniel knew from experience that the real fun of gift-giving came from watching the recipient’s reaction.
And his dad’s absence was clearly intentional. Vlad was a master of presentation; the private location combined with the open and inviting position of the box and envelope was not coincidental. Not to mention his unusual absence from the house at large. And no audience meant no pressure, no need to control his reactions with the feelings of other in mind, free to be himself.
Which meant it was a gift intended for Daniel and Daniel alone. He was touched. And intrigued.
He finally managed to get a thumb under the tight seal, prying the glue apart slowly, careful to leave the envelope intact. He pulled out a sheet of simple off-white stationary, revealing a message in his father’s distinctive hand.
Daniel chuckled a bit; for someone so detail-oriented, his handwriting was atrocious. He sat down, and began to read.
Dear Daniel,
I apologize for violating your privacy and your trust about a month ago. I have no excuse. I allowed my curiosity to overrule my common sense and overstepped your boundaries. Worse, I used this knowledge to impose my will when it was neither wanted nor necessary, failing to respect your space, and by extension, you. I am sorry, Daniel, for this, and any similar past missteps that I failed to recognize.
I cannot promise you that something similar will not happen again; I promise to try my best, but as much as I pretend otherwise, truly, I have no idea what I’m doing. You are the first person I have shared a space with in over twenty years, and those past examples did not end well. Despite my best efforts to the contrary, I successfully drove away everyone close to me. I hurt people. I’d like to think that I’m a bit wiser now, but I know that’s not entirely true.
To be completely honest, I’m terrified, Daniel. You are my only son. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I hurt you as well. And I did hurt you, that day. Others have left for far less.
Imagine my surprise when you forgave me so easily. I simply couldn’t believe that it could be that easy. You know that I trust you, Daniel, but you have to understand that years of evidence to the contrary are not so easily ignored.
And then you decided to prove that there were no hard feelings; you gave the subject of my betrayal back to me, as a sign of good faith. Your prized possessions. Given freely.
I suspect you don’t have any idea clue how truly special you are. So selfless, so kind. If I hadn’t had such an involved role in your creation, I never would have believed that you were my child.
So thank you, Daniel. Thank you for being you.
Daniel blinked back tears, taken aback by the forthright nature of the letter. It was just so honest, so Vlad that he wasn’t sure if he should shake his head or cry. Honestly, he was a bit disappointed; he had thought that his show of trust with the old sweaters had been enough to assure him of Daniel’s sincerity, and relieve him of guilt.
He loved the man, but it killed him how stubborn he could be. He didn’t need to apologize again; Daniel had been tired that day, and overreacted, reading farther into the situation than he should have. They were just a bunch of old sweaters. This was his dad. Why couldn’t his dad see that?
He decided to move on, rubbing at his eyes, unable to suppress a snort at the next line:
Now, because I know you, I’m certain that unlike every other teenager in existence, you read the card first. So do me a favor, please; open up the box before you read the rest.
He shook his head. No one knew him like his dad. He’d worry about the implications of his predictability later.
For now, he took the box into his lap; it had heft, but wasn’t heavy, per se. He turned the package over, searching for the seams, and methodically pried tape away from the wrappings, careful not to tear the paper, savoring the anticipation.
He set the paper aside, and grasped the lid of the oversized white cardboard clothing box, prying it away from the bottom half, and brushed aside green and yellow tissue paper. His hands began to shake.
He was greeted with something familiar, yet new. He traced the old knit pattern, yarn soft from wear, but freshly laundered. He tried a couple of times to lift the bulky block of fabric from the box, but it was packed tight, and he was unable to find purchase. So he gave up and turned the box over onto the sheets instead, then unfolded its contents, eager to see the piece in its entirety. He gaped.
They were all here. All of his old sweaters, the ones that he had given to Vlad that day. The ones that he reluctantly put aside one by one when he could no longer slip into their warm embrace. He had mourned the loss of the memories that went with each one, resigned to enjoy them as mere keepsakes.
He didn’t regret giving them to his dad, but he had missed them.
Here they were, but not as they were; the torsos had been divested of the sleeves and divided in half down the sides, former front and back forming large patches that were sewn methodically onto an oversized sheet of ultra-soft fabric. Parts of the sleeves had been repurposed into artful borders to separate individual sweaters. The construction had been stuffed lightly, and formed a type of quilt.
Overall, the effect was stunning, striking a perfect balance between respect for the past and celebration of a new era.
As far as he could tell, every salvageable part of his collection had a place.
In the middle, framed like a piece of art, was the front of his favorite sweater. His first one, complete with mar and repair job. He traced his friend’s handiwork reverently, taking a moment to reflect before taking action.
He arranged the quilt on top of his comforter, admiring the personal touch it brought to his space. He itched to burrow under it immediately, but he knew better; there was no way he’d be able to avoid falling asleep right now if he was that warm.
It was, without question, the most thoughtful gift he had ever received. So much time and care had been poured into this. He had no idea how his dad had managed to organize the diverse collection into the aesthetically-pleasing and functional piece of art resting on his bed. He felt a rush of concern for his dad. When had he found time to sleep this month?
With a jolt, Daniel remembered that he still had half a letter to read.
He bit his bottom lip, conflicted, and decided to take a calculated risk; he burrowed socked feet under the quilt and shimmied down to his hips, sighing in delight. The warm weight was unbelievably comfortable, and his feeling of nostalgia only intensified with contact. He had missed this. His dad’s voice colored the rest of the text.
Life is full of change. I often did my best to resist it, believing it could bring only pain. You have taught me that this isn’t always the case. Change can bring pain, but it often brings benefits as well. Especially when it brings about growth.
Take your sweaters for example. You were, and still are, incredibly fond of them, despite the fit becoming uncomfortable as you outgrew them. To continue to grow unhindered, you had to take the small sweaters off.
You’ll continue to grow in many different ways. I look forward to seeing who you will become.
But you will find that you will outgrow more than old sweaters in the course of your life. Mindsets, routines, places. At some point, you’ll realize that they’re no longer as comfortable as you remember, but moving on can be hard.
When you reach the point of no return, Daniel, you must promise me you won’t linger. Trying to fit into that “old sweater” again, as tempting as it is, will only bring you pain.
I regret to say I speak from experience. I was stuck, for many years, trying to fit into my own “sweater,” denying the restriction because it was all I had. I was stuck, longing to change my circumstances, but unwilling to release my hold on the “then” and embrace the “now.”
It was painful, to say the least. I wallowed in anger for years, refusing to share blame, placing it fully on the shoulders of my friends, pushing them away. Then I wondered why I was always unhappy and alone, with only my dark thoughts to keep me company.
I was still that person when you came along. No hope, intent on using you as a tool for revenge and conquest. But you were greater than I ever dreamed, far more than I could ever hope: A person. My son.
It terrified me; you were too good for this world, too good for me. And I was ashamed, thought myself unworthy to be your father, terrified I’d ruin you. That I’d fail you.
Please don’t make my mistakes. Make your own. Grow. Live.
Let this quilt remind you that it’s okay to remember the past, but not to dwell on it. With some imagination, your memories can grow with you. The past has its place, but life can only continue when you let go.
You taught me this, Daniel. Let me return the favor.
And no matter what else in your life may change, you can rest easy with the knowledge that I will always be here for you, for as long as you’ll have me.
I am so proud of you, son. I can’t wait to see what kind of man you’ll become.
I love you.
-Vlad
An ugly mix of tears and snot streamed unchecked down Daniel’s face, dripping off his chin onto his shirt, arms carefully outstretched to preserve the letter.
Sure, parts were a bit embarrassing. And sad. But while his dad expressed his love often enough verbally, it was a different experience altogether see it in writing. It felt more authentic, somehow. Perhaps it was the deliberation that was required to record such a sentiment on paper; completely separate from the heat of the moment. Sincere.
Today had been a roller coaster of emotion, from pancakes to quilts; he was exhausted.
When he first slid under the blanket, he had thought he’d never want to get up, reminded of his dad’s embrace. But now, he found himself longing for nothing less than the real thing, confident he knew where his dad had been hiding under the circumstances.
In his haste, he elected to phase out from under the quilt, pausing only to set the letter carefully on his desk before phasing through several walls into Vlad’s private study.
Sure enough, there he was. Daniel barely registered that the man was staring blankly, hunched over an old photo album before it was lost from sight as he released the transformation and buried him in a hug from behind, over his shoulders and the desk chair.
Vlad tensed at first, so lost in thought that he hadn’t heard the boy come in.
“Thank you,” Daniel whispered.
Vlad relaxed, closing the book before turning around with a tentative smile.
Daniel let go, and Vlad stood so he could hug his son properly.
A/N: Thanks so much for reading! I hope you had just as much fun as I did writing it! I’m pretty new to writing fiction (I normally write research papers), so I’d appreciate any feedback you’d be willing to give me. Feel free to point out any mistakes or oversights! Overall, I’m really happy with how this turned out. I guess fifth times’ the charm and all that. I was concerned about the pacing being too slow, so I’m curious to see what you guys think.
I’m also open to requests! Feel free to hit me up. I have a few more shorts planned in this universe, namely, the story of how Daniel’s favorite sweater was damaged and an, admittedly, crack-ish short where Vlad and Daniel react to the sketch that started it all (Vlad commissions a family portrait, but has mixed feelings about the result); but after that, nothing’s planned, but I do have a couple of vague ideas.
Thanks for reading!
#flightyfiction#danny phantom#fanfiction#vlad masters#daniel masters#au#this got really long#oops#long post#tumblr didnt like it the first time#i hope its fixed#update: progress has been made but it still doesnt show up in search#maybe its the links#i might try a link-less version later#here it is#if this fixes it ill post the links seperately#technical difficulties
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Row AQ
Author: kpopfanfictrash
Pairing: You / Yoongi (Suga)
Genre: Fluff / Humor
Prompt: “If I die, I’m going to haunt your ass.” + Library!AU
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2,955
Someone wrote in the book.
Slamming the cover shut, you glare at the deadened library before you. The place is empty, nothing but vacant tables and books as far as the eye can see.
Plopping down in your chair, you sullenly scroll through your laptop and sigh. The book is Kerouac – On the Road, which is an ostentatiously male read. This is the main reason you assume the defacer is male, although the handwriting alone might be enough to identify that fact. Bold scribbles in the margins, notes about the book and life in general. Which would be fine, if this were his book, but it is not.
Rather sadly, you brush the book’s spine. Without thinking, you flip the book open to page 114. This is where the writer apparently lost steam, for the notes end here. It’s the beginning of Part II, where Sal and Dean are discussing a dream Sal had. They converse briefly on the idea of longing for death. Written in the margin is:
It’s interesting... they say they want nothing to do with death, and yet their lifestyle is a contradiction of this. Bright and burning, ferocious and reckless. Is living like this an attempt to keep death at bay, or draw it closer? After all, what’s more alive than to look death in the face and know you’re not?
Lowering the book, you stare into space for a moment.
Perhaps the most annoying part of the whole situation is how intriguing the vandal’s comments are; how thoughtful and intelligent he seems to be. Second most annoying is that the notes are penned in a jarring shade of blue ink. The color lends further to the insult and, gritting your teeth, you push the book aside.
It’s the guy’s audacity which really irks you. The fact that he assumed everyone would want to read his thoughts.
What’s even more annoying is he didn’t even check the book out. When you looked up the last owner, you saw Rosie Garcell. She checked the book out four months ago, despite On the Road being found out of place yesterday.
It’s not only On the Road, either – you found similar notes in Hamlet and The Importance of Being Earnest; big, giant HA’s written across the pages of the latter. At least the guy finds Cecily as annoying as you do, although you suppose that’s kind of the point. The guy flat out screams in the margins in one spot, which made you laugh. Only briefly, before you caught yourself.
Rosie Garcell never checked out The Importance of Being Earnest though, which means the vandal isn’t her. It’s someone else removing the books from their shelves, marking them in bright blue ink and putting them back. You just need to find out who and make them stop.
At least, now you know what book the vandal is on. Staring at On the Road, you contemplate whether or not to act. On the one hand, you really want to let them know you’re onto them. On the other hand, if you do what you’re thinking, it’d make you complicit in their public destruction.
Exhaling deeply, you set the book down on the table. Flipping to page 114 and staring at the last note, you cast a quick glance around the room and lower your pen.
Honestly. What are you doing, defacing library books? Buy your own copy if you want to wax poetic.
You frown at the words, re-reading and wondering if they’re threatening enough. Or possibly they’re too threatening. This is your first conversation, after all. Shaking your head, you decide you’re over-thinking things again.
Before you can stop myself though, you add:
Thanks, and hope you have a nice day.
Placing your pen back in your pocket, you glance at the empty library. Walking quickly to row AQ, where On the Road was found, you shove the book back into place and wipe your now-sweaty palms on your pants. Hopefully, the vandal won’t take long to reply.
They don’t.
The very next night, you check Row AQ for an update before sitting down at your desk. On the Road is visible, its red jacket prominent and your heart starts to pound, walking down the aisle. You didn’t shelve it sticking out so far. Grabbing its spine, you gasp when you see an earmarked page.
Page 196, and beside the page marker is a note.
Hello, either A) righteous library worker or B) concerned citizen who’s wandered in from the streets. It’s good to see you’re taking an interest in the public library system. I, too, wish I could buy my own copy but unfortunately, I’m flat-out broke. Skint, penniless, no coin in my threadbare pockets.
That said, it was kind – if somewhat odd – of you to wish me a nice day, so I’ll do the same.
P.S. What did you think of Sal and Dean’s conversation? Do you see the lure of death? Personally, I think it’d be kind of fun to haunt someone.
You almost laugh, but catch yourself just in time. This punk – he has some nerve to try and be funny in this kind of situation. Despite this, you find myself smiling as you walk down the aisle.
Battling the guilt of removing a book from its row, you bring the book to your desk and sit to re-read the vandal’s words. The library is busier than usual tonight, so it’s a long while before you can lay your pen to paper.
Hello, sir.
You are a sir, aren’t you? If you’re female and I’ve assumed wrongly based on your handwriting – I do apologize. It’s fine that you’re broke, but why do you have to write in the margins? You can just read! Control your ink.
Interesting though, that you think it’d be fun to haunt someone because WRITE IN THE MARGIANS AGAIN and if I die, I’m going to haunt your ass.
P.S. I did agree with your general thoughts on the conversation.
Quickly shutting the book, you wonder what the hell you’re doing.
You’re an upstanding citizen. You volunteer, work part-time around your college courses and always, always pay your credit card bill on time. You’re not a chronic margin-writer and yet, here you are on your bathroom break, sliding the book into its new spot at the end of row AQ.
Returning to your desk, you wonder if this guy visits the library in the morning. It must be a time other than your shift, since you never seem to see him. Or, maybe he’s sitting here right now. Scanning the room, you narrow my eyes and try to identify the culprit.
A woman stands at the water fountain; you watch her pile three books on top of the ledge before taking a drink. You wince at the thought of them falling before moving on to the next person. Behind her sits a girl and boy. Neither one of them have pens with them though, and both seem immersed in their books, so you keep looking.
One by one, you cross off every person in the library. Sinking lower in your seat to swivel around, you know this is silly, yet your gaze continues to drift in the direction of the stacks. There’s nothing to do now but wait, and it is with this mindset the night passes.
The next day, you fairly run from your lecture hall. Catching the bus in record time, you sprint from the steps and nearly bowl over the lone guy who stands in line for the bus. Shoulder hitting his, you spin to jog backwards.
“Sorry!” you yell, wincing when the guy doesn’t look. “Really!”
Nodding once, the guy adjusts his black beanie and climbs onto the bus. Over his shoulder, he waves a hand to acknowledge he’s fine. Shrugging, you hike your bag higher and open the library doors.
First, you wander the room, glancing at every face before reaching row AQ. It’s disappointing when you find the book already there. You’d been half-hoping to catch whoever it is in the act.
Tugging the book from the shelf, it falls open in your hand.
Yes, I’m a guy and although I don’t object to being called sir, Yoongi will do. I’m offended you’d ask me to stop writing. Ask me not to breathe, ask me not to speak, but never deprive me of words.
You’ll haunt my ass? For uh, scientific reasons… are you a girl or a guy?
P.S. Also – just out of curiosity, which notes of mine stuck out?
Your heart pounds, probably from running so fast. As you firmly shut the book, you realize today’s page is 215. Either, Yoongi didn’t have as much time to read, or he’s reading slower than usual. The realization makes you wonder if he’s enjoying the exchange as much as you are, and attempting to stretch out our conversation.
Glancing at your watch, you notice the time. 4:05 PM – damn, you’re late. Dashing back to the front, you studiously avoid meeting your boss’ gaze. It’s not like you can explain where you’ve been, or what you’ve been doing. Your pen itches to write Yoongi back but again, the library is busy tonight.
You end up preoccupied nearly until close, helping students to find books, returning old ones to shelves: cataloguing, indexing and checking people in. Finally, around 10:00 PM, you explain to your boss you need to return one more book to its shelf.
Returning to row AQ, you squat behind the shelves. Scribbling furiously to Yoongi, you write on page 215.
I am a girl, my name is Y/N. I’ll be sure to respect your boundaries when I’m haunting you. I do want to apologize though, for telling you to stop writing. In all honesty – despite the delinquency of method – the notes you wrote were rather beautiful.
P.S. I have a lot of favorites
The next day, you manage to work for nearly a half-hour before allowing yourself to check the shelf. You half-jog to row AQ, yanking On the Road from it’s hiding place on the shelf.
Page 217 has been bookmarked and you laugh, realizing yes, Yoongi is reading slower on purpose.
Hi Y/N,
You work here, don’t you? You must, since you keep calling me all sorts of rude things for doodling in the margins. What’s your favorite book? I’ll read that one next. If… I can ever finish this book, that is. Page 216 was tough to get through. It took me an entire day.
P.S. Please tell me? I’ll tell you something in return.
Exhaling softly, you try and suppress your excitement. You don’t know Yoongi, you remind yourself. It makes absolutely no sense to be so interested in what he has to say.
The library is rather empty tonight, though, so you quickly pull out your ballpoint pen and settle down on the floor. You’ve been writing in black ink throughout the book, in contrast to Yoongi’s blue-colored notes.
I only call you names you deserve, Yoongi.
Defacer, graffitist, criminal, thug, ruffian, delinquent – I could go on, but this is only a 300 page novel. Defacing books is the highest form of crime, in my opinion. My favorite book is The Importance of Being Earnest – but I saw you wrote notes in the margins of that one already.
P.S. What secret would you tell me?
The next night, on page 218:
Y/N, I think you’re forgetting one, very important detail and that is – you’re ALSO writing in this book! You’re a defacer, a graffitist, a criminal, a ruffian, a delinquent – well, I can’t quite say thug. Although, if you want me to call you a thug, far be it from me to crush your dreams.
P.S. If you tell me what your favorite note is, I’ll tell you something I haven’t told anyone
The conversation has been going on for over a week.
Rereading Yoongi’s last note, you lean your head to the wall. You feel as if you know him, which sounds silly. You don’t know this Yoongi. You don’t know anything real about him, beyond his pen and his ink and his words but somehow, this feels like enough.
Yoongi.
I like your name – did I tell you that? It’d be nice to hear you say it aloud. Fine, I’ll tell you my favorite, but I expect a very incriminating secret in return.
P.S. “Breathing is easy, but living is hard. When people ask about your life, they never ask about your temperature, your last meal, or how well you slept. They ask about your sweat, your thoughts and your actions. I want my actions to count.”
Setting down your pen, you stare at his quote.
You didn’t even need to reference the words; you’d already memorized them. It’s an annotation Yoongi wrote in Part I of On the Road. It had struck you at the time, part of the reason you kept flipping pages. Most people write dutifully, a train of thought which rarely amounts anything. Not Yoongi.
Returning the book to its shelf, you wonder if this is what you wanted all along. To know more about the man who wrote such beautiful words.
The entire bus ride home, you stare out the window. It’d be nice if you were courageous enough to do something like leave Yoongi your number. The idea of it brings heat to your cheeks and again, you tell myself you don’t know him. Yoongi could be seventy years old, or not interested in women, or an ax murderer. Leaning your head to the glass, you continue to stare at the streets which pass by.
Realizing something, you straighten in your seat. There’s an easy solution to all this. You could simply go to the library early. You could camp by the shelf and wait for Yoongi to appear. Even if you decide not to speak to him, at least you’d know what he looks like. Mind made up, your eyelids flutter shut. Tomorrow, you’ll head into work early.
The next morning, you skip class. Heart racing, you duck in the side door of the library, scared someone will recognize you and call out your name. It’d be awkward for Yoongi to recognize you before you can recognize him. Wandering further in, you choose a table directly facing Row AQ. I wait. Pulling out your binders, you pretend to study when in actuality, you’re peering over your book at the shelves.
No one comes.
Minutes, hours pass and you sit there in silence, growing more and more impatient. Maybe Yoongi comes to the library later than you originally thought. Possibly he leaves before 4:00 pm (the start of my shift), but arrives after – you glance at your watch and feel your heart sink. 3:30. You must have missed him. Or, maybe Yoongi just isn’t coming by today.
Wearily, you stand and begin gathering your things. Halfheartedly, you decide to check the book but are halfway down the aisle when you notice it’s gone. Nearly tripping over yourself in your haste to be closer, your hands brush the shelves, but there’s nothing to find.
High and low, you search for a book that’s not there. Groaning out loud, you run a hand through your hair. The only thing you can think is someone on the library staff rearranged the shelves before your arrival.
That, or Yoongi moved the book.
Warily, you consider this option. Yoongi hasn’t come in yet today, he hasn’t left you a note. Maybe your last note was too much and you scared him off. Maybe, Yoongi could tell that you liked him – maybe he saw you’re enamored with a total stranger, completely freaking him out, so he ran.
Swallowing hard, you realize it’s almost time for your shift. Holding your things tightly to your chest, you berate myself for imagining this to be more. It’s not as though you and Yoongi are friends, it’s not like you were actually flirting.
Still, his notes have become the highlight of your week and the thought of their absence pains you more than you can articulate.
Rounding the corner, your feet come to a stop. You stare, confused by the sight of On the Road placed in the middle of your desk. The cover is unmistakable, bright red and completely out of place. Slowly, you lower your bag to the ground, taking a step forward and running a finger along its spine.
You notice the last page has been folded and when you open the book, your heart starts to race.
I haven’t told anyone this yet, but I’m falling for a girl I’ve never met.
Someone clears his throat from behind and you whirl, nearly dropping the book in the process.
A guy stands several feet away, staring at you with wide eyes. He’s handsome; medium height and build, with delicate features. His hair is silver – dyed, you think – and slightly reflective in the light. In his hands, the guy is holding a black knit beanie.
“You,” you blurt, realizing who he is. “I almost knocked you over when I ran off of the bus.”
Yoongi nods, somewhat incredulous. “I thought I recognized you.”
Placing the book down on your desk, you take a slow step forward. “You didn’t come to the library this morning,” you say, your eyes narrowing. “I waited for you.”
His upper lip quirks. “I came earlier,” Yoongi explains. “I couldn’t wait any longer. I’m... Yoongi, by the way.”
You watch him move closer. “I know. I’m Y/N.”
“Hm. What do you know.” Yoongi scans my face. “I like the way you say your name.”
“That’s my line,” you say, crossing your arms. A faint smile takes over your face. “I should have known you were a thief, in addition to vandal.”
Yoongi grins. “Slander,” he murmurs, his eyes large and dark. Silver hair falls into his gaze as he exhales. “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to get over you being here. You’re just so…”
“Short?”
“Beautiful.”
You’re grateful then, that you’re in a library. It means the space between you is hushed, the people around you infinitely quiet. You hear every word Yoongi says and you feel when something careful settles into place between you.
“Did you mean it?” you ask, swallowing your hesitancy. “What you wrote?”
He’s falling for someone he’s never met.
Yoongi nods again. “Did you really like my writing?”
You nod back. “Yes. Very much so.”
You stand there for a while, looking at one another. At least, you do until Yoongi smiles and you realize what could possibly be more beautiful than his words.
“Then,” he teases, his eyes bright with humor. “I propose a deal. I’ll pay the library back for the book I destroyed if you’ll go on a date with me.”
You laugh, a touch nervous when he takes a step closer. “But what would you get?”
“That’s simple,” Yoongi says. “I’ll get you on a date. What do you say?”
A slow smile spreads across your face. “I’d say thank you for defacing public property.”
Author’s Note: Er. This is a one shot. LOL - I hope you enjoy!
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