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ayybtch · 4 years ago

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Bread

Wanda Maximoff x f!Reader, Baker!AU + Friends to Lovers

Chapter 5 of Made With Love

Word Count: 3,292

Chapter Warnings: Our two favorite idiots are so blind it’s not even funny, lots of yearning, some brief mentions of alcohol consumption towards the end

A/N: Hey guys! Thanks for being patient with me on getting this posted. School and work have been crazy, but I’m almost done for the semester so hopefully it won't be as long for the next update. Shout out to my Grandma for sending me her paprikash recipe so I would actually know what I was talking about for this chapter. We literally never speak but she did me a real solid on this one and I will be adding paprikash into my regular cooking schedule once fall hits. Full disclosure though, I literally Googled “What wine pairs with chicken paprikash” and the wines mentioned are what it gave me. Please let me know what you think! I love reading your guys’s comments, it really makes my day.

Hey, so everyone is going to be out on a mission tomorrow night except for me. Any chance I can cash in on that raincheck? There’s a Bewitched marathon happening.

You smiled at Wanda’s message, quickly typing out your response. Definitely! Would you like to join me for bread day tomorrow?

She responded almost immediately. YES!

You couldn’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm. She had been wanting to make bread ever since the two of you made snickerdoodles. She brought it up almost constantly, mostly as a joke to get back at you for all of the times you teased her about it.

Up to this point, Wanda refused to accept any of your attempts to say thank you for helping you out through the cupcake debacle, saying that this was the sort of thing that friends were for. It only felt right that this should be the next thing to bake as your own special way of saying thank you.

As excited as you were to spend time with her and teach her how to do this, you couldn’t help but feel incredibly nervous at the same time. Why had Wanda decided to share her sexuality with you after all this time?

Okay, scratch that. You understood why she shared it with you when she did. The real question is what to do with the information now that you had it.

Was it just a general knowledge sort of a deal? Or was this her way of trying to say she was interested?

You groaned and put your head in your hands. This is why you hadn’t dated someone since your last relationship ended. You needed big flashing lights that screamed “I want to date you!” before you’d catch on, and even that didn’t work sometimes. If someone tried to be subtle, you were an absolute lost cause. You did your best to recall every interaction you had with Wanda that could even remotely be considered as her flirting or expressing interest.

She did smile at you a lot, even more than she smiled at Sam and Bucky who she clearly adored. She also certainly didn’t shy away from physical contact and had even initiated it several times. She had also remembered your coffee and bagel order from the one random time it came up weeks ago...

Suddenly, everything started to add up. All of those glances that had left your heart racing, all of those little touches...maybe Wanda was interested in you?

Your heart felt ready to burst out of your chest with joy.

Wanda didn’t arrive at the bakery until almost noon. The majority of the bread had been baked already; the only bread left to make was hers.

The two of you said your hello’s and caught up a bit as she stepped in to put on her apron and began washing her hands. Once the conversation slowed, you started your rundown for today’s bake.

“Bread is actually a lot easier than it looks but there are a couple of points we’re going to need to be careful at. I’ll remind you about them as we go about but I figured it would be good to have them all in your head now.

“We’re going to be very conscientious about temperatures this entire bake in a way we haven’t really needed to before. When we’re dealing with the yeast, we need the milk around 110 to 115o so the yeast activates properly. We also want things to be warm during the rise times, which shouldn’t be too much of an issue given the ovens have been on most of the day. Once it’s in the oven, we aren’t going to mess with it at all until the last couple minutes and that’s only if we need it to brown further.”

Wanda nodded along as you spoke. “I don’t know how much of an actual problem this is because you’re here, but I always hear a lot about overworking or underworking the dough. How do I know if it’s been kneaded enough?”

“Ah, good question! If the dough keeps getting really flat and not holding its shape, it’s underworked. If the dough is overworked, it gets kind of hard and not easy to work with. The good news is that we’re kneading by hand since it’s your first time and it’s a lot less likely to happen that way than in a mixer.”

She looked unconvinced but nodded. “Okay, so where do we begin?”

The first fifteen minutes of the bake flew by quickly. The yeast mixture had been prepared and was almost ready for the rest of the ingredients to be mixed in. Wanda was completely in awe at how the mixture looked.

To be fair to her though, the yeast mixture does look very weird if you’re not used to seeing it.

Once the flour, salt, and eggs were mixed in, the true fun began. Everything was mixed just enough to be combined into a rough, sticky ball of dough before being taken out of the mixer and onto the floured counter. Wanda followed along as you sprinkled some flour on your dough and began to knead, doing her best to mirror your motions.

You watched her out of the corner of your eye as you worked the dough, waiting to see what she would do. It was hard to hold back your giggles as you watched her. She was practically just squeezing the dough in different directions. You gave her a few minutes to see if she would work things out, but eventually, you set your dough down and moved closer to her.

“Here, let me help,” you said. Your hands moved so they were on top of hers, you tried guiding her through the motions, only for things to fail miserably.

“Okay, can I try something that might be a little weird? It’s just that I’m not used to kneading at an angle like that so it’s throwing off my muscle memory.”

She nodded and you adjusted yourself so you were now standing behind her. Your arms slid around either side of her waist and your hands rested on top of hers. This time, your hands knew what they were doing and you were able to help guide her through the motion. Even after she got it, you remained standing behind her, your chin resting against her shoulder.

The feelings that washed over you as you stood there with her were hard to describe. There was nothing necessarily comfortable about the position you were in, but your whole body felt more relaxed than it had all day. At the same time though, everything felt electrifying. You hoped she couldn’t feel the way your heart was thumping against your chest.

It wasn’t until you realized Wanda had paused and turned back slightly to face you slightly that you stepped back. An apology rose up in your throat only to die as you noticed the small smile on her face. You shot a smile back at her before moving back to your spot, turning your attention back to the job at hand.

The rest of the bake went smoothly, despite Wanda’s fretting about if the bread was rising enough. It didn’t take long before you had two perfectly round loaves of bread sitting next to each other on the cooling rack. Wanda had not stopped smiling since they came out of the oven. Even though that was her usual response, this time felt different.

For the second time that day, you were left trying to describe impossible feelings. Was it her eyes that felt different? They were lit beautifully, radiating so much joy it was impossible to not feel just as excited. But how was that any different from usual? Her eyes always captivated you and left you breathless. Maybe it was the new shade of pink lipstick she had on. It was perfectly accentuating the shape of her lips, to the point you couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to feel them pressed against yours.

You may not be able to pinpoint what the look was, all you knew is that you were grateful to be a part of why her smile was so big.

After she finished taking pictures of the loaves, she turned to you. “That was incredible! I had no idea bread could be that simple.”

You nodded along, unable to hold back a smile. “I told you it wasn’t too bad, there are just a couple spots you have to be sure to navigate well. And clearly -” you gestured towards the loaves, “- you did. Maybe I should start worrying about you stealing my job.”

Her laughter filled the kitchen at your teasing.

As her laugher began to die out, her focus turned back on to you. “Okay, so what time were you thinking of coming over? I’m making us dinner and want to try and have it finishing up right around the time you get there.”

You glanced over at the clock and then back to the to-do list written out on the whiteboard above your desk before answering, “I think it’ll probably be close to five if I had to guess. I still have to finish cleaning some stuff here and I promised to go help Charlie work out some menu options for that picnic thing that’s coming up.”

Wanda nodded along, “Are you going to that?”

“I’m working it, so I, unfortunately, don’t have much of a choice.”

She nodded again. “Same here, actually. All of the Avengers are required to be unless there’s some sort of alien invasion again or something…” She trailed off a moment before continuing. “I was planning on making paprikash. Is that okay with you? I don’t know if there’s anything you can’t or don’t like to eat.”

“I’ve actually never had that before so that would be wonderful! I’m pretty easy when it comes to food. The only things I don’t like are mushrooms and zucchini, but I’ll still eat them if I have to.”

Wanda gasped, “You don’t like mushrooms? How do you not like mushrooms?”

You just shrugged, “Okay, I’m actually pretty neutral on mushrooms. I’ll still eat them. I just don’t go out of my way to make them for myself. Zucchini is a firm no, though.”

She gave you a side-eye but relented. “Well, there are no mushrooms or zucchini in this, but just know I’m going to have to keep an eye on you from now on. I don’t know how we’ve made it this far into our friendship without me knowing you’re an anti-mushroom heathen.”

The two of you joked around for a few minutes longer before she left to start preparing for dinner.

Planning the menu with Charlie didn’t take very long, which you were grateful for. He already had a decent idea of what he wanted to do, so the main thing left was to figure out how much food to order to prepare it. The two of you also agreed upon what you needed to make. Most of your responsibilities centered around desserts, specifically pies, though you agreed to make some fresh rolls and soft pretzels as well.

You were thankful for the meeting to end though because it meant the remaining time you had left could be spent getting ready to go see Wanda.

‘Getting ready’ was perhaps a bit dramatic. You were just changing out of your usual work clothes into something a little cuter. It was nothing particularly fancy, but it was an outfit you felt both confident and comfortable in. You had also made sure to pack some toiletries that morning, allowing you to freshen up your deodorant and brush your teeth as well.

As you stepped into the elevator and pressed the button, you couldn’t help but feel a bit jittery. The past few times you’ve made your way to that part of the building you’ve been nervous about the other Avengers not wanting you there. This time though, all of your nerves could be attributed entirely to Wanda. You weren’t sure what to expect of tonight, but you were determined to have a fun night filled with food and good company.

The warm smell of paprika filled the air and made your stomach grumble as soon as you stepped out of the elevator. Once you were inside, you found Wanda in the kitchen, stirring in some additional seasonings.

“This smells incredible,” you said, setting the two loaves of bread down on the counter.

Wanda beamed. “Thanks! This is my great grandmother’s recipe and is one of my favorite things to make.” As she set the spoon down, she walked towards the fridge. “I bought some wine to go along with dinner if you would like some.”

“Yes please, wine sounds amazing right now.”

“I have a chardonnay and a Barolo, which would you prefer?” she asked, turning back towards you.

You shrugged, “Whichever one you want.”

She nodded and pulled out the Barolo. It didn’t take long for the bottle to be opened and to have a glass of wine in your hand.

It wasn’t until you took your first sip that you realized Wanda had also changed. Your breathing hitched as you looked her up and down. Gone were her jeans and old T-shirts, replaced by a pair of cut-off shorts and a stylishly oversized T-shirt. If it weren’t for the fuzzy wool socks on her feet, you’d assume she was camera-ready. Hell, even with the funny socks she was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen.

You realized you were staring and abruptly began looking around the kitchen, trying to find something to do that would take your mind off of how hot Wanda looked. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

Wanda shook her head no. “There’s not really anything to be done, this just needs to simmer for about another five minutes and we’ll be good to go. Why don’t you go have a seat at the table and I’ll be over in just a moment with some bread slices and butter. Once this is ready I’ll bring it in as well.”

You nodded and made your way out of the kitchen and towards the table.

It wasn’t until you were seated that you realized how well the table was set. Both seats had beautiful flatware laid out, with silverware organized neatly to the side. Underneath was a crisp, pure white table cloth. What caught your attention the most though were the two lit candles sitting between your chair and hers. It wasn’t until you noticed the candles that you also noticed the music playing softly in the background.

Everything about the setup screamed ‘fancy first date’.

Before you had much of a chance to dwell on the thought, Wanda arrived with several slices of bread and a small dish of butter. You thanked her before she walked back towards the kitchen. She returned soon after with the pot of paprikash, setting it on the hot pad in the center of the table. She walked around to her seat and soon both of you had your plates filled and began to eat.

It was impossible to hold back a satisfied sigh as you took your first bite. It tasted just as delicious, if not better than it smelled. The chicken was cooked perfectly and all but melted in your mouth. The paprika added a nice rich flavor and added extra depth to the creaminess of the sauce.

“Wanda this is incredible.”

She smiled at you brightly, “If you think it’s good by itself, try dipping the bread with some butter in it.”

You did as she said and this time instead of a satisfied sigh, you let out a satisfied moan. “You are going to have to give me this recipe. This is so good I don’t even know what to say, all I want to do is keep eating.”

Wanda laughed at your enthusiasm. “Tell you what, I’ll teach you how to make it sometime. It’s about time I taught you something in the kitchen.”

Dinner was a blast. The two of you spent more of it laughing and talking than eating. The bottle of Barolo was finished before dinner was done. It didn’t take long before it was replaced by the chardonnay.

Once dinner was over, you fought Wanda to let you help clean up the kitchen. Her argument that guests shouldn’t help was shot down as you pointed out she’s technically a guest in the bakery, yet she always helps clean up after she’s been in there. She grumbled about it but quickly conceded. It didn’t take long for the kitchen to be cleaned up and even less time after that for her to drag you over to the couch.

The first-ever episode of “Bewitched” was halfway finished by the time the two of you had settled into your spots on the couch. Currently, Samantha and Darrin were at his ex-girlfriend's house for a dinner party and the girlfriend was doing everything she could to make Samantha feel inferior. Samantha, of course, wasn’t having it and was willing to fudge her promises of not using magic to level the playing field.

Wanda laughed along perfectly in time with the sitcom track. The more she laughed, the more your attention turned from being on the TV to be on her. This was the most relaxed and happy you had ever seen her. She had a small, almost imperceivable smile that grew as she became more and more emerged into the episode. Each time she laughed, you noticed how her nose would scrunch up in the cutest way and it took everything you had to not lean over and kiss her.

What you wouldn’t give to make her as happy as this show.

It wasn’t until the end credits were about to roll that you forced yourself to look back at the screen, unsure of how she’d respond if she caught you staring.

As the next episode cued up, she reached out and grabbed her glass of wine before turning to face you.“So, what do you think? Could I have been a Samantha in another life?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Definitely, though I can’t see you being willing to hide your powers just because a man wants you to.”

Wanda nearly choked on the sip of wine she had taken. “You got me there.”

She finished the glass and set it back on the table before letting out a loud yawn. “Sorry, I probably should’ve warned you beforehand that wine makes me a little sleepy.” She paused for a moment before she continued, “It also makes me incredibly cuddly…”

A rush of emotions washed over you as you processed her words. Was she asking to come cuddle with you?

The hopeful look in her eye suggested she was.

Pure, unadulterated joy swept over your body and you had to fight the urge to jump up and down from excitement. You did your best to collect yourself before you replied, hoping that the answer was indeed what you were looking for.

“Is that your way of asking if you can come snuggle?”

She smiled at you sheepishly, which made you laugh. You moved over on the couch, moving around some of the throw pillows so you could lay down.

“Well, what are you waiting for then?”

Wanda didn’t hesitate for a moment and soon was laying on top of you, her head resting on your chest. One of your arms wrapped loosely around her back after she settled in.

A comfortable silence fell over you as you laid there together, watching Bewitched until you fell asleep.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda maximoff fan fiction

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nevertheless-moving · 4 years ago

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Pop Star Wars AU: Waking

Drabble set in this au which I wrote way back a few weeks ago.

Back then, I had only recently decided to look up my tumblr password for a third attempt at being an appreciative fandom community member instead of just trying to think really hard at internet strangers, and maybe shout into the void a little. (But there’s like, several people here now??? How did you even find me on the internet? )

Anyway I have since learned how to spell Anakin’s name and insert links. Also that if you resize your window while typing directly into tumblr everything disappears.

Self Indulgent Crack Pop Star Wars Time Travel Fixit (star wars au no 3):

After several years of exile in the Jundland Wastes, Ben Kenobi had not quite finished mentally unpacking the decades of mistakes, grief, and failure that had led him to the desert. It was the work of a lifetime, and some days were harder than others. But after several forays in and out of alcoholism, spice addiction, and every other form of geographically-accessible self-destruction, he could at least say that some days were easier.

The process was no doubt made more difficult by the abject solitude. Unlike the chaotic years that constituted the fall of the Republic, he had all too much time to think, and no one around to share his thoughts with. He closed his eyes in the dark of his hut, thoughts drifting between past and future.

The past was as ugly and lovely as ever. The larger future didn’t look much better, but he could find some joy in the thought of tomorrow and fresh bantha milk when the herd roamed near. Owen was always much less begrudging of his presence when he came with an offering, and Beru would likely invite him to stay for noon meal where he would share in fresh cheese as Luke rambled about his plans to fix-up a junked speeder bike.

The thought of Luke’s happiness at the treat allowed him enough peace of mind to meditate more deeply.

He carefully broke off a piece of unfair-bitterness from his larger loving-grief. The bitterness he released into the force. The grief he turned over and soothed until its edges dissolved. He accepted it, now smoother if not smaller, laying it to rest alongside his hard-earned wisdom and unfinished poetry.

Tired, but fractionally lighter, Ben Kenobi drifted to sleep.

He opened his eyes to the first rays of daylight peeking in his temple chambers.

The room was intimately familiar. For a few years they were Ashoka’s, on the rare occasion she found herself temple-side and in want of privacy but not complete solitude. For a solid decade before her, the chambers were Anakin’s, though he was quick enough to accept the common room couch when Ashoka entered their life. And before that...they were his. That was his model rocket on the shelf, and his astronomical mobile hanging from the ceiling, and his robes scattered on the floor, though they hadn’t been arranged as such in this room since his apprenticeship with Qui-Gon. He sat up.

Glad he had put energy into meditation last night, he used the lingering clarity of mind to try and work through possible explanations.

Vivid Dream? No a quick pinch to his inner elbow debunked that, as well as the fact that the morning taste in his mouth was more the minty tang of denti-cleaner, rather than the saltiness of dried meat which he had grown accustomed to.

Hallucinogenic mushroom flashback? Possible, though it still wouldn’t explain the detail of physical sensations he felt, running his hand from the temple-spun linens on his bed to the warm-carved wood of his bedside table. He stood and did a perfect forward flip in place. Shockingly his knees didn’t ache at impact, but a drug induced hallucination of this intensity would have some sort of impact on his equilibrium, and he felt perfectly balanced, at least physically.

Force vision seemed most likely. Sinking into cross-legged meditation, he gradually lowered his mental shields. There was no whisper of Vader or Palpatine anywhere near Hutt space at this time, so the risk of reaching out was both manageable and necessary. Rather than the pure energy he personally associated with intense visions, he felt gradients of light, echoing ripples of emotions, and the unique solidity of force-imbued stone walls.

Heart beginning to race as reality set in, Ben concluded that he was, indeed, in the Jedi temple on Courascant. Even if he had suffered a complete psychotic break, his force sense couldn’t lie with such crystal clear detail. Confused unreality mixed with images of the past and future, sure. But this was the temple. It just was.

He couldn’t make sense of it. Even if he had somehow been found, drugged, and transported to the heart of the empire, the rooms as he sensed them didn’t exist anymore. The contents were lost or burnt, the stone walls destroyed and rebuilt into a wing of the Imperial Palace.

Obi-Wan sank deeper into the force and reached out further, searching for he answers. In general, the force felt light, the shroud of the darkside was a hazy irritation in the distance, not a smothering blanket. The manifold wounds in the force formed by senseless war and destruction were absent. Also gone were the tang of grief and loss that he had begun to associate with the temple’s signature even before- even before the purge.

The temple was also full to the brim with tens of thousands of lights in the living force. He reached out to them incredulously, nudging many just to feel a living, sentient response. The last time he remembered feeling so many Jedi all in the temple at the same time was...well, when he still lived in this room. The nearest living force sensitive presence was achingly familiar, though notably and unquestioningly living. He could feel the presence moving nearer and retreated, pulling himself fully back into his body.

The only explanation that fit was that he had suddenly, miraculously, inexplicably traveled back in time.

He half ran to his closet, opening the door with a yank to reveal a full length mirror. A once-familiar, 25-year old padawan stared back with visible shock. Of course his knees didn’t hurt, this body hadn’t yet been broken and abused by knighthood, war, and Tatooine. His hands examined the smooth chin, the unwrinkled forehead, and even the terrible, terrible haircut.

Obi-wan startled at a knock at his door, freezing in place.

“Padawan?” Came Qui-Gon Jinn’s voice softly, “I don’t intend to pull you out of meditation prematurely, but is there a particular reason you were sprawling over the temple this morning? You startled me somewhat. To be perfectly honest, I think you might have alarmed a few people around the temple, I’ve already received messages from council telling me to reign in my padawan before he hurts himself.”

Qui-Gon sounded more amused than reprimanding, and he paused, clearly waiting for an answer.

Obi-Wan’s jaw locked up. What could he say? How could he even to begin to explain what had happened? He sank to floor, head pressed to the ground and tears silent streaming down his face. All he could do was offer to the force were words, the feelings could come later Thank you. Thank youThankyouthankyouTHANKYOU.

For whatever reason, the force had granted him a second chance. Regardless if it was intended as punishment, gift, or inexplicable chance, he would build a better future than the one he left behind.

“Padawan?” Qui-Gon knocked again, sounding concerned, “Are you alright? If you don’t answer I’m going to have to come in there.”

And all at once he had flipped back to not enough time to think and too many people needing his attention.

Obi-Wan managed to open his mouth to call out some meaningless assurance, intent on gaining more time to process the fantastical situation. Much to his surprise, what came out was a strangled, keening sob. Qui-Gon burst through the door.

Obi-Wan realized, with a little embarrassment, that he was curled up practically into a ball on the floor, tears streaming in a shocking waste of water. It was probably not the most dignified, nor the most reassuring position for Qui-Gon to walk in on.

Qui-Gon rushed to his side, pulling him up by the shoulders to frantically look him over. “What happened?” he demanded, “Are you hurt? Did something go wrong while you were meditating and you were trying to reach out for help?”

Obi-Wan smiled at the barrage of questions. He had almost forgotten that on the rare occasions when Qui-Gon’s perfect Jedi serenity broke, he became somewhat counterproductively intense.

“I’m alright, Master,” he tried to say, but what came out was more of a croaking, “MNNrlerR.”

This predictably, only increased Qui-Gon’s concern.

To Obi-Wan’s deep consternation, he was dragged by Qui-Gon to the healer’s wing. He remained quiet during the examination, not wanting to risk whatever was compromising his ability to speak. It could be readjusting to his younger body, or a manifestation of the admittedly great emotional shock he was still experiancing. Or simple lack of practice- it had been several weeks since he had last heard the sound of his own voice, from a certain point of view.

After finding no physical cause for concern, Master Vyr asked Qui-Gon to wait outside.

“Padawan Kenobi?” The Tortugan healer asked gently. “Your Master seems quite insistent that something is wrong. Would you like to discuss what the problem seems to be?”

Obi-Wan cleared his throat and was relieved when his voice came out smooth and under his control, “I’m alight, Master. I apologize for disruption. I experienced a... particularly strong vision when I woke up this morning, and temporarily lost control over myself. I’m already feeling more stable. I believe I simply need to meditate on what I’ve seen. My master unfortunately came in while I was dealing with some of the emotional aftermath.

“I see,” Vyr responded. “Did you experience this vision before or after your expansive foray into the force? I understand a surprising swath of the temple felt your presence press against them this morning.”

“I reached out after,” Obi-Wan admitted. “My vision was...particularly dark. I felt the need to ground myself with the presence of other Jedi. I’ll make certain to apologize to anyone I may have startled.”

Eventually he was cleared with the strict instruction to stick with shallow meditation for the next few days as well as a strong recommendation to seek out Master Yoda, Sifo-Dryfas, or one of the other Master known to experience visions.

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan walked back to their quarters together in a peaceful quiet. It wasn’t until the door clicked behind them that Qui-Gon rounded on his padawan.

“What vision could possibly have left you in such distress?”

Obi-Wan walked to the kitchenette to make tea, stalling before answering. “You have always told me to stay focused on the present, Master”

Qui-Gon frowned. “Yes, however this...vision seems to have altered you somehow. You are grieved by it.”

“Yes. But what I grieve may never come to pass.”

It won’t come to pass. I might not know his every tool, but I do know Sideous’s biggest secret, and I WILL stop him.

“Will you not tell me what you saw?” Qui-Gon asked, sounding somewhat hurt.

Obi-Wan poured the hot water carefully, feeling torn. If he told Qui-Gon everything... would he believe him? Perhaps, eventually but...what would become of Anakin, still just a boy? And the moment he knew of Palpatine’s evil...he knew Qui-Gon. He would favor the direct approach, underestimating the sheer breadth of the trap the sith had laid (Obi-Wan himself lived through it and only began to understand long after it had closed).

“I saw...a great shadow fall over the republic.”

He sat at the table, relishing in the simple pleasure of pouring a cup for Qui-Gon and himself from a shared pot.

Qui-Gon cradled his mug in his hands. “I see. Nothing specific?”

“Your death. At the hands of a tool of darkness. You ran ahead...” Obi-Wan took a scorching sip to stop himself. “It was foolish. Unnecessary. And I was forced to fight alone without you.

Qui-Gon set the tea down to stroke his beard in thought. “Well. I have no great desire to die. While I make no promises, I will endeavor to avoid leaving you behind ‘unnecessarily.’”

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan replied, over sincere.

They drank in peaceful silence. It was interrupted by a shrill noise from Qui-Gon’s comm.

“I’ve just received a personal request from the Chancellor to immediately assist in negotiations with a Trade Federation blockade around Naboo. Are you feeling up to it?”

“You know, I think I am”

#star wars #pop star wars au #my au #time travel #star wars au no 3

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colossal-fallout · 4 years ago

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You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna request something. Erwin, first time fucking in a long while and it's also the first time he attempts to do it after losing his arm.

Whole again

Femreader X Erwin Smith

Warnings: NSFW. 18+ Smut. Creampie. Angst.

Fortitude does not merit misery.

One should not be punished for bravery, yet here he was; your commander, your lover, suffering beyond just the physical. To everyone else, he seemed to be recovering well. He’d finally returned to being that clean shaven, well presented Commander of the Survey Corps that everyone was so used to seeing. It annoyed you how eager other people were to forget that he’d lost his entire right arm.

But hey; as long as he was still able to lead the survey corps, right?

You bite the inside of your cheek as your eyes flicker over to him as he stands in all of his glory gazing out of the window - the tangerine glow of the sunset a reflection of the darkening days ahead. You knew it. You could feel it in your bones.

Eren had been rescued, but the enemy had fled. And now, only two nights prior to the mission to Shiganshina, every fibre in your being was telling you that the enemy was lying in wait. Coiled and ready to spring at you like a snake, it’s venom destroying more of your already hard life. Of course, Erwin and his sharp mind already predicted what would possibly lie in wait - going over countless scenario’s of circumstances and hazards.

“Don’t be so bitter, my love.” Erwin’s words of comfort echoed in your memories from two weeks prior. “I’m no different to any other Soldier. If I only lost an arm and not my life, it’s a blessing.”

You knew that, of course you did.

But you also saw things others didn’t. Like right now; his empty gaze out of the window pane, taking in the possibility of this being one of the last beautiful sunsets he’ll ever see. He’s had to come to terms with his own mortality, and it was a huge, bitter pill to swallow. He wasn’t the invincible Commander Erwin Smith of the Survey Corps.

He was human.

He wasn’t like the enemy. He didn’t have regeneration abilities and the means to transform into a destructive force so great, it could wipe out an entire platoon. All he had was his head, his bravery and his men.

“Erwin…” You call out softly, his mind too far away to hear you. You place your hand onto his remaining arm softly, making him flinch out of his trance.

“Erwin.” You repeat with a frown. “Are you okay?”

He replies with a single nod, his eyes closing in a soft smile. “Yes. No need to worry yourself.”

He was doing it again. Hiding behind his reputation, his resolve. You knew it deep in your soul he was suffering, yet there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it.

Understandably, the two of you hadn’t been intimate for quite some time. Your touch starved body missed him and the feel of just his warmth under his shirt in your palm was enough to entice you into softly nuzzling into his neck, your lips caressing his skin and your breath tempting him into turning his head and rub his cheek into the top of your scalp.

He’d missed you too. His breath pushes out into a deep sigh, as he takes your hand and gently guides you over to the bed where he pulls you onto his lap. You feel the solid muscles of his large thigh beneath you, his arm snaking around your waist to hold you steady as he gazes into your eyes.

“I know you’re worried about me.” He utters with such soft syllables, it was enough to send a warm sensation cascade through your chest, down into the pit of your stomach. “But we both have known from the day we met, our time together is temporary. In this line of work… tomorrow is not a guarantee. You’ve forgotten that, it seems.”

Your eyes enlarge, filling with pain at his gentle yet sharp words. But you knew he was right. And yes, you’d gotten content in your relationship with him. But you couldn’t blame yourself. Erwin Smith was a compassionate, understanding lover who made you feel safe, loved and cherished. How could you not subconsciously cling to that so hard, it filters through into your delusional reality?

“I know.” You whisper.

His kind smile of empathy presses against your cheek. “I love you, my queen.”

“I love you too.” You furiously hold back the tears threatening your eyes. This was no time to be leaning on him. He needed you right now.

You hide your pain by visually shutting out his face, closing your eyes and pushing your mouth against his hungrily, your fingers grazing through his blonde strands as his grip on your tightens, his receptive mouth returning your affections. It didn’t matter how many times you’d made love in the past. Every single time was a new rush, a rush of adrenaline far richer than any from any battle you’d been in or training exercise.

He pulls away from your touch, eyebrows furrowing in hunger before clearing his throat.

“It’ll be the first time since I…”

“It’s okay.” You comfort.

Until he’d gotten accustomed to having only one arm, you were more than happy to do all of the work. In fact, how could you not after the months and months of him going above and beyond for you in bed, every. single. time?

You gently push at his solid chest, his jaw slackening as you lay him flat and straddle his waist, your kisses returning to his mouth as his hand paws at your form firmly. You feel his cock already stirring against your crotch through his trousers, his one arm still strong enough to push your hips back and forth, the friction of his crotch rubbing against your clit as your tongues entwine in a sloppy dance.

You heat up at the sound of his breath quickening, a sound you’d missed oh so much.

“I’ve missed you…” He grumbles as if reading your mind, his eyebrows knitting and eyes heavy lidded.

You respond by sitting up and removing your shirt, your perfect breasts spilling out into the open air, your nipples standing to attention. You feel his abs roll under you as he sits up slightly, encasing one into his warm mouth, kissing it as if your nipple were your tongue.

Teeth biting your lip you run your hands around his head, enjoying the feeling of his soft clean strands as he groans into your flesh his hand sliding up to your ribcage and squeezing you.

“Erwin…” You sigh, throwing back your head as his teeth start to nip and pull at your nub.

“It’s been too long…” His growl is guttural; his eyes hazed with lust as he slowly morphs into some sort of feral beast. “Ride me, princess.”

“Yes, sir.” You smirk as he lays back down, shuffling and getting comfortable as you pull down the top of his pants, his huge king cock springing free. Your mouth waters at the familiar scent of his pre-cum that rolls out as soon as the removal of material takes place, your hands hastily taking off your own pants, not able to move quick enough. You tremble as you balance on your knees, your hands ripping Erwin’s shirt open revealing his ripped, muscular body; his buttons flying everywhere as a low chuckle emits from his throat.

“I think you’ve missed too.”

“Of course I have.” You breathe, lining his huge gleaming head at your entrance that is coated with thick slick.

He groans loudly and arches his back, your mouth opening in a silent scream as you slowly lower yourself down onto him, his massive head squashing into your tiny hole. It’s slow progress to get him all the way in, your starved insides slowly ingesting him whole like some sort of Cobra with its prey.

Your name leaves his mouth, his eyes glued down to your pretty pussy splitting apart at his girth, the colour of your lips washing out from being stretched so beautifully wide.

“Mmm… that’s a good girl.” He praises with a hiss once you’re finally down at his base. “You take me so well.”

“Erwin...” You whimper; the feeling of being so full with him making your eyes roll as he resumes to move your hips with his hand, his fingertips digging into your flesh harshly. The grazing of his pubic hair against your clit as well as his fat shaft pushing against your g-spot was too much to handle, your nails desperately sinking into his pectorals with glee. Soft moans vibrate him as he watches your goddess form take so much pleasure from his dick, your arousal already leaking down onto his balls and pubic bone.

He can’t take it. He suddenly hooks his strong arm around you, pulling you down and smashing your mouth against his as he holds you in place against him, his hips thrusting up into you with force and speed, your loud cries only turning him more towards the realms of hysteria.

“God Erwin! Ah~! Ah~! I can’t take it… It’s too good!” You sob as he smashes into you even harder, his loud groans only accompanied by the sounds of his balls slapping against your skin and the bed creaking beneath you in loud thumps.

His eyes cross as he gazes into your very soul, his lips parted in awe and his cheeks flushing as he relentlessly hits into you over and over and over again.

“You’re so wet for me, darling.” He pants, his arm still hooked around over your back, his feet now flat on the mattress, taking as much leverage into you as he possibly could. “Do I make you feel good? Do I still know how to fuck my queen?!”

“Yes, yes, oh god yes!” You cry, your innards being well and truly scrambled into a sloppy mess. “It’s the best Erwin! Oh god… I’m so close!”

“I know…” He smirks’ your walls beginning to spasm around him, milking his length. “Squeeze me. Take every last drop I have.” He commands, his own orgasm swirling in the pit of his lower stomach.

“Yes, Erwin…” Your cognitive functions cease as you both implode, his thick cream surging out of him into you, as your insides certainly do juice him for all he’s worth. You’re both still cuming as his warm white liquid fills you so full, it’s already leaking out of your pussy, down onto his balls - his long loud and gruff groan too much to handle as you fall into the void together.

You were happy when Erwin seemed to want more sex after your recovery - that small glint behind his eye seemingly returning for the night as you both make love for the rest of the evening. Between sessions of fucking until you’re both sore, you’d laugh together and have pillow talk and even eat in bed. You had your Erwin remerge for you, his old confident and laid back self visible once again, you could hardly contain your joy. And all it took was for you to make him feel whole again. As the night drew on that was filled with your sweet laughter and a reignited hope for the future with your love; little did you know that beyond that horizon lay Shiganshina, waiting for your arrival.

And that this night together with your love would be your last.

#snk season 4 #erwin x y/n #erwin x you #attack on titan erwin #snk erwin #erwin #erwin smith #aot erwin #commander erwin #snk imagines #snk #snk smut #snk angst #aot smut #aot angst

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alilbihh · 4 years ago

Text

woods&witches — knj

masterlist

pairing: namjoon x reader

summary: You think it ends with you saving a fox. That is, until you start getting love letters sent to your doorstep and little knick knacks left on your window sill.

genre: fox shifter!namjoon, witch!reader, fluff

words: 4.5k

a/n: this was meant for the bingo challenge but completely escaped its original prompt. anyway. heres shy!lovestruck!namjoon bc i love him. also no this is nOt a witch au blog idk whats wrong w me

A finch flutters onto your windowsill, and you shuffle over once you hear a tap, tap, tap on the glass. You push it open and the bird hops inside, beak leaning forward tentatively.

You take the letter. "Ah, so they sent you this time?" Or maybe the finch volunteered, you wouldn't be surprised. They are quite the gossips.

It's a soft blue envelope, and when you turn it over there's a scrawled #12 on the left side corner. You think that even if he hadn't written that, you'd know. It's easy to keep track, after all.

A maple leaf slips out when you open the envelope. You set it aside and tentatively take the letter, brush a hand over the ink. It was written by hand in messy but deliberate hand writing and it smells like chamomile and honey, like it was written under a half-moon.

You read it once then twice then three times until it feels like you've been dipped halfway underwater, until the buzzing of the midday cicadas has faded into white noise and everything is suddenly tinged blue.

The man, you deduced a while ago, tells tales of palm trees and blue ponds and red and pink frogs, of catching crabs on a stranded shore. He's writing poetry but he's not, writing reality but he's not, and you don't know how he does it, how he can make five paintings with just one phrase.

You clutch the letter to your chest, feel yourself have an out of body experience because of a not-poem. Your head whips towards the finch when it chirps suddenly, and you huff.

"Why're you still here?" You shield the letter from the bird's eyes. Its head tilts. "And don't give me that look, I know exactly what you're thinking."

The bird only gives another chirp before flying away.

You scoff out a laugh, and when you walk towards your bedside table, the drawer opens before you can even think too much about it. You glare at your walls before tucking the letter with the others, as if to stop the house from teasing you too much.

It all begins and ends on a sunny afternoon.

The tree roots whisper as you pass, as if to purposely lead you astray, but you follow them anyway. The forest is never wrong, after all.

So when you stumble against a snowy white fox lying on a field of wisteria, you're only a tad bit surprised.

"Ah, you don't want to do that," you say some time after it woke up in your home and stopped panicking. It's now looking down at your polka dot socks, then looks up sharply to stare at you. You don't think there's a way for foxes to show emotions, but you think that if there were, he'd be staring at you with a little bit of awe.

You clear your throat. "Your foot, I mean. You don't want to strain it."

It just keeps staring at you, one ear twitching a bit.

"Um." You say when it doesn't stop, "You'll be better in a few weeks time. It wasn't that serious."

The fox blink blink blinks before shaking itself off, fur spilling every which way. You take it as acknowledgement enough.

In a few minutes he's managed to sniff and inspect every piece of furniture in your home, ranging from your small couch to your droopy house plant. He trudges and limps and sometimes skips from place to place, and then becomes highly confused when you don't let him climb the kitchen table.

Yoongi appears on your window somewhere between the fox kneading at your rug and the fox trying to catch a moth with its mouth.

"Hey grump," you say to the black cat, scratching behind his ears. Yoongi's tail twitches in dismissal, but he whines when you stop petting him, anyway.

You can almost see when Yoongi's gaze settles on the fox, because when you turn to look he's frozen solid on your couch, as if hoping he can't be seen if he stays still enough. The cat gives you a look.

You raise a brow. "What? Don't look at me like that."

He keeps looking at you like that.

"I helped him over by the wisteria. His foot's a little bad, but it's nothing too bad." The fox stays curled up on your couch, digging his nails into the cushions much like a cat would. An ear twitches in your direction, as if he's sheepish but won't admit to it.

Yoongi mewls a single, drawn out mewl of acceptance. You nod nod nod, and the cat jumps down your window and disappears into the woods right when the wind starts blowing north and the sun starts climbing higher before dropping lower.

The world stills for a while as you work through your home, organizing your chipped cups and bent spoons and funny forks. The mushroom wraith on your door wiggles when you pass it by, and when the frog figurine on your counter croaks in greeting the fox nearly jumps out of its skin.

(The fox is gone by morning, right when the sun settles over the honeysuckle tumbling down your thatched roof. You try to feel for his presence, but it's overwhelmed by the snails and woodpeckers and oversized mushrooms.

You think that's when the letters started coming, perched nicely over your windowsill whenever you're not looking).

There's a man in your pond.

The carp in the water yells indignantly as the man tries to stand but tumbles, pondweed curled over his ankles as if begging him to stay. You just stare because the man tries to get up once then twice then three times, hair loose and windblown and positively drenched, twigs and pondweed in the knots.

You stare and stare until the man notices you and startles, looks away quickly before cringing and hesitatingly meeting your eyes. He lifts a hand, lowers it, lifts it again and waves. You wave back.

"Hello." You say. The man looks a little stunned, more stunned than when the carp had nipped at his feet. You point at the pond, "You're standing in my pond."

"Ah!" He startles, head whipping down like he'd forgotten all about it. "I am! In your pond, I mean. Sorry, sorry." The pondweed untangles itself mercifully, and he shuffles out of the water, toes curling into the dirt around it.

"It's okay!" You shoot him a thumbs up. He stares. "Do you want to, uh, come inside?"

So the man walks through the slim wooden trellis and diligently wipes his feet on the rug, shuffling through the door with hesitant steps. He looks a little like a painting left out too long in the rain, all ruffled hair and stiff shoulders, but pretty nonetheless.

"Would you like some tea?" You say, already grabbing the kettle from the cupboards, "It will have to have milk, though, since the cups don't like serving without."

"Okay! Tea is nice. Thank you." Then he smiles with knee-deep dimples and pinchable cheeks and something inside you kinda melts a little.

The man's name is Namjoon and his skin is tan despite it already being winter, the color of salted caramel. He's so bright you find it easier to look away, to look instead at the space around him, the shadow against the pane of his neck, the length of his-- very long legs. You'll pretend you never noticed that.

You don't talk about why he was in your pond, not really. He's already apologized to the carp, he says. You talk instead about mushroom glades and why avocados are acceptable dinner foods and his intense love for moths and his hopes for snow this year.

When Namjoon leaves it all feels a bit unprecedented. Lost souls show up on your doorstep often, always leaving after a cup of tea and a few helpful directions, but Namjoon doesn't look lost at all. Looks a little like he belongs, really.

He rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck, then sticks a hand out in offering. You shake his hand. He nods, lingers on the doorway, plays with a loose stitching of his soft green overalls.

"I'll-- be seeing you, then," he clears his throat, and you just laugh a little loosely because no, you won't. With lost souls, you never do.

Except Namjoon does return. He returns, in fact, in green baseball shorts and an open-collared shirt with sugar packets sticking out of the front pockets. He looks a bit like a dad showing up for his son's football game. Looks a little dangerous but in a harmless way, like a huge gangly bug. A six-foot stick insect hovering outside your door.

You're a little stunned. Very stunned. So stunned that Namjoon cringes, shuffles a bit on your welcome mat. It's a frog with a thought bubble that says welcome! that Namjoon has expressed his love for on multiple occasions.

"Hello," he purses his lips. "I... wanted to thank you. Again. For everything." He sucks in a breath. "Bad time? Bad time. I don't actually remember knocking-- did I knock? God, I didn't, did I? I'm so rude, I'm so sorry."

"No, no," you say once you've recovered. "You, you definitely knocked."

"Oh!" His lips form a surprised little 'o'. You're so fond. "That's good. Okay. I'll... be leaving, then."

"Um!" You interject, "You can come inside, if you want?"

So he comes inside and drinks tea and names the cactus by your windowsill Gerald and discusses his complaints on climate change and you're a little content and a lot confused, because--

Only creatures of the forest can find your house more than once.

Unless--

(That night, you knock on your own walls and glare indignantly. Say, "You led him here, didn't you?"

The walls do nothing. You think you hear a floorboard creak, though.

You stomp your feet like an overgrown child. "I don't know what you're trying to accomplish, but I'm not falling for it!"

No response. Except the wind chimes outside sing brightly, but when you look out the window there's no wind at all).

Namjoon visits once then twice then three times, always showing up unplanned and out of nowhere. He brings a pinecone first then a dandelion next, blushes and says I didn't pluck them against their will! I told them they looked pretty and they volunteered to help me.

He's so pretty it's become a little harder to hold in. He was always pretty, always smiles a bit too brightly, like he's swallowed a star and can't quite keep all the brightness to himself, but something's shifted a bit.

(You contemplate this in a mid afternoon. As in: whisper-screaming to the ceiling for a while. And then whisper-screaming some more when Yoongi walks directly across your face.

"You're a monster," you inform him.

He digs his tiny monster-claws into your stomach.)

One day, you learn the man is weirdly good at knitting. You learn he has a pretty solid grasp on quantum physics. You learn that when he laughs it's a little hah! under his breath, and when he really laughs it turns sideways and belly-up, pitching into something that could almost be defined as a giggle. You learn that you need to stop staring.

Another day, Namjoon sits in the corner of your couch, curled up reading a book he'd picked up from the next village over. It's small but very thick with what could only be very small letters, because he's squinting a bit as he reads. It's vastly endearing.

Another day, he makes cheesy bread in your toaster and felt bad about it for the next three weeks. Which is also the amount of time it took for you to get all the cheese out.

Everything's great.

Today, though, you're walking through the forest alone. The forest doesn't guide you, not really, maybe because it knows you're walking on your own terms.

The forest is noisy with the sounds of birds calling and trees growing and little things skipping here and there through the undergrowth. Your shoes are so muddy you don't really care for how much worse they get, and they squelch when your heels sink into puddles and spongy moss.

You walk and walk until you come across a clearing, a bird feeder propped neatly over a tree branch. A sparrow squawks when it sees you.

"Hello," you say in greeting, and the tree with the bird feeder sighs, the wind blowing and carrying the sound.

A tree root on the ground grabs a fistful of dirt and promptly flings it onto your knees. You shriek indignantly.

You have a lot to figure out, the tree echoes because of course it does. It has a history of saying things vaguely and hoping you'll understand.

"I don't understand," you say out loud.

It flings more dirt onto your knees. You step back protectively, "Okay, okay! I get it!"

One, two. Four clouds in the sky, for now, it says at last, and you're a bit afraid of prying, so you just accept what it says as fact and move on, say one last goodbye to the bluetit that flutters onto the bird feeder.

It starts raining not long after that, when more than four clouds settle over the evening sun, makes it a bit harder to maneuver through the woods. You walk based on feeling, a hand brushing over the tree trunks, silently cursing the tree.

Namjoon is already waiting when you arrive home, hurries forward when he spots you through the trees, holding an umbrella up high.

And it's-- sweet. Just a really sweet thing to do, really considerate. He could have waited inside, in the warmth and shelter, but instead he's walking through puddles to meet you halfway with an umbrella.

He looks a little funny when he stops in front of you, hair disheveled and sticking up in random places, eyes all worried and sullen. He looks like a goose.

"You look like a goose," you say out loud with a little laugh, "I'm already wet though, so there's not much point in this, you know?"

Namjoon's smile is a bit dopey, a bit sloppy at the edges. "But there's not many trees to shield you, from this point on." He says, "Let's-- go inside?"

So you go inside, the house already setting the fireplace with its never-ending firewood, the frog figurine croaking and the wind chimes singing and everything feels a little right. A little more homey.

"Did you find your way back easily?" Namjoon says later, hands cupping his tea mug as he sheepishly adds, "I know this is your-- home, obviously, I don't wanna just assume anything, but-- For me, it's a bit harder to navigate when it rains like this. Fogs my senses and all," he clears his throat.

You purse your lips to keep from smiling, "Do you know how a wood witch works, Namjoon?" You continue when he shakes his head, "A wood witch is the one who planted the first seed that sprouted the first tree that grew the first forest," you say, half-chanting it, cite it like a rhyme long forgotten.

He looks a bit awe-struck. A lot awe-struck. Says, "Oh." And that's that.

You add, sheepish, "It's really not much. I'm not as powerful as other wood witches, but I am grateful to the woods." You hum, "They gave me this cottage. They gave me who I am, really."

"Oh." Namjoon says. "Oh." He stares and stares, open mouthed and in awe and sort of dazed but pretty, pretty. His gaze trails over the room once before settling back on you, says, "You're all the beauty in the world."

And the world-- stills, maybe-- balanced atop a drop of nectar.

You whisper a small, delighted "Oh." And that's that.

Namjoon somehow manages to drag you outside the woods.

You're being dragged through busy streets, cars and crowds and carriages that boggle your senses. The difference between the village and the woods is astounding. (Not that you've never been to nearby cities or villages-- sometimes you crave poptarts and there's nothing you can do about it-- but it's been a while since you've walked into the very heart of it).

You might be a wood witch, but Namjoon is the one who looks a little — lost, outside the woods.

"This is my favorite corner cafe," he admits proudly, "Um, if Seokjin-hyung says anything, please be aware I'm not associated with him."

"Got it." You like this Seokjin guy already.

Taylor Swift is blasting through the speakers when you walk inside, a broad shouldered man swaying from side to side behind the counter as he pours milk into a cup. Once his eyes land on Namjoon he positively grins.

"Namjoon, my man!" He belts out a particularly impressive high note as Namjoon approaches him, but no one around seems at all fazed. "It's been so long!"

"I've been here last week, hyung." Namjoon says but he seems a bit happy to be missed, sheepishly ducking his head.

"That's too long. You should visit more often, it's great! I get free coffee here and don't have to walk through muddy paths and ominous sounds to visit you."

"It's not free though?" Namjoon frowns, "You may own the shop but you're the one who buys all the coffee in the first place."

The man behind the counter makes a noise that's too distorted to understand. "If I wanted someone to tear apart my ideas with logic I'd talk to Yoongi, you're both insufferable."

You want to interject but at the same time don't. You get so absorbed in your own thoughts you almost don't notice when they mention a Yoongi. Huh.

"Oh, you know Yoongi? The cat?" You blink when two sets of eyes settle on you.

"Ah, yes. Yoongi." The man you've now established has to be Seokjin sighs, resting a chin over his palm, "The devious fiend. The pest of the nest. The gremlin goblin."

"Do you ever think before you speak."

"I do! I thought of those words and then I said them."

Namjoon sighs and none of them elaborate any further, but you decide not to pry. You can always just ask Yoongi, anyway.

You both sit in a booth in the far corner where light reflects onto it perfectly but not in an overwhelming way, just enough to be warm and comforting. Seokjin pads over with your drink and Namjoon's latte and shoots excessive finger guns as he leaves, and Namjoon looks a bit like he's refraining from apologizing on his behalf.

Namjoon doodles on napkins and talks like he's reciting a far off poem, except he's talking about what should be the correct pronunciation of pickles and you're kinda maybe really hopelessly endeared.

"Do you think I should paint my nails?" He's saying, closely inspecting his nibbled nails, "Maybe it will make me stop biting my nails."

"Have you thought of green?"

He hums delightedly, "Green! I love green. I'm thinking pink though, since gender norms are a social construct and pink is just pretty in general."

"You'll look like a pretty little winter fairy!" You grin. He flushes pink, too.

Then when you get up to order another drink he stands quick, as if intending to order it for you, but you're already grinning and skipping to the counter and when you turn to look at him he's slowly sitting back down, defeated.

You're maybe smiling too hard when Seokjin walks to take your order. "Ah, Y/n-ssi! How may I help you, my gentle woodland elf?"

"Can I just have the same thing, please?" You say and he hums, walking mechanically towards his cabinets.

Then after staring dazedly at the separate christmas mugs and cinnamon buns and droopy plants, you're looking around when you spot a box by the back counter that looks like an awful lot like a letter slot, a stack of envelopes sitting neatly on top. Oh.

"What's that for?" You gesture towards the box, and Seokjin turns away from the coffee grinder to smile something a little gentle. A little secretive.

"We're a letter shop too, you know?" He looks like he's suppressing a sort of devious smile he doesn't want you to see, "We deliver letters on the writer’s behalf, so the sender stays anonymous."

Your organs twist and melt together all at once. You mumble a small "Oh" and that's that.

Then when you leave Seokjin winks before sending you both off, the man waving boisterously and maybe obnoxiously but you're immensely endeared, wave back until the shop is out of sight and Namjoon is sufficiently embarrassed.

You predictably invite Namjoon inside after you arrive home, deciding that soup after coffee doesn't sound too bad. So you watch as the fireflies do somersaults and the moths hover over lamps as you both go for seconds and then for thirds and you don't say much, maybe say nothing at all, but that's okay, too.

The soup signals a change, you think. Either

1) You are in love with Namjoon and need to tell him.

2) You are in love with soup and need to seek help.

So you walk through the forest.

Namjoon is at home, you know, but you feel that talking to Namjoon about your possible love for Namjoon is a bit counterproductive, so you walk through the forest instead.

Everyone is still adjusting to last night's downpour, the floors muddy and the leaves droopy and everything smelling like wet earth. You walk but you're hovering a few inches off the ground, silently thank the forest for its kindness.

You walk through the forest again the next day, think back to the tree with the bird feeder and think that maybe he wasn't so vague after all. Just wish that he could tell you what to do next.

It's easier to listen to a tree's vague advice than it is to follow through with it, you think, until a few weeks later, when the universe decides you need a little push. A big push. The biggest push.

Namjoon has been visiting consistently for the past month or so, sometimes staying over and sometimes staying just before nightfall, but for maybe a week you haven't heard of him at all. He's disappeared without a trace.

The forest guides you this time, patches of sunlight shining through trees as you follow. You think you hear the shrill argument between a finch and a jay on the treetops as you navigate through mushroom patches and mossy rocks.

It's the field of wisteria. You're in the field of wisteria when you find a small burrow, a little home for a woodland creature.

When you turn, you see-- Namjoon. Namjoon, eyes widened in horror, a strangled sound breaking free from his throat. Two white fox ears standing ramrod straight on his head.

You clear your throat. Say, "Hi, Namjoon."

He shrieks.

A finch flutters onto the bird feeder, eyes twinkling, "Guys, you will not believe what I just found out--"

"We know," the jay says.

"We know," the bluetit says.

"We know," the sparrow says.

Even Yoongi mewls from a higher tree branch.

The finch squawks, gossip stolen from right under its wing, "How on Earth did you all know?"

"The forest made the house bigger," Yoongi drawls, tail swishing here and there, "And we all helped deliver the letters."

"Different from someone, we can actually keep secrets!" Says the jay, chest puffed proudly, ignoring the offended squeals from the finch.

"You know, it was actually kind of obvious."

You hum from beside Namjoon, his arm draped over the back of the couch inches away from dropping onto your shoulder. He wants to tug you closer, comb a hand through your hair, but the mere thought has his face burning and ears threatening to pop out at the stress. He's kissed you before, dozens of times, for many reasons and for no reason at all, but it all still feels a little nerve wrecking, like one push will have you burst at the seams.

(Which, frankly, is ridiculous-- you're the strongest person he knows, but-- but.)

"What is?" He says to distract himself.

"The letters stopped coming after you started showing up, and you literally took me to a letter shop." You falter and add, "And just.. the way you say things, it sounds like how you sound when you write. I don't know if I'm making sense, but it's-- nice." You explain, a hint of affection on your voice.

That has nothing to do with being a fox shifter and everything to do with you sitting so prettily next to him, smelling like Ilsan sunshine and kept promises and damp earth, like the forest itself.

"Hmm," he hums, a hand settling on your thigh, finally gathering the courage to drop his arm onto your shoulder--

"Namjoon, you really don't have to hesitate for this kind of stuff." You say, turning to look at him with a grin. His face burns as he clears his throat pointedly, crossing one leg over the other as he finally drops an arm over your shoulder.

"M'sorry," he mumbles.

"Don't be," You press a kiss to his chin, "And you better kiss me properly this instant, because it seems you still think that crocs are acceptable footwear. I'm gonna come to my senses any second now."

"Please don't," he says, a little wild. Then he's moving, nose brushing over your cheek, and then— and then—

A hand curling softly over your cheek, a little giggle, and his lips pressing gently over your own. Something a bit real. Un-takeback-able. You taste a lot like the poetry he writes, still writes, like you're pressing the wonders of the world to his lips, like he's skimming the universe with his hands.

(Once upon a time, you saved a fox lying in a field of wisteria.

The rest of the story is told in open envelopes, messages left for the moon to see.)

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derinthescarletpescatarian · 3 years ago

Text

Trees Are Stupid.

There are some things in life that people learn without ever having to experience them. For me, one of those things really should have been ‘do not sneak out of a second story bedroom window if you have a broken leg’.

In my defense, I’d never had any trouble with the window before. The peach tree in our neighbour’s backyard was broad and healthy and one of its thick, strong branches was within easy jumping distance from my room. I’d silently slid the window open, checked to be sure that I was in the poorly-disguised undercover policeman’s blind spot, and was halfway out before I realised that balancing on the sill might be a little difficult with my right foot and calf encased in plaster.

I gripped both sides of the window frame and balanced as well as I could on my left foot. I’d always been small for my age, looking closer to eleven than fourteen, so the jump wouldn’t require very much strength. The branch, barely visible in the fading light, seemed to wave in time to the gunfire and screaming wafting up from my parents’ movie downstairs.

I leapt, and smacked right into the branch. It was a jump I could normally make without thinking about it, but the broken leg had thrown me off; I smacked chest-first into solid wood and instinctively wrapped my arms around it to keep from falling. The pain rushed through my ribs all the way to my spine, then faded, lingering for an extra moment in the little scar just to the left of my breastbone that I always tried to ignore. Not that I’d be able to ignore it any more, after the accident.

No, not accident. After the attack.

The back porch light was on. Most people would take this to be an accident, but I knew it was my parents’ plausibly deniable polite concession to the undercover police officers we were all pretending not to notice. They needed a clear view of the back door to make sure I was staying in the house like a good little boy. The light clearly illuminated the word WITCH that somebody had spraypainted across the back of our house, but it didn’t reach me in the tree. After a few seconds of stillness in which I waited for someone to move or shout, I felt it was safe to continue.

Arms and knees around the branch, I slid along it over the fence bordering our yard and towards the trunk of the tree. Our neighbours were still awake; light was visible around the kitchen blinds. This wasn’t unusual. It wasn’t all that late.

Normally I’d just drop to the ground and go ring the doorbell, but there was the issue of the police. Something else gave me pause, too; the small wreath of holly and mistletoe hung on the back door. That hurt more than hitting the branch had. Contrary to myth, neither holly nor mistletoe had ever stopped me from entering a building – I wouldn’t be able to enter most shops or cafes if it did – but the Nebits weren’t to know that. They’d always made a point of not warding their doors, and the fact that they’d done so now… well. I couldn’t really blame them, could I?

I switched to another branch, one stretching towards the Nebits’ house. The window I was aiming for wasn’t all that far from my own; it seemed like an awful lot of work to reach it by treeclimbing. If we’d been on the ground floor, I’d almost be able to reach it from my own window.

I couldn’t quite reach it from the tree, though. Again, this was a jump I’d made dozens of times, but it had been hard enough jumping into the tree with a broken leg; even I wasn’t going to try to jump out of a tree at a closed window when I couldn’t even safely stand up. I could envision the result – me slamming face-first into the wall below the window, and the Nebits coming to investigate the noise and finding a broken, bleeding body under their peach tree. Not an ideal situation.

Instead, I plucked a peach from the tree and threw it at the window. A moment later, it opened.

Melissa was sihlouetted in her bedroom light, so I couldn’t see much more than the halo of brown hair she was in the process of brushing, but I knew she was glaring at me. Melissa has the kind of glare you can feel through lead walls. When she grows up and has kids, they’re going to be the most well-behaved children in the world.

“Kayden, what the hell?”

“Are you going to let me in or not?”

“You shouldn’t be here! You’re under house arrest!”

“I know, that’s why I’m in a tree. But it is Saturday.”

Apparently, Melissa couldn’t argue with this logic. She fetched the usual climbing rope from her closet and tossed one end to me. I tied it to the tree, slid my way over to the window, and climbed in.

“Are you alright?” Melissa asked, checking over my arms for scratches and bruises. I didn’t pull away; Melissa gets focused when she’s worried, and it’s generally best not to get in her way. There were dark shadows under her eyes, I noticed, and her normally rosy, freckled cheeks were pale; had she lost sleep over me?

I shrugged. “They discharged me, so nothing can be too wrong with me. It’s not the first fall I’ve taken.”

“You know what I meant.”

I shrugged again.

“We tried to visit you, you know. They had you in some kind of high security ward and Chelsea almost got caught trying to pickpocket a nurse’s keycard.”

I suppressed a chuckle. “Of course she did. She’s not here yet?”

“She was grounded after the keycard thing, so I don’t think she’ll be able to convince her mum to – ”

Just then, Melissa’s bedroom door opened. “Don’t tell my mum I’m here,” Chelsea said quietly. “I’m grounded.”

Melissa threw up her arms. “Did anyone in this neighbourhood not sneak out of their bedroom window today?”

“Um, you didn’t,” I pointed out.

“Neither did I,” Chelsea said. “I’m not an idiot. I used our bathroom window. First floor.”

“Well la-de-da, Miss Police-Aren’t-Watching-My-House,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Kayden, did you climb a tree in your pyjamas?” Chelsea asked.

I glanced down at myself. “Maybe.”

“You’ve lost a button.”

Chelsea, unlike Melissa and I, was not in her pyjamas. She was wearing a flannel shirt that I was pretty sure was mine. Despite being a year younger than me, we were exactly the same size, and more than once she’d joked about getting me a jaw-length blonde wig and herself a shorter brown one to see how long we could pretend to be each other before someone noticed. Said jokes were getting worryingly serious.

“It’s your turn to hide the tracker,” Chelsea reminded me.

Melissa glared at her. “That stupid tracker game created this mess, and you still expect him to play?” she snapped.

“That’s pretty insensitive, Chel,” I agreed. “Especially since I’ve already hidden it. You think the school roof was a clever hiding spot? Oh, man. You are in for a wake-up call.”

She frowned. “You’re bluffing,” she said. “You haven’t had a chance to hide anything. They took you straight home from the hospi – ” She put her face in her hands and groaned. “You found the tracker before you ended up in hospital. You had it with you. And the only other places you’ve been are your house, and a high security ward in the hospital. And you know better than to hide it in your house.”

I spread my hands. “Hey, the circumstances aren’t my fault. If you want to find it, might I suggest stealing a nurse’s keycard? Oh wait.”

“You’re both crazy,” Melissa said.

“That’s a weird way to pronounce ‘incredibly awesome’,” Chelsea said. “When does the cast come off?”

“In another week and a half.”

“Just in time for school holidays!”

“I’m suspended anyway, so it’s kind of a moot point.”

We fell silent. None of us wanted to talk about the next obvious point of conversation.

Eventually, Melissa asked, “What about after the school holidays?”

I shrugged. “They haven’t set a date for the trial or anything yet, so…”

“So you’ll probably get a super long holiday before you’re found innocent and everything goes back to normal!” Chelsea threw an arm over my shoulders. “I’m so jealous.”

I shrugged her off. “I’m not innocent. My victim – ”

“Victim!” Chelsea scoffed. “You know this is Matt Parker you’re talking about, right? If I’d been up there I’d have pushed him off myself, curse or no curse.”

“You’re innocent,” Melissa said. “You know the law. Accidental consequences of curses can’t be prosecuted, unless the carrier of the curse was knowledgably negligent.”

“Fourteen-year-olds shouldn’t use words like ‘negligent’,” Chelsea frowned. “You sound like my dad.”

Melissa ignored her. “You’ve had that curse stuck in your heart since before you could walk, and nobody could ever say you were negligent. It’s done absolutely nothing for fourteen years. No causing sickness, no turning things to gold, it doesn’t even sour milk. There was absolutely no way you could have predicted it to lash out here.”

“That’s the point,” I said. “I should have expected it to lash out, because I should always be expecting it to lash out. My control slipped, and now everyone knows I put that jerk in hospital. He nearly died, you know. I nearly killed him.”

“Your curse nearly killed him,” Melissa corrected.

“I would have nearly killed him if I got the chance,” Chelsea shrugged. “Don’t even need a curse. I would’ve just hit him.”

“Everyone knows that Matt’s injuries are more self-inflicted than anything,” Melissa added. “Nobody blames you for any of this.”

“Then why is there a wreath on your door?” I asked.

Melissa looked away. “My parents are idiots.”

“No, your parents are scared, and they’re right. Your family have known about my curse since I got it. Your parents never had a problem with it, or with me, until now. But now they finally see what it means, what it can do, and they want nothing to do with me. They think I could hurt you, and they’re right. I could kill both of you without warning. Doesn’t that bother you?”

The two girls stared at me, completely unimpressed. Chelsea rolled her eyes.

“Why would that bother us?” Melissa asked. “It’s not exactly new information.”

“You’ve always known about the curse, but now that it’s active and – ”

Melissa waved me silent. “Not the curse. I mean in general. We’re all capable of killing each other if we want. You don’t need a curse for that. Five minutes ago I threw you a rope to climb in my window; I could’ve untied my end and you could very easily have died. Does that bother you?”

“That’s different.”

“No, it isn’t. I’m not saying your curse doesn’t suck, I’m just saying it doesn’t make you a terrifying monster, and anybody who looks at you differently now that it’s attacked Matt is an idiot for not taking it seriously and getting over it years ago.”

“That’s easy for us to say,” Chelsea said, “but to be fair, people have been kind of freaking out. Your family and mine were the only ones around here who ever really knew about the curse. To everyone else, it kind of…” she shrugged.

“Looks like I lied to them about something really dangerous I was carrying around the neighbourhood?” I asked.

“… Kind of, yeah. But they’ll get over it.”

“What’s the internet look like? The police confiscated my phone and I haven’t been online since the whole thing happened.”

The girls exchanged a worried glance.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Mum turned our wi-fi off. I don’t think she wants me to see what people are saying.”

“You don’t want to see what people are saying,” Melissa said quickly.

“Don’t worry about it,” Chelsea said. “If anyone gives you trouble, point at them and babble nonsense until they run screaming.”

“Yeah, because that would help his court case,” Melissa said.

“Nobody can give me any trouble. I’m not supposed to leave the house. Actually, I should probably get back before Mum and Dad notice I’m missing.”

“Righto. Liss, do you have some rope?” Chelsea headed for the window.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Stringing a rope from the tree to your window. Or did you have another plan for getting back in with that?” She nudged my cast with her toe. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She took a rope from Melissa, slipped easily out the window and within seconds was walking along the tree branch outside.

“I’ll never get how you two can do that,” Melissa remarked.

“It’s easy. It’s just one foot in front of the other. Until you slip and break a leg.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll stick to the ground like a normal person, thanks.”

“Sounds boring.”

Melissa chuckled and shoved me playfully. I grinned, trying to keep the mood light. Trying not to think about the future.

Whether I was found guilty of assault or not, I was dangerous, and now the whole street and the whole school knew it. There was no going back from that.

And I didn’t know what to do.

Story continues here.

#writing #curse words #yeah that's right I'm just fuckin'#dumping chapter 1 here #I'm out of marketing ideas #this is what I have been reduced to

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legolaslovely · 3 years ago

Text

A Dwarf and His Fairy

A/N: Here it is! The Fíli x Fairy piece I've been working on! This piece taught me a LOT! About editing, plotting, character work, etc., and though it's not perfect, I'm still really proud of it and happy with it. Thanks to all who supported me with this one. I hope you enjoy it :)

Pairing: Fíli x Ivy (my fairy OC)

Word Count: 3,780

Warnings: None!

Summary: Even Fíli needs someone to remind him that self-care is a requirement, and not a reward. Good thing he has a somewhat relentless, but very loving fairy friend to remind him.

Fíli slid the book away in defeat. It was as heavy as stone and full of numbers and dates and plans and problems. Even as the wicked pages turned by, they let out a nasty hiss and the scratchy old leather cover whipped around with a solid, successful splat, fighting Fíli until it’s last breath.

Once it was done, his surrender official, Fíli’s head fell into his hands and he groaned, making one of the last candles in his chambers flicker in his breath. Truthfully, the nub of wax, short wick, and tiny flame was barely a candle at all. It hardly resembled the tall, radiant torch it had previously been. But it wasn’t alone. Similarly, as the night went on, Fíli’s resolve had melted away and his shoulders warped and rounded like hot wax until there was very little light to give.

All because of that damned book.

“I need a break,” he said to no one but the silver platter of untouched goodies sitting on the corner of his desk. There was a small, shining jug of sweet milk, a tiny jar of honey with a miniscule spoon to match and a delicate bowl of crumbling honey cakes. It was all left waiting, as was Fíli.

He stared at the treats and swore he saw them move. But he dismissed it, ascribing it to fatigue, and closed his eyes, leaning his heavy chin on his wrist.

Then something struck him.

It was a scent he’d long been familiar with. Despite its peculiarity, he could always pinpoint its source from the first time he witnessed it and matched it with its meaning. This was the smell of magic- frozen as fresh winter frost and balmy as sun bathed flower petals- and it effortlessly roused him from his near nap and provoked him to sit up straight and search the room.

At first, he saw nothing, though he did recognize the swishing sound of her clothes rushing through the air. Every spent candle in his chambers now roared to life with new flame and an endless wick. The room glowed as if it was midday, not only with candlelight, but with the hope and warmth of company.

“Oh, my friend,” Fíli said. “Make yourself known to me. I’ve longed to see you again.”

She stopped, showing herself just below the ceiling in front of the desk. With a smile, she gracefully and silently descended, relaxing her wings and letting them sway through the air rather than furiously flap. When she found her place before Fíli’s eyes, however, the four little wings revolved again in a blur of speed in her otherwise still, hovering flight.

“Hello, my dear,” he said, holding out a horizontal finger for her to perch on if by chance she was tired from her journey, or simply wanted to be near him.

She only smiled and took his hospitality. Even when her bare feet landed on his knuckle, Fíli barely felt her touch. Though he hadn’t seen her in some weeks and though they’d met decades ago, she still looked the same to him, as if time would never disturb her.

His fairy’s name was Ivy. She was almost as tall as his hand from wrist to fingertip, and she had long waving hair as dark as a winter night’s sky. The dress she wore was sturdy despite its fabric of light leaves and soft petals. Fíli had no doubt her clothing was made of the same flower whence she came. It was the legend, after all, though she herself never told him so. Instead, it was his fascination and, one could even say infatuation, that spurred on his research.

No matter where she was or what she was doing, his little fairy friend always appeared to glow. Fíli didn’t believe it to be magic or the pollen on her dress or the shine on her wings. He thought it was simply her essence that glowed and shone like a piece of a star drifting from its flight for his own sake and pleasure.

She was a pleasure. And she had been missed.

“Where have you been?” Fíli asked. It wasn’t accusatory or disappointed or cruel. He just wondered. “Tell me of your travels.”

She sat down on him and squeezed his finger with hers, like tangled blades of grass, as if she knew how much he missed traveling himself. Like she knew of that feeling deep down in his bones that defied his kind and his duties, begging and pulling at him to wander and explore.

Still, the bundle of joy that she was, she didn’t dwell or dawdle, but showed him where she’d been, using pictures in lieu of words so he could see these places himself.

The visions flew up behind her head and revealed scenes that were so clear, it was as if Fíli was simply looking through a window and out into the most mystifying bits of the world. He could smell the warm wind that blew through tall grass on the hills and could hear the gurgling of stream water. He recognized the soft, wet, moss-ridden floor of Fangorn Forest and when he asked his fairy what she’d been doing there, she showed him the fresh green leaves of saplings. Her memories unveiled the fairies’ gifts of hardy seeds and fresh water, along with magic, but not artificial sunlight.

“You helped them grow,” Fíli said, astonished at the ability and yet, not surprised at his friend’s generous deeds.

Ivy smiled and another scene flashed above her head. This one sent real spray into Fíli’s face that knocked him back into his chair with an indignant cry.

Her feet kicked through the air as she laid back and laughed, making the sound of a small bell ringing in the distance. It was the only sound Fíli ever heard from her and upon hearing it, he instantly forgave her antics.

“What was that?” he asked, voice left high from his surprised yelp.

It only made her giggle more and even louder, like the bell was soaring closer to Fíli’s ears. With a hand over her belly, she leaned back again and in her entertainment, slid right off Fíli’s finger.

“Hey there, careful!” Fíli chided, grinning all the way. He caught her, sitting her in his palm to avoid another slip. When she calmed and settled in the cushiony pillow of his hand, he said, “I should have let you tumble for that trick!” He winked. “But then again, you would have flapped your wings before you hit the ground, hm?” She narrowed her eyes at him, but it was fruitless. She giggled again and pointed at him with a shaking finger.

“You’re right,” he said. “I would never let you fall.”

At that, she turned fully pink. Not just the round of her cheeks or the tips of her pointed ears, but completely pink- wings and all. Fíli loved it when she did that, especially when he was the reason for it.

The bright shade only lasted for a moment, however, and she quickly brushed her hair off her shoulder, pushing the locks down her back, and brought Fíli’s attention back to the scene that had splashed him. With a flick of her finger, she showed him more, uncovering a waterfall that was so tall, it could have reached the parapets of the mountain of Erebor. The water that flowed off the cliff and into the serene lake was as blue as the summer sky and framed with the deep green clouds of the hanging trees and stout bushes near its edges. The bright sunlight left specks of glitter in the fall’s foam and a radiant ribbon through the water’s center that was so blinding, Fíli had to squint hard until the vision moved and gave him a new, less glaring view.

“It’s so beautiful,” he said.

She let him admire the scene for a long, generous moment before taking him along the trails hidden in the connecting forest to show him its exact location. The exploration was all done through the window of the vision.

“I know where that is,” he said. “It’s not too far from here, close enough where you and I could sneak away. It seems I’m not the only one who could use a break from my duties.”

The fairy smiled and nodded, hair waving against Fíli’s palm and tickling him. In her eagerness, the shining curtain parted and one stubborn lock fell in her eyes. That rogue twist of hair was something that teased her often, but if it was an imperfection, it was one that only endeared her to Fíli all the more.

Before she could right the tendril herself, Fíli lifted his hand, brushing his fingertip very carefully over her small cheek and pushing her feather soft hair over her shoulder. He let his finger settle against her neck, but she grabbed him in a hurry, pulling him off of her skin, yet still keeping him close to her.

Before he could answer, her entire body shivered and shook and she pouted at him. Then she turned away. As if shaking water from her fingers, her hand flicked to the dark fireplace in the corner of Fíli’s chambers and she built him a fire flame by flame.

She felt that he was cold.

He laughed, immeasurably relieved that was all. He immediately stopped her waving arm.

“I’ll make a fire. Don’t tire yourself over me, I’ll do it myself.”

She frowned at him, gravely shaking her head as he crossed the room.

“Don’t give me that look! You know dwarves don’t feel the cold as you do. It’s not like I would let myself freeze over.”

She flew around him, waving over the stone cold bricks to warm them. Then she stopped in front of his eyes with a very unimpressed glare.

“All right, all right. Thank you for the reminder.”

Then she smiled, wriggled, and flew back to where he’d been sitting.

As he took the firewood from its rack and stacked the logs just so, he checked over his shoulder to assure himself that she hadn’t left in a flurry. But there she was, legs dangling and swinging from her spot on the right arm of his chair.

After singeing a part of his sleeve on the flame she’d ignited for him, he turned back to his work and said, “I’ve missed you, you know,” throwing out the confession before he lost his nerve. “But I knew you must have been busy. Fairies never seem to stop and rest, especially you. Not even for the honey cakes I’ve set out for you every night for the past weeks.”

He finally peeked over his shoulder and chuckled at her wide eyes.

She pointed to herself in question.

“Yes, they’re for you! I don’t know anyone else who garnishes their honey cakes with even more honey and then finishes them off with sweet milk. Do you?”

He expected a funny little glare from her, but didn’t receive any such thing. She was too grateful, too excited about her treats. She flew around them, as if deciding which one she wanted to indulge in first.

Once the fire was crackling, Fíli returned to his desk chair. He poured the small jug of milk into an even tinier cup for her- one that he’d had made special by the potter at the market. He’d felt the looks burning his back when he purchased it at the stall, but those and the extra work had all been worth it when his fairy first saw it. Specially made for her. And her sweet milk.

“There’s more where those came from so go ahead and enjoy,” Fíli said.

With two straining hands and trembling arms, she held out an entire honey cake and offered it to him. Only to save her strength, Fíli took it with thanks, and so as not to offend her, he took a bite when she did. As her small piece left her eyes rolling closed as only a delicious delicacy would, the other half of Fíli’s cake crumbled in his fingers as the sweetness dissolved on his tongue.

“Do you like them?” Fíli asked after a gulp.

In answer, Ivy burst into the air, twirling and spinning, sparkles and glowing fragments of pure joy following her flight. She flew in front of him and nodded.

Then suddenly, she laughed at him.

Before Fíli could lift a finger, she came close to him and her cool hands, like little raindrops, cleaned the mess of cake crumbles from his chin. He was amazed, she didn’t seem to mind the coarse hair of his beard on her delicate fingers. Not at all. In fact, if he could hazard a guess, he would have thought she lingered closeby, touching him, for longer than necessary. Unfortunately, she caught herself. Giving a funny salute, she flew back to her spot on the edge of the silver treat tray. Even when she dipped the next small chunk of cake into the jar of honey, her bite stayed intact all the way from the platter to her mouth. It must have been magic, Fíli thought.

“I think these are extra tasty tonight,” he said, popping the rest of his piece past his lips. Then he leaned down to her. “But very short. Care to help me with these crumbs?” he asked, wriggling his scrunched mouth.

In a blink, she flushed pink from her tiny toes to her forehead. But she laughed and tugged on the braided mustache that swung closest to her.

“Fine! I’ll do it myself,” he joked, enjoying her ringing giggle.

After a neat little swig of sweet milk, Ivy rose from her seat, holding her belly.

“All finished?”

She shook her head violently.

“Just a break then? Good. They’d call for a medic if we sent even a crumb back down to the kitchens. They all know no tray of sweets has ever survived the two of us.”

She glowed and left her spot next to the cakes. As always, she effortlessly identified the most recent bane of Fíli’s existence. It made him wonder if it was Ivy’s magic that helped her do it, or if it was simply a freakish skill. Either way, the moment she left the platter, she headed for the leather bound book Fíli had discarded before her arrival. She tapped the binding with her toe, questioning. But Fíli knew she’d seen it before and the little thing was fishing for a confession.

He also knew he’d been caught.

“I was just putting it away for the night.”

She sent a glare his way whose meaning was as clear as if the letters were written across her round little nose: Liar.

In truth, Fíli had forgotten all about the book and its contents the moment his fairy made her presence known. It was mystical how quickly his mind moved from hopelessness and exhaustion to joy and wonder whenever Ivy was near. He often asked himself if he had the same effect on her, but had yet to gather the courage to ask.

Her peculiar movement pulled him from his thoughts. She’d squatted down like a dwarf about to lift a cart brimming with stone and with all her might, lifted the book’s heavy leather cover. Then with silent, bare feet, she walked over the title page until she’d flipped the book open.

“Excuse me,” Fíli said with mock offense. “There are trade secrets in this book, you know. For no one’s view but my own.”

She rolled her eyes at him and lifted her finger, pointing to the end of the ribbon bookmark. She twirled her wrist and the light shooting out from under her tidy fingernails sent the pages whipping by as if caught in a windstorm. A moment later, the pages fell flat.

The place left open was riddled with smear marks and ink blotches, scrawled notes and words that had been crossed out with enough force to scratch the next few pages.

Her eyebrow crooked like the roof of a village house, accusing Fíli of the mess.

“Ruling a kingdom isn’t easy,” he explained with a shrug. “Things get a little… untidy.”

Ivy’s lip quirked and she leaned down to skim her hand across the page under her feet. A rippling wave of fresh magic traveled across the paper from Ivy’s toes out to the corner edges, continuing through the air until it hit Fíli’s nose- that light, unique scent he’d always associated with his fairy. It immediately relaxed him, giving him peace wherever the information hidden in that book stole it away.

When the wave cleared, Fíli saw that his entries were organized anew. The spills and blots had vanished, leaving only what he’d intended in their place. Even his notes were left in the margins, now neat and crisp, with not a thought lost. But Ivy’s work hadn’t stopped at one page. Every section was free of crimps or bends, the cover was dusted and the binding was flawlessly refinished all in one singular moment.

It was astonishing.

“Oh, Ive,” Fíli said, sighing out the rarely used nickname he had for her. From where he stood, he could see the pages were now smooth and soft as silk and he couldn’t help but touch them, running his comparatively rough fingertips over the center of the open book where the pages met. He took a corner and flipped through the last sheets, listening to the soft flaps that rang through the room- a noise that reminded him of the sound of Ivy’s rustling wings flying toward him. This torturous book was now bright and clean with a fairy’s mark.

The best part, however, was the scent left behind, pooling in its pores- that of magic, of his friend, of her belief in him.

Fíli held out his hand and Ivy flew to it.

“I don’t think I’ll mind this work as much anymore. It’s perfect. Thank you.”

She bowed, flashing her petal skirt with a flourish.

Just as Fíli reached for the neatened pages again, Ivy snapped the book closed with a turn of her wrist, almost trapping his hand inside.

“Hey!” he laughed, startled from his daze. “I wanted to admire your handiwork!”

Once over her giggles, she planted her fists on her hips and with a demanding stare, pointed to the empty spot in the shelf where the hardcover belonged overnight. A stomp of her foot practically shouted: NOW.

“All right! I’m putting it away.” He let Ivy dismount onto the silver cake platter and did as he was told, with a dwarfling’s grin wide on his lips. When he’d tucked the book into place, Fíli ran a finger down the soft, faultless binding with a whistle.

“A craft any dwarf would be proud of.”

When he looked over his shoulder Ivy was watching him- carefully and contently admiring him. Even romantically, if Fíli was brave enough to use the word.

While he had her undivided attention, he winked at her, just as a tease to make her flood that pretty shade of pink. As a retort, she stole a sweet cake from his side of the platter and took a violent bite.

With a chuckle, Fíli plopped into his chair and watched her as he felt the exhaustion sneak into his stubborn muscles and his overstretched mind. He still had a sliver of energy, however, to wonder if his fairy’s glow had grown more intense after this time spent together. He could see it in her eyes. Though they were as dark as fertile soil, they were round and shining in the tireless candlelight she brought to the chambers. And now as she watched him, they were fearless in their gaze and brimming with affection in their softness.

Yet, despite it all, Fíli knew they were both aware that their visit couldn’t last much longer.

She rose and brushed the non existent crumbs from the purple petals of her dress, letting her wings flutter to life.

Fíli straightened in a rush at her movement, saying exactly what had been on his mind in a soft, sleepy voice. “I will never know how you always find a way to comfort me. Somehow, you’ve done it again, my friend. Thank you.”

She beamed, her smile like a crescent moon flipped on its side in the night.

“Will you visit me again?” Fíli asked.

She nodded.

He leaned to her, taking her tiny hand between his thumb and forefinger. “Please don’t let too much time pass before you do.”

Her beating wings stuttered for a moment and her luminous aureola dimmed. Her twinge of sadness squeezed Fíli’s heart, strangling it like a thirsty vine, and he wished he’d never spoken so selfishly. But before he could take his words back, she fluttered up to his face and placed a feather light kiss on his cheek as her goodbye. Then she smiled, eyes brimming with clear sparkle and so many words unspoken.

With a wave of her hand, she beckoned him to follow her lead across the room. As she did at the end of every visit, she flew in neat ringlets through the air above his bed, dropping warmth, rest, and peace into the furs in the form of glistening sparkles like fresh pollen from her own flora. This ritual of theirs left magic on Fíli’s pillow for days to come. It would give him restful sleep, even with the weight of his kingdom on his shoulders. Her magic even seemed to quell the loneliness that often pulled at his heart. She always left a piece of herself with him.

“You are far too kind to me, Ive,” Fíli said to her, standing next to the bed, close to her one last time before her departure. “Too generous-”

The blankets below him flew up and covered his head in a magical swoop. A fairy’s doing.

“Fine! No more compliments!” Fíli cried, untangling himself. “But how am I not to, when you-”

With the covers back where they belonged, he was free to look around the room. The empty room. She’d gone.

In his defeated search for her, he found a gift left for him on his bedside table. A billowing purple flower with feather-like petals reminiscent of her dress sat in the now dim candle light. Curled around the deep green stem was a note that he fumbled to open with his round fingertips. When he pulled it flat, that same scent- the scent of magic, of his fairy- flew to his nose in a flurry and a message was illuminated.

Soon.

***

Taglist: @emrfangirl @misslongcep @raindancer2004 @ladybugg1235 @xxbyimm @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @fire-flv @nerdbirdsworld @dashesofink @winchesterandpie @tumblinglringlring @specialagentsnark @karlthecat15722 @sagabriar @marymegger @aidan-kili-mitchell-forever @cassiabaggins @guardianofrivendell @lathalea @laurfilijames @moniamoure @dark-angel-is-back @burningcoffeetimetravel @justfollowtheroad @vem-vem-writes @animallover81 @luckyluckyjesse

#fili #fili x oc #oc #fili x ivy #dwarves #fairies #dwarf #fairy #the hobbit #the hobbit fandom #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit fic #the hobbit fanfic #oc:ivy

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joonsrack · 4 years ago

Text

Masterpiece | KTH x KNJ

+PAIRING: Kim Taehyung x Kim Namjoon

+GENRE: Oneshot, crack, angst, smidge of smut, College AU, stranger to lover

+WORD COUNT: ~13k

+RATING: 18+

+WARNING: Taehyung has face blindness, NSFW, (very) foul language, overuse of the word penis and it’s synonyms, pinning, misunderstandings, Namjoon is like real’ dumb, a little hanky panky but nothing scandalous.

+SUMMARY:

“So let me recap here, you don’t know his name, his major, his department, his age, his number, nor his face. The only clue you have is this drawing, which basically looks like a textbook example of unrealistic body expectations. You apparently know every nook and cranny of his [REDACTED], but you didn’t have the decency to ask his name? You deserve this.” He cackles, angering Taehyung.

(OR the one where Taehyung has face blindness but that won't stop him from finding love. )

+A/N: Well, it’s been almost a year since I’ve posted anything, and almost as much time since i last wrote anything (except for the occasional guilt writing lmao). So this is me coming back with a vengeance (and the dumbest thing i’ve ever written). This is all thanks to (or to be blamed on) @minloop who put up with my non-stop messaging, gave me some plot ideas, and actually inspired me to finish this in three days. Thank you to my baby @emojihobi for the emotional support and the beta reading 💖

+Disclaimer: I got all my info on face blindness from google searches, so please forgive any inaccuracy.

Face blindness has definitely made Taehyung’s life difficult.

There’s the obvious problem of not being able to recognize your parents. Remember this childhood trauma of holding a random stranger’s hands in the mall, thinking it’s your mother or father? Taehyung had to live through that many, many times; except he wouldn’t realize until said stranger would shake his hand off, or until his parents would swoop in to get him. The fact that he’s never been kidnapped is down to pure luck, really.

Making friends, you guessed it, has also been a challenge. It’s difficult explaining to kids why you ignored them when you saw each other in the hallway. Kids don’t always understand “I didn’t recognize you” as an explanation, especially if you’ve been in the same class since pre-k.

But this? This is a new and unforeseen crisis.

His dorm room is very quiet, which is not unusual since he has a solo room. But he’s pretty sure he went to sleep with a plus one, and said plus one is nowhere to be seen.

Now, he isn’t a stranger to one-night stands sneaking out after he falls asleep. He likes to take night conquests to his dorm room for this exact reason; He can go right to sleep, while they take themselves out. Easy breezy no string attached-y. That’s usually the way he wants it to be.

But this time is different. Last night was different. Last night, Taehyung had the best night of his life, hands down. Best bangs of his existence. Bangs plural because they went more than once. How that’s even possible when his teenage years are long gone and days with multiple orgasms are less and less common, he has no idea.

He’s probably ruined for anyone else. Nothing could ever compare to the night he just spent getting his back blown out.

Now, Taehyung is a sculptor. A very gifted one at that (if his teachers’ praises are anything to go by). Taehyung knows body proportions, knows perfect rations, all that stuff. He knows it on marble bodies, in sketches, in painting. Not on actual human beings.

Until last night.

Last night, he witnessed the body of a god. He scratched at perfect skin, held on to beautifully defined and strong arms, rode perfect thighs. Last night, he shed a tear at the view of some perfect knees. Last night, he realized that art truly imitates nature.

And that’s not all.

Taehyung can admit he owns a nice dick; it’s decently shaped, the color is nice, and the size is slightly over average.

But what he witnessed the night before?

The Narcissus of dicks; the most beautiful dick on the planet. The most beautiful dick in history . Probably even prettier than Narcissus’ face himself. (But Taehyung doesn’t know what Narcissus' face looks like, so he’s only assuming.)

From the perfect red color of its beautifully shaped head to the gracefully intertwined veins leading to a sturdy looking hilt, peppered with well-kept pubic hair, ending in an exquisitely wrinkled ballsack. The girth was over average; big enough to make size queens (such as Taehyung) salivate, but not big enough to scare away enthusiasts. And the length? The dude is lucky he’s a grower and not a show-er, or he would never know peace. Mainly because the likes of Taehyung or Park Jimin would never let him be.

But where is that most perfect penis right now?

Attached to its perfectly shaped and mysterious owner, probably miles away.

Very problematic, indeed.

“So what you’re saying is, you fell asleep, and when you woke up he was gone? Isn’t that how it’s usually supposed to go?” Yoongi sounds disgruntled on the other end of the face call, face half mushed in his pillow, hair disheveled and eyes squinty. It’s not yet 1 pm after all, which is still considered morning for people like Min Yoongi.

“Noooo, not this time.” Taehyung whines,” This time he was supposed to stick around and ask me to marry him in the morning. Isn’t that obvious? We went at it four times for fuck sake, doesn’t that mean anything anymore?”

Jimin chokes on his matcha oatmeal milk latte, eyes going wide. “Four times?! Now that is a monster stamina. He basically squeezed your balls dry.” There’s a pause, then he says to someone off-camera, “It’s rude to stare, ma’am.”

“Stop ruining my morning with your screaming,” Yoongi grunts out, rubbing his eyes. “So what do you want us to do about this?”

Taehyung fumbles around his desk for a moment, looking through his piles of sketches until he finds it, his only clue.

“Do you two know this man?” He asks, pulling out a sketch he did quickly off his memory of the mystery man’s body. He pulls out a second one, this one is a close-up of his perfect penis. He might have gone off tangent with the shading, but he couldn't stop himself, that dick deserves all the shading.

“Jesus fuck.” Yoongi signs.

“Baby, I’m sure you’re aware that if I knew anyone with a body and a dick like that, you would never have been able to put your dirty paws on him.”

Taehyung turns hopeful eyes to Yoongi after glaring at Jimin for a good 10 seconds, but Yoongi only shakes his head no.

“I don’t have a habit of making my friends strip around me, sadly. I wouldn’t be able to tell even if I knew him.”

“You two are useless” Taehyung signs, his body deflating. Yoongi takes offense and hangs up. Or maybe he was going to hang up either way.

“So let me recap here, you don’t know his name, his major, his department, his age, his number, nor his face. The only clue you have is this drawing, which basically looks like a textbook example of unrealistic body expectations. You apparently know every nook and cranny of his penis, but you didn’t have the decency to ask his name? You deserve this.” He cackles, angering Taehyung.

“I was busy sucking his dick, asshole.” He spits, but Jimin only snorts in answer.

“Good luck finding the owner of Mystery Penis.” He quips back, before hanging up as well.

All hope is lost. Never in his life has he despised his face blindness as much as he does right now. Of course, it’s never been easy dealing with it throughout his life. He’s lucky he has two solid friends he can count on. Although Jimin regularly dyes and changes his hairstyle without warning to mess with him. And Yoongi basically has two hours of availability per week, usually arranged around his sleeping schedule.

But he knows they care for him, and he cares for them.

He drags his feet to class. He uses ‘class’ lightly; being a third-year means most of his courses are spent in the workshop, working on his graduate exhibition.

He’s got his trusty overalls on, covered in clay stains. He’s been working with clay for the last few weeks, using the medium for two of his exhibition pieces.

He greets his teacher at the front desk with a nod, before making his way to his desk. Today’s playlist consists of oldies, and he makes it to his desk just as Lionel Richie’s voice fills the room.

He snorts, rolling his eyes.

Hello is a classic of sculpting classes. No matter the teacher or the Instructor, they all love to play that song on repeat, and he usually doesn’t pay it any mind. But right now, isn’t there a more perfect song to taunt him?

Lionel Richie asks if it’s him he’s looking for, as he’s pulling his tool out of his bag. He unwraps the plastic wrap from around the latest project he’s been working on, already planning his next move.

He’s pretty sure the sculpting world is all over that song only because of the music video.

It’s obvious that the whole ‘blind girl sculpting’ thing–

Oh.

Oh dear god. The music video.

The music video.

Taehyung has an idea.

His hands move before he can fully realize the plan in his head, rewrapping his project, and getting some new clay from the front of the class.

His teacher looks him up and down in all his frantic and excited glory.

“A sudden stroke of inspiration?” He questions, sounding curious.

“Something like that.” Taehyung smiles, trying to act inconspicuous. His teacher won’t let him take the clay if it’s not for his graduate exhibition.

He makes it back to his station without any more inquiry and starts to work right away.

Jimin was right, he does know every nook and cranny of that penis. He spent hours getting acquainted with it, and he has an excellent memory (Except for faces, obviously).

All the other students are too busy working on their final projects to notice the massive penis under construction a few feet from them. If anyone asks, Taehyung will proudly answer that it’s a life-sized depiction. But no one is asking, so he simply works on bringing the piece to life. The students in his class rarely talk to him, since he hasn’t gone out of his way to develop any type of relationship with them. It’s easier like that.

Once he’s done, many hours later, he’s alone in the workshop with the sun setting outside.

He ogles proudly at his masterpiece, the erect penis standing tall on his station, truly a creature of beauty. It’s a perfect replica, down to the ballsack wrinkles; down to the cute mole at the hilt. Of course, it’s clay-colored, and it probably won't change since Taehyung hates painting his creations, but he’s absolutely certain that everything else is exactly like the original.

The oven has been preheating for a while, so it’s hot and ready to bake some penis. The only thing left is to leave it to cure for a while. Any ol’ regular penis would have taken less than an hour to cure, but we’re talking about a monster cock here.

He pops it into the oven, sets a timer, just in time for a knock at the door to pull him out of his penis-induced craze.

“Yo, Tae,” Yoongi’s voice resonates from the door frame.

Taehyung grabs a rag from his station to clean his hand with before making his way to his friend. There’s someone with him, and Yoongi signals at his friend with a lazy wave of his hand.

“Remember Namjoon?” He asks, but it’s a rhetorical question. Jimin and Yoongi have taken to the habit of identifying the people they’re with, so Taehyung doesn't have to embarrass himself trying to figure it out on his own. That way, they don’t have to explain his condition to every single person that isn’t in his immediate friend circle.

(Is it even a circle if it’s two people?)

He sends a nod in Namjoon’s way and gets a wave back, and that’s as far as their exchange goes, as usual. Except today, his whole body language reads nervous and tense. But that’s none of Taehyung’s business.

“We’re going to see some juniors perform in a pub, you want to come with?” Yoongi asks him, and Taehyung knows he means well, but he also knows that Yoongi knows he doesn’t like crowded spaces.

He and Jimin have tried to get him to go out more, but the only time Taehyung steps foot inside any type of alcohol selling establishment is when he wants to get laid. And there’s only one place he goes to then; that crappy little Bar near campus that’s only frequented by broke students who also want to get laid.

He doesn’t like anywhere that’s dark where there’s enough people to make him lose sight of his friends. Something about losing his parents at the mall one too many times.

“That sounds nice, but I have to finish this piece I’m working on.” He answers, trying to sound as regretful as he can. It doesn’t really work, judging by Yoongi’s unconvinced humming.

“Alright, careful when you go back home.” Yoongi finally answers, patting him on the shoulder.

He starts walking away, but his friend, Namjoon, stays frozen on the spot, facing him. He’s looking at Taehyung in some kind of way, but face blindness makes it hard for him to read other’s expressions. He raises a single eyebrow in interrogation, and that seems to make Namjoon snap out of it. He turns on his heel without as much as a goodbye, which, rude .

“'Kay, bye.” He mutters after him.

But he can’t hold it against him. He knows that ‘Namjoon’ has been a long-time friend of Yoongi and that they’ve spent some time together by association. Taehyung doesn’t go out of his way to get to know new people, so there’s a high chance Namjoon might have tried to approach him with friendship in mind, only to end up frustrated by Taehyung’s lack of interest. Happens all the time. He can’t really help it, reading intentions is not in his toolbox.

He should probably tell Yoongi to share his ‘secret’ with Namjoon. He seems nice enough from what he heard, so he would probably be understanding. It should at least clear up the misunderstanding, and Taehyung might even gain a new friend, who knows?

He makes his way back to his station, works on his actual project while the oven takes care of making his penis nice and hard.

The next morning, he wakes up to ten texts from Jimin, one from Yoongi, and multiple missed calls and voicemail from his workshop teacher.

Asshole with pink hair:

9:40 am ur crazy

9:40 am CRAZY

9:40 am This is hilarious

9:41 am That’s why i love u

9:41 am That is a beautiful dick

9:41 am Like it was nice on paper, but the 3D version definitely makes me wonder about its owner

10:26 am All the student body is buzzing about the mystery penis

10:27 am It’s on the front page of the school newspaper

10:27 am omg you dumbass u didnt write your number

10:27 am you didn't write your number anywhere brb dying of laughter

Hyungie:

11:32 am You didnt write your infos dumb dumb

Taehyung bangs his head on his pillow, hoping for quick death. How could he forget to write down his infos? How is anyone supposed to contact him?

Namjoon has come to learn quickly that university isn’t always the most sanest place on the planet. Cramming, into a single building, that amount of genius with that amount of insanity is bound to create interesting events.

He’s stopped being surprised by most things, might be guilty of doing some of those surprising things from time to time. But today? Today is on a whole new level.

Somehow, his dick is plastered all over the school, in every hallway, on every door. Think Regina George distributing the burn book copy all over school but, multiplied by 50, that’s how many pictures of his dick are distributed around school right now. Not an actual picture of his actual dick, but an actual picture of an actual clay replica, with big bold yellow letters spelling out 'HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PENIS?', and nothing else.

It’s vaguely threatening.

He wishes he couldn’t tell that it’s his penis, then maybe he could laugh with the rest of the student body. But there’s no mistaking it. One look and he knew. The person who printed those flyers made sure to include all the possible angles, too.

It’s 100% his dick.

The slight curve is there, the mole is there, everything is there.

The intentions of the maker are unclear, but there’s one thing for sure: he knows exactly who’s behind it. He only knows one sculptor who has seen his penis, and that’s the current bane of his life, Kim Taehyung.

It’s not enough that Taehyung has been completely ignoring his existence before their night of passion together, he’s also been ignoring him after.

And now this? Plastering his dick all over school? For absolutely no reason? Did he not like the night they spent together? Was this a great big ploy to make fun of him? Is this Taehyung’s way to reject him? To tell him to stay away from him? He knows he’s never been really subtle with his crush, but isn’t this going way too far?

At least he had the very, very basic decency to forgo his name from the flyers, or Namjoon might have had to run away to the next town.

Namjoon is not dumb, he knows his ancient Greece lore and what they thought about big dicks.

Taehyung didn’t write this so people would look at the dick, he’s obviously calling him a dick. And for what, pinning on him for the last year? Can’t a man have a crush in peace?

Maybe he shouldn't have approached Taehyung that night.

One thing is for sure, Taehyung is sending him a very clear message to stay away from him.

He spent a fortune printing all those hands out, and now he has to reprint them all? Taehyung knows very well he can’t afford another round of mass printing. Plus the librarian probably won’t ever let him walk into the library again. She had to come and refill the printer at least three times in the hour he was there. The environmental club was even called on scene by one of the students waiting for his turn at the printer. Talk about a snitch.

He can’t afford to reprint everything, and there’s no way he’ll go around school writing his number by hand.

He listens to the voicemails from his teacher then, uncovering a new hurdle.

The first one goes like this:

"Kim Taehyung I know it’s you, you left that thing on your desk."

Then the second:

"Kim Taehyung, you will take down these handouts right this instant before the Dean can see them, you hear me? He'll put you on probation and my head on a stick."

Taehyung muffles his groans into his pillow. Maybe it’s a good thing he forgot to include his number. He should have thought of that before.

He throws on some clothes, heeding his teacher’s warning. He better get to school quickly.

He texts Yoongi and Jimin to take down as many as they can if they want to see him live for another day. Yoongi doesn’t answer and Jimin only texts back asking if he can keep one for his room.

Some friend circle he’s got there.

He makes it onto campus in under half an hour, and gets to work, taking them down as quickly as he can.

He’s got only a few hallways left to do when someone taps him sharply on the shoulder. He spins around, dreading the moment he comes face to face with the Dean. Not that he could recognize the Dean.

“Are you the Dean?” He stammers in a small voice.

“What? No- you. I swear to god. Just tell me if you hate me that much.” Stranger says, before putting his long leg to good use, striding away from him. He throws a bunched-up flyer on the floor before disappearing down the hallway as quickly as he’s appeared.

Taehyung is stunned for a good minutes, utterly confused

The voice sounds similar, but other than that he has no idea who just spit those words at him. He doesn’t hate anyone, and he doesn't see why anyone would believe he has those kinds of ill feelings towards them.

Now that his plan has miserably failed, Taehyung falls into hopelessness once again. He lays in bed, holding his precious sculpture to himself. It’s the only thing he has left from his fateful encounter. Or he thought it was fate, but now he’s wondering if that was life making fun of him.

Jimin is laying by his side, examining the sketch of the body with clear interest. It’s making Taehyung feel a little possessive.

“Maybe you should try again in the school gym, no one gets a body like that from not going to the gym. You could say you’re looking for a model or something.”

Taehyung stares at his friend with all the admiration he can muster.

“I would kiss you so hard right now.”

“We tried that once, remember?”

“Yes, and that’s why I won’t be doing it, but I would, just so you know.”

“Cool.”

He snatches the sketch out of Jimin’s hands to get to work on the shading, trying to get his drawing as realistic looking as possible. Making a whole body out of clay would take too long, so Taehyung will have to settle for his sketch.

Once he’s done, some 30 minutes have passed. He whirl around on his desk chair, waving the sketch around successfully, only to stop dead in his tracks. He finds Jimin with his precious sculpture halfway down his throat.

“Jimin!” He exclaims, fuming. “Get your dirty mouth off my penis!”

Jimin startles and chokes in surprise, but then bursts out laughing once the sculpture is safely out of his mouth.

“Sorry, sorry. I was just really curious about the size. You never cease to amaze me.”

Taehyung snatches his precious phallus back, grabbing some tissues to wipe off Jimin's drool.

“If I can’t find him, this is going up my ass, so don’t touch it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jimin grimaces, rearranging himself on the bed. He grabs his phone to waste some time, probably ignoring his other responsibilities as the end of their final semester is quickly approaching. “You want to end up in the emergency room? Just use it to make a mold and replicate it with some silicon at least.”

Taehyung raises both eyebrows in astonishment.

“Jimin, your genius never ceases to amaze me.”

He successfully drags Jimin with him to the campus gym. Normally the prospect of hot sweaty people grunting, in various states of undress would attract Jimin like a bee to honey, but since he’s already banged or broken up with half the people that go there, Taehyung has to keep a firm hold on his friend’s wrist.

“Why do I have to come with you again?”

“It was your idea, so you’re taking responsibility.”

“I don’t like taking my responsibilities, they suck,” Jimin grumbles, but he stops trying to run away.

The moment they step into the gym, they’re assaulted by the musky smell of sweat and determination. There’s a high volume of people working out, probably wanting to channel their end-of-semester jitters into iron pumping.

Taehyung spots the front desk, putting his business smile on while reaching into his folder. He hears Jimin greet someone, going off by himself, but Taehyung bears him no mind and heads straight for the Woman working the counter.

“Hi there,” he says, charm on, “ I was wondering if you could help me out,-”

“Yes you can put your flyers up, no you don’t have to pay for it, no we won’t take it down before the end of the semester, yes I do have some tape.” She says without missing a beat, not looking up at him.

“Damn, maybe I’m here because I want to sign up for a membership.”

She finally looks up from her computer, assessing Taehyung from head to toe.

“No you don’t babe. Here’s the tape.” She says, handing him the tape while blowing a bubble with her pink gum. Multitasking at its finest.

Taehyung doesn’t feel like taking her on a debate, so he gets hold of the roll of tape and gets to work, spotting where other people left their flyers so he can put his right by them.

He scans the gym once or twice with a quick look, trying to see if, by a stroke of luck, Mystery Man could be there. No one that is shirtless has the body he’s looking for, and he sadly doesn’t have x-ray vision to check the rest. No amount of wishing as a kid made him grow that ability.

He puts up the first flyer, this time containing all his info, and stares at it proudly. He's got a good feeling about this.

Jimin finds him again as he’s putting up his last flyer, sounding excited about something.

“I had no idea Namjoon worked out. He’s got nice arms hidden beneath those sweatshirts.”

“Namjoon? Yoongi’s friend?”

“Yeah! And he changed his hair color, it looks really good on him. A little lighter than he used to have.”

Taehyung nods along, not really pressed to know more. He’s got other fish to fry.

Namjoon slowly counts to 30 after seeing Taehyung leave the premises, before he basically sprints to the nearest wall, spotting the flyers Taehyung has put up.

There’s a sketch on it, a sketch of a body. A body that looks strangely like his. He frowns, before reading the caption.

“Sculpting student looking for body model. Body must look like this. Call XXX-XXX-XXXX. Food as compensation. ”

Namjoon cannot believe his eyes. Taehyung knows he’s got that exact body type, yet he didn’t ask for his help. If he needed any other confirmation that Taehyung hates him, there’s one right there.

Just what did he do to the man to make him hate him so much?

Since he’s confronted him in the hallway, Taehyung still hasn’t reached out to him. It would be easy to do. He knows Taehyung has his number, they exchanged it when they first met, so nothing is stopping him. Unless he’s happy with the way things are.

Maybe Jimin is not as much of a genius as he thought. By the sixth person that walks in to be a body model, he realizes this is getting expensive in food bribes and studio fees. He has also stopped putting up the pretense of wanting to sketch anyone anymore.

But this time, It’s one Jung Hoseok who walks in.

“Have we slept together before?” He asks right off the bat, tired of wasting his precious time. It’s his new modus operandi; invite them in, ask the burning question, then send them on their way with the promised food to avoid complaints.

“I don’t believe so, but maybe we should fix that,” Hoseok answers, taking off his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“Your flyers have a nude body on it, you made me come to a private studio, isn’t this a nude modeling thing?” Hoseok questions, but doesn’t stop undressing. He’s already reaching for his belt.

Something tells Taehyung this man would be really sad to be told to put his clothes back on. The way he’s unapologetically getting naked tells Taehyung everything he needs to know.

“So, why are you asking?” He inquires while posing, everything hanging loose and stuff. “Is that how you get laid? Asking hot dudes to model, then seducing them once they’re naked and vulnerable?”

Jung Hoseok doesn’t seem to be feeling very vulnerable right now, but Taehyung keeps that to himself.

“God no. Jesus that would be sleazy of me.”

“Not as sleazy as asking me if we’ve slept together 5 seconds into our first meeting.” Hoseok points out.

“ Touché. ” He admits, a soft chuckle escaping him.

Hoseok doesn’t press him for an answer, and they spend the next few minutes in silence, the only sound coming from Taehyung's pencil on the thick page of his sketchbook.

Jung Hoseok, standing confidently in front of him in all of his naked glory, has a certain aura around him. The way he holds himself, no hesitation to bare it all, head held high; it's like he never had to hide anything in his life. Like he never knew shame. To the point where it inspires Taehyung to utter the next words:

“I have face blindness.” He starts off, which gets his model’s attention. He keeps his eyes down on his paper to avoid eye contact, feeling rusty when it comes to revealing this part of himself. He continues quickly, “I had a one-night stand with this– perfect greek god. He had the perfect penis, too. Best sex of my life.” He's making good progress on his sketch, Hoseok’s body graceful and easy to put on paper. “I’m trying to find him, but I don’t know anything about him, and I can’t tell people’s faces apart." He chuckles deprecatingly, "The only clue I have is the way his body looks. So I put up this ad for body models hoping he would show up.”

Hoseok breaks his pose to slap his hands together, then pointing at him. “Oh my god, are you the one that plastered the whole school with the penis sculpture a few days ago? Was that your version of a ‘Wanted’ poster?”

Taehyung feels his cheeks warm up.

“Yeah, but I almost lost my diploma over that so let’s not mention it.”

Hoseok laughs with his whole body, clapping his hands together a few more times as if to express his excitement.

“That was the best thing to ever happen on this campus since 1993, thank you for that.”

His statement piques Taehyung's interest.

“What happened in 1993?” He asks, expecting anything but what comes outs of Hoseok's mouth next.

“My mom and dad conceived me in the bathroom of the literature wing.”

Taehyung chortles, surprising even himself with how loud it is.

“Now that’s a conception story worth telling your kids.”

“They didn't tell me; They got caught and got expelled the next day. They framed their expulsion letter, it’s still on display in the kitchen.” Hoseok’s voice is dripping with fondness, betraying his love for his family. “The thing is, I learned how to read at a very early age.”

Taehyung is possessed by another wave of uncontrollable laughter. He wipes a stray tear from his eyes, taking a second to compose himself.

“There, you’re looking a little better now. “

Taehyung looks up at the man, standing there in his birthday suit, going out of his way to cheer him up even though they’re perfect strangers.

(Maybe not so perfect since he’s seen him naked, but still.)

He chuckles again, going back to his sketching.

“Wait does this mean you don’t actually need models right now?”

“Well yeah," Taehyung answers, shrugging his shoulders, "But you looked like you would be really disappointed if I told you to stop undressing, so I just went along with it.”

Hoseok nods his agreement, going back into his original position.

“Good call. Now that we’re here you better get the shading of my calves right. They’re my pride and glory.”

“On it.”

Who would have thought that this whole ordeal would have somehow turned into Taehyung making a new friend.

He looks at the contact number in his phone staring back at him. It’s written 'Jung Hoseok' with a little sun emoji. He’s told him everything he needs to know to avoid misunderstandings, and Hoseok left with the promise to always greet him first when they see each other in the hallway. It’s sad that he only met the man in his last stretch before getting his degree, but as they say: better late than never.

He’s excited to get to know Hoseok, but he doesn’t know if he should text him first. He’s feeling a little socially rusty, having not approached anyone with the intention of being friends in a long, long time. Which is why he jumps with glee when he sees he’s got a text notification from his new friend. But then he reads the text, and the glee morphes into unadulterated excitement.

Jung Hoseok 🌞:

4:56 pm I think i know who your penis belongs to

4:56 pm can you send me a picture? I lost the flyers i kept from that time

4:59 pm You sent a picture

5:01 pm Yeah it’s really similar

5:01 pm Kim Seokjin, XXX-XXX-XXXX, probably currently working the counter at the campus coffee shop.

5:02 pm He’s tall, broad shoulders, awesome dick

Taehyung doesn’t even take the time to text back his thanks; he wraps up his project in a disorderly manner, wiping his hands on his shirt with no care in the world. He throws his backpack on and basically sprint to the coffee shop he usually tends to avoid. The owner is totally an evil capitalist, ripping off students with his overpriced coffee.

He gets there in record time, gasping for air as his poor lungs try to keep up with enough exercise to last him a lifetime.

He’s covered in clay stains, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, clothes in dismay, lungs wheezing, so he should probably expect the next few events that unfold.

He walks into the coffee shop still out of breath, asks if Kim Seokjin is there to the first employee he sees. This is one of those times where he’s happy he can’t read people’s expressions, because he has a feeling he’s being judged very much right now.

“He… just got off his shift.” The man at the counter answers hesitantly.

“Can you tell me where he went?” And what he was wearing?” Taehyung may be sounding a little desperate, but he doesn’t have the time to care.

“He was still in his uniform, so green, and he went that way.” He indicates with a vague wave of the hand.

Taehyung starts running again, this time looking even more crazed as he scans his surroundings like a mad man, looking for someone tall with broad shoulders wearing green.

He spots him after running for a few minutes, thanking the heavens that the employee sent him in the right direction. He had every reason not to.

“Kim Seokjin!” He calls out, picking up his pace despite his lungs begging for a break. “Wait!”

He sees the man stop, take one look at him over his admittedly very large shoulders, then start sprinting away from him.

“No! Wait up!” He pushes himself harder than he ever has, his legs and lungs burning under the continuous strain, head feeling a little faint. “Please!” He calls out again in desperation. “Please look at my penis!”

This catches Seokjin’s attention, and he thankfully stops running, turning around as if to wait for him. Taehyung slows down to a jog, then to a complete stop, bending over gasping for air. Once his breathing is finally somewhat back to normal, he straightens up, only to come face to face with a bottle of pepper spray.

“W-wait!” He stutters, falling on his ass. “I swear I’m not a creep!”

“That’s exactly what a creep would say.” Seokjin answers, hovering over him threateningly, aiming the pepper spray directly at Taehyung’s face.

“I swear I just need you to look at my penis.”

This was the wrong thing to say apparently, because Seokjin gives the bottle a good shake as if to activate it. “That doesn’t sound as reassuring as you seem to think.”

“No! Wait!” He pleads again. “Not my penis.” He takes off his backpack, frantically digging through it until he finally pulls out his sculpture. “ This penis.”

Seokjin doesn’t look totally convinced, but he finally lowers his weapon. “That’s a beautiful cock.” He admits after a moment of staring in silence.

“Thank you. Is it yours?”

"I don't remember owning that sculpture."

"Not the sculpture; the Penis."

Seokjin frowns, extending his hand, and Taehyung gingerly deposits his precious sculpture into his palm. The man finally puts away his pepper spray to free both his hands. He examines the penis under every angle, trying out the hold, measuring the testicles with his palm, staring at it long and hard.

Taehyung takes the opportunity to stand back up, keeping his distance this time.

“It does look very similar,” he concludes, hands going to his chin. “But this is not my penis. I don’t have a mole there.”

Taehyung deflates. He still asks, just in case. “So we haven’t slept together?”

Seokjin gives him back his sculpture with a snort. “You don’t look like anything I've ever slept with.”

Taehyung realizes the state he’s in. He must look ridiculous right now.

“I’m from the sculpting department. I didn’t have the time to clean up. I don’t usually go around looking like I just rolled in the mud.”

“Explains a lot.” Seokjin nods, looking him up and down.

He dusts himself off as best as he can, but he can’t do much more cleaning up than that. He’ll probably have to go back home looking like that.

“So what’s your name?”

Taehyung feels dumb, he didn’t even have the decency to introduce himself before pulling out his penis. His social skills are frankly lacking.

“I’m Kim Taehyung. Sorry about all that, someone told me you could have the original version of this sculpture.”

“I’m flattered. It is pretty similar. Can I ask why you’re going around asking people to look at your– At this penis?”

Taehyung sighs deeply, looking down at the penis in his hand. He did it once, he can do it again.

“Long story short I had an amazing one-night stand with the owner of this beautiful creature, but I have no idea who he is and the only clue I have is my perfect memory of his penis.”

“Sounds like a proper modern-day Cinderella story. But how come you don’t remember his face?” Seokjin questions, a hint of worry in his voice that would make sense in any other situation than Taehyung’s.

“I…. have face blindness, it’s this whole-”

“Ah, Yes, Prosopagnosia, I heard about that in class.”

“Oh. Well, yeah, so this is my only way of finding him.”

“So the Penis Flyers-”

“Yeah, that was also me. Forgot to write down my info, got caught by my teacher, that was a whole mess.” Taehyung admits, feeling discouraged.

“So now you’re basically going around town asking every man to try on the metaphorical glass shoes.”

“Basically.”

“Maybe don’t start off with ‘please look at my penis’ next time?” Seokjin recommends, which makes sense.

“I’ve been told that asking if we’ve slept together first thing is making me sound sleazy.”

“Yeah well, asking people to look at your penis isn’t better.”

“I’ll take good note of that.”

He drags his feet all the way back home.

He sees, pushed in the corner of his room, the material he got to make a mold, and wonders if now is the time to give up.

His exhibition is coming up, this whole thing made him late on his projects, and now he’s certain he’ll never reunite with Mystery Man. Maybe Mystery Man just doesn’t want to be found. Maybe he’s seen all his attempts and has simply steered clear, avoiding him all along. Maybe it’s time for Taehyung to make himself a silicon version and move on. He’s exhausted all his options, he’s out of time, and out of ideas.

He’s reading through the molding instruction, glad that this should be easy since he’s using a sculpture and not an actual living and breathing dick, when he realizes he hasn’t exhausted all his options. There’s still hope.

He jumps in the shower, picks out an outfit befitting of his destination, and goes off with hope in his heart.

The Bar isn't too busy, this being the middle of a school week, but there’s still some people going about, sharing drinks and being loud, in total denial of the oncoming train that is the end of a semester

Taehyung spots the barman, beeline for him.

“Hey, do you know who usually works on Sundays?”

“That would be me.” Mr.Barman says, convincing Taehyung he finally has luck on his side.

Mr.Barman is on the tall side, with nice tattooed arms and wavy over-bleached hair tucked behind his ears. He’s making his forearm bulge seductively by polishing some beer glasses, and if Taehyung wasn’t on a mission to find his possible Mr.Perfect, he would be actively trying to get into his pants.

“Do you, by any chance, recognize me?”

Mr.Barman doesn’t miss a beat.

“You’re a regular. And you gave me a blowjob once. Why are you asking?”

Well, Taehyung might have many flaws but at least he’s consistent.

“I was wondering if you remembered seeing me a few weeks ago– I was with a dude, about this height, with this body,” he adds, pulling out the sketch. He looks a little crazed, once again. But it’s ok, he’s reaching for straws here. “He had dark hair, but that’s all I can tell you. See, I have face-”

“-Blindness, I know, you cry about it every time you get drunk.”

Hm. And Taehyung thought he was a character full of mystery.

“I do know who you’re talking about. He’s a regular too.”

The irritation Taehyung feels is only momentary, everything melting away with this new bit of information. Someone saw them, someone knows what his Mystery Man looks like. He didn't hallucinate the whole thing.

“Do you know his name??” He asks, pleading with his eyes. His heart is thumping wildly in his chest, desperation tangible.

“No. And he hasn’t been here since that night.” He says, crushing every hope and dream Taehyung mustered up in the last five seconds. He pauses his polishing, head tilting to the side. “But I do remember his face. I can try and draw him if you want.”

10 minutes later, Taehyung is looking at his disability in the face.

“Wow, you did it. You perfectly illustrated how people with face blindness see others.” Taehyung says, looking down at the drawing Jungkook (he asked for his name) quickly scribbled on a piece of napkin. It looks exactly like how he sees others.

Jungkook being good-natured, only laugh it off. “I can’t do much here, I’m working. But if you give me your number, I can try and do a better sketch once I get home. I’m from the painting department.”

“You would do that for me?” Taehyung asks, feeling deeply moved by Jungkook’s kindness.

“Sure, it’s good practice for my portrait class anyways. You can take this as a thank you for the blow job.”

Taehyung nods to himself.

“I do give amazing blowjobs.”

Jungkook, like any good art student, does not appreciate being rushed.

After a whole week of being told “it’s not ready yet”, Taehyung stops asking.

He also wakes up one morning and realizes he only has a few days left before his exhibition.

Not only is he not done with all his pieces, he still hasn’t started studying for his finales which happen to be the week before his exhibition, meaning, the next day.

He pushes aside any thought of Mystery Man (except when he hugs the sculpture at night, heart yearning for the original), and jumps straight into his cramming strategy, which consists of hitting himself with the books until he’s absorbed the material. If he’s not studying, taking a finale, or sleeping, he’s huddled in the workshop with the other students of his department, functioning on coffee and eating various shades of sculpting material for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. This is not what Taehyung expected when he was told that artists live from their arts.

The day before his exhibition, he’s barely feeling human, he’s got dried clay in places clay should never find itself, he doesn’t know words anymore and he has basically forgotten his own name.

No matter how fast he works, he realizes he won’t be able to finish his last pieces in time. He’s wracking his brain for a solution, thinking long and hard about just what he could do, when it hits him.

The solution is right underneath his nose;

His penis. It was always his penis.

He’s supposed to expose pieces that he finds impactful, and if there’s anything that had a big impact on his life in the last few weeks, it’s his sculpture.

He can’t tell his teacher, he’ll categorically refuse. Not after the stunt he pulled with the flyers. Plus he wouldn't understand the cultural reset it was for Taehyung, finding and crafting that beautiful creature.

So he sets to work in secret. It shouldn’t be too hard, he hasn’t printed his labels yet. Plus the students are in charge of installing their own corner, meaning he can wait until the very last moment before the opening to put his penis on display.

He needs to find a name for his sculpture, so he texts his friends for help, but as usual, they are unhelpful.

Asshole with pink hair:

6:45 pm ‘ Suck on that’

Hyungie:

6:45 pm why are you asking me idk

Jung Hoseok 🌞 :

6:50 pm “ Long lost lover”

He’s glad to see that his new friend will fit right in once he introduces him to everyone.

He isn’t satisfied with the answer he gets, so he sends more text.

Kim Seokjin:

7:05 pm “Is this your penis?”

7:06 pm Or better yet, “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PENIS?”

7:06 pm that way people will understand how current your art is

7:10 pm Also I didn’t give you this number to chitchat

7:10 pm after we find out his identity im cutting all ties with you

7:11 pm Im just feeling invested right now

7:11 pm that’s all

7:17 pm Where’s your exhibition again?

Jeon Jungkook barman and artist:

9:56 pm idk

9:56 pm im almost done with the portrait btw

9:56 pm you mind if I use it for my exhibition

9:56 pm im really proud of it

So not much more help on that side either.

The next day, Taehyung is busy setting up his corner and feeling emotional over his last exhibition.

He’s done with uni. He can go off into the world and live from his art. Or more like, he’ll first find a side job that’ll suck the life out of him, to pay for his art. Then he’ll spend a few years regretting every decision that led him to be an artist, but just as he’s about to give up, his sculptures will be noticed by a mysterious millionaire that’ll commission him thousands of dollars at first. He’ll refer him to his rich friend who will be all over his art and will throw their money at him.

Yeah, it’s a nice pipe dream.

He makes sure all the labels are in place, the lights are hitting his pieces in all the right way, and that no one notices him putting his penis in the middle of his space 30 seconds before they open the doors.

By the time his teacher notices, it’s already too late; the place flooded with friends, family, and even the occasional art critics that the university invited.

It’s not like his penis feels out of place in his setup. Most of his pieces are on the theme of the human body; studies of movement, skin texture, whatnot. If you look at it as a whole, you almost have a whole body. The only thing missing is a face, which is extremely fitting for Taehyung.

The wave of people coming is not preferable for Taehyung, since he doesn’t like crowded places. He’s never been a fan of their exhibition opening nights over the years. He keeps himself busy by trying his best to merge with the wall while people circle his pieces. His friends know he won’t be able to recognize them in the crowd, so they’ll come to him by themselves, he simply has to make himself visible.

“Hey babe,” Jimin says with mirth in his voice, “Is that greek?”

“Yeah” Taehyung answers, fixing his eyes on his most beloved and central piece.

“I didn’t know you knew greek”

“I don’t, but Google does.”

The Penis is standing directly underneath his own spotlight, looking like a beacon of light, grabbing the envious stares of the people around it.

There’s a little white label by its base:

Kim Taehyung

πέος, 2021

Red Clay

(if you recognize this penis, please ask for the artist)

“ What does it mean?”

“ Penis ”

Jimin hums, crossing his arm over his chest. “I guess I was not expecting anything less.”

Yoongi chooses that moment to appear, whistling his praise.

“So you did work this semester.” He jokes, bobbing his head with approval.

“Har, har.” Like he’s one to talk. He basically spent the last few months becoming one with his bed.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he expects it to be Hoseok or Seokjin telling him they’re here, but instead it’s from Jungkook, and it’s a picture.

A little gasp of surprise escapes him.

His hands shake as he opens up the text app, his heart thumping as the picture loads. He presses on it once it’s ready, taking up the full screen, and Taehyung can finally-... well, Taehyung can’t do anything with that. His case of face blindness is pretty severe, so even drawings are unrecognizable for him. But it’s something! A new clue! He can make a flyer out of this! He can-

“Why do you have a portrait of Namjoon on your phone?”

Time stops.

Yoongi’s voice echoes in his head, mocking him, but also stealing the carpet right from underneath his feet.

Why do you have a portrait of Namjoon on your phone?

A portrait of Namjoon

Namjoon

Namjoon, who stood in front of him silently, that day Yoongi invited him out, probably expecting some kind of reaction from Taehyung.

Namjoon who frequents the campus gym.

Namjoon, who’s tall and broad-shouldered.

Namjoon, who’s been around Taehyung for a while but was never told about his condition.

Namjoon, who probably thinks Taheyung has been ignoring him all this time.

“Jesus fucking christ, My Mystery Man Is Kim Namjoon.”

Both his friends voice their confusion as Taehyung tries to rip his hair from his head.

“This penis belongs to Kim Namjoon, who doesn’t know I have face blindness, and who probably think I’ve been ignoring him all this fucking time.”

“Holy shit,” Yoongi says at the same time as Park Jimin, that prick, starts cackling uncontrollably. Taehyung always knew he was evil.

“This is- I’m so sorry but- This shouldn't be funny– But I can’t, it’s too funny.” He wheezes out in between laughter. “He was right there, probably confused as hell as to why you were showing his dick to everyone- I’m sorry this is so funny but also so, so sad. You never- oh my god.”

Under the attention of about half the gallery, he wipes the tears from his eyes, body convulsing with laughter.

“What the fuck are you waiting for.” He finally manages to say, taking a deep breath. “Hyung, didn’t you drag him here tonight?”

That seems to snap Yoongi out of his stupor.

“Fuck, yes he’s here, he’s... There!-” He says pointing somewhere, but then his voice dies down. “And now he’s leaving...”

Taehyung spots the man with a black cap currently walking out the exit with an angry stride. He reacts on instinct, running after his Not So Mysterious Man Anymore.

Kim Namjoon is having a very no good, very bad day.

Not because of school, no. He aced all his finales, he doesn’t even need to get his grades back to know.

Not because of the weather either. No, it’s a beautiful spring day, and there’s a hint of cherry blossom in the air, wrapping the world in a romantic tint.

No, the reason he’s having a very no good very bad day, is because he can’t, for the love of God, get Kim Taehyung out of his head.

It started with a very interesting dream, clearly drawing inspiration from the night they spent together. It woke him up at the crack of dawn, sweating up bullets and hard as a rock. Finding sleep afterward was nearly impossible, meaning his first precious day of vacation started way too fucking early.

Now music theory never sleeps, so he simply spent his morning trying to forget his dream, channeling all his energy on composing.

But then Min Yoongi, long-time friend and co-compositor, had to go and ruin his fragile peace of mind by reminding him he had two tickets for the sculpting department exhibition, and Namjoon was obligated to show up. Meaning he would inevitably run into Kim Taehyung; Meaning he would agonize about him all day; Meaning , that he would be thinking about Kim Fucking Taehyung all day.

But it’s ok, because he was finally starting to come to terms with that too. Taehyung would probably ignore him again, and all he needed to do was circle the gallery once and get the fuck out.

But no.

Oh no.

Life had better plans.

Because right into the center of Taehyung's exhibition space, is his very own penis, standing proudly, mocking him.

He can recognize it from the flyers, so he knows instantly that it’s Taehyung’s work.

He’s stunned by the audacity, wondering once again what he did to draw Taehyung’s ire upon himself. The flyers were not enough, no he had to go and put it on display as his final fuck you to Namjoon. Even wrote 'penis' in greek as a title, confirming Namjoon's theory that this is all a ploy to make fun of him.

Namjoon has had enough, he’s getting the fuck out of there.

He spins on his heel at the speed of light, taking advantage of every inch of his long legs to walk out as fast as possible. He ignores the call of his name that follows after him, readjusting the cap on his head.

He’s fuming, feeling tears of frustration building up. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s been nothing but respectful of Taehyung. He’s been staying away from him too.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He makes it a few blocks before his phone starts going off every 5 seconds with incoming texts, forcing him to finally look at it.

Yoongi Hyung:

6:14 pm Before anything, know that Taehyung suffers from severe face blindness.

6:14 pm I know you know what that means you wikipedia rat

6:15 pm I didn’t tell you cause it’s none of my business who he chooses to tell

6:15 pm But the dumbass has been trying to find you for weeks using your dick because he had no other way to identify you

6:15 pm Your pinning hasn't been exactly subtle either

6:16 pm he ran after you when you left but I bet he’s pleading with the wrong person in the street right now

6:17 pm Nice dick by the way

He rereads the series of text to try and make sense of them. Only after the third read, does he finally understand.

Well, shit.

“Please Namjoon listen to me, you have to listen to me, I didn't mean to ignore you, I just didn't know it was you!-” Taehyung pleads, holding on to his sleeve.

“Can you please let go of me?!”

His voice sounds a little older than what Taehyung remembers, but he doesn’t have the time to think too much about that. Maybe he’s got a cold or something.

“-I can explain everything if you can just give me two minutes-”

“I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not this kind of person.”

Taehyung isn’t deterred, holding on to him desperately “-Please I swear just two- no, one minute, even one minute is enough-”

Someone clears their throat, tapping him softly on the shoulder.

“Sorry sir, I believe my friend here is mistaking you for me.”

Now that’s a familiar voice. A voice he recognizes from many occasions.

Taehyung lets go of his poor unsuspecting victim, taking a step back which is all it takes for them to run away from him.

He finally comes face to face with the source of all his past weeks' torment.

The height is there, the shoulders are there, the body proportions are there, the hair color is completely different, but Jimin did mention he changed it recently. He’s got the black cap on, the one that made Taehyung mistake a perfect stranger on the street for him.

It’s him. He found him. It’s his Mystery Man, his cinderella. He’s got him.

“Namjoon?”

“Yes, that’s me.” He confirms, voice gentle.

“Kim Namjoon.” He repeats, trying the name out on his tongue. His body is filling up with butterflies, and he can’t feel his toes.

“And here I thought you just could never remember my name.”

“I can explain–” He rushes, eager to get rid of the misunderstanding.

“It’s ok, Yoongi told me.”

“And about your penis–”

“Yes, Yoongi told me about that too.” Namjoon cuts him off, the tip of his ears getting pink.

“I’m so sorry– I should have asked your name then. I mean– you made me come four times .”

Namjoon chuckles, catching one of Taehyung’s hands mid flail and holding it with both of his, making his heart jump.

“We’ve basically known each other for years, so maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t. I don’t think I would have appreciated it then.”

“I guess that’s true. I’m still sorry.”

“I’m sorry too, I could have come up to you first. I mean, I’m the one who sneaked out in the morning. I had an 8 am class, by the way. I didn’t leave because I wanted to. But you have my number so… I assumed you would call me. ”

“I have your number...?” It's pretty vague, but it does ring a bell. He's got a blurry memory of time, around their first meeting, when Namjoon and he had exchanged their numbers for Yoongi related reasons. “That’s right, I do have your number. Fuck.”

“Well, I know now this wouldn’t have changed anything for you, since you simply didn't know it was me you were with.” Namjoon snorts, but not unkindly. More at the situation.

But Taehyung still feels terrible.

“I’m so sorry.” He whines, feeling like burying his face in Namjoon’s chest. But they’re not there yet. “I tend to keep people at a distance to avoid misunderstandings.”

“It’s ok, I get it now. I guess I wish I knew before, but I get it now.”

“Good. I should have told you sooner. I was actually planning on doing it soon if that’s any consolation.”

“It is.” Namjoon murmurs, inching closer to him.

“Cool, cool cool.” Taehyung blurts out nervously.

This is it. This is his chance. Everything that has transpired in the last few weeks is leading up to this moment.

"So," Namjoon starts when Taehyung has been silent for too long. "Yoongi said you were looking for me... Any particular reasons?"

"Well, yes." He answers but stops. All of this means nothing. It doesn't mean that Namjoon will accept to go out with him. He has no idea how Namjoon feels about him, and he sure as hell cannot tell by his facial expression. He's going in blind, no reason to believe that Namjoon wants to have to do anything with him. For all he knows, Namjoon is only here to settle the misunderstanding, and then be on his way. Maybe he's even mad about the penis flyers.

But then he also remembers that Namjoon is holding his hand right now. It's now or never.

He takes a deep breath for bravery and goes for it.

“Kim Namjoon, can I please take you out on a date?”

Namjoon doesn’t let him second guess himself, word leaving his mouth as fast as a blink.

“Absolutely.”

Apparently, they’ve gathered a crowd because there’s cheerful hooting and shouting erupting around them. But Taehyung pays them no mind as he goes in for a hug, Namjoon meeting him halfway.

“Wait, wait,” Namjoon says, suddenly, taking a step back. “I still don’t know why you put my penis on display at the center of your exhibition.”

Taehyung chuckles, bringing Namjoon back in.

“Simple, ‘cause it’s a masterpiece.”

2 months later

There’s a knock at the door, which throws Taehyung off. He’s getting ready for his date with Namjoon– their actual first date– and is not expecting anyone. Jimin knows the code, so it can’t be him, unless–

“Hello sir, would you be open to receiving the words of our lord and savior, Jesus Christ?”

“Jimin, I swear to god, I can tell it’s you by your voice. And no one from church would dress like you do, slut.”

Moving in with Jimin is as much a blessing as it is a curse. A blessing because, well, they’re best friends. A curse because his best friend’s favorite hobby is to try and prank him. Taehyung almost misses the time where Jimin was treating his face blindness as a taboo.

Almost.

The last two months have been a whirlwind of life-changing events for Taehyung.

First, moving in with Jimin is a pretty big deal. Not only has Taehung been living alone for the last three years, living with someone is sometimes a challenge for him. Wondering why a stranger is standing in your kitchen at 3 am, brain slowed down by sleep and the weak lighting not helping, isn’t always a recipe for success. But he’s slowly getting used to it, and Jimin, as much as he can be a prick, is being patient with him.

The second big event is, well, his current job. Somehow his workshop teacher, even after everything, recommended him for a job at a sculpture academy. He now teaches different types of sculpting medium to children, four nights a week. Pretty sweet gig.

At first, he was going crazy out of his mind worrying about working with children, but four weeks in and he’s feeling confident. He sat down with the kids the first week to explain to them what face blindness is, and although the children were initially confused, they now enjoy switching names with each other for the duration of his classes, to mess with his head.

Jokes on them, Taehyung also called their parents during that first week. So far, none of the children have noticed that their parents have been making them wear certain accessories every time they leave for the academy. Checkmates.

And the last big event, of course, is Namjoon.

In between moving, his new job, and Namjoon’s own busy schedule, they have yet to go on an actual full-blown date. But they’ve slowly been getting to know each other. They make time to go on quick coffee dates sometimes, and they text none-stop. Namjoon hasn’t seen his new place yet, but they’ve hung out at Namjoon’s plenty of time.

His boyfriend (he gets giddy thinking about that word) also showed up at the academy a few times to walk him back home (The first time he kept it as a surprise, but he quickly realized Taehyung didn’t like surprises; especially when it means having a tall stranger approach him in the dark without saying anything. Now he texts beforehand.)

“Do you like this outfit? Or should I go with my floral button-up?” He asks Jimin, who’s lounging on his bed after his failed prank attempt.

“Why are you so stressed? It’s not like it's the first time you two see each other.”

“Because the chances of me getting laid tonight are extremely high and I want to look good.”

“Oh?” Jimin perks up, knowing full well Taehyung and Namjoon have been taking their time to get to know each other. “Should I sleepover at Hobi’s tonight?”

Another new development from the last two months: Jimin and Hoseok’s instant attraction. They’ve been dancing around each other since the exhibition, but it looks like it’s finally getting ‘ sleeping-over-at-each-others-place ’ serious.

“...Good idea,” Taehyung answers, not because he wants the house to himself (though it’s a nice perk), but he likes giving a little push to love sometimes.

His friend circle can finally be called a circle now. Somehow, Hoseok, Seokjin, and Namjoon just naturally fit into his now actually social, social life. Namjoon was the easiest since he already knew Yoongi and Jimin. Hoseok got it easy by becoming Jimin’s more-than-friend, and Seokjin just showed up one day with a video of that time, outside the gallery, when Taehyung thought an older gentleman was Namjoon because of his black cap.

He looks at the time, curses when he realizes he’s going to be late. He grabs his wallet and puts on his shoes in a rush, and makes it out the door accompanied by Jimin shouting “Don’t you dare fuck on the couch or you’re buying a new one!”

He makes it to the Bar with only a few minutes to spare, and as luck would have it, Jungkook is working. He’s come to recognize his tattooed arm and bleached locks instantly.

Namjoon would have texted him if he was there, which means he’s cutting it close as well, so he sends a quick ‘here 💖’ text before sitting down at the Bar with a big smile.

“You make me want to puke,” Jungkook says, disgust dripping from his words.

“Hey now don’t be jealous, I’m sure you’ll find yourself a monster cock as well one day.”

Somehow, he and Jungkook started texting on a semi-regular basis. It’s mostly Jungkook begging Taehyung to introduce him to Seokjin (apparently he’s been crushing on the man since he first saw him at the coffee shop), which Taehyung has to find excuses every time to avoid telling Jungkook the cold, harsh truth.

(“I don’t date men with bleached hair, it ruins my whole aesthetic.” Jin said after the first time Taehyung asked. Which aesthetic he’s talking about, Taehyung has no idea.)

But that also means that Jungkook has heard all about his very fascinating and blooming love story with Namjoon.

“Did you tell Seokjin I said hi?”

“Dude, just go and ask him out. You know where he works, you know where he studies, you even know his birthday, which is really creepy when you two have never talked by the way. Just, go ask him out, he won’t be able to resist you once he actually sees how attractive you are.” He pauses for a second, then adds for safety measure, “But if he reaches in his pocket, just run the other way.”

“What?”

“Don’t ask, just trust me.” Taehyung has some unpleasant flashbacks of a bottle of pepper spray being waved in front of his face. He shakes his head to try and get rid of the memory.

“And how would you even know that I’m attractive, you don’t actually know what I look like.” Jungkook retorts.

“Shut up, just go and ask him.”

“Just go and ask him what?” A familiar voice asks from behind him, and Taehyung's smile is back full force. He rotates on his chair and jumps into Namjoon’s arms, hearing him groan under the strain of his weight. He can hear Jungkook fake gagging behind him, the actual child.

They share a quick kiss before they both sit down at the bar.

“You’re not seriously thinking about having your date here, are you?”

Taehyung snorts, tempted to mess with Jungkook, but Namjoon is the one to answer.

“No we just wanted to get the evening started with a nice drink, but we have a reservation to an actual fancy restaurant, paid graciously by Taehyung's actual serious adult job.”

“Is it a serious adult job if he had to stop a kid from eating his donut-shaped clay yesterday?”

“Shut up. If you keep being like that I’m going to order the most annoying thing on the menu.”

Jungkook scoffs and walks away, without actually taking their orders.

They both watch him do a big show of ignoring them, answering other customers without turning in their direction.

“Let’s just get out of here.” Namjoon whispers in his ear. “We can go waste time walking around aimlessly, hand in hand.”

“God, you’re so cheesy,” Taehyung mutters, but he actually loves it.

His dating experience before Namjoon amounts to an enormous zero, but it’s not because he’s one of those unattainable, i-don’t-believe-in-love types of people that live rent-free in Hollywood movies. He simply never thought it would be possible to get close to someone romantically with his condition. But since officially meeting Namjoon, he’s been researching, and turns out, he totally can.

There are even people, artists like him, who've noticed that repeatedly drawing or painting their loved one has made them actually able to remember their face (not 100% of the time, but he’ll take what he can get.). So he’s been sketching, using pictures, trying out different angles. He’s planning on using clay at one point. He’s totally the girl from Lionel Richie’s music video. Which makes Namjoon Lionel Richie.

“Did you know that I was inspired by Lionel Richie’s music video to sculpt your penis?”

Namjoon chuckles under his breath, squeezing Taehyung’s hand just a little bit more. The hot summer air is making their palms sweaty, but they both don’t care.

“Where is that thing, by the way? It’s been a while since I’ve last seen it.”

“I put it on my bedside table when I moved in and I haven't moved it since. I’m thinking about making it into a lamp. I have to keep it out of reach of Jimin and Hoseok, they both seem a little too interested.”

Namjoon grimaces. Or Taehyung is assuming that’s his grimacing face.

“Please never let it fall into their hands.”

“I swear on my honor, I shall protect your penis.”

“Thank you, I feel better now. I still can’t believe they put it on the first page of ‘Sculpting Now’. Crazy how all of your friends and the sculpting world know what my dick looks like.

“It’s a masterpiece. If it was mine I would never keep it in my pants, I’d always want to show it off.”

“How are you not in prison right now?”

“I don’t have your dick in my pants, sadly. Did you know that Seokjin almost pepper-sprayed me the first time we met? In retrospect, having a stranger run after you, pleading for you to look at their dick is a good excuse to pull out your pepper spray.”

“Wait, you did what?”

“It was all in the name of love.”

Namjoon shakes his head, probably disappointed in him.

Namjoon is utterly enamored. Every time Taehyung recalls a story from when he ran around school trying to find him, he falls a little bit more in love.

He was so nervous for their first romantic date that he couldn’t eat during the day, but Taehyung is making him feel at ease, as he usually does, so hunger is coming back with a vengeance.

“Should we go to the restaurant now?” He asks, pulling Taehyung along with him. "It's almost time."

“Let’s.” Taehyung agrees readily, “I’m ravenous.”

They quickly make their way to the restaurant, only to find its door closed. There’s a sign in the window reading “Closed for vermin infestation”.

“Oh.” Namjoon says, “Dammit. That’s not good.”

There’s this awkward silence, filled with growling sounds from both their bellies. It’s too late to make reservations anywhere nice, and anywhere else risks being too loud for a romantic Rendez-Vous. Namjoon is scrambling his brain for a solution when Taehyung’s shy voice interrupts.

“Hum, if you want to– Jimin told me he wouldn't be home tonight, so… You want to come over? We can pick up some ramen on the way.”

Taehyung’s face might be neutral, but the blush growing on his cheeks is anything but. Namjoon takes a moment to appreciate the sight that he makes, burning up in embarrassment. Without the blushing, Namjoon would have believed he’s only inviting him for ramen, but the angry red of his cheeks is definitely betraying Taehyung’s intentions.

He nods his agreement, feeling anticipation replace hunger in the pit of his stomach.

Having Namjoon in his space is a new experience.

The apartment is still messy from their move, boxes lying around, but they’ve managed to make it quite homey. Everything that is necessary to their everyday life has been unboxed, only the odd objects being ignored by Jimin and him.

He puts on some soft music to set a nice mood, and Namjoon is humming along straight away, which is all the approval he needs to feel confident about his music selection. Music Theory graduate approved.

He gets to work on the ramen while he directs Namjoon on where to find a cheap bottle of wine and some wine glasses. He sets the table, trying to make it as nice as possible, but it’s really just a pot of bubbling ramen and two bowls with some chopsticks.

They eat in comfortable silence, the music playing in the background mixing with the sound of their eating.

But then Namjoon dumps the content of his wine glass on his tan-colored pants, and it’s downhill from there.

“Damn it!” He curses, jumping to his feet. He grabs some napkins to try and pat some wine off, but it’s already been absorbed by his fancy suit pants.

“Quick, take them off,” Taehyung says, not thinking too hard and only reacting to the situation at hand. “Let’s rinse them in the sink.”

Namjoon complies, taking them off in record time, passing them on to Taehyung like it’s a relay race.

Taehyung deposits them straight in the sink, opening the tap and letting the water hopefully get rid of most of the stain. They both stand there for a minute, staring at the water filling up.

But then it hits Taehyung that Namjoon’s thighs are currently bare and in his vicinity. He sneaks a quick peek to satisfy his horny brain, but he’s quick to snap his eyes back to the sink to avoid doing anything stupid.

Like, let’s say , dropping to his knees.

He can feel himself blushing, his cheeks, ears, and neck feeling hot. He knew exactly what he was doing, inviting Namjoon for some ramen, but now that he can act on it, he’s suddenly feeling very shy.

Plus, not being able to read facial expressions never really impaired his ability to get laid. He used to just– go to the bar, wait until someone would offer him to get out of there, and go for it.

But this is not a bar, and Namjoon won’t ask him if he wants to get out of there. He has no idea how to tell if Namjoon wants to jump into bed with him. Or not.

He takes matters into his own hands.

“So, as you know,” He starts, staring intently at the water flowing out of the tap, “this whole face blindness thing– I can’t really read your facial expressions. So in the future, it’ll be hard for me to figure out if you’re angry or happy, or sad, or… or horny. I’ve never done this whole– Romantic relationship thing, but I’m guessing we’re going to have to be really vocal with how we’re feeling, what we want, whatnot.”

He lets his statements hang in the air, staring at the stain that doesn’t seem to want to go away. He’s thinking maybe this will have to be removed professionally.

But then, Namjoon chooses that moment to drop a soft kiss on his nape.

“Are you asking me, right now, if I want you?”

Taehyung turns around, letting himself be cornered against the counter. Namjoon has his nicely defined biceps, somehow peeking through his suit vest, on each side of him. He absolutely loves it.

“Yes. I am.”

Namjoon kisses his neck once again, and Taehyung is this close to losing it.

“I absolutely want you.” His boyfriend finally answers, landing a heavy kiss on his lips, sucking all the air out of Taehyung’s lungs.

After turning Taehyung’s inside to mush via lips on lips crime, he returns to his assault on Taehyung’s neck, peppering the skin he can reach with sweet kisses, each one sending electricity straight to his groin.

“Do you want me?” Namjoon questions softly into his ear, making Taehyung's eyes roll back so far he’s scared they’ll never come back.

“Fuck yes.” He grinds out, voice turning to a whine when Namjoon, emboldened by Taehyung’s enthusiasm, rocks his pelvis into his in a languid motion.

He sees white then, bringing Namjoon’s mouth back to his, smashing their mouths together in a wet and messy kiss.

“How important are your pants?” He inquires in between kisses, enjoying the slow grinding Namjoon has going on. He’s still in his suit pants, but Namjoon only has the thin cotton of his boxer brief as a barrier. Taehyung can clearly feel his monster cock waking up from its slumber.

“Not very important.” He finally answers, hands letting go of the counter to firmly grab at Taehyung’s ass.

Taehyung can proudly say he’s got a fat ass, and Namjoon seems to appreciate it if the growl that escapes him is anything to go by.

He gets to work on the buttons of Namjoon’s dress shirt, Namjoon getting the message and taking his vest off by himself. Soon he’s standing there in only his boxer briefs and socks, while Taehyung is still fully dressed.

It’s kind of hot.

They slow it down a little, Taehyung pushing Namjoon away so he can take a good look at him.

The light of the kitchen falls almost gracefully over Namjoon’s defined chest, creating shadows that chisel out his muscles even more. It’s a sight to behold.

He drags his hands down Namjoon's body, teasing a nipple as he goes with a flick of the thumb, mapping out his taut stomach with the tip of his finger, then coming back up to hold onto his strong shoulders.

“You know, I’m like, really good at massages. I feel like this is something you should know.”

Seems like this is all the time Namjoon will allow him away from him. He reels him back in with an arm around his waist, the other taking hold of one of Taehyung’s hands and bringing it to his mouth. He nips at his fingers, maintaining eye contact while he uses his tongue to soothe the sting.

How he’s even real is beyond Taehyung.

“Do you need help undressing?” Namjoon teases, reaching for his belt.

“Let me close the tap and we can move this to my room.”

Namjoon doesn’t give him a response, only cages him once again against the counter, plastering the full length of his warm body to his. He reaches behind Taehyung and moments later, the soft ambiance music is the only thing they can hear again.

Taehyung leads him to his bedroom, taking off his vest as they go. Somehow Namjoon already got his belt buckle, so he unceremoniously drops his pants to the floor, then jumps on his bed.

“Welcome to my room. That’s my desk, that’s my bedside table, that’s a replica of your penis, but I heard the original is planning on making an appearance tonight. This is my bed. Hope you enjoyed the tour.” He finally gets to the final button, looking up eagerly as he sends his shirt off to the side, wondering what’s taking Namjoon so long to get on the goddamn bed.

He finds his lover completely captivated by his penis duplicate.

“You’ve got the same one in your pants, you know. Get you your ass over here.”

“Sorry I was just thinking… it’s crazy how similar you made it only from your memory.”

“Excuse me?” Taehyung objects, crossing his arms over his chest. “They’re not just similar, they’re identical.”

“Only one way to check, is there?” Namjoon taunts, before finally, finally getting rid of his briefs, releasing the Kraken.

Except he also grabs hold of the sculpture, bringing it close so he can do a side-by-side comparison.

“You’re right, it is identical. How did you even manage that?” He says, awe in his voice. “Have you ever used it on yours–”

Namjoon loses his train of thought as he takes in the sight of Taehyung, laying in bed completely naked, pumping himself at a leisurely pace and looking very unimpressed.

“No, I haven’t. But if you don’t get into bed in the next 5 seconds I just might consider it.”

Namjoon doesn’t have to be told twice.

#bangtanidx #bangtanarmynet #houseofddaeng #mikrogalaxynet #boymeetsmxm #bangtanxm #kim taehyung #kim namjoon #min yoongi #kim seokjin #park jimin #jung hoseok #jeon jungkook #bts fic #taejoon #taejoon fic #taehyung x namjoon #v #rm

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heyitsyn · 4 years ago

Text

Enough

a/n: your sensei has come bearing gifts!!! hope you like my gift and happy 100 follower milestone everyone!!!! thank you for the ultimate support and love you’ve given me despite being only in this writer community for only about a week!! i hope to share more milestones w yall and hopefully more stories!!! byeeee

oikawa tooru x reader

(this is the full and last part of the oikawa angst)

Strangers.

That’s all you were.

Years of memories that were created before you could even walk, gone and forgotten for a relationship that didn’t even last a year.

Your parents have stopped asking for you both to interact during dinner, eventually getting used to you both not showing up to joint family meals, and there were no longer interactions shared for the next 3 years.

Until that fateful phone call.

It was about 2 in the morning and you were woken up by the loud and strong vibration from your phone that laid on top of your pillow beside you. You groaned at being woken up at such an ungodly hour on a school day so you didn’t budge and went back to sleep. But it continued for how many times and you made an irritated noise before finally opening your eyes and snatching it up to shout at who was calling you so early and why they needed you so badly.

“Hajime, I swear-”

“y/n, thank God,” he breathed out. “I know, I know, Tooru, she answered and I’m talking to her right now. You’ll be okay, alright? Here, just squeeze my hand.”

There was a bad feeling in your gut and when you heard him talking to, apparently, Tooru, you were already putting on some sweatpants and a sweatshirt over your sleeping shirt before running downstairs to get your shoes and almost ripping the fridge door to get ice packs on both hands.

“Hajime, it’s his knee, right?” You asked urgently, rummaging through the closet to get your emergency bag.

You had a sigh of relief when you found the old thing and bolted out of the house.

“H-How-”

“Practice match with Karasuno. I saw it. So, what’s wrong?”

“The shitty bastard called me because he was hurt and he couldn’t move since he messed up his knee and ankle.”

“Seijoh gym, right?”

Then there was a cry in the background.

“Yes. Now, please hurry, y/n. I know, Bakakawa! I’m telling her to hurry-!”

But you ended the call, focusing on biking faster, as fast as you could, because the longer he was hurt without medical attention, the riskier and bigger consequences were going to happen. His injuries were no surprise to you but hearing that pained shout from the other line got you to jump into action, regardless your feelings or your past.

Your bike was carelessly dumped to the side as you ran all the way to where you could hope was the gym building and you sighed in relief when you saw the bright light and the buff body of Iwaizumi Hajime pacing at the front.

“Haji!” You shouted and his eyebrows reduced from its intense furrowing before pointing behind him.

“I was already on my way to check on him when he called about being hurt but I had no ice or meds. You were my only option.”

There laid, Oikawa Tooru, clutching his ankle and knee with tears streaming down his face and his eyes tightly shut to block out anything from his sight.

Your knees slid across the floor as you quickly went to his side before you gently pried his hands from clutching his right knee and his ankle.

“Tooru,” you softly called out. His eyes flew open at your voice and his face crumpled up as a sob ripped through his throat and echoed through the gym. “It’s okay. I’m here now, it’s okay.”

You kept mumbling those words as you took off your sweatshirt and bundled it up so he could rest his knee on it. Iwa offered his jacket to elevate his ankle and you were hurriedly placing ice packs on his injured parts to prevent the bleeding in his tissues while taking out elastic tape so you could compress his ankle and knee.

“Tooru, listen to me, I know it hurts right now and I know you’re in so much pain but I need you to be strong okay? I know you hate taking pills but you need to be brave and take these so that the pain will be gone. They’re tiny little things so it won’t be hard but I’ll hold you as you take them, alright?”

Oikawa could barely register what you were saying as he was just focusing on your voice and the way your lips move.

God, has it been so long since you’ve last spoken a word to him that he completely forgot how your lips looked like as you pronounced each sound?

Only when you sat behind him and pulled him to your chest did he figure out what was happening. Iwaizumi forcefully shoved a bottle of water and gave him two white pain medicine pills.

He looked back at you to protest but once he saw your gentle smile did he breathe harshly before taking both pills at the same time and chugging down the water. You were about to scold him with the harm of taking more than one pill but quieted down when he made a hissing sound after he finished drinking.

“Breathe in and out,” you soothed.

He coughed and grimaced when it throbbed again. “But it hurts!”

Your brain began to race a thousand miles an hour to try and figure out a way for him to calm down but you were so worried that you couldn’t come up with anything. Then it struck you.

You haven’t done this in years due to the lack of interaction but this has worked every time he had a panic attack. By the looks of this, he was on his way to another one.

“Tooru, give me your hand, okay?” You laid out yours, only for him to shakily put his hand on top of it.

You turned it over so his palm was up and your other arm wrapped around him so you could reach his hand. Then you began tracing.

“Star!”

“Cloud!”

“Moon!”

He shouted every answer as you drew shapes into his tan skin and you proceeded into using simple addition problems to get his mind off of the pain and into something more practical like numbers.

“4!”

“18!”

“26!”

Iwaizumi watched in amazement as you were able to keep Tooru from jumping over the edge by simply writing characters on his palm and his olive eyes only widened as his best friend reduced the volume of his voice into whispers.

“Monkey.”

“Turtle.”

“Bread.”

“Milk.”

“Tree.”

Then he fell asleep.

The poor thing must’ve exhausted himself from training and the pain and crying.

His slump form remained against you and you tightened your hold around him, your own tears finally falling.

“I was so afraid this would happen,” you whispered out, noticing Iwa’s worried stare at you. “When he started this bullshit in middle school, all this obsessive behavior for defeating that dastardly Ushijima, I was so scared he would break himself. And he did.”

You choked out a sob.

“Haji, he hit me, did you know that?” You whimpered, not wanting to see his reaction with the thought of his best friend hitting the girl he has been crying and whining about for years. “Actually, he was about to hit Tobio but I pushed him away and took it instead because I was responsible for him as his manager.”

The words continued to spill out and you didn’t give a damn that you were spilling this out on your ex-boyfriend/best friend’s best friend.

“He felt so inferior to everyone, against Tobio for his genius ability, against Ushijima for being able to beat him for years, everyone. And there was nothing I could to prevent him from feeling so.” Iwa has now sat on the floor, noticing the melting ice pack which was making water roll down the bag.

“Instead, I was selfish and complained about not spending time with him because he was so obsessed with volleyball. For winning. But I really think I let go because I didn’t want to see him in any more pain. I didn’t want to see him torture himself anymore.”

Your fingers swept through Tooru’s damp forehead to push back the hair that stuck on the skin from his sweat.

“Then when he told me that I was actually a distraction and that he didn’t need me anymore, I saw it as the perfect opportunity. So I took it. And dammit, I feel so horrible. I will forever regret that I couldn’t help him and cut off all contact just because I was scared of what would happen next. Don’t you see, Iwa? I did this to him. This is my fault. All because I wasn’t there to stop him.”

Your tired, sad eyes finally met Hajime’s surprised olive ones.

“I wanted to talk, to rekindle at least friendship. But I knew that once I do, I’ll fall in love all over again and I’d be forced to watch him break and kill himself just for a damn trip to Tokyo. To hell with that. So I stayed away. I called him selfish but you see, I was the selfish one. It just sucks that I was able to realize it once it was too late.”

“Patellar Tendonitis.”

A normal person would’ve been confused with those words if it was directed at them but you knew what they meant, knowing they were directed towards the boy in your arms.

“Messed it up during training camp over the summer. Then his ankle got sprained. Shit went down from there.”

Your entire body trembled at the pain and suffering this boy went through and your tears flowed faster as he was so desperate for everyone’s approval that he covered it up with a smile and continued practicing.

Oh what a peculiar boy Tooru is.

“I shouldn’t have come-”

“No, you needed to.” Iwa cut you off. “For three years, he’s done nothing but mope around and cry for a girl he broke up with in middle school. During an age where you don’t even know what the hell love is, he sure got a pretty solid definition of that. And that definition, is you.”

“Iwa, you’re making me cry more!” You whined and brokenly laughed.

“It’s true,” he reasoned while leaning on his hands behind him. “This might sound creepy but he checks whenever your bedroom light is off at a certain time so he was sure you’d be able to sleep enough. If not, he secretly complains to your mother and she tells you to stop studying, right?”

You mutedly nodded, shocked at what you were hearing.

Was all that really true?

Has he been doing this since first year and throughout now?

“And this makes me feel more like shit.” Your voice cracked. “I want to just graduate and forget about this idiot and live my life. But I just can’t! Not when he’s doing this to himself.”

Iwa sighed, annoyed at his best friends’ stupid dilemma. “You know what, this thing Shittykawa is doing to himself, it’s always going to be like this. I’m sorry, y/n, but this is going to be our reality for the next few years. He’s already got his sights on playing professionally and that means more training for him to feel like he’s on the same level as those foreign players. But you need to accept him for that.” He chuckled and ran his hands through his spiky hair. “It took me a long time to accept it but he’s always going to be this shitty person who will continue to break himself just to earn a single point in a match. But to him, it’s worth it, right? As much as he pisses me the hell off, he’s still my friend and I’d just have to continuously check in on him and make sure he’s still able to walk.”

Wow, that was the last thing you would happen. Iwaizumi Hajime talking about Oikawa Tooru, the boy he always punched and threw around, with such pride in his voice.

“Just remember that, kay?”

It was a silent walk back home as you carried the boys’ and your bags while Iwa had the unconscious Oikawa on his back. Upon reaching his front door, you realized it was locked and you knew if his mother found you at the dead of morning, she’d give him an earful and that was the last thing you needed. So you offered your place, instead, taking his sleeping body straight to your room.

“Go home, Haji. He’s not going to school tomorrow so you can come over and keep him company so you don’t miss him too much,” you teased.

He grunted quietly before ruffling your head. “Like hell I would. But remember what I said, y/n. Don’t expect a change. Just accept what you have right now.”

When he finally left, you sat on the floor beside your bed, holding the hand of the currently wincing Tooru. He was having a nightmare and if you could guess, it was probably him being beaten by Shiratorizawa in a game.

“Look at me, years later from ignoring you, letting you sleep on my bed and trying to accept you. I’m truly pathetic, right, Tooru?” You whispered, leaning against his hand which was encased on your own. “During the practice match, you said you were being unfair, right? Well, I’m the one not being fair. After causing you years of confusion and pain, a mere few hours has caused me to accept you all over again.”

“Why?” His groggy voice startled you and made your grip loosen but he snatched it back up, squeezing it. “Why now?”

Your face twisted as new tears would emerge and you gave him a sad smile, “Because I just realized something. I realized that you, Oikawa Tooru, deserve to be loved. Just as you are.”

A sleepy smile appeared on his beautifully child-like face, “I’m glad.”

When you fell for him, you expected him to catch you or at least help you up. But no hand reached out for you. Then you realized that Tooru fell and landed the exact same time as you did so there was no way he would’ve been able to catch you or help you.

“Breathing the same air, in the same space, is enough to fall in love. I realized that it’s enough, actually more than enough.”

Despite just waking up, he was now able to fully process what you said and with the pain of his injuries and the lack of sleep, he was overly emotional and cursed as he started sobbing and crying.

You were finally going to take him back. You were finally going to be his again.

Your eyes softened at this and you delicately held his face in your hands, cupping it so he could look at you and boy, did his heart do a weird jump kick.

Your eyes were so warm, so full of love, that he felt naked under your gaze.

No cover, no mask, just love.

And it is enough.

“I will always regret those three years, Oikawa Tooru. But if you’d let me, I’ll willingly and diligently spend the rest of my lifetime making it up to you and helping you stand whenever you fall.”

He playfully glared at you then opened his arms for a hug, which you immediately accepted.

“You already gave your entire life to me once you promised to fall in love with me forever, baka.” You cringed at the nudge of his finger on your forehead but you smiled at him.

“I was, like, 10, Tooru.”

“But right at this exact spot, I started to fall for you and I knew there would be no one else that I’d love.”

“I’m still angry that you wanted to hit Tobio but I will have to punish you once you do something like that again, right?”

“Hah?! Stop talking about Tobio, y/n-chan!”

“He was a literal baby, Tooru. Actually, if you try and hit any of your underclassmen, I’ll hit you. And there would be no milk bread for a month.”

“HAH?! MILK BREAD?! NO FAIR, Y/N-CHAN!”

“hm? But it’s totally fair, though?”

…

In the end the author completely lied regarding a sentence from earlier.

Actually a few sentences, but that’s besides the point.

There was no ending, no final farewells, just happy beginnings and hopes for the future with a few bags of milk bread.

Because years later, those same exact words were written on a different photograph. However, there wasn’t that much of a difference because it still held a smiling and happy family. But this time, it was you and Tooru, just with an additional baby boy and baby girl.

a/n: i teased you guys too much and im so sorry!!!! but i couldnt resist not giving them a happy ending and i was getting a lot of asks for at least a part 2 so i do what the people wants!!!! now i think i might take a day or two for a break but idk i might end up posting something tomorrow probably

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keelywolfe · 4 years ago

Text

FIC: Welcome to Backwater ch.19 (spicyhoney)

Summary: Stretch has been through a lot in his short time in Backwater, but there's always the Dorothy option.

~~*~~

Read ‘The Dorothy Option’ on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

As much as things changed, they also stayed the same. But they still changed and there wasn’t a damn thing Stretch could do about it. He never could.

After Red cut him loose from the shop for the day, walking across the main street to the movie theater was the same, but the breeze cutting through the sweltering heat was different. A couple days ago, Stretch would have eagerly lifted his face into it, let it dry the sweat rolling from his skull and basked in the cooling effect.

Today it was a reminder that summer was actually ending, and autumn was creeping in one slow step at a time. He’d always liked the fall season since they came to the surface, there was no such thing in the Underground. But now that he knew what was coming with the end of the harvest season, it only made him a little sad. It wouldn’t be too long until the scarecrow pole in all the fields was empty.

Stretch paused outside the theater, looking back towards the shop and past it, to the forest behind it. He was too far away to hear the rustling leaves, still green and vibrant, untouched thus far by the changing season. He could still hear it somehow, like a leftover echo, the memory of that sound loud in his head as he turned back to the theater, the constant chatter of leaves scratching inside his skull.

The sound cut off like a stopped tape recorder as the door swung shut behind him. Igor was right inside, looking a lot like an out of work funeral director in his threadbare suit. He looked up from where he was sweeping dandruffy bits of popcorn into a pile and wordlessly went behind the counter to scoop out two cartons of fresher stuff. The dilapidated marquee over the concession stand had only one title on it. ‘The Wizard of Oz’.

“weren’t you playing this flick just a couple weeks ago?” Stretch asked curiously, handing over a fiver.

“Popular movie around here,” Igor told him, tonelessly. Yeah, okay, movies about Kansas and great farming fields, and wonderous unknown worlds where danger lurked. Wasn’t hard to see how people around Backwater could form a parallel to that, hell, there was probably a shrine to Judy Garland in every house on the street, set up with offerings of corn and tiny water buckets.

He looked down at the popcorn cartons that were sitting on the counter, the smell of fresh melted butter rising, and asked abruptly, “can i get a box of raisinets, too?”

Igor nodded and took back the single bill he’d laid down, the box of candy rattling loudly as he set it on the countertop.

Stretch took it and the popcorn and headed into the theater. What was that about, he wondered. He didn’t even like raisins. Maybe he’d take them back for Red.

The theater was empty, without so much as an abandoned soda cup in the aisles and the floor still swept entirely clean. So much for people loving this movie. Stretch sat down in the far back row with his popcorn and candy to wait.

Right on schedule, the lights went low, the MGM logo came up, and then with a swell of music Kansas appeared in a grainy sepia.

He’d seen the Wizard of Oz before coming to Backwater. The first time he’d seen it, they were still in the Underground and it was hard not to make the odd mental comparisons when they came to the surface. Now that he was here in this town, Stretch related to Dorothy more than ever. A stranger in a strange land, sure, but the scarecrow sidekick was pretty damn specific. Would Edgar Allen even know what the yellow brick road was? He was pretty sure the scarecrow in his life didn’t get out of his fields much, if ever.

Never going anywhere, never really living. He sat out there in fields with corn and crows for company, guardian and prison as one. Stretch wondered if that was as sad as his mind kept trying to make it or was he putting his own pathos on an anthropomorphic personification of a scarecrow. Maybe Edgar Allen was perfectly happy with his lot in life. Hell, maybe he was looking forward to the harvest season and a chance to rest without the corn chattering to him all the time, it was possible.

Thinking that made him feel a little better about the situation and Stretch sank back into his chair and munched on another buttery handful of popcorn.

He was so absorbed in the movie that at first, he didn’t notice the seat next to him was no longer empty. A blood-streaked hand reaching towards the other carton of popcorn was his first clue and Stretch bit back a yelp, soul hammering in his ribcage as he inwardly cursed himself for being so jumpy. Wasn’t like he hadn’t seen this before, loads of times now, it was what he bought the second carton for.

“hey, there,” Stretch said softly to his ghostly companion. “sorry it’s been a few days.”

“That’s all right,” Doris told him, her faint voice barely audible over the strains of ‘We’re off to see the Wizard.

The Tin Man was lamenting his lack of heart by the time Doris spoke again, tentatively and filled with quiet apology. “I’m very sorry, I feel as if I should know your name, but…”

Oh. Stretch closed his sockets briefly. Damn it, Red warned him about this, to not be surprised if she didn’t remember him. He didn’t allow the faint sting of hurt to show. It wasn’t her fault, it was entirely the fault of whoever had blown away part of her head and left her here to haunt a lonely, dilapidated old theater until it was time for her to go wherever ghosts did when they moved on.

Whoever it was that did this to her, stole her life and left her mostly alone in death, Stretch hoped they felt that sin clawing its way up their back long after they went to the hereafter.

“it’s okay, doris,” he said as gently as he could while Judy Garland danced across the screen, “it’s stretch, like a rubber band.”

“Yes! Stretch!” she laughed delightedly. She clapped her gloved hands together like a child. “Yes, that’s it. It was on the tip of my tongue when I saw you brought me popcorn, but I couldn’t quite shake it loose.”

No surprise there, half the time she didn’t have much tongue left.

She leaned in over her carton to take a deep, ghostly breath and twin streamers of blood ran from her nostrils. His appetite for popcorn faded and Stretch fumbled out the box of raisinets. The cheap milk chocolate barely masked the taste of the raisins and he grimaced, chewing gamely even though the texture always made him think of eating bugs. Dirt-flavored bugs in chocolate, who the hell came up with this so-called treat and were they appropriately punished for it. He could only hope.

They sat together in silence, watching the movie, and by the time the trio made it to the Emerald City, Stretch was squirming in his seat. Doris’s appearance broke the distracting spell of the movie and now his thoughts were wandering back to that morning and Edge’s sudden appearance in the store with so much worry on his pale face. Then there was that soft, unexpected kiss, so sweet against his cheekbone, a punctuation mark on the end of a silent paragraph and maybe he needed someone else to give it a read.

“doris, can i ask you something?”

She turned to him, the ruin of her head solidifying into a pretty young woman as she tilted it curiously. “Of course.”

“it’s kinda a long story.”

She folded her gloved hands primly into her lap. “I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

And that was her real tragedy, wasn’t it. She was tied to this crumbling old theater, unable to go where she needed to. He didn’t know what happened to ghosts once the building they were tied to was gone. But this place was on its last legs and if it closed, the cushions of empty seats rotting away and the silver screen silent, where did she go? He hoped it was someplace nice, a place where she could rest and always be beautiful, without bringing along the gory remains of her last minutes of life.

But they were working on his issues right now. “it’s about a guy.”

Doris brightened visibly and literally, going briefly more solid. “That Edge person you were speaking of before? The other skeleton.”

“yeah,” Stretch said, relieved. He hadn’t been sure how to bring up what they’d talked about before without making her feel bad for not remembering. “see, it’s like this—"

Doris sat and listened as he talked, as enthralled as she’d been when watching the movie. It was like last time when he’d came to ask her about Edgar Allen; she never flickered when she gave him the full weight of her attention.

It might be bad for the theater to have so many empty seats in the house, but it was good for people with the bad manners to talk over the movie. Stretch told her everything, didn’t hold back a thing. About meeting Edge in Red’s living room and his attempted lamp-ocide, about their impromptu lunch at Mama’s. About his brief starring role as little orange biking hood when he ventured to their cabin in the woods, about Frisk. The only thing he didn’t mention was the whole ‘me from another universe’ thing. That was a lot for even him to bend his mind around and his was still in one piece. Doris never interrupted, listened all the way to the end, until Stretch was nearly hoarse as he said, "…so what do you think?"

"Hmm. He certainly sounds charming, in a rude sort of way. My, it makes me think of Pride and Prejudice," she laughed softly. "Although your Mister Darcy showed his true nature far sooner in your tale.”

Thinking of Edge’s hips in a pair of those tight old-school trousers while he danced a waltz was not at all helping the situation and Stretch shoved that thought deep into a mental closet for later.

“but what should i do? he confuses me so much i don’t know whether to scratch my watch or wind my butt around him.” He slid down in the chair until his skull was resting on the back. “and then there’s red to think about, he’s done so much for me. he says he’s not worried about his brother, but…” Stretch trailed off and held up his empty hands.

She nodded thoughtfully. “But you don’t want to stir up trouble in their family, especially since it seems they already have some rough waters.”

“yeah,” Stretch agreed, tiredly. He knew something about stormy weather in a sibling relationship. The last thing he wanted to do to Red and Edge was bring in rainclouds of his own.

“I think you should talk to him,” she said at last. “Tell him what you’re feeling. It seems to me he’d listen to you and he wouldn’t…” Doris’s mouth moved but her words faded. Her pretty visage changed gruesomely, a full show of her shattered face and skull, the fragile bits of bone littered across one shoulder while blood filled the ruin of her eye socket.

Stretch swallowed hard and didn’t look away, waiting until she slowly returned to appearance of a lovely young woman who was finishing triumphantly, “…and who knows what will come of it after that!”

Okay, well, half an advice was better than none and he sure wasn’t gonna ask her to repeat herself.

So. Talk to him. Right. Not bad advice, maybe a little generic, but then, Doris didn’t know about his past history when it came to relationships. She also didn’t know that Backwater wasn’t a permanent assignment for him. He wasn’t too sure about bringing that up, not when it affected her, too. Maybe it would be better to let her forget him when he was gone; with her memory, she might not even realize what she was missing aside from the occasional wistful thought about a spare carton of popcorn.

But she wasn’t wrong, either. Much as he wanted to continue skipping through his life of avoidance, there was only one way he was going to get any real answers. Maybe it was time to figure out exactly where he and Edge stood. His sense of balance in life was pretty damn shaky as it was, and Backwater seemed to treat the laws of reality as more like suggestions. Why would the laws of gravity be any different?

Plus, there was another mystery Stretch was looking to unravel and he was already working on a plan for that. He owed some gratitude to a bony skeleton dragon in the woods and Stretch wasn’t keen on owing debts.

Doris folded her hands into her lap primly. “So? What are you going to do?”

“eh,” Stretch let out a little laugh, “something stupid.”

“Oh.” Doris pursed her lips. “Is it safe?”

“nope,” Stretch said cheerfully and poured himself out another handful of chocolate pseudo-bugs. “but i’ve stayed alive so far. may as well press my luck.”

On the screen, Dorothy was repeating her most famous line and he had to agree, there was no place like home. His only problem with it was that he was starting to get a little fuzzy on where exactly that was.

~~*~~

tbc

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #welcome to backwater

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passivenovember · 4 years ago

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If Snow Loves the Trees and Fields.

Billy's job at Willowbrook Elementary is the only reason he puts up with this weather at all.

His hatred for winter, a season which hardly existed when he taught in the Valley, morphs and becomes something violent on the first Monday after Christmas break.

He wakes up feeling like his toes have gone missing, frozen black and blue with the cold, and after his phone tells him it's below zero outside, with wind-chill, his heart stops beating.

Hawkins is -10 degrees, to be precise.

And it leaves him feeling like that's gotta be illegal, or. He could for sure call all the scientists on Earth and have a law passed that clarifies: those born and raised in a Southern climate get a free pass on days when Hell is actively freezing over.

But it's not snowing today. And all the ice on the street has been scraped into terrible, disgusting drifts that block his driveway, and Hopper would immediately call bullshit. All, gonna have to suck it up if you wanna live here, buttercup.

So Billy decides to be an adult, or whatever. He spends another five minutes on his phone definitely not stalking his ex Instagram before rolling out of bed to get dressed.

And, like.

Even his underwear drawer is stiff from the cold so Billy decides to bundle the fuck up--a trick he learned from Max last fall, during the coldest year Indiana had ever seen. He manages to stack five layers in total; one pretty pink thermal set just brushing his his skin and a button down shirt to stave off the goosebumps. A sweater and jeans for professionalism. One Grateful Dead hoodie, because it makes him feel like he's not a total sell out, and a thick winter coat, sent special from the snow capped mountains of California this Christmas.

It still smells like his mom's pikake lei perfume.

Billy tries not to think about that, of home, on a day when he'd give his left nut for a ray of sunshine.

Instead, he spends ten minutes filling his thermos with coffee. Boiling the rice milk more than once so it'll stay warm on the ride across town. He sticks his pinky under the lip after his third go, and fuck that shit is so hot it will burn his mouth tomorrow, before checking the weather app again for closures.

Hoping against hope that something has changed in the last five minutes.

Of course, nothing has.

The superintendent believes that everyone in Hawkins is somehow used to temperatures that makes their eyelids freeze shut in the thirty second walk to the car in the morning. Billy jams a knit cap on his head and seriously considers calling in.

A last ditch effort to quell the rising fury in his veins, that like.

He's gonna have to scrape his windows, and freeze his dick off, and deal with the neighbor.

The one who looks like he doesn't mind the cold so much because he carries the sun with him, fucking asshole.

People shouldn't be wandering the streets when their eyelids could freeze shut, right?

Billy checks his phone one more time, frowning at a text from Joyce to pick up some coffee on your way in, and tosses his bag over his shoulder before he can change his mind.

It's so much worse than expected.

Billy's lungs seize up on his second intake of fresh air because no one should be huffing sulfur or gaseous ice or whatever the fuck this shit is first thing in the morning. On a Monday. The first one after Christmas break, and.

"God damn, holy shit, holy shit," Billy bounces the whole way to the Camaro, breath coming in short, comical bursts of steam that make his nose run. He swipes dramatically at his face, struggling to get his keys into the lock while balancing his thermos on one arm and his messenger bag on the other.

Billy's in the middle of forcing the door open, its hinges are frozen solid with ice goddammit, when Steve fucking Harrington appears like a cloud on the wind.

"Howdy neighbor," Steve says. Like they're cowboys in a shitty film from the 1970s. The wind kicks a lock of brown hair into Harrington's face and he shivers. "Wow, it's really blowing out here, huh?"

Midwesterner's love doing that.

Pointing out the obvious.

Billy grumbles a response, flinging his car door open and jamming the keys into the ignition.

Steve's saying something.

Talking like always, about his cat or maybe the beer they keep saying they'll have together, and generally Billy puts up with it but not today. He isn't going to freeze to death for a pair of legs.

The Camaro roars to life, clearly pissed at having to work on such a disgusting day, and. Alright. Letting your car "warm up," is something so Midwestern Billy can't even talk about it.

It takes him all of two minutes to scrape his windows, electing to carve holes in each wall of ice rather than clear the whole thing. The metal handle of the scraper Max got him feels like the ninth circle of hell against the peachy skin of his fingers.

He should've bought some mittens.

Joyce is always saying he needs mittens, he should've asked for some--

Billy tosses the scraper into his back seat and climbs in, slamming the door shut behind him and cranking the heat up to high. Steve's watching from next to the fence in a fucking pea coat, and a scarf with care bears on it and.

Nothing else.

Fucking asshole.

Steve waves at him, like; hey I'm talking to you. Frantically, like the mouse Mr. Bane caught last week is important.

But Billy's too busy trying to back out of the driveway with five layers of shit restricting his movement. He cranks the music up and cautiously pulls onto the street. Nice and smooth like he's seen Steve do effortlessly, even with three inches of ice on the ground. Fucking asshole.

Billy makes it halfway before he hits something.

The wind kicks hair into his face as he assesses the damage.

"You should've scraped your driveway last night." Steve says helpfully.

He's got a cigarette hanging from his lips, stark in contrast to the weird home made scarf he's got folded around his neck. Billy tries not to think about Steve's lips as he makes his way to the back of the Camaro to see that, yup.

Of course.

His baby is stuck in the snow. Billy kicks the tire. Like that'll fix anything.

"That's not gonna fix anything." Steve says, leaning against the fence.

"Jesus, fuck. I know, Steve." Billy scrubs a hand across his face, gesturing to the Care Bear scarf. "Why the hell are you wearing that thing, you look like a fruit."

"I am a fruit."

"Well you look like the whole goddamn bowl, pretty boy." Billy digs around for a cigarette. "My kindergarteners don't even fuck with the Care Bears enough to own scarves." Billy squints, assessing Steve from head to toe, delighting in the awkward squirm of his limbs. He clicks his tongue, disappointed. "Couldn't look any fruiter if you tried."

Steve shrugs his shoulders, like. Don't yell at me, this isn't my fault.

And okay.

He's cute.

Billy gets struck by that every time he sees the guy, all over again, like. His profile is perfect. Sharp nose, pretty eyes. Thick lips.

Steve holds out a cigarette.

Billy takes it.

"One of my residents made it for me. He's learning how to flat pattern." Harrington says shyly. "Well, he made it for his grand daughter, but. It turned out worse than he expected so I offered to take it."

Billy squints. "The fuck does that mean?"

"Just means I was trying to be nice--"

"No, the." Billy grins in spite of himself. "The flat patterning, what's that?"

Steve shrugs again. "I'm not sure, I think it's like. A sewing term. Or something." A pretty blush the color of Steve's scarf spreads across the bridge of his nose. It looks like strawberry ice cream and Billy.

Has to look away.

"My mom sews," Billy says gruffy. "I've never heard her say that."

"Well, maybe she drapes?"

Billy squints again. "What?"

"Draping. That's another thing people do--"

Billy stamps the cigarette out and kicks his tire again. Steve jolts, like. Billy tried to kick him or something, which just makes the situation worse.

"God, they should've cancelled classes." Billy states. Well, screams, to no one in particular. "Who wants to go to work in the snow, who fucking. Likes this white bullshit?"

Steve leans against the fence and looks thoughtful. "I love the snow."

"You're not helping."

"You asked."

"No, I didn't." Billy shoots back. He digs his cellphone out and shakes his head. "Why are you still here, Harrington? Don't you have old people to take care of?"

Steve chuckles again. Light, like Christmas bells. "Don't you have screaming brats to teach?"

"My car's kinda stuck in the snow, you fucking dick." Billy's so focused on trying to order a lyft that he doesn't waste time on pleasantries. He expects that to be the end of it, when the wind picks up and he swears again, but. Steve just moves closer.

"Let me drive you." Steve says.

And.

The moment sort of hangs there.

In the two years that Billy's lived next to the guy, they've never hung out. Never house sat for each other, never spoken outside the occasional could you make sure your idiot friends don't block my driveway, and empty promises to grab a beer sometime.

So the offer catches him off guard.

Billy glances up from his phone, confused, to find Steve looking everywhere but at him. Harrington's shifting his weight, like. He's fucking nervous, or something.

Or maybe hoping Billy will say no because he's just being polite.

Billy glares.

Of course he's just being neighborly. Charitable. That's what Midwestern assholes do.

Billy waves his phone in the air, like, "I'm ordering a lyft." And it comes out sharper. More aggressive than he means it too, but Steve doesn't seem to notice.

"Just ride with me, it's on the way."

Billy points at the screen. "Jason will be here in ten minutes."

"What's Jason got that I don't have?" Harington quips, and.

Billy just wants shit to go back to normal. He shakes his head again, "Nah, 's okay, pretty boy. Thanks anyway." Before turning back to his phone like he's got important shit to worry about.

Steve stands.

Stares.

Waits, for longer than is necessary, before clearing his throat. "Okay, well. Happy first day back." He says.

And if Billy didn’t know any better he'd say Steve sounds almost.

Disappointed.

When Billy gets off of work that night the snow is gone from his driveway.

Billy still has bad days.

They always start before dawn. With the claws of his nightmare leaving scratches down the lining of his throat. It's like Billy's carrying an anchor around his neck, or his veins are filled with playdough the color of the sun on those afternoons. He feels lazy and sluggish and like if someone looks at him for too long he'll break. Snap and crackle, like an open flame against fresh skin.

Billy still has bad days but they don't come unless he's been slipping for a while. Like forgetting to take his medication, or not writing his letter every night before bed.

The one to Neil, that his therapist says will help him work through the last of the road blocks that stand in the way of, "ultimate healing."

Billy used to think it was horseshit.

But Neil. Everything that happened, everything that still happens--when Billy goes home for Christmas, or when Susan calls and he can hear the slur of hate on the other end of the line--is standing in the way of something.

There are so many letters.

So much he wants to say.

Written on anything Billy can find, like. Napkins and the backs of take out menus--old drawings that the kids send home with him after Art class on Fridays.

The pages are kept in a binder.

His therapist says it's important to decorate the binder with, like. Stuff that makes him feel good. Words and phrases, stickers, pictures of the people he loves and drawings of all his favorite things. The folder is supposed to act as a visual reminder of the blanket of love that surrounds him, or something.

Melvalds only had brown folders when he went to pick his up, so.

The folder is brown. Disgusting.

And so far the only decorations he's been able to stomach are one of those fancy stickers from Redbubble that depicts his favorite episode of Daria, and a picture of him and Maxine with underwear on their heads.

Billy thinks it could be sad to some people.

That a poor, little abused boy only has two things in life that protect him from the shadow which falls with the setting sun, but it's the truth. Life is hard and fucked up. Billy has trouble letting people close, letting people in, so he sticks with the basics. The tried and true.

Maxine and his gravity bong.

Billy Hargrove is a simple man.

So it's two weeks after Steve shovels his driveway and Billy tells his therapist, like. "This fucking guy just. Did something nice for me."

And she clearly wonders what's wrong with him. "Did you say thank you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because," Billy tries not to get defensive about shit these days, because. It's only a hop-skip-and a jump from defensiveness to downright aggression and Megan, his well meaning shrink, doesn't deserve that even on her most annoying days.

His leg bounces under the table, thwacking against its mahogany edge loud enough that Megan can hear it over the fucking phone, so she says, "Billy. Stop."

Because they have a deal about nervous ticks.

Billy is supposed to say his safe word when he starts to feel anxious, but.

He fucking hates that shit. Hates being babied. Hates feeling like he's a goddamn basket case that needs to be rooted in reality when his trauma rears its ugly head. Billy smiles, the whole thing falling flat against his face. "I'm stopping."

Megan sighs. "Why haven't you thanked Steve for his act of kindness?"

"Because, like." Billy's shaking his leg again. Softer this time; it's a secret. "How do I know he isn't trying to, fucking. Get information out of me. Or out me to the community, or. Make fun of the way I'm a grown man who can't shovel his own driveway after a snowstorm--"

"I think you're internalizing your fears, Billy."

"Yeah, no shit." He snaps. Billy feels bad for half a second but then she's giggling, like she always does, which makes him feel less like the big bad wolf and more like one of the three little pigs. The guy with the straw, maybe?

Billy sighs, scrubbing at his face. "What does that even mean?"

Megan makes a noise on the other end of the line, like. In the six months that Billy's been in therapy he should've learned this by now.

Dude's got a short attention span, sue him.

And, sure enough. "Twice a week we meet over the phone and you don't know that internalizing your fears means you're trying to write the ending to a story you haven't even read yet?"

"Like, uh," Billy says intelligently. "What's that shit you're always saying? About seeing a book on the shelf and--"

"Guessing the ending. Yup, that's right." Megan sounds pleased. Billy ignores the bloom of happiness in his chest, because like. He doesn't really deserve it. She doesn't give him time to dwell, though. "Steve did something nice for you. Maybe he has suspicious intent--"

Billy sucks in a breath, like.

Dramatic. Loud enough that Megan snorts and says, "Hold on, you're jumping to conclusions again."

Billy really fucking.

Hates how perceptive she can be.

Megan keeps talking and Billy listens, because he pays her after all. "If you're really worried that his intentions are cloudy, do something nice for him in return."

"Something nice," Billy repeats. Like he's never heard of such a concept. "Something nice, like. Buy him flowers?"

Megan snorts. "Do you want to buy him flowers?"

"No, why would you think that?"

"Because you--" His therapist sighs. Billy embraces the feeling it gives him, yanking her chain a little bit. "Listen. I don't know this Steve person, and I've never heard you talk about him beyond this beer you're supposed to have together, like. Never. But has he ever given you a reason to think he's out to hurt you?"

Billy thinks back over two years and a million one-dimensional interactions.

Steve never loses his temper.

Not when Billy calls to have the cars that block his driveway towed, not when Billy bitches about the daisy bushes shedding into his yard in the fall, and Steve always picks up Mr. Bane's cat shit from Billy's front porch when the Gremlin actually goes outside.

Always with a smile and a sweet little, I think Mr. B likes you.

And, like.

It was pretty nice of Steve to offer Billy a ride that morning.

And shovel his driveway after work, just because he knew Billy probably wouldn't do it.

The whole thing, it. Fills Billy with something he can't quite express, a warmth he only ever feels when Max calls a dozen times to remind him to eat dinner when he sends a few intense messages.

Megan takes his silence, as always, like a breakthrough.

"So," She says, clearly satisfied. "Same time next week?"

Billy spends three days waiting for Steve to make it easy for him.

Because Harrington's a home owner, and there's always something, right? A problem he needs help with, like. A leaky pipe that needs fixed, a cup of sugar for a recipe that he didn't account for, ghosts in the attic. Typical HOA bullshit.

Billy stares out his window at the lovely split level next door and decides he'll take anything, do anything, to get this fucking anchor of guilt off his back for the whole driveway situation. The opportunity never presents itself.

The ducks never fall in a row.

Steve just leaves the house every morning, same time as Billy, same as always, with a gentle Howdy neighbor. And a smile tugging at his pretty pink lips, hair perfect and windswept because he's a fucking asshole and it only takes two days.

Forty-eight hours before Billy's hatching a plan to pay Harrington back and inventing problems to solve, like some sort of demonic Bob the Builder.

He calls Max on Thursday and comes up with a list. Something tangible, like breaking Steve's garage window with a ski ball. Or trapping Mr. Bane in a sweater and pretending like he's gone missing so Steve will have to round up a search party, but.

Billy knows Megan would call that instigating, antagonizing, and causing trouble, which Billy's trying not to do anymore.

So he brings up flowers again, because.

Fuck it--maybe he's wanted to see Steve behind a bouquet of Lilies of the Valley for months now.

And Max goes all soft.

And quiet, too, before whispering, "I'm really proud of you, you know? For getting better."

Then suddenly Billy can't breathe because there's a lump in his throat.

Because he is trying to get better. To live honestly, to lead with love--whatever hippie-dippie bullshit Megan is always spoon feeding him, so.

With Max's blessing, Billy's about to, like. Knock on Steve's door with a plate of pot brownies and a shitty thanks for being a decent human card when Mr. Bane leaves a dead bird on Billy's porch, the third one in a month, and Billy hatches an idea.

Steve's front door is yellow.

Like. Sunshine yellow. Valley girl yellow.

Which Billy used to think was charming but now thinks is kind of annoying, when coupled with Steve's perpetually sunny disposition. And okay. Maybe it sort of pokes and prods at that piece of him that's always missing home.

Maybe it makes him a little bit sad, like. He'll never really feel at peace anywhere else.

But before Billy can dwell on it, or raise his fist to knock on the door, Steve's opening it and preparing to step through. He's using his foot to stop Mr. Bane from running out into the yard so he doesn't see Billy right away, which.

Also means he's going somewhere.

Which inherently means Billy's caught him at a bad time. Billy holds the paper bag closer to his chest and feels the words bubbling up before he can practice his breathing, or. Stop them. Because this is his third biggest fear after arguments and spiders.

"I've caught you at a bad time, I'm sorry, I'll just come back la--"

Steve breaks out into a grin so big. So bright, that it rivals anything Billy's ever seen before.

"Howdy, neighbor!" Steve says.

And Billy shifts nervously from one foot to the other, like. "Is this a bad time?"

"No, it's not a--"

"Because I can come back later." Billy nods, already turning on his heel to escape, and like. Fly into the sun. "Or not at all. I can just mail it to you, that's. Yeah, I'll just stick it in the post or something."

Steve grabs his elbow.

Billy looks at the hand on his elbow, and down at Steve’s feet. There aren’t any shoes or anything, so.

Billy's overreacting.

Fuck. He swallows, raising his eyes with caution to see Steve smiling again. Even wider than before, if that's possible.

Harrington licks his lips. "Whatcha got there?" He says, nodding to the bag, and Steve.

He's wearing glasses today.

Billy feels like someone hit him on the back of the head with a ski ball. Steve looks so soft, in white stripped overalls and a green sweater, that Billy doesn't know whether to fluff him like a pillow or fucking.

Punch him in the face.

Billy holds out the paper bag. "It's for you."

Steve looks at him strangely but he's still smiling, which.

Is good.

Billy thinks it's good but then he knows its good when Steve giggles. "I gathered that. What is it?"

"It's a, uh. You know." Billy tries. "You know one of those things? Where it's, like, a thing but you aren't supposed to know what it is?"

Steve blinks at him, cheeks turning pink like they always do. "A surprise?"

"That's the one." Billy snaps his fingers, like. Ah-ha. Except it isn't a surprise, it's just. "It's a way to say thanks. For the whole," Billy concludes, gesturing vaguely to their front lawns, to. "The driveway."

Steve blushes even harder. "You didn't have to get me a present--"

"It's not a present."

"That was just me trying to be nice." Steve leans against the door jam, eyes searching. "It doesn't call for a--"

"It's not a present." Billy says again. Steve doesn't look like he believes him, so Billy, like. Shoves the paper bag to his chest. "Look, open it now or don't. Fucking, throw it away for all I care, it's fine."

Billy turns on his heel because fuck this.

Fuck trying to pay back nice with nice and fuck Steve for starting this whole debacle to begin with. Billy makes it down one step and then Steve is laughing so hard he can't stand up straight.

Which just makes Billy feel worse, because.

"You're laughing." Billy gapes. "I bring you a present to say thanks for not being an asshole, and you're laughing."

Steve doesn't answer, he just.

Keeps on laughing, and okay.

This is Billy's third greatest fear. After abandonment and fighting. Fists covered in blood--his or someone else's, it doesn't matter. He frowns, turning to leave again when Steve straightens and coughs once into the palm of his hand.

"Thought it wasn't a present," Steve quips, and he's looking at Billy with, like. Sparkly eyes. He shrugs. "I'm not sure what it means."

Billy doesn't get it. "It doesn't have to mean anything--"

"No, like." Steve peers into the bag again, clearly holding back tears. "Why did you get me a bag of dead mice?"

"You can get them at the pet store." Billy says, because. You can, alright? He fiddles with the sleeves of his winter coat. "They're for Mr. Bane."

Steve just stares at him, eyes twinkling like two polished diamonds in his head.

And he's not saying anything, or. Laughing anymore, he's just. Watching Billy fall to pieces on his walkway as he tries to defend himself.

Billy focuses on the clouds that inch across the sky. "Mr. Bane, he's. He's always catching shit, like. Dead shit and leaving it on my porch. I just thought if he wants to eat dead things I can just. Buy him a pack or whatever. Like a normal person."

Steve grins. "You know they do that because they think you can't feed yourself."

Billy wrinkles his nose. "Well I fucking appreciate it, but I don't want to eat dead mice and birds and shit."

Steve chuckles once before staring again.

Like he's memorizing Billy's face, or like. They're having a competition that Billy doesn't know about.

Billy gestures to the bag again. "Would you just accept it, Steve? Please?"

Harrington looks down at the mice in his hands and nods slowly, like the decision is really requiring some thought.

Billy feels stupid.

This was so fucking stupid--

"Sure, Billy." Harrington says. Soft, and. Sweet. "No one's ever given me such a thoughtful gift before, so. Thank you."

And Billy feels like the tin man getting oil on his joints after a year of rusting in the forest, when Steve accepts his weird ass gesture. He nods, mouth lapsing into a thin, unamused line. "Okay, then. See ya 'round," Billy says.

And then he's turning, and.

Leaving.

Before Steve can say anything else.

The clouds inch like caterpillars across the bright winter sky and Steve's walkway seems so much longer on the journey home.

#harringrove #i'm sorry aaaaah #I wanted to post the first chapter here too #because I'm fucking proud of this one alright #and I feel like I need a little fluff #and maybe you need a lil fluff too #cmon man #let me fluff you like a pillow bro

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captaincravatthecapricious · 4 years ago

Text

Collapse- Prompt Fill

Jon is a Dune fan. How can picking up one book change things? Idea from a tumblr prompt and a post by @roseunspindle (permission was granted for writing this)

cw all the typical episode 160 stuff and references to nausea and of course manipulation and fainting. Some dialogue from 160, and a quote from Dune, of course!

I am still accepting bingo prompts (card by @celosiaa) Pick a prompt from the card and a character and let me know if you want art of fic! (I am much faster at art). I have several outlined that I need to write, and I will get to those... Soonish? Have an excellent day and I hope 2021 treats you well!

Jon isn’t sure why he grabbed the book. He’s read it before so it doesn’t hold the same interest it once did. He had to work on that reading habit of his in school, and now he’s managed a few rereads, but he still prefers the unknown and interesting.

But he did love this book when he read it. He was too young for it, of course. But that hadn’t mattered. He sucked the whole world into his young and greedy mind.

And now that glossy, second hand cover.... makes him pause over it. He doesn’t know how it survived evictions and his absences. He must have subconsciously stored it out of the way. But he grabs it, with a few statements, and his small collection of clothes into a very battered backpack that he’s sure once belonged to Melanie.

He wishes he had more books. Maybe once he and Martin reach the train station, he can pick up something else to read. Or maybe he can borrow some books from Martin….

He stuffs Dune into his backpack. It’s on the top, distending the fabric slightly, straining the zipper as his grandmother had always reprimanded him for when he shoved too many pleasure books into his school bag, (always to read under the desk and he was always inevitably caught and reprimanded again, but what could you do with an inattentive student who still pulled good marks?).

He boards the train with Martin. Battered and aging backpacks filled with worn clothes and statements and books and granola bars. The station had been loud and busy enough to send Jon reeling with the information spilling off a crowd of people as well as the less eldritch sensory overload. His head aching dully as they settle into their seats.

Medicine for motion sickness sends him drowsy as soon as it is effective. He spends the time before it works staring queasily out the window, clammy hands holding tightly to Martin as much to sooth his uneasy stomach as to hold Martin in this plain of reality. He nods off, hands still clasped with Martin’s. Wrapped up in the elation of having Martin with him, around him, talking to him…. almost safe.

He wakes up in a storm of hurried breaths and crashing thoughts…. precarious as the crashing waves that haunted the lonely, but far closer and more oppressive. Statements tumbling with his own crashing thoughts. Fear on his breath. His fear making him Hungry in the nauseous way of autocannibleism.

He presses his face into Martin, only just then realizing that he’s been using Martin as a pillow. Martin, who is dozing. Martin, who is still a little foggy. The last of the haze burning off with the contact. Jon can see the steam rising between them, mainly and gentle. The sun burning the fog off a meadow in the early morning.

Jon sits himself up, but stays pressed against Martin. The imprint of Jon slowly thawing Martin as the train gently sways them both.

Jon doesn’t want to sleep more. He would much prefer to read, but it is still more than a bit of a gamble for him to even medicated. But…. he’s bored.

Dune.

Right on the top of his bag. Leaning over starting to make him queasy (which doesn’t bode well for reading attempts), he pulls it out and straightens up.

He turns it over in his hands a few times, until his stomach settles. He’s fine. Just a few more minutes before the medicine works… probably anyhow.

He flips through the pages, still waiting for his breathing to calm as well.

Oh.

He remembers this words… in a half remembered haze of childhood and tracing those words on his limbs and his walls. With his eyes, and markers, and pencils. On the inside of his eyelids. Carved into the air about his bed as he repeated them to himself.

‘I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.’

Reading those words again makes his hands shake like they had when he first read them… with Mr. Spider fresh in his nightmares. Still missing the life he could never have with his parents.

Jon fumbles for a pen.

He traces them again on his forearm.

Poorly written, of course. Hands far from steady with the rocking of the train and the rocking of his stomach and the rolling of his world after the day he’s had. But he is once more too tired to focus on anything much, so he tucks his book away again, and shoves the pen in his pocket.

He tucks himself up against Martin again, using an old jumper as a blanket. He knows he is taking a bit of a liberty, but he buries his face in Martin’s neck and breathes deeply. He’s asleep again in moments.

The trip isn’t eventful. Lots of track clicking past. Lots of drowsy hours. A disappointing sandwich and a tasteless cup of tea. Jostled shoulders. Cramped restrooms. Cramped necks. Jon’s bad leg protesting the seating arrangements. Then the slightly uncomfortable walk to the safe house. Weighed down with hasty shopping and their lumpy bags. Jon limping more heavily by the time they drag themselves over the threshold.

In the domestic bliss, time stretches. Lazy afternoons on the couch Jon and Martin entwined stretch into years in the golden light of afternoon. Two weeks of cups of tea. Of trips to the store. Of statements that Jon goes through way too fast, try as he does to ration them. Frantic phone calls to Basira as Jon can’t make the trip to town anymore. More cuddling on the couch. Bickering over who does the dishes, over who makes the best eggs. Over what to have for dinner. Discussions of what counts as a sandwich and whether cereal is a soup. Jon being appalled that Martin eats cereal from the box directly with a spoon. Martin being horrified that Jon eats dry cereal from a bowl with a glass of milk. Playing footsie through dinner. “Yes Martin, another soup. Means less cooking.” Sloppy kisses over glasses of wine. Jon being too dizzy to go on walks. Jon retracing Frank Herbert’s words on to his arm. Over. And over. And over again.

“I must not fear…”

Until a package arrives.

It’s unassuming and labeled in Basira’s careful penmanship. If Jon expects to see tear-staines over a lost partner, he doesn’t see them.

Martin kisses him soundly, and leaves to take pictures of good cows.

Jon has been tucked up on the couch. Under a thick blanket. Finally in better spirits now that he has statements again, ready …so ready for his limbs to feel like his again.

He tastes copper as he started to read. The words don’t sit right in his mouth. Before he can even properly start… before his mind is lost to him, he can feel the wrongness building. And when the betrayal occurs, he can’t find it in him to be surprised or hurt. All he can feel is a hollow fear…. a hungry fear. Gaping and endless. Tearing into his skin as he tears at his clothes, his skin, the statement that does not belong to Hazel Rutter and has nothing to do with a fire. Aside from the fire in his throat and in his hand, and leaping from mark to mark as Jon learns what they actually are. A map of manipulation. A tool to make the actual tool. The wood and hammer and nails that make him the door. The door that he… that he. “ Come to us in your perfection.

Bring all that is fear and all that

is terror and all that is the awful

dread that crawls and chokes and

blinds and falls and twists and

leaves and hides and weaves and

burns and hunts and rips and bleeds

and dies!

Come to us.

I-“

“I…” Jon chokes. His eyes sliding helplessly over the room. Over many tokens of a happy life that he is never going to have. Because of this…. this… he can’t even call it a betrayal. His entire life has lead to this. Every unhappy moment. Every instinct he has ever had. Every poor choice. Every step another step towards the inevitable. His eye catches on a familiar cover. Somehow still glossy. Despite Jon having carried it around like a safety blanket for the last few weeks. And he catches those smudged and traced over words on his arm and he tears at himself, trying to stop.

“I…”

He chokes again. Around those last few words. The words that will wrench the thunder from the sky and rend it asunder.

“I…”

He breathes. Possibly for the first time since his hands ghosted over the unassuming manilla folder.

“‘I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.’”

His vision cuts out. He must have stood at some point, because he is falling. Stings cut. Nothing to manipulate. The puppet is broken.

He wakes with a head full of cotton, but a heart devoid of fear. There is a clarity in his limbs. But exhaustion sits heavily on his chest. He feels… clear. And real. And… like utter shit.

But the arms around him are solid and warm and smell like tea and toast and all the good things Jon can think of in the world. And even if Jon could bring himself to move… he wouldn’t have dreamt of doing so.

There is burnt ink in the air.

“Wha’?” Marble-mouthed. Heavy with the exhaustion of years of poor sleep, of running and fearing and the adrenaline crash of something horrifying being…over.

“It’s alright, Jon. Everything’s fine. I…. I don’t know how you did it, but you stopped reading… and I burned it. It’s gone. We’re okay.”

And Jon isn’t sure he understands…. but he doesn’t care. Because he is not afraid, and Martin told him that everything is okay. And he thinks… just Maybe. Just… maybe… that it might be.

He lets himself be tucked in. He lets himself sleep.

Jon takes up calligraphy. He hates it. Utterly despises it… but he becomes decent enough to write one thing for their mantel. In the safe house. Miles away from fear and Jonah Magnus… if the bastard is even still alive…

Framed in gold, traced out in neat and flowing calligraphy:

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #fic #tma fic #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #dune #cw fainting #cw nausea #cw manipulation #my words #my fic #my writing #my art

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redbeansoups · 4 years ago

Text

Time

Kirishima Eijirou x Reader

In which you and Kirishima have one last week together.

It is Monday morning when you buy the ticket. You request to be put on the last train.

The conductor eyes you suspiciously when you ask. He doesn’t seem to be much older than you are, though you don’t miss the near-fatherly concern in his look. “You’re sure?” he says, thumb flicking over the mouse. His cursor hovers over the available seats on the monitor; it’s an odd time to travel, it seems, because most of them appear to be unoccupied. “It’s quite a late journey–”

“I'm sure,” you affirm; he hums in response, but doesn’t question it again. The ticket is secured and printed in a matter of moments, and he slides the slip over to you. It’s printed on a slick, waterproof material, and it squeaks against your skin as your fingers take hold of it. “Thank you,” you say, giving him a curt bow.

“Of course,” the man says, and mirrors your actions as you move away.

You have until Sunday night.

It is Tuesday night when you come home to a warm hug. Kirishima’s arms are strong and wrap firmly around you, pulling your head towards his chest. He smells of something warm and cool all at once; like a winter night in the woods.

“I’m home,” you manage to mutter, your lips hardly moving against his chest. He pulls you closer and laughs at the muffled protests you make; the noise rumbles against you.

When he releases you, he’s grinning, teeth bared all at once. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says; you can tell he’s trying to restrain his excitement, because although his voice is low and casual, there’s something in his eyes that is positively glimmering.

“Really?” you say, playing along. “What could it be, I wonder?”

He chuckles, and his fingers entwine with yours. “I’ll show you!” he exclaims. In an instant, your bags are on the ground, your shoes lying long-forgotten by the door. He pulls you through the hallways and into the living room.

The lights are off; the room is lit only by a huddle of mismatched candles at the centre, each of them smelling vaguely of something sweet and spiced–cinnamon, vanilla, nutmeg. The couch is littered in pillows, the majority of them stolen from the bedroom; a large, fluffy blanket sits at the center of it all, already unfurled.

On the coffee table is a bottle of wine and a collection of DVDs, each of them an old childhood favorite.

“I figured you’d need a break,” he says offhandedly, not waiting for your reaction. He beams at the setup, lips upturned at the sight. Then, his face falls into a pout. “I was gonna make a blanket fort, but Katsuki told me it’d be a fire hazard with the candles, which sucks, because that would’ve been awesome..”

You watch his expression contort in a mock disappointment, and laugh.

“It’s perfect,” you say, tiptoeing to press a kiss to his chin.

There’s a lopsided smirk on his face that you want to remember forever.

It is Wednesday afternoon when he brings you out on a date.

He says to keep it casual, and you do; since he does the same, you opt for something light and airy. You’re shocked, though, when he brings his bike out from the hallway closet. It’s an older model, its paint a deep maroon shade with a metal basket fastened at the front of it; it’s been quite some time since you’ve last seen it.

When he notices the way your jaw goes slack in confusion, he offers a sheepish grin. “Thought it’d be fun,” he tells you. “Like when we were little.” He clambers onto the seat, and pats the spot behind him.

The action is all-too familiar. You seat yourself behind him, and wrap your arms around his waist. The nighttime breeze blows through your hair as he begins to pedal, the bike shifting and building up to a solid pace.

Your face is warm against his back.

After some time, the bike comes to a gentle halt.

You don’t recognize your surroundings at first; you glance around, disoriented. You seem to be in a small neighborhood; the houses around you are on the older side, quaint with overgrown gardens. There’s a large red postbox by the corner with a tabby cat curled up atop it.

It’s only when you catch sight of the cafe down the road that your face lights up. “We’re near school,” you say, and he smiles. He parks the bike, and leads you inside.

The elderly woman by the counter lights up as you two enter, the bell chime ringing familiarly in your ears. “I haven’t seen you two in forever,” she says, the crows’ feet by her eyes crinkling upward as she welcomes you two with a smile. The two of you bow deeply to her, exchanging old greetings. She brings you to the table farthest from the door, the one just by the little windowsill. “The usual?”

“Yes, please,” Kirishima pipes, and the woman smiles, staggering away.

She emerges again with two plates in hand; she sets down a portion of curry for the both of you. “It’s good to see you two,” she says, before moving back to sit behind the counter.

The cafe is empty save for you both.

“Just like highschool,” Kirishima says, grinning.

Just like highschool, butterflies and all.

It is Thursday morning when you emerge from the closet with a stack of collapsed cardboard boxes cradled against your chest.

“Already, huh?” Kirishima says, watching as you lay them out onto the kitchen table and begin folding them one by one. He pulls out the chair beside you and seats himself, grabbing one to work on for himself; they smell faintly of something old and wet, and his nose crinkles.

“Yeah,” you say, somewhat wistfully. When you finish folding one, you throw it into a pile with the others; there’s a growing pool by the dining table that is threatening to spill into the living room. “The movers will be here in the morning.”

Kirishima lets out a sigh, long and drawn-out. It’s a rare sound for him; you’re used to hearty laughter and cheery snickers. He’s looking around your shared flat, as if to take in every detail; the potted plants by the windowsill, the books on the shelves, your framed paintings and pictures on the walls.

“Last-minute, huh?” he teases, though you can’t find it in yourself to meet his eyes.

“Nothing new,” you tell him, and continue working.

That night, as you pack away everything you’ve known, you can’t help but sigh along with him.

The flat looks to have lost its soul.

It is Friday night when Kirishima invites all your friends over for dinner. Bakugo, his self-declared best mate, is the first to arrive. He hangs his coat up on the stand by the door.

“Heard about the promotion,” is the first thing he says by way of greeting, voice gruff as per usual. “Quite a job,” he says, and you figure he’s congratulating you, so you thank him with a smile.

Jirou arrives next, dragging a shivering Kaminari along behind her. “He forgot his coat,” she explains easily, her fingers moving to unbutton her own. The man in question is pale-faced, but he offers you the best of a greeting he can, teeth chattering all the while; Kirishima bursts out laughing at the sight.

Sero and Ashido are the last to appear, the two of them donning matching suits. “Fashionably late,” Ashido tells you, flashing you her signature grin. She’s brought a bottle of something–you think it’s champagne.

“Fashionably stupid,” is Bakugo’s retort. It’s a poor comeback, but everyone laughs nonetheless.

You usher them all inside, and soon dinner is served. The champagne bottle is popped open.

It is only after dinner that Jirou pops the question.

“You two will be alright, won’t you?”

Kirishima’s eyes flit to yours. You give him a weak smile. “Yeah,” he tells her.

She doesn't look convinced, but lets the conversation drop.

It is Saturday morning when he wakes you up with a kiss to your forehead. The sun has still barely risen, the warm yellow just beginning to break through the horizon.

The room smells of something sweet; Kirishima has a tray in his arms.

“French toast,” he says, smiling as you slowly arise from your slumber and sit groggily up. He sets the tray down at the foot of the bed, and crawls gently in, so that he can sit cross-legged beside you.

He’s brought two plates in, with a glass of cold milk each. The french toast—a thick slice on each plate, just as he likes it–is perfectly square and golden-brown, the syrup poured delicately over the top. With each serving comes a handful of freshly-washed strawberries, their skin bright red and glistening.

You’re sure your grin looks crooked and dumb, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.

“You’re the best,” you tell him. He looks proudly down at you.

“You know it,” he says, and presses another kiss to your forehead. “There’s more where that came from, too. Wait until you see what’s for lunch.”

“Pasta?” you say, eyes shining up at him. You’ve already started to eat; the french toast is fluffy and soft and sweet, and you can’t help but let out a sigh.

He chuckles. “You’ll see.”

That day, you savor every bite of his cooking.

It is Sunday night when you bite back a sob at the platform.

He’s pressed a letter and a small box into your hands. “The box first,” he whispers, moving your fingers so that they close around them, “and the letter last.” You nod and bring the gifts to your coat pocket, careful not to let your tears fall around them.

And then his hand is on your face, thumb stroking your cheeks gently. He wipes away the tears that fall, rubbing them into your skin. You want to stay there, and take it all in; his callouses, the dips between his fingers, the way he slides over your cheekbones, the lingering smell of warm wood–

There’s a ring, followed by an automated message.

The train will depart soon.

“You’ll be okay, won’t you?” you manage to say.

“Yeah,” he croaks. He doesn’t make any attempt to hide the wince that follows.

“Eiji..”

Before you can speak again, he raises his chin, eyes looking straight into yours. You don’t fail to notice the liquid pooling in his eyes. “I’ll be okay,” he says, firmer this time.

You don’t believe him, but, after a moment, you nod anyway.

“Okay,” you breathe, allowing your hand to fall to your side. He presses one last kiss to your lips, and then does the same.

All too quickly, the warmth of his skin vanishes.

You board the train, and watch as he blurs into a splatter of red.

When the tears no longer blur your vision, you pull out the contents of your pocket, and lay them out onto your lap.

The box is a deep crimson, shiny and smooth to the touch. You lift its lid gingerly.

There’s a silver necklace within it; you lift it up, the thin metal chain cool against your skin. A small hourglass hangs at the end of it. You fasten it around your neck, shivering as it slides over your nape.

You open the letter next, sliding the cardstock out of the envelope. It’s a little thing, and far from the obnoxious cards he usually sends; you’ve long become accustomed to his cheesy, slapstick greeting cards. This, though, is something else entirely; plain and simple, an off-white, creamy toned paper.

His handwriting is neat, constrained.

I wish we’d had more time.

#goodbyes are harder when you're still in love #i really love this piece!!! it's one of my recent favorites :)#writers on tumblr #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bnha #bnha x reader #kirishima eijirou #kirishima x reader #bnha fluff #bnha angst #bnha imagines

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subarublue · 4 years ago

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Nice Guys Finish Last

One Shot

Fandom: Devil May Cry

Timeline: Not specified

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Dante x Female Reader

Word Count: 2027

Read on Ao3

Summary: After a hard week at work, a weekend at Dante’s is just what the doctor ordered, especially when a snow storm blows into town. Unfortunately for you, Dante is...well, Dante.

Notes: Just a cute little one shot. Slight bit of a dirty joke at the end.

You hurried down the street, your destination in sight. The bright neon sign of Devil May Cry should have been visible since the snow that was falling around you was light and gentle, but it wasn’t. In fact, the closer you got it seemed that no lights were on in the building. Was Dante even home? He’d said he would be when he stopped by your work earlier to see you, but for all you knew he could have gotten a call and gone out on a job. Though normally, he was pretty good at notifying you if that was the case when you were planning on spending the night.

Knowing the door would be unlocked regardless, and that you could just wait for him inside where it was nice and warm, you trudged through the snow as quickly as you could. You tried to pull your jacket tighter around you to ward off the frigid air, but to no avail. You’d not been prepared for the quick turn the weather had taken and your apparel, jacket included, was not up to par to deal with it in the slightest.

The weatherman had said it was going to be cold. Like dude, really? Cold did not cover this. It was freezing outside. Cows were giving ice cream instead of milk. People with heartburn everywhere were cured. Fucking snowmen were gaining sentience so they could migrate south.

You groaned in annoyance. This past week at your work had been hell; so much so that you didn’t even want to think about work for the rest of the weekend. Which is why you were currently planning on spending said weekend wrapped up in the warm arms of your boyfriend. But to top it all off, this sudden snow storm had decided to blow into town a little earlier than anticipated, leaving you to practically freeze to death on the long walk to his shop.

Gotta keep moving.

As you hurried on, you caught glimpses of the puffs of your breaths, clearly visible, reminding you of just how damn cold it was. You tried to forget about it by thinking of the warm things that awaited you just a block away; the heat of the shop itself, a cup of hot chocolate, the hot shower Dante would let you take, his warm bed, Dante himself...

You let out a frustrated whine when you realized it wasn’t working because your teeth were now chattering. God, you were so cold. Thankfully though, you’d finally reached the steps of the shop. You heaved a great sigh of relief and grabbed the door handle, anticipation of the warm temperature just on the other side making you giddy.

You threw the door open (probably a bit more enthusiastically than necessary, if you were honest) and stepped across the threshold of Dante’s beloved home into the comforting and welcoming feeling of...

MORE COLD!?

Immediately upon feeling the frigid temperature of the front office area, you tried to hug your coat around you even tighter. It’s colder in here than it is outside! That thought was probably not quite true, but your brain was too frozen to be concerned about little details like that.

A quick glance around the front office area would normally have shown you whether or not Dante was around, but it was well past dark outside and no lights were on so you could barely see anything, much less your boyfriend. You turned to flick the overhead light on...only to stare dumbly at the little switch when it did nothing. Your face quickly morphed into an expression of annoyance, the reason for the lack of heat in the building now obvious: Dante hadn’t paid his utility bill like he’d said he was going to.

You knew it had been overdue...again, but you really didn’t have the energy to be pedantic about the number of times it had happened previously. He’d already been getting final warning notices from the utility office stating to pay his bill by a certain date or else. He’d said he would be able to pay it after some job he was taking earlier in the week. Obviously, that had fallen through.

You tried to look on the bright side of things (the bright, warm side where you really wished you were right now). At least this meant that he likely wasn’t gone like you’d originally thought might be the case.

“D-D-Dante?” Your teeth were chattering so much you could barely speak as you stepped further into the office in search of the resident devil hunter.

His reply was immediate; a quick, “Just a sec!” from the kitchen in the back. You could still see your breath puffing out from your mouth (even though you were now inside) and you couldn’t help the despondent groan that let out the biggest puff of all, as if to mock you.

Dante chose that moment to appear in the doorway of his kitchen, holding something you couldn’t really see well with the lack of light. You could at least see him somewhat, and he suddenly looked like he was trying not to laugh at the sight you must have made, wrapped up in a coat not meant for snowy weather and shivering like a leaf. You simply glared at him as best you could, given your current state. You were in no mood to put up with his antics at the moment, especially since it seemed he was completely unaffected by the biting temperature. He was only in his usual getup of boots, pants, shirt, and his signature red jacket and yet he looked as if the temperature was a moderate seventy two degrees. Being half-devil certainly had its perks. This only served to worsen your mood, of course.

He’d barely managed to stifle his laughter before speaking up, “You alright there, babe? You look like you’re about to give me the...cold shoulder.” He was grinning as he said this. You of course, were not, as you resisted the urge to roll your eyes at him. Instead, you opted for yelling at him.

“Dante! What the hell!? You said you were gonna pay your bill!” The frozen feeling in your body was temporarily forgotten in your anger. You watched as a sheepish look crossed his face as he brought his free hand up to scratch the back of his neck.

“Yeah, well, about that...”

“What. About. It.” you spoke through clenched teeth. Partly because of your anger, but also because you were having to clench them together in order to keep the chattering at bay because unfortunately, your anger wasn’t enough to keep you numb to the cold for long. The feeling was already back, full force.

“Remember that job I told you about?” When you nodded stiffly he continued, “Well, the client didn’t end up being able to pay me, so...yeah.” At least now he had the decency to look a bit guilty at your discomfort.

You eyed him suspiciously. You knew he was notorious for not charging for his services at all if clients had trouble paying him. You figured that was most likely the case in this instance as well and you decided to call him on it.

“Couldn’t pay? Or you didn’t make them?” You gave him a look that conveyed you were not in the mood for any bullshit. You were a little surprised though, when he gave a rather dejected sigh, suddenly turning serious.

“I wasn’t gonna charge a single mom trying to raise three kids on her own ‘cause their dad’s a deadbeat,” he said simply.

You felt frozen solid by this point, but that melted your heart a little bit. Okay, well maybe a lot. Dante really was an all-around nice guy. You knew he had a soft spot especially for mothers in situations like that, considering what had happened to his own mother when he was young. Now you could no longer find it in you to be mad at him for his utility problem.

Instead, you gave a wry laugh and shook your head at him. “You’re way too nice, Dante.” He simply shrugged at that, but you were smiling now, despite the constant shivering.

“What can I say? I’m just a nice guy.” He was approaching you, holding his hand out, and you finally took notice of what he held in it. It was one of the mugs from his kitchen (your favorite one to be exact) and there was some steam wafting from the contents inside. You immediately perked up as he offered it to you.

It turned out to be that cup of hot chocolate you’d been thinking about on your way over. You decided not to wonder about how he’d made it without electricity as you took the mug gratefully. The heat from the sweet liquid warmed your hands through the ceramic as you held it.

“Luckily, that’s one of the reasons I love you.” You took a sip, sighing as you felt the hot liquid flowing through you, starting to warm you up. Then, you gave him a coy smile. “But that’s not enough to make me stay in this freezer you call a shop tonight.”

“Aww, come on, babe! It’s not that bad! Besides, I’m here to warm you up.” He was giving you that sly grin of his, and you had to resist the urge to roll your eyes again. That wasn’t about to change your mind, regardless of how tempting it was.

“You can still warm me up. It’ll just have to be back at my place, where there’s heat...and working lights...and a working stove, and-“

“Alright, alright! I get it!” He held up his hands in mock surrender. Now it was your turn to grin slyly at him, having won. “You’re place is cleaner, anyway,” he added, as if it was something that mattered to him. Which you knew it didn’t.

“Well come on, then. If we stand around here any longer, you’ll have an ice statue to decorate your office with instead of a girlfriend,” you joked as you turned to head back out the door. You grimaced a little at the thought of the long, cold walk back to your place. At least you had a hot drink for the trip.

“You know, that wouldn’t be bad,” you gave him an incredulous look at that and for the third time, almost��rolled your eyes at him. But Dante hadn’t missed the grimace on your face before he’d made his teasing comment. You suddenly found yourself enveloped in another layer of warmth as his jacket (which you almost never saw him without) came around your shoulders. “But I think I much prefer having a girlfriend that lets me eat pizza whenever I want without lecturing me on how unhealthy it is.” He was smiling warmly at you and it was almost enough to chase all the cold away.

“Guess I’m the lucky one, then. You know, since you’re so nice,” you said it playfully, but you meant every word as you gestured to his coat that he’d lent you. It dwarfed you a bit, since he was so much taller than you, and you had to gather it up a bit in your free hand to make sure it didn’t drag as you started the trek to your place.

“That you are, sweetheart.”

You swore his ego would be the death of you. Thinking to bring him down a couple notches, you goaded him a bit, “You know what they say, right? Nice guys finish last.” You grinned cheekily at him.

He turned to face you as you walked along. It was still snowing, and you wondered briefly if you could convince him to trigger and fly you all the way home so you wouldn’t have to walk in the cold anymore. The smirk on his face had you momentarily distracted, though.

“Babe, nice guys only finish last-” he was shooting finger guns at you now, “-because we make sure our women finish first.” He punctuated his statement with wink.

You did roll your eyes at that.

#devil may cry #devil may cry fanfiction #dmc dante #female reader #my writing #dante x reader #suby scrawls

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downwiththeficness · 4 years ago

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In the Bond-Chapter 16

Summary: Lilah often wished she’d never said yes to working with the Gecko brothers—usually while dodging gunfire. At no time was she regretting that decision more than when she’s hanging upside down from the ceiling, staring down a group of hungry culebras and one (1) extremely powerful sun god.

Word Count: ~6,100

Warnings: Smut

A/N: This is an AU of my Story In the Blood, which can be read here. Basically, this fic explores what would have happened if Lilah had met up with Geckos before she met Brasa.

Taglist: @symbiont13

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Lilah woke unwillingly. Rolling over, she scrubbed at her eyes, still swollen from crying herself to sleep. Brasa had held her closely as they drove away from a home Lilah wasn’t sure she would ever return to. She’d managed to hold her tears for about ten minutes, and then her will had given out.

In her state, Lilah could be forgiven for how long it had taken her to notice that they weren’t on course for Brasa’s bar. When she’d asked where they were going, Brasa had simply said, ‘home’.

‘Home’ was quite literally carved into solid stone. Accessible through an elevator hidden cleverly in a low rock formation. It opened into a completely dark corridor. Lilah let Brasa lead her by the hand into the darkness, looking back only once to catch Javier reaching down to close the doors to the elevator carriage, shutting out the only light.

Blind, Lilah’s step had faltered. Brasa took it in stride, wrapping an arm around her and acting as her guide. They reached a door, which opened to… ‘home’. It was, she supposed, average in size, though she hadn’t paid much attention to the architecture. Brasa had cosetted her in yet another deliciously comfortable bed and she had spent the rest of the afternoon and evening putting off Brasa’s questions regarding her well being.

To be fair, Lilah hadn’t known how she felt the night previous. She still wasn’t sure how she felt. Her emotions wavered between indignation and deep depression, both of which made her head ache. She pushed the covers back and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

Padding quietly to the bathroom by the illumination of a small nightlight shining near the door of the bedroom, Lilah went through the motions of cleaning herself up. No stranger to a rough night, she was unsurprised to find shadows beneath her eyes and her hair in disarray. A quick look in the vanity drawers found a comb that the used to gingerly comb out the tangles.

After washing her face, Lilah made her way to the bedroom door, peering out into the hallway. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she tip toed towards the living room. In the few moments that she’d spent standing at the threshold, waiting for Brasa to shrug off his coat and hang it up, she’d noticed how sumptuous the furniture was—an overstuffed couch, soft carpets, dark and heavy woods. Everything was all rich fabric and soft textures. And yet, it was strangely bare. No pictures, no art, no...personality.

As she made her way deeper into the house, Lilah came upon Brasa sitting in the plush chair, a book in his hand. Head bent over the pages, he looked...so completely normal that she had to blink a few times to make sure that it was, indeed, him.

Sensing her approach, he looked up, eyes assessing, “How did you sleep?”

Lilah watched as he closed the book, setting it aside, She watched as he stood and approached. She watched as he became more concerned as she failed to respond. He grasped her above the elbows, head dipping to catch her eyes. Lilah couldn’t hold the gaze, and felt ridiculous for it.

“You should eat,” he pronounced, turning her and leading her gently through a set of double doors to a small, intimate dining room.

He bade her to sit, moving past the room and through to the kitchen. Lilah leaned her elbows on the table, resting her head in her palms as she waited. Drowsy from too much sleep, she blinked lazily into the middle distance, until movement in her periphery caught her attention.

Brasa approached, a plate in one hand, a glass of water in the other. He placed both before her, nudging the plate when she hesitated. Lilah looked down at what he made, a small chuckle sounding from low in her throat. Eggs in a basket. Toads in a hole. He’d remembered.

Charmed, and more than a little grateful, Lilah picked up the fork and cut into the edge of the toast, nicking the egg yolk. As she chewed, she glanced over at Brasa, who was watching her. Though his posture was relaxed, there was a sharp light in his eyes that signaled he was studying her carefully.

“He will change his mind,” he said casually, gesturing smoothly with one hand.

Lilah paused, swallowing, “What?”

Brasa smiled, “Seth. He will change his mind.”

Eyes falling to her plate, Lilah busied herself with cutting into the second piece of toast, “You know that?”

“I do,” he answered.

“How?”

He shrugged, “I’m old.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

With a smile, he countered, “Old enough to know how men like Seth think. He’ll be mad for a while, but if he cares for you—and I think he does—he will come around.”

Lilah sighed and leaned back into her chair, “I’m so mad at him.”

Brasa nodded, saying nothing, waiting for her to continue. She looked to the ceiling, trying to gather her thoughts, to sort her emotions in a way that made any kind of sense.

“I know he’s struggling to accept…” she gestured broadly, “All of this. I mean, I’m still trying to accept it. But...the way he treated me, like a…”

Lilah stopped, ‘kid sister’ sitting like lead on her tongue. Her eyes closed as the implications of her own thoughts sunk in. He’d treated her just like a kid sister, an annoying kid sister that didn’t know what they were doing. And, somehow, that made her feel worse.

Sensing her unease, Brasa leaned forward and touched her hand, brushing his fingers over the back, “As I said. He will get over it.”

Casting him a sorrowful look, she murmured, “I hope so. We’re friends, you know?”

“I know.”

“And,” she continued, turning her hand over to thread her fingers through his, “I still want to be friends.”

He nodded, giving her hand a squeeze before picking up her plate and taking it to the kitchen. Lilah fiddled with her glass in a kind of soft resignation. This would have to play out however it was going to. Pushing the issue wasn’t going to make things better. Neither was dwelling on it. Still, she gave herself permission to feel sad for a while. That seemed fair.

Brasa returned and held out a hand to her, which she took. They walked amiably back to the living room where he sat her down on the couch and handed her the remote.

“I have some work to do,” he explained, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of her head, “It’ll take a few hours. Then, we’ll decide what to do for the evening.”

Lilah spent maybe half an hour scrolling through the many streaming services that were on the top menu of the TV, amazed that Brasa had gotten so fully up to speed on modern entertainment. Furtively, she glanced through some of his watch history, smiling when she noted that he’d made it all the way through every season of House and, oddly enough, had recently watched The Princess Bride.

Eventually, she settled on restarting Drunk History from the beginning. Prior to signing on with the Gecko brothers, she’d watched a few episodes a month in her down time. There were always TVs on in the bar, so she’d never thought to purchase one for her room. Now seemed a good time for some comfort.

Brasa had been right when he’d said that his work would take a few hours. Lunchtime came and went, Lilah making her way to the kitchen and finding that he’d stocked it with some basic staples. They were going to have to take a shopping trip, though. The man had eggs, bread, a bag of various fruits, and a jug of milk. Her guess was that he’d googled basic foodstuffs and had run with it.

After eating her meal perched over the sink, Lilah washed her dishes and returned to the couch to start the next season. That was where Brasa found her, half asleep, stretched out over the cushions. He smiled as he approached, reaching down to lift her legs and sit, draping her feet over his lap.

“Done for the day?”

He shrugged, “In one manner of speaking.”

“What does that mean?”

Another shrug, “Benny’s following has grown again. We think he’s turning a few humans a week.”

Her brows came together, “What does that mean for you?”

Brasa took a few seconds to think about it, his fingers drawing little circles over the sensitive skin of her ankle, “It means that he is likely going to resort to violence, and soon.”

Lilah felt her muscles tense, a kind of latent anxiety rolling along her body, “How do we prevent it?”

Looking at her, his expression was soft, but sure, “I don’t think we can.”

She sat up, disbelieving, “Why not?”

Turning a little bit so that he could prop his arm up on the back of the couch, Brasa explained, “Men like this…there is only one thing that checks them, and I promised you that I would look at other options. He wants blood, will be satisfied by nothing else.”

Lilah pulled her legs up and under her body, folding her hands in her lap, “We can talk to him, right?”

“We tried that.”

“For like two seconds,” she countered, her anxiety melting into frustration, “There has to be a way. Nobody has to die for this.”

Head tilting to the side, he said, “When has, essentially, a coup, ever not resulted in bloodshed?”

Lilah rolled her eyes, “This isn’t a coup. Its...an administrative change.”

Brasa shot her a look that very clearly said that she was bullshitting, “In their eyes, I have taken away their way of life. You know this.”

She shook her head, “You’re giving them a better life. A life where they’re not hiding in the dark, picking off humans, and running from local hunters.”

“Some don’t see it that way.”

There was a kind of finality in his tone, a tension borne of having had this argument over and over with different people. Lilah sighed and wriggled deeper into the couch, feeling not a little bit petulant.

Brasa reached over and took her hand in a loose grasp, “This is not the first time I’ve brokered peace—did so just recently with the most stubborn people I’ve ever met, if you’ll recall.”

She laughed, “Yeah. There were a couple times I almost threw something at one or all of you during those meetings.”

One side of his mouth quirked up, “I could tell. You do not hide your feelings well.”

“Um, excuse me, I think I do,” Lilah shot back.

The little quirk in his mouth widened to a smile, “You do not. At least, not from me.”

Again, she rolled her eyes, “That’s because of the bond.”

He hummed in the negative, “You have a very expressive face.”

Lilah scoffed, “I have an excellent poker face.”

This earn her a low chuckle, “You do not.”

“I was able to keep the bond a secret for months.”

Brasa leaned into her space, his hand running up the length of her arm to settle behind her neck, “Richie knew within seconds of seeing you the night we met. And Seth’s powers of perception are mediocre, at best.”

Lilah was not too proud to admit that she was a little dazed at how close they were, coffee and caramel filling her senses. He’d given her a lot of space over the last twenty four hours—she wasn’t even sure where he’d slept. She found herself yearning to crawl right into his lap and stay there for the rest of the night, and some part of her figured that he’d probably let her.

But, while he’d been working, she’d been thinking. And, the first order of business was to get some food that would make more than one kind of meal in the house.

“We need to go shopping,” she said, smiling when he tilted his head to the side in confusion, “Groceries. We need them—well, I need them.”

Brasa gave a curt nod, rising and pulling her to standing, “Do you want to go now?”

Knowing that she looked pretty fucking bad, Lilah shook her head, “Let me get cleaned up. I’ll be out in about forty minutes.”

She took her time with getting ready, making sure that she washed every inch of skin, shampooed and conditioned her hair, covered her dark circles, and put on some fresh, clean clothes. As she dug into her bag for socks, her phone and the case for her comm fell out. She touched them gingerly, noting that there was no service and that the comm was redundant, given that she didn’t have anyone to connect with. She tucked both away.

In the end, it took a little longer than forty minutes, but Brasa didn’t seem to mind. When she emerged from the bedroom, he was lounging on the couch, CSPAN playing on the TV.

Lilah’s eyes narrowed, “Why are you watching this?”

His eyes scanned her lazily, taking her in, “You didn’t think my entire business was in medical supplies, did you?”

She shrugged, “We never discussed it in detail.”

Reaching for the remote, he turned off the TV and stood, “I like a diverse portfolio. Keeps things stable across the board.”

Lilah knew nothing about stocks, and even less about portfolios, “I’m sure that’s a good strategy.”

“It can be, though some people prefer a more adventurous technique.”

She moved towards the door, looking over her shoulder at him, “But, not you.”

He followed, “No.”

That tracked. Every decision Lilah had ever seen him make was calculated with brutal efficiency. Brasa did nothing by halves, nor did he make impulsive decisions. It was one of the things that Lilah liked most about him.

The hall was dark as it had been the day before, a chilling lack of light—except for a small triangle in the distance, the illumination so dull that it almost didn’t look real. As before, Brasa took her hand, leading her. As before, she went willingly. Unlike before, Lilah was alert enough to ask questions.

“What is this place?”

Brasa’s voice sounded next to her, “I’ve already told you.”

“Yeah, but what is it?”

They neared the light, and it was cast in shadow for a moment as Brasa pressed the button, “I needed a more secure place, a place to allow myself true rest. A place where I could keep you safe, when the time came.”

Leaning into his side, she asked, “Because of Benny?”

Though she couldn’t see him, Lilah felt him shake his head, “I have lived a life of nearly total violence. That comes with a cost.”

And, here they were, back to the same conversation they’d had at least twice before. Her safety. Her weakness. Her humanity—though, not her mortality.

“You think I’m safer underground?”

The doors opened and Brasa ushered her inside, “Only Javier and I—and now, you—know about it. It is secret.”

She smirked at him, “I’ve always wanted a secret hideout.”

He returned her mirth, “I live to serve.”

They held hands all the way to the surface and up until Brasa helped her up and into an SUV that was hidden in what basically amounted to a hollowed out rock. Lilah had to hand it to them. If she hadn’t known that this was here, she would have never guessed. There was literally no indication that the formations were anything but rocks, once all the entrances were closed.

She looked up a local store and they headed out, guided by the navigation in the dash. As they drove, Lilah drew up a list on her phone, having memorized her standard grocery order long ago. To it, she added a few items that she might not otherwise pick up, telling herself that she deserved a treat or two after the emotional fallout of her confrontation with Seth. She also decided that she was going to pick up a few bottles of wine.

Lilah had to admit that she never once thought about what it would be like to see Brasa in such a mundane setting. She doubted that he did his own shopping, what with Javier taking care of most menial tasks. Now, she was watching him step through the automatic doors of a local supermarket, his head turning to glance at her for direction.

It was surreal. Truly surreal. Lilah had the insane urge to laugh as she looked from him to the milling crowd that parted around him. She caught a few curious glances from them, even further amused that Brasa seemed to take no notice.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, Lilah took his arm and led him to the shopping carts, pulling one from the long line and taking a moment to study the layout of the store. Tall shelves were lined one after another, stocked full with wares. Veering to the left, she headed for the bins of fresh fruits and vegetables.

Lilah was intimately aware of the way Brasa observed her going from bin to bin, picking out one or two and setting in the cart. He gave her space, but paid attention to how she chose her wares. Lilah mostly ignored him, focusing on trying to get enough to last her at least a few days.

As they passed the dairy aisle, Brasa finally said, “Things have moved...so quickly in the last few hundred years.”

She was leaning down to pick up an extra carton of eggs when he spoke, her head turning awkwardly to look at him, “What does that mean?”

He pushed his hands into his pockets, giving a shrug, “Advancements that would have taken a millennia several thousand years ago now happen in a hundred.”

Putting the eggs in the cart, Lilah thought about it for a moment, moving slowly towards the canned food, “I suppose you’re right.”

“I am,” he pronounced, smug.

She scoffed, pulling cans off the shelf to stock the small pantry behind the kitchen. Her voice, when it came, was tinged with a tease, “I’m an ancient vampire, I’m so smart, and I’ve seen everything.”

His laugh was soft, but genuinely amused, his chin dipping down towards his chest in a movement that was nothing short of demure. If Lilah were just some anonymous person in this store, if she were looking at him for the first time in that moment, her breath would have caught—as it was now—and she would have scurried away feeling so completely embarrassed at finding a total stranger so endearing.

As it was, she wasn’t anonymous. He very much knew her, a thought that would have been no less than frightening a year ago. Lilah felt no such fear now, only warmth that unfurled comfortably in her chest.

Brasa steered her down an aisle, gesturing at a shelf full of Gatorade, “Javier has sent me four texts reminding me that you will need this.”

Mouth open, Lilah stared at him in confusion for several seconds, “I will?”

He nodded, “Javier is adamant that I keep this in stock. He says you prefer the red color.”

Agog, Lilah asked, “How the fuck does he know that?”

Brasa cast her a look that said she should know the answer to that question. Javier might be quiet and unassuming, but he was better than the FBI at finding out the minutiae of people’s lives.

“Okay,” Lilah relented, “He’s right, but I don’t know why you would need to keep it on hand. Its not like I’ll need to constantly replenish my—oh.”

Without another word, Lilah leaned down and picked up two packs, setting them in the cart. She lost her battle to keep the nervous laugh at bay when she glanced at Brasa’s smirking face. He wasn’t even trying to hide the satisfaction in his expression. To give herself something to do other than smile stupidly, she turned her attention to navigating to the check out.

Brasa was quietly helpful in loading the groceries onto the conveyor, and Lilah didn’t miss how he maneuvered around her to pay before she could get her card out of her pocket. Casting him a knowing smile, Lilah moved past him, hands briefly touching his hips so that she could slide out from between the partitions to load the cart.

A few minutes later, she was pushing it out into the warm, humid night, and towards where he’d parked the SUV. A few more minutes, and they were making their way back to what she was going to continually call the ‘secret hideout’. The title brought a small, ‘secret smile’ to her lips.

As they pulled to a stop, that small smile turned into a grin. She looked to Brasa, “You’re about to be witness to an ancient human custom, going back at least a century.”

Head cocked to the side, Brasa looked at her in confusion, “I believe I am aware of most human customs, ancient or otherwise.”

Rolling her eyes, Lilah hopped out of the car and made her away around to the trunk, pushing the button to initiate the automatic open. She’d only picked out enough food to last for the week she promised him when he’d been negotiating her stay. Lilah was not going to think about how she likely would have to extend her stay indefinitely.

Lilah reached down and looped a few bags over her arm, “So it goes like this: No matter how much you buy, you never, ever, take more than one trip to get it in the house.”

Brasa looked at her arm, laden with bags, and back to the rest, his brow rising, “I...was not aware of this custom.”

She fixed him with a serious look, “Its a very important tradition.”

A little crease formed between his brows as he studied the bags they had left. Lilah swallowed the laugh that threatened to break the whole act apart, and hefted a few more onto her free arm. Brasa looked at what she carried, then leaned in and snagged the rest, hoisting them effortlessly in one arm.

She stared at him, chastising herself for forgetting how powerful he really was. She chastised herself further when she stayed right where she was as he reached up, closed the trunk, and tugged one of her arms free of the bags. It wasn’t until she was looking at his back as he opened the door to the elevator that she was able to make her feet move.

As they made the descent, Brasa shifted the bags to one arm and took her hand, turning it over to see how the bags had made little creases in her skin in the short time before he’d taken the load.

“I don’t understand this tradition,” he muttered, thumb rubbing at her palm.

Lilah smirked, “You don’t have to understand it to be a part of it.”

His eyes lifted from where they were studying her skin, “You are right. Some things just are.”

She had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t talking about defeating the grocery bag challenge. The weight behind his gaze made that place in the back of her mind flare up, the bond almost stinging her. Reflexively, her fingers curled, wrapping around his thumb.

There was a clinical ‘ding’ and the doors opened. Adjusting his grip, Brasa led her into the hall and to the door. A few taps, and the door opened. They carried the bags into the kitchen and Lilah took her time figuring out where to put everything.

As she was standing in the middle of the kitchen with a small bag of potatoes, Brasa’s phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, held up a finger, and stepped from the room. She looked at the place where he’d been for a few seconds before shaking herself to attention. The potatoes could stay on the counter.

It was then that her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten in several hours. With new food to choose from, she found herself a little bit at a loss as to what to make. In his kitchen, bare save for the food and the tools she needed to cook it with, she again longed for comfort. Broccoli cheese soup, it was.

With renewed purpose, Lilah began assembling the ingredients and putting a pot on the burner. She hadn’t made this particular recipe since high school, when she was still living with a family that she hadn’t talked to in years. Her hand on the knife paused as she took that in.

When she was running dangerous jobs for shady people, she had deliberately cut them off in fear for their safety. Now, she knew she could definitely never rekindle that relationship. What would happen in ten years, twenty, fifty, when she didn’t age, when she didn’t die?

Sniffing, she set her mind to cutting the broccoli florets into one inch pieces. There was no need to deepen the emotional anguish she’d experienced this week. She could do that at another time. Just to be safe, she opened a bottle of wine and left it and the glass on the counter to breathe.

As she was preparing to stir in the cheese to thicken the broth, Brasa returned. He leaned against the counter to watch her cook, arms crossed.

“Work?” she questioned lightly.

He gave a nod, “Javier worries.”

She hummed, glancing over her shoulder at him, “And?”

Pushing from the counter, he touched the small of her back. His hand traveled around her waist to rest just below her belly button. Lilah leaned into him, her head tilting to the side so that he could lay his chin on her shoulder. She relaxed into his hold, stirring slowly, in no hurry to move. Eventually, the soup thickened up as it was supposed to, and she reached up to turn the burner off.

Brasa already had a bowl ready for her, a spoon in his other hand. Lilah took it with a grateful nod and ladled a serving for herself. Rather than sit at the dining room table, Lilah hopped up onto the counter and spooned some into her mouth.

“You going to answer my question?”

His eyes dropped, though his mouth quirked in amusement, “He thinks we should be more aggressive with Benny.”

Lilah waved her spoon at him, indicating that he should continue.

“I find myself wondering if I should follow that advice.”

“Why?”

He sighed, his shoulders slumping, “His numbers grow along with the recklessness of his actions. He attacked a hotel last night, slaughtered the guests and staff. The police are investigating.”

Swinging one leg, Lilah asked, “You can’t buy them, bribe them to close the investigation?”

“We are working on that. The police chief is...remarkably stubborn about policy. Javier wants to eat him.”

She should not have laughed, but the thought of the prim and dapper Javier ripping the throat out of a police officer did not mesh together. He’d be too worried that he’d get blood on his suit.

When she finished, Lilah slipped down from the counter and rinsed out the bowl, setting it in the sink to clean later, “You want to watch a movie?”

“I could do that.”

“Cool,” she replied, already heading for the living room, grabbing the bottle of wine she’d opened along with the glass, “Where do you keep your extra blankets?”

She picked the softest, fluffiest one of the bunch and threw it over them both as they sat next to each other on the couch. Wine glass in hand, Lilah flicked through the streaming channels, already knowing which selection she was going to make.

His hand on her thigh, Brasa settled deeper into the cushion, letting out a light chuckle as she hit play, “I like this one.”

“Me, too,” she said, shifting so that she could lay her head on his shoulder.

Warm, full, and comfortable, Lilah found herself drifting even as Princess Buttercup argued with the Dread Pirate Roberts. The familiarity of Brasa’s scent wrapped around her and the story on the screen made everything inside her loosen for the first time since she’d left behind an angry Seth—well, that and two glasses of excellent wine.

By the time the credits rolled, Brasa had leaned back into the arm of the couch, pulling Lilah down to lay atop him. Her body pressed against his, Lilah soaked up his unnatural warmth. His arms held her loosely, but his hands were firm on her back and hip.

Lilah pushed up on her hands, looking down at him, “Thanks for bringing me here.”

“Of course,” he said, a little too quickly, “Of course.”

She smiled, dropping to an elbow and kissing him. Intending it to be a sort of ‘thank you’, Lilah started to pull away only to feel Brasa cup the back of her neck and hold her in place as he twined his tongue with hers. He warmed beneath her, burning hot, body arching. Lilah pulled her knees up underneath her, balancing on one hand so that she could run the other down the front of his shirt to pull it from where he had it tucked into his slacks.

He lifted his hips when she moved around to the back, his own hands roaming over her jean clad legs, pulling on each so that she sat astride him. And then, in a move she could have never accomplished on her own, he swung his legs over the edge of the couch and stood. Her ankles crossed to anchor her body on his hips, her hands grasping frantically to clasp the back of his neck. Lilah laughed as he kissed her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, all the while moving towards the bedroom.

He laid her carefully on the bed and systematically undressed her. Shoes, socks, jeans, underwear, shirt, bra—everything was peeled off without ceremony, without patience. Lilah was stripped bare before her brain caught up to the fact that this was actually going to happen. And then he was crawling over her, his mouth sealing over hers.

He kissed her like he was starved, as if he might never kiss her again. Deep, unrelenting kisses that left her gasping beneath him. She reached up to to get at the buttons of his shirt, managing to get one or two free before he was moving down her body, nuzzling the skin between her breasts. Thumbs circling her nipples, he drew one into his mouth, releasing it with a wet sound. He licked at her biting down gently, and laving the spot with his tongue.

Shifting a little to the side, Brasa pulled her knee up and around his waist, fingers drifting so that he could run them up the length of her slit. She keened, spine arching up so far that her shoulders lifted off the mattress. Her skin was seared where they touched, sizzling with sensation that only seemed to grow. He massaged her in wide circles, the pad of his forefinger brushing over her opening.

Rubbing his cheek against her, Brasa moved steadily downwards, kissing and sucking and nipping until he rested between her spread thighs. If Lilah had any thought that he would ease into it, those thoughts were shattered by one long, enthusiastic lick. Sighing into the motion, he sucked at her folds, emitting a contented growl when her legs tightened around his shoulders.

He held her open, wedging his massive body into her hips until her inner thighs ached with the strain. Lilah was beyond caring, her fingers digging into the pillow beneath her as she rose higher and higher towards orgasm. There was no teasing, no drawing this out. Brasa worked with a singular purpose, tongue swirling around her clit, hands holding her up to his mouth.

She grit her teeth, the need so vast and deep that it became a vibrant pain, soothed only by his touch. It tunneled down deep into her bones, sticking in her throat when she cried out, the spasms raking over her voice so that it came out hoarse and rasping.

Lilah breathed forcefully, eyes squeezed shut as he worked her through it, easing up when she shook, too sensitive. When she was able to look down at him, he was rolling his tongue over his lips, eyes focused on where she was still fluttering sporadically. Her mouth went dry at the sight, the hunger that he wasn’t even attempting to veil.

The hand on her hip rotated, and she felt him push two fingers inside her, the motion sending little frissons of electricity over the nerve endings. She shivered. He smiled, fangs peeking out. Then, he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, black gaze watching her reaction. Lilah bit her lip, giving up totally on controlling her breathing.

He kissed his way up her body, settling atop her. Lilah pulled him even closer, yanking at the buttons of his shirt. It was nearly impossible to focus when he was kissing her, hands turning her head so that he could nuzzle against her neck, inhaling. She gave herself some credit. She got his shirt unbuttoned and halfway down his arms before she got distracted by a particularly hard nip just above her collarbone.

Hissing, she pulled him up, trying to gain a little leverage to push him over onto his back. Lilah was not successful. He held her down, smirking when she made a small sound of frustration.

“I want,” she started, a whine cutting off the rest of the words.

Brasa caught her hands, holding them down onto the mattress with almost his full weight, “What is it?”

Oh, now he wants to tease, she thought.

“Is this what you want?” His hips swiveled in a slow, firm grind, “I’ll give it to you, if its what you want, querida.”

Lilah moaned, writhing beneath him, desperate to get the friction she needed. She was close, close enough that she was willing to forgo any sense of pride to get there.

“Yes, yes,” she breathed, head thrown back as he rolled his hips against her.

He let go of one of her wrists, and she felt him reach down and open the fly of his slacks. Lifting off just enough to kick off the offending material, Brasa laid back down, gathering her to him. The next kiss was venom soaked, sweet and hot. Lilah groaned, pushing her hips into him, needing to feel him inside her.

Brasa slid in to the hilt in one strong, fluid motion that filled the emptiness inside Lilah completely. Her breath stuttered in her lungs, her legs lifting to accommodate him. He was so fucking hot—his mouth, his body, his cock. Sweat pooled in the hollows and bend of her limbs, darkening the hair at her temple. She gripped his shoulders, pulled on the shirt he still wore, caught by the buttons on his cuffs.

And then he was moving. The sound of his cock pushing into her wet body, the feeling of him both easing and stirring the blooming ache of her arousal, the way he ground out a helpless sound against her neck. It all meshed together, overwhelming her until she could do nothing but hold on as he fucked her.

The pleasure grew inside her, reaching into every inch of her body. She wailed, head thrown back, fingers fisted in his hair. Spurred on, his pace picked up, breath punching out of him when she raked her nails up his back. It took very little to push her the rest of the way over the edge, the feeling spiraling through her.

Brasa’s grip on her tightened as he thrust into her one last time, his spine arched, lips pulled back from his fangs. She could feel him pulsing, could feel every reflexive spasm as he came.

When his strength returned, Brasa rolled gingerly off her, his large hand tracing down the center of her body to rest heavily on her belly. She grasped it, holding him by the wrist as she caught her breath. Lilah looked over at him, smiling at the fact that he was still wearing that shirt, though she’d torn the collar and it was wrinkled beyond nearly all recognition.

Her fingers touched the tear, “That’s going to be a difficult one to explain to the dry cleaner.”

Brasa smirked as he unbuttoned the cuffs around each wrist, “I may keep it like this.”

Lilah’s brows lifted, “Like a memento?”

He hummed in confirmation.

“I didn’t realize you were so sentimental.”

Throwing the shirt off the side of the bed, Brasa laid on his side, observing her from where he’d perched his head on his palm, “I am not, generally. But, with you…” He trailed off as he leaned down and kissed her softly.

#from dusk til dawn #from dusk til dawn: the series #Brasa #In the Bond

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